Benita, An African Romance

H >> H. Rider Haggard >> Benita, An African Romance


"Ah," he screamed, "if only I had killed you long ago, she would be mine
now, not that fellow's. It was you who stood between us."

"Look here, my friend," broke in Robert. "I forgive you everything else,
but, mad or sane, be good enough to keep Miss Clifford's name off your
lips, or I will hand you over to those Kaffirs to be dealt with as you
deserve."

Then Jacob understood, and was silent. They gave him more water and
food to eat, some of the meat that they had brought with them, which he
devoured ravenously.

"Are you sensible now?" asked Robert when he had done. "Then listen to
me; I have some good news for you. That treasure you have been hunting
for has been found. We are going to give you half of it, one of the
waggons and some oxen, and clear you out of this place. Then if I set
eyes on you again before we get to a civilized country, I shoot you like
a dog."

"You lie!" said Meyer sullenly. "You want to turn me out into the
wilderness to be murdered by the Makalanga or the Matabele."

"Very well," said Robert. "Untie him, boys, and bring him along. I will
show him whether I lie."

"Where are they taking me to?" asked Meyer. "Not into the cave? I won't
go into the cave; it is haunted. If it hadn't been for the ghost there
I would have broken down their wall long ago, and killed that old snake
before her eyes. Whenever I went near that wall I saw it watching me."

"First time I ever heard of a ghost being useful," remarked Robert.
"Bring him along. No, Benita, he shall see whether I am a liar."

So the lights were lit, and the two stalwart Zulus hauled Jacob forward,
Robert and Benita following. At first he struggled violently, then, on
finding that he could not escape, went on, his teeth chattering with
fear.

"It is cruel," remonstrated Benita.

"A little cruelty will not do him any harm," Robert answered. "He has
plenty to spare for other people. Besides, he is going to get what he
has been looking for so long."

They led Jacob to the foot of the crucifix, where a paroxysm seemed to
seize him, then pushed him through the swinging doorway beneath,
and down the steep stairs, till once more they all stood in the
treasure-chamber.

"Look," said Robert, and, drawing his hunting-knife, he slashed one of
the hide bags, whereon instantly there flowed out a stream of beads and
nuggets. "Now, my friend, am I a liar?" he asked.

At this wondrous sight Jacob's terror seemed to depart from him, and he
grew cunning.

"Beautiful, beautiful!" he said, "more than I thought--sacks and sacks
of gold. I shall be a king indeed. No, no, it is all a dream--like the
rest. I don't believe it's there. Loose my arms and let me feel it."

"Untie him," said Robert, at the same time drawing his pistol and
covering the man; "he can't do us any hurt."

The Kaffirs obeyed, and Jacob, springing at the slashed bag, plunged his
thin hands into it.

"No lie," he screamed, "no lie," as he dragged the stuff out and smelt
at it. "Gold, gold, gold! Hundreds of thousands of pounds' worth of
gold! Let's make a bargain, Englishman, and I won't kill you as I meant
to do. You take the girl and give me all the gold," and in his ecstasy
he began to pour the glittering ingots over his head and body.

"A new version of the tale of Danae," began Robert in a sarcastic
voice, then suddenly paused, for a change had come over Jacob's face, a
terrible change.

It turned ashen beneath the tan, his eyes grew large and round, he put
up his hands as though to thrust something from him, his whole frame
shivered, and his hair seemed to erect itself. Slowly he retreated
backwards, and would have fallen down the unclosed trap-hole had not one
of the Kaffirs pushed him away. Back he went, still back, till he struck
the further wall and stood there, perhaps for half a minute. He lifted
his hand and pointed first to those ancient footprints, some of which
still remained in the dust of the floor, and next, as they thought, at
Benita. His lips moved fast, he seemed to be pleading, remonstrating,
yet--and this was the ghastliest part of it--from them there came no
sound. Lastly, his eyes rolled up until only the whites of them were
visible, his face became wet as though water had been poured over it,
and, still without a sound, he fell forward and moved no more.

So terrible was the scene that with a howl of fear the two Kaffirs
turned and fled up the stairway. Robert sprang to the Jew, dragged
him over on to his back, put his hand upon his breast and lifted his
eyelids.

"Dead," he said. "Stone dead. Privation, brain excitement, heart
failure--that's the story."

"Perhaps," answered Benita faintly; "but really I think that I begin to
believe in ghosts also. Look, I never noticed them before, and I didn't
walk there, but those footsteps seem to lead right up to him." Then she
turned too and fled.


Another week had gone by. The waggons were laden with a burden more
precious perhaps than waggons have often borne before. In one of them,
on a veritable bed of gold, slept Mr. Clifford, still very weak and
ill, but somewhat better than he had been, and with a good prospect
of recovery, at any rate for a while. They were to trek a little after
dawn, and already Robert and Benita were up and waiting. She touched his
arm and said to him:

"Come with me. I have a fancy to see that place once more, for the last
time."

