[Dutch for mad woman or witch.]
When the number of coloured pupils attending the Friend for Little
Children School reached one hundred and fifty, it was decided that
Sister Joanna ought to have the assistance of a white pupil-teacher as
well as the three half-caste young girls she had already trained. The
several High-Dutch ladies of Brandersberg who interested themselves in
Sister Joanna's good work, both by collecting subscriptions for it
abroad and helping to place the young girls in domestic service after
they had left school, determined to advertise in the Free State
newspapers for a girl who would not only teach in the school, but also
live with Sister Joanna at the school cottage, and help with the simple
domestic arrangements. For Sister Joanna kept no servant; she would
have considered it extravagant to do so while she had health and
strength; besides, she had lived so long in the Colony that there was
nothing in the way of domestic and everyday housework she was not able
for. She was a good cook, could make her own soap, smoke her own legs
of mutton, and grow her own vegetables. She had a neat little garden
round the cottage (which stood some hundred and fifty yards from the
school), and a corner of it was devoted to herbs, for she was deeply
learned in the science of herbal healing, and could cure a headache, a
varicose vein, a black eye, or supply you with a sleeping draught that
would make you forget you had ever known neuralgia; all out of one
little corner of her garden. Besides this, she managed with great skill
and discipline the large school of coloured boys and girls which she had
started herself with half a dozen children, some fifteen or sixteen
years before; and yet found time to tend the sick, harass the lazy, and
manage the affairs generally of everyone in the native Location.
However, though she would not admit it, she was beginning to look old
and worn, and it was certainly a good idea to get someone to help her in
her busy life.
The advertisement brought several answers, but none of them so
satisfactory as that of a young Bloemhof girl called Mary Russel. Mary
it seemed had not only received a good education and passed her "Matric"
(a rather unusual thing in a girl of seventeen), but being the eldest of
a large and not at all wealthy family was also extremely domesticated.
The Brandersberg ladies thought well of her letter of application, and
better still of Mary herself when she arrived, pretty and fresh and
kind, with a firm mouth and a courageous glance in her grey eyes.
Though of English extraction she was colonial born, a further
qualification for the place, for Colonials though kind and just do not
spoil natives by making too much of them as English people are apt to
do. No sooner was Mary Russel installed than she became a great
favourite with the children, and the Brandersberg ladies feeling that
they had done well by so popular a character as Sister Joanna thereafter
turned their attention to their own affairs. The large and flourishing
town of Brandersberg lay within the shadow of a mighty _berg_ that in
any other country would be called a mountain, and that even in Africa
was considered worthy of a title. Thaba Inkosisan it was called, and
when the sun set, its great jagged shadow was flung far across the veld,
just missing Brandersberg, but falling full and black upon the native
Location; and this was considered a curious and sinister thing by the
coloured population, for it was upon their village and in their hearts
that the mountain had cast sorrow and fear.
The Friend for Little Children School was close at the foot of the
_berg_, and a road ran direct from it to the Location, so that the
children could go to and fro between their homes and the school without
approaching the Dutch town; and perhaps this was one of the reasons why
Sister Joanna's work was as popular with the whites as with the natives,
for in the Free State the whites did not care for their children to mix
with the natives, and any arrangement to keep the two races apart was
greatly favoured. But the situation of the school was a cause of
inquietude amongst the coloured parents; not because it was too far from
the town, but because it was too near the _berg_. For Thaba Inkosisan
was haunted by a mollmeit, and a mollmeit is no friend to little
children.
The haunting of the mountain dated from many years back. When Mary
Russel heard the story, she knew that the horrible tragedy in which it
originated must have occurred about the time she was born, for it was in
that year that the Basutoes fought in the Free State, surrounding and
putting many a town into a state of siege. Brandersberg had been among
the beleaguered towns, and the inhabitants of several farms near by had
been put to the assegai by the fierce Basuto warriors.
