Marie: An Episode in the Life of the Late Allan Quatermain by H. Rider Haggard (ebook reader macos TXT) 📖

to speak with him in the sitting-room. By an afterthought also, or so it seemed to me, he told his daughter, who had been clearing away the dishes and with whom as yet I had found no opportunity to talk, to come in with us and close the door behind her.

When all were seated and we men had lit our pipes, though apprehension of what was to follow quite took away my taste for smoking, Marais spoke in English, which he knew to a certain extent. This was for the benefit of my father, who made it a point of honour not to understand Dutch, although he would answer Marais in that language when he pretended not to understand English. To me he spoke in Dutch, and occasionally in French to Marie. It was a most curious and polyglot conversation.

“Young Allan,” he said, “and you, daughter Marie, I have heard stories concerning you that, although I never gave you leave to opsit” (that is, to sit up alone at night with candles, according to the Boer fashion between those who are courting), “you have been making love to each other.”

“That is true, mynheer,” I said. “I only waited an opportunity to tell you that we plighted our troth during the attack of the Quabies on this house.”

“Allemachte! Allan, a strange time to choose,” answered Marais, pulling at his beard; “the troth that is plighted in blood is apt to end in blood.”

“A vain superstition to which I cannot consent,” interrupted my father.

“Perhaps so,” I answered. “I know not; God alone knows. I only know that we plighted our troth when we thought ourselves about to die, and that we shall keep that troth till death ends it.”

“Yes, my father,” added Marie, leaning forward across the scored yellow-wood table, her chin resting on her hand and her dark, buck-like eyes looking him in the face. “Yes, my father, that is so, as I have told you already.”

“And I tell you, Marie, what I have told you already, and you too, Allan, that this thing may not be,” answered Marais, hitting the table with his fist. “I have nothing to say against you, Allan; indeed, I honour you, and you have done me a mighty service, but it may not be.”

“Why not, mynheer?” I asked.

“For three reasons, Allan, each of which is final. You are English, and I do not wish my daughter to marry an Englishman; that is the first. You are poor, which is no discredit to you, and since I am now ruined my daughter cannot marry a poor man; that is the second. You live here, and my daughter and I are leaving this country, therefore you cannot marry her; that is the third,” and he paused.

“Is there not a fourth,” I asked, “which is the real reason? Namely, that you wish your daughter to marry someone else.”

“Yes, Allan; since you force me to it, there is a fourth. I have affianced my daughter to her cousin, Hernando Pereira, a man of substance and full age; no lad, but one who knows his own mind and can support a wife.”

“I understand,” I answered calmly, although within my heart a very hell was raging. “But tell me, mynheer, has Marie affianced herself—or perhaps she will answer with her own lips?”

“Yes, Allan,” replied Marie in her quiet fashion, “I have affianced myself—to you and no other man.”

“You hear, mynheer,” I said to Marais.

Then he broke out in his usual excitable manner. He stormed, he argued, he rated us both. He said that he would never allow it; that first he would see his daughter in her grave. That I had abused his confidence and violated his hospitality; that he would shoot me if I came near his girl. That she was a minor, and according to the law he could dispose of her in marriage. That she must accompany him whither he was going; that certainly I should not do so, and much more of the same sort.

When at last he had tired himself out and smashed his favourite pipe upon the table, Marie spoke, saying:

“My father, you know that I love you dearly, for since my mother’s death we have been everything to each other, have we not?”

“Surely, Marie, you are my life, and more than my life.”

“Very well, my father. That being so, I acknowledge your authority over me, whatever the law may say. I acknowledge that you have the right to forbid me to marry Allan, and if you do forbid me—while I am under age, at any rate—I shall not marry him because of my duty to you. But”—here she rose and looked him full in the eyes, and oh! how stately she seemed at that moment in her simple strength and youthful grace!—“there is one thing, my father, that I do not acknowledge—your right to force me to marry any other man. As a woman with power over herself, I deny that right; and much as it pains me, my father, to refuse you anything, I say that first I will die. To Allan here I have given myself for good or for evil, and if I may not marry Allan, I will go to the grave unwed. If my words hurt you, I pray you to pardon me, but at the same time to remember that they are my words, which cannot be altered.”

Marais looked at his daughter, and his daughter looked at Marais. At first I thought that he was about to curse her; but if this were so, something in her eyes seemed to change his mind, for all he said was:

“Intractable, like the rest of your race! Well, Fate may lead those who cannot be driven, and this matter I leave in the hands of Fate. While you are under age—that is, for two years or more—you may not marry without my consent, and have just promised not to do so. Presently we trek from this country into far-off lands. Who knows what may happen there?”

