"Originality, like beauty, is a fatal gift."
Once more I was alone in the coach with my driver, moving onwards
towards my destination--Fort Salisbury. In an hour or two I should
reach Fort George, which was only a day or so from my journey's end. My
new driver, also a Cape boy, was a big, honest-looking fellow named
Hendricks, one of the most trusted men in the coach service, and
possessing no traits in common with the last man, except a vocabulary
and an affection for "cold tea." This man had been waiting at the other
side of the river with fresh mules and another cart the morning after my
adventurous night on the banks of the Umzingwani. The river had been
still too full to cross by cart, so a wire apparatus for slinging mails
and passengers from one bank to another had been brought into
requisition. My new friend and the driver (grown curiously meek and
submissive after I know not what threats and imprecations flung at him
in an unknown tongue when he emerged from his fastness into the light of
day) then engaged together in furthering a nerve-racking business of
which I was to be the chief victim. First the mails were taken out and
divided into lots weighing about 130 pounds, then each lot was placed in
a sort of canvas bucket and slung across the broad sweeping stream on a
piece of wire about the thickness of a clothes-line. When all the mails
were over, and my luggage, I thought my turn had come and advanced with
what I hoped was a nonchalant air (though my knees were trembling under
me) to my fate. But the blue-eyed man was already in the bucket and
whizzing across the stream. Half-way over the wire sagged hideously,
and the sack touched the water. I closed my eyes with a sick feeling,
and when I opened them again it was to see him just starting to recross.
As he jumped from the bucket on my side of the river once more, I
realised that he had been trying the wire for me. Then my nonchalance
was not all assumed, as I took my turn in the horrible contrivance, for
what had carried him would surely bear me safely. All the same, it was
sickening to feel the slither of the bag on the wire, to see the
grey-yellow water shining beneath me smooth and waveless as a mighty
torrent of cod-liver oil, to experience the sag in midstream and the
extra jerk of the wire to overcome it. I confess that at that moment I
was not captain of my soul. I was not captain of anything, even the
canvas bag! I should have given up the ghost if I had not known that a
strong brown hand was on the wire, and blue keen eyes watching every
movement. I think it was the most _effarouchant_ of all my experiences,
and I was still rather limp when he, having crossed once more, came to
me standing by the new post-cart. He held out his hand.
"But what are _you_ going to do?" I asked in surprise.
"Going back across the river," said he. "I have just come over to say
good-bye."
"Are you not coming on too?"
"Not just yet. First I have a little business to transact on the other
side. Later, I shall take my horse and swim a drift I know of about
three miles lower down."
I stared at him in astonishment. What business could he possibly have
on the other side of the river, unless it was to skin the lion? Then I
suddenly remembered his threatening words about the driver the night
before, and the man's meek mien that morning.
"I hope you are not going to beat the driver," I said quickly.
"Good-bye," said he, still holding out his hand.
It naturally annoyed me to have my remarks ignored in that way. I
looked at him coldly.
"You will please not hurt the man on my account," I said stiffly.
"Then I must hurt him on my own," he calmly replied. "These men have to
be taught their duty to white ladies."
It vexed me curiously to think that he should so resent having been left
alone with me all night that he must needs punish the driver for it.
"I hate brutality," I said. "The thought of one man hitting another
makes me feel sick. I think you are very vindictive."
"I am sorry," said he, but there was not the faintest trace of sorrow
anywhere about him; in fact, he was smiling me hardily in the eyes and I
saw that he had every intention of beating the man in spite of my
wishes. I turned away from him to hide the vexation that surged through
me, and began to arrange my rugs in the cart, but when I had finished he
was still there, and with something further to remark.
"Miss Saurin, I hope you will pardon me for saying that it would be
unwise of you to let any one know that your last night's vigil included
my society."
That was really too much! I stared at him haughtily, utterly taken
aback by such a remark and its inference. But he met my eyes quite
unabashed. It occurred to me at the moment that he had probably never
been abashed in his life, and the idea did not please me.
"I'm afraid I do not quite understand you," I said at last in a frozen
voice, "but if it is that you do not wish me to boast of having made
your acquaintance--I can assure you that you need have no fear."
Even his hardened pelt was pierced at last, though he tried to hide the
fact under a sardonic grin that did not become him in the least. He
threw back his rag of black hair--a sign of battle I was beginning to
recognise.