Now, on the other side of the mountain, about thirty miles from the
town, there had stood a little stone farmhouse which an old Boer had
built with an eye to defence in case of war. Its windows were small and
high, its doors and shutters of iron, and there was nothing inflammable
anywhere in its outer structure. When the Boer died, the place was
bought by an Englishman with a pretty wife and little daughter. Just
before the trouble with the Basutoes, another woman came to supplement
the little family, a certain Janet Fink, middle-aged, well-educated, and
recently arrived in Africa on an emigrant ship. She had been engaged by
an agent at the Cape to come to the farm as a sort of combined nursery
governess and mother's Help. The people of Brandersberg who knew the
Englishman and his wife and liked them, had not had time to make the
acquaintance of the Help before the war with the natives broke out and
the town went into _laager_. Unfortunately this family was one of those
cut off from the town. The Englishman had indeed been warned, but he
pooh-poohed the idea of war, or only heeded it enough to postpone going
in as usual to the town to get the monthly supply of provisions. But
eventually supplies ran so low that he was obliged one day to set forth
after giving careful instructions for the defence of the farm in case of
attack. He had, however, delayed too long, and on his way into the town
he was met by the Basutoes out for killing, and put to the assegai. A
contingent of the main _impi_ then went to the farmhouse and tried to
take it, but the women had seen them coming, and received them so
resolutely, and with such well-aimed shots from the high windows that
having more important things on hand than the taking of two women they
presently proceeded on their way, leaving two men behind with
instructions to watch the house and kill the women if possible; if not,
to starve them out. Being well informed (as Kaffirs always are at such
times), they were aware that though there was water in the house there
was no meat or meal to speak of, and that the little garrison could not
hold out for more than a few days. It held out, however, for ten days,
during which time smoke went up every morning from the chimney, and
whenever the Basutoes made a feint of approaching they were received
with rifle fire. On the eleventh day, however, there was no smoke, and
towards evening the two Basutoes feeling pretty sure of their prey crept
close, meaning to try for the chimney. Within ten yards of the house
one of them was picked off with a bullet through his head, and the other
turning to ran got a shot in his leg that put him out of business, but
in spite of which he managed to crawl away into the bush, where a day or
two later he was found by a troop of Dutch Artillery. Under the lash of
the _sjambok_ he was induced to tell all he knew about the farmhouse,
and the Dutchmen, at length convinced that the place was not an ambush
but really contained the two white women and child, rode up to it and
found, not what they expected, but many surprising things. First of
all, instead of signs of famine there was every evidence that many meals
had been eaten; plates with remains of meat and gravy were scattered
about, and a saucepan contained the leavings of a stew that had been
curried and flavoured with onions. Plainly fuel had given out, for
every wooden thing in the scantily furnished kitchen had been chopped up
and burned. The Boers were deeply puzzled until in an adjoining room
the body of the farmer's wife was found lying in a corner covered with
old sacks. She had been dead for many days, and the manner of her dying
was swift and sudden; there was a knife deeply imbedded in her back.
When later the charred skull and thigh bones of a little child were
raked out of the ashes in the fireplace the dark tragedy was made
clearer still, and the rough men turned from the scene with sick hearts
and grim mouths. There were husbands and fathers amongst them, and it
would have gone hard with her if in that hour they had come across the
mother's Help who in so hideous a fashion had helped herself. But they
never found her. Whether after escaping from the house she was caught
and killed by the Basutoes, or, lost in the bush had been eaten by wild
beasts, or wandering on had reached some town and under an assumed name
told a plausible tale and been taken in and cared for, had never been
discovered. Only, presently in some strange way a story got about that
she had fled to Thaba Inkosisan, and was living there in a cave,
subsisting on wild roots and rock rabbits.
The tale first got credence among others besides the natives on the
disappearance from some transport waggons outspanned near the mountain
of a little Kaffir child. It was declared by the Kaffirs that the
"flesh-eating woman" from the farm had turned into a mollmeit with
cravings for human flesh, and that the children of Brandersberg would
never be safe again while she lived in the mountain. Mollmeits,
according to them, were like tigers which having once tasted human blood
find no other so much to their liking; and, though other food must of
needs be eaten, the evil craving comes upon them at times like a madness
and must be satisfied. Most of the Dutch people scoffed at this
ghoulish tale, saying that it was more likely that the Kaffir child had
fallen down a ravine, and thereafter been eaten by jackals. But some
there were who believed in the mollmeit theory, and spoke of searching
the mountain. However, the idea came to nothing. There are too many
little _piccaninnies_ in Africa for one more or less to make any
difference except to its mother; and the sorrows of a Kaffir woman do
not count for much in some parts of the world. Moreover, the searching
of Thaba Inkosisan was not an affair to be lightly undertaken; its sides
were steep and rough, with great inaccessible cliffs in some parts, and
masses of bush growing thick and close as moss. There were known to be
caves too, and cracks and fissures that led far into the mountainside;
but the notion of anyone living in such places seemed to the Dutch
impracticable and ridiculous. At any rate, nothing was done, and with
the passing of months and years, the legend of the mollmeit had almost
died out when another child disappeared--a little orphan this time, whom
no one missed at first because it was no one's business to look after
her; thus some days passed before her loss was realised and then it
seemed rather late to make more than a perfunctory search, for if she
was lost in the bush (and it must be remembered that the bush grows
right up to the outskirts of many South African towns) she was probably
already dead from starvation or sunstroke. A search was made in a
half-hearted sort of way, and mainly because Sister Joanna agitated for
it; but no one bothered for long about a little half-caste orphan child.
Besides, the coloured people, whom the matter mostly concerned, said
that it was no use looking for what was already eaten and digested up in
the caves of Thaba Inkosisan; which clearly showed what their solution
of the problem was.
It was long before the mollmeit was heard of again. True, the
superstitious and fearful tried to make out that little Anna Blaine, the
youngest of a large coloured family, had fallen a victim to the witch;
but to all sensible people it was plain that the child had been drowned
at the Sunday-school picnic. She was not missed until the children got
home, and then it was remembered that when last seen she was throwing
stones into the _spruit_ swollen with recent rains near whose banks the
picnic had been held. Sister Joanna, with whom the child had been a
special favourite, worried the police until they consented to drag the
_spruit_ for some six miles; but the body was never recovered.
The fourth disappearance created more stir than any of the others. For
one thing it _was_ the fourth, and when four children have mysteriously
disappeared within the space of fourteen years it is time to be up and
doing, said both the Dutch and the coloured population of Brandersberg.
