A Veldt Vendetta

It will always linger in my memory, that peaceful, utterly uneventful stroll. The flaming wheel of the westering sun was drawing down to the farther ridge as we came in sight of the tree-embowered homestead, with a soft blue smoke-reek or two curling up into the still air. The bleat of the returning flocks was borne to us from the distance; and, approaching along a bush path which should converge with ours, came half a dozen Kafirs of both sexes, walking single file, the red ochre colouring their blankets and persons harmonising not uneffectively with the prevailing green of the surroundings, while the full tones of their melodious language – the deep bass of the males and the rich pleasing inflection of women’s voices as they conversed – added an additional note of completeness to the closing beauty of a typical African day. And within my mind was the all-pervading thought that this day was but the beginning of many such; that the next, and the morrow, and the day after, that would be brightened and illuminated by the same sweet companionship – even that of her who was now beside me; that each day’s occupation would be sweetened and hallowed by the thought that we were dwellers beneath the same roof – and then – and then – who could tell? Ah, it was one of those periods that come to some of us at a time in our lives when imagination is fresh, and heart and mind unseared by shattered illusions, and the corroding gall of latter days not even so much as suspected then.

“Hullo!” I exclaimed, catching sight of a third figure strolling beside Brian and his father, “Who’s that? Looks like Trask.”

“Yes, it is,” assented Beryl.

The appearance of the stranger seemed to mar the harmony of the situation to my mind. I did not like Trask. He was one of those men who, wherever they find themselves, never give any one a chance of forgetting their presence; no, not even for a moment. When Trask appeared at Gonya’s Kloof – which, by the way, was the name of the Mattersons’ farm – why, there was no possibility of overlooking the fact, for he simply monopolised the whole conversation. He was a man of about my own height and build, and three or four years my senior, on the strength of which, and of having about that amount of colonial experience, he chose to assume towards my humble self a good-humouredly contemptuous and patronising manner, which to me was insufferable. Not infrequently, too, he would try his hand at making me a butt for his exceedingly forced and laboured wit, which is a thing I don’t take. He was a neighbour of twelve miles or so, where he farmed – or was supposed to farm – his own place, and was reputed well off. To crown his other offences in my eyes, he was a bachelor, and was a precious deal too fond of coming over to Gonya’s Kloof on any or no pretext.

Turning from his greeting to the girls – a greeting to my mind dashed with a perfectly unwarrantable tone of familiarity – he opened on me.

“Ha, Holt, getting more into the way of things now, I suppose? You’ll soon know your way about. Things take a little getting into at first – ha-ha!”

This in a sort of bray, accompanied by a condescending expression.

Catching Brian’s eye, I discerned a killing twinkle therein.

“Why, Trask,” he said in his quiet way, “Holt’s got into the way of things about twice as quick as any imported man I ever knew.”

“Yes. Twice as quick,” repeated Beryl, in emphatic assent.

I fancy Trask didn’t like this – he looked as if he didn’t; but I did, though of course I made no sign either way. Now all this was petty, and by every rule I ought to have been superior to any such trivial annoyances. But bear in mind that I make no claim to be a hero; indeed, I propose in this narrative to set down my own weaknesses with a candid and impartial hand. And I intensely disliked Trask.

The latter proceeded to make himself at home. Of course he was going to stay the evening, equally of course when we sat down to table he must needs plant himself on the other side of Beryl, and the only thing that kept him from entirely monopolising her was that he could not bring himself to allow the attention of any one else in the room to stray for many moments from himself, and as usual the conversation consisted of Trask, with an occasional monosyllable of assent or dissent interjected elsewhere. So hidebound was the self-complacency of Trask that even George found it profitless to cheek him with any effect, although in justice to George I am bound to say he tried his level best.

“What stay are you making, Holt?” brought out Trask, by way of varying the conversation.

Now this sort of query propounded to a guest right in the eye of his entertainers has always struck me as the very acme of idiotic tactlessness, and about on a par with asking an acquaintance of twenty minutes’ standing whether he’s married. Yet nothing is more common to encounter than both forms of foolishness. But before I could frame an adequate reply Brian answered for me.

“He’s staying on altogether, Trask. We’re going to put him up to the ropes.”

“Eh? Altogether? What? Going to fix up in this country then?”

I nodded, for I could not speak. I had just caught Brian’s eye, and the expression therein was too much for my feelings. I should have exploded had I attempted speech, for the blank astonishment on Trask’s face was too comical. He looked about as happy under the announcement as though somebody had just begun to open fire upon him with shrapnel. But he said something about “the more the merrier,” which, I fear, was not a genuine expression of sentiment in the present instance.

