# A Veldt Love Story

Extracted from Windsor magazine, v. 15, 1901-02, pp. 671-685. Accompanying illustrations by Warwick Goble omitted.
A VELDT LOVE STORY.
By GUY BOOTHBY.
THE question to be decided was whether or not the boy was dead. At first glance it appeared to be a matter admitting of little or no doubt. The youngster was lying in the long grass at the foot of a rugged kopje; one leg was twisted under him, one arm was by his side, the other outstretched as if in supplication for the help that would not come. One thing, however, was quite certain—his dress betokened the direst poverty. On his feet he wore a pair of dilapidated velshoen; a ragged pair of trousers, and a still more dilapidated shirt, completed his attire. Where or when he had lost his hat no one could say; it was plain, however, that it was to the absence of this most necessary article that he owed his present condition. The African sun, particularly upon the veldt, is not to be trifled with, and those who walk bareheaded in its rays must be prepared to pay the penalty of their folly. Seated on their horses, looking down at him, were a girl and boy of about his own age—that is to say, between thirteen and fifteen. Had you been able to look under the kapje, or sun bonnet, of the former, you would have seen that she was pretty, with blue eyes and rippling brown hair. It was essentially an English face, which gave promise of being still more beautiful at a later date. Her companion was a lad of heavy build, with a stolid, almost sullen, cast of countenance. His nationality was Dutch, without a doubt. Everything about him said as much. They were riding towards the girl's home, situated about a mile or so from the kopje, when they chanced upon this melancholy spectacle.
"Is he dead, do you think?" the girl inquired, almost in a whisper, and with a look of horror upon her face.
"I will soon see," said the boy, and, dismounting from his horse, he approached the figure upon the ground. Kneeling beside it, he slipped his hand into the opening of the tattered shirt and felt for the heart.
"Yes, he is dead," he said in Dutch, looking up at the girl as he spoke—"quite dead."
The words had scarcely left his lips, when, as if to give the lie to his assertion, a faint sigh escaped the supposed corpse.
"No, no! you are wrong, Piet!" cried the girl, and as she said it, she, in her turn, slipped from the saddle and approached the boy. "He is not dead, but if we don't do something to help him, he very soon will be. He wants water. Run to the spring at the foot of the kopje and bring some in your hat."
It was characteristic of the boy that, even at such a moment, he felt inclined to demur. He did not like being ordered to fetch and carry in such a peremptory fashion, particularly by a girl. Eventually, however, he thought the better of it and departed on his errand. Meanwhile the other was bending over the helpless lad before her, peering eagerly into his face, as if she hoped to find some encouragement there, or at least some advice as to the manner in which she should proceed.
Presently Piet put in an appearance round the side of the kopje, carrying his soft felt hat filled with water. When he reached her, she took it from him and endeavoured to pour some into the poor lad's mouth. Then, returning the hat to Piet, she dipped her handkerchief into what remained and began to bathe her patient's face. She remembered having seen her mother act in this fashion when old Tant' Meintjes fainted in the Market Square at Kronderburg. At last success crowned her efforts, and the lad opened his eyes and looked at her. Seeing that he was conscious once more, she sent Piet for a further supply of water, bidding him hurry back with it. Then addressing herself once more to her patient, she inquired how he came there and in such a plight. The lad, however, was too weak to reply. He merely shook his head. It was not until more water had been given him that he found his tongue and informed them that he had been travelling with some Boers who were trekking to the north-east. How he came to be where they found him he did not say, but later on the details of his story came to light. His name was James Laverton, and he was an orphan. His father had been a captain of a sailing-ship plying between Liverpool and Bombay, and, as is not unfrequently the case, his wife and child travelled with him. The vessel was wrecked on the South African coast, his father was drowned, and the mother and son and two sailors were all who escaped to tell the tale. She, poor soul, lost her reason, and had not recovered it when she died in Durban two years later. From that moment the boy's life had been a far from happy one. No one cared for him, and no one thought it worth his or her while to help him. At last he obtained a situation on the western side of Natal; but his employer died a few months after his arrival, and in consequence he was thrown upon the world once more. Thereafter he drifted from place to place, a lonely atom, the butt and whipping-boy of all with whom he came in contact. He was willing to work, and he did work to the best of his ability; but, however much he tried, his efforts invariably availed him nothing. In point of fact, he was saddled with what was in his case a curse—namely, that of gentility; and among the rough people with whom his lot was cast that was sufficient to assure him of their dislike. At last he found himself on the trek with the party of Boers to which I have already alluded. His life with these people was one of continued ill-usage. He was thrashed by everyone, and for the smallest offence, until, unable to bear it any longer, he made up his mind and ran away. Whither he was going, and what he was going to do when he got there, he had not the least idea. His only desire was to get out of the reach of his enemies and never to set eyes on them again. Appropriating what food he could lay hands on, and under the cover of darkness, he stole away and all that night pushed on and on. By the time day dawned he was well out of his enemies' reach and in a part of the country in which he had never been before. By nightfall he had eaten the last of the food he had brought with him, and where he was going to get more he could not say. All through the next day he pushed on, only to fall exhausted at the foot of the kopje where Mamie Tuckett and her companion had found him. What his fate would have been, had they not chanced to pass that way, no man will ever be able to say. The fact, however, remained that they had passed, and now the question was, What were they going to do with him? The girl had apparently already decided the matter. Turning to Piet, she bade him ride on to the homestead and tell them of their discovery. They would have to send out the Cape-cart for the boy, who was too weak to walk or to ride a horse so far. With a look of distinct disapproval upon his face, Piet prepared to do as he was ordered, and, clambering into his saddle, set off at a canter in the direction of the homestead. Even his somewhat dull brain had jumped to the conclusion that the boy they had rescued was of English birth, and, seeing that the girl was of the same nationality, he did not altogether approve of her bestowing so much attention upon this stranger. Moreover, and it was here that the shoe pinched, it was not fit and proper that he, Piet Voest, son of the largest landed proprietor in the district, should be sent on errands like a mere Kaffir, and for an outcast Englishman, too! Still, Mamie had ordered it, and he knew that he must obey. He had been caught up in the whirlwind of Mamie's wrath before now, and for that reason he stood in some little awe of her. As he rode along he took counsel with himself, and thought of the day when he should marry her and inherit, at her parents' death, the wealth they were known to have accumulated. He would add that to his own, and then he, Piet Voest, would be the richest man for a hundred miles around. He would have all the horses and rifles he wanted, and everybody would bow down before him, and—this was the sweetest thought of all—everybody would fear him, as his father's Kaffirs feared him at home. To have folk stand in awe of him was the youth's idea of power, and perhaps, after all, he was not very far wrong.
