waist, to give her arms free play, the woman relentlessly plied her
task. As she swung the heavy axe with her thin, sinewy arms, the sweat
poured from her in streams. She was engaged in felling a young ironwood
tree, the stem of which was about fifteen inches in diameter.
Dumani, concealed in a patch of bracken, lay and watched her at his
ease. As she stood her back was towards him, but in the delivery of
each stroke she made a half-turn from the axis of her hips, and he was
thus enabled to catch glimpses of her face. It was dull and haggard;
her sunken eyes had the cold glitter one sees in the glance of an angry
snake.
The wood was intensely hard, but the woman had been some considerable
time at her task, so before very long the tree fell crashing to the
ground. Then for a few seconds she stood panting and regarded the
result of her work. After this she secreted the axe, picked up her
blanket, and went off in the direction of her home. She passed so close
to Dumani that he might have touched her by stretching forth his hand.
As soon as he had lost the sound of her footsteps Dumani hastened away
to collect his scattered cattle.
Next morning Nomandewu again returned to the forest, and once more the
Kaffir lad followed her. As he drew near the spot where the tree had
been felled the sound of the steady, rhythmic falling of the axe smote
anew upon his ear. Stealing into his hiding-place of the previous day,
Dumani resumed his observations. He found that the branches had all
been chopped off just above where they spread out from the top of the
clean bole, and that the bole itself was being cut through about three
feet below the axis from which the branches spread. After she had
severed the trunk Nomandewu lifted the upper portion into a
perpendicular position, propped it to prevent it falling, and regarded
it intently. Dumani was at once struck by the resemblance it bore to
the rustic seat at the homestead. Mindful of a thrashing he had
received on the previous day, on account of his cattle having strayed,
he hurried away, leaving Nomandewu absorbed in the contemplation of her
handiwork.
A few days subsequently Nomandewu surprised everybody by appearing at
the homestead and asking to be re-employed. Mrs Westbrook, much
relieved, reinstated her at once as cook. Nomandewu had always been
taciturn: now she developed an unsuspected vein of friendliness. She
had always been an excellent servant: now she performed her duties with
increased skill and diligence. Her mistress, although still bitterly
grieved at what had taken place, congratulated herself upon the
unfortunate incident being, as she imagined, finally closed. She
treated Nomandewu with great consideration and, this among other tokens
of favour, presented her with a black dress. Nomandewu, who had lived
at a Mission Station, understood the significance of this gift and
appeared to be appropriately grateful.
Dumani continually puzzled his brain over the scenes he had witnessed in
the forest, and still kept up his scrutiny. He knew that Nomandewu had
not again gone to the spot where she had felled the tree, so for some
time he did not think it worth his while to revisit it either. She
seemed to be uneasy in his presence. Often when he appeared in the
kitchen she would drive him forth with scoldings; on other occasions she
would treat him with friendliness and share with him choice portions of
her food. But Dumani's alert instincts detected a certain spuriousness
in these demonstrations.
About ten days after Nomandewu returned to her service, Dumani, impelled
by the cravings of his absorbing curiosity, went again to the scene of
his espionage in the forest. He found, to his further mystification,
that the portion of the tree which resembled a rustic seat had been
removed. After diligent search he managed to discover a trail leading
up towards the horse-shoe cliff, which was nearly half a mile away from
the spot. Weighted by the heavy log the woman's footsteps had here and
there sunk deeply into the soil. He followed the trail until he reached
a moraine which was piled against the base of the precipice. In the
interstices of this stunted trees grew, and just where it touched the
cliff the latter was pierced by a small cavern. Dumani, no longer
attempting to trace the footsteps, climbed over the rugged jumble of
rocks and made straight for the cavern. In it he found the missing log.
A hole had been sunk in the clay floor, and in this the shaft had been
firmly fixed. A rustic seat, bearing a most remarkable resemblance to
the one at the homestead, had thus been formed.
After one glance over the interior of the cave, Dumani hurried away.
