At four o’clock the next afternoon the German rode across the plain,
returning from his search for the lost sheep. He rode slowly, for he had
been in the saddle since sunrise and was somewhat weary, and the heat
of the afternoon made his horse sleepy as it picked its way slowly along
the sandy road. Every now and then a great red spider would start out
of the karoo on one side of the path and run across to the other, but
nothing else broke the still monotony. Presently, behind one of the
highest of the milk-bushes that dotted the roadside, the German caught
sight of a Kaffer woman, seated there evidently for such shadow as the
milk-bush might afford from the sloping rays of the sun.
The German turned the horse’s head out of the road. It was not his way
to pass a living creature without a word of greeting. Coming nearer, he
found it was no other than the wife of the absconding Kaffer herd. She
had a baby tied on her back by a dirty strip of red blanket; another
strip hardly larger was twisted round her waist, for the rest her black
body was naked. She was a sullen, ill-looking woman with lips hideously
protruding.
The German questioned her as to how she came there. She muttered in
broken Dutch that she had been turned away. Had she done evil? She shook
her head sullenly. Had she had food given her? She grunted a negative,
and fanned the flies from her baby. Telling the woman to remain where
she was, he turned his horse’s head to the road and rode off at a
furious pace.
“Hard-hearted! cruel! Oh, my God! Is this the way? Is this charity?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” ejaculated the old man as he rode on; but, presently,
his anger began to evaporate, his horse’s pace slackened, and by the
time he had reached his own door he was nodding and smiling.
Dismounting quickly, he went to the great chest where his provisions
were kept. Here he got out a little meal, a little mealies, a few
roaster-cakes. These he tied up in three blue handkerchiefs, and putting
them into a sailcloth bag, he strung them over his shoulders. Then he
looked circumspectly out at the door. It was very bad to be discovered
in the act of giving; it made him red up to the roots of his old
grizzled hair. No one was about, however, so he rode off again. Beside
the milk-bush sat the Kaffer woman still--like Hagar, he thought, thrust
out by her mistress in the wilderness to die. Telling her to loosen the
handkerchief from her head, he poured into it the contents of his bag.
The woman tied it up in sullen silence.
“You must try and get to the next farm,” said the German.
The woman shook her head; she would sleep in the field.
The German reflected. Kaffer women were accustomed to sleep in the open
air; but then, the child was small, and after so hot a day the night
might be chilly. That she would creep back to the huts at the homestead
when the darkness favoured her, the German’s sagacity did not make
evident to him. He took off the old brown salt-and-pepper coat, and held
it out to her. The woman received it in silence, and laid it across her
knee. “With that they will sleep warmly; not so bad. Ha, ha!” said the
German. And he rode home, nodding his head in a manner that would have
made any other man dizzy.
“I wish he would not come back tonight,” said Em, her face wet with
tears.
“It will be just the same if he comes back tomorrow,” said Lyndall.
The two girls sat on the step of the cabin weeping for the German’s
return. Lyndall shaded her eyes with her hand from the sunset light.
“There he comes,” she said, “whistling ‘Ach Jerusalem du schone’ so loud
I can hear him from here.”
“Perhaps he has found the sheep.”
“Found them!” said Lyndall. “He would whistle just so if he knew he had
to die tonight.”
“You look at the sunset, eh, chickens?” the German said, as he came
up at a smart canter. “Ah, yes, that is beautiful!” he added, as he
dismounted, pausing for a moment with his hand on the saddle to look
at the evening sky, where the sun shot up long flaming streaks, between
which and the eye thin yellow clouds floated. “Ei! you weep?” said the
German, as the girls ran up to him.
Before they had time to reply the voice of Tant Sannie was heard.
“You child, of the child, of the child of a Kaffer’s dog, come here!”
The German looked up. He thought the Dutchwoman, come out to cool
herself in the yard, called to some misbehaving servant. The old man
looked round to see who it might be.
“You old vagabond of a praying German, are you deaf?”
Tant Sannie stood before the steps of the kitchen; upon them sat the
lean Hottentot, upon the highest stood Bonaparte Blenkins, both hands
folded under the tails of his coat, and his eyes fixed on the sunset
sky.
The German dropped the saddle on the ground.
“Bish, bish, bish! what may this be?” he said, and walked toward the
house. “Very strange!”
The girls followed him: Em still weeping; Lyndall with her face rather
white and her eyes wide open.
“And I have the heart of a devil, did you say? You could run me through
with a knife, could you?” cried the Dutchwoman. “I could not drive the
Kaffer maid away because I was afraid of you, was I? Oh, you miserable
rag! I loved you, did I? I would have liked to marry you, would I? would
I? WOULD I?” cried the Boer-woman; “you cat’s tail, you dog’s paw! Be
near my house tomorrow morning when the sun rises,” she gasped, “my
Kaffers will drag you through the sand. They would do it gladly, any of
them, for a bit of tobacco, for all your prayings with them.”
