The Petticoat Commando Part 56

"I cannot understand," he said, "how Mrs. ---- could have asked you to shake hands with her."

"Oh, I was wrong," Hansie said. "She meant it kindly. How could _she_ understand? I will apologise--to-morrow."

It had been arranged that Hansie should spend a few days in London to see some friends before proceeding to Holland.

She found the mighty metropolis in the throes of preparation for an event of unparalleled magnificence.

Every sign of splendour and rejoicing was a fresh sword through the heart of our sorely tried young patriot.

The people with whom she stayed, old Pretoria friends, had not an inkling of what was pa.s.sing in her mind.

Their warm and loving greetings, their loud expressions of delight that the war had come to an end at last, were so many pangs added to her grief.

"You will come with us to the Coronation?" her hostess said; "we have splendid reserved seats, and this event will be unparalleled in the history of England."

Again the unfortunate girl found herself recoiling, taken by surprise; again she said:

"Oh, I _could not_! Not to save my life!"

"Not go to see the Coronation! I am surprised at you. Very few South African girls are lucky enough to benefit by such an opportunity. I must say I think it very narrow-minded of you. You disappoint me. The war is over now, and while we are all trying to promote a feeling of good-fellows.h.i.+p you nourish such an unworthy and narrow-minded spirit."

Narrow-minded, unworthy!

The iron entered deep into her soul; and when she looks back now and takes a brief survey of what she suffered throughout those years, that moment stands out as one into which all the fears, the hopes, the agonies of one short lifetime had been crowded.

Sometimes the human heart, when tried beyond endurance, will reach a point where but a trifling incident, an unkind word, is needed to break down life's stronghold.

This point our heroine had reached.

Something pa.s.sed out of her soul, an undefinable something of which the zest for life is made, and as she felt the black waters of despair closing over her she almost gasped for breath.

She turned away.

"You will never understand. I think it very kind of you to make such plans for my enjoyment, but--to the Coronation of the English King I _will not go_. Leave me here--I have some writing to do--no need to be distressed on my account. My one regret is that my presence here, at such a time, should be a source of so much painfulness to us both."

With cold courtesy the subject of the approaching Coronation was dropped, until the next day, when the appalling, the stupefying news of the postponement of the Coronation spread through the hushed streets of the great metropolis.

The King was dying, was perhaps already dead. The King had undergone a critical operation and his life still hung in the balance.

The King could not be crowned.

Already the black wings of Death seemed to be stretched over the mighty city, with its millions and millions of inhabitants. The mult.i.tude was waiting in hushed expectancy, in breathless suspense.

Hansie, walking through the streets with one of the men whose sympathy on board had been of such unspeakable comfort to her, never felt more unreal in her life. Her mind was in a maze, she groped about for words with which to clothe her thoughts, but groped in vain, for even the power of thought had been suspended for a time.

Her companion, glancing at her face, asked suddenly, curiously:

"Would you be glad if King Edward were to die?"

There was a long pause, while the girl strove to a.n.a.lyse her feelings.

At last she answered slowly, simply, truthfully:

"No; I would be sorry."

And in these words, good reader, when I think of them, I find a certain solution to the problem of her behaviour on many occasions when brought into close contact with her country's enemies.

There was never anything personal in the most bitter feelings of resentment and hatred of her country's foes, and never at any time did she belong to the ranks of those among her fellow-patriots who deemed it an unpardonable crime to recognise and appreciate the good qualities possessed by them.

A love of fair-play characterised her, even as a child, and it is certain that the cruel circ.u.mstances of the war developed this sense of justice to an abnormal extent, often bringing upon her, in later years, misunderstanding and distrust from those who should have been her friends.

It is June 28th, a glorious, cloudless summer's morn.

Speeding swiftly, almost silently, cutting its way through the calm, blue waters of the English Channel, a pa.s.senger-boat is fast approaching Holland's sh.o.r.es.

The hour is early, and of the few figures moving on the pier, one stands apart, watching intently, as the s.h.i.+p draws near.

He waves his hat, he has recognised the figure of the girl who stands on deck and waves her handkerchief in response to his greeting.

His strong hand clasps hers; and now the discreet reader need not avert his eyes--no need here to "draw the veil"--for Hansie had written from London to this tall, broad-shouldered man:

"What is left of me is coming to you now, but we must meet as _friendly acquaintances_, until we are both certain of ourselves."

How long this "friendly acquaintance" lasted it is difficult to say, for there is a difference of opinion on the point.

_She_ says, not less than sixty minutes.

_He_ a.s.serts, not more than thirty-five!

The exquisite serenity of her father's native land, especially on such a perfect day in midsummer, had never seemed to her so sweet.

Here, indeed, she felt that peace _could_ come to her at last.

But not yet--not yet.

Strong emotions of a different kind awaited her, the meeting of beloved friends and relatives, after seemingly endless years of pain, proving no less trying than the introduction to a large circle of _future_ relatives and friends.

Hansie had to be "lionised" as heroine of the war, and this was done in a whole-hearted, generous way which was a constant source of wonder to her.

She was "carried on the hands," as the Dutch saying goes, by all who had the remotest claim on her.