Part 13 (1/2)
”Rachel!” replied her father, in much distress, ”I will never believe it; you are only repeating native scandal. Why, he has often spoken to me with horror of such things.”
”I daresay he has, father. Well, now, I ask you to judge for yourself.
Take a guide and start two hours before daybreak to-morrow morning to visit that kraal, and see if what I say is not true.”
”I will, indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Dove, who was now thoroughly aroused, for it was conduct of this sort that had caused his bitter quarrel with the first settlers in Natal. ”I cannot believe the story, Rachel, I really cannot; but I promise you that if I should find cause to do so, the man shall never put foot in my house again.”
”Then I think that I am rid of him,” said Rachel, with a sigh of relief, ”only be careful, dear, that he does not do you a mischief, for such men do not like to be found out.” Then she left the stoep, and went to tell her mother all that had happened.
When she had heard the story, Mrs. Dove, who detested Ishmael as much as her daughter did, tried to persuade her husband not to visit his kraal, saying that it would only breed a feud, and that under the circ.u.mstances, it would be easy to forbid him the house upon other grounds. But Mr. Dove, obstinate as usual, refused to listen to her, saying that he would not judge the man without evidence, and that of the natives could not be relied on. Also, if the tale were true, it was his duty as his spiritual adviser to remonstrate with him.
So his poor wife gave up arguing, as she always did, and long before dawn on the following morning, Mr. Dove, accompanied by two guides, departed upon his errand.
After he had ridden some twelve miles across the plain which lay behind Ramah, just at daybreak, he reached a pa.s.s or nek between two swelling hills, beyond which the guides said lay the kraal that was called Mafooti.
Presently he saw it, a place situated in a cup-like valley, chosen evidently because the approaches to it were easy to defend. On a knoll in the centre of this rich valley stood the kraal, a small native town surrounded by walls, and stone enclosures full of cattle. As they approached the kraal, from its main entrance issued four or five good-looking native women, one of them accompanied by a boy, and all carrying hoes in their hands, for they were going out at sunrise to work in the mealie fields. When they saw Mr. Dove they stood still, staring at him, till he called to them not to be afraid, and riding up, asked them who they were.
”We are of the number of the wives of Ibubesi, the Lion,” answered their spokeswoman, who held the little boy by the hand.
”Do you mean the _Umlungu_ (that is, the white man), Ishmael?” he asked again.
”Whom else should we mean?” she answered. ”I am his head wife, now that he has put away old Mami, and this is his son. If the light were stronger you would see that he is almost white,” she added, with pride.
Mr. Dove knew not what to answer; this intelligence overwhelmed him, and he sat silent on his horse. The wives of Ishmael prepared to pa.s.s on to the mealie fields, then stopped, and began to whisper together. At length the mother of the boy turned and addressed him, while the others crowded behind her to listen.
”We desire to ask you a question, Teacher,” she said, somewhat shyly, for evidently they knew well enough who he was. ”Is it true that we are to have a new sister?”
”A new sister! What do you mean?” asked Mr. Dove.
”We mean, Teacher,” she replied smiling, ”that we have heard that Ibubesi is courting the beautiful Zoola, the daughter of your head wife, and we thought that perhaps you had come to arrange about the cattle that he must pay for her. Doubtless if she is so fair, it will be a whole herd.”
This was too much, even for Mr. Dove.
”How dare you talk so, you heathen hussies?” he gasped. ”Where is the white man?”
”Teacher,” she replied with indignation, and drawing herself up, ”why do you call us bad names? We are respectable women, the wives of one husband, as respectable as your own, although not so numerous, or so we hear from Ibubesi. If you desire to see him, he is in the big hut, yonder, with our youngest sister, she whom he married last month. We wish you good day, as we go to hoe our lord's fields, and we hope that when she comes, the Inkosazana, your daughter, will not be as rude as you are, for if so, how shall we love her as we wish to do?” Then wrapping her blanket round her with a dignified air, the offended lady stalked off, followed by her various ”sisters.”
As for Mr. Dove, who for once in his life was in a towering rage, he cut his horse viciously with the sjambok, or hippopotamus-hide whip, which he carried, and followed by his guides, galloped forward to a big hut in the centre of the kraal.
Apparently Ishmael heard the sound of his horse's hoofs, for as the missionary was dismounting he crawled out of the bee-hole of the hut upon his hands and knees, as a Kaffir does, followed by a young woman in the lightest of attire, who was yawning as though she had just been aroused from sleep. What is more, except for the colour of his skin, he _was_ a Kaffir and nothing else, for his costume consisted of a skin moocha such as the natives wear, and a fur kaross thrown over his shoulders.
Straightening himself, Ishmael saw for the first time who was his visitor.
His jaw dropped, and he uttered an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that need not be recorded, then stood silent. Mr. Dove was silent also; for his wrath would not allow him to speak.
”How do you do, sir?” Ishmael jerked out at last. ”You are an early visitor, and find me somewhat unprepared. If I had known that you were coming I would”--then suddenly he remembered his attire, or the lack of it, also his companion who was leaning on his shoulder, and peeping at the white man over it. Drawing the kaross tightly about him, he gave the poor girl a backward kick, and with a Kaffir oath bade her begone, then went on hurriedly: ”I am afraid my dress is not quite what you are accustomed to, but among these poor heathens I find it necessary to conform more or less to their ways in order to gain their confidence and--um--affection. Will you come into the hut? My servant there will get you some _tywala_ (Kaffir beer)--I mean some _amasi_ (curdled milk) at once, and I will have a calf killed for breakfast.”
Mr. Dove could bear it no longer.
”Ishmael, or Smith, or Ibubesi--whichever name you may prefer,” he broke out, ”do not lie to me about your servant, for now I know all the truth, which I refused to believe when my daughter and Nonha told it me. You are a black-hearted villain. But yesterday you dared to come and ask Rachel to marry you, and now I find that you are living--oh! I cannot say it, it makes me ashamed of my race. Listen to me, sir. If ever you dare to set foot in Ramah again, or to speak to my wife and daughter, the Kaffirs shall whip you off the place. Indeed,” he added, shaking his sjambok in Ishmael's face, ”although I am an older man than you are, were it not for my office I would give you the thras.h.i.+ng you deserve.”
At first Ishmael had shrunk beneath this torrent of invective, but the threat of violence roused his fierce nature. His face grew evil, and his long black hair and beard bristled with wrath.