Smith and the Pharaohs, and other Tales

by H. Rider Haggard

  It may be added that after he had rebuilt the church for the secondtime, and numbered all the "Menzi-herd" among his congregation, which hedid now that "the bull of the herd" was dead, as Menzi had foretold thathe would, if Tabitha, whom he had "wrapped with his blanket," decreedit, Thomas took the sage advice of his departed enemy.

  Now, in the after years, he is the must respected if somewhat fearedbishop of white settlers in a remote Dominion of the Crown.

  Thomas to-day knows more than he used to know, but one thing he hasnever learned, namely that it was the hand of a maid, yes, the littlehidden hand of Tabitha, that drove all "Menzi's herd" into the gates ofthe "Heavenly Kraal," as some of them named his church.

  For Tabitha knew when to be silent. Perhaps the Kaffirs, whose minds shecould read as an open book, taught her this; or perhaps it was one ofthe best gifts to her of old Menzi's "Spirit," into whose care he passedher with so much formality.

  This is the story of the great fight between Thomas Bull the missionaryand Menzi the witch-doctor, who was led by his love of a little childwhither he never wished to go; not for his own soul's sake, but justbecause of that little child.

  Menzi did not care about his soul, but, being so strange a man, for somereason that he never explained, for Tabitha, his "Little Flower," hecared very much indeed. That was why he became a Christian at the last,since in his darkened, spell-bound heart he believed that if he did not,when she too "went down" he would never find her again.

  ONLY A DREAM

  Footprints--footprints--the footprints of one dead. How ghastly theylook as they fall before me! Up and down the long hall they go, and Ifollow them. _Pit, pat_ they fall, those unearthly steps, and beneaththem starts up that awful impress. I can see it grow upon the marble, adamp and dreadful thing.

  Tread them down; tread them out; follow after them with muddy shoes,and cover them up. In vain. See how they rise through the mire! Who cantread out the footprints of the dead?

  And so on, up and down the dim vista of the past, following the sound ofthe dead feet that wander so restlessly, stamping upon the impress thatwill not be stamped out. Rave on, wild wind, eternal voice of humanmisery; fall, dead footsteps, eternal echo of human memory; stamp, miryfeet; stamp into forgetfulness that which will not be forgotten.

  And so on, on to the end.

  Pretty ideas these for a man about to be married, especially when theyfloat into his brain at night like ominous clouds into a summer sky, andhe is going to be married to-morrow. There is no mistake about it--thewedding, I mean. To be plain and matter-of-fact, why there stand thepresents, or some of them, and very handsome presents they are, rangedin solemn rows upon the long table. It is a remarkable thing to observewhen one is about to make a really satisfactory marriage how scores ofunsuspected or forgotten friends crop up and send little tokens of theiresteem. It was very different when I married my first wife, I remember,but then that match was not satisfactory--just a love-match, no more.

  There they stand in solemn rows, as I have said, and inspire me withbeautiful thoughts about the innate kindness of human nature, especiallythe human nature of our distant cousins. It is possible to grow almostpoetical over a silver teapot when one is going to be married to-morrow.On how many future mornings shall I be confronted with that tea-pot?Probably for all my life; and on the other side of the teapot will bethe cream jug, and the electro-plated urn will hiss away behind themboth. Also the chased sugar basin will be in front, full of sugar, andbehind everything will be my second wife.

  "My dear," she will say, "will you have another cup of tea?" andprobably I shall have another cup.

  Well, it is very curious to notice what ideas will come into a man'shead sometimes. Sometimes something waves a magic wand over hisbeing, and from the recesses of his soul dim things arise and walk. Atunexpected moments they come, and he grows aware of the issues ofhis mysterious life, and his heart shakes and shivers like alightning-shattered tree. In that drear light all earthly things seemfar, and all unseen things draw near and take shape and awe him, and heknows not what is true and what is false, neither can he trace the edgethat marks off the Spirit from the Life. Then it is that the footstepsecho, and the ghostly footprints will not be stamped out.

  Pretty thoughts again! and how persistently they come! It is one o'clockand I will go to bed. The rain is falling in sheets outside. I can hearit lashing against the window panes, and the wind wails through the tallwet elms at the end of the garden. I could tell the voice of those elmsanywhere; I know it as well as the voice of a friend. What a night itis; we sometimes get them in this part of England in October. It wasjust such a night when my first wife died, and that is three years ago.I remember how she sat up in her bed.

