Chapter IX.

Midnight in the Tent.

You can't think how full a bullock's foot is of bones," said Vanborough reflectively. He had placed a mass of soft, brownish jelly upon an earthen-ware dish and was touching it up with an iron spoon. Nigel Tremaine lay in a hammock, looking rather white and worn from the effects of his feverish attack; the warm air came in from the tent opening, and Geoffrey was pre-paring his friend's breakfast—Paraguay tea, corn-cakes, and very primitive calfsfoot jelly.

"Where did you get the bullock's feet?" asked Tremaine.

"Oh, they were given me. Carson told me what could be done with them, and took off the shoes. I soaked them for one night and let them boil for twelve hours more—this savoury jelly is the consequence. It is very good for you; but I repeat that you will never know how difficult it is to cut up bullock's feet, because you simply cannot imagine how full they are of bones."

"You are becoming a first rate cook," said Nigel, taking a portion of the jelly; upon his plate.

"A good plain cook," said Van-borough, pulling down his sleeves and proceeding to pour the tea into a tin pannikin; "but I don't pretend to emulate Carson." Carson was another Englishman who had recently joined the party. "He brought in an ostrich's egg yesterday morning for himself and Darenth and made an omelet for their breakfast. When it was done he remembered that Soyer always tossed an omelet in the open air; so he would go outside and toss it. I saw him from afar, and told him what would happen, but he would not listen. Up it went, and about one quarter came down into the frying-pan again."

"What a fool!"

"So I called him," said Geoffrey, plunging his spoon into the jelly.

"And what happened yesterday? The men came in swearing that you were the best drover among them. I was too lazy to inquire about it at the time."

"The mules all went different ways," said Geoffrey, laughing, "and so did we. At last I got down and put my ear to the ground in order to ascertain whether I could not hear some large body of them coining my way; and I did. They had turned round and were coming back, so I just headed them, and when the other fellows page 166 turned up I had got every one—not a single mule missing. We drove them into a mule-yard then, you know, and some of the men took charge of them. Now we are nearly at our journey's end, and shall have no more work of that sort just yet."

"You are happy in this life, Geoffrey?"

"I like it very well. It is a change from mess room and parade, isn't it?"

"And how about the home-ties?" said Tremaine, with a keen glance of his eagle eyes at the broad-shouldered, fine-looking man before him, who had adapted himself with such apparent ease to the exigencies of a colonist's life.

Vanborough was silent for a moment; then laughed rather defiantly.

"You don't expect me to go into those pros and cons over breakfast, with a day's work before me, do you?" Then, seeing that Nigel took this speech with a curiously grave, considerate look, he added, "You must not press me too hard, Nigel. You forget that while you are soon going back to English life, I am not."

"That is just what I want to talk about. Not now, though, while you are so desperately colonial. But I must be getting back to Buenos Ayres in a few days, remember, and I have a thing or two on my mind to say."

"All right, old fellow. I beg pardon for my roughness. It's awfully hard to hear you talk of going back; though, of course, the time-must come sooner or later. Now I must be off—there's no help for it."

"I shall be out, too, presently. I want to see your mesmerising friend before I go."

"Don't," said Geoffrey, with an accent of such hearty disgust that Nigel laughed as they separated. "Besides," Vanborough turned back to say, "I believe he has left the camp."

Sebastian Vallor had been hanging about the camp for some time earning his living in precarious ways. Occasionally he prescribed for various diseases, and seemed to have a good deal of knowledge of herbs, acquired perhaps amongst the Indians, with whom he said he had lived for many months at a time; sometimes he told fortunes, even cast nativities in some rude way, and predicted the course of events by the stars. These latter accomplishments aroused a good deal of superstitious feeling among the Spaniards and native Americans; but the English and Yankee settlers, of whom there were several, laughed unmercifully at his pretensions to supernatural lore. His mesmeric influence was put into requisition more than once, but never to such good effect as in the case of the little Indian boy on the night of Vallor's arrival at the camp. Indeed he seemed to shrink from any such exhibition of his powers, and confined himself to common-place tricks and sleight-of-hand, in which he was an adept. His cleverness in card games brought him at first into much repute, but when he was found to win steadily, the settlers became slow to play with him, and the gains thus made rapidly melted away. However, there was always plenty of work to be done, and ready hospitality extended to a stranger; so that, after all, Vallor was not badly off.

