Marie

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It was a truly awful journey. My first idea had been to follow the
banks of the Crocodile River, which is what I should have attempted had
I not chanced on the woman, Jeel. Lucky was it that I did not do so,
since I found afterwards that this river wound about a great deal and
was joined by impassable tributaries. Also it was bordered by forests.
Jeel's track, on the contrary, followed an old slave road that, bad as
it was, avoided the swampy places of the surrounding country, and those
native tribes which the experience of generations of the traders in this
iniquitous traffic showed to be most dangerous.

Nine days of fearful struggle had gone by. We had camped one night
below the crest of a long slope strewn with great rocks, many of which
we were obliged to roll out of the path by main force in order to make a
way for the wagons. The oxen had to lie in their yokes all night, since
we dared not let them loose fearing lest they should stray; also lions
were roaring in the distance, although, game being plentiful, these did
not come near to us. As soon as there was any light we let out the
teams to fill themselves on the tussocky grass that grew about, and
meanwhile cooked and ate some food.

Presently the sun rose, and I saw that beneath us was a great stretch of
plain covered with mist, and to the north, on our right, several denser
billows of mist that marked the course of the Crocodile River.

By degrees this mist lifted, tall tops of trees appearing above it, till
at length it thinned into vapour that vanished away as the sun rose. As
I watched it idly, the woman, Jeel, crept up to me in her furtive
fashion, touched me on the shoulder and pointed to a distant group of
trees.

Looking closely at these trees, I saw between them what at first I took
for some white rocks. Further examination, as the mist cleared,
suggested to my mind, however, that they might be wagon tilts. Just
then the Zulu who understood Jeel's talk came up. I asked him as well
as I could, for at that time my knowledge of his tongue was very
imperfect, what she wished to say. He questioned her, and answered that
she desired to tell me that those were the moving houses of the Amaboona
(the Boer people), just where she had seen them nearly two moons ago.

At this tidings my heart seemed to stand still, so that for more than a
minute I could not speak. There were the wagons at last, but--oh! who
and what should I find in them? I called Hans and bade him inspan as
quickly as possible, explaining to him that yonder was Marais's camp.

"Why not let the oxen fill themselves first, baas?" he answered. "There
is no hurry, for though the wagons are there, no doubt all the people
are dead long ago."

"Do what I bid you, you ill-omened beast," I said, "instead of croaking
of death like a crow. And listen: I am going to walk forward to that
camp; you must follow with the wagons as fast as they can travel."

"No, baas, it is not safe that you should go alone. Kaffirs or wild
beasts might take you."

"Safe or not, I am going; but if you think it wise, tell two of those
Zulus to come with me."

A few minutes later I was on the road, followed by the two Kaffirs armed
with spears. In my youth I was a good runner, being strong of leg and
light in body, but I do not think that I ever covered seven miles, for
that was about the distance to the camp, in quicker time than I did that
morning. Indeed, I left those active Kaffirs so far behind that when I
approached the trees they were not in sight. Here I dropped to a walk,
as I said to myself--to get my breath. Really it was because I felt so
terrified at what I might find that I delayed the discovery just for one
minute more. While I approached, hope, however faint, still remained;
when I arrived, hope might be replaced by everlasting despair.

Now I could see that there were some shanties built behind the wagons,
doubtless those "rude houses" of which Marie had written. But I could
not see anyone moving about them, or any cattle or any smoke, or other
sign of life. Nor could I hear a single sound.

Doubtless, thought I to myself, Hans is right. They are all long dead.

My agony of suspense was replaced by an icy calm. At length I knew the
worst. It was finished--I had striven in vain. I walked through the
outlying trees and between two of the wagons. One of these I noticed,
as we do notice things at such times, was the same in which Marais had
trekked with his daughter, his favourite wagon that once I had helped to
fit with a new dissel-boom.

Before me were the rough houses built of the branches of trees, daubed
over with mud, or rather the backs of them, for they faced west. I
stood still for a moment, and as I stood thought that I heard a faint
sound as of someone reciting slowly. I crept along the end of the
outermost house and, rubbing the cold sweat from my eyes, peeped round
the corner, for it occurred to me that savages might be in possession.
Then I saw what caused the sound. A tattered, blackened, bearded man
stood at the head of a long and shallow hole saying a prayer.

