"When Beauty picked the flowers, what did the Beast do?"
Kate looked up with a shade of alarm. She was not quite sure where
analogies might lead them--they get to mean so much.
"Well, well," she laughed, "who would have suspected you of a leaning
towards fairy tales? Why don't you ask if I enjoyed my ride?"
"Well, did you?"
"Listen to him! Well, _did_ I? Oh," said Miss Kate, pushing back her
chair with a sigh of mock despair, "you'll _never_ learn! It is not in
you to be ordinarily civil. Now listen, and I'll teach you; and now
repeat after me: `I hope--'"
"I hope--"
"No, no! You must hope with greater warmth. Say, `I _hope_ you have
enjoyed--'"
"I _hope_ you have enjoyed--"
"`Your ride _immensely_!'"
"Your ride _immensely_!"
"That's better. And `I'm very glad indeed--'"
"And I'm very glad indeed--"
"`That you went out.'"
"No, I'm hanged if I'll say that!"
"Mister Nairn!"
"No; I don't care what you say! I won't say that! I'm not going to
perjure myself."
"You must say it!"
"Not if I die for it!"
"You won't say it to oblige me?"
"N-no."
There was a curious pause. Kate looked down, saying softly:
"Well, if you won't do the first thing I have ever asked you, I suppose
I'd better go."
Women, not excepting the very best, are often most unfair, and sometimes
even mean. Why change in a breath from chaff to deadly earnest, and
wring a man's heart out with half a look and a catch in the voice?
Nairn succumbed.
"No, don't go. I'll say it."
"Well?"
"But I've forgotten the words."
"No; you can't have forgotten so quickly. Say, `I'm very glad indeed
that you went out.'"
"I'm very glad indeed that--"
"Go on!"
"That--that you've come back."
"I can see that you want to drive me away."
"No, don't--don't go! `That you went out.' Heaven forgive me! There,
are you satisfied?"
"Yes, I'm satisfied now. I hate to give in--especially to a man."
"And to a woman?"
"Oh, I never give in to a woman. Women are so obstinate, and they're
always wrong! What are you laughing at? Oh, well, I'm not like a woman
now. I'm--you know what I mean--I'm stating the case. Besides, I meant
_other_ women."
"Now, if I tell you something, you won't laugh at me and point the
finger of scorn and press the heel of triumph?"
"No, I won't."
"Promise."
"I promise."
"Well, then, I _am_ glad that you went out, and I _was_ a bear to grudge
it to you. And you--you have been far too good to me--far too good."
"No, no--indeed no! You are my charge, and I am your nurse. And,
remember, had it not been for us you would not have been hurt. Had it
not been for you we should not have been here. We brought you to
death's door, and you saved us. I--I was only teasing you. I never
meant--"
"Kate, child, Kate!"
"Hush! No, no--not now. Here is George. Good-night."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yes, truly! The--man--finds--it--out--soon--enough!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the morning Nairn and his horse were gone, and there was not a
vestige of a trace to show how, why, or where! It was several days
later that Geddy, who had been away for some weeks, dined at Heron's,
and, as they were sitting on the stoep smoking and chatting, remarked:
"By the way, fancy whom I met on the way in! Our old friend Induna
Nairn, looking ghastly, poor devil! Said he'd had a spill crossing a
river or something. Surlier than ever. Glared at me with positive
hatred when I asked him where he was going to to escape civilisation,
and said, `Zambesi, or hell.' I could make nothing of him. Can't stand
chaff, you know; never could. But I heard all about him from old Tom
Callan--`Hot Tom,' you know."
Heron looked up curiously, but did not interrupt.
"It seems he's quite a great gun among the niggers--a real Induna. Did
you know that? I thought it was only a nickname, but it isn't. He's a
sort of relation of the king's, etc."
"What the devil are you talking about?"
"Eh? what? A--a relation of the king's, I said."
"A _relation_! Nairn?"
"Well, a connection. You know what I mean. He married the king's
favourite daughter."
"Great God!"
"Yes. You see, we were quite on the wrong tack. By George! I did
laugh when I heard it."
Heron walked out on to the gravel path for a breath of air--out to ease
the choking feeling in his throat; and he saw his sister rise from her
chair, draw a shawl over her head, and move away to her own room.
That night there had come to the house a little Swazie boy. He had one
very miserable fowl for sale, and he squatted on his haunches near the
gate, heedless of the fact that his offer had been twice refused.
Through the night he stayed, and into the morning, and as the hot sun
swung overhead he sat and waited still, never taking his eyes off the
front stoep. And when at last Kate came out he tried his luck again.
She turned her armchair so as to get a good light on her book, and began
to read, but in a few moments the child's voice close by startled her.
She looked up and saw a little black face, lighted by bright eyes and a
flash of white teeth; in front of that, a wretched fowl lying on the
cement stoep; and in front of that again, a folded note bearing her
name. She picked up the note and read it.
"I had forgotten what a good woman was. Heaven bless you, Kate! It is
not that I am ungrateful, but I wish to God Piet had left me to the
river."
Kate leaned back quietly in the Madeira armchair, and closed her eyes.
When she looked again the little _umfaan_ was gone; but he had forgotten
his fowl upon the stoep, which was an unusual thing for any _umfaan_ to
do.