Service No. I.
The boy Waldo kissed the pages of his book and looked up. Far over the
flat lay the kopje, a mere speck; the sheep wandered quietly from bush
to bush; the stillness of the early Sunday rested everywhere, and the
air was fresh.
He looked down at his book. On its page a black insect crept. He lifted
it off with his finger. Then he leaned on his elbow, watching its
quivering antennae and strange movements, smiling.
“Even you,” he whispered, “shall not die. Even you He loves. Even you He
will fold in His arms when He takes everything and makes it perfect and
happy.”
When the thing had gone he smoothed the leaves of his Bible somewhat
caressingly. The leaves of that book had dropped blood for him once;
they had taken the brightness out of his childhood; from between them
had sprung the visions that had clung about him and made night horrible.
Adder-like thoughts had lifted their heads, had shot out forked tongues
at him, asking mockingly strange, trivial questions that he could not
answer, miserable child:
Why did the women in Mark see only one angel and the women in Luke two?
Could a story be told in opposite ways and both ways be true? Could it?
could it? Then again: Is there nothing always right, and nothing always
wrong? Could Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite “put her hand to the
nail, and her right hand to the workman’s hammer?” and could the Spirit
of the Lord chant paeans over her, loud paeans, high paeans, set in the
book of the Lord, and no voice cry out it was a mean and dastardly sin
to lie, and kill the trusting in their sleep? Could the friend of God
marry his own sister, and be beloved, and the man who does it today goes
to hell, to hell? Was there nothing always right or always wrong?
Those leaves had dropped blood for him once: they had made his heart
heavy and cold; they had robbed his childhood of its gladness; now his
fingers moved over them caressingly.
“My father God knows, my father knows,” he said; “we cannot understand;
He knows.” After a while he whispered, smiling--“I heard your voice this
morning when my eyes were not yet open, I felt you near me, my Father.
Why do you love me so? His face was illuminated. In the last four
months the old question has gone from me. I know you are good; I know
you love everything; I know, I know, I know! I could not have borne it
any more, not any more.” He laughed softly. “And all the while I was so
miserable you were looking at me and loving me, and I never knew it.
But I know it now. I feel it,” said the boy, and he laughed low; “I feel
it!” he laughed.
After a while he began partly to sing, partly to chant the disconnected
verses of hymns, those which spoke his gladness, many times over. The
sheep with their senseless eyes turned to look at him as he sang.
At last he lapsed into quiet. Then as the boy lay there staring at bush
and sand, he saw a vision.
He had crossed the river of Death, and walked on the other bank in the
Lord’s land of Beulah. His feet sank into the dark grass, and he walked
alone. Then, far over the fields, he saw a figure coming across the dark
green grass. At first he thought it must be one of the angels; but as it
came nearer he began to feel what it was. And it came closer, closer to
him, and then the voice said, “Come,” and he knew surely Who it was. He
ran to the dear feet and touched them with his hands; yes, he held them
fast! He lay down beside them. When he looked up the face was over him,
and the glorious eyes were loving him; and they two were there alone
together.
He laughed a deep laugh; then started up like one suddenly awakened from
sleep.
“Oh, God!” He cried, “I cannot wait; I cannot wait! I want to die; I
want to see Him; I want to touch him. Let me die!” He folded his hands,
trembling. “How can I wait so long--for long, long years perhaps? I want
to die--to see Him. I will die any death. Oh, let me come!”
Weeping he bowed himself, and quivered from head to foot. After a long
while he lifted his head.
“Yes; I will wait; I will wait. But not long; do not let it be very
long, Jesus King. I want you; oh, I want you--soon, soon!” He sat still,
staring across the plain with his tearful eyes.
Service No. II.
In the front room of the farmhouse sat Tant Sannie in her elbow-chair.
