rest, Hepsie asked if she might go out for a run, to which her mother at
once agreed. In this quiet little peaceful spot in Somersetshire there
was no reason why a girl of Hepsie's age should not run about freely,
and so, warmly wrapped up, the child trotted off--but any one watching
her small determined face would have seen that this was not an ordinary
walk upon her part.
She left the old lane and turned towards a different part of
Sunnycoombe. She approached the big Manor House through its wide gates,
and along broad paths of well-trimmed trees. As she did so Hepsie
breathed a little more quickly than usual, while a brilliant colour
stole into her fair young cheeks.
"When one does wrong," she murmured determinedly, "there is only one
thing to follow--and that is to put the wrong right, if one can. I spoke
rudely to my darling little mother's own father, and though he's a
terrible old man, he's got to have an apology, which is a wretched thing
to have to give; and he's got to hear that his daughter never would and
never did teach her little girl to be rude, no, not even to a
cantankerous old grandfather, who won't speak to a lovely sweet woman
like my mother."
She reached the porch, and pulled fiercely at the old-fashioned bell,
then fairly jumped at the loud clanging noise that woke the silence of
the quiet afternoon.
The door opened so suddenly that Hepsie was quite confused, and for the
moment took the stately old butler for her grandfather himself, offered
her hand, and then turned crimson.
"Good gracious me!" she said in her brisk voice. "Do you stand behind
the door all day? You made me jump so that I don't know what I am
saying, but--well--I must see my grandfather at once, please."
Every one in the village knew all about the child and who she was, and
the man was more than surprised at seeing her dare to come there, and he
also felt very nervous.
"You run away, miss," he said in a confidential whisper, "an' more's the
shame I should have to say so, but, bless your heart, the master
wouldn't see you, and it's more than I dare to tell him you're wanting."
"You need not trouble," Hepsie said; "if I had not made a big resolution
to look after my tongue, I should say more than you would enjoy
hearing--talking to a lady (who comes to visit your master on Christmas
Day) like you are doing to me; not that you may not mean kindly, now I
come to think of it, but meaning goes for nothing, my good man, if you
do a wrong thing, and you can't tell me that you are the one to decide
whom your master will see or not." She waited to take a breath, while
the man rubbed his white hair in great perplexity, and feeling rather
breathless himself; but Hepsie calmly walked by him, and before he
could recover from the shock, he saw her disappear into the dining-room!
Hepsie never forgot that moment.
Seated at a long table was a solitary and lonely-looking figure,
supporting one thin old cheek on his hand as he rested his elbow on the
table and seemed to be gazing far away into space. She did not know that
he was rather deaf, and had not heard her enter, and she stood and
looked at him, with her heart aching in a funny sort of way, she
thought, for the sake of a wicked old man.
She stared and stared, and the more she stared, the bigger a lump in her
throat seemed to become. The room was so quiet and he sat so still, and
something in his face brought that of her mother to her mind.
At last she walked right up to him, and, feeling if she did not get out
the words quickly she never would, Hepsie stretched out her hand and
said: "When I stopped you in the lane to-day, I didn't know how much
mother still loved you, and I forgot all about honouring parents,
however unkind they seem, or I shouldn't have told you what I did,
however true it was, for I hurt mother shockingly, as any one could see,
and I've promised to look after my tongue much better, and so I just
rushed up here to say--what I have said--and--and--please that's all,
except----"
She gulped and choked, her small quivering and scarlet face with the
pitiful eyes gazing down into his--and the years rolled away in the old
man's sight, and his daughter was back at his side again. What was she
saying in that pleading voice, as she knelt and clasped his shaking
hand?
"Except--except--I'm sorry, I am! Oh--I didn't think how sad you were,
and can't you love me just a bit?"
And what were Hepsie's feelings then when the old man rose, and seizing
her in his arms, cried brokenly:
"Oh, child, if only your mother had said the same--only just once in the
midst of my anger--but she passed her father by, she passed him by! And
never a word in all these years of my loneliness and pain! My heart is
breaking, for all its pride!"
"She wrote again and again," declared Hepsie, and he started, and such a
frown came then, that she was quite frightened, though she repeated,
"Indeed she did, and she loves you still."
"Then," said he, "they never reached me! Some one has come between us.
But never mind that now. I must go to your mother. Come," he added, "I
must fetch my girl back to her home again, until her husband claims her
from me."
