The notes came gurgling out under her deft touch, but for once her mind was not in her art. But for the rain she would have taken refuge in some outdoor pursuit; anything, even if it were to climb up to what she called her ‘aerial throne’—dangling between earth and heaven; anything for movement. But the steady rain came down in monotonous drip—drip; moreover, it was a cold rain, and under no circumstance was out-of-doors inviting.
Thornhill sat in his library, and took down book after book, but somehow he, too, could not settle down to his favourite pastime. His thoughts were of this child whom he had always idolised, and still did; yet she repaid him by consistently turning away from him. Perhaps if he had affected a like indifference it might have told—women being what they were. Yet, in this case, he could hardly think so; knowing the nature of the cloud that hung between them; even the venom from beyond the grave, and the effects of which he had hoped that time would dim. But time had not done so.
Then his thoughts took another turn—towards his surviving son, to wit; and, in the result, a great longing to see him again. He, at any rate, did not share Edala’s attitude. His faith in his father was full, frank and perfect; and he made no secret of the fact. Why should he not come down on a visit. These stock-broking chaps at the Rand nearly always hunted in couples like other predatory professionals. Hyland would be sure to have a partner, or someone who could take charge of his job while he was away. He would write to him, and by Jove, this was post day—in fact the boy who rode post over from Elvesdon’s was almost due, only was usually late. However, it didn’t matter: he could be detained.
Thornhill got out sheets of paper. Edala, at the present moment, seemed to be literally obeying his injunctions to ‘thump the keyboard,’ for she was in full swing in the middle of a fine lilting song, to a somewhat thunderous accompaniment, in the other room.
“My dear Hyland,” he began:
“Don’t you feel like a change of air and scene after your ten months of labour in the City of Gold—dust; and that dust all and entirely in the air, save when it’s in the larynxes and lungs of its eighty odd thousand inhabitants—mostly Hebrews? If so, I should think you could get your brother—shark—to take on your share and his own too, of the process of fleecing the child-like and unwary investor—even as you did—between you—of late, in the matter of a certain ancient relative of one of the firm—who shall be nameless—and that on the ground that there were not sufficient Heathen Chinee-s on the mines. Well then, do so, and load up on board the train as soon as you like after receipt of this, and trek down here for as long as you like. Edala is getting a bit hipped. I’m not sure the same doesn’t hold good a little of her—and your—unrespected parent.
“Things here are much the same, except that we’ve got a new man at Kwabulazi in the room of old Carston transferred, as the official letters say—a chap named Elvesdon, an exceedingly wide awake, smart chap, and devilish good company. You’re sure to like him. Old Tongwana often asks after you. We’ve also got a new man here—black—named Mana—”
Thornhill stopped, then carefully erased the last phrase—he did not know why, perhaps it was due to what Edala had called ‘instinct.’ Then he went on—
“There are rows and rumours of rows about possible bother among the people here, mainly over the new poll-tax, as, by the way, you will of course have heard—since all the doings of the known world are known at that hub of the Universe, Johannesburg, about forty-eight hours sooner than they are known—say in London. But it will probably end in smoke. If it doesn’t, such a fire eater as yourself will be more in your element here than there, I should think, after your experiences in Matabeleland, and of the pom-poms of Brother Boer.
“Well, load yourself up on the first train you can capture, old chap, and hasten to smoke the pipe of peace under the welcoming roof of—