Chapter VI: Part 6

"Will it wake her? She has had enough scare for one night," he thought, uneasily glancing towards her. But no; thoroughly wearied out, Ethel never moved as the rickety casements rattled to the fierce gusts which howled round the building, and Claverton felt relieved. Presently he got up and went to the window. All was pitch dark outside, but every now and then the sky would be ablaze with a sudden flash--blue, plum-coloured, and gold, in its vivid incandescence--the hill tops stood out as if cut in steel against the misty background, while beneath yawned the intersecting rifts of black, chasm-like kloofs, every leaf and twig wet and shining, as clearly definable as at noonday. A panorama of weirdness and desolation. Then pitchy blackness and the long heavy roll of the storm king's artillery. Claverton resumed his seat, and the thunder crashed and roared outside, the lightning played in vivid gleams, and the rain fell in torrents with a noise like the rush of many waters; but within, silence, only broken by the soft, regular breathing of the sleeper, and the plash of a big drop on the floor, for the tattered thatch was not so watertight as might be wished. And the night wore on. The fire burnt low, leaving the angles of the ghostly old room in shadowy darkness, while now and again a scratching noise might be heard as some creeping thing made its way through the thatch or along the beams. The storm lulled, and then passed, and, save for the murmur of falling rain, perfect silence prevailed outside, and still the chilled watcher sat there, upright and motionless. Then he fell into a doze. The dismal bark of a jackal was now and again borne from the lonely bush; but not a sound escaped him as he sat there, till at last the first faint shiver of dawn thrilled upon the hushened air; a red glow in the east, then a blood-coloured streak on the few light clouds which,--but for the soaked earth, were the sole traces of a night of fierce tempestuousness.

Claverton rose and went out softly, so as not to arouse his companion, to where he had tied up the horses. Those long-suffering animals pricked up their ears and whinnied at his approach, and, except that one of them had got its leg over the reim, were just as they had been left the night before. Then he went back to awaken Ethel. A smile was upon her lips, and as he stood over her a gleam of sunlight shot in at the open door and played upon the beautiful face. He lingered a few moments, for he could hardly bring himself to arouse her; but time was flying, the sun was up, and they must be going. So he said, quietly but distinctly: "Time to be off, Ethel."

The girl started slightly, opened her eyes, then started again in bewilderment. He watched her with an amused expression.

"Where am I?" she exclaimed, sitting upright and looking round. "Oh, I remember. I thought it was all a dream."

"Well, we must be getting home. I'm just going to take the horses down into the kloof and give them a drink, and then we'll make tracks."

He went out, and Ethel got up and looked around. "What a selfish little wretch I am!" she thought, as her eyes rested on the relics of the night's doings, the dying embers of the fire, beside which lay the empty pocket-flask, and the bit of paper and string whence the opportune sandwich had been extracted, and then on the cloak which she had just thrown off. "I took everything from him, and left him to sit there all night, cold and wet and hungry. I wish it had to come all over again, that I might sit out in the rain and the thunder and lightning all night. That's what I'd do, I swear I would," she ended, vehemently.

A trampling of hoofs outside showed that the object of her meditations was returning.

"Now then, I'll just put the saddles on and we shall get home in nice time for breakfast," he said; "but, first of all, we'll see how our friend of last night got in."

"What, did that actually happen? I thought I dreamt it."

Claverton laughed. "I intended you should," he said. "It would never have done for you to have thought about it all night long; but it was a fact, nevertheless. Come and look here."

He pointed out three great footmarks just inside the doorway, left by the terrified animal as it rushed out; then bursting open the door of the other room, they went in.

"There's no outlet," he said, looking around. "Stay--yes, here's a hole behind the fireplace; but it could never have got in there. No; here's the key to the mystery," as they came upon the mangled carcase of a half-grown kid. "This little brute must have got in somehow, and the wolf, attracted by its yelling, charged through that door," showing one which opened into the room from without; "then it must have banged to and caught him in a trap. Pity I wasn't able to shoot the scoundrel!"

Ethel shuddered at the recollection. "Let's start," she said, turning towards the door.

He put her into her saddle and they left their opportunely-found shelter. The sun was now up, and, as they ascended the side of the kloof, the whole landscape sparkled and glowed beneath the scorching beams, every leaf and blade of grass studded with diamonds; and the birds carolled forth gaily in the glad morning air, and doves shook out their soft plumage, and cooed to each other on the wet sprays, and it was difficult to realise such a culmination to a night of storm and terror. Just before they reached the road a strange fancy moved Claverton to turn and look back upon their late haven of refuge, and then a clump of bush hid it from view. He little thought when and under what circumstances he should see it again.

"What was the joke just now, when I woke you up?" he asked, as they rode along.

"Joke? Why--when?" she exclaimed, wonderingly.

"Oh, only that you were having a downright good laugh all to yourself. I thought it a pity to disturb you, so had the grace to give you a few minutes longer, in reward for which I claim to know what it was about."

She looked at him curiously for a moment, and a faint flush suffused her cheek; then she broke into a ringing laugh. "I don't believe I was laughing at all," she said; "and, if I was, I intend to keep the fun all to myself this time. But what will uncle and aunt say when we get home?"

"Say? Oh, that the very best thing we could do was to have--gone back to Van Rooyen's--got under cover like sensible people," answered he, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone.