[Sidenote: A Surprise]
But when the two reached the little house in the lane a surprise awaited
them. They found Mrs. Erldon in her husband's arms. He had returned
unexpectedly, having, as a successful prospector for gold, done well
enough to return home at once to fetch his wife and child.
No words could describe the joy in his wife's heart when her father took
their hands and asked their forgiveness for years of estrangement, and
told the tale of the intercepted letters, which he might never have
discovered had it not been for little Hepsie's Christmas visit of peace
and goodwill.
Hepsie is learning to control that little tongue of hers now, and she
has, framed in her room, a verse that mother wrote for Hepsie
especially:
Take heed of the words that hastily fly,
Lest sorrow should weep for them by and by,
And the lips that have spoken vainly yearn,
Sighing for words that can never return!
[Sidenote: A glimpse of South African travel, with some of the humours
of the road.]
Our African Driver
BY
J. H. SPETTIGUE
"Here comes the wagon to be packed!" called the children, as with a
creak and groan of wheels, and shouts from the Kafirs, it was brought
lumbering to the door.
"The vor-chiest is ready, Lang-Jan," said Mrs. Gilbert, coming to the
door. "Everything that can, had better be put in place to-night."
"Ja, Meeses," agreed Jan. "It's a long trek from this here place to the
town in one day, and I will start early, while the stars are still out."
Lang-Jan was our driver, so called to distinguish him from the numerous
other Jans about the place.
The distinction was appropriate, for he looked very tall and slim,
though it might be the contrast with his wife's massive build that gave
him a false presentment. He was more proud of her bulk than of his own
height, and used to jeer at his Hottentot leader for the scraggy
appearance of _his_ weaker half, possibly with the kindly intention of
reducing the number, or severity, of the poor creature's beatings.
I do not believe Jan ever beat his wife, though I think she was as lazy
a woman as could be found. Perhaps he got most of his rations provided
from the house, and was not dependent on her for his comfort.
However, he seemed to me to have a Mark Tapley temper; the more
unendurable the weather got, the cheerier he grew with his guttural and
yet limpid cries to the oxen, and his brisk steps by their side.
There was one thing, however, he could not see in patience--an amateur
who had borrowed his whip with the proud intention of "helping to drive"
letting the end of four yards of lash draggle over the dewy karoo,
thereby making it limp and reducing its power to clack in the approved
fashion.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: An Early Start]
"We had better sleep in the wagon, then we shall not be disturbed so
early," cried one of the children; but we older people preferred the
idea of half a night's rest indoors to lying awake on the cartels in the
wagon listening to the tossings and complaints of others.
We had been staying by the sea, and were now to journey homewards. Long
before daylight, the noise of the oxen and clank of trek-chain told that
inspanning was begun, and those of us who were to form the wagon party
sprang out of bed and made a hurried toilet, while the Kafir women
carried off the feather-beds and blankets, to stow in their allotted
places in the wagon.
Mr. Gilbert and his wife, with the younger children, were to follow in a
four-horse Cape-cart.
"Isn't it too dark to be trekking?" he called from his window.
"The roads is good down here," said Jan. "I can see enough"; and he
hurried his leader, and got us under way without more ado.
* * * * *
We had the front curtain of the tent rolled up, and sat about on the
boxes in silence for some time, listening to the plash of the sea upon
the beach, every minute somebody giving a yawn.
"I cannot think why Lang-Jan is hurrying on so," said Constance at
last, "unless he thinks it will be a very hot day again. The oxen gave
out as we were coming down, and we had to outspan about five miles off."
"I _was_ cross," said a younger sister.
"You need not tell us that. We have not forgotten," laughed another.
"Well, I thought I could hear the sea, and I had been meaning to run
down and have a bathe directly we stopped. It was enough to make one
cross. And then that stupid old Kafir and Jan over the outspan money,
and our none of us being able to find any change. I believe Jan was glad
we couldn't pay."
"Jan resents having to pay outspan money: he will wriggle out of it if
he can," said Constance.
We had gone the first three or four miles with plenty of noise, clack of
whip and shout at team, but this gradually subsided, and with a warning
to April, the leader, to have the oxen well in the middle of the road
and to keep right on, Jan sank into such silence as was possible.
Constance rose, and began to fumble for her purse.
We heard a stealthy order to April to run, and the whip sounded again
about one ox and another, while we were tipped about in all directions
as the team suddenly put on a tremendous spurt.
