Volume One—Chapter Twenty One.
Hicks Waxes Intrepid.
“Phew-w!” whistled Hicks, staring in consternation at the scene before him. Then he added in a determined voice: “But I’m going straight over that bridge or down the river, one of the two.”
“Umph! More fool you,” growled his companion. “I’m damned if I am.”
“But look here, Thorman. If we don’t get across now while we’ve a chance, Heaven only knows when we shall. The river’s ‘down’ as it has never been before, and all along the road we have heard nothing but how it’s coming down harder. Every blessed one of the bridges will go, and we shall be stuck on this side, it may be for weeks.”
Thorman made no reply, but sat on his horse scowling ferociously at the flood in front of them.
The spot was a drift on the Great Fish River crossed by an important main road which was one of the principal lines of transport up-country. Some years previously a fine bridge had been thrown across the bed of the river, which at that point was about fifty feet deep and twice the distance in width, thus rendering traffic independent of the rise or fall of the water or the state of the drift—at no time a first-rate one. But although the actual bed of the river was wide and deep, the stream itself was an insignificant trickle, dabbling along over stones, with here and there along sandy reach, after the manner of a North Country trout stream, but without its dash and sparkle. Except in rainy seasons; and then its red turbid waters, swelled by the contributions of numerous confluents and the drainings of the high watershed on either side, tore foaming between their high banks, carrying down drift-wood and trunks of trees in their swift pent-up course. But the bridge, a fine iron one, standing sixty feet from the bottom of the river to its parapet, rendered the transport-riders (carriers) absolutely independent of these floods, as has been said. Whether the stream was almost dry in its bed, or rolling down rocks and tree-stumps, mattered nothing to them now. Instead of the tedious delay of several days on the bank, and then the trouble and risk of crossing a bad, washed-out drift, their waggons rolled as gaily across the bridge as along the road, and they kept on their way as if there was no river there at all. Once or twice since the bridge had been built, the water had risen within a few feet of its roadway; but though an occasional prediction would be made that the river was capable of rising a great deal higher still, yet it had not done so. The bridge was of enormous strength, said they who were most concerned, and would stand against anything.
But now it seemed as if the predictions of disaster were going to be verified. For several days and nights it had rained incessantly; not a series of heavy deluging showers, but a steady, telling downpour. No break had occurred, not even a pause of ten minutes—rain, rain, rain, till people became as accustomed to the continuous fall upon their roofs of zinc or thatch as to the ticking of a clock—and the parched earth, now thoroughly soft and moistened, ran off the superfluous water in streams from every runnel and gully, which emptying themselves into the larger rivers, these in their turn came down in such force as to flood their banks, doing much and serious damage.
And the prospect before the two who sat there on their horses swathed from head to foot in long mackintoshes was, it must be allowed, sufficient justification for Thorman’s retort. An expanse of tossing, swirling water lay in front, and in the middle of this stood the bridge, or rather all that could be seen of it, for its roadway lay at least a foot beneath the surface. The banks of the river were overflowed to some distance, and here it was comparatively smooth; but in the middle the mighty stream rushed on its way with a dulling and ever deafening roar, rolling its huge red waves; curling, hissing, splashing; now heaving up a great tree-stump which, tossing for a moment, and leaping half out like a live thing, disappeared again in the boiling depths; now floating down the carcase of an ox or half-a-dozen drowned sheep. Against the bridge lay jammed an accumulation of drift-wood and logs, which groaned and grated with half-human shriek as the fierce current hurled itself continually upon the obstructing mass, which as yet it was unable to break through.
For sky, a pall of dark rain-cloud—heavy, opaque, and without a break anywhere—resting, in a regular line, low down upon the sides of the high hills on either side of the valley. Not a breath of wind to toss about the showers—nor, indeed, could the term shower apply. A downpour—straight, penetrating, and incessant. On the opposite bank of the river many waggons lay outspanned, their number augmenting as more kept on arriving in twos and fours from up-country, and the cracking of long whips, and the peculiar “carrying” yells of their drivers, were borne through the roar of the flood in front. Though early in the afternoon it was dark and gloomy, and the great rolling river, its red, turbid, hissing surface covered with evidences of damage and destruction, the lowering sky, the oppressive and woe-begone aspect of the surroundings, made up a picture of indescribable weirdness and threatening grandeur. The elements were supreme; man was nowhere.
