Forging the Blades: A Tale of the Zulu Rebellion

Chapter Ten.

Impressions

If Denham’s impressions had been thus with regard to Verna, hers had been the same with regard to himself. She had seen him first, as he came up the garden path with her father, and the tall, fine figure, and clean-cut face had taken her imagination at once. She remembered, only the other day, asking her father what sort of man this would be likely to be, never expecting to set eyes on him, and now here he was.

“Got any room at the bigger table, Emmie?” said Ben Halse, as they went in. He had known the hostess of the Nodwengu – herself the daughter of a fine old up-country trader and pioneer – ever since she was born. “I like being among folks when I break away, which isn’t often.”

“Plenty. We’re anything but full now, worse luck. Here, next me. Verna, you sit there.”

“There” meant next Denham, an arrangement of which the latter thoroughly approved. “Verna!” So that was her name, he thought. It sounded pretty, and seemed to suit her.

“You’ve only just arrived, I hear, Mr Denham,” she began. “Well, I’m not going to ask you what you think of this country, because you haven’t had time to form an opinion.”

“I like what I’ve seen of it,” he answered. “Ezulwini seems a delightful spot.”

“Mr Denham collects butterflies and beetles, and all sorts of things,” struck in Mrs Shelford. “I came upon him this morning with a horrid leggy thing he’d just caught. What was it, Mr Denham? A praying – praying – something?”

“Amantis.”

“Yes. He’ll be catching snails next.”

“Shouldn’t wonder, Mrs Shelford. I’m keen on capturing the skin of the indhlondhlo.”

“He’s jolly rare,” said Ben Halse, with a twinkle in his eyes. “We might find one up my way, but it isn’t certain.”

“What did you call that snake, Mr Denham?” said Verna.

He repeated the word. Then, as something struck him —

“Now that’s not fair, Miss Halse. Remember I’ve only been in the country a few days.”

“Why? What? Oh, I see. No, really, I wasn’t making fun of the way you said it; on the contrary, you pronounced it so well I wanted to hear it again to make sure. Aren’t I right, father?”

“Right – as usual. But joking apart, I noticed the same thing. You’ll have to learn the lingo, Mr Denham, as I said.”

“I’ll try. By the way, what’s the meaning of the name of this place – Ezulwini?”

“In the heavens,” answered Verna. “Pretty name, isn’t it? It was named after the kraal of an old-time chief which stood on its site.”

“Why, yes. It’s rather good,” said Denham. “It’s much better to stick to the old native names instead of inventing British and new ones.”

“I agree with you. But the worst of it is there are so few that the British tongue can get round,” said Verna. “That makes rather a difficulty at a railway booking-office, for instance, when you have a newly-imported Britisher issuing tickets.”

“Such as myself,” laughed Denham.

“I didn’t know you issued tickets,” rejoined the girl mischievously.

“But the newly-imported Britisher!”

“Well, yes. I suppose you are that. But it isn’t incurable.”

There was a laugh at this. Denham was delighted. There was something about the girl at his side that was infinitely taking. She, for her part, talked on and talked well. How had she acquired the art, he marvelled, spending life in a place which her father had described as “precious wild.” But perhaps she had been home to England for educational purposes. But to a question to that effect Verna promptly replied in the negative. She had once been to Johannesburg, and that not for long; beyond that she had never been outside Zululand and Natal.

“I am utterly uneducated, you know,” she added frankly, but with the most taking smile.

“You don’t expect me to take that seriously, Miss Halse?” said Denham.

“Well, it’s true.”

He shook his head, of course unconvinced. In rough and out-of-the-way parts a girl might suffer from want of educational opportunities, but this one had not. Her speaking voice was refined and her grammar flawless. Perhaps she had a clever and refined mother, he thought. And then it occurred to him for the first time that he was in entire ignorance as to what Ben Halse’s household consisted of. He had made no inquiries on the subject, and now he was going to be a temporary member of it.

“You won’t believe what I say?” she went on mischievously.

“No.”

“All right, you’ll see. Just get me on to Shakespeare and Byron, or is it Bacon? and all that lot that you learned people like talking about, and then you’ll see where I don’t come in.”

