Chapter Twenty Three.
“Welcome Home!”
I envied Falkner as he parted company with me, for he wanted to go straight home, and my store was all out of his way in the other direction. We had returned by the same route as that by which we had gone, skirting the border and re-crossing by Rorke’s Drift; and no further incident worthy of note had befallen us.
“See here, Falkner,” I said, as he would have left me in cool offhand fashion. “We’ve made this trip and taken its ups and downs together, and more than once I’ve had reason to be glad that you were along. But if we haven’t got on as well as we might during the last part of it, really I can’t see that it is altogether my fault. Nor need we bear each other any ill-will,” and I put out my hand.
He stared, then shook it, but not cordially, mumbling something in a heavy, sullen sort of way. Then he rode off.
It had been a temptation to accompany him, and he had even suggested it, but I saw through his ill-concealed relief when I declined. I had plenty to attend to on first arriving home again, and it struck me that neglect of one’s business was hardly a recommendation in the eyes of anybody.
Yes, I had plenty to attend to. The waggons had to be off-loaded and kraals knocked into repair for holding the trade cattle, and a host of other things. I paid off Mfutela and his son, and sent them back well contented, and with something over. But Jan Boom, when it came to his turn, seemed not eager to go.
Then he put things plainly. Would I not keep him? He would like to remain with me, and I should find him useful. There were the trade cattle to be looked after, to begin with, and then, there was nothing he could not turn his hand to. He would not ask for high wages, and was sure I should find him worth them – yes, well worth them, he added. Had he not been worth his pay so far?
I admitted readily that this was so, and the while I was wondering why he should be so anxious to remain? There seemed some meaning underlying the manner in which he almost begged me to keep him, and this set me wondering. Going back over our trip I could not but remember that he had proved an exceedingly willing, handy and good-tempered man, and my earlier prejudice against him melted away.
“I will keep you then, Jan Boom,” I said, after thinking the matter out for a few minutes.
“Nkose! There is only one thing I would ask,” he said, “and that is that you will tell me when three moons are dead whether you regret having kept me on or not.”
I thought the request strange, and laughed as I willingly gave him that promise. I still held to my theory that he had broken gaol somewhere or other, and had decided that he had now found a tolerably secure hiding-place; and if such were so, why from my point of interest that was all the better, if only that it would keep him on his best behaviour.
All the morning of the day following on my return I was busy enough, but by the early afternoon felt justified in starting to pay my first visit to the Sewins.
As I took my way down the bush path I had plenty of time for thought, and gave myself up to the pleasures of anticipation. Those last words: “You will come and see us directly you return. I shall look forward to it,” were ringing in a kind of melody in my mind, as my horse stepped briskly along. And now, what would my reception be? It must not be supposed that I had not thought, and thought a great deal, as to the future during the couple of months our trip had lasted. Hour after hour under the stars, I had lain awake thinking out everything. If all was as I hardly dared to hope, I would give up my present knockabout life, and take a good farm somewhere and settle down. If not – well I hardly cared to dwell upon that. Of Falkner in the light of any obstacle, strange to say I thought not at all.
From one point of the path where it rounded a spur the homestead became momentarily visible. Reining in I strained my eyes upon it, but it showed no sign of life – no flutter of light dresses about the stoep or garden. Well, it was early afternoon, hot and glowing. Likely enough no one would be willingly astir. Then a thought came that filled my mind with blank – if speculative – dismay. What if the family were away from home? The stillness about the place now took on a new aspect. Well, that sort of doubt could soon be set at rest one way or another, and I gave my horse a touch of the spur that sent him floundering down the steep and stony path with a snort of surprised indignation.
We had got on to the level now and the ground was soft and sandy. As we dived down into a dry drift something rushed at us from the other side with open-mouthed and threatening growl, which however subsided at once into a delighted whine. It was Arlo – and there on the bank above sat Arlo’s mistress.
She had a drawing block in her hand and a colour box beside her. Quickly she rose, and I could have sworn I saw a flush of pleasure steal over the beautiful face. I was off my horse in a twinkling. The tall, graceful form came easily forward to meet me.
