(Copyright.) ERIC DACRES:

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 24 July 1914, Page 7

(Copyright.) ERIC DACRES:

A Romantic Story of Adventure

during the Matabele War.

By William Murray Graydon, Author of 'Under the White Terror,' lln the Name of the Czar,* Etc., Etc.

PART 3. CHAPTER V. FOR HONOUR'S SAKE. ! It was nearly noon when Eric rose the next day, looking careworn and ' feeling in the Worst of spirits. He , ate a meagre breakfast, and an , hour later found him closeted with ' the executors of the deceased banker—Parchment and Feenan, of Lin- I coJjP'g Inn. And here he learned ■ 1T * which both stifled his linger- | infe gleam of hope and at the same I time braced his sturdy nature to j meet the disaster that was now ' inevitable. j With one exce; , the solicitors , confirmed the sta.ment of Fergus j Hay garth. The exception was are-' Leipt they had found a day or two before among some old papers, and j it read as follows :— London, June 4, 1890. | Received from Andrew Haygarth, ■ banker, of Jermyn-street, the tin box that has been in his charge for the past ten years. WILLIAM DACRES. When given this document, Eric produced. a statement forwarded 1 him by the Southampton bank, which he happened to have with him. It covered an extent of six years, •and showed that on the 10th of June, 1890—six days after the re- j r-eipt of the box—William Dacres.had | deposited various securities and j moneys to the value of thirty thou- ! sand pounds. He had drawn on it steadily—there were no subsequent deposits—and but a small balance now remained. There was nothing further to be said or done. To Eric's mind the situation was clear, and after leaving Lincoln's Inn he1 walked down Chancery-lane like a man dazed. "My father was always eccentric, :wen absent-minded," he said to himself, "and he was so wrapped up . in his books and scientific studies that such a mistake as this was quite possible. Yes, I see it all. He withdrew the box five years ago, and deposited the securities it contained. But in his last moments he was under the impression that the property was still in the care :)f Andrew Haygarth." That William nacres, after steadly' spending a large income for rears, should ha\e left his son un- : 'provided for seemed a strange and a cruel thing. But that such was the fact Eric believed—he partly accounted for it by his father's oftshown indifference to financial matters—aud he resolved to waste no further time, in searching for a fortune that did not exist. "It's awfully hard lines on a fellow," he reflected bitterly, "though tho blow would have been less se- j vere had it fallen before. But I know the worst now, and must face it bravely. The world is full of opportunities, and I will lose no time in making a start. First to see Phil, and then what I dread the most —an interview with Doris, j My darling, I will win you yet ! For your sake I will toil in foreign i lands to make a fortune." ! Feeling alternately depressed and ! cheered as he went along, Eric reached the office of the "Illustrated ; Courier" in Fleet-street. He found i Phil Courtney in, and had a long \ and private conversation with him. ! He told his friend all there was to ! tell, and Phil agreed with Eric that j his father's last words referred to the box withdrawn from Andrew I Haygarth five years before. Then the subject that Eric had at heart was discussed, and it was late in the afternoon when he rose to leave. "Better decide now, old chap," said Phil. "Say you will go." "G-ive me a few hours to think it over," Eric replied. "It. is too important a.thing to settle off-hand." "You won't regret it," urged Phil. "South Africa is the place for for- ! tune-making nowadays, and you are just the sort of man to succeed quickly. When you get there you j will have enough left of your little ' pile to give you a start in some business or speculation, j We can look round a bit together while I am sketching and writing ; and if you prefer a more adventurous life than the mushroom towns offer, there are gold and diamonds to be found north of the Transvaal." "I think 1 should go in for that," assented Eric. "By Jove ! I wish I could stay there with you," exclaimed Phil. ■ "In two or three years you'll be •oming bach a rich man." "i hope so," Eric said, with a sad smile. "Well, good-bye/ old fellow, and many thauks. I'll give you an answer'in the morning." "And it wiil be yes, of course ?" "I'm afraid it will have to be," ; Eric replied ; and after a clasp of his friend's hand he drifted back to the roar of Fleet-street. ' He took a 'bus to Charing Cross cab fares were not to be wasted j now _ an d walked to his hotel. He : dined, put on evening clothes, and ' 3trolled westward through lamp-lit London. At nine o'clock, with a fast -throbbing heart, he mounted the steps of Sir John Copleston's imposing- residence in Orme-square, Boys water. He inquired for Miss Churton. sent up his card, and was ushwed into a richly-furnished

