The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIX, Issue 34, 22 August 1901, Page 23

The Storyteller

A SOUTH AFRICAN SCHOOLMISTRESS.

FOPE o'clock was striking on a summer's afternoon, as Miss Weeks oame oat of her schoolroom. After a final glance through glasses dim with the heat, Misa Weeks was satisfied that all was as she desired within the four walls of her domain, and dosed and looked the door. The afternoon sun was shining full upon her as she stood with her sharp-featured face uplifted to the breeze coming across the village from the long range of low. round-topped hills on the horizon. She was an insignificant figure in the landscape ; ■mall and thin, with the hall-marks of spinsterhood written large upon her, from the top of her sleek nondescript-colored hair to the point of a loose, shapeless slipper appearing under her cotton skirt. If anyone had taken the trouble to discover it, there was a kindliness in the short-sighted brown eyes, when they were not occupied in awing into order her three and thirty unruly scholars, and a staunch reliable look in their steady gaze that promised much in a friend's need. But no one ever had taken the trouble to notice these things since Miss Weeks oame to Franklinburg eighteen years to a day on this day of grace in January, 18—. She was twenty-two then, a small, pale-faced girl who looked as though the had never been yonng, with an unmistakable air of independence and aloofness that prevented the more genial-hearted of the village-folk from fraternising with her. She had brought with her to this remote hamlet in Cape Colony an invalid elder sister, and these two had been sufficient for each other until Amelia died. Elisabeth was thirty then. The village people had been as kind to the sister as they were permitted to be, and when Elizabeth was left alone Mrs. Meyer, the grocer's wife, begged her to share her home. But Elizabeth clang to the three-roomed house adjoining the school, a building so modest in dimensions that the village wag named it ' The Matchbox.' There was a diminutive sitting-room, which was also used as dining and living room ; there was an equally diminutive bedroom and a kitchen so small that it required the experience of eighteen years for Miss Weeks to tnrn round safely in it ; anyone else would nave injured herself or brought utter ruin on the ingenious arrangement of its, scanty furniture. In this house Miss Weeks had lived alone for ten years, going out now and then among the people, especially searching out the few Catholics, whom she visited with the regularity of a parish priest. When it could be achieved, she gathered them together on Sunday for the recital of the Rosary, and she read the Epistle and Gospel for the day in a voice that had not quite lost its refinement and sweetness. She went away sometimes during the vacation, and some imaginative ones said she went to Cape Town, where sh£ rode in a black carriage with grey horses. But this was a Baying too wild for sane belief. The idea of Miss Weeks swallowed up in the wilderness of a cushioned four-wheeled carriage was too much for the credence of the sensible people of Franklinburgh. But when any venturesome spirit attempted to penetrate the mystery of Miss Weeks' abode and occupation during her absence, the inquiry was met with the precise and perfectly polite intimation that the doings of one so very insignificant as herself were not worth chronicling. Yet she said it with an air rather of one whose actions it was impertinent to scrutinise. For there was always a suggestion of condescension in Miss Weeks' manner to the people of Franklinburg. She was English, thoroughly English, she would affirm, with a little superior air, quite unconsciously assumed. To be English, with her, waa next best to being a Catholic. Despite the fact that the belt years of her life were spent in & place where a priest's visit was an annual event, or sometimes rarer, Miss Weeks was as rigid a Catholic at 40 as she had been at 22. One of the few joys of her life was holding controversies with the Reverend Mr Olivier, the Dntch Reformed clergyman, and vanquishing him in her own perfectly-polite way. There were only three Catholio families in Franklinburg, and one of these lived a mile and a half from the school-house. Nevertheless, twice a week, Miss Weeks tramped that mile and a half on fool through loose sand across the veld to teach Catechism to the five children of Mrs Stone, and to Mrs Stone's credit, be it told, she often sent the catechist home in a cart well laden with the produce of her farm. When a priest did come he found some children prepared for the sacraments. The day of his reverence's arrival was a great day for Miss Weeks. The school-room was fitted up as a chapel, and most of the three and thirty were sent in various directions for flowers to decorate the temporary altar whereon the Holy Sacrifice was to be offered. Miss Weeks received the priest in her diminutive sitting-room with a quaint mixture of dignity, reverence, and condescension. ' The golden largesse of his praise ' waa honey to her, and repaid her for many a weary task. Her delight was on the inorease from the moment he oame, hot and dusty and travel-stained, to the ' Matchbox ' door (for his first visit must be there before he vent to the house where he usually Btayed during his visits), to the moment when her pupils, with shiny, awe-Btruok faoes, answered their Oateohißm so as to giv« credit to their teacher, and on to the time when she herself answered the priest's Mass in very correct Latin. But it reached its climax when the priest sat down to a breakfast, prepared by her own hands, in the tiny sitting-room. If during the breakfast his reverenoe gave her (as he invariably did, after oitcovering her relish for it), a sketch of the political horizon, Mill Weeks' cup of bliss was full.

