How had it all come about? What was there in this girl that had seized
and held his mind--his every thought--ever since he had first set eyes
on her, all unexpectedly, that evening when he had come in, wet and
dripping, having barely escaped with his life? Colvin Kershaw, putting
the question to himself twenty times a day, could find no definite
answer to it.
No definite answer--no. Therein lay all the charm surrounding Aletta.
It was so indefinite. From the moment he had first beheld her the charm
had taken hold upon him. He had been unconsciously stirred by her
presence, her personality. Yet it was no case of love at first sight.
A strange, potent weaving of the spell had been on him then, and,
gradual in its development, had enchained him and now held him fast.
Day after day in his solitary dwelling he had recognised it, and
analysed it, and striven with its influence, yet had never attempted to
throw it off--had never shrunk instinctively from the weaving of its
coils around him. It was not born of solitude, as perhaps that other
coil, from which he would heartily fain be now entirely and
conscientiously free, had been. No matter under what circumstances, or
in what crowd they had met, he realised that the result would have been
the same; that the spell would still have been woven just the same.
He thought upon the conditions of life, and how such are apt to focus
themselves into a very small groove--the groove in which one happens,
for the time being, to run. Might it not be that the circumscribed area
into which life had resolved itself with him of late had affected his
judgment, and led him to take a magnified, a vital view of that which,
looked at from the outside world, would have struck him as a passing
fancy, and untenable save as such? Judgment, reason, heart, alike cried
out to the contrary, and cried aloud.
He might leave this remote habitation on the High Veldt, this region
outwardly so unattractive to the casual passer-through with a mind
absorbed by the state of the share market in Johannesburg or London, but
so enriveting to those who make it their home. He might return to the
world he knew so well; might do so to-morrow, without inconvenience or
loss. What then? He would merely be measuring the length of his chain,
or, if he succeeded in breaking it, would be relinquishing the pearl of
great price which he had found here in a far corner of the earth when
least expecting any such marvellous discovery, any such unspeakable
blessing to be obtained by mortal man.
For so he had come to regard it. Yes, the symptoms this time were
there. Nothing was wanting to them now. He had been under the delusion
that that which they had represented was, for him, a thing of the past,
and in his solitary life and unconscious craving for sympathy and
companionship--yes, and even for love, had almost acted upon that idea.
But for a timely diversion he would so have acted. Now he could hardly
formulate to himself a sufficiency of gratitude to Heaven, or
circumstances, or whatever it might be, that he had not.
The narrowness of his escape he realised with a mental shudder. What if
this strange new experience, opening as it did such an irradiating vista
of possibilities, had come upon him a day too late, had discovered him
bound--bound, too, by a chain he well knew there would be no loosening
once its links enfolded him? His usual luck had stood him in good stead
once more, and the thought suggested another. Would that luck continue?
Would it? It should. He would soon put it to the test. He went over
in his mind the whole period of his acquaintanceship with Aletta. It
was short enough in actual fact--only a matter of weeks, yet viewed by
the aspect of the change it had wrought it seemed a lifetime. He
recalled how he had first beheld her, and indeed many a time since,
bright, laughing, infecting everyone, however unconsciously, with the
warmth of her sunny light-heartedness. No outcome was this either of a
shallow unthinking temperament. She could be serious enough on
occasions, as he had more than once observed during their many talks
together, that, too, with a quick sympathy which pointed to a rich depth
of mind. He reviewed her relationship towards her own people, which, as
an intimate friend of the house, he had enjoyed every opportunity of
observing, and here again he found no flaw. It was clear that the whole
family came little short of worshipping her, and through this ordeal too
she had come utterly unspoiled. The idea brought back the recollection
of the sort of good-humoured, faintly contemptuous indulgence with which
he had listened to the singing of her praises by one or other of its
members, what time her personality represented to him simply the
original of those unprepossessing portraits which adorned the
sitting-room; and he acknowledged that the laugh now was completely
turned against himself.
Then his thoughts took a new vein, and he seemed to hear the comments of
those among whom he had sometime moved--"Colvin Kershaw? Oh yes.
Married some farm girl out in Africa and turned Boer, didn't he?" and
more to the same effect, uttered in a languid, semi-pitying tone by this
or that unit of a society whose shibboleth was the mystical word
"smart," a society he had been in but not of. Well, so be it. Let them
drawl out their banal inanities. In this case he hoped they would do so
with reason.
