Читать книгу The Fire Trumpet - Mitford Bertram - Страница 15

“Of course you know the place well?”

“Every inch of it. Two thousand morgen, rather over. What did you say Van Rooyen asks for it?”

“Three thousand. Probably he’d take less.”

“Far too much. It isn’t particularly good veldt; sheep don’t do well there, and the place is nearly all bush. And then there’s that stony hill right over the river, about one-fifth of the whole area. What sort of house is it?”

“A classic tenement meriting the veneration of the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings.”

“Humph! You’d better have nothing to do with the concern.”

The above dialogue took place about three weeks after the events recorded in the former chapter, the speakers being Claverton and his host, who were returning from a ride.

“You have made up your mind to settle here, then?” went on the latter.

“Yes, I’ve taken rather a fancy to this part of the country.”

“H’m! Well now, I’ll tell you what I think. Don’t you be in too great a hurry to buy; there’s nothing like keeping your eyes open a bit first, and biding your time. Plenty of these fellows would be very glad to clear out. The Dutchmen round here are mostly a bankrupt lot, living from hand to mouth, and you’ll soon be able to make your own terms and get a much better place than Springkaan’s Hoek, which old Van Roozen, by the way, has done his best to spoil.”

“But do you know of another place about here that would be likely to suit me?”

“Not at present—that is, not one that’s in the market. But I’ve been thinking, why not stop on here a bit and help me? You’d get into practice and learn your craft, so to say. You see, at present you know precious little about it, though you’re quicker at picking up wrinkles than most new hands who come out. I’m getting old now and am beginning to feel it, and can’t look after things as much as I should like them to be looked after. As for Hicks, he’s a smart fellow enough, but then he can’t be everywhere at once, and as it is he has his hands full. Now between you and him, all might be kept going, which would be a great help to me, and, as I said before, you would get the experience you want before setting up on your own account. And it’s not enough to see things done, the great thing is to know how to do them yourself. We do a little of everything here, as you see, and I don’t think you could be much better placed for learning to farm,” added the old man, with a touch of pardonable pride.

Claverton readily closed with this offer. Already during his stay he had done many a hand’s turn, helping Hicks to look up missing stock, or seeing to odd jobs about the homestead when that invaluable majordomo was out of the way; and his host’s practised eye had gauged his capabilities, seeing that he had all the makings of a first-rate colonist. The advantage of this offer Claverton could tell at a glance was all on his own side.

“You see,” pursued Mr Brathwaite, “farming now is not what it was. You needn’t expect to make a fortune at it, but still you can always make a very decent living, and then the position is a thoroughly independent one, the life a free and healthy one, you are absolutely your own master and need care for nobody. Times are very far from what they used to be, I admit; stock is more expensive, and there are more drawbacks in the way of bad seasons, diseases, long droughts and used-up veldt; but even then a good farmer can always manage to keep above water, and in a fairly prosperous season can forge ahead. Look at me: I’ve been burnt out, stick and stone, by the Kafirs in three successive wars, and have had to begin life over again, yet I’ve always got on. The secret of it is to look after everything yourself. It won’t do to set your people to work and go away expecting them to do it, you must off with your jacket and work with them. And you must be here, there, and everywhere at once, Kafirs want continual looking after; directly they begin to think the ‘Baas’ is getting careless, good-bye to anything going straight. I don’t mean to say that you must always be finding fault with them, they are naturally stupid devils and you can’t make them anything else; but you can let them see that you’ve got your eye on them and will stand no nonsense. The great thing is to keep your temper with them, and, above all, to treat them fairly but firmly. Then again, you must make up your mind to being out in all weathers. The heavier and the colder the rains, the more certain are the Kafirs to huddle in their blankets under a bush or before a fire, and leave the flock to take care of itself. With the result that at nightfall about a third of it is missing and remains out in the veldt for the benefit of the jackals and wolves; what these leave perhaps stray to some Dutchman’s place, and when you get them again you find that they are covered with brand ziekte (scab) from his miserable brutes. As I say, there are drawbacks innumerable, but it rests with yourself to minimise them.”

“Yes; I quite grasp the situation in all its bearings.”

“Very well, then, that’s settled, and I think you’ll have reason to see that my plan is the best.”

They were nearing home now, and the sun, which was about an hour above the horizon, shed a soft, golden lustre upon the broad, sloping plains and on shining cliff and undulating vale, with many a dark patch of forest here and there. The peak of the Great Winterberg, his snowy cap now removed—sleeping in a filmy haze against the horizon, and the lofty backs of his lesser satellites purple and gold as they stood in the shade or in the sun—formed a grand and effective background to the picture, the beautiful range stretching from east to west, far as the eye could travel. Beneath lay the homestead, reposing among its shadowy trees, looking the very abode of peace and prosperity. Scarcely a breath of wind to ruffle the balminess of the air, nor a sound to create one, save for the occasional droning hum of some insect, while now and again the soft mellow note of a hoopoe sounded through the slumbrous dimness of the far distance. Looking upon this vista of rest and stillness, and in the midst of its influences, it was hard to realise that the red tide of war could ever engulf this fair land, and its fierce and jarring clangour break rudely upon such quiet calm.

