d. At night, and now
and again even in the daytime, he would be seized with terror, and sob
and cry in a way that was piteous to behold, though not to be wondered
at by any who knew his history. When these fits took him, strange as
it may seem, there was but one who could calm his heart, and that one
Suzanne. I can see them now as I have seen them thrice that I remember,
the boy sitting up in his bed, a stare of agony in his eyes, and the
sweat running down his face, damping his yellow hair, and talking
rapidly, half in English, half in Dutch, with a voice that at times
would rise to a scream, and at times would sink to a whisper, of the
shipwreck, of his lost parents, of the black Indian woman who nursed
him, of the wilderness, the tigers, and the Kaffirs who fell on them,
and many other things. By him sits Suzanne, a soft kaross of jackal
skins wrapped over her nightgown, the dew of sleep still showing upon
her childish face and in her large dark eyes. By him she sits, talking
in some words which for us have little meaning, and in a voice now
shrill, and now sinking to a croon, while with one hand she clasps his
wrist, and with the other strokes his brow, till the shadow passes from
his soul and, clinging close to her, he sinks back to sleep.
But as the years went by these fits grew rarer till at last they ceased
altogether, since, thanks be to God, childhood can forget its grief.
What did not cease, however, was the lad's love for Suzanne, or her love
for him, which, if possible, was yet deeper. Brother may love sister,
but that affection, however true, yet lacks something, since nature
teaches that it can never be complete. But from the beginning--yes, even
while they were children--these twain were brother and sister, friend
and friend, lover and lover; and so they remained till life left them,
and so they will remain for aye in whatever life they live. Their
thought was one thought, their heart was one heart; in them was neither
variableness nor shadow of turning; they were each of each, to each and
for each, as one soul in their separate spirits, as one flesh in their
separate bodies. I who write this am a very old woman, and though in
many things I am most ignorant, I have seen much of the world and of
the men who live in it, yet I say that never have I known any marvel to
compare with the marvel and the beauty of the love between Ralph Kenzie,
the castaway, and my sweet daughter, Suzanne. It was of heaven, not
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