Denham was more and more delighted. There was such a charming frankness about this daughter of the wilderness that was clean outside all his experience. There was no affectation about it either. At the same time he could see that this was no ordinary type of womanhood. She had character, and plenty of it. Here was an object of interest – of vivid interest – he had by no means bargained for.

“But I’m not a ‘learned’ person, Miss Halse,” he answered, with a laugh. “Anything but. I like collecting things. That’s all.”

“Mr Denham’s coming up to stay with us a bit, Verna,” said Ben Halse. “He’ll be able to ‘collect things’ there to the top of his bent.”

“Are you, really? Oh, that’ll be delightful,” she said, turning upon Denham a sparkling, pleased face. “We can take you where you can find everything that creeps, or flies, or runs, down in the Lumisana forest.”

“That’ll be more than good. I shall enjoy it above all things,” he rejoined. “I suppose you are a good bit of a sportsman yourself, Miss Halse? Shoot and all that?”

“Oh, I haven’t always time,” she answered. “What with running the house and looking after things, and helping father in the store – that takes some time and patience, I can tell you. The people in these days have got so civilised and thoroughly understand the value of money, why, they’ll haggle for half-an-hour over anything, from a striped skirt to a packet of snuff.”

“Will they?” said Denham, more interested than ever. This girl – this splendid-looking girl with the fine presence and striking personality – sold striped skirts and packets of snuff to natives, and, moreover, had not the slightest hesitation in volunteering the fact. More and more did she rise in his estimation.

“Miss Halse nearly shot a Kafir once in that same store, Mr Denham,” struck in the hostess, who, while talking to the trader, had taken in the other conversation.

“Not really?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” explained Verna. “A man came in once to trade – not one of our people, but a stranger. I was alone and he got impudent, not merely impudent, but violent, began to throw things about, and all that. So I just gave him a scare shot, you know, a shot that shaved him near enough to scare him badly. I let him know that the next one would be nearer still and that I had five more. Then he subsided and became civil. But – it was nothing.”

“Well done! Well done!” cried Denham. “I suppose in those wild parts you have to know how to take care of yourself.” He had noticed, too, that there was no trace of brag in her narrative: it was utterly matter-of-fact.

“I’ve never known any trouble with our people, and I’ve been among them the best part of my life,” she answered. “This one was a stranger.”

“How d’you do, Miss Halse,” said Inspector James, who entered at that moment, “I thought your father wouldn’t have left you behind. Well, Halse, I knew I’d be late, and I am. It’s precious hot, though. What’s the latest?”

“Latest? I came here to hear the latest,” answered Ben Halse, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, of course. If you didn’t know what was going on before we did I’d be – well, astonished.”

“No, there’s no indaba– none fresh, that is, and what there is you know as well as I do, James.”

“Oh, those brutes are hatching no more mischief than usual,” grumbled the latter, who was hot and tired. “How’s your friend Sapazani, Halse?”

“Same as before. I’m going to have another drink, James. You cut in – you, Mr Denham?”

“Don’t mind. That sweep’s not trustworthy,” answered James, meaning not Denham but Sapazani.

“Is any one on this earth?” returned Ben Halse, while Verna remarked sweetly —

“Sapazani is a great friend of ours, Mr James.”

Denham, the while, listened amused, but said nothing.

“Oh, that’s all right, Miss Halse,” answered the Inspector. “Meanwhile, it’s a great thing to know who one’s friends are.”

“Who is Sapazani?” asked Denham, after a little more discussion.

“He’s our chief – I mean the big chief near us,” explained Verna. “We’ll introduce him to you when you come.”

The police officer was a trifle surprised. Denham was going to stay with the Halses, then! Now who the deuce could this Denham be? he began to wonder. There had been dark suspicions of gun-running in the part inhabited by Sapazani’s tribe, and now here was a stranger, about whom nobody knew anything at all, going on a visit to Ben Halse. Then it occurred to him that the said stranger had arrived unexpectedly at Ezulwini, not by the usual road and in the usual way, but alone, on horseback, from a different direction and through some of the most disaffected and out-of-the-way parts of the country. It also occurred to him that the said stranger’s previous movements might bear some looking into.

“Well, I shall leave you to take away poor Sapazani’s character together,” said Verna presently, rising from the table – the hostess had already retired.

