Part 62 (1/2)

”Yes; it's myself all right,” he replies, kissing away the tears from her cheeks and eyes. ”But I shall begin to think it's some one else directly, because this is far and away too good for me--too good for me to believe in. Lilian, my life! Every day since we parted I have been looking forward to and waiting for this.”

”Ah G.o.d! I have got my darling back again safe--safe!” she murmurs almost inaudibly, but Claverton hears it, and he does not answer, he only tightens his clasp of the lithe, willowy figure which he holds in his embrace, and covers the soft dusky hair, lying against his cheek, with pa.s.sionate kisses. A thousand years of ten times the peril and hards.h.i.+p he has gone through since they parted would be a small price to pay for such a moment as this, he thinks. They make a pleasant picture, those two, as they stand there. He--well-knit, grave, handsome, in the rough picturesqueness of his campaigning attire, his features bronzed by exposure to sun and climate, and with his normal air of quiet resolution deepened and enhanced by a sense of many dangers recently pa.s.sed through; looking at her with a tender, protecting reverence. She--soft, graceful, and clinging--the sweet lips curving into a succession of radiant smiles even while her eyes are yet wet with the tears which an uncontrollable feeling of love and thankfulness has evoked.

”So you thought I was never going to put in an appearance, darling?” he says, at length.

”Ah, how I waited and longed! But I can forget it now--now that I have got you. Wait! You look so much better for the dreadful time you have been through, dearest, so strong and well. And you are not going off again, are you? The war is over now.”

”I hope so,” is his rather weary reply. ”I'm tired of ruffians and camp life--utterly sick of them. Not but what the said ruffians are rather good fellows; but peace is better than fighting, when all's said and done. By the way, how is it we have the house all to ourselves? This is an unusual run of luck, my Lilian.”

”Mrs Payne is out somewhere, and the children too. And--”

”And--why didn't you go with them, instead of moping in here alone all the morning?”

”Arthur!”

”Lilian! Don't look so shocked, my darling. Do you think I don't know perfectly, that you wouldn't lose a chance of getting the first glimpse of a certain broken-down and war-worn ragam.u.f.fin?”

A shadow darkened the light. Both looked up quickly as a slim, well-made native, standing in the doorway, raised his hand above his head and sang out l.u.s.tily, ”Inkos!”

”Hallo, Sam!” cried Claverton, not best pleased with the interruption.

”How are you getting on?”

The native showed a double row of dazzling ”ivories” as he grinned in genuine delight at seeing his master back again.

”Did you kill many--very many of the Amaxosa, my chief?” he asked, in the Zulu tongue.

”H'm. Many of those who got in front of my gun-barrels up there, met with bad accidents,” replied his master, drily.

Sam chuckled and grinned. His exultation could hardly contain itself.

”Ha, Missie Liliane,” he said, in his broken English, ”Sam he tell you so. Inkos, he kill lots, lots of Amaxosa n.i.g.g.a. He shoot, shoot them-- so, so,” and he began snapping his fingers vehemently, and otherwise pantomiming the sharp-shooting of a body of skirmishers. ”Sam, he tell you so, Missie Liliane. Amaxosa n.i.g.g.a no good! They no can hurt Inkos.

Sam, he tell you so. Inkos, he shoot, shoot them instead. Amaxosa n.i.g.g.a no good. Haow!”

”Sam, you rascal, shut up that,” cried Claverton, good-humouredly. ”Cut found to the stable and look after the horse; I've ridden the poor brute nearly to death. Give him a good rub down, and see that he's cool before he drinks. D'you hear?”

”Teh bo 'Nkos,” answered Sam, and he disappeared; and they could hear him as he pa.s.sed beneath the open window, humming to a sort of chant of his own: ”Aow! Amaxosa n.i.g.g.a no good--no good.”

”Has that chap behaved himself while I've been away, darling?” asked Claverton.

”Behaved himself? Why, he's the best of boys. Sometimes when I felt very, very downhearted about the war, that dear, good Sam would try all in his power to cheer me up, and persuade me that you would be sure not to come to harm, love. He used to declare that the Kafirs were sure to run away whenever you appeared, and he cut such extraordinary antics, always bringing in that ridiculous phrase of his, that he kept me in fits of laughter. Yes, he has been as good as possible.”

”That's a feather in Sam's cap, and a deuced good thing for him. Wasn't it queer, my falling in with all the old lot up there? They were all just the same; even Jeffreys hasn't quite laid by his scowl, and as for Jack Armitage, he's a greater lunatic than ever. I hope our little friend keeps a tight rein on him at his hearth and home, for in the field there was no holding the fellow. He has started a frightful thing in bugles, which he toots upon vehemently on the smallest provocation, though, by Jove, I was glad enough to hear that braying old post-horn once, when Brathwaite's men turned the tables in our favour in an awkwardish scrimmage.”

It was a remarkable coincidence that as he uttered these words a terrific fanfare should be sounded outside.

”That's it! Jack's post-horn for anything!” cried he, making for the window. ”Talk of the--ah'm! Wonder what the fellow's doing here. And, look, there's George Payne and the rest of them.”

The whole lot of them it was, and a minute later they all entered, laughing and talking at a great rate.

”Why, Jack, what the deuce are _you_ doing up here?” cried Claverton, in astonishment.