to-day."
"Might one ask what you mean?"
"Don't you know that this is a state function, got up to welcome you and
Mr Benson?"
"Indeed I did not. Oh, the guilefulness of women!--and Miss Jeanie
called it a simple tea-party."
"Well, you had better begin preparing your speech. I had to make one.
Mind and be careful to make a good first impression."
Just then the ominous sound of Mr Mactavish clearing his throat was
heard, and an apprehensive silence fell upon the assemblage. Jeanie
looked at Benson with unutterable mischief in her eyes. Then the voice
of the boarding-master began in measured, lugubrious tones--
"Leddies and gentlemen,--fellow-warkers i' the vineyard, we have met
to-day to welcome two who have just put hands to the plough which runs
in oor furrows o' grace. One o' them comes frae the land we left--most
o' us many years ago--to dwell in this clime o' savagery and spend oor
lives in reclaimin' the heathen frae his barbarism. We know what we
have done in the past; we know how hard oor labour was at first; but we
must be thankful that strength was given tae enable us tae break the
hard, virgin sod, and thus make the wark lighter for those who come
after.
"We will humbly trust that oor friends will duly appreciate the
enorrmous responsibilities restin' upon them as missioners, an' that
they will assist in keepin' this little community what it is--`a light
tae lighten the Gentiles,' and a continual example tae the heathen o'
the true Christian life.
"One o' the things we most firrmly endeavour tae cultivate is a true
earnestness o' purpose in _a'_ branches o' oor wark, and the consequent
avoidance o' freevolity o' a' sorts. Oor little warld has its laws and
salutary customs, and tae these a' must conforrm. As to what these are,
I, as senior member o' the Institution staff, will be glad to gie
information. Mr Allister and Mr Benson, in the unavoidable absence o'
oor respected Principal, I bid ye a hearty welcome."
Allister flatly refused to respond, so Benson arose and made a few
appropriate remarks. Soon afterwards the meeting broke up. Jeanie and
Benson met at the door and walked on together.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" he asked, "for getting us down to
that function under false pretences."
"I am, rather; but I knew that if Mr Allister had had any inkling as to
what was going to happen, he would not have come. But all my
dissimulation was thrown away, for he did not make a speech after all.
But do tell me what you think of us?"
"Well, my dominant feeling is one of hopeless inability to live up to
your ideals. You see, I am not in any way cut out for a missionary.
Moreover, I could not conscientiously recommend any self-respecting
Gentile to light his candle at my lamp."
"Oh, so far as that goes, Mr Mactavish's lamp is so overflowing with
oil, and shines so vividly that we might all quench ours without putting
the Gentile public to any inconvenience. But I am keen on hearing
original impressions; do oblige by telling yours."
"It is quite clear you have not even guessed at the magnitude of my
limitations. Nothing, as a rule, strikes my imagination unless it be
funny. And I have not yet got sufficient `atmosphere,' as the artists
say, to enable me to appreciate properly the local humour. Truly, the
pursuit of the humorous is my only serious occupation."
"You are a disappointing man. Now, I am as fond of running other
people's impressions to earth as you are of hunting jokes. You must
have acquired some impressions; do communicate them."
"Well, the thing which strikes me as most remarkable about these people
is the utter absence of anything like friendliness towards each other,
or, in fact, towards anyone."
"Ah, but when you have been here as long as I, you will look upon this
afternoon as an oasis in a desert of unfriendly days. Why, most of
these people hardly speak to each other when they meet, unless it be at
a function such as this. There is, of course, one exception; outside
the church on Sunday morning they all shake hands and smile sweetly.
But from Monday to Saturday, when not at work, they glower and spend all
their time brooding over imaginary slights and each other's
shortcomings."
"But, under such conditions, how on earth does the place hold together.
What is the cement?"
"That was a great puzzle to me at first; however, now that I have become
accustomed to the place, all seems natural enough. The fact is, these
people cannot be judged by the standard of any others. Most of them
have risen from a much lower social plane and in the rising have
acquired an exaggerated idea of their own individual importance. Each
one is continually polishing up his dignity as though it were a little
tin plate and resenting imaginary specks of rust. Then they all run in
so many small grooves, and each groove appears to the one who runs in it
to be the most important one in the world. The curious thing is that
they are all conscientiously devoted to the missionary cause. They
certainly do their work well."