On their return they found a visitor awaiting them. This was one Will Jeffreys, a sturdy, broad-shouldered fellow of five-and-twenty, with rather a heavy expression of countenance bordering on the sullen. A man who was shrewd enough as regarded all matters directly in his line, but would have a difficulty in grasping a very ordinary joke, and who was totally deficient in appreciation of aught beyond the humdrum and practical. A man who might be a good fellow at bottom, but certainly was a crusty dog on the surface. He was the son of the neighbour referred to in the foregoing chapter, as having brought the girls to Seringa Vale, and was well-to-do. But in one respect, at least, Will Jeffreys wandered out of his natural groove. He had a genuine admiration for Ethel Brathwaite, whom he had met on previous occasions of her staying at her uncle’s, and though he had returned home only that morning, had saddled up his horse and ridden over, under pretext of consulting Mr Brathwaite about a certain span of oxen which he thought of buying—most transparent of pretexts, which his good-natured father saw through at once, and went into fits of laughter over as soon as his hopeful’s back was turned.

“Poor Will!” he would say to himself, “he’s only singeing his wings. He hasn’t the ghost of a chance in that quarter.”

“Poor Will” certainly had not the ghost of a chance, for Ethel in no wise reciprocated his admiration, though she would accept his homage carelessly and half unconsciously at one time, and ruthlessly snub him at another, particularly when the admiration became too open and undisguised. Now it so happened that that afternoon they had been discussing the latest importation in all his bearings, with the result that young Jeffreys greeted Claverton with no great show of cordiality when the two were introduced. Nor was it increased by Ethel’s remark: “At last, Mr Claverton! I thought uncle and you were never coming back. Why, you’ve been out nearly the whole day.”

“Well, Will,” said the old settler, heartily. “Had a good trip?”

“Yes, very good on the whole, thanks. It’s rather dry up Colesberg way, and the locusts have been bad there, but my oxen were in good order, and I came through quick.”

He had just returned from a transport-riding trip up the country.

“H’m! By the way, did your father manage to get back his horses?”

“No. He and Bob followed them as far as Tembani. The fellows had got a forged pass (Note 1) and walked through right under the agent’s nose. After that the spoors separated; the thieves had taken two of the horses in the direction of the Tambookie country, the other towards Sandili’s; and, of course, at every kraal they inquired at—for the spoor was soon lost—the headmen did their best to put them on the wrong track, although they set up to be no end sympathetic. We’ve got a spy down in the Gaika location, but a fat lot of good he’ll do; he’s sure to be in league with the rest,” growled Will, who was not in the best of humours.

“No, you can’t do much when the whole country is in league against you. We’re quite at their mercy. I’m afraid you’ll never see a hoof of them again,” said the older man.

“Of course not. Three as good all-round horses as we ever had on the place, though Bles was a dev—er—a brute for bucking, at times. By-the-bye, Mr Brathwaite, there seems to be an awful lot of stock-lifting going on just now. Seven of Dirk van Heerden’s best cows cleared off last week, and not a head of them has he been able to get back, except one which had dislocated its shoulder, and the niggers assegaied it to save its life.”

“Well, it’s time to count the sheep. You’ll stay to night, Will?”

He was delighted.

“Er—thanks—I—er, that is—”

“All right. Better put your horse in the enclosure; only mind the bird.”

“How tiresome that Will Jeffreys is getting!” remarked Ethel that evening, as some of them were standing outside in the garden. “Listen to him prosing away in there.”

“Ssh! He’ll hear you,” said Laura.

“I don’t much care. He comes over to see us, and instead of trying to amuse one he bores us with tiresome yarns about this Dutchman losing his cows and that Dutchman finding his horses.”

“But what on earth do you want him to tell you about?” asked Hicks.

“Why, some of the news, of course. The gossip, scandal, engagements, and so forth.”

“But he don’t know anything about that sort of thing, so how can he tell you about it?” said Hicks.

“Oh, you’re just as bad. Do go and join him and hear about Dirk van Heerden’s cows. Please take my part, Mr Claverton. Isn’t Will Jeffreys a bore?”

“Haven’t been long enough in his company to answer with any certainty. Will let you know later.”

“How provoking you are! Now I appeal to all of you. If you see me cornered by Will Jeffreys, come to the rescue.”