“Oh, hang it, Thorman,” went on Hicks, impatiently. “You’re not afraid of a little water? I must get home to-night, and it’s now or never.”
The two had left some days earlier to attend a sale a good distance from home; for Hicks, as we have said, was an energetic fellow, and always alive to the main chance. The rain had just begun at the time they started; but they hadn’t bargained for this.
“Well, one damned fool makes two damned fools. Come along then,” growled Thorman. It would never do for it to be said he was afraid—and by a “Britisher,” too.
“That’s the sort, old Baas. I knew you were humbugging,” rejoined Hicks, heartily. He would have gone through more than the present undertaking, though that was no child’s play, when he thought of the alternative—several days’ weary waiting at the wretched little inn just left behind. Why, one evening of it would be too awful. But things gain or suffer by comparison, and now the comparison lay between this contingency and Seringa Vale, a cheerful room, a snug home circle, and—Laura. So quite airily he prepared to risk his life, having persuaded his companion to follow his wise example.
A group of men stood at the water’s edge exchanging speculations on the probable turn of affairs, for a few waggons, bound up-country, lay outspanned on this side, though the large majority, coming down country, were on the opposite bank. They eyed the two travellers inquiringly.
“I say, Mister,” said a tall fellow, with a beard the size of a peacock’s tail, falling over his chest. “You’re never going to try and get through, are you?”
“We are going to do just that,” growled Thorman.
“We are not going to try, but we are going to get through,” asserted Hicks confidently.
“Well, I hope you may,” said the other, “but take my advice and don’t attempt it.”
“I’m going to attempt it, at any rate,” answered Hicks. “Thanks all the same.”
“Much better not,” said another sturdy purveyor. “Joe’s right. There’s nearly a yard of water on the bridge, and the thing’s been cracking and groaning under all that drift-wood. It’ll go any minute, I tell you. I wouldn’t go across for fifty pound. Besides, you’ve got to get to it first, and there’s a lot of water on either side. Better give it up.”
“Oh, I know the road all right, every inch of it,” was the reply. “Come along, Thorman.”
Fortunately for them they did know the road, for on either side of it lay deep fissures and gullies, now, of course, all under water. To flounder into one of these would be just better than getting into the river itself. Still it would be extremely dangerous.
“Well, good-bye,” called out the men on the bank as the two went plashing into the surging water. “So long! We shall meet in the next world.”
A jest which contained more than half the truth for all the likelihood of their ever meeting again in this, and so its utterers knew, perhaps better than the two on whose ears it fell; yet the rough, venturesome life led by these men rendered them reckless and indifferent in the face of danger. They could jest with Death, with his grim hand put out before them.
“Well, now we’re in for it you’d better let me go first,” said Thorman. “I know these rivers better than you do.”
Hicks acquiesced, and they plunged on. As they neared the bridge the current increased in strength, but not yet did they feel anything like its full force.
“Quick! Turn to your right,” shouted Thorman, wheeling his horse. His experienced eye detected one of those deep fissures above mentioned, into which his steed even then nearly slipped. A plunge and a splash, and he was on firm ground again, Hicks following.
And now, as they neared the bridge, the horses began to show signs of terror: snorting and tossing their heads, their eyes rolling wildly as they began to feel the effect of the swift, powerful current flowing round the great piers at the entrance to the bridge, and had the riders lost nerve their doom was sealed. And in truth the situation was somewhat awful, and well calculated to try the strongest nerves. Before them lay the submerged bridge, the water tearing over its roadway so as to hide it completely—to what depth they could hardly guess. Even Hicks began to repent of his headstrong rashness as he looked giddily at the red, heaving flood rearing up its great waves as it thundered against the bridge; but it was too late now, there was no turning back.
“So-ho, boy!—careful!—so-ho!” he cried, patting the neck of his frightened steed, which, terrified at the roar and rush of water through the ironwork, showed signs of backing; but the current upon the bridge shallowing after rather a deep plunge just before reaching it, in a measure reassured the animals.