Hoped? For he was not sure, far from it; and herein lay one of the
"symptoms," Not that he would have loved Aletta one iota the less had he
been sure. He was not one of those to whom the joy of possession is
measured by the excitement and uncertainty of pursuit; and there are
some of whom this holds good, however difficult it may be to persuade,
at any rate the ornamental sex, that such can possibly be the case. On
the contrary, he would feel grateful to one who should spare him the
throes and doubts calculated to upset even an ordinarily well-balanced
mind under the circumstances, and proportionately appreciative. But
whatever of diffidence or anxiety might take hold upon his own mind,
Colvin Kershaw was not the man to display it in the presence of its
first cause. The cringing, adoring, beseeching suitor of not so very
old-fashioned fiction struck him as somewhat contemptible, and as of
necessity so appearing to the object of his addresses, no matter how
much she might really care for him at heart. He must run his chance to
win or lose, and if he lost, take it standing. There was none of the
_ad misericordiam_, wildly pleading element about him.
"_Pas op, Baas_! The bird!"
The words, emanating from his henchman, Gert Bondelzwart, brought him
down to earth again; for the occupation in which he had been engaged
during the above reverie was the prosaic one of attending to his daily
business, which in this case consisted in going round the ostrich camps
and inspecting such nests as he knew of, or discovering indications of
prospective ones. To a certain extent mechanical and routine, it was
not incompatible with reflection upon other matters. Now he turned to
behold a huge cock ostrich bearing down upon him with hostility and
aggressiveness writ large all over its truculent personality.
"Here, Gert. Give me the _tack_!" he said. "That old brute is properly
_kwaai_."
Now the cock ostrich resembles the aggressive and nagging human female,
in that the respective weakness of either protects it, though differing,
in that in the first instance the said weakness may be read as "value"
and, in the second, proportionately the reverse. For a creature of its
size and power for mischief there is no living thing more easy to kill
or disable than an ostrich, wherein again comes another diametrical
difference. A quick, powerful down-stroke or two with the sharp-pointed
toe may badly injure a man or even kill him, if surprised in the open by
the ferocious biped, tenfold more combative and formidable during the
nesting season. And this one, which now came for its lawful owner,
looked formidable indeed, towering up to its great height, the feathers
round the base of its neck bristling at right angles, and flicking its
jet-black wings viciously. It was a grand bird, whose pink shins and
beak, and flaming, savage eye proclaimed it in full season, as it
charged forward, hissing like an infuriated snake.
Colvin grasped the long, tough mimosa bough not a moment too soon.
Standing firm yet lightly, so as to be able to spring aside if
necessary, he met the onrush in the only way to meet it. The sharp
pricking of the clusters of spiky thorns met the savage bird full in the
head and neck, but chiefly the head, forcing it to shut its eyes. For a
moment it danced in powerless and blinded pain, then backed, staggering
wildly. Forward again it hurled itself, emitting an appalling hiss,
again to meet that inexorable cluster of thorny spikes. In blind rage
it shot out a terrible kick, which its human opponent deftly avoided,
the while holding his thorn _tack_ high enough to avoid having it struck
from his hand--a precaution many a tyro in the ways of the gentle
ostrich has been known to forget, to his cost. Again it charged, once
more only to find itself forced to shut its eyes and stagger back
giddily. Then it came to the conclusion that it had had enough.
"I think he will leave us alone, so long, Gert," said Colvin, panting
somewhat from the exertion and excitement, for even the thorn-tack means
of defence requires some skill and physical effort to wield with effect
against a full-grown and thoroughly savage male ostrich.
"_Ja_, Baas. He is real _schelm_," returned Gert, who had been standing
behind his master throughout the tussle. "But he has had enough."
It seemed so. The defeated monster, baulked and cowed, sullenly
withdrew, and, shambling off, promptly encountered a weaker rival in the
shape of one of his own kind, which he incontinently went for, and
consoled himself for his own rout by rushing his fleeing inferior all
over the camp, and then, gaining the wire fence, went down on his
haunches, and wobbled his silly head and fluttered his silly wings in
futile challenge to another cock-bird on the further side of that
obstruction, whose attention had been attracted by the row, and who was
coming down to see what it was all about.
"Now to look at that jackal-trap, Gert. Ah, here it is--and, sure
enough, here's Mr Jack."
There came into view an iron trap, which, when set, had been level with
the ground, deftly covered with loose earth, and baited with half a
hare. It was placed in the thick of a bush so as to be inaccessible to
ostriches, to protect whom it was there, and as they came up, a jackal,
securely caught by the forelegs, struggled wildly to get free, snarling
in fear and pain, and displaying all its white teeth.
