Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Secret of the Lebombo
All in a second Wyvern’s hopes were dashed to the ground. From a state of elation he was cast once more into blank despair. Not so easily had his enemies abandoned the pursuit. They had tracked him through the night with the persistency of sleuth-hounds, and now had, literally, run him to earth at last.
That the owner of the head had seen him was beyond all doubt for the head itself had been instantaneously withdrawn, with a smothered exclamation. And he himself was unarmed. In a frenzy of desperation he gazed around. No. The cave contained nothing, not even a loose stone.
It is in such moments of desperation that readiness of resource will come to a man or it will not Wyvern at that moment felt something move beneath his foot. Looking down he saw that his said foot was resting on an upturned blade of stone, which, if he had noticed at all he would have taken for a mere projection of the solid rock. Now an idea occurred to him. Bending down, he quickly loosened it. The piece came away in his hand. It was about two feet long, and shaped like a thick and clumsy sword blade. In a trice he had found himself armed with a most formidable weapon.
Gripping this he stood listening intently, his breath coming quick in the tensity of his excitement. The first of his enemies to enter he would infallibly brain, then the next, and so on, while his strength lasted. They should not again take him alive. Still, not a sound without.
What were they planning? Could it be that they had some devilish scheme of forcing him out by fire or smoke, knowing that he had no firearms? He had read of such a situation, and his heart sank as he realised how easily it could be carried out in his case. Ha!
The silence was broken at last. Without he could just catch the sound of a deep-toned, murmuring whisper in the Zulu tongue.
“Go away and leave me in peace,” he called out, in the best Zulu he could muster. “The first to enter shall surely have his head cleft in twain, and then the next. I am not unarmed.”
“Whou!”
It would be hard to convey the tone of wonder contained in that brief exclamation, and then at the tone of another voice the hunted and desperate man could hardly trust his own sense of hearing.
“Wyvern, old chap, come on out. It’s only me and Hlabulana.”
The next moment he and Joe Fleetwood were gripping hands. Hlabulana the while began to uncork his snuff-horn.
“This is awfully funny,” went on Fleetwood. “We had suspicions that it was Bully Rawson in there, and were concocting some scheme for getting him out – you know the brute’s quite capable of shooting the pair of us on sight. But how did you get away?”
“Mtezani cut me loose in the scrimmage, but they chevied me a good way I can tell you.” Then he narrated what had subsequently happened. “Got any scoff, Joe?” he concluded. “I’m starving.”
“Only some pounded mealies, which Hlabulana managed to raise from Heaven knows where. Here – fall on.”
While Wyvern was satisfying his cravings with this plain fare, Fleetwood narrated his own escape, which had been effected by Hlabulana under exactly similar circumstances, except that it had not been discovered, and therefore he had not been pursued.
“He told me that Mtezani was taking care of you,” he concluded, “so I came away easy in mind, feeling sure we should come together again when, things were quiet, and we have.”
“By Jove we have! And to think of you having taken me for Bully Rawson. I don’t feel flattered, Joe.”
The other broke into a laugh.
“Tell you what, old man. We both look all fired ruffians enough just now to be taken even for him. At least, I feel it, and can truthfully assure you you look it. And now what are we going to do next? I’ve got a bull-dog six-shooter here that the idiots forgot to bag when they trussed us up.”
“I haven’t even got that,” laughed Wyvern. “I was going to brain the pair of you with a most murderous stone club which I tore up out of the ground. It’s sharp as a sword on one side.”
Something in the words seemed to strike Fleetwood.
“Sharp as a sword?” he echoed.
“Why yes. What’s there in particular about that?”
“Why only that it’ll do to dig with.”
“To dig with? Are we in a position to do our fossicking now?”
“Rather. Now we’re here – bang on the very spot we should be record idiots if we didn’t do something towards discovering what we’ve come for.”
“I’m with you there,” rejoined Wyvern. “But here we are, with one six-shooter between us, no rifles or even a shot-gun. How are we going to get scoff?”
