Perils in the Transvaal and Zululand

Chapter Twenty One

“Here is a letter for you, George,” said Mrs Mansen, as the former entered the parlour at Umtongo, about three months after his arrival at his mother’s house. “It looks like Mr Rogers’ handwriting. But I believe Mr Rogers is still in England.”

“It is from him, though,” said George when he had finished reading the letter. “He has returned to Dykeman’s Hollow – has been there about a fortnight, he says.”

“What has made him come back so much sooner than he had intended? He wrote us word that his business in England was prospering, but he would be obliged, he thought, to remain another twelvemonth.”

“Ah, but there is, it appears, a total change of things in England. Another Government has come in, and is likely to reverse altogether the policy of the old one. He says, too, that a lot of people have taken up Cetewayo’s cause, and declare that he is a very ill-used man, that he never hurt or wronged anybody, and if we had left him alone, he would have left us.”

“Do they?” said Mrs Mansen. “I wish some of them had been Cetewayo’s neighbours, as we were.”

“Well, the upshot is, that Mr Rogers thought it was of no use for him to stay any longer in England, so he has come back. And now he wants me to go back to Dykeman’s Hollow, and take up my old work as schoolmaster and teacher.”

“Well, I hoped you were going to settle here,” said Mrs Mansen. “There is as much need for your services here as there could be at Dykeman’s Hollow. And my husband would be willing, as you know, to give you a part of this farm to look after, – quite as large as you could manage, – and to build you a house to live in, or rather, I should say, enlarge the small house at Droopsdorf. Two more rooms would make it a comfortable house.”

“He and you are very kind, mother. But, you see, I engaged myself to Mr Rogers, and I ought to keep to my engagement.”

“Yes, but that was a year and a half ago, and things have happened since then which make all the difference. Mr Rogers didn’t know that we had removed from Spielman’s Vley, and that you, by engaging yourself to him, would be, not half an hour’s ride from us, but a good week’s journey at least, and you didn’t know it, and couldn’t guess it, either.”

“No doubt that is true, mother; and I must allow that if I had known that there would be all the width of the Transvaal between you and me, I shouldn’t have made the agreement. But, you see, I did make it.”

“Yes, but I don’t think Mr Rogers could refuse to cancel it. It would be very unhandsome of him if he did. Then again, I don’t suppose he has heard of your long illness. He thinks you have been living with us nearly six months, as Mr Margetts has; whereas for three months, or for two at all events, you didn’t come here at all, and for a good month more you were quite an invalid. I haven’t had more than two real months of you yet, my dear boy, and after so long a separation, – I may say after what seemed like a recovery of you from the grave – I can’t afford to part with you. Isn’t that reason, Thyrza?”

“Yes,” answered Thyrza. “I think Mr Rogers would at least give you a longer holiday, if he didn’t consent to your staying here altogether. I know father thinks so too.”

“I am sure I don’t want to leave you,” said George, looking affectionately at his mother and sister. “I have never been made so happy by anything as by finding you.”

Mrs Mansen and her daughter were indeed two relatives of whom any one might be proud. The mother was a little past middle age, but was still strikingly handsome, and though her dress differed in some particulars from that of an English lady, she would have passed muster, both as regards appearance and manners, in good English society. Her daughter nearly resembled her in height and feature; and if the reader could have seen her, he would not have been surprised that even the ponderous Rudolf Kransberg should have been captivated by her charms. She was a lively girl in her nineteenth year, and, as yet, fancy-free. It had never occurred to her that Mynheer Rudolf had viewed her with any sentiment of admiration; and we are afraid that, if the idea had entered her head, it would have had no other effect than that of affording her unmixed amusement.

“And it isn’t father only,” pursued Thyrza, “who wants you to remain at Umtongo. There’s another person – ”

“Redgy Margetts, I suppose,” interrupted George. “I have no doubt he likes his quarters well enough – ”

“Mr Margetts!” broke in Thyrza hastily, and with a little accession of colour; “I wasn’t thinking about him. I don’t suppose he knows his mind on that subject or any other. No, it is a different person altogether – ”

“My dear Thyrza,” interposed Mrs Mansen, “there is your father out in the garden, beckoning. He wants you, I am pretty sure. Go out and speak to him.”

