by Grant Allen
With a throbbing heart, Elma sat down on the sofa, and tried with all her might and main not to listen, She clasped her hands still tighter. She refused to be wrought up. She wouldn’t give way to it. If she had followed her own impulse, to be sure, she would have risen on the spot and danced that mad dance once more with all the wild abandonment of an almeh or a Zingari. But she resisted with all her might. And she resisted successfully.
Miss Ewes, never faltering, kept her keen eye fixed hard on her with a searching glance, as she ran over the keys in ever fresh combinations.
Faster, wilder, and stranger the music rose; but Elma sat still, her breast heaving hard, and her breath panting, yet otherwise as still and motionless as a statue. She knew Miss Ewes could tell exactly how she felt. She knew she was trying her; she knew she was tempting her to get up and dance; and yet, she was not one bit afraid of this strange weird woman, as she’d been afraid that sad morning at home of her own mother.
The composer went on fiercely for some minutes more, leaning close over the keyboard, and throwing her very soul, as Elma could plainly see, into the tips of her fingers. Then, suddenly she rose, and came over, well pleased, to the sofa where Elma sat. With a motherly gesture, she took Elma’s hand; she smoothed her dark hair; she bent down with a tender look, in those strange grey eyes, and printed a kiss unexpectedly on the poor girl’s forehead.
“Elma,” she said, leaning over her, “do you know what that was? That was the Naga Snake Dance. It gave you an almost irresistible longing to rise, and hold the snake in your own hands, and coil his great folds around you. I could see how you felt. But you were strong enough to resist. That was very well done. You resisted even the force of my music, didn’t you?”
Elma, trembling all over, but bursting with joy that she could speak of it at last without restraint to somebody, answered, in a very low and tremulous voice, “Yes, Miss Ewes, I resisted it.”
Miss Ewes leant back in her place, and gazed at her long, with a very affectionate and motherly air. “Then I’m sure I don’t know,” she said at last, breaking out in a voice full of confidence, “why on earth you shouldn’t marry this young man you’re in love with!”
Elma’s heart beat still harder and higher than ever.
“What young man?” she murmured low — just to test the enchantress.
And Miss Ewes made answer, without one moment’s hesitation, “Why, of course, Cyril Waring!”
For a minute or two then, there was a dead silence. After that, Miss Ewes looked up and spoke again. “Have you felt it often?” she asked, without one word of explanation.
“Twice before,” Elma answered, not pretending to misunderstand. “Once I gave way. That was the very first time, you see, and I didn’t know yet exactly what it meant. The second time I knew, and then I resisted it.”
Somehow, before Miss Ewes, she hardly ever felt shy. She was so conscious Miss Ewes knew all about it without her telling her.
The elder woman looked at her with unfeigned admiration.
“That was brave of you,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t have done it myself! I should have HAD to give way to it. Then in YOU it’s dying out. That’s as clear as daylight. It won’t go any farther. I knew it wouldn’t, of course, when I saw you resisted even the Naga dance. And for you, that’s excellent…. For myself I encourage it. It’s that that makes my music what it is. It’s that that inspires me. I composed that Naga dance I just played over to you, Elma. But not all out of my own head. I couldn’t have invented it. It comes down in our blood, my dear, to you and me alike. We both inherit it from a common ancestress.”
“Tell me all about it,” Elma cried, nestling close to her new friend with a wild burst of relief. “I don’t know why, but I’m not at all ashamed of it all before you, Miss Ewes — at least, not in the way I am before mother.”
“You needn’t be ashamed of it,” Miss Ewes answered kindly. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. It’ll never trouble YOU in your life again. It always dies out at last; they say in the sixth or seventh generation, and when it’s dying out, it goes as it went with you, on the night you first fell in love with Cyril. If, after that, you resist, it never comes back again. Year after year, the impulse grows feebler and feebler. And if you can withstand the Naga dance, you can withstand anything. Come here and take my hand, dear. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Late at night Elma sat, tearful but happy, in her own room at home, writing a few short lines to Cyril Waring. This was all she said —
“There’s no reason on my side now, dearest Cyril. It’s all a mistake. I’ll marry you whenever and wherever you will. There need be no reason on your side either. I love you, and can trust you. Yours ever,
“ELMA.”