“Oh, Hlabulana will take care of that. He has some remarkably efficient assegais.”
“Well upon my word, the adventure was wild enough before but it has about reached the March hare stage now,” pronounced Wyvern with a laugh. “However our luck, if varied, has turned right last time, and we’ll try it again.”
It was indeed as he had said, a mad adventure. Here were these two, in the heart of a wild and dangerous region, inadequately armed even, and trusting to chance for the bare means of subsistence; and yet instead of making their way back to civilisation as soon as possible – especially after their recent perilous experience and hairbreadth escape – they elected to remain and prosecute their search, yet it is of such that your real adventurer is made.
“We’ll have to keep a bright look-out for Bully Rawson,” said Fleetwood, as they entered the cave. “I know he got clear, and if he has any suspicions that we did, it won’t be long before we see or hear from him.”
“There’s no doubt about the place, I suppose?” said Wyvern, for him, rather excitedly. “Look. Here’s where I found the opal.”
“Not a shadow of doubt Hlabulana has been going over all the situation with me while you were snoozing inside – Lord! and I not knowing it.”
Then, somehow, a silence fell between the two men as they stood looking at each other in the semi-gloom. Were they really going to unearth the rich secret which this savage mountain range had held buried within its lone and desolate heart for so many years, the secret which should make the rest of their lives a time of ease and possession, which should bring to one, at any rate, that which would make life almost too good to live?
“Come on. Let’s get to work,” said Fleetwood. “Where’s this weapon of yours? We can’t have very far to dig, because from what Hlabulana says they can’t have had time to bury the stuff very deep.”
“Here it is. Look. There’s the hole I pulled it up from – Hallo!”
Wyvern had gone down on his knees, and was experimentally fitting the stone into its former position. With the above exclamation he placed it aside and began hurriedly clawing at the earth where it had lain, with his bare fingers.
“Here’s a box,” he said quickly, shovelling out handfuls of earth; “An unmistakable box.”
Fleetwood bent over.
“Sure?” he asked, as excited as Wyvern himself.
“Dead cert. Here, lend a hand. We’ll soon have it out.”
And they did have it out. A few minutes more of eager digging, and the whole top of a metal bound wooden chest was visible. But it required a good deal more exertion before it was clear of earth all round. Then they hauled it up, and although not more than a foot square by half that depth, it required some hauling, for it might have been made of solid lead.
“That’s the bar gold,” pronounced Fleetwood as, heated and panting, they sat down for a rest. “No ‘stones’ would weigh anything like that. Well the stones can’t be far off. Let’s get to work again.”
They resumed their digging, systematically, with knives now, first around the excavation first made, then beneath it. Here, in a few minutes, Wyvern hauled out something – something round and moist. It was a small leather bag.
“Let’s investigate,” he said, and there was a tremble in his voice.
The leather was half rotten with age and damp, and the fastenings gave way when touched. Fleetwood put down his hat, and punching in the crown, poured the contents of the bag into the cavity thus formed. Then the two men looked up and sat staring at each other.
For in the said cavity was a heap of gems, which glittered and sparkled as the light from without struck upon them – rubies and emeralds and opals, many of considerable size, and obviously, even to these two unversed in such matters, of great value. This alone would have been worth all they had gone through for.
Replacing the stones in the bag they continued their excavation now with a tremble of the hands. And small wonder that it should be so. They had just found that which was enough to set them up comfortably for the rest of their lives, and there was even more to find. Any kind of search more fraught with every element of excitement it would be hard to conceive.
And, in fact, less than half-an-hour’s search had placed them in possession of three more bags similar to the first, but two of which contained stones far more valuable, than even the first; one nothing but diamonds, and fine ones at that. These, after investigation, were placed aside, and operations resumed.
But further excavation all round and under, brought nothing to light.
“That’ll be the lot, I’m thinking,” said Fleetwood. “It about corresponds with what Hlabulana said they’d got.”