Further, it was no orphan or unwanted child this time, but Susie Brown,
the pet child of a highly respectable coloured carpenter. The little
thing had started for school one morning, and had just simply never
arrived. From the time she set out, an hour late, on the long empty
road that skirted the foot of the _berg_ no one had seen her. It was as
though some great _aasvogel_ had swooped down from the skies and carried
her off. Indeed some people were inclined to think this the answer to
the riddle. Possibly, they said, a great bird of prey had its nest in a
secret place of the mountain, and fed its young thus! At any rate it
was time for the mountain to be searched and the mystery made an end of.
And the mountain _was_ searched, from end to end, by a large band of
men. It is true that all the inner crevices could not be explored, nor
the highest cliffs, but the searchers were satisfied if others were not,
that neither monstrous bird nor human monster occupied Thaba Inkosisan.
So again with the passing of years, the weird legend died away, and at
the time of Mary Russel's coming to the school it was almost forgotten,
except by loving mothers who warned their children to keep as far away
from the mountain as possible, and the children themselves who never
wearied of embroidering and embellishing the fearsome tale, handing it
on to one another, and sometimes frightening a timid child into a fit
with it.
Mary one day in the schoolyard came upon a little group who having
finished their tiffin were seated in a ring listening with scared eyes
and parted lips to the story (with variations and improvements) of Susie
Brown's disappearance.
"--And the mollmeit chose her because she had such nice, fat, round arms
and legs... just like Rosalie Paton's there," announced the historian,
and a chubby pale-brown maiden of five gave a howl of terror. Mary sat
down and took the child in her arms, roundly scolding the story-teller
while she cuddled the soft fuzzy head against her breast. For it must
not be supposed that these little coloured children are not just as
sweet and pretty and attractive as white children. Hardly any of the
inhabitants of the Brandersberg native Location were real negroes. The
negro races mostly live in kraals far from the towns, speaking no
language but that of their tribe, and being classed under the general
heading of "Kaffirs." The scholars of the Friend for Little Children
School were mostly the offspring of pale-brown people--"Cape folks" who
have long hair and Malay blood in them, and natives of Saint Helena, who
are also long-haired, but rather dusky; some were of Koranna or
Hottentot breed (and these were not beautiful), but many were the
children of mixed marriages between "poor whites" and Cape natives, and
these were nearly always pretty and charming-looking. The language used
generally amongst themselves was a kind of Low-Dutch patois, but all
spoke English well, and were taught in that language.
Little Rosalie Paton's mother was a Cape woman, and a very disreputable
one, the drunkard of the village, in fact; but it was probable that the
child's father was a white man, for except for the fuzziness of her long
black hair and the brilliance of her great dark eyes, she was as like a
pretty little white child as she could be.
When Mary had thoroughly scolded the children for talking about the
mollmeit, she carried the still weeping Rosalie with her up to the
cottage and her own room there. A little petting soon dispersed the
tears, and then Mary produced her trinket-box, and allowed the child to
look at its contents. A poorly brought-up colonial girl possesses
little in the way of jewellery beyond a necklace and bracelet or two
made by her own clever fingers from the seeds of the _sponspeck_ melon
and a few imitation pearls; but Mary had been a favourite wherever she
went and had received many little presents. There was a necklace of
jagged red corals which her mother had put round her neck as a baby, and
that Rosalie gurgled so joyously over that Mary, after a moment's
hesitation, clasped it round the little dusky neck and told the child
that she might wear it that night at the magic-lantern entertainment.
For the Michaelmas holidays were approaching, and Sister Joanna was
going to celebrate the break in the school term by giving one of her
frequent little entertainments, only this time a new and up-to-date
magic lantern, sent by admiring friends across the sea, was to make its
_debut_, and all the children were wildly excited about it. In the
midst of Rosalie's joyful caperings, the voice of Sister Joanna was
heard calling:
"Mary, Mary, where are you, my child? Isn't it time for the school
bell?" And Mary jumped up guiltily (she had forgotten that the bell was
to be rung a quarter of an hour earlier that day), just as Sister
appeared in the doorway filling it with her plump, large presence. She
was a short woman who in spite of her great activity could not keep down
stoutness. Her large round face was pallid with the dead pallor
peculiar to people who have lived long in hot climates, but lighted by
an unfailing smile of cheerfulness and sky-blue eyes. She wore a quaint
garb of black alpaca made in somewhat monk-like fashion, long and full,
and confined by a cord at the waist, while on her head was an
arrangement that resembled a cross between a coal-scuttle and a Turkish
woman's _yashma_. She belonged to no Order, but was an Order unto
herself, and made her uniform with her own hands; and if it was a quaint
and funny one no one laughed, for Sister Joanna was both liked and
respected.
When Mary had told the tale of Rosalie's trouble, Sister burst into her
jolly laugh.
"The poor little thing! Was it afraid for its nice little fat brown
body," she said tenderly, and taking Rosalie on her knee rolled up the
child's cotton sleeves, looked at the plump pale arms, and pinched the
soft neck.
"Let me catch any old mollmeit trying to eat my Rosalie!" she said
fondly. "Run along, Mary, and ring the bell. Get lessons over early.
Tell the children I am letting them off an hour earlier so that they may
have time to curl their hair for to-night." She laughed merrily at her
own little jest, well knowing that hair curling is an unnecessary item
in a coloured child's toilette. She was always full of merry little
jokes of this kind, and the natives being a laughter-loving lot rejoiced
in them as much as she did.
