Part 47 (1/2)

”Yes, I know. 'Afric's sunny fountains,' and all that kind of thing.

The only 'fountains' we see here are after a jolly big rain, and then they're not sunny, but precious muddy. Those poetic fellows do talk awful bosh.”

Lilian smiled. ”Don't try to be satirical, it doesn't suit you at all,”

she said. ”And now tell me what have you been doing all day?”

”Oh, I went down and counted at Umgiswe's. He's a regular old humbug, and is always losing sheep. I'm certain he kills them. Don't I wish I could catch him, that's all. I thought I had, the other day. Anyhow, the _Baas_ ought to give him the sack.”

”I shouldn't have thought it. I thought he had such a nice old face, and he always says, 'morning, missis,' to me, so prettily, whenever he comes up here.”

”A bigger humbug than him couldn't help doing that,” said Hicks, gallantly. ”Well, then, I went on to Driscoll's, to see if I couldn't beat him down in what he asks for that place of his. He wants a great deal too much, the beggar does; far more than he offered it to Clav--”

and then honest Hicks, suddenly remembering that this very place was the one Claverton had started to inspect on that day which, somehow, seemed connected with his abrupt departure and Lilian's simultaneous depression, waxed very red in the face, and, bending over the fire, began stirring it and banging it about, as if he would pulverise the charred, smouldering f.a.ggots.

”And did you succeed?” asked Lilian, so quietly that he thought the reminiscence involved by the a.s.sociation of ideas had pa.s.sed unnoticed by her.

”N-no,” replied Hicks. ”But I think I'll manage it in time. He's a tight fist, is old Driscoll.”

”You will like settling in the old locality, I should think. You are not one of those who are always longing for change just for the sake of change.”

”No. In fact, as it is, I hardly like leaving the old place.”

”What--not even with Laura?” said Lilian, with a smile.

”Well, of course. But you know, when a fellow has been long on a place like this, and had such a rare good time of it, as I've had, he's bound to cut up a little rough when it comes to leaving it, no matter how.”

”Naturally. But one must look forward--not back, unless it is for a pure, strengthening recollection. One might look longingly back from the rough, toilsome ascent of a steep hill into the sunlit, peaceful valley one had rested in behind; then to keep on and on till the ascent was conquered, and an easy road led smoothly down into another restful calm. That is how you must look at life, when things go the reverse of smoothly with you at first--as perhaps they will.”

Poor Lilian! Not yet could she realise this herself, and she knew it.

Yet she laid it down in theory to her companion, for he had told her that he liked that sort of talk--that it did him good, in fact--and its remembrance encouraged him when he was inclined to take a gloomy view of things. They had become great friends, those two, thrown together thus by force of circ.u.mstances; and Lilian had never tired of listening to her companion's hopes and fears, any more than he had ever tired of confiding them to her--it must be confessed, with something of wearisome reiteration, the more so that he had found so gentle and sympathetic a listener.

”But I forgot. I must not talk like that, or you will say I'm getting poetic; and 'those poetic fellows do talk awful bosh,'” concluded Lilian, looking up at him with a bright, arch smile.

”Oh, I say! As if I should think anything of the kind!” exclaimed Hicks. ”It was I who was talking nonsense. I suppose the firelight makes a fellow get sentimental. The firelight in winter is pretty much what the moonlight is in summer, I suppose.”

But the sentimental side of this firelight talk was brought to an end by the entrance of Mr Brathwaite, followed almost immediately by that of his wife.

”Sharp evening!” he said, joining the two on the hearth. ”We must expect winter now, at the end of May; and this year it'll be a cold one.

I see there's a little snow on the mountains already--just a sprinkling.”

”When shall we have a good fall?” asked Lilian. ”The mountains must look perfectly beautiful, all covered, and with such a sun as this upon them. It must be very cold up there.”

”Cold? I believe you. I was nearly frozen to death up there myself once. It was some years ago now. I was coming over the Katberg road with a waggon-load of mealies--I and Ben Jackson. He had three waggons.

We were caught in a snowstorm, and had to outspan. Couldn't see ten yards in front of us. Ten yards! Not one; for the wind whirled the powdery stuff into our eyes till we were nearly blinded. It was no joke, I can tell you. There are some lively _krantzes_ about there; and it's the easiest thing in the world to drop a few hundred feet before you know where you are.”

”And how did you manage?”

”Well, we outspanned, and tied the oxen to the yokes. We couldn't make a fire, so we turned into our blankets and piled up everything in the way of covering; but that wasn't enough, and I was quite frozen.

Nothing to eat all the time, except a bit of frozen bread to gnaw at.

One of my Kafirs was nearly dead, and thirteen out of sixteen oxen died from cold and starvation. Ben was more unlucky still, and lost two whole spans. Yes, that was a time!”