“Joe,” said Wyvern gravely. “Do me the favour to pinch my leg, and pinch it hard, just to show that I’m not dreaming, you know. The whole thing seems too good. Seems as if one would wake up in a minute.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” answered the other, equally serious. And again they lapsed into silence, each full of his own thoughts.
“Now for what’s to be done,” went on Fleetwood. “I don’t like these diamonds. There I’m in my element, for, as you know, I was a digger in the early Dutoitspan days – not that they ain’t devilish good ones. But they’re awkward things to hawk around anywhere in South Africa – the I.D.B. law, you know. Suppose by any chance it got round that one had a bag of diamonds like that in one’s possession, they’d have one watched day and night to find out how one got hold of it. Then it’d be bound to give away the rest of the show. We don’t want that.”
“Not much. Look here, Joe. I’ve an idea which may be a good one or may not. We can’t possibly carry away that box. Let’s bury it again and call for it some time later when things are quiet again. As for the diamonds, we’ll plant them in some other place just to make sure that Hlabulana doesn’t show them to someone else, and pick them up at the same time as the bar gold. How does it pan out?”
“First rate. Only, old chap, I don’t think it’ll be much a case of us calling for them. I’m pretty sure I shall have to undertake it for both, for with a recollection of the portrait in your room in Ulundi Square you’ll be in no hurry to repeat this expedition.”
They set to work to bury the box again. It mattered little enough if here were marks of fresh digging, for who in the world would ever dream of treasure lying buried in this particular cave – one among many – without some due? Hardly had they done so than the entrance darkened, and Hlabulana stood within. In the excitement of their discovery they had forgotten his very existence. Quickly Fleetwood explained to him what they had found, showing him the bags.
“That is right, U’ Joe,” said the Zulu, turning them over in his hands. “There were but four. Whau! I like not this dark hole. It savours of tagati.”
“But you will like all the cattle and new wives your share of this will bring you, son of Musi,” said Fleetwood with a laugh. “If it is tagati it is pretty good tagati for us three, this time anyhow. Well, the sun will soon be down, and I think we had better take a short rest and travel by moonlight. It will be safer.”
This was agreed to, and as the red moon raised her great disc above the lone mountain range, flooding forest and valley and rock with her chastened brilliance, two ragged, unkempt white men stepped forth on their return journey, and upon them was wealth surpassing their highest expectations.
“Hang it all, I can’t believe it yet,” said Wyvern, for the twentieth time, with the twentieth grip on the bags of gems disposed about his clothing.
“I can hardly believe it myself,” rejoined Fleetwood, going through precisely the same performance.
But Hlabulana, the Zulu, said nothing. He only took snuff as calmly as if nothing had happened.
Chapter Thirty.
“In the Morning.”
Probably there is no greater fallacy than that youth is quick to cast off impressions; otherwise Lalanté with youth in her favour, should, after the first few days from the shock which had smitten her down, have begun to rally, and to realise that there was something left in life after all. But she did not.
The light of life had gone out. Her very youth was against her. She was just at an age when her whole-souled love for this one who had been taken from her, reached a stage of passionate adoration that was all absorbing, entrancing her whole being. She lived in it. And now she would see him no more – would see him never again on earth. And yet – all her every day surroundings – every sight, every sound, every locality – were wrapped up in memories of him. From such there was no escape, nor did she desire that there should be.
Days grew into weeks, but brought no change, no solace, no relief. She strove to throw off at any rate the outward gloom if only for the sake of her two small brothers, but the attempt was little short of a ghastly failure. At this point she became aware of a marked change in her father. He seemed to be failing in health. He had lost the old elasticity, the old alertness, the old keenness in business matters. It could not be that remorse on the subject of Wyvern was behind it. “You sent him to his death,” she had said, in the first agony of her desolation. No, she could not think that compunction on that head would weigh very deep with him. Rather would he regard it as matter for congratulation.
