Chapter 19 | Sterling Coin | Diamond Dyke

Dyke Emson sat in the darkness there along. He had seen no more of Jack and Tanta Sal since the evening. The latter had looked in, stared stupidly, said “Baas Joe go die,” once more, and roused the boy into such a pitch of fury that he came nigh to throwing something at her. Then she left the room with her husband, and Dyke was alone.

He felt ready to give up, and throw himself upon his face in his great despair, for hour by hour the feeling strengthened that his brother was indeed dying fast; and as he sat there in the midst of that terrible solitude, shut in, as it were, by the black darkness, his busy imagination flooded his brain with thoughts of what he would have to do.

The fancy maddened him, for it seemed cruel and horrible to think of such a thing when his brother lay there muttering in the delirium; but the thought would come persistently, and there was the picture vividly standing out before him. For his mind was in such an unnatural state of exaltation that he could not keep it hidden from his mental gaze.

There it all was, over and over again: that place he had selected where it was nearly always shaded—in that rift in the kopje where the soft herbage grew, and climbed and laced overhead, while the low murmur of the water gurgling from the rocks in the next rift fell gently upon his ear. He had selected that spot because it was so calm and peaceful, and drawn poor Joe there upon the little sled. He saw it all—the shallow, dark bed he had dug in the soft earth, where his brother was to rest in peace, with all the suffering at an end. There were big, mossy pieces of granite there, which would cover and protect the poor fellow’s resting-place, and a smooth, perpendicular face of rock above, on which he saw himself, chipping out with hammer and cold chisel the one word “Joe.”

And then—

Back came the terrible scene, and over and over again, till, setting his teeth hard, Dyke sprang up, and went to another bucket of water which he had made Jack understand he was to fetch before he left him some hours ago, and drank long and deeply before returning to the rough pallet, renewing the cold bandage again, and then sinking upon his knees to bury his face in his hands.

For a full hour Dyke knelt there in the black darkness as if asleep, exhausted by the great mental and bodily fatigue, but hearing every movement—thrilled by the piteous words which came from his brother’s lips. Then with a strange feeling of calm rest filling his breast, he raised his head, bent over the sick man, and took the hot, burning hand to hold it to his cheek.

“I won’t be such a coward as to break down now, Joe, old chap,” he said softly, and as if it were a confidential whisper which his brother heard. “I was so tired, and I was frightened to see you like this, but I’m going to try and play the man now, and—and I’ll stick to you, Joe, to the—”

He was going to say “last,” but he checked it, with something like a sob rising to his lips.

“Till—till you get better, old man, and I can help you to go and sit in my old corner in the shade among the rocks. For you’re going to be better soon, old chap; and though you’re very bad, and it’s dark, and help is so far away, we’re not alone, Joe—we’re not alone.”

No: not alone!

For as the boy knelt there, holding that burning hand, there came the long, low, yelping wail of the jackals prowling around, as if they scented death in the air; and as the dismal sound swept here and there about the lonely house, coming and going, and at times apparently quite close, Dyke shuddered. But the next moment there arose the deep-toned, fierce roar of a lion, far away possibly, yet in its tremendous power sounding so near that it might have been close at hand.

Then the yelping of the jackals ceased, as if the foul creatures had been scared away by the nobler beast; and after a few uneasy movements among the frightened cattle in the pens, all was still with a great solemnity, which thrilled the boy to his deepest depths.

And then it seemed to Dyke that it was not so dark, and he rose and walked softly to the open door to stand looking out, wondering and awe-stricken at the grandeur of the scene above his head. For it was as if the heavens were marked across the zenith by a clearly cut line—the edge of a black cloud—and on one side all was darkness, on the other a dazzling sheen of stars, glittering and bright as he thought he had never seen them before; while the darkness was being swept away, and fresh stars sprang out from the dense curtain minute by minute, and seemed to rain down myriads of points of light.

He stood there till he heard a low, weary sigh from the rough bed, and turned back in time to hear a few muttered words, and then all was silent once again.

Dyke trembled, and something seemed to hold him fast chained, as if in a troubled dream.

Then with a wild cry he fell upon his knees, and stretched out his trembling hands to touch his brother’s brow, and the reaction came, for it was not as he thought. The head was cooler, and there was a faint moisture about the temples, while the muttering was renewed for a few moments, and ended with a sigh.

Dyke’s hands were softly passed then to his brother’s breast, which rose and fell gently, and when he let his fingers glide along the arm that had been tossed to one side, there the tell-tale pulse beat rapidly still at the wrist, but not—certainly not so heavily and hurried in every throb, for Joe Emson was sleeping as he had not slept for many days.

The hours went on till, as Dyke sat there, the darkness began to pass, and the watcher was conscious of a double dawn. The first in himself, where, as he crouched by the bed, and thought of words that had never impressed him much before, it was as if Hope were rising slowly, and it strengthened in its pale, soft light, and mingled with the faint grey which began to steal in through the narrow window. And this too lengthened and strengthened, till it began to glow. The fowls—the few they had left—told that it was day. Once more he could hear the ostriches chuckling, hissing, and roaring, and the lowing of the cows and bullocks sounded pleasant and welcome, as a fresh, soft air began to play through the door.

The shadows within the room grew paler, till, all at once, they darkened again in the corners, for the full beams of the sun suddenly stole in through the window, and played upon the opposite wall, which glowed in orange and gold.

But Dyke did not see the refulgent hues with which the shabby white-wash and prints were painted, for he was watching his brother’s face, all so terribly changed since their last parting. The eyes were sunken, and hollows showed about the temples and cheeks. There was a terrible dry blackness, too, about the skin; while the hands that lay upon the bed were thin and full of starting tendons, all tokens of the fever which had laid the strong man low.

But he was sleeping, and sleep at such a time meant life; while the head, bared now by the rough shearing Dyke had given the previous evening, was hot, but not burning with that terrible fire which scorches out the very life where it has commenced to glow.

“Baas Joe dead?” said a voice at the door, and Dyke started to his feet to seize a short, heavy whip; but Kaffir Jack did not stop to see it seized. He turned and fled, while a low muttering growl roused the boy to the fact that the dog had been there in the corner all the night, and now came forward to thrust a cool nose into his master’s hand.

“Why, Duke, old chap, I’d forgotten you,” said Dyke softly. The dog gave his tail a series of rapid wags, and then came to the bedside, looked at the sick man, whined softly, and then sat and rested his muzzle upon one of the feeble hands, watching the face intently, and as if meaning to keep guard there.

Dyke followed, and laid his hand on the dog’s head; but the faithful animal did not stir.

“No, Duke, old man, Baas Joe is not dead yet,” whispered Dyke, as he gazed at his brother’s face; “and, please God, we’re going to bring him safely back to what he was.”

Duke did not move his head; but he raised his tail once, and brought it down upon the floor with a heavy—whop!