"I suppose they all think they are Christians in the fullest sense of
the term?"
"Rather!--well, you heard Mr Mactavish to-day. But you ought to hear
them at the prayer-meetings. And many of them know their Bibles nearly
by heart. It is all very curious. I used to talk to uncle about these
things, but he got angry. I once suggested, after a very bad general
quarrel, that he should make them all come to our house and there kiss
and make friends."
"Surely, Mr Mactavish fell in with that proposal?"
"I said I made the suggestion to my uncle, not to Mr Mactavish."
"Well, if you want to give the plan a chance of success, propose it next
time to Mr Mactavish."
"Well, since you are so interested, I make you a present of the notion.
Of course, I do not come into the scheme; I have fallen out with no one.
You might point out that they would only be following the example of
the early Christians."
"The pioneers of a new evangel should always practise what they preach."
"Very well, you be the pioneer. You can preach to Mr Mactavish and
practise on Miss Mellish and Miss Angus. But I must now go in. I hope
we will have many more long talks. Lest you should become concerted, I
will tell you that the great dread of my life is lest I should acquire a
Scotch accent, so I value your speech highly as a corrective."
"It has become available only just in time. I would not, for the world,
say that your accent is Scotch, but you must excuse my saying that now
and then there is just a little suggestion of, one might say,
finely-ground oatmeal, in your otherwise irreproachable speech. Yes, I
think you cannot do better than cultivate my acquaintance as much as
possible."
Jeanie, after flashing a look of indignation at Benson, darted into the
house.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Three_.
Life at the Institution was void of all but the most trivial incident.
Miss Mellish began to thaw slightly towards Benson. This was soon
attributed by the astute Allister to its true cause: gratitude to the
schoolmaster for having attracted Jeanie. Miss Mellish was, of course,
fully persuaded that the latter was a designing minx, who had
deliberately set her cap at Mr Mactavish. He was no longer actively
aggressive, but had remained implacable in so far as the drumstick
question was concerned. Two months after their arrival neither Benson
nor Allister had tasted wing, breast or liver of the many birds at whose
autopsies they had been present. Benson often joined Jeanie in her
walks, for the purpose, as he said, of safeguarding the purity of her
accent.
At length the day arrived when Mr Mactavish's place at the dinner-table
was vacant. He was reported as being very ill with gout. A messenger
was sent with speed to the Residency for Dr Jenkin, the District
Surgeon, but that practitioner was found to be suffering from incipient
delirium tremens. Then Allister was called in.
That evening Allister came to Benson's room, where he sat down and
gravely lit his pipe.
"Well, how is Mr Mactavish?" asked Benson.
"His physical malady is subsidin' but I fear his mental condition is no
that o' a professin' Christian."
"Well, I'm glad the old chap is better. I've always heard that gout
affected the temper."
"It does, awfully. Ye'll be glad to hear that the chicken question has
been satisfactorily settled."
"What do you mean?"
"I may as well begin at the beginnin' and tell ye all about it. Of
course, you know Mactavish did not send for me until he'd found out that
Jenkin was so fou' he didn't know colchicum from prussic acid. Well, I
went to see the old man. He was sittin' wi' his left fut wrapped up and
restin' on a chair, lookin', well, if he'd only had twa horns and a tail
Auld Nick wud have just capered wi' envy."
"`I'm concerned to see ye sae oot o' sorts, Mr Mactavish,' said I,
seempathetically.
"`Ah, mon,' says he, `I feel like Dauvid in the fowerty-ninth Psalm when
I think o' that swillin' swine of a Jenkin. I didna want to trouble ye,
Mr Allister, knowin' how hard ye work, but I juist had to. Hae ye
brocht the colchicum wi' ye?'
"`Wark never stands in the way o' my helpin' a sufferin'
fellow-creature,' said I, `and I can seem-pathise wi' ye fine just now,
for I'm in a bad way myself. The wame o' me's just tied into knots wi'
the indigestion.' Here I gied a groan.
"`Hoots, mon,' says he wi' a screech, `indigestion's nae mair to be
compared wi' gout than a midge is wi' a mad dog. Gie me the colchicum.'