He had made little use of his connexion with Luke Darenth; in fact, he seemed to hold himself somewhat apart from him, intimating now and then in a mysterious manner that he knew more than he thought well to confide to such a country booby; but he was particular in his inquiries about Charnwood, and also about the Tremaines and the Vanboroughs. He speedily gathered that Captain Vanborough was on bad terms with his family, and plied Luke with questions as to the reason; but Luke had no answer to give, and grew silent and sulky when he thought the conversation lasted too long. But Vallor returned to the charge more than once.

"What did Mr. Tremaine come out here for?" he asked one day, when Luke seemed more amiable than usual.

"For friendliness to the Captain," said Luke. "They're like brothers, those two, and they're to be real brothers some time or other."

"How is that?"

"By marriage," said Luke nodding. "Mr Tremaine worships the very ground that Miss Clarice treads on. But he's done himself an ill turn by coming out here with Mr Geoffrey."

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"Indeed! and how?"

"Oh, Sir Wilfred's taken against him! by all accounts," said Luke. "He didn't like Mr. Tremaine holding to Mr. Geoffrey in opposition to him, but I suppose it will come right in course of time."

"Why had Sir Wilfred quarrelled with his son?" asked Vallor with evident interest.

"Tain't no business of mine," said Luke. "No, I don't know, nor does any one else—except themselves and Mr. Tremaine. Unless, p'r'aps it would be Joan," he added, in a low tone to himself.

"Joan? Ah, that is your sister's name?" said Vallor, interrogatively. Then, with a look as if some new idea were occurring to him, he said, "But your sister—she was very friendly with Miss Vanborough and your Captain—was she not? He might tell her things that he would not tell you or me?"

"He might," said Luke, stolidly un-conscious of the conclusion that Vallor was drawing from his words.

"Your sister, then," pursued the Spaniard, "she is beautiful?"

"She's a fine, strapping lass," said Luke, with calm satisfaction. "Why, you heard that little Pépé describe her to a hair, though how he knew what she was like is more than I can understand."

"That was your sister, was it?" said Sebastian Vallor, "The girl with the dark eyes and the ribbon round her neck—oh, I should know her again so well!—whom Pépé was describing when your Mr. Geoffrey interrupted us with his angry frown and terrible voice? Oh, now I understand. My good Luke, if I was ever to visit Charnwood, I think I could turn your information to good account."

And his eyes assumed so crafty an expression that Luke was suddenly put upon his guard, and began to bethink himself of what he had said. On reflection he could not see that he had betrayed more of his master's business than was well known to all the world at Charnwood. But as a matter of fact Sebastian Vallor had learnt far more than Luke himself could have expressed in words.

"Mr. Tremaine's going back to Eng-land soon, is he not?" he asked Luke presently.

"Next week, I expect; he wants doctoring."

"Why does he not have a doctor from Buenos Ayres? Is he not rich enough to pay the cost? It is seven or eight dollars the mile, and it is forty miles—true; but if he is so rich?——"

"Oh, money matters nothing to him," said Luke, with an Englishman's desire to uphold the honour of his countryman in the presence of a stranger. "Still," he added, upon re-flection, "seven dollars a mile for forty miles is a tidy lot of money, to be sure."

It was noticed after this conversation that Sebastian Vallor was found several times in the vicinity of the tent occupied by Vanborough and Tremaine during their absence; and a certain settler, who was acting one day as cook for the community, felt it his duty to warn him that, "if he didn't give them premises a wide berth for the future he would know the feel of a bullet afore long, or his name wasn't Jonathan Elkins." After which remark Sebastian Vallor absented himself from the camp altogether, and was supposed to have gone back to his lonely hut in the forest at some miles' distance. And therefore Vanborough told his friend, who as yet had observed Vallor only in the most cursory manner possible, that the Spaniard had finally quitted the little settlement.

In the dusk of the evening, when Nigel and Geoffrey were both out of doors, a keen observer might have distinguished a dark form lying almost motionless upon the ground near their tent. A few log cabins had been hastily run up for the use of the cattle-drivers when they came that way, but Vanborough preferred the free ventilation and portability of his canvas dwelling, although he was warned that it was more easily accessible to thieves. He was strong and well-armed, and had no fear. And yet there might have been room for fear in the mind of any one who had descried the stealthy approach of that dark figure through, the grass. It writhed itself along by slow degrees, like a snake, and finally page 168 reached the very edge of the tent, where it lay still for a long time. When night had fallen it wormed itself just inside the tent, and lay hidden in the darkness between the canvass and a rude wooden box which stood at one side of the tent. Thus the man, whoever he was, lay not a yard from Nigel Tremaine's hammock, and close to the box which he was in the habit of using as a table on which he sometimes carelessly deposited his watch and pocket-book, side by side with his revolver.

