The older man started.
"What's that?" he said quickly, looking from the one to the other.
Briefly she told him. This was a man not easily moved, but he was then.
"And I should have been lying there instead of that poor horse,"
concluded the girl.
"I should think you would." Then, to the stranger, "Well, sir, I don't
quite know what to say to you or how to put it--but I believe you can
understand."
The said stranger, almost writhing from the force of the hand grip which
the other was administering to him, realised that he did understand.
This strong, impassive-looking man was obviously moved to the core, but
what seemed passing strange was that he refrained from any little
outward and natural act of affection, or even word, towards his child
who had just escaped a horrible death. No, that omission, indeed, he
could not understand.
"Why, of course," he answered. "But I'd better introduce myself. My
name's Elvesdon, and I'm the new magistrate at Kwabulazi, so we shall
not be very distant neighbours. I hope, too, that we shall become very
much better acquainted."
"Same here. I'm Thornhill, and I own about thirteen thousand _morgen_
[about double that number of acres], most of which you can see from
where we stand, and a good deal of which is of no earthly use except to
look at--or to paint," with a smile at his daughter.
"It certainly is very good to look at," said the stranger. "Does it
hold much wild game, Mr Thornhill?"
"Middling. See that line of krantz yonder?" pointing to a craggy wall,
about a mile away. "Well, that's all bored with holes and caves--I was
going to say it was filled with tiger [leopard] like bee-grubs in a
comb, but that's a little too tall. Still there are too many. Are you
a sportsman, Mr--Elvesdon? Though--you must be, after what I've just
heard."
"I'm death on it. Where I've come from there wasn't any."
"Where's that?"
"The Sezelani. All sugar cane and coolies. Beastly hot, too. I'm
jolly glad of this move."
"Well I hope you'll make up for it here. There's a fair number of
bushbuck in the kloofs--duiker and blekbok too, guinea fowl, and other
small fry. So be sure and bring your gun over whenever you can and
like."
"Thanks awfully," replied Elvesdon, thinking he would manage to do this
pretty often.
They had reached the homestead. The house was a one-storeyed,
bungalow-like building, with a thatched verandah running round three
sides of it. It stood on a slope, and the ground in front fell away
from a fenced-in bit of garden ground down a well-grown mealie land,
whose tall stalks were loaded with ripening cobs. Then the wild bush
veldt began. Black kloofs, dense with forest trees; bush-clad slopes,
culminating in a great bronze-faced krantz frowning down in overhanging
grandeur; here and there patches of open green as a relief to the
profusion of multi-hued foliage--in truth in whatever direction the eye
might turn, that which met it was indeed good to look at, as the
stranger had said.
The said stranger, as they entered the house, was exercised by no small
amount of curiosity. Of what did this household consist? he asked
himself. The other members of the family, for instance, what were they
like, he wondered? Like this girl--who had struck him as so unlike any
other girl he had ever seen? Like her father--who in his own way seemed
almost to stand unique? But beyond themselves there seemed to be nobody
else in the house at all.
The room he was ushered into was cool and shaded. It was got up with
innumerable knick-knacks. There were water-colour sketches on the
walls--and framed photographic portraits placed about on easels. There
was a piano, and other signs of feminine occupation. But nothing was
overdone. The furniture was light and not overcrowded, thoroughly
suitable to a hot climate. After the noontide glare outside, the room
struck him as cool and restful to a degree--refined, too; in short a
very perfect boudoir.
"Nice little room, isn't it?" said his host rejoining him, for he had
excused himself for a minute. "Yes, that portrait--that's my eldest
boy. Poor chap, he _was_ killed in the Matabele rising in '96. That
other's the second--I've only the two. He's away at the Rand; making
his fortune--as he thinks; fortunately he's got none to lose."
"What fine looking fellows," said Elvesdon. "By Jove they are."
The other smiled.
"That group there," he went on, "represents Edala in various stages of
growing up. You'll recognise the latest."
"Yes. It's a splendid likeness." The while he was thinking to himself,
"Edala! what an out-of-the-way name. Edala! Well, it fits its owner
anyway."
"I daresay you'd like a cold splash--we'll have dinner directly. Come
this way. You'll find everything in there," opening the door of a spare
room.
His host's voice almost made Elvesdon start, so wrapped up was he in his
new train of thought. It did not leave him, either, when he was
splashing his head and face in a basin of cold water. Truly this was a
strange beginning to his new term of office; for he had only been at
Kwabulazi a few days. Well, it was a good one anyhow.
On entering the dining-room he did not know whether to feel surprised or
not. Only three places were laid. There was no Mrs Thornhill then?
These two--father and daughter--were alone together.
But before they had got half through the meal Elvesdon became alive to
something. There was not that freedom and cordiality between the two,
that whole-souled intimacy of companionship, which under the
circumstances might have been expected. A kind of constraint seemed to
rest between them, and yet why? It was puzzling. Remembering the real
emotion displayed by his host when the latter had learned what had
occurred that morning, it was even more puzzling. He did not fail,
however, to note that the affection seemed mostly on the parental side.
