CHAPTER VII

IN THE GARRET

"I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a fairy's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild." --JOHN KEATS.

Bert stood where he was, rooted in deep thought, watching the child as she ran away. He did not believe that what she said was true. Millie might very probably plot to escape, but she would never send him word to bear her company. Besides, he knew that she did not intend to run away until she heard the result of her father's message to her English relatives. He wondered that anybody should think such a device could impose upon him. It was a hoax, and its obvious object was to get him out of the way. What devilry was Tante Wilma plotting?

He laughed a little; they thought him easily deceived.

A moment's reflection convinced him that the child's message was part of a preconceived arrangement with Amurrica. But he felt sure that, after his handling of the subject, the prospective bridegroom would be unable to take his part in anything that night. He looked at the clock, which pointed to seven, and made up his mind that he would resume his sentry duty at Lutwyche's about eight. Anticipating a long wait, he thrust a sandwich into his pocket and a flask of spirits, and sallied forth to stroll down the town, and hear what was being said of the fight and the funeral.

The main street was thronged with people. For a minute it made him a little anxious. If the town meant to take up the feud, and back Otis, things might be a trifle strained, though there were some of the men on whom he thought he could rely as backers.

But he soon saw that there was a deeper preoccupation on the faces of the burghers. The fight, which in calmer times would have filled men's mouths for a week, was forgotten. The flag floating over the Post Office showed him that the weekly mail was in; and knowing the political tension, he guessed that there was news. He dashed into the Vierkleur. It was a babel of tongues. Men were fighting for possession of the newspapers; those who had letters or journals from Pretoria were being besieged in corners. For the moment, the remembrance of Millie faded from Bert's mind, as he mingled with the throng, and gathered first of all the main fact, that the British Government had ordered the immediate despatch of troops, both from England and India, to back up the demand for the Outland Franchise. Debate was keen as to whether the British Government would really fight.

The madness of conflict rose in Bert's blood as in that of all the men there. They shouted, argued, wrangled, drank, swore. At whatever cost, Bert felt he must get at the main facts of the position, and he listened while one of the men, perched on the bar, read aloud leading articles from English and Boer journals, and the talk hummed and buzzed more busily than ever.

He was recalled from his absorption by a touch on his shoulder. Cornelis Pieters, the field-cornet, stood by, regarding him with no friendly glance.

"Lucky for you the Commandos are to be called out; nobody will have time to set the law on you," he growled. "Otis is goin' to die."

"We're all going to die--some day," said Bert placidly.

"He's goin' on ahead," said Pieters surlily.

"I'm not taking any," returned Bert, unmoved. "I had the cooking of him, and I know what I done to him. He won't be gettin' married just yet a while; but he's all right."

"If Tante Wilma takes my advice, she'll give that girl a taste of the stick," rumbled Pieters. "A taller dip 'ud make as good a wife as her, to my way o' thinkin'; an' when a man that could stomach her comes along, you must needs knock him out o' time. It wasn't your affair. There'll be a reckoning, I can tell you."

"Hope so," retorted Bert. "Couldn't live in this township, if you didn't believe the right 'ud come up some day. So long!"

"Where are you off to?"

"To see as Tante Wilma don't lay a finger on the gal."

"From what I heard, before I came away, I shouldn't be surprised if you was too late," said Pieters, grinning in his face.

* * * * * * * *

It was quite dark when he arrived at the gate of Lutwyche's.

He was panting with the speed he had used, and the sweat ran down him. He was blaming himself bitterly because in the excitement of the war news he had lost sight of his purpose; and it was more than half-past eight. To his untold joy and relief, the first thing he saw was the light glimmering through Millie's square of ground glass in the loft. His heart leapt, and the strain of his muscles relaxed. He halted outside the gate, wiped his brow, and listened with all his might. All was quiet. But there was one unusual thing. Lights were burning in the _sitkamer_, a most rare phenomenon in a pastoral Boer district, where everybody rises and goes to bed with the sun. This looked as though it were still planned that the sitting-up should take place that night. He carefully unfastened the hurdle gate and went into the yard. By degrees he drew nearer the house. Half-way across, a sound made itself audible--the thudding of a hammer against wood. It went on with monotonous regularity, but his fears sprang up anew at the sound. What were they doing?

He walked right up to the stoep, raised himself to a level with the window-sill, and through a gap between the edge of the blind and the window frame, could see right into the _sitkamer_. What were they doing?

Tante Wilma, like some unclean beast, stood balancing herself unsteadily against the table, her face purple, her eyes wild, a sjambok in her hand. The children were all clustered round the foot of the ladder leading to the loft, and the eldest boy was standing upon it, aiming clumsy, childish blows with a big hammer at the trapdoor above his head.

Ha! Then he was just in time, and only just! Lord! When the bolt gave way, they should find someone they did not look for, in the loft above!

The blood surged to Bert's head--he set his teeth. With stealthy tread he crept to the barn, found a ladder--his late vigils about the farm had taught him where most things were kept--and setting it against the low house wall, he lightly ascended to the roof.

The window was slightly open--secured by means of an iron bar with holes in it. It was not wide enough to enable him to see in. The blows continued upon the trap below, showing that the besiegers had not yet forced an entrance. The noise drowned the sound of his voice, and he ventured to call gently: "Millie! Millie!"

There was no answer. He called again, a little louder.

All was silent in the garret; he could not hear the least rustling. The idea that she was not there, after all, but hiding away somewhere in safety, made his heart dance. Suppose she really had run away, and was waiting for him at the cross-roads? It was most unlikely, but it was not impossible; one never could be sure of girls. Meantime, he must ascertain before that bolt gave. Putting in his hand, he lifted the window as high as it would go--high enough to enable him to put his head under it. The loft extended a good way, though only just in the centre, under the pitch of the roof, was it high enough to stand upright in. It was a pitiful sleeping-chamber for a girl.

The little camp bed was smooth and empty. He could not see Millie anywhere. A candle stood upon a deal chest, guttering in the draught, showing the void space and the neatness of the dreary lodging.

She was actually gone, then? He drew a deep breath....

Something had caught his eye--a red, wet mess on the bare boards, close to the trap-door. All round this was a series of smears, and another blotch, almost a pool ... and some big drops, dotted along the floor into the darkness, under the low part of the roof, where the coffins and the fruit were stored.

Bert became a tiger. One wrench of his iron wrists brought the skylight off its hinges, and without noise he swung himself down into the garret. Stooping, he assured himself that the iron bolt of the trap-door would stand a good deal more of such battering as it was now enduring before it gave way. Then he seized the candle, and crept along the trail of the blood-stains.

He soon found her; and at first he thought that she was dead. She was lying prone upon the ground, her head sunk sideways, all dabbled in blood. One arm lay so curiously twisted that he guessed it to be broken. Bending over her, he heard her breathe; and then, raising her as tenderly as he could, found with mingled fury and relief that all the bleeding came from her lacerated shoulders. She had been inhumanly thrashed. Her clothes were literally torn off her back.

With indomitable pride she had crept up here to die alone.

It did not take Bert an instant to consider what he should do. He snatched a sheet from the bed, wrapped it round and round the raw, bleeding back, then possessed himself of the dark woollen coverlet, and rolled the slight, unresisting form therein. Lifting her as easily as one might a child, he carried her to the skylight, managed, with the help of a broken chair, to get her and himself through it, and in a moment was descending the ladder, clasping all the happiness the world held for him in his arms, his whole heart one white flame of pity and indignation.