drawing-room, lighted by the rich glow of inany-hued lamps. Doris quickly appeared, and the first glimpse of her dazzled and thrilled Eric. Her beauty of face and form was displayed to fullest advantage by a lustrous rose-col-oured gown, rich lace, and the sparkle of jewels. With a radiant smile, she held out her hand, and I Eric clasped it tightly. i "Doris !" he murmured. "At last !" | "At last, Eric," the girl replied, { blushing. "I am so glad to see I you. Long months have passed . since we parted in the desert—since you saved my life. And Sir John | and Lady Copleston, they will, be delighted to meet you again." i "I came to see you, Doris —you alone," he said, hoarsely. "My darling, I am a ruined man." ! "Ruined ?" she questioned anxious- ; ly, and with startled eyes. I Eric sat down beside the girl on ! a deep couch, and leaning towards ! her, he hurriedly and in low tones i told her what he had come tc say— iof his father's death, the promised i legacy that had brought him to i London, and how cruelly and stran- : gely he had been disappointed. ' "I am sorry for you," Doris whisI pered—"more sorry than 1 can express in words. But are you cer- ; tain there is no mistake ? It seems so strange." "There can be none. To make ! doubly sure I went into the matter i with the executors." "And Fergus Haygarth ? Are you convinced" "Is it possible that you know! him ?" Eric interrupted, in surprise. j "He is an old acquaintance," Doris replied. "I knew he was in London now." "Fergus Haygarth is a fine fel- | low, and the soul of honour," Eric said, warmly. "He was very kind !to me, and I fell grateful for the j sympathy he showed. He is a friend of Phil Courtney's, you know." Doris inclined her head, and Eric did not observe the half-startled look of wonder and suspicion in her eyes. "It is not for my own sake that I would be rich—that I feel this blow so bitterly," he resumed. "Do you remember our last parting amid the desert sands ? I said I should have ! a question to ask you when next we ; met." "Yes, I remember." Her voice was low and sweet. "What I read in your face that morning gave me hope, encouragement, keen happiness, in spite of the pain of parting," Eric went on., "I was sure that you had learned to care for me, even in ■so short a. time. Oh, it is so hard to speak plainly—to make you understand ; but I love you, Doris—madly, and I with all my heart." Pie paused, knowing he had gone too far. The girl dropped her eyes before his passionate gaze, but nestled a little closer, and he could see her bosom heaving tumultuously beneath the corsage of lace and satin. He was fiercely tempted to throw to the winds his heroic resolutions, to cast over honour and principle, for he believed that he 1 had won her heart ; but by a strong effort he restrained himself. "1 would be a coward to ask you now to marry me—to seek to bind you by a promise," he whispered. "But lam young and strong, I. I have .faith in myself, and I am go- ( ing out into the world to earn a I fortune. And I will succeed, Doris ; jI am sure of it. Some day I shall j come back to ask you to be my wife. ; And you—you will at least give me some word of hope to comfort— , something to think of ': by day and I night ?" i She looked him straight in the | eyes. ! "I will wait for you," she said, | simply, "be it one year or many." Eric's breath came short and fast, and in a second more he would have drawn the girl to his arms, but just then voices and footsteps were heard on the upper floor of the house. "Sir John and Lady Cop'eston," Doris whispered. "They are coming down soon." "1 can't see them," Eric said, hoarsely ;"I can't meet them tonight. Make some excuse —anyj thing. I will write to you and explain my plans. I won't trust my- : self to see you again." j He quietly drew the girl's head against his breast, and kissed her ,on the lips and forehead. I "Good-bye !" he breathed passionately in her ear—"good-bye, my own darling ! May God keep you safely till T come to claim you !*■' He released her, seized his hat, and made a. swift and unobserved escape from the house. He had fought a hard battle;and won, but there was little consolation in that for his aching heart. He wandered I long through streets and squares, ; and when the big bell of Westminster was striking the midnight hour he found himself under the trees of the Embankment. He looked at , the dark, swiftly-flowing river, laughed heartily, and turned in the direction of Trafalgar-square, i "My answer to Phil will be yes," :he reflected. "Farewell to England , and Doris ! Welcome to the golden land of South Africa !" i CHAPTER VI. ' True to his resolve, Eric informed Phil Courtney the next day that he had decided to accompany hi into South .Africa, there to r.-mam and seek the favour of the fickle goddess Fortune. He confided all to his friend, and Phil's sympathy proved very comforting in this time of trial.

