ARTES
1837
SCIENTIA
LIBRARY
VERITAS
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
E-PLURIBUS UNUM
TUEBOR
SI-QUAERIS PENINSULAM AMOENAM
CIRCUMSPICE
828
$3734
THE STORY
OF
AN AFRICAN FARM.
A Novel.
BY RALPH IRON
(OLIVE SCHREINER).

QUI
LEGIT
REGIT
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1888.
AUTHOR'S EDITION.
University Press :
JOHN WILSON AND SON, Cambridge.
0227148,5
To My Friend,
MRS. JOHN BROWN,
OF BURNLEY,
THIS LITTLE FIRSTLING OF MY PEN
IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED.
RALPH IRON.
SOUTH KENSINGTON, LONDON,
June, 1883.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
I HAVE to thank cordially the public and my
critics for the reception they have given this little
book.
Dealing with a subject that is far removed from
the round of English daily life, it of necessity lacks
the charm that hangs about the ideal representation
of familiar things, and its reception has therefore
been the more kindly.
A word of explanation is necessary. Two strangers
appear on the scene, and some have fancied that in
the second they have again the first, who returns in
a new guise. Why this should be we cannot tell;
unless there is a feeling that a man should not
appear upon the scene, and then disappear, leaving
behind him no more substantial trace than a mere
book; that he should return later on as husband or
lover, to fill some more important part than that of
the mere stimulator of thought.
Human life may be painted according to two
methods. There is the stage method. According to
8
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
that each character is duly marshalled at first, and
ticketed; we know with an immutable certainty that
at the right crises each one will reappear and act his
part, and, when the curtain falls, all will stand be-
fore it bowing. There is a sense of satisfaction in
this, and of completeness. But there is another
method the method of the life we all lead. Here
nothing can be prophesied. There is a strange com-
ing and going of feet. Men appear, act and react
upon each other, and pass away. When the crisis
comes, the man who would fit it does not return.
When the curtain falls, no one is ready. When the
footlights are brightest, they are blown out; and what
the name of the play is no one knows. If there sits
a spectator who knows, he sits so high that the players
in the gaslight cannot hear his breathing. Life may
be painted according to either method; but the
methods are different. The canons of criticism that
bear upon the one cut cruelly upon the other.
It has been suggested by a kind critic that he
would better have liked the little book if it had been
a history of wild adventure; of cattle driven into
inaccessible "kranzes" by Bushmen; "of encounters
with ravening lions, and hair-breadth escapes." This
could not be. Such works are best written in Picca-
dilly or in the Strand; there the gifts of the creative
imagination, untrammelled by contact with any fact,
may spread their wings.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
9
But, should one sit down to paint the scenes
among which he has grown, he will find that the
facts creep in upon him. Those brilliant phases and
shapes which the imagination sees in far-off lands
are not for him to portray. Sadly he must squeeze
the color from his brush, and dip it into the gray
pigments around him. He must paint what lies
before him.
JUNE, 1883,
R. IRON.
GLOSSARY.
Since several Dutch and Colonial words occur in this work, the
subjoined Glossary is given, explaining the principal ones.
Benaauwdheit
•
Indigestion.
Brakje
Bultong
•
·
A little cur of low degree.
Dried meat.
In-span
Kappje
Karroo
•
•
To harness.
•
•
•
·
A sun-bonnet.
Karroo-bushes
Kartel.
Kopje
Kraal.
•
•
·
•
•
·
•
•
•
•
·
·
•
Mealies
Meerkat
Meiboss
Nachtmaal
Out-span
Predikant
Reim.
Schlecht
·
Sloot
Spook
Stamp-block
Upsitting
·
•
•
·
•
.
•
•
·
•
•
•
Velschoen
•
•
•
The wide sandy plains in some parts
of South Africa.
The bushes that take the place of
grass on these plains.
The wooden bed fastened in an ox-
wagon.
A small hillock, or "little head."
The space surrounded by a stone wall
or hedged with thorn branches, into
which sheep or cattle are driven at
night.
Indian corn.
A small weasel-like animal.
Preserved and dried apricots.
The Lord's Supper.
To unharness, or a place in the field
where one unharnesses.
Parson.
Leather rope.
Bad.
A dry watercourse.
A ghost.
A wooden block hollowed out, in which
mealies are placed to be pounded
before being cooked.
In Boer courtship the man and girl are
supposed to sit up together the
whole night.
Shoes of undressed leather.
WE must see the first images which the external world casts upon
the dark mirror of his mind; or must hear the first words which awaken
the sleeping powers of thought, and stand by his earliest efforts, if we
would understand the prejudices, the habits, and the passions that will
rule his life. The entire man is, so to speak, to be found in the cradle
of the child.
ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE
CHAPTER II.
PLANS AND BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS
CHAPTER III.
I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN
PAGE
•
17
29
39
CHAPTER IV.
BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH
49
CHAPTER V.
SUNDAY SERVICES .
61
CHAPTER VI.
BONAPARTE BLENKINS MAKES HIS NEST
73
CHAPTER VII.
HE SETS HIS TRAP
81
CHAPTER VIII.
IE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD
888
14
CONTENTS.
HE SEES A GHOST
•
CHAPTER IX.
•
PAGE
102
HE SHOWS HIS TEETH.
CHAPTER X.
113
CHAPTER XI.
HE SNAPS.
117
CHAPTER XII.
HE BITES
127
CHAPTER XIII.
HE MAKES LOVE
143
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
TIMES AND SEASONS
•
151
CHAPTER II.
WALDO'S STRANGER.
176
CHAPTER III.
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY
202
CHAPTER IV.
LYNDALL
CHAPTER V.
TANT' SANNIE HOLDS AN UPSITTING, AND GREGORY
WRITES A LETTER.
215
239
CONTENTS.
15
CHAPTER VI.
A BOER WEDDING
·
CHAPTER VII.
WALDO GOES OUT TO TASTE LIFE, AND EM STAYS AT
HOME AND TASTES IT
CHAPTER VIII.
PAGE
·
250
267
THE KOPJE
272
CHAPTER IX.
LYNDALL'S STRANGER
285
CHAPTER X.
GREGORY ROSE HAS AN IDEA
297
CHAPTER XI.
AN UNFINISHED LETTER
303
CHAPTER XII.
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD
324
•
CHAPTER XIII.
DREAMS.
353
CHAPTER XIV.
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE
363
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE.
The Watch.
THE full African moon poured down its light from
the blue sky into the wide, lonely plain. The dry,
sandy earth with its coating of stunted "karroo
bushes a few inches high, the low hills that skirted'
the plain, the milk-bushes with their long finger-like
leaves, all were touched by a weird and an almost op-
pressive beauty as they lay in the white light.
In one spot only was the solemn monotony of
the plain broken. Near the centre a small solitary
"kopje" rose. Alone it lay there, a heap of round
ironstones piled one upon another, as over some giant's
grave. Here and there a few tufts of grass or small
succulent plants had sprung up among its stones, and
on the very summit a clump of prickly pears lifted
their thorny arms, and reflected, as from mirrors, the
moonlight on their broad fleshy leaves. At the foot
of the "kopje" lay the homestead. First, the stone-
walled sheep kraals and Kaffir huts; beyond them
the dwelling-house, a square red brick building
-
2
18
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
with thatched roof. Even on its bare red walls, and
the wooden ladder that led up to the loft, the moon-
light cast a kind of dreamy beauty, and quite ethe-
realized the low brick wall that ran before the house,
and which enclosed a bare patch of sand and two
straggling sunflowers. On the zinc roof of the great
open wagon-house, on the roofs of the outbuildings
that jutted from its side, the moonlight glinted with
a quite peculiar brightness, till it seemed that every
rib in the metal was of burnished silver.
Sleep ruled everywhere, and the homestead was not
less quiet than the solitary plain.
In the farm-house, on her great wooden bedstead,
Tant' Sannie, the Boer-woman, rolled heavily in her
sleep.
-
She had gone to bed, as she always did, in her
clothes, and the night was warm, and the room close,
and she dreamed bad dreams, not of the ghosts and
devils that so haunted her waking thoughts; not of
her second husband, the consumptive Englishman,
whose grave lay away beyond the ostrich-camps, nor
of her first, the young Boer, but only of the sheep's
trotters she had eaten for supper that night. She
dreamed that one stuck fast in her throat, and she
rolled her huge form from side to side, and snorted
horribly.
In the next room, where the maid had forgotten to
close the shutter, the white moonlight fell in in a flood,
and made it light as day. There were two small beds
against the wall. In one lay a yellow-haired child,
with a low forehead and a freckled face; but the
loving moonlight hid defects here as elsewhere, and
showed only the innocent face of a child in its first
sweet sleep.
SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE.
19
The figure in the companion bed belonged of right
to the moonlight, for it was of quite elfin-like beauty.
The child had dropped her cover on the floor, and the
moonlight looked in at the naked little limbs. Pres-
ently she opened her eyes, and looked at the moonlight
that was bathing her.
"Em!" she called to the sleeper in the other bed,
but received no answer. Then she drew the cover
from the floor, turned her pillow, and pulling the
sheet over her head, went to sleep again.
Only in one of the outbuildings that jutted from
the wagon-house, there was some one who was not
asleep. The room was dark; door and shutter were
closed; not a ray of light entered anywhere. The
German overseer, to whom the room belonged, lay
sleeping soundly on his bed in the corner, his great
arms folded, and his bushy gray and black beard rising
and falling on his breast. But one in the room was
not asleep. Two large eyes looked about in the dark-
ness, and two small hands were smoothing the patch-
work quilt. The boy, who slept on a box under the
window, had just awakened from his first sleep. He
drew the quilt up to his chin, so that little peered
above it but a great head of silky black curls, and the
two black eyes. He stared about in the darkness.
Nothing was visible, not even the outline of one
worm-eaten rafter, nor of the deal table, on which lay
the Bible from which his father had read before they
went to bed. No one could tell where the tool-box was,
and where the fire-place. There was something very
impressive to the child in the complete darkness.
At the head of his father's bed hung a great silver
hunting-watch. It ticked loudly. The boy listened.
to it, and began mechanically to count. Tick-tick
20
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
tick! one, two, three, four! He lost count pres-
ently, and only listened. Tick- tick-tick — tick!
It never waited; it went on inexorably; and every
time it ticked, a man died! He raised himself a
little on his elbow and listened. He wished it would
leave off.
How many times had it ticked since he came to lie
down? A thousand times, a million times, perhaps.
He tried to count again, and sat up to listen better.
"Dying, dying, dying!" said the watch; "dying,
dying, dying!"
He heard it distinctly. Where were they going to,
all those people?
He lay down quickly, and pulled the cover up over
his head; but presently the silky curls reappeared.
"Dying, dying, dying!" said the watch; "dying,
dying, dying!"
He thought of the words his father had read that
evening-"For, wide is the gate and broad is the way,
that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which
go in thereat."
"Many, many, many!" said the watch.
"Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way
that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.”
"Few, few, few!" said the watch.
The boy lay with his eyes wide open. He saw
before him a long stream of people, a great dark mul-
titude, that moved in one direction; then they came
to the dark edge of the world, and went over. He
saw them passing on before him, and there was noth-
ing that could stop them. He thought of how that
stream had rolled on through all the long ages of the
past how the old Greeks and Romans had gone
over; the countless millions of China and India, they
-
SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE.
21
were going over now.
many had gone !
Since he had come to bed, how
And the watch said, "Eternity, eternity, eternity!"
Stop them! stop them!" cried the child.
66
And all the while the watch kept ticking on; just
like God's will, that never changes or alters, you may
do what you please.
Great beads of perspiration stood on the boy's fore-
head He climbed out of bed, and lay with his face
turned to the mud floor.
66
"O God, God! save them!" he cried in agony.
Only some; only a few! Only, for each moment I
am praying here, one !" He folded his little hands.
upon his head. "God! God! save them! "
He grovelled on the floor.
Oh, the long, long ages of the past, in which they
had gone over! Oh, the long, long future, in which
they would pass away! O, God! the long, long,
long eternity, which has no end!
The child wept, and crept closer to the ground.
The Sacrifice.
The farm by daylight was not as the farm by
moonlight. The plain was a weary flat of loose red
sand, sparsely covered by dry karroo bushes, that
cracked beneath the tread like tinder, and showed
the red earth everywhere. Here and there a milk-
bush lifted its pale-colored rods, and in every direc
tion the ants and beetles ran about in the blazing
sand. The red walls of the farm-house, the zinc roofs
of the outbuildings, the stone walls of the kraals,
all reflected the fierce sunlight, till the eye ached and
blenched. No tree or shrub was to be seen far or
22
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
near.
The two sunflowers that stood before the door,
out-stared by the sun, drooped their brazen faces to
the sand; and the little cicada-like insects cried aloud
among the stones of the "kopje."
The Boer-woman, seen by daylight, was even less
lovely than when, in bed, she rolled and dreamed.
She sat on a chair in the great front room, with her
feet on a wooden stove, and wiped her flat face with
the corner of her apron, and drank coffee, and in Cape
Dutch swore that the beloved weather was damned.
Less lovely, too, by daylight was the dead English-
man's child, her little step-daughter, upon whose
freckles and low wrinkled forehead the sunlight had
no mercy.
"Lyndall," the child said to her little orphan cousin,
who sat with her on the floor threading beads, "how
is it your beads never fall off your needle?"
"I try," said the little one, gravely, moistening her
tiny finger. "That is why."
The overseer, seen by daylight, was a huge German,
wearing a shabby suit, and with a childish habit of
rubbing his hands and nodding his head prodigiously
when pleased at anything. He stood out at the
kraals, in the blazing sun, explaining to two Kaffir
boys the approaching end of the world. The boys, as
they cut the cakes of dung, winked at each other,
and worked as slowly as they possibly could; but the
German never saw it.
-
Away beyond the "kopje," Waldo, his son, herded
the ewes and lambs, a small and dusty herd,
powdered all over from head to foot with red sand,
wearing a ragged coat, and shoes of undressed leather,
through whose holes the toes looked out. His hat
was too large, and had sunk down to his eyes, con-
SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE.
23
cealing completely the silky black curls. It was a
curious small figure. His flock gave him little trouble.
It was too hot for them to move far; they gathered
round every little milk-bush as though they hoped to
find shade, and stood there motionless in clumps. He
himself crept under a shelving rock that lay at the
foot of the "kopje," stretched himself on his stomach,
and waved his dilapidated little shoes in the air.
Soon, from the blue bag where he kept his dinner,
he produced a fragment of slate, an arithmetic, and a
pencil. Proceeding to put down a sum with solemn
and earnest demeanor, he began to add it up aloud:
"Six and two is eight, and four is twelve, and two
is fourteen, and four is eighteen." Here he paused.
"And four is eighteen-and-four-is-eighteen."
The last was very much drawled. Slowly the pencil
slipped from his fingers, and the slate followed it into
the sand. For a while he lay motionless, then began
muttering to himself, folded his little arms, laid his
head down upon them, and might have been asleep,
but for a muttering sound that from time to time pro-
ceeded from him. A curious old ewe came to sniff
at him; but it was long before he raised his head.
When he did, he looked at the far-off hills with his
heavy eyes.
"Ye shall receive, ye shall receive, shall, shall,
shall," he muttered.
He sat up then. Slowly the dulness and heaviness
melted from his face; it became radiant. Mid-day
had come now, and the sun's rays were poured down
vertically; the earth throbbed before the eye.
The boy stood up quickly, and cleared a small space
from the bushes which covered it. Looking carefully,
he found twelve small stones of somewhat the same
24
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
size; kneeling down, he arranged them carefully on the
cleared space in a square pile, in shape like an altar.
Then he walked to the bag where his dinner was kept;
in it was a mutton chop and a large slice of brown
bread. The boy took them out, and turned the bread
over in his hand, deeply considering it. Finally he
threw it away, and walked to the altar with the meat,
and laid it down on the stones. Close by, in the red
sand, he knelt down. Sure, never since the beginning
of the world was there so ragged and so small a priest.
He took off his great hat, and placed it solemnly on
the ground, then closed his eyes and folded his hands.
He prayed aloud, —
"O God, my Father, I have made Thee a sacrifice.
I have only twopence, so I cannot buy a lamb. If the
lambs were mine I would give Thee one; but now I
have only this meat; it is my dinner-meat. Please,
my Father, send fire down from heaven to burn it.
Thou hast said, Whosoever shall say unto this moun-
tain, Be thou cast into the sea, nothing doubting, it
shall be done. I ask for the sake of Jesus Christ.
Amen."
He knelt down with his face upon the ground, and
he folded his hands upon his curls. The fierce sun
poured down its heat upon his head and upon his
altar. When he looked up he knew what he should
see-the glory of God! For fear his very heart stood
still, his breath came heavily; he was half suffocated.
He dared not look up. Then at last he raised himself.
Above him was the quiet blue sky, about him the red
earth; there were the clumps of silent ewes and his
altar that was all.
-
nothing broke the intense stillness
He looked up
of the blue overhead.
He looked round in astonish-
SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE.
25
ment, then he bowed again, and this time longer than
before.
When he raised himself the second time, all was
unaltered. Only the sun had melted the fat of the
little mutton-chop, and it ran down upon the stones.
Then the third time he bowed himself. When at
last he looked up, some ants had come to the meat on
the altar. He stood up, and drove them away. Then
he put his hat on his hot curls, and sat in the shade.
He clasped his hands about his knees. He sat to
watch what would come to pass. The glory of the
Lord God Almighty! He knew he should see it.
"My dear God is trying me," he said; and he sat
there through the fierce heat of the afternoon. Still
he watched and waited when the sun began to slope;
and when it neared the horizon and the sheep began
to cast long shadows across the karroo, he still sat
there. He hoped when the first rays touched the hills,
till the sun dipped behind them and was gone. Then
he called his ewes together, and broke down the altar,
and threw the meat far, far away into the field.
He walked home behind his flock. His heart was
heavy. He reasoned so: "God cannot lie. I had
faith. No fire came. I am like Cain - I am not His.
He will not hear my prayer. God hates me."
The boy's heart was heavy. When he reached the
kraal gate the two girls met him.
"
"Come," said the yellow-haired Em, "let us play
coop.' There is still time before it gets quite dark.
You, Waldo, go and hide on the 'kopje'; Lyndall and
I will shut eyes here, and we will not look."
The girls hid their faces in the stone wall of the
sheep kraal, and the boy clambered half way up the
"kopje." He crouched down between two stones, and
26
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
gave the call.
Just then the milk-herd came walking
out of the cow kraal with two pails. He was an ill-
looking Kaffir.
"Ah!" thought the boy, "perhaps he will die to-
night, and go to hell! I must pray for him, I must
pray!"
Then he thought, "Where am I going to?" and
he prayed desperately.
"Ah! this is not right at all," little Em said, peep-
ing between the stones, and finding him in a very
curious posture. "What are you doing, Waldo? It
is not the play, you know. You should run out when
we come to the white stone. Ah, you do not play
nicely."
"I-I will play nicely now," said the boy, coming
out, and standing sheepishly before them; "I-I only
forgot; I will play now."
"He has been to sleep," said freckled Em.
"No," said beautiful little Lyndall, looking curi-
ously at him; "he has been crying."
She never made a mistake.
The Confession.
One night, two years after, the boy sat alone on the
"kopje." He had crept softly from his father's room,
and come there. He often did, because, when he
prayed or cried aloud, his father might awake and
hear him; and none knew his great sorrow, and none
knew his grief but he himself, and he buried them
deep in his heart.
He turned up the brim of his great hat, and looked.
at the moon, but most at the leaves of the prickly
pear that grew just before him. They glinted, and
SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE.
27
glinted, and glinted, just like his own heart-cold,
so hard, and very wicked. His physical heart had
pain also; it seemed full of little bits of glass that
hurt. He had sat there for half an hour, and he dared
not go back to the close house.
He felt horribly lonely. There was not one thing
so wicked as he in all the world, and he knew it. He
folded his arms and began to cry not aloud; he
sobbed without making any sound, and his tears left
scorched marks where they fell. He could not pray;
he had prayed night and day for so many months;
and to-night he could not pray. When he left off
crying, he held his aching head with his brown hands.
If one might have gone up to him and touched him
kindly poor, ugly little thing! Perhaps his heart
was almost broken.
With his swollen eyes he sat there on a flat stone
at the very top of the "kopje"; and the tree, with
every one of its wicked leaves, blinked, and blinked,
and blinked at him. Presently he began to cry again,
and then stopped his crying to look at it. He was
quiet for a long while, then he knelt slowly and
bent forward. There was a secret he had carried in
his heart for a year. He had not dared to look at it;
he had not whispered it to himself; but for a year he
had carried it. "I hate God!" he said. The wind
took the words and ran away with them, among the
stones, and through the leaves of the prickly pear.
He thought it died away half down the "kopje." He
had told it now.
"I love Jesus Christ, but I hate God."
The wind carried away that sound as it had done
the first. Then he got up, and buttoned his old coat
about him. He knew he was certainly lost now; he
28
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
did not care.
If half the world were to be lost, why
not he too? He would not pray for mercy any more.
Better so
- better to know certainly. It was ended
now. Better so.
-
He began scrambling down the sides of the "kopje'
home.
to go
-
99
Better so, but oh, the loneliness, the agonized
pain, for that night, and for nights on nights to come!
The anguish that sleeps all day on the heart like a
heavy worm, and wakes up at night to feed!
There are some of us who in after years say to Fate,
"Now deal us your hardest blow, give us what you
will; but let us never again suffer as we suffered when
we were children."
The barb in the arrow of childhood's suffering is
this its intense loneliness, its intense ignorance.
CHAPTER II.
PLANS AND BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS.
AT last came the year of the great drought, the
year of 1862.
From end to end of the land the
earth cried for water. Man and beast turned their
eyes to the pitiless sky, that like the roof of some
brazen oven arched overhead. On the farm, day after
day, month after month, the water in the dams fell
lower and lower; the sheep died in the fields; the
cattle, scarcely able to crawl, tottered as they moved
from spot to spot in search of food. Week after week,
month after month, the sun looked down from the
cloudless sky, till the karroo bushes were leafless
sticks, broken into the earth, and the earth itself was
naked and bare; and only the milk-bushes, like old
hags, pointed their shrivelled fingers heavenwards,
praying for the rain that never came.
It was on an afternoon of a long day in that thirsty
summer, that on the side of the "kopje " farthest from
the homestead the two girls sat. They were somewhat
grown since the days when they played hide-and-seek
there, but they were mere children still.
Their dress was of dark coarse stuff; their common
blue pinafores reached to their ankles, and on their
feet they wore home-made "vel-schoen."
They sat under a shelving rock, on the surface of
which were still visible some old Bushman-paintings,
30
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
their red and black pigments having been preserved
through long years from wind and rain by the over-
hanging ledge, — grotesque oxen, elephants, rhinoc-
eroses, and a one-horned beast, such as no man ever
has seen or ever shall see.
-
The girls sat with their backs to the paintings. In
their laps were a few fern and ice-plant leaves, which
by dint of much.searching they had gathered under
the rocks.
Em took off her big brown "kappje" and began vig-
orously to fan her red face with it; but her companion
bent low over the leaves in her lap, and at last took
up an ice-plant leaf, and fastened it to the front of
her blue pinafore with a pin.
"Diamonds must look as these drops do," she said,
carefully bending over the leaf, and crushing one crys-
tal drop with her delicate little nail. "When I am
grown up," she said, "I shall wear real diamonds,
exactly like these in my hair."
Her companion opened her eyes, and wrinkled her
low forehead.
"Where will you find them, Lyndall? The stones
are only crystals that we picked up yesterday. Old
Otto says so."
"And you think that I am going to stay here
always?"
The lip trembled scornfully.
"Ah, no!" said her companion. "I suppose some
day we shall go somewhere; but now we are only
twelve, and we cannot marry till we are seventeen.
Four years, five-that is a long time to wait. And
we might not have diamonds if we did marry."
"And you think that I am going to stay here till
then?"
PLANS AND BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS.
31
"Well, where are you going?" asked her com-
panion.
The girl crushed an ice-plant leaf between her
fingers.
-
"Tant' Sannie is a miserable old woman," she said.
"Your father married her when he was dying, be-
cause he thought she would take better care of the
farm, and of us, than an English woman. He said we
should be taught, and sent to school. Now she saves
every farthing for herself, buys us not even one old
book. She does not ill-use us
- why? Because she
is afraid of your father's ghost. Only this morning
she told her Hottentot that she would have beaten
you for breaking the plate, but that three nights ago
she heard a rustling and a grunting behind the pantry
door, and knew it was your father coming to 'spook'
her. She is a miserable old woman," said the girl,
throwing the leaf from her; "but I intend to go to
school."
"And if she won't let you?"
"I shall make her."
"How?"
The child took not the slightest notice of the
last question, and folded her small arms across her
knees.
"But why do you want to go, Lyndall?"
"There is nothing helps in this world," said the
child, slowly, "but to be very wise, and to know every-
thing, to be clever."
-
"But I should not like to go to school!" persisted
the small freckled face.
"And you do not need to.
teen this Boer-woman will go.
When you are seven-
You will have this
farm and everything that is upon it for your own;
32
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
but I," said Lyndall, "will have nothing. I must
learn."
“Oh, Lyndall, I will give you some of my sheep!"
said Em, with a sudden burst of pitying generosity.
"I do not want your sheep," said the girl, slowly;
"I want things of my own.
When I am grown up,"
she added, the flush on her delicate features deepen-
ing at every word, "there will be nothing that I do
not know. I shall be rich, very rich; and I shall
wear, not only for best, but every day, a pure white
silk, and little rosebuds, like the lady in Tant' San-
nie's bed-room, and my petticoats will be embroidered,
not only at the bottom, but all through."
The lady in Tant' Sannie's bed-room was a gor-
geous creature from a fashion-sheet, which the Boer-
woman, somewhere obtaining, had pasted up at the
foot of her bed, to be profoundly admired by the chil-
dren.
"It would be very nice!" said Em; but it seemed
a dream of quite too transcendent a glory ever to be
realized.
At this instant there appeared at the foot of the
"kopje" two figures, — the one, a dog, white and
sleek, one yellow ear hanging down over his left eye;
the other, his master, a lad of fourteen, and no other
than the boy Waldo, grown into a heavy slouching
youth. The dog mounted the "kopje " quickly; his
master followed slowly. He wore an aged jacket
much too large for him, and rolled up at the wrists,
and, as of old, a pair of dilapidated "vel-schoen"
and a felt hat. He stood before the two girls at
last.
"What have you been doing to-day?" asked Lyn-
dall, lifting her eyes to his face.
PLANS AND BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS.
33
66
Looking after ewes and lambs below the dam.
Here,” he said, holding out his hand awkwardly, “I
brought them for you!"
There were a few green blades of tender grass.
"Where did you find them?"
"On the dam wall."
She fastened them beside the leaf on her blue
pinafore.
"They look nice there!" said the boy, awkwardly
rubbing his great hands and watching her.
"Yes; but the pinafore spoils it all. It is not
pretty."
He looked at it closely.
"Yes, the squares are ugly; but it looks nice upon
you,
- beautiful!"
-
He now stood silent before them, his great hands
hanging loosely at either side.
"Some one has come to-day," he mumbled out, sud-
denly, when the idea struck him.
"Who?" asked both girls.
"An Englishman on foot."
"What does he look like ?" asked Em.
"I did not notice; but he has a very large nose,"
said the boy, slowly. "He asked the way to the
house."
"Did n't he tell you his name?"
"Yes; Bonaparte Blenkins."
"Bonaparte!" said Em, "why, that is like the reel
Hottentot Hans plays on the violin,
66
-
"Bonaparte, Bonaparte, my wife is sick;
In the middle of the week, but Sundays not,
I give her rice and beans for soup' —
It is a funny name!"
3
34
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"There was a living man called Bonaparte once,"
said she of the great eyes.
-
"Ah, yes, I know," said Em, "the poor prophet
whom the lions ate. I am always so sorry for him."
Her companion cast a quiet glance upon her.
"He was the greatest man who ever lived," she
said, "the man I like best."
"And what did he do?" asked Em, conscious that
she had made a mistake, and that her prophet was
not the man.
"He was one man, only one," said her little com-
panion slowly, "yet all the people in the world feared
him. He was not born great, he was common as we
are; yet he was master of the world at last. Once
he was only a little child, then he was a lieutenant,
then he was a general, then he was an emperor.
When he said a thing to himself, he never forgot it.
He waited, and waited, and waited, and it came at
last."
"He must have been very happy," said Em.
"I do not know," said Lyndall; "but he had what
he said he would have, and that is better than being
happy. He was their master, and all the people were
white with fear of him. They joined together to
fight him. He was one, and they were many, and
they got him down at last. They were like the wild
cats when their teeth are fast in a great dog, like
cowardly wild cats," said the child, "they would not
let him go. They were many; he was only one.
They sent him to an island in the sea, a lonely island,
and kept him there fast. He was one man, and they
were many, and they were terrified at him. It was
glorious!" said the child.
"And what then?" said Em.
PLANS AND BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS.
35
"Then he was alone there in that island with men
to watch him always," said her companion, slowly and
quietly, "and in the long lonely nights he used to lie
awake and think of the things he had done in the old
days, and the things he would do if they let him go
again. In the day when he walked near the shore it
seemed to him that the sea all around him was a cold
chain about his body, pressing him to death."
"And then?" said Em, much interested.
"He died there in that island; he never got away."
"It is rather a nice story," said Em; "but the end
is sad."
"It is a terrible, hateful ending," said the little
teller of the story, leaning forward on her folded
arms; "and the worst is, it is true. I have noticed,"
added the child very deliberately, "that it is only
the made-up stories that end nicely; the true ones
all end so."
As she spoke the boy's dark, heavy eyes rested on
her face.
"You have read it, have you not?"
He nodded. "Yes; but the brown history tells
only what he did, not what he thought."
"It was in the brown history that I read of him,"
said the girl; "but I know what he thought. Books
do not tell everything."
"No," said the boy, slowly drawing nearer to her
and sitting down at her feet. "What you want to
know they never tell."
Then the children fell into silence, till Doss, the
dog, growing uneasy at its long continuance, sniffed
at one and the other, and his master broke forth
suddenly-
"If they could talk, if they could tell us now,"
36
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
he said, moving his hand out over the surrounding
objects" then we would know something. This
'kopje,' if it could tell us how it came here! The
'Physical Geography' says," he went on most rapidly
and confusedly, "that what are dry lands now were
once lakes; and what I think is this—these low hills
were once the shores of a lake; this 'kopje' is some
of the stones that were at the bottom, rolled together
by the water. But there is this - how did the water
come to make one heap here alone, in the centre of
the plain?" It was a ponderous question; no one
volunteered an answer. "When I was little," said
the boy, "I always looked at it and wondered, and I
thought a great giant was buried under it. Now I
know the water must have done it; but how? It is
very wonderful. Did one little stone come first, and
stop the others as they rolled?" said the boy with
earnestness, in a low voice, more as speaking to him-
self than to them.