“Welcome home,” she said, as our hands clasped. “I am so glad to see you again. And you have kept your promise indeed. Why we hardly expected you before to-morrow or the day after.”
“It was a great temptation to me to come over with Falkner yesterday,” I answered. “But, a man must not neglect his business.”
“Of course not. It is so good of you to have come now.”
“Good of me! I seem to remember that you would look forward to it – that last night I was here,” I answered, a bit thrown off my balance by the manner of her greeting. That “welcome home,” and the spontaneous heartiness of it, well it would be something to think about.
“Well, and that is just what I have been doing,” she answered gaily. “There! Now I hope you feel duly flattered.”
“I do indeed,” I answered gravely.
“And I am so glad we have met like this,” she continued, “because now we shall be able to have a good long talk. The others are all more or less asleep, but I didn’t feel lazy, so came down here to reduce that row of stiff euphorbia to paper. I have taken up my drawing again, and there are delightful little bits for water-colour all round here.”
The spot was as secluded and delightful as one could wish. The high bank and overhanging bushes gave ample shade, and opposite, with the scarlet blossoms of a Kafir bean for foreground, rose a small cliff, its brow fringed with the organ pipe stems of a line of euphorbia.
“Lie down, Arlo,” she enjoined. “What a fortunate thing it was you were able to recover him. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Of course you don’t, because no question of thanking me comes in,” I said. “I would sooner have found him as we did, than make anything at all out of the trip, believe me.”
“And your trip was not a great success after all, Falkner tells us?”
“Oh we did well enough, though I have done better. But to return to Arlo. The mystery to me – to both of us – was how on earth he ever managed to let himself be stolen.”
“Ah. That dreadful witch doctor must have been at the bottom of it. I only know that one morning he – Arlo not Ukozi – had disappeared, and no inquiry of ours could get at the faintest trace of him. His disappearance, in fact, was as complete as that of that poor Mr Hensley.”
“Old Hensley hasn’t turned up again, then?” I said.
“No. Mr Kendrew is getting more and more easy in his mind. He’s a shocking boy, you know, and says he’s too honest to pretend to be sorry if he comes into a fine farm to end his days on,” she said, with a little smile, that somehow seemed to cast something of a damper on the delight of the present situation.
“Confound Kendrew,” I thought to myself. “Who the deuce wants to talk of Kendrew now?”
“Tell me, Mr Glanton,” she went on, after a slight pause. “You got my letter I know, because Falkner has told us how he got the one mother wrote him. Did you think me very weak and foolish for allowing myself to get frightened as I did?”
“You know I did not,” I answered, with quite unnecessary vehemence. “Why I was only too proud and flattered that you should have consulted me at all. But, of course it was all somewhat mysterious. Is Ukozi about here now?”
“We haven’t seen him for some days. Do you know, I can’t help connecting his non-appearance with your return in some way. He must have known you would soon be here. Father is quite irritable and angry about it. He says the witch doctor promised to let him into all sorts of things. Now he pronounces him an arrant humbug.”
“That’s the best sign of all,” I said, “and I hope he’ll continue of that opinion. When elderly gentlemen take up fads bearing upon the occult especially, why, it isn’t good for them. You don’t mind my saying this?”
“Mind? Of course I don’t mind. Why should I have bothered you with my silly fears and misgivings – at a time too when you had so much else to think about – if I were to take offence at what you said? And it seems so safe now that you are near us again.”
What was this? Again a sort of shadow seemed to come over our talk. Was it only on account of some imaginary protection my presence might afford that she had been so cordially and unfeignedly glad to welcome me?
“I think you may make your mind quite easy now,” I said. “This Ukozi had some end of his own to serve, possibly that of stealing the dog, which he knew he could trade for a good price in Zululand, and probably did. I suppose Falkner gave you a full, true and particular account of how we bested the precious specimen who claimed him.”
She laughed.
“Oh, he’s been bragging about that, and all your adventures – or rather his – up there, in quite his own style.”