"`Mr Mactavish,' said I, `ye've evidently no idea how I suffer. Not
alone is my wame tied into knots, but sufferin' has seriously affected
my memory. Will ye believe me when I tell ye that I cannot for the life
o' me remember where I put the jar o' colchicum?'
"With that he sat straight up and stared at me for a bit; then he fell
back wi' a squeal, for a twinge just made him feel as if his big toe
were bein' twisted off.
"`I'm no sure,' said I, after a while, `but that if I could see some
prospect o' my indigestion gettin' better, I might concentrate my mind
sufficiently to remember where the colchicum is.'
"`What do ye mean?' he asked.
"`Mr Mactavish,' said I most impressively, `when Peter saw the sheet
descendin' wi' a' the beasts an' birds in it--well, I'd stake every
scruple o' colchicum I ever saw that every fowl had twa wings and a
liver; but since I've been eatin' at your table not a wing o' the many
chickens ye ha' carved has ever fluttered either to me or to Benson, and
although ye've helped me to many a gizzard, ye've never given me a
liver, even by mistake. It's the lang, weary course o' femoral muscle
that is underminin' my constitution. For many, many weeks those
drumsticks ye're so generous of, have been beatin' the Deil's tattoo on
my sufferin' ribs.'
"He lay for a long time wi' his eyes closed. Then he said, quite
humbly--
"`Mr Allister, ye're a hard mon;--but gin ye let bygones be bygones,
I'll help ye to the liver wing o' every fowl I carve for the next ten
years.'
"`A wing each to Benson and me when there's two chickens on the table,
and one liver in three between us. These are the conditions, Mr
Mactavish.'
"`It's my duty to submit when spitefully used,' he replied; `gi'e me the
colchicum.'
"Wi' that my memory came back quite suddenly, and I remembered that the
colchicum was in my pocket. I gave him a liberal dose."
Two days later Mr Mactavish reappeared at table. The principal item of
the banquet was, as usual, a pair of boiled chickens. The
boarding-master was better than his word. Benson and Allister each got
a liver wing. After a pause of indecision the carver helped Miss
Mellish to one and Miss Angus to the other of the remaining wings.
Then, with a sigh, and the mien of a suffering saint, he placed a
drumstick upon his own plate.
He ate his dinner with an expression of proud resignation suggestive of
Pope Alexander VI washing the feet of the poor. Benson nearly repeated
his former reprehensible conduct; he managed, however, to avoid
disgracing himself, but narrowly escaped apoplexy in the process.
Next Sunday, Mr Campbell happening to be absent on clerical duty, Mr
Mactavish held service in his place. As an extra lesson he read the
22nd Psalm. When he reached the text "they gaped at me with their
mouths as a raving and a roaring lion," he looked straight at Benson and
Allister, who were sitting together.
It only remains to be recorded that Mr Mactavish adhered with strictness
to the terms of the compact into which he was forced by the guileful
Allister.
CHAPTER TEN.
AFAR IN THE DESERT.
This is the story of a boy and a girl who met in a South African
wilderness under strange circumstances more than thirty years ago. The
girl was desert-bred; her feet had never trodden those paths of
convention which, in the aggregate, are called civilisation. A chance
medley of unusual happenings drove the boy forth from the haunts of men,
but the absorbing spell of the wild fell upon him, and to him the "call
of the wild" was ever afterwards an imperative command.
It is a love-story; but Love revealed the shining wonder of his face to
these two for less than one fleeting day, the while Death hid close
behind him.
Some of that which is here related is true.
_One_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The boy went down to the lower camp from his lonely tent, that was
pitched on one of the terraces near the head of the Pilgrim's Rest
Valley, for the purpose of buying his meagre supplies for the following
week, for it was Saturday afternoon. Night was falling when he started
homeward, and it was dark when he reached Slater's Claim and the Big
Rock. Just there he stumbled over a man who was lying, sleeping the
sleep of intoxication, across the path.
"The Boy"--he was known from one end of the creek to the other by that
designation--struck a match and examined the man's face. He recognised
it at once as being that of Dan the Reefer, a gigantic yellow-bearded
Californian--the camp's most celebrated prospector. Next to the sleeper
lay a new blanket tied up in a neat bundle.