"Hardly that. I was merely proffering a little friendly advice, but I
remember now that you do not take kindly to advice--or you would not be
here." He grinned again, and I flushed with anger. After the terrors
of the past night to fling the advice of people like Elizabet von Stohl
into my teeth!
"I believe myself perfectly capable of minding my own affairs," I said.
"Further, I very much resent your inference that people would dare to
talk scandal about me."
"Evidently you do not know people as well as I do." I merely looked
over his head. "Certainly you will allow that I know my own reputation
better."
There was an opening for a dart, and I flung one with all my might.
"That is a matter that does not interest me. I do not even know your
name, and probably never shall."
But do you think that crushed him? No! "Oh, you will hear it," he said
with his careless smile, "`blown back upon the breeze of fame,'
perhaps--of a kind. In any case we are bound to meet again."
"Oh, will it be necessary?" I said, driven to open rudeness by his
imperturbability, which I considered very much like insolence. "Will it
really be necessary if I thank you _now_ for--for the services you have
been so extremely kind as to render me?" His withers remained unwrung.
"You cannot escape meeting even your open enemies in this country. And
it will indeed be necessary to _me_, even if I thank you now for the
most wonderful night of my life."
Without waiting for any newly-barbed darts I might or might not have had
ready, he swiftly departed, leaving one last hardy blue smile in my
eyes. A moment later he was slithering across the river on the
screeching, wriggling wire.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
We had left the bare, bleak kops and tall strange trees of Bechuanaland
far behind now, and had crossed the last of its wild and fearful rivers.
Everywhere about us stretched level country, which gave a curious
impression of the sea, for the thick, hay-like grass, bleached almost to
whiteness and as high as a man's waist, swayed perpetually like pale
waves. Even when the land seems a heated brazen bowl and the upper air
is faint and heavy with breathlessness the veldt grass has some hidden
air, some "wind from a lost country," flitting amongst it making it sway
and gently whisper.
Patches of trees grew against the horizon, but they were short and
scrubby and in the nature of "bush," though occasionally one was to be
seen by itself, sprayed like an ostrich feather upon the skyline.
Others, of a singularly gnarled squat type, sent all their branches up
to a certain height and then flattened them out and wove them together
so that the top of the tree presented the appearance of a strong, but
rather stubbly, spring-mattress.
Far away on the edge of the landscape, never seeming to come nearer or
recede farther, was the usual line of amethyst hills. Nearer hills were
saffron coloured, and some turning pale pink in the evening light.
Everywhere the eye was feasted with colour. Sard-green bushes stretched
branches like candelabra high above the pale grass, and from each branch
sprouted forth flowers that were like leaping scarlet and yellow flames.
Creepers that had great black-pupilled crimson eyes hung from trees;
and purple clematis, tangled with "old man's beard" and some waxen white
flower that gave forth an odour like opopanax, dripped and clung from
huge rocks that, standing alone, looked as though they had jerked
themselves loose from some mighty mountain of the moon, and dropped
abruptly into the silence and solitude of this wild place. Sometimes an
enormous boulder with a massive flat top would be balanced on a single
narrow point, showing like a miniature Table Mountain set amongst seas
of swaying grass. I imagined it would be very pleasant to sit on one of
them, high above the dust and the unfragrant odour of the mules, but the
rocky sides looked steep and inaccessible; and my fate was still to
swaggle wearily across the landscape.
I was so tired that even the glorious hues of sunset could not comfort
my soul. I drank them in, it is true, but I would rather at that time
have had a cup of tea. My skin was parched with heat and dust, and I
was wearied to death of being bumped and banged and sitting crumpled up
in a ball.
The driver had put back the hood of the cart so that we might get what
air was going, but when suddenly some large, drops of rain began to fall
on me I felt, like Job, that my sorrows were too many.
"Driver!" I cried, "you don't mean to tell me that it is now going to
rain!"
"Ach! That's nixney," he replied. "We'll be in Fort George before ten
minutes. See the lights? _Vacht_ till I wake them up."