"Poor little brute," said Colvin. "Here, Gert, give it a whack on the
head with your kerrie and send it to sleep. _Toen_! look sharp.
"That's the worst of these infernal traps," he went on, as a
well-directed blow terminated the destructive little marauder's hopes
and fears. "But it has got to be, or we shouldn't have an egg left."
"_Ja_, Baas. That is quite true," assented the Griqua, to whose
innermost mind, reflected through those of generations of barbarian
ancestry, the idea of feeling pity for a trapped animal, and vermin at
that, represented something akin to sheer imbecility.
"Gert," said Colvin, as they got outside the ostrich camps, "get up one
of the shooting-horses--Punch will do--and saddle him up. I am going
over to Ratels Hoek."
"Punch, sir? Not Aasvogel?"
"_Jou eselkop_! Did I not say a shooting-horse? Aasvogel would run to
the devil before if he heard a shot. He'd run further now since the
joke up yonder with Gideon Roux."
"_Ja_, sir. That is true"; and the Griqua went away chuckling. He had
been poking sly fun at his master, in that Aasvogel was by far the
showiest horse in the place. Gert had been putting two and two
together. For about once a week that his master had gone over to Ratels
Hoek formerly, now he went thither at least twice or three times. Of
course it could only be with one object, and with that object no Boer
would have thought of riding any other than his showiest horse.
Wherefore Gert had suggested Aasvogel.
Likewise, no Boer would have thought of riding forth on such an errand
without getting himself up with much care and all the resources at his
disposal. Colvin, needless perhaps to say, did nothing of the kind. He
got into a clean and serviceable shooting-suit, and with his favourite
shot-gun, a sufficiency of cartridges, and a few trifling necessaries in
a saddle-bag, he was ready.
Just then his housekeeper, Katrina, Gert's wife, met him in the door
with a note. It had just been brought, she said. Baas Wenlock's boy
was waiting for an answer.
He opened the note. It was in May's handwriting, wanting to know if he
would come over and spend Sunday with them. What should he reply? This
was Friday; yet, one way or the other, he was under no doubt whatever
that in forty-eight hours he would not be precisely inclined to put in
the day at Spring Holt--no--no matter how things went. Yet to refuse
would seem unfriendly, and, viewed from one aspect, somewhat brutal. So
he left the matter open, pleading hurry in his reply.
Then as he passed out of his door a chill feeling came over him. How
would he re-enter it--elate, happy, or--only to calculate how soon he
could make arrangements for leaving it altogether, for shutting down
this volume of the book of his life? And with a sense of darkling
superstition upon him the delivery of that message as he passed the
threshold seemed to sound a note of ill augury.
He was destined to meet with another such. When nearly half-way on his
ride he came in sight of another horseman cantering along the flat at
some distance off, travelling towards him. A few minutes more and he
made out Adrian De la Rey.
It was rather a nuisance, he decided. He did not want to meet Adrian
just then. Adrian was too addicted to making himself disagreeable in
these days. Formerly they had been very friendly, but now, since Adrian
had come upon them that morning in the garden, his manner had changed.
It had displayed towards Colvin, upon such occasions as they had met, a
brusqueness akin to rudeness.
"_Daag_! Adrian!" cried the latter, reining in.
"_Daag_!" answered the young Boer gruffly, without reining in, and
continuing his way.
"You want a lesson in manners, my young friend," said Colvin to himself,
feeling excusably nettled. "Well, well!" he added. "The poor devil's
jealous, and of course hates me like poison. I suppose I should do the
same."
Thus lightly did he pass it off. He would not have done so perhaps
could he at that moment have seen the other's face, have read the
other's mind. A savage scowl clouded the former, black and deadly
hatred seethed through the latter.
"Wait a bit, you _verdomde rooinek_!" snarled the Boer to himself.
"Your days are told. They may be counted by weeks now, and not many of
_them_. These accursed English--is it not enough that they rule our
land and treat us like Kafirs, without coming between us and those we
love? Their time of reckoning will be here directly--and of this one
too. He little knows--he little knows, that he will be dead in a few
weeks. No-no!"
He said truly. The object of this murderous though not altogether
unjustifiable hatred was holding on his way through the sweet golden
sunshine, little thinking of the dread ordeal of blood and horror
through which he, and some of those with whom his fate was bound up,
were soon--and very soon--to pass.