Ethel was silent for a few moments. She was not quite easy in her mind. "I was in a great hurry to get home last night, but now it doesn't seem quite so delightful," she thought, with a sort of strange bitterness; and she wondered how in the world she could ever have allowed herself to be so frightened. But meanwhile there was Seringa Vale, and the adventure, or misadventure, was at an end.

Greatly to Ethel's relief, neither anxiety nor surprise were manifested on their return.

"Hullo!" sang out Hicks. "You were fortunate in being so far behind. We thought of going back, too; but it seemed no use, so we rode on as hard as we could, and got here in the thick of the storm, wet through."

"Ethel doesn't like Dutch houses, but she had to sleep in a worse one than Van Rooyen's once," said Mrs Brathwaite. "There were only two rooms, and five of us had to turn into one, while all the men took possession of the other. But it was such a place! We couldn't sleep all night."

"I suppose not," said Claverton. If they were at cross purposes, it was not his business to go out of his way to enlighten them, especially as, in this instance, cross purposes were best.

And Ethel evidently thought so too.

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Note 1. The large striped hyaena is called "wolf" in South Afrioa, just as the panther is always referred to as "tiger." Both terms are, of course, zoologically erroneous.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"LIKE THUNDERBOLT FROM A CLEAR SKY."

"Drive on, Piet, Mopela! Sharp's the word; don't give them time to think. Look alive, now!"

The speaker is Mr Brathwaite; the scene the wash-pool. A long line of fleecy backs is moving over the _veldt_, propelled by the shouts of three or four Kafirs, whose naked bodies glisten in the sun as they advance swiftly behind the flock, brandishing their red blankets and whistling shrilly. For it may be that the leaders of that sturdy mass of fat wethers, over a thousand in number, may take a sudden freak into their woolly heads, and refuse to go any further when once within that _cul de sac_ of thorn-fence gradually narrowing down to an outlet, and that outlet the water--which will mean that each particular animal must be thrown in separately, not once, but four or five times. Therefore they must be kept on the move and run down as quickly as possible. Once they begin jumping all will follow, but should the foremost happen to jib, then the morning's work will be a hard one indeed.

A pleasant spot is this; bush and open _veldt_ about in equal proportion. Yonder, across the river, rises a ridge of high ground whose slopes are well wooded, and over the wash-pool, which consists of a long, smooth reach, the finks are flitting about their pendulous, swaying nests, and twittering in the sunshine; while that shadowy krantz overhanging the stream further down echoes back the long-drawn piping of spreuws and the "coo" of a solitary dove.

Mr Brathwaite and his two lieutenants are evidently got up for business--rough shirts and trousers and broad-brimmed hats, the last a very necessary safeguard, for the morning, though still young, is unconscionably warm.

"Don't think these will give us any trouble, they always take to the water like ducks. It's the next lot, the ewes, that are brutes to funk; and once on that tack the devil himself won't make them jump. Bles, you _schelm_!" he exclaims, with a crack of his whip to hasten the decision of the _voerbok_, who is slackening pace dubiously at the entrance to the _cul de sac_. The old goat gives a start and resumes his course, trotting down towards the water; the sheep stream after him, and before he has time to think better of it, even if so disposed, his woolly followers press so closely upon him that there is no help for it; he springs from the rock into the water, about two feet and a half beneath, and the whole flock hastens to follow by threes and fours, and swimming across emerges dripping on the other side. Indeed, so fast do they press forward that it becomes necessary for some one to stand at the water's edge and check them, lest they should injure themselves or their neighbours by jumping upon each other's backs.

"That's how I like to see them jump. Fine sheep like that ought never to want throwing in," says the old farmer, watching his well-bred flock with some pride.

On they come, their drivers keeping them well at it, and in a short time the last jumps in. The whole lot are through and scattering slowly over the _veldt_ on the other side, the steam arising in clouds from their dripping fleeces.

"Bring them on again," calls out Mr Brathwaite, after a little time has been given them to rest and get warm again. The animals are driven through at a shallow place lower down the river, and brought round to the jumping place again. Then they are headed once more for the water, going through this time even better than the first.

"Hallo!" cries Hicks, running down to the edge and scrutinising the surface all alive with panting heads and spongy fleeces. "One's down. Yes, there it is," pointing to four kicking legs above the surface, but which immediately disappear. "In with you, Mopela--Piet--look sharp!" The first addressed pretends not to hear, but Piet, throwing aside his kaross, takes a header, and as he reappears he just catches sight of the drowning animal. In a twinkling he has seized it, and holding its head above water, he strikes out for the bank, dragging his cumbersome and struggling burthen. The animal had been suddenly taken with a fit and gone under--an occurrence which now and then happens, and but for Hicks' promptitude would have been drowned. As it was, it lay upon the ground, and after some gasping staggered to its legs, tottered a little way, then lay down again, and finally picked itself up and began nibbling a little grass, and in a few minutes had quite recovered.

The operation is repeated in precisely the same way as at first, and after the flock had been through four times, it wore a very different appearance to what it had done before; every fleece looking almost snowy white by contrast as the animals are slowly driven off to their ordinary pasturage, nibbling as they go.