The significance of his discovery flashed upon him: the chair could only
be meant for Lucy; to this lonely spot the weird woman meant to bring
her, and, as Dumani was firmly convinced, to bring her alive. This,
then, was to be the scene of Nomandewu's revenge; to this dark corner of
the silent forest was little Lucy to be brought, here to expiate in some
dreadful fashion the mischance of her playmate's death.
The discovery came as a great relief to the overwrought mind of the
Kaffir lad. He now had something definite to go upon; it was no longer
a case of mere blind groping for hidden motives. The issue was clear:
he and Nomandewu had to grip together in a life-and-death struggle,
Lucy's preservation being the reward of his victory, her destruction the
penalty of his defeat. Nevertheless, in his unaccountable, savage way,
Dumani kept his own counsel--never bethinking him that a word he could
so easily speak would remove the terrible danger hanging over the head--
to save a single hair of which he would unhesitatingly have died.
Everyone outside the sphere of his strategy became unreal to the
absorbed mind of the Kaffir lad, whose faculties, in his intense
abstraction, became preternaturally keen. He felt that up to a certain
point he could interpret the workings of Nomandewu's mind as clearly as
though she spake aloud her every thought in his hearing. He now knew,
with absolute certainty, that she was only waiting for the first
favourable opportunity to carry out her design, whatever it might be,
against little Lucy, and that such an opportunity could only be
occasioned by his absence.
The opportunity soon came. One evening Dumani received an order to
start next morning, with some cattle which had been sold, for a farm
situated a long day's journey away. He left before daylight; at
breakfast-time both Lucy and Nomandewu were found to be missing.
Early rising was the habit of all at the farm. Lucy had last been seen,
shortly after sunrise, in the orchard. This extended from near the
house to within a few yards of the narrow strip of bush fringing the
stream at the bottom of the valley, and which wound continuously with
the course of the stream and connected the various patches of forest
with which the valley was so richly furnished.
No rain had fallen for some time past, so at first no spoor could be
found. Every soul on the farm turned out and joined in the search. In
the course of the day help came from the surrounding farms. Old
Gezwindt, a Hottentot celebrated all over the countryside for his skill
as a spoor-tracker, was sent for. It was not long before he discovered
a fresh barefoot trail leading _down_ the stream, and consequently in a
direction opposite to that of the forest at the foot of the horse-shoe
cliff. The trail led straight towards another forest, known to be very
rough and impenetrable, which lay about two miles from the homestead.
The footprints ceased at a ridge of rocks about half a mile from where
the first trace had been found. Nevertheless, the indication was
sufficient to turn the attention of the searchers wholly to the lower
forest.
The day wore on without any fresh discovery being made. By nightfall
every nook and corner of the lower forest had been explored, and then
the searchers sadly withdrew to wait for the light of another day. The
parents of the lost child were almost frantic with anxiety and grief.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dumani lost no time on his journey. The day was cool, so he was able to
drive the cattle swiftly. He arrived at his destination just before
sundown, delivered the cattle, and, without resting at all, started on
his return journey. His course lay across a broken, undulating country.
Downhill he used the long, swinging trot by means of which the Kaffir
can cover distances which fill the European with astonishment; uphill he
slowly crept, husbanding his failing strength.
The feeling of expectant dread which filled Dumani's mind buoyed him up
and spurred his lagging paces. He had most unwillingly obeyed his
master's orders to leave the farm, and thus give Nomandewu the
opportunity he knew she was waiting for. The night was moonless, but
the Kaffir boy could have found his course blindfold. The whispering
trees seemed full of messages calling him to hurry on and help. Without
stopping, he munched from time to time a handful of the boiled maize
which he carried in his skin bag. He rested for a few seconds at each
of the many streams he crossed, and took a deep draught of water.
The short summer night was just about to merge into dawn when Dumani,
weary almost unto death, reached the top of the last ridge. From here
the homestead was visible; lights shone from the windows; when he drew
nearer he could see the doors standing open and a number of people
grouped outside, anxiously scanning the east. Dumani dropped in his
tracks behind a stone and crouched, thinking, for a few seconds. He
required no further corroboration of his fears; he knew that the thing
he had so long dreaded and expected had happened.