A cold wind was searching down from the frost-dusted peaks which stood,
lofty and clean-cut, against the early winter's sky; so the boy untied
the bundle, and, after placing the head of the man in a comfortable
position, spread the blanket over him and tucked it in. In doing this
his hand touched a leather pouch. After considering the risk he was
running, the boy opened the pouch and found that it contained about ten
ounces of gold in a chamois leather bag. He transferred the bag to his
pocket and went home.
Next morning the boy went down to the Reefer's tent and handed over what
he had taken charge of. The Reefer was profanely thankful.
"I'll do you a good turn for this," said he, "--me if I don't."
"Take me out prospecting with you," said the boy at a venture.
"Can you hold a rifle straight?"
"Yes; but I haven't got one."
"Oh, that's all right; I have. You'll kill meat and I'll strike a reef
that'll make our fortunes."
Here was a piece of luck; the very thing he had longed for hopelessly
was thrust upon him. To go prospecting with the Reefer was an honour
sought by many.
"Let's see," said the Reefer, "this is Sunday; sleep here Wednesday
night and we'll start Thursday."
So the boy packed up his few belongings, stored them in the tent of a
friend, and put in an appearance at the Reefer's tent at the appointed
time. The Reefer was not at home, but he turned up, more or less drunk,
in the middle of the night.
All preparations had been made; a month's "tucker" for two had been
provided. This included flour, tea, a little sugar and salt, and a few
simple remedies for use in the event of sickness. The goods were
scientifically packed in two "swags"--that of the Reefer weighing about
ninety pounds and that of the boy about thirty. The Reefer carried a
pick, a shovel and a pan, in which the limits of combined efficiency and
lightness had been reached; the boy a lifting-block, Westley-Richards
rifle and a hundred cartridges. Each took, besides, a water-bottle, a
cooking "billy," a blanket, a spare flannel shirt and two pairs of thick
woollen socks.
Their course led down the valley of the Blyde River, through the
loveliest imaginable scenery. Down and down the valley seemed to sink
among the convoluted mountains that are so rich in forest, crag and
sounding waterfall. After crossing a divide the deserted site of the
village of Ohrigstad was passed. Here was the scene of a tragedy. The
township had flourished, the land was fertile, the surrounding a
hunters' paradise. All went well for a time; then came fever; within a
few weeks all the settlers went down. The majority died; the survivors
were rescued and removed to a healthier locality, where they founded the
town of Lydenburg. In blue-books published years afterwards, the
abandonment of Ohrigstad was erroneously attributed to fear of the
Bapedi--natives located in a neighbouring mountain range.
The Reefer was a silent man, who was obsessed by one idea--the finding
of gold where none had previously been found. The one and only thing
which gave him pleasure was to make a "strike." But the discovery once
declared and made the object of a "rush," the thing immediately lost its
charm. Then he would sell out, usually for far less than the value of
his claim, and once more follow the rainbow. This man's life had
literally been spent on the prospecting trail. He had made several rich
strikes of gold, not alone in Africa, but in America--North and South.
In those days the Klondyke was unknown, but the Reefer had trailed to
what he called "the head waters of the Arctic," and had found rich gold
in the Yukon district, from which he was driven back by the pitiless
cold. He knew every creek and placer in the alluvial fields of
California.
The boy was nineteen years of age, but did not look it. He was lithe,
small-boned and tall, with fair hair, blue eyes and a face that gained
him the good graces of some women. Thrown on the world when quite a
child, he had known phases of sin and suffering not usually experienced
by the young. It was a strain of idealism and an inherent passionate
love of nature that enabled him to save his soul alive. In his ear the
voice of the wilderness was ever sounding. Whenever he managed to save
enough money to buy sufficient supplies, he would wander away into the
vague, unknown country lying east and north of the fields, in search of
gold, hunting and adventure. The first he never found.
Down and down still sank the valley towards its junction with the
Olifant--studded throughout its enchanting length with dark green
patches of virgin forest, strung like emeralds upon the chain of a
crystal stream. The summer rains had been heavy, so every ravine
cleaving the hills on either side was vocal with impetuous water. The
wild creatures gazed at them from the high ledges or crashed unseen
through the underwood at their approach. The chanting call of the brown
falcons wheeling among the crags sounded like a trumpet bidding them go
forward into the unknown, where dwelt fortune and romance.