It is now Wednesday, and the two ; were to sail on Saturday from Southampton. Eric returned from Fleet-street to his hotel, and wrote a long letter to Doris, explaining j his plans, and most nobly assuring ' t the girl that he did not consider ! her as bound by any promise. Then jhe paid his account, and took up ; lodgings with Phil—an offer that he i had gratefully accepted for reasons of economy. - ■ The next two days were occupied in purchasing a suitable kit, and by : Saturday evening Eric and Phil ■ were aboard the big South African i liner, watching the shores of dear old England fading in the distance. : Just here a few words may be said : about Eric's father —no more than \ : Eric himself knew. William Dacres ; had gone out from England to In- ; , clia in 1865. There he married an i orphan girl, who died when Eric was born in 1870. Several years later he came home with his son, ' j and settled down in Edinburgh. j Here Eric was educated, and mean- ■ ; while his father travelled extensive:ly in South Africa, America, and i : Europe. \ J When the son was eighteen years i j old, William Dacres took a, perma- I I nent residence in Jersey, where until ] | his death he devoted himself to j I scientific research ; and during those i past seven years Eric had spent ! : much 'of the time in adventurous travel. It is necessary to explain who ! Doris Ohurtpn was, since the girl found no opportunity of telling Eric ! : about, herself. Many years back) two young Englishmen of excellent I family—Humphrey Churton and his j • brother James—went out to South' Africa and settled in the Transvaal, j They did fairly well, and in time i James Churton married the daugh- j ter of an English officer. Doris | was the only child of this union, ' and when she was twelve years old I her parents were drowned while I fording a flooded river. Humphrey J Churton, who was unmarried, gave his niece a home and all the ad- J vantages that were possible. A few ' years later he moved from the ! Transvaal up to Salisbury, In the newly-opened Mashona country. Here Doris met Fergus Haygarth, , and twice refused the offer of his hand. She felt only aversion for the young man, and this feeling was ■ shared by her uncle. Then, in 1893 came the great change in the girl's j , life. Her mother was an old friend of Lady Copleston, and the hitter ! wrote to ask that Doris might pay her a long visit. Humphrey Churton could not refuse—he saw the . splendid advantages of such a step , —and so Doris came to England. She brought fresh life and cheer to the home of Sir John Copleston, who was a man with a secret sorrow, and lacked an ardently-de-sired heir to his title and riches. And now to relate certain things | that happened on tlie Wednesday when Eric definitely promised Phil ] to go to Africa—things of which , the two friends were in complete Ignorance when they sailed from , England. Doris received a letter from her uncle, asking that she should come out and visit him for , a few months. "He had lately ' moved to a beautiful spot in Matabeleland, near Buluwayo," Humph- , rey Churton wrote, "and in his loneliness he longed to see his niece again. He promised that she should return to England very soon." , That he should make such a re- ! . quest at all showed how utterly un- j | suspicious of danger the settlers in -that part of South Africa were at the time. Rather against their wishes, Sir John and Lady Copleston consented , at once, and it was arranged that Doris should take a boat leaving one week from the following Satur- ' day, by which time a suitable , companion sailing by the same vessel , could be found for her. Humphrey ' Churton was to meet her at some < point far down the country. | , Doris looked forward to the trip i with mingled happiness and sorrow, but on the whole she was glad to ; escape at the present time from bleak and crowded London ; and she loved her uncle almost as a second father. She went to her room, i wrote a long letter to Eric at the | : Grand Hotel, and posted it before i retiring. But Eric had already i gone from tlie hotel to Phil's lodgings, and as he thoughtlessly left no , address behind, the letter lay uncalled for. Little did he dream into whose hands his own letter to j Doris had fallen. ( That same Wednesday evening Fergus Haygarth called at Ormesquare, and though he did not see Doris, lie had an interview with Sir , , j John. He was on intimate terms , ] j With the baronet, but he was too ! I clever by far to say anything about ! | Eric Dacres. j . i However, Fergus learned of Humph- , \ | rey Churton's letter, and of Doris's ' ! early departure for Africa. The j | news delighted him, and he at once ; : i resolved to sail on the .same ' \ steamer, instead of waiting until . I spring. He did not inform Sir John of ! this, thinking it more prudent to keep i , : his intentions a secret to the last. At ten o'clock, coming down stairs unattended from the baronet's private study, Fergus saw a I bunch of letters lying on the hall j table. One addressed to Doris, and i bearing the imprint of the Grand Hotel, caught his eyes. He knew h that Eric had been stopping at the i Grand, and after briefly weighing i ■ the chances of detection, he slipped the letter into his pocket and left the house. ; j iln the privacy of his Jermynstreet rooms Fergus Haygarth tore ] onen the stolen letter. As he read ■ it his face grew amazed and wrath- ; ful. At the end lie swore savagely ;

