Allans Wife | Page 3

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Etext prepared by John Bickers, [email protected] Dagny,
[email protected] and Emma Dudding, [email protected]

Allan's Wife
by H. Rider Haggard

DEDICATION
My Dear Macumazahn,
It was your native name which I borrowed at the christening of that
Allen who has become as well known to me as any other friend I have.
It is therefore fitting that I should dedicate to you this, his last tale--the
story of his wife, and the history of some further adventures which
befell him. They will remind you of many an African yarn--that with
the baboons may recall an experience of your own which I did not
share. And perhaps they will do more than this. Perhaps they will bring
back to you some of the long past romance of days that are lost to us.
The country of which Allan Quatermain tells his tale is now, for the
most part, as well known and explored as are the fields of Norfolk.

Where we shot and trekked and galloped, scarcely seeing the face of
civilized man, there the gold-seeker builds his cities. The shadow of the
flag of Britain has, for a while, ceased to fall on the Transvaal plains;
the game has gone; the misty charm of the morning has become the
glare of day. All is changed. The blue gums that we planted in the
garden of the "Palatial" must be large trees by now, and the "Palatial"
itself has passed from us. Jess sat in it waiting for her love after we
were gone. There she nursed him back to life. But Jess is dead, and
strangers own it, or perhaps it is a ruin.
For us too, Macumazahn, as for the land we loved, the mystery and
promise of the morning are outworn; the mid-day sun burns overhead,
and at times the way is weary. Few of those we knew are left. Some are
victims to battle and murder, their bones strew the veldt; death has
taken some in a more gentle fashion; others are hidden from us, we
know not where. We might well fear to return to that land lest we also
should see ghosts. But though we walk apart to-day, the past yet looks
upon us with its unalterable eyes. Still we can remember many a boyish
enterprise and adventure, lightly undertaken, which now would strike
us as hazardous indeed. Still we can recall the long familiar line of the
Pretoria Horse, the face of war and panic, the weariness of midnight