Life had passed with her after this fashion for 18 years. She had never known a day's illness, nor had her school ever missed her presence. Generations of boys and girls had •passed through her hands. She had no rival, for her school had Government support and its teacher had the confidence of the people, though she was of the dreaded Roman Catholio religion. Big turbulent boys of 14 and 15 were in awe of her, and it was to Miss Weeks that helpless mothers brought their obstreperous offspring when they grew beyond control at home. Tet her sway was not one of harshness. Her one pet vanity was that she was just the height of Queen Victoria, and she secretly prided herself on possessing somewhat, at least, of her late Majesty's dignity and majesty of mien. Certainly when she got one of the boisterous ones before her and made the delinquent be seated bo that she could look down through her glasses with the steady firmness of gaze peculiar to her, there was no doubt that the wrong -doer looked abashed, and took, in a silence that might have meant almost anything, Miss Weeks' harangue delivered in quiet, even tones, briefly and to the point. Perhaps it was that to these oountry-bred ohildren Miss Weeks, with her English accent, her precise manners and her (to them) strange religion, seemed a being of another world. To them she was the living proof of England's greatness — the latter a point never missed in any lesson into which it could be dragged. Fritz Friedriohs, Mrs Stone's nephew, was the only boy who attempted to laugh when she scolded him. But then Fritz was notably a daring spirit. If there was any mischief brewing, he was sure to be in it. Was it not he who took the Reverend Mr Olivier's horse, growing fat and lazy in the minister's field, and rode him at a mad gallop to Basson's Vlei and back — a crime so great that the other boys watched him set off with a mixture of fear and admiration, and hung about till he came back hot but triumphant, just in time to escape the minister's man Jan, who had been searching al 1 over the village for the missing steed, whioh was wanted to drive the minister and his wife — an unusual ooourrenoe, for the Reverend Mr Olivier was not a very constant visitor to his parishioners, being old and eoant of breath. Was it not Fritz who tied his bag of marbles to the long pig-tail of Sophie dv Toit, and so securely that some of her fair locks had to be shorn before the bag could be detached ? And Fritz, without a doubt, it was who pounded fat Peter van Wyk into the semblanoe of a jelly and sent him home to a fond maternal parent somewhat dishevelled as a punishment for calling Miss Weeks names. Fritz was an orphan, and lived with his aunt Mrs Stone, His father had left enough to eduoate the boy and pay for his support in the modest mode of living followed at Franklinburg. He had been sent to school regularly and he was the show pupil of the school, having passed from the First to the Seventh Standard with a brilliant record. Miss Weeks was giving him elementary lessons in Latin and Algebra and Geometry. For in a burst of boyish confidence he had told her he wanted to be a priest, and Miss Weeks"interest in him took on a motherly aspect from thenceforth. It did not seem incongruous to her that a boy should be the wildest in the neighborhood, yet should aspire to so great a dignity. She deplored his escapades of course, but because there was never a trace of meanness or dishonesty or untruth in him or his doings she condoned a great deal. She had always been fond of the handsome fairhaired lad, from the day he came shy and unhappy, for his first experience in school-life after five years of undisciplined farmlife. That had been his only unhappy day, for with childish instinct Fritz felt thai Miss Weeks was both proud of him and fond of him. He disregarded both pride and affection outwardly with boyish contempt for display, but his gratitude was shown in true boyish fashion, on more than one occasion, as several of the village boys could testify and some of the village matrons corroborate with ruined garments and bruised bones as witnesses. In his presence it was not safe to vent irate feelings or disrespectful language about Teacher ? Expressions of opinion about Fritz were abundant and choice in Franklinburg. If a mother missed her son towards evening ' It's Fritz Friedrichs again ! ' she would say, ' and I've told Johnnie never bo much as speak with him. Wait till I catch them both.' But she never did catch Fritz. Johnnie got his share when he put in an appearance. Miss Weeks, who, it was well known, was the only person Fritz regarded with anything approaching awe, was duly informed of every fresh misdemeanor ; and after each they would have a talk. It was not a monologue