"Oh, Waldo, God put the little 'kopje' here," said
Em with solemnity.
"But how did He put it here?"
"By wanting."
"But how did the wanting bring it here?"
"Because it did."
The last words were uttered with the air of one
who produces a clinching argument. What effect it
had on the questioner was not evident, for he made
no reply, and turned away from her.
Drawing closer to Lyndall's feet, he said after a
while in a low voice,
―
Lyndall, has it never seemed to you that the
stones were talking with you? Sometimes," he added
in a yet lower tone, "I lie under there with my
PLANS AND BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS.
37
sheep, and it seems that the stones are really speak-
ing-speaking of the old things, of the time when
the strange fishes and animals lived that are turned
into stone now, and the lakes were here; and then
of the time when the little Bushmen lived here, so
small and so ugly, and used to sleep in the wild-dog
holes, and in the 'sloots,' and eat snakes, and shoot
the bucks with their poisoned arrows. It was one of
them, one of these old wild Bushmen, that painted
those," said the boy, nodding towards the pictures –
"one who was different from the rest. He did not
know why, but he wanted to make something beau-
tiful- he wanted to make something, so he made
these. He worked hard, very hard, to find the juice
to make the paint; and then he found this place
where the rocks hang over, and he painted them. To
us they are only strange things, that make us laugh;
but to him they were very beautiful."
-
The children had turned round, and looked at the
pictures.
"He used to kneel here naked, painting, painting,
painting; and he wondered at the things he made
himself," said the boy, rising and moving his hand in
deep excitement. "Now the Boers have shot them
all, so that we never see a little yellow face peeping
out among the stones." He paused, a dreamy look
coming over his face. "And the wild bucks have
gone, and those days, and we are here. But we will
be gone soon, and only the stones will lie on here,
looking at everything like they look now. I know
that it is I who am thinking," the fellow added
slowly, "but it seems as though it were they who are
talking. Has it never seemed so to you, Lyndall?”
"No, it never seems so to me," she answered.
38
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
The sun had dipped now below the hills, and the
boy, suddenly remembering the ewes and lambs,
started to his feet.
"Let us also go to the house and see who has come,"
said Em, as the boy shuffled away to rejoin his flock,
while Doss ran at his heels, snapping at the ends of
the torn trousers as they fluttered in the wind.
CHAPTER III.
I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN.
As the two girls rounded the side of the "kopje,"
an unusual scene presented itself. A large group was
gathered at the back door of the homestead.
On the doorstep stood the Boer-woman, a hand on
each hip, her face red and fiery, her head nodding
fiercely. At her feet sat the yellow Hottentot maid,
her satellite, and around stood the black Kaffir maids,
with blankets twisted round their half-naked figures.
Two, who stamped "mealies" in a wooden block, held
the great stampers in their hands, and stared stupidly
at the object of attraction. It certainly was not to
look at the old German overseer, who stood in the
centre of the group, that they had all gathered to-
gether. His salt-and-pepper suit, grizzly black beard,
and gray eyes, were as familiar to every one on the
farm as the red gables of the homestead itself; but
beside him stood the stranger, and on him all eyes
were fixed. Ever and anon the new-comer cast a
glance over his pendulous red nose to the spot where
the Boer-woman stood, and smiled faintly.
"I'm not a child," cried the Boer-woman, in low
Cape Dutch," and I was n't born yesterday. No, by
the Lord, no! You can't take me in! My mother
did n't wean me on Monday. One wink of my eye
and I see the whole thing. I'll have no tramps sleep-
ing on my farm," cried Tant' Sannie blowing. "No,
40
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
by the devil, no! not though he had sixty-times-six
red noses."
There the German overseer mildly interposed that
the man was not a tramp, but a highly respectable in-
dividual, whose horse had died by an accident three
days before.
"the man
"Don't tell me," cried the Boer-woman;
is n't born that can take me in. If he'd had money,
would n't he have bought a horse? Men who walk
are thieves, liars, murderers, Rome's priests, seducers!
I see the devil in his nose!" cried Tant' Sannie, shak-
ing her fist at him; "and to come walking into the
house of this Boer's child, and shaking hands as
though he came on horseback! Oh, no, no!"
The stranger took off his hat, a tall battered chim-
ney-pot, and disclosed a bald head, at the back of
which was a little fringe of curled white hair; and he
bowed to Tant' Sannie.
"What does she remark, my friend?" he inquired,
turning his crosswise-looking eyes on the old Ger-
man.
-
-
-
The German rubbed his old hands, and hesitated.
"Ah-well ah the Dutch you know do
not like people who walk-in this country - ah!"
"My dear friend," said the stranger, laying his
hand on the German's arm, "I should have bought
myself another horse, but crossing, five days ago, a
full river, I lost my purse·
a purse with five hundred
pounds in it. I spent five days on the bank of the
river trying to find it - could n't. Paid a Kaffir nine
pounds to go in and look for it at the risk of his life
could n't find it."
-
The German would have translated this informa-
tion, but the Boer-woman gave no ear.
I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN. 41
"No, no; he goes to-night. See how he looks at
a poor, unprotected female! If he wrongs me,
who is to do me right?" cried Tant' Sannie.
me
-
"I think," said the German in an undertone, "if
you did n't look at her quite so much it might be ad-
visable. Sheah-she-might-imagine that you
liked her too well, in fact ah—"
-
-
"Certainly, my dear friend, certainly," said the
stranger, "I shall not look at her."
Saying this he turned his nose full upon a small
Kaffir of two years old. That small naked son of
Ham became instantly so terrified that he fled to his
mother's blanket for protection, howling horribly.
Upon this the new-comer fixed his eyes pensively
on the stamp-block, folding his hands on the head of
his cane.
His boots were broken, but he still had the
cane of a gentleman.
"You vaggabonds se Engelschman!" said Tant'
Sannie, looking straight at him.
This was a near approach to plain English; but the
man contemplated the block abstractedly, wholly un-
conscious that any antagonism was being displayed
toward him.
"You might not be a Scotchman or anything of that
kind, might you?" suggested the German. "It is the
English that she hates."
"My dear friend," said the stranger, "I am Irish,
every inch of me - father Irish, mother Irish. I've
not a drop of English blood in my veins."
"And you might not be married, might you?" per-
sisted the German. "If you had a wife and children,
now? Dutch people do not like those who are not
married."
"Ah," said the stranger, looking tenderly at the
42
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
block, "I have a dear wife and three sweet little chil-
dren two lovely girls and a noble boy."
-
This information having been conveyed to the Boer-
woman, she, after some further conversation, appeared/
slightly mollified; but remained firm to her conviction
that the man's designs were evil.
"For dear Lord!" she cried, "all Englishmen are
ugly; but was there ever such a red-rag-nosed thing
with broken boots and crooked eyes before? Take
him to your room," she cried to the German; "but all
the sin he does I lay at your door."
The German having told him how matters were
arranged, the stranger made a profound bow to Tant'
Sannie, and followed his host, who led the way to his
own little room.
"I thought she would come to her better self soon,"
the German said joyously. "Tant' Sannie is not
wholly bad, far from it, far." Then seeing his com-
panion cast a furtive glance at him, which he mistook
for one of surprise, he added quickly, "Ah, yes, yes,
we are all a primitive people here- not very lofty.
We deal not in titles. Every one is Tanta and Oom
aunt and uncle. This may be my room," he said,
opening the door. "It is rough, the room is rough;
not a palace not quite. But it may be better than
the fields, a little better!" he said, glancing round at
his companion. "Come in, come in. There is some-
thing to eat a mouthful: not the fare of emperors
or kings; but we do not starve, not yet," he said,
rubbing his hands together, and looking round with a
pleased, half-nervous smile on his old face.
66
"My friend, my dear friend," said the stranger,
seizing him by the hand, "may the Lord bless you, the
Lord bless and reward you- the God of the fatherless
I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN. 43.
曜
​and the stranger. But for you I would this night
have slept in the fields, with the dews of heaven upon
my head."
Late that evening Lyndall came down to the cabin
with the German's rations. Through the tiny square
window the light streamed forth, and without knock-
ing she raised the latch and entered. There was a fire
burning on the hearth, and it cast its ruddy glow over
the little dingy room, with its worm-eaten rafters and
mud floor, and broken white-washed walls. A curious
little place, filled with all manner of articles. Next
to the fire was a great tool-box; beyond that the little
bookshelf with its well-worn books; beyond that, in
the corner, a heap of filled and empty grain-bags.
From the rafters hung down straps, "reims," old boots,
bits of harness, and a string of onions. The bed was
in another corner, covered by a patchwork quilt of
faded red lions, and divided from the rest of the room
by a blue curtain, now drawn back. On the mantel-
shelf was an endless assortment of little bags and
stones; and on the wall hung a map of South Ger-
many, with a red line drawn through it to show where
the German had wandered. This place was the one
home the girls had known for many a year. The house
where Tant' Sannie lived and ruled was a place to sleep
in, to eat in, not to be happy in. It was in vain she
told them they were grown too old to go there; every
morning and evening found them there. Were there
not too many golden memories hanging about the old.
place for them to leave it?
Long winter nights, when they had sat round the
fire, and roasted potatoes, and asked riddles, and the
old man had told of the little German village, where,
fifty years before, a little German boy had played at
44
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
snowballs, and had carried home the knitted stock-
ings of a little girl who afterwards became Waldo's
mother; did they not seem to see the German peasant
girls walking about with their wooden shoes and yel-
low braided hair, and the little children eating their
suppers out of little wooden bowls when the good
mothers called them in to have their milk and
potatoes?
And were there not yet better times than these?
Moonlight nights, when they romped about the door,
with the old man, yet more a child than any of them,
and laughed till the old roof of the wagon-house
rang?
-
-
Or, best of all, were there not warm, dark, starlight
nights, when they sat together on the doorstep, hold-
ing each other's hands, singing German hymns, their
voices rising clear in the still night air, till the
German would draw away his hand suddenly to wipe
quickly a tear the children must not see? Would
they not sit looking up at the stars and talking of
thém, — of the dear Southern Cross, red, fiery Mars,
Orion, with his belt, and the Seven Mysterious Sis-
ters, and fall to speculating over them? How old
are they? Who dwells in them? And the old Ger-
man would say that perhaps the souls we loved lived.
in them; there in that little twinkling point was per-
haps the little girl whose stockings he had carried
home; and the children would look up at it lovingly,
and call it "Uncle Otto's star." Then they would
fall to deeper speculations, of the times and sea-
sons wherein the heavens shall be rolled together as
a scroll, and the stars shall fall as a fig-tree casteth
her untimely figs, and there shall be time no longer;
"when the Son of man shall come in His glory, and
-
I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN. 45
all His holy angels with Him." In lower and lower
tones they would talk, till at last they fell into whis-
pers; then they would wish good-night softly, and
walk home hushed and quiet.
To-night, when Lyndall looked in, Waldo sat before
the fire, watching a pot which simmered there, with
his slate and pencil in his hand; his father sat at the
table, buried in the columns of a three-weeks-old news-
paper; and the stranger lay stretched on the bed in
the corner, fast asleep, his mouth open, his great limbs
stretched out loosely, betokening much weariness.
The girl put the rations down upon the table, snuffed
the candle, and stood looking at the figure on the
bed.
"Uncle Otto," she said presently, laying her hand
down on the newspaper, and causing the old German
to look up over his glasses, "how long did that man
say he had been walking?"
"Since this morning, poor fellow! A gentleman-
not accustomed to walking-horse died-poor fel-
low!" said the German, pushing out his lip, and
glancing commiseratingly over his spectacles in the
direction of the bed where the stranger lay, with his
flabby double chin, and broken boots, through which
the flesh shone.
"And do you believe him, Uncle Otto?"
"Believe him? why of course I do. He himself
told me the story three times distinctly."
66
“If,” said the girl, slowly, "he had walked for only
one day, his boots would not have looked so; and
if
-
22
"If!" said the German, starting up in his chair,
irritated that any one should doubt such irrefragable
evidence," if! Why, he told me himself! Look
46
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
how he lies there!" added the German, pathetically;
66
worn out, poor fellow! We have something for him
though," pointing with his forefinger over his shoul-
der to the saucepan that stood on the fire.
"We are
not cooks, not French cooks, not quite; but it's
drinkable, drinkable, I think; better than nothing, I
think," he added, nodding his head in a jocund man-
ner, that evinced his high estimation of the contents
of the saucepan and his profound satisfaction therein.
"Bish! bish! my chicken," he said, as Lyndall tapped
her little foot up and down upon the floor. "Bish!
bish my chicken, you will wake him!"
He moved the candle so that his own head might
intervene between it and the sleeper's face; and,
smoothing his newspaper, he adjusted his spectacles
to read.
The child's gray-black eyes rested on the figure on
the bed, then turned to the German, then rested on
the figure again.
"I think he is a liar. Good-night, Uncle Otto,"
she said slowly, turning to the door.
Long after she had gone, the German folded his
paper up methodically, and put it in his pocket.
The stranger had not awakened to partake of the
soup, and his son had fallen asleep on the ground.
Taking two white sheepskins from the heap of sacks
in the corner, the old man doubled them up, and lift-
ing the boy's head gently from the slate on which it
rested, placed the skins beneath it.
"Poor lambie, poor lambie!" he said, tenderly pat-
ting the great rough bear-like head; "tired, is he!"
He threw an overcoat. across the boy's feet, and
lifted the saucepan from the fire. There was no place
where the old man could comfortably lie down himself,
I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN. 47
so he resumed his seat. Opening a much-worn Bible,
he began to read, and as he read pleasant thoughts
and visions thronged on him.
"I was a stranger, and ye took me in," he read.
He turned again to the bed where the sleeper
lay.
"I was a stranger."
Very tenderly the old man looked at him. He saw
not the bloated body nor the evil face of the man; but
as it were under deep disguise and fleshly conceal-.
ment, the form that long years of dreaming had made
very real to him. "Jesus, lover, and is it given to us,
weak and sinful, frail. and erring, to serve Thee, to
take Thee in!" he said softly, as he rose from his
seat. Full of joy, he began to pace the little room.
Now and again as he walked he sang the lines of a
German hymn, or muttered broken words of prayer.
The little room was full of light. It appeared to the
German that Christ was very near him, and that at
almost any moment the thin mist of earthly darkness
that clouded his human eyes might be withdrawn,
and that made manifest of which the friends at Em-
maus, beholding it, said, "It is the Lord."
Again, and yet again, through the long hours of
that night, as the old man walked, he looked up to
the roof of his little room, with its blackened rafters,
and yet saw them not. His rough bearded face was
illuminated with a radiant gladness; and the night
was not shorter to the dreaming sleepers than to him
whose waking dreams brought heaven near.
So quickly the night fled, that he looked up with
surprise when at four o'clock the first gray streaks of
summer dawn showed themselves through the little
window. Then the old man turned to rake together
48
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
the few coals that lay under the ashes, and his son,
turning on the sheepskins, muttered sleepily to know
if it were time to rise.
1
"Lie still, lie still! I would only make a fire," said
the old man.
"Have you been up all night?" asked the boy.
"Yes; but it has been short, very short. Sleep
again, my chicken; it is yet early."
And he went out to fetch more fuel.
CHAPTER IV.
BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH.
BONAPARTE BLENKINS sat on the side of the bed.
He had wonderfully revived since the day before,
held his head high, talked in a full sonorous voice,
and ate greedily of all the viands offered him. At
his side was a basin of soup, from which he took a
deep draught now and again as he watched the fingers
of the German who sat on the mud floor before him
mending the bottom of a chair.
Presently he looked out, where, in the afternoon
sunshine, a few half-grown ostriches might be seen
wandering listlessly about, and then he looked in
again at the little white-washed room, and at Lyndall,
who sat in the doorway looking at a book. Then he
raised his chin, and tried to adjust an imaginary shirt-
collar. Finding none, he smoothed the little grey
fringe at the back of his head, and began,
"You are a student of history, I perceive, my
friend; from the study of these volumes that lie scat-
tered about this apartment, this fact has been made
evident to me."
"Well
―
a little
German, meekly.
―
perhaps it may be," said the
"Being a student of history then," said Bonaparte,
raising himself loftily, "you will doubtless have
heard of my great, of my celebrated kinsman, Napo-
leon Bonaparte?"
"Yes, yes," said the German, looking up.
4
50
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
-
"I, sir," said Bonaparte, "was born at this hour, on
an April afternoon, three-and-fifty years ago. The
nurse, sir, she was the same who attended when
the Duke of Sutherland was born, brought me to
my mother.
"There is only one name for this child,'
she said, 'he has the nose of his great kinsman;'
and so Bonaparte Blenkins became my name - Bona-
parte Blenkins. Yes, sir," said Bonaparte, “there is
a stream on my maternal side that connects me with
a stream on his maternal side."
The German made a sound of astonishment.
"The connection," said Bonaparte, "is one which
could not be easily comprehended by one unaccustomed
to the study of aristocratic pedigrees; but the connec-
tion is close."
"Is it possible!" said the German, pausing in his
work with much interest and astonishment. "Napo-
leon an Irishman!
"Yes," said Bonaparte, "on the mother's side, and
that is how we are related. There was n't a man to
beat him," said Bonaparte, stretching himself - "not
a man except the Duke of Wellington. And it's
a strange coincidence," added Bonaparte,, bending
forward, "but he was a connection of mine. His
nephew, the Duke of Wellington's nephew, married
a cousin of mine. She was a woman! See her at
one of the court balls amber satin - daisies in her
hair! Worth going a hundred miles to look at her!
Often seen her there myself, sir!”
The German moved the leather thongs in and out,
and thought of the strange vicissitudes of human
life, which might bring the kinsman of dukes and
emperors to his humble room.
Bonaparte appeared lost among old memories.
BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH.
51
"Ah, that Duke of Wellington's nephew!" he
broke forth suddenly; "many 's the joke I've had
with him. Often came to visit me at Bonaparte Hall.
Grand place I had then-park, conservatory, ser-
vants. He had only one fault, that Duke of Wel-
lington's nephew," said Bonaparte, observing that
the German was deeply interested in every word;
"he was a coward - what you might call a coward.
You've never been in Russia, I suppose ? said
Bonaparte fixing his crosswise-looking eyes on the
German's face.
""
"No, no," said the old man, humbly. "France,
England, Germany, a little in this country; it is all
I have travelled."
"I, my friend," said Bonaparte, "have been in
every country in the world, and speak every civil-
ized language, excepting only Dutch and German. I
wrote a book of my travels-noteworthy incidents.
Publisher got it—cheated me out of it. Great ras-
cals those publishers! Upon one occasion the Duke
of Wellington's nephew and I were travelling in
Russia. All of a sudden one of the horses dropped
down dead as a door-nail. There we were - cold
night snow four feet thick-great forest
horse not being able to move sledge-night coming
on-wolves.
-
-
one
"Spree!' says the Duke of Wellington's nephew.
"Spree, do you call it?' says I; 'look out.'
"There, sticking out under a bush, was nothing less
than the nose of a bear. The Duke of Wellington's
nephew was up a tree like a shot; I stood quietly on
the ground, as cool as I am at this moment, loaded
my gun, and climbed up the tree. There was only
one bough.
52
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Bon,' said, the Duke of Wellington's nephew,
'you'd better sit in front.'
"All right,' said I; 'but keep your gun ready.
There are more coming.' He'd got his face buried
in my back.
"How many are there?' said he.
666 'Four,' said I.
"How many are there now?' said he.
"Eight,' said I.
"How many are there now?' said he.
"Ten,' said I.
"Ten! ten!' said he; and down goes his gun.
"Wallie,' I said, "what have you done? We're
Idead men now.'
"Bon, my old fellow,' said he, 'I could n't help it;
my hands trembled so!'
"Wall,' I said, turning round and seizing his hand,
'Wallie, my dear lad, good-bye. I'm not afraid to die.
My legs are long- they hang down-the first bear
that comes and I don't hit him, off goes my foot.
When he takes it, I shall give you my gun and go.
You may yet be saved; but tell, oh, tell Mary Ann
that I thought of her, that I prayed for her!*
"Good-bye, old fellow!' said he.
"God bless you!' said I.
"By this time the bears were sitting in a circle all
round the tree. Yes," said Bonaparte impressively,
fixing his eyes on the German, "a regular exact circle.
The marks of their tails were left in the snow, and I
measured it afterwards; a drawing-master could n't
have done it better. It was that saved me. If they'd
rushed on me at once, poor old Bon would never have
been here to tell this story. But they came on, sir,
systematically, one by one. All the rest sat on their
BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH.
53
tails and waited. The first fellow came up, and I shot
him; the second fellow-I shot him; the third - I
shot him. At last the tenth came; he was the biggest
of all
the leader you may say.
"Wall,' I said, 'give me your hand. My fingers
are stiff with the cold; there is only one bullet left;
I shall miss him. While he is eating me, you get
down and take your gun; and live, dear friend, live
to remember the man who gave his life for you!' By
that time the bear was at me. I felt his paw on my
trousers.
"Oh, Bonnie! Bonnie!' said the Duke of Wel-
lington's nephew. But I just took my gun, and
put the muzzle to the bear's ear over he fell
dead!"
—
-
Bonaparte Blenkins waited to observe what effect
his story had made. Then he took out a dirty white
handkerchief, and stroked his forehead, and more es-
pecially his eyes.
"It always affects me to relate that adventure," he
remarked, returning the handkerchief to his pocket.
"Ingratitude-base, vile ingratitude is recalled by
―
-
it! That man, that man, who but for me would have
perished in the pathless wilds of Russia, that man in
the hour of my adversity forsook me." The German
looked up. "Yes," said Bonaparte, "I had money;
I had lands; I said to my wife, 'There is Africa, a
struggling country; they want capital; they want men
of talent; they want men of ability to open up that
land. Let us go.'
"I bought eight thousand pounds worth of machin-
ery, winnowing, ploughing, reaping machines; I
loaded a ship with them. Next steamer I came out
-wife, children, all. Got to the Cape. Where is
54
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
the ship with the things? Lost-gone to the bot-
tom! And the box with the money? Lost - nothing
saved!
―
"My wife wrote to the Duke of Wellington's
nephew; I did n't wish her to; she did it without
my knowledge.
"What did the man do whose life I saved? Did
he send me thirty thousand pounds? say, 'Bonaparte,
my brother, here is a crumb?' No; he sent me
nothing.
"My wife said, 'Write.' I said, 'Mary Ann, No.
While these hands have power to work, No. While
this frame has power to endure, No. Never shall
it be said that Bonaparte Blenkins asked of any
man."",
The man's noble independence touched the German.
"Your case is hard; yes, that is hard," said the
German, shaking his head.
Bonaparte took another draught of the soup, leaned
back against the pillows, and sighed deeply.
"I think," he said after a while, rousing himself,
"I shall now wander in the benign air, and taste the
gentle cool of evening. The stiffness hovers over me
yet; exercise is beneficial."
So saying he adjusted his hat carefully on the bald
crown of his head, and moved to the door. After he
had gone the German sighed again over his work, —
"Ah, Lord! So it is! Ah!”
He thought of the ingratitude of the world.
"Uncle Otto," said the child in the doorway, "did
you ever hear of ten bears sitting on their tails in a
circle?"
66
Well, not of ten, exactly; but bears do attack
travellers every day. It is nothing unheard of,"
BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH.
55
said the German. "A man of such courage too!
Terrible experience, that!"
"And how do we know that the story is true, Uncle
Otto?"
The German's ire was roused.
"That is what I do hate!" he cried.
-
"Know that
is true! How do you know that anything is true?
Because you are told so. If we begin to question
everything, proof, proof, proof, what will we have
left to believe? How do you know the angel opened
the prison door for Peter, except that Peter said so?
How do you know that God talked to Moses, except
that Moses wrote it? That is what I hate!"
The girl knit her brows. Perhaps her thoughts
made a longer journey than the German dreamed of;
for, mark you, the old little dream how their words
and lives are texts and studies to the generation that
shall succeed them. Not what we are taught, but
what we see, makes us, and the child gathers the
food on which the adult feeds to the end.
When the German looked up next, there was a look
of supreme satisfaction in the little mouth and the
beautiful eyes.
"What dost see, chicken ?" he asked.
The child said nothing, and an agonizing shriek was
borne on the afternoon breeze.
"O God! my God! I am killed!" cried the voice
of Bonaparte, as he with wide-open mouth and shak-
ing flesh fell into the room followed by a half-grown
ostrich, who put its head in at the door, opened its
beak at him, and went away.
"Shut the door! shut the door! As you value my
life, shut the door!" cried Bonaparte, sinking into a
chair, his face blue and white, with a greenishness
56
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
about the mouth. "Ah, my friend," he said tremu-
lously, "eternity has looked me in the face! My
life's thread hung upon a cord! The valley of the
shadow of death!" said Bonaparte, seizing the Ger-
man's arm.
"Dear, dear, dear!" said the German, who had
closed the lower half of the door, and stood much
concerned beside the stranger, "you have had a fright.
I never knew so young a bird to chase before; but
they will take dislikes to certain people. I sent a
boy away once, because a bird would chase him. Ah,
dear, dear!"
"When I looked round," said Bonaparte, "the red
and yawning cavity was above me, and the reprehen-
sible paw raised to strike me. My nerves," said Bo-
naparte, suddenly growing faint, "always delicate-
highly strung are broken broken! You could
not give a little wine, a little brandy, my friend?"
The old German hurried away to the bookshelf, and
took from behind the books a small bottle, half of
whose contents he poured into a cup. Bonaparte
drained it eagerly.
"How do you feel now?" asked the German, look-
ing at him with much sympathy.
"A little, slightly better."
The German went out to pick up the battered
chimney-pot which had fallen before the door.
"I am sorry you got the fright. The birds are bad
things till you know them," he said sympathetically,
as he put the hat down.
"My friend," said Bonaparte, holding out his hand,
"I forgive you; do not be disturbed. Whatever the
consequences, I forgive you. I know, I believe, it
was with no ill-intent that you allowed me to go
BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH.
57
out. Give me your hand. I have no ill-feeling,
none!"
"You are very kind," said the German, taking the
extended hand, and feeling suddenly convinced that
he was receiving magnanimous forgiveness for some
great injury, "you are very kind."
"Don't mention it," said Bonaparte.
He knocked out the crown of his caved-in old hat,
placed it on the table before him, leaned his elbows
on the table and his face in his hands, and contem-
plated it.
66
Ah, my old friend," he thus apostrophized the hat,
"you have served me long, you have served me faith-
fully, but the last day has come. Never more shall
you be borne upon the head of your master; never
more shall you protect his brow from the burning rays
of summer or the cutting winds of winter. Hence-
forth bare-headed must your master go. Good-by,
good-by, old hat!"
At the end of this affecting appeal the German rose.
He went to the box at the foot of his bed; out of it
he took a black hat, which had evidently been seldom
worn and carefully preserved.
"It's not exactly what you may have been accus-
tomed to," he said nervously, putting it down beside
the battered chimney-pot, "but it might be of some
use, a protection to the head, you know."
"My friend," said Bonaparte, "you are not follow-
ing my advice; you are allowing yourself to be re-
proached on my account. Do not make yourself
unhappy. No; I shall go bare-headed."
"No, no, no!" cried the German, energetically. "I
have no use for the hat, — none at all. It is shut up
in the box."
58
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
"Then I will take it, my friend. It is a comfort to
one's own mind when you have unintentionally injured.
any one to make reparation. I know the feeling. The
hat may not be of that refined cut of which the old
one was, but it will serve,
it will serve.
- yes,
Thank
you," said Bonaparte, adjusting it on his head, and
then replacing it on the table. "I shall lie down
now and take a little repose," he added; "I much fear
my appetite for supper will be lost."
"I hope not, I hope not," said the German, reseat-
ing himself at his work, and looking much concerned
as Bonaparte stretched himself on the bed, and turned
the end of the patchwork quilt over his feet.
"You must not think to make your departure, not
for many days," said the German, presently. "Tant'
Sannie gives her consent, and
-
99
"My friend," said Bonaparte, closing his eyes sadly,
"you are kind; but were it not that to-morrow is the
Sabbath, weak and trembling as I lie here, I would
proceed on my way. I must seek work; idleness but
for a day is painful. Work, labor, that is the secret
of all true happiness!"
He doubled the pillow under his head, and watched
how the German drew the leather thongs in and out.
After a while Lyndall silently put her book on the
shelf, and went home, and the German stood up and
began to mix some water and meal for roaster-cakes.
As he stirred them with his hands, he said,
―
"I make always a double supply on Saturday night;
the hands are then free as the thoughts for Sunday."
"The blessed Sabbath!" said Bonaparte.
There was a pause. Bonaparte twisted his eyes
without moving his head, to see if supper were already
on the fire.
BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH.
59
"You must sorely miss the administration of the
Lord's word in this desolate spot," added Bonaparte.
"Oh, how love I Thine house, and the place where
Thine honor dwelleth!"
"Well, we do; yes," said the German n; "but we do
our best. We meet together, and I — well, I say a
few words, and perhaps they are not wholly lost, not
quite."
"Strange coincidence," said Bonaparte; "my plan
always was the same. Was in the Free State once
solitary farm one neighbor. Every Sunday I called
together friend and neighbor, child and servant, and
said, 'Rejoice with me, that we may serve the Lord,'
and then I addressed them. Ah, those were blessed
times," said Bonaparte; "would they might return!"
The German stirred at the cakes, and stirred, and
stirred, and stirred. He could give the stranger his
bed, and he could give the stranger his hat, and he
could give the stranger his brandy; but his Sunday
service!
After a good while he said,
―
"I might speak to Tant' Sannie; I might arrange;
you might take the service in my place, if it
66
-
"
'My friend," said Bonaparte, "it would give me
the profoundest felicity, the most unbounded satisfac-
tion; but in these worn-out habiliments, in these de-
teriorated garments, it would not be possible, it would
not be fitting that I should officiate in service of One,
whom, for respect, we shall not name. No, my friend,
I will remain here; and, while you are assembling
yourselves together in the presence of the Lord, I, in
my solitude, will think of and pray for you. No; I
will remain here!"
It was a touching picture the solitary man there
--
60
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
praying for them. The German cleared his hands
from the meal, and went to the chest from which he
had taken the black hat. After a little careful feeling
about, he produced a black cloth coat, trousers, and
waistcoat, which he laid on the table, smiling know-
ingly. They were of new shining cloth, worn twice a
year, when he went to the town to "nachtmaal." He
looked with great pride at the coat as he unfolded it
and held it up.
"It's not the latest fashion, perhaps, not a West
End cut, not exactly; but it might do; it might serve
at a push. Try it on, try it on!" he said, his old gray
eyes twinkling with pride.