He produced the post-horn, and I hastily stopped my ears, but that did
not prevent me from hearing the series of frightful blares that he gave
forth. The noise cheered the mules, and they took heart of grace and
threw themselves into a last desperate run. The road became smoother
and the barking of dogs could be heard. I slipped on my coat and tied
the ends of my veil under my chin into a big enough bow to hide behind,
for I had learnt with diminishing enthusiasm what it meant to be an
occupant of the mail-coach, arriving in a small township in the African
wilds. I well knew that every man, woman, and dog in the place would be
there to meet and examine me with curiosity. I rather liked it at
first, when I could still contrive to be fresh and uncrumpled after a
day amongst the mail-bags. But after a fortnight in one gown, my face
decorated with tan and mosquito bites, and absolutely a _crack_ in my
best lip (the top one, of course, though the other one is charming, too)
I naturally did not feel ardent about meeting a lot of people. I held a
hasty consultation with the driver between his yells at the mules.
"You say there is a good hotel here, Hendricks?"
"Yah, Miss... there's the Queen's... and Swears's Hotel... Mr Swears
is a very good Baas... keeps a very nice bar, and a good brand of dop."
Upon this warm recommendation of the man with the profane name I
instantly decided to go to the Queen's, and ordered him to drive me
there as soon as we got into the town. But he argued that he must go to
the post-office and discharge the mails, so then I knew there was no
hope for me. The only thing to do was to bless Heaven for such small
mercies as chiffon-veiling, darkness, and a drizzle of hot rain that
might keep the curious away. But, regardless of such trifles, there was
the expectant crowd arranged before the post-office. Dimly I descried
about fifty people, most of them men, as usual, but I could hear women's
voices and laughter. I tried to hide behind the mail-bags, but
Hendricks began to seize them and fling them forth with a splendid
_sang-froid_ into the road. Suddenly I heard my name spoken in a
woman's voice--a very languid, weary voice.
"Where is your passenger, Hendricks--Miss Saurin? Didn't she come?"
I knew then it was no use hiding any longer. Dick had evidently been
kind enough to ask some one to meet me. Bother his kindness! I leaned
out, swathed in chiffon, and said more sweetly than I felt:
"I am Miss Saurin."
A woman mounted on the cart step and peered in at me, and to my
astonishment I recognised my sister-in-law.
"Judy!" I cried in astonishment.
"Oh Deirdre! how could you come? Dick has been almost out of his mind
with worry about you, wiring to me all day long for news. What makes
you think you will be amused up here?"
This was not the kind of welcome I had expected after travelling five or
six thousand miles to make a visit!
"I thought you lived in Salisbury," I said rather flatly.
"So we do. But several of us came down here for a change of air, and
now the Company won't let us go back because of the threatened trouble
with Lobengula."
"Is Dick all right?"
"Oh, quite; but he couldn't get away. I'll tell you all about it
presently. Are you going to get down here, or let Hendricks drive you
to my hut?"
"Oh, do you live in a hut, Judy? How delightful! I'm longing to live
in one. No, I'd rather not get down here. You direct the driver where
to go."
She dropped from the step, and I heard her talking in her languid voice
to the people all round and giving directions to the driver, who was
still slinging mail-bags and handing out packages to people who all
peered in and tried to get glimpses of me. There was an enormous amount
of chatter and laughing, and a man, presumably the postmaster, was
making a terrible scene with Hendricks because a mail-bag was missing.
But Hendricks was impervious to insult. He merely replied:
"I drive Zeederberg's mules, don't I? Well! What you asking me about
the scarlet mail-bag for? _Allemagte_!"
A stream of wicked words flowed eloquently from his lips, English and
Dutch all mixed up together and sounding like successive explosions of
bombshells. However, there was some one in the crowd who did not
approve of Hendricks's vocabulary at all:
"Stop that, Hendricks. What do you mean?" a voice demanded.
Hendricks was instantly silent, and having at last emptied his cart of
all but me and my luggage, he grabbed the reins sullenly and drove off
muttering to himself:
"I drive Zeederberg's mules, don't I?" with some phrases appended which
startled even the mules. Judy had told him to drive straight to her
hut, but he pulled up first at Swears's and got a drink of soup in a
glass; at least he called it a "soopie," though the aroma that reached
me was not of soup at all, but the same old black-bottle, cold-tea aroma
that I had known all the way up, and that would for ever be associated
in my mind with South African scenery.
Judy's hut was made of mud and thatch, like the rest of those I had seen
in all the other townships, only to my disappointment it was not round
like a beehive, but low and long--rather like a thatched barn with a
verandah to it. But the front door stood open and I could see into a
sitting-room that looked homelike and cosy under the rays of a rose-red
lamp.