“Don’t look at the river, Hicks; keep your eyes on your horse, and look only at where you’re going,” said Thorman, in a set, deep voice, speaking over his shoulder; but the warning was nearly lost in the deafening roar of the flood. Overhead, on either side, rose the parapet of the bridge, and, as they splashed along the submerged roadway, every now and then an uprooted tree or a huge stump would be hurled with an appalling crash upon the accumulation of drift-wood which lay against the quivering mass of ironwork. In one place the head of a drowned ox protruded through an aperture as though the animal were looking into a road; having been dashed there by the current, and its body being unable to follow. A bizarre and ghastly sight was this great head, with its fixed, glassy eyes, and yet living aspect, glaring from out of the ruin. But such things as these our adventurers saw as in a dream. All their attention was turned to their horses and their own safety. They could feel the huge structure quiver and shake as they passed along it, and ever in their ears was the stunning, deafening roar of the mighty flood as it boomed beneath and around them.
And now the worst was over. They had gained the other end of the bridge, but before them lay an expanse of submerged land, where the current, if not so strong and deep as on the side they had started from, was at any rate wide enough still to constitute a source of peril in the exhausted state of their steeds. But the bottom was a smooth gentle slope, free from any of the occasional cracks and fissures which had troubled them at first.
“Don’t stop, Hicks! Keep his head up the stream. We’ll be through in a minute!” cried Thorman; and cramming his hat down, he settled himself firmer in the saddle, and struck into the open flood again.
But the horses knew that the worst was over, and kept up bravely, snorting and puffing like traction-engines as they struggled to maintain their footing in the swirling tide. As in a dream, the riders could see a crowd of men at the water’s edge; could hear their cheers of encouragement; then the resistance of the current slackened and ceased, and the exhausted animals walked despondently out, and stood, their dripping flanks panting and heaving, as Hicks and Thorman slid to the ground, little less done up than their steeds.
“I say—did you do that for a bet?” asked one of the crowd which had been standing ready to afford them what assistance they could, as well as to watch an event of some excitement, a perfect godsend to these men delayed there for many tedious days.
“No. Bet be damned,” growled Thorman. “I did it because that fool persuaded me to; and I wouldn’t do it again for a thousand pounds.”
“Oh, hang it, old man, don’t be shirty,” cried Hicks. “We are through now, you know, and the proof of the pudding’s in the eating. Besides, we’ve shown what our horses can do.”
“By the way, Mister, d’you care to part with that same animal?” said a tall, lank transport-rider, critically eyeing Hicks’ steed. “Because I want a horse that ain’t afraid o’ water. I have a lot of drift work to do at times, and that critter o’ yours ’ud just suit me. What’s the figure?”
“Well, no, I don’t,” answered Hicks. “It would be rather rough to get rid of him, just as he’s brought me through that, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, all right,” rejoined the other, good-humouredly, “I’d kind of taken a fancy to him, that’s all. When you do, just drop a line to John Kemp, Salem, Lower Albany.”
The two turned and waved their hats in response to a cheer which arose from the other side.
“Well, we shan’t meet in the next world yet, my friends,” remarked Hicks, with a laugh, referring to the last God-speed hurled after them as they began their perilous crossing. Then, leading their horses, they turned towards the roadside inn, which lay a couple of hundred yards from the river bank, and whose landlord, by reason of the presence of a number of men in a state of enforced idleness, was driving a roaring trade. The inn, or “hotel” as it was usually called, was, this afternoon, in a state of exceeding liveliness, for it was full of transport-riders, making merry—one or two of them, indeed, decidedly “cut,” and in that condition affording huge entertainment to the rest. Ordinarily a sober class of men, they were now indulging through sheer ennui, being driven, as one of them expressed it, “to get on the spree in self-defence,” and to keep their spirits up. So the place rang with the boisterous mirth of many jovial souls, and the air was heavy with the fumes of grog and Boer tobacco which not all the open windows and the door sufficed to carry off. Hicks started, as a dog and an empty whisky-bottle shot past his legs at the same time in the doorway.
“Beg pardon, mate,” cried a giant in corduroy, from across the room, not moving from his place on a dingy sofa, where he sat wedged in among other boon companions. “Sims here bet me I couldn’t hit that Kafir cur on the side of the ear, the loser to stand drinks all round.”
“And, by jingo, you’ve lost,” rejoined Hicks, good-humouredly, “so we claim to cut in to the penalty.”
“Right you are,” cried the other, with a jolly laugh. “What’s it to be—‘French’—Whisky? All right. Here, Sims, whisky and soda for these gentlemen here; Hennessy for me,” and then followed much discussion and questioning among the rest as to what they would take, one rather surly fellow coming near to having his head punched for curtly declining to benefit by the general “treat.”