To Warren she had taken an unaccountable dislike, consistent with that first instinct of distrust which had come upon her at the time of the dread revelation. His visits had become rather frequent, but as most of their time was spent closeted alone with her father she supposed that their purport was business, and business only. But now she was only coldly civil to him, no longer cordial. The gloom of her horizon was black all round, without sign of a break. Her days could be got through somehow in the ordinary way, but – oh, the agony of her nights, of her awakening from dreams of the blissful past to the cold dead reality of the present and future!
She had not seen Warren’s precious accomplice, to hear the news from his own mouth. Warren had never intended she should, and made excuse to the effect that Bully Rawson had been obliged to go up-country again.
She was seated alone one day on the stoep when the bi-weekly post-bag was brought. Listlessly she got the key, and opened it. There might be news of his end – further detail; but even from that she shrank. She opened the bag, and turned out all the correspondence. Most of it was for her father, and obviously of a business nature; there were two or three local papers and —
And then Lalanté began to sway unsteadily, and, for all her splendid strength, to feel as if she must sink to the floor. For, at the bottom of the leather bag, lay one more letter, and it was to herself, directed in Wyvern’s hand.
With trembling fingers she tore it open. Why – what was this? It was headed “Pietermaritzburg, Natal,” and bore a date just seven days old.
What did it mean? What could it mean? It was weeks since Warren had brought her the news of his sad and violent death, and yet here were lines penned by his own hand but seven days ago. Had anybody been playing some cruel practical joke upon her? No. Surely nobody living would be capable of such barbarity; and then, here was his own handwriting – clear, strong, unmistakable – looking her in the face.
With a mist before her eyes Lalanté managed to decipher its purport, which was briefly this. The writer had returned from his undertaking, and had returned successful – successful beyond his wildest hopes – this was emphasised – and would follow on upon the letter at the very earliest opportunity, not more than a couple of days later at the outside, he hoped. And then, there were lines and lines of sweet love-words, sweeter perhaps, certainly sweeter to her after weeks of supposed bereavement than any he had ever before penned.
Again and again she read through the missive, examined the postmarks – everything. No, there was no deception here – and in a couple of days he would be with her once more. She must be patient, but – ah! how could she be? It was as though that one had risen from the dead.
She sank into a low chair, a smile of ineffable happiness irradiating her face. All the past was merely a dream, a nightmare – but – was she not only dreaming now?
“Lalanté, child, what’s the matter?”
It was her father’s voice – strained, tremulous. Seeing her like this but one conclusion forced itself upon him – that her mind had given way at last.
“The matter is that the news we heard wasn’t true. He will be here in a couple of days,” showing the letter.
“Oh, thank God for that,” said Le Sage fervently – and he was anything but what is called a pious man.
“What if he is coming back as he went, father?” said Lalanté, who could not forbear a spice of retaliatory mischief in her hour of restored happiness.
“Oh, I don’t care – so he comes back; no I don’t – not a damn. I can’t see my little girl looking as the has looked all this infernal time. And yet – ” He broke off suddenly.
“Well he isn’t. He says he’s been successful beyond his wildest hopes.”
“Oh thank the Lord again,” said Le Sage, in a curiously constrained voice. “Does he give particulars?”
“No. Bother particulars. The great thing is he’s coming at all – isn’t it?”
“Oh of course. That’s how women look at things. They don’t know any better – how should they!”
“Well why should they?” retorted Lalanté with a happy laugh. “Now look here, old man, you’ll be civil to him won’t you?”
“Oh yes, I’ll be glad to see him. Will that do for you? Oh it’s a devilish queer world when all’s said and done – a devilish queer world,” and the speaker turned away abruptly to bury himself in his own den. But the girl thought to detect a shade of relief in his tone, even in his look – as though something had occurred to clear up the despondency which, of late, had settled upon him.