“I am bewildered, I am bewildered,” said the German, standing before her
and raising his hand to his forehead; “I--I do not understand.”
“Ask him, ask him?” cried Tant Sannie, pointing to Bonaparte; “he knows.
You thought he could not make me understand, but he did, he did, you
old fool! I know enough English for that. You be here,” shouted the
Dutchwoman, “when the morning star rises, and I will let my Kaffers take
you out and drag you, till there is not one bone left in your old body
that is not broken as fine as bobootie-meat, you old beggar! All your
rags are not worth that--they should be thrown out onto the ash-heap,”
cried the Boer-woman; “but I will have them for my sheep. Not one rotten
hoof of your old mare do you take with you; I will have her--all, all
for my sheep that you have lost, you godless thing!”
The Boer-woman wiped the moisture from her mouth with the palm of her
hand.
The German turned to Bonaparte, who still stood on the step absorbed in
the beauty of the sunset.
“Do not address me; do not approach me, lost man,” said Bonaparte, not
moving his eye nor lowering his chin. “There is a crime from which all
nature revolts; there is a crime whose name is loathsome to the human
ear--that crime is yours; that crime is ingratitude. This woman has been
your benefactress; on her farm you have lived; after her sheep you have
looked; into her house you have been allowed to enter and hold Divine
service--an honour of which you were never worthy; and how have you
rewarded her?--basely, basely, basely!”
“But it is all false, lies and falsehoods. I must, I will speak,” said
the German, suddenly looking round bewildered. “Do I dream? Are you mad?
What may it be?”
“Go, dog,” cried the Dutchwoman; “I would have been a rich woman this
day if it had not been for your laziness. Praying with the Kaffers
behind the kraal walls. Go, you Kaffer’s dog!”
“But what then is the matter? What may have happened since I left?” said
the German, turning to the Hottentot woman, who sat upon the step.
She was his friend; she would tell him kindly the truth. The woman
answered by a loud, ringing laugh.
“Give it him, old missis! Give it him!”
It was so nice to see the white man who had been master hunted down. The
coloured woman laughed, and threw a dozen mealie grains into her mouth
to chew.
All anger and excitement faded from the old man’s face. He turned slowly
away and walked down the little path to his cabin, with his shoulders
bent; it was all dark before him. He stumbled over the threshold of his
own well-known door.
Em, sobbing bitterly, would have followed him; but the Boer-woman
prevented her by a flood of speech which convulsed the Hottentot, so low
were its images.
“Come, Em,” said Lyndall, lifting her small proud head, “let us go in.
We will not stay to hear such language.”
She looked into the Boer-woman’s eyes. Tant Sannie understood the
meaning of the look if not the words. She waddled after them, and caught
Em by the arm. She had struck Lyndall once years before, and had never
done it again, so she took Em.
“So you will defy me, too, will you, you Englishman’s ugliness!” she
cried, and with one hand she forced the child down, and held her head
tightly against her knee; with the other she beat her first upon one
cheek, and then upon the other.
For one instant Lyndall looked on, then she laid her small fingers on
the Boer-woman’s arm. With the exertion of half its strength Tant Sannie
might have flung the girl back upon the stones. It was not the power
of the slight fingers, tightly though they clinched her broad wrist--so
tightly that at bedtime the marks were still there; but the Boer-woman
looked into the clear eyes and at the quivering white lips, and with a
half-surprised curse relaxed her hold. The girl drew Em’s arm through
her own.
“Move!” she said to Bonaparte, who stood in the door, and he, Bonaparte
the invincible, in the hour of his triumph, moved to give her place.
The Hottentot ceased to laugh, and an uncomfortable silence fell on all
the three in the doorway.
Once in their room, Em sat down on the floor and wailed bitterly.
Lyndall lay on the bed with her arm drawn across her eyes, very white
and still.
“Hoo, hoo!” cried Em; “and they won’t let him take the grey mare; and
Waldo has gone to the mill. Hoo, hoo, and perhaps they won’t let us go
and say good-bye to him. Hoo, hoo, hoo!”
“I wish you would be quiet,” said Lyndall without moving. “Does it give
you such felicity to let Bonaparte know he is hurting you? We will ask
no one. It will be suppertime soon. Listen--and when you hear the clink
of the knives and forks we will go out and see him.”
Em suppressed her sobs and listened intently, kneeling at the door.
Suddenly some one came to the window and put the shutter up.
“Who was that?” said Lyndall, starting.