It was Henri Marais, although at the time I did not recognise him, so
changed was he. A number of little mounds to the right and left of him
told me, however, that the hole was a grave. As I watched two more men
appeared, dragging between them the body of a woman, which evidently
they had not strength to carry, as its legs trailed upon the ground.
From the shape of the corpse it seemed to be that of a tall young woman,
but the features I could not see, because it was being dragged face
downwards. Also the long hair hanging from the head hid them. It was
dark hair, like Marie's. They reached the grave, and tumbled their sad
burden into it; but I--I could not stir!

At length my limbs obeyed my will. I went forward to the men and said
in a hollow voice in Dutch:

"Whom do you bury?"

"Johanna Meyer," answered someone mechanically, for they did not seem to
have taken the trouble to look at me. As I listened to those words my
heart, which had stood still waiting for the answer, beat again with a
sudden bound that I could hear in the silence.

I looked up. There, advancing from the doorway of one of the houses,
very slowly, as though overpowered by weakness, and leading by the hand
a mere skeleton of a child, who was chewing some leaves, I saw--I saw
_Marie Marais!_ She was wasted to nothing, but I could not mistake her
eyes, those great soft eyes that had grown so unnaturally large in the
white, thin face.

She too saw me and stared for one moment. Then, loosing the child, she
cast up her hands, through which the sunlight shone as through
parchment, and slowly sank to the ground.

"She has gone, too," said one of the men in an indifferent voice. "I
thought she would not last another day."

Now for the first time the man at the head of the grave turned. Lifting
his hand, he pointed to me, whereon the other two men turned also.

"God above us!" he said in a choked voice, "at last I am quite mad.
Look! there stands the spook of young Allan, the son of the English
predicant who lived near Cradock."

As soon as I heard the voice I knew the speaker.

"Oh, Mynheer Marais!" I cried, "I am no ghost, I am Allan himself come
to save you."

Marais made no answer; he seemed bewildered. But one of the men cried
out crazily:

"How can you save us, youngster, unless you are ready to be eaten?
Don't you see, we starve, we starve!"

"I have wagons and food," I answered.

"Allemachte! Henri," exclaimed the man, with a wild laugh, "do you hear
what your English spook says? He says that he has wagons and _food,
food, food!_"

Then Marais burst into tears and flung himself upon my breast, nearly
knocking me down. I wrenched myself free of him and ran to Marie, who
was lying face upwards on the ground. She seemed to hear my step, for
her eyes opened and she struggled to a sitting posture.

"Is it really you, Allan, or do I dream?" she murmured.

"It is I, it is I," I answered, lifting her to her feet, for she seemed
to weigh no more than a child. Her head fell upon my shoulder, and she
too began to weep.

Still holding her, I turned to the men and said:

"Why do you starve when there, is game all about?" and I pointed to two
fat elands strolling among the trees not more than a hundred and fifty
yards away.

"Can we kill game with stones?" asked one of them, "we whose powder was
all burnt a month ago. Those buck," he added, with a wild laugh, "come
here to mock us every morning; but they will not walk into our pitfalls.
They know them too well, and we have no strength to dig others."

Now when I left my wagons I had brought with me that same Purdey rifle
with which I had shot the geese in the match against Pereira, choosing
it because it was so light to carry. I held up my hand for silence, set
Marie gently on the ground, and began to steal towards the elands.
Taking what shelter I could, I got within a hundred yards of them, when
suddenly they took alarm, being frightened, in fact, by my two Zulu
servants, who were now arriving.

Off they galloped, the big bull leading, and vanished behind some trees.
I saw their line, and that they would appear again between two clumps
of bush about two hundred and fifty yards away. Hastily I raised the
full sight on the rifle, which was marked for two hundred yards, lifted
it, and waited, praying to God as I did so that my skill might not fail
me.

The bull appeared, its head held forward, its long horns lying flat upon
the back. The shot was very long, and the beast very large to bring
down with so small a bullet. I aimed right forward--clear of it,
indeed--high too, in a line with its backbone, and pressed the trigger.

The rifle exploded, the bullet clapped, and the buck sprang forward
faster than ever. I had failed! But what was this? Suddenly the great
bull swung round and began to gallop towards us. When it was not more
than fifty yards away, it fell in a heap, rolled twice over like a shot
rabbit, and lay still. That bullet was in its heart.

