Chapter XVI
Voices below the window of her room that alternated briskly and yet guardedly, drew Margaret to look out. On the stoep beneath her, Fat Mary was exchanging badinage of the most elementary character with a dusty trooper of the Mounted Police, who stood on the ground under the railing with his bridle looped over his arm and his horse awaiting his pleasure at his elbow. Seen from above, the main feature of Fat Mary was her red-and-yellow headkerchief tied tightly over her large and globular skull, presenting the appearance of a strikingly-colored bubble at the summit of her person.
“You savvy tickle?” the trooper was saying. “By’-mby I come up there and tickle you. You like that plenty.”
Fat Mary giggled richly. “You lie,” she returned, with immense enjoyment.
“Tickle do you good,” rejoined the trooper.
He was a tall lathy man, with the face of a tired Punchinello, all nose and chin with a thin fastidious mouth hidden between. His eyes wandered restlessly while he talked as though in search of better matter for his interest; and he chaffed the stout Kafir woman with a mechanical ease suggesting that this was a trick he had practised till it performed itself. The tight-fitting blue uniform, in spite of the dust that was thick upon it, and all his accoutrement of a horseman, lent a dandified touch to his negligent attitude; and he looked like—what he probably was—one of those gentlemen of sporting proclivities in whom the process of decay is arrested by the preservative discipline and toil of service in a Colonial force.
Margaret, examining him unseen from above, with hatpins in her hands, found his miserable and well-bred face at once repellent and distantly terrible; he seemed to typify so completely what she had learned to fear in the police, a humanity at once weak and implacable. His spurs, his revolver, his authority were means of inflicting pain given into feeble hands to supply the place of power. Within a few days she had come to know the dread which the street-hawker in the gutter feels for the policeman on the pavement who can destroy him when he chooses. It did not call for much imagination to see how dreadful the bored perfunctory man below might become when once he had fastened on his quarry and had it to himself to exercise upon it the arts of which the revolver and the rest were the appliances.
His presence under her window was a sign that the search for Kamis’ hiding-place was still going forward. At any hour of the day now the inmates of the Sanatorium might lift up their eyes to see the unusual phenomenon of a human being sharing with them the solitude and the silence. Van Zyl had high hopes of laying his hands on the mysterious Kafir who had committed the crime of being incomprehensible to nervous kraals, whose occupants had a way of shaking off wonder and alarm by taking exercise with their weapons among the cattle of their neighbors. The Sanatorium, under his orders, was being watched for any indications of messages passing between Margaret and the Kafir, and the dusty, armed men came and went continually, a succession of drilled shoulders, tanned, unconcerned faces, and expressionless eyes puckered against the sun’s stare.
Their chief effect was to keep Margaret in a state of anxious fear lest their search should be successful, and she should be a witness of their return, riding past at the walk with a handcuffed figure trudging helplessly before them. She saw in painful dreams the dust that rose about them cloudily and the prisoner’s bowed back as he labored to maintain the pace. The worst of the dreams followed their progress to a moment when the man on foot flagged, or perhaps fell, and one of the riders pressed forward with a foot disengaged from its stirrup and the spur lifted to rowel him to livelier efforts. Such was the fruit of Van Zyl’s pregnant word when he spoke of prisoners who had had “the kick taken out of them.”
She had had no opportunity of seeing Paul, to send through him a warning message to Kamis, since her interview with Van Zyl; but on this day she had glimpsed him from the stoep, as he moved about among the farm buildings, and she lost no time in preparing to go to him. She was putting on her hat as she watched the trooper and Fat Mary.
The couple of them were still at work upon their flirtation when she came out of the Sanatorium and descended the steps. The man’s wandering eyes settled on her at once with grateful interest, and followed her as she went across to the path at a pace suited to the ardor of the sun. His Punchinello features brightened almost hopefully.
Fat Mary, observing the direction of his gaze, giggled afresh and gave information in a whisper.
“What—her? That lady there?”
Fat Mary nodded corroboratively. The trooper swore softly in mere amazement.
“You’re sure that’s her?” he demanded. “Well, I ’m—”
He stared at Margaret’s receding back with a frown of perplexity, then drew the reins over his horse’s head and prepared to mount.
“You go now?” asked Fat Mary, disappointed at the effect of her news.
“You bet,” was the answer, as he swung up into the saddle and moved his horse on.
Margaret turned as the sound of hoofs padding on the dust approached from behind and was met by a salute and bold avaricious eyes above the drooping beak. He reined up beside her, looking down from the height of his saddle at her.
“Miss Harding, isn’t it?” he said. “May I ask where you ‘re goin’?”