Mary hurried away leaving Rosalie sitting happily on the old woman's
knees, and did not see her again until during the afternoon Sister
carried her into the schoolroom fast asleep.
"Oh, Sister! How can you carry that great fat thing! You'll be tired
out before to-night," said Mary reproachfully, for she thought Sister
looked even paler than usual. And sure enough that night the old lady
was too tired to eat any supper before starting for the entertainment.
She looked as haggard as death, though her sky-blue eyes were brighter
than ever and full of excitement; but the beautifully broiled mutton
chop Mary had prepared, with potatoes baked in their skins lay on her
plate untouched. Even when Mary made a cup of foamy coffee according to
Sister's own famous receipt it was wasted. Mary, in all the months she
had been at the cottage, had never known Sister with anything but an
excellent appetite, and was troubled, and before leaving for the school
she cut the meat from the uneaten chop and made it into a sandwich,
while the potatoes she sliced into a nice salad with a tiny onion
chopped over it. This little repast she put on a table in Sister's
room. They were simple in their ways at the cottage.
Down at the school, the children were buzzing like bees outside the
closed door, while Sister and the pupil-teachers within put the final
touches to the magic-lantern arrangements. Mary fished Rosalie out of
the crowd, and found that though she was still wearing her torn, school
frock, she had been washed, her hair was braided, and she was proudly
sporting the coral necklace. She still seemed more than half asleep,
but she blinked happily at Mary.
The entertainment was an enormous success. The magic lantern worked
like magic indeed, and there were howls of regret when at nine o'clock
the last slide was shown. Sister Joanna made an announcement that
during holiday week she would give another exhibition for the parents,
and the children then danced and partook of the repast of buns and
ginger-beer that kind Sister had provided. They were to go home at
half-past nine punctually, but before that time Sister who was very
tired left Mary in charge and went home.
"I'll see the children safely off," Mary promised.
"Oh, the children will be all right," said Sister. "It's my lantern and
slides I'm thinking about;--pack them safely and put them away in the
cupboard, Mary, or sure enough those rapscallions who come to clean up
in the morning will be fiddling with them and break something."
Mary promised not to leave until everything was locked up safely, and
all the lights put out.
"You needn't worry about anything, Sister. Just get to bed and have a
good rest."
Yet when about an hour later she came up the slope to the cottage, she
saw by the faint red and purple gleams shining from one of the windows
that Sister was still in the Oratory. She felt vexed to think that the
old soul was at her prayers instead of being in bed, but knew better
than to disturb her; and being very tired herself was not long getting
into bed. She went to sleep thinking happily of the coming week of
holidays to be spent with her family at Bloemhof. There were only two
more days of school, and then on Saturday morning she was to leave by a
carrier's cart and would reach her home by Saturday afternoon.
During the night, she was much disturbed by the howling of her dog Fingo
who was fastened in the yard. She had been allowed to bring Fingo from
Bloemhof, and he had always slept in the kitchen, and been allowed the
run of the house, but that very afternoon Sister had accused him of
rooting in the garden, and insisted on his being kept tied up in future.
Whether it was the curtailing of his freedom that desolated Fingo, it
is hard to say, but certainly Mary had never before heard him make such
tragic and doleful sounds. He at last left off, and she got to sleep,
but it seemed only a moment later that she was awakened by a loud
thumping on the front door, and sleepily putting out her hand for the
matches, she suddenly realised that the light of early dawn was already
in the room. Jumping out of bed, she threw a cloak over her night-dress
and went to open the door. As she passed through the dining-room, she
heard Sister also hurrying out of bed.
"Someone must be ill, Mary," she called through her door, and as if in
answer came another loud knocking and a voice crying in bitter trouble.
"Sister Joanna--Oh! Sister Joanna!"
"What, my poor thing? What?" called back the old woman, and came
floundering half-dressed from her room as Mary opened the door.
A coloured woman was standing there, haggard and dishevelled, her hair
hanging in streaks about her wild face, fear in her bloodshot eyes. Her
clothes were rumpled as though they had been slept in, and she was
panting and covered with dust. A picture of misery!
"Is my little Rosalie here?" she gasped, and with the question came a
sickening odour of stale brandy. It was then they recognised her for
Rosalie Paton's mother.
"Here! Why, of course not, Mrs Paton," cried Mary.
"What do you mean?" said Sister in astonishment.
"_Then the mollmeit's got her_," wailed the woman distractedly. "_Oh,
Jesus! The mollmeit's got my child_!"
"But what do you mean?" repeated Sister in a sterner voice, for she saw
that the woman was on the verge of hysteria. "Rosalie went home with
all the other children last night, I suppose! Do you mean to say they
didn't bring her to you?"
"No!" said the woman, and in her voice was dreadful despair, "God
forgive me, Sister, I was drunk--and asleep--it was not till this
morning that I knew she hadn't been home--at least she wasn't in the
house--since then I've been to a dozen houses, and no one knows
anything, but some of the children say that on their way home they were
frightened by something that jumped out from behind a rock down there
where the _berg_ comes near the road--"
"Stuff and nonsense!" broke in Sister scornfully. "Listening to
children's tales! You just go back to the village, Sarah Paton, and
look for your child. She's there right enough. Someone has kept her
for the night, knowing the state you were in. You ought to be ashamed
of yourself, my woman. Be off now and find her, and when you have found
her come straight back here and tell me, and see if you can turn over a
new leaf after this."
