At the time we make his acquaintance Michael Thornhill did not take his
stock-farming seriously, but rather as a pastime. This he could afford
to do, as from one source or another he had enough to last him
comfortably for the rest of his life, and also to start his remaining
son in anything sound and likely to bear good results.
His operations, then, in that line just paid their way, but very little
more--a result in nowise due to any lack of capacity on his part, for he
had gone through the mill himself in earlier life and was as thoroughly
at home in all pertaining to stock-raising as the most strenuous and
practical farmers in the colony. But he had a hobby, and it was a good
one, and that was--literature.
Not the manufacture of it--oh no--or we might have felt bound to
withhold the qualifying adjective. The absorption of it--ancient and
modern--was his craze and his delight. He never had found time to
indulge this during a hard-worked and hardening life, but had always
looked forward to a good time coming when he should be able to do so.
Now it had come.
It may be wondered why he did not settle down in some town, where there
was a good library, and acquaintances from whom he could borrow useful
books; and indeed several did venture so to hint. But his answer was
simple. He had lived in the veldt all his life--up country or down, or
on the road. He would feel lost if he did not wake up to hear the
multifold sounds of the bush--to inhale the fresh, strong, sweet air as
the sun shot up fiery over tree-fringed ridge or iron mountain top. And
the life of the veldt! It had always been his life--it was too late to
change now. To look round on the black wildness of those bushy kloofs,
or yonder great mountain, frowning down majestically, with its mighty
cliff wall shining red in the afterglow of the sunset, and to realise
that he owned all this--that this fragment of splendid Nature was his
property--all his own--why the realisation was sheer ecstasy. Whereby
it is obvious that there was a large element of the poetic about the
man.
Exchange all this for a sun-baked, dust-swept town? Not he. It had
even been hinted to him by well meaning acquaintances--mostly of the
feminine persuasion--that there was his daughter to be considered, that
life alone in a wild and sparsely colonised part of the country was
rather a dull life for a girl. This was certainly touching him on a
susceptible point, but to such representations he would reply that even
up-to-date fathers were entitled to some consideration--that even they
could not be required to take a back seat in every question. For the
rest there was nothing he denied his daughter which by any possibility
he could procure for her; moreover she could have as many friends to
stay with her as the house would hold, and for as long as she chose.
But somehow she seldom had any. For some reason or other they rarely
came. This, however, did not trouble Edala in the least. She was not
particularly fond of other girls. She was too individual for most girls
of her age. They could not quite make her out. And--there may have
been another reason.
But on this score Edala herself never complained. Her occupations and
amusements filled up all her time, and she never felt lonely. She could
shoot, too, and sometimes, when out with her father, would turn over a
big bushbuck ram streaking across a small open space, as neatly as he
could himself. This was only when they were alone together. If there
was a regular hunt she never took part in it.
Her ambition Was to become an art student, at one of the great centres.
She firmly believed in her own capabilities in that line. Her father
had taken her to Europe on purpose to show her all that was best of the
kind, and she had come back more dissatisfied than ever. She wanted to
join the regular ranks--to start at the bottom of the ladder. But
Michael Thornhill had a will of his own.
"Patience, dear," he would say. "You have plenty of time before you,
and I don't see the fun of raising children to have them desert me just
when I want them most."
Edala had not taken the remark in good part. She had flashed forth that
it was no good having anything in one, if one was to be stuck away on a
Natal farm all one's life with no opportunity of bringing it out. Her
father shook his head sadly.
"There may come a day when you will be glad to find yourself back on
that same Natal farm," he said. Then he went out.
Of this he was thinking as he sat in his library a few mornings after
Elvesdon's timely appearance. Why now should he not let her have her
way? Why should he not send her to Europe as she wished? He himself
could sell or let the farm, and trek far up country on a protracted
hunting expedition; for the idea of life here without Edala was not to
be thought of for a moment.
There was more than a sense of thwarted ambition which came between
himself and the child he idolised. The dark cloud that separated them
took the form of a dead hand. Black and bitter suspicion corroded the
girl's mind, and when the consciousness of it was more especially
brought home to Thornhill from time to time, the whirlwind of vengeful
hate that stormed through his heart was simply inconceivable. But not
towards her. It was retrospective.
Just such a paroxysm was on him now. He could not read. He gazed
listlessly around at his well filled book-shelves--with their
miscellaneous stock of literature--in which he took such pleasure and
pride, but made no move towards disturbing their contents. A
restlessness came upon him. He could not remain still. Jumping up, he
put his head through the window and shouted out to the stable boy to
saddle up a horse.
Edala was on the stoep as he passed out. She was putting some finishing
touches to a water-colour drawing. In his then mood he did not suggest
that she should accompany him; perhaps he feared the effect of a refusal
or a reluctant consent.
"Are you going out, father? It's awfully hot."
"Yes, I'm going a short round. Back by dinner time."