“Pass the quince jam, please, Kenrick.”

Clear and unconcerned rose Iris’ voice. Every one stared, while Brian emitted a subdued whistle.

“Hullo, young woman, you’re getting on,” he said.

The little girl grinned with mischievous delight, showing two extremely pretty rows of white teeth.

“Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “We’ve arranged all that. He’s my big brother now, hey, Kenrick?”

“Why, certainly,” I confirmed gravely, but with more inward merriment over Trask’s expression of countenance. Indeed, the possible implication conveyed by the statement was calculated to evolve some sensation all round. Even Brian looked puzzled for a moment, but only for a moment.

“And when did you confer that supreme honour upon him, Iris?” he said.

“This afternoon. He’s much too good a chap to go on mistering him,” answered this impudent child, with a decisive nod of her pretty head. “Anyhow, we’re not going to do it, are we, Beryl?”

“I say, Iris, you’re making me blush like the mischief, you know,” I put in. “Well, it’s consoling to know that one’s trumpeter isn’t dead.”

“Ha-ha-ha! May I ask, Miss Matterson, whether you are included in this newly formed – ha – fraternity?” said Trask in his most asinine tones; but then he was always a tactless fool.

“Call it the Confraternity of the Shipwrecked Mariners,” said Brian, possibly in order to save Beryl the trouble of answering the idiotic question. And as though to render the diversion more complete still, something between an exclamation and a groan escaped from the master of the house at the other end of the table.

“Why, what is it, father?” cried Beryl, half starting up in alarm.

“Nothing, dear. Only this confounded rheumatism. Am all ache from head to foot. Sharper twinge than usual – couldn’t help singing out. Must have caught a chill on top of it.”

“Father, you must go to bed at once,” said Beryl decisively. “Brian and I will come and look after you.”

“Well, I think I will. Good-night everybody. Trask, you’ll excuse me.”

Septimus Matterson was, as he said, anything but well, and his early retirement rather put a damper on the evening from Trask’s point of view, especially as Beryl was out of the room looking after her father. Moreover, Trask prided himself on his capacity for singing comic songs, which he accompanied himself, and, to give the devil his due, uncommonly well. But under the circumstances there was no demand for this form of entertainment to-night, and it was rather earlier than usual when we found ourselves alone together, he and I, for he had needed no pressure to be induced to stay the night, and had been allotted a shakedown in the same room with me.

Now, Trask was one of those men – of whom there are plenty, and women too – who are entirely different when there is no gallery to play to; in a word, Trask alone with one was entirely different to Trask showing off before a crowd, and in fact might have been taken for an ordinarily decent fellow, before you became alive to a little trick he had of engaging you in what would seem at the time quite an interesting conversation or discussion, only to reproduce with variations any idea you might so have expressed, in order to turn you into ridicule when he should next get an audience. But I, who had already experienced this idiosyncrasy, confined conversation with its exploiter to the merest commonplace, wherefore conversation soon languished. Trask was asleep, and I was just drowsing off, when a tap at the door and Brian’s voice started me wide awake again.

“What’s the row? Anything wrong?” I said.

“Wrong? Yes, very much wrong,” was the answer, and striking a match he proceeded to light my candle.

Chapter Twelve.

Pursuit

“The Kafirs have walked off the whole of the bonte span and three horses,” went on Brian.

“Is that all?” I said, intensely relieved.

“That all? Man alive! but those are our best trek oxen. A full span of sixteen. ‘That all’!”

“Oh, I don’t mean it that way. My first thought was that your father was worse. You know how seedy he was this evening.”

“I see!” was the answer. “No, he’s no worse – fast asleep, in fact. I wouldn’t disturb him about this, but – Holt, we must go after them at once.”

“Go after who?” interrupted Trask, sitting up and yawning, for we had been talking in a low tone and he had not awoke at once. “What’s the row, anyhow?”

Brian repeated what he had just been telling me. “The cheek of the brutes!” he went on. “Mind, this thing was done in broad daylight. I suppose they thought that as it was Sunday none of us would be about. Dumela came upon the fresh spoor as he was out looking after that sick cow down in the kloof by Aasvogel Krautz. They simply collected them, and swept off the lot. In broad daylight, too.”

“I’m your man, Matterson,” said Trask, briskly, having nearly got into his clothes. “I’ll take a hand in this game.”

“Thanks. I was going to ask you. George and Kleinbooi are getting up the horses now. We must start as soon as ever they are here.”

“What gees have the niggers taken, Brian?” I asked.

“Why, Beryl’s horse, Meerkat, for one, the bay colt, and the third’s uncertain.”

Beryl’s horse! Here was an additional incentive to the undertaking, I thought.