The hotel-keeper, a thin, wiry-looking man, with grey whiskers and a sharp face, now came forward.
“Where might you be from?” he began. “Want to off-saddle? You see I’m pretty busy just now,” he went on, as if apologising for the delay.
“We might be from the bottom of the river, thanks to this fellow, and we don’t want to off-saddle, because we have,” growled Thorman. He was determined, characteristically, to make the worst of the situation, and resented having been made a fool of, as he phrased it, by Hicks.
“Why, it can’t be that you’ve come across the river?” cried the landlord in amazement.
“The devil it can’t! We have, though, unless we’ve gone down it and got into hell,” fiercely replied the other, with a contemptuous glance around; but the sulky rejoinder was received with a loud laugh by the boisterous but good-natured crew as a capital joke.
“Come through the river?” exclaimed a rough-looking fellow sitting close by. “Here, Mister, you and your friend must have a drink with me. What’s it to be?”
“No fear,” called out the thrower of the bottle. “The gentlemen are going to have one with me, Robins; they can have one with you after. Here, Sims, look alive, trundle up those drinks.”
“Keep your temper, Hallett,” replied the imperturbable landlord. “A man can’t wait on a dozen fellows at once, you see; and there are a precious deal more than a dozen of you here.”
“And devilish glad you are of that same, you old humbug,” retorted the other, cheerily.
“Tell you what it is,” an oracle of “the road” was saying in a loud voice, for the benefit of the assemblage. “That bridge’ll go, I say, before night; but, anyhow, it’s bound to go before morning.”
“Don’t know about that, Bill,” said another. “It’s a good strong bit of iron, and my opinion is that it’ll hold out.”
“It won’t, though. It’ll never stand the crush of drift-wood that’s against it now. And, mind you, the river’s coming down harder nor ever it was—I know. It’s raining like blazes up the country, far more’n it is here, and what with the Tarka and the Little Fish and half-a-dozen other streams besides, emptying into this, the bridge is bound to go. Mark my words.”
“Well, p’raps you’re right, Bill. We haven’t had such a flood as this in my time, and I’ve known this road, man and boy, for over fifty years. Still I should have thought the bridge’d stand. It’s a good bit of iron. But what do you say, Mister?” he added, appealing to Thorman. “You’ve just come over it, I hear.”
“What do I say? Why, that the damned thing won’t hold out till night,” was the gruff reply. “It jumped about like a twenty-foot swing while we were on it. And the fool that made it ought to be strapped upon it now, say I.”
“I’ve known one flood bigger than this, but that was before your time,” observed a wiry-looking little man, with white hair and a weasel-like face, self-complacent in the consciousness of having the pull over the two last speakers, and, indeed, over most of those present. “That was the time poor Owens was drowned. The river rose to within a foot of where we are sitting now before it went down again.”
“Who was Owens, and how was he drowned?” inquired Hicks, spotting an episode.
“Who was Owens?” repeated the old man, placidly filling his pipe. “A fool; because he thought he was smarter than any of us, and thought he could cross the river when we couldn’t. He went in on horseback. The river was running just as it was to-day, only not quite so deep. He went down, as a matter of course, before he was half-way through.”
“Couldn’t any of you help him?” asked Hicks.
The old fellow glanced up with a look of silent contempt for any one capable of putting such a question. Then he calmly struck a match and lighted his pipe, and having done so he continued:
“The river was full of drift-wood, and we saw one big tree bearing down upon Owens full swing. We hollered out to warn him, but the water was kicking up such a row that he couldn’t hear, nor would it have helped him much if he had. Well, the tree came bang against him, entangling him and the horse in the branches. They rolled over and over; and tree, and horse, and Owens disappeared. We never saw him again, but the next I heard of him was that his body had been found a week afterwards, when the water had run off, sticking in the bed of the river, among the drift-wood down Peddie way.”
“Poor devil,” exclaimed several of his auditors.
“No one but a fool would have gone into the river at all,” concluded the old man, sententiously, as he tossed off the remainder of his grog.
“I say, Thorman, we must be going,” said Hicks.
“All right,” replied that worthy, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and rising to his feet.
“Oh, but you needn’t be off yet,” objected he addressed as Hallett. “Stay here with us and make a night of it; you can go on in the morning.”
But Hicks was firm. It was not for this he had risked his life.
