Riding slowly home Wyvern's thoughts took on no more cheerful a vein as
he looked round upon his farm, which would soon be his no longer. It
never ought to have been his at all. He had started by paying far too
much for it. He had been struck by the pleasant situation of the place,
and was determined to have it at all costs. Further, it was bad veldt,
being, in stock-farming parlance, "boer-ed out," that is to say
exhausted. It required years of rest what time he took it up, but
Wyvern started about three thousand sheep upon it, and contentedly,
though unconsciously, prepared to watch their decimation. It came. He
had put his little all into the venture, and now his little all was fast
approaching vanishing point.
He reached home, off-saddled his horse, and turned the animal loose into
an enclosure. By the time he had done so, and entered the house, the
episode of the sheep "slaag-ing" had almost faded from his mind. The
excitement of the discovery and the struggle past now, in the light of
more serious matter the incident seemed of small importance.
You might read something of Wyvern's temperament in the state of his
living room. Take the large table, for instance. It was littered with
books and papers covering quite two thirds of its space, a careless
heap, which gradually encroaching more and more had caused his old
Hottentot cook, and general indoor factotum, to ask grumblingly and
repeatedly how she was to find room to lay the cloth for the Baas'
dinner, with all that rubbish blocking up the whole table. There were
letters lying there too, letters unopened, which might have so remained
for a couple of days or a week. Wyvern knew or guessed what they were
all about: nothing pleasant, that was certain. Why then, should he
bother himself? He would wait till he was more in the vein. But
somehow "the vein" would be long in coming, and even unpleasant letters,
especially those of a business nature, do not improve--like cigars--by
keeping. Still--that was Wyvern.
Even the pictures on the walls, mostly framed photographs, were more or
less hung anyhow, while some were slipping out of their mounts. Of one,
however, none of this held good, and this was hung so that it faced him
where he sat at table.
It was the photograph of a girl--and a very handsome girl at that. The
eyes, large and clear, seemed to follow the inmate's every movement in
all parts of the room, while a generously moulded figure was set forth
in the three parts length of the portrait. In the firm, erect pose
there was strength, decisiveness, even a suggestion of unconventionality
perhaps. At this he gazed, with a murmured expression of ardent love,
as he dropped into his seat, and the look of weariful dejection deepened
upon his face.
"You, too, lost to me," he murmured. "You, too, passing from me. What
an utter, infernal mess I've made of things. I've a good mind to end it
all. It might even come to that some day."
His glance had gone round to an object in the further corner. It was a
shot-gun standing upright against the wall. He eyed it, gloomily. Just
then a door opened, and to the accompaniment of a clatter of plates and
things his Hottentot cook entered, bearing a tray. At her Wyvern
glanced resentfully.
"I don't want that stuff," he said. "Take it away again."
"_Oh, goeije_! and it is the Baas' dinner," exclaimed the old woman.
"I don't want any dinner," was the weary answer. "I'll have a smoke
instead. Do you hear, Sanna. Get away with it."
"Not want any dinner! Have a smoke instead!" echoed old Sanna. "And
the Baas has eaten nothing since breakfast and very little then. _Nouw
ja_! it is wasting the gifts of the good God! And this is a
guinea-fowl, too, and partridge--stewed guinea-fowl and partridge, the
dish the Baas likes best. And now the Baas says take it away."
"Yes. Take it away, old Sanna. I can't eat."
Muttering, she turned and withdrew. Wyvern, suddenly realising that he
might have hurt the poor old creature's feelings, was about to recall
her, when a sound struck upon his ear. It was that of the hoof-strokes
of a ridden horse. The dogs outside greeted it with frenzied clamour.
Wyvern frowned. The sound was an unwelcome one, for it probably meant
someone who was going to make use of his place for an hour's off-saddle,
and who, in his then vein, would most certainly bore the life out of
him.
He went out on the stoep. The hoof-strokes had ceased, so had the
canine clamour. He went down the steps and when about to turn the
corner of the house an advancing figure did so at the same time, with
such suddenness that both nearly collided. It was that of a girl. Both
started--he with an exclamation of delighted astonishment. Then without
more ado, the newcomer put both her hands upon his shoulders and kissed
him, and, tall as he was, she had not to reach up over much in the
process either. She was the original of the portrait which occupied the
place of honour within.
"Lalante! My own one, how sweet of you to give me this surprise," he
murmured, releasing her from the long, close embrace which had followed
immediately upon the first amenity. "Are you alone?"
"Yes. There'd have been no fun in bringing a crowd."
"Well, sit down inside and rest while I see to your horse. Hitched to
the gate, I suppose?"
"Yes. For the other I'm not going to obey. I'll go with you. Do you
want to be away from me for the first ten minutes I'm here?"
"Do I, indeed? Come along, then."
