The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕

maelstrom of misery that might any day draw me to my doom? At

last an idea occurred to me.

“Agnes,” I said, “will you agree to a compromise? Will you promise

me to take a year to think it over? If at the end of that time I am

still at liberty I will go to your father, tell him my story as I

have to-day told it to you, and, if he will still have anything to do

with me, ask him for your hand. By that time I shall probably know my

fate, you will be able to see things more clearly, and I shall not

feel that I have taken advantage of your love and sympathy.”

“But I want to be with you and to help you now.”

“Believe me, you can help me best by agreeing to my proposal. Will

you make me happy by consenting to what I wish?”

“If it will please you I will do so,” she said, softly.

“God bless you, dear,” I answered.

And thus the matter was concluded.

CHAPTER XI. A TERRIBLE SURPRISE.

NEARLY a week had elapsed since I had made my confession to Agnes

at the Falls, and in three days it was Mr. Maybourne’s intention to

set out on his return journey to the South. During the whole of that

period not one word had been said by Miss Maybourne regarding my

story. But if she did not refer to it in speech it was easy to see

that the subject was never absent from her mind. On two occasions I

heard her father question her as to the reason of her quietness, and

I saw that each time she found it a more difficult task to invent a

satisfactory reply. What this meant to me you will readily

understand. I could not sleep at night for thinking of it, and not

once but a thousand times I bitterly regretted having burdened her

mind with my unhappy secret.

Two afternoons prior to our guests’ departure I was sitting in my

verandah reading the letters which had been brought to the mine by

the mailman at midday. Mr. Maybourne was sitting near me, also deep

in his correspondence, while his daughter had gone to her own room

for the same purpose. When I came to the end of my last epistle I eat

with it in my hand, looking out across the veldt, and thinking of all

that had happened since I had said good-bye to old England.

From one thing my thoughts turned to another; I thought of my

wandering life in Australia, of poor old Ben Garman, of Markapurlie,

and last of all of Bartrand. The memory of my hatred for him brought

me home again to London, and I saw myself meeting Nikola in the

Strand, and then accompanying him home to his extraordinary abode. As

I pictured him seated in his armchair in that oddly-furnished room,

all my old horror of him flashed back upon me. I seemed to feel the

fascination of his eyes just as I had done that night when we visited

that murderous cab in the room below.

While I was thinking of him, I heard a footstep on the path that

led round the house, and presently Mackinnon appeared before me. He

beckoned with his hand, and understanding that he desired to speak to

me, I rose from my chair and went out to him.

“What is it?” I enquired, as I approached him, for at that hour he

was generally in the depths of the mine. “Has anything gone

wrong.”

“That’s as ye care to take my words or no,” he answered, wheeling

about and leading me out of earshot of the house. There was something

in his manner that frightened me, though I could not for the life of

me have said why. When we reached the fence that separated my garden

from the open veldt I stopped, and leaning on the rails, once more

asked him why he had called me out.

“I told ye a fortnight ago that there was trouble brewing for us

with the natives,” he said impressively. “I warned ye a week ago that

‘twas no better. Now I tell ye its close upon us, and if we’re not

prepared, God help us all.”

“What do you mean? Don’t speak in enigmas, man. Tell me straight

out what you are driving at.”

“Isn’t that what I’m trying to do?” he said. “I tell ye the whole

country’s in a ferment. The Matabele are out, and in a few hours, if

not before, we shall have proof of it.”

“Good God, man!” I cried, “how do you know this? And why did you

not make me see the importance of it before?”

”’ Ye can lead a horse to the water but ye canna make him drink,’

says the proverb,” he answered. “Ye can tell a man of danger, but ye

canna make him see it. An’ so ‘twas with ye. I told ye my suspicions

a fortnight past, but ‘twas only this minute I came to know how bad

it really was.”

“And how have you come to hear of it now?”

“Step this way an’ I’ll show ye.”

He led me to a small hut near the kitchen. On reaching it, he

opened it and showed me a man stretched out upon a bed of sacks and

grass. He was a white man, and seemed utterly exhausted.

“This man’s name,” said Mackinnon, as if he were exhibiting some

human curiosity, “is Andrews. He’s a prospector, and we’ve been

acquent for years. Now tell your yarn, Andrews, and let Mr. Wrexford

here see how bad the matter is.”