In her hand was her great brass-clasped hymn-book, round her neck was a
clean white handkerchief, under her feet was a wooden stove. There too
sat Em and Lyndall, in clean pinafores and new shoes. There too was the
spruce Hottentot in a starched white kapje, and her husband on the other
side of the door, with his wool oiled and very much combed out, and
staring at his new leather boots. The Kaffer servants were not there
because Tant Sannie held they were descended from apes, and needed no
salvation. But the rest were gathered for the Sunday service, and waited
the officiator.
Meanwhile Bonaparte and the German approached arm in arm--Bonaparte
resplendent in the black cloth clothes, a spotless shirt, and a spotless
collar; the German in the old salt-and-pepper, casting shy glances of
admiration at his companion.
At the front door Bonaparte removed his hat with much dignity, raised
his shirt collar, and entered. To the centre table he walked, put his
hat solemnly down by the big Bible, and bowed his head over it in silent
prayer.
The Boer-woman looked at the Hottentot, and the Hottentot looked at the
Boer-woman.
There was one thing on earth for which Tant Sannie had a profound
reverence, which exercised a subduing influence over her, which made her
for the time a better woman--that thing was new, shining black cloth. It
made her think of the predikant; it made her think of the elders who sat
in the top pew of the church on Sundays, with the hair so nicely oiled,
so holy and respectable, with their little swallow-tailed coats; it made
her think of heaven, where everything was so holy and respectable, and
nobody wore tancord, and the littlest angel had a black-tailed coat. She
wished she hadn’t called him a thief and a Roman Catholic. She hoped the
German hadn’t told him. She wondered where those clothes were when he
came in rags to her door. There was no doubt, he was a very respectable
man, a gentleman.
The German began to read a hymn. At the end of each line Bonaparte
groaned, and twice at the end of every verse.
The Boer-woman had often heard of persons groaning during prayers, to
add a certain poignancy and finish to them; old Jan Vanderlinde, her
mother’s brother, always did it after he was converted; and she would
have looked upon it as no especial sign of grace in any one; but to
groan at hymn-time! She was startled. She wondered if he remembered that
she shook her fist in his face. This was a man of God. They knelt down
to pray. The Boer-woman weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and could
not kneel. She sat in her chair, and peeped between her crossed fingers
at the stranger’s back. She could not understand what he said; but he
was in earnest. He shook the chair by the back rail till it made quite a
little dust on the mud floor.
When they rose from their knees Bonaparte solemnly seated himself in
the chair and opened the Bible. He blew his nose, pulled up his shirt
collar, smoothed the leaves, stroked down his capacious waistcoat, blew
his nose again, looked solemnly round the room, then began.
“All liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and
brimstone, which is the second death.”
Having read this portion of Scripture, Bonaparte paused impressively,
and looked all round the room.
“I shall not, my dear friends,” he said, “long detain you. Much of
our precious time has already fled blissfully from us in the voice of
thanksgiving and the tongue of praise. A few, a very few words are all
I shall address to you, and may they be as a rod of iron dividing the
bones from the marrow, and the marrow from the bones.
“In the first place: What is a liar?”
The question was put so pointedly, and followed by a pause so profound,
that even the Hottentot man left off looking at his boots and opened his
eyes, though he understood not a word.
“I repeat,” said Bonaparte, “what is a liar?”
The sensation was intense; the attention of the audience was riveted.
“Have you any of you ever seen a liar, my dear friends?” There was a
still longer pause. “I hope not; I truly hope not. But I will tell you
what a liar is. I knew a liar once--a little boy who lived in Cape
Town, in Short Market Street. His mother and I sat together one day,
discoursing about our souls.
“‘Here, Sampson,’ said his mother, ‘go and buy sixpence of meiboss from
the Malay round the corner.’
“When he came back she said: ‘How much have you got?’
“‘Five,’ he said.
“He was afraid if he said six and a half she’d ask for some. And, my
friends, that was a lie. The half of a meiboss stuck in his throat and
he died and was buried. And where did the soul of that little liar go
to, my friends? It went to the lake of fire and brimstone. This brings
me to the second point of my discourse.