“Well, there was nothing for either of us to brag about in the way we recovered Arlo,” I said. “If the King’s impi hadn’t happened along in the nick of time I own frankly we might never have been able to recover him at all. It was a hundred to one, you understand.”
Again she laughed, significantly, and I read into the laugh the fact that she did not quite accept Falkner’s narratives at precisely Falkner’s own valuation.
“How did Falkner behave himself?” she went on.
“Oh, he was all right. He was always spoiling for a fight and on one occasion he got it. I daresay he has told you about that.”
“Yes,” she said, with the same significant laugh. “He gave us a graphic account of it.”
“Well he has plenty of pluck and readiness, and a man might have many a worse companion in an emergency.”
“It’s nice of you to say that. I don’t believe he was a bit nice to you.”
“Oh, only a boy’s sulks,” I said airily. “Nothing to bother oneself about in that.”
“But was that all?” she rejoined, lifting her clear eyes to my face.
“Perhaps not,” I answered, then something in her glance moved me to add: “May I tell you then, what it was that caused our differences, who it was, rather?” And I put forth my hand.
“Yes,” she said, taking it. “Tell me.”
“It was yourself.”
“Myself?”
“Yes. Do you remember what you said that last evening I was here? I do. I’ve treasured every word of it since. You said I was to come and see you directly I returned, and that you would look forward to it.”
She nodded, smiling softly.
“Yes. And I have. And – what did you answer?”
“I answered that I would look forward to it every day until it came. And I have.”
“And is the result disappointing?”
“You know it is not.”
I have stated elsewhere that I seldom err in my reading of the human countenance, and now it seemed that all Paradise was opening before my eyes as I noticed a slight accession of colour to the beautiful face, a deepening of the tender smile which curved the beautiful lips. Then words poured forth in a torrent. What was I saying? For the life of me I could not tell, but one thing was certain. I was saying what I meant. Then again her hand reached forth to mine, and its pressure, while maddening me, told that whatever I was saying, it at any rate was not unacceptable when —
Arlo, who had been lying at our feet, sprang up and growled, then subsided immediately, wagging his tail and whining as he snuffed in the direction of the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Hallo, Glanton,” sung out a gruff voice. “You taking lessons in high art? They’re wondering where you’ve got to, Aïda. They’re going to have tea.”
“Well, tell them not to wait. I’ll be in directly when I’m ready.”
“Oh no. No hurry about that,” answered Falkner with an evil grin, flinging himself on the ground beside us, and proceeding leisurely to fill his pipe. “We’ll all stroll back together – eh, Glanton?”
I am ashamed to remember how I hated Falkner Sewin at that moment. Had he heard what I had been saying, or any part of it? But he had thrust his obnoxious presence between it and the answer, and that sort of opportunity does not readily recur, and if it does, why the repetition is apt to fall flat.
He lay there, maliciously watching me – watching us – and the expression of his face was not benevolent, although he grinned. He noted his cousin’s slight confusion, and delighted to add to it by keeping his glance fixed meaningly upon her face. Then he would look from the one to the other of us, and his grin would expand. There was a redeeming side to his disgust at the situation from his point of view. He was annoying us both – annoying us thoroughly – and he knew it.
She, for her part, showed no sign of it as she continued her painting serenely. Further exasperated, Falkner began teasing Arlo, and this had the effect of wearying Aïda of the situation. She got up and announced her intention of returning to the house.
And Falkner, walking on the other side of her, solaced himself with making objectionable remarks, in an objectionable tone, knowing well that the same stopped just short of anything one could by any possibility take up.
Chapter Twenty Four.
“The Answer is – Yes.”
Nothing could exceed the warmth and cordiality of the reception I experienced at the hands of the rest of the family. I might have been one of themselves so rejoiced they all seemed at having me in their midst again – all of course save Falkner. But among the feminine side of the house I thought to detect positive relief, as though my return had dispelled some shadowy and haunting apprehension. There was something about the old Major, however, that convinced me he was cherishing an idea in the back ground, an idea upon which he would invite my opinion at the earliest opportunity. And that opportunity came.