In the dim light we could see the outlines of a hut close by the road,
and a Kafir sprang out of the doorway towards us shouting for his money.
Jan took no notice, but whipped and shouted and trotted along as if his
were the only voice upraised.
"Stop, Jan, stop!" called Constance.
But Jan was suddenly deaf. The other man was not, however, and he ran
along after us, followed by a string of undressed children, shouting and
gesticulating wildly.
"Jan, I insist upon stopping," called Constance. "April, stop the oxen."
In spite of all the noise Jan was making, April could not fail to hear
the indignant cry of his young mistress, and presently the wagon was
halted. Jan hastily popped the whip into the wagon and turned back to
confront his enemy.
"What do you mean by stopping a wagon in the road like this? Outspan
money? We have not outspanned and are not going to on your starved old
veldt."
"Jan, Jan, you know very well we are owing him two shillings from the
last time we passed," said Constance.
The stranger Kafir tried to get to the wagon, but Jan barred the
passage. He changed his tactics. "Come, let's fight for it," he cried,
casting his hat and scarlet head-handkerchief into the karoo out of the
way.
This offer was declined without thanks. "I shan't fight. The money is
mine," protested the other, encouraged by finding his demand was allowed
by the ladies.
"April, leave the oxen and come here," called Constance. "Give this
money to him."
[Sidenote: Jan's Principles]
This was done at last, to Jan's grief. "Ah, Mees Constance! Why didn't
you let me fight him? he was only a little thieving Fingo dog! I didn't
outspan in sight of his old hut, and he must have come sneaking around
and seen us, and never said he would have money till it was too late."
"Well, Jan, and why should our oxen eat up the grass and drink out of
the dam without our paying?" asked Constance; but Jan only muttered,
"Thief! Dog!" and got away from the scene of his defeat with speed.
"That was why we were obliged to start in the middle of the night: Jan
wanted to slip by here before the wagon could be recognised," said
Constance. Jan had made a stand for his principles, though his
mistress's perverted sense of justice had prevented his being able to
carry them out. By the time we stopped for breakfast he had quite
recovered his spirits; and when he found he had got his party well away
from the place without another hateful demand, he seemed to have
forgotten his hard fate in the early morning. When we reached the town
we lost sight of Jan and his wagon for a couple of days, and took up our
abode at an hotel.
* * * * *
A change had taken place in our party when we collected for the second
and longer part of our journey. Mr. Gilbert had gone home with some of
the younger ones the day before, while his wife had stayed in town to
take the rest of us to a ball.
We were all tired as we reached the wagon, with our minds running on the
purchases we had made, and lingering regretfully on some we had not.
Lang-Jan and April hurried off to fetch the oxen as soon as we appeared;
and Mrs. Gilbert began to go through the stores.
"Those two Kafirs have eaten up our butter!" she exclaimed indignantly.
"I saw what was left when you came, and thought it might not be quite
enough. It is lucky I did, and have bought some more, or we should have
had none at all. I cannot let such a thing as their taking our
provisions pass without notice.--Jan," she said, when he returned, "you
have taken my butter."
"Oh, Meeses!" exclaimed Jan, as if such a thing was quite out of the
question, "not me. It must ha' bin April."
"No, Meeses--not me, Jan," said April.
"It was both of you, I have no doubt," said Mrs. Gilbert severely.
"Oh, Meeses, April, April!" cried Jan, shaking his head.
"No, it was Jan," protested the leader, again.
Jan burst into a roar of laughter, like a naughty child owning up. "Oh!
ja, Meeses! It was me. I looked at that tin of butter and then I said to
April, 'I must have some of that lovely butter, whatever comes of it,'
and then between us, it's all gone."
It seemed impossible to deal with the offence gravely after that. "I
shall know I must not leave any in the wagon another time," said the
mistress; and we scrambled into our places to be out of the way while
the work of inspanning went on.
[Sidenote: A Fiery Day]
The morning turned into a fiery day. The air shimmered blindingly above
the veldt, and the white road, inches deep in dust, trailed ahead like
an endless serpent. We panted and gasped under the shelter of the tent;
April abandoned his post and climbed up in the back compartment of the
wagon, but Jan grew more and more lively.
He tightened his waist-belt and ran by the side of his team, encouraging
them by voice and example.
