Blue Aloes | Page 5

sitting in the
creeper-trimmed summer-house they used for a school-room, with her
charges busy round her, Christine's thoughts returned to the strange
little revelation. Roddy, with his red-gold brush of hair, bent over his
slate, was not the first-born, then! He had been drowned in the
dam--that peaceful sheet of walled-in water that reflected the pink tips
of dawn and wherein, at eventide, the cattle waded happily to drink.
This old Karoo farmhouse had known tragedy, even as she had sensed.
Small wonder Bernard van Cannan's eyes wore a haunted look! Yet his
wife, with her full happy laugh and golden locks, lying among her
pillows, seemed curiously untouched by sorrow. Except for that quiver
of the eyelids, Christine had never seen her show anything but a
contented face to life.
Well--the history of Blue Aloes was a sealed book when the girl came
to it, knowing nothing of its inmates beyond their excellent references
as an old Huguenot family. Now the book, slowly opening page by
page, was revealing strange things.
The luncheon-hour always provided fresh material for a reflective mind.

The dining-room was large and lofty, and the table must have dated
back to the early days at the Cape, when every great family had its
scores of retainers and slaves. It was composed of time-stained teak,
and could have seated dozens, being curiously shaped like a capital E
with the middle branch of the letter missing. Only one of the branches
was now in use, and at this Christine presided over her small charges,
fortunately somewhat aloof from the rest, for they had many odd habits
which it was her business to correct without drawing attention. Coral
did not like pumpkin, and would keep dropping it on the floor. Rita
loved to kill flies with a spoon. Roddy's specialty was sliding bits of
meat into the open jaws of a pointer--there were always several under
the table--then briskly passing his plate for more. Once or twice,
looking up from correcting these idiosyncrasies, the girl found the blue
eyes of Richard Saltire fixed upon her as if in ironic inquiry, and
though she felt the slow colour creep into her face, she returned the
glance coldly. How dare he be curious about her, she thought rather
angrily. Let him confine himself to making the lids of his hostess droop
and her cheeks dimple. Not that Christine believed there to be any harm
in their open flirtation--Mrs. van Cannan was plainly devoted to her
husband; perhaps it was natural that she should enjoy admiration. She
possessed the kind of beauty only to be achieved by the woman who
makes the care of her appearance an art, and spends hours in absolute
repose of mind and body. Her face had not a line in it of strain or
sorrow. Faint pink tinted her cheeks. Her pink-linen gown, open in a
low V, showed the perfect contour and creaminess of her breast. The
restless, adoring eyes of her husband came back to her always with that
glance, vigilant and sombre, that was peculiar to them.
With some assumption of state, he always sat in the centre of the body
of the table, with his wife beside him. Saltire sat at her right, and Saxby,
the overseer, was placed beside his host. Opposite them, on the other
side of the table, were the two young Hollanders and a cheerful Scotch
colonial called McNeil.
These six men were expected to take both luncheon and dinner at the
farm, but only the Hollanders turned up in the evening, perhaps because
the excellence of the fare was outbalanced by the long prayers and

hymns with which the meal was prefaced and ended. Even at
lunch-time, there was a Bible at the host's elbow, from which he read a
number of texts before pronouncing a long grace, while the visitors
listened with expressions that varied from embarrassment to impatience.
Richard Saltire always looked frankly bored, but sometimes he and Mrs.
van Cannan exchanged a smile of sympathy at having to listen to the
maledictions of Job while the roast was getting cold. Hymns for lunch
were mercifully omitted. Bernard van Cannan, though plainly a
religious fanatic, was also the owner of one of the wealthiest farms in
the colony, and no doubt he realized that the working-hours of his
employees might be more profitably engaged than by chanting hymns.
Saxby, the overseer, a dark, burly man of unusual height, was marked
by the thick lips and general fulness of countenance that suggests to
those who have lived long enough in Africa "a touch of colour." He had
the soft voice, too, and full, deep laugh of those who have a dash of
native blood in their veins. His manner was melancholy, though
charming, and he imposed his society