The White Hand and the Black Part 13

He did not finish his words; instead he dropped to the earth, felled by the murderous blow which had crashed upon his unsuspecting head from behind. His companion sprang aside just in time to dodge a like blow aimed at him, and raising his stick leaped furiously at the foremost a.s.sailant, determined that one should die at any rate. It was a futile resistance, for what could an old man with nothing but an ordinary stick do against half a dozen armed miscreants. These sprang at him at once, yet even then so energetic was his defence that they drew back for a moment.

"Have done!" growled a voice from behind these. "Make an end. No--no blood," as one fiend was poising an a.s.segai for a throw. "Make an end, fools, make an end."

"It is Nxala who hounds on these cowardly dogs," jeered this brave old man, recognising the voice out of the darkness. "_Whau_! Nxala!"

It was his last utterance. A heavy k.n.o.bstick, hurled with tremendous force, struck him full between the eyes, and he, too, dropped.

The murderers were upon him at once, battering his skull to atoms with their k.n.o.bsticks, in the fury of their savagery forgetting their instigator's warning as to the shedding of blood.

While this was happening old Zavula had half raised himself.

"Dog's son, Nxala," he exclaimed. "I have found my end. Thine shall be the white man's rope."

These were his last words. The murderous fiends, springing upon him, completed their atrocious work--this time effectually. A slight quiver, and the old chief's body lay still and lifeless.

The tumble of rocks and stones contained, from the very nature of its formation, several holes and caves, and to these now were the bodies dragged. To fling them in, and cover the apertures with stones, was the work of a very short time.

"_Hlala-gahle_, Zavula! Good night, Zavula!" cried Nxala, raising a hand in mockery. "Rest peacefully. _Whau_! Our father has left us.

We will depart and cry the _sibongo_ to Babatyana the new chief."

"_Yeh-bo_! Babatyana the new chief."

And the cowardly murderers departed from the scene of their abominable deed, and the darkness of black night fell suddenly upon the graves of these two old men, thus barbarously and treacherously done to death; heathen savages both, but estimable and useful according to their lights. And it might well be that the mocking aspiration of the cowardly instigator of their destruction was from that moment to be fulfilled.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

TWO LETTERS.

"How much longer is that man going to hang about here?" said Edala, gazing, somewhat frowningly, from the window of her father's book room, which looked out upon the cattle-kraals and the group of huts, occupied by the native servants, which stood adjacent thereto.

"Who? Oh, Manamandhla! Not for long, I should think. Do you know, child, he's rather an interesting chap to talk to and has become quite civil. He asked me to let him stop on here a bit, and he'd help with the cattle now we're short-handed."

"Well, we shall be more so soon, for old Patolo can't stand him. He'll be clearing next, you'll see."

"Not he. They'll strike it off all right. Patolo has been cattle-herd-in-chief to me nearly all your life, and knows where he's well off. And Manamandhla may prove useful in other ways."

The object of their talk, and the girl's animadversion, had just emerged from one of the huts. For a moment he stood gazing at the weather, then drawing his ample green blanket close around his tall form, he strode away over the veldt.

"Why have you got such a down on him, child? He's respectful and civil enough to you, isn't he?"

"Oh yes--at least for the present."

"Why should he not continue to be?" went on her father.

"I don't know. No, I don't. I suppose it's--instinct."

She still stood gazing out of the window, and her face was troubled, even resentful. She could not forget the expression that had come upon her father's face, fleeting as it had been, when they had first met this man yonder on the summit of Sipazi mountain. It was not his first meeting either, for he had brought home the story of the Zulu's insolence on that other occasion. She felt puzzled--even suspicious, and therefore resentful.

It was a grey, drizzling afternoon, and the splendour of forest and mountain, lovely in the sparkle of blue sky and dazzling sun, was blotted out by rain and mist, with dreary and depressing effect. Low clouds swept along the base of the heights, whirling back now and then to display some great krantz such as the face of Sipazi, its alt.i.tude, multiplied by the dimness, looming up in awful grandeur, to fade again into the murk.

Instinct! Thornhill did not like that word, and it was no mere flash in the pan either. The child was so confoundedly sharp at leaping to conclusions; generally accurate ones too, and that with nothing to go upon. He had tried to a.s.sume his normal unconcern of speech and manner, in talking on this subject--for this was not the first time it had been brought up--and could only wonder if he had succeeded.

"Are you afraid of him, then?" he said at last.