  "Ah! those horrible elms," she said; "I wish you would have them cutdown, Frank; they cry like a woman," and I said I would, and just afterthat she died, poor dear. And so the old elms stand, and I like theirmusic. It is a strange thing; I was half broken-hearted, for I loved herdearly, and she loved me with all her life and strength, and now--I amgoing to be married again.

  "Frank, Frank, don't forget me!" Those were my wife's last words; and,indeed, though I am going to be married again to-morrow, I have notforgotten her. Nor shall I forget how Annie Guthrie (whom I am going tomarry now) came to see her the day before she died. I know that Anniealways liked me more or less, and I think that my dear wife guessed it.After she had kissed Annie and bid her a last good-bye, and the door hadclosed, she spoke quite suddenly: "There goes your future wife, Frank,"she said; "you should have married her at first instead of me; she isvery handsome and very good, and she has two thousand a year; _she_would never have died of a nervous illness." And she laughed a little,and then added:

  "Oh, Frank dear, I wonder if you will think of me before you marry AnnieGuthrie. Wherever I am I shall be thinking of you."

  And now that time which she foresaw has come, and Heaven knows that Ihave thought of her, poor dear. Ah! those footsteps of one dead thatwill echo through our lives, those woman's footprints on the marbleflooring which will not be stamped out. Most of us have heard andseen them at some time or other, and I hear and see them very plainlyto-night. Poor dead wife, I wonder if there are any doors in the landwhere you have gone through which you can creep out to look at meto-night? I hope that there are none. Death must indeed be a hell if thedead can see and feel and take measure of the forgetful faithlessness oftheir beloved. Well, I will go to bed and try to get a little rest. Iam not so young or so strong as I was, and this wedding wears me out. Iwish that the whole thing were done or had never been begun.

  What was that? It was not the wind, for it never makes that sound here,and it was not the rain, since the rain has ceased its surging for amoment; nor was it the howling of a dog, for I keep none. It was morelike the crying of a woman's voice; but what woman can be abroad on sucha night or at such an hour--half-past one in the morning?

  There it is again--a dreadful sound; it makes the blood turn chill, andyet has something familiar about it. It is a woman's voice calling roundthe house. There, she is at the window now, and rattling it, and, greatheavens! she is calling me.

  "Frank! Frank! Frank!" she calls.

  I strive to stir and unshutter that window, but before I can get thereshe is knocking and calling at another.

  Gone again, with her dreadful wail of "Frank! Frank!" Now I hear her atthe front door, and, half mad with a horrible fear, I run down the long,dark hall and unbar it. There is nothing there--nothing but the wildrush of the wind and the drip of the rain from the portico. But Ican hear the wailing voice going round the house, past the patch ofshrubbery. I close the door and listen. There, she has got through thelittle yard, and is at the back door now. Whoever it is, she must knowthe way about the house. Along the hall I go again, through a swingdoor, through the servants' hall, stumbling down some steps into thekitchen, where the embers of the fire are still alive in the grate,diffusing a little warmth and light into the dense gloom.

 
Whoever it is at the door is knocking now with her clenched hand againstthe hard wood, and it is wonderful, though she knocks so low, how thesound echoes through the empty kitchens.

  * * * * *

  There I stood and hesitated, trembling in every limb; I dared not openthe door. No words of mine can convey the sense of utter desolation thatoverpowered me. I felt as though I were the only living man in the wholeworld.

  "_Frank! Frank!_" cries the voice with the dreadful familiar ring in it."Open the door; I am so cold. I have so little time."

  My heart stood still, and yet my hands were constrained to obey. Slowly,slowly I lifted the latch and unbarred the door, and, as I did so, agreat rush of air snatched it from my hands and swept it wide. The blackclouds had broken a little overhead, and there was a patch of blue,rain-washed sky with just a star or two glimmering in it fitfully. Fora moment I could only see this bit of sky, but by degrees I made out theaccustomed outline of the great trees swinging furiously against it,and the rigid line of the coping of the garden wall beneath them. Then awhirling leaf hit me smartly on the face, and instinctively I droppedmy eyes on to something that as yet I could not distinguish--somethingsmall and black and wet.

