"LIKE THUNDERBOLT FROM A CLEAR SKY."
"Drive on, Piet, Mopela! Sharp's the word; don't give them time to
think. Look alive, now!"
The speaker is Mr Brathwaite; the scene the wash-pool. A long line of
fleecy backs is moving over the _veldt_, propelled by the shouts of
three or four Kafirs, whose naked bodies glisten in the sun as they
advance swiftly behind the flock, brandishing their red blankets and
whistling shrilly. For it may be that the leaders of that sturdy mass
of fat wethers, over a thousand in number, may take a sudden freak into
their woolly heads, and refuse to go any further when once within that
_cul de sac_ of thorn-fence gradually narrowing down to an outlet, and
that outlet the water--which will mean that each particular animal must
be thrown in separately, not once, but four or five times. Therefore
they must be kept on the move and run down as quickly as possible. Once
they begin jumping all will follow, but should the foremost happen to
jib, then the morning's work will be a hard one indeed.
A pleasant spot is this; bush and open _veldt_ about in equal
proportion. Yonder, across the river, rises a ridge of high ground
whose slopes are well wooded, and over the wash-pool, which consists of
a long, smooth reach, the finks are flitting about their pendulous,
swaying nests, and twittering in the sunshine; while that shadowy krantz
overhanging the stream further down echoes back the long-drawn piping of
spreuws and the "coo" of a solitary dove.
Mr Brathwaite and his two lieutenants are evidently got up for
business--rough shirts and trousers and broad-brimmed hats, the last a
very necessary safeguard, for the morning, though still young, is
unconscionably warm.
"Don't think these will give us any trouble, they always take to the
water like ducks. It's the next lot, the ewes, that are brutes to funk;
and once on that tack the devil himself won't make them jump. Bles, you
_schelm_!" he exclaims, with a crack of his whip to hasten the decision
of the _voerbok_, who is slackening pace dubiously at the entrance to
the _cul de sac_. The old goat gives a start and resumes his course,
trotting down towards the water; the sheep stream after him, and before
he has time to think better of it, even if so disposed, his woolly
followers press so closely upon him that there is no help for it; he
springs from the rock into the water, about two feet and a half beneath,
and the whole flock hastens to follow by threes and fours, and swimming
across emerges dripping on the other side. Indeed, so fast do they
press forward that it becomes necessary for some one to stand at the
water's edge and check them, lest they should injure themselves or their
neighbours by jumping upon each other's backs.
"That's how I like to see them jump. Fine sheep like that ought never
to want throwing in," says the old farmer, watching his well-bred flock
with some pride.
On they come, their drivers keeping them well at it, and in a short time
the last jumps in. The whole lot are through and scattering slowly over
the _veldt_ on the other side, the steam arising in clouds from their
dripping fleeces.
"Bring them on again," calls out Mr Brathwaite, after a little time has
been given them to rest and get warm again. The animals are driven
through at a shallow place lower down the river, and brought round to
the jumping place again. Then they are headed once more for the water,
going through this time even better than the first.
"Hallo!" cries Hicks, running down to the edge and scrutinising the
surface all alive with panting heads and spongy fleeces. "One's down.
Yes, there it is," pointing to four kicking legs above the surface, but
which immediately disappear. "In with you, Mopela--Piet--look sharp!"
The first addressed pretends not to hear, but Piet, throwing aside his
kaross, takes a header, and as he reappears he just catches sight of the
drowning animal. In a twinkling he has seized it, and holding its head
above water, he strikes out for the bank, dragging his cumbersome and
struggling burthen. The animal had been suddenly taken with a fit and
gone under--an occurrence which now and then happens, and but for Hicks'
promptitude would have been drowned. As it was, it lay upon the ground,
and after some gasping staggered to its legs, tottered a little way,
then lay down again, and finally picked itself up and began nibbling a
little grass, and in a few minutes had quite recovered.
The operation is repeated in precisely the same way as at first, and
after the flock had been through four times, it wore a very different
appearance to what it had done before; every fleece looking almost snowy
white by contrast as the animals are slowly driven off to their ordinary
pasturage, nibbling as they go.