When Cyril Waring received that note next morning he kissed it reverently, and put it away in his desk among a bundle of others. But he said to himself sternly in his own soul for all that, “Never, while Guy still rests under that cloud! And how it’s ever to be lifted from him is to me inconceivable.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A STROKE FOR FREEDOM.
In Africa, meanwhile, during those eighteen months, King Khatsua had kept his royal word. He had held his two European prisoners under close watch and ward in the Koranna hut he had assigned them for their residence.
Like most other negro princes, indeed, Khatsua was a shrewd man of business in his own way; and while he meant to prevent the English strangers from escaping seaward with news of the new El Dorado they had discovered in Barolong land, he hadn’t the least idea of turning away on that account the incidental advantages to be gained for himself by permitting them to hunt freely in his dominions for diamonds. So long as they acquiesced in the rough-and-ready royalty of 50 per cent, he had proposed to them when he first decided to detain them in his own territory — one stone for the king, and one for the explorers — they were free to pursue their quest after gems to their hearts’ content in the valleys of Barolong land. And as the two Englishmen, for their part, had nothing else to do in Africa, and as they still went on hoping against hope for some chance of escape or rescue, they dug for diamonds with a will, and secured a number of first-class stones that would have made their fortunes indeed — if only they could have got them to the sea or to England.
Of course they lived perforce in the Koranna hut assigned them by the king, in pretty much the same way as the Korannas themselves did. King Khatsua’s men supplied them abundantly with grain, and fruits, and game; and even at times procured them ready-made clothes, by exchange with Kimberley. In other respects, they were not ill-treated; they were merely detained “during his majesty’s pleasure.” But as his majesty had no intention of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs, or of letting them go, if he could help it, to spread the news of their find among their greedy fellow-countrymen, it seemed to them both as if they might go on being detained like this in Barolong land for an indefinite period.
Still, things went indifferently with them. As they lived and worked together in their native hut by Khatsua’s village, a change began slowly but irresistibly to come over Granville Kelmscott’s feelings towards his unacknowledged half-brother. At first, it was with the deepest sense of distaste and loathing that the dispossessed heir found himself compelled to associate with Guy Waring in such close companionship. But, bit by bit, as they two saw more and more of one another, this feeling of distaste began to wear off piecemeal. Granville Kelmscott was more than half ashamed to admit it even to himself, but in process of time he really almost caught himself beginning to like — well, to like the man he believed to be a murderer. It was shocking and horrible, no doubt; but what else was he to do? Guy formed now his only European society. By the side of those savage Barolongs, whose chief thought nothing of perpetrating the most nameless horrors before their very eyes, for the gratification of mere freaks of passion or jealousy, a European murderer of the gentlemanly class seemed almost by comparison a mild and gentle personage. Granville hardly lik
ed to allow it in his own mind, but it was nevertheless the case; he was getting positively fond of this man, Guy Waring.
Besides, blood is generally thicker than water. Living in such close daily communion with Guy, and talking with him unrestrainedly at last upon all possible points — save that one unapproachable one, which both seemed to instinctively avoid alluding to in any way — Granville began to feel that, murderer or no murderer, Guy was in all essentials very near indeed to him. Nay, more, he found himself at times actually arguing the point with his own conscience that, after all, Guy was a very good sort of fellow; and if ever he had murdered Montague Nevitt at all — which looked very probable — he must have murdered him under considerably extenuating circumstances.
There was only one thing about Guy that Granville didn’t like when he got to know him. This homicidal half-brother of his was gentle as a woman; tender, kindhearted, truthful, affectionate; a gentleman to the core, and a jolly good fellow into the bargain; but — there’s always a but — he was a terrible money-grubber! Even there in the lost heart of Africa, at such a distance from home, with so little chance of ever making any use of his hoarded wealth, the fellow used to hunt up those wretched small stones, and wear them night and day in a belt round his waist, as if he really loved them for their own mere sakes — dirty high-priced little baubles! Granville, for his part, couldn’t bear to see such ingrained love of pelf. It was miserable; it was mercenary.