Judy came out at once, and three natives appeared behind her, eyeing me
curiously and shyly.
"The boys will bring in your things, dear. How tired you must be! Do
come in. I have ordered something for you to eat at once, and Mrs
Skeffington-Smythe and Mrs Brand and Miss Cleeve and Mrs Valetta have
all come to welcome you, too. They're all Salisburyites."
"How sweet of them," I said crossly. I thought they might very well
have postponed their welcome until the next day. Neither did they look
particularly ardent as Judy introduced them. They touched hands
languorously and sank back into their chairs, fanning themselves with
palm-leaf fans and gazing piercingly at me. I blessed the god of
chiffons once more and retired into the dimmest corner I could find. It
was quite a big room, pretty and odd, and had been furnished and
arranged (as I afterwards learned) by the Native Commissioner for his
wife who was coming from England very shortly. He had lent it in the
meanwhile to Judy and the lady I had last been introduced to--Mrs
Valetta. All the panoply of native warfare was displayed upon the
walls: shields, knives, assegais, head-plumes, and bracelets; besides
much-coloured bead-work, snuff-boxes, and curious gourds. The chairs
were covered with beautiful fur rugs, called _karrosses_, and lion and
wild-cat skins lay upon the floor.
I longed and prayed that Judy would take me away at once to bed, or,
failing that, would let me at least go and remove one of my many coats
of dust, but she pushed me into a chair, saying:
"Here is your tray, dear. Now do take off your veil and eat something."
I was obliged to do as she asked with as much grace as I could summon:
but the dormant cat which is in every woman began to wake up in me and
sharpen its claws; for all round about me in the room I began to hear
the soft and gentle purring of other felines, and in eyes that raked my
sun-flushed face and disarranged hair (grey eyes and brown, Persian blue
and an odd shade of green) I recognised the same expression I had often
seen in the eyes of our big tortoise-shell cat, Elaine, when she was
stalking a bird in the garden.
There was antagonism in the air. As I sat amongst the kaffir curios
before an amazing tea-tray I felt it. For some reason these women who
had come to welcome me resented my advent and were maliciously inclined
towards me. I am peculiarly sensitive to the mental atmosphere and I
felt it. Even Judy was not really friendly. She had changed very much
since I had last seen her. A peevish look hovered round her mouth and
all her brightness and dash seemed to have been swallowed up in a great
languor.
Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, a little, soft kitten of a woman with striped
grey eyes and the softest, whitest paws in the world, peached out and
gave me the first scratch.
"Your complexion is spoiled for ever, Miss Saurin. When any one with
your peculiar shade of mahogany-coloured hair gets so badly sunburnt as
that the skin never recovers. I am awfully sorry for you." She looked
perfectly delighted.
"And your nose will always be subject to sun-blisters after this.
Wretched, isn't it?" Miss Cleeve said this.
I stared at them both, in surprise and indignation. My hair is not
mahogany-coloured at all, but exactly like a mass of crushed
wallflowers, and I am extremely fond of my nose, which is small and pale
and distinguished. It may at that time have been faintly sunburnt, but
certainly there was no _slightest_ sign of a blister on it. Miss Cleeve
herself had one of those wide-nostrilled noses that are called by their
owners artistic, but which _I_ consider degenerate.
"Oh, every one loses their good looks in this desolate place," said
Judy. "It is a truly awful country, isn't it, Constance?"
Constance was Mrs Brand, a plump, tan-coloured woman with a silent
manner and a leathery skin. She had so far given no sign of life, but
she now made a graceful though brief contribution to the conversation.
"Rotten!"
She then beat a spot of dust off her skirt with a riding-crop she held
in her hand, stuck out her boots and stared at them. I observed that
they were riding-boots of the kind that finish somewhere near the
throat, and I thought how very hot and uncomfortable they must be for
evening wear. She was evidently eccentric, for my eye mechanically
travelling upwards made the further discovery that she was dressed in a
riding-habit. Certainly it fitted her as though it had been painted on
her. But what an odd garment in which to make an evening call!
It is quite simple for plump women to have well-fitting clothes. All
that is necessary is to have the things made tight enough--the plumpness
does the rest. But I have noticed that a silent manner nearly always
accompanies that kind of good figure. Women who have it do not seem to
have any desire to talk, and when they do it is rather crossly--almost
as if they had indigestion. They are also very fond of sitting down.
