THE STOEP
When I reached Miss Heda she was collecting half-opened monthly roses
from the hedge, and not quite knowing what to say I made the
appropriate quotation. At least it was appropriate to my thought, and,
from her answer, to hers also.
“Yes,” she said, “I am gathering them while I may,” and she sighed and,
as I thought, glanced towards the verandah, though of this I could not
be sure because of the wide brim of the hat she was wearing.
Then we talked a little on indifferent matters, while I pricked my
fingers helping to pluck the roses. She asked me if I thought that
Anscombe was getting on well, and how long it would be before he could
travel. I replied that Dr. Rodd could tell her better than myself, but
that I hoped in about a week.
“In a week!” she said, and although she tried to speak lightly there
was dismay in her voice.
“I hope you don’t think it too long,” I answered; “but even if he is
fit to go, the oxen have not come yet, and I don’t quite know when they
will.”
“Too long!” she exclaimed. “Too long! Oh! if you only knew what it is
to me to have such guests as you are in this place,” and her dark eyes
filled with tears.
By now we had passed to the side of the house in search of some other
flower that grew in the shade, I think it was mignonette, and were out
of sight of the verandah and quite alone.
“Mr. Quatermain,” she said hurriedly, “I am wondering whether to ask
your advice about something, if you would give it. I have no one to
consult here,” she added rather piteously.
“That is for you to decide. If you wish to do so I am old enough to be
your father, and will do my best to help.”
We walked on to an orange grove that stood about forty yards away,
ostensibly to pick some fruit, but really because we knew that there we
should be out of hearing and could see any one who approached.
“Mr. Quatermain,” she said presently in a low voice, “I am in great
trouble, almost the greatest a woman can have. I am engaged to be
married to a man whom I do not care for.”
“Then why not break it off? It may be unpleasant, but it is generally
best to face unpleasant things, and nothing can be so bad as marrying a
man whom you do not—care for.”
“Because I cannot—I dare not. I have to obey.”
“How old are you, Miss Marnham?”
“I shall be of age in three months’ time. You may guess that I did not
intend to return here until they were over, but I was, well—trapped. He
wrote to me that my father was ill and I came.”
“At any rate when they are over you will not have to obey any one. It
is not long to wait.”
“It is an eternity. Besides this is not so much a question of obedience
as of duty and of love. I love my father who, whatever his faults, has
always been very kind to me.”
“And I am sure he loves you. Why not go to him and tell him your
trouble?”
“He knows it already, Mr. Quatermain, and hates this marriage even more
than I do, if that is possible. But he is driven to it, as I am. Oh! I
must tell the truth. The doctor has some hold over him. My father has
done something dreadful; I don’t know what and I don’t want to know,
but if it came out it would ruin my father, or worse, worse. I am the
price of his silence. On the day of our marriage he will destroy the
proofs. If I refuse to marry him, they will be produced and then—”
“It is difficult,” I said.
“It is more than difficult, it is terrible. If you could see all there
is in my heart, you would know how terrible.”
“I think I can see, Miss Heda. Don’t say any more now. Give me time to
consider. In case of necessity come to me again, and be sure that I
will protect you.”
“But you are going in a week.”
“Many things happen in a week. Sufficient to the day is its evil. At
the end of the week we will come to some decision unless everything is
already decided.”
For the next twenty-four hours I reflected on this pretty problem as
hard as ever I did on anything in all my life. Here was a young woman
who must somehow be protected from a scoundrel, but who could not be
protected because she herself had to protect another scoundrel—to wit,
her own father. Could the thing be faced out? Impossible, for I was
sure that Marnham had committed a murder, or murders, of which Rodd
possessed evidence that would hang him. Could Heda be married to
Anscombe at once? Yes, if both were willing, but then Marnham would
still be hung. Could they elope? Possibly, but with the same result.
Could I take her away and put her under the protection of the Court at
Pretoria? Yes, but with the same result. I wondered what my Hottentot
retainer, Hans, would have advised, he who was named Light-in-Darkness,
and in his own savage way was the cleverest and most cunning man that I
have met. Alas! I could not raise him from the grave to tell me, and
yet I knew well what he would have answered.
