John Ames, Native Commissioner: A Romance of the Matabele Rising. Mitford Bertram
wrought-up savages bent upon it with concentrated stare. Then the Abantwana ’Mlimo, falling prone to the earth, once more raise the chant, and this time the whole multitude joins, in a great rolling volume of chorus: —
“Burned is the earth, Gloom in the skies; Nation’s new birth – Manhood arise!”
In wild uncontrollable excitement the multitude watches the now fast lightening orb; then, when the shadow has entirely left it, shining in bright, clear radiance as before, all faces are once more turned upward to the great granite pile, looming huge against the stars, its front a dull grey in the moonlight. Once more is the silence dead – expectant.
“Oh, Great Great One!” cries Shiminya, standing with arms outstretched, “we behold a nation’s new birth. But the time, O Word of the Wise? The time?”
“The time!” And now the Voice rolled from the black cavern mouth in a very thunder roar that reverberated among the mighty granite walls in a shock of echo that struck the entranced auditors speechless. “The time, Children of Matyobane? The time? Before next moon is dead.”
Chapter Eight.
The Parting of the Ways
John Ames was seated beneath the verandah at Cogill’s Hotel with a blue official document in his hand and a very disgusted look upon his face.
The former accounted for the latter inasmuch as it was the direct cause thereof. In cold official terminology it regretted the necessity of abridging the period of his leave, and in terse official terminology requested that he would be good enough to return to his post with all possible dispatch.
He looked up from his third reading of this abominable document, and his brows were knitted in a frown. He looked at the thick plumbago hedge opposite, spangled with its pale blue blossoms, at the smooth red stems of the tall firs, up again at the deep blue of the cloudless sky overhead, then down once more upon the detestable missive, and said: —
“Damn!”
John Ames was not addicted to the use of strong language. Now, however, he reckoned the occasion justified it.
“With all possible dispatch.” That would mean taking his departure that night – that very night. And here he was, ready and waiting to do the usual escort duty, this time for a long day out on the bicycle. If he were to start that night it would mean exactly halving that long day. With a savage closing of the hand he crushed the official letter into a blue ball, and once more ejaculated —
“Damn!”
“Sssh!”
Thereat he started. Nidia Commerell was standing in the doorway right beside him, drawing on a pair of suede gloves, her blue eyes dancing with mirth. She was clad in a bicycle skirt and light blouse, and wore a plain white sailor hat.
“Sssh! You using naughty swear words? I am surprised at you!”
The smile which rippled brightly from the mobile lips showed, however, that the surprise, if any, was not of a derogatory nature. John Ames laughed ruefully.
“I’m sorry. But really it was under great provocation. I’ve received marching orders.”
“No? Not really? Oh, how disgusting!”
The utterance was quick. His eyes were full upon her face. How would she receive the communication? Was that really a flash of consternation, of regret, that swept over it?
“When must you go?” she continued, still, it seemed to him, speaking rather quickly.
“I ought to start by to-night’s train” – then, breaking off – “Where is Mrs Bateman? Is she ready?”
“We shall have to go without her. She can’t come – says she’s getting headachy.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
Nidia had to turn away her head to avoid a splutter outright. Never had she heard words intended to be sympathetic uttered in tones of more jubilant relief. To herself she said: “You are a sad tarradiddler, John Ames.” To him she said, “Yes; it’s a pity, isn’t it?” He, for his part, was thinking that this time the official order need not be interpreted too literally. It had plainly intimated that a state of things had transpired which necessitated the presence of every official at his post, but this time the state of things could dispense with his adjusting hand for twenty-four hours longer. “With all possible dispatch.” Well, to start that night under the circumstances would not be possible, under others it would. Throughout the whole day Nidia would be alone with him, and he meant that day to be one that he should remember.
They started. At first the exhilarating spin along the smooth fir-shaded road, together with the consciousness that the day was only beginning, caused him partly to forget that most unwelcome recall. They had arranged to use by-roads where the riding was good, and, taking the train at Mowbray, proceed to Cape Town, and ride out thence as far beyond Camp’s Bay as they felt inclined. Now, as they spun along through the sunlit air, between leafy gardens radiant with bright flowers and the piping of gladsome birds, the noble mountain wall away on the left towering majestic though not stern and forbidding, its cliffs softened in the summer haze, its slopes silvered with the beautiful wattle, and great seas of verdure – the bright green of oak foliage throwing out in relief the darker pine and blue eucalyptus – surging up against its mighty base, the very contrast afforded by this glorious scene of well-nigh Paradisical beauty, and the mental vision of a hot steamy wilderness, not unpicturesque, but depressing in the sense of remote loneliness conveyed, was borne forcibly home to the mind of one of them. It was a question of hours, and all would have fled. He grew silent. Depression had reasserted itself.
Yet, was it merely a sense of the external contrast which was afflicting him? He had traversed this very scene before, and not once or even twice only. He had always admired it, but listlessly. But now? The magic wand had been waved over the whole. But why transform the ordinary and mundane into a paradise for one who was to be suffered but one glimpse therein, and now was to be cast forth? A paradise – ah yes; but a fool’s paradise, he told himself bitterly.
“Well?”
He started. The query had come from Nidia, and was uttered artlessly, innocently, but with a spice of mischief.
“Yes? I was wondering?” she went on.
“What were you wondering?”
“Oh, nothing! Only – er – as it is rather – er – slow for me, don’t you think so – supposing you give me an inkling of the problem that is absorbing you so profoundly? You haven’t said a word for at least ten minutes. And I like talking.”
“I am so sorry. Yes; I might have remembered that. How shall I earn forgiveness?”
“By telling me exactly what you were thinking about, absolutely and without reservations. On no other conditions, mind.”
“Oh, only what a nuisance it is being called away just now.”
The tone was meant to be offhand, but the quick ear of Nidia was not so easy to deceive. When John Ames did look down into the bright laughing face it had taken an expression of sympathy, that with a quick bound of the heart he read for one that was almost tender.
“Yes. It is horrid!” she agreed. “You had a long time to run yet, hadn’t you?”
“Nearly a month.”
“I call it perfectly abominable. Can’t you tell them it is absolutely impossible to come back just now, that – er – in short, on no account can you?”
He looked at her. “Do you wish it?” was on his lips; but he left the words unsaid. He shook his head sadly.
“I’m afraid it can’t be done. You see, I am entirely at their beck and call. And then, from what they say, I believe they really do want me.”
“Yes; I was forgetting that. It is something, after all, to be of some use, as I was telling you the other night; do you remember?”
Did he remember? Was there one word she had ever said to him – one look she had ever given