Chapter Seventeen.
The Return of Stephanus.
“Come, child, it is past our time for sleep,” said Aletta. She was sitting on the sofa in the voorhuis. It was midnight of the day of Gideon’s departure. Elsie stood at the open window which faced the south. The night was still and sultry and a dense fog covered the earth.
“I shall not go to bed to-night, Aunt. My father draws near. His wagon has reached the sand-belt where the dead tree stands.”
“Nonsense, child, the sand-belt is an hour’s ride on horseback from here. Let us pray to God for sleep and good dreams, and then lie down until the day comes.”
“I shall not go to bed to-night; my father is coming.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,—you cannot hear at such a distance.”
“I can hear, and the sound stills the long pain in my heart. My father draws near and nearer.”
“Well—well—perhaps it is true—perhaps—”
She fell upon her knees and threw up her clasped hands. “Oh God, let him not come before my husband is far away. Oh God,—I am blameless.—Grant me only this.”
Elsie approached her with a smile, bent down and encircled her with a protecting arm and then drew her gently to a seat.
“Aunt,—let me talk to you: Do you know that I am often very glad that I was born blind?”
“Glad you are blind?”
“Yes, because I have knowledge of many things unknown to people who can see.”
“What kind of things?”
“Many things of many kinds. For instance:—to-night you cannot see the stars; a dry mist has rolled up from the sea since we have been in this room; it covers the valley like a blanket. But the hill-tops are clear; they are hidden from you, but I can see them—and the stars above, as well.—And my father draws nearer.”
“God’s mercy forbid. Three days,—three short days is all I ask for.”
“Where you see but clouds I see the stars; where you see danger I see joy. You fear my father without cause.”
“Without cause.—Nine long years—no cause—?”
“There was cause enough, but my father is not angry.”
“Not angry? Hark. Did you not hear a sound?”
“Yes, I hear the wild ostriches booming in the valley.”
“Close the window and come away, child; the darkness is full of horror. You are right not to go to bed. I could not sleep to-night.”
“Why do you fear the open window, Aunt?”
“The night is dark.” She shuddered and crouched into the corner of the sofa.
“The day is ever dark to me, yet I fear not.”
“Last night the dogs howled and I saw white shapes flitting among the trees where the graves are.”
“What of that? Shapes often flit about me; I call them and they are here; I bid them depart and they are gone.”
“Child,—you are blind and thus cannot understand.—Hark.—Is not that a sound of shouting, afar off?”
“It is but the jackals howling on the hill-side.—The time has not yet come.—But, Aunt,—let me tell you farther of the things I know.”
“Not to-night,—I am in terror enough as it is.”
“What I have to tell you will not terrify you, for you are guiltless.”
“Guiltless,—yes; but God visits the sins of the guilty upon the guiltless. But it is not for myself that I fear.”
“One of the things which I see with clearness is that there is no reason for your terror.”
Aletta bowed her head forward on her hands. The candle had almost burnt out; only a faint, uncertain flicker arose out of the socket. She started, and lifted her head:
“Listen,—that is surely a sound.”
“Yes,—the springbucks came over the mountain last week; you hear the bellowing of the rams on the upland ledge and the clashing of their horns as they fight—But I can hear that my father draws nearer.”
“If he be not coming in anger, why does he hasten thus? But you cannot hear him; the sound is in your own ears.”
“May not one hasten in love as well as in hate? The wagon has now reached the rocky pass between the kopjes. It will soon be here.”
Aletta arose and walked over to the window. She linked her arm in that of Elsie and tried to draw the blind girl away from her post.
“Come to bed,—I am not so terrified as I was a while ago.”
“Hark.—Even the ears of one who is not blind can hear that.”
A light breeze was streaming up the valley, driving the mist before it in broken masses. From the rough, stony pass could be heard the heavy thumpings of the massive wheels. Aletta once more sank to her knees in agony.
“Oh God,—you have brought him here.—Oh God,—soften his heart—”
“Aunt,—God heard your prayer long before you spoke it. His heart has been softened.”
“No, no, child. I hear anger in the noise of the wheels and in the clappings of the whip.—Nine years—nine years—and innocent.—Oh God, soften his heart,—or let my husband get away.—Elsie,—I charge you not to tell your father what road my husband has gone.—Tell him that your uncle went a month ago.—Let us go to the huts and warn the servants—”
“Aunt,—wait just a little while and you will see. I shall walk down the road and meet my father.”
“Yes,—yes,—and, Elsie,—pray to him for the sake of a lonely old woman who seems to have never known joy.—Go, child—but wait—No, I cannot stay here alone; I fear the darkness.”
“Come with me, Aunt.”
“Yes,—yes,—but what if it be not his wagon?”
“It is my father’s wagon. Come.” The breeze had freshened; the mist had been rolled out of the valley, leaving it clear to the stars, but the vapour hung in wisps from every mountain head and streamed away white in the shining of the rising moon. As the two walked down the road it was she who was blind that walked forward with unfaltering steps, leading her who could see, but who faltered at every yard.
Nearer and nearer came the clattering wagon, and the driver’s voice as he shouted to the team could be clearly heard. Aletta sank down upon a stone at the wayside and Elsie, after walking on for a few paces, stood motionless in the middle of the road. Her loosened hair floated on the wind; her tall figure, clad in fluttering white, made a striking picture in the light of the now fully arisen moon.
The leader threw up his hand and stopped the team with a call; Stephanus sprang from the wagon box, ran forward and clasped Elsie to his breast.
“My little child—grown into a woman—her face shining as brightly as the sun she has never seen, and making night like day.—But where is my brother—where is Gideon—?”
Aletta staggered forward and knelt in the road at his feet.
“Oh, Stephanus,—have mercy and let him be.—He fled when he heard you were coming.—Have mercy.—He has suffered too—”
“We both need the mercy of God.—Aletta, do not kneel to me.—Where is my brother Gideon?”
He drew the half-unconscious woman to her feet and she burst into a storm of tears.
“Oh, Stephanus,” she said, “you are not deceiving me?—Tell me,—have you forgiven the wrong?”
“Yes, Aletta,—as I hope to be forgiven. Whither did Gideon go? Let me follow him.”
“Thank God,—thank God, who has heard my prayer.”