Chapter 28 | The Change That Came | Diamond Dyke

“It’s to-morrow morning, little un.”

Dyke did not stir, but he seemed to hear the words.

“Do you hear, little un? Tumble up and bustle. Let’s have a comfortable meal when he joins us. Do you hear, sir? Are you going to sleep all day?”

Certainly he was not, for Dyke had sprung up, and was staring across the place at where, half-turned from him, Emson lay gazing at the golden east, where the sun was about to rise.

“Little un: are you going to get up?”

Dyke sprang from his bed, darted to his brother, caught him by the shoulder and pulled him round so as to look him in the face.

“What’s the matter, sleepy head?” said Emson, smiling.

“Why, it’s himself again,” cried Dyke excitedly. “Oh Joe, old man, you are better and no mistake. I haven’t heard you speak like that since I went to old Morgenstern’s.—Oh!”

“What is it?” cried Emson.

“I’m not quite awake yet. Yes I am, but I forgot that he was here, and about the diamonds; and—Joe, Joe, old chap, I don’t believe precious stones ever did so much good before.”

“Don’t talk about them, boy,” said Emson, holding his brother’s hand tightly in his. “But I do seem as if a terrible load had been taken off body and brain. I feel this morning that I shall see home again; and I have talked about going, but never felt that I should see it till now.”

“Then hooray for being rich! But, I say!”

“What?”

“Suppose any one one should come and rob us now.”

Emson laughed aloud.

“The first trouble that attends wealth, little un. There, we’ve borne sorrow and disappointment like men.”

“Man and boy, Joe.”

“Like men, Dyke, for you have been a better man than I. Now then, we’ll bear prosperity, please God, as patiently and well.”

“Why, of course,” cried Dyke; “but what did you do with the jolly old stones?”

“Put them in your bowl, and then in the case. Now see that the breakfast is got ready. I’m far better, but I feel too weak to help.”

“Ah, but you won’t long, if you go on like this,” cried Dyke, dressing hurriedly, and beginning to have his morning wash in the bucket. “I say Joe, though, let’s have some luxuries, now, as soon as we can. What do you say to a wash-hand basin?”

“Oh yes, we’ll have that.”

“And a sponge? Here, I say: I wonder whether old Morningstar has got any sponges: we’ll buy one. New boots, too: mine are getting like Paddy’s ride in the sedan-chair; I’m on the ground.”

“All in good time, little un; all in good time: the first thing now is breakfast for our good old visitor.”

“Ah, we’ll have another spoonful of coffee in the pot this morning, Joe.”

The old trader met them at breakfast and smiled as he shook hands.

“Ach ten!” he cried, “but you haf geschlafen wohl, mein vrient. Der beace of mind is a goot ding. You are besser. You need not speak, for your eyes are delling me all der dime what dey dink, bube.”

“I’m sure he’s better,” said Dyke eagerly.

“Und he vill zoon be guite himselfs again. I zee you half been do mein oxen, Van Dyke.”

“Oh yes, I had a look at them; they were feeding well.”

“Ja; die poys dell me zo. Now I go do ask you do let me shday dill do-morrow, und den die peasts vill pe rested, und I go on again.”

“Don’t hurry, Herr Morgenstern,” said Emson. “You and I must have a long talk about—about—”

“Die shdones? Nein, mein good vrient, you go do zay you must share zom mid me, but I zhall dake none. Look at me: I am zeventy jahrs alt, und I have blenty do leave my old vomans ven I die, zo should I dake what vill do you zo much good?”

“But we owe everything to you.”

“Nein. It ist not zo. You have work hart, und you have got your goot dimes ad last. You keep vot you haf found. I zhall dake noding bood die hant of mein vrients.”

“Oh, but you ought to have a good share, Herr Morgenstern,” cried Dyke.

“Ach ten! what for you go shpeak like dot, you bube. You wand to make me gross, und get in a big passion. Tunder! No, I vill dot dake von shingle shdone. You shpeak again, I go away in a gross anger. Aha! you see, mein vrient Yoseph, I zoon zed die dot imbudend bube, who go to shpoil my breakfass. I do not wand my breakfass shpoil. You oondershtan. You say diamont again, I gall my poys, und inspan und go away.”