It is the graceful, curvy woman who has a bad time at her dressmaker's,
being fitted and fitted and fitted. Personally, I did not own a rag
that hadn't cost me hours of weary standing and having pins stuck in me
before a mirror.
The behabited lady had transformed the glances of her sulky eyes from
her boots to me with such a disagreeable expression in them that I
couldn't help thinking how pleasant it would be to tell her these
things. In the meantime, Miss Cleeve was speaking again.
"I can't think what anyone wants up here," she said, with an air of the
utmost _ennui_. I looked at her keenly, for I had heard her name on my
journey up. At that time girls were not plentiful in Mashonaland; in
fact, Miss Cleeve had so far enjoyed the distinction of being the only
one in the country. People had hinted to me that she would not regard
my arrival with ardour, and I couldn't imagine why. Personally, I am
fond of other girls, and think them ever so much nicer than married
women, who get most frightfully tiresome with their stupid airs of
mystery and superiority. Just as though any one couldn't be married if
they wanted to! I think it requires far more cleverness in a charming
girl to keep unmarried.
Annabel Cleeve had been described to me as "not exactly pretty but
extremely fascinating"; and it was further said of her that she could
marry almost any man in the country if she wanted to. But as I said
before I didn't think _that_ so wonderfully clever.
Her complexion appeared to be pale, dusky, mysterious, everything that
is romantic; but she had her back, quite by accident of course, to the
rose-red lamp, so it was rather difficult to tell. Only I _have_ known
those romantic lamplight complexions to bear in the daylight an
extraordinary resemblance to Indian curry. I couldn't see her eyes very
well, but I afterwards discovered that they were a pretty though rather
cold grey. It was a pity that she always kept them half closed, for it
gave her a rather _blase_ air. Like so many _chic_ girls she hadn't any
girlishness at all about her; it seemed to have all been swallowed up in
_chic_. Certainly her hat was very clever.
Mrs Valetta was the only one in the room who had not yet tried her
claws on me, the reason evidently being that she was too tired.
She was a wicked-looking woman with weary manners. Even her coat and
skirt hung on her as though it was worn out with fatigue, although it
was really quite smart. After saying "De do?" to me she had sunk with a
Mrs-Pat-Campbellish air into a low chair, and closed her eyes as though
hoping it was the last act she need perform on earth. It was she who
had the Persian-blue eyes; and die wore a felt hat slouched over them
and fastened up at the side with a B.B. Police badge.
Quant-a-moi, I was not at this time at all smart. It is true that my
Panama hat had come from Scotts, my grey velvet-corduroy coat and skirt
had _Lucile: rue de Rivoli_ in gold letters on its waist belt, and my
shoes and stockings bore the stamp of the good Peter Yap. Nevertheless,
I was not smart. Africa's sunshine, dust, mail-bags, winds, rains,
grass-ticks, mosquitoes, and mules had done evilly unto me and my
clothes, and my appearance had not the original charm and freshness
peculiar to it. Wherefore I felt very much out of tune with the world
in general, and most particularly with these ladies who scrutinised me
with such curiosity and penetration.
If they had shown the smallest scrap of enthusiasm or pleasure it would
have been different. But no: there they sat, watchful and grim as
man-eaters. With the exception of the leathery-faced one, of whom I
afterwards heard that she ate, drank, slept and had her being on
horseback, and never wore anything but riding-kit, they were all
imperturbably cool and fresh in light dresses, though I thought it
curious that no one wore a dinner gown. Perhaps it was because they had
not dined, but only "partaken of a meal" like the remarkable one which
stood before me on a tray. Judy had begged me to excuse it, saying that
dinner had been over for some two hours and the boys had been obliged to
scratch up a meal from the ends of the earth for me. It had that
appearance. There was a _very_ hard-boiled egg, a box of sardines, a
dish of terribly _declasse_ potatoes, and a cup of tea. Accidentally,
there was also a plate of tomatoes, freshly plucked, with a bloom on
them like a mist on a ripe plum, and for these I was truly grateful. I
cut them into slices and with my bread-and-butter made little sandwiches
which assuaged my hunger and thirst at the same time.
The grey-eyed kitten again addressed me:
"Dear Miss Saurin, have you brought any _poudre de riz_ with you? No
one here has any thing but Fuller's Earth, and you know how greasy that
makes your nose."