Reaching the homestead, he told his news, permitting them to draw the inference that the life of the boy they had rescued was of small account. A cart was immediately despatched to bring the sufferer in, and in less than half an hour the lad was comfortably installed in the little room at the end of the verandah. Worthy Mrs. Tuckett—and no kinder woman ever breathed the breath of life—was touched with compassion as she regarded the waif.
"Poor little lad!" she said to herself. "Thank God mine never knew such trouble!"
As she said it she thought of her own son who had been laid to rest on the knoll that could be seen through the window half a mile or so distant. Tears rose in her eyes as she looked again at the boy and fancied she could discern in him a likeness to her own lost one. Mamie was her loving daughter, but little Phil had been more than life to her, and since his death there had been a void in her heart that nothing could ever fill.
When she left the room, having softly closed the door behind her, she had made up her mind as to her line of action. She discovered her "old man," as she usually termed her husband, crossing the yard on the way to the cart-shed. He stopped on seeing her and inquired how the youngster was progressing.
"He is going on nicely, poor dear!" she replied; "but he has had a terrible time of it." Then dropping her voice a little, she continued, "John, dearie, that boy's face goes to my heart. He reminds me of our own little one lying over there."
There was a wistful look in her husband's face as he turned his head to look towards that small railed square where he had laid his dead son, and in which he hoped to be laid himself some day.
"Poor little chap!" he said; "he's full young to have been through so much; but, please God, we'll put him on his legs again before many days are past."
The two kind souls were as good as their word, and in less than a week the youngster was up and about once more, though traces of what he had been through still remained with him. By that time Mrs. Tuckett was familiar with all there was to know about him. Her fond mother's heart had taken to the boy in a manner that under other circumstances she would have deemed impossible. As for the lad himself, the life he was now leading seemed too good to last. When he rose in the morning, it was with the fear that he might not be there when night fell. He endeavoured to make himself useful with a striving that bordered on the pathetic. He was a willing and a handy lad, and few things came amiss to him. Small wonder, therefore, that John Tuckett—as hard a worker and as good a judge of a boy or man as ever lived—should have come to prize him, and found himself trusting more and more to the youth as the months and then the years went by. It was where Mamie was concerned, however, that his gratitude assumed the most definite proportions. Even Daft Danny, the soft-headed idiot whom old Tuckett had adopted when he was little more than a baby, and who followed Mamie about like a dog, was not more devoted than the youth she had saved from death. But if the master and mistress and the other members of the farm circle had developed an affection for the waif who had so strangely become a member of their family, it is quite certain that there was one other person who was not so wrapped up in him. That other person was the young Boer, Piet Voest. He watched with alarm the hold the new-comer was obtaining over the family, and little by little came to curse the day they had found him lying unconscious at the foot of the kopje. However, he was too astute to let his ill-will be seen. Accordingly, he simulated a friendship which he was very far from feeling. That it was possible that some day Mamie might come to entertain an affection for this outcast never for a moment crossed his mind, but it struck him as being in the nature of a slight to himself that this youth's opinion should be asked on all matters concerning the management of the farm, particularly when he was present. When he observed the pride with which Mamie referred to the straightness of his rival's ploughing—for, lad though he was, he could run as good a furrow as old Tuckett himself—or to the way in which he rode a colt, shot a spring-buck, or made his bull's-eye three times in succession at a thousand yards, his heart came near to bursting by reason of the load of venom it was being called upon to carry. On the other hand, James entertained no ill-will towards Piet. The latter was a friend of the Tuckett family, and he treated him as such, notwithstanding the black looks and biting speeches with which the young Boer favoured him when the others' backs were turned.
The English lad lost nothing by his forbearance, however. Mamie noticed his generosity, Mrs. Tuckett watched it, and even old John had some idea of it himself.
There is a limit even to forbearance, however; and come the trouble did, and that before very long. Of late, when Piet had visited the farm, he had made use of a short cut from the river to the homestead. It had only one drawback, however; it necessitated his fording the river at a somewhat deep place, and crossing a mealie patch on the other side. Not being particularly careful where or how he rode, he was apt to do a considerable amount of damage to the crop en route; and ever on the watch to protect his benefactor's interests, James remonstrated with him, but without success. He thereupon erected a rough fence along that particular part of the river's bank, and Piet pulled it down. James vowed that if the other continued to behave in this fashion, he should have no option but to throw him into the river; whereupon the Boer gave him sullenly to understand that if he did, he should shoot him on the first opportunity that presented itself.