The morning rose bright and beautiful – the morning after the receipt of the letter. Lalanté was up while it was yet dark, and it may have been twenty or it may have been thirty times an hour that her quick, eager gaze was turned upon the point where the road came over the ridge. A light mist which had gathered during the night cleared away early, leaving a sparkle of myriad dew-drops upon every bush frond as the sun rose higher in the blue and cloudless sky. But in the open the cock-koorhaans were crowing and squawking tumultuously, and varying bird voices piped or twittered in the cooler shade. It was a heavenly morning, a morning for life and love.
“Two days at the outside,” he had said. But what if at the inside it should be one? That would mean to-day – thought Lalanté; hence the eager scanning of the furthest point of road. Suddenly she started. Something was moving at that point, approaching, and her strong, practised sight took not a moment to decide that it was a mounted figure. Pressing a hand to her heart to curb its tumultuous beatings she tore down the field-glasses from where they hung. One glance was enough, and in a second she was hurrying down, by a shorter way, to where the road dipped into the kloof prior to reascending. Meanwhile the advancing horseman had disappeared amid the intervening bush.
Barring the road the girl was standing, her tall, beautiful figure framed in the profusion of foliage, her face irradiated with the light of love, her lips slightly parted into a most tender smile as she waited. Such was the vision that burst upon Wyvern, as with a hurried exclamation he flung himself from the saddle rather than dismounted. In the long, close embrace that followed neither seemed able to find words.
“You knew you would find me here,” said the girl at last. “But I – up till yesterday I never thought to see you again on earth.”
Wyvern started.
“Have I been so very remiss, then, sweetheart? I assure you that until a week ago, I have had no opportunity whatever of communicating with you, or any one else down here.”
“It isn’t that. They told me you had been killed.”
“What? Who told you?”
Briefly she gave him an outline of Warren’s narrative. He listened intently.
“Well, it came within an ace of being true news,” he said at last. “I have a great deal to tell you, dearest, but at present we will only think of ourselves. My luck has turned as you always predicted it would. We need never be parted again.”
“Life of mine, and until yesterday I thought we were for ever,” she exclaimed passionately. “Oh but no – it seems impossible. You – to whom I have always looked up, as to something more than human – human yet superhuman – whose every word even on the lightest matter, was higher than a law – you, to be with me always guiding my life, making it every moment too good to live! No, it can’t be. Such happiness can never fall to one poor mortal!”
“Lalanté, child – hush – hush!” he said a little unsteadily, his clasp of her tightening. “You must not start by making a god of me, or what will happen when the disillusionment comes?”
“Disillusionment? Oh!”
“Yes. You may laugh now, but – never mind. Well then, what about yourself? Who was it who threw away – what I see” – holding her from him, to gaze at her with intense admiration and love – “upon a battered old addlepate – ”
“Battered old addlepate? That’s good,” she interrupted.
“Yes. A battered old addlepate – for if I’ve captured some luck at last it is sheer luck – who seemed congenitally incapable of ever turning anything to account and who was going from bad to worse as fast as any such fool could! Who was it that lightened and cheered as dark a time as could fall to the lot of most men, and, above all, clung to him when all seemed hopeless; and who was prepared to sacrifice the best years of her bright youth – Good God, I think it is I who have to say that such happiness seems impossible.”
Le Sage’s welcome of Wyvern was quiet but cordial, while that accorded him by the two youngsters was boisterous in its delight.
“Man – Mr Wyvern, but you’ll have some stunning new yarns to tell us,” said Charlie.
“A few, Charlie. And the rum part of it is they’ll be true.”
“I’d jolly well punch any fellow’s head who said they weren’t,” rejoined Frank. “That is, if I could,” he added.
At the close of what was certainly the very happiest day in the lives of at any rate two of that quintett, Le Sage said:
“Would you mind coming into my den, Wyvern? I want your advice on a little matter of business. You’re not in a hurry to turn in are you? It may take some time.”
Wyvern stared. For keen, hard-headed Le Sage to want his advice —his– on a matter of business naturally struck him as quaint. But he replied that of course nothing would give him greater pleasure.