“Yes,” said my father in a solemn voice, speaking for the first time, “who knows except God, Who governs all things, and will settle these matters according to His will, Henri Marais? Listen,” he went on after a pause, for Marais made no answer, but sat himself down and stared gloomily at the table. “You do not wish my son to marry your daughter for various reasons, of which one is that you think him poor and a richer suitor has offered himself after a reverse of fortune has made you poor. Another and a greater, the true reason, is his English blood, which you hate so much that, although by God’s mercy he saved her life, you do not desire that he should share her life. Is it not true?”

“Yes, it is true, Mynheer Quatermain. You English are bullies and cheats,” he answered excitedly.

“And so you would give your daughter to one who has shown himself humble and upright, to that good hater of the English and plotter against his King, Hernando Pereira, whom you love because he alone is left of your ancient race.”

Remembering the incident of the afternoon, this sarcasm reduced Marais to silence.

“Well,” went on my father, “although I am fond of Marie, and know her to be a sweet and noble-hearted girl, neither do I wish that she should marry my son. I would see him wed to some English woman, and not dragged into the net of the Boers and their plottings. Still, it is plain that these two love each other with heart and soul, as doubtless it has been decreed that they should love. This being so, I tell you that to separate them and force another marriage upon one of them is a crime before God, of which, I am sure, He will take note and pay it back to you. Strange things may happen in those lands whither you go, Henri Marais. Will you not, then, be content to leave your child in safe keeping?”

“Never!” shouted Marais. “She shall accompany me to a new home, which is not under the shadow of your accursed British flag.”

“Then I have no more to say. On your head be it here and hereafter,” replied my father solemnly.

Now unable to control myself any longer I broke in:

“But I have, mynheer. To separate Marie and myself is a sin, and one that will break her heart. As for my poverty, I have something, more perhaps than you think, and in this rich country wealth can be earned by those who work, as I would do for her sake. The man to whom you would give her showed his true nature this day, for he who can play so low a trick to win a wager, will play worse tricks to win greater things. Moreover, the scheme must fail since Marie will not marry him.”

“I say she shall,” replied Marais; “and that whether she does or not, she shall accompany me and not stay here to be the wife of an English boy.”

“Accompany you I will, father, and share your fortunes to the last. But marry Hernando Pereira I will not,” said Marie quietly.

“Perhaps, mynheer,” I added, “days may come when once again you will be glad of the help of an ‘English boy.’”

The words were spoken at random, a kind of ejaculation from the heart, caused by the sting of Marais’s cruelty and insults, like the cry of a beast beneath a blow. Little did I know how true they would prove, but at times it is thus that truth is mysteriously drawn from some well of secret knowledge hidden in our souls.

“When I want your help I will ask for it,” raved Marais, who, knowing himself to be in the wrong, strove to cover up that wrong with violence.

“Asked or unasked, if I live it shall be given in the future as in the past, Mynheer Marais. God pardon you for the woe you are bringing on Marie and on me.”

Now Marie began to weep a little, and, unable to bear that sight, I covered my eyes with my hand. Marais, who, when he was not under the influence of his prejudices or passion, had a kind heart, was moved also, but tried to hide his feelings in roughness. He swore at Marie, and told her to go to bed, and she obeyed, still weeping. Then my father rose and said:

“Henri Marais, we cannot leave here to-night because the horses are kraaled, and it would be difficult to find them in this darkness, so we must ask your hospitality till dawn.”

“I do not ask it,” I exclaimed. “I go to sleep in the cart,” and I limped from the room and the house, leaving the two men together.

What passed afterwards between them I do not quite know. I gathered that my father, who, when roused, also had a temper and was mentally and intellectually the stronger man, told Marais his opinion of his wickedness and folly in language that he was not likely to forget. I believe he even drove him to confess that his acts seemed cruel, excusing them, however, by announcing that he had sworn before God that his daughter should never marry an Englishman. Also he said that he had promised her solemnly to Pereira, his own nephew, whom he loved, and could not break his word.

“No,” answered my father, “because, being mad with the madness that runs before destruction, you prefer to break Marie’s heart and perhaps become guilty of her blood.”

Then he left him.

The darkness was intense. Through it I groped my way to the cart, which stood where it had been outspanned on the veld at a little distance from the house, wishing heartily, so miserable was I, that the Kaffirs might choose that black night for another attack and make an end of me.

When I reached it and lit the lantern which we always carried, I was astonished to find that, in a rough fashion, it had been made ready to sleep in. The seats had been cleared out, the hind curtain fastened, and so forth. Also the pole was propped up with an ox-yoke so as to make the vehicle level to lie in. While I was wondering vaguely who could have done this, Hans climbed on to the step, carrying two karosses which he had borrowed or stolen, and asked if I was comfortable.

“Oh, yes!” I answered; “but why were you going to sleep in the cart?”

“Baas,” he replied, “I was not; I prepared it for you. How did I know that you were coming? Oh, very simply. I sat on the stoep and listened to all the talk in the sitkammer. The window has never been mended, baas, since the Quabies broke it. God in Heaven!