Bonaparte stood up, and tried on the coat. It fitted
admirably; the waistcoat could be made to button by
ripping up the back, and the trousers were perfect;
but below were the ragged boots. The German was
not disconcerted. Going to the beam where a pair of
top-boots hung, he took them off, dusted them care-
fully, and put them down before Bonaparte. The old
eyes now fairly brimmed over with sparkling enjoy-
ment.
"I have only worn them once. They might serve;
they might be endured."
Bonaparte drew them on, and stood upright, his head
almost touching the beams. The German looked at
him with profound admiration. It was wonderful
what a difference feathers made in the bird.
CHAPTER V.
SUNDAY SERVICES.
Service No. 1.
THE boy Waldo kissed the pages of his book and
looked up. Far over the flat lay the "kopje,” a mere
speck; the sheep wandered quietly from bush to
bush; the stillness of the early Sunday rested every-
where, and the air was fresh.
He looked down at his book. On its page a black
insect crept. He lifted it off with his finger. Then
he leaned on his elbow, watching its quivering an-
tennæ and strange movements, smiling.
"Even you," he whispered, "shall not die. Even
you He loves. Even you He will fold in His arms
when He takes everything and makes it perfect and
happy."
When the thing had gone, he smoothed the leaves
of his Bible somewhat caressingly. The leaves of
that book had dropped blood for him once; they
had taken the brightness out of his childhood; from
between them had sprung the visions that had
clung about him, and made night horrible. Adder-
like thoughts had lifted their heads, had shot out
forked tongues at him, asking mockingly strange triv-
ial questions that he could not answer, miserable
child: :-
62
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
Why did the women in Mark see only one angel and
the women in Luke two? Could a story be told in op-
posite ways and both ways be true? Could it? could
it? Then again: Is there nothing always right, and
nothing always wrong? Could Jael, the wife of Heber
the Kenite, "put her hand to the nail, and her right
hand to the workman's hammer"? and could the Spirit
of the Lord chant pœans over her, loud paans, high
paans, set in the book of the Lord, and no voice cry out,
It was a mean and dastardly sin to lie, and kill the
trusting in their sleep? Could the friend of God
marry his own sister and be beloved, and the man who
does it to-day goes to hell, to hell? Was there nothing
always right or always wrong?
Those leaves had dropped blood for him once; they
had made his heart heavy and cold; they had robbed
his childhood of its gladness; now his fingers moved
over them caressingly.
66
"My Father God knows, my Father know," he said.
We cannot understand, He knows." After a while
he whispered, smiling: "I heard your voice this
morning when my eyes were not yet open;
I felt you
near me, my Father. Why do you love me so?
His face was illuminated.
"In the last four months
the old question has gone from me.
--
- not
I know you are
good; I know you love everything; I know, I know,
I know! I could not have borne it any more,
any more."
He laughed softly. "And all the while
I was so miserable you were looking at me and loving
me, and I never knew it. But I know it now; I feel
it," said the boy, and he laughed low. "I feel it!"
he laughed.
After a while he began partly to sing, partly to
chant, the disconnected verses of hymns - those which
SUNDAY SERVICES.
63
The sheep,
spoke his gladness- many times over.
with their senseless eyes, turned to look at him as
he sang.
At last he lapsed into quiet. Then, as the boy lay
there staring at bush and sand, he saw a vision.
He had crossed the river of Death, and walked on
the other bank in the Lord's land of Beulah. His fent
sank into the dark grass, and he walked alone. Then,
far over the fields, he saw a figure coming across the
dark green grass.
of the angels; but as it came nearer he began to feel
what it was. And it came closer, closer to him ; and
then the voice said, "Come!" and he knew surely
Who it was. He ran to the dear feet and touched
them with his hands; yes, he held them fast! He
lay down beside them. When he looked up, the face
was over him, and the glorious eyes were loving him;
and they two were there alone together.
At first he thought it must be one
-
He laughed a deep laugh; then started up like one
suddenly awakened from sleep.
"O God!" he cried, "I cannot wait; I cannot
wait! I want to die; I want to see Him; I want to
touch Him. Let me die!" He folded his hands,
trembling. "How can I wait so long for long,
long years perhaps? I want to die - to see Him.
I will die any death. Oh, let me come!"
-
Weeping, he bowed himself, and quivered from
head to foot. After a long while he lifted his head.
"Yes; I will wait, I will wait. But not long; do
not let it be very long, Jesus King.
I want you; oh,
I want you, soon, soon!" He sat still, staring
across the plain with his tearful eyes.
-
-64
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
Service No. 2.
IN the front room of the farm-house sat Tant' San-
nie in her elbow-chair. In her hand was her great
brass-clasped hymn-book, round her neck was a clean
white handkerchief, under her feet was a wooden
stove There too sat Fm and Lyndall, in clean pina-
fores and new shoes. There too was the spruce Hot-
tentot in a starched white kappje, and her husband
on the other side of the door, with his wool oiled and
very much combed out, and staring at his new leather
boots. The Kaffir servants were not there, because
Tant' Sannie held they were descended from apes,
and needed no salvation. But the rest were gathered
for the Sunday service, and waited the officiator.
Meanwhile Bonaparte and the German approached
arm in arm-Bonaparte resplendent in the black cloth
clothes, a spotless shirt, and a spotless collar; the
German in the old salt-and-pepper suit, casting shy
glances of admiration at his companion.
At the front door Bonaparte removed his hat with
much dignity, raised his shirt collar, and entered.
To the centre table he walked, put his hat solemnly
down by the big Bible, and bowed his head over it in
silent prayer.
The Boer-woman looked at the Hottentot, and the
Hottentot looked at the Boer-woman.
There was one thing on earth for which Tant' San-
nie had a profound reverence, which exercised a sub-
duing influence over her, which made her for the time
a better woman—that thing was new, shining black
cloth. It made her think of the "predikant";. it
made her think of the elders, who sat in the top pew
of the church on Sundays, with the hair so nicely
SUNDAY SERVICES.
65
oiled, so holy and respectable, with their little swal-
low-tailed coats; it made her think of heaven, where
everything was so holy and respectable, and nobody
wore tan-cord, and the littlest angel had a black tail-
coat. She wished she had n't called him a thief and
a Roman Catholic. She hoped the German had n't
told him. She wondered where those clothes were
when he came in rags to her door. There was no
doubt, he was a very respectable man, a gentleman.
The German began to read a hymn. At the end of
each line Bonaparte groaned, and twice at the end
of every verse.
The Boer-woman had often heard of persons groan- !
ing during prayers, to add a certain poignancy and
finish to them; old Jan Vanderlinde, her mother's
brother, always did it after he was converted; and
she would have looked upon it as no especial sign of
grace in any one; but to groan at hymn-time! She
was startled. She wondered if he remembered that
she shook her fist in his face. This was a man of
God. They knelt down to pray. The Boer-woman
weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and could not
kneel. She sat in her chair, and peeped between her
crossed fingers at the stranger's back. She could not
understand what he said; but he was in earnest. He
shook the chair by the back rail till it made quite a
little dust on the mud floor.
When they rose from their knees, Bonaparte sol-
emnly seated himself in the chair, and opened the
Bible. He blew his nose, pulled up his shirt-collar,
smoothed the leaves, stroked down his capacious
waistcoat, blew his nose again, looked solemnly round
the room, then began, -
--
"All liars shall have their part in the lake which
5
66
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second
death."
Having read this portion of Scripture, Bonaparte
paused impressively, and looked all round the room.
"I shall not, my dear friends," he said, "long de-
tain you. Much of our precious time has already fled
blissfully from us in the voice of thanksgiving and the
tongue of praise. A few, a very few, words are all I
shall address to you, and may they be as a rod of iron
dividing the bones from the marrow, and the marrow
from the bones.
"In the first place, what is a liar?"
The question was put so pointedly, and followed by
a pause so profound, that even the Hottentot man left
off looking at his boots and opened his eyes, though
he understood not a word.
"I repeat," said Bonaparte, "what is a liar?"
The sensation was intense; the attention of the
audience was riveted.
"Have you any of you ever seen a liar, my dear
friends?" There was a still longer pause. "I hope
not; I truly hope not. But I will tell you what a liar
is. I knew a liar once, a little boy who lived in
Cape Town, in Short Market Street. His mother and
I sat together one day, discoursing about our souls.
"Here, Sampson,' said his mother, 'go and buy
sixpence of "meiboss" from the Malay round the
corner.'
"When he came back, she said, 'How much have
you got?'
"Five,' he said.
"He was afraid if he said six and a half she 'd ask
for some. And, my friends, that was a lie. The half
of a meiboss stuck in his throat, and he died, and
SUNDAY SERVICES.
67
was buried. And where did the soul of that little liar
go to, my friends? It went to the lake of fire and
brimstone. This brings me to the second point of my
discourse.
"What is a lake of fire and brimstone? I will tell
you, my friends," said Bonaparte, condescendingly.
"The imagination unaided cannot conceive it; but by
the help of the Lord I will put it before your mind's
eye.
—
-
"I was travelling in Italy once on a time; I came
to a city called Rome, a vast city, and near it is
a mountain which spits forth fire. Its name is Etna.
Now, there was a man in that city of Rome who had
not the fear of God before his eyes, and he loved a
woman. The woman died, and he walked up that
mountain spitting fire, and when he got to the top he
threw himself in at the hole that is there. The next
day I went up. I was not afraid; the Lord preserves
His servants. And in their hands shall they bear thee
up, lest at any time thou fall into a volcano.
It was
dark night when I got there, but in the fear of the
Lord I walked to the edge of the yawning abyss, and
looked in. That sight, that sight, my friends, is
impressed upon my most indelible memory. I looked
down into the lurid depths upon an incandescent
lake, a melted fire, a seething sea; the billows
rolled from side to side, and on their fiery crests
tossed the white skeleton of the suicide. The heat
had burned the flesh from off the bones; they lay as
a light cork upon the melted fiery waves. One skeleton
hand was raised upwards, the finger pointing to heaven;
the other, with outstretched finger, pointing down-
wards, as though it would say, 'I go below; but you,
Bonaparte, may soar above' I gazed; I stood en-
-
68
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
tranced. At that instant there was a crack in the
lurid lake; it swelled, expanded, and the skeleton of
the suicide disappeared, to be seen no more by mortal
eye."
Here again Bonaparte rested, and then continued,
"The lake of melted stone rose in the crater, it
swelled higher and higher at the side, it streamed
forth at the top. I had presence of mind; near me
was a rock; I stood upon it. The fiery torrent was
vomited out, and streamed on either side of me. And
through that long and terrible night I stood there
alone upon that rock, the glowing fiery lava on every
hand, a monument of the long-suffering and tender
providence of the Lord, who spared me that I might
this day testify in your ears of Him.
66
-
Now, my dear friends, let us deduce the lessons
that are to be learned from this narrative.
66
Firstly let us never commit suicide. That man
is a fool, my friends, that man is insane, my friends,
who would leave this earth, my friends. Here are
joys innumerable, such as it hath not entered into
the heart of man to understand, my friends. Here
are clothes, my friends; here are beds, my friends;
here is delicious food, my friends. Our precious
bodies were given us to love, to cherish. Oh, let
us do so! Oh, let us never hurt them; but care for
and love them, my friends!"
:
Every one was impressed, and Bonaparte proceeded.
"Secondly let us not love too much. If that young
man had not loved that young woman, he would not
have jumped into Mount Etna. The good men of
old never did so. Was Jeremiah ever in love, or Eze-
kiel, or Hosea, or even any of the minor prophets?
No. Then why should we be? Thousands are roll-
SUNDAY SERVICES.
69
ing in that lake at this moment who would say, 'It
was love that brought us here.' Oh, let us think al-
ways of our own souls first.
"A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the sky.'
"Oh, beloved friends, remember the little boy and
the meiboss; remember the young girl and the
young man; remember the lake, the fire, and the
brimstone; remember the suicide's skeleton on the
pitchy billows of Mount Etna; remember the voice
of warning that has this day sounded in your ears;
and what I say to you I say to all watch! May
the Lord add his blessing!"
-
Here the Bible closed with a tremendous thud.
Tant' Sannie loosened the white handkerchief about
her neck and wiped her eyes, and the colored girl,
seeing her do so, sniffled. They did not understand
the discourse, which made it the more affecting.
There hung over it that inscrutable charm which
hovers forever for the human intellect over the in-
comprehensible and shadowy. When the last hymn
was sung, the German conducted the officiator to
Tant' Sannie, who graciously extended her hand,
and offered coffee and a seat on the sofa. Leaving
him there, the German hurried away to see how the
little plum pudding he had left at home was ad-
vancing; and Tant' Sannie remarked that it was a
hot day. Bonaparte gathered her meaning as she
fanned herself with the end of her apron. He bowed
low in acquiescence. A long silence followed. Tant'
Sannie spoke again. Bonaparte gave her no ear; his
eye was fixed on a small miniature on the opposite
70
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
乘
​wall, which represented Tant' Sannie as she had ap-
peared on the day before her confirmation, fifteen
years before, attired in green muslin. Suddenly he
started to his feet, walked up to the picture, and took
his stand before it. Long and wistfully he gazed in-
to its features; it was easy to see that he was deeply
moved. With a sudden movement, as though no
longer able to restrain himself, he seized the pic-
ture, loosened it from its nail, and held it close to
his eyes. At length, turning to the Boer-woman, he
said, in a voice of deep emotion,-
"You will, I trust, dear madam, excuse this exhi-
bition of my feelings; but this—this little picture
recalls to me my first and best beloved, my dear de-
parted wife, who is now a saint in heaven."
Tant' Sannie could not understand; but the Hot-
tentot maid, who had taken her seat on the floor be-
side her mistress, translated the English into Dutch.
as far as she was able.
"Ah, my first, my beloved!" he added, looking
tenderly down at the picture. "Oh, the beloved, the
beautiful lineaments! My angel wife! This is surely
a sister of yours, madam ?" he added, fixing his eyes
on Tant' Sannie.
The Dutch woman blushed, shook her head, and
pointed to herself.
Carefully, intently, Bonaparte looked from the pic-
ture in his hand to Tant' Sannie's features, and from
the features back to the picture. Then slowly a light
broke over his countenance; he looked up, it became
a smile; he looked back at the miniature, his whole
countenance was effulgent.
"Ah, yes; I see it now," he cried, turning his de-
lighted gaze on to the Boer-woman; "eyes, mouth,
SUNDAY SERVICES.
71
nose, chin, the very expression!" he cried. "How
is it possible I did not notice it before?"
"Take another cup of coffee," said Tant' Sannie.
"Put some sugar in."
Bonaparte hung the picture tenderly up, and was
turning to take the cup from her hand, when the Ger-
man appeared, to say that the pudding was ready and
the meat on the table.
"He's a God-fearing man, and one who knows how
to behave himself," said the Boer-woman as he went
out at the door. "If he is ugly, did not the Lord
make him? And are we to laugh at the Lord's handi-
work? It is better to be ugly and good than pretty
and bad; though of course it's nice when one is both,"
said Tant' Sannie, looking complacently at the picture
on the wall.
--
In the afternoon the German and Bonaparte sat be-
fore the door of the cabin. Both smoked in complete
silence Bonaparte with a book in his hands and his
eyes half closed; the German puffing vigorously, and
glancing up now and again at the serene blue sky
overhead.
-
"Supposing - you — you, in fact, made the remark
to me," burst forth the German suddenly, "that you
were looking for a situation."
Bonaparte opened his mouth wide, and sent a stream
of smoke through his lips.
"Now supposing," said the German,-"merely
supposing, of course, - that some one,
-
-
some one
in fact, should make an offer to you, say, to become
school-master on their farm and teach two children,
two little girls, perhaps, and would give you forty
pounds a-year, would you accept it?-just suppos-
ing, of course."
72
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Well, my dear friend," said Bonaparte, "that
would depend on circumstances. Money is no con-
sideration with me. For my wife I have made pro-
vision for the next year. My health is broken. Could
I meet a place where a gentleman would be treated as
a gentleman I would accept it, however small the
remuneration. With me," said Bonaparte, "money is
no consideration."
"Well," said the German, when he had taken a
whiff or two more from his pipe, "I think I shall go
up and see Tant' Sannie a little. I go up often on
Sunday afternoon to have a general conversation, to
see her, you know. Nothing-nothing particular,
you know."
The old man put his book into his pocket, and
walked up to the farm-house with a peculiarly know-
ing and delighted expression of countenance.
"He does n't suspect what I'm going to do," solilo-
quized the German; "has n't the least idea.
surprise for him.”
A nice
The man whom he had left at his doorway winked
at the retreating figure with a wink that was not to
be described.
CHAPTER VI.
BONAPARTE BLENKINS MAKES HIS NEST.
"Ан, what is the matter?" asked Waldo, stopping
at the foot of the ladder, with a load of skins on his
back that he was carrying up to the loft. Through
the open door in the gable little Em was visible, her
feet dangling from the high bench on which she sat.
The room, once a storeroom, had been divided by a
row of mealie bags into two parts-the back being
Bonaparte's bedroom, the front his schoolroom.
"Lyndall made him angry," said the girl tearfully';
"and he has given me the fourteenth of John to learn.
He says he will teach me to behave myself, when
Lyndall troubles him."
"What did she do?" asked the boy.
"You see," said Em, hopelessly turning the leaves,
"whenever he talks she looks out at the door, as
though she did not hear him. To-day she asked him
what the signs of the Zodiac were, and he said he was
surprised that she should ask him; it was not a fit and
proper thing for little girls to talk about. Then she
asked him who Copernicus was; and he said he was
one of the Emperors of Rome, who burned the Chris-
tians in a golden pig, and the worms ate him up while
he was still alive. I don't know why," said Em plain-
tively, "but she just put her books under her arm and
walked out; and she will never come to his school
again, she says, and she always does what she says.
74
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
And now I must sit here every day alone," said Em,
the great tears dropping softly.
"Perhaps Tant' Sannie will send him away," said
the boy, in his mumbling way, trying to comfort
her.
"No," said Em, shaking her head; "no. Last night
when the little Hottentot maid was washing her feet,
he told her he liked such feet, and that fat women
were so nice to him; and she said I must always put
him pure cream in his coffee now.
No; he'll never
go away," said Em, dolorously.
The boy put down his skins, and fumbled in his
pocket, and produced a small piece of paper containing
something. He stuck it out towards her.
"There, take it for you," he said. This was by way
of comfort.
Em opened it, and found a small bit of gum, a com-
modity prized by the children; but the great tears
dropped down slowly upon it.
Waldo was distressed. He had cried so much in
his morsel of life that tears in another seemed to. burn
him.
"If," he said, stepping in awkwardly and standing
by the table, "if you will not cry I will tell you some-
thing a secret."
"What is that?" asked Em, instantly becoming
decidedly better.
"You will tell it to no human being?"
"No."
He bent nearer to her, and with deep solemnity
said, -
-
"I have made a machine!"
Em opened her eyes.
"Yes; a machine for shearing sheep. It is almost
BONAPARTE BLENKINS MAKES HIS NEST.
75
done," said the boy. "There is only one thing that is
not right yet; but it will be soon. When you think,
and think, and think, all night and all day, it comes
at last," he added mysteriously.
"Where is it?"
"Here! I always carry it here,” said the boy, put-
ting his hand to his breast, where a bulging-out was
visible. "This is a model. When it is done, they will
have to make a large one."
"Show it me."
The boy shook his head.
"No, not till it is done. I cannot let any human
being see it till then."
"It is a beautiful secret," said Em; and the boy
shuffled out to pick up his skins.
That evening father and son sat in the cabin eating
their supper. The father sighed deeply sometimes.
Perhaps he thought how long a time it was since
Bonaparte had visited the cabin; but his son was in
that land in which sighs have no part. It is a ques
tion whether it were not better to be the shabbiest of
fools, and know the way up the little stair of imagi-
nation to the land of dreams, than the wisest of men,
who see nothing that the eyes do not show, and feel
nothing that the hands do not touch.
The boy
chewed his brown bread, and drank his coffee; but in
truth he saw only his machine finished that last
something found out and added. He saw it as it
worked with beautiful smoothness; and over and
above, as he chewed his bread and drank his coffee,
there was that delightful consciousness of something
bending over him and loving him. It would not have
been better in one of the courts of heaven, where the
walls are set with rows of the King of Glory's ame-
76
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
thysts and milk-white pearls, than there, eating his
supper in that little room.
As they sat in silence there was a knock at the
door. When it was opened the small woolly head of
a little nigger showed itself. She was a messenger
from Tant' Sannie: the German was wanted at once
at the homestead. Putting on his hat with both
hands, he hurried off. The kitchen was in darkness,
but in the pantry beyond Tant' Sannie and her maids
were assembled.
A Kaffir girl, who had been grinding pepper be-
tween two stones, knelt on the floor, the lean Hotten-
tot stood with a brass candlestick in her hand, and
Tant' Sannie, near the shelf, with a hand on each
hip, was evidently listening intently, as were her
companions.
"What may it be?" cried the old German, in
astonishment.
The room beyond the pantry was the store-room.
Through the thin wooden partition there arose at
that instant, evidently from some creature ensconced
there, a prolonged and prodigious howl, followed by
a succession of violent blows against the partition
wall.
The German seized the churn-stick, and was about
to rush round the house, when the Boer-woman im-
pressively laid her hand upon his arm.
"That is his head," said Tant' Sannie, "that is his
head."
"But what might it be?" asked the German, look-
ing from one to the other, churn-stick in hand.
A low hollow bellow prevented reply, and the voice
of Bonaparte lifted itself on high.
"Mary Ann! my angel! my wife!"
BONAPARTE BLENKINS MAKES HIS NEST.
77
"Isn't it dreadful?" said Tant' Sannie, as the
blows were repeated fiercely. "He has got a letter;
his wife is dead. You must go and comfort him,"
said Tant' Sannie at last, "and I will go with you.
It would not be the thing for me to go alone — me,
who am only thirty-three, and he an unmarried man
now," said Tant' Sannie, blushing and smoothing out
her apron.
Upon this they all trudged round the house in com-
pany, the Hottentot maid carrying the light, Tant'
Sannie and the German following, and the Kaffir girl
bringing up the rear.
"Oh," said Tant' Sannie, "I see now it was n't
wickedness made him do without his wife so long-
only necessity."
At the door she motioned to the German to enter,
and followed him closely. On the stretcher behind
the sacks Bonaparte lay on his face, his head pressed
into a pillow, his legs kicking gently. The Boer-
woman sat down on a box at the foot of the bed.
The German stood with folded hands looking on.
"We must all die," said Tant' Sannie at last; "it
is the dear Lord's will."
Hearing her voice, Bonaparte turned himself on his
back.
"It's very hard," said Tant' Sannie; "I know, for
I've lost two husbands."
Bonaparte looked up into the German's face.
"Oh, what does she say? Speak to me words of
comfort!"
The German repeated Tant' Sannie's remark.
"Ah, II also! Two dear, dear wives, whom I
shall never see any more!" cried Bonaparte, flinging
himself back upon the bed.
78
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
He Kowled till the tarantulas, who lived between
the rafters and the zinc roof, felt the unusual vibra-
tion, and looked out with their wicked bright eyes to
see what was going on.
Tant' Sannie sighed, the Hottentot maid sighed,
the Kaffir girl, who looked in at the door, put her
hand over her mouth and said, "Mow-wah!"
"You must trust in the Lord," said Tant' Sannie.
"He can give you more than you have lost."
"I do, I do!" he cried; "but, oh, I have no wife!
I have no wife!"
Tant' Sannie was much affected, and came and stood
near the bed.
nice,
"Ask him if he won't have a little pap,
fine, flour pap. There is some boiling on the kitchen
fire."
The German made the proposal, but the widower
Iwaved his hand.
"No, nothing shall pass my lips. I should be suf-
focated. No, no! Speak not of food to me!"
"Pap, and a little brandy in," said Tant' Sannie,
coaxingly.
Bonaparte caught the word.
"Perhaps, perhaps, if I struggled with myself,
for the sake of my duties I might imbibe a few
drops!" he said, looking with quivering lip up into
the German's face. "I must do my duty, must I
not?"
Tant' Sannie gave the order, and the girl went for
the pap.
"I know how it was when my first husband died.
They could do nothing with me," the Boer-woman
said, "till I had eaten a sheep's trotter, and honey,
and a little roaster-cake. I know."
BONAPARTE BLENKINS MAKES HIS NEST. 79
Bonaparte sat up on the bed with his legs stretched
out in front of him, and a hand on each knee, blub-
bering softly.
"Oh, she was a woman! You are very kind to try
and comfort me; but she was my wife. For a woman
that is my wife I could live; for the woman that is
my wife I could die! For a woman that is my wife I
could Ah! that sweet word wife; when will it
rest upon my lips again?"
-
When his feelings had subsided a little, he raised
the corners of his turned-down mouth, and spoke to
the German with flabby lips.
"Do you think she understands me? Oh, tell her
every word, that she may know I thank her!"
At that instant the girl reappeared with a basin of
steaming gruel and a black bottle.
Tant' Sannie poured some of its contents into the
basin, stirred it well, and came to the bed.
66
'Oh, I can't, I can't! I shall die! I shall die!"
said Bonaparte, putting his hands to his side.
"Come, just a little!" said Tant' Sannie, coaxingly;
"just a drop!"
"It's too thick! it's too thick! I should choke."
Tant' Sannie added from the contents of the bottle,
and held out a spoonful; Bonaparte opened his mouth
like a little bird waiting for a worm, and held it open,
as she dipped again and again into the pap.
"Ah, this will do your heart good!" said Tant'
Sannie, in whose mind the relative functions of heart
and stomach were exceedingly ill-defined.
When the basin was emptied the violence of his
grief was much assuaged; he looked at Tant' Sannie
with gentle tears.
"Tell him," said the Boer-woman, "that I hope he
80
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
will sleep well, and that the Lord will comfort him,
as the Lord only can."
"Bless you, dear friend, God bless you!" said
Bonaparte.
When the door was safely shut on the German, the
Hottentot, and the Dutch-woman, he got off the bed,
and washed away the soap he had rubbed on his eye-
lids.
"Bon," he said, slapping his leg, "you 're the 'cutest
lad I ever came across. If you don't turn out the old
Hymns-and-prayers, and pummel the Ragged-coat, and
get your arms round the fat one's waist and a wed-
ding-ring on her finger, then you are not Bonaparte.
But you are Bonaparte. Bon, you're a fine boy!"
Making which pleasing reflection, he pulled off his
trousers and got into bed cheerfully.
CHAPTER VII.
HE SETS HIS TRAP.
"MAY I come in? I hope I do not disturb you, my
dear friend," said Bonaparte, late one evening, putting
his nose in at the cabin door, where the German and
his son sat finishing their supper.
It was now two months since he had been installed
as schoolmaster in Tant' Sannie's household, and he
had grown mighty and more mighty day by day. He
visited the cabin no more, sat close to Tant' Sannie
drinking coffee all the evening, and walked about
loftily with his hands under the coat-tails of the Ger-
man's black cloth, and failed to see even a nigger who
wished him a deferential good morning. It was there-
fore with no small surprise that the German perceived
Bonaparte's red nose at his door.
"Walk in, walk in," he said joyfully.
see if there is coffee left. Well, none.
We have done supper, but
""
"Boy, boy,
Make a fire.
"My dear friend," said Bonaparte, taking off his
hat, "I came not to sup, not for mere creature com-
forts, but for an hour of brotherly intercourse with a
kindred spirit. The press of business and the weight
of thought but they alone — may sometimes prevent
me from sharing the secrets of my bosom with him for
whom I have so great a sympathy. You perhaps won-
der when I shall return the two pounds —”
----
"Oh, no, no! Make a fire, make a fire, boy. We
6
82
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
will have a pot of hot coffee presently," said the Ger-
man, rubbing his hands and looking about, not know-
ing how best to show his pleasure at the unexpected
visit.
For three weeks the German's diffident "Good eve-
ning" had met with a stately bow, the chin of Bona-
parte lifting itself higher daily; and his shadow had
not darkened the cabin doorway since he came to bor-
row the two pounds. The German walked to the head
of the bed, and took down a blue bag that hung there.
Blue bags were a speciality of the German. He kept
above fifty stowed away in different corners of his
some filled with curious stones, some with
seeds that had been in his possession fifteen years,
some with rusty nails, buckles, and bits of old har-
ness; in all, a wonderful assortment, but highly
prized.
room
-
"We have something here not so bad," said the
German, smiling knowingly, as he dived his hand
into the bag and took out a handful of almonds and
raisins; "I buy these for my chickens. They increase
in size, but they still think the old man must have
something nice for them. And the old man - well, a
big boy may have a sweet tooth sometimes, may he
not? Ha, ha!" said the German, chuckling at his
own joke, as he heaped the plate with almonds.
"Here is a stone-two stones to crack them. no
late patent improvement-well, Adam's nut-cracker;
ha, ha! But I think we shall do. We will not leave
them uncracked. We will consume a few without
fashionable improvements."
Here the German sat down on one side of the table,
Bonaparte on the other; each one with a couple of flat
stones before him, and the plate between them.
HE SETS HIS TRAP.
83
"Do not be afraid," said the German, "do not be
afraid. I do not forget the boy at the fire; I crack
for him. The bag is full. Why, this is strange," he
said suddenly, cracking open a large nut; "three ker-
nels! I have not observed that before. This must be
retained. This is valuable." He wrapped the nut
gravely in paper, and put it carefully in his waistcoat
pocket. "Valuable, very valuable!" he said, shaking
his head.
"Ah, my friend," said Bonaparte, "what joy it is to
be once more in your society!"
The German's eye glistened, and Bonaparte seized
his hand and squeezed it warmly. They then pro-
Iceeded to crack and eat. After a while Bonaparte
said, stuffing a handful of raisins into his mouth,—
"I was so deeply grieved, my dear friend, that you
and Tant' Sannie had some slight unpleasantness this
evening."
""
"Oh, no, no, said the German; "it is all right
now. A few sheep missing; but I make it good my-
self. I give my twelve sheep, and work in the other
eight."
"It is rather hard that you should have to make
good the lost sheep," said Bonaparte; "it is no fault
of yours."
Last
"Well," said the German, "this is the case.
evening I count the sheep at the kraal - twenty are
missing. I ask the herd; he tells me they are with
the other flock; he tells me so distinctly; how can I
think he lies? This afternoon I count the other flock.
The sheep are not there. I come back here; the herd
is gone; the sheep are gone. But I cannot-no, I will
not believe he stole them," said the German, grow-
ing suddenly excited. "Some one else, but not he.
--
84
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
I know that boy; I knew him three years.
He is a
good boy. I have seen him deeply affected on account
of his soul. And she would send the police after him!
I say I would rather make the loss good myself. I
will not have it; he has fled in fear. I know his
heart. It was," said the German, with a little gentle
hesitation, "under my words that he first felt his need
of a Saviour."
Bonaparte cracked some more almonds, then said,
yawning, and more as though he asked for the sake of
having something to converse about, than from any
interest he felt in the subject -
-
"And what has become of the herd's wife?"
