'She wants you to go over to the place with her to-morrow,' Dick
said. 'You know the place, don't you? It's only about three miles
away up the old wagon road; you've been there, haven't you?'
'Yes,' I said. 'There's a wooden cross where they're buried or
should be. I had it renewed two years ago. Didn't I ever tell you
about it? Haven't you been there yourself lately?'
'No,' said Dick. 'I don't fancy the place somehow. But I was
asking about it only this afternoon. The boys tell me there are
some trees there still; white men's trees.'
'Yes,' I said, 'yellow peach-stocks and one gumtree you get it
against the skyline looking up from the spruit. The old pole and
daub house dropped to pieces long ago. I do hope that cross is
standing all right still. I blame myself for not having seen
about it this last year or two.'
The cross had fallen down and the place looked generally forlorn
when we reached it next day. I was troubled about my companion.
She was fair and tall and quiet. When she did talk on the way she
talked about commonplace subjects. But when she saw the forsaken
place and the displaced cross the veil fell. She clutched her
son's arm hard, and I left them together. I went off with the
Mashona boy and the mules out of the way. I had no inspiration at
the moment what to say or what to do. I did not come back for
half an hour.
She told me on the drive back that she wanted to provide somewhat
of a memorial. 'It's been left too long,' she said. 'But you can
understand how sore I was before and how I shrank from coming.'
She told me that one great grief of hers was that she had no good
likeness of her children as they were at that dreadful time. I
was embarrassed and silent. 'What can I do to help you?' I was
thinking over and over again, 'Shall I show the picture? Yes,
right or wrong, I must.'
I didn't know how to begin to tell her about it. I prayed for
words. Then I began in curt crisp sentences to tell her. 'You may
not like it. You must not be disappointed,' I said. 'Why?' she
asked. But I did not try to explain. I would let the picture
plead its own point of view. When we were back I asked Dick for
it, and I knocked at her room door and gave if to her.
Then I went out and watched a team ploughing, till Dick called me
in.
At lunch the guests were very quiet and subdued, but seemed quite
cheerful. Afterwards, before I started for home, she came and
talked to me alone.
'Is this the scene of the picture?' she asked me, as she led me
across the yard. 'This grass plot between these rocks and those
trees?'
'Yes, it's just here apparently,' I said. 'You see that great
tree there. One can hardly mistake it.'
'I remember the spot long ago,' she said. 'I came down to my
sister's to leave the children with her for a country holiday
just before that time. We were staying at that place we went to
this morning; they called it Happy Valley, and we drove over to
this place where there was a store. It was only a month or two
before the time May Day, I think. I remember my children playing
hide-and-seek here with the piccaninnies; yes, playing other
games too.' Her lips quivered, but she went on quite steadily.
'Those piccaninnies in that picture do you know any of their
faces?'
'Yes,' I said, 'I knew two that were burnt, and did not get
better; two I used to come and see. And Dick says he recognizes
two or three little chaps that have died since he came here to
live after the "Rebellion" was over.'
'And how do you explain it?' she asked gently, 'this vision of
dead children so charmingly colored, so color-blind from a South
African point of view?'