Part 17 (1/2)
So they hid the truth, and talked with feverish activity about other things, such as the drilling of the Makalanga, and the chances of an attack by the Matabele, which happily now seemed to be growing small; also of the conditions of their cattle, and the prospect of obtaining more to replace those that had died. Indeed, Benita went farther; in her new-found zeal of deception she proceeded to act a lie, yes, even with her father's reproachful eyes fixed upon her. Incidentally she mentioned that they were going to have an outing, to climb down the ladder and visit the Makalanga camp between the first and second walls and mix with the great world for a few hours; also to carry their was.h.i.+ng to be done there, and bring up some clean clothes and certain books which she had left below.
Jacob came out of his thoughts and calculations, and listened gloomily.
”I have half a mind to come with you,” he said, words at which Benita s.h.i.+vered. ”It certainly is most cursed lonesome in that cave, and I seem to hear things in it, as though those old bones were rattling, sounds like sighs and whispers too, which are made by the draught.”
”Well, why don't you?” asked Benita.
It was a bold stroke, but it succeeded. If he had any doubts they vanished, and he answered at once:
”Because I have not the time. We have to get this business finished one way or another before the wet season comes on, and we are drowned out of the place with rain, or rotted by fever. Take your afternoon out, Miss Clifford; every maid of all work is ent.i.tled to as much, and I am afraid that is your billet here. Only,” he added, with that care for her safety which he always showed in his more temperate moods, ”pray be careful, Clifford, to get back before sundown. That wall is too risky for your daughter to climb in the dusk. Call me from the foot of it; you have the whistle, and I will come down to help her up. I think I'll go with you after all. No, I won't. I made myself so unpleasant to them yesterday that those Makalanga can't wish to see any more of me at present. I hope you will have a more agreeable afternoon than I shall. Why don't you take a ride outside the wall? Your horses are fat and want exercise, and I do not think that you need be afraid of the Matabele.” Then without waiting for an answer, he rose and left them.
Mr. Clifford looked after him doubtfully.
”Oh, I know,” said Benita, ”it seems horribly mean, but one must do shabby things sometimes. Here are the bundles all ready, so let us be off.”
Accordingly they went, and from the top of the wall Benita glanced back to bid goodbye to that place which she hoped never to see again. Yet she could not feel as though she looked her last upon it; to her it wore no air of farewell, and even as she descended the perilous stairs, she found herself making mental notes as to how they might best be climbed again. Also, she could not believe that she had done with Mr. Meyer. It seemed to her as though for a long while yet her future would be full of him.
They reached the outer fortifications in safety, and there were greeted with some surprise but with no displeasure by the Makalanga, whom they found still drilling with the rifles, in the use of which a certain number of them appeared to have become fairly proficient. Going to the hut in which the spare goods from the waggon had been stored, they quickly made their preparations. Here also, Mr. Clifford wrote a letter, one of the most unpleasant that he had ever been called upon to compose.
It ran thus:
”Dear Meyer,
”I don't know what you will think of us, but we are escaping from this place. The truth is that I am not well, and my daughter can bear it no longer. She says that if she stops here, she will die, and that hunting for treasure in that ghastly grave-yard is shattering her nerves. I should have liked to tell you, but she begged me not, being convinced that if I did, you would over-persuade us or stop us in some way. As for the gold, if you can find it, take it all. I renounce my share. We are leaving you the waggon and the oxen, and starting down country on our horses. It is a perilous business, but less so than staying here, under the circ.u.mstances. If we never meet again we hope that you will forgive us, and wish you all good fortune.--Yours sincerely and with much regret,
”T. Clifford.”
The letter written, they saddled the horses which had been brought up for their inspection, and were found to be in good case, and fastened their scanty belongings, and as many cartridges as they could carry in packs behind their saddles. Then, each of them armed with a rifle--for during their long journeyings Benita had learned to shoot--they mounted and made for the little side-entrance, as the main gate through which they had pa.s.sed on their arrival was now built up. This side-entrance, a mere slit in the great wall, with a precipitous approach, was open, for now that their fear of the Matabele had to some extent pa.s.sed off, the Makalanga used it to drive their sheep and goats in and out, since it was so constructed with several twists and turns in the thickness of the wall, that in a few minutes it could be effectually blocked by stones that lay at hand. Also, the ancient architect had arranged it in such a fas.h.i.+on that it was entirely commanded from the crest of the wall on either side.
The Makalanga, who had been watching their proceedings curiously, made no attempt to stop them, although they guessed that they might have a little trouble with the sentries who guarded the entrances all day, and even when it was closed at night, with whom also Mr. Clifford proposed to leave the letter. When they reached the place, however, and had dismounted to lead the horses down the winding pa.s.sage and the steep ascent upon its further side, it was to find that the only guard visible proved to be the old Molimo himself, who sat there, apparently half asleep.
But as they came he showed himself to be very much awake, for without moving he asked them at once whither they were going.
”To take a ride,” answered Mr. Clifford. ”The lady, my daughter, is weary of being cooped up in this fortress, and wishes to breathe the air without. Let us pa.s.s, friend, or we shall not be back by sunset.”
”If you be coming back at sunset, white man, why do you carry so many things upon your packs, and why are your saddle-bags filled with cartridges?” he asked. ”Surely you do not speak the truth to me, and you hope that never more will you see the sun set upon Bambatse.”
Now understanding that it was hopeless to deceive him, Benita exclaimed boldly:
”It is so; but oh! my Father, stay us not, for fear is behind us, and therefore we fly hence.”
”And is there no fear before you, maiden? Fear of the wilderness, where none wander save perchance the Amandabele with their b.l.o.o.d.y spears; fear of wild beasts and of sickness that may overtake you so that, first one and then the other, you perish there?”
”There is plenty, my Father, but none of them so bad as the fear behind.
Yonder place is haunted, and we give up our search and would dwell there no more.”
”It is haunted truly, maiden, but its spirits will not harm you whom they welcome as one appointed, and we are ever ready to protect you because of their command that has come to me in dreams. Nor, indeed, is it the spirits whom you fear, but rather the white man, your companion, who would bend you to his will. Deny it not, for I have seen it all.”
”Then knowing the truth, surely you will let us go,” she pleaded, ”for I swear to you that I dare not stay.”
”Who am I that I should forbid you?” he asked. ”Yet I tell you that you would do well to stay and save yourselves much terror. Maiden, have I not said it days and day ago, that here and here only you must accomplish your fate? Go now if you will, but you shall return again,”