The German was
alight again in a moment.
"Yes; his wife. She has a child six days old, and
Tant' Sannie would turn her out into the fields this
night. That," said the German, rising, "that is what
I call cruelty-diabolical cruelty. My soul abhors
that deed. The man that could do such a thing I
could run him through with a knife!" said the Ger-
man, his gray eyes flashing, and his bushy black beard
adding to the murderous fury of his aspect. Then
suddenly subsiding, he said, "But all is now well;
Tant' Sannie gives her word that the maid shall re-
main for some days. I go to Oom Muller's to-morrow
to learn if the sheep may not be there. If they are
not, then I return. They are gone; that is all. I
make it good.”
-
"Tant' Sannie is a singular woman," said Bona-
parte, taking the tobacco bag the German passed to
him.
"Singular! Yes," said the German; "but her heart
is on her right side. I have lived long years with her,
and I may say I have for her an affection, which she
HE SETS HIS TRAP.
85
returns.
I may say," added the German with warmth,
"I may say, that there is not one soul on this farm
for whom I have not an affection."
-
"Ah, my friend," said Bonaparte, "when the grace
of God is in our hearts, is it not so with us all? Do
we not love the very worm we tread upon, and as we
tread upon it? Do we know distinctions of race, or
of sex, or of color? No!
Love so amazing, so divine,
It fills my soul, my life, my all.'"
After a time he sank into a less fervent mood, and
remarked,-
"The colored female who waits upon Tant' Sannie
appears to be of a virtuous disposition, an individual
who-"
"Virtuous!" said the German; "I have confi-
dence in her. There is that in her which is pure,
that which is noble. The rich and high that walk
this earth with lofty eyelids might exchange with
her."
The German here got up to bring a coal for Bona-
parte's pipe, and they sat together talking for a while.
At length Bonaparte knocked the ashes out of his
pipe.
"It is time that I took my departure, dear friend,"
he said; "but, before I do so, shall we not close this
evening of sweet communion and brotherly intercourse
by a few words of prayer? Oh, how good and how
pleasant a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in
unity! It is like the dew upon the mountains of
Hermon; for there the Lord bestowed a blessing, even
life for evermore."
66
Stay and drink some coffee," said the German.
86
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"No, thank you, my friend; I have business that
must be done to-night," said Bonaparte. "Your dear
son appears to have gone to sleep. He is going to
take the wagon to the mill to-morrow! What a little
man he is."
"A fine boy."
But though the boy nodded before the fire, he was
not asleep, and they all knelt down to pray.
When they rose from their knees Bonaparte ex-
tended his hand to Waldo, and patted him on the
head.
"Good-night, my lad," he said. "As you go to the
mill to-morrow, we shall not see you for some days.
Good-night! Good-by! The Lord bless and guide
you; and may He bring you back to us in safety.
to find us all as you have left us!" He laid some
emphasis on the last words. "And you, my dear
friend," he added, turning with redoubled warmth
to the German, "long, long shall I look back to this
evening as a time of refreshing from the presence
of the Lord, as an hour of blessed intercourse with a
brother in Jesus. May such often return! The Lord
bless you," he added, with yet deeper fervor, "richly,
richly!"
Then he opened the door, and vanished out into the
darkness.
"He, he, he!" laughed Bonaparte, as he stumbled
over the stones. "If there is n't the rarest lot of
fools on this farm that ever God Almighty stuck
legs to. He, he, he! When the worms come out,
then the black birds feed. Ha, ha, ha!" Then he
drew himself up; even when alone he liked to
pose with a certain dignity,—it was second nature
to him.
HE SETS HIS TRAP.
87
He looked in at the kitchen-door.
3
The Hottentot
maid who acted as interpreter between Tant' Sannie
and himself was gone, and Tant' Sannie herself was in
bed.
"Never mind, Bon, my boy," he said, as he walked
round to his own room, "to-morrow will do.
he!"
He, he,
CHAPTER VIII.
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
Ar four o'clock the next afternoon the German rode
across the plain, returning from his search for the lost
sheep. He rode slowly, for he had been in the saddle
since sunrise and was somewhat weary, and the heat
of the afternoon made his horse sleepy as it picked its
way slowly along the sandy road. Every now and
then a great red spider would start out of the karroo
on one side of the path and run across to the other,
but nothing else broke the still monotony. Presently,
behind one of the highest of the milk-bushes that
dotted the roadside, the German caught sight of a
Kaffir woman, seated there evidently for such shadow
as the milk-bush might afford from the sloping rays
of the sun. The German turned the horse's head out
of the road. It was not his way to pass a living crea-
ture without a word of greeting. Coming nearer, he
found it was no other than the wife of the absconding
Kaffir herd. She had a baby tied on her back by a
dirty strip of red blanket; another strip hardly larger
was twisted round her waist; for the rest, her black
body was naked. She was a sullen, ill-looking woman,
with lips hideously protruding.
The German questioned her as to how she came
there. She muttered in broken Dutch that she had
been turned away. Had she done evil? She shook
her head sullenly. Had she had food given her?
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
89
She grunted a negative, and fanned the flies from her
baby. Telling the woman to remain where she was,
he turned his horse's head to the road, and rode off at
a furious pace.
"Hard-hearted! cruel! Oh, my God! Is this the
way? Is this charity?"
"Yes, yes, yes," ejaculated the old man as he rode
on; but presently his anger began to evaporate, his
horse's pace slackened, and by the time he had reached
his own door he was nodding and smiling.
Dismounting quickly he went to the great chest
where his provisions were kept. Here he got out a
little meal, a little mealies, and a few roaster-cakes.
These he tied up in three blue handkerchiefs, and put-
ting them into a sail-cloth bag, he strung them over
his shoulders. Then he looked circumspectly out at
the door. It was very bad to be discovered in the act
of giving; it made him red up to the roots of his old
grizzled hair. No one was about, however, so he rode
off again. Beside the milk-bush sat the Kaffir woman
still, like Hagar, he thought, thrust out by her mis-
tress in the wilderness to die. Telling her to loosen
the handkerchief from her head, he poured into it the
contents of his bag. The woman tied it up in sullen
silence.
―
"You must try to get to the next farm," said the
German.
The woman shook her head; she would sleep in the
field.
The German reflected. Kaffir women were accus-
tomed to sleep in the open air; but then the child was
small, and after so hot a day the night might be chilly.
That she would creep back to the huts at the home-
stead when the darkness favored her, the German's
90
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
sagacity did not make evident to him. He took off
the old brown salt-and-pepper coat, and held it out to
her. The woman received it in silence, and laid it
across her knee. "With that they will sleep warmly;
not so bad. Ha, ha!" said the German. And he rode
home, nodding his head in a manner that would have
made any other man dizzy.
"I wish he would not come back to-night," said Em,
her face wet with tears.
“It will be just the same if he comes back to-mor-
row," said Lyndall.
The two girls sat on the step of the cabin, waiting
for the German's return. Lyndall shaded her eyes
with her hand from the sunset light.
"There he comes," she said, "whistling 'Ach Jeru-
salem du schöne' so loud I can hear him here."
66
Perhaps he has found the sheep."
"Found them!" said Lyndall.
"He would whistle
just so if he knew he had to die to-night."
"You look at the sunset, eh, chickens ?" the Ger-
man said, as he came up at a smart canter. "Ah,
yes, that is beautiful!" he added, as he dismounted,
pausing for a moment with his hand on the saddle
to look at the evening sky, where the sun shot up
long flaming streaks, between which and the eye thin
yellow clouds floated. "Ei! you weep?" said the
German, as the girls ran up to him.
Before they had time to reply the voice of Tant'
Sannie was heard.
"You child of the child of the child of a Kaffir's
dog, come here!"
The German looked up. He thought the Dutch-
woman, come out to cool herself in the yard, called
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
91
to some misbehaving servant. The old man looked
round to see who it might be.
"You old vagabond of a praying German, are you
deaf?
""
Tant' Sannie stood before the steps of the kitchen;
upon them sat the lean Hottentot, upon the highest
stood Bonaparte Blenkins, both hands folded under
the tails of his coat, and his eyes fixed on the sun-
set sky.
The German dropped the saddle on the ground.
"Bish, bish, bish! what may this be?" he said, and
walked towards the house. "Very strange!"
The girls followed him, -Em still weeping, Lyn-
dall with her face rather white and her eyes wide
open.
"And I have the heart of a devil, did you say?
You could run me through with a knife, could you ?"
cried the Dutch-woman. "I could not drive the
Kaffir maid away because I was afraid of you, was I?
Oh, you miserable rag! I loved you, did I? I would
have liked to marry you, would I? would I? WOULD
I?" cried the Boer-woman; "you cat's tail, you dog's
paw! Be near my house to-morrow morning when
the sun rises," she gasped, "my Kaffirs will drag you
through the sand. They would do it gladly, any of
them, for a bit of tobacco, for all your prayings with
them."
"I am bewildered, I am bewildered," said the Ger-
man, standing before her and raising his hand to his
forehead; "I-I do not understand."
"Ask him, ask him!" cried Tant' Sannie, pointing
to Bonaparte; "he knows. You thought he could.
not make me understand, but he did, he did, you old
fool! I know enough English for that. You be
92
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
here," shouted the Dutch-woman, "when the morning
star rises, and I will let my Kaffirs take you out and
drag you, till there is not one bone left in your old
body that is not broken as fine as 'bobootie' meat, you
old beggar! All your rags are not worth that they
should be thrown out on to the ash-heap," cried the
Boer-woman; but I will have them for my sheep.
Not one rotten hoof of your old mare do you take with
I will have her, all, all for my sheep that you
have lost, you godless thing!
""
The Boer-woman wiped the moisture from her mouth
with the palm of her hand.
-
The German turned to Bonaparte, who still stood
on the step absorbed in the beauty of the sunset.
"Do not address me; do not approach me, lost
man," said Bonaparte, not moving his eye nor lowering
his chin. "There is a crime from which all nature
revolts; there is a crime whose name is loathsome to
the human ear,
that crime is yours; that crime is
ingratitude. This woman has been your benefactress;
on her farm you have lived; after her sheep you have
looked; into her house you have been allowed to enter
and hold divine service, an honor of which you
were never worthy. And how have you rewarded
her? Basely, basely, basely!"
"But it is all false,
--- -
-
lies and falsehoods. I must,
I will speak," said the German, suddenly looking
round bewildered. "Do I dream? Are you mad?
What may it be?”
66
Go, dog!" cried the Dutch-woman; "I would have
been a rich woman this day if it had not been for
your laziness. Praying with the Kaffirs behind the
kraal walls! Go, you Kaffir's dog!"
"But what then is the matter? What may have
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
93
happened since I left?" said the German turning to
the Hottentot woman who sat upon the step.
She was his friend; she would tell him kindly
the truth. The woman answered by a loud, ringing
laugh.
“Give it hìm, old missis! Give it him!”
It was so nice to see the white man who had been
master hunted down. The colored woman laughed,
and threw a dozen mealie grains into her mouth to
chew.
All anger and excitement faded from the old man's
face. He turned slowly away, and walked down the
little path to his cabin, with his shoulders bent; it
was all dark before him. He stumbled over the
threshold of his own well-known door.
Em, sobbing bitterly, would have followed him;
but the Boer-woman prevented her by a flood of
speech which convulsed the Hottentot, so low were
its images.
"Come, Em," said Lyndall, lifting her small, proud
head, "let us go in. We will not stay to hear such
language."
She looked into the Boer-woman's eyes. Tant'
Sannie understood the meaning of the look if not
the words. She waddled after them, and caught
Em by the arm. She had struck Lyndall once,
years before, and had never done it again, so she
took Em.
"So you will defy me, too, will you, you English-
man's ugliness!" she cried, as with one hand she'
forced the child down, and held her head tightly
against her knee; with the other she beat her first
upon one cheek, and then upon the other.
For one instant Lyndall looked on, then she laid
94
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
her small fingers on the Boer-woman's arm. With
the exertion of half its strength Tant' Sannie might
have flung the girl back upon the stones. It was
not the power of the slight fingers, tightly though
they clinched her broad wrist- so tightly that at
bedtime the marks were still there; but the Boer-
woman looked into the clear eyes and at the quiv-
ering white lips, and with a half-surprised curse
relaxed her hold. The girl drew Em's arm through
her own.
"Move!" she said to Bonaparte, who stood in the
door; and he, Bonaparte the invincible, in the hour
of his triumph, moved to give her place.
The Hottentot ceased to laugh, and an uncomfort-
able silence fell on all the three in the doorway.
Once in their room, Em sat down on the floor, and
wailed bitterly. Lyndall lay on the bed with her
arm drawn across her eyes, very white and still.
"Hoo, hoo!" cried Em; "and they won't let him
take the gray mare; and Waldo has gone to the
mill. Hoo, hoo! And perhaps they won't let us
go and say good-by to him. Hoo, hoo, hoo!"
"I wish you would be quiet," said Lyndall, with-
out moving. "Does it give you such felicity to let
Bonaparte know he is hurting you? We will ask no
one. It will be supper time soon. Listen, and
when you hear the chink of the knives and forks
we will go out and see him."
-
Em suppressed her sobs, and listened intently,
kneeling at the door. Suddenly some one came to
the window and put the shutter up.
"Who was that?" said Lyndall, starting.
"The girl, I suppose," said Em. "How early she
is this evening!"
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
95
But Lyndall sprang from the bed, and seized the
handle of the door, shaking it fiercely. The door was
locked on the outside. She ground her teeth.
"What is the matter?" asked Em.
The room was in perfect darkness now.
"Nothing,” said Lyndall quietly; "only they have
locked us in."
She turned, and went back to bed again. But ere
long Em heard a sound of movement. Lyndall had
climbed up into the window, and with her fingers
felt the wood-work that surrounded the panes. Slip-
ping down, the girl loosened the iron knob from the
foot of the bedstead, and climbing up again she
broke with it every pane of glass in the window,
beginning at the top and ending at the bottom.
"What are you doing?" asked Em, who heard the
falling fragments.
Her companion made her no reply, but leaned on
every little cross-bar, which cracked and gave way
beneath her. Then she pressed with all her strength
against the shutter. She had thought the wooden
buttons would give way, but by the clinking sound she
knew that the iron bar had been put across.
She was
quite quiet for a time. Clambering down, she took
from the table a small one-bladed pen-knife, with
which she began to peck at the hard wood of the
shutter.
"What are you doing now?" asked Em, who had
ceased crying in her wonder, and had drawn near.
"Trying to make a hole," was the short reply.
"Do you think you will be able to?"
"No; but I am trying."
In an agony of suspense Em waited. For ten min-
utes Lyndall pecked. The hole was three-eighths
96
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
of an inch deep; then the blade broke into ten
pieces.
"What has happened now?" asked Em, blubbering
afresh.
"Nothing," said Lyndall. "Bring me my night-
gown, a piece of paper, and the matches."
Wondering, Em fumbled about till she found
them.
"What are you going to do with them?" she
whispered.
"Burn down the window."
"But won't the whole house take fire, and burn
down, too?"
"Yes."
"But will it not be very wicked?
"Yes, very.
And I do not care."
She arranged the night-gown carefully in the corner
of the window, with the chips of the frame about it.
There was only one match in the box. She drew it
carefully along the wall. For a moment it burned up
blue, and showed the tiny face with its glistening
eyes. She held it carefully to the paper. For an in-
stant it burned up brightly, then flickered
out. She blew the spark, but it died also.
threw the paper on the ground, trod on it, and went
to her bed, and began to undress.
and went
Then she
Em rushed to the door, knocking against it wildly.
"Oh, Tant' Sannie! Tant' Sannie! Oh, let us
out!" she cried. “Oh, Lyndall, what are we to
do?"
Lyndall wiped a drop of blood off the lip she had
bitten.
"I am going to sleep," she said.
there and howl till the morning, do.
"If you like to sit
Perhaps you will
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
97
find that it helps; I never heard that howling helped
any one."
Long after, when Em herself had gone to bed and
was almost asleep, Lyndall came, and stood at her
bedside.
"Here," she said, slipping a little pot of powder
into her hand; "rub some on to your face. Does it
not burn where she struck you? ?"
Then she crept back to her own bed. Long, long
after, when Em was really asleep, she lay still awake,
and folded her hands on her little breast, muttering,
"When that day comes, and I am strong, I will hate
everything that has power, and help everything that
is weak." And she bit her lip again.
The German looked out at the cabin door for the
last time that night. Then he paced the room slowly,
and sighed. Then he drew out pen and paper, and
sat down to write, rubbing his old gray eyes with his
knuckles before he began :
MY CHICKENS,
-
You did not come to say good-
by to the old man. Might you? Ah, well, there is a
land where they part no more, where saints immortal
reign.
I sit here alone, and I think of you. Will you
forget the old man? When you wake to-morrow, he
will be far away. The old horse is lazy, but he has
his stick to help him; that is three legs. He comes
back one day with gold and diamonds. Will you wel-
come him? Well, we shall see. I go to meet Waldo.
He comes back with the wagon; then he follows me.
Poor boy! God knows! There is a land where all
things are made right, but that land is not here.
7
98
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
My little children, serve the Saviour; give your
hearts to Him while you are yet young. Life is
short.
Nothing is mine; otherwise I would say, Lyndall,
take my books, Em my stones. Now I say nothing.
The things are mine; it is not righteous, God knows!
But I am silent. Let it be. But I feel it, I must say
I feel it.
Do not cry too much for the old man. He goes
out to seek his fortune, and comes back with it in a
bag, it may be.
I love my children. Do they think of me? I
am old Otto, who goes out to seek his fortune.
O. F.
Having concluded this quaint production, he put it
where the children would find it the next morning,
and proceeded to prepare his bundle. He never
thought of entering a protest against the loss of his
goods; like a child he submitted, and wept. He had
been there eleven years, and it was hard to go away.
He spread open on the bed a blue handkerchief, and
on it put one by one the things he thought most nec-
essary and important, a little bag of curious seeds,
which he meant to plant some day, an old German
hymn-book, three misshapen stones that he greatly
valued, a Bible, a shirt, and two handkerchiefs; then
there was room for nothing more. He tied up the
bundle tightly, and put it on a chair by his bedside.
"That is not much; they cannot say I take much,"
he said, looking at it.
He put his knotted stick beside it, his blue tobacco
bag and his short pipe, and then inspected his coats.
He had two left a moth-eaten overcoat, and a black
-
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
99
alpaca out at the elbows. He decided for the over-
coat; it was warm certainly, but then he could carry
it over his arm, and only put it on when he met some
one along the road. It was more respectable than
the black alpaca. He hung the greatcoat over the
back of the chair, and stuffed a hard bit of roaster-
cake under the knot of the bundle, and then his
preparations were completed. The German stood
contemplating them with much satisfaction. He had
almost forgotten his sorrow at leaving, in his pleasure
at preparing. Suddenly he started; an expression of
intense pain passed over his face. He drew back his
left arm quickly, and then pressed his right hand
upon his breast.
"Ah, the sudden pang again!" he said.
His face was white, but it quickly regained its
color. Then the old man busied himself in putting
everything right.
"I will leave it neat. They shall not say I did not
leave it neat," he said. Even the little bags of seeds
on the mantel-piece he put in rows and dusted. Then
he undressed and got into bed. Under his pillow was
a little story-book. He drew it forth. To the old
German a story was no story. Its events were as
real and as important to himself as the matters of his
own life. He could not go away without knowing
whether that wicked Earl relented, and whether the
Baron married Emilina. So he adjusted his spec-
tacles, and began to read. Occasionally, as his feel-
ings became too strongly moved, he ejaculated, "Ah,
I thought so! That was a rogue!—I saw it before!
I knew it from the beginning!" More than half an
hour had passed, when he looked up to the silver
watch at the top of his bed.
100
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"The march is long to-morrow; this will not do,"
he said, taking off his spectacles, and putting them
carefully into the book to mark the place. "This
will be good reading as I walk along to-morrow," he
added, as he stuffed the book into the pocket of
the greatcoat; "very good reading." He nodded his
head, and lay down. He thought a little of his own
troubles, a good deal of the two little girls he was
leaving, of the Earl, of Emilina, of the Baron; but he
was soon asleep sleeping as peacefully as a little
child, upon whose innocent soul sorrow and care can-
not rest.
-
The
It was very quiet in the room. The coals in the
fire-place threw a dull red light across the floor, upon
the red lions on the quilt. Eleven o'clock came,
and the room was very still. One o'clock came.
glimmer had died out, though the ashes were still
warm, and the room was very dark. The gray mouse,
who had its hole under the tool-box, came out and sat
on the sacks in the corner; then, growing bolder, the
room was so dark, it climbed the chair at the bedside,
nibbled at the roaster-cake, took one bite quickly at
the candle, and then sat on his haunches, listening.
It heard the even breathing of the old man, and the
steps of the hungry Kaffir dog going his last round in
search of a bone or a skin that had been forgotten;
and it heard the white hen call out as the wild cat
ran away with one of her brood, and it heard the
chicken cry. Then the gray mouse went back to its
hole under the tool-box, and the room was quiet.
And two o'clock came. By that time the night was
grown dull and cloudy. The wild cat had gone to its
home on the "kopje;" the Kaffir dog had found a
bone, and lay gnawing it.
HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD.
101
Only in
An intense quiet reigned everywhere.
her room the Boer-woman tossed her great arms in
her sleep; for she dreamed that a dark shadow with
outstretched wings fled slowly over her house, and she
moaned, and shivered. And the night was very still.
But, quiet as all places were, there was a quite
peculiar quiet in the German's room. Though you
strained your ear most carefully, you caught no sound
of breathing.
He was not gone, for the old coat still hung on the
chair - the coat that was to be put on when he met
any one; and the bundle and stick were ready for to-
morrow's long march. The old German himself lay
there, his wavy black hair just touched with gray
thrown back upon the pillow. The old face was lying
there alone in the dark, smiling like a little child's-
oh, so peacefully. There is a stranger whose coming,
they say, is worse than all the ills of life, from whose
presence we flee away trembling; but he comes very
tenderly sometimes. And it seemed almost as though
Death had known and loved the old man, so gently it
touched him. And how could it deal hardly with him
the loving, simple, childlike old man?
So it smoothed out the wrinkles that were in the
old forehead, and fixed the passing smile, and sealed
the eyes that they might not weep again; and then
the short sleep of time was melted into the long, long
sleep of eternity.
"How has he grown so young in this one night?
they said when they found him in the morning.
99
Yes, dear old man; to such as you time brings no
age. You die with the purity and innocence of your
childhood upon you, though you die in your gray
hairs.
A
CHAPTER IX.
HE SEES A GHOST.
BONAPARTE stood on the ash-heap. He espied
across the plain a moving speck, and he chucked his
coat-tails up and down in expectancy of a scene.
The wagon came on slowly. Waldo lay curled
among the sacks at the back of the wagon, the hand
in his breast resting on the sheep-shearing machine.
It was finished now. The right thought had struck
him the day before as he sat, half asleep, watching
the water go over the mill-wheel. He muttered to
himself with half-closed eyes,
"To-morrow smooth the cogs
show it to them."
a little
-
―
- tighten the screws
Then after a pause
-
"Over the whole world the whole world — mine,
that I have made!" He pressed the little wheels
and pulleys in his pocket till they cracked. Presently
his muttering became louder - "And fifty pounds -
a black hat for my dadda for Lyndall a blue silk,
very light; and one purple like the earth-bells, and
white shoes." He muttered on "A box full, full of
books. They shall tell me all, all, all," he added, mov-
ing his fingers desiringly; "why the crystals grow in
such beautiful shapes, why lightning runs to the iron,
why black people are black, why the sunlight makes
things warm. I shall read, read, read," he muttered
slowly. Then came over him suddenly what he called
"The presence of God"; a sense of a good, strong
HE SEES A GHOST.
103
something folding him round. He smiled through his
half-shut eyes. "Ah, Father, my own Father, it is so
sweet to feel you, like the warm sunshine. The Bibles
and books cannot tell of you, and all I feel you. They
are mixed with men's words; but you.
99
His muttering sank into inaudible confusion, till,
opening his eyes wide, it struck him that the brown.
plain he looked at was the old home farm. For half
an hour they had been riding in it, and he had not
known it. He roused the leader, who sat nodding on
the front of the wagon in the early morning sunlight.
They were within half a mile of the homestead. It
seemed to him that he had been gone from them all a
year. He fancied he could see Lyndall standing on
the brick wall to watch for him, his father, passing
from one house to the other, stopping to look.
He called aloud to the oxen. For each one at home
he had brought something. For his father a piece of
tobacco, bought at the shop by the mill; for Em a
thimble; for Lyndall a beautiful flower dug out by the
roots, at a place where they had "out-spanned"; for
Tant' Sannie a handkerchief. When they drew near
the house, he threw the whip to the Kaffir leader, and
sprang from the side of the wagon to run on.
parte stopped him as he ran past the ash-heap.
Bona-
"Good morning, my dear boy. Where are you run-
ning to so fast, with your rosy cheeks?"
The boy looked up at him, glad even to see Bona-
parte.
"I am going to the cabin," he said, out of breath.
"You won't find them in just now
old father," said Bonaparte.
"Where is he?" asked the lad.
not your good
"There, beyond the camps," said Bonaparte, waving
104
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
his hand oratorically towards the stone-walled ostrich-
camps.
"What is he doing there?" asked the boy.
Bonaparte patted him on the cheek, kindly.
"We could not keep him any more, it was too hot.
We've buried him, my boy," said Bonaparte, touching
with his finger the boy's cheek. "We could n't keep
him any more. He, he, he!" laughed Bonaparte, as
the boy fled away along the low stone wall, almost
furtively, as one in fear.
At five o'clock Bonaparte knelt before a box in the
German's room. He was busily unpacking it.
It had been agreed upon between Tant' Sannie and
himself, that now the German was gone he, Bonaparte,
was to be no longer schoolmaster, but overseer of the
farm. In return for his past scholastic labors he had
expressed himself willing to take possession of the
dead man's goods and room. Tant' Sannie hardly
liked the arrangement. She had a great deal more
respect for the German dead than the German living,
and would rather his goods had been allowed to de-
scend peacefully to his son. For she was a firm
believer in the chinks in the world above, where not
only ears, but eyes might be applied to see how things
went on in this world below. She never felt sure how
far the spirit-world might overlap this world of sense,
and, as a rule, prudently abstained from doing any-
thing which might offend unseen auditors. For this
reason she abstained from ill-using the dead English-
man's daughter and niece, and for this reason she
would rather the boy had had his father's goods. But
it was hard to refuse Bonaparte anything when she
and he sat so happily together in the evening drink-
HE SEES A GHOST.
105
ing coffee, Bonaparte telling her in the broken Dutch
he was fast learning, how he adored fat women, and
what a splendid farmer he was.
So at five o'clock on this afternoon Bonaparte knelt
in the German's room.
"Somewhere here it is," he said, as he packed the
old clothes carefully out of the box, and finding noth-
ing packed them in again. "Somewhere in this room
it is; and if it's here Bonaparte finds it," he repeated.
"You didn't stay here all these years without making
a little pile somewhere, my lamb. You weren't such
a fool as you looked. Oh, no!" said Bonaparte.
He now walked about the room, diving his fingers
in everywhere, sticking them into the great crevices
in the wall and frightening out the spiders, rapping
them against the old plaster till it cracked and fell in
pieces, peering up the chimney, till the soot dropped
on his bald head and blackened it. He felt in little
blue bags; he tried to raise the hearthstone; he shook
each book, till the old leaves fell down in showers on
the floor.
It was getting dark, and Bonaparte stood with his
finger on his nose, reflecting. Finally he walked to
the door, behind which hung the trousers and waist-
coat the dead man had last worn. He had felt in
them, but hurriedly, just after the funeral the day
before; he would examine them again. Sticking his
fingers into the waistcoat pockets, he found in one cor-
ner a hole. Pressing his hand through it, between
the lining and the cloth, he presently came into con-
tact with something. Bonaparte drew it forth a
small, square parcel, sewed up in sail-cloth. He gazed
at it, squeezed it; it cracked, as though full of bank.
notes. He put it quickly into his own waistcoat
106
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
pocket, and peeped over the half-door to see if there
was any one coming. There was nothing to be seen
but the last rays of yellow sunset light, painting the
karroo bushes in the plain, and shining on the ash-
heap, where the fowls were pecking. He turned and
sat down on the nearest chair, and taking out his pen-
knife ripped the parcel open. The first thing that
fell was a shower of yellow faded papers. Bonaparte
opened them carefully one by one, and smoothed them
out on his knee. There was something very valuable
to be hidden so carefully, though the German charac-
ters he could not decipher. When he came to the last
one, he felt something hard in it.
"You've got it, Bon, my boy! you've got it!" he
cried, slapping his leg hard. Edging nearer to the
door, for the light was fading, he opened the paper
carefully. There was nothing inside but a plain gold
-wedding-ring.
"Better than nothing!" said Bonaparte, trying to
put it on his little finger, which, however, proved too
fat.
He took it off, and set it down on the table before
him, and looked at it with his crosswise eyes.
"When that auspicious hour shall have arrived,
Sannie," he said, "when, panting, I shall lead thee,
lighted by Hymen's torch, to the connubial altar, then
'upon thy fair amaranthine finger, my joyous bride,
shall this ring repose.
"Thy fair body, O my girl,
Shall Bonaparte possess;
His fingers in thy money-bags,
He therein, too, shall mess.'
"
Having given utterance to this flood of poesy, he
sat lost in joyous reflection.
HE SEES A GHOST.
107
"He therein, too, shall mess,"" he repeated medita-
tively.
At this instant, as Bonaparte swore, and swore truly
to the end of his life, a slow and distinct rap was
given on the crown of his bald head.
Bonaparte started, and looked up. No reim, or
strap, hung down from the rafters above, and not
a human creature was near the door. It was grow-
ing dark; he did not like it. He began to fold
up the papers expeditiously. He stretched out his
hand for the ring. The ring was gone! Gone, al-
though no human creature had entered the room;
gone, although no form had crossed the doorway!
Gone!
He would not sleep there, that was certain.
He stuffed the papers into his pocket. As he did so,
three slow and distinct taps were given on the crown
of his head. Bonaparte's jaw fell; each separate joint
lost its power; he could not move; he dared not rise;
his tongue lay loose in his mouth.
-
"Take all, take all!" he gurgled in his throat. "I
I do not want them. Take-
وو
Here a resolute tug at the gray curls at the back of
his head caused him to leap up, yelling wildly. Was
he to sit still paralyzed, to be dragged away bodily to
the devil? With terrific shrieks he fled, casting no
glance behind.
When the dew was falling, and the evening was
dark, a small figure moved towards the gate of the
farthest ostrich-camp, driving a bird before it. When
the gate was opened and the bird driven in and the
gate fastened, it turned away, but then suddenly
paused near the stone wall.
