The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur (чтение книг txt) 📗
They are the birds of good omen, who would never roost in a tree marked for felling." Zouga chuckled dutifully, and they went on talking while Ralph Ballantyne, riding in the bunch, watched them with such interest that he neglected the lady riding beside him, until she tapped him on the forearm with her crop.
"I said, it will be interesting to see what happens when we reach Khami" Louise repeated, and Ralph's attention jerked back to his stepmother. She rode astride, the only woman he knew that did so, and though she wore ankle, length divided skirts, her seat was elegant and sure. Ralph had seen her out-ride his own father, beating him in a gruelling point-to-point race over rough terrain. That had been in Kimberley, before the trek to the north and this land, but the years had treated Louise kindly indeed. Ralph smiled to himself as he recalled the youthful crush he had been smitten with when he first saw her driving her phaeton and pair of golden palominos down Kimberley's crowded main street. That was so many years ago, and though she had married his father since then, he still felt a special affection for her that was definitely neither filial nor dutiful. She was only a few years older than he was, and the Blackfoot Indian blood in her veins gave her beauty a certain timeless element.
"I cannot imagine "that even Robyn, my honoured aunt and mother-in-law, would use the occasion of her youngest daughter's marriage for political advantage," Ralph said.
"Are you confident enough to wager on that, a guinea, say?" Louise asked with a flash of even white teeth, but Ralph threw back his head and laughed.
"I have learned my lesson I'll never bet against you again."
Then he dropped his voice. "Besides, I don't really have that much faith in my mother-in-law's restraint." "Then why on earth does Mr. Rhodes insist on going to the wedding? He must know what to expect."
"Well, firstly, he owns the land the Mission is built upon, and, secondly, he probably feels that the ladies of Khami Mission are depriving him of a valued possession." Ralph lifted his chin to indicate the bridegroom who rode a little ahead of the group. Harry Mellow had a flower in his button-hole, a gloss on his boots and a grin upon his lips.
"He hasn't lost him," Louise pointed out.
"He fired him as soon as he realized he couldn't talk Harry out of it." "But he is such a talented geologist, they say he can smell gold a mile away." "Mr. Rhodes does not approve of his young men marrying, no matter how talented." "Poor Harry, poor Vicky, what will they do?" "Oh, it's all arranged," Ralph beamed.
"You?" she hazarded. Who else?" "I should have known. In fact it would not surprise me to learn that you engineered the whole business," Louise accused, and Ralph looked pained.
"You do me a grave injustice, Mama." He knew she did not like that title and used it deliberately, to tease her. Then Ralph looked ahead and his expression changed like a bird-dog scenting the pheasant.
The wedding party had ridden out past the last new buildings and shanties of the town, onto the broad rutted wagon road. Coming towards them, up from the south, was a convoy of transport wagons. There were ten of them, so strung out that the furthest of them were marked only by columns of fine white dust rising above the flat-topped acacia trees. On the nearest wagon-tent Louise could already read the company name, RHO LANDS the shortened form of "Rhodesian Lands and Mining Co." which Ralph had chosen as the umbrella for his multitudinous business activities.
"Damn me," he exclaimed happily. "Old Isazi has brought them in five days ahead of schedule. That little black devil is a miracle." He tipped his hat in apology to Louise. "Business calls. Excuse me, please, Mama." And he galloped ahead, swinging off his horse as he came level with the lead wagon, and embracing the diminutive figure in cast-off military-style jacket who skipped at the flank of the bullock team brandishing a thirty-foot-long trek whip.
What kept you so long, Isazi?" Ralph demanded. "Did you meet a pretty Matabele girl on the road?" The little Zulu driver tried not to grin, but the network of wrinkles that covered his face contracted and there was a puckish sparkle in his eyes.
"I can still deal with a Matabele girl and her mother and all her sisters in, the time it would take you to in span a single ox." It was not only a declaration of virility, but also an oblique reference to Ralph's skill as a teams man Isazi had taught him all he knew of the open road, but still treated Ralph with the indulgent condescension usually reserved for a small boy.
"No, little Hawk, I did not want to rob you of too much bonus, money by bringing them in more than five days ahead." This was a gentle reminder of what Isazi expected in his next pay packet.
Now the little Zulu, with the head ring granted him by King Cetewayo before the battle of Ulundi still upon his snowy head, stood back and looked at Ralph with the speculative eye he usually reserved for a bullock.
"Hau, Henshaw, what finery is this?" He glanced at Ralph's suit and English boots, and at the sprig of mimosa blossom in Ralph's button-hole. "Even flowers like a simpering maiden at her first dance.
And what is that under your coat, surely the Nkosikazi is the one who carries the babies in your family?" Ralph glanced down at his own midriff. Isazi was being unfair, there was barely a trace of superfluous flesh there, nothing that a week of hard hunting would not remove, but Ralph sustained the banter that they both enjoyed.
"It is the privilege of great men to wear fine apparel and eat good food, "he said.
"Then fall to, little Hawk with fine feathers." Isazi shook his head disapprovingly. "Eat your fill. While wiser men do the real work, you play like a boy." His tone belied the warmth of his smile, and Ralph clasped his shoulder.
"There was never a driver like you, Isazi, and there probably never will be again." "Hau, Henshaw, so I have taught you something, even if only to recognize true greatness when you see it," Isazi chuckled at last, and put the long lash up into the air with a report like a shot of cannon, and called to his oxen. (COme, Fransman, you black devil! Come, Sathan, MY darling.