“Baas,” he would have said, “this is a rope which only the pale old man
(i.e., death) can cut. Let this doctor die or let the father die, and
the maiden will be free. Surely heaven is longing for one or both of
them, and if necessary, Baas, I believe that I can point out a path to
heaven!”
I laughed to myself at the thought, which was one that a white man
could not entertain even as a thought. And I felt that the hypothetical
Hans was right, death alone could cut this knot, and the reflection
made me shiver.
That night I slept uneasily and dreamed. I dreamed that once more I was
in the Black Kloof in Zululand, seated in front of the huts at the end
of the kloof. Before me squatted the old wizard, Zikali, wrapped up in
his kaross—Zikali, the “Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born,” whom I
had not seen for years. Near him were the ashes of a fire, by the help
of which I knew he had been practising divination. He looked up and
laughed one of his terrible laughs.
“So you are here again, Macumazahn,” he said, “grown older, but still
the same; here at the appointed hour. What do you come to seek from the
Opener of Roads? Not Mameena as I think this time. No, no, it is she
who seeks you this time, Macumazahn. She found you once, did she not?
Far away to the north among a strange people who worshipped an Ivory
Child, a people of whom I knew in my youth, and afterwards, for was not
their prophet, Harut, a friend of mine and one of our brotherhood? She
found you beneath the tusks of the elephant, Jana, whom Macumazahn the
skilful could not hit. Oh! do not look astonished.”
“How do you know?” I asked in my dream.
“Very simply, Macumazahn. A little yellow man named Hans has been with
me and told me all the story not an hour ago, after which I sent for
Mameena to learn if it were true. She will be glad to meet you,
Macumazahn, she who has a hungry heart that does not forget. Oh! don’t
be afraid. I mean here beneath the sun, in the land beyond there will
be no need for her to meet you since she will dwell ever at your side.”
“Why do you lie to me, Zikali?” I seemed to ask. “How can a dead man
speak to you and how can I meet a woman who is dead?”
“Seek the answer to that question in the hour of the battle when the
white men, your brothers, fall beneath assegai as weeds fall before the
hoe—or perhaps before it. But have done with Mameena, since she who
never grows more old can well afford to wait. It is not of Mameena that
you came to speak to me; it is of a fair white woman named Heddana you
would speak, and of the man she loves, you, who will ever be mixing
yourself up in affairs of others, and therefore must bear their burdens
with no pay save that of honour. Hearken, for the time is short. When
the storm bursts upon them bring hither the fair maiden, Heddana, and
the white lord, Mauriti, and I will shelter them for your sake. Take
them nowhere else. Bring them hither if they would escape trouble. I
shall be glad to see you, Macumazahn, for at last I am about to smite
the Zulu House of Senzangacona, my foes, with a bladder full of blood,
and oh! it stains their doorposts red.”
Then I woke up, feeling afraid, as one does after a nightmare, and was
comforted to hear Anscombe sleeping quietly on the other side of the
room.
“Mauriti. Why did Zikali call him Mauriti?” I wondered drowsily to
myself. “Oh! of course his name is Maurice, and it was a Zulu
corruption of a common sort as was Heddana of Heda.” Then I dozed off
again, and by the morning had forgotten all about my dream until it was
brought back to me by subsequent events. Still it was this and nothing
else that put it into my head to fly to Zululand on an emergency that
was to arise ere long.[1]
[1] For the history of Zikali and Mameena see the book called _Child
of Storm_ by H. Rider Haggard.
That evening Rodd was absent from dinner, and on inquiring where he
might be, I was informed that he had ridden to visit a Kaffir headman,
a patient of his who lived at a distance, and would very probably sleep
at the kraal, returning early next day. One of the topics of
conversation during dinner was as to where the exact boundary line used
to run between the Transvaal and the country over which the Basuto
chief, Sekukuni, claimed ownership and jurisdiction. Marnham said that
it passed within a couple of miles of his house, and when we rose, the
moon being very bright, offered to show me where the beacons had been
placed years before by a Boer Commission. I accepted, as the night was
lovely for a stroll after the hot day. Also I was half conscious of
another undefined purpose in my mind, which perhaps may have spread to
that of Marnham. Those two young people looked very happy together
there on the stoep, and as they must part so soon it would, I thought,
be kind to give them the opportunity of a quiet chat.