After the disagreement just referred to, something like a week went by before Piet paid a visit to the homestead. By this time he had grown to be a great lumbering fellow of nineteen, half an inch or so taller than his rival. The latter's strength, however, was proverbial in the district, and, as he had a knack of never knowing when he was beaten, most people were chary of pitting themselves against him.
Now, as ill luck would have it, on the day that Piet paid the visit to which I have already referred, he happened to call at the house of a Dutch friend en route to the farm. They discussed James's character over a glass of "Cape Smoke," and drank solemnly to its destruction in another. By the time Piet remounted his horse to resume his ride, he had come to the conclusion that he hated the young Englishman more than anyone else in the world. Deeming it possible that he might get a shot at a spring-buck on the veldt, he had brought his rifle with him, and as he thought of what he called the other's impudence, he patted the stock affectionately. A mile or so further on he reached the place where it became necessary for him to decide whether he should continue on the track, or turn off to the right in order to avail himself of the short cut which James had forbidden him to use. He brought his horse to a standstill and considered the question.
"What right has he to stop me?" he said to himself. "I knew the farm before he did; and if it hadn't been for my seeing him on the day that he lay at the foot of the kopje, the vultures would have picked his bones clean long since."
Then, turning his horse's head, he rode off in the direction of the mealie patch. To his surprise, the river was almost in flood, and he saw that, if he wanted to cross it, it would be necessary for him to swim the horse. To a youth so accustomed to the exigencies of veldt life that was nothing. He put his horse to the water without a second thought. Once on the other side, he climbed the steep bank and approached the fence that James had repaired. At the same moment the latter came into view and hastened towards him.
"Didn't I tell you only the other day that I would not let you come this way, Piet?" he began. "What makes you do it when you're told not to?"
"Because I have as much right here as you have, and a good deal more," the other answered. "The river is free to everybody."
"I'm not thinking of the river," said Jim. "It's the mealie patch I'm concerned with. Every time you come this way you cut it up, and give us the trouble of putting it straight again. You'd better get back across the river and follow the track."
Piet swore a Dutch oath to the effect that, even if James were the owner of the land, or the Governor of Cape Colony himself, he would not go round.
"I'm sorry, but in that case I shall have to-make you," said James quietly, but determinedly. "I don't want to have a row, but if you are bent upon it—well, the sooner the matter is settled, the better."
At this juncture the "Cape Smoke" whispered to Piet that he was undoubtedly a finer man than his enemy, and that, if the worst came to the worst, he was quite capable of throwing this verdomde Englishman into the river. When, ten minutes later, he had received the finest thrashing that the heart of man could desire, he picked up his rifle, which had been put on one side during the encounter, remounted his horse, and was preparing to cross the river. Though he did not know it, he was not at the end of his adventure. He entered the water and started for the other side. Whether he was not so careful in the handling of his horse as usual, or whether the animal, frightened at the swiftness of the stream, became unmanageable, it is impossible to say. The fact remains, however, that when he reached mid-stream he swung round, there was some wild splashing, and then they parted company. Piet could not swim, and had it not been that James was watching him from the bank, he must inevitably have been drowned. Without pausing to consider, the latter ran down the bank and plunged into the stream. A few swift strokes brought him to the place where Piet had disappeared. He dived, missed him, then dived again, and brought him to the surface. Seizing him by his coat-collar, he struck out for the bank, and when he reached it, dragged the unconscious Dutchman to a place of safety. Then he set to work to revive him. It was some time before he succeeded. At last, however, his efforts were rewarded, and his whilom enemy opened his eyes.
"That was rather a near thing," said James, without pausing in his work of chafing the other's hands. "Another minute or so and it would have been all over with you."
Piet said nothing. He knew that he ought to thank his rescuer, but he did not intend to do so.
"What's become of my horse?" he asked at last, in a sulky voice, feeling it incumbent to say something.
"He came safely to shore a hundred yards or so down stream," James replied. "You stay where you are, and I'll catch him."
He did so, and when he returned with the animal in question found that Piet had so far recovered as to be able to get on his feet. Still he uttered no word of thanks. He contented himself with bewailing the loss of his good rifle, which had slipped from his shoulder and was now lying at the bottom of the stream.
"It's a good thing you are not lying there with it," said James, as he held the horse for the other to mount. "And now what are you going to do? Are you coming up to the homestead or going to your own house?"
"I'm going home," said Piet. Then, looking James squarely in the face, he continued, "I saved your life once; you've saved mine to-day. Now we are quits."
Then, before James could think of reply, he had started his horse and was some fifty yards away.
II.
Five years had passed since that memorable day when James Laverton saved Piet Voest from drowning. Though they had made but little change in that quiet farm on the veldt, in the great world outside unmistakable signs of an approaching storm were to be observed. Mysterious strangers were continually passing to and fro among the Dutch farmers, circulating seditious literature, and reminding their hearers of the ties of blood that existed between themselves and the Transvaal, and also of the victories of '81.
"I don't like the look of things at all," said Tuckett to James one day, as they stood smoking their pipes beside the gate of the small cow paddock near the house. "I'm afraid there's trouble ahead, and that when it comes the folk hereabouts will most surely be implicated in it."
"It looks like it," James replied. "There has been a stranger staying at the Voest's farm for a fortnight or so past. If Piet doesn't keep his eyes open, he'll find himself at loggerheads with the Authorities."