Thus with good-natured scoldings she waved the more than half-comforted
woman from the door.
"Get back to your bed, Mary, child, and sleep a little longer. It's not
five o'clock yet, and we've earned a little lie-abed after the tiring
day yesterday. That child's all right--safely tucked up in some kind
soul's bed, you may be sure. It will be a lesson to that
good-for-nothing hussy."
But Mary though she went back to bed was too disturbed to sleep. She
was haunted by the fear of harm having come to little Rosalie, and could
not rid herself of foreboding. Why had she not gone down the road
herself with the children? She had indeed watched them for awhile from
the school door, and had adjured the elders to take the hands of the
little ones and see them all safely to their doors. But well she knew
the careless, irresponsible nature of the coloured race! No doubt the
little ones had soon been allowed to lag behind. Even so, what harm
_could_ befall them on that straight road not three quarters of a mile
long? Of course the talk of a mollmeit was silly and yet--and yet--Oh!
it was no use staying in bed, worrying and fretting. She jumped out and
busied herself getting breakfast, making the coffee on a little
oil-stove, so that she might have the wood coals for the toast. She
then looked into the larder, set the rest of yesterday's milk in soup
plates to thicken for dessert at the mid-day meal; put a little more
pepper and salt on the neck of mutton that was for dinner, and turned it
in its dish, and placed fresh wet cloths round the big lump of butter
that must last till the end of the week. By that time, Sister also was
dressed, and together according to custom, they went into the Oratory
and said Matins before the small altar. Although she was not a real
nun, Sister Joanna never missed saying any of the daily Offices, and at
the morning and evening ones Mary always joined her.
It was a nice little Oratory, the floor covered with a soft hand-made
rug of red and brown woollen scraps like little autumn leaves, sewn one
above the other; several chairs with kneeling-stools before them, and an
altar-table that no one would have guessed was made of rough
packing-case wood for it was hidden by a scarlet cloth and linen
embroidered by the school children, and there were flowers and candles
upon it. The many small panes of the one window had been glorified by
means of scarlet and purple tissue paper, which cut in sheets and pasted
on alternate panes made an excellent substitute for stained glass, and
when the sun shone through and fell in a flood of colour upon the
patch-work rug, Mary felt a subtle pleasure woven amongst her prayers.
Under the window, a large dark oaken chest lent a further air of
ecclesiasticism to the little room. It was worm-eaten and full of
cracks and holes, but was reputed to have been part of the furniture of
a church, and Sister loved it, and kept the altar cloths and holy books
in it.
As the two finished their orisons, the sound of voices broke in upon
them, followed by a knocking on the door. Once more Sarah Paton stood
without, but now several women were with her, and a scattering of
children with scared faces and eyes ready to jump out of their heads.
There was ill news to tell. Rosalie was not to be found in the village
or out of it. No one had seen her since last night, but some of the
elder children remembered calling out to her to "Come on" as she
loitered sleepily behind. Other smaller children averred that as they
were capering along in the rear, "something white" had darted out from
behind a rock, and "made noises like a mollmeit." They were quite
unable to describe said noises, but declared that they had all run
screaming down the road. Evidently in the pleasurable excitement of
this adventure sleepy, lagging Rosalie had been forgotten; and no one
thought of her again until with the morning came the weeping mother.
"And I tell you the mollmeit's got her," shrieked the unhappy woman once
more, while the others gazed apprehensively at Sister Joanna.
"How long is that witch going to be left up in the mountain?" they
muttered. "You must write to the Government, Sister. None of our
children are safe--"
Sister Joanna did not conceal her impatience with them.
"It is all nonsense and silly superstition," she said. "The child will
be found all right. _I'll_ find her." And she pulled Sarah Paton
indoors and made her eat the breakfast Mary had prepared, scolding,
comforting, and lecturing the poor woman all at once. She herself ate
nothing so anxious was she to be off and start the search.
"Lock up, Mary," she said briskly, "and come along. I'll find the
little _schelm_, see if I don't, and give her a good shaking for causing
all this trouble."
However, a thorough search in every nook and corner of the village, and
inquiry at every house, elicited no result, and at the end of the
morning, Sister began to look as blank as the muttering women and much
more weary. There was no question of school; the children were given a
holiday and told to join in the search. The Dutch police were then
communicated with, and the afternoon was spent going through
Brandersberg. Sister Joanna was on her feet all day, but at five
o'clock Mary persuaded her to return home, begging her to eat something
and go straight to bed. Mary herself stayed some time later in the
Location wandering about, questioning, and trying to comfort Sarah Paton
with words of hope that had no response in her own breast. It was
sundown before she got home tired and dispirited, and it was just as
well that she had accepted a cup of tea in the village, for of course
Sister had been too tired to prepare a meal and there was not even a
fire in the kitchen. Knowing that Sister would be anxious to hear if
there was any news, Mary went at once to her bedroom, but there was no
one there; only a cloud of flies buzzing and crawling over the sandwich
and potato salad which stood untouched by the bedside. _That_ meant
that Sister had eaten nothing since mid-day the day before, and Mary was
worried. However, in the kitchen she found a cup with the remains of
some herbal brew Sister had evidently been making for herself and a
moment later Sister herself came out of the Oratory. Fresh hope and
courage, gained perhaps in prayer, showed in her face, for though still
pale, she looked extraordinarily excited, and her blue eyes gleamed with
some inner fire that Mary's news could not quench.