So off we went to the brow of the hill on which the Temple stood,
whence old Marnham pointed out to me a beacon, which I could not see in
the dim, silvery bush-veld below, and how the line ran from it to
another beacon somewhere else.
“You know the Yellow-wood swamp,” he said. “It passes straight through
that. That is why those Basutos who were following you pulled up upon
the edge of the swamp, though as a matter of fact, according to their
ideas, they had a perfect right to kill you on their side of the line
which cuts through the middle.”
I made some remark to the effect that I presumed that the line had in
fact ceased to exist at all, as the Basuto territory had practically
become British; after which we strolled back to the house. Walking
quietly between the tall rose hedges and without speaking, for each of
us was preoccupied with his own thoughts, suddenly we came upon a very
pretty scene.
We had left Anscombe and Heda seated side by side on the stoep. They
were still there, but much closer together. In fact his arms were round
her, and they were kissing each other in a remarkably whole-hearted
way. About this there could be no mistake, since the rimpi-strung couch
on which they sat was immediately under the hanging lamp—a somewhat
unfortunate situation for such endearments. But what did they think of
hanging lamps or any other lights, save those of their own eyes, they
who were content to kiss and murmur words of passion as though they
were as much alone as Adam and Eve in Eden? What did they think either
of the serpent coiled about the bole of this tree of knowledge whereof
they had just plucked the ripe and maddening fruit?
By a mutual instinct Marnham and I withdrew ourselves, very gently
indeed, purposing to skirt round the house and enter it from behind, or
to be seized with a fit of coughing at the gate, or to do something to
announce our presence at a convenient distance. When we had gone a
little way we heard a crash in the bushes.
“Another of those cursed baboons robbing the garden,” remarked Marnham
reflectively.
“I think he is going to rob the house also,” I replied, turning to
point to something dark that seemed to be leaping up on to the
verandah.
Next moment we heard Heda utter a little cry of alarm, and a man say in
a low fierce voice—
“So I have caught you at last, have I!”
“The doctor has returned from his business rounds sooner than was
expected, and I think that we had better join the party,” I remarked,
and made a bee line for the stoep, Marnham following me.
I think that I arrived just in time to prevent mischief. There, with a
revolver in his hand, stood Rodd, tall and formidable, his dark face
looking like that of Satan himself, a very monument of rage and
jealousy. There in front of him on the couch sat Heda, grasping its
edge with her fingers, her cheeks as pale as a sheet and her eyes
shining. By her side was Anscombe, cool and collected as usual, I
noticed, but evidently perplexed.
“If there is any shooting to be done,” he was saying, “I think you had
better begin with me.”
His calmness seemed to exasperate Rodd, who lifted the revolver. But I
too was prepared, for in that house I always went armed. There was no
time to get at the man, who was perhaps fifteen feet away, and I did
not want to hurt him. So I did the best I could; that is, I fired at
the pistol in his hand, and the light being good, struck it near the
hilt and knocked it off the barrel before he could press the trigger,
if he really meant to shoot.
“That’s a good shot,” remarked Anscombe who had seen me, while Rodd
stared at the hilt which he still held.
“A lucky one,” I answered, walking forward. “And now, Dr. Rodd, will
you be so good as to tell me what you mean by flourishing a revolver,
presumably loaded, in the faces of a lady and an unarmed man?”
“What the devil is that to you,” he asked furiously, “and what do you
mean by firing at me?”
“A great deal,” I answered, “seeing that a young woman and my friend
are concerned. As for firing at you, had I done so you would not be
asking questions now. I fired at the pistol in your hand, but if there
is more trouble next time it shall be at the holder,” and I glanced at
my revolver.
Seeing that I meant business he made no reply, but turned upon Marnham
who had followed me.