"And it will serve him right," said the old man. "What right has he, a subject of the Queen, to talk of annexation to the Transvaal, and to be always sneering at the Government and whatever is English? I've no patience with the fellow."
Then they turned and walked back to the house together. They need not have worried themselves so soon, however, for the time was still far off. A large proportion of the Dutch colonists might be uneasy, the two Republics might be making their preparations for the coming struggle, but to all outward appearances the old Colony herself was as quiet and contented as she had ever been. Month after month went by, and still there was no change, until men began to think that their suspicions had been groundless and that war would never come.
It was at this stage of his life that honest old John Tuckett found good reason to thank Heaven for the happy chance that had brought James Laverton to his door. Sad though it may seem, he was at last compelled to admit to himself that he was getting an old man, and, though he took as much interest in his property as before, he found that he was not able to play such an active part as he had once done in the actual working of it.
"However, that does not matter very much," he said to his wife one night, when they talked the matter over. "The place could not be in better hands. James knows as much about it as I do myself, if not more, and, what is better, I can trust him implicitly. There is one thing, however, I should like to see before I go. Can you guess what that is, wife?"
"I think I can," she answered. "You mean about Mamie?"
"And James," he continued. "I have learnt to love that boy like my own son, and, since he cannot be that, I want him to be the next best thing. Do you think it will ever come to that between them? Women's eyes are quicker than men's at seeing such things."
"I don't know what to say," she answered. "I know that she thinks there is no other like him, and that he thinks the same of her. But whether it will ever come to marriage is a big question to answer. I should be a thankful woman if I thought it would."
Had she been able to look into James's heart, she would have discovered what she already knew—namely, that he loved Mamie with all his heart and soul, and that, so far as he was concerned, there was no other woman in the world. But, on the other hand, while he loved her he was also proud. How could he ask her to be his wife? What was he, when all was said and done? Merely a hireling—a servant who had the good fortune to be liked and trusted by his employer, nothing more. How, therefore, he argued, could he ask the latter for his daughter's hand in marriage? And yet he felt that life without Mamie would not be worth living. More than once he had come perilously close to telling the girl of his own love, but on each occasion he had forced himself, at the last moment, to hold his tongue. Little did he guess that she was aware of it. Her woman's instinct had told her of the fact. She knew that he was reluctant to speak, and she fancied she could give a shrewd guess as to the reason of his silence. She accordingly set her wits to work to find a means of bringing him to the point. She contrived by numberless little artifices to be brought into contact with him throughout the day, made herself more pleasant to him even than she usually was, and brought all her armoury of charms to bear upon him, until the poor fellow scarcely knew what to do for love of her.
One day, just as his agony was growing unbearable, and he felt that he must either speak or go away, never to return, Piet Voest put in an appearance, bringing a Boer from the Orange Free State with him. They came in the morning and prepared to spend the day at the farm. The stranger was a crafty looking young fellow—a lawyer from Bloemfontein, so Piet was careful to explain. It had struck him that Oom Jan would like to make his acquaintance, so he had brought him over. That there was some other reason behind it James felt certain, but what that something was he was at a loss to understand.
During the day James noticed that Piet paid Mamie more than ordinary attention. The young Dutchman was in an excellent humour with himself and the world in general, and appeared even to have forgotten for the time being his animosity to James. In the afternoon he asked Mamie whether she would take a walk with him round the farm, while his friend had a chat with Oom Jan. Meanwhile the lawyer from Bloemfontein sat on the stoep with the farmer, and, over a pipe and a cup of coffee, broached the real object of his visit. He inquired of the old man whether he had noticed the great change that had come over his friend within the last few weeks. Tuckett replied that he had not—in fact, that Piet appeared to him very much the same as he had ever been.
"But there is a change," the other persisted. "He smokes more and appears more thoughtful, has even talked of doing up the house, which is quite unnecessary, and has asked more than once when the predikant (parson) may be expected in the neighbourhood." All these circumstances, in the lawyer's opinion, could point only to one thing. Could not Oom Jan guess what that one thing was? The wily old man shook his head.
"Perhaps it is politics," he said. "Politics take men in all sorts of different ways."
"No, it is not politics," the other replied.
Then maybe Piet was not feeling well, and knowing himself to be a sinful man, was desirous of consulting the parson as to his spiritual health, before it was too late to make amends for his misconduct.
The other looked at him sharply. Could it be possible that this apparently innocent old man was making game of him?
No, it was not a question of health. It was simply an overdose of love that was at the bottom of the mischief. Thereupon he proceeded to explain that his friend had desired him to approach the parents of the lady in question on the matter, to discover how much money she would bring to the union, and what arrangements could be made as to the possession of the farm.
Old John sat and smoked, listening with a grave face to what his visitor was saying. When he had finished, he withdrew his pipe from his mouth and looked his man straight in the face. "I should not like to be discourteous to a guest," he said, "but I must confess I should like to know why Piet Voest has not come to me direct, instead of sending a stranger to represent him. Surely he is big enough to ask his own questions; and if he wants to marry my girl—well, let him speak to her first and then, if she is willing, come on to me. That's the proper way of doing things. From what you say, I should think he was more anxious to get hold of the farm and my money than he is to win the girl. Of course, I may be wrong, but——"
"I assure you that you are quite wrong," the other hastened to remark. "He will make an excellent husband. Look where you will, it will be difficult to find a better."
"It's very possible he might make as good a husband as any in the land," he said. "But, as I have said before, if he wants my girl, he must speak to her himself and then come on to me."
