“But will my poor wife be able to stand the voyage?” the anxious husband inquired, glancing from one doctor to the other. “She is lamentably weak, you know.”
“True—very true!” assented Brownjohn, pursing his lips. “But let us hope for the best—yes, my dear sir, let us hope for the best! While there’s life—while there’s life!—hum! Pray, what is your opinion, Mr Spike?”
“That it is her only chance,” bluntly responded Mr Spike. “And hark ye, Major, take Mrs F to Newman—John Newman of Saint Margaret’s Square. He is not a fashionable doctor, but there’s not a more clever fellow in the whole College of Physicians, and what is better, he has had wonderful experience in intricate cases. If any man can pull your wife through this illness it is John Newman!”
And thus it came to pass that Major and Mrs Flinders started for England by the next steamer, their daughters accompanying them.
Now shortly before this trouble befell the Major he and Mr Weston (after much consideration and careful weighing of pros and cons) had, with the approval of Mrs Flinders, made up their minds to migrate to Ralfontein and enter into partnership with Captain Jamieson; and the former was on the point of closing with a most advantageous offer for Rustenburg Farm, when his wife’s illness upset their plans and drove all other ideas from their heads.
In fact, nothing more was said concerning the projected migration until Doctors Brownjohn and Spike advised that Mrs Flinders should be taken to England. The Major then suggested that (as the above-mentioned offer still held good) Rustenburg should be sold forthwith, and that the Westons and Tom should proceed to Ralfontein as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made. To this proposal Mr Weston gave a ready consent; and accordingly he, Gracie, and the two boys, attended by Patrick Keown and Black William, started for Ralfontein a fortnight after the mail steamer sailed from Table Bay; and at the time the present chapter opens they had been with the Jamiesons upwards of six months.
And now we can go ahead with our “plain unvarnished tale” without any more “backing and filling.”
It is a chilly evening in the early part of the Cape autumn, (March, April, and May are the autumn months in South Africa), and Captain Jamieson and his family are gathered round a blazing castange hout fire in the general sitting-room of Ralfontein House. The captain looks anxious and fatigued, as well he may do, for he has just returned from Graham’s Town, whither, ten days before, he was summoned by the Lieutenant-Governor of the Eastern District to attend a “palaver” with some troublesome Caffres; and he has ridden upwards of 100 miles over a difficult country in less than fourteen hours—not bad work for a man who will never see sixty again!
“So we’re in for another Caffre war!” Frank Jamieson said when his father informed them that the result of the “palaver” had been far from satisfactory. “That makes the third in sixteen years, to say nothing of minor affairs.”
“I suppose the Caffres have grown ‘fat’ again,” observed young James.