Thyrza departed, and Mrs Mansen, after a pause of a minute or two, addressed her son in a tone of some embarrassment.

“I am sorry you said that about Mr Margetts,” she said – “sorry for two reasons. In the first place, I fancy – if indeed it is only fancy – that he is attracted by Thyrza.”

“Redgy is as easily attracted by a handsome girl as a bee is by a honeysuckle,” said George; “but his attachment does not generally last much longer.”

“I hope you may be right,” returned his mother; “but I own I think otherwise. I grant Thyrza either does not see, or does not much care for, his preference. But how long that might continue, I do not know.”

“Well, mother, even if it were so, what objection is there to Redgy Margetts? He is a gentleman by birth, well educated, and a capital fellow every way. Thyrza might do much worse.”

“No doubt. But he is, I understand, in no position to marry. He is a younger son, with no fortune, only a precarious allowance, and his family would probably be opposed to such a marriage.”

“That is true,” assented George; “but then Redgy is too honourable a fellow to engage Thyrza’s affections, if he did not see his way to marrying her.”

“Very likely. He would not intentionally make her fond of him. But he might do so, nevertheless. No, George, it is certainly better that he should leave Umtongo; and my idea is that he should go and take your place at Dykeman’s Hollow.”

“We had both better go,” said George. “There is a reason – ”

“Yes, I think I understand it,” interrupted Mrs Mansen. “And I was going to say I was sorry you introduced Mr Margetts’ name, because it led to Thyrza’s remark. You would not like her to speak to you on the subject. But may not I do so?”

George again coloured and walked once or twice across the room. Then he spoke.

“I do not affect to misunderstand you, mother. I know to whom Thyrza meant to refer. But – ”

“But hear me for a moment, George. I can understand your unwillingness to address Miss Vander Heyden, knowing, as you do, her brother’s rooted dislike to the English. But you do not know all that I know. When the brother and sister reached their home, several months ago, we were just beginning to be seriously anxious about you. Rumours reached us, first, that you had been one of a party attacked near Heidelberg, and secondly, that you had left your friends on the day after the attack, and had set out for Umtongo. What had become of you during the last month? Of course we were anxious and alarmed, and the alarm soon spread. Miss Vander Heyden herself came over here to inquire. Her distress had completely broken down all the barriers of reserve. She did not, indeed, tell us of her attachment to you, but it was impossible for us not to see it. After another month of continual inquiry, we were all convinced that you must have perished in the bush. Then Annchen spoke to me – she could not, in fact, keep it to herself. Considering you as no longer belonging to this world, she told me of the vows of affection which had been interchanged between you.”

“They never ought to have been,” said George. “I was to blame. But I should be still more culpable if I allowed myself to be influenced by what you have told me. It cannot be, and that is all I have to say.

“Yet,” he resumed a few minutes afterwards, “I am not sorry that we have had this conversation, painful as it has been. You know now my main reason for wishing to return to Dykeman’s Hollow. It has been very nice being with you and Thyrza. But Umtongo is too near Pieter’s Dorf for me to fix my residence there. Perhaps, by and by, when she has married and gone away – ”

“There is but little chance of her marrying any one, unless it is yourself, George,” interposed Mrs Mansen.

“That may be so – I cannot say. But as our wishes can never be fulfilled, it is unwise – indeed, it would be cruel in me, were I to reside where my continual presence must needs be continually thrust upon her.”

“Only one word more, George. Is your scruple founded on your want of money? Do you know that Umtongo is my property, not my husband’s, and that it will of course one day come to you? I have already said that we would provide you with a house and an income at once. But the future also would be provided for. Mr Vander Heyden could not allege – ”

“My scruples, as you term them, have no connection with money. You must urge me no more. I must go, and at once. I shall speak to Margetts without delay,” he continued. “He, too, will be sorry to leave Umtongo. But I shall be much surprised if he does not fall in with my suggestion at once.”

Meanwhile Thyrza, who had joined her stepfather in the garden, was having an interview with him which altogether took her by surprise. Old Ludwig Mansen – he was always called old Ludwig, though he wanted a year or two of fifty – was a man very generally respected and beloved. To the shrewdness of the Dutchman and his placid temper, he added a generosity and unselfishness which are not so common with that people. He was particularly fond of his stepdaughter, and was just now greatly pleased at a piece of information imparted to him a few days before, which he considered to be the best possible thing for her, and of which he was now going to apprise her.