of Miss Weeks as was the case with other culprits. Fritz did not 'talk back,' but he ' talked up ' — a distinction with a difference. He owned honestly to his share in the wrong-doing, but he never ' peached ' on his fellowsinners. After Fritz's admission about bis future Miss Weeks had a stronger hold on him. It was about Fritz that Miss Weeks was thinking on this rum. mer afternoon, as she stood on the steps of the school-house. He had been through an unusually serious escapade. Some three days before, at the head of a party of six boys, he had gone to Matsys Kopje, a distance of about two miles outside the village, a favorite haunt of the boys, but a forbidden one. Added to the breach of all discipline that the going there entailed, was the further horrible consequence of what was likely to prove a fatal accident. Little Frank Liesching had begged to be allowed to join the daring adventurers and had succeeded in losing himself in a donga. In his search for Frank, owing to the increasing darkness Fritz had fallen down a krantz and lay stunned and chilled through for three honrs before the search party from the village, consisting of irate but meroiful fathers, came to carry him on a stretoher to Mrs Stone's. Frank Liesching was unhurt, but Fritz was still insensible when the men picked him up. The heavy dew of the summer night had soaked into his clothes. A fever that seemed likely to prove fatal followed, and little Miss Weeks had queer emotions pulling at her heart strings during those days. She had heard of Fritz's bravery in saving Frank. Every one of the five boys who were

sharers in the event pave hia own version of it, so Miss Weeks had the details off to a nicety. This was the third day since the accident, and already Miss Weeks had tramped ioross the veld to Mrs Stone's twioe to hear and see her favorite. Mrs Stone had a large family of her own, and looked npon Fritz's illness as the outcome of his innate wickedness. She had little love for the boy, and no quarter was given him when the village folk complained of him. But, not being utterly callous, she was giving him such attention as could be spared from her own numerous brood. But he was plainly a burden on her hands. Miss Weeks saw that during her visits. As she stood beside the bed of the unconscious boy, and cooled hia fevered temples with the eau de Cologne Bhe had brought with her. all the latent mother! ineßs in her rose up like a strong tide flowing in on a placid river. She hi<\ scarcely realised how dear the boy had grown until now. There had been so few strong emotions in her life that the strength of this carried her out of herself. The precise, even, undisturbed ladylike manner was gone ; she was tremulous, anxious, and moved to teaM. Two sleepless nights had followed h«r visits to Fritz. Bhe wrote to the priest at oaoe, and herself sent for a doctor from Gape Town. There was none in Franklinburg. 'He must not die. Dear God, he must not die, 1 she said over and over with despairing iteration. All the plans for the future — the near future, too, for Fritz was fifteen now — passed before her excited imagination. What good might he not do as a priest, this boy who was already a leader among his kind, and had such a strange power of fascinating his companions so that they followed at his beek — even the unruliest of them. True, he had done wrong often, but it was always boyish wrong, so Miss Weeks concluded. There had never been a mean action in the scroll of hie mideeds. He was wild : true. But he was honest to a fault, generous and forgiving. He had a great f utnr« before him, thought Miss Weeks, as she opened the ' Matchbox ' door and entered her tiny sitting-room. She was too tired to eat, and too worried to think of anything but Fritz, so the little paraffine Btove remained unlighted, while Miss Weeks sat wearily in the little old chair that had belonged to Amelia. He had a great future before him, this pupil of hers. A priest, possibly, who knows? a bishop 1 So much good done for souls — bo much honor gained for the Church I Already her disturbed imagination and fond fancy saw him in biretta and soutane — noble-looking, eloquent, winning — endowed with every gift his position required, whether of mind or manner. And then the fatal possibility looming on the horizon would come with bitter certainty and crueller force. The doctor was to arrive by the evening train from Cape Town, and Miss Weeks had made arrangements to accompany him to Mr Stone's farm. So she roused hereelf at length to make preparations to be absent from her little house for the whole of the coming night. It was a very anxious, and indeed to the smart young doctor from the city, a somewhat ludicrous small face that greeted him on his arrival at