  "What are you?" I gasped. Somehow I seemed to feel that it was not aperson--I could not say, _Who_ are you?

  "Don't you know me?" wailed the voice, with the far-off familiar ringabout it. "And I mayn't come in and show myself. I haven't the time. Youwere so long opening the door, Frank, and I am so cold--oh, so bitterlycold! Look there, the moon is coming out, and you will be able to seeme. I suppose that you long to see me, as I have longed to see you."

  As the figure spoke, or rather wailed, a moonbeam struggled through thewatery air and fell on it. It was short and shrunken, the figure of atiny woman. Also it was dressed in black and wore a black covering overthe whole head, shrouding it, after the fashion of a bridal veil. Fromevery part of this veil and dress the water fell in heavy drops.

  The figure bore a small basket on her left arm, and her hand--such apoor thin little hand--gleamed white in the moonlight. I noticed thaton the third finger was a red line, showing that a wedding-ring hadonce been there. The other hand was stretched towards me as though inentreaty.

  All this I saw in an instant, as it were, and as I saw it, horror seemedto grip me by the throat as though it were a living thing, for as thevoice had been familiar, so was the form familiar, though the churchyardhad received it long years ago. I could not speak--I could not evenmove.

  "Oh, don't you know me yet?" wailed the voice; "and I have come from sofar to see you, and I cannot stop. Look, look," and she began to pluckfeverishly with her poor thin hand at the black veil that enshroudedher. At last it came off, and, as in a dream, I saw what in a dim frozenway I had expected to see--the white face and pale yellow hair of mydead wife. Unable to speak or to stir, I gazed and gazed. There was nomistake about it, it was she, ay, even as I had last seen her, whitewith the whiteness of death, with purple circles round her eyes and thegrave-cloth yet beneath her chin. Only her eyes were wide open and fixedupon my face; and a lock of the soft yellow hair had broken loose, andthe wind tossed it.

  "You know me now, Frank--don't you, Frank? It has been so hard to cometo see you, and so cold! But you are going to be married to-morrow,Frank; and I promised--oh, a long time ago--to think of you when youwere going to be married wherever I was, and I have kept my promise, andI have come from where I am and brought a present with me. It was bitterto die so young! I was so young to die and leave you, but I had to go.Take it--take it; be quick, I cannot stay any longer. _I could not giveyou my life, Frank, so I have brought you my death--take it!_"

  The figure thrust the basket into my hand, and as it did so the raincame up again, and began to obscure the moonlight.

  "I must go, I must go," went on the dreadful, familiar voice, in a cryof despair. "Oh, why were you so long opening the door? I wanted totalk to you before you married Annie; and now I shall never see youagain--never! never! _never!_ I have lost you for ever! ever! _ever!_"

  As the last wailing notes died away the wind came down with a rush anda whirl and the sweep as of a thousand wings, and threw me back into thehouse, bringing the door to with a crash after me.

  I staggered into the kitchen, the basket in my hand, and set it on thetable. Just then some embers of the fire fell in, and a faint littleflame rose and glimmered on the bright dishes on the dresser, evenrevealing a tin candlestick, with a box of matches by it. I waswell-nigh mad with the darkness and fear, and, seizing the matches,I struck one, and held it to the candle. Presently it caught, and Iglanced round the room. It was just as usual, just as the servantshad left it, and above the mantelpiece the eight-day clock ticked awaysolemnly. While I looked at it it struck two, and in a dim fashion I wasthankful for its friendly sound.

  Then I looked at the basket. It was of very fine white plaited work withblack bands running up it, and a chequered black-and-white handle. Iknew it well. I have never seen another like it. I bought it yearsago at Madeira, and gave it to my poor wife. Ultimately it was washedoverboard in a gale in the Irish Channel. I remember that it was full ofnewspapers and library books, and I had to pay for them. Many and manyis the time that I have seen that identical basket standing there onthat very kitchen table, for my dear wife always used it to put flowersin, and the shortest cut from that part of the garden where her rosesgrew was through the kitchen. She used to gather the flowers, and thencome in and place her basket on the table, just where it stood now, andorder the dinner.

