The White Hand and the Black Part 14

_Hyland Thornhill, Esq_.

_P.O. Box Something or other_, _Johannesburg_.

Just then Edala came in.

"Hullo. What's that you're sending, father?"

"Never you mind," throwing it on the blotting pad, face downwards.

"It's a secret--another secret," he could not refrain from adding, maliciously.

"But I will see," she returned, making a playful, but tolerably determined s.n.a.t.c.h at the envelope. "Is it to Hyland? Is it?" as a brown and iron hand effectually baffled her attempt. "You are telling him to come--are you? Are you?"

"Ah-ah! Curiosity, thy name is woman!"

She had got him by the shoulders, and was shaking him, quite child-like and boisterous. He loved this mood.

"There are more people in the world than Hyland," he said. "Why should I bother about an impudent neglectful rascal who hardly ever takes the trouble to communicate with the author of his being, let alone to come in person and ascertain whether that worthy is dead or not?"

"It _is_ to Hyland. I know it is. And you are telling him to come.

You are, father? Say you are. Do you hear? Say you are."

"Oh, keep cool," ironically, for she was still shaking him by the shoulders. "Learn to trust in--the fulness of time."

It may be that the double meaning was not lost on her. But at that moment there befel an interruption. The dogs at the back of the house had sprung up and were barking furiously.

"Post, I suppose?" said Thornhill going to the window.

"There! I thought it was to Hyland!" cried Edala, who took the opportunity of s.n.a.t.c.hing up the letter, which lay face downward on the table, and reading the address. "You are telling him to come, aren't you?"

"Time will show," he answered teasingly. "But telling him's one thing, whether he'll do as he's told is another. A lifelong experience of him, and, incidentally, of his sister, would move me to bet on the latter contingency."

A trampling of hoofs and then the postboy appeared, mounted on an undersized pony and clad in a long military surtout of ancient date.

The rain was dripping from the ragged brim of his battered hat, but this affected him not at all, for his black s.h.i.+ning face split into a dazzling white grin as he raised his hand in salute. The dogs, who knew him, had retreated, muttering, as though resenting being done out of hostilities; though even now they were sniffing around his utterly indifferent legs, not altogether rea.s.suringly, as having dismounted he came to the door.

"Well Gomfu--what is the news?" said Thornhill, taking the leather bag.

"News? _Au! Nkose_ will find all his news in there."

"But nearer than that. Here, I mean."

The boy grinned slyly.

"U Jobo is preaching around the locations. _Whau_! but he is telling news to the people--great news."

This, as we have said, was the native name of that estimable Ethiopian apostle the Rev Job Magwegwe. Thornhill had heard of him.

"Why does not the Government send the police after him, _Nkose_?" went on the other. "Or are the ears of the Government stopped? Or those of Ntwezi?"

Thornhill laughed.

"You are not a kolwa [Christian native] then, Gomfu?"

The other clicked contemptuously.

"I am not a fool, _Nkose_, The _Abafundisi_ [Missionaries] preach to us what they do not believe themselves. They say that their G.o.d made all men equal, black and white, but what is that but childishness? Equal?

_Nkose_--who ever heard of a white man becoming the servant of a native, but it would take years to count the natives in all the land who are the servants of white men. Equal? _Whau_!"

"That is so, Gomfu."

"_Nkose_. Again. What if the son of--I do not say a common man but of a chief such as Tongwana, or Zavula, were to send _lobola_ for the daughter of an _umfundisi_, and many of them have daughters--what would be the answer? Would it not be anger at a native presuming to dream of marriage with the daughter of a white man?--of a white man who preaches that black and white are all equal? Certainly it would, and rightly.

And we natives who are not fools know this. We want no _Abafundisi_ telling as childishness, particularly Amafengu, such as U Jobo. Equal!

_Hau_!"

"_Nkosazana_!"

The latter in salutation of Edala, who appeared at the door.

"Father, when you've quite done trying to make Gomfu a worse heathen than he is already, and, incidentally, than you are yourself, it might occur to you to bring in the post-bag," she said.

"Gomfu's quaint theology has the merit of being logical, eke simple," he answered coming back into the room. "Here's the bag. Where's the key?

Now then," he went on, having unlocked the bag and turned out its contents. "_Graphic. Country Life. Natal Witness. Eastern Province Herald_--that's enough journalism. Letters? None for you. M-m. One, two, three--all business Four--no. Number 4 isn't biz, but--yes it is-- it's English. They make our stamps and the English ones so much alike now that there's no telling the difference. Now I wonder who that can be from," scrutinising the direction narrowly. "There's no one in England likely to write to me."

"Father. Look again. You must be getting blind. Why it is one of our stamps after all, and the postmark is Durban--or what's left of it."

"Has Durban, then, met with nearly total destruction?" he inquired, tranquilly.

"Now, don't be absurd. You know I meant the postmark."

"Oh, the postmark? Small wonder I was in doubt, for the sole use of the average postmark is to throw a hopeless blind on both the locality and the date of posting."

"Well the best way of solving the mystery, and the shortest, would be to open the letter and look at the signature."

"Ah! Ah! A woman's way of reading a novel--looking at the end first."

"Father, are you going to open that letter or are you not? If you have no curiosity on the subject of an unknown hand I have. And--it's a feminine hand too."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

MANAMANDHLA'S BEEF.

"Yes, it's a feminine hand," he echoed, gazing critically on the envelope. "There's character in it too. Now I wonder who the deuce it can be from."

"Father, _will_ you open it? Can't you see I am dying with curiosity?"

"Now, I'm not--not one little bit," he answered, delighted to tease her.

"In fact I wouldn't mind postponing the further investigation of this mysterious missive for at least a week. Letters in unknown hands are generally of that character. For the matter of that, only too often so are those in known ones."

For answer she suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from his hand and tore it open. "There now. Will you read it?" she said, giving it back.