Franklinburg. However, he was a young man of tact — not so young either, for Misß Weeks disliked young men — and he looked grave enough to please her fastidious taste. Together they drove to Stone's. They did not speak much on the way. Mies Weeks had her rosary in her nervous fingers and was noiselessly praying. The doctor, who did not quite fathom her anxiety for a boy who, by her own showing, was a troublesome yonng scamp, and, moreover, no relation whatever, was wondering vaguely at the specimen of womankind beside him. To him Bhe appeared a tiny little old maid, English to an intense degree, a trine less fußsy than most of her kind — but not less of an oddity. He could not understand — how could he, being a mere man ? how the hopes of the little woman's life had grown round the boy whom he had been called to attend. He was well versed in the troubles of human bodies, but of the ways of human souls he knew little and cared less. But he was determined to do his best for the boy, being wise enough to know that this call might lead to others as lucrative. Arrived at their destination they found Mrs Stone in a state bordering on frenzy. Fritz had been delirious all day, and had needed constant attendance. Mr Stone was a helpless, shiftless kind of man, and the farm was practically run by his wife, so that owing to her absence the whole household was in a state of chaos. Fritz had been removed to a small building somewhat apart from the dwelliag-house. It was a cheerless, comfortless apartment in which Miss Weeks found him. She watched anxiously while the doctor was forming his verdict. 'Fever,' he said, though a child could have told that. 1 Danger f ' in answer to the two women's query. ' Well — yes, a critical stage just now. He will need to be watched all night to-night.' ' I shall Btay,' Baid Miss Weeks, in her firm tones. The doctor looked down at the quaint little woman. He gave her sundry directions, to which she listened with strained attention. Mrs Stone looked relieved. It would be such a boon to have Fritz off her hands for the night. She was fond of the boy, after a fashion, but plainly this last escapade had worn out her patience with him. Fritz was muttering in his delirium, and Miss Weeks caught her name. She put her cool soft hands on his forehead and the expression of her face transformed her for the moment into something akin to loveliness, Afterwards ehe turned again to the dootor, •He's young and his constitution is good,' returned (the dootor, evasively. With the utter absence of comfort and even ordinary requirements that he caw, coupled with the distance from a town where these things could be obtained, the dootor foresaw danger ahead. He himself would have to leave Franklinburg the following day. But he felt a strong desire to do his beet, being strangely stirred by the little woman's earnestness. She was not fussy nor tiresome, and she was sot talkative ; all these qualifications recommended her to the doctor's favor, for he bad a horror of talkative women, which long acquaintance with them had not lessened.

So he did what could be done to make the boy comfortable for the night, and after some final instructions to Miss Weeks, he took his departure to the village. Through the long night watch, with bated breath and anxious heart, Miss Weeks sat beside the boy's bedside. It seemed even to her inexperienced eyes that he grew worse as the night advanced. She had sent to Cape Town for ice, and it had not yet arrived, but now she longed for it to cool his burning temples. He talked almost constantly ; now it was of Frank Leisching and the search at Matsyß Kopje, again it was of herself. He was defending her against the bully of the school, Johnnie dv Toit. He went through the fight with an imaginary opponent, and Miss Weeks had to use her authoritative voice to keep him quiet. Her tones penetrated directly to his oonsoionmiesH and for a time he was quiet. But soon he was arguing a point of doctrine with the Reverend Mr Olivier's yonnpeit pot», and much ah Miss Weeks desired to keep him still, yet ehe took a keen pride in listening to his clear statements. ' What a preacher he will be t' she said fondly, though there were none to hear ; and being alone, stooped and gently kissed the boy's forehead. ' But oh ! dear God, he must not die !' she cried in her heart, And so the long night wore to dawn, and Miss Weeks, worn and heavy-eyed, but with the indomitable will shining out of her eyes, and showing in her Bet lips, met the dootor when he came early in the morning. He looked graver after he examined the patient than he had done on the previous night. 