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Chapter XXXIX.

It was a night of horror.

Do you know what it is to be in a house where Death has come, or the tap of his coming has just been heard? What a hush closes upon every one. Away in the kitchen, beyond all reach of sound to the fatal room, the servants whisper. An awe possesses them, the influence of a great happening, the reflection from the sorrow-stricken dwellers of the drawing-room, over whom lies the dread lest hope may at any moment be toppled into the abyss of that which is accomplished. It is infectious, this melancholy; and even those who have no great sympathy or any cause for profound sorrow find themselves moving in unusual silence, speaking in lowered tones, and shy of a jest or careless laugh.

Death is illimitably great—even the most sceptical admit it is the one thing they really know nothing about. But a sudden grief, of lesser majesty than death, thrust suddenly upon the head of a house, will evidence itself even in the demeanour of the servants. Thus it was in the great homestead of Te Henga as the news of Cyril having been arrested crept through the household. The closed library was suddenly the centre of whispered kitchen discussion. Was it murder? Would he really be taken to jail? What would he look like in cut hair and a suit splotched with arrows. The scullery-maid produced a copy of a paper happening to have a picture of a convict in it. Even the cook deigned to bend over with the others to look. Any servant returning from the front page 354of the house was at once sharply questioned, and it was wonderful how many reasons for passing near the library were discovered.

It was a miserable, slow-moving tragedy that was working itself out behind that door which opened once whilst the mother was led out by Daisy and upstairs weeping and sobbing.

The footman, chancing to pass, saw nothing as the door swung to behind his mistress, but he reported, and Yvette, the French maid, darted to attend to her duties, though as a rule she would have grumbled at losing her tea.

Cyril had gradually grown calmer and more reason-able. Yet it was only in a degree. He became sullen, but it was obvious that he was not to be trusted to refrain from making some mad bid for liberty. The handcuffs, however, were removed; and it was arranged that the detective or his comrade should remain with Cyril in the library through the night. Dinner was brought to them there, to which the police officer did as great justice as his prisoner the reverse.

"You'd better eat," the man said kindly enough, as Cyril refused to have anything.

"Mind your own business, d——n you!" snarled the young man.

The detective shrugged his shoulders and enjoyed his meal.

He and his comrade were the only ones who did. Curiosity had spoilt the kitchen tea, and grief ruined the dining-room dinner. The wretched mother refused to appear. She was weeping and crying and hysterical in her room. For once the hot iron of circumstances had reached her heart and was slowly scorching a horrible wound.

Daisy, commanded by her father to appear, sat with him at the table. She could scarcely swallow a morsel, and tears she dared not staunch were trickling down page 355her cheeks. At the head of the table, more erect perhaps than he had been for months past, sat John Anderson. His face was as white as his snowy beard, and hard and set. It was almost fierce in its sternness. His brow was furrowed, his eyebrows contracted. His eyes seemed lit as by the light of some terrific passion which the firmly-shut lips were striving to restrain.

Yet it was a mask he wore. The keen-eyed butler knew it, the footman knew it. A mask of proud self-respect, of wrath for his dishonour held up to hide the tortured mind, to conceal the bitter, despairing realisation of the shadow that had fallen on him and on all who bore his name.

In the library a light burnt throughout the night. John and his son sat together, and the old man learnt some of the truth of what had happened, and much that was false. In a big chair by the fireplace the detective snored, and once jumped up with a cry.

"No you don't, my beauty!"

He was sleeping, and the responsibility of his charge was upon him as a nightmare.

Cyril's safe appearance in Wellington might cost him seven years' penal servitude, his non-appearance would cost the official a pension and a life's career. But he apologised to John and went to sleep again. It was wrong for John to be there at all, but the detective was human, and John was rich; besides, the ride had been long and the saddle hard.

It was arranged that Cyril should ride down with the detective after breakfast whilst John went on by himself in the buggy at daylight. He hoped against hope that something might be settled, and the charge withdrawn. He said nothing to Cyril. It would probably be raising false hopes. Indictments for a felony are not easily withdrawn.

Jake formed one of the party conducting Cyril to Hunterville. It was by chance, but it seemed a lucky page 356one—from Jake's point of view. It delighted him immensely that John Anderson's son should have disgraced his parents, and it was distinctly a matter of regret with the man that he had not caught sight of John before he left. Under the circumstances he could have wished him good-morning with peculiar heartiness.