108
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Is that you, Waldo?" said Lyndall, hearing a
sound.
The boy was sitting on the damp ground with his
back to the wall. He gave her no answer.
"Come," she said, bending over him, "I have been
looking for you all day."
He mumbled something.
"You have had nothing to eat. I have put some
supper in your room. You must come home with me,
Waldo."
She took his hand, and the boy rose slowly.
She made him take her arm, and twisted her small
fingers among his.
"Since it hap-
If we remem-
"You must forget," she whispered.
pened I walk, I talk, I never sit still.
ber, we cannot bring back the dead.". She knit her
little fingers closer among his. "Forgetting is the
best thing. He did not watch it coming," she whis-
pered presently. "That is the dreadful thing, to see
it coming!" She shuddered. "I want it to come so
to me too. Why do you think I was driving that
bird?" she added quickly. "That was Hans, the
bird that hates Bonaparte. I let him out this after-
noon; I thought he would chase him, and perhaps kill
him."
The boy showed no sign of interest.
"He did not catch him; but he put his head over
the half-door of your cabin, and frightened him horri-
bly. He was there, busy stealing your things. Per-
haps he will leave them alone now; but I wish the
bird had trodden on him."
They said no more till they reached the door of the
cabin.
“There is a candle and supper on the table. You
HE SEES A GHOST.
109
must eat," she said authoritatively. "I cannot stay
with you now, lest they find out about the bird."
He grasped her arm, and brought his mouth close to
her ear.
"There is no God!" he almost hissed; "no God;
not anywhere!"
She started.
"Not anywhere!"
He ground it out between his teeth, and she felt his
hot breath on her cheek.
"Waldo, you are mad!" she said, drawing herself
from him instinctively.
He loosened his grasp, and turned away from her
also.
In truth, is it not life's way? We fight our little
battles alone; you yours, I mine. We must not help
or find help.
When your life is most real, to me you are mad;
when your agony is blackest, I look at you and wonder.
Friendship is good, a strong stick; but when the
hour comes to lean hard it gives. In the day of their
bitterest need all souls are alone.
Lyndall stood by him in the dark, pityingly, won-
deringly. As he walked to the door, she came after
him.
"Eat your supper; it will do you good," she said.
She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and then
ran away.
In the front room the little woolly Kaffir girl
was washing Tant' Sannie's feet in a small tub, and
Bonaparte, who sat on the wooden sofa, was pulling
off his shoes and stockings that his own feet might
be washed also. There were three candles burning in
the room, and he and Tant' Sannie sat close together,
110
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
with the lean Hottentot not far off; for when ghosts
are about, much light is needed, there is great strength
in numbers. Bonaparte had completely recovered
from the effects of his fright in the afternoon, and
the numerous doses of brandy that it had been neces-
sary to administer to him to effect his restoration
had put him into a singularly pleasant and amiable
mood.
"That boy Waldo," said Bonaparte, rubbing his
toes, "took himself off coolly this morning as soon
as the wagon came, and has not done a stiver of work
all day.
I'll not have that kind of thing now I'm
master of this farm."
The Hottentot maid translated.
"Ah, I expect he's sorry that his father's dead!"
said Tant' Sannie. "It's nature, you know. I cried
the whole morning when my father died. One can
always get another husband, but one can't get another
father," said Tant' Sannie, casting a sidelong glance
at Bonaparte.
Bonaparte expressed a wish to give Waldo his or-
ders for the next day's work, and, accordingly, the
little woolly-headed Kaffir was sent to call him. After
a considerable time the boy appeared, and stood in
the doorway.
If they had dressed him in one of the swallow-tailed
coats, and oiled his hair till the drops fell from it, and
it lay as smooth as an elder's on sacrament Sunday,
there would still have been something unanointed in
the aspect of the fellow. As it was, standing there
in his strange old costume, his head presenting much
the appearance of having been deeply rolled in sand,
his eyelids swollen, the hair hanging over his fore-
head, and a dogged sullenness on his features, he pre-
HE SEES A GHOST.
111
sented most the appearance of an ill-conditioned young
buffalo.
"Beloved Lord!" cried Tant' Sannie, "how he
looks! Come in, boy. Could n't you come and say
good-day to me? Don't you want some supper?”
He said he wanted nothing, and turned his heavy
eyes away from her.
""
"There's a ghost been seen in your father's room,'
said Tant' Sannie. "If you're afraid, you can sleep
in the kitchen."
"I will sleep in our room," said the boy, slowly.
"Well, you can go now," she said; "but be up
early to take the sheep. The herd-"
"Yes, be up early, my boy," interrupted Bonaparte,
smiling. "I am to be master of this farm now; and
we shall be good friends, I trust, very good friends,
if you try to do your duty, my dear boy."
Waldo turned to go, and Bonaparte, looking be-
nignly at the candle, stretched out one unstockinged
foot, over which Waldo, looking at nothing in partic-
ular, fell with a heavy thud upon the floor.
"Dear me, I hope you are not hurt, my boy!" said
Bonaparte. "You'll have many a harder thing than
that though, before you've gone through life," he
added consolingly, as Waldo picked himself up.
The lean Hottentot laughed till the room rang
again, and Tant' Sannie tittered till her sides ached.
When he had gone, the little maid began to wash
Bonaparte's feet.
"Oh, Lord, beloved Lord, how he did fall! I can't
think of it," cried Tant' Sannie, and she laughed
again. "I always did know he was not right; but
this evening any one could see it," she added, wiping
the tears of mirth from her face. "His eyes are as
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
wild as if the devil was in them. He never was like
other children. The dear Lord knows, if he does n't
walk alone for hours talking to himself. If you sit
in the room with him you can see his lips moving the
whole time; and if you talk to him twenty times, he
does n't hear you. Daft-eyes; he's as mad as mad
can be."
The repetition of the word "mad" conveyed mean-
ing to Bonaparte's mind. He left off paddling his
toes in the water.
"Mad, mad? I know that kind of mad," said
Bonaparte, "and I know the thing to give for it.
The front end of a little horsewhip, the tip! Nice
thing; takes it out," said Bonaparte.
The Hottentot laughed, and translated.
"No more walking about and talking to themselves
on this farm now," said Bonaparte; 66 no more mind-
ing of sheep and reading of books at the same time.
The point of a horse whip is a little thing, but I think
he'll have a taste of it before long.". Bonaparte
rubbed his hands and looked pleasantly across his
nose; and then the three laughed together grimly.
And Waldo in his cabin crouched in the dark in a
corner, with his knees drawn up to his chin.
CHAPTER X.
HE SHOWS HIS TEETH.
Doss sat among the karroo bushes, one yellow ear
drawn over his wicked little eye, ready to flap away
any adventurous fly that might settle on his nose.
Around him in the morning sunlight fed the sheep;
behind him lay his master polishing his machine.
He found much comfort in handling it that morning.
A dozen philosophical essays, or angelically attuned
songs for the consolation of the bereaved, could never
have been to him what that little sheep-shearing
machine was that day.
After struggling to see the unseeable, growing
drunk with the endeavor to span the infinite, and
writhing before the inscrutable mystery, it is a reno-
wating relief to turn to some simple, feelable, weigh-
able substance; to something which has a smell and
a color, which may be handled and turned over this
way and that. Whether there be or be not a here-
after, whether there be any use in calling aloud to the
Unseen Power, whether there be an Unseen Power to
call to, whatever be the true nature of the I who call
and of the objects around me, whatever be our mean-
ing, our internal essence, our cause (and in a certain
order of minds death and the agony of loss inevitably
awaken the wild desire, at other times smothered, to
look into these things), whatever be the nature of
that which lies beyond the unbroken wall which the
8
114
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
limits of the human intellect build up on every hand,
this thing is certain a knife will cut wood, and one
cogged wheel will turn another. This is sure.
-
Waldo found an immeasurable satisfaction in the
handling of his machine; but Doss winked and
blinked, and thought it all frightfully monotonous
out there on the flat, and presently dropped asleep,
sitting bolt upright. Suddenly his eyes opened wide;
something was coming from the direction of the
homestead. Winking his eyes and looking intently,
he perceived it was the gray mare. Now Doss had
wondered much of late what had become of her mas-
ter. Seeing she carried some one on her back, he
now came to his own conclusion, and began to move
his tail violently up and down. Presently he pricked
up one ear and let the other hang; his tail became
motionless, and the expression of his mouth was
one of decided disapproval bordering on scorn. He
wrinkled his lips up on each side into little lines.
ance.
The sand was soft, and the gray mare came on so
noiselessly that the boy heard nothing till Bonaparte
dismounted. Then Doss got up and moved back a
step. He did not approve of Bonaparte's appear-
His costume, in truth, was of a unique kind.
It was a combination of the town and country. The
tails of his black cloth coat were pinned up behind
to keep them from rubbing; he had on a pair of
moleskin trousers and leather gaiters, and in his
hand he carried a little whip of rhinoceros hide.
Waldo started and looked up. Had there been a
moment's time he would have dug a hole in the
sand with his hands and buried his treasure. It
was only a toy of wood, but he loved it, as one of
necessity loves what has been born of him, whether
HE SHOWS HIS TEETH.
115
of the flesh or spirit. When cold eyes have looked
at it, the feathers are rubbed off our butterfly's wing
forever:
"What have you here, my lad?" said Bonaparte,
standing by him, and pointing with the end of his
whip to the medley of wheels and hinges.
The boy muttered something inaudible, and half-
spread his hand over the thing.
"But this seems to be a very ingenious little ma-
chine," said Bonaparte, seating himself on the ant-
heap, and bending down over it with deep interest.
"What is it for, my lad?"
"Shearing sheep."
"It is a very nice little machine," said Bonaparte.
"How does it work, now? I have never seen any-
thing so ingenious!
-
There was never a parent who heard deception in
the voice that praised his child his first-born. Here
was one who liked the thing that had been created
in him. He forgot everything. He showed how
the shears would work with a little guidance, how
the sheep would be held, and the wool fall into the
trough. A flush burst over his face as he spoke.
"I tell you what, my lad," said Bonaparte em-
phatically, when the explanation was finished, “we
must get you a patent. Your fortune is made. In
three years' time there 'll not be a farm in this colony
where it is n't working. You're a genius, that's what
you are!" said Bonaparte, rising.
"If it were made larger," said the boy, raising his
eyes, "it would work more smoothly. Do you think
there would be any one in this colony who would be
able to make it?"
"I'm sure they could," said Bonaparte; “and if
116
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
not, why I'll do my best for you. I'll send it to
England. It must be done somehow.
have you worked at it?"
"Nine months," said the boy.
How long
"Oh, it is such a nice little machine," said Bona-
parte, "one can't help feeling an interest in it.
There is only one little improvement, one very little
improvement, I should like to make."
Bonaparte put his foot on the machine, and crushed
it into the sand. The boy looked up into his face.
"Looks better now," said Bonaparte, “does n't it?
If we can't have it made in England, we'll send it
to America. Good-by; ta-ta," he added. "You're a
great genius, a born genius, my dear boy; there's no
doubt about it."
He mounted the gray mare and rode off. The dog
watched his retreat with cynical satisfaction; but his
master lay on the ground with his head on his arms,
in the sand, and the little wheels and chips of wood
lay on the ground around him. The dog jumped on
to his back, and snapped at the black curls, till, find-
ing that no notice was taken, he walked off to play
with a black beetle. The beetle was hard at work
trying to roll home a great ball of dung it had been
collecting all the morning; but Doss broke the ball,
and ate the beetle's hind legs, and then bit off its
head. And it was all play, and no one could tell
what it had lived and worked for. A striving, and
a striving, and an ending in nothing.
CHAPTER XI.
HE SNAPS.
"I HAVE found something in the loft," said Em to
Waldo, who was listlessly piling cakes of fuel on the
kraal wall, a week after. "It is a box of books that
belonged to my father.
had burned them."
We thought Tant' Sannie
The boy put down the cake he was raising, and
looked at her.
"I don't think they are very nice, not stories,"
she added, "but you can go and take any you like."
So saying, she took up the plate in which she had
brought his breakfast, and walked off to the house.
After that the boy worked quickly. The pile of
fuel Bonaparte had ordered him to pack was on the
wall in half an hour. He then went to throw salt on
the skins laid out to dry. Finding the pot empty, he
went to the loft to refill it.
Bonaparte Blenkins, whose door opened at the foot
of the ladder, saw the boy go up, and stood in the
doorway waiting for his return. He wanted his boots
blacked. Doss, finding he could not follow his master
up the round bars, sat patiently at the foot of the
ladder. Presently he looked up longingly, but no
one appeared. Then Bonaparte looked up also, and
began to call; but there was no answer. What could
the boy be doing? The loft was an unknown land
to Bonaparte. He had often wondered what was up
118
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
there; he liked to know what was in all locked-up
places and out-of-the-way corners, but he was afraid
to climb the ladder. So Bonaparte looked up, and
in the name of all that was tantalizing questioned.
what the boy did up there. The loft was used only
as a lumber-room. What could the fellow find up
there to keep him so long?
-
Could the Boer-woman have beheld Waldo at that in-
stant, any lingering doubt which might have remained
in her mind as to the boy's insanity would instantly
have vanished; for, having filled the salt-pot, he pro-
ceeded to look for the box of books among the rubbish
that filled the loft. Under a pile of sacks he found
it, a rough packing-case, nailed up, but with one
loose plank. He lifted that, and saw the even backs
of a row of books. He knelt down before the box,
and ran his hand along its rough edges, as if to assure
himself of its existence. He stuck his hand in among
the books, and pulled out two. He felt them, thrust
his fingers in among the leaves, and crumpled them a
little, as a lover feels the hair of his mistress. The
fellow gloated over his treasure. He had had a dozen
books in the course of his life; now here was a mine
of them open at his feet. After a while he began to
read the titles, and now and again opened a book and
read a sentence; but he was too excited to catch the
meanings distinctly. At last he came to a dull,
brown volume. He read the name, opened it in the
centre, and where he opened began to read. 'T was a
chapter on property that he fell upon, - Communism,
Fourierism, St. Simonism,—in a work on Political Econ-
omy. He read down one page, and turned over to the
next; he read down that without changing his posture
by an inch; he read the next, and the next, kneeling
HE SNAPS.
119
all the while with the book in his hand, and his lips
parted.
All he read he did not fully understand; the
thoughts were new to him; but this was the fellow's
startled joy in the book, the thoughts were his;
they belonged to him; he had never thought them
before, but they were his.
-
He laughed silently and internally, with the still
intensity of triumphant joy.
So, then, all thinking creatures did not send up the
one cry, "As Thou, dear Lord, hast created things in
the beginning, so are they now, so ought they to be,
so will they be, world without end; and it does n't
concern us what they are. Amen." There were men
to whom not only "kopjes" and stones were calling out
imperatively, "What are we, and how came we here?
Understand us, and know us," but to whom even the
old, old relations between man and man, and the cus-
toms of the ages called, and could not be made still
and forgotten.
The boy's heavy body quivered with excitement.
So he was not alone, not alone. He could not quite
have told any one why he was so glad, and this
warmth had come to him. His cheeks were burning.
No wonder that Bonaparte called in vain, and Doss
put his paws on the ladder, and whined till three-
quarters of an hour had passed. At last the boy put
the book in his breast, and buttoned it tightly to him.
He took up the salt-pot, and went to the top of the
ladder. Bonaparte, with his hands folded under his
coat-tails, looked up when he appeared, and accosted
him.
"You've been rather a long time up there, my lad,"
he said, as the boy descended with a tremulous haste,
120
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
most unlike his ordinary slow movements.
did n't hear me calling, I suppose?"
-
"You
Bonaparte whisked the tails of his coat up and
down as he looked at him. He, Bonaparte Blenkins,
had eyes which were very far-seeing. He looked at
the pot. It was rather a small pot to have taken
three-quarters of an hour in the filling. He looked at
the face. It was flushed. And yet, Tant' Sannie
kept no wine, he had not been drinking; his eyes
were wide open and bright, he had not been sleep-
ing; there was no girl up there, - he had not been
making love. Bonaparte looked at him sagaciously.
What would account for the marvellous change in the
boy coming down the ladder from the boy going up the
ladder? One thing there was: did not Tant' Sannie
keep in the loft "bultongs," and nice smoked sausages?
There must be something nice to eat up there! Aha!
that was it!
Bonaparte was so interested in carrying out this
chain of inductive reasoning that he quite forgot to
have his boots blacked.
He watched the boy shuffle off with the salt-pot
under his arm; then he stood in his doorway and
raised his eyes to the quiet blue sky, and audibly pro-
pounded this riddle to himself.
"What is the connection between the naked back
of a certain boy with a greatcoat on and a salt-pot
under his arm, and the tip of a horsewhip? Answer:
No connection at present, but there will be soon.”.
Bonaparte was so pleased with this sally of his wit that
he chuckled a little, and went to lie down on his bed.
There was bread-baking that afternoon, and there
was a fire lighted in the brick oven behind the house,
and Tant' Sannie had left the great wooden-elbowed
HE SNAPS.
121
chair in which she passed her life, and waddled out
to look at it. Not far off was Waldo, who, having
thrown a pail of food into the pigsty, now leaned
over the sod-wall looking at the pigs. Half of the
sty was dry, but the lower half was a pool of mud,
on the edge of which the mother sow lay with closed
eyes, her ten little ones sucking; the father pig,
knee-deep in the mud, stood running his snout into a
rotten pumpkin and wriggling his curled tail.
Waldo wondered dreamily as he stared why they
were pleasant to look at. Taken singly they were
not beautiful; taken together they were. Was it not
because there was a certain harmony about them?
The old sow was suited to the little pigs, and the
little pigs to their mother, the old boar to the rotten
pumpkin, and all to the mud. They suggested the
thought of nothing that should be added, of nothing
that should be taken away. And, he wondered on
vaguely, was not that the secret of all beauty, that
you who look on So he stood dreaming, and
leaned farther and farther over the sod-wall, and
looked at the pigs.
All this time Bonaparte Blenkins was sloping down
from the house in an aimless sort of way; but he
kept one eye fixed on the pigsty, and each gyration.
brought him nearer to it.
Waldo stood like a thing
asleep when Bonaparte came close up to him.
In old days, when a small boy, playing in an Irish
street-gutter, he, Bonaparte, had been familiarly
known among his comrades under the title of Trip-
ping Ben; this, from the rare ease and dexterity
with which, by merely projecting his foot, he could
precipitate any unfortunate companion on to the
crown of his head. Years had elapsed, and Tripping
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Ben had become Bonaparte; but the old gift was in
him still. He came close to the pigsty. All the
defunct memories of his boyhood returned on him in
a flood, as with an adroit movement he inserted his
leg between Waldo and the wall, and sent him over
into the pigsty.
The little pigs were startled at the strange in-
truder, and ran behind their mother, who sniffed at
him. Tant' Sannie smote her hands together and
laughed; but Bonaparte was far from joining her.
Lost in reverie, he gazed at the distant horizon.
The sudden reversal of head and feet had thrown
out the volume that Waldo carried in his breast.
Bonaparte picked it up, and began to inspect it, as
the boy climbed slowly over the wall. He would have
walked off sullenly, but he wanted his book, and
waited till it should be given him.
"Ha!" said Bonaparte, raising his eyes from the
leaves of the book which he was examining. "I
hope your coat has not been injured; it is of an ele-
gant cut. An heirloom, I presume, from your pa-
ternal grandfather. It looks nice now."
"Oh, Lord! oh, Lord!" cried Tant' Sannie, laugh-
ing and holding her sides; "how the child looks-as
though he thought the mud would never wash off.
Oh, Lord, I shall die! You, Bonaparte, are the
funniest man I ever saw."
Bonaparte Blenkins was now carefully inspecting
the volume he had picked up. Among the subjects
on which the darkness of his understanding had been
enlightened during his youth, Political Economy had
not been one. He was not, therefore, very clear as
to what the nature of the book might be; and as the
name of the writer, J. S. Mill, might, for anything he
HE SNAPS.
123
knew to the contrary, have belonged to a venerable
member of the British and Foreign Bible Society, it
by no means threw light upon the question. He was
not in any way sure that Political Economy had
nothing to do with the cheapest way of procuring
clothing for the army and navy, which would be cer-
tainly both a political and economical subject.
But Bonaparte soon came to a conclusion as to the
nature of the book and its contents, by the applica-
tion of a simple rule now largely acted upon, but
which, becoming universal, would save much thought
and valuable time. It is of marvellous simplicity, of
infinite utility, of universal applicability. It may
easily be committed to memory, and runs thus:
Whenever you come into contact with any book, per-
son, or opinion of which you absolutely comprehend
nothing, declare that book, person, or opinion to be im-
moral. Bespatter it, vituperate against it, strongly in-
sist that any man or woman harboring it is a fool, or a
knave, or both. Carefully abstain from studying it.
Do all that in you lies to annihilate that book, person,
or opinion.
Acting on this rule, so wide in its comprehensive-
ness, so beautifully simple in its working, Bonaparte
approached Tant' Sannie with the book in his hand.
Waldo came a step nearer, eying it like a dog whose
young has fallen into evil hands.
"This book," said Bonaparte, "is not a fit and
proper study for a young and immature mind.”
Tant' Sannie did not understand a word, and said,
"What?"
"This book," said Bonaparte, bringing down his
finger with energy on the cover, "this book is sleg,
sleg, Davel, Davel!"
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
Tant' Sannie perceived from the gravity of his
countenance that it was no laughing matter. From
the words sleg and Davel she understood that the
book was evil, and had some connection with the
prince who pulls the wires of evil over the whole
earth.
"Where did you get this book?" she asked, turn-
ing her twinkling little eyes on Waldo. "I wish
that my legs may be as thin as an Englishman's if it
is n't one of your father's. He had more sins than
all the Kaffirs in Kaffirland, for all that he pretended.
to be so good all those years, and to live without a
wife because he was thinking of the one that was
dead! As though ten dead wives could make up for
one fat one with arms and legs!" cried Tant' Sannie,
snorting.
"It was not my father's book," said the boy, sav-
agely. "I got it from your loft."
66
"My loft! my book! How dare you?" cried Tant'
Sannie.
"It was Em's father's. She gave it me," he mut-
tered more sullenly.
"Give it here. What is the name of it? What is it
about?" she asked, putting her finger upon the title.
Bonaparte understood.
"Political Economy," he said slowly.
"Dear Lord!" said Tant' Sannie, "cannot one
hear from the very sound what an ungodly book it
is! One can hardly say the name. Have n't we got
curses enough on this farm?" cried Tant' Sannie, elo-
quently; "my best imported Merino ram dying of no-
body knows what, and the short-horn cow casting her
two calves, and the sheep eaten up with the scab and
the drought? And is this a time to bring ungodly
HE SNAPS.
125
things about the place, to call down the vengeance of
Almighty God to punish us more? Did n't the min-
ister tell me, when I was confirmed, not to read any
book except my Bible and hymn-book, that the devil
was in all the rest? And I never have read any
other book," said Tant' Sannie, with virtuous energy,
"and I never will!"
Waldo saw that the fate of his book was sealed,
and turned sullenly on his heel.
"So you will not stay to hear what I say!" cried
Tant' Sannie. "There, take your Polity-gollity-
gominy, your devil's book!" she cried, flinging the
book at his head, with much energy.
It merely touched his forehead on one side, and fell
to the ground.
"Go on," she cried; "I know you are going to talk
to yourself. People who talk to themselves always
talk to the devil. Go and tell him all about it. Go,
go, run!" cried Tant' Sannie.
But the boy neither quickened nor slackened his
pace, and passed sullenly round the back of the
wagon-house.
Books have been thrown at other heads before and
since that summer afternoon by hands more white
and delicate than those of the Boer-woman; but
whether the result of the process has been in any
case wholly satisfactory, may be questioned. We
love that with a peculiar tenderness, we treasure it
with a peculiar care, it has for us quite a fictitious
value, for which we have suffered. If we may not
carry it anywhere else, we will carry it in our hearts,
and always to the end.
Bonaparte Blenkins went to pick up the volume,
now loosened from its cover, while Tant' Sannie
126
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
pushed the stumps of wood farther into the oven.
Bonaparte came close to her, tapped the book know-
ingly, nodded, and looked at the fire. Tant' Sannie
comprehended, and taking the volume from his hand.
threw it into the back of the oven. It lay upon the
heap of coals, smoked, flared, and blazed, and the
"Political Economy" was no more, gone out of
existence, like many another poor heretic of flesh and
blood.
Bonaparte grinned; and to watch the process
brought his face so near the oven door that the
white hair on his eyebrows got singed. He then in-
quired if there were any more in the loft.
Learning that there were, he made signs indicative
of taking up armfuls and flinging them into the fire.
But Tant' Sannie was dubious. The deceased Eng-
lishman had left all his personal effects specially to
his child. It was all very well for Bonaparte to talk
of burning the books. He had had his hair spiritually
pulled, and she had no wish to repeat his experience.
She shook her head. Bonaparte was displeased.
But then a happy thought occurred to him. He sug-
gested that the key of the loft should henceforth be
put into his own safe care and keeping,
gaining possession of it without his permission. To
this Tant' Sannie readily assented, and the two walked
lovingly to the house to look for it.
-
no one
CHAPTER XII.
mare.
HE BITES.
BONAPARTE BLENKINS was riding home on the gray
He had ridden out that afternoon, partly for
the benefit of his health, partly to maintain his char-
acter as overseer of the farm. As he rode on slowly,
he thoughtfully touched the ears of the gray mare
with his whip.
"No, Bon, my boy," he addressed himself, "don't
propose! You can't marry for four years on account
of the will; then why propose? Weedle her, tweedle
her, teedle her, but don't let her make sure of you.
When a woman," said Bonaparte, sagely resting his
finger against the side of his nose, "when a woman
is sure of you she does what she likes with you; but
when she is n't, you do what you like with her. And
I-," said Bonaparte.
-
Here he drew the horse up suddenly and looked.
He was now close to the house; and leaning over the
pigsty wall, in company with Em, who was showing
her the pigs, was a strange female figure. It was the
first visitor that had appeared on the farm since his
arrival, and he looked at her with interest. She was
a tall pudgy girl of fifteen, weighing a hundred and
fifty pounds, with baggy, pendulous cheeks, and up-
turned nose. She strikingly resembled Tant' Sannie
in form and feature; but her sleepy good eyes lacked
the twinkle that dwelt in the Boer-woman's small
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
orbs. She was attired in a bright green print, wore
brass rings in her ears, and glass beads round her
neck, and was sucking the tip of her large finger as
she looked at the pigs.
"Who is it that has come?" asked Bonaparte, when
he stood drinking his coffee in the front room.
"Why, my niece, to be sure," said Tant' Sannie, the
Hottentot maid translating. "She's the only daugh-
ter of my only brother Paul, and she's come to visit
me. She'll be a nice mouthful to the man that can
get her," added Tant' Sannie. “Her father's got
two thousand pounds in the green wagon box under
his bed, and a farm, and five thousand sheep, and God
Almighty knows how many goats and horses. They
milk ten cows in mid-winter, and the young men are
after her like flies about a bowl of milk. She says
she means to get married in four months, but she
does n't yet know to whom. It was so with me when
I was young," said Tant' Sannie; "I've sat up with
the young men four and five nights a week. And
they will come riding again as soon as ever they
know that the time 's up that the Englishman made
me agree not to marry
in."
The Boer-woman smirked complacently.
"Where are you going to?" asked Tant' Sannie,
presently, seeing that Bonaparte rose.
"Ha! I'm just going to the kraals; I'll be in to
supper," said Bonaparte.
Nevertheless, when he reached his own door he
stopped, and turned in there. Soon after he stood be-
fore the little glass, arrayed in his best white shirt
with the little tucks, and shaving himself. He had
on his very best trousers, and had heavily oiled the
little fringe at the back of his head, which, however,
HE BITES.
129
refused to become darker.
But what distressed him
most was his nose; it was very red. He rubbed his
finger and thumb on the wall, and put a little white-
wash on it; but finding it rather made matters worse
he rubbed it off again. Then he looked carefully into
his own eyes. They certainly were a little pulled
down at the outer corners, which gave them the ap-
pearance of looking crosswise; but then they were a
nice blue. So he put on his best coat, took up his
stick, and went out to supper, feeling on the whole
well satisfied.
"Aunt," said Trana to Tant' Sannie when that night
they lay together in the great wooden bed, "why
does the Englishman sigh so when he looks at
me?"
"Ha!" said Tant' Sannie, who was half asleep, but
suddenly started, wide awake. "It's because he thinks
you look like me. I tell you, Trana,” said Tant' Sannie,
"the man is mad with love of me. I told him the
other night I could n't marry till Em was sixteen, or
I'd lose all the sheep her father left me. And he
talked about Jacob working seven years and seven
years again for his wife. And of course he meant me,"
said Tant' Sannie, pompously. "But he won't get me
so easily as he thinks; he'll have to ask more than
once."
“Oh!” said Trana, who was a lumpish girl. and
not much given to talking; but presently she added,
"Aunt, why does the Englishman always knock against
a person when he passes them ?"
"That's because you are always in the way," said
Tant' Sannie.
"But, Aunt," said Trana, presently, "I think he is
very ugly."
9
130
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Phugh!" said Tant' Sannie. "It's only because
we 're not accustomed to such noses in this country.
In his country he says all the people have such noses,
and the redder your nose is the higher you are. He's
of the family of the Queen Victoria, you know," said
Tant' Sannie, wakening up with her subject; "and he
does n't think anything of governors and church elders
and such people; they are nothing to him. When his
aunt with the dropsy dies, he'll have money enough
to buy all the farms in this district."
"Oh!" said Trana. That certainly made a dif-
ference.
"Yes," said Tant' Sannie; "and he's only forty-
one, though you'd take him to be sixty. And he told
me last night the real reason of his baldness."
Tant' Sannie then proceeded to relate how, at eigh-
teen years of age, Bonaparte had courted a fair young
lady; how a deadly rival, jealous of his verdant looks,
his golden flowing hair, had, with a damnable and in-
sinuating deception, made him a present of a pot of
pomatum; how, applying it in the evening, on rising
in the morning he found his pillow strewn with the
golden locks, and looking into the glass beheld the
shining and smooth expanse which henceforth he
must bear. The few remaining hairs were turned to
a silvery whiteness, and the young lady married his
rital.
And," said Tant' Sannie solemnly, "if it had not
been for the grace of God, and reading of the Psalms,
he says he would have killed himself. He says he
could kill himself quite easily if he wants to marry
a woman and she won't."
"A le wereld," said Trana; and then they went to
sleep.
F
HE BITES.
131
Every one was lost in sleep soon; but from the
window of the cabin the light streamed forth. It
came from a dung fire over which Waldo sat brood-
ing. Hour after hour he sat there, now and again
throwing a fresh lump of fuel on to the fire, which
burned up bravely, and then sank into a great bed of
red coals, which reflected themselves in the boy's eyes
as he sat there brooding, brooding, brooding. At last,
when the fire was blazing at its brightest, he rose sud-
denly and walked slowly to a beam from which an
ox reim hung. Loosening it, he ran a noose in one
end and then doubled it round his arm.
