“It is to Hyland. I know it is. And you are telling him to come. You are, father? Say you are. Do you hear? Say you are.”
“Oh, keep cool,” ironically, for she was still shaking him by the shoulders. “Learn to trust in—the fulness of time.”
It may be that the double meaning was not lost on her. But at that moment there befel an interruption. The dogs at the back of the house had sprung up and were barking furiously.
“Post, I suppose?” said Thornhill going to the window.
“There! I thought it was to Hyland!” cried Edala, who took the opportunity of snatching up the letter, which lay face downward on the table, and reading the address. “You are telling him to come, aren’t you?”
“Time will show,” he answered teasingly. “But telling him’s one thing, whether he’ll do as he’s told is another. A lifelong experience of him, and, incidentally, of his sister, would move me to bet on the latter contingency.”
A trampling of hoofs and then the postboy appeared, mounted on an undersized pony and clad in a long military surtout of ancient date. The rain was dripping from the ragged brim of his battered hat, but this affected him not at all, for his black shining face split into a dazzling white grin as he raised his hand in salute. The dogs, who knew him, had retreated, muttering, as though resenting being done out of hostilities; though even now they were sniffing around his utterly indifferent legs, not altogether reassuringly, as having dismounted he came to the door.
“Well Gomfu—what is the news?” said Thornhill, taking the leather bag.
“News? Au! Nkose will find all his news in there.”
“But nearer than that. Here, I mean.”