“What is a lake of fire and brimstone? I will tell you, my friends,”
said Bonaparte condescendingly. “The imagination unaided cannot conceive
it: but by the help of the Lord I will put it before your mind’s eye.
“I was travelling in Italy once on a time; I came to a city called Rome,
a vast city, and near it is a mountain which spits forth fire. Its name
is Etna. Now, there was a man in that city of Rome who had not the fear
of God before his eyes, and he loved a woman. The woman died, and he
walked up that mountain spitting fire, and when he got to the top he
threw himself in at the hole that is there. The next day I went up.
I was not afraid; the Lord preserves His servants. And in their hands
shall they bear thee up, lest at any time thou fall into a volcano. It
was dark night when I got there, but in the fear of the Lord I walked to
the edge of the yawning abyss, and looked in. That sight--that sight, my
friends, is impressed upon my most indelible memory. I looked down into
the lurid depths upon an incandescent lake, a melted fire, a seething
sea; the billows rolled from side to side, and on their fiery crests
tossed the white skeleton of the suicide. The heat had burnt the flesh
from off the bones; they lay as a light cork upon the melted, fiery
waves. One skeleton hand was raised upward, the finger pointing to
heaven; the other, with outstretched finger, pointing downward, as
though it would say, ‘I go below, but you, Bonaparte, may soar above.’ I
gazed; I stood entranced. At that instant there was a crack in the lurid
lake; it swelled, expanded, and the skeleton of the suicide disappeared,
to be seen no more by mortal eye.”
Here again Bonaparte rested, and then continued:
“The lake of melted stone rose in the crater, it swelled higher and
higher at the side, it streamed forth at the top. I had presence of
mind; near me was a rock; I stood upon it. The fiery torrent was
vomited out and streamed on either side of me. And through that long and
terrible night I stood there alone upon that rock, the glowing,
fiery lava on every hand--a monument of the long-suffering and tender
providence of the Lord, who spared me that I might this day testify in
your ears of Him.
“Now, my dear friends, let us deduce the lessons that are to be learnt
from this narrative.
“Firstly: let us never commit suicide. The man is a fool, my friends,
that man is insane, my friends, who would leave this earth, my friends.
Here are joys innumerable, such as it hath not entered into the heart
of man to understand, my friends. Here are clothes, my friends; here
are beds, my friends; here is delicious food, my friends. Our precious
bodies were given us to love, to cherish. Oh, let us do so! Oh, let us
never hurt them; but care for and love them, my friends!”
Every one was impressed, and Bonaparte proceeded:
“Thirdly; let us not love too much. If that young man had not loved that
young woman, he would not have jumped into Mount Etna. The good men of
old never did so. Was Jeremiah ever in love, or Ezekiel, or Hosea, or
even any of the minor prophets? No. Then why should we be? Thousands
are rolling in that lake at this moment who would say, ‘It was love that
brought us here.’ Oh, let us think always of our own souls first.
“‘A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the sky.’
“Oh, beloved friends, remember the little boy and the meiboss; remember
the young girl and the young man; remember the lake, the fire, and the
brimstone; remember the suicide’s skeleton on the pitchy billows of
Mount Etna; remember the voice of warning that has this day sounded in
your ears; and what I say to you I say to all--watch! May the Lord add
his blessings!”
Here the Bible closed with a tremendous thud. Tant Sannie loosened the
white handkerchief about her neck and wiped her eyes, and the coloured
girl, seeing her do so, sniffled. She did not understand the discourse,
which made it the more affecting.
