he went on with gathering vehemence, "that if it wasn"t that it would be mean to play such a trick upon my father, I wouldn"t go. I"d come with you, or follow after--all my life. Answer me--what have you done?"
"Nothing, nothing at all," said Rachel with a little sob, "except tie up your arm."
"That can"t be it," he replied. "Anyone could tie up my arm. Oh! I know it is wrong, but I hope I shan"t be able to overtake the waggons, for if I can"t I will come back."
"You mustn"t come back; you must go away, quite away, as soon as you can.
Yes, as soon as you can. Your father will be very anxious," and she began to cry outright.
"Stop it," said Richard. "Do you hear me, stop it. I am not going to be made to snivel too, just because I shan"t see a little girl any more whom I never met--till yesterday."
These last words came out with a gulp, and what is more, two tears came with them and trickled down his nose.
For a moment they sat thus looking at each other pitifully, and--the truth must be told--weeping, both of them. Then something got the better of Richard, let us call it primeval instinct, so that he put his arms about Rachel and kissed her, after which they continued to weep, their heads resting upon each other"s shoulders. At length he let her go and stood up, saying argumentatively:
"You see now we are really friends."
"Yes," she answered, again rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand for lack of a pocket handkerchief in the fashion that on the previous day had so irritated her father, "but I don"t know why you should kiss me like that, just because you are my friend, or" she added with an outburst of truthfulness, "why I should kiss you."
Richard stood over her frowning and reflecting. Then he gave up the problem as beyond his powers of interpretation, and said:
"You remember that rubbish you dreamt just now, about my being tied to a tree and the rest of it? Well, it wasn"t nice, and it gives me the creeps to think of it, like the lions outside the cave. But I want to tell you that I hope it is true, for then we shall meet again, if it is only to say good-night."
"Yes, Richard," she answered, placing her slim fingers into his big brown hand, "we shall meet again, I am sure--I am quite sure. And I think that it will be to say, not good-night," and she looked up at him and smiled, "but good-morning."
As Rachel spoke a puff of wind blew down the donga, rolling up the mist before it, and of a sudden shining above them they saw the glorious sun.
As though by magic b.u.t.terflies appeared basking upon the rain-shattered lily blooms; bright birds flitted from tree to tree, ringdoves began to coo. The terror of the tempest and the darkness of night were overpast; the world awoke again to life and love and joy. Instantly this change reflected itself in their young hearts. They whose natures had as it were ripened prematurely in the stress of danger and the shadow of death, became children once again. The very real emotions that they had experienced were forgotten, or at any rate sank into abeyance. Now they thought, not of separation or of the dim, mysterious future that stretched before them, but only of how they should ford the stream and gain its further side, where Rachel saw her father, Tom, the driver, and the other Kaffirs, and Richard saw his horse which he had feared was lost.
They ran down to the brink of the water and examined it, but here it was still too deep for them to attempt its crossing. Then, directed by the shouts and motions of the Kaffir Tom and Mr. Dove, they proceeded up stream for several hundred yards, till they came to a rapid where the lessening flood ran thinly over a ridge of rock, and after investigation, proceeded to try its pa.s.sage hand in hand. It proved difficult but not dangerous, for when they came near to the further side where the current was swift and the water rather deep, Tom threw them a waggon rope, clinging on to which they were dragged--wet, but laughing--in safety to the further bank.
"Ow!" exclaimed the Kaffirs, clapping their hands. "She is alive, the lightnings have turned away from her, she rules the waters, and the lightnings!" and then and there, after the native fashion, they gave Rachel a name which was destined to play a great part in her future. That name was "Lady of the Lightnings," or, to translate it more accurately, "of the Heavens."
"I never thought to see you again," said her father, looking at Rachel with a face that was still white and scared. "It was very wrong of me to send you so far with that storm coming on, and I have had a terrible night--yes, a terrible night; and so has your poor mother. However, she knows that you are safe by now, thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d!" and he took her in his arms and kissed her.
"Well, father, you said that He would look after me, didn"t you? And so He did, for He sent Richard here If it hadn"t been for Richard I should have been drowned," she added inconsequently.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Dove. "Providence manifests itself in many ways. But who is your young friend whom you call Richard? I suppose he has some other name."
"Of course," answered that youth himself, "everybody has except Kaffirs.
Mine is Darrien."
"Darrien?" said Mr. Dove. "I had a friend called Darrien at school. I never saw him after I left, but I believe that he went into the Navy."
"Then he must be my father, sir, for I have heard him say that there had been no other Darrien in the service for a hundred years."
"I think so," answered Mr. Dove, "for now that I look at you, I can see a likeness. We slept side by side in the same dormitory once five-and-thirty years ago, so I remember. And now you have saved my daughter; it is very strange. But tell me the story."