Jake met the small cavalcade by the sheepyards, the detective and Cyril riding ahead, the constable bringing up the rear.

Jake on his wiry, rough-haired little pony held the gate open. He followed them through and ranged up alongside of the constable.

"I'm bound for 'Unterville—a bit beyond for that matter—I suppose ye don't object to company," he said.

So far as the man was concerned he certainly did not. He was not, however, master of the ceremonies.

Jake comprehended the position. He dug his spur into his pony and drew up alongside the detective. He touched his hat to Cyril.

"Good-morning, sir."

Cyril vouchsafed no reply.

They reached the gate at the end of the yard. A broad cart road stretched from it away across a paddock. A bridle track turned sharply off to the right.

Jake rode forward and opened the gate, and held it whilst the others passed through.

"Hi, which way are ye goin'?" he called out.

The detective drew rein. Cyril did likewise. He seemed as one in a dream; he was dazed and indifferent.

"They told me to keep straight on, to follow the cart track," said the detective.

"That's right enough. Only this 'ere track'll save pretty nigh three mile. I'm bound for 'Unterville myself if ye ain't certain of the road."

The detective was not. He and his companion had twice lost their way coming, and he accepted the offer implied in Jake's remark.

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In one respect Jake was disappointed. He could extract absolutely nothing from the police officers, and, after a few miles the party rode along in silence. They made good progress, cantering and trotting the flats and walking the long, winding hills that zig-zagged down and up the gullies.

For the first ten miles or so the road lay across open country. Then it entered the bush. To the right towered a steep range of hills along the face of which the winding, dipping road had been cut. To the left the fall continued into a thickly wooded gully at the bottom of which flowed the Hautapu. They crossed it by a new Government bridge and then left it on their right and climbed the steep ridge that divided it from the Rangitikei, along the edge of the valley of which they presently found themselves riding.

The view was supreme. Away and away from the other side of the great river stretched a mighty undulating sea of unbroken bush. In the distance it faded into the Ruahine, under whose grim shadows Ngaia and her husband had been toiling. The bush they had so laboriously penetrated was in reality part of the huge forest that extended to the Rangitikei.

The river itself was below. Cyril knew that. He had already passed several times along the road and once he had crossed the river into Ray ton's place. The memory of it suddenly flashed an idea into his mind, a mad thought that brief reflection would have damned at its proper value.

He had no time, however. His surroundings suggested the thought. The moment of action was the present; a few seconds later the head of the track would be passed and the opportunity be gone.

They were walking up a long, winding hill On the left at the top where the road bent sharply to the right a track only just possible for a horse to stumble along turned off and led down to the river Rangitikei. The page 358stream was a quarter of a mile wide with a comparatively good ford for horses. On the opposite bank a fresh track traversed the edge of the huge forest and then turned inwards for a short distance and emerged on the banks of the Kawatau. On the other side of this river a track led through a manuka flat up the cliff and on to Rayton's cottage.

Cyril knew all this—or thought he did. Riding beside the detective he was some four or five lengths ahead of Jake and the constable. He quietly loosened his feet in the stirrups, and as he came abreast of the opening, he slipped from the saddle, struck the horse a blow and darted into the bush.

The detective, taken completely by surprise, reined short only to catch a glimpse of Cyril as he leapt down the bank into the scrub. Jake and the constable dashed alongside and pulled up.

"I know 'is game," exclaimed Jake, jumping from his horse; "'e's struck Rayton's track."

"Can we cut him off anywhere?"

"Bring them 'orses down 'ere. Tie 'em up to them trees and follow me, quick! 'E can't get across the river on foot, it's more'n 'is life's worth. He, he! 'E's forgotten that, the silly ass," chuckled Jake. "We'll run 'im down afore 'e's time to turn. 'Aven't ye tied them 'orses? Well, come on. Keep close."

Led by Jake they started. The track was a bad one. As compared with what it generally was, it was dry; yet every now and again the three men would find themselves ploughing and plodding through pools and puddles of thick mud. At every step, roots stretched across and across. Some were as thick as a man's arm, some were as large as his body, whilst others of infinite strength were like pieces of brown whipcord ever ready to be mistaken for dry twigs and to trip the unwary. Stumbling, running, twisting, floundering, they hurried along. The track was one page 359continuous winding descent. In places, however, the drop for a few yards would be almost sheer. Down these they slid and scrambled, and more than once the policemen fell and bruised and buffeted themselves.