He frowned, as if he meant all he said, went on eating fiercely for a few moments, and then with his mouth full:

“I have blenty,” he cried, “und I am glad you have blendy, doo. Now, von vort, von leedle vort, und I haf done. You dake a long shdocking und pud die shdones in, and den you vind all you gan. You make mooch as you gan before die beoble gom. It is got to be know dot dere are blenty diamonts in der veldt, und tousands und tousands gom to vind. Vell, you are virst; you pick oop all you gan pefore dey gom, und nopody know, for you shoot oop your mouth and hold your dongue. Wise man don’t cry ‘Look here!’ when he vind. He go und vind again, eh? Dot is all, und I have enshoy der bess breakfass I effer vas haf.”

“But, really, Morgenstern.”

“Oof! I am going to get in soch a big passion!” roared the old man furiously. “I gom here und vind you all down in die doomps. I gif you vizzick do make you shdrong, und I dell you you are ridge mans; und now you vill not led me haf any beace. I haf not mooch hair left upon mein het: do you vant me to dear it all oud; zo as mein old vomans zhall nod know me when I go pack?”

“No, no, no; but—”

“Nod anoder vort. I am going to shmoke mein bibe.—Ah, you bube, Van Dyke, you laugh pecause I preak him last night! You dink I haf nod god anoder? Ha, ha! I haf god zigs, und one made of wood zo as he gannod preak.—Now, mein tear vrient Yoseph Emzon, led me rest und enshoy myself.—You bube, go und dell dot plack vomans do gook me a goot tinner. I zhall go und shmoke mein bibe und shdudy close long, shdupid-looking pirts, und you gan both gom und dalk do me.”

Old Morgenstern had his own way, sitting about in different parts of the farm where there were suitable resting-places, and longest in the chasm of the granite by the water spring in the kopje.

“So dis vas a vavoride blace of yours, eh, bube?” he said, as he sat and smoked in the shade.

“Yes; it is so nice, and moist, and cool.”

“Ja, zo. You are nod a shtupid poy at all. Bood look here, dot vos a goot tinner: und I enshoy him mooch pecause I shall nod ged anoder dill I go pack to mein old vomans. Now I do nod dink you and der pig bruder vill shdop ferry long at Kopfontein. You will go pack to Angleland.”

“Oh yes, some day, of course,” said Dyke.

“Ja, zo. When you haf vound blenty of shdones. When you go pack, you vill nod dake dot voman?”

“Oh no! Poor old Tanta Sal; we shall be sorry to leave her behind.”

“Den you do nod go to leave her pehind. You shall gom py me to go home.—Ah, heim! mein vaterland! I zhall neffer go pack to her, bube: I am doo alt und dick. I shall go vrom here do der great vaterland—do Himmel, I hope. Bood you shall bring Tanta Sal to alt Oom Morgenstern. My alt vomans shall pe fery goot to her, und she shall gook tinners, und help. Bood she vill haf to vear more glothes. Mein alt voman vill nod led her go apout like dot.”

The next morning that plan regarding Tanta Sal’s future was ratified, subject to the woman’s agreement, and Emson thought that as they would go very slowly, he might be able to sit upon his horse, and ride with old Morgenstern for a few miles on his long round.

The old man beamed with satisfaction, and Emson and Dyke mounted, and walked their horses, one on each side of the wagon-box, where the old fellow sat holding his big whip.

They went to the first water, where the oxen were refreshed, a good six miles from Kopfontein, and then departed, the old man blessing them both in patriarchal manner, ending by kissing Dyke on each cheek.

“Dill we meed again, mein sohn,” he said, and the great team of oxen slowly moved away, guided by the two Kaffir boys.

Emson and Dyke sat watching the wagon for some time, but the old man did not look back, and as Dyke sat gazing, he said to himself:

“I suppose it is the German custom. It seems queer to me, but I don’t think I minded it so much just then.”

“What are you thinking about, little un?” said Emson huskily.

“That old Morgenstern must be a very good old man. I wish he wouldn’t kiss me, all the same, and make me laugh at his ways.”