"Mine, mine! I have a right," he muttered; and
then, something louder, "if I fall and am killed, so
much the better!"
He opened the door, and went out into the star-
light.
He walked with his eyes bent upon the ground, but
overhead it was one of those brilliant southern nights
when every space so small that your hand might cover
it shows fifty cold white points, and the Milky-Way is
a belt of sharp frosted silver. He passed the door
where Bonaparte lay dreaming of Trana and her
wealth, and he mounted the ladder steps. From
those he clambered with some difficulty on to the roof
of the house. It was of old rotten thatch with a ridge
of white plaster, and it crumbled away under his feet
at every step. He trod as heavily as he could.
much the better if he fell.
So
He knelt down when he got to the far gable, and
began to fasten his reim to the crumbling bricks.
Below was the little window of the loft. With one
end of the reim tied round the gable, the other end
round his waist, how easy to slide down to it, and to
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
open it, through one of the broken panes, and to go
in, and to fill his arms with books, and to clamber up
again! They had burned one book he would have.
twenty. Every man's hand was against his his
should be against every man's. No one would help
him he would help himself.
-
-
He lifted the black damp hair from his knit fore-
head, and looked round to cool his hot face. Then he
saw what a regal night it was. He knelt silently, and
looked up. A thousand eyes were looking down at
him, bright and so cold. There was a laughing irony
in them.
"So hot, so bitter, so angry? Poor little mortal!"
He was ashamed. He folded his arms, and sat on
the ridge of the roof looking up at them.
"So hot, so bitter, so angry ?"
-
It was as though a cold hand had been laid upon his
throbbing forehead, and slowly they began to fade
and grow dim. Tant' Sannie and the burnt book,
Bonaparte and the broken machine, the box in the
loft, he himself sitting there, how small they all
became, even the grave over yonder! Those stars
that shone on up above so quietly, they had seen a
thousand such little existences,- a thousand such little
existences fight just so fiercely, flare up just so bright-
ly, and go out; and they, the old, old stars, shone on
forever.
"So hot, so angry, poor little soul?" they said.
The reim slipped from his fingers; he sat with
his arms folded, looking up.
“We,” said the stars, "have seen the earth when it
was young. We have seen small things creep out
upon its surface-small things that prayed, and loved,
and cried very loudly, and then crept under it again.
HE BITES.
133
But we," said the stars, "are as old as the Un-
known."
He leaned his chin against the palm of his hand,
and looked up at them. So long he sat there that
bright stars set and new ones rose, and yet he sat on.
Then at last he stood up, and began to loosen the
reim from the gable.
What did it matter about the books? The lust
and the desire for them had died out. If they
pleased to keep them from him they might. What
matter? it was a very little thing. Why hate, and
struggle, and fight? Let it be as it would.
He twisted the reim round his arm, and walked
back along the ridge of the house.
By this time Bonaparte Blenkins had finished his
dream of Trana, and as he turned himself round for
a fresh doze he heard the steps descending the ladder.
His first impulse was to draw the blanket over his
head and his legs under him, and to shout; but re-
collecting that the door was locked and the win-
dow carefully bolted, he allowed his head slowly to
crop out among the blankets, and listened intently.
Whosoever it might be, there was no danger of their
getting at him; so he clambered out of bed, and go-
ing on tiptoe to the door, applied his eye to the key-
hole. There was nothing to be seen; so walking to
the window, he brought his face as close to the glass
as his nose would allow. There was a figure just
discernible. The lad was not trying to walk softly,
and the heavy shuffling of the well-known vel-
schoen could be clearly heard through the closed
window as they crossed the stones in the yard.
Bo-
naparte listened till they had died away round the
corner of the wagon-house; and, feeling that his
134
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
bare legs were getting cold, he jumped back into bed.
again.
"What do you keep up in your loft?" inquired
Bonaparte of the Boer-woman the next evening, point-
ing upwards and elucidating his meaning by the
addition of such Dutch words as he knew, for the
lean Hottentot was gone home.
"Dried skins," said the Boer-woman, "and empty
bottles, and boxes, and sacks, and soap."
"You don't keep any of your provisions there,—
sugar, now?" said Bonaparte, pointing to the sugar-
basin and then up at the loft.
Tant' Sannie shook her head.
"Only salt, and dried peaches."
"Dried peaches! Eh?" said Bonaparte. "Shut
the door, my dear child, shut it tight," he called out
to Em, who stood in the dining-room. Then he
leaned over the elbow of the sofa, and brought his
face as close as possible to the Boer-woman's, and
made signs of eating. Then he said something she
did not comprehend; then said, "Waldo, Waldo,
Waldo," pointed up to the loft, and made signs of
eating again.
Now an inkling of his meaning dawned on the
Boer-woman's mind. To make it clearer, he moved
his legs after the manner of one going up a ladder,
appeared to be opening a door, masticated vigorously,
said, "Peaches, peaches, peaches," and appeared to
be coming down the ladder.
It was now evident to Tant' Sannie that Waldo
had been in her loft, and eaten her peaches.
To exemplify his own share in the proceedings,
Bonaparte lay down on the sofa, and shutting his
HE
135
BITES.
eyes tightly, said, "Night, night, night!" Then he
sat up wildly, appearing to be intently listening,
mimicked with his feet the coming down a ladder,
and looked at Tant' Sannie. This clearly showed
how, roused in the night, he had discovered the
theft.
"He must have been a great fool to eat my
peaches," said Tant' Sannie. "They are full of
mites as a sheep-skin, and as hard as stones."
Bonaparte, fumbling in his pocket, did not even
hear her remark, and took out from his coat-tail a
little horsewhip, nicely rolled up. Bonaparte winked
at the little rhinoceros horsewhip, at the Boer-woman,
and then at the door.
"Shall we call him - Waldo, Waldo?" he said.
Tant' Sannie nodded, and giggled. There was
something so exceedingly humorous in the idea that
he was going to beat the boy, though for her own
part she did not see that the peaches were worth it.
When the Kaffir maid came with the wash-tub, she
was sent to summon Waldo; and Bonaparte doubled
up the little whip, and put it in his pocket. Then he
drew himself up, and prepared to act his important
part with becoming gravity. Soon Waldo stood in
the door, and took off his hat.
"Come in, come in, my lad," said Bonaparte, “and
shut the door behind."
The boy came in, and stood before them.
"You need not be so afraid, child," said Tant' San-
nie.
if
"I was a child myself once. It's no great harm
you have taken a few."
Bonaparte perceived that her remark was not in
keeping with the nature of the proceedings, and of
the little drama he intended to act. Pursing out his
136
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
·
lips, and waving his hand, he solemnly addressed the
boy.
"Waldo, it grieves me beyond expression to have
to summon you for so painful a purpose; but it is at
the imperative call of duty, which I dare not evade.
I do not state that frank and unreserved confession
will obviate the necessity of chastisement, which if
requisite shall be fully administered; but the nature
of that chastisement may be mitigated by free and
humble confession. Waldo, answer me as you would
your own father, in whose place I now stand to you:
have you, or have you not, did you, or did you not, eat
of the peaches in the loft?"
"Say you took them, boy, say you took them, then
he won't beat you much," said the Dutch-woman, good-
naturedly, getting a little sorry for him.
The boy raised his eyes slowly, and fixed them
vacantly upon her, then suddenly his face grew dark
with blood.
"So, you haven't got anything to say to us, my
lad?" said Bonaparte, momentarily forgetting his
dignity, and bending forward with a little snarl.
"But what I mean is just this, my lad—when it
takes a boy three-quarters of an hour to fill a salt-pot,
and when at three o'clock in the morning he goes
knocking about the doors of a loft, it's natural to
suppose there's mischief in it. It's certain there is
mischief in it; and where there's mischief in, it must
be taken out," said Bonaparte, grinning into the boy's
face. Then, feeling that he had fallen from that high
gravity which was as spice to the pudding, and the
flavor of the whole little tragedy, he drew himself up.
"Waldo," he said, "confess to me instantly and
without reserve that you ate the peaches."
HE BITES.
137
The boy's face was white now. His eyes were on
the ground, his hands doggedly clasped before him.
"What, you do not intend to answer?"
The boy looked up at them once from under his
bent eyebrows, and then looked down again.
"The creature looks as if all the devils in hell were
in it," cried Tant' Sannie. "Say you took them, boy.
Young things will be young things; I was older than
you when I used to eat bultong in my mother's loft,
and get the little niggers whipped for it. Say you
took them."
But the boy said nothing.
"I think a little solitary confinement might perhaps
be beneficial," said Bonaparte. "It will enable you,
Waldo, to reflect on the enormity of the 'sin you have
committed against our Father in heaven. And you
may also think of the submission you owe to those
who are older and wiser than you are, and whose duty
it is to check and correct you.'
""
Saying this Bonaparte stood up and took down the
key of the fuel-house, which hung on a nail against
the wall.
"Walk on, my boy," said Bonaparte, pointing to the
door; and as he followed him out he drew his mouth
expressively on one side, and made the lash of the
little horsewhip stick out of his pocket, and shake up
and down.
Tant' Sannie felt half sorry for the lad; but she
could not help laughing, it was always so funny when
one was going to have a whipping, and it would do
him good. Anyhow he would forget all about it when
the places were healed. Had not she been beaten
many times, and been all the better for it?
Bonaparte took up a lighted candle that had been
f
138
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
left burning on the kitchen table, and told the boy to
walk before him. They went to the fuel-house. It
was a little stone erection that jutted out from the
side of the wagon-house. It was low, and without a
window; and the dried dung was piled in one corner,
and the coffee-mill stood in another, fastened on the
top of a short post about three feet high. Bonaparte
took the padlock off the rough door.
"Walk in, my lad," he said.
Waldo obeyed sullenly; one place to him was much
the same as another. He had no objection to being
locked up.
Bonaparte followed him in, and closed the door
carefully. He put the light down on the heap of dung
in the corner, and quietly introduced his hand under
his coat-tails, and drew slowly from his pocket the end
of a rope, which he concealed behind him.
"I'm very sorry, exceedingly sorry, Waldo, my lad,
that you should have acted in this manner. It grieves
me," said Bonaparte.
He moved round towards the boy's back. He hardly
liked the look in the fellow's eyes, though he stood
there motionless. If he should spring on him!
So he drew the rope out very carefully, and shifted
round to the wooden post. There was a slip-knot in
one end of the rope, and a sudden movement drew the
boy's hands to his back and passed it round them. It
was an instant's work to drag it twice round the
wooden post: then Bonaparte was safe.
For a moment the boy struggled to free himself;
then he knew that he was powerless, and stood still.
"Horses that kick must have their legs tied," said
Bonaparte, as he passed the other end of the rope
round the boy's knees. "And now, my dear Waldo,"
HE BITES.
139
taking the whip out of his pocket, "I am going to beat
you."
He paused for a moment. It was perfectly quiet;
they could hear each other's breath.
"Chasten thy son while there is hope,'" said Bon-
aparte, "and let not thy soul spare for his crying.'
Those are God's words. I shall act as a father to you,
Waldo. I think we had better have your naked
back."
He took out his penknife, and slit the shirt down
from the shoulder to the waist.
"Now," said Bonaparte, "I hope the Lord will bless
and sanctify to you what I am going to do to you."
The first cut ran from the shoulder across the mid-
dle of the back; the second fell exactly in the same
place. A shudder passed through the boy's frame.
"Nice, eh?" said Bonaparte, peeping round into
his face, speaking with a lisp, as though to a very
little child. "Nith, eh?"
But the eyes were black and lustreless, and seemed
not to see him. When he had given sixteen, Bona-
parte paused in his work to wipe a little drop of blood
from his whip.
"Cold, eh? What makes you shiver so? Perhaps
you would like to pull up your shirt? But I've not
quite done yet."
When he had finished he wiped the whip again, and
put it back in his pocket. He cut the rope through
with his penknife, and then took up the light.
"You don't seem to have found your tongue yet.
Forgotten how to cry?" said Bonaparte, patting him
on the cheek.
The boy looked up at him- not sullenly, not an-
grily. There was a wild, fitful terror in the eyes.
140
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
Bonaparte made haste to go out and shut the door,
and leave him alone in the darkness. He himself was
afraid of that look.
It was almost morning. Waldo lay with his face
upon the ground at the foot of the fuel-heap. There
was a round hole near the top of the door, where a
knot of wood had fallen out, and a stream of gray
light came in through it.
at last!
Nothing lasts for-
How was it he had never
For in all that long dark
-
Ah, it was going to end
ever, not even the night.
thought of that before?
night he had been very strong, had never been tired,
never felt pain, had run on and on, up and down, up
and down; he had not dared to stand still, and he had
not known it would end. He had been so strong, that
when he struck his head with all his force upon the
stone wall it did not stun him nor pain him — only
made him laugh. That was a dreadful night. When
he clasped his hands frantically and prayed, "O God,
my beautiful God, my sweet God, once, only once, let
me feel you near me to-night!" he could not feel Him.
He prayed aloud, very loud, and he got no answer;
when he listened it was all quite quiet-as when
the priests of Baal cried aloud to their god "O Baal,
hear us! O Baal, hear us!" but Baal was gone
a-hunting.
-
That was a long wild night, and wild thoughts came.
and went in it, but they left their marks behind them
forever; for, as years cannot pass without leaving
their traces behind them, neither can nights into
which are forced the thoughts and sufferings of years.
And now the dawn was coming, and at last he was
very tired. He shivered, and tried to draw the shirt
HE BITES.
141
up over his shoulders. They were getting stiff. He
had never known they were cut in the night. He
looked up at the white light that came in through the
hole at the top of the door and shuddered. Then he
turned his face back to the ground, and slept again.
Some hours later Bonaparte came towards the fuel-
house with a lump of bread in his hand. He opened
the door, and peered in; then entered, and touched
the fellow with his boot. Seeing that he breathed
heavily, though he did not rouse, Bonaparte threw
the bread down on the ground. He was alive, that
was one thing. He bent over him, and carefully
scratched open one of the cuts with the nail of his
forefinger, examining with much interest his last
night's work. He would have to count his sheep
himself that day; the boy was literally cut up. He
locked the door, and went away again.
"Oh, Lyndall," said Em, entering the dining-room,
and bathed in tears, that afternoon, "I have been
begging Bonaparte to let him out, and he won't."
"The more you beg the more he will not," said
Lyndall.
She was cutting out aprons on the table.
"Oh, but it's late, and I think they want to kill
him," said Em, weeping bitterly; and finding that no
more consolation was to be gained from her cousin,
she went off blubbering, "I wonder you can cut
out aprons when Waldo is shut up like that."
For ten minutes after she was gone Lyndall worked
on quietly; then she folded up her stuff, rolled it
tightly together, and stood before the closed door of
the sitting-room with her hands closely clasped. A
flush rose to her face; she opened the door quickly,
and walked in, went to the nail on which the key of
142
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
the fuel-room hung. Bonaparte and Tant' Sannie sat
there, and saw her.
"What do you want?" they asked together.
"This key," she said, holding it up, and looking
at them.
"Do you mean her to have it?" said Tant' Sannie,
in Dutch.
"Why don't you stop her?" asked Bonaparte, in
English.
"Why don't you take it from her?", said Tant'
Sannie.
So they looked at each other, talking, while Lyn-
dall walked to the fuel-house with the key, her un-
derlip bitten in.
66
66
Waldo," she said, as she helped him to stand up,
and twisted his arm about her waist to support him,
we will not be children always; we shall have the
power too, some day." She kissed his naked shoulder
with her soft little mouth. It was all the comfort
her young soul could give him.
CHAPTER XIII.
HE MAKES LOVE.
"HERE," said Tant' Sannie to her Hottentot maid,
"I have been in this house four years, and never been
up in the loft. Fatter women than I go up ladders;
I will go up to-day, and see what it is like, and put it
to rights up there. You bring the little ladder, and
stand at the bottom."
"There's one would be sorry if you were to fall,"
said the Hottentot maid, leering at Bonaparte's pipe,
that lay on the table.
"Hold your tongue, jade,” said her mistress, trying
to conceal a pleased smile, "and go and fetch the
ladder."
There was a never-used trap-door at one end of the
sitting-room; this the Hottentot maid pushed open,
and setting the ladder against it, the Boer-woman
with some danger and difficulty climbed into the
loft. Then the Hottentot maid took the ladder away,
as her husband was mending the wagon-house, and
needed it; but the trap-door was left open.
For a little while Tant' Sannie poked about among
the empty bottles and skins, and looked at the bag
of peaches that Waldo was supposed to have liked
so; then she sat down near the trap-door, beside a
barrel of salt mutton. She found that the pieces of
meat were much too large, and took out her clasp-
knife to divide them.
144
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
That was always the way when one left things to
servants, she grumbled to herself; but when once she
was married to her husband Bonaparte, it would not
matter whether a sheep spoiled or no when once
his rich aunt with the dropsy was dead.
as she dived her hand into the pickle-water.
She smiled
し
​At that instant her niece entered the room below,
closely followed by Bonaparte, with his head on one
side, smiling mawkishly. Had Tant' Sannie spoken
at that moment, the life of Bonaparte Blenkins would
have run a wholly different course; as it was, she
remained silent, and neither noticed the open trap-
door above their heads.
"Sit there, my love," said Bonaparte, motioning
Trana into her aunt's elbow-chair, and drawing an-
other close up in front of it, in which he seated him-
self. "There, put your feet upon the stove, too.
Your aunt has gone out somewhere. Long have I
waited for this auspicious event!"
Trana, who understood not one word of English,
sat down in the chair, and wondered if this was one
of the strange customs of other lands, that an old
gentleman may bring his chair up to yours, and sit
with his knees touching you. She had been five days
in Bonaparte's company, and feared the old man, and
disliked his nose.
"How long have I desired this moment!" said
Bonaparte. "But that aged relative of thine is al-
ways casting her unhallowed shadow upon us. Look
into my eyes, Trana."
Bonaparte knew that she comprehended not a syl-
lable; but he understood that it is the eye, the tone,
the action, and not at all the rational word, that
touches the love-chords. He saw she changed color.
HE MAKES LOVE.
145
"All night," said Bonaparte, "I lie awake; I see
nought but thy angelic countenance. I open my arms
to receive thee—where art thou, where? Thou art
not there!" said Bonaparte, suiting the action to the
words, and spreading out his arms, and drawing them
to his breast.
"Oh, please, I don't understand," said Trana, "I
want to go away."
----
"Yes, yes," said Bonaparte, leaning back in his
chair, to her great relief, and pressing his hands
on his heart, "since first thy amethystine counte-
nance was impressed here - what have I not suffered,
what have I not felt? Oh the pangs unspoken,
burning as an ardent coal in a fiery and uncon-
taminated bosom !" said Bonaparte, bending forward
again.
"Dear Lord!" said Trana to herself, "how foolish
I have been! The old man has a pain in his stomach,
and now, as my aunt is out, he has come to me to
help him."
She smiled kindly at Bonaparte, and pushing past
him, went to the bedroom, quickly returning with a
bottle of red drops in her hand.
"They are very good for 'benaawdheit; ' my mother
always drinks them," she said, holding the bottle out.
The face in the trap-door was a fiery red. Like a
tiger-cat ready to spring, Tant' Sannie crouched, with
the shoulder of mutton in her hand. Exactly beneath
her stood Bonaparte. She rose and clasped with both
arms the barrel of salt meat.
"What, rose of the desert, nightingale of the col-
ony, that with thine amorous lay whilest the lonesome
night!" cried Bonaparte, seizing the hand that held
the "vonlicsense." "Nay, struggle not! Fly as a
10
146
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
stricken fawn into the arms that would embrace thee,
thou ""
-
Here a stream of cold pickle-water, heavy with ribs
and shoulders, descending on his head, abruptly ter-
minated his speech. Half-blinded, Bonaparte looked
up through the drops that hung from his eyelids, and
saw the red face that looked down at him. With one
wild cry he fled. As he passed out at the front door,
a shoulder of mutton, well-directed, struck the black
coat in the small of the back.
"Bring the ladder! bring the ladder! I will go
after him!" cried the Boer-woman, as Bonaparte
Blenkins wildly fled into the fields.
Late in the evening of the same day, Waldo knelt
on the floor of his cabin. He bathed the foot of his
dog which had been pierced by a thorn. The bruises.
on his own back had had five days to heal in, and,
except a little stiffness in his movements, there was
nothing remarkable about the boy.
The troubles of the young are soon over; they
leave no external mark. If you wound the tree in
its youth, the bark will quickly cover the gash; but
when the tree is very old, peeling the bark off, and
looking carefully, you will see the scar there still.
All that is buried is not dead.
Waldo poured the warm milk over the little swollen
foot; Doss lay very quiet, with tears in his eyes.
Then there was a tap at the door. In an instant
Doss looked wide awake, and winked the tears out
from between his little lids.
"Come in," said Waldo, intent on his work; and
slowly and cautiously the door opened.
"Good evening, Waldo, my boy," said Bonaparte
HE MAKES LOVE.
147
Blenkins in a mild voice, not venturing more than his
nose within the door. "How are you this evening?"
Doss growled, and showed his little teeth, and tried
to rise, but his paw hurt him so he whined.
"I'm very tired, Waldo, my boy," said Bonaparte,
plaintively.
Doss showed his little white teeth again. His mas-
ter went on with his work without looking round.
There are some people at whose hands it is best not
to look. At last he said,
"Come in."
Bonaparte stepped cautiously a little way into the
room, and left the door open behind him. He looked
at the boy's supper on the table.
"Waldo, I've had nothing to eat all day - I'm
very hungry," he said.
"Eat!" said Waldo after a moment, bending lower
over his dog.
"You won't go and tell her that I am here, will you,
Waldo?" said Bonaparte, most uneasily. "You've
heard how she used me, Waldo? I've been badly
treated; you'll know yourself what it is, some day,
when you can't carry on a little conversation with
a lady, without having salt meat and pickle-water
thrown at you. Waldo, look at me; do I look as a
gentleman should?"
But the boy neither looked up nor answered, and
Bonaparte grew more uneasy.
"You would n't go and tell her that I am here,
would you?" said Bonaparte, whiningly. "There's
no knowing what she would do to me. I've such
trust in you, Waldo; I've always thought you such
a promising lad, though you may n't have known it,
Waldo."
148
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Eat," said the boy, "I shall say nothing."
Bonaparte, who knew the truth when another spoke
it, closed the door, carefully putting on the button.
Then he looked to see that the curtain of the window
was closely pulled down, and seated himself at the
table. He was soon munching the cold meat and
bread. Waldo knelt on the floor, bathing the foot
with hands which the dog licked lovingly. Once only
he glanced at the table, and turned away quickly.
"Ah, yes! I don't wonder that you can't look at
me, Waldo," said Bonaparte; "my condition would
touch any heart. You see, the water was fatty, and
that has made all the sand stick to me; and my hair,"
said Bonaparte, tenderly touching the little fringe at
the back of his head, "is all caked over like a little
plank: you would n't think it was hair at all," said
Bonaparte, plaintively. "I had to creep all along the
stone walls for fear she'd see me, and with nothing
on my head but a red handkerchief tied under my
chin, Waldo; and to hide in a sloot the whole day,
with not a mouthful of food, Waldo. And she gave
me such a blow, just here," said Bonaparte.
He had cleared the plate of the last morsel, when
Waldo rose and walked to the door.
"O Waldo, my dear boy, you are not going to call
her," said Bonaparte, rising anxiously.
"I am going to sleep in the wagon," said the boy,
opening the door.
"Oh, we can both sleep in this bed; there's plenty
of room. Do stay, my boy, please."
But Waldo stepped out.
"It was such a little whip, Waldo," said Bonaparte,
following him deprecatingly. "I didn't think it
would hurt you so much. It was such a little whip.
HE MAKES LOVE.
149
I'm sure you didn't take the peaches.
going to call her, Waldo, are you?"
But the boy walked off.
You are n't
Bonaparte waited till his figure had passed round.
the front of the wagon-house, and then slipped out.
He hid himself round the corner, but kept peeping
out to see who was coming. He felt sure the boy
was gone to call Tant' Sannie. His teeth chattered
with inward cold as he looked round into the dark-
ness, and thought of the snakes that might bite him,
and the dreadful things that might attack him, and
the dead that might arise out of their graves if
he slept out in the field all night. But more than an
hour passed, and no footstep approached.
Then Bonaparte made his way back to the cabin.
He buttoned the door, and put the table against it,
and, giving the dog a kick to silence his whining
when the foot throbbed, he climbed into bed. He
did not put out the light for fear of the ghost, but,
worn out with the sorrows of the day, was soon asleep
himself.
About four o'clock, Waldo, lying between the seats
of the horse-wagon, was awakened by a gentle touch
on his head.
Sitting up he espied Bonaparte looking through
one of the windows with a lighted candle in his
hand.
"I'm about to depart, my dear boy, before my ene-
mies arise; and I could not leave without coming to
bid you farewell," said Bonaparte.
Waldo looked at him.
"I shall always think of you with affection," said
Bonaparte. "And there's that old hat of yours, if
you could let me have it for a keepsake -"
150
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Take it," said Waldo.
"I thought you would say so, so I brought it with
me," said Bonaparte, putting it on. "The Lord bless
you, my dear boy. You have n't a few shillings,
just a trifle you don't need, have you?"
-
"Take the two shillings that are in the broken
vase."
66
May the blessing of my God rest upon you, my
dear child," said Bonaparte; "may He guide and
bless you. Give me your hand."
Waldo folded his arms closely, and lay down.
"Farewell, adieu!" said Bonaparte. "May the
blessing of my God and my father's God rest on you,
now and evermore."
With these words the head and nose withdrew them-
selves, and the light vanished from the window.
After a few moments the boy, lying in the wagon,
heard stealthy footsteps as they passed the wagon-
house and made their way down the road. He list-
ened as they grew fainter and fainter, and at last died
away altogether! and from that night the footstep of
Bonaparte Blenkins was heard no more at the old
farm.
PART II.
"And it was all play, and no one could tell what it had lived
and worked for. A striving, and a striving, and an ending in
nothing."
CHAPTER I.
TIMES AND SEASONS.
WALDO lay on his stomach on the sand. Since he
prayed and howled to his God in the fuel-house, three
years had passed.
They say that in the world to come, time is not
measured out by months and years. Neither is it
here. The soul's life has seasons of its own; periods
not found in any calendar, times that years and
months will not scan, but which are as deftly and
sharply cut off from one another as the smoothly-
arranged years which the earth's motion yields us.
To stranger eyes these divisions are not evident;
but each, looking back at the little track his con-
sciousness illuminates, sees it cut into distinct por-
tions, whose boundaries are the termination of mental
states.
As man differs from man, so differ these souls'
years. The most material life is not devoid of them;
the story of the most spiritual is told in them. And
152
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
it may chance that some, looking back, see the past
cut out after this fashion:
I.
The year of infancy, where from the shadowy back-
ground of forgetfulness start out pictures of startling
clearness, disconnected, but brightly colored, and in-
delibly printed in the mind. Much that follows fades,
but the colors of those baby-pictures are permanent.
There rises, perhaps, a warm summer's evening; we
are seated on the doorstep; we have yet the taste of
the bread and milk in our mouth, and the red sunset
is reflected in our basin.
Then there is a dark night, where, waking with a
fear that there is some great being in the room, we
run from our own bed to another, creep close to some
large figure, and are comforted.
Then there is remembrance of the pride when, on
some one's shoulder, with our arms around his head,
we ride to see the little pigs, the new little pigs with
their curled tails and tiny snouts, where do they
come from?
-
Remembrance of delight in the feel and smell of the
first orange we ever see; of sorrow which makes us
put up our lip, and cry hard, when one morning we run
out to try and catch the dew-drops, and they melt and
wet our little fingers; of almighty and despairing
sorrow when we are lost behind the kraals, and cannot
see the house anywhere.
And then one picture starts out more vividly than
any.
There has been a thunder-storm; the ground, as far
as the eye can reach, is covered with white hail; the
TIMES AND SEASONS.
153
clouds are gone, and overhead a deep blue sky is show-
ing; far off a great rainbow rests on the white earth.
We, standing in a window to look, feel the cool, un-
speakably sweet wind blowing in on us, and a feeling
of longing comes over us,- unutterable longing, we
cannot tell for what. We are so small, our head only
reaches as high as the first three panes. We look at
the white earth, and the rainbow, and the blue sky;
and oh, we want it, we want, we do not know what.
We cry as though our heart was broken. When one
lifts our little body from the window we cannot tell
what ails us. We run away to play.
So looks the first year.
II.
Now the pictures become continuous and connected.
Material things still rule, but the spiritual and intel-
lectual take their places.
In the dark night when we are afraid, we pray
and shut our eyes. We press our fingers very hard
upon the lids, and see dark spots moving round
and round, and we know they are heads and wings
of angels sent to take care of us, seen dimly in
the dark as they move round our bed. It is very
consoling.
In the day we learn our letters, and are troubled
because we cannot see why k-n-o-w should be know,
and p-s-a-l-m psalm. They tell us it is so because it is
So. We are not satisfied; we hate to learn; we like
better to build little stone houses. We can build them
as we please, and know the reason for them.
Other joys too we have, incomparably greater than
even the building of stone houses.
154
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
We are run through with a shudder of delight when
in the red sand we come on one of those white wax
flowers that lie between their two green leaves flat on
the sand. We hardly dare pick them, but we feel
compelled to do so; and we smell and smell till the
delight becomes almost pain. Afterwards we pull the
green leaves softly into pieces to see the silk threads
run across.
Beyond the "kopje" grow some pale-green, hairy-
leaved bushes. We are so small, they meet over our
head; and we sit among them, and kiss them, and they
love us back; it seems as though they were alive.
One day we sit there and look up at the blue sky,
and down at our fat little knees; and suddenly it
strikes us, Who are we? This I, what is it? We try
to look in upon ourself, and ourself beats back upon
ourself. Then we get up in great fear, and run home
as hard as we can. We can't tell any one what fright-
ened us. We never quite lose that feeling of self
again.
III.
And then a new time rises.
old.
-
We are seven years
We can read now- read the Bible. Best of all
we like the story of Elijah in his cave at Horeb, and
the still small voice.
-
One day, a notable one, we read on the "kopje,"
and discover the fifth chapter of Matthew, and read it
all through. It is a new gold mine. Then we tuck
the Bible under our arm, and rush home. They did n't
know it was wicked to take your things again if some
one took them, wicked to go to law, wicked to- !
We are quite breathless when we get to the house;
TIMES AND SEASONS.
155
The old wise
Our discovery
we tell them we have discovered a chapter they never
heard of; we tell them what it says.
people tell us they knew all about it.
is a mare's-nest to them; but to us it is very real.