Jake, more accustomed to such travelling, led the way by a greater and greater distance. Like a sleuth-hound he kept his eyes on the track, and picked up Cyril's footprints in every damp, sticky spot he had stepped in. Once or twice, with a curse at their clumsiness, Jake waited for the officers. No sooner were they within a few yards of him, panting and puffing, than he pushed on. Presently they emerged from the bush into a patch of open where the clayey face of the cliff had broken away in a huge landslip, and had swept the trees and undergrowth into the river below. The track, sidling along the treacherous face, was scarcely twelve inches in width, indeed, at places it was little more than a series of foot-holds worn by Rayton's horses.

Away, down to the left, almost sheer down, lay the huge river; beyond, on its other bank, was the edge of the vast forest they had seen from the roadway above.

"'E can't get away. We'll nab 'im at the bottom. 'E'll try and get back into the bush, I expect; but 'e won't 'ave a ghost of a chance. Come on," cried Jake, and he commenced to pick his way across the face of the landslip. The detective and his companion followed.

Meanwhile, Cyril darting into the bush had sped headlong down the track. He knew he would be pursued, and cursed his ill-luck in having Jake among his pursuers.

Plan he had none. A mad idea of escape had entered his head, and he had acted upon it Already he felt the stupidity of his attempt. Yet liberty is very sweet, and he continued his wild career. Nearing the bottom he realised how completely he was trapped. He was without a horse. On the track behind were page 360his pursuers, in front of him the huge river. It was not a difficult or dangerous ford for a mounted man, but to attempt it on foot was a different matter. The river was certainly very low, as a result of the long spell of dry weather. It would scarcely reach to a horse's belly or at any rate very little above. A man might possibly ford it on foot, but the current was fierce, the foothold treacherous. A stumble on some slippery boulder, a step into a hole, and the swift waters gliding over into the rapids would give the finest swimmer but an infinitesimal chance of escape. No chance of escape.

Cyril made frantic efforts as he tore along to conceive some plan, some method of eluding his pursuers. It appeared impossible. In a few moments, plunging from the track, he found himself on the bank of the river. His hat was gone, his clothes were splashed and smeared with mud where he had slipped in his haste and fallen. He stood trying to collect his thoughts.

Suddenly from above he heard voices. Through the trees, out across the open of the big slip, he saw Jake and the two policemen hurrying in his pursuit They were without horses. It was plain, therefore, that if he darted back into the bush Jake would quickly track him down.

There was the river; and yet——

If he could cross the Rangitikei on foot they could.

Would they?

The price must be big, the money or the fame must be great to make a man tempt Providence. He had liberty to gain by the attempt. They—they had only him to gain.

If he crossed and could reach Rayton's he might borrow a horse, cut out by the lower ford and strike the main road far below the turn-off of the track which Jake and the policemen were on.

He would reach Hunterville hours ahead and might page 361get on the railway. And——? Well, that would be enough for a commencement.

Fear lent him courage.

He stepped into the river and began his perilous attempt.

Jake, bursting through the bush on the bank, saw the object of his pursuit already fifty or sixty feet out in the stream. Cyril turned and laughed at the stockman. It was unwise. It only added to Jake's vindictive eagerness to capture John Anderson's son and help to put him in jail. He wasted no time in hesitation. He leapt into the water.

Standing on the bank, hot and breathless, the two policemen, not daring to follow, watched anxiously.

The ford turned in the middle of the river, forming a crescent, the first half of which was down stream and with the current, the other half against it. For awhile therefore both men made quick progress.

Cyril, perceiving that Jake had entered the water, redoubled his efforts. Gradually as he neared the centre the water deepened and the pressure of the current increased. Step after step he plunged on, waving his arms to aid his balance, and step by step Jake gained upon him.

The water, snow-fed, struck cold, yet from the brows of both the sweat trickled in great drops. It dripped on to their cheeks and into their mouths, and Cyril, even in his hour of supreme effort, noticed how salt it seemed to taste.

Their progress was now painfully slow, for a careless step meant probable, almost certain destruction. Inch by inch Jake lessened Cyril's lead. The water was about their waists, swirling in angry bubbles and sweeping by in an endless rush that made the brain tired and dizzy. Yet on they went.

Not the least of the dangers threatening both was that of plunging into a hole at the foot of some boulder. page 362These had now become larger, and on their smooth surface it was doubly hard to secure a firm foothold.

Cyril was discreet in keeping to the exact line of the ford. The turn in the centre was comparatively sharp and he resisted the inclination to try a short cut. He reached the farthest point and then commenced his battle against the current.

