"How much longer is that man going to hang about here?" said Edala,
gazing, somewhat frowningly, from the window of her father's book room,
which looked out upon the cattle-kraals and the group of huts, occupied
by the native servants, which stood adjacent thereto.
"Who? Oh, Manamandhla! Not for long, I should think. Do you know,
child, he's rather an interesting chap to talk to and has become quite
civil. He asked me to let him stop on here a bit, and he'd help with
the cattle now we're short-handed."
"Well, we shall be more so soon, for old Patolo can't stand him. He'll
be clearing next, you'll see."
"Not he. They'll strike it off all right. Patolo has been
cattle-herd-in-chief to me nearly all your life, and knows where he's
well off. And Manamandhla may prove useful in other ways."
The object of their talk, and the girl's animadversion, had just emerged
from one of the huts. For a moment he stood gazing at the weather, then
drawing his ample green blanket close around his tall form, he strode
away over the veldt.
"Why have you got such a down on him, child? He's respectful and civil
enough to you, isn't he?"
"Oh yes--at least for the present."
"Why should he not continue to be?" went on her father.
"I don't know. No, I don't. I suppose it's--instinct."
She still stood gazing out of the window, and her face was troubled,
even resentful. She could not forget the expression that had come upon
her father's face, fleeting as it had been, when they had first met this
man yonder on the summit of Sipazi mountain. It was not his first
meeting either, for he had brought home the story of the Zulu's
insolence on that other occasion. She felt puzzled--even suspicious,
and therefore resentful.
It was a grey, drizzling afternoon, and the splendour of forest and
mountain, lovely in the sparkle of blue sky and dazzling sun, was
blotted out by rain and mist, with dreary and depressing effect. Low
clouds swept along the base of the heights, whirling back now and then
to display some great krantz such as the face of Sipazi, its altitude,
multiplied by the dimness, looming up in awful grandeur, to fade again
into the murk.
Instinct! Thornhill did not like that word, and it was no mere flash in
the pan either. The child was so confoundedly sharp at leaping to
conclusions; generally accurate ones too, and that with nothing to go
upon. He had tried to assume his normal unconcern of speech and manner,
in talking on this subject--for this was not the first time it had been
brought up--and could only wonder if he had succeeded.
"Are you afraid of him, then?" he said at last.
"Afraid? No. But I don't like him, and I wish he'd clear. I don't
believe he's up to any good at all here."
"Now, dear, aren't you just a trifle unreasonable as to this particular
`bee' of yours?" said her father, somewhat annoyed. "You say you're not
afraid of him, and I've told you the man is useful to me in ways. Now
am I to run this farm or are you? That's the question."
"I don't want to run the place, of course. I'm only afraid this paragon
of yours is aiming at doing that. What a perfectly beastly afternoon,"
she broke off, turning away from the window.
"Ah well, we can do with rain," he answered. "Another night's downpour
'll make all the difference in the world. Getting hipped, eh? Go and
thump the keyboard a bit--you never get tired of that--and forget the
existence of the obnoxious Manamandhla."
"If I shan't disturb you."
"You know, dear, _you_ never do disturb me," he answered, tenderly.
The girl passed into the other room, and sat down at her piano.
"What a little beast I am to him," she was thinking--"and yet--and yet!
It all seems too awful. How I wish he would let me go away, as I wanted
to."
The notes came gurgling out under her deft touch, but for once her mind
was not in her art. But for the rain she would have taken refuge in
some outdoor pursuit; anything, even if it were to climb up to what she
called her `aerial throne'--dangling between earth and heaven; anything
for movement. But the steady rain came down in monotonous drip--drip;
moreover, it was a cold rain, and under no circumstance was out-of-doors
inviting.
Thornhill sat in his library, and took down book after book, but somehow
he, too, could not settle down to his favourite pastime. His thoughts
were of this child whom he had always idolised, and still did; yet she
repaid him by consistently turning away from him. Perhaps if he had
affected a like indifference it might have told--women being what they
were. Yet, in this case, he could hardly think so; knowing the nature
of the cloud that hung between them; even the venom from beyond the
grave, and the effects of which he had hoped that time would dim. But
time had not done so.