The Ten Commandments and the old "Thou shalt"
we have heard about long enough, and don't care
about it; but this new law sets us on fire. We will
deny ourself. Our little wagon that we have made,
we give to the little Kaffirs. We keep quiet when
they throw sand at us, feeling, oh, so happy! We
conscientiously put the cracked teacup for ourselves
at breakfast, and take the burnt roaster-cake. We
save our money and buy three pence of tobacco for
the Hottentot maid who calls us names.
We are
exotically virtuous. At night we are profoundly relig-
ious; even the ticking watch says, "Eternity, eter-
nity! hell, hell, hell!" and the silence talks of God,
and the things that shall be.
-
Occasionally, also, unpleasantly shrewd questions
begin to be asked by some one, we know not who, who
sits somewhere behind our shoulder. We get to know
him better afterwards. Now we carry the questions
to the grown-up people, and they give us answers.
We are more or less satisfied for the time. The
grown-up people are very wise, and they say it was
kind of God to make hell, and very loving of Him to
send men there; and besides, He could n't help Him-
self; and they are very wise, we think, so we believe
them more or less.
-
IV.
Then a new time comes, of which the leading fea-
ture is that the shrewd questions are asked louder.
156
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
We carry them to the grown-up people; they answer
us, and we are not satisfied.
And now between us and the dear old world of the
senses the spirit-world begins to peep in, and wholly
clouds it over. What are the flowers to us? They
are fuel waiting for the great burning. We look at
the walls of the farm-house and the matter-of-fact
sheep kraals, with the merry sunshine playing over
all, and do not see it. But we see a great white
throne, and Him that sits on it. Around Him stand
a great multitude that no man can number, harpers
harping with their harps, a thousand times ten thou-
sand, and thousands of thousands. How white are
their robes, washed in the blood of the Lamb! And
the music rises higher, and rends the vault of heaven
with its unutterable sweetness. And we, as we listen,
ever and anon, as it sinks on the sweetest lowest note,
hear a groan of the damned from below. We shudder
in the sunlight.
66
"The torment," says Jeremy Taylor, whose ser-
mons our father reads aloud in the evening, com-
prises as many torments as the body of man has
joints, sinews, arteries, etc., being caused by that
penetrating and real fire of which this temporal fire
is but a painted fire. What comparison will there be
between burning for a hundred years' space and to
be burning without intermission as long as God is
God!"
We remember the sermon there in the sunlight.
One comes and asks why we sit there, nodding so
moodily? Ah, they do not see what we see!
"A moment's time, a narrow space,
Divides me from that heavenly place,
Or shuts me up in hell."
*
TIMES AND SEASONS.
157
So says Wesley's hymn, which we sing evening by
evening. What matter sunshine and walls, men and
sheep?
"The things which are seen are temporal, but the
things which are not seen are eternal."
real.
They are
The Bible we bear always in our breast; its pages
are our food; we learn to repeat it. We weep much,
for in sunshine and in shade, in the early morning or
the late evening, in the field or in the house, the devil
walks with us. He comes to us a real person, — cop-
per-colored face, head a little on one side, forehead
knit,
.
-
asking questions. Believe me, it were better
to be followed by three deadly diseases than by him.
He is never silenced; without mercy. Though the
drops of blood stand out on your heart, he will put
his question. Softly he comes up (we are only a wee
bit child): "Is it good of God to make hell? Was it
kind of Him to let no one be forgiven unless Jesus
Christ died?"
Then he goes off, and leaves us writhing. Presently
he comes back.
-
"Do you love Him?" - waits a little.
love Him? You will be lost if you don't."
We say we try to.
"But do you?" Then he goes off.
"Do you
It is nothing to him if we go quite mad with fear
at our own wickedness. He asks on, the questioning
devil; he cares nothing what he says. We long to
tell some one, that he may share our pain. We do
not yet know that the cup of affliction is made with
such a narrow mouth that only one lip can drink at
a time, and that each man's cup is made to match
his lip.
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
Then a grave
We are wicked, very
One day we try to tell some one.
head is shaken solemnly at us.
wicked, it says; we ought not to have such thoughts.
God is good, very good. We are wicked, very wicked.
That is the comfort we get. Wicked! Oh, Lord! do
we not know it? Is it not the sense of our own
exceeding wickedness that is drying up our young
heart, filling it with sand, making all life a dust-bin
for us?
Wicked? We know it! Too vile to live, too vile
to die, too vile to creep over this, God's earth, and
move among His believing men. Hell is the one place
for him who hates his master, and there we do not
want to go. This is the comfort we get from the
old.
And once again we try to seek for comfort. This
time great eyes look at us wondering, and lovely little
lips say,-
"If it makes you so unhappy to think of these
things, why do you not think of something else, and
forget?"
Forget! We turn away, and shrink into ourself.
Forget, and think of other things! Oh, God! do they
not understand that the material world is but a film,
through every pore of which God's awful spirit-world
is shining through on us? We keep as far from others
as we can.
One night a rare, clear, moonlight night-we
kneel in the window; every one else is asleep, but we
kneel, reading by the moonlight. It is a chapter in
the prophets telling how the chosen people of God
shall be carried on the Gentiles' shoulders. Surely
the devil might leave us alone; there is not much
handle for him there. But presently he comes.
TIMES AND SEASONS.
159
"Is it right there should be a chosen people?
To Him, who is father to all, should not all be
dear?"
How can we answer him? We were feeling so
good till he came! We put our head down on the
Bible and blister it with tears; then we fold our hands
over our head, and pray till our teeth grind together.
Oh, that from that spirit-world, so real and yet so
silent, that surrounds us, one word would come to
guide us! We are left alone with this devil; and God
does not whisper to us. Suddenly we seize the Bible,
turning it round and round, and say hurriedly,
"It will be God's voice speaking to us, His voice
as though we heard it."
--
-
We yearn for a token from the inexorably Silent
One.
We turn the book, put our finger down on a page,
and bend to read by the moonlight. It is God's an-
swer. We tremble.
"Then fourteen years after I went up again to
Jerusalem with Barnabas, and took Titus with me
also."
For an instant our imagination seizes it; we are
twisting, twirling, trying to make an allegory. The
fourteen years are fourteen months; we are Paul, and
the devil is Barnabas; Titus is
Then suddenly a
and hypocrites;
What is Paul to
loathing comes to us; we are liars
we are trying to deceive ourselves.
us? and Jerusalem? who are Barnabas and Titus?
We know not the men. Before we know we seize the
book, swing it round our head, and fling it with all
our might to the farther end of the room.
We put
down our head again and weep. Youth and ignorance,
is there anything else that can weep so?
It is as
-
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
―
though the tears were drops of blood congealed be-
neath the eyelids; nothing else is like those tears.
After a long time we are weak with crying, and lie
silent, and by chance we knock against the wood that
stops the broken pane. It falls. Upon our hot, stiff
face a sweet breath of wind blows. We raise our
head, and with our swollen eyes look out at the beauti-
ful still world, and the sweet night-wind blows in upon
us, holy and gentle, like a loving breath from the lips
of God. Over us a deep peace comes,
a calm, still
joy. The tears now flow readily and softly. Oh, the un-
utterable gladness! At last, at last we have found it!
"The peace with God." "The sense of sins forgiven."
All doubt vanished, God's voice in the soul, the Holy
Spirit filling us! We feel Him! we feel Him! Oh,
Jesus Christ! through you, through you, this joy! We
press our hands upon our breast, and look upward
with adoring gladness. Soft waves of bliss break
through us. "The peace with God." "The sense of
sins forgiven." Methodists and Revivalists say the
words, and the mocking world shoots out its lip, and
walks by smiling-"Hypocrite!"
There are more fools, and fewer hypocrites than the
wise world dreams of. The hypocrite is rare as ice-
bergs in the tropics; the fool common as buttercups
beside a water-furrow: whether you go this way or
that, you tread on him; you dare not look at your
own reflection in the water but you see one. There is
no cant phrase, rotten with age, but it was the dress
of a living body; none but at heart it signifies a real
bodily or mental condition which some have passed
through.
After hours and nights of frenzied fear of the
supernatural desire to appease the Power above, a
TIMES AND SEASONS.
161
fierce quivering excitement in every inch of nerve
and blood-vessel, there comes a time when nature
cannot endure longer, and the spring long bent re-
coils. We sink down emasculated. Up creeps the
deadly delicious calm.
"I have blotted out as a cloud thy sins, and as a
thick cloud thy trespasses, and will remember them
no more forever." We weep with soft transporting
joy.
A few experience this; many imagine they experi-
ence it; one here and there lies about it. In the
main, "The peace with God; a sense of sins for-
given," stands for a certain mental and physical re-
action. Its reality those know who have felt it.
And we, on that moonlight night, put down our
head on the window, "Oh, God! we are happy, happy;
thy child forever. Oh, thank you, God!" and we drop
asleep.
Next morning the Bible we kiss. We are God's
forever. We go out to work, and it goes happily all
day, happily all night; but hardly so happily, not
happily at all, the next day; and the next night the
devil asks us, "Where is your Holy Spirit ?"
We cannot tell.
-
So month by month, summer and winter, the old
life goes on reading, praying, weeping, praying.
They tell us we become utterly stupid. We know
it. Even the multiplication table we learned with so
much care we forget. The physical world recedes
farther and farther from us. Truly we love not the
world, neither the things that are in it. Across the
bounds of sleep our grief follows us. When we wake
in the night we are sitting up in bed weeping bitterly,
or find ourself outside in the moonlight, dressed, and
11
162
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
walking up and down, and wringing our hands, and
we cannot tell how we came there. So pass two years,
as men reckon them.
V.
Then a new time.
Before us there were three courses possible, to go
mad, to die, to sleep.
We take the last course; or Nature takes it for us.
All things take rest in sleep; the beasts, birds, the
very flowers close their eyes, and the streams are still
in winter; all things take rest; then why not the
human reason also? So the questioning devil in us
drops asleep, and in that sleep a beautiful dream rises
for us. Though you hear all the dreams of men, you
will hardly find a prettier one than ours. It ran so:
In the centre of all things is a Mighty Heart, which,
having begotten all things, loves them; and, having
born them into life, beats with great throbs of love
towards them. No death for His dear insects, no hell
for His dear men, no burning up for His dear world-
His own, own world that he has made. In the end
all will be beautiful. Do not ask us how we make our
dream tally with facts; the glory of a dream is this,
that it despises facts, and makes its own. Our dream
saves us from going mad; that is enough.
Its peculiar point of sweetness lay here. When the
Mighty Heart's yearning of love became too great for
other expression, it shaped itself into the sweet Rose
of Heaven, the beloved Man-god.
-
Jesus! you Jesus of our dream! how we loved you;
no Bible tells of you as we knew you. Your sweet
hands held ours fast; your sweet voice said always,
TIMES AND SEASONS.
163
"I am here, my loved one, not far off; put your arms
about Me, and hold fast."
We find Him in everything in those days. When
the little weary lamb we drive home drags its feet we
seize on it, and carry it with its head against our face.
His little lamb! We feel we have got Him.
When the drunken Kaffir lies by the road in the
sun we draw his blanket over his head, and put green
branches of milk-bush on it. His Kaffir; why should
the sun hurt him?
In the evening, when the clouds lift themselves like
gates, and the red lights shine through them, we cry;
for in such glory He will come, and the hands that
ache to touch Him will hold Him, and we shall see
the beautiful hair and eyes of our God. "Lift up
your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lifted up, ye
everlasting doors, and the King of glory shall come
in!"
The purple flowers, the little purple flowers, are His
eyes, looking at us. We kiss them, and kneel alone
on the flat, rejoicing over them. And "the wilderness
and the solitary place shall be glad for Him, and the
desert shall rejoice and blossom as a rose."
If ever in our tearful, joyful ecstasy the poor, sleepy,
half-dead devil should raise his head, we laugh at
him. It is not his hour now.
"If there should be a hell, after all!" he mutters.
"If your God should be cruel! If there should be no
God! If you should find out it is all imagination!
If 99
We laugh at him.
sunshine, do you ask
- that is all. And we feel that is all.
When a man sits in the warm
him for proof of it? He feels
-
no proof of our God. We feel, we feel!
We want
164
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
tells us of Him.
We do not believe in our God because the Bible
We believe in the Bible because He
We feel Him, we feel Him, we feel
And the poor half-swamped devil
tells us of it.
- that is all!
mutters, -
"But if the day should come when you do not
feel?
And we laugh, and cry him down.
-
"It will never come never," and the poor devil
slinks to sleep again, with his tail between his legs.
Fierce assertion many times repeated is hard to stand
against; only time separates the truth from the lie.
So we dream on.
One day we go with our father to town, to church.
The townspeople rustle in their silks, and the men in
their sleek cloth, and settle themselves in their pews,
and the light shines in through the windows on the
artificial flowers in the women's bonnets. We have
the same miserable feeling that we have in a shop
where all the clerks are very smart. We wish our
father had n't brought us to town, and we were out on
the karroo. Then the man in the pulpit begins to
preach. His text is "He that believeth not shall be
damned."
The day before the magistrate's clerk, who was an
atheist, has died in the street, struck by lightning.
The man in the pulpit mentions no name; but he
talks of "The hand of God made visible among us."
He tells us how, when the white stroke fell, quivering
and naked, the soul fled, robbed of his earthly filament,
and lay at the footstool of God; how over its head
has been poured out the wrath of the Mighty One,
whose existence it has denied; and, quivering and
terrified, it has fled to the everlasting shade.
TIMES AND SEASONS.
165
We, as we listen, half start up; every drop of blood
in our body has rushed to our head. He lies! he lies!
he lies! That man in the pulpit lies! Will no one
stop him? Have none of them heard - do none of
them know, that when the poor dark soul shut its eyes
on earth it opened them in the still light of heaven,
that there is no wrath where God's face is, that if
one could once creep to the footstool of God, there is
everlasting peace there, like the fresh stillness of
the early morning? While the atheist lay wondering
and afraid, God bent down and said, "My child, here
I am I, whom you have not known; I, whom you
have not believed in; I am here. I sent My messen-
ger, the white sheet-lightning, to call you home.
am here."
-
I
Then the poor soul turned to the light; its weak-
ness and pain were gone forever.
Have they not known, have they not heard, who it
is rules?
"For a little moment have I hidden my face from
thee; but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy
upon thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer."
We mutter on to ourself, till some one pulls us
violently by the arm to remind us we are in church.
We see nothing but our own ideas.
Presently every one turns to pray. There are six
hundred souls lifting themselves to the Everlasting
Light.
Behind us sit two pretty ladies; one hands her
scent-bottle softly to the other, and a mother pulls
down her little girl's frock. One lady drops her
handkerchief; a gentleman picks it up; she blushes.
The women in the choir turn softly the leaves of their
tune-books, to be ready when the praying is done. It
166
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
•
is as though they thought more of the singing than
the Everlasting Father. Oh, would it not be more
worship of Him to sit alone in the karroo and kiss.
one little purple flower that He had made? Is it not
mockery? Then the thought comes, "What doest
thou here, Elijah?" We who judge, what are we
better than they? - rather worse. Is it any excuse
to say, "I am but a child and must come"? Does
God allow any soul to step in between the spirit he
made and himself? What do we there in that place,
where all the words are lies against the All Father?
Filled with horror, we turn and flee out of the place.
On the pavement we smite our foot, and swear in
our child's soul never again to enter those places
where men come to sing and pray. We are ques-
tioned afterwards. Why was it we went out of the
church?
-
Then
we stand silent.
try to tell. Then a
How can we explain?
we are pressed further, and we
head is shaken solemnly at us. No one can think it
wrong to go to the house of the Lord; it is the idle
excuse of a wicked boy. When will we think seri-
ously of our souls, and love going to church? We
are wicked, very wicked. And we we slink away
and go alone to cry. Will it be always so? Whether
we hate and doubt, or whether we believe and love,
to our dearest, are we to seem always wicked?
-
We do not yet know that in the soul's search for
truth the bitterness lies here, the striving cannot
always hide itself among the thoughts; sooner or
later it will clothe itself in outward action; then it
steps in and divides between the soul and what it
loves. All things on earth have their price; and for
truth we pay the dearest. We barter it for love and
TIMES AND SEASONS.
167
sympathy. The road to honor is paved with thorns;
but on the path to truth at every step you set your
foot down on your own heart.
VI.
Then at last a new time-the time of waking:
short, sharp, and not pleasant, as wakings often are.
Sleep and dreams exist on this condition
that no
one wake the dreamer.
-
And now life takes us up between her finger and
thumb, shakes us furiously, till our poor nodding
head is wellnigh rolled from our shoulders, and she
sets us down a little hardly on the bare earth, bruised
and sore, but preternaturally wide awake.
We have said in our days of dreaming, "Injustice
and wrong are a seeming; pain is a shadow. Our
God, He is real, He who made all things, and He
only is Love."
-
We
Now life takes us by the neck and shows us a few
other things, new-made graves with the red sand
flying about them; eyes that we love with the worms
eating them; evil men walking, sleek and fat; the
whole terrible hurly-burly of the thing called life, -
and she says,
"What do you think of these ? "
dare not say, "Nothing." We feel them; they are
very real. But we try to lay our hands about and
feel that other thing we felt before. In the dark
night in the fuel-room we cry to our beautiful dream-
god Oh, let us come near you, and lay our head
against your feet. Now in our hour of need be near
us."
But He is not there; He is gone away. The
old questioning devil is there.
-
66
We must have been awakened sooner or later.
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
The imagination cannot always triumph over reality,
the desire over truth. We must have been awakened.
If it was done a little sharply, what matter? it was
done thoroughly, and it had to be done.
VII.
And a new life begins for us a new time, a life
as cold as that of a man who sits on the pinnacle of
an iceberg and sees the glittering crystals all about
him. The old looks indeed like a long hot delirium,
peopled with phantasies. The new is cold enough.
-
Now we have no God. We have had two, the old
God that our fathers handed down to us, that we
hated, and never liked; the new one that we made
for ourselves, that we loved; but now He has flitted
away from us, and we see what He was made of-
the shadow of our highest ideal, crowned and throned.
Now we have no God.
--
"The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God."
It may be so. Most things said or written have been
the work of fools.
-
This thing is certain — he is a fool who says, "No
man hath said in his heart, There is no God."
It has been said many thousand times in hearts
with profound bitterness of earnest faith.
We do not cry and weep; we sit down with cold
eyes and look at the world. We are not miserable.
Why should we be? We eat and drink, and sleep
all night; but the dead are not colder.
And, we say it slowly, but without sighing, "Yes,
we see it now; there is no God."
And, we add, growing a little colder yet, "There
is no justice. The ox dies in the yoke, beneath its
TIMES AND SEASONS.
169
master's whip; it turns its anguish-filled eyes on the
sunlight, but there is no sign of recompense to be
made it. The black man is shot like a dog, and it
goes well with the shooter. The innocent are ac-
cused, and the accuser triumphs. If you will take the
trouble to scratch the surface anywhere, you will
see under the skin a sentient being writhing in im-
potent anguish."
And we say further, and our heart is as the heart
of the dead for coldness, "There is no order; all
things are driven about by a blind chance."
-
What a soul drinks in with its mother's milk will
not leave it in a day. From our earliest hour we
have been taught that the thought of the heart, the
shaping of the rain-cloud, the amount of wool that
grows on a sheep's back, the length of a draught, and
the growing of the corn, depend on nothing that
moves immutable, at the heart of all things; but on
the changeable will of a changeable being, whom our
prayers can alter. To us, from the beginning, Nature
has been but a poor plastic thing, to be toyed with
this way or that, as man happens to please his deity
or not, to go to church or not, to say his prayers
right or not, to travel on a Sunday or not. Was it
possible for us in an instant to see Nature as she is
-
the flowing vestment of an unchanging reality?
When a soul breaks free from the arms of a supersti-
tion, bits of the claws and talons break themselves off
in him. It is not the work of a day to squeeze them
out.
And so, for us, the human-like driver and guide
being gone, all existence, as we look out at it with
our chilled, wondering eyes, is an aimless rise and
swell of shifting waters. In all that weltering chaos
170
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
we can see no spot so large as a man's hand on which
we may plant our foot.
Whether a man believes in a human-like God or
no is a small thing. Whether he looks into the men-
tal and physical world and sees no relation between
cause and effect, no order, but a blind chance sport-
ing, this is the mightiest fact that can be recorded in
any spiritual existence. It were almost a mercy to cut
his throat, if indeed he does not do it for himself.
We, however, do not cut our throats. To do so
would imply some desire and feeling, and we have
no desire and no feeling; we are only cold. We do
not wish to live, and we do not wish to die. One
day a snake curls itself round the waist of a Kaffir
woman. We take it in our hand, swing it round and
round, and fling it on the ground dead. Every
one looks at us with eyes of admiration. We almost
laugh. Is it wonderful to risk that for which we
care nothing?
-
In truth, nothing matters. This dirty little world,
full of confusion, and the blue rag, stretched over-
head for a sky, is so low we could touch it with our
hand.
Existence is a great pot, and the old Fate who stirs
it round cares nothing what rises to the top and what
goes down, and laughs when the bubbles burst. And
we do not care. Let it boil about. Why should we
trouble ourselves? Nevertheless the physical sensa-
tions are real. Hunger hurts, and thirst, therefore we
eat and drink; inaction pains us, therefore we work
like galley-slaves. No one demands it, but we set our-
selves to build a great dam in red sand beyond the
graves. In the gray dawn, before the sheep are let
out, we work at it. All day, while the young ostriches
TIMES AND SEASONS.
171
we tend feed about us, we work on through the fiercest
heat. The people wonder what new spirit has seized
us now. They do not know we are working for life.
We bear the greatest stones, and feel a satisfaction
when we stagger under them, and are hurt by a pang
that shoots through our chest. While we eat our din-
ner we carry on baskets full of earth, as though the
devil drove us. The Kaffir servants have a story
`that at night a witch and two white oxen come to
help us. No wall, they say, could grow so quickly
under one man's hands.
At night, alone in our cabin, we sit no more brood-
ing over the fire. What should we think of now?
All is emptiness. So we take the old arithmetic ;
and the multiplication table, which with so much
pains we learned long ago and forgot directly, we learn
now in a few hours, and never forget again. We take
a strange satisfaction in working arithmetical prob-
lems. We pause in our building to cover the stones
with figures and calculations. We save money for a
Latin Grammar and an Algebra, and carry them about
in our pockets, poring over them as over our Bible of
old. We have thought we were utterly stupid, inca-
pable of remembering anything, of learning anything.
Now we find that all is easy. Has a new soul crept
into this old body, that even our intellectual faculties
are changed? We marvel; not perceiving that what
a man expends in prayer and ecstasy he cannot have
over for acquiring knowledge. You never shed a tear,
or create a beautiful image, or quiver with emotion,
but you pay for it at the practical, calculating end of
your nature. You have just so much force; when the
one channel runs over the other runs dry.
And now we turn to Nature. All these years we
172
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
have lived beside her, and we have never seen her;
now we open our eyes and look at her.
The rocks have been to us a blur of brown; we
bend over them, and the disorganized masses dissolve
into a many-colored, many-shaped, carefully-arranged
form of existence. Here masses of rainbow-tinted
crystals, half-fused together; there bands of smooth
gray and red methodically overlying each other. This
rock here is covered with a delicate silver tracery, in
some mineral, resembling leaves and branches; there
on the flat stone, on which we so often have sat to
weep and pray, we look down, and see it covered with
the fossil footprints of great birds and the beautiful
skeleton of a fish. We have often tried to picture in
our mind what the fossiled remains of creatures must
be like, and all the while we sat on them. We have
been so blinded by thinking and feeling that we have
never seen the world.
The flat plain has been to us a reach of monotonous
red. We look at it, and every handful of sand starts
into life. That wonderful people, the ants, we learn
to know; see them make war and peace, play and
work, and build their huge palaces. And that smaller
people we make acquaintance with, who live in the
flowers. The "bitto" flower has been for us a mere
blur of yellow; we find its heart composed of a hundred
perfect flowers, the homes of the tiny black people
with red stripes, who move in and out in that little
yellow city. Every bluebell has its inhabitant. Ev-
ery day the karroo shows us a new wonder sleeping
in its teeming bosom. On our way to work we pause
and stand to see the ground-spider make its trap, bury
itself in the sand, and then wait for the falling in of
its enemy. Farther on walks a horned beetle, and
TIMES AND SEASONS.
173
near him starts open the door of a spider, who peeps
out carefully and quickly pulls it down again. On a
karroo-bush a green fly is laying her silver eggs. We
carry them home, and see the shells pierced, the spot-
ted grub come out, turn into a green fly, and flit away.
We are not satisfied with what Nature shows us, and
will see something for ourselves. Under the white
hen we put a dozen eggs, and break one daily, to see
the white spot wax into the chicken. We are not
excited or enthusiastic about it; but a man is not
to lay his throat open, he must think of something.
So we plant seeds in rows on our dam-wall, and pull
one up daily to see how it goes with them. Alla-
deen buried her wonderful stone, and a golden palace
sprang up at her feet. We do far more.
We put a
brown seed in the earth, and a living thing starts out
starts upwards—why, no more than Alladeen can
we say starts upwards, and does not desist till it is
higher than our heads, sparkling with dew in the early
morning, glittering with yellow blossoms, shaking
brown seeds with little embryo souls on to the ground.
We look at it solemnly, from the time it consists of
two leaves peeping above the ground and a soft white
root, till we have to raise our faces to look at it; but
we find no reason for that upward starting.
—
We look into dead ducks aud lambs. In the even-
ing we carry them home, spread newspapers on the
floor, and lie working with them till midnight. With
a startled feeling near akin to ecstasy we open the
lump of flesh called a heart, and find little doors and
strings inside. We feel them, and put the heart away,
but every now and then return to look, and to feel
them again. Why we like them so we can hardly
tell.
174
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
moreover
-
A gander drowns itself in our dam. We take it
out, and open it on the bank, and kneel, looking at it.
Above are the organs divided by delicate tissues; be-
low are the intestines artistically curved in a spiral
form, and each tier covered by a delicate network of
blood-vessels standing out red against the faint blue
background. Each branch of the blood-vessels is com-
prised of a trunk, bifurcating and rebifurcating into.
the most delicate hair-like threads, symmetrically ar-
ranged. We are struck with its singular beauty. And,
and here we drop from our kneeling into
a sitting posture - this also we remark: Of that same
exact shape and outline is our thorn-tree seen against
the sky in mid-winter; of that shape also is delicate
metallic tracery between our rocks; in that exact path
does our water flow when without a furrow we lead it
from the dam; so shaped are the antlers of the horned
beetle. How are these things related that such deep
union should exist between them all? Is it chance?
Or are they not all the fine branches of one trunk,
whose sap flows through us all? That would explain
it. We nod over the gander's inside.
This thing we call existence, - is it not a something
which has its roots far down below in the dark, and
its branches stretching out into the immensity above,
which we among the branches cannot see? Not a
chance jumble; a living thing, a One. The thought
gives us intense satisfaction, we cannot tell why.
We nod over the gander; then start up suddenly,
look into the blue sky, throw the dead gander and the
refuse into the dam, and go to work again.
And so it comes to pass in time that the earth
ceases for us to be a weltering chaos. We walk in
the great hall of life, looking up and round reveren-
TIMES AND SEASONS.
175
tially. Nothing is despicable, all is meaning-full;
nothing is small,—all is part
ginning and end we know not.
in us is a pulsation from it,
comprehension, not too small.
-
of a whole, whose be-
The life that throbs
too mighty for our
――
And so it comes to pass at last that, whereas the sky
was at first a small blue rag stretched out over us,
and so low that our hands might touch it, pressing
down on us, it raises itself into an immeasurable blue
arch over our heads, and we begin to live again.
CHAPTER II.
WALDO'S STRANGER.
WALDO lay on his stomach on the red sand. The
small ostriches he herded wandered about him, péck-
ing at the food he had cut, or at pebbles and dry
sticks. On his right lay the graves, to his left the
dam; in his hand was a large wooden post covered
with carvings, at which he worked. Doss lay before
him, basking in the winter sunshine, and now and
again casting an expectant glance at the corner of the
nearest ostrich-camp. The scrubby thorn-trees under
which they lay yielded no shade, but none was needed
in that glorious June weather, when in the hottest
part of the afternoon the sun was but pleasantly
warm; and the boy carved on, not looking up, yet
conscious of the brown serene earth about him and
the intensely blue sky above.
Presently, at the corner of the camp, Em appeared,
bearing a covered saucer in one hand, and in the other
a jug with a cup in the top. She was grown into a
premature little old woman of sixteen, ridiculously
fat. The jug and saucer she put down on the ground
before the dog and his master, and dropped down be-
side them herself, panting and out of breath.
66
'Waldo, as I came up the camps I met some one on
horseback, and I do believe it must be the new man
that is coming."
WALDO'S STRANGER.
177
The new man was an Englishman, to whom the
Boer-woman had hired half the farm.
"Hum!" said Waldo.
"He is quite young," said Em, holding her side,
"and he has brown hair, and beard curling close to
his face, and such dark blue eyes. And, Waldo, I
was so ashamed! I was just looking back to see, you
know, and he happened just to be looking back too,
and we looked right into each other's faces; and he
got red, and I got so red. I believe he is the new
man."
"Yes," said Waldo.
"I must go now. Perhaps he has brought us letters
from the post from Lyndall. You know she can't
stay at school much longer; she must come back
soon. And the new man will have to stay with us
till his house is built. I must get his room ready.
Good-by!"
She tripped off again, and Waldo carved on at his
post. Doss lay with his nose close to the covered
saucer, and smelt that some one had made nice little
fat cakes that afternoon. Both were so intent on their
occupation that not till a horse's hoofs beat beside
them in the sand did they look up to see a rider
drawing in his steed.
He was certainly not the stranger whom Em had
described. A dark, somewhat French-looking little
man of eight-and-twenty, rather stout, with heavy,
cloudy eyes and pointed mustaches. His horse was
a fiery creature, well-caparisoned; a highly-finished
saddle-bag hung from the saddle; the man's hands
were gloved, and he presented the appearance - an
appearance rare on that farm of a well-dressed
gentleman.
-
12
178
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
In an uncommonly melodious voice he inquired
whether he might be allowed to remain there for an
hour. Waldo directed him to the farm-house, but the
stranger declined. He would merely rest under the
trees, and give his horse water. He removed the saddle,
and Waldo led the animal away to the dam. When he
returned, the stranger had settled himself under the
trees, with his back against the saddle. The boy
offered him of the cakes. He declined, but took a
draught from the jug; and Waldo lay down not far off,
and fell to work again. It mattered nothing if cold
eyes saw it. It was not his sheep-shearing machine.
With material loves, as with human, we go mad once,
love out, and have done. We never get up the true
enthusiasm a second time. This was but a thing he
had made, labored over, loved, and liked, — nothing
more, not his machine.