"Piet, go and tell Umgiswe to bring on his lot," says Mr Brathwaite. "There are under five hundred, and it won't take us very long," he adds, for the benefit of his lieutenants, "that is if they jump well. 'Tisn't twelve o'clock yet, so there'll be lots of time for them to dry."

Twenty minutes' rest, and then a sound of approaching bleating told that the other flock was at hand.

Then arises a deafening and hideous din as the sheep are driven into the _cul de sac_. Yelling, and shouting, and whistling, white and black alike contributing towards the general row, waving karosses, cracking whips, and beating the ground with branches. The _voerbok_ spasmodically rushes on ahead, plunges into the water and swims through; but the sheep, suddenly deserted by their leader, stop half-way down the passage, and, in spite of the pressure from behind, and the earsplitting shindy, steadfastly refuse to budge.

"We've bungled it somehow," says the old farmer, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone. "No use bothering them any more just now. Bring round the goat, and we'll try again."

Two of the Kafirs start off on that intent, but it takes some time to "collect" the truant, who runs hither and thither, bleating idiotically. At last he is brought back to his post of honour at the head of the flock; the driving and the row recommences, and the goat leaps into the water manfully; but he is leading a forlorn hope, indeed, for not one of the sheep will follow him--devil a sheep--though they are on the brink of the water. There they stick, firmly and stubbornly.

"Come on, Claverton, we must pitch some of them in," cries Hicks, and the two promptly shove their way through the closely-wedged flock, which stands packed like sardines, wheezing and panting in the heat. In a twinkling they have seized half-a-dozen of the obstinate brutes and shied them in; but the rest show no signs of following, and so they go on, till at last they pause, breathless and bathed in perspiration, for two of the Kafirs to take their places; and finally, by relays of labour, the whole flock is through.

"Whew! but that's warm work," exclaims Claverton, as, after a short rest, the word is given to bring them on again. "Perhaps they'll jump this time."

His conjecture proves correct. Whether it is that they find their plunge cool and refreshing on this hot day, or that they are tired of resistance, or a little of both, is uncertain; but as again, amid whistling and din, the stupid animals are driven down to the water's edge, they follow their leader, at first gingerly and by twos and threes, and then so fast that Hicks takes up his position at the jumping place to check them; in process whereof, having imprudently got too near the edge, he is upset bodily into the water, and disappears from mortal view, to emerge, spluttering and puffing and making awful faces, as he scrambles up the bank, dripping like a half-drowned rat.

I know of nothing more funny than the sudden and unexpected descent of any one into deep water. The utter woefulness, combined with an indignant air of injured innocence, which the sufferer's countenance invariably assumes on emerging, should make a cat laugh; anyhow, nothing human can stand against it. And the savagely furious way in which the patient hisses between his chattering teeth, "What the devil is there to grin at?" While the _tout ensemble_, his garments clinging to his shivering carcase, is in no wise calculated to invest his just exasperation with the majesty of outraged dignity.

Poor Hicks formed no exception. Everybody was convulsed; one of the Kafirs to such an extent, that he could do nothing but roll on the ground in the exuberance of his glee, though he managed to recover sufficiently to dart out of the way just in time to avoid a mighty kick aimed at his nether quarters by the infuriated object of his mirth.

"There's something for you to grin at, you sooty son of a Cheshire cat!" exclaimed Hicks, savagely; but, as we have seen, he missed his aim, and in a minute had recovered all his wonted good humour.

The sheep gave no more trouble, but went through after that as if they liked it. Two or three turned over in the water, and were rescued as previously described, while one died; but these accidents were inevitable, and soon the flock was straggling away across the _veldt_ to its feeding ground--white, clean, and freshened up.

When they reached home, the dining-room table was strewn with letters and newspapers. The postbag, which was fetched from the nearest agency once a week, had just arrived, and as they entered, Mrs Brathwaite was reading a letter aloud for the public benefit. The writer stated her intention of profiting by an unexpectedly early opportunity, and availing herself of a long-standing and oft-repeated invitation to visit them at Seringa Vale, in about a fortnight from then, and subscribed herself: "_Lilian Strange_."

"Poor thing!" said Mr Brathwaite. "We'll soon bring the roses back to her cheeks. A couple of months of this splendid air, and she'll be that strong and sunburnt they Won't know her when she goes back."

And the kindly, hospitable old couple went on discussing their prospective visitor and her joys and sorrows, past, present, and to come; projecting all manner of schemes for making her stay an enjoyable and a happy one.

There was one present whom this letter had set thinking, and that was Claverton. The name seemed familiar and yet not, for he couldn't for the life of him fit it to an individual.

"Lilian--Lilian Strange--Lilian," he kept repeating to himself. "Now where the deuce have I come across that name before? Lilian--it's a pretty name, too. No, I can't remember for the life of me." He could see the writing as the letter lay open on the table. It was rather large and very distinct, but not masculine. But neither it nor memory seemed to aid him, and he gave it up.

"What is she like, aunt?" asked Ethel. "And what sort of age is she? Young or middling?"

The old lady laughed. "Young or middling? Gracious me, child. She's only twenty-three, is sweetly pretty, and has the loveliest eyes I ever saw."

"Present company excepted--ahem!" cut in Hicks, thinking he had said an excessively smart thing, and colouring and looking an ass on the strength of it.