Then his thoughts took another turn--towards his surviving son, to wit;
and, in the result, a great longing to see him again. He, at any rate,
did not share Edala's attitude. His faith in his father was full, frank
and perfect; and he made no secret of the fact. Why should he not come
down on a visit. These stock-broking chaps at the Rand nearly always
hunted in couples like other predatory professionals. Hyland would be
sure to have a partner, or someone who could take charge of his job
while he was away. He would write to him, and by Jove, this was post
day--in fact the boy who rode post over from Elvesdon's was almost due,
only was usually late. However, it didn't matter: he could be detained.
Thornhill got out sheets of paper. Edala, at the present moment, seemed
to be literally obeying his injunctions to `thump the keyboard,' for she
was in full swing in the middle of a fine lilting song, to a somewhat
thunderous accompaniment, in the other room.
"My dear Hyland," he began:
"Don't you feel like a change of air and scene after your ten months of
labour in the City of Gold--dust; and that dust all and entirely in the
air, save when it's in the larynxes and lungs of its eighty odd thousand
inhabitants--mostly Hebrews? If so, I should think you could get your
brother--shark--to take on your share and his own too, of the process of
fleecing the child-like and unwary investor--even as you did--between
you--of late, in the matter of a certain ancient relative of one of the
firm--who shall be nameless--and that on the ground that there were not
sufficient Heathen Chinee-s on the mines. Well then, do so, and load up
on board the train as soon as you like after receipt of this, and _trek_
down here for as long as you like. Edala is getting a bit hipped. I'm
not sure the same doesn't hold good a little of her--and your--
unrespected parent.
"Things here are much the same, except that we've got a new man at
Kwabulazi in the room of old Carston transferred, as the official
letters say--a chap named Elvesdon, an exceedingly wide awake, smart
chap, and devilish good company. You're sure to like him. Old Tongwana
often asks after you. We've also got a new man here--black--named
Mana--"
Thornhill stopped, then carefully erased the last phrase--he did not
know why, perhaps it was due to what Edala had called `instinct.' Then
he went on--
"There are rows and rumours of rows about possible bother among the
people here, mainly over the new poll-tax, as, by the way, you will of
course have heard--since all the doings of the known world are known at
that hub of the Universe, Johannesburg, about forty-eight hours sooner
than they are known--say in London. But it will probably end in smoke.
If it doesn't, such a fire eater as yourself will be more in your
element here than there, I should think, after your experiences in
Matabeleland, and of the pom-poms of Brother Boer.
"Well, load yourself up on the first train you can capture, old chap,
and hasten to smoke the pipe of peace under the welcoming roof of--
"Your old Governor."
This characteristic letter Thornhill read over, with a chuckle or two,
stuck down the envelope and directed it.
_Hyland Thornhill, Esq_.
_P.O. Box Something or other_,
_Johannesburg_.
Just then Edala came in.
"Hullo. What's that you're sending, father?"
"Never you mind," throwing it on the blotting pad, face downwards.
"It's a secret--another secret," he could not refrain from adding,
maliciously.
"But I will see," she returned, making a playful, but tolerably
determined snatch at the envelope. "Is it to Hyland? Is it?" as a
brown and iron hand effectually baffled her attempt. "You are telling
him to come--are you? Are you?"
"Ah-ah! Curiosity, thy name is woman!"
She had got him by the shoulders, and was shaking him, quite child-like
and boisterous. He loved this mood.
"There are more people in the world than Hyland," he said. "Why should
I bother about an impudent neglectful rascal who hardly ever takes the
trouble to communicate with the author of his being, let alone to come
in person and ascertain whether that worthy is dead or not?"
"It _is_ to Hyland. I know it is. And you are telling him to come.
You are, father? Say you are. Do you hear? Say you are."
"Oh, keep cool," ironically, for she was still shaking him by the
shoulders. "Learn to trust in--the fulness of time."
It may be that the double meaning was not lost on her. But at that
moment there befel an interruption. The dogs at the back of the house
had sprung up and were barking furiously.
