"You mean that the novelty hasn't worn off yet? No more it has; but even when it did, that would make but little difference. There is a charm about this beautiful country, with its solitudes, its grand mountains, and rolling plains, and wild a.s.sociations, which, so far from becoming tame, would grow upon one. And the climate, too, is perfect."

Naylor laughed diffidently. "Yes; but there's another side to that picture. How about bad seasons, and drought, and war, and locusts, and stock-lifting, and so on? It isn't all fun here on the frontier."

"Now, I won't be disenchanted," she retorted, with a bright smile. "You must not try and spoil the picture I have drawn."

"Then I won't. Hallo, Ethel! We've been looking for you," he added, turning as he, for the first time, discovered she had joined them.

"Here's Miss Strange prepared to swear by the frontier--in fact, she has done so already."

"Yes?" said Ethel, coming forward to greet Lilian; and Claverton could not help contrasting the two as they stood together: the one with her soft, dark, winning beauty, the lovely eyes never losing for a moment their serene composure; the other, bright, laughing, and golden, the full red lips ever ready to curl in mischief-loving jest or mocking retort, and hair like a rippling sunbeam. Yet nine men out of ten would probably have awarded the palm to Ethel. "Yes?" she said, and, in her heart of hearts, added, "and with her own reasons." She did not feel very cordially towards Lilian just then.

"She says it's perfect, all round," went on Naylor--"a young Paradise."

"I don't know," said Ethel. "I shouldn't like to stay on the frontier all the year round. One would miss the b.a.l.l.s and theatre in Cape Town."

"Aha!" laughed Emily, "Ethel is still intent on slaughter. She made such havoc last session; ever so many poor fellows threw themselves off the cliffs on Table Mountain on her account; how many was it, Ethel-- twenty-five?--that she had to be spirited away in the night for fear of the vengeance of their bereaved mammas."

"Call it fifty while you're about it," she answered. "How awfully hot it has become!"

This served as a pretext for a move indoors, which was made accordingly.

"So you're all determined to go back this evening," said Naylor, as they sat in the verandah after dinner.

"I think we must," answered Ethel; "aunt will think we are never coming back."

Hicks, who at the other end of the verandah was "a.s.sisting" Laura to play with the children--these having finished their morning's lessons, had invaded the party--p.r.i.c.ked up his ears and looked rueful in advance.

If they were persuaded to stay, he would have to go anyhow; but Ethel was firm, and he breathed freely again.

"But, Claverton, you and Miss Strange might stop--to-night, at any rate," persisted Naylor.

It was Ethel's turn to feel apprehensive. She had schooled herself into accepting the situation, and accepting it patiently. The strife had been a hard one, and she had suffered in it--suffered acutely, but she had conquered. Yet the struggle had not been won in a moment, and it had left its traces; but she seemed not to show them; she was a trifle graver, and more subdued in manner, that was all. A few days ago she had longed, with an intense longing, to get away--away from the sound of his voice, from the glance of his eyes; yet now that it is a question as to whether they shall return without him, her heart beats quick, and she seems to hang upon the verdict which they are all discussing so calmly.

"I don't think we can to-day, Naylor," answered Claverton, a glance at Lilian having satisfied him that she did not favour the scheme.

"But look here," Naylor was beginning, when his wife cut him short.

"Why shouldn't we inspan and go back with them, Ned? We can leave Seringa Vale again before breakfast if you like, and there's something I want to see mother about."

"All right, we'll do that. Don't you think Seringa Vale is rather a good name for a place, Miss Strange?"

"Yes--so pretty," answered Lilian; "it's a poem in itself."

"How do you like Thirlestane?"

"I like it, too. Did you name it?"

"Yes," replied Naylor, "it's called after a small place my grandfather had in England. Its original name is a Dutch one--_Uitkyk_, a look-out; but Thirlestane's better than _Uitkyk_, isn't it?"

"Jack Armitage calls it 'Oatcake' even to this day," put in Claverton.

Suddenly, a loud booming noise came from one of the enclosures. All looked in that direction. The great ostrich was plainly visible, his neck inflated to six times its size as he emitted his deep call, volleying it out in heavy booms, three at a time.

"Fancy an ostrich making such a row as that! You wouldn't have thought it possible, would you, Miss Strange?" said Gough, the tutor. He had joined the party at dinner-time, when school was over.