It was with this dangerous visitant crouched within four feet of him that Nigel Tremaine that night opened a conversation with Geoffrey. The lights were out, and Vanborough was just sinking into slumber, when his friend's voice aroused him.

"Geoffrey, old fellow, I'm sorry to disturb you, but as I can never get a quiet word with you in the day time, I must ask you to listen to me now."

"Say on," said Vanborough, sleepily. "You wouldn't be so ready to talk if you had been as many hours in the saddle as I have to-day. I'm afraid I shall snore in the middle of the conversation, that is all."

"Not when you hear what I have to say. I want to talk about your home people."

Geoffrey's voice took a wakeful tone at once.

"What is it? I'm listening."

"I'm not going to pretend to be disinterested," said Tremaine, deliberately. My words are spoken from purely selfish motives, and you must not mind if they sound harsh. You know how deep my attachment to Clarice is?"

"Yes."

"You know that I was denied admittance to your father's house a fortnight before I came away?"

"Unhappily I do."

"I expected Sir Wilfred's soreness about our friendship and my expedition with you to die away in a short time, but I am sorry to say that it seems to have become exasperated I hear from Clarice that she is now forbidden to go to Beechhurst to see my mother and the girls—or to write to me any longer."

"She never told me that," said Geoffrey, sitting up, with something like a groan.

"Of course I shall demand an explanation when I go back."

"You ought never to have come."

"Yes, I ought. I don't think your father will hold out against both Clarice and myself. The fact that makes me most anxious, and that has very considerably astonished me, is that Gilbert takes the same view as Sir Wilfred and opposes our engagement with all his might."

Geoffrey was so still for a moment that Nigel could not even hear him breathe. Then he drew a long sigh, as of one utterly heart-sick and weary. "Well," he said, "is there anything in that to surprise you?"

"Yes," Nigel answered emphatically, "very much." He paused for a moment, and then went on in clear and rapid tones—"I am surprised, because I thought the bond between you was so strong. I know how he used to cling to you when we were all boys together; how considerate you were of him, how dependent he was on you. You were a model elder brother, Geoffrey; Gilbert used to look to you for all sorts of aid long after his boyhood; and you were absurdly, romantically generous and good to him. Oh, yes, I know the history of his lameness; you needn't remind me of it. You all i attach an undue importance to your share in that accident. Practically he owes more than half his success and happiness in life to you; I've heard him acknowledge it when he was in an amiable mood. And for him to say that he believes that you would commit forgery! Why, he must know that it is a moral impossibility as well as I do. I am lost in amazement at Gilbert's action in the matter."

"I wish you would let it rest."

"I can't and won't let it rest. Do you ever let it rest? You know that it haunts you night and day. This is the last time we may be able to talk the matter out. Hitherto I have respected your silence. Now I am going back to encounter the obstacles which between us we have managed to raise up in the way of my engagement to Clarice. For her sake and mine you ought to help me. The easiest way of removing the difficulty would be to clear yourself of suspicion. And I think I page 169 have a right to ask a question or two."

"This is just your old trick of bullying me which you had at school," said Vanborough. "It has lost its power now, you know. You have a right to ask questions, certainly; and I have a right to decline answering them Go on."

"Do you want this matter cleared up?"

"No."

"Do you want to come back to England?"

"No."

"You prefer expatriation? Why? When Sir Wilfred rests with your fathers, you will come home with your fortune gained in sheep-shearing and colt-breaking, and take your proper place in the country."

"I think it is probable," said Geoffrey, "that my father may have made some provision in his will to render my return to England all but impossible. He is in possession of certain papers which would lodge me in prison at once, if he chose to place them in proper hands."

"And you will submit to that?"

"I prefer remaining in South America."

"But what do you hope for? What are your prospects of happiness?"

