Aletta Part 33

Possibly nationality did count in the long run, though, where love was the consideration, Aletta, for her part, could not understand how nationality should make a hairsbreadth of difference. And, again, she thought, she herself was not even decent-looking--well she remembered how that statement had been received by him to whom it was addressed-- whereas this English girl was bounteously dowered by Nature with outward attractiveness, and, after all, she supposed this was what weighed with men. Well, she must get this man out of her mind. With time and determination she supposed it could be done. She must grow to regard him as one who had pa.s.sed out of her life, as one who was as completely dead to her as though actually so to this world, and must contemplate the fact with equanimity, with utter indifference. Oh yes, that would come--in time.

Would it? This was a very changed Aletta now, and the merry, happy, spontaneous peal of laughter was never now heard--even the faint and ghostly semblance of it but seldom. The sweet, bright, radiant spirits seemed to have found a grave. Yes, on the whole, perhaps it was as well that these relatives of hers were too old, and other people too preoccupied with the movement of events around, to notice the difference.

"Missis, I have something to say," exclaimed a voice in Dutch. Looking up, Aletta saw a tall, ragged, travel-worn looking yellow man. His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the catch of the garden gate.

She came quickly down the garden path to meet him, realising as she did so, that her walk was somewhat unsteady. For in the man who had thus suddenly broken in upon her meditations she recognised Colvin's Griqua servant, Gert Bondelzwart.

"I have dreadful news for you, Missis," jerked forth the latter, his voice shaking with excitement. "They are--going to shoot him!"

Aletta could feel her cheeks grow pale and icy.

"Who is going to shoot whom?" her bloodless lips managed to gasp forth.

"Baas Colvin. _Die Boeren mensche_," he answered. "_Ja_, they have sent in now for the _predikant_ to come out to the Baas. He is to be shot to-morrow morning."

"Oh, good G.o.d!"--No, she must not faint, she must act. "Where, Gert?"

she went on. "Where?"

"At Krantz Kop, Missis. Gideon Roux' place--Schoeman's commando."

"Has Mynheer started yet? Quick! Say."

"_Nee_, Missis, not yet. Four burghers came to escort him out, and they have off-saddled while the _predikant_ is inspanning. Oh, _mijn lieve Baas_--_mijn lieve Baas_! What can be done, Missis? What can be done?"

The fellow was actually weeping. Even in the agony of the moment the thought flashed through Aletta's mind that this man could command such devoted attachment from even a Hottentot.

"What can be done!" she repeated. "This is what you have to do, Gert.

Saddle up the _rooi-schimmel_ there in the stable. Put a man's saddle on him, for _you_ will have to ride him, and come round with me to the _predikants_ house--now at once."

"_Ja_, Missis." And Gert departed with willing alacrity. Aletta ran quickly to her room. A couple of minutes sufficed for her to get into such travelling attire as she deemed necessary. But one article of her outfit where with she provided herself would have struck with wild amazement and misgiving anyone who should have seen her. She felt devoutly thankful that the old couple had toddled off to exchange gossip with a neighbour, for not only had she the house to herself, but was spared the vexation and delay of explaining her movements.

Mynheer Lukas Albertus Albertyn, V.D.M. resident minister of the Dutch Reformed Church at Schalkburg, was a fair type of the average country _predikant_, which is to say that he performed all the duties of his office with ordinary conscientiousness, had a keen eye to the customary emoluments of the said office, both in currency and in kind, and was regarded with veneration by the female side of his flock, and the older and less progressive of the male. His political sympathies were all with his own countrymen and the cause of the Republics, and his outward appearance we know, for we have already made his acquaintance during the opening event of this narrative--at the political meeting gathered to hear the fervid oratory of Andries Botma, to wit.

Mynheer was seated in his dining-room s.n.a.t.c.hing a hasty lunch prior to setting forth upon his errand of mercy. Truth to tell, he was rather a puzzled _predikant_ at that moment. What on earth did they want to shoot this Englishman for? He was well known to many of them, was in sympathy with them, too, and moreover was engaged to the daughter of one of their most prominent burghers. Again, it was odd that an English man should send for him at such a time. Englishmen of Colvin Kershaw's cla.s.s, when they did not hanker after Popery, scoffed at all religion, was Mynheer's experience. There was an English _predikant_ at Schalkburg, too--one who set up candles and brazen idols, and called those of the Reformed creed ugly names--why did this Englishman not send for him?

Perhaps because of the candles and idols. And at this point Mynheer's reflections were suddenly and somewhat unceremoniously interrupted, for a quick knock sounded on the door-panel, followed by the entrance of its perpetrator almost before he had time to call out "Come in!"

"Why, Aletta!" he exclaimed. And then the words of welcome died in his throat. This girl was engaged to the Englishman who was to be shot on the following morning!

"I am going out to Krantz Kop with you, Mynheer." she began. "I know you will not refuse me a seat in your trap--remembering"--and her voice was caught back by a sob, which, however, she manfully suppressed.

"But, Aletta, my child, only think. You can be of no use, I fear. Had you not better resign yourself to the will of the Almighty and remain at home and pray--while there is yet time?"

Hollow sounding as this commonplace was--claptrap even--it had a.s.serted itself as a mere veil to mask the speaker's own feelings. Anti-English or not, he was a good-hearted man, this _predikant_, and then, too, Aletta had been one of the most brilliant and satisfactory of his confirmees. He had a great partiality for her.

