“Friends,” repeated the voice aloud; the lights re-appeared, a group of people filled the open doorway, and the owner of the mansion—for it was a substantial building of stone—descended the steps, and advancing to the gate, a Hottentot servant following with a lantern, held out both his hands, saying, “Welcome; excuse our caution, friends and countrymen, but it behaves us to be wary; for although the open plains are stretched before us, we have a suspicious kloof to our right, and a chain of hills to our left, which may contain some objectionable neighbours. The mistiness of the night prevented our discovering the character of your cavalcade, nor could we distinguish the usual crack of wagon-whips.”
And no wonder; for the driver of the foremost vehicle was sound asleep, though sitting bolt-upright upon his box, and to Frankfort’s discomfiture, and May’s terror, Piet had not come up. May had collected the whole party together at a great vley some two miles off, and then finding that Piet would not be foremost in the van, had moved to the front as guide.
As it was supposed, however, that he would arrive ere long, though poor May had certain misgivings on the subject, Frankfort and Ormsby gladly accepted Mr Daveney’s welcome, and followed him through, what appeared to them, a garden, for trees bent over the pathway, and the air was burdened with perfume.
Ascending the steps of the house, their host stood at the threshold, and welcomed them again, ushering them, as he did so, into a large sitting-room, which, though dimly lighted, was evidently furnished with some attention to taste and comfort. “We are cautious, you see, in the wilderness,” said the host, and ringing a small hand-bell, he bade an old Griqua, who answered the summons, bring more light, desiring him further to inform the ladies, that the visitors were friends, and to “send Erasmus for the gentlemen’s saddle-bags.”
Frankfort and Ormsby surveyed their host with that interest which only travellers in the desert can feel on opening communion with a countryman and brother-soldier, for Mr Daveney stood avowed “a soldier every inch of him.” The erect carriage, and the kindly, but decided, tone of voice in which he issued his simple orders, proclaimed his profession at once. Of the middle height, of strong but slender frame, his life had doubtless been one of activity and observation: the high, thoughtful brow was divested of its early curls, but the well-shaped head was still partially adorned with crisp grey locks; the eye was blue as heaven, and shone with an honest light; the teeth were perfect, and of that hue indicating a sound constitution; a grey moustache shaded the upper lip, but, smiling as he spoke, a most agreeable impression was conveyed by the contrast of these white and even teeth with the sunburnt face, marked not so much by care, as with those lines which evince a deep sense of man’s duties to himself and others. The close observer will often recognise the difference between the restless attributes of anxiety and the calm thoughtfulness of a mind sensible of its powers and intent on its responsibilities. He makes the discrimination almost imperceptibly to himself, but is not the less guided by the impulse arising from it; and thus Frankfort took the proffered hand of his host with a feeling of interest he seldom accorded to strangers, and responding to the light of the honest eye and hospitable smile, said, as he lifted his hat with the grace of a soldier and a gentleman, yet with his own frank and unaffected manner, “We are officers of the Eighty —th regiment; this is my friend Ormsby, and I am Captain Frankfort.”
A door leading to an inner apartment opened, and a lady, followed by the Griqua servant, bearing lights, entered, and admitting that she had been somewhat agitated, “not alarmed,” by the unexpected arrival of the party, added, that supper would be served up with as little delay as possible.
There followed soon a young lady—yes, a young lady in the wilderness, and the stamp of a gentlewoman was on her and on her mother. No adventitious ornaments of dress, or the absence of them, can give or take away this stamp; be it in the desert, or the court, the English gentlewoman, in humble garb or courtly robe, needs no herald to proclaim her position.
Mother and daughter, in their simple costume of sober hue, were received by our two wanderers with all the courtesy they would have paid “To high-born dames in old ancestral halls.”
Ormsby was most agreeably surprised. Miss Daveney was of a charming height, had fine hair, a gentle voice and winning manner, with a little dash of coquetry, which in girlhood, as the result of innocence, is so bewitching. She admitted, that her alarm had been great, for the news from the colony was startling; her father, as the magistrate of the district, held a situation of difficulty and responsibility; the Kafirs had long been anxious for war, and within a few days, Mr Daveney had been informed, on good authority, that the Dutch in the upper part of the colony would not respond to the manifesto calling on them to assist in the defence of the colony: “in short,” said she—clasping her pretty hands together, in an attitude of thankfulness, as she lifted her clear eyes, honest as her father’s, to Ormsby—“we really have been in some perplexity, and nothing could be more opportune than your arrival. I confess, I had some dread of remaining in the wilderness—yet, what are we to do? My father must not desert his post; never were visitors more welcome.”
And Ormsby fancied—vain Ormsby!—that though the welcome was intended for both travellers, the smile was especially bestowed on him, and a very piquant smile it was.