Jess

Chapter 8

JESS GOES TO PRETORIA

That day, at dinner, Jess suddenly announced that she was going on the

morrow to Pretoria to see Jane Neville.

"To see Jane Neville!" said Bessie, opening her blue eyes wide. "Why,

it was only last month you said that you did not care about Jane Neville

now, because she had grown so vulgar. Don't you remember when she

stopped here on her way down to Natal last year, and held up her fat

hands, and said, 'Ah, Jess--Jess is a _genius!_ It is a privilege to

know her'? And then she asked you to quote Shakespeare to that lump of

a brother of hers, and you told her that if she did not hold her tongue

she would not enjoy the privilege much longer. And now you want to go

and stop with her for two months! Well, Jess, you are odd. And, what's

more, I think it is very unkind of you to run away for so long."

To all of which prattle Jess said nothing, but merely reiterated her

determination to go.

John, too, was astonished, and, to tell the truth, not a little

disgusted. Since the previous day, when he had that talk with her in

Lion Kloof, Jess had assumed a clearer and more definite interest in his

eyes. Before that she was an enigma; now he had guessed enough about her

to make him anxious to know more. Indeed, he had not perhaps realised

how strong and definite his interest was till he heard that she was

going away for a long period. Suddenly it struck him that the farm would

be very dull without this very fascinating woman moving about the

place in her silent, resolute way. Bessie was, no doubt, delightful

and charming to look on, but she had not her sister's brains and

originality; and John Niel was sufficiently above the ordinary run to

thoroughly appreciate intellect and originality in a woman, instead of

standing aghast at it. She interested him intensely, to say the least of

it, and, man-like, he felt exceedingly annoyed, and even sulky, at

the idea of her departure. He looked at her in protest, and, with an

awkwardness begotten of his irritation, knocked down the vinegar cruet

and made a mess upon the table; but she evaded his eyes and took no

notice of the vinegar. Then, feeling that he had done all that in him

lay, he went to see about the ostriches; first of all hanging about a

little in case Jess should come out, which she did not do. Indeed, he

saw nothing more of her till supper time. Bessie told him that she said

she was busy packing; but, as one can only take twenty pounds weight of

luggage in a post-cart, this did not quite convince him that it was so

in fact.

At supper Jess was, if possible, even more quiet than she had been

at dinner. After it was over, he asked her to sing, but she declined,

saying that she had given up singing for the present, and persisting

in her statement in spite of the chorus of remonstrance it aroused. The

birds only sing whilst they are mating; and it is, by the way, a curious

thing, and suggestive of the theory that the same great principles

pervade all nature, that now when her trouble had overtaken her,

and that she had lost the love which had suddenly sprung from her

heart--full-grown and clad in power as Athena sprang from the head of

Jove--Jess had no further inclination to use her divine gift of song.

Probably it was nothing more than a coincidence, although a strange one.

The arrangement was, that on the morrow Jess was to be driven in the

Cape cart to Martinus-Wesselstroom, more commonly called Wakkerstroom,

there to catch the post-cart, which was timed to leave the town at

mid-day, though when it would leave was quite another matter. Post-carts

are not particular to a day or so in the Transvaal.

Old Silas Croft was to drive her with Bessie, who wished to do some

shopping in Wakkerstroom, as ladies sometimes will; but at the last

moment the old man felt a premonitory twinge of the rheumatism to which

he was a martyr, and could not go. So, of course, John volunteered, and,

though Jess raised some difficulties, Bessie furthered the idea, and in

the end his offer was accepted.

Accordingly, at half-past eight on a beautiful morning up came the

tented cart, with its two massive wheels, stout stinkwood disselboom,

and four spirited young horses; to the heads of which the Hottentot

Jantje, assisted by the Zulu Mouti, clad in the sweet simplicity of a

moocha, a few feathers in his wool, and a horn snuffbox stuck through

the fleshy part of the ear, hung on grimly. In they got--John first,

then Bessie next to him, then Jess. Next Jantje scrambled up behind; and

after some preliminary backing and plunging, and showing a disposition

to twine themselves affectionately round the orange-trees, off went

the horses at a hand gallop, and away swung the cart after them, in a

fashion that would have frightened anybody, not accustomed to that mode

of progression, pretty well out of his wits. As it was, John had as much

as he could do to keep the four horses together, and to prevent them

from bolting, and this alone, to say nothing of the rattling and jolting

of the vehicle over the uneven track, was sufficient to put a stop to

any attempt at conversation.