"Piet, go and tell Umgiswe to bring on his lot," says Mr Brathwaite.
"There are under five hundred, and it won't take us very long," he adds,
for the benefit of his lieutenants, "that is if they jump well. 'Tisn't
twelve o'clock yet, so there'll be lots of time for them to dry."
Twenty minutes' rest, and then a sound of approaching bleating told that
the other flock was at hand.
Then arises a deafening and hideous din as the sheep are driven into the
_cul de sac_. Yelling, and shouting, and whistling, white and black
alike contributing towards the general row, waving karosses, cracking
whips, and beating the ground with branches. The _voerbok_
spasmodically rushes on ahead, plunges into the water and swims through;
but the sheep, suddenly deserted by their leader, stop half-way down the
passage, and, in spite of the pressure from behind, and the earsplitting
shindy, steadfastly refuse to budge.
"We've bungled it somehow," says the old farmer, in a cool,
matter-of-fact tone. "No use bothering them any more just now. Bring
round the goat, and we'll try again."
Two of the Kafirs start off on that intent, but it takes some time to
"collect" the truant, who runs hither and thither, bleating idiotically.
At last he is brought back to his post of honour at the head of the
flock; the driving and the row recommences, and the goat leaps into the
water manfully; but he is leading a forlorn hope, indeed, for not one of
the sheep will follow him--devil a sheep--though they are on the brink
of the water. There they stick, firmly and stubbornly.
"Come on, Claverton, we must pitch some of them in," cries Hicks, and
the two promptly shove their way through the closely-wedged flock, which
stands packed like sardines, wheezing and panting in the heat. In a
twinkling they have seized half-a-dozen of the obstinate brutes and
shied them in; but the rest show no signs of following, and so they go
on, till at last they pause, breathless and bathed in perspiration, for
two of the Kafirs to take their places; and finally, by relays of
labour, the whole flock is through.
"Whew! but that's warm work," exclaims Claverton, as, after a short
rest, the word is given to bring them on again. "Perhaps they'll jump
this time."
His conjecture proves correct. Whether it is that they find their
plunge cool and refreshing on this hot day, or that they are tired of
resistance, or a little of both, is uncertain; but as again, amid
whistling and din, the stupid animals are driven down to the water's
edge, they follow their leader, at first gingerly and by twos and
threes, and then so fast that Hicks takes up his position at the jumping
place to check them; in process whereof, having imprudently got too near
the edge, he is upset bodily into the water, and disappears from mortal
view, to emerge, spluttering and puffing and making awful faces, as he
scrambles up the bank, dripping like a half-drowned rat.
I know of nothing more funny than the sudden and unexpected descent of
any one into deep water. The utter woefulness, combined with an
indignant air of injured innocence, which the sufferer's countenance
invariably assumes on emerging, should make a cat laugh; anyhow, nothing
human can stand against it. And the savagely furious way in which the
patient hisses between his chattering teeth, "What the devil is there to
grin at?" While the _tout ensemble_, his garments clinging to his
shivering carcase, is in no wise calculated to invest his just
exasperation with the majesty of outraged dignity.
Poor Hicks formed no exception. Everybody was convulsed; one of the
Kafirs to such an extent, that he could do nothing but roll on the
ground in the exuberance of his glee, though he managed to recover
sufficiently to dart out of the way just in time to avoid a mighty kick
aimed at his nether quarters by the infuriated object of his mirth.
"There's something for you to grin at, you sooty son of a Cheshire cat!"
exclaimed Hicks, savagely; but, as we have seen, he missed his aim, and
in a minute had recovered all his wonted good humour.
The sheep gave no more trouble, but went through after that as if they
liked it. Two or three turned over in the water, and were rescued as
previously described, while one died; but these accidents were
inevitable, and soon the flock was straggling away across the _veldt_ to
its feeding ground--white, clean, and freshened up.
When they reached home, the dining-room table was strewn with letters
and newspapers. The postbag, which was fetched from the nearest agency
once a week, had just arrived, and as they entered, Mrs Brathwaite was
reading a letter aloud for the public benefit. The writer stated her
intention of profiting by an unexpectedly early opportunity, and
availing herself of a long-standing and oft-repeated invitation to visit
them at Seringa Vale, in about a fortnight from then, and subscribed
herself: "_Lilian Strange_."
