"Valetta has struck it rich somewhere to the north of Buluwayo, and is
going home to float a company as soon as his wife is well."
"Maurice, Snowie cannot be found. We have searched everywhere for her."
He put down his coffee cup.
"But that is strange! I tell you she was in the room here when you came
in this morning. I had just given her a piece of bacon."
I looked away from him. It was not good to watch his eyes when he was
lying. It seemed to me that I saw something in them black and naked
jibbering at me like a satyr.
"What made her cry out last night--in your hut?--"
"Last night?--in my hut? She didn't stay with me, you know. The little
brute was so ill-tempered and vixenish, and so determined not to stay,
that I opened the door and threw her out about half an hour after I left
you."
"Into the storm?"
"Oh, the storm! Pooh! cats know how to look after themselves. _She_
evidently did, for she was as lively as a cricket in here this morning.
What are you worrying about, my dear girl? She'll come sidling in when
it pleases her. She's gone off on a hunting trip like Ringe. All the
cats in this country are more than half wild."
I got up and left the table, my heart like a stone: not only for my
little snowbally cat with her winning ways, but for myself. At that
moment I terribly hated life.
"I'm going to ride out and see if Ringe got that lion," he called after
me. "Will you come?"
"No!"
I had planned to go ferning that afternoon to a creek near by. The
ground of my grotto was all prepared for the new plants, but I could not
bring myself to start. I kept wandering up the kopje side, and among
the zinias. At last, as I came to the huts again, I heard the boys
wrangling outside the kitchen.
Mango was a Zanzibar boy and always at variance with the Mashonas.
Maurice's servant, Sixpence, a shrewd-looking fellow of about seventeen,
was squatting on his haunches opposite the door, fiercely and
monotonously demanding soap; some clothes lay beside him on the ground.
He must go to the river and wash, he announced. But Mango replied that
all the washing was done the day before yesterday, and declined to hand
out soap. Coffee was backing up Sixpence, and telling him that as the
master's boy he had a right to ask for what he wanted, and get it.
Makupi, who in spite of curses and blows was quite one of the domestic
staff, though he never did any work, was turning over the soiled linen
with his foot when I came up.
"But it is not washing day, Sixpence," I objected. He arose quickly and
gathered up the things he proposed to wash, muttering imprecations on
Makupi for spreading them out. He rolled them hastily, but a little too
late, into a ball. I had seen what he wanted to wash--a suit of pale
blue pyjamas with fresh stains of blood all over them.
"The master told me I must go and wash to-day," he repeated sullenly.
"Give him soap, Mango," I said dully and walked away. It was no use
looking for Snowie any longer!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For three days I did not speak to Maurice. I saw to his house and food,
but I would not sit at meals with him, and I would not speak to him. He
bore all with a cheerful air. I often heard him whistling. On the
third day he wrote a note and sent it to my hut by Sixpence:
Would I be so extremely kind and condescending as to grace his table
that evening? A rather important man from Salisbury was in, and coming
to dinner. Of course I was full of imaginary grievances against him
(the writer) but perhaps for the sake of appearances I would be so
exceedingly gracious as to forget them for an hour or two. He had not
the slightest objection to my going back to my sulks afterwards.--Mine
effusively, Maurice Stair.
I arranged a good _menu_ with Mango, decorated the table, and was ready
to receive his guest. Dinner passed as smoothly and pleasantly as a
deep river may glide over dark unthinkable things.
Just as the boys were putting the dessert upon the table I felt
something against my skirt. I pushed back my chair and looked down.
Snowie had come home.
With a cry I caught her up and put her on the table before me. The next
cry came from the guest.
"My God!--the fiend who did that ought to be--hanged!"
There was a silence that the kitten tried to break. She essayed to mew,
almost as if she had something to tell; but no sound came from the
broken jaws gummed together with matter and dried blood. One blue eye
gazed dully round, the other was battered into her head like a crushed
turquoise. Every paw but one was broken; they trailed behind her, and
her body waggled strangely from an injured spine. I was afraid to take
the little mangled body to my breast for fear of what fresh pain I might
cause it. I thought I heard it moaning like a woman: yet its mouth did
not move.
"Hanging would be too good for the brute--brandy, Stair--your wife is
fainting."
"No--no; milk--bring warm milk for my baby--it has Anthony's eyes--my
poor little white baby--all broken--"
The moaning that did not come from Snowie filled the room.
"No use giving the poor little beggar milk, Mrs Stair--it is dying--
better to put it out of its misery at once--drink this brandy, will
you--got any poison in the house, Stair?"
"Yes."
The man took the kitten from me and went from the room, and I followed;
but as I passed Maurice Stair I whispered three words at him, with
terrible eyes:
"_Take it then_!"