On the previous Monday he had ridden into Zeerust, to attend a meeting convened for the purpose of protesting against the annexation of the Transvaal, which had taken place several years previously, but which had become every year more odious in the eyes of the Boers. At Zeerust, to his great surprise, he had met old Kransberg, who also had ridden in from Malopo’s Kloof. Mansen knew that his neighbour cared no more about the annexation than he did himself. Influenced probably by his English connections, he did not regard the rule of Queen Victoria with any aversion, and knew that, although the English might administer the law with little regard to Boer prejudices, they would at least administer it justly. As for old Kransberg, he had seen too many changes of government to care much who governed the country, so long as they maintained law and order. This was so well known to Ludwig, that he could hardly believe his eyes, when, on turning from a bridle path into the road near Zeerust, he fell in with Kransberg leisurely riding along in the same direction.

Zeerust is one of the loveliest spots in the whole of the Transvaal. It lies in a valley nearly surrounded by hills, which rise to a considerable height on the north, east, and south, while towards the west the level plain extends into the far distance, beyond the range of human vision. It differs from many other valleys of the same country in being supplied abundantly with water throughout the entire year. The vegetation is in consequence always of the freshest green, and every kind of tropical fruit and grain is cultivated, and yields a rich return.

The town, into which the neighbours rode, is not large, but consists of solid, substantial houses, with the great Dutch Presbyterian meeting-house towering in its centre. In the market place adjoining, the horses and waggons of the Boers from the neighbourhood were grouped together, while their owners were flocking in to take part in the meeting. Mansen and Kransberg did not join them. At the request of the latter they betook themselves to the principal inn, where, with much solemnity, but no unnecessary expenditure of words, he made his communication to his neighbour. His nephew Rudolf, it appeared, had arrived at the conclusion that a marriage between himself and Ludwig’s stepdaughter would be a desirable arrangement, if it could be arrived at, and he desired permission to pay formal addresses to her if agreeable to her parents. Old Ludwig replied, with equal gravity, that he would inform his wife of the proposal, and answer to it should be sent in due season. The two Gerontes then adjourned to the Town Hall, and listened with imperturbable stolidity to the speeches delivered.

Ludwig rode home, as has been intimated, much pleased with what he had heard; but he did not proceed, immediately on his arrival at Umtongo, to pass on the news, as an English parent would probably have done. He took an opportunity, a day or two afterwards, when there was nothing of importance to attend to, of communicating it to his wife. A debate was held, at which it was agreed that a message should be sent to Malopo’s Kloof, inviting young Rudolf Kransberg to pay a visit at Umtongo on the following Monday, and that, shortly before his arrival, Thyrza should be apprised of his visit and its purport.

Mrs Mansen therefore had had a twofold object in sending her out of the room: first, to stop her malapropos remarks about Annchen Vander Heyden, and secondly, that she might be informed respecting Rudolf’s visit. Thyrza herself, however, did not anticipate any more important communication than that possibly her stepfather had purchased a new dress for her in Zeerust. She was a good deal surprised when he inquired of her what might be her exact age.

“Nineteen last December, father,” she answered.

“Nineteen,” he repeated gravely; “it is an early age at which to marry.”

“I daresay it would be,” she answered, somewhat startled; “but then, I am not going to marry.”

“You do not know that,” he observed gravely. “An offer of marriage has been made for you – in most respects a suitable one.”

“An offer of marriage to me!” repeated Thyrza in astonishment.

“I did not say to you, but for you,” he replied; “the offer will not be made to you just yet.”

“And who is to make it?” inquired the damsel hastily.

“You know my neighbour, Mynheer Kransberg of Malopo’s Kloof?”

“Yes, but I suppose he doesn’t want to marry me?” cried Thyrza.

“Why, no, my daughter,” returned Ludwig with a broad smile; “he is somewhat past the age of matrimony. Nay, it is his nephew Rudolf.”

“Rudolf Kransberg!” again exclaimed Thyrza; “he wishes to marry me!”