“This is your work, you old villain,” he said in a low voice that was
heavy with hate. “You promised your daughter to me. She is engaged to
me, and now I find her in this wanderer’s arms.”
“What have I to do with it?” said Marnham. “Perhaps she has changed her
mind. You had better ask her.”
“There is no need to ask me,” interrupted Heda, who now seemed to have
got her nerve again. “I _have_ changed my mind. I never loved you, Dr.
Rodd, and I will not marry you. I love Mr. Anscombe here, and as he has
asked me to be his wife I mean to marry him.”
“I see,” he sneered, “you want to be a peeress one day, no doubt. Well,
you never shall if I can help it. Perhaps, too, this fine gentleman of
yours will not be so particularly anxious to marry you when he learns
that you are the daughter of a murderer.”
That word was like a bombshell bursting among us. We looked at each
other as people, yet dazed with the shock, might on a battlefield when
the noise of the explosion has died and the smoke cleared away, to see
who is still alive. Anscombe spoke the first.
“I don’t know what you mean or to what you refer,” he said quietly.
“But at any rate this lady who has promised to marry me is innocent,
and therefore if all her ancestors had been murderers it would not in
the slightest turn me from my purpose of marrying her.”
She looked at him, and all the gratitude in the world shone in her
frightened eyes. Marnham stepped, or rather staggered forward, the blue
vein throbbing on his forehead.
“He lies,” he said hoarsely, tugging at his long beard. “Listen now and
I will tell you the truth. Once, more than a year ago, I was drunk and
in a rage. In this state I fired at a Kaffir to frighten him, and by
some devil’s chance shot him dead. That’s what he calls being a
murderer.”
“I have another tale,” said Rodd, “with which I will not trouble this
company just now. Look here, Heda, either you fulfil your promise and
marry me, or your father swings.”
She gasped and sank together on the seat as though she had been shot.
Then I took up my parable.
“Are you the man,” I asked, “to accuse others of crime? Let us see. You
have spent several months in an English prison (I gave the name) for a
crime I won’t mention.”
“How do you know—” he began.
“Never mind, I do know and the prison books will show it. Further, your
business is that of selling guns and ammunition to the Basutos of
Sekukuni’s tribe, who, although the expedition against them has been
temporarily recalled, are still the Queen’s enemies. Don’t deny it, for
I have the proofs. Further, it was you who advised Sekukuni to kill us
when we went down to his country to shoot the other day, because you
were afraid that we should discover whence he got his guns.” (This was
a bow drawn at a venture, but the arrow went home, for I saw his jaw
drop.) “Further, I believe you to be an illicit diamond buyer, and I
believe also that you have again been arranging with the Basutos to
make an end of us, though of these last two items at present I lack
positive proof. Now, Dr. Rodd, I ask you for the second time whether
you are a person to accuse others of crimes and whether, should you do
so, you will be considered a credible witness when your own are brought
to light?”
“If I had been guilty of any of these things, which I am not, it is
obvious that my partner must have shared in all of them, except the
first. So if you inform against me, you inform against him, and the
father of Heda, whom your friend wishes to marry, will, according to
your showing, be proved a gun-runner, a thief and a would-be murderer
of his guests. I should advise you to leave that business alone, Mr.
Quatermain.”
The reply was bold and clever, so much so that I regarded this
blackguard with a certain amount of admiration, as I answered—
“I shall take your advice if you take mine to leave another business
alone, that of this young lady and her father, but not otherwise.”
“Then spare your breath and do your worst; only careful, sharp as you
think yourself, that your meddling does not recoil on your own head.
Listen, Heda, either you make up your mind to marry me at once and
arrange that this young gentleman, who as a doctor I assure you is now
quite fit to travel without injury to his health, leaves this house
to-morrow with the spy Quatermain—you might lend him the Cape cart to
go in—or I start with the proofs to lay a charge of murder against your
father. I give you till to-morrow morning to have a family council to
think it over. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” I answered as he passed me, “and please be careful that
none of us see your face again before to-morrow morning. As you may
happen to have heard, my native name means Watcher-by-Night,” and I
looked at the revolver in my hand.
