IN THE GARRET
"I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild."
--JOHN KEATS.
Bert stood where he was, rooted in deep thought, watching the child
as she ran away. He did not believe that what she said was true.
Millie might very probably plot to escape, but she would never send
him word to bear her company. Besides, he knew that she did not
intend to run away until she heard the result of her father's message
to her English relatives. He wondered that anybody should think such
a device could impose upon him. It was a hoax, and its obvious
object was to get him out of the way. What devilry was Tante Wilma
plotting?
He laughed a little; they thought him easily deceived.
A moment's reflection convinced him that the child's message was part
of a preconceived arrangement with Amurrica. But he felt sure that,
after his handling of the subject, the prospective bridegroom would
be unable to take his part in anything that night. He looked at the
clock, which pointed to seven, and made up his mind that he would
resume his sentry duty at Lutwyche's about eight. Anticipating a
long wait, he thrust a sandwich into his pocket and a flask of
spirits, and sallied forth to stroll down the town, and hear what was
being said of the fight and the funeral.
The main street was thronged with people. For a minute it made him a
little anxious. If the town meant to take up the feud, and back
Otis, things might be a trifle strained, though there were some of
the men on whom he thought he could rely as backers.
But he soon saw that there was a deeper preoccupation on the faces of
the burghers. The fight, which in calmer times would have filled
men's mouths for a week, was forgotten. The flag floating over the
Post Office showed him that the weekly mail was in; and knowing the
political tension, he guessed that there was news. He dashed into
the Vierkleur. It was a babel of tongues. Men were fighting for
possession of the newspapers; those who had letters or journals from
Pretoria were being besieged in corners. For the moment, the
remembrance of Millie faded from Bert's mind, as he mingled with the
throng, and gathered first of all the main fact, that the British
Government had ordered the immediate despatch of troops, both from
England and India, to back up the demand for the Outland Franchise.
Debate was keen as to whether the British Government would really
fight.
The madness of conflict rose in Bert's blood as in that of all the
men there. They shouted, argued, wrangled, drank, swore. At
whatever cost, Bert felt he must get at the main facts of the
position, and he listened while one of the men, perched on the bar,
read aloud leading articles from English and Boer journals, and the
talk hummed and buzzed more busily than ever.
He was recalled from his absorption by a touch on his shoulder.
Cornelis Pieters, the field-cornet, stood by, regarding him with no
friendly glance.
"Lucky for you the Commandos are to be called out; nobody will have
time to set the law on you," he growled. "Otis is goin' to die."
"We're all going to die--some day," said Bert placidly.
"He's goin' on ahead," said Pieters surlily.
"I'm not taking any," returned Bert, unmoved. "I had the cooking of
him, and I know what I done to him. He won't be gettin' married just
yet a while; but he's all right."
"If Tante Wilma takes my advice, she'll give that girl a taste of the
stick," rumbled Pieters. "A taller dip 'ud make as good a wife as
her, to my way o' thinkin'; an' when a man that could stomach her
comes along, you must needs knock him out o' time. It wasn't your
affair. There'll be a reckoning, I can tell you."
"Hope so," retorted Bert. "Couldn't live in this township, if you
didn't believe the right 'ud come up some day. So long!"
"Where are you off to?"
"To see as Tante Wilma don't lay a finger on the gal."
"From what I heard, before I came away, I shouldn't be surprised if
you was too late," said Pieters, grinning in his face.
* * * * * * * *
It was quite dark when he arrived at the gate of Lutwyche's.
He was panting with the speed he had used, and the sweat ran down
him. He was blaming himself bitterly because in the excitement of
the war news he had lost sight of his purpose; and it was more than
half-past eight. To his untold joy and relief, the first thing he
saw was the light glimmering through Millie's square of ground glass
in the loft. His heart leapt, and the strain of his muscles relaxed.