His progress seemed to come to an abrupt end. As the waters pressed against his chest he found himself on the verge of being swept from his feet The utmost he could do was to hold his ground, and as he stood Jake swept nearer and nearer towards him. With utmost effort he managed to force himself a few inches against the current and yet again a few more inches. Only a few feet and the rest would be easy; he would be in slacker water.

It was desperate work. His arms and hands were waving like the limbs of a marionette. His face, purple and sweaty, was rasped and twisted by despair and desperation. Not daring to turn his head, but glancing from the corner of his eye he saw Jake alter his course and make towards him.

A horrible fear possessed him. He had waited too long before turning; he had passed the bend, and Jake, with more knowledge, had altered his course so that, coming towards him with only a cross current, he had him at his mercy.

Yet not quite. Mad with defeat and the apparent certainty of recapture, he faced Jake in a fierce determination to close with him the moment he touched him. In the swift tumble of the waters he would drag the stockman to the fate which he had come to regard as his sole means of escape. Jake probably guessed as much. All he wanted, however, was to reach the other bank before Cyril. He knew the danger of a struggle in mid-stream much too well to risk it.

The two men on the bank saw Jake closing on the page 363youth, but with the evident intention of keeping above stream just out of his reach. He was not ten feet off, not six, when suddenly he stopped and the current appeared to rise almost to his arm-pits. From over the wide stretch of rushing water that shut them off from him they saw him stumble. With a desperate wave of his arms, a wild, frantic effort to recover his balance, a shriek that the cliffs caught up and tossed to each other in an echo, a laughing, joyful echo for one more lost soul, Jake disappeared.

Twenty yards farther down they saw a black speck writhing and twisting, and then it was gone.

Cyril saw nothing of that. It was down stream behind his back. But he saw the stumble, he heard the shriek, and more—he heard a blasphemous gasp, a gurgle of spluttered water. He saw a face of horrible despair and desperate, hopeless striving, with dripping beard and running mouth. He saw it fall on the waters and disappear. He saw a curved back like the back of a drowned rat. He saw it try to straighten and only spin like a top. He saw it flash by him, and he knew Jake Carlyle was a dead man.

Not lifeless yet, but doomed. The waters, the gurgling, laughing, bubbling waters swishing at his beard and racing through his clothes held him in their grip. Not a savage, angry grip, but soft and delicate and evasive. Yet it spun him, still conscious, and twisted him and straightened him and drew him to the bottom and brought him back to the light where for a second the sky, the blue, smiling, sunny sky, the sky of Te Henga, of the old whare, of the store at the kainga with its whisky and rum, shone upon him and whispered that he was no longer of use but that he must drown, that he had better drown quietly; that he was in the grip of the waters, the grip of the great river. It plucked him back again and laughed as the stiffening fingers clutched and snapped and clutched page 364desperately and less desperately and more slowly and more slowly. It played about his mouth and laughed to a foam as he chewed, and gasped, and choked. It forced back his head and tightened at his throat until he grew black and unconscious. It swilled over the starting eyeballs. It rolled him along in the slower current where the shingle at the bottom was smoother, and tossed him to the surface again, listless and lifeless —a Thing cold and clammy. It spun him in the eddies under the great cliffs, and even turned him over and over just an inch or two under water so that the old rugged facings might see the new plaything and laugh and be glad. Then the grip of the waters drew him back and raced with him and grew tired of him and tucked him under a snag, where, for days and days, the passing stream might see him and frolic and bubble about him until he was too ugly and bloated and puffed. It loosened the snag then and tossed the Thing upon the shingle, where it lay until a passing Maori chanced to smell the scent and told the white men, who buried it in the cemetery over by Ohingaiti after the coroner's jury had found a verdict of "accidental drowning."

And John paid for the burial and a tombstone, a small slab with "Jake Carlyle, Drowned in the Rangitikei, April 27th, 1890," cut on it.

Ka cried when she heard of the accident and wore a wreath of green leaves for several days.

Airini and Waina were philosophically unemotional. They never suggested for a moment that they were glad. Neither did they profess intense sorrow.

Punch and his brother when they learnt the news saddled up and rode off to the kainga. They admitted that they were glad and got drunk to prove it.

The storekeeper added a pound or so to Jake's tally and sent the bill in to John.

Then a native broke his leg and the people of the kainga discussed that and Jake was forgotten.