"We must make her enjoy her visit," went on Mrs Brathwaite. "Poor girl, I feel so sorry for her. Her mother is dead, and her stepfather was a country gentleman in England and a wealthy man. When he died all his property went to his own family, and Lilian was left without a penny. Her relations on the stepfather's side were not kind to her, and she was thrown on the world to get her living as best she could, and now she's teaching."

"Universal refuge for the destitute," murmured Ethel. "What brought her out here?"

"A ship," chimed in Hicks, intent on being funny. But Ethel looked angrily at him, and he collapsed.

"She came out as a companion to some lady," answered Mrs Brathwaite. "Then the McColls at Port Elizabeth engaged her to teach their children, and a nice handful she must find them. I fancy her health has rather broken down. She looked anything but strong when we saw her last June."

"It'll be a great nuisance," said Ethel afterwards to her sister when they were alone together, "to have to be always trundling this girl about. She'll probably give herself no end of airs and try to patronise us all."

"I don't know," answered Laura, "I have an idea she'll be rather nice. Her letter reads like it."

"Perhaps so," rejoined Ethel, a little ashamed of her inhospitable speech; "let's hope so, anyhow."

In due course the shearers arrived, and all being ready, operations were begun at once. No more long rides or bushbuck bants or anything of the kind, time was too valuable; and for about three weeks Mr Brathwaite and his two lieutenants had their hands full in superintending and otherwise furthering that most important phase of farm routine-- shearing; and from rosy morn till dewy eve, and often till late within the latter, were they strictly on duty.

Yes, those were busy times indeed. There were the Fingo shearers to be set to their work and kept to it, wool bales to be pressed and sewn up, rationing to be attended to, and a hundred and one things, large or small, to tax the mind and employ the hand. Moreover, a sharp eye had to be kept on the natives aforesaid, lest in their laudable anxiety to make the largest possible tally, they should inflict grievous bodily harm upon the animals under operation, and haply remove the cuticle as well as the fleece. But those there employed were old hands at the craft, and gave no trouble to speak of. They would clip away by the hour, chatting among themselves in that seemingly disjointed way wherein these people are wont to exchange gossip. Now and then they varied the pastime by humming a barbarous tune on about three notes, whose terrible monotony would be distracting were it not that the ear gets accustomed to the wretched crooning, even as to the hum of a threshing machine or the ticking of an obtrusive clock, but through this, as through all other sounds, the clip, clip, clip of the shears went steadily on, from morning till night, from day to day.

"I've just had another letter from Lilian Strange," said Mrs Brathwaite, one evening towards the close of the busy time above mentioned.

"What does she say?" asked the old settler, who was nodding in a roomy arm-chair, tired with the heat and exertion of the day.

"She says she won't be able to come to us this week after all, because the McColls have put off their start. She may have to wait another ten days in consequence."

"H'm. Don't know that it isn't just as well. It would have been difficult to send for her during shearing time--means two days away from home. Hicks might have gone to fetch her, or Arthur, but they are both wanted here. Naylor's busy, too, and so is Jim. Yes, it's just as well, as things go."

"She thinks she will have an opportunity in about a fortnight, which will save us the trouble of sending."

"Well, that's better still. Besides, who's going to bring her?"

"She doesn't say," answered Mrs Brathwaite. "She only promises to let us know."

To one, at least, of the auditors of this dialogue, the postponement of the expected guest's arrival was not a source of unmixed grief. That one was Ethel. She would not own to herself that so commonplace a failing as jealousy had anything to do with it; still the fact remained that they were all very jolly together as it was. "Two's company, three's a bore," applies in principle to circles, and now it was horribly likely that this Miss Strange would be, from Ethel's point of view, _de trop_. Her aunt had spoken in warm terms of the other's beauty and attractiveness. But Ethel herself was conscious of the possession of a larger share of those commodities than most people. Had the other been of the colourless and inane order she could have tolerated her--bore as she might be. As matters stood, however, it was not in feminine human nature that Ethel should be prepared to welcome the unexpected guest with open arms.

"What has become of Arthur?" asked Mrs Brathwaite, as they sat down to supper.

"Oh, he'll be here in a minute," said Hicks. "I left him yarning with Xuvani. He says the old chap's teaching him Kafir, and I'll be hanged if ever I knew a fellow pick it up so quickly. He didn't know a word when he came here, but Xavani says he must have really, and was keeping it dark. He let drop two or three idiomatic expressions which showed that he must have known something about the language or the structure of it."

At that moment the door opened, admitting the object of their discussion.

"Late, I'm afraid," he said, sliding into his place. "That long-legged humbug, Ntyesa, swore he had left his jacket in the shearing-house, and I had to go and unlock it again for him. Awfully sorry."

"Mr Claverton can't tear himself away, even at half-past eight," said Ethel, maliciously. "He will soon be quite glued to the wool bales."

He glanced up with an amused look. "While there is light, there is work--in shearing time," he replied.

"Bother shearing time!" rejoined she, pettishly. "I wish you'd be quick and finish it. We can't get about at all, because there's no one to take us. Laura and I have wanted to go over to Thirlestane, and to Jim's, and a host of places, but we can't. We are just as much shut up in here as you are in there. Aren't we, Laura?"