In the meantime Mamie and Piet had accomplished a considerable portion of their walk. By some strange coincidence they finally found themselves on the river bank at the exact spot where Piet, some years before, had received the greatest humiliation of his life. Here he stopped and prepared to speak his mind, not knowing, of course, that they had been followed by Daft Danny, who had a trick of following Mamie about. Meanwhile Piet, not believing in a useless waste of words, had come to the point.
"I've been thinking, Mamie," he said, "that it's time you had a husband. You can't deny the fact that you're getting on, and—well, the long and short of it is, if old Oom Jan and Tant' Tuckett will go down to Capetown to live, I'll let bygones be bygones and marry you myself. But James will have to go."
"That's very generous of you, Piet," Mamie answered, with a curl of the lip that he did not notice. "You always were a generous, thoughtful fellow."
"I believe I always was," Piet replied. "But I'm glad we've settled it. Now we'll go back to the homestead and tell Oom Jan that we are going to have an upsitting."
"I'm afraid not," she answered. "Unless you intend to upsit with somebody else."
"What!" cried the young man, who could scarcely believe his ears. "Do you mean to tell me that we are not going to upsit together?"
"Of course we are not," Mamie answered determinedly. "I never dreamt of such a thing."
A fit of rage took possession of the man. It was all the fiercer because it was so sudden.
"So that's your little game, is it?" he cried. "Well, marry you I will, or I'll know the reason why."
"In that case you shall know the reason at once," she replied. "It is because I don't want you and won't have you. No, you needn't bluster; I'm not afraid of you, Piet, and you know it."
Almost before he knew what he was doing he had seized her roughly by the arm.
"I can see the reason of it all," he cried, shaking her as he spoke. "You're thinking of that cursed Englishman!"
"Free my arm!" she cried, not deigning to notice his last remark. "You don't know it, perhaps, but you're hurting me."
"I'll hurt you still more before I've done with you," he answered. "Before I let you go, I'll make you promise that you'll marry me."
"That I'll never do," she replied. Then, turning to him a face of scorn, she continued, "Piet Voest, you're a coward!"
"Coward or no coward," he retorted, by this time quite beside himself with rage, "you'll have to promise to be my wife, or I'll drown you in that pool and chance the rest."
Whether he would have made his threat good, it is impossible to say; but, at any rate, he began to drag her towards the bank, as if his intention were a serious one. He had not proceeded many feet, however, before Daft Danny, who had been hiding in some bushes about twenty paces from them, rushed down the slope and hurled himself upon him. Piet was so overcome with surprise that he let Mamie go and prepared to defend himself against the other's onslaught. In spite of his feeble intellect, Daft Danny was a big fellow, almost as big as James, and now, mad with rage, he was an opponent worthy even of Piet himself. At that moment there was a shout from the mealie patch, and, to Mamie's unspeakable relief, James came into view.
He managed to part them, but not without considerable difficulty. Daft Danny's blood was up, and after he had been dragged from his enemy by main force, he stood panting to be at him again.
"He hurt Miss Mamie! he hurt Miss Mamie!" he repeated again and again. "I'll kill him for hurting Miss Mamie!"
"What is the meaning of this?" James asked, looking from the girl to the man.
"It means that Piet insulted me," Mamie replied, not wishing to tell the whole story. "Danny took my part, and you know the rest."
"By Heavens! Piet, you deserve a thrashing," said James, advancing towards the other as he spoke. "What have you to say for yourself?"
"What have I to say?" repeated Piet; "I'll tell you what I have to say. I know that it is to you I owe all this, and, come what may, I'll repay the debt with interest. It won't be very long before I shall be able to; and when that time does come, you look out."
With that he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving James and Mamie looking at each other, and Daft Danny lying, sobbing like a child, upon the ground.
"The coward!" said James, when the other had disappeared. "I only wish I had come up a few minutes sooner. What did he say to you?"
Mamie's face, which had hitherto been deathly pale, now turned scarlet. Here was her opportunity, but it required some pluck to take advantage of it.
"He asked me to be his wife," she replied, "and he said that there would be an upsitting to-night. When I told him I would not marry him, he grew angry and threatened me."
James drew a little closer to her. His voice trembled when next he spoke to her.
"Mamie," he said, taking possession of her hand, "I should not have spoken but for this. As it is, I cannot keep silence any longer. Mamie, you know that I love you!"
There was a momentary pause. Then she held out her other hand to him.
"I know it," she answered with strange earnestness, "and I thank God for it!"
"And you will be my wife?"
"If you will have me," she answered.
"Then let us go back to the house and tell them. It looks as if Piet were right, and there will be an upsitting, after all."
III.
Another year had passed away, and those twelve months had wrought more changes in John Tuckett's farm than any others that had preceded them. Old John's health had given way, and he and his wife had departed to Capetown, that he might have the benefit of medical advice. James and Mamie were married, and, in order that their happiness might be the more complete, a baby son had come into existence, who promised, so his mother declared, to be as fine a man as his father. As for Piet Voest, shortly after Mamie's marriage he had left the district. Some said he had gone to Pretoria, others that he had purchased a farm, beyond Ladysmith, in Natal; no one, however, seemed to be able to speak with any degree of certainty upon that point. The knowledge that he was out of the way added considerably to Mamie's happiness.
Public events, however, were not proceeding in that portion of the Colony with any degree of smoothness. The vague unrest that had been present for so many years was now taking active shape, and there could be no sort of doubt that only a small spark would be required to bring about a conflagration. That a large proportion of the Dutch farmers were deliberately disloyal admitted of no question. It was openly stated that they were arming themselves, and that in the event of war being declared between the two Republics and the Imperial Government, they would side with their blood relations across the border.
