“No, indeed!” she retorted dryly. “But I thought that even you might be inclined to perform an act of common decency.”
“Well, you thought wrong. I told you before that my waggon wasn’t a hotel for lost, stolen, or strays, didn’t I?”
Her only answer was to emphatically refuse the cup of coffee proffered her by an umfan. The rest of the meal was accomplished in silence.
Back in her tent once more, she composed herself for the night, revolver to hand, her face towards her friend. He had made another collection of fuel, and evidently meant to keep a big fire going all night. Something in the quiet way he had settled himself, half seated against his saddle, told her that he meant to keep watch.
Also, he had produced a book, and was leaning forward in the firelight ruffling its pages, and softly whistling to himself. A wave of pleasure tingled through the girl as she recognised the air for one she had known and loved all her life; that exquisite setting by Mendelssohn and Lizst to Heine’s poem On Wings of Song. She was strangely thrilled to hear its dear familiar cadence in this wild spot. Like the twinkle of home-lights seen suddenly from afar by a lost wayfarer, it gladdened and put fresh courage into her heart. How strange it seemed that this shirt-sleeved man who seemed part and parcel of primitive Africa, whom she had looked upon as a sort of Boer, should know anything so exquisitely civilised as the “Auf Flügeln des Gesanges!” She lay listening dreamily, her mind putting Heine’s words to the frail haunting air.
On wings of song, Belov’d One,
Away I’ll waft thee, to where
I know in the plains of the Ganges
A secret nook most fair.
There sleeps a rich blossoming garden,
Calm in the still moonlight:
The lotus flowers are awaiting
Their dearest Sister to-night.
The violets laugh as they prattle,
And gaze on the stars in their spheres;
Odorous legends the roses breathe
Low in each other’s ears.
There bound, and stand shyly listening,
The gentle timid gazelles;
Afar, from the sacred river,
The waves’ deep murmur swells.
There under the palms reclining,
We’ll drink by the sacred stream
Of love and rest in full measure,
And blissful dreams will we dream.
On Wings of Sleep it should have been called, she thought, for the whole thing was a dream that could only come in sleep. It occurred to her at last that the man Kerry thought so too, and meant his persistent though soft whistling as a hint to her to sleep while he kept watch. It seemed indeed the best thing she could do, so that later when he was tired out she in turn could keep guard. Already Roper had got down his blankets, and she knew by the lowered tones of the umfans that he had retired under the waggon.
Wearied out by the various emotions of the day, it did not take her long to fall asleep, but several times during the night she awoke, prompted by a restless fear which even through her dreams vaguely disturbed her. But always there was calm in the camp, and always the man Kerry sat intent on his little book. The storm clouds had gone by, and the sky, shroudy and mysterious as the blue veil of an Eastern woman, was hung with jewels that shed a misty luminance over the immense and silent land.
When she finally threw off sleep in the small hours before dawn it was to find Kerry still lying there on his elbow placidly smoking. His book was still in his hand, but he appeared to be reading the fire rather than it. Vivienne wondered how she could let him know that she was awake and able to take up the vigil, but with the Wings of Song still haunting her memory she did not wonder long. Very softly she began to whistle the air. He stirred, and glanced towards the tent. She whistled delicately on, and saw a slow smile flicker for a moment across his impassive face. Then he closed his book and lowered his head to the saddle. He understood. She stopped whistling. He slept, and she vigilled until the stars turned white and the hand of Dawn pushed them back from sight, and in their place scattered red and golden roses across the skies.
Full morning brought new factors into the game. Two sinewy Bechuana boys came light-foot up the trail of broken trees and crushed ant-hills made by Roper’s waggons, and approaching Kerry set down the heavy packages from their heads and gravely saluted him. An indaba ensued, accompanied by an arm-wave or two at the track by which they had come, some soft clicking remarks, and a few low sighs. Kerry, his pipe in his teeth, listened reflectively, and at the end of the recital gave a brief order to each. One went away to the horse, the other proceeded to make a cooking fire and unpack one of the loads which obviously contained provisions.