“Going to have forty winks, Miss Halse?” laughed James.

“Perhaps.”

The men sat on for a little while longer, then the Inspector left them to return to his work. Ben Halse and Denham adjourned to the verandah to smoke another pipe or so.

“I’m glad you’ve found your way out here,” said the former. “We’ve done business together for quite a time, and it seems as if we ought to know each other.”

“And very satisfactory business it has been to me, Mr Halse – ”

“Glad to hear you say so. Yes, go on. I interrupted you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, not at all. Well, what I was going to say is this: I trust we shall continue it on the same satisfactory terms – er – I mean – of course it is most kind of you to offer me hospitality, and I assure you I look forward to my visit with keen pleasure. But you will understand that anything rare you may obtain for me in the way of specimens while I am with you, is obtained on exactly the same terms as before. You don’t mind?”

We have somewhat emphasised the fact that Ben Halse was fond of money, but also that there was no sort of meanness about him. He had a code of his own. Moreover, he had taken a very great liking, at first sight, to the man beside him.

“I don’t mind, Mr Denham,” he answered. “But I don’t think I’ll agree. While you are my guest we won’t go on the business tack over any thing.”

“Now you don’t want to cut my visit short, do you?” said the other, with a pleasant laugh.

“Certainly not. But this time you must let me have my own way. We haven’t known each other long, Mr Denham, but I don’t mind telling you there are people in these parts who say things about me; but whatever they say, there is one thing they are bound to say – unless they are liars – and that is that I have my ideas of what’s what, and I stick to them.”

“Very well, then, Mr Halse. You shall have your way, and I assure you I am looking forward to an altogether new and delightful experience.”

Then they talked on about veldt-craft and forest-craft, eventually coming round to the record koodoo head, which Denham was dying to see.

“Verna shot it,” said Ben Halse, somewhat lowering his voice. “As neat and clean a shot as ever was delivered.”

“No!” in delighted surprise.

“Fact. Verna shot it.”

“What did Verna shoot?”

Both started at the voice behind them, and turned their heads. The girl stood erect, smiling, in every way winsome and attractive.

“You shouldn’t talk so loud, father dear. You’re giving away our secrets to any passer-by. It doesn’t matter about Mr Denham, of course, because he’s in them: an accomplice, an accessary, both before and after the fact – isn’t that the correct expression?”

Denham was set wondering. “An accessary, both before and after the fact,” he repeated to himself. And this was the girl who had described herself as “utterly uneducated.”

“I’m going for a stroll,” she went on. “Will you come, father?”

“I think not, dear. I promised to meet one or two of them at the club about now.”

“All right.”

Denham started up, with an abruptness somewhat unusual in him.

“Might I accompany you, Miss Halse?” he said, as she was turning away.

“I shall be delighted,” she answered, flashing a smile at him, “We’ll go down through the bush – they’ve cut out some paths through it, and it’s lovely down there. We can come out again just below the Nongqai barracks. That’ll make just a nice round. So long, father.”

Ben Halse sat back in his chair, watching them down the garden path.

“They look well together. A fine pair, by Jove!” Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and again he ejaculated to himself with emphasis, “A fine pair, by Jove!”

Chapter Eleven.

Developments

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

“Do you know, you are rather a puzzle to me, Miss Halse,” he suddenly broke out, with regard to nothing in particular.

“Am I? In what way?”

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

“Why, in this way,” he answered, “Your own surroundings at home, from your account of it and your father’s, must be uncommonly like this; yet when you get here, among a lot of other people, and houses and gardens and tennis, and all that sort of thing, the first thing you do is to start 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 without me.”

With the words something struck him. Was he such an “accident” after all? Denham was not a conceited man, but he was no fool. He was a man of 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. Yet somehow, even if the fact of his being here was not accidental, the idea did not displease him – anything but. And he had known his present companion exactly three hours and a half.

“I suppose I should,” she answered. “As for the ‘other people,’ I don’t know that I care much about anybody. They’re a very good sort, and we’re civil to each other when we meet, and so on. But that’s about all. I’ve been so much alone, you see.”

“You remind me of the standing joke about the London ’bus driver – when he 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 other theatres.”