Under the influence of that exaltation which is sometimes the result of
severe mental strain, the mind of man is capable of strange feats.
Dumani's tense savage soul divined the catastrophe in a flash; his
faculties rushed to the correct conclusion as inevitably as
steel-filings rush to a magnet brought close to them. The cave--to get
there as soon as possible--to find Lucy there, alive or dead. Divesting
himself of every vestige of clothing, Dumani the savage grasped his
stick and crawled along the ground, as though he were a criminal
escaping from the scene of his crime, until he was out of sight of the
house. Then he sprang up, ran to the edge of the forest, and plunged in
among the trees.
Every trace of his fatigue had vanished, but the thicket was dense and
thorny, so his progress was slow and painful. Dawn was shimmering in
the east, but night still lurked unsmitten beneath the boskage. More
than once he fell headlong, tripped up by the treacherous "monkey-ropes"
of which the forest was full. The cruel thorns scarred him until he was
covered with blood.
As daylight grew his progress became somewhat easier; now he could avoid
bruising himself against the tree-trunks and the lichen-covered rocks.
Soon the woods became vocal with the morning songs of the birds; the
guttural calls of the questing monkeys seemed to sound from every
tree-top. At length he struck the footpath he had been seeking, and
which wound up the slope towards the horse-shoe cliff. Then he reached
the tumbled pile of boulders bounding the moraine; his goal was now
close at hand.
A great dread clutched at his throbbing heart--what sight of horror
might not the cavern contain? For a minute he surrendered himself to an
apprehension of the direst contingency, and a wild throb of almost
delight thrilled him as he anticipated the vengeance he would wreak upon
the murderer; he would track her through the world until his hungry
hands could tear her limb from limb.
As he ascended the moraine the trees grew sparser and sparser, until at
length he caught a glimpse of the crest of the cliff, rosy in the first
sunbeam. The glow filled his heart with hope and he hurried forward
with renewed strength.
He stopped short and dropped into concealment behind a boulder. There,
among the trees, immediately before the cave, stood the erect, rigid
figure of Nomandewu--the head bent forward and the open hands pendent.
But how still she was; she did not seem even to breathe. Dumani stared;
he felt no fear, yet he recognised that it would be only a measure of
common prudence to wait until he had recovered his wind before advancing
to the attack. A rustle of leaves whispered around him; the upper
boughs of the trees began gently to sway; the figure turned slowly until
it faced him. Then Dumani sprang to his feet and rushed forward, for he
saw that Nomandewu was dead. She was hanging from a bough by a rope
made out of the shreds of a torn blanket.
Dumani climbed to the mouth of the cave. As he surmounted the level of
the floor he closed his eyes and bent his head for an instant, dreading
that which he might next see. Then he lifted his head and looked.
Little Lucy, fast asleep and apparently quite unhurt, was before him,
tied securely within the spreading arms of the white-ironwood log.
Dumani lay upon the ground for a space, his pulses faint from reaction,
his breath coming in husky sobs. He arose, climbed out of the cave,
untied the swaying horror from the tree and flung it out of sight into a
deep cleft. Then he returned and released the child. She was dazed
with fright, but she soon recovered and clung, sobbing, to her rescuer.
Just in front of the log was a small mound of earth. This, it was
afterwards found, was the grave of Nolala.
Dumani carried Lucy homewards through the forest and restored her to her
distracted parents. Soon a gun-shot--the signal that the child had been
found--rang through the valley, and the searchers hurried back to the
homestead.
Dumani, after an enormous meal of meat, lay down in his hut and slept
for nearly forty-eight hours. Then he quietly resumed his herding of
cattle. He still kept his own counsel; in fact it was not until after
his marriage, several years subsequently, that he revealed how he came
to save little Lucy from a horrible death. He married an extremely
well-favoured damsel who dwelt at the location upon the adjoining farm,
and his master contributed liberally towards the dowry. His wife drew
the story from him bit by bit. She was too proud of her husband's
achievement to keep it to herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
MR BLOXAM'S CHOICE.
_One_.
"The best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang oft agley."