"We shall find her--we shall find her, never fear," she prophesied.
But Mary went to bed cold and miserable, and trying to stave off a bout
of neuralgia that had its origin in a tooth she could not afford to have
stopped. The doleful howling of Fingo throughout the night further
depressed her, and drove away all hope of sleep. In the morning, Sister
Joanna decreed that Fingo must return to Bloemhof.
"I can quite understand your fondness for him, Mary, he's a dear little
dog, but we can't be kept awake like this night after night. You must
take him back with you to-morrow. By the way, I've made all
arrangements for Tom Jackson to call for you."
"But, Sister, I don't want to go. I feel I can't, unless Rosalie is
found."
"Nonsense, my dear, what good can you do? If she is to be found I'll
find her. While if you miss Jackson's cart you miss your holiday, and
I'm not going to have that." There was resolution in the old woman's
voice and Mary made no further remark, only ate her breakfast and
hurried off to school, for work had to go on whatever befell. It was
the last day before the holidays and should have been a bright and merry
one, but gloom hung over everyone. The children spoke in hushed voices,
and at tiffin time instead of playing sat whispering in groups. Sister
Joanna came in for a few moments in the morning and wished the children
pleasant holidays; then went back to where she had been since breakfast
time in the village, egging on the search and agitating for a party to
be sent into the bush even up the mountain, if necessary.
During afternoon school, Mary's neuralgia became so acute that she
determined to go to the cottage for some painkiller, and having set her
class a task, she put the eldest pupil-teacher in charged and slipped
away.
A short-cut to the cottage was over a broken-down place in the
schoolyard wall, through the cottage garden, and in by the kitchen door
which stood open. Fingo whined as she passed, but she took no notice,
being intent on the matter of relieving her pain. Gaining her room, she
reached for the painkiller from a shelf and began to apply the
medicament to her gums with the tip of her finger. At the same moment,
she heard Sister Joanna going through the kitchen to the back door, and
was on the point of getting up and making her presence known when the
sound of Sister's voice speaking to Fingo arrested her.
"What are _you_ snivelling about, you dirty cur?"
Mary could hardly believe her ears. Not only the coarse words
astonished her, but the indescribably vicious way in which they were
spoken, the harsh voice so utterly unlike the genial tones she knew so
well. The girl sat on her bed as though she had been glued there, and
heard the rest of the sentence.
"--I've a good mind to settle your hash for you--only--" the threat
remained unfinished. The speaker had evidently turned back into the
kitchen and was moving about. Presently she went into the Oratory, and
shut the door. Mary was meditating a stealthy flight, for without going
into her own reasons she was suddenly averse to letting Sister Joanna
know that she had heard the words addressed to Fingo, when the Oratory
door was opened and Sister came back into the kitchen. She seemed to be
busy at the drawer of the dresser, and next came the sound of a knife
being sharpened on the doorstep. Afterwards there was a dead silence
for two or three minutes. Then, in a curiously fierce whisper some
words: "_No--no--I mustn't--I mustn't--No! I must wait till
to-morrow_."
A loud rap on the front door broke the sinister spell. Sister Joanna
dropping something on the kitchen table left the kitchen, and Mary
staying only long enough to hear a voice asking Sister to come at once
to see Sarah Paton who was "taken bad," crept out and made her escape by
the back door. As she passed through the kitchen, she saw that the
carving knife with a fresh edge to it lay upon the table.
When school was over at last, and the children gone, there was still
much to be done, and it was dusk before Mary approached the house again,
walking slowly, for she felt a strange reluctance to meet Sister Joanna.
But the house was empty. Sister had not returned from her sick visit.
Mary made the fire and put on the kettle for a cup of tea; then turned
her attention to the matter of supper. Since Sarah Paton had first
knocked on the door, no regular meal had been sat down to in the
cottage; and after she had visited the larder, the bread-tin, and the
egg-jar, Mary's simple calculations told her that if she had eaten
little during the two troubled days Sister Joanna had eaten absolutely
nothing at all. Apparently another cup of herbal tea had been brewed
and drunk, for the empty cup, giving out a faint peculiarly bitter
odour, was on the table; herbal tea, however, is poor sustenance, and it
behoved Mary to see about getting a good meal ready. The neck of mutton
in the larder was two days' old and no good to anyone but Fingo, but
fortunately the butcher had left some stewing mutton that morning, and
this Mary cut up and put into a saucepan with onions and a lump of
butter, browned it over a fierce fire, added a cupful of cold water, and
put it to simmer. Then she sat down to peel potatoes. She was going to
make an Irish stew. As she sat there, her mind wrestled persistently
with the problem of little Rosalie, and when she had finished the
potatoes, she determined she would go into the Oratory and pray. She
had often prayed for things, as the young do, with fervour and faith,
and her prayers had sometimes been answered in a wonderful way. The
thought of going to God, now, in the quiet house appealed to her. She
stepped softly into the Oratory and kneeling down, not in her usual
place but right before the altar, she prayed with all her heart that
Rosalie might be found. When she had finished, the tears were streaming
down her cheeks, so ardently and pleadingly like a child in trouble had
she called upon God. Immediately her heart was lighter, her courage
higher. It was as though she had passed a burden from her into other
hands--very safe sure Hands.