Wakkerstroom is about eighteen miles from Mooifontein, a distance that

they covered well within the two hours. Here the horses were outspanned

at the hotel, and John went into the house whence the post-cart was

to start and booked Jess's seat, and then joined the ladies at the

_Kantoor_ or store where they were shopping. When their purchases were

made, they went back to the inn together and ate some dinner; by which

time the Hottentot driver of the cart began to tune up lustily, but

unmelodiously, on a bugle to inform intending passengers that it was

time to start. Bessie was out of the room at the moment, and, with the

exception of a peculiarly dirty-looking coolie waiter, there was nobody

about.

"How long are you going to be away, Miss Jess?" asked John.

"Two months, more or less, Captain Niel."

"I am very sorry that you are going," he said earnestly. "It will be

dull at the farm without you."

"You will have Bessie to talk to," she answered, turning her face to the

window, and affecting to watch the inspanning of the post-cart in the

yard on to which it looked.

"Captain Niel!" she said suddenly.

"Yes?"

"Mind you look after Bessie while I am away. Listen! I am going to tell

you something. You know Frank Muller?"

"Yes, I know him, and a very disagreeable fellow he is."

"Well, he threatened Bessie the other day, and he is a man who is quite

capable of carrying out a threat. I can't tell you anything more about

it, but I want you to promise me to protect Bessie if any occasion for

it should arise. I do not know that it will, but it might. Will you

promise?"

"Of course I will; I would do a great deal more than that if you asked

me to, Jess," he answered tenderly, for now that she was going away he

felt curiously drawn towards her, and was anxious to show it.

"Never mind me," she said, with an impatient little movement. "Bessie

is sweet enough and lovely enough to be looked after for her own sake, I

should think."

Before he could say any more, in came Bessie herself, saying that the

driver was waiting, and they went out to see her sister off.

"Don't forget your promise," Jess whispered to him, bending down as he

helped her into the cart, so low that her lips almost touched him, and

her breath rested for a second on his cheek like the ghost of a kiss.

In another moment the sisters had embraced each other, tenderly enough;

the driver had sounded once more on his awful bugle, and away went the

cart at full gallop, bearing with it Jess, two other passengers, and

her Majesty's mails. John and Bessie stood for a moment watching its

mad career, as it fled splashing and banging down the straggling street

towards the wide plains beyond; then they turned to enter the inn again

and prepare for their homeward drive. At that moment, an old Boer, named

Hans Coetzee, with whom John was already slightly acquainted, came

up, and, extending an enormously big and thick hand, bid them "_Gooden

daag._" Hans Coetzee was a very favourable specimen of the better sort

of Boer, and really came more or less up to the ideal picture that is so

often drawn of that "simple pastoral people." He was a very large, stout

man, with a fine open face and a pair of kindly eyes. John, looking at

him, guessed that he could not weigh less than seventeen stone, and that

estimate was well within the mark.

"How are you, Captain?" he said in English, for he could talk English

well, "and how do you like the Transvaal?--must not call it South

African Republic now, you know, for that's treason," and his eye

twinkled merrily.

"I like it very much, _Meinheer_," said John.

"Ah, yes, it's a beautiful veldt, especially about here--no horse

sickness, no 'blue tongue,'[*] and a good strong grass for the cattle.

And you must find yourself very snug at _Oom_ Croft's there; it's the

nicest place in the district, with the ostriches and all. Not that

I hold with ostriches in this veldt; they are well enough in the old

colony, but they won't breed here--at least, not as they should do. I

tried them once and I know; oh, yes, I know."

[*] A disease that is very fatal to sheep.

"Yes, it's a very fine country, _Meinheer_. I have been all over the

world almost, and I never saw a finer."

"You don't say so, now! Almighty, what a thing it is to have travelled!

Not that I should like to travel myself. I think that the Lord meant us

to stop in the place He has made for us. But it is a fine country, and"

(dropping his voice) "I think it is a finer country than it used to be."

"You mean that the veldt has got 'tame', _Meinheer_?"

"Nay, nay. I mean that the land is English now," he answered

mysteriously, "and though I dare not say so among my _volk_, I hope that

it will keep English. When I was Republican, I was Republican, and

it was good in some ways, the Republic. There was so little to pay in

taxes, and we knew how to manage the black folk; but now I am English,

I am English. I know the English Government means good money and safety,

and if there isn't a _Raad_ (assembly) now, well, what does it matter?