"Post, I suppose?" said Thornhill going to the window.
"There! I thought it was to Hyland!" cried Edala, who took the
opportunity of snatching up the letter, which lay face downward on the
table, and reading the address. "You are telling him to come, aren't
you?"
"Time will show," he answered teasingly. "But telling him's one thing,
whether he'll do as he's told is another. A lifelong experience of him,
and, incidentally, of his sister, would move me to bet on the latter
contingency."
A trampling of hoofs and then the postboy appeared, mounted on an
undersized pony and clad in a long military surtout of ancient date.
The rain was dripping from the ragged brim of his battered hat, but this
affected him not at all, for his black shining face split into a
dazzling white grin as he raised his hand in salute. The dogs, who knew
him, had retreated, muttering, as though resenting being done out of
hostilities; though even now they were sniffing around his utterly
indifferent legs, not altogether reassuringly, as having dismounted he
came to the door.
"Well Gomfu--what is the news?" said Thornhill, taking the leather bag.
"News? _Au! Nkose_ will find all his news in there."
"But nearer than that. Here, I mean."
The boy grinned slyly.
"U Jobo is preaching around the locations. _Whau_! but he is telling
news to the people--great news."
This, as we have said, was the native name of that estimable Ethiopian
apostle the Rev Job Magwegwe. Thornhill had heard of him.
"Why does not the Government send the police after him, _Nkose_?" went
on the other. "Or are the ears of the Government stopped? Or those of
Ntwezi?"
Thornhill laughed.
"You are not a kolwa [Christian native] then, Gomfu?"
The other clicked contemptuously.
"I am not a fool, _Nkose_, The _Abafundisi_ [Missionaries] preach to us
what they do not believe themselves. They say that their God made all
men equal, black and white, but what is that but childishness? Equal?
_Nkose_--who ever heard of a white man becoming the servant of a native,
but it would take years to count the natives in all the land who are the
servants of white men. Equal? _Whau_!"
"That is so, Gomfu."
"_Nkose_. Again. What if the son of--I do not say a common man but of
a chief such as Tongwana, or Zavula, were to send _lobola_ for the
daughter of an _umfundisi_, and many of them have daughters--what would
be the answer? Would it not be anger at a native presuming to dream of
marriage with the daughter of a white man?--of a white man who preaches
that black and white are all equal? Certainly it would, and rightly.
And we natives who are not fools know this. We want no _Abafundisi_
telling as childishness, particularly Amafengu, such as U Jobo. Equal!
_Hau_!"
"_Nkosazana_!"
The latter in salutation of Edala, who appeared at the door.
"Father, when you've quite done trying to make Gomfu a worse heathen
than he is already, and, incidentally, than you are yourself, it might
occur to you to bring in the post-bag," she said.
"Gomfu's quaint theology has the merit of being logical, eke simple," he
answered coming back into the room. "Here's the bag. Where's the key?
Now then," he went on, having unlocked the bag and turned out its
contents. "_Graphic. Country Life. Natal Witness. Eastern Province
Herald_--that's enough journalism. Letters? None for you. M-m. One,
two, three--all business Four--no. Number 4 isn't biz, but--yes it is--
it's English. They make our stamps and the English ones so much alike
now that there's no telling the difference. Now I wonder who that can
be from," scrutinising the direction narrowly. "There's no one in
England likely to write to me."
"Father. Look again. You must be getting blind. Why it is one of our
stamps after all, and the postmark is Durban--or what's left of it."
"Has Durban, then, met with nearly total destruction?" he inquired,
tranquilly.
"Now, don't be absurd. You know I meant the postmark."
"Oh, the postmark? Small wonder I was in doubt, for the sole use of the
average postmark is to throw a hopeless blind on both the locality and
the date of posting."
"Well the best way of solving the mystery, and the shortest, would be to
open the letter and look at the signature."
"Ah! Ah! A woman's way of reading a novel--looking at the end first."
"Father, are you going to open that letter or are you not? If you have
no curiosity on the subject of an unknown hand I have. And--it's a
feminine hand too."