And this unknown relative who had written to announce her being—nothing more had been heard of—or from—her. He had expected a wire by return notifying her start, but a week had gone by, ten days, then a fortnight and no wire, not even a letter. Did every member of the feminine persuasion imagine that the universe was built for her sole convenience? was his comment upon the omission to Edala.
The latter suggested that the telegram might have been twisted into a wrong meaning by some chuckle-headed operator; would it not be as well to send another? But her father was in no mood for doing anything of the kind.
“I don’t believe in that theory,” he said. “Here’s a feminine person who writes to know if I can take her in. I reply post haste that I can and welcome, and I hear no more about it. Well, she can stop away if she prefers it. I’m not going routing around to beseech her to come.”
Edala answered that she didn’t care either way. As a matter of fact though enthusiastic enough on the arrival of the unknown’s letter the thing had hung fire. And then, deep down in her innermost mind lay another reason. She would not have admitted it even to herself, but it was there for all that and—it spelt Elvesdon.
The latter had been a good deal over at Sipazi. He was an excellent and astute official, but somehow, while neglecting none of his duties, he had found time and opportunity to make frequent visits, and he was always welcome. Thornhill and his daughter treated him, in fact, as if they had known him all their lives, which caused him intense satisfaction.
He was interested in this girl—indeed by that time powerfully attracted. The fair refined face, the straight fearless eyes, the smile that would light up the whole expression, the merry peal of spontaneous laughter—all this had an effect upon him that was inexpressibly bewitching. He had never seen anyone like her before—no, not in the least like her. That picture of her, standing erect, wide-eyed and fearless, waiting to be of use in the struggle with the monster serpent, had never even begun to fade in his mind. She was grand.
Towards himself Edala for her part was undoubtedly attracted. She looked forward to his visits, and greeted him with unfeigned pleasure when he appeared. He talked so well, and never failed to interest and amuse her. He had been about and had seen so much, and moreover there was a subtle suggestion of strength about him that appealed to her vividly. To most of her male acquaintance Edala assumed a sort of unconscious attitude of stiffening up. The youthful side of it represented to her so many puppies whose eyes had yet to open; the more mature side so many prigs who bored or patronised her. This man did neither. He neither talked up to her, nor down—she would have despised him for the first and resented him for the second. He simply treated her as a rational being with a full share of intelligence and ideas—and no surer road could he have taken towards her approval.
Having said so much it is not surprising that Edala’s feelings as regarded her new relative’s proposed visit should, by this time, have undergone some degree of modification. This stranger—of whose very outward appearance she was entirely ignorant—might conceivably prove one too many, the more so that the stranger was what her father had just described as “a member of the feminine persuasion.” She was not in the least in love with Elvesdon; she was far too evenly balanced to let herself go like that at such short notice. But she felt a strong proprietary interest in him as a friend worth having; wherefore in the background lurked that cloud of half unconscious jealousy. Yet that very jealousy itself ought to have warned her.
Thornhill, watching developments, was anything but displeased. As a Civil servant Elvesdon was not likely to amass wealth, but he was a good official and likely to get on. His personal opinion of the man we have already set forth, and it he had seen no reason to modify. If the present excellent understanding between him and Edala came to anything more permanent, why so much the better.
A fortnight had gone by since Manamandhla’s craving for beef had so nearly brought that enterprising savage to an untimely end: and the Zulu had been comfortably dwelling on the place ever since and showed not the smallest symptom of moving. He made a show of helping here and there, as an excuse for drawing his—plentiful—rations, nor was he ever out of snuff, and he frequently enjoyed other luxuries. But for all this he knew he was living on a volcano.