He wore an old soft felt hat, with a perfectly abject brim, above his
scarlet handkerchief, and every quarter of a mile he would take it off
and put the ostrich feather that adorned one side straight up, and
attempt to pinch the limp brim into shape.
In spite of his cheerful snatches of song, and his encouraging cries,
the poor beasts showed more and more signs of distress, till at last Jan
turned to Mrs. Gilbert and said, "The poor oxen is just done up. We must
outspan till it gets cooler."
"What, outspan in this pitiless place, with not a house, or a tree, or
water to be got at!" cried one of the girls.
"There is a water-hole down there," said Jan, pointing to a dip in the
ground not far off.
"Yes," said Mrs. Gilbert, "I have been down there on horseback."
The wagon was drawn off the road, and the weary oxen let loose, while we
stretched ourselves on the cartels, but found the heat too great to let
us recover any of our lost sleep.
After a time some of us, thinking any change must be for the better,
dragged ourselves out into the glare, and went to look at the pool of
water. But though a few prickly pears and mimosa bushes grew around, it
was not an inviting spot to rest in, and we laboured back across the
scorching ground to the wagon, our only benefit being more thankfulness
for its shelter.
April had gone off to see that the oxen did not wander too far. Jan
lighted a fire, made coffee for us, and broiled some meat and green
mealie cobs.
We felt better after our meal, though we had not been hungry for it.
Then, to my surprise, Jan settled down to enjoy his share, as close to
the fire as he could. I do not know if the burning scrub made a little
motion in the air, or if Jan, by roasting one half of his body, felt the
other cooler by contrast.
Presently I saw, coming slowly across the veldt, a white-haired Kafir,
carrying a weakly lamb in his arms. He made straight for Jan and sat
down beside him.
Constance, who was looking out too, roused herself and gave a little
laugh. "Caught," she said, and I knew what she meant.
At first the palaver seemed amiable enough, and we saw Jan even go the
length of making a present of grilled mutton--chiefly bone, but not all.
"An attempt at bribery," murmured Constance.
In about half an hour we heard the inevitable demand. One might have
thought Jan had never heard of outspan money, instead of its being a
familiar and heating subject with him. When at last the claim was made
clear to him, he asked the name of the Baas, and expressed the greatest
surprise that any man could be so mean as to ask for money, just because
poor souls had to wait by the road till it got cool, when it was too hot
even for the oxen to eat anything.
The explanation that the place was such a convenient distance from town,
that if nothing was charged the Baas would have nothing left for his own
flocks and herds, was badly received, as was also the reminder that if
it was too hot for the oxen to eat much, they would drink all the same.
The two argued for an hour, Jan emphatic and expostulating, the old
Kafir calm, feeling both right and law were on his side.
[Sidenote: "We shan't Pay"]
At length, Jan surprised us by announcing, "We shan't pay. Your Baas
won't expect money from me anyhow, if he does from other people."
"Why not?" exclaimed the other in surprise, for Jan spoke with
conviction.
"My Baas' wife is cousin to your Baas' wife, so of course we're free on
his veldt."
We laughed, but the collector remarked that he would go and inquire. So
he marched up to the wagon, followed closely by Lang-Jan, in fear of
treachery, and asked Mrs. Gilbert if it was true, and being informed
that the ladies were related, he retired at once, and Jan triumphantly
accompanied him back to the fire.
I thought Jan would be happy now the wicked had ceased from troubling,
but the storm had its after-roll. He now expressed indignation that two
shillings had been demanded. If such an iniquitous claim was made at
all, one shilling was all that should be asked for.
They harried this point till the stranger asked Jan what odds it was to
him--he did not pay the money.
"Don't I pay the money?" cried Jan. "Isn't it taken out of my very
hand?"
"Oh, ja! But it comes out of the Baas' pocket."
"It comes out of my very hand," reiterated Jan, springing up; and
fetching his whip, he gave three tremendous clacks with it, the signal
to April, that could be heard a mile away in the still air, to bring
back the oxen; and the baffled enemy picked up his lamb and retired from
action.
Jan was jubilant, and cheerfully agreed to Mrs. Gilbert's suggestions as
to the best camping-place for the night.
But I think his triumph was demoralising for him. As evening settled
down and we were getting towards our resting-place, we passed by a rare
thing--a long wooden fence; and we soon saw that Jan and April were
freely helping themselves to the dry wood, and stowing it at the sides
of the wagon to save themselves the trouble of collecting any later.