“The greatest bore I ever knew,” began Claverton, “was a lady—an elderly lady. She would volunteer instruction on any and every subject under heaven, from the precise length of Aaron’s beard, to the cost of soup-kitchens; and once she cornered you, you had to listen or pretend to. One day she cornered me. It was in the drawing-room, and there was no escape; but there was a clock opposite. It occurred to me to time her. For exactly twenty-one minutes she prosed on uninterruptedly, like a stream flowing over its bed; never stopped to take breath once. A sermon was a joke to it. Twenty-one minutes! Heaven knows how much longer she would have gone on, but for a lucky interruption.”

“What was she prosing about?” said Ethel.

“I haven’t the very faintest idea.”

“Well, I don’t believe a word of the story. I believe you made it all up.”

“You don’t believe a word of that story?” said Claverton, with a stare of amazement, while Hicks and Laura went into fits.

“No, I don’t; at least, I’ll say this much—you may have known such a bore, but if so it was a man, not a lady.”

“I’ve told you a bare fact, upon my honour. But if—”

They were interrupted by the appearance on the scene of Jeffreys himself; but Ethel was too quick for him. She had seen him coming, and was already on her way indoors. Then she began to sing duets with Laura, whom she had manoeuvred to the piano by some mysterious signal. Young Jeffreys, feeling very sulky and sore at his enslaver’s capriciousness and want of consideration, went and sat by himself at the other side of the room, whence he could watch the author of his discomfort. The old people, under no necessity to talk, waxed drowsy, and nodded through the music. Presently Laura left the piano and, in a trice, she and Hicks were deep in an animated conversation in a low tone and in a snug corner, under pretence of looking through a pile of music. Ethel the while was extracting wondrous combinations from the keys, under cover of which she was carrying on a sharp running fire of banter, or rather word-skirmish, with Claverton.

Jeffreys, watching them, was on thorns and tenterhooks. Who the deuce was this stranger? A month ago no one had ever heard of him, and now here he was, with his damned finicking ways and smooth tongue, thinking that all the world was made for him. A fellow, too, he’d be bound to say, that with all his easy-going blarney, couldn’t sit a bucking horse, or hit a haystack at ten yards. Yet there was Ethel carrying on furiously with this fellow, while he, Jeffreys, was sent to the wall. In reality, however, there was nothing that those two were saying that all the world—Jeffreys included—would not have been perfectly welcome to hear.

“Claverton,” suddenly exclaimed Hicks, as two hours later they were discussing the usual pipe before turning in. Jeffreys had joined them, but did not add much to the conversation. “I hear you’re going to stay on here.”

“Yes, I am.”

Jeffreys’ jaw fell at this announcement. He had been laying balm to his wounded spirit in the thought that this interloping stranger would soon be going, and then—well, the field would be clear again.

“Glad to hear it, old fellow, awfully glad. By Jove, it’s the best news I’ve heard for a long time.”

“The deuce it is! And why, may I ask?”

“Why? Only hear him! Haven’t I had to do everything by myself, and knock about by myself? No fellow to talk to at work, or to go out and sneak a buck with, or to blow a cloud with at night, and so on. Now we’ll have a rare good time of it together.”

“Especially when you go down to feed the ostriches,” said Claverton, with a mischievous laugh.

The other coloured and looked foolish, and was about to make some stammering reply.

“Never mind, Hicks,” said Claverton, in that wonderfully attractive manner which he now and then exhibited, “I don’t think you and I will quarrel. Now I’m going to turn in. Good-night. Good-night, Jeffreys.”

“I say,” inquired Jeffreys, after he had gone out. “Is that cattle-branding on to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think I’ll stay and give you a hand, if Mr Brathwaite doesn’t mind. Times are slack, and there’s nothing doing at home.”

“Rather—mind you do; we’ll be only too glad,” answered Hicks with a yawn, as he blew out the candle; and in five minutes more a mild snore or so showed that he was out of reach of any further conversation.

Jeffreys lay and ruminated. Here, at any rate, he would be in his element. What sort of a figure would that stuck-up, priggish fool—again, reader, pardon a jealous man—cut in the cattle kraal among the clashing horns and the charging of maddened beasts, and all the dash and excitement of a piece of very rough work, by no means unattended with danger? He was all there in the drawing-room; but where would he be at this? And Jeffreys dropped off to sleep with a sardonic grin upon his countenance, to dream of his rival—for so he had already begun to regard Claverton—losing nerve, and being tossed and trampled by the wildest brute in the herd. As to the fulfilment of which benevolent expectation the morrow would show.

Note 1. No native is allowed to remove stock from the colony without a pass granted by his late employer to certify that he acquired it lawfully. This pass is countersigned by the various magistrates and native agents along the road.