He halted outside the gate, wiped his brow, and listened with all his
might. All was quiet. But there was one unusual thing. Lights were
burning in the _sitkamer_, a most rare phenomenon in a pastoral Boer
district, where everybody rises and goes to bed with the sun. This
looked as though it were still planned that the sitting-up should
take place that night. He carefully unfastened the hurdle gate and
went into the yard. By degrees he drew nearer the house. Half-way
across, a sound made itself audible--the thudding of a hammer against
wood. It went on with monotonous regularity, but his fears sprang up
anew at the sound. What were they doing?
He walked right up to the stoep, raised himself to a level with the
window-sill, and through a gap between the edge of the blind and the
window frame, could see right into the _sitkamer_. What were they
doing?
Tante Wilma, like some unclean beast, stood balancing herself
unsteadily against the table, her face purple, her eyes wild, a
sjambok in her hand. The children were all clustered round the foot
of the ladder leading to the loft, and the eldest boy was standing
upon it, aiming clumsy, childish blows with a big hammer at the
trapdoor above his head.
Ha! Then he was just in time, and only just! Lord! When the bolt
gave way, they should find someone they did not look for, in the loft
above!
The blood surged to Bert's head--he set his teeth. With stealthy
tread he crept to the barn, found a ladder--his late vigils about the
farm had taught him where most things were kept--and setting it
against the low house wall, he lightly ascended to the roof.
The window was slightly open--secured by means of an iron bar with
holes in it. It was not wide enough to enable him to see in. The
blows continued upon the trap below, showing that the besiegers had
not yet forced an entrance. The noise drowned the sound of his
voice, and he ventured to call gently: "Millie! Millie!"
There was no answer. He called again, a little louder.
All was silent in the garret; he could not hear the least rustling.
The idea that she was not there, after all, but hiding away somewhere
in safety, made his heart dance. Suppose she really had run away,
and was waiting for him at the cross-roads? It was most unlikely,
but it was not impossible; one never could be sure of girls.
Meantime, he must ascertain before that bolt gave. Putting in his
hand, he lifted the window as high as it would go--high enough to
enable him to put his head under it. The loft extended a good way,
though only just in the centre, under the pitch of the roof, was it
high enough to stand upright in. It was a pitiful sleeping-chamber
for a girl.
The little camp bed was smooth and empty. He could not see Millie
anywhere. A candle stood upon a deal chest, guttering in the
draught, showing the void space and the neatness of the dreary
lodging.
She was actually gone, then? He drew a deep breath....
Something had caught his eye--a red, wet mess on the bare boards,
close to the trap-door. All round this was a series of smears, and
another blotch, almost a pool ... and some big drops, dotted along
the floor into the darkness, under the low part of the roof, where
the coffins and the fruit were stored.
Bert became a tiger. One wrench of his iron wrists brought the
skylight off its hinges, and without noise he swung himself down into
the garret. Stooping, he assured himself that the iron bolt of the
trap-door would stand a good deal more of such battering as it was
now enduring before it gave way. Then he seized the candle, and
crept along the trail of the blood-stains.
He soon found her; and at first he thought that she was dead. She
was lying prone upon the ground, her head sunk sideways, all dabbled
in blood. One arm lay so curiously twisted that he guessed it to be
broken. Bending over her, he heard her breathe; and then, raising
her as tenderly as he could, found with mingled fury and relief that
all the bleeding came from her lacerated shoulders. She had been
inhumanly thrashed. Her clothes were literally torn off her back.
With indomitable pride she had crept up here to die alone.
It did not take Bert an instant to consider what he should do. He
snatched a sheet from the bed, wrapped it round and round the raw,
bleeding back, then possessed himself of the dark woollen coverlet,
and rolled the slight, unresisting form therein. Lifting her as
easily as one might a child, he carried her to the skylight, managed,
with the help of a broken chair, to get her and himself through it,
and in a moment was descending the ladder, clasping all the happiness
the world held for him in his arms, his whole heart one white flame
of pity and indignation.