"_Nee_, Mynheer," she answered, "the time for mere praying has not yet come. And even if it had, I must _see_ him once more. Don't you understand? But if you refuse me, I can still go by myself. I have a horse here, and I will ride all the way, even if I kill the animal."

Her quick, eager decisiveness, the utter misery depicted in her face, showed him that here was no mere weak girl to be reasoned with and advised, but a resourceful, determined woman. Here was a side to Aletta De la Rey's character which was a revelation to the worthy _predikant_.

"Well, well, of course you must go with me, my child," he answered very kindly. "They are nearly ready for us."

"I have just time to write a line to my father," said Aletta, moving to a writing table without ceremony. This was no time for trivial observances she felt. She dashed off a few hasty lines, hasty but emphatic, and thoroughly lucid and to the point. Her father was not very far from the Free State border. By an effort he might arrive in time, and his influence was great.

The _predikant's_ Cape cart was already inspanned, and the attendant burghers, who were seated in their saddles, stolidly waiting, saluted her as she appeared. Gert Bondelzwart, too, was all ready.

"Gert," she said in a low tone, "you know your shortest, straightest way. Do not lose a minute, even if you kill the horse. A minute may mean a life remember. No one will attempt to stop you, for I have put that upon the letter which will open a way for you anywhere."

"_Ja_, Missis," said Gert, and away he went. Then she got into the cart beside Mynheer, and they, too, started.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

AT THE PRICE OF HERSELF.

Up till now Aletta had asked no questions. She had accepted Gert's a.s.surance, of which the man's obvious distress was sufficient confirmation. Her quick-witted, practical nature had a.s.serted itself.

That was no time for questions. She must act, and that promptly. Now, however, that they were well on their way, and covering the ground at the best pace the _predikants_ excellent horses could put on, she reckoned the time had come to know more. Why was Colvin Kershaw to be murdered--for it was murder she declared? What had he done?

But Mynheer could not tell her much beyond the bare facts of the case as he knew them, for the burghers who had come to fetch him had been extremely reticent.

"Helping a prisoner to escape. But that is not a thing to shoot a man for," she said. "Oh, I will plead with the Commandant, and you will, too, will you not, Mynheer? Ah, if only father were here, they would not dare do it then. But--who was the prisoner, and did he escape?"

"He escaped--yes. It was Frank Wenlock, and he was to be shot for insulting the President and the patriot cause, and a.s.saulting one of the burghers. He was very violent, and very blasphemous--_Ja_, that I can quite believe, for did not he and some of the worst characters in Schalkburg disturb our service one evening at Nachtmaal time, by ringing the bell which hangs outside, and running away? And he gets drunk and rowdy when he comes into the town. No, he is a bad character. Kershaw ought not to have exchanged his life for the life of such a man as that."

They conversed in English so that Mynheer's native groom might not understand. The burgher escort, too, were mostly close to the vehicle.

So it was for Frank Wenlock's sake that Colvin was throwing away his life, thought Aletta. Mynheer had spoken truly indeed, as to the vast disparity of such an exchange. But--he was May's brother. That explained it all. How Colvin must have loved that other girl, to make the greatest sacrifice that human being can make--for her sake! And the thought had a kind of hardening effect upon Aletta, for she was but a woman after all, not an angel. Why should she continue to pour out her love upon one who had proved so faithless? Only an hour or two ago she had been telling herself that he was practically dead to her. Yet the moment she had heard that he was soon likely to be actually so, here she was moving Heaven and earth to save him, or, at any rate, to see him once more. Well, she would still do all she could to save him, but she would not see him again, in any event. No, from that resolve she would not swerve.

"But how did he get to Krantz Kop, Mynheer?" she said, in continuation of her thoughts. "He was at Pret--Johannesburg when I saw him last."

"They say he had come from Cronje's force, and had seen a lot of the fighting near Kimberley. I don't know this Schoeman, but Jan Grobbelaar and the others ought to be able to do something for him between them."

"He _had_ been with Cronje's force, then?" echoed Aletta, as though a new idea had come to her. But it was quickly dashed. He had had plenty of time to have gone there afterwards, after that day when she with her own eyes had seen him making love to May Wenlock. With her own eyes!

There was no getting round that fact.

And the hours wore on, bringing these two nearer and nearer to their sad and mournful goal.

Night had fallen upon the burgher camp at Krantz Kop, and most of its inmates, habituated to rising with the sun and retiring with the going down of the same, or not long after it, were in the land of dreams.

They were under no fear of surprise, for besides the fact of their sentries being well posted there was a strong commando, with artillery, entrenched below on the outer slope of the mountains, and between them and the far British lines. So the camp slumbered in peace and security.

In one tent, however, a light was still burning, throwing the shadows of men--huge, distorted, grotesque, out upon the canvas. Adrian De la Rey and his two now boon companions--Gideon Roux and Herma.n.u.s Delport--sat within. A bottle of _dop_, the contents of which had nearly reached vanishing point, stood on a waggon box in the centre.

"_Toen_, Adrian!" the last of these was saying. "All is going well now.

The Englishman will be out of your way to-morrow for ever--out of all our ways, hey, Gideon? We will come to your wedding soon, _ou' maat_-- when we have shot a few more of these cursed English. Do you think Oom Stepha.n.u.s will be glad to see us?"

"Finish up, and go away and sleep," growled Adrian, pushing the bottle towards him, "or you'll be too shaky for anything in the morning, both of you. You'll miss him at ten paces, like you did before at two hundred."