"Jan," called his mistress, "you must not steal that wood. The man it
belongs to told the Baas he lost so much that he should put somebody to
watch, and have any one who was caught taken before Mr. Huntly."
"April," shouted Jan, laughing, "look out for old Huntly. The Meeses
says we must stop it."
Later, when we had outspanned for the night, and they had broiled our
sausages, and made the coffee with chuckling anticipation of remainders,
they made such a fire as scared Mrs. Gilbert, lest they should set the
dry karoo around alight.
"Here, April, we must beat it down a bit. The Meeses is feared we shall
set the moon afire," laughed Jan, laying about him with a will, as the
flames leaped heavenward.
The next morning he had to cross a river, and pay toll at the bridge.
Why Lang-Jan never objected to that, I do not know, but he came quite
meekly for the money. His mistress had not the exact sum, and Jan was
some time inside the toll-house, which was also a store.
On emerging, he shouted and whipped up his oxen, and off we lumbered.
When we came to a hill, and our pace was sufficiently slackened for
speech, Mrs. Gilbert called to him, "Jan, where is my change?"
"Oh, Meeses!" exclaimed Jan, quite unabashed; "I took the change in
tobacco!"
[Sidenote: Many girls long for an opportunity to "do something." That
was Claudia's way. And, after all, there _was_ an opportunity. Where?]
Claudia's Place
BY
A. R. BUCKLAND
"What I feel," said Claudia Haberton, sitting up with a movement of
indignation, "is the miserable lack of purpose in one's life."
"Nothing to do?" said Mary Windsor.
"To do! Yes, of a kind; common, insignificant work about which it is
impossible to feel any enthusiasm."
"'The trivial round'?"
"Trivial enough. A thousand could do it as well or better than I can. I
want more--to feel that I am in my place, and doing the very thing for
which I am fitted."
"Sure your liver is all right?"
"There you go; just like the others. One can't express a wish to be of
more use in the world without people muttering about discontent, and
telling you you are out of sorts."
"Well, I had better go before I say worse." And Mary went.
Perhaps it was as well; for Claudia's aspirations were so often
expressed in terms like these that she began to bore her friends. One,
in a moment of exasperation, had advised her to go out as a nursery
governess. "You would," she said, "have a wonderful opportunity of
showing what is in you, and if you really succeed, you might make at
least one mother happy." But Claudia put the idea aside with scorn.
Another said it all came of being surrounded with comfort, and that if
Claudia had been poorer, she would have been troubled with no such
yearnings; the actual anxieties of life would have filled the vacuum.
That, too, brought a cloud over their friendship. And the problem
remained unsolved.
Mr. Haberton, immersed in affairs, had little time to consider his
daughter's whims. Mrs. Haberton, long an invalid, was too much occupied
in battling with her own ailments, and bearing the pain which was her
daily lot, to feel acute sympathy with Claudia's woes.
"My dear," she said one day, when her daughter had been more than
commonly eloquent upon the want of purpose in her life, "why don't you
think of some occupation?"
"But what occupation?" said Claudia. "Here I am at home, with everything
around me, and no wants to supply----"
"That is something," put in Mrs. Haberton.
"Oh, yes, people always tell you that; but after all, wouldn't it be
better to have life to face, and to----"
"Poor dear!" said Mrs. Haberton, stroking her daughter's cheek with a
thin hand.
"Please don't, mamma," said Claudia; "you know how I dislike being
petted like a child."
"My dear," said Mrs. Haberton, "I feel my pain again; do give me my
medicine."
She had asked for it a quarter of an hour before, but Claudia had
forgotten so trivial a matter in the statement of her own woes. Now she
looked keenly at her mother to see if this request was but an attempt to
create a diversion. But the drawn look was sufficient. She hastily
measured out the medicine, and as hastily left the room saying, "I
will send Pinsett to you at once."
Pinsett was Mrs. Haberton's maid, who was speedily upon the spot to deal
with the invalid.
But Claudia had withdrawn to her own room, where she was soon deep in a
pamphlet upon the social position of Woman, her true Rights in the
World, and the noble opportunities for Serving Mankind outside the home.
[Sidenote: Wanted--a Career]
"Ah," said Claudia to herself, "if I could only find some occupation
which would give a purpose to existence--something which would make me
really useful!"