“Awfully sorry, old man, but I must get back to-night.”
“Hang it! Well, then, have another drink—just an ‘off-setter,’” persisted the other. “No? Well, then, good-bye. If you’re round my way any time, mind you give us a look up. We’ll get up a buck hunt, and some fun of some sort. Ta, ta! Take care of yourself. But you’re well able to do that now, I should think.”
They settled for their horses’ forage, and going round to the stable, saddled-up, and were soon on their way; the steeds, after a good feed and a rub down, looking none the worse for their gallant efforts in crossing the perilous flood. And a carious sight was that which the neighbourhood of the drift presented as they rode forth. In every direction waggons were outspanned, standing in rows of six or seven, or in twos and threes, according to the number owned by or in charge of any one man, but everywhere waggons. A few were empty, but most of them were loaded high up with wool-bales, sent from up-country stores to the seaboard—or with hides, and horns, or other produce—for it was before the days of railroads, and the carrying trade was abundant and thriving. Their owners stood about in knots, watching the gathering flood; others passed to and from the inn. Some again sat stolidly by their fires smoking their pipes as they waited for the pot to boil, while a cloud of native servants—drivers and leaders—hung about the canteen or lolled by the fires, the deep bass of the manly Kafir mingling with the shrill chatter of Hottentots and Bastards (Note 1). A kind of twilight had come on prematurely, by reason of the lowering sky, and the red watch-fires glowed forth, and the crowd of waggons, considerably over a hundred, standing about, gave the place the appearance of a mining-camp, or a commissariat train halted while on the march. And every now and then, more waggons would come lumbering over the rise, the cracking of whips and the harsh yells of their drivers echoing through the heavy air.
“Hi! Here! Where the hell are you coming to? Can’t you keep the right side of the road, instead of the side of the bullocks, damn you?”
The voice proceeded from an unkempt and perspiring individual, in flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, who, wielding his long whip, walked beside a full span of sixteen oxen, the motive power of a mighty load of wool-bales. So insolent and aggressive was it in its tone, that even good-natured Hicks, to whom the query was addressed, and than whom a less quarrelsome fellow never lived, was moved to anger, and answered the incensed transport-rider pretty much in the same strain.
“Oh, so you think I ought to get out of your way, do you?” roared the other.
“I think you might be civil, confound it all!” fumed Hicks.
“Suppose I ought to say ‘sir,’ eh?” went on the other, in wrathful, sneering tones.
“Oh, go to the devil,” cried Hicks, fairly boiling over; “I’ve no time to stay jawing here all night with you,” he added, contemptuously, making as if he would ride on.
“Haven’t you? Just get down; I’ll soon show you who’s the best hand at jawing, and at hitting, too. Come down here and try, if you’re not a blanked coward!” yelled the fellow. He thought that the other was afraid of him; but he reckoned without his host.
“Oh, that’s your game, is it?” cried Hicks, springing to the ground, and throwing off his mackintosh. “Come on, I’m your Moses.” And he advanced towards the irate transport-rider, looking him fall in the eyes.
The fellow, who now saw that he had a tough customer to deal with, began to repent of his hastiness, and would fain have backed out of the scrape into which his insolent, overbearing temper had led him, but it was too late to decline the contest, for several of his contemporaries, attracted by the prospect of a row, had gathered round. So he rushed at his opponent, hitting out blindly, right and left. But Hicks, who knew something of “the art of self-defence,” and was of sturdy, powerful build besides, found no difficulty in parrying this unscientific attack. Then with a well-planted “one—two,” straight from the shoulder, he landed his adversary in a heap on the slippery, trodden-down grass by the roadside.
“He’s down—give him law,” cried one of the bystanders. “Who is it? What’s it all about?”
“Dick Martin,” answered another voice. “He cheeked t’other fellow, or t’other fellow cheeked him, it don’t matter which; so they’re having it out. Get up, Dick, and go in at him again.”
But Dick manifested no such inclination. He raised himself half up and sat glowering stupidly around, as if dazed. His nose was bleeding, and a huge lump over his eye betokened pretty plainly that he would wake on the morrow with that useful organ somewhat obscured.
“Never mind. Get up and have another try, man,” called out the last speaker.
“He can’t; he’s had enough. T’other’s been one too many for him,” said some one else. And he had.