There was jocular invitation in his manner of saying it, the gallantry of a man who despises women.
“I ’m going to the farm, there,” Margaret answered. The unexpected encounter had made her nervous, and she found herself ill at ease under his regard. “Why?”
“Because I ’ll ask you for the pleasure of accompanyin’ you so far, if you don’t mind,” he returned. “I want a look at the happy man you ’re goin’ to see. Hope you don’t object?”
“I can’t stop you,” replied Margaret. “You will do as you please, of course.”
She turned and walked on, careful not to hurry her steps. The trooper rode at her side, and though she did not look up, she felt his eyes resting on her profile as they went.
“Bit slow, livin’ out here, Miss Harding,” he remarked, after they had gone for a minute or so in silence. “Not what you ’ve been use to, I imagine. Found yourself rather short of men, didn’t you?”
“No,” replied Margaret thoughtfully; “no.”
“Oh, come now.” The mounted man laughed thinly, failing utterly to get his tolerant and good-natured effect. “If you ’d had a supply of decent chaps to do the right thing by a girl as pretty as you—admire you, an’ flirt, and all that, I mean—you wouldn’t have fallen back on this nigger we ’re lookin’ for, would you, now?”
This was what it meant, then, to have one’s name linked with that of a Kafir. She was anybody’s game; not the lowest need look upon her as inaccessible. She had to put a restraint upon herself to keep from quickening her pace, from breaking into a run and fleeing desperately from the man whose gaze never left her. Its persistence, though she was aware of it without seeing it, was an oppression; she imagined she could detect the taint of his breath blowing hot upon her as she walked.
He saw the flush that rose in her cheek, and laughed again.
“You needn’t answer,” he said. “I can see for myself I ’m right. Lord, whenever was I wrong when it came to spottin’ a girl’s feelings? Say, Miss Harding—did n’t I hit it first shot? Of course I did. Of course I did,” he repeated two or three times, congratulating himself. “Trust me.
“I say,” he began again presently. “This little meetin’—I hope it ’s not goin’ to be the last. I expect you ’ve learnt by now that niggers have their drawbacks, and it is n’t a safe game for you to play. People simply won’t stand it, you know. Now, what you want is a friend who ’ll stand by you and show you how to make the row blow over. With savvy and a touch of tact, it can be done. Now, Miss Harding—I don’t know your Christian name, but I fancy we could understand each other if you ’d only look up and smile.”
The farm was not far now. Paul had seen them coming and was standing at gaze to watch them approach, with that appearance of absorbed interest which almost anything could bring out. Soon he must see, he could not fail to see, that she was in distress and needing aid, and then he would come forward to meet them.
“No?” the trooper inquired, cajolingly. “Come now—one smile. No? No?”
He waited for an answer.
“I wouldn’t try the haughty style,” he said then. “Lord, no. You wouldn’t find it pay. After the nigger business, haughtiness is off. What I ’m offering you is more than most chaps would offer; it isn’t everybody ’ll put on a nigger’s boots, not by a long sight. Now, we don’t want to be nasty about it, do we? One smile, or just a word to say we understand each other, and it ’ll be all right.”
It was insupportable, but now Paul was coming towards them, shyly and not very fast.
“Who ’s this kid?” demanded the trooper. “Quick, now, before he ’s here. Look up, or he ’ll smell a rat.”
Margaret raised her eyes to his slowly, cold fear and disgust mingling in her mind. He met her with a smile in which relief was the salient character.
“When Mr. Van Zyl hears how you have insulted me,” she began trembling.
“Eh?” He stared at her suspiciously. “Van Zyl?” He seemed suddenly enlightened. “I say, I could n’t tell you ’d—you ’d made your arrangements. Could I, now? I would n’t have dreamed—look here, Miss Harding; I ’m awfully sorry. Couldn’t we agree to forget all this? You can’t blame a chap for trying his luck.”
She did not entirely understand; she merely knew that what he said must be monstrous. No clean thing could issue from that hungry, fastidious mouth. She walked on, leaving him halted and staring after her, perturbed and apprehensive. His patient horse stood motionless with stretched neck; he sat in the saddle erect as to the body, with the easy secure seat which drill had made natural to him, but with the Punchinello face drooped forward, watching her as she went. He saw her meet Paul, saw the pair of them glance towards him and then turn their backs and walk down to the farm together. Pain, defeat and patience expressed themselves in his countenance, as in that of an ignoble Prometheus. Presently he pulled up the docile horse’s head with a jerk of the bridoon.
“My luck,” he said aloud, and swung his horse about.
