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

his senses. For a long while he stared at me, for I had laid him in the mouth of the cave, where the light was good, although the overhanging rocks protected him from the sun. Then he said:

“Allemachte! you remind me of someone, young man. I know. It is of that damned English boy who beat me at the goose shooting, and made me quarrel with Oom [uncle] Retief, the jackanapes that Marie was so fond of. Well, whoever you are, you can’t be he, thank God.”

“You are mistaken, Heer Pereira,” I answered. “I am that same damned young English jackanapes, Allan Quatermain by name, who beat you at shooting. But if you take my advice, you will thank God for something else, namely, that your life has been saved.”

“Who saved it?” he asked.

“If you want to know, I did; I have been nursing you these three days.”

“You, Allan Quatermain! Now, that is strange, for certainly I would not have saved yours,” and he laughed a little, then turned over and went to sleep.

From that time forward his recovery was rapid, and two days later we began our journey back to Marais’s camp, the convalescent Pereira being carried in a litter by the four natives. It was a task at which they grumbled a good deal, for the load was heavy over rough ground, and whenever they stumbled or shook him he cursed at them. So much did he curse, indeed, that at length one of the Zulus, a man with a rough temper, said that if it were not for the Inkoos, meaning myself, he would put his assegai through him, and let the vultures carry him. After this Pereira grew much more polite. When the bearers became exhausted we set him on the pack-ox, which two of us led, while the other two supported him on either side. It was in this fashion that at last we arrived at the camp one evening.

Here the Vrouw Prinsloo was the first to greet us. We found her standing in the game path which we were following, quite a quarter of a mile from the wagons, with her hands set upon her broad hips and her feet apart. Her attitude was so defiant, and had about it such an air of premeditation, that I cannot help thinking she had got wind of our return, perhaps from having seen the smoke of our last fires, and was watching for us. Also, her greeting was warm.

“Ah! here you come, Hernan Pereira,” she cried, “riding on an ox, while better men walk. Well, now, I want a chat with you. How came it that you went off in the night, taking the only horse and all the powder?”

“I went to get help for you,” he replied sulkily.

“Did you, did you, indeed! Well, it seems that it was you who wanted the help, after all. What do you mean to pay the Heer Allan Quatermain for saving your life, for I am sure he has done so? You have got no goods left, although you were always boasting about your riches; they are now at the bottom of a river, so it will have to be in love and service.”

He muttered something about my wanting no payment for a Christian act.

“No, he wants no payment, Hernan Pereira, he is one of the true sort, but you’ll pay him all the same and in bad coin if you get the chance. Oh! I have come out to tell you what I think of you. You are a stinkcat; do you hear that? A thing that no dog would bite if he could help it! You are a traitor also. You brought us to this cursed country, where you said your relatives would give us wealth and land, and then, after famine and fever attacked us, you rode away, and left us to die to save your own dirty skin. And now you come back here for help, saved by him whom you cheated in the Goose Kloof, by him whose true love you have tried to steal. Oh, mein Gott! why does the Almighty leave such fellows alive, while so many that are good and honest and innocent lie beneath the soil because of stinkcats like you?”

So she went on, striding at the side of the pack-ox, and reviling Pereira in a ceaseless stream of language, until at length he thrust his thumbs into his ears and glared at her in speechless wrath.

Thus it was that at last we arrived in the camp, where, having seen us coming, all the Boers were gathered. They are not a particularly humorous people, but this spectacle of the advance of Pereira seated on the pack-ox, a steed that is becoming to few riders, with the furious and portly Vrouw Prinsloo striding at his side and shrieking abuse at him, caused them to burst into laughter. Then Pereira’s temper gave out, and he became even more abusive than Vrouw Prinsloo.

“Is this the way you receive me, you veld-hogs, you common Boers, who are not fit to mix with a man of position and learning like myself?” he began.

“Then in God’s name why do you mix with us, Hernan Pereira?” asked the saturnine Meyer, thrusting his face forward till the Newgate fringe he wore by way of a beard literally seemed to curl with wrath. “When we were hungry you did not wish it, for you slunk away and left us, taking all the powder. But now that we are full again, thanks to the little Englishman, and you are hungry, you come back. Well, if I had my way I would give you a gun and six days’ rations, and turn you out to shift for yourself.”

“Don’t be afraid, Jan Meyer,” shouted Pereira from the back of the pack-ox. “As soon as I am strong enough I will leave you in charge of your English captain here”—and he pointed to me—“and go to tell our people what sort of folk you are.”

“That is good news,” interrupted Prinsloo, a stolid old Boer, who stood by puffing at his pipe. “Get well, get well as soon as you can, Hernan Pereira.”

It was at this juncture that Marais arrived, accompanied by Marie. Where he came from I do not know, but I think he must have been keeping in the background on purpose to see what kind of a reception Pereira would meet with.

