miserable little pounds, which he had hardly noticed among all the millions he had won and lost in those days long ago when he was one of the lords of the Witwatersrand gold fields
Again the sense of guilt closed in upon him. As he knew with utter certainty that she had understood, that she had forgiven.
For that was Ada, the woman who was his stepmother-and whom he loved beyond the natural love one owes their own full blooded mother.
“Let’s go down,” he said and kicked his horse to a canter.
“Is this home, Pa?” Dirk shouted as he rode beside him.
“Yes, my boy. This is home.”
“Will Granma be here?”
“I hope so,” Sean answered, and then softly,
“Beyond all other things, I hope that she will.
Over the bridge above the Baboon Stroom, past the cattle pens along the fine of rail, past the old wood and iron station buildings with the sign, white and black faded to grey,
“Ladyburg. Altitude 2,256 it.
above sea level, ” swinging left into the dusty main street which was wide enough to turn a full span of oxen, and down to Protea Street rode Sean and Dirk, with Mbejane and the pack-mule trailing far behind.
At the corner Sean checked his mount to a walk, drawing out the last few minutes of anticipation until they stopped outside the wicket fence of white that encompassed the cottage.
The garden was neat and green, gay with beds of Barberton daisies and blue rhododendrons. The cottage had been enlarged, a new room built on the far side, and it was crisp-looking in a coat of new whitewash. A sign at the gate said in gold letters on a green ground, “Maison Ada.
High-class Costumier” Sean grinned. “The old girl’s gone all French, by God.
Then to Dirk,
“Stay here!”
He swung down from his horse, handed the reins to Dirk and went through the gate. At the door he paused selfconsciously and adjusted his cravat. He glanced down at the severe dark broadcloth suit and new boots which he had purchased in Pietermaritzburg, slapped the dust from his breeches, stroked his newly trimmed beard into place, gave his moustache a twirl and knocked on the door.
It was opened at last by a young lady. Sean did not recognize her. But the girl reacted immediately, flushing slightly, attempting to pat her hair into place without drawing attention to its disarray, tying to dispose of the sewing in her hands, and exhibiting all the signs of confusion peculiar to the unmarried female who finds herself suddenly and unexpectedly in the presence of a large, well-dressed and attractive male. But Sean felt a twinge of pity as he looked at her scarred face, ugly with the purple cicatrice of acne.
Sean lifted his hat. “Is Mrs. Courtney here?
“She’s in the workroom, sir. Who shall I tell her is calling?
“Don’t tell her anything-it’s a surprise. ” Sean smiled at her, and she lifted her hands selfconsciously in an attempt to mask the ruin of her face.
“Won’t you come in, sir? ” She turned her head aside, shyly as though to hide it.
“Who is it, Mary? ” Sean started at the voice from the depths of the cottage, it hadn’t changed at all-and the years dropped away.
“It’s a gentleman, Aunt Ada. He wants to see you.
“I’m coming. Ask him to sit down, and please bring us coffee, Mary. “Mary escaped thankfully and left Sean standing alone in the small sitting-room, twisting his hat in big brown hands, staring up at the daguerreotype print of Waite Courtney above the mantel. Although he did not recognize the fact, the face of his father in the picture was almost his own-the same eyes under heavy black brows, the same arrogance about the mouth, even the identical thrust of stubbornness in the jaw beneath the thick spade-shaped beard-and the big, hooked Courtney nose.
The door from the workroom opened and Sean swung quickly to face it. Ada Courtney came through it smiling, until she saw him, then she stopped and the smile died on her lips and she paled. Uncertainly her hand lifted to her
Again the sense of guilt closed in upon him. As he knew with utter certainty that she had understood, that she had forgiven.
For that was Ada, the woman who was his stepmother-and whom he loved beyond the natural love one owes their own full blooded mother.
“Let’s go down,” he said and kicked his horse to a canter.
“Is this home, Pa?” Dirk shouted as he rode beside him.
“Yes, my boy. This is home.”
“Will Granma be here?”
“I hope so,” Sean answered, and then softly,
“Beyond all other things, I hope that she will.
Over the bridge above the Baboon Stroom, past the cattle pens along the fine of rail, past the old wood and iron station buildings with the sign, white and black faded to grey,
“Ladyburg. Altitude 2,256 it.
above sea level, ” swinging left into the dusty main street which was wide enough to turn a full span of oxen, and down to Protea Street rode Sean and Dirk, with Mbejane and the pack-mule trailing far behind.
At the corner Sean checked his mount to a walk, drawing out the last few minutes of anticipation until they stopped outside the wicket fence of white that encompassed the cottage.
The garden was neat and green, gay with beds of Barberton daisies and blue rhododendrons. The cottage had been enlarged, a new room built on the far side, and it was crisp-looking in a coat of new whitewash. A sign at the gate said in gold letters on a green ground, “Maison Ada.
High-class Costumier” Sean grinned. “The old girl’s gone all French, by God.
Then to Dirk,
“Stay here!”
He swung down from his horse, handed the reins to Dirk and went through the gate. At the door he paused selfconsciously and adjusted his cravat. He glanced down at the severe dark broadcloth suit and new boots which he had purchased in Pietermaritzburg, slapped the dust from his breeches, stroked his newly trimmed beard into place, gave his moustache a twirl and knocked on the door.
It was opened at last by a young lady. Sean did not recognize her. But the girl reacted immediately, flushing slightly, attempting to pat her hair into place without drawing attention to its disarray, tying to dispose of the sewing in her hands, and exhibiting all the signs of confusion peculiar to the unmarried female who finds herself suddenly and unexpectedly in the presence of a large, well-dressed and attractive male. But Sean felt a twinge of pity as he looked at her scarred face, ugly with the purple cicatrice of acne.
Sean lifted his hat. “Is Mrs. Courtney here?
“She’s in the workroom, sir. Who shall I tell her is calling?
“Don’t tell her anything-it’s a surprise. ” Sean smiled at her, and she lifted her hands selfconsciously in an attempt to mask the ruin of her face.
“Won’t you come in, sir? ” She turned her head aside, shyly as though to hide it.
“Who is it, Mary? ” Sean started at the voice from the depths of the cottage, it hadn’t changed at all-and the years dropped away.
“It’s a gentleman, Aunt Ada. He wants to see you.
“I’m coming. Ask him to sit down, and please bring us coffee, Mary. “Mary escaped thankfully and left Sean standing alone in the small sitting-room, twisting his hat in big brown hands, staring up at the daguerreotype print of Waite Courtney above the mantel. Although he did not recognize the fact, the face of his father in the picture was almost his own-the same eyes under heavy black brows, the same arrogance about the mouth, even the identical thrust of stubbornness in the jaw beneath the thick spade-shaped beard-and the big, hooked Courtney nose.
The door from the workroom opened and Sean swung quickly to face it. Ada Courtney came through it smiling, until she saw him, then she stopped and the smile died on her lips and she paled. Uncertainly her hand lifted to her
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