This struck him as strange: nor did there appear to be anything to
account for it. There was nothing of the tyrannical or even irritable
type of parent about his host, who, on the contrary, seemed calm and
quiet and considerate in everything he said or did; he himself had been
greatly taken with him. What then could it mean?
Ah, now a solution presented itself. The girl had probably contracted
some engagement, or wanted to, to which her father had objected. And in
the result there was an estrangement between them. He had seen one or
two cases of the kind before. The thought, however, seemed to depress
him though half-unconsciously. Yet why should it? What could it
possibly matter to him--he asked himself. Yes, what the devil could it
matter to him? Thus pondering, he joined in the conversation in a
half-absent kind of way, though wholly unconscious of any such frame of
mind. The fact, however, did not escape his host, who was divided in
opinion as to the cause.
"I suppose you've had a good deal of experience in the native
department," said the latter, when they had got into roomy cane-chairs
on the verandah and pipes were in full blast. Edala had retired,
announcing an intention of having forty winks and reappearing when it
was cooler.
"Fair. I was on the Pondo border for a time. It was more interesting,
in a way, still I'm glad to get back here."
"What do you think of these rumours of unrest?" said Thornhill.
"There is unrest, and it wants careful handling. Still you haven't got
to believe everything you hear. I've been doing a round since I came,
trying to get at the general feeling. I was at Tongwana's kraal this
morning and the old chap was profusely civil, so were all his people: in
fact it was on my way back from there that I--er--first met your
daughter."
"Oh, Tongwana? Yes, he's all right. By the way, I was forgetting. If
you'll excuse me for a minute I'll send some boys down to collect your
saddle and bridle."
"Thanks. I daresay you could lend me some sort of a mount to get home
on, could you?"
"Oh, you shan't walk," said Thornhill, drily, over his shoulder.
He soon returned, and the two sat chatting over things in general and
the neighbourhood in particular; as to which latter Elvesdon was loud in
his appreciation. It was delightful country, he declared, and this farm
especially was charmingly situated. The other smiled.
"Well, ride over whenever you feel inclined. We shall always be
delighted to see you," the speaker had grown grave, and his hearer knew
what he was thinking about. "I don't know if you're very hard-worked.
I know that outlying Civil servants are not as a rule--your predecessor
certainly wasn't. So whenever you don't know what else to do with
yourself, why this isn't an overpoweringly long ride. We might get up a
day in the kloofs when the close time is over."
Elvesdon jumped at this, and then Edala reappeared, stating two
indisputable facts--that it was cooler, and, incidentally, tea-time. At
last, with many a qualm of reluctance, he got up and declared it was
time to go.
"Must you?" said the girl, with a quick lift of the eyes which he
thought infinitely captivating.
"I'm afraid so, Miss Thornhill, though I do it with reluctance. Stern
duty calls, you see. There's no moon, and I don't know this part of the
country at all yet. I should get hopelessly entangled for the night in
some most impenetrable part of the kloofs, and I have to hold Court
early to-morrow; for there happens to be rather a lot to get through."
"Edala, dear," said Thornhill, "just sing out to them at the back to put
Mr Elvesdon's saddle on--the horse I told them."
The girl reappeared in a moment, and then good-byes were interchanged.
To Elvesdon's relief nothing more was said on the subject of his timely
aid, but he was appreciative of a great cordiality of manner.
"Here's something that'll carry you, Mr Elvesdon," said Thornhill, as a
horse was brought round to the stoep, a well groomed, capable looking
beast with good paces. "You needn't trouble to send him back again, if
you'll oblige me by accepting him. You lost your own on my account you
know."
But the other began to protest. Why all the horses in the world would
be cheap at the price of what his own had been able to effect, he
declared with, at that stage, somewhat unnecessary vehemence. Besides
it seemed too much like accepting a reward for what he had done, though
this he did not say.
"You are not offended, are you?" said Thornhill.
"Offended? No. But--er--"
"Well, I shall be if you refuse to do me this favour, so let's have no
more _indaba_ on the subject," rejoined Thornhill, shortly.
The other gave way. He saw no alternative, for the last thing in the
world he desired was to offend Edala's father. The latter's next words
made the situation easier.
"Hope we shall see you again soon. Remember you'll always find a real
welcome here at any time, so don't stand on ceremony. Good-bye."
The younger man echoed the word heartily as he rode away. And then
something struck him as funny. He was accustomed to issuing orders to
other people, and now the positions were reversed. He had been dictated
to, and that by no official superior but by a stranger of a few hours'
acquaintance, and he had meekly done as he was told. Yes, it was funny.
The two stood looking after him as he disappeared down the bush path.
Then the girl said:
"Father, what have you done? You've given away Ratels--yes, given him
away. And you've often said you wouldn't part with him for five times
his real value."
"Yes. But I've never said I wouldn't part with him for fifty thousand
times--for fifty million times his real value."
He dropped a hand upon her shoulder--that was all--then turned abruptly
and went inside. The girl standing there alone gazed forth upon the
tossing splendours of the sunlit wilderness, but actually seeing nothing
of them, for her eyes were dim and moist. A struggle was going on
within her. Then the lips, which had begun to tremble, hardened into
firm compression. The struggle was over--unfortunately.