"I don't think I should," answered Lilian. "The first time I heard it, I was so frightened. It was at Seringa Vale. I was lying awake at night, and this great booming sounded so awful in the dead of night. I hadn't a notion what it was; the first thing I thought of was some wild beast."

"A lion, I suppose," said Naylor.

"I think the whole of the Zoological Gardens ran through my vivid imagination. How Mr Brathwaite laughed when I told him about it next morning! Yet I was terribly frightened."

"No wonder," said Claverton. "It's a precious uncanny sort of row to strike up in the middle of the night, especially when you don't know where it comes from, or what it's all about."

It was now voted time to be getting the horses in. This served as a signal for a general break-up, the masculine element of the party making towards the stable, or the enclosure, where some manoeuvring was needed, as we have seen, to obtain possession of the requisite steeds without exciting the wrath of the autocratic biped who reigned there.

Claverton having, as before, submitted Lilian's steed and its gear to a rigid examination, now whisking a speck of dust off the saddle, or letting down a link of the curb-chain and readjusting it, a.s.sisted her to mount.

"Wish that fool would go on," he muttered savagely, referring to Allen, whose ancient screw was mooning along with a kind of crop-the-gra.s.s gait. The rest of the party were on ahead. "He needn't wait for us,"

and flinging himself on his spirited chestnut he bade the groom let go the reins. The fine animal tossed his head and sidled and champed his bit as he felt himself free; free yet not free, for his rider was a consummate horseman and had him perfectly in hand.

Lilian laughed. "Poor fellow," she said. "Do you know, I sometimes feel so sorry for him. You all chaff him dreadfully and--Oh!"

The last exclamation is one of alarm, for at that moment a troop of ostriches--young ten-month-old birds--having deserted its herd in one of those stampedes to which these idiotic bipeds are so liable, whirls past them, with wings outstretched and snowy plumes sparkling in the sun, and Lilian's steed, which has not yet become quite accustomed to the gigantic fowls, shows signs of restiveness.

"Don't be frightened--darling. You're quite safe," says her escort, noting the scared look in her face, as the old horse tugs at his bridle and snorts and plunges a little. "He'll be perfectly quiet in half a minute."

He is so close beside her all the time, and speaks in such a rea.s.suring tone that her alarm subsides, and the old steed drops into his normal steadiness as though half ashamed of himself.

"Are you not utterly disgusted with such a coward?" says she, with a faint apologetic laugh. "I ought to have enjoyed the affair as a good opportunity for showing off, oughtn't I?"

"One must show on before showing off. I wouldn't have you anything but timid on board a horse for the world, except for your own sake. It suits you to perfection."

He is in earnest. These oft-recurring little alarms of hers are so captivating in their pure unaffectedness, so womanly; and, withal, the sense of protection imparted to himself is delicious. And if she is at times somewhat shrinking, as at present, even that lends an additional attraction to her delicate refinement.

"Every one is not an Amazon, thank heaven," he continued, "and you will soon be as much at home on horseback as in a chair. We will have a lot of practice. Besides, you know, lately you have not been very well, and that is calculated to unnerve you. We will do our best to set you up thoroughly--while--you are here." He tried to speak firmly, but it was of no use, that tell-tale tremor shook his voice over the last four words, for they conjured up a picture of when she should be no longer "here," and he dared not think of it. At present he would thrust the thought far from him.

They had now overtaken Allen, and were obliged to shape the conversation accordingly. "Shall we canter on a little?" suggested Claverton. "The rest are a good way ahead."

Lilian acquiesced, and their steeds bounded along the gra.s.sy slopes at an easy elastic canter, but Allen's sorry screw finding a difficulty in keeping pace with the long stride of the well-bred horses, that disconsolate youth soon dropped behind.

"Here is our panorama again," said Claverton, reining in on the top of the hill, whence they had enjoyed the view that morning.

"It looks different already. This golden light sheds a rare peacefulness--an evening repose--upon it, which is perfectly enchanting.

It is hard to determine, but of the two I think I preferred it this morning. There was an exhilaration in the very air that made one feel the pleasure of merely living."

"I liked it best this morning, too," he answered gravely. Then all the day was before him--so many hours with _her_. Now they had come--never to return.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.