CHAPTER TWELVE.

GERT BONDELZWART'S NEWS.

The town of Schalkburg was still in possession of the enemy. The Free State flag waved above the Court-house, and the "patriot" burghers, whether of the Free State commando or rebel colonial Boers, had things all their own way, and a great time generally, for they proceeded to "commandeer" all the necessaries of life, and a good many of its luxuries, from the temporarily conquered people, and to make themselves very much at home among them, mostly at the expense of the latter. For these the only thing to do, however, was to accept the situation, and make the best of it.

There was one to whom this course recommended itself, and that was Mr Jelf. He would laugh ruefully over his enforced suspension--ruefully because he was sure the Colonial Office would hold him responsible, since for what is a long suffering Civil Commissioner not responsible-- and play whist with his superseder, a Free State attorney, who had been set up by the burghers to administer the law as Landdrost. But there was practically no law to administer in Schalkburg, for now every man did what was right in his own eyes, unless some misguided and commandeered native shirked or strove to abscond. In such cases the newly fledged Landdrost did administer the law, resulting in vehement contact between raw hide and the aboriginal cuticle.

Jelf was not a little anxious on the score of his absent subordinate, who had been away on one of those semi-official investigations what time the town was captured. He hoped Morkel had not come to grief with those fiery English aspirations of his; and then he would smile to himself as he reflected that such sentiments were patient of sudden metamorphosis under stress of circumstances. No, Morkel would turn up again sooner or later, he supposed.

He had felt very disgusted at the behaviour of Jan Grobbelaar. This was the ultra-loyal Field-cornet then! Stephanus De la Rey, at any rate, had been an honest man, but Swaart Jan was a snake in the grass, and he, Jelf, had not hesitated to tell him so when he had ridden up beside Commandant Schoeman to demand the keys of the offices. But the little man had merely shown his tusks in a deprecating grin. "What would Mynheer have?" he said. "A man must march with his own countrymen. But Mynheer and he need be none the less friends for all that."

As a matter of fact, Jelf had no reason to complain of his treatment under the circumstances. He was a good-natured man and not unpopular among the Dutch farmers of his district, and now these showed him respect and consideration.

Schalkburg just then comprised another inmate, and that a personage not the least important in the unfolding of our narrative, namely, Aletta De la Rey. She was staying with some relatives, an old couple who had retired from farming, to settle in the township on their own _erf_; and she had been obliged to seek shelter with them because on reaching home she had found that all the family were away in the Free State--a fact which had not been known to her, partly owing to her sudden and unexpected homeward move, partly that, thanks to the war, communication was frequently interrupted and always uncertain. But, as it happened, she welcomed the discovery with a feeling of intense relief. She had shrunk in anticipation from the questionings of her own family, now she would be spared these for a while longer. The Van Heerdens, her relatives, were a very old couple with hardly an idea outside their own _erf_ and the covers of the family Bible. They were not likely to bother her with inconvenient questions.

Poor Aletta! She had indeed gone through the fire since the day of that horrible discovery. What a bright Paradise had she been living in--and now? Her ideal vanished--her idol fallen and shattered--what more did life hold out for her! Ah, to think of it, this man who had been to her as a very god--who was not as other men--who had come into her life to take possession of it, and to whom she had surrendered, a willing, happy captive--for him to deceive her, to make her the victim of such a commonplace, petty form of deception! Surely that discovery had killed her love.

Why had he done it? It was so needless, so commonplace, so cruel! Why had he left her to endure the agony of apprehension on his account for days, for weeks--the while he was safe and sound within a few hours of her, carrying on this intrigue? She would rather--infinitely rather-- that that agony had met with its worst and fatal fulfilment, that he had been brought back to her dead. To think that he, her god, could stoop _so_ low, could place himself in such a contemptible, pitiable light before her. That look in his face as he met her glance--the startled shame and consternation at being found out--that would haunt her to her dying day.

Why had he ever professed love for herself? And having done so, why--if he had found such profession premature--did he not say so openly? It would have been a cruel insult; still she thought she could have borne it better. She had never grudged May Wenlock her bright physical attractions; indeed, she had recognised them openly and to the full. She remembered how often they had laughed over old Tant' Plessis' favourite saying as to May being the only English girl, and now she concluded that the old lady was not such a fool as they had supposed. 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 passed 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 God!"--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 snatching 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 class, 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 asserted 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.