He looked at her sympathetically.

"How many brothers have you in the field?"

"G.o.d only knows," she answered sadly. "There were two left when last we heard of them. The third has been made a prisoner."

The soldier took his leave and Hansie lost herself in reverie.

And when at last she roused herself, she wrote with rapid pen:

"Two Tommies have been in our garden, catching b.u.t.terflies----" We know the rest.

That afternoon about ten or twelve young people a.s.sembled in the garden and were later joined by several members of the Diplomatic Corps--Consul Cinatti, Consul Aubert, and Consul Nieuwenhuis, the most frequent visitors at Harmony.

_The_ topic of conversation was connected with General Botha's visit to Lord Kitchener in Middelburg, and when Hansie told her friends what she had heard from the soldier that morning, they expressed their conviction that every word he said must have been true.

And the latest _official_ war news, in rhyme, the dispatch from Kitchener to the Secretary of State for War, came in for its share of attention, occasioning no small amount of merriment.

Oh, happy afternoon! Oh, memories sweet! Oh, long departed days of good fellowship and mutual understanding! Bright spots of gold and crimson in our sky of lead!

Mrs. van Warmelo never at any time encouraged evening visitors. They were all early risers at Harmony and their life could not be adapted to the artificial, the unnatural strain of modern civilisation.

So the quiet evenings were spent by the mother in reading and writing, while the daughter gave herself up to the indulgence of her one great pa.s.sion, music. Scales and exercises, Schubert and Chopin, and invariably at the end--before retiring for the night--Beethoven, the Master, the King of Music.

CHAPTER XI

PRISONER OF WAR

How the routine of life at Harmony was broken in upon by news "from the front" that April month in 1901, I shall endeavour to relate.

Hansie coming home one morning from a shopping expedition, found her mother in a state of suppressed excitement.

Everything was as much as possible "suppressed" in those days--goodness only knows why, for surely it would have been better for the nervous and highly strung mind if an occasional outburst could have been permitted. Hansie suffered from the same complaint, and had to pay most dearly in after years for the suppression of her deepest feelings.

There is a Dutch saying which forcibly expresses that condition of tense self-control under circ.u.mstances of a particularly trying nature. We say we are "living on our nerves," and that describes the case better than anything I have ever heard.

Our heroines, like so many other sorely tried women in South Africa, were "living on their nerves," those wise, understanding nerves, so knowing and so delicate, which form the stronghold of the human frame.

The external symptoms of this state were only known by those who lived in close and constant intercourse with one another. Hansie therefore knew, by an inflection in her mother's voice, that something out of the way had happened when she said:

"I have had a note from General Maxwell."

"Indeed! What does he say?"

"He writes that Dietlof has been made a prisoner, and he encloses a telegram from the a.s.sistant Provost-Marshal at Ventersdorp, in the name of General Babington, to say that Dietlof is well, as was Fritz when last seen. See for yourself."

Hansie grabbed--yes, grabbed--the papers from her mother's outstretched hand.

"'When last seen?' Mother, what can that mean? Why have the boys been separated?"

"That is what I should like to know," her mother answered. "I wonder how we can find out. We must ask to see General Maxwell at once."

That afternoon the two women called at the Government Buildings and were shown into the Governor's office.

He seemed to be expecting a visit from them, and Mrs. van Warmelo apologised for troubling him, reminding him of the promise he had made on the occasion of their very first visit to him, that he would help them if they came to him in any trouble.

This he remembered perfectly.

"What is it you want me to do?" he asked.

"If you will be so good, we want a permit to visit our prisoner in the Johannesburg Fort, where he will probably be kept until he is sent to Ceylon or where-ever he may have to go."

"Certainly; I will do this with the greatest pleasure. But first we must wire and find out his whereabouts. I'll see about the matter and let you know at once."

Thanking him gratefully, mother and daughter took their leave.

"We should have asked permission to take a box of clothes and other little necessaries for our boy," the mother said.

"Yes, what a pity we did not think of it! But surely there could be no objection to that! Let us get everything ready at least, and ask permission when we hear from General Maxwell again."

The largest portmanteau in the house was overhauled and carefully and thoughtfully packed by the mother's yearning hands.

No article of comfort was overlooked, no detail of the wardrobe considered too small for her closest attention and care.

Presently Hansie came with _her_ contribution, a thick exercise-book and a couple of pencils.

"Put these in, mother, if you still have room. I am going to ask Dietlof to write down all his adventures in this book for us to read afterwards. It will help him to get through his time of imprisonment."

(This small act, I may add here, led to the publication of her brother's book, _Mijn Kommando en Guerilla-Kommando leven--On Commando_, in the English edition--which was begun in Ladysmith and written in the Indian Fort at Ahmednagar and smuggled out to Holland under conditions of such romantic interest: the first book on the war, written _during_ the war and devoured by the public in Holland long before it was allowed to reach South African sh.o.r.es--a book famed for its moderation and its truth, direct, sincere throughout.)

That Sat.u.r.day night poor Mrs. van Warmelo never closed her eyes. She feared, and she had good reason to fear, that her son would pa.s.s through Johannesburg, and be transported to some foreign isle, before a word of greeting and farewell could be made by her. The thought of the morrow's Sabbath rest and inactivity intensified her fears.

The first thing she said to Hansie next morning was:

"You must go to General Maxwell and ask whether there is no news for us."

"But, mother, this is Sunday!"

"I know that. You will have to go to his house."