“Even so,” rejoined Ludwig. “Does the idea surprise you?”

“I should as soon have expected the wooden soldier outside your summer-house to make love to me!”

“Nay, Thyrza,” said Mansen in a displeased tone, “this does not become you. He is a worthy youth, and deserves due consideration.”

“Well, but I may tell him, as soon as he comes – I suppose he is coming?”

“He comes to-day,” answered Ludwig.

“Well, then, I may tell him I can’t marry him, and there will be an end of it.”

“By no means; matters cannot be settled so hastily. Do you remember that he came over here about three months ago?”

“Oh yes, when we found out that George was at his uncle’s house. I remember that quite well.”

“Well, it appears that he came over with credentials from his uncle then, intending to address you. But Mr Margetts, not suspecting his purpose, insisted on riding back with him at once. If he had known the object of his visit, Mr Margetts would not have so taken him away.”

Not feeling quite so sure of that, Thyrza remained silent for a minute or two, and then rejoined —

“But if he has put off any renewal of his visit for more than three months, he cannot be very much in earnest about this.”

“You do not understand our ways. We do not do things in a hurry. No, Thyrza, you must receive him with all consideration, and must not, at all events, reject him before he makes his offer.”

“And how long will it be before he makes it?”

“I cannot say; probably some months. He will come over occasionally, at intervals, and then you will receive him in the proper manner.”

“And what is the proper manner?” inquired Thyrza, who was growing more and more discomposed at every fresh detail.

“Why, when he arrives, you will of course shake hands with him, and then he will probably say no more to you till after supper. Then he will remain in the parlour; and then you will wait till we are gone to bed, and then go to him – ”

“Gracious, father, you are not serious!”

“Perfectly so, Thyrza. The room will be dark, but you will take a piece of candle with you, which you will light; and the interview between you will last until the candle has burned out. Then you will retire to bed, and he will ride home. That is the usual custom.”

“And who is to provide the piece of candle?”

“You must do that. But stop a moment, Thyrza. The candle must be sufficiently long to allow of a proper interview. I have heard of young women taking not more than half an inch of candle – ”

“I shouldn’t have taken a quarter of an inch – ” muttered under her breath – “if it had rested with me.”

“I must insist that a proper-sized candle is used – not less than three inches long. Your mother will provide it, and place it on your table. And here is the young man coming,” he added; “I hear his horse’s steps outside.”

Thyrza fled to her room, resolved, at all events, not to encounter her swain before supper-time. Meeting George and Redgy an hour or two afterwards, she confided to them her troubles, and implored them at all events to keep her unwelcome suitor engaged until she was obliged to meet him at supper.

“See him while a bit of candle is burning!” exclaimed Margetts, to whom the custom seemed as outré as it had to Thyrza. “Why don’t you take a bit of candle as thin as a crown-piece? You’d soon have done with him then.”

“Ah, I thought of that,” said Thyrza; “but they won’t allow it. My mother has looked up a piece of candle long enough for an hour and a halfs interview and laid it on my dressing-table. I must take that with me; and however I am to endure an hour and a half of it I cannot think.”

“Well, you must make the best of it,” said Redgy. “George, I think you had better take her out for a walk till supper-time. I’ll go in and entertain the enamoured gentleman, if he requires entertainment.”

On entering the parlour, however, it did not appear that the soupirant for Thyrza’s favour either expected or desired any entertainment. He had duly arrived, looking very stiff and solemn in his new leather and buckram suit, and, after shaking hands with everybody all round, had seated himself in the corner, where he had remained ever since without speaking a word to any one. So he continued the entire afternoon and evening, until the supper-hour arrived, and he took his place at the table with the others, but carefully keeping the whole length and breadth of the table between himself and the object of his affection. Not a syllable did he utter during the meal; and Thyrza had come to believe that he had changed his mind and did not intend to address her, when suddenly, a few minutes before the party broke up for the night, he moved across the room and whispered in her ear, though loud enough for every one to hear, “I say, we’ll sit up to-night!”

The dispersion of the party delivered Thyrza from the necessity of replying, and presently every one had retired to his chamber, excepting Rudolf Kransberg, who remained in the parlour, which was now pitch dark, and George and Redgy, who lingered in the passage.