“Let’s stroll down and look at the garden, Glanton,” he began, presently. “I want to show you what I’ve been doing while you were away.”
And without giving anyone an opportunity of joining us, even if they had wanted to, he led the way forth.
I listened as he expatiated upon the improvements he had been making, even as I had listened many a time before, but it struck me his explanations were a little incoherent, a little flurried, like the speech of a man who is not talking of that which lies uppermost in his mind. He continued thus until we had reached the furthest limit of the cultivated ground, where a high bush fence shut this off from possible depredations on the part of bucks or other nocturnal marauders. It was a secluded spot, and there was no sign of any of the others intending to join us.
“Try one of these cigars, Glanton,” he began, tendering his case. Then, after one final look round to make sure we were not only alone, but likely to remain so, he went on: “Let’s sit down here and have a quiet smoke. There’s something I want to get your opinion about. You know this witch doctor chap, Ukozi?”
“Of course I do. What has he been up to?”
“Up to? Oh, nothing. But the fact is I have taken a liking to the fellow. He interests me. He’s been showing me some queer things of late – yes, devilish queer things. And he’s promised to show me some more.”
“What sort of queer things, Major?” I struck in.
“All sorts. Well, the finding of Aïda’s lost coin was a queer enough thing in itself. Now wasn’t it?”
“Yes. But – it’s mere conjuring. You’d probably be surprised to know how the trick was done.”
“No doubt. But – do you know?” This somewhat eagerly.
“No, I don’t. I doubt though, whether it’s worth knowing. Well, Major, you’ve got bitten with a sort of inclination towards occultism, and Ukozi comes in handy as a means of showing you a thing or two. Isn’t that it?”
“Well yes. But – Glanton, I seem to have heard you admit that these fellows can do a good deal. Yet, now you make light of this one?”
“To speak frankly, Major, I think the less you have to do with him, or any of his kidney, the better. By the way, how the dickens do you manage to talk to him? Have you learnt?”
“Oh, I work that through Ivondwe. That’s a treasure you’ve found for us, Glanton. Yes sir, a real treasure. He takes all the bother and anxiety of the place clean off my hands.”
“That’s good,” I said. But at the same time I was not at all sure that it was. I recalled to mind what Aïda had said in her letter with regard to “an influence” under which they seemed to be drawn, this old man especially. No, it was not good that he should be on such terms with natives, and one of them his own servant. For the first time I began to distrust Ivondwe, though as yet I was groping entirely in the dark. For one thing, I could see no adequate motive. Motive is everything, bearing in mind what an essentially practical animal your savage invariably is; and here there was none.
“Well?” said the Major expectantly, impatient under my silence. The truth was I found myself in something of a quandary. Old gentlemen – notably those of the Anglo-Indian persuasion – were, I knew, prone to exceeding impatience under criticism of their latest fad, and for reasons which scarcely need guessing never was there a time when I felt less inclined to incur the resentment of this one.
“I can only repeat what I said before, Major?” I answered. “Candidly I think you’d better leave Ukozi, and his occultism, alone.”
“But it interests me, man. I tell you it interests me. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to make interesting investigations if I have a mind to? Answer me that.”
“Look here,” I said. “I know these people, Major, and you don’t. I have a good many ‘eyes and ears’ – as they would put it – scattered about among them, and I’ll try and find out what Ukozi’s game is. He hasn’t started in to fleece you any, you say?”
“No. That he certainly hasn’t.”
“All the more reason why he needs looking after. Well now don’t you have anything more to say to him, at any rate until you hear from me again.”
“He won’t give me the chance. I haven’t seen him for quite a long time. He’s never been away for so long a time before.”
In my own mind I could not but connect Ukozi’s sudden absenteeism in some way with my return.
“Here come the others,” went on the Major. “And Glanton,” he added hurriedly, “don’t let on to the women about what I’ve been telling you, there’s a good fellow.”