1 Worse,' he said, ' I'm sorry to say it, but you had better know the truth.' He saw there was little affeotion for the lad in the Stone household, but he did not guess the orushing blow his words were to Miss Weeks. ' You think he will — die ?' she asked in a voice that strove to be firm, but which slipped into tremulousneas. The dootor looked down at her, and Baw how moved she was. 1 The boy is no relation of yours, Miss Weeks ?' he asked. ' None — no, none whatever. But he has grown up under me. I keep a Bchool. Perhaps you know ? I— the boy is very dear to me. He is so maaly and — oh doctor, can you not save him ? Do not mind the expense ; I can defray all. I have saved all these years. I meant it all for Fritz some day. You will Ba ve him ?' 'Ifitis in human skill to save him I will. But the harm was done before I came. And then, as you see, there is not even ordinary comfort in the place, not to speak of what a fever patient wants.' ' I will Bee to that,' said Miss Weeks, eagerly. ' To-day yon will see the change. Could you not stay a day — or two ? Think what it means, doctor t Life, if you Btay, and, if you go, Death I And the boy — I have such hopes of him.' The doctor looked at the little tremulous face charged with interest and feeling, and once again wondered. ' I will stay until the crisis is past,' he said, more moved than he cared to admit, even to himself. ' God reward you,' said Miss Weeks solemnly, and with a little sigh her head dropped against the back of her chair, and the dootor saw she had quietly fainted. The strain of the past three days had told on her vigorous frame, and all through the previous day and night she had tasted no food ; this, coupled with her sleepless watching, had prostrated her. When she recovered her first question was for Fritz. The doctor and Mrs Stone were standing beside her, and she sat up, with a pathetic assumption of her mott alert manner. ' Keep quiet, Miss Weeks, do. Don't you know you fainted ? It's my opinion that scapegrace Fritz will be the death of you yet. But there : you always was fond of the boy, from the time he was a little chap in petticoats.' Thus Mrs Stone, voluble and inclined to patronise the email schoolmistress since her weakness was discovered. ' Fiitz ? Oh, he's much the same. Fever awful high yet. He's off his head worse than yesterday. Doesn't know his own auntie. But he'll get through, don't you fret. It's the bad pennies that turn up.' Miss Weeks rose, her indignation giving her strength. ' You do not understand the boy,' she said with dignity. ' You never did, and you never will. But — if — he lives, you will be proud of him yet.' ' I hope bo, I'm sure, Miss Weeks,' returned Mrs. Stone in the tone of one who disagreed, but did not dare to say bo. For she knew when to avoid bringing Miss Weeks' perfect English about her ears. She was not ill-disposed at heart, but the cares of life and the daily struggle for existence had crashed out her compassion for anyone beyond her offspring. Miss Weeks thought her narrow and hard-heprted, and in her charitable way put it down to the fact that she had to act the man as well as the woman in her household. The day wore on, and Fritz's condition did not improve. Miss Weeks' scholars had royal times. For wnen did children ever realise the threatening shadow of death, even when it fell upon one of themselves ? That day, amidst many other achievements, Miss Weeks did an nnnsual thing. She made her will. In it it she bequeathed the bulk (not very great) of her worldly possessions to Fritz Friedrioh, reserving only sufficient for Masses for her sister and herself. The Cape Town dootor witnessed the document, and Mrs. Stone was another witness. The doctor had grave doubts as to whether Fritz would live to olaim his inheritance, but like the rest of Miss Weeks' small world, he fell under h<>? authority without quite understanding how or why. Mrs. Stone was gratified and would have expressed herself volubly had not Miss Weeks quenched her — no mean feat. Having accomplished her day's designs to her entire satisfaction, Miss Weeks was further relieved by the arrival of the priest for whom she had sent, and who had come as quickly as he could