“All right. Well take the grog in and smoke a final pipe or two over our indaba. Come along.”
He led the way round to the little room which he used as a private office. It was entered from outside, and being detached from the house was out of earshot of the other inmates.
“First of all,” he began when they were seated, “I want to apologise for what I said that day when – ”
“Oh, shut up, Le Sage,” interrupted Wyvern, bringing his hand hard down into that of the other, and enclosing it in a firm grip. “I don’t want to hear another word about that, just as I’ve never given it another thought – not a resentful one at any rate. I can quite see the matter from your point of view – could at the time in fact. Now then, what’s this business matter you want to talk over? Is it about Lalanté?”
“No. It’s about myself.”
Wyvern had already noticed an alteration in Le Sage’s manner and also appearance. The old touch of confident assertiveness seemed to have gone, moreover he looked older and greyer. Now he seemed to look more so still.
“About yourself?” repeated Wyvern, with visions of weak heart or latent disease in the speaker, rising before him.
“Yes. Would it surprise you to hear that I’m practically a ruined man?”
“I should think it would. Good God, Le Sage, you can’t really mean it!”
“I wish I didn’t, but it’s a fact. It’s of no use bothering you with details, Wyvern, for I’ve heard you say one couldn’t shoot a man with a worse head for business than yourself even if you fired a shot-gun up and down the most crowded streets of London all day. Of course saying I wanted your advice was only a blind,” he added with a wan smile.
“But, briefly, how did it happen?”
“Rotten specs, and overdoing that. But the main thing is, Wyvern, and it’s due to you to explain – that in all probability Lalanté will never have a shilling – at least, not from me.”
“I don’t care if she hasn’t half a farthing, as you know perfectly well, Le Sage,” was the decisive answer. “And now, look here. I haven’t any definite notion what that stuff I was telling you about this afternoon will realise; but I’m pretty sure it’ll be something very considerable indeed for each of us. We shall have to go to work about it rather cautiously though.”
“Yes, you will. By Jove, Wyvern, I believe you are developing a business instinct after all.”
“Well what I was going to say is this. Hold on as well as you can until it does realise, and then any capital you may require to set you on your legs again, and clear off liabilities with, I shall take it as a favour if you would let me advance. I am just as certain of getting it all back again as if I stuck it into the Bank of England, and even if I wasn’t what the devil does it matter? We shall be near relations directly.”
The other was looking curiously at him.
“By the Lord, Wyvern, but you are a deuced good chap; in fact a very exceptional one. If you only knew all, now! Why most men would have gladly seen me to the devil under the circumstances.”
“Most men must be very exceptional cads then,” laughed Wyvern, tilting back his chair, and lighting a pipe. “And as for knowing everything I know all I want to know – no, by the bye – there’s one thing I do want to know. Who bought Seven Kloofs? I’m going to buy it back again.”
“The deuce you are! Then let me frankly advise you not to. It’s the most rotten investment I ever made.”
“Oh, so you took it on, then? Why you weren’t keeping up your reputation that shot, Le Sage.”
“No. You shall know some more though, now. I bought it with the sole object of getting you out of this part of the country. How’s that?”
Wyvern threw back his head, and roared.
“How’s that?” he said. “Why you bit off more than you could chew – darned sight more, old chap. Still I’m going to have it back again, not as a stock run but as a game preserve. I’m no good at farming I know, but I’m fond of this part of the country and the climate. So we shall squat down at Seven Kloofs – I think I shall take to writing books, or some such foolishness – and all be as jolly together as it’s possible to be. How’s that?”
“Oh, good enough,” said the other in a relieved tone. “You won’t take the child right away from me then?”
“Rather not I must take her away for a short time though, Le Sage. I must go to England almost directly with Fleetwood to see about realising our plunder, and I can’t leave Lalanté behind. What do you say?”
There was only one thing to be said under the circumstances, and Le Sage, being a sensible man, said it. Afterwards the two men sat talking matters over till far into the night, even into the small hours.