Hicks, who was far too good-hearted a fellow to exult over a fallen foe, however great the provocation received, said nothing. He lingered a moment to see if his adversary would show any sign of renewing battle, and then began to mount his horse. Just then a loud shout went up from the water’s edge about four hundred yards below them. All turned.
“The bridge! It’s going!” cried some one.
The spot where they stood, being on an eminence, overlooked the river, and they could see the strong ironwork of the parapet bend to the ponderous mass of accumulated drift-wood heaped against it. It yielded—then snapped; and with a thunder-crash sounding loud above the continuous roar of the flood, the vast obstruction of débris bore it down. A huge wave reared its head many feet in the air, and fell with a mighty hiss, covering the rushing surface with seething foam. Then, the obstruction removed, the mighty river hurled itself forward, its horrible, many-tongued voices bellowing as if in savage joy at having overthrown and defeated the works of human ingenuity. All that could now be seen of the once fine bridge was a few strands of twisted ironwork clinging about what remained of the piers at each of its ends.
“Let’s give the old bridge three cheers,” cried one of the spectators. “She’s been a good friend to us, and now we shall be put about as we were before for the want of her.”
They did so; and a great shout went up from the outspan, echoing far along the sides of the darkening hills, where the lowering rain-clouds rested in an unbroken pall. The bridge had been a good friend to them, and now it was gone they would sorely feel the want of it for some time to come, until another should replace it, which might not be for years. So they cheered right heartily; but with a feeling of genuine regret.
Meanwhile, at Seringa Vale, everything was at a standstill. The stock was kept at home, and in the soaked kraals the sheep stood huddled together, stolidly chewing the cad, and looking very forlorn in the dripping rain. But their owner’s watchful eye was everywhere, as, wrapped in a waterproof coat, he moved about, noting where it became necessary to cut a channel for the drainage of a fast accumulating body of water which threatened damage, and all hands would be turned out with spade and pick for this and such like duty. Even he was more than satisfied with the rainfall this time, and now and then cast an anxious look at the weather quarter.
“I don’t think I ever saw the kloof so full as this before, and it’s still rising,” he said.
“No?” answered Claverton, who was meditatively jerking a pebble or two across the broad, surging rush of water in front of them. “All the rivers in the country must be tolerably well down. Why, the bridges will never stand.”
“No, they won’t. If it goes on like this till morning there won’t be a bridge left in the country, that’s my opinion. There’ll be a heap of damage done besides. Well, we can’t do anything more now, and it’s getting dark,” and they turned towards the house.
Very cosy and cheerful looked the interior of that domicile, as a few minutes later, Claverton found his way thither, and got into dry clothes. No one was about—wait—yes—there was some one in the inner room. It was Lilian. She had been reading, and was seated by the window with her book open in her hand, just as the twilight and then the darkness had surprised her.
“Trying to read in the dark? Worst thing possible for the eyes,” he said. “What have you been doing with yourself all day?”
She turned to him.
“Very much what you see me doing now—reading and—dreaming.”
“The best possible occupation for a day like this. I’ve been doing the latter—dreaming,” he said.
“You? Why, you have been hard at work all day,” said she. “I’ve been watching you walking about in the rain with a spade, and pitying you for being so uncomfortable, while we were all sitting indoors, dry and warm.”
“Pitying me?”
“To any extent,” she answered, looking up at him with a bright smile.
He bent over her. “Yes, I was dreaming—of such a moment as this.”
She did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on the gloom without and the soft falling rain. Oh, the continuous drip, drip of that ceaseless rain throughout this livelong day, turning the daylight into dusk, and beating time in her heart to the echoes of the past! And throughout it all was a vague, indefinable longing for this man’s presence. The enforced imprisonment in the house had been doubly irksome without him, and at last she had been constrained to own it to herself. Once she had seen him coming towards the door, and all unconsciously had made ready such a bright smile of welcome; but he had turned back, and the smile had faded, and a chill, sickly feeling around her heart had taken its place. What right had she to feel thus, she thought? In a few weeks they would part as friends, acquaintances, nothing more, and then—well, at any rate he knew the worst. But now as he found her in the darkening twilight, her heart gave a bound, and her voice assumed a dangerous tenderness as she replied to him.
“The rain has been very cruel,” he went on. “I couldn’t catch so much as one stray glimpse throughout the whole afternoon. If you are blockaded indoors, you might look out of the window now and then.”