As she rose, she felt a brittle, crunching sensation under her boot, and
stooping picked out something from under the red and brown leaves of the
rug, and a thrill of amazement ran suddenly through her. The chapel was
by now so dark that she could only dimly see what it was she had found,
but not for a moment did she mistake the familiar feel of a thing she
had possessed all her life. It was her own little coral necklace! The
necklace Rosalie was wearing when she disappeared!
No sound broke from the girl's lips, but a cry went up from her heart at
this strange answer to her prayer. She realised that if she had not
gone to the altar step to pray, her foot would never have found the
necklace. Bewildered, amazed, _frightened_ as she was, she suddenly
felt strong and secure,--God was at work.
As she opened the door that led back into the kitchen, lighted only by
the flickering firelight, she collided heavily with someone, and her arm
was gripped as by a hand of iron.
"What were you doing in there?" Sister Joanna, breathing heavily as if
she had been running, barked the question hoarsely at her. Mary stared
a moment, a sort of terror creeping over her at that harsh brutal voice
heard twice in the same day. Some swift instinct warned her to conceal
what she felt.
"I have been praying, Sister," she answered quietly. "Praying that our
little Rosalie may be found."
Slowly the grip on her arm relaxed, and as though nothing untoward had
happened, she moved across to the fire and lifted the saucepan.
"I'm afraid my Irish stew is burning! I hope it won't taste."
She was talking to hide something. A terrible inspiration had come to
her that she must not share with Sister Joanna the discovery she had
just made; and as she shook the saucepan with one hand, with the other
she slipped the necklace into her pocket. Then she lighted the kitchen
lamp, and got out the teapot.
"I'm just going to make you a cup of tea, Sister," she said cheerfully.
"I expect you are dead beat."
The old woman had sunk into a chair by the table, but her eyes had a
strange glare in them as she watched Mary, who affecting not to notice,
bustled about rattling the tea-things.
"I can see you are just tired out, and as nervous and worried as ever
you can be." Mary's arm was still tingling with pain, and that may have
had something to do with her newly discovered powers of acting; but the
sky-blue eyes still glared. At last, the tea was made and poured out.
"And now tell me, Sister dear,--is there any news yet?"
Sister Joanna gave a sigh as if some tight band round her had suddenly
been loosened and she had breathing space once more.
"No, child," and it was almost her old genial voice. "The men have come
back from the bush. But to-morrow they are going up the mountain. I've
worked them up to _that_."
"I'm glad," said Mary thoughtfully. "For do you know, Sister, I am
beginning to believe as the children do, that there really _is_ a
mollmeit up there and that she is at the bottom of all the
disappearances."
The blue eyes fastened themselves keenly on the girl's face, then, "I
have always believed it myself," said Sister Joanna solemnly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Irish stew had only a faintly burnt flavour, and looked appetising
enough in its dish; but the sight of it had a curious effect on Sister
Joanna. She looked at it almost ravenously, then turned away as though
the sight sickened her.
"No--no, I couldn't eat any," she muttered half to herself. "I'm not
hungry, but to-morrow--to-morrow I will make myself a little curry.
Curry always brings back my appetite and bucks me up when I am tired
out."
Mary's own appetite had taken wings since that curious scene in the
kitchen. Nevertheless she made a great pretence of hunger.
Fortunately, Sister did not stay to see whether the large helping of
stew was eaten, but rose and stumbled towards her room which was next to
the dining-room. It was easy to see that she was dropping with fatigue.
How could it be otherwise after two days of ceaseless activity during
which she had eaten nothing? Her heavy pallid cheeks hung in haggard
rolls about her jaws, and with the glare gone out of them, her eyes
resembled two large blue beads stuck in a fat doll's face.
"I'll go to bed, Mary," she said heavily. "I must get rest."
"Yes, do, Sister. No Compline in the Oratory to-night, I suppose."
Like a flash, energy came back into the old woman's glance, and the
haggard muscles of her face seemed to tighten; but Mary, though her
heart had come bounding up into her throat, ate on placidly.
"No," said Sister slowly, "I shall say the Office in my room, and I
advise you, my dear, to get to bed as soon as possible, for Jackson will
be here for you at five in the morning. Have you got your things
ready?"
"Not yet," said Mary, and secretly repeated to herself, "_Not yet_!"
She was dazed, bewildered, and terrified; creeping, creeping terror of
she knew not what was in her veins. But not for nothing had she prayed
and felt answering faith and courage poured into her heart! Definitely,
she knew that after that prayer and its answer she had no right to go
yet--until Rosalie was found--
Though she could not eat, she sat for some little time at the table,
making sounds with her knife and fork. Her idea was to prolong the
evening as much as possible. She did not wish to go to bed until Sister
Joanna slept. She could hear the latter undressing, and presently
murmuring the words of the Office; later, the iron bed creaked, but
sleep was as yet far from that bed. Long ago, Mary had observed in
Sister Joanna an intense, almost foxlike acuteness, that in one less
kind and genial would have alarmed the girl; now it did alarm her, for
from the silent bedroom, through the closed door she felt it directed
upon her; those unfortunate last words about Compline had aroused it!