The two Kaffirs appeared breathless and streaming with perspiration.

"Cut meat from the eland's flank; don't stop to skin it," I said in my
broken Zulu, helping the words out with signs.

They understood, and a minute later were at work with their assegais.
Then I looked about me. Near by lay a store of dead branches placed
there for fuel.

"Have you fire?" I asked of the skeleton Boers, for they were nothing
more.

"Nein, nein," they answered; "our fire is dead."

I produced the tinder-box which I carried with me, and struck the flint.
Ten minutes later we had a cheerful blaze, and within three-quarters of
an hour good soup, for iron pots were not wanting--only food to put into
them. I think that for the rest of that day those poor creatures did
little else but eat, sleeping between their meals. Oh! the joy I had in
feeding them, especially after the wagons arrived, bringing with them
salt--how they longed for that salt!--sugar and coffee.

CHAPTER IX

THE PROMISE

Of the original thirty-five souls, not reckoning natives, who had
accompanied Henri Marais upon his ill-fated expedition, there now
remained but nine alive at the new Maraisfontein. These were himself,
his daughter, four Prinsloos--a family of extraordinary
constitution--and three Meyers, being the husband of the poor woman I
had seen committed to the grave and two of her six children. The rest,
Hernan Pereira excepted, had died of fever and actual starvation, for
when the fever lessened with the change of the seasons, the starvation
set in. It appeared that, with the exception of a very little, they had
stored their powder in a kind of outbuilding which they constructed,
placing it at a distance for safety's sake. When most of the surviving
men were away, however, a grass fire set light to this outbuilding and
all the powder blew up.

After this, for a while they supplied the camp with food by the help of
such ammunition as remained to them. When that failed they dug pits in
which to catch game. In time the buck came to know of these pits, so
that they snared no more.

Then, as the "biltong" or sun-dried meat they had made was all consumed,
they were driven to every desperate expedient that is known to the
starving, such as the digging up of bulbs, the boiling of grass, twigs
and leaves, the catching of lizards, and so forth. I believe that they
actually ate caterpillars and earthworms. But after their last fire
went out through the neglect of the wretched Kaffir who was left to
watch it, and having no tinder, they failed to relight it by friction,
of course even this food failed them. When I arrived they had
practically been three days without anything to eat except green leaves
and grass, such as I saw the child chewing. In another seventy hours
doubtless every one of them would have been dead.

Well, they recovered rapidly enough, for those who had survived its
ravages were evidently now impervious to fever. Who can tell the joy
that I experienced as I watched Marie returning from the very brink of
the grave to a state of full and lovely womanhood? After all, we were
not so far away from the primitive conditions of humanity, when the
first duty of man was to feed his women and his children, and I think
that something of that instinct remains with us. At least, I know I
never experienced a greater pleasure than I did, when the woman I loved,
the poor, starving woman, ate and ate of the food which _I_ was able to
give her--she who for weeks had existed upon locusts and herbs.

For the first few days we did not talk much except of the immediate
necessities of the hour, which occupied all our thoughts. Afterwards,
when Marais and his daughter were strong enough to bear it, we had some
conversation. He began by asking how I came to find them.

I replied, through Marie's letter, which, it appeared, he knew nothing
of, for he had forbidden her to write to me.

"It seems fortunate that you were disobeyed, mynheer," I said, to which
he answered nothing.

Then I told the tale of the arrival of that letter at the Mission
Station in the Cape Colony by the hand of a wandering smous, and of my
desperate ride upon the swift mare to Port Elizabeth, where I just
succeeded in catching the brig Seven Stars before she sailed. Also I
told them of the lucky chances that enabled me to buy the wagons and
find a guide to their camp, reaching it but a few hours before it was
too late.

"It was a great deed," said Henri Marais, taking the pipe from his
mouth, for I had brought tobacco among my stores. "But tell me, Allan,
why did you do it for the sake of one who has not treated you kindly?"

"I did it," I answered, "for the sake of one who has always treated me
kindly," and I nodded towards Marie, who was engaged in washing up the
cooking pots at a distance.

"I suppose so, Allan; but you know she is affianced to another."

"I know that she is affianced to me, and to no other," I answered
warmly, adding, "And pray where is this other? If he lives I do not see
him here."