“I say, George,” said Margetts, “shouldn’t you like to see the courtship?”

“Well,” answered Rivers with a smile, “I must say I should. But of course that is impossible.”

“No, it is not,” rejoined the other. “Look here: the big dresser runs right through the wall, and there is a cupboard behind that communicates with it, through the cracks in the door you can see everything that passes.”

“Wouldn’t Thyrza dislike it?” suggested George.

“No. I’ll be bound she would be as much amused as we are. It isn’t as though she cared a straw for him.”

“Well, that is not unlikely,” rejoined Rivers. “Come along then. I must own I am curious to see it.”

“Creep in here,” said Margetts, opening a door in the wall, “and mind you don’t make any noise. There are some holes in the dresser through which we shall be able to see.”

Almost as he spoke, the door of the parlour opened, and Thyrza was seen standing on the threshold, with the bit of candle in one hand and a match-box in the other. She proceeded to light the former, and placed it in an empty candlestick on the table, and then seated herself – not, as her swain had probably hoped, on the large heavy, wooden-legged sofa which ran along one side of the table, but in the large arm-chair, usually occupied by her mother.

Rudolf, though somewhat disappointed at the position thus taken up, glanced, nevertheless, with approbation at the bit of candle provided, which, in his view of the matter, intimated that the lady was not disposed to abridge the length of the interview. He seated himself in a chair, as near as he could contrive to his inamorata, and looked admiringly at her.

“I say,” he said, after a silence of some ten minutes or so, – “I say, I think you are very nice. I admire you greatly.”

“You are very obliging,” said Thyrza demurely.

There was another pause, after which Rudolf spoke again.

“I say, I mean to come over here very often to see you.”

“Indeed?” replied Thyrza with a glance at the candle. Alas! not a quarter of it had yet been expended.

“You don’t dislike me, do you, Miss Rivers?” inquired her suitor, after a third and still longer interval.

“I don’t know why I should,” was the answer.

Deriving some confidence, apparently, from this extremely guarded expression of opinion, Rudolf made a further venture.

“I should like to give you a kiss,” he said.

Not meeting with any response, and proceeding perhaps on that most delusive of all proverbs, that silence gives consent, he rose from his place and leaned over her chair, out of which she started with very evident alarm. Believing this to be only feigned reluctance, he pressed forward to urge his entreaty, when suddenly there came a loud explosion. The candle flew all to pieces out of the socket, scattering the tallow in all directions, and the room was left in complete darkness. George and Margetts could hear Thyrza making her escape through the door, while the unlucky lover, wiping the grease from his clothes, made his way to the stable, and rode off as fast as his horse could carry him.

“Redgy, you villain!” exclaimed George, after they had retreated to their room and given vent to their laughter, – “Redgy, you villain, that was your doing!”

“It was the plug of gunpowder, not I,” pleaded Redgy. “Mrs Rivers oughtn’t to have left the candle all that time on Thyrza’s dressing-table.”

“Did Thyrza know anything of the trick?” asked George.

“On my honour, she did not.”

“Well, it is a good job we are going to-morrow, or there might be a serious row about this.”

Chapter Twenty Two

It was a Sunday evening late in December, about nine months after the departure of George Rivers and his friend from Umtongo. George, who wore a suit of clerical black, had just returned from a long ride to Spielman’s Vley, where he had passed the day. He was now a deacon, having been ordained by the Bishop of Praetoria a month or two previously. The weather was delicious, but very warm, and George was glad to sit down by his friend’s side in a charming little summer-house which they had built under the shade of a tall eucalyptus planted by Mr Rogers when he first came to the Transvaal, forty years before.

“Well, George, what sort of a congregation had you?” inquired Margetts; “and how did you get on with your sermon?”

“I had a very good congregation,” was the reply. “The farmer who bought Spielman’s Vley of my stepfather is an Englishman, an emigrant from a Berkshire village. He and his wife and grown-up children were all there, and so were nearly all the farm-servants whom he had brought with him. He told me very earnestly how it delighted him to hear the Church service. It was like a voice from Old England, he said, and he couldn’t tell me how glad they all were that a clergyman would come over from Umvalosa every alternate Sunday now, instead of once a month.”