"Ha--ha--ha," laughed her uncle, with whom she was a prime favourite, and who spoilt her outrageously. "You'd better come and give us a hand, Ethel. You and Laura. We shall get it over ever so much sooner then. You shall have six shillings a hundred. Eh?"

"They oughtn't to have more than five, because they don't bring their own shears," cut in Hicks.

"They've got nail-scissors, though," murmured Claverton.

"Ah, I could see you were going to say something horrid," cried Ethel.

"There are those two sparring again," was Laura's comment, "as usual."

Now there was a good deal more underlying Ethel's impatience with the shearing time than appeared on the surface. It deprived them of their usual escort on their journeyings abroad, even as she had said, and with her own particular body-guard on those occasions she found herself less and less able to dispense. And yet, as her sister had just remarked, they two were always at daggers-drawn. She had begun by cordially detesting this man, as she thought. In reality, there had been more of resentment than of dislike in the matter. She had resented his coolness, his utter indifference to her charms, his way of treating her like a spoilt child; laughing at her petulance, and turning off her most pointed shafts on an impenetrable shield of mild satire, mingled with surprised amusement. She, Ethel Brathwaite, at whose shrine, when she shone in the society of the capital, all crowded and fell down and worshipped, to be thus treated! She counted, among her sworn admirers, more than one whose name was in many mouths, who boasted much-prized decorations, well and fairly won, and yet here on the distant frontier this man, whom, in reality, no one had ever heard of, treated her with a sort of good-humoured indulgence! And in spite of it--shall we not rather say, because of it?--she was not angry with him. It was a new thing to find one who, instead of looking up at, if anything, looked down to her; and to the wilful little beauty the change was positively refreshing. Then how helpless she had been in his hands on one or two occasions--that of the storm, for instance, and the subsequent terrifying episode--and he had not been wanting. There were many men within and without the circle of her admirers whom she could snub capriciously and ruthlessly tyrannise over, but Arthur Claverton was not one of them, and this she knew full well. And now she had discovered that his society was becoming very necessary to her, and what had forced that discovery irresistibly upon her mind was the announcement, two weeks ago, of the arrival of a new character upon the stage whereon she and one other were the chief actors. Verily it seemed to Ethel as if a bomb had emanated from that harmless-looking postbag, and was destined shortly to explode in their midst.

Then had come the shearing, and, except on Sundays, from dawn till dark, Mr Brathwaite's two lieutenants found the whole of their time taken up. In the middle of the day they would come in, by turns, to get their dinners, but it was a case of off again directly after. No more long rides home in the twilight, or quiet strolls in the sunny afternoon, at least not for some time to come, and then--another would have appeared on the scene, thought Ethel, with a dire presentiment that those times which now she looked back on with a sinking kind of regret would never come round again. Will it be better for her--for both of them--if they do not? We shall see.

She is looking bewitchingly pretty to-night as she sits throwing her bright shafts of laughter and mockery at those around, and at Claverton in particular--at the latter, indeed, to such an extent as to call forth Laura's remark. But a very close observer might have detected a kind of latent wistfulness beneath the brilliant, lively manner, and only then if he had specially looked for it.

"So you have been trying your hand at shearing, I hear, Mr Claverton?" she said.

"I have."

"How did you get on, and how did you like it?" asked Laura.

"Hicks will best tell you how I got on. As for liking it, the occupation would be a wholly delightful one had a beneficent Providence but seen fit to arrange the small of one's back upon hinges. By the way, Armitage wasn't here to-day, was he? We could have sworn we heard that laugh of his; couldn't we, Hicks?"

"No; he hasn't been here--and a good thing too," rejoined Mr Brathwaite. "He'd only have got playing the fool, or something. He carries that habit of his rather far at times. You heard what he did over at Naylor's the year before last?"

"No. What was it?"

"Well, Naylor was hard at work with his shearing, and one day, in turning out a lot of old hurdles to fence in the yard with, they came upon a snake--a thundering big ringhals--and killed it. Jack Armitage dropped in just afterwards, and Edward showed him the snake, rather crowing over having killed such a big one. Jack said nothing at the time, but a little while after, when they were all in the shearing-house, they heard a yell, and a big black brute of a ringhals came scooting in among them all, and there stood that villain Jack in the door, grinning and chuckling, and nearly splitting his sides with laughter."

"The beggar!" said Claverton. "Did he scare them?"

"Didn't he! You never saw such a commotion as it made. The shearers gave one `whouw,' dropped their sheep, and made for the door with a rush--they're mortally afraid of a snake, you know--and there were sheep rushing about the place half shorn, and kicking against the shears which the fellows had let drop, and making a most infernal clatter. And the niggers were all crowding to get out, and raising a hubbub, and all the rest of it. The worst of it, though, was that they got so mad that they one and all struck work--flatly refused to come back--and it was some time before Naylor could persuade them to."

"The mischief! And what did Jack do?"

"Do? Jumped on his horse and rode away, laughing fit to kill himself. Naylor was very savage with him though, and now he vows he won't have Jack on the place at shearing time, not at any price. By the way, that long fellow, Ntyesa, was one of them. You ask him to-morrow if he remembers the snake in the shearing-house."

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

LILIAN.

"There. I'm quite ready now. I'm so sorry if I have delayed you, and I fear I have."

