Part 8 (1/2)
Christine went. Indeed, she was convinced that for once the woman spoke truth and that Roddy was not there or anywhere in the house. It was out-of-doors that she must seek him. So back to her room on winged feet to get a waterproof and make her way from the house. For once, the front door was barred! Outside, the rain had ceased as suddenly as it had burst from the heavens. Only the wind swished and howled wildly among the trees, tearing up handfuls of gravel to fling against the doors and windows. Afar off was a roaring sound new to her, that, later, she discovered to be the rus.h.i.+ng waters in the kloofs that were tearing tumultuously to swell the river a few miles off. Clouds had blotted out moon and stars. All the light there was came intermittently from whip-like lightning flashes across the sky. It helped Christine a little as she stumbled through the darkness, crying out Roddy's name, but she found herself often colliding with trees, and p.r.i.c.kly-pear bushes seemed to be rus.h.i.+ng hither and thither, waving fantastic arms and clutching for her as she pa.s.sed. The idea had come to her suddenly to seek Andrew McNeil and ask for his help. He was the only friendly soul of all those on the farm that she could turn to.
True, another face presented itself to her mind for one moment, but she banished it with scorn, despising herself for even thinking of d.i.c.k Saltire.
She fancied that McNeil lodged at the storekeeper's place, and set herself to find the route she had taken that afternoon--no easy task in the darkness that surrounded her. But at last she saw a twinkle of light, and, approaching closer, found that, by great good luck, she had indeed happened on the store. The door stood open, and she could see the man behind the counter talking to McNeil, who, seated on an upturned case, was smoking peacefully. Someone else was there too--someone whose straight back and gallant air was very familiar to her. Saltire was buying tobacco from the storekeeper. But Christine had no word for him. She went straight to McNeil with her story.
”Roddy is lost!” she cried. ”You must please come and help me find him.”
The men stared, electrified at her appearance. White as a bone, her beautiful violet eyes full of haunting fear; her hair, torn down by the wind and flickering in long black strands about her face, far below her waist, she looked like a wraith of the storm.
”Roddy lost!” McNeil and the storekeeper turned mechanically as one man to Saltire. It was only the girl who would not turn to him.
”Come quickly!” she urged. ”He may be drowning somewhere, even now, in one of the swollen streams.” She imagined the tragedy to herself as she spoke, and her voice was full of wistful despair.
”Get her a hot drink.” Saltire, flinging the command to the storekeeper, spoke for the first time. ”I'll round up the boys and get lanterns for a search.” In a few moments there was a flicker of lanterns without, and the murmur of voices.
”Come along, Niekerk!” commanded Saltire, and the storekeeper began to put his lights out. ”McNeil, you take Miss Chaine back to the farm.”
”No, no; I must come, too!” she cried.
”Impossible,” he said curtly. ”You will only be a hindrance.”
”Then I will go home alone,” she said quietly, ”and free Mr. McNeil to accompany you.”
”Very well--if you think you can find your way. Here is a lantern.”
She took it and went her way while they went theirs. Long before she reached the garden round the house, the lantern in her unskilful hands had gone out and she was groping by instinct.
All the weariness and strain of the day had suddenly descended upon her in a cloud. She knew she was near the end of her tether. This life at Blue Aloes was too much for her, after all; she must give it best at last; it was dominating her, driving her like a leaf before the wind.
These were her thoughts as she crept wearily through the garden, but suddenly she heard voices and was galvanized into hope, tinged with fear. Perhaps Roddy was found! Perhaps her terror and suffering had been unnecessary. She listened for a moment, then located the speakers close to her in the stoep.
”d.i.c.k,” a voice she knew was saying, ”I am sick of it. Bernard _may_ die down in East London, but we shall never get rid of the boy while that English Jezebel is here. And she knows too much now. We had better go. Blue Aloes will never be ours to sell and go back to our own dear island. Everything has gone wrong.”
”Nonsense, Issa. You are too impatient. Van Cannan will never come back. He is too full of antimony. As for Roddy, poor kid, he is probably drowned in one of the kloofs and speeding for the river by now--just the sort of adventure his queer little mind would embark on.
No one can blame us for _that_, at least. You are far too easily discouraged, my darling. Wait till the morning.” The voice was the soft, sonorous voice of Saxby, and a lightning flash revealed to the girl cowering among the trees that it was he who held Isabel van Cannan in his arms.
There were two ”d.i.c.ks” at Blue Aloes, and Christine, not knowing it, had been guilty of a grave injustice to Richard Saltire! Aghast as she was by the revelation, all her love and faith came tingling back in a sweet, overwhelming flood. For a moment or two she forgot Roddy, forgot where she was, forgot all the world but Saltire, and her attention was withdrawn from the pair in the stoep--indeed, she had no desire to hear their words, now that she was sure they knew no more of the boy's whereabouts than she herself. But the m.u.f.fled clang of the bar across the front door broke through her thoughts, and she became aware that Saxby had left and Mrs. van Cannan gone in. She was alone in the gaunt darkness, barred out, and with no means of getting into the house; all other doors were locked, as well she knew, and all shutters firmly bolted, including those of the nursery. However, the fact did not worry her greatly, for the thought of being snug and safe while poor Roddy roamed somewhere in the blackness had no appeal for her. Out here, she seemed, somehow, nearer to him, and to the man whom she now knew she had deeply wronged. Lanterns, twinkling like will-o'-the-wisps in every direction, told of the search going forward, and she determined to stay in the summer-house and wait for what news might come. It was very obscure there, and she knew not what loathly insects might be crawling on the seats and table, but, at any rate, it was shelter from the rain, which now again began to fall heavily.
It seemed to her hours that she sat there while the storm swept round her and the rus.h.i.+ng of many waters filled her ears. As a matter of fact, it was less than half an hour before she determined that inactivity was something not to be borne another moment and that she must return and join in the search for Roddy. So out she stumbled across the veld again, in the direction of the lanterns, evading as best she could the p.r.i.c.kly-pear bushes, stubbing her feet against rocks and boschies, drenched and driven by the storm. It was old Andrew McNeil whom she found first, and he seemed an angel from heaven after the vile and menacing loneliness, although he was but ill pleased to see her.
”You should be in your bed, la.s.sie,” he muttered. ”The poor bairn will never be found this night. We've searched everywhere. There's nothing left but the water.”
”Oh, don't say that!” she cried woefully, and peered, fascinated, at the boiling torrent rus.h.i.+ng down a kloof that but yesterday was an innocent gully they had crossed in their walks, in some places so narrow as to allow a jump from bank to bank. Now it was a turbulent flood of yellow water, spreading far beyond its banks and roaring with a rage unappeasable. While they stood there, staring, Saltire came up.
”You, Miss Chaine! I thought I asked you to return to the farm.” His tones, were frigid, but his eyes compa.s.sionate. No one with any humanity could have failed to be touched by the forlorn girl, pale and lovely in the dim light.
”I had to come. I could not stay inert any longer.”
”We have searched every inch of the land inside the aloes,” he said.
”He has either fallen into one of the streams or got out beyond the hedge into the open veld--which seems impossible, somehow. At any rate, we can do no more until it is light.” He dismissed the natives with a brief: ”Get home, boys. _Hamba lalla!_” then turned to McNeil.