Forging the Blades: A Tale of the Zulu Rebellion Page 11

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  DEVELOPMENTS.

  The dictum of Ben Halse with regard to his daughter and their new friendwas unconsciously echoed by more than one passer-by, as the two strolledleisurely along the broad road which constituted the main "street" ofthe township, between its lines of foliage, Verna nodding to anacquaintance here and there. Denham was rather an out-of-the-way kindof stranger to drop suddenly into their midst, and again, he seemed tobe "in" with the Halses. Could he be an English relation of theirs?they wondered, for there was an unmistakable "out from home" stamp uponhim.

  "Do you know, you are rather a puzzle to me, Miss Halse," he suddenlybroke out, with regard to nothing in particular.

  "Am I? In what way?"

  They had reached one of the winding forest roads which had beenartificially cleared, and thus made into delightful drives or walks.High overhead the tall tree-tops met, and in the shade beneath, thegaze, turning to either side, met nothing but actual "forest primeval."

  "Why, in this way," he answered, "Your own surroundings at home, fromyour account of it and your father's, must be uncommonly like this; yetwhen you _get_ here, among a lot of other people, and houses and gardensand tennis, and all that sort of thing, the first thing you do is tostart off for a lonely walk in the forest."

  "Lonely walk? But I don't feel lonely. You--are fairly good company."And she flashed at him an uncommonly captivating smile.

  "I? Oh, I am an accident. You would have gone anyhow, with or withoutme."

  With the words something struck him. Was he such an "accident" afterall? Denham was not a conceited man, but he was no fool. He was a manof the world, and was perfectly well aware that from a "worldly goods"point of view he would be regarded as a "catch" by most women. Yetsomehow, even if the fact of his being here was not accidental, the ideadid not displease him--anything but. And he had known his presentcompanion exactly three hours and a half.

  "I suppose I should," she answered. "As for the `other people,' I don'tknow that I care much about anybody. They're a very good sort, andwe're civil to each other when we meet, and so on. But that's aboutall. I've been so much alone, you see."

  "You remind me of the standing joke about the London 'bus driver--whenhe gets a day off he spends it riding about on top of another 'bus as a`fare,' likewise the actor, under similar circumstances, goes to othertheatres."

  Verna laughed. "Yes, I suppose I'm like that, too. But, do you know,I'm rather energetic--must always be moving."

  "So I should judge. It's lovely here, but these dense growths ofvegetation, especially down in a hollow like this, always strike me asmiasmatic."

  Verna looked surprised.

  "But this is the first time you have been into--in this country, at anyrate."

  He smiled. He could have told a different story.

  "I have been in South America, and the forest belts here are a joke tothat. But tell me now about the shooting of the record koodoo. Yourfather wasn't joking when he said it was your work?"

  "No, it's true." Then she stopped. A sudden idea had struck her. Shedid not want to pose as an Amazon before this acquaintance of just threehours and three-quarters. She wished her father had said nothing aboutit.

  "Well done. Why, you're a regular Diana," said Denham enthusiastically.

  "A regular what? I told you I was utterly uneducated."

  "So you did, and I didn't believe you, nor do I now. Ladies are notexpected to be up in the classics, except the `advanced' ones, andthey're none the better for it. Well, the party I mentioned was amythical female given to shooting stags with a bow and arrows thatwouldn't damage a mouse--at least that's how she's represented insculpture and painting. Likewise with an incidental cur or two thrownin."

  Verna laughed merrily.

  "Oh, is that it?" she said. "Well, I told you I was an ignoramus."

  "Yes; but tell me now about the shooting of the record head."

  She told him, told the story graphically and well, but so far as her ownpart in it was concerned rather diffidently.

  Denham was interested with a vengeance, and in his own mind could notbut draw contrasts. This girl, walking beside him in her neat, tastefulattire, why, they might have been walking on an English country road orin an English park! She would have fitted in equally well there. Shemight have been giving him an account of some dance or theatricalperformance, yet just as naturally did she narrate the midnight poachingexpedition and the shooting of the large animal by the light of themoon--by herself. The naturalness of her, too, struck him withastonishment: the utter self-possession, living, as she did, a secludedlife.

  "What are you thinking about?" she said, for he had relapsed intounconscious silence.

  "About you," he answered.

  "About me? I expect I can guess what you were thinking."

  "Try."

  "Very well. You were thinking: Here's a boisterous, sporting female,who rides and shoots like a man, and who fires pistol shots at nativeswhen they offend her; and who probably smokes and swears and drinks,into the bargain."

  "Go on. Anything else?"

  "No; that's enough to go on with."

  "All right. I was thinking nothing of the kind. I was thinking of yourpluck, for one thing, and your naturalness for another. I was alsothinking that we were having an awfully jolly walk."

  "Yes, it is jolly, isn't it?" she answered, with that very "naturalness"that he had applauded. "I'm enjoying it no end. Was that all you werethinking?"

  "Must I answer that question?"

  "Certainly."

  "I was thinking what a delightful speaking voice yours is. It must begreat as a singing one."

  A slight flush came over her face.

  "You must not pay me compliments, Mr Denham. I had a better opinion ofyou. But I'm not musical at all. I haven't even got a piano, and if Ihad I couldn't play it. `Utterly uneducated,' as I told you."