"Not at all. We are starting in very good time as it is, and have the whole day before us."

The place is the drawing-room of an hotel in Grahamstown; the time, rather early in the morning; and the first of the two speakers, a tall, beautiful girl, who has just finished fastening together two or three articles of light hand-baggage as the second enters to tell her that the conveyance is all ready at the door. She wears a close-fitting dress of cool white, which, though making her appear taller, sets off to the fullest advantage a graceful, undulating figure. Waves of dark hair, touched, as it were, with a glint of bronze, half conceal the smooth brow, and the beautiful oval face, with its straight, delicately-chiselled features, is most killingly and becomingly framed in a large garden hat, lined with soft lace. The eyes are of that difficult-to-determine hue which is best defined as green hazel, and a sensitive curve about the lips imparts to the whole face a tinge of melancholy when in repose. In fact, there is a trifle of coldness about its normal expression. But when it lights up--when its owner smiles--as she now does very sweetly upon him, who is to be her travelling companion and escort throughout that day--then its charm becomes dangerous, so inexpressibly captivating is it.

"_Is sweetly pretty, and has the loveliest eyes I ever saw_," had been Mrs Brathwaite's dictum. And Claverton there and then mentally acquitted the old lady of one jot of exaggeration as his glance rested for the first time upon Lilian Strange when she entered the room prepared for the journey--fresh, cool, and in all the composure of her stately beauty. She greeted him perfectly naturally and unaffectedly, and apologised for delay, real or imaginary, as we have seen.

He had called at the hotel the evening before, to deliver a note from Mrs Brathwaite, and to inform Miss Strange in person about her journey. In the latter object he was disappointed. Miss Strange sent down a message, apologising for being unable to see him, on the ground of fatigue. She would, however, be quite ready to start at the hour named. And Claverton, beyond a slight curiosity to inspect one who would be for a considerable time an inmate of the same household as himself, didn't care one way or another. Miss Strange would be there all right on the morrow, and he meanwhile would go and look up a friend at the very poor attempt at a club which the city boasted.

He had expected to see a pretty girl, possibly a very pretty girl, but nothing like this. As it has been said, he was not a susceptible man. In point of fact, he rather looked down on the fair sex, a few individual members of it excepted. Yet now, as he handed his charge into the light buggy which stood waiting at the door, he was conscious of an unwonted quickening of the pulse. Not then was he able to analyse the subtle fascination of her beauty and of her manner, the extraordinary charm of her voice--such a voice as it was, too; low, rich, musical; the kind of voice that could not by any possibility have belonged to a plain woman.

"Thanks; they are not in my way in the least," said that bewildering voice as Claverton was making impossible efforts to move certain parcels in the bottom of the trap--impossible, because of the very limited space afforded by the confines of a buggy--at the same time keeping a firm hand on the rather fresh pair of horses which were bowling down the street at a fine pace. Early as it was, the streets were filling with traffic; huge loads of wool on buck-waggons from up the country crawling in behind their long spans of oxen; farmers' carts and buggies; horsemen; and everywhere the inevitable native, male and female.

"The worst of it is that the bare fact of coming to the town entails upon one multifold commissions, utterly regardless of space or carrying power," he answered. "Look at those bundles, for instance. Not a third of what I was to have fetched, and shall catch it for not bringing out."

Lilian laughed.

"Never mind. I'll bear witness in your favour. And now tell me, when do we reach Seringa Vale?"

"Not before sundown. I'm afraid you'll be dreadfully done up. It's very spirited of you to travel two days running like this. I wonder you didn't allow yourself a day here to rest after coming up all the way from Port Elizabeth yesterday."

"It was tiring, certainly. But I've had a good night's rest, and this sort of travelling is quite luxurious after the passenger-cart. Is it going to be very hot?"

"I'm afraid it'll be warm, but not dusty, which is something to be thankful for. The heavy shower in the night has done that much for us. Look! Grahamstown shows well from here."

A curve in the road brought the city into full view, lying beneath, embowered in its bosky gardens.

"Yes. But I don't see anything to admire in these colonial towns. They are not even picturesque. Frightfully dusty, oppressively hot, and streets and buildings absolutely hideous."

"I agree with you. Look at this one, for instance. That mound of baked clay, plastered up wet and left to dry, which we passed at starting and which can hardly be distinguished now, doesn't look much like a cathedral, does it? Yet it is. Then that fifth-rate mongrel Corn Exchange you see--there--is the Eastern Districts Court, second temple of Justice in the land. That square barn-like wool-store, beyond the clay cathedral, is a Methodist chapel with a truly appalling front. It is the prize barracoon of that connexion, and its habitues fondly cherish the conviction that it is a second Milan. The building away there against the hill is to be admired, isn't it? Built for a barrack it remains a barrack, though it is now a public hospital. The town is pretty, thanks to its situation and trees, but there isn't a decent-looking building in it."

"I want to see something of the country," went on Lilian. "It ought to be lovely, judging from what I saw of it coming along in the post-cart yesterday. And I've seen nothing of it as yet."

"Here we are, then. What do you think of that?" said her companion, as, having crested the hill which shut the city from view, he whipped up his horses and they sped merrily along an elevated flat, dashing aside the dewdrops which lay thickly studding the short grass like a field of diamonds. The sun was not long up, and a white morning mist hung here and there among the sprays of the bush, but overhead all was dazzling blue. The view was extensive. Wooded ridges melted away afar in the soft morning light, and in the distant background the crescent range of the Great Winterberg rose purple and dim.