To be sure, he himself hunted diamonds every day of his life, just as hard as Guy did; there was nothing else to do in this detestable place, and a man MUST find something to turn his idle hands to. Also he carried them, like Guy, bound up in a girdle round his own waist; it was a pity they should be lost, if ever he should chance to get away safe in the end to England. But then, don’t you see, the cases were so different. Guy hoarded up his diamonds for mere wretched gain; whereas Granville valued his (he said to himself often) not for the mere worth in money of those shimmering little trinkets, but for his mother’s sake, and Gwendoline’s, and the credit of the family. He wanted Lady Emily to see her son filling the place in the world she had always looked forward with hope to his filling; and, by Heaven’s help, he thought, he could still fill it. He couldn’t marry Gwendoline on a beggar’s pittance; and, by Heaven’s help, he hoped still to be able to marry her.
Guy, on the other hand, found himself almost equally surprised in turn at the rapid way he grew really to be fond of Granville Kelmscott. Though Kelmscott knew, as he thought, the terrible secret of his half-unconscious crime — for he could feel now how completely he had acted under Montague Nevitt’s compelling influence — Guy was aware before long of such a profound and deep-seated sympathy existing between them, that he became exceedingly attached in time to his friendly fellow-prisoner. In spite of the one barrier they could never break down, he spoke freely by degrees to Granville of everything else in his whole life; and Granville in return spoke to him just as freely. A good fellow, Granville, when you got to know him. There was only a single trait in his character Guy couldn’t endure; and that was his ingrained love of money-grubbing. For the way the man pounced down upon those dirty little stones, when he saw them in the mud, and hoarded them up in his belt, and seemed prepared to defend them with his very life-blood, Guy couldn’t conceal from himself-the fact that he fairly despised him. Such vulgar, common-place, unredeemed love of pelf! Such mere bourgeois avarice! Of what use could those wretched pebbles be to him here in the dusty plains of far inland Africa?
Guy himself kept close count of his finds, to be sure; but then, the cases, don’t you see, were so different! HE wanted his diamonds to discharge the great debt of his life to Cyril, and to appear an honest man, rehabilitated once more, before the brother he had so deeply wronged and humiliated. Whereas Granville Kelmscott, a rich man’s son, and the heir to a great estate beyond the dreams of avarice — that HE should have come risking his life in these savage wilds for mere increase of superfluous wealth, why, it was simply despicable.
So eighteen months wore away, in mutual friendship, tempered to a certain degree by mutual contempt, and little chance of escape came to the captives in Barolong land.
At last, as the second winter came round once more, for two or three weeks the Englishmen in their huts began to perceive that much bustle and confusion was going on all around in King Khatsua’s dominions. Preparations for a war on a considerable scale were clearly taking place. Men mustered daily on the dusty plain with firearms and assegais. Much pombè was drunk; many palavers took place; a constant drumming of gongs and tom-toms disturbed their ears by day and by night. The Englishmen concluded some big marauding expedition was in contemplation. And they were quite right. King Khatsua was about to concentrate his forces for an attack on a neighbouring black monarch, as powerful and perhaps as cruel as himself, Montisive of the Bush Veldt.
Slowly the preparations went on all around. Then the great day came at last, and King Khatsua set forth on his mighty campaign, to the sound of big drums and the blare of native trumpets.
When the warriors had marched out of the villages on their way northward to the war, Guy saw the two prisoners’ chance of escape had arrived in earnest. They were guarded as usual, of course; but not so strictly as before; and during the night, in particular, Guy noticed with pleasure, little watch was now kept upon them. The savage, indeed, can’t hold two ideas in his head at once. If he’s making war on his neighbour on one side, he has no room left to think of guarding his prisoners on the other.
