Benita, An African Romance | Page 6

mother ordered
the Cape cart, packed up her clothes, took some money that she had put
away, drove to Durban, and after making arrangements at the bank
about a small private income of her own, sailed with me for England,
leaving a letter for my father in which she said that she would never see
him again, and if he tried to interfere with me she would put me under
the protection of the English court, which would not allow me to be
taken to the home of a drunkard.
"In England we went to live in London with my aunt, who had married
a Major King, but was a widow with five children. My father often
wrote to persuade my mother to go back to him, but she never would,
which I think was wrong of her. So things went on for twelve years or
more, till one day my mother suddenly died, and I came into her little
fortune of between £200 and £300 a year, which she had tied up so that
nobody can touch it. That was about a year ago. I wrote to tell my
father of her death, and received a pitiful letter; indeed, I have had
several of them. He implored me to come out to him and not to leave

him to die in his loneliness, as he soon would do of a broken heart, if I
did not. He said that he had long ago given up drinking, which was the
cause of the ruin of his life, and sent a certificate signed by a magistrate
and a doctor to that effect. Well, in the end, although all my cousins
and their mother advised me against it, I consented, and here I am. He
is to meet me at Durban, but how we shall get on together is more than
I can say, though I long to see him, for after all he is my father."
"It was good of you to come, under all the circumstances. You must
have a brave heart," said Robert reflectively.
"It is my duty," she answered. "And for the rest, I am not afraid who
was born to Africa. Indeed, often and often have I wished to be back
there again, out on the veld, far away from the London streets and fog. I
am young and strong, and I want to see things, natural things-- not
those made by man, you know--the things I remember as a child. One
can always go back to London."
"Yes, or at least some people can. It is a curious thing, Miss Clifford,
but as it happens I have met your father. You always reminded me of
the man, but I had forgotten his name. Now it comes back to me; it
/was/ Clifford."
"Where on earth?" she asked, astonished.
"In a queer place. As I told you, I have visited South Africa before,
under different circumstances. Four years ago I was out here big-game
shooting. Going in from the East coast my brother and I--he is dead
now, poor fellow--got up somewhere in the Matabele country, on the
banks of the Zambesi. As we didn't find much game there we were
going to strike south, when some natives told us of a wonderful ruin
that stood on a hill overhanging the river a few miles farther on. So,
leaving the waggon on the hither side of the steep nek, over which it
would have been difficult to drag it, my brother and I took our rifles
and a bag of food and started. The place was farther off than we
thought, although from the top of the nek we could see it clearly
enough, and before we reached it dark had fallen.
"Now we had observed a waggon and a tent outside the wall which we
thought must belong to white men, and headed for them. There was a
light in the tent, and the flap was open, the night being very hot. Inside
two men were seated, one old, with a grey beard, and the other, a
good-looking fellow--under forty, I should say--with a Jewish face,

dark, piercing eyes, and a black, pointed beard. They were engaged in
examining a heap of gold beads and bangles, which lay on the table
between them. As I was about to speak, the black-bearded man heard or
caught sight of us, and seizing a rifle that leaned against the table,
swung round and covered me.
"'For God's sake don't shoot, Jacob,' said the old man; 'they are
English.'
"'Best dead, any way,' answered the other, in a soft voice, with a slight
foreign accent, 'we don't want spies or thieves here.'
"'We are neither, but I can shoot as well as you, friend,' I remarked, for
by this time my rifle