ERIC DACRES:

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 25, Issue 40, 26 May 1914, Page 7

ERIC DACRES:

(Copyright.)

A Romantic Story of Adventure

during the (Watabele War.

By William Murray Oraydon, Author of ‘Under the White Terror/ ‘in the Name of the Czar/ Etc., Etc.

PART 3. CHAPTER V. FOR HONOUR’S SAKE

Tt 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 leceased banker—Parchment and Feenan, of Lincoln’s Inn. And here he learned that which both stifled his linger-

ing gleam of hope and at the same time braced his sturdy nature to meet the disaster that was now inevitable.

With one excepti-'n, the solicitors confirmed the statement of Fergus Haygarth. The exception was a receipt they had found a day or two before among some old papers, and it read as follows London, June 4, 1890. Received from Andrew Haygarth, hanker, 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 him by the Southampton bank, which he happened to have with him. Tt covered an extent of six years, and showed that on the 10th of June, 1890—six days after the receipt of the box—William Dacres.had deposited various securities and moneys to the value of thirty thousand pounds. He had drawn on it steadily—there were no subsequent deposits—and but a small balance now remained.

There was nothing further to he said or done. To Eric’s mind the situation was clear, and after leaving Lincoln’s Inn he' walked down Chancery-lane like a man dazed. “My father was always eccentric, sven absent-minded,” he said to himself, "and he was so wrapped up in his hooks 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 Dacres, after stead|y‘ spending a large income for rears, should hn\e left his son unprovided 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 oftrshown indifference to financial matters —and ho resolved to waste no further time, in searching for a fortune that did not exist.

“It’e awfully harclvlines on a fellow/' ho reflected bitterly, “though the blow would have'.been less severe had it fallen heftjfe. Hut I know the worst now,' and must face it bravely. The wotfld is full of opportunities, and I will lose no lime in making a start. First to see Phil, and then what I dread the most —an interview with Boris. My darling, 1 will win you yet ! For your sake I will toil in foreign lands to make a fortune.”

Foeling alternately depressed and cheered as he went along, Eric reached the office of the “Illustrated

Courier” in Fleet-street. Pie found 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 his father’s last words referred to the box withdrawn from Andrew Haygarth five years before. Then the subject that Eric had at hea?£ 'was discussed, and it was late /jb)*- the afternoon when he rose to leay£i “Better decide now, old"'chap,” said Phil. “Say you will gcj.j’/ “Give me a few houAs to think it over,” Eric replied. “It is too important a.thing to .settle off-hand.”

"You won’t regret it,” urgetTPhil. "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 will have enough left of your little pile to give you a start in some promising business or speculation. 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 oiler, there are gold and diamonds to he found north of the' Transvaal.”

"J think I should go In for that,” assented Eric.

"By Jove ! 1 wish I could stay there with you,” exclaimed Phil. "In two or three years you’ll be coming I uck a rich man.” ”1 hope so,” Eric said, with a sad smile. "Well, good-bye, old fellow, and many thanks. I’ll give you an answer in the morning.” "And it will he yes, of course ?”

•‘l’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 Eleet-street.

He took n 'bus to Charing Cross —cab fares were not to he wasted now —and walked to his hotel. He dined, put on evening clothes, and strolled westward through lamp-lit London. At nine o’clock, with n

fast-throbbiug heart, he mounted the steps of Sir John Copleston’s imposing residence in Orme-squaro, Boyswater. He inquired for Miss Chur ton. sent up his card, and was Umbered into a richly-furnished

drawing-room, lighted by the rich glow of many-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 Eric clasped it tightly. “Doris!” he murmured. ** At last !”

“At last, Eric,” the girl replied, blushing. “I am so glad to see 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 came to see you, Doris—you alone,” he said, hoarsely. “My darling, I am a ruined man.” “Ruined ?” she questioned anxiously, and with startled eyes. Eric sat down beside the girl on a deep couch, and leaning towards her, he hurriedly and in low tones told her what he had come to say—of his father’s death, the promised legacy that had brought him to London, and how cruelly and strangely he had been disappointed. “I am sorry for you,” Doris whispered—“more sorry than 1 can express in words. But are you certain there is no mistake ? It seems so strange.” “There can be none. To make doubly sure I went into the matter with the executors.”