from where he was stationed. He could do nothing for Fritz, of oouTM, for the lad was still quite delirious, but it comforted Miss Weeks to learn he had come to stay three days. In him she felt she had a friend who understood. With the insight and tact that were the result of years of service in the ministry, ooupled with a genial sympathetic nature, ' The Father,' as he was called, saw beyond the peculiarities of manner to the true nobility of the heart of this little woman. He knew the work she had done during all the past years in Franklinburg and he valued it. Without her aid how many a soul would have drifted away through neglect How many were the little ones carefully instructed in their religion, where without Miss Weeks they would bave grown up in stark ignorance. It wm not without good reason Mibg Week* felt skat he understood her. On the seoond day after his arrival Miaa Weeks spoke to him of the future of Fritz. With the precision characteristic of her she settled that Fritz was to to for a ohange of air when convalescent, and when quite recovered he was to go at once to Rome to commence his studies for the priesthood. The priest smiled as he listened, and the smile was a Bad one. The little woman Beamed so sure that Fritz would reoover ; sure in spite of the doctor's opinion to the contrary, sure in face of the daily proof of his opinion. She read his face and knew his thought. 4He will not die,' she said in answer to it, * I feel he will not die. Last night I offered my life for his, and without knowing quite why, I feel God ha« accepted.' She spoke quite calmly, and the priest looked at her, somewhat startled by her statement. 'It was not wrong ? ' she said with touching humility. 4 Not wrong — no, surely not wrong.' 1 Eccentric, you think, Father ? Perhaps so. But just consider how very terrible a thing it would be to have that bright young life untimely ended. After all, my work is done. Fritz's work is all before him. And what a work ! So much done for God, for souls. He is a olever lad, too, and he will be an ornament to the Churoh. It was a poor exchange I offered, but I believe it was accepted. I shall not live long.' The priest was a man of few words. • God grant the lad may prove worthy of your sacrifice,' he said. The days that followed bore out Miss Weeks' confidence, for Fritz passed the crisis and slowly but surely regained health. The priest and doctor both left Franklinburg and Miss Weeks resumed school. But her former vigor was gone. The people said she had overworked herself attending that thankless Fritz Friedriohs. They had put her care of him down to eccentricity, and no one had wondered at it. Bnt now they were inclined to grumble because Miss Weeks was plainly losing her ground as an awe-inspiring member of the oommunity, and the children brought home stories of strange misrule where perfect order had reigned. One afternoon when school was dismissed Miss Weeks dragged her little weary body, now almost constantly in pain, to the " Matchbox ' door, to find Fritz Friedriohs waiting for her. The greeting was characteristic of both— Fritz boyishly exuberant and demonstrative ; for him, that ie, for he was not so usually ; Miss Weeks in a tremor of delight at the Bight of him, but with that outward firmness of eye and voice that rarely deserted her when she chose to summon it. Fritz noticed her illness, as he could not help doing, for it had changed her so much. In his boyish way he was sympathetic, but words did not come easily to him, as is the way sometimes with those that feel deeply. 4 I've never seen you ill before, Miss Weeks,' he said, ' you'll soon be all right again, won't you ? I believe it was nursing me that knocked you up. Aunt told me. I can never repay your goodness.' But Miss Weeks would not let him talk like that. It was, she felt, their last meeting. The shadow of death had fallen upon her and it was sheer force of will that kept her on her feet. So she took him into the small sitting-room and put him into a seat opposite to her while she talked of his future. With a strange gentleness and sweetness she put before him the high hopes that were in her heart for him. And Fritz, moved by her earnestness, unfolded again his own ambition. It did not seem incongruous to the lad that when he rose to say good-bye, Miss Weeks should draw down his face to hers and touch his forehead with lips that trembled.

' If I am ever a priest, my first Mass eball be for 70a/ he said. Miss Weeks did not answer. Her heart was too fall. His First Mass 1 Perhaps God would let her see it from where she should be then. 1 Pray for me always,' she said as he turned from the door. 1 Always,' he Baid, and lifting his oap, he passed down the street and out of sight. * The priest and the doctor stood together beside the bed whereon lay the form of Miss Weeks, dig nified now in the mysterious majesty of Death. Her face was calm, almost beautiful in its sweetness and peace. The hands that had done so many a kindly deed were folded over a crucifix. Some friendly neighbor had put white flowers there too. Both men had been with her at the last, and they stayed to give her their last service. The doctor spoke, 'If that little woman's heart had been in a beautiful woman's body, what a stir she would have made in the world.' And the priest, after a moment's silenoe, Baid, ' As she is, it is not improbable she has made a Btir in a better place.'— S.M.C. in the Catholic Magazine for South Africa.