That January had brought the second irruption of Boers into Cape Colony.In reality, they were near Calvinia; but, by the middle of the month, rumor had so far out-stripped fact that certain refugee Uitlanders were ready to affirm that Table Mountain was held by an invading army who patrolled the summit, coffee pot in one hand and Bible in the other.Under these conditions, the little Dutch church at Piquetberg Road had become, in all truth, the abiding-place of the Church Militant.
In deference to tradition, the altar had been promptly pulled down and its ornaments stowed away to be safe from possible desecration.
The altar rail was left, however, and Weldon sat leaning against it, his eyes vaguely turned upwards to the organ in the farther end of the church.From the open floor between, the buzz of many voices and the smoke of many pipes rose to the roof; from the vestry room behind him, he heard the cleaner-cut accent of the officers.
Outside, above the light spatter of rain on the windows, he could hear the horses stamping contentedly in the leafy avenue without the churchyard wall, and the brawl of the stream beyond.The twilight lay heavy over the church, heaviest of all over the distant organ gallery, where Weldon could barely make out a single figure moving towards the bench.There was a rattle of stops, a tentative chord or two and then a few notes of this or that melody, as if the player, albeit a musician, found himself continually thwarted by the darkness and the absence of any printed notes.
"Who is up there, Weldon?" Carew asked, as he peered up into the dimness.
"Shut up; can't you?" Weldon ordered him abruptly.
And Carew subsided, just as the unseen organist, apparently abandoning his more ambitious efforts, with sure touch swept into the familiar harmonies of the Eventide Hymn, and then, still with his hymnal in mind, jerked out the dozen stops and set the air rocking to the steady beat of Onward, Christian Soldiers.
As he listened, Weldon's mind went backward to his last Sunday evening in the cathedral at home.He had known why the old rector had chosen that time-worn hymn for a recessional; he could still feel the stir of the congregation as he passed them, still see the scarlet blot of color made by his own hymnal against his stiffly starched cotta, still see his mother, erect and pale, staring at him with a resolute bravery which matched his own.Since then, he had been inside no church until to-day.It was a far cry from worshipping in the Gothic cathedral to camping in the ****** little Dutch church; but in each the air was vibrating to the same martial hymn.
Little by little, the groups scattered over the floor fell into silence.Here and there, one took up the refrain, now humming it softly, now singing it with full voice.Then the refrain died away;there was an instant's hush, an instant's modulation; and, as a man, the crowd beneath rose to their feet and stood, pipe in hand, while slowly, steadily from the organ came rolling down the familiar notes of God Save the Queen.
The organ was closed with a muffled clatter, the organist rose and slowly came down to the floor.With a friendly word here and there, he passed among the troopers who saluted him and then settled themselves again for comfort and their pipes.Last of all, he paused beside Weldon.
"It is good to put my fingers on the keys again," he said, as he sat down for a moment on the low rail."We had an organ at home, and Imiss it.I builded better than I knew, when I chose this place for our barracks.One rarely finds an organ out here."Just then an orderly lighted the chancel where they stood.The organist gave a slight exclamation of surprise.
"Isn't this Trooper Weldon?"
The speaker's face was in shadow.Only the starred shoulder straps gave Weldon any clue to the rank of his companion.
"It is," he answered briefly.
"Miss Dent has spoken of you.In fact, we were together at Maitland Camp, last week, when you tried issues with the little gray broncho."As he spoke, he moved slightly, and the light fell full upon his yellow hair and on his blue eyes, dark and fringed with long black lashes.Weldon looked up at him with a smile of recognition.
"It is Captain Frazer, then?"
"Yes.I am congratulating you on having won your way into Miss Dent's good graces.She tells me you were most thoughtful for her, all the way out.""You have known Miss Dent for a long time?" Weldon queried.
Captain Frazer answered the question as frankly as it was asked.For the moment, they were man and man.In a moment more, they could resume their formal relations of captain and soldier.
"I knew her well in England.We met at one or two house parties, a year ago last fall.I was at her coming-out function, too." Then he rose."I shall see you again," he added formally."Now I wish to make my round of the guards." And, turning, he went striding away towards his own quarters in the vestry.
Weldon looked after him thoughtfully.Then he uttered terse judgment.
"Carew, that's a man," he said.
"Quite likely," Carew assented."Women don't usually wear khaki.
Shall we go in search of Paddy?"
They found him smoking tranquilly by the churchyard gate.The old stone wall towering above his head made good shelter from the drizzle; and Paddy, his day's labor done, was leaning back at his ease, exchanging adverse compliments with the half-dozen sentries who patrolled the wall.He hailed Weldon with cordiality.
"Come along here, little Canuck," he called."There's room for the two of us and fine smoking.Mr.Carew can stay out in the rain.It's worth his while, even then, for the sake of watching that pigeon-toed cockney in the oilskins, him as is stubbing his toes in the sand, this blessed minute.""Shut up, Paddy," his victim retorted hotly.