“The girl, I suppose,” said Em. “How early she is this evening!”
But Lyndall sprang from the bed and seized the handle of the door,
shaking it fiercely. The door was locked on the outside. She ground her
teeth.
“What is the matter?” asked Em.
The room was in perfect darkness now.
“Nothing,” said Lyndall quietly; “only they have locked us in.”
She turned, and went back to bed again. But ere long Em heard a sound of
movement. Lyndall had climbed up into the window, and with her fingers
felt the woodwork that surrounded the panes. Slipping down, the girl
loosened the iron knob from the foot of the bedstead, and climbing up
again she broke with it every pane of glass in the window, beginning at
the top and ending at the bottom.
“What are you doing?” asked Em, who heard the falling fragments.
Her companion made her no reply; but leaned on every little cross-bar,
which cracked and gave way beneath her. Then she pressed with all her
strength against the shutter. She had thought the wooden buttons would
give way, but by the clinking sound she knew that the iron bar had been
put across. She was quite quiet for a time. Clambering down, she took
from the table a small one-bladed penknife, with which she began to peck
at the hard wood of the shutter.
“What are you doing now?” asked Em, who had ceased crying in her wonder,
and had drawn near.
“Trying to make a hole,” was the short reply.
“Do you think you will be able to?”
“No; but I am trying.”
In an agony of suspense Em waited. For ten minutes Lyndall pecked. The
hole was three-eighths of an inch deep--then the blade sprung into ten
pieces.
“What has happened now?” Em asked, blubbering afresh.
“Nothing,” said Lyndall. “Bring me my nightgown, a piece of paper, and
the matches.”
Wondering, Em fumbled about till she found them.
“What are you going to do with them?” she whispered.
“Burn down the window.”
“But won’t the whole house take fire and burn down too?”
“Yes.”
“But will it not be very wicked?”
“Yes, very. And I do not care.”
She arranged the nightgown carefully in the corner of the window, with
the chips of the frame about it. There was only one match in the box.
She drew it carefully along the wall. For a moment it burnt up blue, and
showed the tiny face with its glistening eyes. She held it carefully to
the paper. For an instant it burnt up brightly, then flickered and went
out. She blew the spark, but it died also. Then she threw the paper on
to the ground, trod on it, and went to her bed, and began to undress.
Em rushed to the door, knocking against it wildly.
“Oh, Tant Sannie! Tant Sannie! Oh, let us out!” she cried. “Oh, Lyndall,
what are we to do?”
Lyndall wiped a drop of blood off the lip she had bitten.
“I am going to sleep,” she said. “If you like to sit there and howl till
the morning, do. Perhaps you will find that it helps; I never heard that
howling helped any one.”
Long after, when Em herself had gone to bed and was almost asleep,
Lyndall came and stood at her bedside.
“Here,” she said, slipping a little pot of powder into her hand; “rub
some on to your face. Does it not burn where she struck you?”
Then she crept back to her own bed. Long, long after, when Em was really
asleep, she lay still awake, and folded her hands on her little breast,
and muttered--
“When that day comes, and I am strong, I will hate everything that has
power, and help everything that is weak.” And she bit her lip again.
The German looked out at the cabin door for the last time that night.
Then he paced the room slowly and sighed. Then he drew out pen and
paper, and sat down to write, rubbing his old grey eyes with his
knuckles before he began.
“My Chickens: You did not come to say good-bye to the old man. Might
you? Ah, well, there is a land where they part no more, where saints
immortal reign.
“I sit here alone, and I think of you. Will you forget the old man? When
you wake tomorrow he will be far away. The old horse is lazy, but he has
his stick to help him; that is three legs. He comes back one day with
gold and diamonds. Will you welcome him? Well, we shall see. I go to
meet Waldo. He comes back with the wagon; then he follows me. Poor boy?
God knows. There is a land where all things are made right, but that
land is not here.
“My little children, serve the Saviour; give your hearts to Him while
you are yet young. Life is short.
“Nothing is mine, otherwise I would say, Lyndall, take my books, Em my
stones. Now I say nothing. The things are mine: it is not righteous, God
knows? But I am silent. Let it be. But I feel it, I must say I feel it.
“Do not cry too much for the old man. He goes out to seek his fortune,
and comes back with it in a bag, it may be.
“I love my children. Do they think of me? I am Old Otto, who goes out to
seek his fortune.
“O.F.”
Having concluded this quaint production, he put it where the children
would find it the next morning, and proceeded to prepare his bundle. He
never thought of entering a protest against the loss of his goods; like
a child, he submitted, and wept. He had been there eleven years, and it
was hard to go away. He spread open on the bed a blue handkerchief,
and on it put one by one the things he thought most necessary and
important--a little bag of curious seeds, which he meant to plant some
day, an old German hymn-book, three misshapen stones that he greatly
valued, a Bible, a shirt and two handkerchiefs; then there was room for
nothing more. He tied up the bundle tightly and put it on a chair by his
bedside.