Paul had not time to question Margaret as to her trouble, for she spoke before he could frame his slow words.
“Paul,” she cried, “I want to speak to you. But—oh, can I sit down somewhere? I feel—I feel—I must sit down.”
She looked over her shoulder nervously, and Paul’s glance followed.
“Is it him?” he inquired. “Sit here. I ’ll go to him.”
“No,” she said vehemently. “Don’t. You mustn’t. Let ’s go to your house. I want to sit down indoors.”
Her senses were jangled; she felt a need of relief from the empty immensity of sun and earth that surrounded her.
“Come on,” said Paul. “We ’ll go in.”
He did not offer her his arm; it was a trick he had yet to learn. He walked at her side between the kraals, and brought her to the little parlor which housed and was glorified by Mrs. du Preez’s six rosewood chairs, upholstered in velvet, sofa to match, rosewood center-table and the other furniture of the shrine. He looked at her helplessly as she sank to a seat on the “sofa to match.”
“You want some water,” he said, with an inspiration, and vanished.
Margaret had time somewhat to recover herself before he returned with his mother and the water.
Mrs. du Preez needed no explanations.
“Now you ’ll have a bit of respect for our sun, Miss Harding,” she said, after a single, narrow-eyed look at the girl. “Hand that water here, Paul; you didn’t bring it for show, did you? Well, then. And just you let me take off this hat, Miss Harding. Bond Street, I ’ll bet a pound. They don’t build for this sun in Bond Street. Now jus’ let me wet this handkerchief and lay it on your forehead. Now, ain’t that better?”
She turned her head to drive a fierce whisper at Paul.
“Get out o’ this. Come in by an’ by.”
“Thanks awfully.” Margaret shivered as the dripping handkerchief pressed upon her brow let loose drops that gravitated to her neck and zigzagged under the collar of her blouse. “I ’m feeling much better now. I ’d rather sit up, really.”
“So long as you haven’t got that tight feeling,” conceded Mrs. du Preez.
She stood off, watching the girl in a manner that expressed something striving within her mind.
“All right now?” she asked, when Margaret had got rid of the wet handkerchief.
“Quite,” Margaret assured her. “Thanks ever so much.”
Mrs. du Preez arranged the glass and jug neatly upon the iron tray on which they had made their appearance.
“Miss Harding,” she said suddenly. “I know.”
“Oh? What do you know?” inquired Margaret.
Mrs. du Preez glanced round to see that Paul had obeyed her.
“I know all about it,” she answered, with reassuring frowns and nods. “Your Fat Mary told my Christian Kafir and she told me. About—about Kamis; you know.”
“I see.”
The story had the spreading quality of the plague; it was an infection that tainted every ear, it seemed.
“You mean—you ’d like me to go?” suggested Margaret.
“No! No! NO!”
Mrs. du Preez brought both hands into play to aid her face in making the negatives emphatic. “Go? Why, if it was n’t for the mercy of God I ’d be in the same box myself. I would—Me! I ’ve got nothing to come the heavy about, even if I was the sort that would do it. So now you know.”
“I don’t understand,” said Margaret. “Do you mean that you—?”
“I mean,” interrupted Mrs. du Preez, “that if it wasn’t for that Kafir I ‘d ha’ been hopping in hell before now; and if people only knew it—gosh! I ’d have to hide. I wanted to tell you so ’s you should know there was some one that could n’t throw any stones at you. You ’re beginnin’ to find things rather warm up there, aren’t you?”
Margaret smiled. The true kindness of Mrs. du Preez’s intention moved her; charity in this quarter was the last thing she had expected to find.
“A little warm,” she agreed. “Everybody ’s rather shocked just now, and Mrs. Jakes has given me notice to leave.”
“Has she?” demanded Mrs. du Preez. “Well, I suppose it was to be expected. I ’ve known that woman now for more years than I could count on my fingers, and I ’ve always had my doubts of her. She ’s no more got the spirit of a real lady than a cow has. That ’s where it is, Miss Harding. She can’t understand that a lady ’s got to be trusted. For two pins I ’d tell her so, the old cross-eyed skellpot. So you ’re going? Well, you won’t be sorry.”
“But—how did you come across Kamis?” asked Margaret.
“Oh, it ’s a long story. I was clearin’ out of here—doing a bolt, you know, an’ I got into trouble with a feller that was with me. It was a feller named Bailey that was stoppin’ here,” explained Mrs. du Preez, who had not heard the whole history of Margaret’s exposure. “He was after a bit of money I ’d got with me, and he was startin’ in to kick me when up jumps that nigger and down goes Bailey. See?”