Three or four great rough-haired dogs, lying in the shade behind the
stable, sprang up as the horse was led forth, whining and squirming with
wild excitement at sight of the gun in their master's hand. He,
however, drove them back; he was not going to hunt, but there was always
the chance of coming across unwary "vermin"--a jackal perhaps, or a
_rooikat_.
The first point he made for was the scene of yesterday's episode. As he
approached it a low hum of voices was borne to his ears. Some half
dozen natives stood clustered round the spot. The carcase of Elvesdon's
horse lay swollen and distended, tainting the air, and beside it the
great snake. But on the latter was their attention concentrated.
"_Whau_! but that was the very king of serpents," one of them was
saying. "I, who am old, have never seen one like it--no never."
"M-m!" hummed his hearers. "_Nkose_!"
This in respectful greeting as they became aware of the new arrival's
presence. He acknowledged it.
"I, who am old, have never seen one like it, _impela_," repeated the
speaker. "_Nkose_. The snake--the king of snakes--has killed the
horse, but who has killed the snake?"
"The horse," said Thornhill. "He fell over on it and broke its back,
just after it had struck him."
"It is the horse of--of--the new magistrate--at Kwabulazi," went on the
other. "He was at my kraal just before."
"That is so, Tongwana. Here is _gwai_," getting out a large snuff-horn,
which came in handy on such occasions.
"_Nkose_!" cried the chief, receiving it in both hands. He was an old
man, with a white beard, and, of course, head-ringed. Two of the others
were also ringed. As Thornhill told the story of the occurrence many
were the murmurs of surprise that went up. The new magistrate at
Kwabulazi was clearly no fool of a white man, and this inference
impressed them greatly.
One of them, however, it did not seem to impress at all, and that was
one of the ringed men. He had listened in a careless, almost
contemptuous way to the narrative, uttering no remark or interjection.
He was of fine stature, and unlike Tongwana and two or three of the
others, wore no article of European clothing; wherein he showed taste,
for the savage in his _mutya_ alone looks an immeasurably finer savage
than his brother clad in the same, with a super-added shirt, usually
none too clean. Him Thornhill set down as a Zulu from beyond the
border: but at the same time he was vaguely conscious of having seen him
somewhere before.
This man now, without a word of farewell greeting, detached himself from
the group, and began to walk leisurely away. Then it became noticeable
that he walked with a slight limp.
"Bullet in the war of '79 did that," decided Thornhill grimly, as he
looked after him. "Wonder if he'll compete for another distinguishing
mark of the same kind before long." Then aloud--
"Who is he?"
They looked at each other.
"He is a stranger, _Nkose_," answered Tongwana with a whimsical smile.
"From the other side?"
"_E-he_."
"Yet it seems I have seen him before. No matter. For the rest,
_amadoda_, the house is very near and contains that which is good to eat
and drink. The _Inkosazana_ [lit. Little Chieftainess] is there, and
will see to that. I return soon myself. _Hambani gahle_!"
They were delighted, and chorussed a sonorous farewell. Thornhill made
it a rule to treat his native neighbours on liberal and friendly terms,
consequently the relations between them were of the best. None of his
stock was ever missing nor did he ever lack farm servants.
Incidentally, some of his white neighbours disagreed with him on the
point. They said he was spoiling the natives. But, out of the
plenitude of his experience he had found it a policy that paid.
Now, when after a few minutes' ride along the bush track he overtook the
stranger, that worthy's demeanour towards himself constituted quite an
unusual experience. It was off-hand, to say the least of it, almost
offensive.
"May I not have first right to ride along the paths on my own farm?"
began Thornhill, banteringly. For the path here was exceedingly narrow
with high thick bush on either hand, and the other showed not the least
anxiety to make way for him, but strode on as though there was no one
within a hundred miles. It was all Thornhill could do to restrain
himself from bringing down the butt of his gun hard and violently
between the broad, shining shoulders. It was, if possible, more
difficult still, as the stranger replied, without halting or even
looking back:
"Patience, Inqoto. The path is not wide enough for two."
This _gazula_--or addressing a white man familiarly by his native name,
even though that name in this instance was a complimentary one,
referring to decisiveness of character--would have led then and there to
a breach of the peace on the part of most white men, especially as the
tone of the speaker bordered on the contemptuous. This one only waxed
coldly sarcastic.
"I see you, King. _Bayete_, King of the Heavens and the world!
Elephant! Lion! Divider of the Sun! Shaker of the Earth!" he went on,
giving the other half a dozen more titles of royal _sibongo. "Whau_!
It is truly the Great Great One come to life again, for who else in
these times would walk about my farm armed with assegais?"
The path had now widened out. The savage halted and stepped aside.
"Do you know me, Inqoto?" he said. "Have you ever seen me before?"
"Surely. O Elephant. In another world," came the ready and sarcastic
reply.
"M-m! In another world. But it is in this world you shall see me
again, Inqoto. Ah, ah! In this world. _Hamba gahle_!"
With which farewell, insolently sneering, the speaker turned and
strolled leisurely away.