Almighty, how they used to talk there!--clack, clack, clack! just like

an old black _koran_ (species of bustard) at sunset. And where did they

run the waggon of the Republic to--Burghers and those damned Hollanders

of his, and the rest of them? Why, into the _sluit_--into a _sluit_ with

peaty banks; and there it would have stopped till now, or till the flood

came down and swept it away, if old Shepstone--ah! what a tongue that

man has, and how fond he is of the _kinderchies!_ (little children)--had

not come and pulled it out again. But look here, Captain, the _volk_

round here don't think like that. It's the '_verdomde Britische

Gouvernment_' here and the '_verdomde Britische Gouvernment_' there, and

_bymakaars_ (meetings) here and _bymakaars_ there. Silly folk, they all

run one after the other like sheep. But there it is, Captain, and I tell

you there will be fighting before long, and then our people will shoot

those poor _rooibaatjes_ of yours like buck, and take the land back.

Poor things! I could weep when I think of it."

John smiled at this melancholy prognostication, and was about to explain

what a poor show all the Boers in the Transvaal would make in front of a

few British regiments, when he was astonished by a sudden change in his

friend's manner. Dropping his enormous paw on to his shoulder, Coetzee

broke into a burst of somewhat forced merriment, the cause of which,

though John did not guess it at the moment, was that he had just

perceived Frank Muller, who was in Wakkerstroom with a waggon-load of

corn to grind at the mill, standing within five yards, and apparently

intensely interested in flipping at the flies with a cowrie made of the

tail of a vilderbeeste, but in reality listening to Coetzee's talk with

all his ears.

"Ha, ha! _nef_ (nephew)," said old Coetzee to the astonished John, "no

wonder you like Mooifontein--there are other _mooi_ (pretty) things

there beside the water. How often do you _opsit_ (sit up at night) with

Uncle Croft's pretty girl, eh? I'm not quite as blind as an ant-bear

yet. I saw her blush when you spoke to her just now. I saw her. Well,

well, it is a pretty game for a young man, isn't it, _nef_ Frank?" (this

was addressed to Muller). "I'll be bound the Captain here 'burns a long

candle' with pretty Bessie every night, eh, Frank? I hope you ain't

jealous, _nef_? My _vrouw_ told me some time ago that you were sweet in

that direction yourself;" and he stopped at last, out of breath,

looking anxiously towards Muller for an answer, while John, who had

been somewhat overwhelmed at this flood of bucolic chaff, gave a sigh

of relief. As for Muller, he behaved in a curious manner. Instead of

laughing, as the jolly old Boer had intended that he should, although

Coetzee could not see it, his face had been growing blacker and blacker;

and now that the flow of language ceased, with a savage ejaculation

which John could not catch, but which he appeared to throw at his

(John's) head, he turned on his heel and went off towards the courtyard

of the inn.

"Almighty!" said old Hans, wiping his face with a red cotton

pocket-handkerchief; "I have put my foot into a big hole. That stink-cat

Muller heard all that I was saying to you, and I tell you he will

save it up and save it up, and one day he will bring it all out to the

_volk_, and call me a traitor to the 'land' and ruin me. I know him. He

knows how to balance a long stick on his little finger so that the ends

keep even. Oh, yes, he can ride two horses at once, and blow hot and

blow cold. He is a devil of a man, a devil of a man! And what did he

mean by swearing at you like that? Is it about the _missie_ (girl), I

wonder? Almighty! who can say? Ah! that reminds me--though I'm sure I

don't know why it should--the Kafirs tell me that there is a big herd of

buck--vilderbeeste and blesbok--on my outlying place about an hour and

a half (ten miles) from Mooifontein. Can you hold a rifle, Captain? You

look like a bit of a hunter."

"Oh, yes, Meinheer!" said John, delighted at the prospect of some

shooting.

"Ah, I thought so. All you English are sportsmen, though you don't know

how to kill buck. Well now, you take _Oom_ Croft's light Scotch cart and

two good horses, and come over to my place--not to-morrow, for my wife's

cousin is coming to see us, and an old cat she is, but rich; she has a

thousand pounds in gold in the waggon-box under her bed--nor the next

day, for it is the Lord's day, and one can't shoot creatures on the

Lord's day--but Monday, yes, Monday. You will be there by eight o'clock,

and you shall see how to kill vilderbeeste. Almighty! now what can that

jackal Frank Muller have meant? Ah! he is the devil of a man," and,

shaking his head ponderously, the jolly old Boer departed, and presently

John saw him riding away upon a fat little shooting-pony which cannot

have weighed much more than himself, but that cantered off with him on

his fifteen-mile journey as though he were a feather-weight.