"Poor thing!" said Mr Brathwaite. "We'll soon bring the roses back to
her cheeks. A couple of months of this splendid air, and she'll be that
strong and sunburnt they Won't know her when she goes back."
And the kindly, hospitable old couple went on discussing their
prospective visitor and her joys and sorrows, past, present, and to
come; projecting all manner of schemes for making her stay an enjoyable
and a happy one.
There was one present whom this letter had set thinking, and that was
Claverton. The name seemed familiar and yet not, for he couldn't for
the life of him fit it to an individual.
"Lilian--Lilian Strange--Lilian," he kept repeating to himself. "Now
where the deuce have I come across that name before? Lilian--it's a
pretty name, too. No, I can't remember for the life of me." He could
see the writing as the letter lay open on the table. It was rather
large and very distinct, but not masculine. But neither it nor memory
seemed to aid him, and he gave it up.
"What is she like, aunt?" asked Ethel. "And what sort of age is she?
Young or middling?"
The old lady laughed. "Young or middling? Gracious me, child. She's
only twenty-three, is sweetly pretty, and has the loveliest eyes I ever
saw."
"Present company excepted--ahem!" cut in Hicks, thinking he had said an
excessively smart thing, and colouring and looking an ass on the
strength of it.
"We must make her enjoy her visit," went on Mrs Brathwaite. "Poor
girl, I feel so sorry for her. Her mother is dead, and her stepfather
was a country gentleman in England and a wealthy man. When he died all
his property went to his own family, and Lilian was left without a
penny. Her relations on the stepfather's side were not kind to her, and
she was thrown on the world to get her living as best she could, and now
she's teaching."
"Universal refuge for the destitute," murmured Ethel. "What brought her
out here?"
"A ship," chimed in Hicks, intent on being funny. But Ethel looked
angrily at him, and he collapsed.
"She came out as a companion to some lady," answered Mrs Brathwaite.
"Then the McColls at Port Elizabeth engaged her to teach their children,
and a nice handful she must find them. I fancy her health has rather
broken down. She looked anything but strong when we saw her last June."
"It'll be a great nuisance," said Ethel afterwards to her sister when
they were alone together, "to have to be always trundling this girl
about. She'll probably give herself no end of airs and try to patronise
us all."
"I don't know," answered Laura, "I have an idea she'll be rather nice.
Her letter reads like it."
"Perhaps so," rejoined Ethel, a little ashamed of her inhospitable
speech; "let's hope so, anyhow."
In due course the shearers arrived, and all being ready, operations were
begun at once. No more long rides or bushbuck bants or anything of the
kind, time was too valuable; and for about three weeks Mr Brathwaite
and his two lieutenants had their hands full in superintending and
otherwise furthering that most important phase of farm routine--
shearing; and from rosy morn till dewy eve, and often till late within
the latter, were they strictly on duty.
Yes, those were busy times indeed. There were the Fingo shearers to be
set to their work and kept to it, wool bales to be pressed and sewn up,
rationing to be attended to, and a hundred and one things, large or
small, to tax the mind and employ the hand. Moreover, a sharp eye had
to be kept on the natives aforesaid, lest in their laudable anxiety to
make the largest possible tally, they should inflict grievous bodily
harm upon the animals under operation, and haply remove the cuticle as
well as the fleece. But those there employed were old hands at the
craft, and gave no trouble to speak of. They would clip away by the
hour, chatting among themselves in that seemingly disjointed way wherein
these people are wont to exchange gossip. Now and then they varied the
pastime by humming a barbarous tune on about three notes, whose terrible
monotony would be distracting were it not that the ear gets accustomed
to the wretched crooning, even as to the hum of a threshing machine or
the ticking of an obtrusive clock, but through this, as through all
other sounds, the clip, clip, clip of the shears went steadily on, from
morning till night, from day to day.
"I've just had another letter from Lilian Strange," said Mrs
Brathwaite, one evening towards the close of the busy time above
mentioned.