So between them they told it, although to one scene of it--the last--neither of them thought it necessary to allude; or perhaps it was forgotten.
"Truly the Almighty has had you both in His keeping," exclaimed Mr. Dove, when their tale was done. "And now, Richard, my boy, what are you going to do? You see, we caught your horse--it was grazing about a mile away with the saddle twisted under its stomach--and wondered what white man could possibly have been riding it in this desolate place. Afterwards, however, one of my voor-loopers reported that he had seen two waggons yesterday afternoon trekking through the poort about five miles to the north there.
The white men with them said that they were travelling towards the Cape, and pushing on to get out of the hills before the storm broke. They bade him, if he met you, to bid you follow after them as quickly as you could, and to say that they would wait for you, if you did not arrive before, at the Three Sluit outspan on this side of the Pondo country, at which you stopped some months ago."
"Yes," answered Richard, "I remember, but that outspan is thirty miles away, so I must be getting on, or they will come back to hunt for me."
"First you will stop and eat with us, will you not?" said Mr. Dove.
"No, no, I have eaten. Also I have saved some meat in my pouch. I must go, I must indeed, for otherwise my father will be angry with me. You see," he added, "I went out shooting without his leave."
"Ah! my boy," remarked Mr. Dove, who seldom neglected an opportunity for a word in season, "now you know what comes of disobedience."
"Yes, I know, sir," he answered looking at Rachel. "I was just in time to save your daughter"s life here; as you said just now, Providence sent me.
Well, good-bye, and don"t think me wicked if I am very glad that I was disobedient, as I believe you are, too."
"Yes, I am. Good comes out of evil sometimes, though that is no reason why we should do evil," the missionary added, not knowing what else to say.
Richard did not attempt to argue the point, for at the moment he was engaged in bidding farewell to Rachel. It was a very silent farewell; neither of them spoke a word, they only shook each other"s hand and looked into each other"s eyes. Then muttering something which it was as well that Mr. Dove did not hear, Richard swung himself into the saddle, for his horse stood at hand, and, without even looking back, cantered away towards the mountains.
"Oh!" exclaimed Rachel presently, "call him, father."
"What for?" asked Mr. Dove.
"I want to give him our address, and to get his."
"We have no address, Rachel. Also he is too far off, and why should you want the address of a chance acquaintance?"
"Because he saved my life and I do," replied the child, setting her face.
Then, without another word, she turned and began to walk towards their camp--a very heavy journey it was to Rachel.
When Rachel reached the waggon she found that her mother was more or less recovered. At any rate the attack of fever had left her so that she felt able to rise from her bed. Now, although still weak, she was engaged in packing away the garments of her dead baby in a travelling chest, weeping in a silent, piteous manner as she worked. It was a very sad sight. When she saw Rachel she opened her arms without a word, and embraced her.
"You were not frightened about me, mother?" asked the child.
"No, my love," she answered, "because I knew that no harm would come to you. I have always known that. It was a mad thing of your father to send you to such a place at such a time, but no folly of his or of anyone else can hurt you who are destined to live. Never be afraid of anything, Rachel, for remember always you will only die in old age."
"I am not sure that I am glad of that," answered the girl, as she pulled off her wet clothes. "Life isn"t a very happy thing, is it, mother, at least for those who live as we do?"
"There is good and bad in it, dear; we can"t have one without the other--most of us. At any rate, we must take it as it comes, who have to walk a path that we did not make, and stop walking when our path comes to an end, not a step before or after. But, Rachel, you are changed since yesterday. I see it in your face. What has happened to you?"
"Lots of things, mother. I will tell you the story, all of it, every word.
Would you like to hear it?"
Her mother nodded, and, the baby-clothes being at last packed away, shut the lid of-the box with a sigh, sat down upon it and listened.
Rachel told her of her meeting with Richard Darrien, and of how he saved her from the flood. She told of the strange night that they had spent together in the little cave while the lions marched up and down without.
She told of her vigil over the sleeping Richard at the daybreak, and of the dream that she had dreamed when she seemed to see him grown to manhood, and herself grown to womanhood, and clad in white skins, watching him lashed to the trunk of a gigantic tree as the first arrows of sunrise struck down the lanes of some mysterious forest. She told of how her heart had been stirred, and of how afterwards in the mist by the water"s brink his heart had been stirred also, and of how they had kissed each other and wept because they must part.
Then she stopped, expecting that her mother would be angry with her and scold her for her thoughts and conduct, as she knew well her father would have done. But she was not angry, and she did not scold. She only stretched out her thin hands and stroked the child"s fair hair, saying:
"Don"t be frightened, Rachel, and don"t be sad. You think that you have lost him, but soon or late he will come back to you, perhaps as you dreamed--perhaps otherwise."
"If I were sure of that, mother, I would not mind anything," said the girl, "though really I don"t know why I should care," she added defiantly.