Part 14 (1/2)

In this way they rode on in the pleasant suns.h.i.+ne, and eventually drew rein in front of a prettily situated though roughly built house of red brick, with thatched roof and high _stoep_. This was the abode of a Dutchman, Isaac Van Rooyen by name, and here they had arranged to stay and have dinner, for on the frontier a standing hospitality is the rule, and in travelling every one makes a convenience of his neighbour and is made a convenience of in turn. The Boer, a large corpulent man of about sixty, advanced to welcome them as the clamorous tongues of a yelping and mongrel pack gave warning of their approach, and consigning their horses to a dilapidated-looking Hottentot, they entered the house. A long, low room furnished with the characteristic plainness of such an abode; a substantial table, several chairs, on some of which none but a lunatic or an inebriate would venture to trust his proportions for a single instant. In one corner stood an ancient and battered harmonium, another contained a sewing-machine and a huge family Bible in ponderous Dutch lettering, while the walls were garnished with sundry grievous prints, high in colour and grisly in design, representing Moses destroying the Tables of the Law, Elijah and the prophets of Baal, and so on. The _vrouw_ arose from her coffee-brewing as they entered--the absorption of coffee is a _sine qua non_ in a Boer domicile on the arrival of visitors--and greeted them with stolid and wooden greeting, and a brace of great shy and ungainly damsels--exact reproductions of their mother at twenty and twenty-one--looked scared as they limply shook hands with the new-comers. But others were there besides the regular inmates, for the Naylors had arrived, as also Armitage and Allen, and our friend Will Jeffreys, and these were keeping up a laborious conversation with the worthy Boer and his ponderous _vrouw_, whose daughters, aforesaid, eat together in speechless inanity, now and again venturing a ”Ja” or a ”Nay” if addressed, and straightway relapsing into a spasmodic giggle beneath their _kapjes_.

”Doesn't Miss Brathwaite play?” inquired the Boer, with a glance at Ethel and then at the harmonium.

”'England expects.' Go now and elicit wheezy strains from yon venerable and timeworn fire-engine,” said Claverton, in a low tone.

She drew off her gloves in a resigned manner, and was about to sit down at the despised instrument, when some one putting a book on the music-stool in order to heighten the seat, that fabric underwent a total collapse and came to the ground with a crash. Another seat was found, and she began to play--but oh! what an instrument of torture it was-- more to the performer than to the audience. Every other note stuck fast, keeping up an earsplitting and discordant hum throughout; and the bellows being afflicted with innumerable leaks, were the cause of much labour and sorrow to the player.

”I can't play on this thing,” she said. ”Every other note sticks down, and the bellows are all in holes, and--I won't.”

Naylor explained to the Dutchman that Ethel was a great pianist but was nothing at harmoniums, which excuse covered her somewhat petulant retreat from the abominable instrument, and just then dinner was brought in. Then it became a question of finding seats, many of the chairs being _hors de combat_.

”Here you are, Allen; come and sit here,” called out Armitage. In a confiding moment, and the table being full, the unsuspecting youth dropped into the seat indicated, and then--dropped on the floor, for the rickety concern forthwith ”resigned,” even as the music-stool had done before it. A roar of laughter went up from the incorrigible joker at the success of his impromptu trap, and Allen arose from the ruins of the chair, like Phoenix from the ashes.

”I say, though, that's better than the cruise down the river with the bee in your bonnet, isn't it, old chap?” said Armitage, exploding again.

Allen looked rather glum, and another seat, not much less rickety than the other, was found for him.

When he was settled, the Boer stood up and with closed eyes began a long, rambling oration, presumably to the Creator, which was meant for grace, and having discoursed unctuously on everything, or nothing, for the s.p.a.ce of several minutes, he set the example of falling to.

”Going up to Jim Brathwaite's for the hunt to-morrow, Oom Isaac?” asked Armitage of his host. [Note 1.]

”Ja,” replied old Van Rooyen. ”Can _he_ shoot?” designating Claverton-- the popular idea on the frontier being that an ”imported” Briton must necessarily be an a.s.s in all things pertaining to field pursuits.

”He just can. Didn't you hear how he licked the Pexters down at my place?”

”Yes, I did hear that; I remember now;” and the Dutchman looked at Claverton with increased respect.

”But that's the fellow to bring down a buck at five hundred yards,” went on Armitage, indicating Allen, who, regardless of what went on around him, was making terrific play with his knife and fork, and who, although seated next the speaker, remained in blissful unconsciousness of being the subject of any chaff, by reason of his ignorance of the Dutch language.

”Is he now? I shouldn't have thought that,” was the deliberating reply; the matter-of-fact Boer not dreaming for a moment that the other was gammoning him.

And the ball of conversation rolled on, and the unseasoned stew was succeeded by a ponderous jar of quince preserve, then another lengthy grace and the inevitable coffee.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Van Rooyen, with the freedom of his countrymen, was discussing ”present company.”

”What a pretty girl she is!” he was saying, referring to Ethel. ”Is she another of Mr Brathwaite's daughters?”

”No, a niece,” replied Naylor, to whom the remark was addressed. ”Her father is George Brathwaite, the M.L.A.”

”'Ja,' I know him,” replied the Dutchman. ”He isn't a good man (in the sense of 'a good politician'). He voted against our interests in several things. But she's a pretty girl, a very pretty girl. And the Englishman's a good-looking fellow, too. Are they engaged?”

”d.a.m.ned fool!” angrily muttered Claverton, who, while talking to Ethel, had overheard the above conversation and wondered whether Ethel had too.

”What's the matter now?” said she, and the frown left his brow as the question convinced him she had not heard. But he turned and suggested to Armitage that it was time to saddle up.

”Well, yes--I think it is,” replied that worthy, who was busily debating in his own mind whether it would be carrying a joke too far if he inserted a burr or p.r.i.c.kle of some sort beneath the saddle of Allen's steady-going old mare; and forthwith a general move was made for the horses, which were duly brought to the door.

”Now, Allen, old chap, keep those awful spurs of yours out of my horse's flank, or there'll be the deuce to pay,” called out Armitage, as the absent-minded youth backed his steed violently into that of the speaker--whereupon a kicking match became imminent. Meanwhile Ethel was waiting to be put on her horse, and glanced half involuntarily and somewhat angrily in the direction of Claverton, who, whether by accident or of set purpose, was still on the _stoep_ beginning to fill his pipe from Van Rooyen's pouch, and apparently as ignorant of his actual ungallantry as though the fair s.e.x formed no ingredient of the party.

With concealed mortification she resigned herself to Will Jeffreys, who advanced to perform that necessary office, and eagerly seized the opportunity of riding by her side.