Cape of Good Hope (South Africa) -- Fiction; English fiction; Xhosa (African people) -- Fiction
Frankfort could see that to touch on domestic questions was tender
ground. His host turned the tide of conversation to the troubles of the
colony, its grand resources; and Mrs Daveney, as she listened to the
conversation, at times joining in it, said earnestly to Frankfort, how
she wished that such as he might stand up in the council-chambers of
England, and plead the cause of the colonist of Southern Africa. But
Eleanor only joined in the discussion with a smile or a sigh, as her
father's reference to past events demanded. Still, Frankfort read the
heart, as he looked into those deep eyes, and pondered afterwards on
trifling things, which would have escaped a man not enthralled with
their expression of deep melancholy.
The meal ended, the ladies retired to a table, on which books and work
had been scattered in some confusion on the arrival of the sportsmen and
their wagons. The cloth was withdrawn from the polished oaken table; a
little kettle, with its spirit-lamp, was glowing beside Mr Daveney, and
he was about to blew some mulled Pontac, the rich red wine of the Cape,
when Frankfort begged to withdraw, in order to make inquiries concerning
the absent Piet.
Some unusual sounds without had already caught the ear of the master of
the dwelling. The dogs were growing restless in the yards; the people
were astir in the outbuildings; and at the moment that Daveney and
Frankfort rose together to go out and reconnoitre, Ormsby comfortably
establishing himself in a camp arm-chair, brought from his wagon, the
door was thrown open, and May rushed in; terror was in his face, the
passage behind him was filled with servants, and, gasping for breath, he
exclaimed--"Master, good Master Frankfort, come out and see, come out
and listen; the fires are lighted on the hills; but that is not all--
open your ears, and hear the war-cry on the mountains. Oh! master,"
cried the poor bushman, in a voice of despair, "what shall I do?--my
wife! my little child!"
Mrs Daveney stood up, silent, but appalled; Marion's cheek faded to the
hue of death; Eleanor went up to her father, and put her arm through
his.
"My dear," said he, "you must summon all your presence of mind, for I
must go."
"I know it, father, but tell us what you would have us do; the house is
already defensible"--the windows had been partially bricked up for some
days, in consequence of intelligence from the towns--"but you must
appoint us our places, if you are obliged to leave us."
"Your mother," said Mr Daveney, "has had my instructions these three
days; she has an able coadjutor in you; but Marion is faint-hearted, I
am afraid."
Excellent arrangements had indeed been made, in preparation for defence,
if besieged by the savages, which Mr Daveney could not think was
probable, from various circumstances.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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