One summer evening in the early fifties, three wagons, each drawn by a
team of twelve oxen, might have been seen descending the Zuurberg Pass,
on the road leading from Grahamstown to Port Elizabeth. The heavy
thumping of the lumbering, springless vehicles and the wild yellings of
the uncouth names of the individual members of the teams--without which
no self-respecting wagon-driver feels that he does his duty to his
responsible post--no doubt scared the bushbucks and the monkeys for
miles along the bush-covered range.
Each turn-out had a festive appearance; the vehicles were newly-painted,
the "tents" were of the whitest canvas, and a stick, surmounted by the
tail of an ox, was fixed vertically to each front yoke. Even the
Hottentot drivers and leaders showed signs of the prevailing smartness,
for their clothes had evidently been recently washed and their hats and
veldschoens were new.
The wagons were nearly empty. In fact, with the exception of one, each
contained nothing but a provision chest, a portmanteau and some bedding.
The exception contained, in addition, two gentlemen in their
shirt-sleeves. Walking dejectedly some few yards behind it, was another
gentleman, similarly denuded. It could be seen at a glance that all
were ministers of the Gospel.
The pedestrian was the youngest of the three. He was a man of about
thirty, with a somewhat tall and slight, but well-knit figure. His
dark, handsome, clean-shaven face wore an expression of mingled sadness,
apprehension and discontent. Of the two in the wagon the elder was
apparently over forty-five. His smooth, red face had a jovial
expression. The expanse of his forehead carried more than a suggestion
of approaching baldness. With a figure short and rotund, his whole
appearance was suggestive of the flesh-pots of Egypt.
His companion, who looked five or six years younger, was a spare-built
man of middle height. He had thin lips, light-brown hair, steel-blue
eyes and a reticent expression. He sat upright and gravely regarded the
stout gentleman, who, comfortably propped by pillows, gave vent to the
highest spirits and enlivened the situation by a succession of frivolous
remarks and occasional snatches of song.
These clerics belonged to a religious body which has done much useful
work among both Europeans and natives in South Africa. Severally
bachelors, they were now on their way to Algoa Bay with the intention of
forthwith entering into the bonds of holy matrimony--for the ship
bearing the three ladies who had agreed to share their respective
hearths and homes had, after a prosperous voyage, reached port.
It will, of course, be understood that the parties to these alliances
were absolute strangers one to another. Half a century ago the
daughters of the land suitable as helpmeets to men in the position of
ministers were scarce, and it was not uncommon for several ministers to
request their particular Mission Society to select and send out to them
suitable partners. All the parties had to sign an undertaking to the
effect that they, individually, would conform to certain regulations
governing the apportionment. Judged from a purely sentimental
standpoint, the system may have had its disadvantages; there is,
however, reason to believe that the results were, as a rule,
satisfactory. It was not so popular with the younger as with the older
men. It may well be imagined that the former would have preferred doing
their own love-making to having it done for them by the Mission Board;
but the principal reason was that upon the arrival of each batch of
brides seniority carried the privilege of first selection, and thus the
youngest and prettiest girls were apt to fall to the older men, and the
younger a man was the more danger there was of his being obliged to wed
some elderly lady of comparatively unprepossessing appearance. This was
the reason of the perturbation noticeable in the rather handsome face of
the Reverend Mark Wardley, the young man walking behind the waggon. He
knew that, being junior of the three, he would have last choice--or
rather no choice at all, for he would have to content himself with the
lady deemed least attractive by his companions. There was, however, a
special reason in this particular instance why the youngest of the three
postulants at Hymen's shrine should feel the disadvantages of his
position.
Similar conditions, no doubt, accounted for the exceedingly complacent
and even radiant look which the rubicund countenance of the Reverend
Peter Bloxam wore. He knew that as the eldest of the party he would
have first pick, and he revelled in anticipation accordingly. Both he
and Mr Wardley had been confidently informed, through letters received
by the previous mail, that one of the three ladies selected was a girl
of extremely well-favoured appearance; and the friends who wrote on the
subject gave to each respectively a very warm inventory of her charms.
