Chapter Fifteen.
A Quarrel.
So it came that they left behind them the arid rock of Ascension, the murmur of the sea, and all that it spoke to them of tragedy and defeated hopes. They had set out in quest of the Golden Rock, had passed from under the granite walls of Table Mountain, through the vine-clad valleys of the Paarl, up on to the melancholy plateau of the Karroo, crossed the Orange River in the night, sped for a day through the treeless flats of the Free State, and had arrived at Pretoria—a town of strange contrasts, where the low-walled house of the old days stood in the shadow of the lofty modern building, where the slow-moving Boer looked askance at the restless uitlanders—unwelcome visitors from the crowded haunts of Europe.
Before them was the Golden Rock—the “fairy spot,” already glorified by a halo of mystery—the goal of their endeavours, whose brightness lured them on, though they secretly feared it would always elude their grasp; and behind, like a dream vividly remembered, was a vision of a calm sea, and brave men rushing to their death. For them there was no interest in the people around them; but they were observed and discussed with a freedom that did not stick at coarseness.
In the veranda of the principal hotel, after dinner, when the men were smoking over their coffee, and there was no other lady but Miss Anstrade, drinking in the cool of the evening, the conversation grew both free and loud, especially at one corner, where a party of three leant with their backs to a balustrade, and laughed boisterously at each other’s jokes.
“She is an actress,” said one; “I can see that, from the way she manoeuvres her fan.”
“You are wrong, for a fiver. Why, she wears no jewellery!”
“Done with you. I say, Coetzee, step up and ask who she is.”
“Coetzee daren’t do it. Another fiver he does not ask.”
“Stuff, man; you should know better than to dare Coetzee after dinner. Eh, Piet?”
“What is it you say?” asked the third of the noisy group—a tall, powerfully-built young Dutchman. “She looked at me a minute ago, and if it was not an invitation, I’m mistaken in woman.”
“And you know them so well, don’t you?” said the first man, with a sneer.
“None better, although the little barmaid did throw him over for five feet ten of starched collar and eyeglass.”
“You laugh, you skeppsels, but you know well I could take the two of you, one in either hand, and drop you into the street.”
“Oh, yes, you are strong, Piet, as one of your own trek oxen; but all the same, you daren’t speak to that lady.”
“Soh! Look, now!” And Piet, placing his soft hat rakishly on one side, swaggered down the veranda until he faced the group of three, who were calmly oblivious to all around.
“Wie ben u, as ik maj vraa?” said Piet, falling back on his native tongue, as the task revealed unforeseen difficulties under the calm gaze of a pair of magnificent black eyes.
There was a sound of stifled laughter from the corner; but the three people looked past Piet, as though he had not been there, and this disturbed him more than the laughter. He stood shuffling on his big feet a moment, then turned and went back, this time without any swagger, received by an outburst of mocking laughter, which brought a glitter into the eyes of Hume and a flush to Webster’s cheeks, though they both appeared oblivious.
It was not long before Miss Anstrade retired, and then the two friends, rising, went up to the other group.
“Are you men drunk?” said Hume bitterly, “that you behave like blackguards, or is it because you know no better?”
“We are not drunk, sir; but it was a stupid business.”
“Yes, we are sorry.”
“Speak for yourselves!” shouted Piet, “and let me deal with these verdomde uitlanders.” He laid his big hand on Hume’s shoulder, and the next instant there was the sound of a heavy blow, and he was stretched on his back, shaking the veranda, while Hume stood with frowning brows and clenched fist.
“By Jove! that was a clean blow,” said one of Piet’s friends, “and he deserved it.”
“Ay, and so do you,” said Webster sternly.
The two men flushed, then they helped the Dutchman to his feet, and went off with him.
“Frank, shake!”
The two friends shook hands.
“The next time it will be my quarrel. You were too quick for me then.”
“You have to be quick,” said Frank quietly, “when a man like that is about to strike or shoot. Remember that well.”
“I did not think you had it in you to strike such a blow. Do you think there’ll be more trouble?”