Then came the astounding intelligence that an ultimatum had been delivered to the Imperial Government; this was followed by news of the invasion of Natal, the retreat from Dundee, and the investment of Ladysmith. To the lonely watchers in the north of Cape Colony the successes on the part of the Federal arms seemed like the beginning of the end.
"Ah! my friend," said a Dutch farmer to James, when they met at the end of the first week in November, "did I not tell you what it would be? As it was in '81, so will it be now. Kruger is a great man, and will sweep the English into the sea, as he says." Did James remember Majuba? he went on to ask. If so, why were the English such fools as to court a second disaster? As they were certain to be beaten, it looked like madness on their part to continue the fighting.
With the disasters of the last few weeks weighing upon his mind, James found it a difficult question to answer. When he assured the old man that the positions would soon be reversed, and that Great Britain would assuredly be victorious in the end, his words were received with a pitying smile.
On the following morning, James was preparing to go out on the farm, when a man rode up to his homestead and asked to see him. When James appeared, he handed him a paper, commanding him in the name of the Presidents of the Federal Governments to present himself next day at the nearest town, mounted and equipped, and with food for three days, for service against the English. The document was signed by the newly appointed Field Cornet of the district, and was similar to those used in the Orange Free State and the Transvaal.
"You may take it back to the man who gave it to you," said James quietly, as he folded up the paper. "I shall not be there."
He knew that in saying this he was practically signing his own death-warrant, but his duty lay before him and he resolved to do it at any cost.
"You know the penalty, meinheer?" asked the man.
"Let the penalty be what it may, you have heard my decision," James replied. "I am a loyal subject of the Queen, and I will not commit treason. Here is your paper."
Seeing that it was useless to argue further, the messenger wheeled round his horse and returned by the way he had come. As he disappeared from view, James felt his wife's hand slide into his.
"You did right," she said; then she added, with a heartiness she was far from feeling, "I am proud of my husband."
Having thus openly defied the enemy. James felt sure the consequences of his action would not be long in making themselves felt. Supposing he were to leave the farm, take Mamie and the child with him and travel south? Could he escape? He shook his head. He was too well known to be able to pass through the affected area without being recognised. No, there was nothing for it but to remain and see the matter through. Yet to remain where he was, was to give them the opportunity of capturing and then punishing him in any way they might think fit. In that case what would become of his loved ones? The thought was agony to him.
The evening meal was scarcely finished when the sound of horses' hoofs was heard, and Daft Danny came running in with the news that the Boers had come and had surrounded the house. James rose from his chair, his face as pale as death. Instinctively he crossed to where Mamie was standing and placed his arm round her, as if he would hold her against the world.
"James, James! they shall not take you!" she cried, as the sound of heavy footsteps in the passage outside reached her ears.
Before he had time to answer, the door opened and Piet Voest stood before them. With him was the Boer-appointed Landrost of the district—a poor creature, who was known to be deeply in Voest's debt.
"What does this mean?" cried James sternly. "By what right do you enter the house of a loyal subjects of Her Majesty the Queen with arms in your hands?"
"We have nothing to do with loyal subjects of the Queen," said the Landrost; "we are here to arrest a burgher who has refused to come forward and fight for his Country when it calls for his service. I demand that you, James Laverton, shall at once join the commando that is now proceeding against the English."
"And if I refuse!"
"In that case your punishment will be upon your own head. You are, of course, aware what that punishment is?"
"I am well aware of it," James replied. "And I also think I perceive the situation. It is you, Piet Voest, I have to thank for this."
"I have had nothing to do with it," Piet replied sullenly.
"If you are prepared to accompany us, nothing more need be said," continued the Landrost, after a moment's pause. "Should you decline, you must not complain if you are punished. I am waiting for your decision."
James looked at Mamie and pressed her hand in his. What was he to do? To go with them and take up arms against his Country, that Country of which he was so proud, would be to brand himself a traitor, not only in his wife's eyes, but before all men. It would show that he was afraid of Piet, and John Tuckett would know him for a coward. Above all, what would his son think of him, when the story should be told him and he should be old enough to understand? No, to join them was impossible. On the other hand, to refuse them was to court certain death.
"Come, come, answer quickly," said the Landrost; "what are you going to do?"
"I refuse," James replied. "Do with me as you like, but fight against my country I will not."
"In that case I have no option but to do my duty," said the Landrost. "You shall have till daylight to think it over. If you still decline, you must pay the penalty of your folly and be shot at dawn."
Her worst fears being realised, Mamie was nearly beside herself with terror. She clung to her husband, refusing to be separated from him even for a moment. She would have gone on her knees and have implored Piet to show mercy, but James would not hear of it. "No, no, dear," he said, "I will not let you ask anything at his hands. If he kills me, he will be punished for it sooner or later."
A few minutes after this he was led away and shut up in an outhouse, some distance from the main buildings. A sentry having been placed before the door, and everything made secure, he was left to his own thoughts. Heaven knows they were as bitter as those of mortal man could well be. He sat down on the bed in the corner and buried his face in his hands. He was still in this position when the door was unlocked and Piet Voest entered the room.
"I have come to see whether you have changed your mind," he said, with affected cordiality. "What is the use of holding out against us, Laverton? The English troops have been defeated in all directions, and nothing can stop us now. We shall sweep them into the sea, and be in Capetown in a month. Think of your wife and child, if you won't think of yourself, and join us before it is too late."