"Afraid? No. But I don't like him, and I wish he'd clear. I don't believe he's up to any good at all here."

"Now, dear, aren't you just a trifle unreasonable as to this particular 'bee' of yours?" said her father, somewhat annoyed. "You say you're not afraid of him, and I've told you the man is useful to me in ways. Now am I to run this farm or are you? That's the question."

"I don't want to run the place, of course. I'm only afraid this paragon of yours is aiming at doing that. What a perfectly beastly afternoon,"

she broke off, turning away from the window.

"Ah well, we can do with rain," he answered. "Another night's downpour 'll make all the difference in the world. Getting hipped, eh? Go and thump the keyboard a bit--you never get tired of that--and forget the existence of the obnoxious Manamandhla."

"If I shan't disturb you."

"You know, dear, _you_ never do disturb me," he answered, tenderly.

The girl pa.s.sed into the other room, and sat down at her piano.

"What a little beast I am to him," she was thinking--"and yet--and yet!

It all seems too awful. How I wish he would let me go away, as I wanted to."

The notes came gurgling out under her deft touch, but for once her mind was not in her art. But for the rain she would have taken refuge in some outdoor pursuit; anything, even if it were to climb up to what she called her 'aerial throne'--dangling between earth and heaven; anything for movement. But the steady rain came down in monotonous drip--drip; moreover, it was a cold rain, and under no circ.u.mstance was out-of-doors inviting.

Thornhill sat in his library, and took down book after book, but somehow he, too, could not settle down to his favourite pastime. His thoughts were of this child whom he had always idolised, and still did; yet she repaid him by consistently turning away from him. Perhaps if he had affected a like indifference it might have told--women being what they were. Yet, in this case, he could hardly think so; knowing the nature of the cloud that hung between them; even the venom from beyond the grave, and the effects of which he had hoped that time would dim. But time had not done so.

Then his thoughts took another turn--towards his surviving son, to wit; and, in the result, a great longing to see him again. He, at any rate, did not share Edala's att.i.tude. His faith in his father was full, frank and perfect; and he made no secret of the fact. Why should he not come down on a visit. These stock-broking chaps at the Rand nearly always hunted in couples like other predatory professionals. Hyland would be sure to have a partner, or someone who could take charge of his job while he was away. He would write to him, and by Jove, this was post day--in fact the boy who rode post over from Elvesdon's was almost due, only was usually late. However, it didn't matter: he could be detained.

Thornhill got out sheets of paper. Edala, at the present moment, seemed to be literally obeying his injunctions to 'thump the keyboard,' for she was in full swing in the middle of a fine lilting song, to a somewhat thunderous accompaniment, in the other room.

"My dear Hyland," he began:

"Don't you feel like a change of air and scene after your ten months of labour in the City of Gold--dust; and that dust all and entirely in the air, save when it's in the larynxes and lungs of its eighty odd thousand inhabitants--mostly Hebrews? If so, I should think you could get your brother--shark--to take on your share and his own too, of the process of fleecing the child-like and unwary investor--even as you did--between you--of late, in the matter of a certain ancient relative of one of the firm--who shall be nameless--and that on the ground that there were not sufficient Heathen Chinee-s on the mines. Well then, do so, and load up on board the train as soon as you like after receipt of this, and _trek_ down here for as long as you like. Edala is getting a bit hipped. I'm not sure the same doesn't hold good a little of her--and your-- unrespected parent.

"Things here are much the same, except that we've got a new man at Kwabulazi in the room of old Carston transferred, as the official letters say--a chap named Elvesdon, an exceedingly wide awake, smart chap, and devilish good company. You're sure to like him. Old Tongwana often asks after you. We've also got a new man here--black--named Mana--"

Thornhill stopped, then carefully erased the last phrase--he did not know why, perhaps it was due to what Edala had called 'instinct.' Then he went on--

"There are rows and rumours of rows about possible bother among the people here, mainly over the new poll-tax, as, by the way, you will of course have heard--since all the doings of the known world are known at that hub of the Universe, Johannesburg, about forty-eight hours sooner than they are known--say in London. But it will probably end in smoke.

If it doesn't, such a fire eater as yourself will be more in your element here than there, I should think, after your experiences in Matabeleland, and of the pom-poms of Brother Boer.

"Well, load yourself up on the first train you can capture, old chap, and hasten to smoke the pipe of peace under the welcoming roof of--

"Your old Governor."

This characteristic letter Thornhill read over, with a chuckle or two, stuck down the envelope and directed it.