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 of vegetation, especially down in a hollow like this, always strike me as miasmatic.”

Verna looked surprised.

“But this is the first time you have been into – in this country, at any rate.”

He smiled. He could have told a different story.

“I have been in South America, and the forest belts here are a joke to that. But tell me now about the shooting of the record koodoo. Your father wasn’t joking when he said it was your work?”

“No, it’s true.” Then she stopped. A sudden idea had struck her. She did not want to pose as an Amazon before this acquaintance of just three hours and three-quarters. She wished her father had said nothing about it.

“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 not expected to be up in the classics, except the ‘advanced’ ones, and they’re none the better for it. Well, the party I mentioned was a mythical female given to shooting stags with a bow and arrows that wouldn’t damage a mouse – at least that’s how she’s represented in sculpture and painting. Likewise with an incidental cur or two thrown in.”

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 own part in it was concerned rather diffidently.

Denham was interested with a vengeance, and in his own mind could not but draw contrasts. This girl, walking beside him in her neat, tasteful attire, why, they might have been walking on an English country road or in an English park! She would have fitted in equally well there. She might have been giving him an account of some dance or theatrical performance, yet just as naturally did she narrate the midnight poaching expedition and the shooting of the large animal by the light of the moon – by herself. The naturalness of her, too, struck him with astonishment: the utter self-possession, living, as she did, a secluded life.

“What are you thinking about?” she said, for he had relapsed into unconscious 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 natives when 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 your pluck, for one thing, and your naturalness for another. I was also thinking 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 were thinking?”

“Must I answer that question?”

“Certainly.”

“I was thinking what a delightful speaking voice yours is. It must be great as a singing one.”

A slight flush came over her face.

“You must not pay me compliments, Mr Denham. I had a better opinion of you. But I’m not musical at all. I haven’t even got a piano, and if I had 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 wee kiddie, so did a brother. I can’t remember either of them. So you see there 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 am seldom away from home. So I have neither time nor opportunity to make them.”

“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’t think 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 bored if she was there, but he felt it all the same. A problem he had called her. Yes, she was a problem indeed; and he would be surprised if she were not the most interesting one with which he had ever been faced.

“Look,” went on Verna, coming to a standstill and pointing with her light 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 were intersected with similar forest-filled ravines to that behind them, making dark stripes upon the bright green of the slope. It was a lovely evening, and the sky was blue and cloudless.

“No; it’s beautiful,” he answered. “I came here that way, round the back 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 of the most difficult parts.”

Verna’s pretty lips emitted a whistle, as she looked at him in astonishment.

“You did rather a risky thing,” she said. “The people down there are none too well affected, and it’s hardly safe in these days for a solitary white man in some parts of the country. And the Zulus are not what 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 a half-crown piece did the rest. It was quite interesting as an experience, really.”

Verna still looked at him astonished; then she remembered he had said something about South America; still, his undertaking was at that time, as she had said, a risky thing. He, remembering one experience, at any rate, 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 by yourself. The forest country is flatter, and there are no landmarks, at any rate, that would be of any use to a stranger.”

“Oh, I’m not much afraid of that,” he answered lightly. They had resumed their walk, which lay back through the forest by a different way, chatting freely about anything and everything, as if they had known each other for years, at least so Denham looked upon it. He had had a most delightful walk, he told her, and she said she was glad. What he did not tell her was that he had found in her personality something so alluring, in her propinquity something so magnetic that it seemed ages ago when he had never known her. And now he was due to spend an indefinite time in a wild and unfrequented place, with herself and her father as sole companions. Assuredly the situation was charged with potentialities, but from such Alaric Denham, recognising, did not shrink.

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

“Why, who can that be with father?” said Verna. Then, as they got a little 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 a difference of opinion with some of our people and learnt which was softest – his head or a knobkerrie. We mended him up, but it took a little 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 make Denham acquainted with two things – one, that the newcomer was over head and ears in love with Verna Halse, and the other that Verna was not in the least in love with him. She greeted him with frank, open-hearted friendliness, while his face, in that brief moment, spoke volumes.

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

“Poor boy,” he thought to himself. “He is handsome, too, very, in the Anglo-Saxon, blue-eyed style, manly-looking as well. I wonder why he has no show.”

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