  This was met by the same unbelieving head-shake.

  "By the way, how many of you are there in the family?" he asked.

  "You've seen all the family. My mother died when I was quite a weekiddie, so did a brother. I can't remember either of them. So you seethere are only the two of us."

  "I suppose you get girl friends to visit you sometimes?"

  "They'd be bored to death in a week. Besides, I haven't got any."

  "How strange!"

  "Yes, isn't it? But then, you see, I've never been to school, and amseldom away from home. So I have neither time nor opportunity to makethem."

  "You are a problem," he said, looking at her with a strange expression.

  "Am I? Well, at any rate, now you know what to expect. But I don'tthink you'll get bored, because you have strong interests of your own."

  Denham was above uttering such a banality as that he could not get boredif she was there, but he felt it all the same. A problem he had calledher. Yes, she was a problem indeed; and he would be surprised if shewere not the most interesting one with which he had ever been faced.

  "Look," went on Verna, coming to a standstill and pointing with herlight _umzimbiti_ walking-stick. "That's not bad for a view."

  They had emerged from the forest ravine and now stood on high ground.The plains swept away to a line of round-topped hills, whose slopes wereintersected with similar forest-filled ravines to that behind them,making dark stripes upon the bright green of the slope. It was a lovelyevening, and the sky was blue and cloudless.

  "No; it's beautiful," he answered. "I came here that way, round theback of that range."

  "But that's the way to Makanya. You didn't come from Makanya?"

  "No; I left it on the left. I wanted to find my way across country.All that forest part is splendid, but rough."

  "Were you alone?"

  "Yes, except when I got a native as guide for what looked like some ofthe most difficult parts."

  Verna's pretty lips emitted a whistle, as she looked at him inastonishment.
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br />   "You did rather a risky thing," she said. "The people down there arenone too well affected, and it's hardly safe in these days for asolitary white man in some parts of the country. And the Zulus are notwhat they used to be. But how did you manage about talking?"

  "Oh, I had picked up an ordinary word or two, and the potent sign of ahalf-crown piece did the rest. It was quite interesting as anexperience, really."

  Verna still looked at him astonished; then she remembered he had saidsomething about South America; still, his undertaking was at that time,as she had said, a risky thing. He, remembering one experience, at anyrate, thought she was very likely right.

  "Well, you mustn't take any risks when you are with us," she said.

  "Why? Are the people your way disaffected, too?"

  "It isn't so much that, but you might get lost wandering about byyourself. The forest country is flatter, and there are no landmarks, atany rate, that would be of any use to a stranger."

  "Oh, I'm not much afraid of that," he answered lightly. They hadresumed their walk, which lay back through the forest by a differentway, chatting freely about anything and everything, as if they had knowneach other for years, at least so Denham looked upon it. He had had amost delightful walk, he told her, and she said she was glad. What hedid not tell her was that he had found in her personality something soalluring, in her propinquity something so magnetic that it seemed agesago when he had never known her. And now he was due to spend anindefinite time in a wild and unfrequented place, with herself and herfather as sole companions. Assuredly the situation was charged withpotentialities, but from such Alaric Denham, recognising, did notshrink.

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  Two figures were walking a little way in front of them as they drew nearthe hotel garden gate.

  "Why, who can that be with father?" said Verna. Then, as they got alittle nearer, "Why, if it isn't Harry Stride!"

  "Who's he?"

  "A prospector. He's a nice boy. A little while ago he got into adifference of opinion with some of our people and learnt which wassoftest--his head or a knobkerrie. We mended him up, but it took alittle while."

  "Poor chap. Is he all right now?"

  "Oh yes." And the other two, hearing them, turned and waited.

  During the greetings which followed a mere glance was sufficient to makeDenham acquainted with two things--one, that the newcomer was over headand ears in love with Verna Halse, and the other that Verna was not inthe least in love with him. She greeted him with frank, open-heartedfriendliness, while his face, in that brief moment, spoke volumes.

  Then the two men were introduced, and Denham became alive to the factthat the other regarded him with no friendly eyes.

  "Poor boy," he thought to himself. "He is handsome, too, very, in theAnglo-Saxon, blue-eyed style, manly-looking as well. I wonder why hehas no show."

  As the evening wore on this subtle antagonism deepened, at any rate suchwas obvious to the object thereof. Yet Denham laid himself out to befriendly. He made no attempt to monopolise Verna's society, but spentmost of the time chatting and smoking with her father, leaving the othera clear field so far as he himself was concerned. And of this the otherhad laid himself out to make the most; as why should he not, since hehad ridden a two days' journey with that express object?

  Once, when the conversation was general, and turning on the probabilityof a general rising, the subject of the state of native feeling in theMakanya district came up; Verna said, "Mr Denham came right through theMakanya bush all alone."

  But it happened that several people were talking at once, as is notunfrequently the case when a topic of public interest is underdiscussion, and the remark was lost. Verna did not repeat it. Somestrange, unaccountable instinct kept her from doing so. It could benothing else but instinct, for certainly Denham himself gave no sign ofhaving so much as heard it. But the time was to come when she shouldlook back on that instinct with very real meaning indeed.