They went to the gate, she leaning slightly against him, as they walked,
his hand passed lovingly through her arm. And they looked an ideal pair
physically, he with his six foot of strong English manhood, his bronzed
face, fine and thoughtful, though even now unable to shake off the
recollection of crowding in troubles; she, lithe and rounded, moving
with the perfect grace of a natural and unstudied ease, her large grey
eyes, thickly lashed, wide open and luminous with the sheer delight of
this meeting, her cheeks just a little browned with the generous kiss of
the African sun. Yes, they seemed an ideal pair, and yet--and yet--this
is a world wherein there is no room for ideals.
When they returned to the house they were met by old Sanna, voluble.
"_Daag, Klein Missis. Ja_, but--I am glad you are come. Now you will
make the Baas eat his dinner, ah, yes--surely you will do that. Nothing
since breakfast, and out all day in the hot sun, and says he will not
eat. And I have made him what he likes best."
The new arrival looked for a moment at Wyvern, then, with decision:
"Bring in the dinner, Sanna, and you can put two plates. I am going to
have some too."
The old woman crowed.
"See now what I always say. It is time we had a Missis here. What is a
farm without a Missis? It is like a _schuilpaad_ [tortoise] without a
shell." And she went out, chuckling, to re-appear in about a minute
with the rejected tray.
"_Nouw ja_! that is where _Klein Missis_' place ought to be," began old
Sanna, pointing to the other end of the table. "But the Baas piles it
up with rubbish and paper, and all sorts of stuff only good to collect
dust and tarantulas. But he will have to make room for you soon there,
_Klein Missis_. How soon?"
"Don't you ask questions, old Sanna," answered the girl with a laugh.
"Meanwhile I prefer sitting here, nearer. We needn't talk so loud then
to make each other hear, do you see?"
The old woman's yellow face puckered into delighted wrinkles. She was
not altogether free from the failings of her race, but she had a very
real and motherly affection for Wyvern, and would in all probability
have gone through fire and water for him if put to the test.
"Mind you make the coffee extra well to-day, old Sanna," called out
Wyvern, as she turned back to the kitchen.
"Now help me, darling," said the girl, as they sat down to table. "It
is delightful, being all to ourselves like this. Isn't it?"
"Heavenly," he answered, dropping a hand upon hers, to the detriment of
any speedy compliance with her last injunction. "But how did you manage
to get away alone?"
"Father's gone to a sale at the Krumi Post. He won't be back till
to-morrow."
Wyvern's face clouded.
"Has he? That accounts for it. Do you know, dearest, he seems to have
changed towards me. Not over anxious for you to see too much of me in
these days. Well, I know what that is going to mean."
"Hush--hush! I am going to have some serious talk with you presently,
but--not now. At table that sort of thing interferes with digestion I
believe."
Wyvern dropped his knife and fork, and looked at her fixedly.
"That means--trouble," he said, a world of bitterness in his tone and
face.
"No--no. It doesn't. Perhaps quite the reverse. So be reassured!--and
trust me. Now tell me. What have you been doing with yourself since we
last met?"
"Oh, trying to put more of the too late drag on the coach that is
whirling down the hill to its final crash."
"No--no. Don't talk despondently," she said. "I want to think of you
as strong--and despondency is not strength. You have me and I have you,
does that count for nothing?"
"Good Lord, but you make me feel mean. Come now, we'll throw off this
gloomy talk," with a sudden brightening that was not all forced, so
stimulating was the effect of her presence, so soothing that of her
love-modulated voice.
"That's right. Now, what have you been doing with yourself?"
"The latest is that I had a sort of adventure this morning. I caught
Sixpence `slaag-ing,' caught him red-handed. There was another _schelm_
in it with him." And he told her the whole incident.
The colour heightened in her cheeks as she listened, and her eyes were
opened wide upon his.
"But they would have killed you, the wretches," she exclaimed.
"Such was their amiable intent. I believe it will take even Sixpence's
thick skull some little while to get over that stone I let him have."
"Pity you didn't kill him," said the girl, fiercely; and meaning it too.
"No, dearest. Think again. Are times not hard enough in all
conscience, without having to meet the costs of a trial for
manslaughter, for that's about what it would have meant. What? `Self
defence?' That might not have counted. There were no witnesses, and
they'd have tried to make out I did it because I was mad with him for
`slaag-ing.'"
"That's true. I hadn't thought of it in that light. Well, I should
think the magistrate will let him have the `cat' and plenty of it," she
added, vindictively.
"No, he won't. I've concluded to let the poor devil off. I'll deduct
the value from his wages--it's quite illegal of course, but far more
satisfactory to both parties, in that it saves trouble all round--and
the crack on the head he got can balance the rest of the account."
The girl looked at him, a whole world of admiring love shining in her
eyes. Then she shook her head.
"That's quite wrong. You're spoiling the people, you know. In fact
you're putting quite a premium on `slaag-ing.' But you will do
everything your own way and different to other people. Well, it
wouldn't be you if you didn't."
"Which is an extenuating circumstance, I suppose, sweetheart," he
answered, dropping a hand on to hers. "And now, if we've done, I move
that we go and continue this debate upon the stoep."