"No," replied Marais in a curious voice. "The truth is, Allan, that
Hernan Pereira left us about a fortnight before you came. One horse
remained, which was his, and with two Hottentots, who were also his
servants, he rode back upon the track by which we came, to try to find
help. Since then we have heard nothing of him."

"Indeed; and how did he propose to get food on the way?"

"He had a rifle, or rather they all three had rifles, and about a
hundred charges between them, which escaped the fire."

"With a hundred charges of powder carefully used your camp would have
been fed for a month, or perhaps two months," I remarked. "Yet he went
away with all of them--to find help?"

"That is so, Allan. We begged him to stay, but he would not; and, after
all, the charges were his own property. No doubt he thought he acted
for the best, especially as Marie would have none of him," Marais added
with emphasis.

"Well," I replied, "it seems that it is I who have brought you the help,
and not Pereira. Also, by the way, mynheer, I have brought you the
money my father collected on your account, and some #500 of my own, or
what is left of it, in goods and gold. Moreover, Marie does not refuse
me. Say, therefore, to which of us does she belong?"

"It would seem that it should be to you," he answered slowly, "since you
have shown yourself so faithful, and were it not for you she would now
be lying yonder," and he pointed to the little heaps that covered the
bones of most of the expedition. "Yes, yes, it would seem that it
should be to you, who twice have saved her life and once have saved mine
also."

Now I suppose that he saw on my face the joy which I could not conceal,
for he added hastily: "Yet, Allan, years ago I swore on the Book before
God that never with my will should my daughter marry an Englishman, even
if be were a good Englishman. Also, just before we left the Colony, I
swore again, in her presence and that of Hernan Pereira, that I would
not give her to you, so I cannot break my oath, can I? If I did, the
good God would be avenged upon me."

"Some might think that when I came here the good God was in the way of
being avenged upon you for the keeping of that evil oath," I answered
bitterly, glancing, in my turn, at the graves.

"Yes, they might, Allan," he replied without anger, for all his troubles
had induced a reasonable frame of mind in him--for a while. "Yet, His
ways are past finding out, are they not?"

Now my anger broke out, and, rising, I said:

"Do you mean, Mynheer Marais, that notwithstanding the love between us,
which you know is true and deep, and notwithstanding that I alone have
been able to drag both of you and the others out of the claws of death,
I am never to marry Marie? Do you mean that she is to be given to a
braggart who deserted her in her need?"

"And what if I do mean that, Allan?"

"This: although I am still young, as you know well I am a man who can
think and act for himself. Also, I am your master here--I have cattle
and guns and servants. Well, I will take Marie, and if any should try
to stop me, I know how to protect myself and her."

This bold speech did not seem to surprise him in the least or to make
him think the worse of me. He looked at me for a while, pulling his
long beard in a meditative fashion, then answered:

"I dare say that at your age I should have played the same game, and it
is true that you have things in your fist. But, much as she may love
you, Marie would not go away with you and leave her father to starve."

"Then you can come with us as my father-in-law, Mynheer Marais. At any
rate, it is certain that I will not go away and leave her here to
starve."

Now I think that something which he saw in my eye showed him that I was
in earnest. At least, he changed his tone and began to argue, almost to
plead.

"Be reasonable, Allan," he said. "How can you marry Marie when there is
no predicant to marry you? Surely, if you love her so much, you would
not pour mud upon her name, even in this wilderness?"

"She might not think it mud," I replied. "Men and women have been
married without the help of priests before now, by open declaration and
public report, for instance, and their children held to be born in
wedlock. I know that, for I have read of the law of marriage."

"It may be, Allan, though I hold no marriage good unless the holy words
are said. But why do you not let me come to the end of my story?"

"Because I thought it was ended, Mynheer Marais."

"Not so, Allan. I told you that I had sworn that she should never marry
you with my will. But when she is of age, which will be in some six
months' time, my will counts no longer, seeing that then she is a free
woman who can dispose of herself. Also I shall be clear of my oath, for
no harm will come to my soul if that happens which I cannot help. Now
are you satisfied?"

"I don't know," I answered doubtfully, for somehow all Marais's
casuistry, which I thought contemptible, did not convince me that he was
sincere. "I don't know," I repeated. "Much may chance in six months."