"What does she say?" asked the old settler, who was nodding in a roomy
arm-chair, tired with the heat and exertion of the day.
"She says she won't be able to come to us this week after all, because
the McColls have put off their start. She may have to wait another ten
days in consequence."
"H'm. Don't know that it isn't just as well. It would have been
difficult to send for her during shearing time--means two days away from
home. Hicks might have gone to fetch her, or Arthur, but they are both
wanted here. Naylor's busy, too, and so is Jim. Yes, it's just as
well, as things go."
"She thinks she will have an opportunity in about a fortnight, which
will save us the trouble of sending."
"Well, that's better still. Besides, who's going to bring her?"
"She doesn't say," answered Mrs Brathwaite. "She only promises to let
us know."
To one, at least, of the auditors of this dialogue, the postponement of
the expected guest's arrival was not a source of unmixed grief. That
one was Ethel. She would not own to herself that so commonplace a
failing as jealousy had anything to do with it; still the fact remained
that they were all very jolly together as it was. "Two's company,
three's a bore," applies in principle to circles, and now it was
horribly likely that this Miss Strange would be, from Ethel's point of
view, _de trop_. Her aunt had spoken in warm terms of the other's
beauty and attractiveness. But Ethel herself was conscious of the
possession of a larger share of those commodities than most people. Had
the other been of the colourless and inane order she could have
tolerated her--bore as she might be. As matters stood, however, it was
not in feminine human nature that Ethel should be prepared to welcome
the unexpected guest with open arms.
"What has become of Arthur?" asked Mrs Brathwaite, as they sat down to
supper.
"Oh, he'll be here in a minute," said Hicks. "I left him yarning with
Xuvani. He says the old chap's teaching him Kafir, and I'll be hanged
if ever I knew a fellow pick it up so quickly. He didn't know a word
when he came here, but Xavani says he must have really, and was keeping
it dark. He let drop two or three idiomatic expressions which showed
that he must have known something about the language or the structure of
it."
At that moment the door opened, admitting the object of their
discussion.
"Late, I'm afraid," he said, sliding into his place. "That long-legged
humbug, Ntyesa, swore he had left his jacket in the shearing-house, and
I had to go and unlock it again for him. Awfully sorry."
"Mr Claverton can't tear himself away, even at half-past eight," said
Ethel, maliciously. "He will soon be quite glued to the wool bales."
He glanced up with an amused look. "While there is light, there is
work--in shearing time," he replied.
"Bother shearing time!" rejoined she, pettishly. "I wish you'd be quick
and finish it. We can't get about at all, because there's no one to
take us. Laura and I have wanted to go over to Thirlestane, and to
Jim's, and a host of places, but we can't. We are just as much shut up
in here as you are in there. Aren't we, Laura?"
"Ha--ha--ha," laughed her uncle, with whom she was a prime favourite,
and who spoilt her outrageously. "You'd better come and give us a hand,
Ethel. You and Laura. We shall get it over ever so much sooner then.
You shall have six shillings a hundred. Eh?"
"They oughtn't to have more than five, because they don't bring their
own shears," cut in Hicks.
"They've got nail-scissors, though," murmured Claverton.
"Ah, I could see you were going to say something horrid," cried Ethel.
"There are those two sparring again," was Laura's comment, "as usual."