"I have none," said Geoffrey bitterly. "What is there for me to hope for here? I don't blow my brains out, be-cause I hold that a man who commits suicide is a coward; also because there are two or three people in the world to whom my death would bring some little shade of grief. If you had not taken the management of me at the critical moment I think I should have joined the army here instead of going sheep-farming; and then I should have probably been shot in the next revolution. Still, I find that Indians, sun-stroke, fever, and accident make the average death-rate rather high. So much the better."

"I never heard you take that tone before."

"It is not a manly one, I know. You shall not hear it again. Only spare me any more questions."

"One moment, Geoffrey. Will you do nothing to clear yourself?"

"Nothing."

"I believe that I have my finger on the truth. Shall I point it out?"

"No."

"You understand that you are throwing away your character and your life?"

"Indeed I do."

"And for whose sake?"

There was a long silence. Nigel was content to Jet his question do its own work. When Vanborough spoke it was in a low, pained tone.

"I can't help it, Nigel. Think of it as being for my own sake—my own safety. I can't go back."

"The whole truth would not be half so bad for yourself, and for others, as this concealment. If I said to your father——"

"Nigel, I can't listen."

"You must listen, or I shall have to precipitate matters by writing my views to Sir Wilfred in a way that might be called rash."

"Dear old boy, I wish you would hold your tongue. You make matters worse, not better. Do be quiet and go to sleep."

"Not till I have told you a story which justifies my interference. Now don't interrupt me with any such frivolous statement as that you know the tale already, or the parties concerned. Remember you have not heard the comments on it that late years have suggested to me. There were once two brothers, boys of eleven and sixteen. They were at a tutor's house together. One day there was a great row because pipes, and spirits, and various materials for feasting had been smuggled into one of the bedrooms. Everybody in the house denied any knowledge of it—be quiet, I say, and listen—until damning evidence against one Mr. G. Vanborough was found in the shape of a label tied round the neck of a bottle, and addressed to him. Mr. Geoffrey Vanborough was accordingly accused, condemned, and expelled—or would have been expelled, but for the officiousness of a friend who had looked hard into the face of G. Vanborough the younger, saw something there that the general public did not see, and extorted the truth from him. G. stands for Gilbert as well as Geoffrey, you see. The page 170 elder brother had been fool enough—yes, fool enough—to shield the younger at his own expense, on the ground that he was young, lame, delicate—heaven knows what besides!—and forgot that his over softness and tenderness to the lad might hinder any chance of his growing up brave and honest in after life. In my opinion you did Gilbert much greater harm by trying to protect him from the consequences of his own wrong-doing than when you were the innocent cause of his lameness. There; I have done. History repeats itself; that is all."

"You are going too far, Tremaine."

"You told me so on that former occasion, I recollect."

"Don't, Nigel; for God's sake, don't! You make me sorry that I ever sought you out on that unhappy night last summer. Don't say another word, or we shall quarrel."

"Vanborough, your love for your brother Gilbert makes a perfect fool of you. Well, what are you going to do?"

"Going out. I'll have no more of this. I can't stand it."

"Lie down again. I have nothing more to say to-night."

"No," said Geoffrey, who had risen from his bed; "I must get a breath of fresh air. I am stifled."

He lifted up the flap of the tent door and disappeared.

Nigel sighed as he turned upon his pillow. He had made one last attempt to alter his friend's determination and had failed. There was nothing left for him to do but to go back to England next week and do what he could with Gilbert and Sir Wilfred. Thus musing he fell asleep, and Geoffrey, broad awake outside, lay under a solitary eucalyptus tree with the night-breezes cooling his feverish hands and head.

And all the time the dark figure of a man, with ears on the alert and nerves a-strain, had crouched three feet from Nigel's head and listened to every word.

Geoffrey had become almost sleepy when his attention was aroused by a sudden cry which seemed to proceed from the tent. He started up, listened, and then rushed towards it at full speed. It was Nigel's voice that had called him, and as he approached he could hear the noise of a struggle, and then the report of a pistol, which roused the whole camp.

He entered the tent just in time to hinder the escape of a man who was crawling away under the canvas with a knife in his hand. Geoffrey seized him by the throat and disarmed him, knowing as he did so that the would-be thief and assassin was Sebastian Vallor. And when he had secured him he turned to the floor, where Nigel Tremaine lay, the still smoking pistol dropping from his hand, the dark blood oozing slowly from more than one ugly wound, and staining all his arm and side; a deathly pallor upon his lifeless face.