Little was known of her antecedents, but this did not matter; the
responsible position of a minister's wife was the mould in which her
character would be formed--if it required formation--and each was quite
prepared to take whatever risks there were in the matter. She was the
orphan daughter of a minister who had died in India, and she had been
reared and educated at the expense and under the supervision of the
Mission Society.
Mr Bloxam smiled to himself as he thought of how he had cheated old
Time, and chuckled with the liveliest satisfaction over the fact that he
was no longer a young man. He was, as a matter of fact, very much in
love with the girl he had never seen, or rather with the ideal he had
formed from the written description. Exactly the same might be said of
Mr Wardley.
The third postulant, the Reverend Samuel Winterton, appeared to take
things very coolly. If he derived satisfaction from the fact that the
right of second selection from the little flock of ewe lambs was his,
such was more sober than enthusiastic. Ardour, except for the Kingdom
of Heaven, had been left entirely out of his composition, and he was
very much wrapped up in a somewhat narrow religion.
Mr Bloxam and Mr Wardley laboured at reclaiming the heathen, and dwelt
at country mission stations; Mr Winterton had spiritual charge of a
mixed congregation, and dwelt in a small country village in Lower
Albany, which, as everybody ought to know, is inhabited by the
descendants of the British settlers of 1820.
It was sundown when the drivers called a halt at a grassy glade on the
bank of a clear stream which was fringed with mimosa and acacia trees.
Here the teams were "outspanned" and turned out to graze. Soon a fire
was lit, mutton chops were grilled, tea was brewed, and the three lovers
made a frugal repast. The only talkative one of the party was Mr
Bloxam, whose tongue continually tingled with ponderous jocoseness that
had a strongly Scriptural flavour. He rallied Mr Wardley on his subdued
manner and his bad appetite. Mr Winterton came in for a share in the
chaff as well, but the shafts seemed to fall dead from the armour of his
imperturbability. Mr Wardley, on the other hand, distinctly winced at
every thrust, so there was far more fun to be got out of him.
"Come, Brother Wardley," said Mr Bloxam; "a contented mind is, I know, a
continual feast, but it does not do to travel on--that is, by itself.
It will never do for you to arrive looking hungry. You must try and
look your best, man. Eh, Winterton?"
Mr Winterton's mouth was too full to admit of his answering. Mr Wardley
smiled uneasily, and helped himself to a chop, which he bravely
attempted to eat.
"Just think of these three Roses of Sharon blooming for us, and soon to
be transplanted to our homes," said Mr Bloxam, unctuously. "Wardley is,
I am afraid, thinking of the thorns already. If, however, he had
studied the botany of Scripture he would have known that Roses of Sharon
have no thorns."
"I trust their ages may be suitable to ours," said Mr Wardley in a
nervous voice. "It is so important in marriage that husband and wife be
not too different in this respect."
"Scripture does not bear you out, brother," said Mr Bloxam in a positive
tone. "Take the case of Ruth and Boaz, for instance; and we must not
forget King David's having taken Abishag the Shunamite to comfort him in
his old age."
"You could hardly call Abishag the wife of David," interjected Mr
Winterton, whose knowledge of Scripture was precise.
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr Bloxam, airily, "yet she comforted him in
his old age. The principal functions of the wife of a minister of the
Gospel lie in assisting her husband in his duties and comforting him
when the powers of evil seem temporarily to prevail against his efforts.
Now, a young woman, if she have the necessary dispositions, may be able
to perform such duties effectively at the side of a man even
considerably her senior."
"But," said Mr Wardley, with a touch of heat, "a young man also requires
a helpmeet and a comforter, and surely one who--"
"Quite so, quite so; and you will get one, my brother. The hand of
Providence directs us in these things, and we must pray for its guidance
at this important juncture of our lives. As the eldest and most
experienced I shall have the responsibility of making first selection.
Although I continually pray for guidance, I feel the responsibility a
great burthen."
"If it weighs so heavily, why not let it rest on the shoulders of a
younger man?" said Mr Winterton, who possessed a hitherto unsuspected
sense of humour. "I have no doubt Wardley will feel equal to sustaining
it."