So they climbed the hill and the steep steps in the topmost wall that
Meyer had blocked--re-opened now--and reaching the mouth of the cave,
lit the lamps which they had brought with them, and entered. There were
the fragments of the barricade that Benita had built with desperate
hands, there was the altar of sacrifice standing cold and grey as it had
stood for perhaps three thousand years. There was the tomb of the old
monk who had a companion now, for in it Jacob Meyer lay with him, his
bones covered by the _debris_ that he himself had dug out in his mad
search for wealth; and there the white Christ hung awful on His cross.
Only the skeletons of the Portuguese were gone, for with the help of his
Kaffirs Robert had moved them every one into the empty treasure-chamber,
closing the trap beneath, and building up the door above, so that there
they might lie in peace at last.

In this melancholy place they tarried but a little while, then, turning
their backs upon it for ever, went out and climbed the granite cone to
watch the sun rise over the broad Zambesi. Up it came in glory, that
same sun which had shone upon the despairing Benita da Ferreira, and
upon the English Benita when she had stood there in utter hopelessness,
and seen the white man captured by the Matabele.

Now, different was their state indeed, and there in that high place,
whence perhaps many a wretched creature had been cast to death, whence
certainly the Portuguese maiden had sought her death, these two happy
beings were not ashamed to give thanks to Heaven for the joy which it
had vouchsafed to them, and for their hopes of life full and long to be
travelled hand in hand. Behind them was the terror of the cave, beneath
them were the mists of the valley, but above them the light shone and
rolled and sparkled, and above them stretched the eternal sky!

They descended the pillar, and near the foot of it saw an old man
sitting. It was Mambo, the Molimo of the Makalanga: even when they were
still far away from him they knew his snow-white head and thin, ascetic
face. As they drew near Benita perceived that his eyes were closed, and
whispered to Robert that he was asleep. Yet he had heard them coming,
and even guessed her thought.

"Maiden," he said in his gentle voice, "maiden who soon shall be a wife,
I do not sleep, although I dream of you as I have dreamt before. What
did I say to you that day when first we met? That for you I had good
tidings; that though death was all about you, you need not fear; that
in this place you who had known great sorrow should find happiness
and rest. Yet, maiden, you would not believe the words of the Munwali,
spoken by his prophet's lips, as he at your side, who shall be your
husband, would not believe me in years past when I told him that we
should meet again."

"Father," she answered, "I thought your rest was that which we find only
in the grave."

"You would not believe," he went on without heeding her, "and therefore
you tried to fly, and therefore your heart was torn with terror and with
agony, when it should have waited for the end in confidence and peace."

"Father, my trial was very sore."

"Maiden, I know it, and because it was so sore that patient Spirit of
Bambatse bore with you, and through it all guided your feet aright. Yes,
with you has that Spirit gone, by day, by night, in the morning and in
the evening. Who was it that smote the man who lies dead yonder with
horror and with madness when he would have bent your will to his and
made you a wife to him? Who was it that told you the secret of the
treasure-pit, and what footsteps went before you down its stair? Who was
it that led you past the sentries of the Amandabele and gave you wit and
power to snatch your lord's life from Maduna's bloody hand? Yes, with
you it has gone and with you it will go. No more shall the White Witch
stand upon the pillar point at the rising of the sun, or in the shining
of the moon."

"Father, I have never understood you, and I do not understand you now,"
said Benita. "What has this spirit to do with me?"

He smiled a little, then answered slowly:

"That I may not tell you; that you shall learn one day, but never here.
When you also have entered into silence, then you shall learn. But I say
to you that this shall not be till your hair is as white as mine, and
your years are as many. Ah! you thought that I had deserted you, when
fearing for your father's life you wept and prayed in the darkness of
the cave. Yet it was not so, for I did but suffer the doom which I had
read to fulfil itself as it must do."

He rose to his feet and, resting on his staff, laid one withered hand
upon the head of Benita.

"Maiden," he said, "we meet no more beneath the sun. Yet because you
have brought deliverance to my people, because you are sweet and pure
and true, take with you the blessing of Munwali, spoken by the mouth of
his servant Mambo, the old Molimo of Bambatse. Though from time to time
you must know tears and walk in the shade of sorrows, long and happy
shall be your days with him whom you have chosen. Children shall spring
up about you, and children's children, and with them also shall the
blessing go. The gold you white folk love is yours, and it shall
multiply and give food to the hungry and raiment to those that are
a-cold. Yet in your own heart lies a richer store that cannot melt away,
the countless treasure of mercy and of love. When you sleep and when
you wake Love shall take you by the hand, till at length he leads you
through life's dark cave to that eternal house of purest gold which soon
or late those that seek it shall inherit," and with his staff he pointed
to the glowing morning sky wherein one by one little rosy clouds floated
upwards and were lost.

To Robert and to Benita's misty eyes they looked like bright-winged
angels throwing wide the black doors of night, and heralding that
conquering glory at whose advent despair and darkness flee away.