"Oh, but this is lovely!" cried Lilian. "Don't laugh at me, Mr Claverton, but it is like drinking in new life after being pent up in a dusty town."

"I'd rather be shot than laugh at you," he answered, with an earnestness very unwonted in him. "I am only too glad you should find anything to enjoy in what I feared would be to you a very tedious journey. Still more glad am I that it has been my luck to escort you."

It was about the first genuine compliment he had ever paid to a woman in his life, and yet he seemed totally unconscious of intending any compliment at all. He could hardly take his glance off the beautiful, animated face beside him. And how was it that this same escort duty had fallen to his lot? When Lilian Strange found out at nearly the last moment that the opportunity on which she relied of getting to Seringa Vale had fallen through, Mr Brathwaite had made arrangements to go to Grahamstown and fetch her himself. But a sharp attack of rheumatism precluded this, and Hicks, who otherwise would have been told off on this mission, and who had his own reasons for not wishing to be away from home two days, easily prevailed on his friend to go instead of him.

On they sped, now ascending a hill at a foot's pace, now bowling briskly down the next declivity, as the road wound over the rolling country. To Lilian the journey, so far from being a tedious one, was wholly delightful. She was vividly interested in everything. Even the little meercats, which sat upright on their hind legs a few yards from the road and then bolted into their burrows at the approach of the horses, came in for a share of her notice and admiration. A solitary secretary bird, stalking away down in the hollow, became the subject of numerous inquiries, and she gazed with awe upon a cloud of great white vultures soaring overhead bound for some defunct horse or sheep, appearing from nowhere and disappearing as mysteriously. To the English girl, with her keen love of Nature, even these insignificant representatives of wild African animal life were full of interest.

They passed a large ostrich farm lying beneath them on the slope, and she could hardly believe her companion's statement that the distant black specks at the farther ends of their respective enclosures were as formidable as the traditional mad bull, until a large troop of ten-months-old ostriches, under charge of herds, swept past, and he drew her attention to their size, and the strength of those long legs terminating in a sharp, horny toe, capable of ripping a man up. But the birds looked very handsome, very picturesque as they careered by, their snowy plumes extended and waving, and she was delighted with the picture they made, though her enjoyment was tempered with alarm as the horses showed signs of restiveness. But Claverton reassured her, and the ostriches and their keepers were soon left far behind.

"You live at Seringa Vale, do you not, Mr Claverton?"

"Well, yes; I do at present. I am jackarooing there, as they say in Australia, which is to say that I am imbibing instruction in the craft in consideration of my valuable services."

"And are you going to settle out here, then?"

"To settle! H'm! How do you know I wasn't born and bred out here?"

"I suppose because there's some sort of secret sign by which one importation can detect another," answered Lilian. "I don't believe you have been out here as long as I have."

"Do I look so thoroughly the `new chum,' then? Point out the conspicuous sign of `rawness,' that I may at once eradicate it, if it is worth eradicating, that is."

"No. I refuse to reveal my masonic sign," she answered, gaily; "but I know I am right in my conjecture. I could tell the moment I saw you. Am I not right? Now confess!"

"Yes and no. That is to say, it is only three months since I left England this time; but before that I was out here in South Africa for several years."

"Then I cannot claim seniority of standing, after all. Are there any more `importations' at Seringa Vale?"

"Yes. Hicks. But he's so thoroughly acclimatised that he don't count. You and I are exiles and sojourners in a far country. I foresee we shall be talking British `shop' to a grievous extent," said Claverton, not that he cared a rush about England, or had any great reason to, for the matter of that, but it would establish an _entente_ with his beautiful travelling companion, a something quite between themselves. He was surprised to notice a wearied and even pained expression flit across the lovely face, like the shadow of a cloud passing over the bright smooth surface of a mountain lake.

"I don't know. I think I would rather forget all about England," she replied, sadly. "It is a subject with no fascination for me. As I'm here in this country I want to like it, and it is highly probable that I shall, at any rate during the next two months. By-the-bye, what dear old people Mr and Mrs Brathwaite are!"

"That they are," assented the other, heartily. And then for the life of him he could not help subsiding into silence. She had a history, then. She would fain forget the land of her birth. It was not wholly the stern law of necessity that had banished her to a distant land to fight the rough, hard battle of life. There was another cause, and glancing at her as she sat beside him, Claverton thought he could in a measure guess at the nature of that cause. His pulses were strangely stirred, and even then he was conscious of a longing to comfort her, of a wild, unreasoning resentment against some person unknown. Remarkable, wasn't it, considering he had only seen her for the first time in his life that morning, and that now it was still far short of midday?

But two persons of opposite sexes, both young, both goodly to look upon, and under circumstances situated such as these two, will, I trow, find it difficult to preserve silence for long--seated side by side in the circumscribed space of a buggy. Lilian was the first to break it.

"What was that?" she asked, eagerly, as a loud resounding bark echoed forth from the hillside above them.

"Only a baboon. Look, there he is--that black speck up there; and the others are not far off."