  All this passed through my mind in a few seconds as I stood there withthe candle in my hand, feeling indeed half dead, and yet with my mindpainfully alive. I began to wonder if I had gone asleep, and wasthe victim of a nightmare. No such thing. I wish it had only been anightmare. A mouse ran out along the dresser and jumped on to the floor,making quite a crash in the silence.

  What was in the basket? I feared to look, and yet some power withinme forced me to it. I drew near to the table and stood for a momentlistening to the sound of my own heart. Then I stretched out my hand andslowly raised the lid of the basket.

  "I could not give you my life, so I have brought you my death!" Thosewere her words. What could she mean--what could it all mean? I must knowor I would go mad. There it lay, whatever it was, wrapped up in linen.

  Ah, heaven help me! It was a small bleached human skull!

  A dream! After all, only a dream by the fire, but what a dream! And I amto be married to-morrow.

  _Can_ I be married to-morrow?

  BARBARA WHO CAME BACK

  CHAPTER I

  THE RECTORY BLIND

  This is the tale of Barbara, Barbara who came back to save a soul alive.

  The Reverend Septimus Walrond was returning from a professional visit toa distant cottage of his remote and straggling parish upon the coast ofEast Anglia. His errand had been sad, to baptise the dying infant of afisherman, which just as the rate was finished wailed once feebly andexpired in his arms. The Reverend Septimus was weeping over the sorrowsof the world. Tears ran down his white but rounded face, for he wasstout of habit, and fell upon his clerical coat that was green with ageand threadbare with use. Although the evening was so cold he held hisbroad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the wind from the moaning sea tossedhis snow-white hair. He was talking to himself, as was his fashion onthese lonely walks.

  "I think that fresh milk would have saved that child," he said, "buthow was poor Thomas to buy fresh milk at fourpence a quart? Laid up forthree months as he has been and with six children, how was he to buyfresh milk? I ought to have given it to him. I could have done withoutthese new boots till spring, damp feet don't matter to an old man. But Ithought of my own comfort--the son that doth so easily beset me--and somany to clothe and feed at home and poor Barbara, my darling Barbara,hanging between life and death."

  He sobbed and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, then beganto pray, still aloud.

  "O God of pity, in the name of
the loving and merciful Christ, help meand poor Thomas in our troubles."

  "I ought to have put Thomas's name first--my selfishness again," heejaculated, then went on:

  "Give consolation to Thomas who loved his baby, and if it pleases Theein Thy infinite wisdom and foresight, spare my dearest Barbara's life,that she may live out her days upon the earth and perhaps in her turngive life to others. I know I should not ask it; I know it is betterthat she should go and be with Thee in the immortal home Thou hastprepared for us unhappy, suffering creatures. Yet--pity my poor humanweakness--I do ask it. Or if Thou decreest otherwise, then take me also,O God, for I can bear no more. Four children gone! I can bear no more, OGod."

  He sobbed again and wiped away another tear, then muttered:

  "My selfishness, always my selfishness! With six remaining to be lookedafter, that is counting Barbara if she still lives, I dare to ask tobe relieved of the burdens of the flesh! Pitiful Christ, visit not mywickedness on me or on others, and O Thou that didst raise the daughterof Jairus, save my sweet Barbara and comfort the heart of poor Thomas. Iwill have faith. I _will_ have faith."

  He thrust his hat upon his head, pulling it down over his ears becauseof the rough wind, and walked forward quite jauntily for a few yards.

  "What a comfort these new boots are," he said. "If I had stepped intothat pool with the old ones my left foot would be wet through now. Letme thank God for these new boots. Oh! how can I, when I remember thatthe price of them should have been spent in milk for the poor baby? IfI were really a Christian I ought to take them off and walk barefoot,as the old pilgrims used to do. They say it is healthy, and I triedto think so because it is cheap, though I am sure that this wasthe beginning of poor little Cicely's last illness. With her brokenchilblains she could not stand the snow; at any rate, the chill struckupwards. Well, she has been in bliss three years, three whole years, andhow thankful I ought to be for that. How glad she will be to see Barbaratoo, if it pleases God in His mercy to take Barbara; she always was herfavourite sister. I ought to remember that; I ought to remember thatwhat I lose here I gain there, that my store is always growing inHeaven. But I can't, for I am a man still. Oh! curse it all! I can't,and like Job I wish I'd never been born. Job got a new family andwas content, but that's their Eastern way. It's different with usEnglishmen."