“I’ve not much to tell, sir,” said the man addressed, sitting up

as he spoke. “It came about like this: I am a prospector, and I was

out away back on the river there, never dreaming there was mischief

in the wind. Then my boys began lo drop hints that there was likely

to he trouble, and I’d best keep my weather eye open. At first I

didn’t believe them, but when I got back to camp at mid-day to-day

and found both my servants murdered, my bullocks killed, and my

rifles and everything else of value stolen, I guessed who had done

it. Fortunately, they had passed on without waiting for me, so I got

into the saddle again and came here post haste to warn you. I tell

you this, the Matabele are rising. The impi that murdered my men is

under one of the king’s sons, and by this time they are not twenty

miles distant from this spot. There can be no doubt that they are

travelling this way. From what my boys told me, Buluwayo is

surrounded, while three more impis are travelling night and day with

the same object as the one I now warn you of, namely, to cut off the

advance of the troops being pushed forward to oppose them from the

south.”

“Do you mean this? On your oath, are you telling me the

truth?”

“God strike me dead if I’m not,” he answered, solemnly. “Look at

me, sir, I’ve made my way in here as hard as a man could come, riding

for his life. That should be proof enough; but if it isn’t, Mr.

Mackinnon here will speak for me, I’m sure.”

“That I will,” said Mackinnon. “I’ve known you long enough, and

always found you a straightforward man.”

I stood for a few moments deep in thought.

“How far do you think they are away from us at the present

moment?”

“Not more than twenty miles at most, sir. I left my camp on the

river about mid-day, and I’ve been here about a quarter of an hour. I

came in as hard as I could ride; say five hours riding at twelve

miles an hour, making a big detour of about twenty miles, to avoid

them. That should make between fifteen and twenty miles away now if

they did five miles an hour straight across country.”

“And you’re sure they mean war?”

“There’s not a doubt of it, sir. I know the vermin too well by

this time not to be certain of that.”

“Then I must tell Mr. Maybourne at once. Come with me Mackinnon,

and you too, Andrews, if you can manage it. We must hold a council of

war and see what’s best to be done.”

I led them across the small paddock to my office, and then went on

to the house in search of my employer. I found him pacing up and down

the verandah, looking rather disturbed.

“Wrexford, my dear fellow,” he began, on seeing me, “I have been

looking for you. I want a few moments’ earnest conversation with

you.”

“And I with you, sir,” I answered.

He led me beyond the verandah before he spoke again.

“You must hear me first. What I want to see you about is as

important as life and death to us all. I have received a number of

letters by the mail, and one and all warn me that there is likely to

be trouble with the Matabele—The Chartered Company have seen it

coming, I am told, and are taking all the necessary steps to secure

life and property, but there is no knowing when the brutes may not be

on us, and what they may not do if they start with the upper hand.

Now, you see, if I were alone I should have no hesitation in

remaining to see it out—but there is Agnes to consider; and, with a

woman in the question, one has to think twice before one ventures

upon such a course,”

“That is the very thing I came over to see you about, sir. Serious

news has just reached me, and—well, to tell you the truth, we are

in danger now, this very minute. If you will step over to my office,

I have a man there who has seen the enemy within forty miles of this

place, and he tells me they are advancing in our direction even

now.”

His face, for an instant, became deadly pale, and I noticed that

he glanced anxiously at the sitting-room door.

“Steady, Wrexford, for heaven’s sake,” he said. “Not too loud, or

Agnes will hear. We musn’t frighten her before we are absolutely

obliged. Come to the office and let me see this man for myself.”

Together we walked over to my den where Mackinnon and Andrews were

awaiting us.

Mr. Maybourne nodded to the former and then looked searchingly at

the latter.

“I am told that you have seen the Matabele under arms to-day,” he

began, coming straight to the point, as was characteristic of

him.

“My servants were killed by them, and my camp was looted about

forty miles from this office,” replied Andrews, meeting Mr.

Maybourne’s glance without flinching.

“At what number should you estimate them?”

“Roughly speaking, from what I saw of them from a hill nearly a

mile distant, I should say they were probably two thousand strong.

They were in full war dress, and from what my servants had hinted to

me that morning, I gathered that they are led by one of the king’s

sons.”

“You have no doubt in your mind that they are coming this

way?”

“I don’t think there’s a shadow of a doubt about it, sir. They’re

probably trying to effect a junction with another impi, and then

they’ll be ready to receive any troops that may come up