When he had vanished I remarked in as cheerful voice as I could
command, that I thought it was bedtime, and as nobody stirred, added,
“Don’t be afraid, young lady. If you feel lonely, you must tell that
stout maid of yours to sleep in your room. Also, as the night is so hot
I shall take my nap on the stoep, there, just opposite your window. No,
don’t let us talk any more now. There will be plenty of time for that
to-morrow.”
She rose, looked at Anscombe, looked at me, looked at her father very
pitifully; then with a little exclamation of despair passed into her
room by the French window, where presently I heard her call the native
maid and tell her that she was to sleep with her.
Marnham watched her depart. Then he too went with his head bowed and
staggering a little in his walk. Next Anscombe rose and limped off into
his room, I following him.
“Well, young man,” I said, “you have put us all in the soup now and no
mistake.”
“Yes, Allan, I am afraid I have. But on the whole don’t you think it
rather interesting soup—so many unexpected ingredients, you see!”
“Interesting soup! Unexpected ingredients!” I repeated after him,
adding, “Why not call it hell’s broth at once?”
Then he became serious, dreadfully serious.
“Look here,” he said, “I love Heda, and whatever her family history may
be I mean to marry her and face the row at home.”
“You could scarcely do less in all the circumstances, and as for rows,
that young lady would soon fit herself into any place that you can give
her. But the question is, how can you marry her?”
“Oh! something will happen,” he replied optimistically.
“You are quite right there. Something will certainly happen, but the
point is—what? Something was very near happening when I turned up on
that stoep, so near that I think it was lucky for you, or for Miss
Heda, or both, that I have learned how to handle a pistol. Now let me
see your foot, and don’t speak another word to me about all this
business to-night. I’d rather tackle it when I am clear-headed in the
morning.”
Well, I examined his instep and leg very carefully and found that Rodd
was right. Although it still hurt him to walk, the wound was quite
healed and all inflammation had gone from the limb. Now it was only a
question of time for the sinews to right themselves. While I was thus
engaged he held forth on the virtues and charms of Heda, I making no
comment.
“Lie down and get to sleep, if you can,” I said when I had finished.
“The door is locked and I am going on to the stoep, so you needn’t be
afraid of the windows. Good-night.”
I went out and sat myself down in such a position that by the light of
the hanging lamp, which still burned, I could make sure that no one
could approach either Heda’s or my room without my seeing him. For the
rest, all my life I have been accustomed to night vigils, and the
loaded revolver hung from my wrist by a loop of hide. Moreover, never
had I felt less sleepy. There I sat hour after hour, thinking.
The substance of my thoughts does not matter, since the events that
followed make them superfluous to the story. I will merely record,
therefore, that towards dawn a great horror took hold of me. I did not
know of what I was afraid, but I was much afraid of something. Nothing
was passing in either Heda’s or our room, of that I made sure by
personal examination. Therefore it would seem that my terrors were
unnecessary, and yet they grew and grew. I felt sure that something was
happening somewhere, a dread occurrence which it was beyond my power to
prevent, though whether it were in this house or at the other end of
Africa I did not know.
The mental depression increased and culminated. Then of a sudden it
passed completely away, and as I mopped the sweat from off my brow I
noticed that dawn was breaking. It was a tender and beautiful dawn, and
in a dim way I took it as a good omen. Of course it was nothing but the
daily resurrection of the sun, and yet it brought to me comfort and
hope. The night was past with all its fears; the light had come with
all its joys. From that moment I was certain that we should triumph
over these difficulties and that the end of them would be peace.
So sure was I that I ventured to take a nap, knowing that the slightest
movement or sound would wake me. I suppose I slept until six o’clock,
when I was aroused by a footfall. I sprang up, and saw before me one of
our native servants. He was trembling and his face was ashen beneath
the black. Moreover he could not speak. All he did was to put his head
on one side, like a dead man, and keep on pointing downwards. Then with
his mouth open and starting eyes he beckoned to me to follow him.
I followed.