I was rather glad to be spared the necessity of making or avoiding any promise. It was near sundown, and as they joined us for a stroll in the cool of the evening I thought to catch a significant flash in Aïda’s eyes, as though she were fully aware of the burden of her father’s conversation with me. Falkner was away at the kraals, for it was counting in time, and I for one did not regret his absence.
Yes, it was a ray of Paradise that sunset glow, as we walked among the flowers in the dew of the evening, for although we two were not alone together yet there was a sweet subtle understanding between us which was infinitely restful. Falkner’s interruption, however unwelcome, had not been altogether inopportune, for it had occurred too late; too late, that is, to prevent a very real understanding, though precluding anything more definite. That would come with the next opportunity.
“The usual storm,” remarked Mrs Sewin, looking up, as a low, heavy boom sounded from a black pile of cloud beyond the river valley. “We get one nearly every day now, and, oh dear, I never can get used to them, especially at night.”
“Pooh!” said the Major. “There’s no harm in them, and we’ve got two new conductors on the house. We’re right as trivets, eh, Glanton?”
“Absolutely, I should say,” I answered. We had completed our stroll and had just returned to the house. It would soon be dinner time and already was almost dark.
We were very merry that evening I remember. The Major, glad of someone else to talk to, was full of jokes and reminiscences, while I, happy in the consciousness of the presence beside me, joined heartily in the old man’s mirth, and we were all talking and laughing round the table as we had never talked and laughed before. Only Falkner was sulky, and said nothing; which was rather an advantage, for his remarks would certainly have been objectionable had he made any. Then suddenly in the middle of some comic anecdote, came a crash which seemed to shake the house to its very foundations, setting all the glasses and crockery on the table rattling. Mrs Sewin uttered a little scream.
“Mercy! We’re struck!” she gasped.
“Not we,” returned the Major. “But that was a blazer, by Jingo!”
“Pretty near,” growled Falkner.
“Oh, it’s horrid,” said Mrs Sewin, “and there’s no getting away from it.”
“No, there isn’t,” I said. “If you were in London now you might get away from it by burrowing underground. I knew a man there whose wife was so mortally scared of thunder and lightning that whenever a storm became imminent she used to make him take her all round the Inner Circle. She could neither see nor hear anything of it in the Underground train.”
“That was ingenious. Did you invent that story, Mr Glanton?” said Edith Sewin, mischievously.
Another crash drowned the laugh that followed, and upon the ensuing silence, a strange hollow roar was audible.
“The river’s down, by Jove!” growled Falkner.
“No. It isn’t the river. It’s a tremendously heavy rain shower,” I said, listening.
“Let’s go outside and see what it looks like,” he went on pushing back his chair.
We had done dinner, and this proposal seemed to find favour, for a move was made accordingly. We went out we four, for Mrs Sewin was afraid to stir and the Major remained in with her. Nearer and nearer the roar of the rain cloud approached, though as yet not a drop had fallen over us. Again the blue lightning leaped forth, simultaneously with another appalling crash, cutting short a wrangle which had got up between Falkner and Edith Sewin, and ending it in a little squeal on the part of the latter. But already I had seized my opportunity, under cover of the racket.
“That question I was asking you to-day when we were interrupted,” I whispered to my companion. “It was not answered.”
Then came the flash. In the blue gleam, bright as noon-day, I could see the beautiful, clear cut face turned upwards, as though watching the effect, with calm serenity. Through the thunder roar that followed I could still catch the words.
“The answer is – Yes. Will that satisfy you?”
And a hand found mine in a momentary pressure.
Thus amid black darkness and lightning and storm our troth was plighted. An ill omen? I thought not. On the contrary, it seemed appropriate to my case; for in it much of a hard but healthy life had been passed amid rude exposure to the elements, and that I should have secured the happiness – the great happiness – of my life amid the battling forces of the said elements seemed not unfitting.
The vast rain cloud went whooping along the river-bed, gleaming in starry sparkle as the lightning beams stabbed it, but not a drop fell upon us. The storm had passed us by.