"Leave me," James answered, rising and pointing to the door as he spoke. "I have already told you that I will have nothing whatsoever to do with you. You know very well that you have planned this, and that you are hoping I shall persist in my refusal. Are you such a coward that you haven't the pluck even to be faithful to your own villainy?"
"Very well," answered Piet, "I will go; but remember I'll give you no further chance, and you die at daybreak. I sha'n't be here to see it, as I am on the way to the Front with my men; but there are those here who will take very good care that the sentence is carried out. Good-bye, James Laverton; and if you want anything to think about, console yourself with the reflection that Mamie's future shall have my most careful attention. Your son shall be brought up a true Afrikander, not a cursed rooinek like his father."
Then he went out, and the door was closed and locked behind him.
IV.
Poor James! bitter indeed was his agony that night. He could think only of Mamie and of his child, and of their futures. Would she remain at the farm, or would she go to Capetown to her parents? The thought of her misery more than doubled his own. He wondered whether they would permit him an interview with her before the end. Perhaps, after all, it would be kinder not. It could do no good, and would only increase their mutual pain.
He was still thinking of this when a soft scratching noise at the further end of the hut attracted his attention. It lasted for a few minutes and was followed by the sound of something being moved, very carefully, as if the mover were afraid of attracting attention. Presently a long slab of wood forming part of the wall at the head of the bed began to move from its place. At last it disappeared altogether, leaving an aperture of sufficient size even for a man of James's build to creep through. He went softly up the hut and knelt down beside it. A hand was immediately thrust in and laid upon his arm, as if to warn him not to make a noise. The little finger of this hand was missing, and by this the prisoner knew that the man who had come to his rescue was none other than Daft Danny.
"Come on," the latter whispered; "if you don't make a noise, I can get you away."
James did not wait to be told twice, but crept cautiously through the hole. Once outside he rose to his feet, and, scarcely daring to breathe, followed Danny round the back of the but, where no sentry had been posted, past the cart-shed towards a clump of blue gums, some fifty yards or so from the house.
"Where is my wife?" he asked.
"Over there," said Danny, pointing to the kopje where James himself had been found by Mamie and Piet on the day that be had first seen the farm. "She had locked herself up in a room, but I got her away with the baby without their seeing her. Then I came for you."
"Thank God!" said James. "I shall never be able to repay you, Danny, for what you have done."
"I didn't want you to be killed," Danny replied simply. "You have always been kind to me.
"But what made you think of that way of getting me out?" James asked, wondering how the poor, crazed fellow could have hit upon such a plan.
"I have known about that hole for a long time," Danny answered. "When I was a boy, and Oom Jan used to shut me up there, that was how I got out. Piet didn't know that. Daft Danny knows more than Piet."
A few moments later they reached the foot of the kopje, and James was looking about him for his wife. He could not see her.
"I know where they are," said Danny; "you come with me."
He accordingly led him towards a place where there were four large rocks huddled close together. Behind them, as James was well aware, was a small open space, which was so masked that, even by the light of day, it could not be observed from a short distance. He entered it, and a moment later Mamie was in his arms.
"My darling, my darling!" she whispered, clinging to him as if she would never let him go again. "It was all Danny's doing. He got me away and promised to bring you to me later; he has kept his word, and we will never forget it as long as we live. But we must not stay talking here, there is not a moment to lose. We must get away as quickly as we can."
"But where to? that is the question."
"To Kronderburg, if possible," she answered. "I overheard them talking, and one of them said that the last news they had of the British army was that it was within a few miles of that place, If we can only got there, we shall be safe."
"But how are we going to get there?" he asked. "It is nearly a hundred miles, and even if I could walk so far in the time, it would be impossible for you."
"There is no need for us to walk," Mamie replied. "Danny has smuggled the Cape-cart and the horses from the farm. they are behind those rocks, inspanned and ready for the journey. Let us start."
He followed her to where the cart was standing, with Danny at the horses' heads.
"May God bless you, Danny!" be said. "If all goes well, we will be in Kronderburg by this time to-morrow."
He mounted to his place in the cart, and then helped Mamie with the baby to a seat beside him.
"Jump up, Danny!" he cried; but to his astonishment Danny declined to do so.
"No," be said, "I'm going to ride. I've got old Jenny upsaddled, and I'll come on after you."
"Nonsense!" said James; "get up at once. You must not delay."
But Danny resolutely declined. He would follow them on his old mare, to whom he was devoted, and nothing would shake his determination. She was only a short distance away, he declared, and he would lose no time in following. Seeing that it was useless to argue with him, and that every moment added to their peril, James was at last reluctantly compelled to agree to the arrangement.
Danny stood and watched them until they were out of sight, and then turned his face to the homestead once more.
"I hope the dear Lord will take care of them," he said piously; and then added, "Perhaps He won't be hard on me for telling them a lie when He knows why I did it. James didn't know that Piet had commandeered all the horses but those two."
He smiled slyly to himself as he thought of the plan he had formed, and then started on his return journey to the homestead. Though he could not think it out very clearly in his poor, vacant mind, yet he had still sufficient wit left to know that the fugitives' chance of safety depended solely upon the amount of start they received. If Piet left the farm, as he probably would do, without paying a second visit to the outhouse, and the new-comers, who were to carry out the execution, had never seen James, there was small chance of their becoming aware of the trick that had been played upon them. In that case James and Mamie would have no pursuit to fear, at any rate, for several hours.