Now there was a good deal more underlying Ethel's impatience with the
shearing time than appeared on the surface. It deprived them of their
usual escort on their journeyings abroad, even as she had said, and with
her own particular body-guard on those occasions she found herself less
and less able to dispense. And yet, as her sister had just remarked,
they two were always at daggers-drawn. She had begun by cordially
detesting this man, as she thought. In reality, there had been more of
resentment than of dislike in the matter. She had resented his
coolness, his utter indifference to her charms, his way of treating her
like a spoilt child; laughing at her petulance, and turning off her most
pointed shafts on an impenetrable shield of mild satire, mingled with
surprised amusement. She, Ethel Brathwaite, at whose shrine, when she
shone in the society of the capital, all crowded and fell down and
worshipped, to be thus treated! She counted, among her sworn admirers,
more than one whose name was in many mouths, who boasted much-prized
decorations, well and fairly won, and yet here on the distant frontier
this man, whom, in reality, no one had ever heard of, treated her with a
sort of good-humoured indulgence! And in spite of it--shall we not
rather say, because of it?--she was not angry with him. It was a new
thing to find one who, instead of looking up at, if anything, looked
down to her; and to the wilful little beauty the change was positively
refreshing. Then how helpless she had been in his hands on one or two
occasions--that of the storm, for instance, and the subsequent
terrifying episode--and he had not been wanting. There were many men
within and without the circle of her admirers whom she could snub
capriciously and ruthlessly tyrannise over, but Arthur Claverton was not
one of them, and this she knew full well. And now she had discovered
that his society was becoming very necessary to her, and what had forced
that discovery irresistibly upon her mind was the announcement, two
weeks ago, of the arrival of a new character upon the stage whereon she
and one other were the chief actors. Verily it seemed to Ethel as if a
bomb had emanated from that harmless-looking postbag, and was destined
shortly to explode in their midst.
Then had come the shearing, and, except on Sundays, from dawn till dark,
Mr Brathwaite's two lieutenants found the whole of their time taken up.
In the middle of the day they would come in, by turns, to get their
dinners, but it was a case of off again directly after. No more long
rides home in the twilight, or quiet strolls in the sunny afternoon, at
least not for some time to come, and then--another would have appeared
on the scene, thought Ethel, with a dire presentiment that those times
which now she looked back on with a sinking kind of regret would never
come round again. Will it be better for her--for both of them--if they
do not? We shall see.
She is looking bewitchingly pretty to-night as she sits throwing her
bright shafts of laughter and mockery at those around, and at Claverton
in particular--at the latter, indeed, to such an extent as to call forth
Laura's remark. But a very close observer might have detected a kind of
latent wistfulness beneath the brilliant, lively manner, and only then
if he had specially looked for it.
"So you have been trying your hand at shearing, I hear, Mr Claverton?"
she said.
"I have."
"How did you get on, and how did you like it?" asked Laura.
"Hicks will best tell you how I got on. As for liking it, the
occupation would be a wholly delightful one had a beneficent Providence
but seen fit to arrange the small of one's back upon hinges. By the
way, Armitage wasn't here to-day, was he? We could have sworn we heard
that laugh of his; couldn't we, Hicks?"
"No; he hasn't been here--and a good thing too," rejoined Mr
Brathwaite. "He'd only have got playing the fool, or something. He
carries that habit of his rather far at times. You heard what he did
over at Naylor's the year before last?"
"No. What was it?"
"Well, Naylor was hard at work with his shearing, and one day, in
turning out a lot of old hurdles to fence in the yard with, they came
upon a snake--a thundering big ringhals--and killed it. Jack Armitage
dropped in just afterwards, and Edward showed him the snake, rather
crowing over having killed such a big one. Jack said nothing at the
time, but a little while after, when they were all in the
shearing-house, they heard a yell, and a big black brute of a ringhals
came scooting in among them all, and there stood that villain Jack in
the door, grinning and chuckling, and nearly splitting his sides with
laughter."
"The beggar!" said Claverton. "Did he scare them?"
"Didn't he! You never saw such a commotion as it made. The shearers
gave one `whouw,' dropped their sheep, and made for the door with a
rush--they're mortally afraid of a snake, you know--and there were sheep
rushing about the place half shorn, and kicking against the shears which
the fellows had let drop, and making a most infernal clatter. And the
niggers were all crowding to get out, and raising a hubbub, and all the
rest of it. The worst of it, though, was that they got so mad that they
one and all struck work--flatly refused to come back--and it was some
time before Naylor could persuade them to."
"The mischief! And what did Jack do?"
"Do? Jumped on his horse and rode away, laughing fit to kill himself.
Naylor was very savage with him though, and now he vows he won't have
Jack on the place at shearing time, not at any price. By the way, that
long fellow, Ntyesa, was one of them. You ask him to-morrow if he
remembers the snake in the shearing-house."