They camped each night under trees centuries old. How the leaping
flames lit up the groined boughs spreading from hoar-ancient trunks,
revealing depths of mysterious shadow in the greenery! When the flames
died down, how the restful darkness closed in, full of rich suggestion!
These nights were so full of rapture that the boy could hardly sleep: it
seemed a sin to waste such hours in unconsciousness. Often the dawn
would find him watching and praying with that best kind of prayer--the
uplifting of the heart to the plane of nature's most exalted harmonies.
Then he would sink into an hour's dreamless slumber, to be awakened by a
shove from the Reefer's friendly foot, and to find a steaming pannikin
of tea ready at the side of his couch.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Two_.
The sound of a violin in one of the gorges of the Olifant's River valley
seemed very incongruous indeed. The source of the music was hidden
behind some large trees. Beyond these stood a tent-wagon. On the box
sat a tall, dark, bearded man plying the bow industriously, the music
being a reel played in very quick time. His clothing was of brayed
skin; his muscular arms were bare to the elbow. An immense lion-skin
lay drying, the fleshy side being uppermost, upon the "tent" of the
wagon. The black hair of the mane was protruding over the back of the
tent, and the tufted tail dangled close to the face of the musician. At
the side of the wagon was a small "lean-to" of coarse calico. Meat, in
various stages of the process of drying, hung festooned among the trees.
The musician laid down his instrument, leaped lightly from the wagon and
advanced with outstretched hand.
"Welcome, welcome," he said, speaking in Dutch; "put down your bundles
and rest. Look what your uncle has shot." Here he pointed to the
lion-skin. "You fellows are after gold, I suppose; but what has a
hunter to do with gold? Come and drink coffee. Anna, is there any
coffee ready?"
The concluding words were addressed to a girl who, followed shyly by a
small boy, emerged from the lean-to and silently shook hands with the
strangers. She appeared to be about eighteen years old. Her oval,
slightly freckled face had beauty of a distinctive type. Her eyes were
dark and had an expression of sadness. Health glowed through and
enriched her skin. But the glory of this girl was her hair; its wealth
of bronzed auburn, thick and waved, was full of changing lights. She
was dressed partly in male attire.
Somehow this did not seem incongruous to the boy. He was by disposition
unconventional to a degree. His eyes appraised the girl admiringly; the
shapely figure was almost too sturdy for grace, but it had the strength
his lacked. Nature, who always schemes for the mating of contrasts,
made these two goodly and desirable in each other's eyes.
The boy's appraising glances followed the girl as she went to the
tail-board of the wagon and busied herself with the coffee arrangements.
The play of her strong, full arm was good to watch; the inartistic
_veldschoen_ could not hide the symmetry of her feet. A loose,
blouse-like garment of linen permitted glimpses of a neck strong and
fine, and dazzlingly white below the area of sunburn.
The coffee was a pleasant variant from tea--the prospector's only
prepared beverage. They sat on the sward and talked. The Reefer had no
Dutch, so the boy acted as interpreter. The owner of the wagon was a
Boer named Dirk Fourie. He had a farm in the Lydenburg district, but
spent most of his time in the hunting-field. Fourie was a widower with
three children. Accompanied by these and an old Hottentot he had
undertaken this trip, intending to reach the low country in the vicinity
of the nether reaches of the Letaba River. But he found that the rains
had there fallen late, so, dreading fever, decided to remain for a time
in the valley of the Olifant. To avoid risk of "bush-sickness" he had
sent the oxen back to the farm in charge of his elder son and the
Hottentot, with orders that they were to be brought back after six weeks
had passed.
Fourie's manner was characterised by a kind of yearning friendliness;
the advent of the strangers seemed to afford him very sincere pleasure.
He neither knew nor cared anything about gold, so the Reefer soon found
the conversation irksome and wandered off to examine the formation. The
boy just then cared for nothing so much as hunting, so he and Fourie sat
and discussed game and the slaying thereof. The lion-skin was pulled
down and admired. A graphic account of the downfall of the great
marauder was given. It appeared that Fourie's father had been killed by
a lion, so the Boer carried on a lifelong vendetta against the whole
lion species. The death had been amply revenged, for twenty-two of
these animals had fallen to the long-barrelled _roer_ which hung in the
wagon, and nine to a more modern rifle--a Westley-Richards musket--just
then standing against the wheel.