“Why, I’ve done nothing else. And you, did you get very wet?” And there is a little inflection as of anxiety in her voice as she raises her eyes to his.
“Don’t let’s talk about me, but about a far more interesting subject—yourself. Haven’t you been frightfully bored to-day?”
“Well, I have rather—at least, I mean, I oughtn’t to say that, but one gets rather low sometimes, you know, even without much cause, and I’ve been so to-day,” she answered, her tone relapsing into one of dejection, and he, standing there beside her, began to feel deliriously happy, though well knowing that it was for the moment. But the gloaming was about them, and they were alone together. What more could he—could they—want?
A light flashed from the other room; then a sound of voices. It was not exactly a blessing that Claverton gulped down, as some one was heard calling:
“Lilian. Are you there? It’s supper-time. Why, what has become of her?” added the voice, parenthetically.
Lilian started as if from a reverie. “Here I am,” and she rose hastily. Claverton was not the only one who watched her as she came out into the light, but the serene, beautiful face was as calm and unmoved as if she had been in their midst all the time.
Very cheerful and homelike looked the lighted room, and the table with its hissing tea-urn, and knives and forks and dish-covers sparkling on the snowy cloth. Very bright and exhilarating in contrast to the wet, chill gloom without, and to those two, who had been at work in the rain all day, especially so.
“The flood will do no end of damage,” Mr Brathwaite was saying, as he began to make play with the carving-knife. “There’ll be lots of stock swept away, I fear, and the homesteads along the river banks stand a good chance of following.”
“That’s cheerful, for their owners,” remarked Claverton. “I should think old Garthorpe’s place would be one of the first to go.”
“Serve him right, I was nearly saying. He doesn’t deserve to own a good farm like that—always preaching to the Kafirs instead of looking after it.”
“Is he a missionary?” asked Lilian.
“No. He ought to be, though. He’s quite humbug enough.”
“Tsh!” laughed Mrs Brathwaite. “Lilian will think you a regular heathen.”
“Can’t help it,” retorted the old man. “I know what I’m talking about, which is more than everybody does who professes to give an opinion on the subject. Any grocer’s boy, who in England would never get further than a shop-counter, makes a fine good trade of it by coming out here to ‘preach the Gospel’ to the heathen. It’s less trouble and pays infinitely better. What is the consequence? Kafirland is chock-full of bumptious, uneducated, hypocritical scamps, who live on the fat of the land, and are never happy unless meddling with what doesn’t concern them. All the disturbances which crop up from time to time, are hatched and fomented by these rascals. Call themselves teachers, indeed! What do they teach their lambs? To keep their hands off their neighbours’ property? Not a bit of it. And what missionary ever stuck to his post when war did break out, I should like to know? Not one. They clear out in time to save their own skins, never fear, and sneak off to befool the British public, while we are defending our lives and property. A set of meddlesome, mischief-brewing, slander-mongering frauds. They are the curse of the colony.”
On this congenial theme the old man continued to descant for some time. Then the tread of horses was heard outside, and the arrival of Hicks and Thorman created a diversion.
“So the bridge has gone,” said Mr Brathwaite, dropping the missionary question. “I thought it would. It should have been built ten feet higher from the first. This flood, though, is a flood, and no mistake. I only remember one like it.”
“Ha, ha?” laughed Thorman, who was quite in a genial mood. “You should have seen Hicks pitching into a transport-rider. He doubled him up by the roadside like a ninepin.”
“And how would he double up a ninepin, Mr Thorman?” queried Ethel, mischievously.
Meanwhile, Hicks looked sheepish. “I couldn’t help it,” he said. “The fellow challenged me.”
As predicted, the flood did an immense amount of damage. Every bridge was torn away by the force of the waters, as if it had been a bit of stick. Homesteads by the river-side flooded or swept away; gardens and corn lands swamped and utterly laid waste; every runnel or golly washed out as clean as a tube, the piles of drift-wood and rubbish, deposited here and there on their banks, alone showing the height to which the waters had risen. And when in a few days the rain ceased, and it was practicable to ascertain the fall extent of devastation—though even then in parts of the veldt it was impossible to ride with any safety or comfort, for a horse would sink knee-deep in the spongy soil—the land was noisome with the carcases of drowned animals, sheep and goats lying by tens and by twenties rotting in the sun in roadway and golly.
Note 1. Hottentots with an admixture of white blood are thus known in Colonial parlance.