Margaret saw only vaguely, but she nodded.
“That ’s Bailey,” said Mrs. du Preez, drawing her attention to the Boy’s photograph. “Christian warned me against smashing it when I wanted to. He ’s got notions, Christian has. ‘Leave it alone,’ he says; ‘we ’re not afraid of it.’ So of course I had to; but I ’d be more ’n a bit thankful if it was gone. I can’t take any pleasure in the room with it there.”
“I could help you in that, perhaps,” suggested Margaret. “You ’ve helped me. It was sweet of you to tell me what you did, the friendliest thing I ever knew.”
“I ’d rather you did n’t speak about it to Christian,” objected Mrs. du Preez.
“I did n’t mean to,” Margaret assured her, rising.
She crossed to the narrow mantel as though to look more particularly at Boy Bailey’s features. She lifted the plush frame from its place.
“There are people who would call this face handsome,” she remarked.
“Heaps,” agreed Mrs. du Preez. “In his best days, he ’d got a style—Lord! Miss Harding.”
Margaret had let the photograph fall face-downwards on the edge of the fender and the crash of its glass cut Mrs. du Preez short. She stared at Margaret in astonishment as the girl put a foot on the picture and broke it.
“Wasn’t that clumsy of me?” she asked, smiling.
“Well, of all the cheek,” declared Mrs. du Preez, slowly. “I never guessed what you were after. But I don’t know what Christian will say.”
“He can’t mend it, anyhow,” replied Margaret. “You did want it gone, did n’t you?”
“You bet,” said Mrs. du Preez. “But—but that was a dodge. Here, let’s make sure of it while we ’re at it; those two pieces could be easily stuck together. I ’ll stamp some of that smashed glass into it. Still—I should think, after this, you ’d be able to hold your own with Mrs. Jakes.”
She kicked the pieces of the now unrepairable photograph into a little heap.
“I ’ll leave it like that for Christian to see,” she said. “But, look here. Didn’t you want to speak to Paul? You ’ll be wondering when I ’m goin’ to give you a chance. I ’ll just tap the drum for him.”
Paul’s whistle from behind the house answered the first strokes and Mrs. du Preez, with an unusual delicacy, did not return to the parlor with him.
“You ’re all right now?” he asked, as he entered.
“Oh, yes. That was nothing,” said Margaret.
Paul took his stand by the window, leaning with a shoulder against it, looking abstractedly at her face, and waiting to hear her speak.
“Paul,” asked Margaret, “do you know where Kamis is now?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you see him? Can you speak to him for me?”
“I don’t see him much now,” answered Paul. “That is because the policemen are riding about looking for him. But I can speak to him to-night.”
“He must take care not to be caught,” said Margaret. “They ’re very anxious to find him just now. You ’ve heard, Paul, that they ’ve found out about me and him?”
“Ye-es,” answered Paul. “I heard something.”
“It’s true,” said Margaret. “So I ’ve got to go away from here. They won’t have me at the Sanatorium any longer and the police are watching to see if Kamis comes anywhere near me and to catch him if he does. You must warn him to keep right away, Paul. He mustn’t send any messages, even.”
“I will tell him,” said Paul. “But—you are going away? To England?”
“Perhaps,” replied Margaret. “I expect I shall have to now. They tell me that people won’t let me live in South Africa any more. I ’m a sort of leper, and I must keep my distance from healthy people. So we shan’t see each other again after a few more days. Are you sorry, Paul?”
He reddened boyishly and fidgeted.
“Oh, it is best for you to go,” he answered, uncomfortably.
“Paul! But why?”
“It ’s—it ’s not your place,” he said, facing the difficulty of putting an elusive thought into words. “This country—people don’t know what ’s good and what ’s bad—and there isn’t enough people. Not like London. You should go to London again. Kamis was telling me—theaters and streets and pictures to see, and people everywhere. He says one end of London is just like you and the other end is like that Bailey. That is where you should go—London, not here. I will go to London soon, too.”
“I see,” said Margaret. “I was afraid at first that you were sick of me too, Paul. I needn’t have been afraid of that, need I? Wouldn’t it be fine if we could meet in London?”
“We can,” said Paul seriously. “I have got a hundred and three pounds, and I will go.”
“That’s a good deal,” said Margaret.
“It’s a lot,” he agreed. “My father gave it to me the other day, all tied up tight in a little dirty bundle, and there was my mother’s marriage lines in it too. He said he didn’t mean me to have those but the money was for me. It was on the table in the morning and he rolled it over to me and said: ‘Here, Paul. Take this and don’t bring any more of your tramps in the house.’ That was because I brought that Bailey here, you know. So now—soon—I will go to London and Paris and make models there. Kamis says—”
“What?” asked Margaret.