“To-night,” Guy said, one evening, as they sat together in their hut, over their native supper of mealie cakes and springbok venison, “we must make a bold stroke. We must creep out of the kraal as well as we can, and go for the sea westward, through Namaqua land to Angra Pequena.”
“Westward?” Granville answered, very dubiously. “But why westward, Waring? Surely our shortest way to the coast is down to Kimberley and so on to the Cape. It’ll take us weeks and weeks to reach the sea, won’t it, by way of Namaqua land?”
“No matter for that,” Guy replied, with confidence. He knew the map pretty well, and had thought it all over. “As soon as the Barolong miss us in the morning, they’ll naturally think we’ve gone south, as you say, towards our own people. So they’ll pursue us in that direction and try to take us; and if they were to catch us after we’d once run away, you may be sure they’d kill us as soon as look at us. But it would never occur to them, don’t you see, we were going away west. They won’t follow us that way. So west we’ll go, and strike out for the sea, as I say, at Angra Pequena.”
They sat up through the night discussing plans low to themselves in the dark, till nearly two in the morning. Then, when all was silent around, and the Barolong slept, they stole quietly out, and began their long march across the country to westward. Each man had his diamonds tied tightly round his waist, and his revolver at his belt. They were prepared to face every unknown danger.
Crawling past the native huts with very cautious steps, they made for the open, and emerged from the village on to the heights that bounded the valley of the Lugura. They had proceeded in this direction for more than an hour, walking as hard as their legs would carry them, when the sound of a man running fast, but barefoot, fell on their ears from behind in a regular pit-a-pat. Guy looked back in dismay, and saw a naked Barolong just silhouetted against the pale sky on the top of a long low ridge they had lately crossed over. At the very same instant Granville raised his revolver and pointed it at the man, who evidently had not yet perceived them. With a sudden gesture of horror, Guy knocked down his hand and prevented his taking aim.
“Don’t shoot,” he cried, in a voice of surprised dismay and disapproval. “We mustn’t take his life. How do we know he’s an enemy at all? He mayn’t be pursuing us.”
“Best shoot on spec, anyway,” Granville answered, somewhat discomposed. “All’s fair in war. The fellow’s after us no doubt. And, at any rate, if he sees us he may go and report our where
abouts to the village.”
“What? shoot an unarmed man who shows no signs of hostility! Why, it would be sheer murder,” Guy cried, with some horror. “We mustn’t make our retreat on THOSE principles, Kelmscott; it’d be quite indefensible. I decline to fire except when we’re attacked. I won’t be any party, myself, to needless bloodshed.”
Granville Kelmscott gazed at him, there in the grey dawn, in unspeakable surprise. Not shoot at a negro! In such straits, too, as theirs! And this rebuke had come to him — from the mouth of the murderer!
Turn it over as he might, Granville couldn’t understand it.
The Barolong ran along on the crest of the ridge, still at the top of his speed, without seeming to notice them in the gloom of the valley. Presently, he disappeared over the edge to southward. Guy was right, after all. He wasn’t in pursuit of them. More likely he was only a runaway slave, taking advantage, like themselves, of King Khatsua’s absence.
CHAPTER XXXV.
PERILS BY THE WAY.
Three weeks later, two torn and tattered, half-starved Europeans sat under a burning South African sun by the dry bed of a shrunken summer torrent. It was in the depths of Namaqua land, among the stony Karoo; and the fugitives were straggling, helplessly and hopelessly, seaward, thirsty and weary, through a half-hostile country, making their marches as best they could at dead of night and resting by day where the natives would permit them.
Their commissariat had indeed been a lean and hungry one. Though they carried many thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds about their persons, they had nothing negotiable with which to buy food or shelter from the uncivilized Namaquas. Ivory, cloth, and beads were the currency of the country. No native thereabouts would look for a moment at their little round nobs of water-worn pebbles. The fame of the diamond fields hadn’t penetrated as yet so far west in the land as to have reached to the huts of the savage Namaquas.