They were driving through a wild and narrow pass. High overhead great masses of rock cut the skyline in fantastic piles, castellated here, riven there, and apparently about to crumble in pieces, and hurl themselves down upon the road. Thick bush grew right down to the road winding along the side of the hill, which here and there fell straight away from it in rather an alarming and precipitous manner.

It was just at the most alarming of these places that a few puffs of dust and a crack or two of a whip betokened the approach of waggons, and the next moment the foremost of them appeared round a jutting corner of rock. Claverton muttered an imprecation as he noted that the oxen were without a leader, straggling across the very narrow road at their own sweet will, and bearing down upon him and his charge a great deal faster than he liked. The waggon, loaded sky high with wool bales, was still a couple of hundred yards off, but the road from it to the buggy was a brisk declivity; there seemed very insufficient brake on, and no sign of any one in charge. One of two things was likely to happen: either the buggy would be splintered into matchwood against the inner side of the road, or hurled into perdition over the outer one, by the ponderous mass now bearing down uncontrolled upon it. Claverton reined in his horses and hallooed angrily.

An ugly, mud-coloured head rose from the apex of the pile; then apparently subsided.

"Where's your `leader,' you _schepsel_?" he shouted in Dutch. "Get off and stop your fore oxen, or, by God, I'll shoot them dead on the spot."

The situation was critical, it must be remembered. A sooty imp of a boy glided to the front of the span, and succeeded in bringing them up just in time. The huge, unwieldy machine rolled creaking past the buggy, narrowly grazing it with the wool bales. The Hottentot driver raised his ugly head and leered insolently.

"Hey, you, Engelschman! Don't you know how to pass a waggon yet?" he shouted.

Quickly Claverton stood up, and by dint of a dexterous "flick," cut the fellow with his driving-whip in such wise as to chip a weal of skin out of his face, and then the pace of the passing vehicles carried him out of reach.

The Hottentot yelled and cursed with rage and pain; but there was something so threatening in Claverton's face and the sudden movement he made as if to descend and make a further example of him that the fellow thought better of it, and dropped the empty grog bottle which he had been about to shy after the trap. He solaced himself, however, with a shower of parting curses.

"Lord, Lord! To think that I should have to sit still and be cheeked by a dirty drunken Tottie," said Claverton to himself yet aloud, as if oblivious of his companion. Yet he had to. He could hardly drop the reins and leave her there in the middle of an excessively narrow and dangerous bit of road, with a pair of very fresh and somewhat restive horses on hand, while he went to wreak further vengeance on the impudent rascal whose carelessness might have been productive of a serious catastrophe. He was handicapped altogether.

It was an earnest of real life. By himself, with only himself to think of, he could take care of himself. In charge of another, would he not have to swallow tons and tons over and above the traditional peck of "matter in the wrong place" without a murmur? He would be handicapped altogether. Philosopher as he was, it was hardly likely that such a consideration should obtrude at this moment.

The other waggon was engineered by a couple of quiet-looking and civil Kafirs, who gave them plenty of roadway and the good-morning as they passed.

Claverton stole a glance at his companion's face. She had been not a little startled, he could see that, yet she kept her composure, and the fact pleased him. Most women under the circumstances would have let fly exclamations of alarm, perhaps shrieked, possibly even might have grabbed convulsively at the reins--that most blindly idiotic and utterly exasperating phase of feminine scare upon wheels. This one, however, only changed colour ever so little, but did and said nothing.

"Here we are at an `hotel,' as they call it in this country," he remarked, pointing out a seedy-looking domicile, like unto a fifth-rate Dutch farmhouse, which hove in sight before them. "We can either stop there, or drive on a little farther and outspan in the _veldt_, whichever you prefer."

"Oh, do let us outspan in the _veldt_," answered Lilian, gleefully. "The drive is lovely, and a picnic in the middle of it will be quite the right thing."

"Of course it will--or rather two picnics, for we shall have to outspan again. Look, we don't lose much by giving that barracoon the go-by," he went on, as they passed the edifice in question. "Goat chops very tough, pumpkin and rice, and Cape sherry, are about the only items in its bill of fare, I venture to predict."

"Horrible!" declared Lilian, with a laughing grimace.

They drove on a little farther, and halted in a beautiful spot, by a pool of clear, but brackish water, thickly overhung with bush and trailing plants, where Lilian was delighted with the colony of pendulous finks' nests swaying to and fro as their startled occupants dashed in and out, chirping volubly. Claverton took the horses to the water, then knee-haltered and allowed them to roll while he placed on the ground one of the couple of bundles of oat-hay which were carried in the buggy for their benefit. Then he returned to his charge.

"I must apologise, Miss Strange. The rule of the _veldt_ is not that of society. Here it is, `horses first.'"

He spread the wraps, which kind, thoughtful Mrs Brathwaite had sent for Lilian's use, under a shady tree, making her a comfortable seat. Then he unearthed the commissariat, of which the staple articles were a chicken and a bottle of Moselle.

"But this is far too luxurious," protested Lilian, her beautiful face sparkling with animation. She was thoroughly enjoying the unconventionally of the whole thing. "I declare it does not seem like camping in the bush if we are to revel in luxury."

"Take it easy while you can. That's the secret of true philosophy. The goat chops and pumpkin and rice will come, all in good time."