Reaching the block of buildings, he advanced with more care. It was evident that the Boers had not as yet discovered the escape of their prisoner or become aware that Mamie was no longer in the house. As stealthily as a cat he approached the rear of the hut in which James had been confined, and then, dropping on to his hands and knees, crawled through the aperture he had previously made, closing it carefully and noiselessly behind him. Danny threw himself down on the bed, and was soon as sound asleep as if nothing out of the common had occurred that evening.
A little before dawn he was awakened by the turning of the key in the lock. A moment later two men entered the room. Both were strangers to him.
"Get up, meinheer," said one of them. "Time's up, and we must be on our way again."
Danny gazed at them as if he scarcely understood their meaning. It took him some little time to collect his wits and to realise the situation. Then the remembrance of all that had happened on the previous evening came back to him.
"Don't worry me, I want to go to sleep again," he said to the man who addressed him.
The other gazed at him in astonishment. Surely the man knew that he was about to die? Was he shamming ignorance of his fate in order to play upon their feelings? If so, he would find that he was mistaken in his audience.
"Get up," he said; "orders have been left with us to carry out your execution. If there's anything you'd like to say before you go, you'd better be quick about it. There isn't much time to spare. You can't see your wife, because she's bolted; but if there's anything else you want in reason, I'll do my best to oblige you, rooinek and traitor though you are."
Still Danny did not answer. The possibility that he might be shot in James's stead had not occurred to him; he had imagined that when they came to the hut in the morning they would discover that he was not the man they wanted, and let him go. He wondered how he had better act? If he revealed his identity, they would in all probability set off in pursuit of the others, and James would be captured and Mamie's heart broken, and the baby, that he loved almost as devotedly as he did Mamie herself, would be rendered fatherless. It was only a vague notion of these things that filled his brain, yet he was clear-headed enough to see that he was in a perilous position, and that he must either declare that he was not Laverton, as they supposed, or take the consequences. By the time he and his captor, who had been joined by three or four other men, reached the front of the house, he had made up his mind. James had always been a good friend to him, and Mamie he had loved all his life long. He didn't know that he was particularly afraid of dying, either.
The men about eyed him curiously. They were all strangers to him, but they had heard a good deal of late concerning the rooinek farmer who had flatly refused to fight against his countrymen. Now that they saw him in the flesh they were disappointed in him. He had not the appearance of being a clever man, and if he were the strong man and crack shot, as had been declared, his looks belied him.
"Have you anything to say?" asked the mail who had awakened him, when they came to a halt.
But Daft Danny only regarded the speaker with a vacant stare.
"Tm not James Laverton," he said. "I'm only Daft Danny."
"What!" shouted the leader. "Not James Laverton? Then where is he?"
"Gone," replied Danny, with a chuckle he could not suppress. "He's escaped."
At that moment the sound of horse's hoofs behind the house reached their ears, and a minute later Piet Voest stood before them. He had returned expecting to find that the execution had been carried out and that his enemy was dead. He looked at the prisoner and an exclamation of surprise escaped him.
"What are you going to do to that man?" he cried. "Where's Laverton?"
"Escaped," said the individual he addressed. "We found this fellow in the hut."
"If that's true, then it's you who got him away!" shouted Piet, when he had mastered his astonishment, and as he spoke he strode up to Danny, revolver in hand. "By Heaven! you shall pay for it with your life!"
Turning to his men Piet ordered them to prepare their rifles.
"I'll teach you to interfere in my affairs!" he cried, his face white with rage. "And when I catch Laverton, I'll show him that it's easier to count the locusts on the veldt yonder than to escape me."
He had moved aside and was about to give the order to fire, when a cry went up from those behind, "Look, look! the rooineks are coming!"
Piet looked, and there, sure enough, barely half a mile across the veldt, were a number of khaki-coloured figures, mounted infantry without a doubt, riding swiftly towards the house.
Taking advantage of the confusion that followed, Danny seized his opportunity, took to his heels, and bolted round the corner of the house. But he was scarcely quick enough. Only a few yards stood between him and safety, when Piet raised his revolver and fired. With a cry Danny fell forward, rolled over, and then lay as still as a dead rabbit.
"Now come into the house!" shouted Piet, and led the way.
Half an hour later, when the white flag was flying from the verandah, James Laverton and the officer in command went forward to the house. Only three of the enemy remained alive. Piet lay stretched out on the floor of Mamie's little sitting-room, shot through the head, with his second in command beside him. James glanced at his old foe and then hastened on to the other rooms, crying, "Danny! Danny!" as he went. But Danny was not in the house.
"Can he be locked up in the shed where they put me?" he asked himself, and ran outside to, see. Turning the corner of the house, he came upon a body stretched upon the ground. It was Danny, and it looked as if he were dead. With a wildly beating heart, James knelt down and examined him. No, thank God! he still breathed, but his shirt was stained with blood. Picking him up, James carried him back to the house. When the wound was discovered and dressed, Danny opened his eyes. His surprise at finding James, whom he believed to be upwards of a hundred miles away, was almost too much for him. He began to think he had had all his trouble in vain. But James soon undeceived him. He told him how, when they had been travelling a few hours, they had the good fortune to fall in with a patrol of the British forces, and how, when he had seen Mamie and the child in safety, he had obtained a horse and induced the officer in command to accompany him to the farm in search of Danny.
"Oh! Danny, Danny!" he said in conclusion, taking the other's rough hand in his, "what a debt of gratitude I owe you! But for you I should not—— But there, I dare not think of it. I can only say, God bless you, Danny! a thousand times God bless you!"
And he meant it.
Copyright, 1902, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the United States of America.
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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