There hung over it that inscrutable charm which hovers forever for the
human intellect over the incomprehensible and shadowy. When the last
hymn was sung the German conducted the officiator to Tant Sannie, who
graciously extended her hand, and offered coffee and a seat on the
sofa. Leaving him there, the German hurried away to see how the little
plum-pudding he had left at home was advancing; and Tant Sannie remarked
that it was a hot day. Bonaparte gathered her meaning as she fanned
herself with the end of her apron. He bowed low in acquiescence. A long
silence followed. Tant Sannie spoke again. Bonaparte gave her no ear;
his eye was fixed on a small miniature on the opposite wall, which
represented Tant Sannie as she had appeared on the day before her
confirmation, fifteen years before, attired in green muslin. Suddenly he
started to his feet, walked up to the picture, and took his stand before
it. Long and wistfully he gazed into its features; it was easy to see
that he was deeply moved. With a sudden movement, as though no longer
able to restrain himself, he seized the picture, loosened it from
its nail, and held it close to his eyes. At length, turning to the
Boer-woman, he said, in a voice of deep emotion:
“You will, I trust, dear madam, excuse this exhibition of my feelings;
but this--this little picture recalls to me my first and best beloved,
my dear departed wife, who is now a saint in heaven.”
Tant Sannie could not understand; but the Hottentot maid, who had taken
her seat on the floor beside her mistress, translated the English into
Dutch as far as she was able.
“Ah, my first, my beloved!” he added, looking tenderly down at the
picture. “Oh, the beloved, the beautiful lineaments! My angel wife! This
is surely a sister of yours, madame?” he added, fixing his eyes on Tant
Sannie.
The Dutchwoman blushed, shook her head, and pointed to herself.
Carefully, intently, Bonaparte looked from the picture in his hand to
Tant Sannie’s features, and from the features back to the picture. Then
slowly a light broke over his countenance, he looked up, it became
a smile; he looked back at the miniature, his whole countenance was
effulgent.
“Ah, yes; I see it now,” he cried, turning his delighted gaze on the
Boer-woman; “eyes, mouth, nose, chin, the very expression!” he cried.
“How is it possible I did not notice it before?”
“Take another cup of coffee,” said Tant Sannie. “Put some sugar in.”
Bonaparte hung the picture tenderly up, and was turning to take the cup
from her hand, when the German appeared, to say that the pudding was
ready and the meat on the table.
“He’s a God-fearing man, and one who knows how to behave himself,” said
the Boer-woman as he went out at the door. “If he’s ugly, did not the
Lord make him? And are we to laugh at the Lord’s handiwork? It is better
to be ugly and good than pretty and bad; though of course it’s nice when
one is both,” said Tant Sannie, looking complacently at the picture on
the wall.
In the afternoon the German and Bonaparte sat before the door of the
cabin. Both smoked in complete silence--Bonaparte with a book in his
hands and his eyes half closed; the German puffing vigorously, and
glancing up now and again at the serene blue sky overhead.
“Supposing--you--you, in fact, made the remark to me,” burst forth the
German suddenly, “that you were looking for a situation.”
Bonaparte opened his mouth wide, and sent a stream of smoke through his
lips.
“Now supposing,” said the German--“merely supposing, of course--that
some one, some one, in fact, should make an offer to you, say, to become
schoolmaster on their farm and teach two children, two little girls,
perhaps, and would give you forty pounds a year, would you accept it?
Just supposing, of course.”
“Well, my dear friend,” said Bonaparte, “that would depend on
circumstances. Money is no consideration with me. For my wife I have
made provision for the next year. My health is broken. Could I meet a
place where a gentleman would be treated as a gentleman I would accept
it, however small the remuneration. With me,” said Bonaparte, “money is
no consideration.”
“Well,” said the German, when he had taken a whiff or two more from his
pipe, “I think I shall go up and see Tant Sannie a little. I go up often
on Sunday afternoon to have a general conversation, to see her, you
know. Nothing--nothing particular, you know.”
The old man put his book into his pocket, and walked up to the farmhouse
with a peculiarly knowing and delighted expression of countenance.
“He doesn’t suspect what I’m going to do,” soliloquized the German;
“hasn’t the least idea. A nice surprise for him.”
The man whom he had left at his doorway winked at the retreating figure
with a wink that was not to be described.