“And Fergus Haygarth ? Are you convinced’’ “Is it possible that you knoitf him?” Eric interrupted, in surprise. “He is an old acquaintance,” Doris replied, ‘T knew he was in London now.”

“Fergus Haygarth is a fine fellow, and the soul of honour,” Eric said, warmiy. “He was very kind to me, and I fell grateful for the 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 with all my heart.” He 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 ami satin. . He was fiercely tempted to throw to the winds his heroic resolutions, to cast over honour and principle, fur he believed that he had won her heart ; but by a strong

effort he restrained himself. “I 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 have faith in myself, and I am going out into the world to earn a fortune. . And I will succeed, Doris ; lam sure of it. Some day T shall 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 i by day and night ?” 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 n 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,” Boris whispered. “They are coming down soon.”

“I can’t see them,” Eric said, hoarsely ; “I can’t meet them tonight. Make some excuse—anything. I will write to you and explain my plans. I won’t trust myself to see you again.” He quietly drew the girl’s head against his breast, and kissed her on the lips and forehead. ' “Good-bye !” ho breathed passionately in her ear—“good-bye, my own darling ! May God keep you safely till I come to claim you ! v He released her, seized his hat, and made a swift and unobserved escape from the house. Pie had fought a hard battle,and won, but there was little consolation in that for his aching heart. He wandered 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 Trafulgar-squure. “My answer to Phil will bo yes,” he reflected. “Farewell to England and Boris ! Welcome to the golden land of South Africa !” CHAPTER VI. r lYue to his resolve, Eric informed Phil Courtney the next day that he had decided to accompany him to South Africa, there to remain 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 his plans, and most nobly assuring the girl that he did not consider

her as bound by any promise. Then he paid his account, and took up lodgings with Phil—an offer that he 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 liner, watching the shores of dear old England fading in the distance. J nst 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 India in 1865. There he married an

orphan girl, who died when Eric was born in 1870. Several years later he came home with his son, and settled down in Edinburgh. Here Eric was educated, and meanwhile Ids father travelled extensively in South Africa, America, and Europe. When the son was eighteen years

old, William Dacres took a perma-

nent residence in Jersey, where until his death he devoted himself to scientific research ; and during those past seven years Eric had spent much of the time in adventurous travel.

It is necessary to explain who Doris Churton was, since the girl found no opportunity of telling Eric about herself. Many years back two young Englishmen of excellent family—Humphrey Churton and his

brother Janies—went out to South Africa and settled in the Transvaal. They did fairly well, and in time Janies Churton married the daughter of an English officer. Doris was the only child of this union, and when she was twelve years old her parents were drowned while fording a flooded river. Humphrey Churton, who was unmarried, gave his niece a home and all the advantages that were possible. A few years later he moved from the Transvaal up to Salisbury, fn 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 life. Her mother was an old friend of Lady Copleston, and the latter 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 nowi to relate certain things that happened on the Wednesday when Eric definitely promised Phil to go to Africa—things of which the two friends wore in complete ignorance when they sailed from England. Boris 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 Bulawayo,” Humphrey 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 request at all showed how utterly unsuspicious of danger the settlers in tha.t 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 Boris should take a boat leavingone week from the following Saturday, 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. Boris looked forward to the trip 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, wrote a long letter to Eric at the Grand Hotel, and posted it before retiring. But Eric had already gone from the 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 Boris had fallen.

That same Wednesday evening Fergus Haygarth called at Ormesquare, and though he did not see Boris, he had an interview with Sir John. He was on intimate terms with the baronet, but he was too clever by far to say anything about Eric Bacres.

However, Fergus learned of Humphrey Cburton’s letter, and of Doris’s early departure for Africa. The news delighted him, and he at once resolved to sail on the same steamer, instead of waiting until spring - . He did not inform Sir John of this, thinking it more prudent to keep his intentions a secret to the last.