and tossed sheets and envelope into the fire. He watched them until they were consumed to ashes, and I then began to tread the floor im- ' patiently. j "Was there ever such a turn of , luck ?" he uttered. "Dacres going j to Africa on Saturday and Doris and I sailing a week later ! This j is Phil Courtney's doing—curse him ] for a meddler ! It is a good i thing I got the letter ; at least ■ there is no engagement, though it j is nearly as bad. But I will triumph in the end, Eric Dacres. I \ shall have Doris at sea for three weeks, and I will be a fool indeed I if she is not my promised bride be- : fore we reach port. She can know ! nothing of your plans, nor where j you have gone from the hotel. And you say you dare not trust your- j self to see her before you sail ! Ah, how she will wait for this letter that can never come ! Her '. love will turn to scorn—you will lose \ what hold you have on her heart. "South Africa is large," be went on, "and each will be ignorant of : the other's presence there. But they may meet ; it is far from im- I possible. And if my suit hangs over j until we are up country, T can make i no headway against Humphrey ! Churton. One thing I swear : I will ! hesitate at nothing to put Eric i Dacres out of the way if he crosses | my path. Luckily I have a tool j ready for, a day of need, and I know , how to use it. Let me see : the \ mail goes on Saturday. Yes, J- can reach him in time." Haygarth entered the other room ! and returned with the tin box. He j took out tho packet of papers, and studied them long and thoughtfully, with knitted brow. Then he wrote a letter of several pages, which he sealed and addressed to Jacobus Mynhart, Johannesburg, South Africa. * * » * ♦ Far up in the lonely bush of Mata- \ beleland.far north of the Transvaal, : a camp-fire was sparkling redly soon ! after dark on the evening of the 2 Ith of March, 1896. The camp itself was in a cleared spot a few rods to one side of the rough road leading from Tuli to Buluwayo, and about fifty miles to the south-east of the latter settlement. Two 'bronzed young Englishmen— were chatting after supper by the fire. They were picturesquely garbed in flannels, high boots, and slouch hats ; they wore revolvers and car-tridge-belts ; and their repeatingrifles close by. On the right of the clearing stood a small but strongly-built waggon, canvas-covered and well stocked with supplies. To the left four mules and two saddle-horses were tethered, and under the waggon the colonial boy Mopo, black as the ace of spades, was sleeping soundly. All round the camp stretched the bush country, dense, scrubby, dotted with wooded hills and granite kopjes. The moon and stars were shining overhead, and in the remote distance a leopard was crying dolefully. From a nearer quarter, where the road crossed a drift of the Lomena river, came the faint gurgle of running water. It was a wild neighbourhood, and Eric Dacres and Phil Courtney had good reason to believe that no other human beings were within manymi les. "More than three whole months since we left England," Phil was saying. "It really seems longer, but that is because my, sketches and letters kept us loitering on the way. We might have been in Buluwayo a fortnight ago." "I'm hot in a hurry," replied Eric, puffing a meditative cloud of smoke towards his companion. " It's a jolly Way to travel —ridin..; alongside of Mopo and the wa >"gon, or swinging off into the bush after game when you choose. And since we left Tuli behind—ay, and the Transvaal—the loneliness and the grandeur of the country have been delightful." "Yes, it's an English paradise, Mataheleland," Phil assented. "And to think^ that scarcely eighteen months ago , old Lo Ben and his warriors were holding high jinks at their own royal kraal of Buluwayo ! I hope that little war and the way the Maxims mowed down the impis taught them a lasting lesson." "You may be. sure it did," declared Eric. "The country is thoroughly settled and peaceful now, and the outlook is splendid, except for the rinderpest that is killing the cattle. The Matabele are contented, and every one will tell you that there isn't the remotest possibility of their attempting to throw off the yoke of the Chartered Company." "Yes, I know that's the common belief," admitted Phil ; "but I don't altogether share it, though I maybe a fool for saying so." "Why not, old fellow ?" "I've got several reasons," Phil replied. "One is that the Matabele hate the English as bitterly j as ever. They are cunning devils, and it is salt! that no white man can ever fathom the workings of their mind. But to my mind the chief danger, if there is any at all, lies just here the Kaffirs far and wide know that Jamieson took the police force out of the country and down to the Transvaal last year, and now they have heard of the English defeat at Krugersdorp. I can't help thinking it will impress them strongly, and perhaps tempt ; them to rise." "You are always sensible, my dear fellow," said Eric ; "but, really, - judging by the common opinion : hereabouts, I can't say that I agree with you. The Kaffirs are cowed i i and crushed. Thoy won't pluck up ' spirit for a score of years to