“He says I will think my eyes have gone mad at first when I see London. He says that coming to Waterloo Station will be like dying and waking in another world. But he says too—blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God even in Waterloo Station.”
“He ought to go back himself,” said Margaret, with conviction. “He ’s wasted here.”
“Will you see him before you go?” asked Paul.
“No,” said Margaret. “No; I daren’t. Tell him, Paul, please, that I ’d like to see him ever so much, but that it ’s too dangerous. Say I wish him well with all my heart, and that I hope most earnestly that he won’t let himself be caught.”
“He won’t,” said Paul, with confidence. “But I ’ll tell him.”
“And say,” continued Margaret—“say he ’s not to feel sorry about what has happened to me. Tell him I ’m still proud that I was his friend, and that all this row is worth it. Can you remember all that?”
Paul nodded. “I can remember,” he assured her. “It is—it is so fine to hear, for me, too. I won’t forget anything.”
“Please don’t, if you can help it. I want him to have that message,” said Margaret. “And now, Paul, I ’ll have to say good-by to you, because I shan’t come here again.”
Paul stood upright as she rose. His slow smile was very friendly.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You are going to London, and soon I shall see you there.”
“I wonder,” she said, giving him her hand. “I ’ll write you my address and send it you before I leave, Paul.”
“I should find you anyhow,” he assured her confidently.
Mrs. du Preez, also, had to be taken leave of, and shed a tear or so at the last. In her, a strong emotion found a safety valve in ferocity.
“As for that Jakes woman,” she said, in conclusion, “you tell her from me, Miss Harding—from me, mind,—that it wouldn’t cost me any pain to hand her a slap acrost the mug.”
Margaret went homeward through the late light dreamily. Far away, blurred by the sun’s horizontal rays, the figure of the trooper occupied the empty distance, no larger than an ant against the flushed sky. Peace and melancholy were in the mood of the hour, a cue to lead her thoughts towards sadness. It caused her to realize that she would not leave it all without a sense of loss. She would miss its immensity, its effect of setting one at large on an earth without trimmings under a heaven without clouds, to make the most of one’s own humanity. It would be a thing she had known in part, but which henceforth she would never know even as she herself was known. She could never now find the word that expressed its wonder and its appeal.
Mr. Samson was on the stoep as she went up the steps to enter the Sanatorium. He put down his paper and toddled forward to open the door for her, anxiously punctilious.
“Ford was down for tea,” he said. “Askin’ for you, he was.”
“Oh, was he?” replied Margaret inanely, and went in.
At supper that evening in the farmhouse kitchen, Christian du Preez, glancing up from the food which occupied him, observed by a certain frowning deliberation on Paul’s face, that his son was about to deliver himself in speech.
“Well, what is it, Paul?” he inquired encouragingly.
Paul looked up with a faint surprise at having his purpose thus forecasted.
“That money,” he said doubtfully.
“Oh.” The Boer glanced uneasily at his wife, who laid down her knife and fork and began to listen with startled interest.
“That ’s all right,” said Christian. “Do what you like with it. Go to the dorp and spend it; it ’s yours. Now eat your supper.”
“I am going to London,” said Paul then, seriously, and having got it off his mind, said, heard and done with, he resumed his meal with an appetite.
“London,” echoed the Boer. “London?” exclaimed Mrs. du Preez.
“Yes,” said Paul. “To make models. Here there is nobody to see them.”
“He is gone mad,” said the Boer with conviction. “He has been queer for a long time and now he is mad. Paul, you are mad.”
“Am I?” asked Paul respectfully, and continued to eat.
His father and mother had much to say, agitatedly, angrily, persuasively, but people were always saying things to him that had no real meaning. It was ridiculous, for instance, that the Boer should call him a dumb fool because at the close of a lecture he should ask for more coffee. He wasn’t dumb and didn’t believe he was a fool. People were n’t fools because they went to London; on the contrary, they had to be rather clever and enterprising to get there at all. And at the back of his mind dwelt the thing he could not hope to convey and did not attempt to—a sense he had, which warmed and uplifted him, of nearing a goal after doubt and difficulty, the Pisgah exaltation and tenderness, the confidence that to him and to the work which his hands should perform, Canaan was reserved, virgin and welcoming. It was a strength he had in secret, and the Boer knew himself baffled when after an hour of exhortation to be sane and explanatory and obedient and comprehensible, he looked up and said, very thoughtfully:
“In London, people pay a shilling to look at clays, father.”