At ten o’clock, coming down stairs unattended from the baro-

net’s private study, Fergus saw a bunch of letters lying on the hall table. One addressed to Boris, and bearing the imprint of the Grand Hotel, caught, his eyes. He knew that Eric had been slopping at the Grand, and after briefly weighing

(ho chances of detection, lie slipped I lie letter into ids pocket and left tile house.

In the privacy of his Jermynstreet rooms Fergus Haygarth tore oneu the stolen letter. As he read it his face grew amazed and wrathful. At the end he swore savagely

and tossed sheets and envelope into the fire. He watched them until they were consumed to ashes, and then began to tread the floor impatiently. “Was there ever such a turn of luck ?” he uttered. “Dacres going to Africa on Saturday and Doris and I sailing a week later ! This is Phil Courtney’s doing—curse him for a meddler ! It is a good thing I got the letter ; at least there is no engagement, though it 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 if she is not my promised bride before we reach port. She can know nothing of your plans, nor where you have gone from the hotel. And you say you dare not trust yourself 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,” he went on, “and each will be ignorant of the other’s presence there. But they may meet ; it is far from impossible. And if my suit hangs over until we are up country, I can make no headway against Humphrey Churton. One thing I swear : I will hesitate at nothing to put Eric Dacres out of the way if he -.rosses iny path. Luckily I have a tool 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 took out the 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 Matabeleland,far north of the Transvaal, a camp-fire was sparkling redly soon after dark on the evening of the 2 Jth 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. Prom 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 many miles.

“More than three whole months .since we left 13ngland,” 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 Bulawayo a fortnight ago.” “I’m not in a hurry,” replied Eric, puding a- meditative cloud of smoke towards his companion. “ It's a jolly Way to travel—riding alongside of Mopo and the waggon, or swinging off into the bash after game when you choose. And since we left Tali 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 roj'al kraal of B iluwayo ! 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 throwoff the yoke of the Chartered Company.”

“Yes, I know that’s the common belief,” admitted Phil ; "but I don’t altogether share it, though 1 may be a fool for saying so.” “Why not, old fellow?”'

"I’ve got several reasons,” Phil replied. “One is that the Matabolo hate the English as bitterly as ever. They are cunning devils, and it is said that no white man can ever fathom the ■ workings of their mind. Put to my mind the chief danger, if there is any at all, lies just here the Kallirs 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 Kallirs are cowed and crushed. They won’t pluck up

spirit for a score of vears 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 wfhilb 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 "Hlusi trated Courier,” and Eric thinking ; sadly of Doris thousands of miles away in wintry London, j Then the latter rose, stretched himself, and knocked the ashes of his pipe out on the heel of his boot. | ‘T’m tired,” he said—‘T’m going to turn in.” j ‘‘Come along, old chap ; I’m with you,” Phil assented, j They heaped fresh fuel on the fire, cbmbed over the side of the waggon, ! and were soon sleeping soundly under warm blankets. In 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 midI night—Eric was roused by a tug I at his arm and .a voice in his ear. jHe opened his drowsy eyes and saw Phil bending over him. ‘‘What’s up ?” he demanded, instantly wide awake. ‘T 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 di- | rection of his friend’s outstretched arm, Eric saw, one to the east and one to the north-east, two glaring red 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, tw'o 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 Phi), 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 Mataheleland. 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 sinca 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 aw'ay, 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.” Ho 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 doubt of it.”

"Not a bit,” Eric assented, " incredible as the thing seems. Over yonder in two places the wretches are burning settlers’ homes, and the row behind us meant that some traveller has been waylaid and murdered —the shooting came from the road towards Tuli.” "Yes, you’re right,” assented Phil. "Goon heavens, this is awful ! And we are in imminent peril ourselves, old fellow” "Hark!” interrupted Eric. "What’s that?” It was the mullled sound they had hoard 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 Kallirs the slip !” "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),