“That is not much; they cannot say I take much,” he said, looking at it.
He put his knotted stick beside it, his blue tobacco bag and his short
pipe, and then inspected his coats. He had two left--a moth-eaten
overcoat and a black alpaca, out at the elbows. He decided for the
overcoat; it was warm, certainly, but then he could carry it over his
arm and only put it on when he met some one along the road. It was more
respectable than the black alpaca.
He hung the greatcoat over the back of the chair, and stuffed a hard bit
of roaster-cake under the knot of the bundle, and then his preparations
were completed. The German stood contemplating them with much
satisfaction. He had almost forgotten his sorrow at leaving in his
pleasure at preparing. Suddenly he started; an expression of intense
pain passed over his face. He drew back his left arm quickly, and then
pressed his right hand upon his breast.
“Ah, the sudden pang again,” he said.
His face was white, but it quickly regained its colour. Then the old man
busied himself in putting everything right.
“I will leave it neat. They shall not say I did not leave it neat,” he
said. Even the little bags of seeds on the mantelpiece he put in rows
and dusted. Then he undressed and got into bed. Under his pillow was
a little storybook. He drew it forth. To the old German a story was
no story. Its events were as real and as important to himself as the
matters of his own life.
He could not go away without knowing whether that wicked earl relented
and whether the baron married Emilina. So he adjusted his spectacles and
began to read. Occasionally, as his feelings became too strongly moved,
he ejaculated: “Ah, I thought so! That was a rogue! I saw it before! I
knew it from the beginning!” More than half an hour had passed when he
looked up to the silver watch at the top of his bed.
“The march is long tomorrow; this will not do,” he said, taking off his
spectacles and putting them carefully into the book to mark the place.
“This will be good reading as I walk along tomorrow,” he added, as he
stuffed the book into the pocket of the greatcoat; “very good reading.”
He nodded his head and lay down. He thought a little of his own
troubles, a good deal of the two little girls he was leaving, of the
earl, of Emilina, of the baron; but he was soon asleep--sleeping as
peacefully as a little child, upon whose innocent soul sorrow and care
cannot rest.
It was very quiet in the room. The coals in the fireplace threw a dull
red light across the floor upon the red lions on the quilt. Eleven
o’clock came, and the room was very still.
One o’clock came. The glimmer had died out, though the ashes were still
warm, and the room was very dark. The grey mouse, who had his hole under
the toolbox, came out and sat on the sacks in the corner; then, growing
bolder, the room was so dark, it climbed the chair at the bedside,
nibbled at the roaster-cake, took one bite quickly at the candle, and
then sat on his haunches listening. It heard the even breathing of the
old man, and the steps of the hungry Kaffer dog going his last round
in search of a bone or a skin that had been forgotten; and it heard the
white hen call out as the wild cat ran away with one of her brood, and
it heard the chicken cry. Then the grey mouse went back to its hole
under the toolbox, and the room was quiet. And two o’clock came. By that
time the night was grown dull and cloudy. The wild cat had gone to its
home on the kopje; the Kaffer dog had found a bone, and lay gnawing it.
An intense quiet reigned everywhere. Only in her room the Boer-woman
tossed her great arms in her sleep; for she dreamed that a dark shadow
with outstretched wings fled slowly over her house, and she moaned and
shivered. And the night was very still.
But, quiet as all places were, there was a quite peculiar quiet in the
German’s room. Though you strained your ear most carefully you caught no
sound of breathing.
He was not gone, for the old coat still hung on the chair--the coat
that was to be put on when he met any one; and the bundle and stick were
ready for tomorrow’s long march. The old German himself lay there, his
wavy black hair just touched with grey thrown back upon the pillow.
The old face was lying there alone in the dark, smiling like a little
child’s--oh, so peacefully. There is a stranger whose coming, they say,
is worse than all the ills of life, from whose presence we flee away
trembling; but he comes very tenderly sometimes. And it seemed almost as
though Death had known and loved the old man, so gently it touched him.
And how could it deal hardly with him--the loving, simple, childlike old
man?
So it smoothed out the wrinkles that were in the old forehead, and fixed
the passing smile, and sealed the eyes that they might not weep again;
and then the short sleep of time was melted into the long, long sleep of
eternity.
“How has he grown so young in this one night?” they said when they found
him in the morning.
Yes, dear old man; to such as you time brings no age. You die with the
purity and innocence of your childhood upon you, though you die in your
grey hairs.