“Silence, brothers,” he said. “Is this the way you greet my nephew, who has returned from the gate of death, when you should be on your knees thanking God for his deliverance?”

“Then go on your knees and thank Him yourself, Henri Marais,” screamed the irrepressible Vrouw Prinsloo. “I give thanks for the safe return of Allan here, though it is true they would be warmer if he had left this stinkcat behind him. Allemachte! Henri Marais, why do you make so much of this Portuguese fellow? Has he bewitched you? Or is it because he is your sister’s son, or because you want to force Marie there to marry him? Or is it, perhaps, that he knows of something bad in your past life, and you have to bribe him to keep his mouth shut?”

Now, whether this last unpleasant suggestion was a mere random arrow drawn from Vrouw Prinsloo’s well-stored quiver, or whether the vrouw had got hold of the tail-end of some long-buried truth, I do not know. Of course, however, the latter explanation is possible. Many men have done things in their youth which they do not wish to see dug up in their age; and Pereira may have learned a family secret of the kind from his mother.

At any rate, the effect of the old lady’s words upon Marais was quite remarkable. Suddenly he went into one of his violent and constitutional rages. He cursed Vrouw Prinsloo. He cursed everybody else, assuring them severally and collectively that Heaven would come even with them. He said there was a plot against him and his nephew, and that I was at the bottom of it, I who had made his daughter fond of my ugly little face. So furious were his words, whereof there were many more which I have forgotten, that at length Marie began to cry and ran away. Presently, too, the Boers strolled off, shrugging their shoulders, one of them saying audibly that Marais had gone quite mad at last, as he always thought he would.

Then Marais followed them, throwing up his arms and still cursing as he went, and, slipping over the tail of the pack-ox, Pereira followed him. So the Vrouw Prinsloo and I were left alone, for the coloured men had departed, as they always do when white people begin to quarrel.

“There, Allan, my boy,” said the vrouw in triumph, “I have found the sore place on the mule’s back, and didn’t I make him squeal and kick, although on most days of the week he seems to be such a good and quiet mule—at any rate, of late.”

“I dare say you did, vrouw,” I said wrathfully, “but I wish you would leave Mynheer Marais’s sore places alone, seeing that if the squeals are for you, the kicks are for me.”

“What does that matter, Allan?” she asked. “He always was your enemy, so that it is just as well you should see his heels when you are out of reach of them. My poor boy, I think you will have a bad time of it between the stinkcat and the mule, although you have done so much for both of them. Well, there is one thing—Marie has a true heart. She will never marry any man except yourself, Allan—even if you are not here to marry,” she added by an afterthought.

The old lady paused a little, staring at the ground. Then she looked up and said:

“Allan, my dear” (for she was really fond of me, and called me thus at times), “you didn’t take the advice I gave you, namely, to look for Pereira and not to find him. Well, I will give you some more, which you will take if you are wise.”

“What is it?” I asked doubtfully; for, although she was upright enough in her own way, the Vrouw Prinsloo could bring herself to look at things in strange lights. Like many other women, she judged of moral codes by the impulses of her heart, and was quite prepared to stretch them to suit circumstances or to gain an end which she considered good in itself.

“Just this, lad. Do you make a two days’ march with Marie into the bush. I want a little change, so I will come, too, and marry you there; for I have got a prayer-book, and can spell out the service if we go through it once or twice first.”

Now, the vision of Marie and myself being married by the Vrouw Prinsloo in the vast and untrodden veld, although attractive, was so absurd that I laughed.

“Why do you laugh, Allan? Anyone can marry people if there is no one else there; indeed, I believe that they can marry themselves.”

“I dare say,” I answered, not wishing to enter into a legal argument with the vrouw. “But you see, Tante, I solemnly promised her father that I would not marry her until she was of age, and if I broke my word I should not be an honest man.”

“An honest man!” she exclaimed with the utmost contempt; “an honest man! Well, are Marais and Hernan Pereira honest men? Why do you not cut your stick the same length as theirs, Allan Quatermain? I tell you that your verdomde honesty will be your ruin. You remember my words later on,” and she marched off in high dudgeon.

When she had gone I went to my wagons, where Hans was waiting for me with a detailed and interminable report of everything that had happened in my absence. Glad was I to find that, except for the death of one sickly ox, nothing had gone wrong. When at length he had ended his long story, I ate some food which Marie sent over for me ready cooked, for I was too tired to join any of the Boers that night. Just as I had finished my meal and was thinking of turning in, Marie herself appeared within the circle of the camp-fire’s light. I sprang up and ran to her, saying that I had not expected to see her that evening, and did not like to come to the house.

“No,” she answered, drawing me back into the shadows, “I understand. My father seems very much upset, almost mad, indeed. If the Vrouw Prinsloo’s tongue had been a snake’s fang, it could not have stung him worse.”

“And where is Pereira?” I asked.

“Oh! my cousin sleeps in