At last, Mary rose and softly cleared the table, went out to the yard
and fed Fingo, made one or two little preparations for the morning, then
bolted the back door, and retired to her room. With her door carefully
ajar, as she often left it, she then began to shake out and fold up her
holiday things and pack them in a carpet bag. In all she did, she was
careful to be perfectly natural and make no sound more or less than she
would any ordinary night, for she was still aware of that acute
attention piercing through the very walls about her. At last, she
washed her face, brushed and plaited her hair, and got into bed. But
under her night-dress she was fully dressed.
There in the darkness she lay thinking, thinking, and while she thought,
she practised breathing regularly and evenly as she had often done when
a child. What was the meaning of it all?--the strange words in the
kitchen--the abuse flung at the dog--the screeching knife--the grip on
her arm--the watching eyes--the coral necklace in the Oratory? Mary had
no clear idea; only, when she tried to piece the strange puzzle
together, she was afraid with a deadly fear that froze the blood in her
veins and paralysed her heart.
It seemed as though years instead of hours passed before that happened
which she had known must happen--very gently Sister Joanna's door
opened, and feet came padding softly to the kitchen; beside Mary's door
they paused; it was for this moment Mary had practised her regular
breathing, and the practise stood her in good stead. After some
frightful moments, the longest it seemed to Mary she had ever lived
through, the stealthy feet crossed the kitchen, and the Oratory door was
opened. It was then that Mary sat up in bed straining her ear-drums
until she thought they would crack; but the only sound that reached her
was a little soft _creaking_ sound. A moment later, she was lying flat
again, breathing regularly, for the feet were returning to pause by her
door and the light of a candle flickered in. At last the gentle opening
and shutting of another door, and the creak of the iron bed under a
heavy body told that Sister Joanna had finished her midnight prowlings.
It was Mary's turn to get up.
For a full hour, she stood listening in the darkness and in the end she
heard the stertorous breathing of a stout, tired woman fallen heavily
asleep. To strike a sulphur match without noise was no simple task, and
only accomplished by making a cave of the bed-clothes. This time it was
Mary who stole, candle in hand, to the Oratory. Drops of cold sweat
stood on her forehead and round her mouth, as without a sound she opened
the door of that silent room to seek there that which Sister Joanna had
hidden and feared for another to find. Whatever and wherever it was,
there was no time to lose. At any moment the old woman might wake!
Fearfully the girl stole to the altar, and lifting the heavy red cloth
stared beneath. Nothing!
The only other possible place was the oak chest. With faltering hands
she lifted the lid (which gave a little creak) and looked in, and at
what she saw the candle all but fell from her hand. White and still
upon the folded altar cloths lay the body of little Rosalie. Mary
turned faint and sick, but the Power that had sustained her throughout
the terrible night did not fail her in that moment. She put out her
hand to touch the child, and at the same moment a faint bitter odour of
herbs came towards her, and she recognised it as the same she had
smelled in the cup in the kitchen. There was a brown stain on the
child's lips, and drops of liquid on her dress. Like a flash Mary
realised the truth, and touching the little hands found them still warm.
The child was not dead, but under the influence of a sleeping herb.
Plenty of air came through the holes and cracks of the old chest. She
was being kept asleep until--until what. The sinister words muttered in
the kitchen came back to memory.
"_No, no, I mustn't--I mustn't--I must wait till to-morrow_!"
Until to-morrow when Mary would be gone. Was that it? Then, in the
silent house--what?
"_To-morrow I will make a curry_!"
Ah, God! What terrible thoughts! They almost unnerved Mary, but she
found strength to catch up the child's still form, and turning fled from
the accursed place. The lid of the chest fell with a loud bang, and as
she gained the back door and fumbled with the bolt, she heard Sister
Joanna leap like a tiger from her lair.
Ah! What a race was that through the black night! Over garden beds to
the gate mercifully open, and down the long, lonely road. Far, far in
front lay the native village and a single point of light glimmering out
from a sick woman's hut; and behind was a wild beast balked of its prey,
snarling, and panting. Mary ran until a glaze came over her eyes and
the blood burst from her nostrils. The rush of the air woke the child
in her arms to weak but piercing crying, and only then did the padding
shambling feet behind begin to falter and fall back. But Mary ran
staggering on toward the light burning in Sarah Paton's hut, and only
stopped to fall fainting on the doorstep.
Within half an hour the tale was told, and men with lanterns in their
hands and black fury in their hearts were out on the road. But they
found no one and the school and cottage were both empty.
The mollmeit had fled to the mountain at last.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sewn into the mattress of Sister Joanna's bed were discovered the
emigration papers of Janet Fink, and later, from under the bed of herbs
in the garden men dug out the skulls and bones of four little children.
Then, raging, they burned the Cottage and school of the Friend for
Little Children, and with brands from the fire set alight the thick bush
of the mountain. For four days the flames roared and crackled, sending
down great gusts of heat to the town below, and by night lighting up the
veld for miles. The rock rabbits and mountain buck came scudding down
to the safety of the bush, but the men, deployed in a wide circle round
the base of the _berg_, never raised a gun to them so intent were they
on their grim vigil.
At length the flames died down, and Thaba Inkosisan blackened and bare,
with no leaf or flower or branch, nor any living thing left upon it,
gloomed silent above the town.