"Is anything wrong with my father?" she asked. "I don't see him."
"If you mean Mr. Marnham," I replied, lifting my hat, "I believe that Dr. Rodd and he—"
"Never mind about Dr. Rodd," she broke in with a contemptuous little jerk of her chin, "how is my father?"
"I imagine much as usual. He and Dr. Rodd were here a little while ago, I suppose that they have gone out" (as a matter of fact they had, but in different directions).
"Then that's all right," she said with a sigh of relief. "You see, I heard that he was very ill, which is why I have come back."
So, thought I to myself, she loves that old scamp and she—doesn't love the doctor. There will be more trouble as sure as five and two are seven. All we wanted was a woman to make the pot boil over.
Then I opened the gate and took a travelling bag from her hand with my politest bow.
"My name is Quatermain and that of my friend Anscombe. We are staying here, you know," I said rather awkwardly.
"Indeed," she answered with a delightful smile, "what a very strange place to choose to stay in."
"It is a beautiful house," I remarked.
"Not bad, although I designed it, more or less. But I was alluding to its inhabitants."
This finished me, and I am sure she felt that I could think of nothing nice to say about those inhabitants, for I heard her sigh. We walked side by side up the rose–fringed path and presently arrived at the stoep, where Anscombe, whose hair I had cut very nicely on the previous day, was watching us from his long chair. They looked at each other, and I saw both of them colour a little, out of mere foolishness, I suppose.
"Anscombe," I said, "this is—" and I paused, not being quite certain whether she also was called Marnham. "Heda Marnham," she interrupted.
"Yes—Miss Heda Marnham, and this is the Honourable Maurice Anscombe."
"Forgive me for not rising, Miss Marnham," said Anscombe in his pleasant voice (by the way hers was pleasant too, full and rather low, with just a suggestion of something foreign about it). "A shot through the foot prevents me at present."
"Who shot you?" she asked quickly.
"Oh! only a Kaffir."
"I am so sorry, I hope you will get well soon. Forgive me now, I must go to look for my father."
"She is uncommonly pretty," remarked Anscombe, "and a lady into the bargain. In reflecting on old Marnham's sins we must put it to his credit that he has produced a charming daughter."
"Too pretty and charming by half," I grunted.
"Perhaps Dr. Rodd is of the same way of thinking. Great shame that such a girl should be handed over to a medical scoundrel like Dr. Rodd. I wonder if she cares for him?"
"Just about as much as a canary cares for a tom–cat. I have found that out already."
"Really, Quatermain, you are admirable. I never knew anyone who could make a better use of the briefest opportunity."
Then we were silent, waiting, not without a certain impatience, for the return of Miss Heda. She did return with surprising quickness considering that she had found time to search for her parent, to change into a clean white dress, and to pin a single hibiscus flower on to her bodice which gave just the touch of colour that was necessary to complete her costume.
"I can't find my father," she said, "but the boys say he has gone out riding. I can't find anybody. When you have been summoned from a long way off and travelled post–haste, rather to your own inconvenience, it is amusing, isn't it?"
"Wagons and carts in South Africa don't arrive like express trains, Miss Marnham," said Anscombe, "so you shouldn't be offended."
"I am not at all offended, Mr. Anscombe. Now that I know there is nothing the matter with my father I'm—But, tell me, how did you get your wound?"
So he told her with much amusing detail after his fashion. She listened quietly with a puckered up brow and only made one comment. It was,—
"I wonder what white man told those Sekukuni Kaffirs that you were coming."
"I don't know," he answered, "but he deserves a bullet through him somewhere above the ankle."
"Yes, though few people get what they deserve in this wicked world."
"So I have often thought. Had it been otherwise, for example, I should have been—"
"What would you have been?" she asked, considering him curiously.
"Oh! a better shot than Mr. Allan Quatermain, and as beautiful as a lady I once saw in my youth."
"Don't talk rubbish before luncheon," I remarked sternly, and we all laughed, the first wholesome laughter that I had heard at the Temple. For this young lady seemed to bring happiness and merriment with her. I remember wondering what it was of which her coming reminded me, and concluding that it was like the sight and smell of a peach orchard in full bloom stumbled on suddenly in the black desert of the burnt winter veld.
After this we became quite friendly. She dilated on her skill in having produced the Temple from an old engraving, which she fetched and showed to us, at no greater an expense than it would have cost to build an ordinary house.
"That is because the marble was at hand," said Anscombe.
"Quite so," she replied demurely. "Speaking in a general sense one can do many things in life—if the marble is at hand. Only most of us when we look for marble find sandstone or mud."
"Bravo!" said Anscombe, "I have generally lit upon the sandstone."
"And I on the mud," she mused.
"And I on all three, for the earth contains marble and mud and sandstone, to say nothing of gold and jewels," I broke in, being tired of silence.
But neither of them paid much attention to me. Anscombe did say, out of politeness, I suppose, that pitch and subterranean fires should be added, or some such nonsense.
Then she began to tell him of her infantile memories of Hungary, which were extremely faint; of how they came this place and lived first of all in two large Kaffir huts, until suddenly they began to grow rich; of her school days at Maritzburg; of the friends with whom she had been staying, and I know not what, until at last I got up and went out for a walk.
When I returned an hour or so later they were still talking, and so continued to do until Dr. Rodd arrived upon the scene. At first they did not see him, for he stood at an angle to them, but I saw him and watched his face with a great deal of interest. It, or rather its expression, was not pleasant; before now I have seen something like it on that of a wild beast which thinks that it is about to be robbed of its prey by a stronger wild beast, in short, a mixture of hate, fear and jealousy—especially jealousy. At the last I did not wonder, for these two seemed to be getting on uncommonly well.
They were, so to speak, well matched. She, of course, was the better looking of the two, a really pretty and attractive young woman indeed, but the vivacity of Anscombe's face, the twinkle of his merry blue eyes and its general refinement made up for what he lacked—regularity of feature. I think he had just told her one of his good stories which he always managed to make so humorous by a trick of pleasing and harmless exaggeration, and they were both laughing merrily. Then she caught sight of the doctor and her merriment evaporated like a drop of water on a hot shovel. Distinctly I saw her pull herself together and prepare for something.
"How do you do?" she said rapidly, rising and holding out her slim sun–browned hand. "But I need not ask, you look so well."
"How do you do, my dear," with a heavy emphasis on the "dear" he answered slowly. "But I needn't ask, for I see that you are in perfect health and spirits," and he bent forward as though to kiss her.