“If we remain here there will; but we must get away to-morrow, and place it beyond the power of anyone to annoy Miss Anstrade.”
“Ay, her position is trying. Don’t you think, Frank, we have made a mistake?”
“We have, by all social rules; but surely there can be no harm in friendship.”
“Hang convention and social rules! We have just seen the result of them in the behaviour of these men, who felt themselves at liberty to be impertinent, because she was not the wife or sister of either of us.”
“Even out here in this new land we cannot escape the touch of suspicion, and she feels it deeply. Have you noticed?”
“I have marked a change in her manner lately, as though she had just awakened to the difficulties before her. Shall we ask her to go back?”
“She is very proud, and if we did so she would be deeply humiliated—”
“Well, Frank?”
“I could not bear to lose her.”
“Nor could I.”
They remained for some time silent, looking at the starry heavens, when Hume spoke again.
“We are friends, you and I. When she is with us day by day in the lonely veld we may both of us grow to love her, and how, then, will our friendship bear the strain of rivalry?”
Webster leant forward with a sigh.
“It is best to face the danger,” said Hume, in a low voice.
“I love her already, my lad;” and the sailor threw his head up, with a deep flush in his cheeks. “How could I help it?”
Hume drew in his breath and turned his head away.
“Is that why you came?” he said, with his face still averted.
“Hume, look at me! Ah! you love her also?”
Hume bowed his head.
“And has your love already darkened your heart to me? Lad, you are wrong. God knows I would let nothing come between you and me, still less because of your love for her; but if you are suspicious of me, you have the remedy.”
“And what is that?” asked Hume quickly, suspecting that Webster would offer to draw out.
“Why, marry her now. It is your opportunity. She is distressed, and would see in marriage a way out of the difficulty.”
Hume’s brows cleared; he smiled, and stretched forth his hand.
“No, no,” he said, “that would be taking a mean advantage of her. We know each other’s secret, and let us forget, treating her as our dearest friend, and beloved sister; then when all is done, and she is once more settled, let each do his best to win her.”
“That is fair, Frank; but she is not for me, and I never dreamt she was. You will let nothing come between us.”
“I will try, Jim; but I hope she will leave her fan behind, for the play of it fires my heart.”
“Trust me, I’ll burn it. And she goes with us?”
“Of course; for if she does not, we will never find the Golden Rock, because then neither you nor I would set out to find it.”
The next morning they overhauled their outfit, consisting of a tent waggon, provisions for two months, span of eighteen oxen, and two Kaffir boys—one to drive, the other to lead and look after the oxen.
While engaged packing the provisions in the bed of the waggon to make a level ground for Miss Anstrade’s bed, for this was to be her room, Piet Coetzee, the big Dutchman, with two or three companions, lounged up and criticised the preparations.
“Pay no attention,” whispered Hume; “they want to pick a quarrel, and we would then be locked up to a certainty.”
They went on with their work regardless of the pointed remarks intended for them, and presently Piet and his friends moved off.
“You’ll hear from me again,” said Piet, shaking his fist.
“Did you notice the little dark fellow, Webster?”
“No; but I took the measurement of that mountain of flesh, and by this and that, I’ll put a hitch in his jaw-tackle if ever we meet.”
“Oh, he’s top-heavy—the little fellow is more to be feared. Do you remember the Lieutenant at Madeira?—he was among that group.”
“What! Lieutenant Gobo?”
“The same; and I heard this morning that a party of Portuguese had arrived in Pretoria last week on a political mission. They are in favour with the Government here, and if that little beggar has recognised us, he may play us a trick.”
“Well, then, let us get under way.”
“All right; you remain here by the waggon while I go for Miss Anstrade.”
Before noon the oxen were inspanned, and the waggon moved off. After a “scoff” of ten miles they outspanned, and while they were having their meal under the shade of a canvas awning, or “scherm,” stretched from the top of the tent, two horsemen rode slowly by.
They were Piet Coetzee and Lieutenant Gobo.