come." "God grant that you are right— that's all I've got to say," Phil answered. "And we don't want any now While we are in the country, do we, old chap ?" "No, or my prospective fortune will take wings," said Eric, with a rather bitter smile. For some time the two smoked in silence and watched the fire, Phil pondering various plans that would earn kudos for him from the "Illustrated Courier," and Eric thinking sadly of Doris thousands of miles away in wintry London. Then the latter rose, stretched himself, and knocked the ashes of his pipe out on the heel of his boot. "I'm tired," he said—"l'm going to turn in." "Come along, old chap ; I'm with you," Phil assented. They heaped fresh fuel on the 'fire, climbed over the side of the waggon, and were soon sleeping soundly- under warm blankets. Tn the distance the tide of the Lomena river still sang to the night breeze, but the prowling leopard's voice was strangely still. Hours later—it was long past midnight—Eric was roused by a tug at his arm and a voice in his ear. He opened his drowsy eyes and saw Phil bending over him. "What's up ?" he demanded, inj stantly wide awake. "I can't make it out myself." Phil answered, hoarsely. "Look yonder—what do you make of it ?:' Both stood to their feet in the bed of the waggon. Following the direction of his friend's outstretched arm, Eric saw, one to the east and one to the north-east, two glaringred patches flaming on the dusky horizon. Somewhere, perhaps miles away, settlers' homes were burning. "Houses on fire, and in different places !" gasped Eric. "By Jove ! what can it mean '?" "Merciful Heaven, have my fears been verified already ?"Phil cried, hoarsely. "Can the Matabele have broken out ? But no, I won't believe it !" "What else can you believe ?" exclaimed Eric. "If it was one fire Wait ; we'll question Mopo." He leapt out of the waggon and looked underneath. "Mopo is gone —he is not here !" he shouted, in dismay. "Do you see, him anywhere ?" "No ; he's not in camp," cried Phil. "I say, two of the mules have broken loose and wandered off. Mopo must have gone after them." "Or stolen them and bolted," suggested Eric. "It looks like treachery." "It does, by Heaven !" exclaimed Phil, who was on the ground by this time. "Old man, we're in for a scrape." As he spoke three rifle-shots rang out in quick succession from no further away than a quarter of a mile, and they were followed at once by a shriller report of a revolver. CHAPTER VII. A CRY FROM THE NIGHT. For an instant Phil and Eric could only stare, at each other speechlessly and with faces that looked white and frightened in the moonlight. No longer, did they doubt the awful truth ; what they had just heard confirmed their fears that the demon of slaughter and bloodshed was abroad that, night in Matabeleland. • And yet it was hard to realise—hard to believe that such a fearful thunderblast could fall without warning from an unclouded sky. "Listen !" whispered Phil, with a warning gesture. But a few seconds had passed since, the firing, and as they stood silently by the waggon they heard a clamour of shrill and savage voices, evidently from the same quarter. This died a Way, ending with a couple of single shouts, and all that now .disturbed . the quiet of the night was a distant and muffled sound like a great bird flapping its wings. "Do you hear that ?" Eric asked. "Yes ; and I don't know what to make of it," Phil replied. "But we must be looking out for ourselves, old chap." He strode quickly to the fire and kicked and trampled the dying embers until not a spark remained ; then he nurried back to the waggon and picked up his rifle. By this time Eric had his own weapon in hand, and was ramming shells into the magazine. "The Kaffirs have risen !" Phil said, hoarsely. "There can be no i doubt of it." '■ "Not a bit," Eric assented, " in- | credible as the thing seems. Over i yonder in two places the wretches are burning settlers' homes, and the row behind us meant that some traveller has been waylaid and mur- j dered—the shooting came from the j r road towards Tuli." j "Yes, you're right," assented Phil, j "Goon heavens, this is awful ! And' we are in imminent peril ourselves, I old fellow" j "Hark!" interrupted Eric. "What'sthat?" Tt was the muffled sound they had heard before ; but now it was much nearer and louder. As they listened anxiously to the plunging, threshing noise, they suddenly comprehended what it meant. "A horse is coming," muttered Phil. "By Jove, I believe the traveller has given the Kaffirs the slip !" I "Or his steed has thrown him and galloped off," suggested Eric. "If the man was mounted and all right, he would take to the road, whereas the animal seems to be making straight for our camp through the bush." (To be Continued).