"Of course, Allan. For instance, Marie might change her mind and marry
someone else."

"Or I might not be there to marry, mynheer. Accidents sometimes happen
to men who are not wanted, especially in wild countries or, for the
matter of that, to those who are."

"Allemachte! Allan, you do not mean that I--"

"No, mynheer," I interrupted; "but there are other people in the world
besides yourself--Hernan Pereira, for example, if he lives. Still, I am
not the only one concerned in this matter. There is Marie yonder.
Shall I call her?"

He nodded, preferring probably that I should speak to her in his
presence rather than alone.

So I called Marie, who was watching our talk somewhat anxiously while
she went about her tasks. She came at once, a very different Marie to
the starving girl of a while before, for although she was still thin and
drawn, her youth and beauty were returning to her fast under the
influences of good food and happiness.

"What is it, Allan?" she asked gently. I told her all, repeating our
conversation and the arguments which had been used on either side word
for word, as nearly as I could remember them.

"Is that right?" I asked of Marais when I had finished.

"It is right; you have a good memory," he answered.

"Very well. And now what have you to say, Marie?"

"I, dear Allan? Why, this: My life belongs to you, who have twice saved
this body of mine from death, as my love and spirit belong to you.
Therefore, I should have thought it no shame if I had been given to you
here and now before the people, and afterwards married by a clergyman
when we found one. But my father has sworn an oath which weighs upon
his mind, and he has shown you that within six months--a short six
months--that oath dies of itself, since, by the law, he can no longer
control me. So, Allan, as I would not grieve him, or perhaps lead him
to say and do what is foolish, I think it would be well that we should
wait for those six months, if, on his part, he promises that he will
then do nothing to prevent our marriage."

"Ja, ja, I promise that then I will do nothing to prevent your
marriage," answered Marais eagerly, like one who has suddenly seen some
loophole of escape from an impossible position, adding, as though to
himself, "But God may do something to prevent it, for all that."

"We are every one of us in the hand of God," she replied in her sweet
voice. "Allan, you hear, my father has promised?"

"Yes, Marie, he has promised--after a fashion," I replied gloomily, for
somehow his words struck a chill through me.

"I have promised, Allan, and I will keep my promise to you, as I have
kept my oath to God, attempting to work you no harm, and leaving all in
His hands. But you, on your part, must promise also that, till she is
of age, you will not take Marie as a wife--no, not if you were left
alone together in the veld. You must be as people who are affianced to
each other, no more."

So, having no choice, I promised, though with a heavy heart. Then, I
suppose in order to make this solemn contract public, Marais called the
surviving Boers, who were loitering near, and repeated to them the terms
of the contract that we had made.

The men laughed and shrugged their shoulders. But Vrouw Prinsloo, I
remember, said outright that she thought the business foolish, since if
anyone had a right to Marie, I had, wherever I chose to take her. She
added that, as for Hernan Pereira, he was a "sneak and a stinkcat," who
had gone off to save his own life, and left them all to die. If _she_
were Marie, should they meet again, she would greet him with a pailful
of dirty water in the face, as she herself meant to do if she got the
chance.

Vrouw Prinsloo, it will be observed, was a very outspoken woman and, I
may add, an honest one.

So this contract was settled. I have set it out at length because of
its importance in our story. But now I wish--ah! how I wish that I had
insisted upon being married to Marie then and there. If I had done so,
I think I should have carried my point, for I was the "master of many
legions" in the shape of cattle, food and ammunition, and rather than
risk a quarrel with me, the other Boers would have forced Marais to give
way. But we were young and inexperienced; also it was fated otherwise.
Who can question the decrees of Fate written immutably, perhaps long
before we were born, in the everlasting book of human destinies?

Yet, when I had shaken off my first fears and doubts, my lot and Marie's
were very happy, a perfect paradise, indeed, compared with what we had
gone through during that bitter time of silence and separation. At any
rate, we were acknowledged to be affianced by the little society in
which we lived, including her father, and allowed to be as much alone
together as we liked. This meant that we met at dawn only to separate
at nightfall, for, having little or no artificial light, we went to rest
with the sun, or shortly after it. Sweet, indeed, was that
companionship of perfect trust and love; so sweet, that even after all
these years I do not care to dwell upon the holy memory of those blessed
months.

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