Wild Honey Part 27

"I think about the people who come to the farm," said Chrissie simply.

He looked up as if at a call. It was not so much her words, in fact, he was not sure _what_ it was that gave him a mental jump, but the impression was as startling as if she had taken a little hammer and hit a nail into him hard, only that no pain attached to the proceeding. She had risen, and was busying herself with the coffee-pot. He became aware for the first time of charming contours that could not be concealed by an old print frock. Also, that she moved better than most girls of her cla.s.s; that her hair was becomingly done; and that the ribbon round her throat lent an added note of colour to her eyes. A glint came into his own eye, but Chrissie's face was as demure as the face of a Greuze milkmaid. It is to be feared, however, that her heart was less naive than her remark. The fact is, Chrissie was a natural-born flirt and knew perfectly well what she was about. She sugared the coffee with eyelashes brushing her cheek, biting her under-lip a little as if that helped to concentrate her attention on the task. Certainly it gave Braddon an opportunity of observing how white and even were those same teeth. Her nails too were daintily trimmed. Indeed she was a surprise he had never expected to find at Jackalsfontein, and what he could not understand was _why_ the fact was only just dawning upon him. Certainly she was quite unlike all the other girls he had met on his trips into outlying districts. He wondered what had made him think she would be draggy.

The strap of a case he wore slung round his shoulders chafed him and he unbuckled it and put a camera beside him on the table. Chrissie's glance immediately seized on it.

"You take photographs?"

"Yes--do you?"

She shook her head, her accomplishments did not run to that.

"I only wish I could."

"I could soon teach you."

She laughed and blushed a little, leaning her round face on one shapely hand. He thought what a jolly picture she would make and the thought was father to the desire.

"Will you let me take a photograph of you?"

"Yes," she said eagerly. "Quickly, before Poppa comes back."

It was the work of an instant. He snapped twice in case of a failure, then closed the camera and put it away.

"Will you send me one?"

"Or bring it, if you will allow me. I am only a few miles off."

Chrissie made no response to this but looked into her coffee cup as though it were a crystal ball in which she could read the future.

"I am sorry Mr Retief should feel so badly about the railway," said Braddon at last. "It's got to come whether he likes it or not."

"That's what I tell him."

"You are not against us then, Miss Retief?"

Old Nick lumbering back to his chair perhaps prevented her from expressing any opinion on the matter, but she slid Braddon a blue glance that seemed to be an answer to several things besides his question. The old man, who had not recovered his temper, continued to smoke in gloomy silence like a smouldering fire ready to burst into flame at the least puff of wind. Braddon made an effort at conciliation by proffering an inquiry or two as to farming affairs generally, but met with no marked success.

"How goes it with the sheep, Oom?" Oom Nick glowered at him for some time before grunting a response.

"The sheep are a _beetje_ thin."

Braddon essayed another throw.

"How goes it with the land?"

After a long silence.

"The land is a _beetje_ dry."

This was melancholy. Braddon, about to conclude with the usual polite query: "How goes it with the wife?" caught a swift glance from Chrissie and was reminded that he had heard of the old man being a widower of long standing.

"How goes it with the fruit?" he ventured instead.

"The fruit is a _beetje_ behind-time."

Nick looked gloomily towards his apricot orchard. Chrissie having piloted Braddon past a bad place was now smiling down her retrousse nose. He was considering the matter of moving on when someone else entered upon the scene. Old Retief had seen the Cape cart coming long since but, according to his wont, said nothing. The others were too much occupied with their own thoughts to notice anything, until the dust of Carol Uys's trap blew over them from the loose ground in front of the stoep.

"_Dag_, Oom!"

"_Dag_, Carol!"

The thin long-legged young Boer descended from his cart, fastened the pole of it to a staple driven into one of the blue-gum trees and came up the stoep steps. He was a pleasant-faced fellow about six feet three inches in height but of rather slight build. Chrissie had always liked his gentle eyes and gentle ways inherited from some far-off Huguenot ancestor, but to-day she noticed for the first time that he walked flat-footed and that the toe of one of his shoes pointed east and the other west. For the first time too she was not impatient at her father's off-hand, rather scornful manner of greeting him. Old Retief despised the Uys clan, lock, stock, and barrel, because they were bad farmers. In fact though they lived on farms they were no farmers at all. Everyone knew it. An Uys farm was always farthest away from the markets and always pushed away in the corner of some mountainous kloof where the grazing was sour for the beasts and the land would grow nothing. Naturally there was nothing for the sons of such a farmer to do to make ends meet but take to transport riding or cattle dealing.

And the truth was that the Uys taste lay that way--that was what old Retief had against them. They were horsey men, fonder of the road than the roof-tree, men who would sooner ride a hundred miles to deal for a pair of goats than do one day's work at the tail of a plough. Retief despised such shiftless wanderers and wanted nothing of the sort for a son-in-law. Wherefore Carol Uys was none too welcome at Jackalsfontein.

However, the handshaking that ensued was hearty enough and Chrissie, with heightened colour, poured coffee for the new-comer, and fresh cups all round.

"Well? What broken-down old crocks have you got with you to-day, Carol?" asked the old man grimly.

Uys waved his hand at the two handsome bays with black manes and tails, harnessed to the cart.

"Look then! They speak for themselves, Oom. As smart a pair of Cape horses as you will see from here to Johannesburg. The very thing to drive Miss Chrissie to _kerk_ with on Sunday."

Needless to say Retief had pa.s.sed a shrewd eye over them long since and come to his own conclusions. His business now was to conceal those conclusions, which happened to be favourable, behind a contemptuous smile and such sarcasm as he could muster. No very great amount!

"I'm not on the look-out for grandparents for those I have to take Chrissie to church with already!" he remarked.

"Ah! Oom Nick must not make jokes about those bays," expostulated Carol seriously. "They are Clan-William horses--three-year olds. Why, they haven't whistled yet [cut their baby-teeth]. Oompie can look in their mouths and see."

"_Mastag_! It is hard enough to see them at all, they are so _maar_ [thin]!"

Carol aggrieved, turned to Chrissie.

"No one could call them _maar_. It is a dry season and I haven't been able to get them much forage by the way, but no one can call them _maar_."

"How much do you want for them?" asked Braddon.

"Sixty pounds apiece, not a sixpence less," declared Carol. "Don't you think I'm right, Miss Chrissie?"

Chrissie, with her father's eye on her, knew better than to respond.

"Hundred and twenty the pair! A stiff price," remarked the engineer.

"Not too stiff. Oom Nick knows the value of a good horse and is able to pay it," said Carol firmly. He may have been no farmer but he knew his business as a horse-seller.

"Their feet are too soft for this veld," grumbled old Retief.

"Not a bit of it, Oom. Clan-William horses are hard-veld horses--iron feet and mouths of velvet. You know it good enough."

"Well, and what's the matter with my own horses that I drive to _kerk_ every Sunday?" asked Nick Retief aggressively.