“It is only at his words and looks, Dyke. God bless him! We neither of us smile at him in our hearts.”

The sun was setting as they walked their horses up toward the shabby-looking corrugated iron buildings; but now, in the evening light, everything seemed glorified, and they drew rein to look around, neither speaking for some time.

It was Dyke who broke the silence.

“You are tired out and done up, Joe,” he said. “Let’s get in, so that you can have some tea, and lie down and rest.”

Emson started from his reverie, and there was a bright light in his eyes, a smile upon his lip, which made Dyke’s heart leap with pleasure, while, when he spoke, his words sounded almost as they did of old.

“Tired, little un,” he said, “and so stiff that you’ll have to help me off the horse; but it is the good, honest weariness that makes rest one of the greatest pleasures of life. Look here, old chap, I feel as if I am going to be a man again.”

He held out his hand, which Dyke caught and gripped without a word, listening as his brother went on.

“We’ve found wealth, little un, and I suppose that is good, but it seems to me like nothing compared to health and strength. One wants to have been pulled down very low to know what he is worth.”

Dyke said nothing, but sat looking round him still at the wide veldt, and skies one scene of glory, as the sun illumined the great granite kopje, and seemed to crown it with rays of gold.

“Joe, old chap,” he said at last, “I used to sit over there and sulk, and hate the hot old place and everything here, but—I don’t think I shall like to leave it after all.”

“The time for leaving has not come yet, boy,” said Emson quietly. “We shall see. At present it is home.”

It was three years later when they rode away, with their wagon lightly laden with the curiosities they wished to take back. The stones they had collected were safely there before, sent home from time to time.

For old Morgenstern had prophesied correctly. The news had spread fast enough, and by degrees the country was overrun, and a busy city sprang up not many miles away. They saw it with sorrow, certainly not from sordid motives—for within three months of the night when the old man visited Kopfontein, Dyke and his brother had picked up here and there all they cared to seek—but from a liking for the quiet life and their home on the veldt.

But as it grew more and more changed, the time seemed to draw nearer for saying good-bye to the little farm, where, from old associations, they still bred ostriches, and with far better fortune, leading a simple life, tended by Tanta Sal and a Kaffir whom they found that they could trust.

At last the time came.

“Home, little un?” said Emson laconically.

“Yes: Old England now,” said the great strapping fellow six feet high. “Everything has changed, and I don’t like the people who come always hanging about.”

So they rode away one day, with Duke and the Kaffir at the head of the team, and Tanta Sal seated in the wagon-box behind, smiling and happy at the thought of the change, and giving the two young lions in their cage a scrap from time to time.

The homeward-bound pilgrims reached old Morgenstern’s farm, where they were warmly welcomed, Tanta Sal arriving just at the right time.

“Vor you see we are gedding ferry old beobles now, mein sohn,” said Morgenstern; “und as I am a ridge man, I do not like to zee mein old vomans vork zo hart.—Aha! und zo yo dake die gubs mit you?”

“Yes,” said Dyke, “we are going to try and get them to England as a present for the Zoo.”

“Zo!” said the old man.

Tanta Sal smiled contentedly when they rode off, a week later. She had no compunction about staying, while the Kaffir man was to come back with the empty wagon and team when the pilgrims reached the big town, from whence travelling was easy to the Cape.

And as the brothers mounted to go, Emson said:

“This is cutting the last string, little un?”

The stalwart “little un” nodded his head gravely.

“Yes, old chap,” he said, “but the Kopfontein of the past is gone. It only lives in one’s memory now.”

They turned to look back—their wagon slowly crawling on in front, with the patient oxen, fat and sleek, following the black vorloper—homeward-bound; and as they sat in their saddles they could see the old German standing by the place with his wife, waving their hands, and Dyke almost fancied he could hear the old man saying, as he had said at parting:

“You are young und shdrong, und you haf die vorlt pefore you. Mein alt vomans und I are goming nearly do der endt. I do not zay dry und do goot mit vot you dake avay, vor I know you vill. Vonce more, mein sohns—goot-pye.”

Just then Duke gave a sharp bark, as if to say, “Come on!”

“Right, old dog,” cried Dyke. “Now, then, for home!”