The stranger forced himself lower down in the
saddle, and yav ied. It was a drowsy afternoon, and
he objected to travel in these out-of-the-world parts.
He liked better civilized life, where at every hour of
the day a man may look for his glass of wine, and his
easy-chair, and paper; where at night he may lock
himself into his room with his books, and a bottle of
brandy, and taste joys mental and physical. The
world said of him the all-knowing, omnipotent
world, whom no locks can bar, who has the cat-like
propensity of seeing best in the dark-the world
said, that better than the books he loved the brandy,
and better than books or brandy, that which it had
been better had he loved less. But for the world he
cared nothing; he smiled blandly in its teeth. All
life is a dream; if wine, and philosophy, and women
keep the dream from becoming a nightmare, so much
WALDO'S STRANGER.
179
the better. It is all they are fit for, all they can be
used for. There was another side to his life and
thought; but of that the world knew nothing, and
said nothing, as the way of the wise world is.
The stranger looked from beneath his sleepy eye-
lids at the brown earth that stretched away, beautiful
in spite of itself, in that June sunshine; looked at
the graves, the gables of the farm-house showing over
the stone walls of the camps, at the clownish fellow
at his feet, and yawned. But he had drunk of the
hind's tea, and must say something.
"Your father's place, I presume?" he inquired
sleepily.
"No; I am only a servant."
"Dutch people?"
"Yes."
"And you like the life?"
The boy hesitated. "On days like these."
"And why on these?
99
The boy waited. "They are very beautiful."
The stranger looked at him. It seemed that as the
fellow's dark eyes looked across the brown earth they
kindled with an intense satisfaction; then they looked
back at the carving.
What had that creature, so coarse-clad and clown-
ish, to do with the subtle joys of the weather? Him-
self, white-handed and delicate, he might hear the
music which shimmering sunshine and solitude play
on the finely-strung chords of Nature; but that fel-
low! Was not the ear in that great body too gross
for such delicate mutterings?
Presently he said, "May I see what you work at?"
The fellow handed his wooden post. It was by no
means lovely. The men and birds were almost gro-
1
180
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
tesque in their labored resemblance to nature, and
bore signs of patient thought. The stranger turned
the thing over on his knee.
"Where did you learn this work?"
"I taught myself."
"And these zigzag lines represent -"
"A mountain."
The stranger looked. "It has some meaning, has
it not?"
The boy muttered confusedly, "Only things."
- -
It was
The questioner looked down at him the huge,
unwieldy figure, in size a man's, in right of its child-
like features and curling hair a child's; and it hurt
him it attracted him, and it hurt him.
something between pity and sympathy.
"How long have you worked at this?"
"Nine months."
From his pocket the stranger drew his pocket-book,
and took something from it. He could fasten the
post to his horse in some way, and throw it away in
the sand when at a safe distance.
"Will you take this for your carving?"
The boy glanced at the five-pound note, and shook
his head. "No; I cannot.”
"You think it is worth more?" asked the stranger,
with a little sneer.
He pointed with his thumb to a grave. "No; it is
for him."
"And who is there?" asked the stranger.
"My father."
The man silently returned the note to his pocket-
book, and gave the carving to the boy; and, drawing
his hat over his eyes, composed himself to sleep. Not
being able to do so, after a while he glanced over the
WALDO'S STRANGER.
181
fellow's shoulder to watch him work. The boy carved
letters into the back.
-
"If," said the stranger, with his melodious voice,
rich with a sweetness that never showed itself in the
clouded eyes
for sweetness will linger on in the
voice long after it has died out in the eyes "if for
such a purpose, why write that upon it?"
-
The boy glanced round at him, but made no answer.
He had almost forgotten his presence.
"You surely believe," said the stranger, "that some
day, sooner or later, these graves will open, and those
Boer-uncles with their wives walk about here in the
red sand, with the very fleshly legs with which they
went to sleep? Then why say, 'He sleeps forever?'
You believe he will stand up again?"
"Do you?" asked the boy, lifting for an instant his
heavy eyes to the stranger's face.
Half taken aback, the stranger laughed. It was as
though a curious little tadpole which he held under
his glass should suddenly lift its tail and begin to
question him.
"I?-no." He laughed his short thick laugh. "I
am a man who believes nothing, hopes nothing, fears
nothing, feels nothing. `I am beyond the pale of hu-
manity; no criterion of what you should be who live
here among your ostriches and bushes."
The next moment the stranger was surprised by a
sudden movement on the part of the fellow, which
brought him close to the stranger's feet. Soon after
he raised his carving, and laid it across the man's
knee.
"Yes, I will tell you," he muttered; "I will tell
you all about it."
He put his finger on the grotesque little manikin
182
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
at the bottom (ah! that man who believed nothing,
hoped nothing, felt nothing; how he loved him!), and
with eager finger the fellow moved upwards, explain-
ing over fantastic figures and mountains, to the crown-
ing bird from whose wing dropped a feather. At the
end he spoke with broken breath short words, like
one who utters things of mighty import.
―
The stranger watched more the face than the carv-
ing; and there was now and then a show of white
teeth beneath the mustaches as he listened.
"I think," he said blandly, when the boy had done,
"that I partly understand you. It is something after
this fashion, is it not?" He smiled. "In certain
valleys there was a hunter." He touched the gro-
tesque little figure at the bottom. "Day by day
he went to hunt for wild-fowl in the woods; and it
chanced that once he stood on the shores of a large
lake. While he stood waiting in the rushes, for the
coming of the birds, a great shadow fell on him, and
in the water he saw a reflection. He looked up to the
sky; but the thing was gone. Then a burning desire
came over him to see once again that reflection in the
water, and all day he watched and waited; but night
came, and it had not returned. Then he went home
with his empty bag, moody and silent. His com-
rades came questioning about him to know the rea-
son, but he answered them nothing; he sat alone and
brooded. Then his friend came to him, and to him
he spoke.
-
"I have seen to-day,' he said, 'that which I never
saw before
a vast white bird, with silver wings out-
stretched, sailing in the everlasting blue. And now it
is as though a great fire burned within my breast. It
was but a sheen, a shimmer, a reflection in the water;
WALDO'S STRANGER.
183
but now I desire nothing more on earth than to hold
her.'
999
"His friend laughed.
"It was but a beam playing on the water, or the
shadow of your own head. To-morrow you will forget
her,' he said.
"But to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow the
hunter walked alone. He sought in the forest and in
the woods, by the lakes and among the rushes, but he
could not find her. He shot no more wild-fowl; what
were they to him?
"What ails him?' said his comrades.
"He is mad,' said one.
"No; but he is worse,' said another; he would
see that which none of us have seen, and make him-
self a wonder.'
"Come, let us forswear his company,' said all.
"So the hunter walked alone.
"One night, as he wandered in the shade, very heart-
sore and weeping, an old man stood before him,
grander and taller than the sons of men.
"Who are you?' asked the hunter.
"I am Wisdom, answered the old man; 'but some
men called me Knowledge. All my life I have grown
in these valleys; but no man sees me till he has
sorrowed much. The eyes must be washed with tears
that are to behold me; and, according as a man has
suffered, I speak.'
"And the hunter cried, 'Oh, you who have lived
here so long, tell me, what is that great wild bird I
have seen sailing in the blue? They would have
me believe she is a dream; the shadow of my own
head.'
"The old man smiled.
184
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Her name is Truth. He who has once seen her
never rests again. Till death he desires her.'
"And the hunter cried, 'Oh, tell me where I may
find her.'
"But the man said, 'You have not suffered enough,'
and went.
"Then the hunter took from his breast the Shuttle
of Imagination, and wound on it the thread of his
Wishes; and all night he sat and wove a net.
"In the morning he spread the golden net open on
the ground, and into it he threw a few grains of Credu-
lity, which his father had left him, and which he kept
in his breast-pocket. They were like white puff-balls,
and when you trod on them a brown dust flew out.
Then he sat by to see what would happen. The first
that came into the net was a snow-white bird, with
dove's eyes, and he sang a beautiful song, ‘A human-
God! a human-God! a human-God!' it sang. The
second that came was black and mystical, with dark,
lovely eyes, that looked into the depths of your soul,
and he sang only this, 'Immortality!'
"And the hunter took them both in his arms, for
he said, 'They are surely of the beautiful Family of
Truth.'
"Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a
shrill voice, like one crying in the market-place, 'Re-
ward after Death! Reward after Death!'
"And he said, 'You are not so fair; but you are
fair too,' and he took it.
"And others came, brightly colored, singing pleas-
ant songs, till all the grains were finished. And the
hunter gathered all his birds together, and built a
strong iron cage called a new creed, and put all his
birds in it.
WALDO'S STRANGER.
185
"Then the people came about, dancing and singing.
"Oh, happy hunter!' they cried. "Oh, won-
derful man! Oh, delightful birds!
Oh, delightful birds! Oh, lovely
songs!'
"No one asked where the birds had come from, nor
how they had been caught; but they danced and sang
before them, and the hunter too was glad, for he said,
"Surely Truth is among them. In time she will
moult her feathers, and I shall see her snow-white
form.'
"But the time passed, and the people sang and
danced; but the hunter's heart grew heavy. He crept
alone, as of old, to weep; the terrible desire had.
awakened again in his breast. One day, as he sat
alone weeping, it chanced that Wisdom met him. He
told the old man what he had done.
"And Wisdom smiled sadly.
"Many men,' he said, 'have spread that net for
Truth; but they have never found her. On the grains
of Credulity she will not feed; in the net of Wishes
her feet cannot be held; in the air of these valleys
she will not breathe. The birds you have caught are
of the brood of Lies.
Lovely and beautiful, but still
lies; Truth knows them not.'
"And the hunter cried out in bitterness,
666
'And must I then sit still, to be devoured of this
great burning?
"And the old man said: 'Listen, and in that you
have suffered much and wept much, I will tell you
what I know. He who sets out to search for Truth
must leave these valleys of Superstition forever,
taking with him not one shred that has belonged to
them. Alone he must wander down into the land
of Absolute Negation and Denial; he must abide
186
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
there; he must resist temptation; when the light
breaks he must arise and follow it into the country
of Dry Sunshine. The mountains of Stern Reality
will rise before him; he must climb them; beyond
them lies Truth.'
666 · And he will hold her fast! He will hold her in
his hands!' the hunter cried.
"Wisdom shook his head.
666 ‘He will never see her, never hold her. The time
'is not yet.'
"Then there is no hope?' cried the hunter.
"There is this,' said Wisdom. 'Some men have
climbed on those mountains; circle above circle of
bare rock they have scaled; and wandering there in
those high regions some have chanced to pick up on
the ground, one white, silver feather dropped from the
wing of Truth. And it shall come to pass,' said the
old man, raising himself prophetically and pointing
with his finger to the sky, 'it shall come to pass, that,
when enough of those silver feathers shall have been
gathered by the hands of men, and shall have been
woven into a cord, and the cord into a net, that in
that net Truth may be captured. Nothing but Truth
can hold Truth.'
"The hunter arose. 'I will go,' he said.
"But Wisdom detained him.
―
"Mark you well — who leaves these valleys never
returns to them. Though he should weep tears of
blood seven days and nights upon the confines, he
can never put his foot across them. Left, they, are
left forever. Upon the road which you would travel,
there is no reward offered. Who goes, goes freely,
for the great love that is in him. The work is his
reward.'
WALDO'S STRANGER.
187
"I go,' said the hunter; 'but upon the moun-
tains, tell me, which path shall I take?'
6
"I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge
of-Ages,' said the man; 'I can walk only where
many men have trodden. On those mountains few
feet have passed; each man strikes out a path for
himself. He goes at his own peril; my voice he
hears no more. I may follow after him, but I cannot
go before him.'
"Then Knowledge vanished.
"And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and
with his hands broke down the bars, and the jagged
iron tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier to build
than to break.
"One by one he took his plumed birds, and let
them fly. But, when he came to his dark-plumed
bird, he held it, and looked into its beautiful eyes,
and the bird uttered its low deep cry, . "Immortal-
ity!"
"And he said quickly, 'I cannot part with it. It
is not heavy; it eats no food. I will hide it in my
breast;
I will take it with me.' And he buried it
there, and covered it over with his cloak.
"But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier,
heavier, - till it lay on his breast like lead.
could not move with it. He could not leave those
valleys with it. Then again he took it out, and looked
at it.
-
He
"Oh, my beautiful, my heart's own!' he cried,
'may I not keep you?'
"He opened his hands sadly.
“Go,' he said. 'It may happen that in Truth's
song one note is like to yours; but I shall never
hear it.'
188
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from
him forever.
"Then from the Shuttle of Imagination he took the
thread of his Wishes and threw it on the ground, and
the empty shuttle he put into his breast; for the
thread was made in those valleys, but the shuttle
came from an unknown country. He turned to go;
but now the people came about him, howling.
"Fool, hound, demented lunatic!' they cried.
'How dared you break your cage and let the birds
fly?'
"The hunter spoke; but they would not hear him.
"Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? Can you
drink her? Who has ever seen her? Your birds
were real; all could hear them sing. Oh, fool, vile
reptile, atheist!' they cried, 'you pollute the air.'
666
'Come, let us take up stones and stone him!' cried
some.
"What affair is it of ours?' said others. 'Let the
idiot go!' and went away. But the rest gathered up
stones and mud, and threw at him. At last, when he
was bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the
woods. And it was evening about him."
-
At every word the stranger spoke the fellow's eyes
flashed back on him, yes, and yes, and yes. The
stranger smiled. It was almost worth the trouble of
exerting oneself, even on a lazy afternoon, to win.
those passionate flashes, more thirsty and desiring
than the love-glances of a woman.
"He wandered on and on," said the stranger, "and
the shade grew deeper. He was on the borders now
of the land where it is always night. Then he stepped
into it, and there was no light there.
he groped; but each branch, as he
With his hands
touched it, broke
WALDO'S STRANGER.
189
off, and the earth was covered with cinders. At every
step his foot sank in, and a fine cloud of impalpable
ashes flew up into his face; and it was dark. So he
sat down upon a stone, and buried his face in his
hands, to wait in that land of Negation and Denial
till the light came.
"And it was night in his heart also.
"Then from the marshes to his right and left cold
mists arose, and closed about him. A fine impercep-
tible rain fell in the dark, and great drops gathered
on his hair and clothes. His heart beat slowly, and a
numbness crept through all his limbs. Then, looking
up, two merry whisp lights came dancing. He lifted
his head to look at them. Nearer, nearer they came.
So warm, so bright, they danced like stars of fire.
They stood before him at last. From the centre of
the radiating flame in one looked out a woman's face,
laughing, dimpled, with streaming yellow hair. In
the centre of the other were merry laughing ripples,
like the bubbles on a glass of wine. They danced
before him.
"Who are you,' asked the hunter, 'who alone come
to me in my solitude and darkness?'
"We are the twins Sensuality!' they cried. 'Our
father's name is Human-Nature, and our mother's
name is Excess. We are as old as the hills and rivers,
as old as the first man; but we never die,' they
laughed.
666
"
"Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!' cried
the first; they are soft and warm. Your heart
is frozen now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come
to me!'
"I will pour my hot life into you,' said the second;
'your brain is numb, and your limbs are dead now,
190
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
but they shall live with a fierce free life. Oh, let me
pour it in!'
Truth is
"Oh, follow us!' they cried, and live with us.
Nobler hearts than yours have sat here in this dark-
ness to wait; and they have come to us and we to
them, and they have never left us, never.
All else
is a delusion; but we are real, we are real.
a shadow; the valleys of Superstition are a farce; the
earth is of ashes, the trees all rotten; but we - feel
us we live! You cannot doubt us. Feel us, how
warm we are! Oh, come to us! come with us!'
"Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered,
and the cold drops melted on his forehead.. The
bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the
frozen blood began to run.
And he said,
-
"Yes; why should I die here in this awful dark-
ness? They are warm, they melt my frozen blood!'
and he stretched out his hands to take them.
"Then in a moment there arose before him the
image of the thing he had loved, and his hand dropped
to his side.
"Oh, come to us!' they cried.
"But he buried his face.
"You dazzle my eyes,' he cried, 'you make my
heart warm; but you cannot give me what I desire.
I will wait here, wait till I die. Go!'
"He covered his face with his hands, and would not
listen; and when he looked up again they were two
twinkling stars, that vanished in the distance.
"And the long, long night rolled on.
"All who leave the valley of Superstition pass
through that dark land; but some go through it in a
few days, some linger there for months, some for
years, and some die there."
WALDO'S STRANGER.
191
The boy had crept closer; his hot breath almost
touched the stranger's hand; a mystic wonder filled
his eyes.
"At last for the hunter a faint light played along
the horizon, and he rose to follow it; and he reached
that light at last, and stepped into the broad sunshine.
Then before him rose the almighty mountains of Dry-
facts and Realities. The clear sunshine played on
them, and the tops were lost in the clouds. At the
foot many paths ran up. An exultant cry burst from
the hunter. He chose the straightest, and began to
climb; and the rocks and ridges resounded with his
song. They had exaggerated; after all, it was not so
high, nor was the road so steep! A few days, a few
weeks, a few months at most, and then the top! Not
one feather only would he pick up; he would gather
all that other men had found, weave the net, cap-
ture Truth,- hold her fast,-touch her with his hands,
clasp her!
-
-
-
"He laughed in the merry sunshine, and sang loud.
Victory was very near. Nevertheless after a while
the path grew steeper. He needed all his breath for
climbing, and the singing died away. On the right
and left rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss,
and in the lava-like earth chasms yawned. Here and
there he saw a sheen of white bones. Now too the
path began to grow less and less marked; then it be-.
came a mere trace, with a foot-mark here and there;
then it ceased altogether. He sang no more, but
struck forth a path for himself, until he reached a
mighty wall of rock, smooth and without break,
stretching as far as the eye could see. 'I will rear a
stair against it; and, once this wall climbed, I shall
be almost there,' he said bravely; and worked. With
192
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
his Shuttle of Imagination he dug out stones; but half
of them would not fit, and half a month's work would
roll down because those below were ill-chosen. But
the hunter worked on, saying always to himself, 'Once
this wall climbed, I shall be almost there. This great
work ended!'
his face was white.
He was very silent
"At last he came out upon the top, and he looked
about him. Far below rolled the white mist over the
valleys of Superstition, and above him towered the
mountains. They had seemed low before; they were
of an immeasurable height now, from crown to founda-
tion surrounded by walls of rock, that rose tier above
tier in mighty circles. Upon them played the eternal
sunshine. He uttered a wild cry. He bowed himself
on to the earth, and when he rose
In absolute silence he walked on.
now. In those high regions the rarefied air is hard to
breathe by those born in the valleys; every breath he
drew hurt him, and the blood oozed out from the tips
of his fingers. Before the next wall of rock he began
to work. The height of this seemed infinite, and he
said nothing. The sound of his tool rang night and
day upon the iron rocks into which he cut steps.
Years passed over him, yet he worked on; but the
wall towered up always above him to heaven. Some-
times he prayed that a little moss or lichen might
spring up on those bare walls to be a companion to
him; but it never came." The stranger watched the
boy's face.
-
"And the years rolled on; he counted them by the
steps he had cut- a few for a year-only a few.
He sang no more; he said no more, 'I will do this or
that' he only worked. And at night when the
twilight settled down, there looked out at him from
WALDO'S STRANGER.
193
the holes and crevices in the rocks strange wild
faces.
"Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us,'
they cried.
"My salvation is in work. If I should stop but
for one moment, you would creep down upon me,' he
replied. And they put out their long necks farther.
-
"Look down into the crevice at your feet,' they
said. 'See what lie there, — white bones! As brave
and strong a man as you climbed to these rocks.
And he looked up. He saw there was no use in
striving; he would never hold Truth, never see her,
never find her. So he lay down here, for he was
very tired. He went to sleep forever. He put him-
self to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You are not
lonely when you are asleep, neither do your hands
ache, nor your heart.' And the hunter laughed be-'
tween his teeth.
"Have I torn from my heart all that was dearest ;
have I wandered alone in the land of night; have I
resisted temptation; have I dwelt where the voice
of my kind is never heard, and labored alone, to lie
down and be food for you, ye harpies?'
"He laughed fiercely; and the echoes of Despair
slunk away, for the laugh of a brave, strong heart is
as a death-blow to them.
"Nevertheless they crept out again, and looked at
him.
"Do you know that your hair is white?' they said,
'that your hands begin to tremble like a child's. Do
you see that the point of your Shuttle is gone? It
is cracked already. If you should ever climb this
stair,' they said, 'it will be your last. You will
never climb another.'
13
194
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"And he answered, 'I know it!' and worked on.
"The old, thin hands cut the stones ill and jaggedly,
for the fingers were stiff and bent. The beauty and
the strength of the man was gone.
"At last an old, wizened, shrunken face looked out
above the rocks. It saw the eternal mountains rise
with walls to the white clouds; but its work was done.
"The old hunter folded his tired hands, and lay
down by the precipice where he had worked away
his life. It was the sleeping time at last. Below
him over the valleys rolled the thick white mist.
Once it broke; and through the gap the dying eyes
looked down on the trees and fields of their childhood.
From afar seemed borne to him the cry of his own
wild birds, and he heard the noise of people singing
as they danced. And he thought he heard among
them the voices of his old comrades; and he saw far
off the sunlight shine on his early home. And great
tears gathered in the hunter's eyes.
"Ah! they who die there do not die alone,' he
cried.
"Then the mists rolled together again, and he
turned his eyes away.
"I have sought,' he said, 'for long years I have
labored; but I have not found her. I have not
rested, I have not repined, and I have not seen her;
now my strength is gone. Where I lie down worn
out, other men will stand, young and fresh. By the
steps that I have cut they will climb; by the stairs
that I have built they will mount. They will never
know the name of the man who made them. At the
clumsy work they will laugh; when the stones roll
they will curse me. But they will mount, and on
my work; they will climb, and by my stair. They
WALDO'S STRANGER.
195
will find her, and through me. And no man liveth
to himself, and no man dieth to himself.'
"The tears rolled from beneath the shrivelled eye-
lids.
If Truth had appeared above him in the clouds
now, he could not have seen her; the mist of death
was in his eyes.
"My soul hears their glad step coming,' he said;
'and they shall mount! they shall mount!' He
raised his shrivelled hand to his eyes.
"Then slowly from the white sky above, through
the still air, came something falling, falling, falling.
Softly it fluttered down, and dropped on to the breast
of the dying man. He felt it with his hands. It
was a feather. He died holding it."
On
The
The boy had shaded his eyes with his hand.
the wood of the carving great drops fell.
stranger must have laughed at him, or remained.
silent. He did so.
"How did you know it?" the boy whispered at
last.
"It is not written there-not on that wood.
How did you know it?"
-
says,
"Certainly," said his stranger, "the whole of the
story is not written here, but it is suggested. And the
attribute of all true art, the highest and the lowest, is
this, that it says more than it
and takes you
away from itself. It is a little door that opens into
an infinite hall, where you may find what you please.
Men, thinking to detract, say, 'People read more in
this or that work of genius than was ever written in
it,' not perceiving that they pay the highest compli-
ment. If we pick up the finger and nail of a real
man, we can decipher a whole story, - could almost
reconstruct the creature again, from head to foot.
But half the body of a Mumboo-jumbow idol leaves
196
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
us utterly in the dark as to what the rest was like.
We see what we see, but nothing more. There is
nothing so universally intelligible as truth. It has a
thousand meanings, and suggests a thousand more."
He turned over the wooden thing. "Though a man
should carve it into matter with the least possible
manipulative skill, it will yet find interpreters. It is
the soul that looks out with burning eyes through the
most gross fleshly filament. Whosoever should por-
tray truly the life and death of a little flower - its
birth, sucking in of nourishment, reproduction of its
kind, withering and vanishing — would have shaped
a symbol of all existence. All true facts of Nature
or the mind are related. Your little carving repre-
sents some mental facts as they really are, therefore
fifty different true stories might be read from it.
What your work wants is not truth, but beauty of
external form, the other half of art." He leaned
almost gently towards the boy. "Skill may come in
time, but you will have to work hard. The love of
beauty and the desire for it must be born in a man;
the skill to reproduce it he must make. He must
work hard."
"All my life I have longed to see you," the boy
said.
The stranger broke off the end of his cigar, and lit
it. The boy lifted the heavy wood from the stran-
ger's knee, and drew yet nearer him. In the dog-like
manner of his drawing near, there was something
superbly ridiculous, unless one chanced to view it in
another light. Presently the stranger said, whiffing,
"Do something for me."
The boy started up.
"No, stay where you are.
I don't want you to go
WALDO'S STRANGER.
197
anywhere; I want you to talk to me.
you have been doing all your life."
Tell me what
The boy slunk down again. Would that the man
had asked him to root up bushes with his hands, for
his horse to feed on, or to run to the far end of the
plain for the fossils that lay there, or to gather the
flowers that grew on the hills at the edge of the
plain; he would have run and been back quickly –
but now!
"I have never done anything," he said.
--
"Then tell me of that nothing. I like to know
what other folks have been doing whose word I can
believe. It is interesting. What was the first thing
you ever wanted very much?"
The boy waited to remember, then began hesitat
ingly; but soon the words flowed. In the smallest
past we find an inexhaustible mine when once we
begin to dig at it.
A confused, disordered story the little made
large, and the large small, and nothing showing its
inward meaning. It is not till the past has receded
many steps, that before the clearest eyes it falls into
co-ordinate pictures. It is not till the "I" we tell of
has ceased to exist, that it takes its place among other
objective realities, and finds its true niche in the
picture. The present and the near past is a confu-
sion, whose meaning flashes on us as it slinks away
into the distance.
The stranger lit one cigar from the end of another,
and puffed and listened with half-closed eyes.
"I will remember more to tell you if you like,"
said the fellow.
He spoke with that extreme gravity common to all
very young things who feel deeply. It is not till
198
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
twenty that we learn to be in deadly earnest and to
laugh. The stranger nodded, while the fellow sought
for something more to relate. He would tell all to
this man of his, all that he knew, all that he had
felt, his most inmost sorest thought. Suddenly the
stranger turned upon him.
--
"Boy," he said, "you are happy to be here."
Waldo looked at him. Was his delightful one ridi-
culing him? Here, with this brown earth and these
low hills, while the rare, wonderful world lay all
beyond. Fortunate to be here.
The stranger read his glance.
new.
"Yes," he said; "here with the karroo-bushes and
red sand. Do you wonder what I mean? To all who
have been born in the old faith there comes a time of
danger, when the old slips from us, and we have not
yet planted our feet on the
We hear the voice
from Sinai thundering no more, and the still small
voice of reason is not yet heard. We have proved
the religion our mothers fed us on to be a delusion;
in our bewilderment we see no rule by which to guide
our steps day by day; and yet every day we must
step somewhere." The stranger leaned forward and
spoke more quickly. "We have never once been
taught by word or act to distinguish between religion
and the moral laws on which it has artfully fastened
itself, and from which it has sucked its vitality.
When we have dragged down the weeds and creep-
ers that covered the solid wall and have found them
to be rotten wood, we imagine the wall itself to be
rotten wood too. We find it is solid and standing
only when we fall headlong against it. We have
been taught that all right and wrong originate in
the will of an irresponsible being. It is some time
WALDO'S STRANGER.
199
6
before we see how the inexorable Thou shalt and
shalt not,' are carved into the nature of things. This
is the time of danger."
His dark, misty eyes looked into the boy's.
-
"In the end Experience will inevitably teach us
that the laws for a wise and noble life have a founda-
tion infinitely deeper than the fiat of any being, God
or man,
even in the groundwork of human nature.
She will teach us that whoso sheddeth man's blood,
though by man his blood be not shed, though no man
avenge and no hell await, yet every drop shall blister
on his soul and eat in the name of the dead. She will
teach that whoso takes a love not lawfully his own
gathers a flower with a poison on its petals; that
whoso revenges, strikes with a sword that has two
edges, one for his adversary, one for himself; that
who lives to himself is dead, though the ground is
not yet on him; that who wrongs another clouds his
own sun; and that who sins in secret stands accused
and condemned before the one Judge who deals eter-
nal justice, his own all-knowing self.
-
"Experience will teach us this, and reason will
show us why it must be so; but at first the world
swings before our eyes, and no voice cries out, 'This
is the way, walk ye in it!' You are happy to be
here, boy! When the suspense fills you with pain,
you build stone walls, and dig earth for relief. Others
have stood where you stand to-day, and have felt as
you feel; and another relief has been offered them,
and they have taken it.
"When the day has come when they have seen
the path in which they might walk, they have not
the strength to follow it. Habits have fastened on
them from which nothing but death can free them;
200
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
which cling closer than his sacerdotal sanctimony
to a priest; which feed on the intellect like a
worm, sapping energy, hope, creative power, all that
makes a man higher than a beast, leaving only
the power to yearn, to regret, and to sink lower in
the abyss.
-
"Boy," he said, and the listener was not more un-
smiling now than the speaker, "you are happy to be
here. Stay where you are. If you ever pray, let`
it be only the one old prayer-'Lead us not into
temptation.' Live on here quietly. The time may
yet come when you will be that which other men
have hoped to be and never will be now."
The stranger rose, shook the dust from his sleeve,
and, ashamed at his own earnestness, looked across
the bushes for his horse.
"We should have been on our way already," he
said. "We shall have a long ride in the dark to-
night."
Waldo hastened to fetch the animal; but he re-
turned leading it slowly. The sooner it came the
sooner would its rider be gone.
The stranger was opening his saddle-bag, in which
were a bright French novel and an old brown volume.
He took the latter, and held it out to the boy.
"It may be of some help to you," he said care-
lessly. "It was a gospel to me when I first fell on
it. You must not expect too much; but it may give
you a centre round which to hang your ideas, instead
of letting them lie about in a confusion that makes
the head ache. We of this generation are not des-
tined to eat and be satisfied as our fathers were; we
must be content to go hungry."
He smiled his automaton smile, and rebuttoned the
WALDO'S STRANGER.
201
bag. Waldo thrust the book into his breast, and
while he saddled the horse the stranger made in-
quiries as to the nature of the road and the distance
to the next farm.
When the bags were fixed Waldo took up his
wooden post, and began to fasten it on to the saddle,
tying it with the little blue cotton handkerchief from
his neck. The stranger looked on in silence. When it
was done, the boy held the stirrup for him to mount.
"What is your name?" he inquired, ungloving his
right hand when he was in the saddle.
The boy replied.
"Well, I trust we shall meet again some day, sooner
or later."
He shook hands with the ungloved hand; then
drew on the glove, and touched his horse, and rode
slowly away. The boy stood to watch him.
Once when the stranger had gone half across the
plain he looked back.
"Poor devil!" he said, smiling and stroking his mus-
tache. Then he looked to see if the little blue hand-
kerchief were still safely knotted. "Poor devil!"
He smiled, and then he sighed wearily, very wearily.
And Waldo waited till the moving speck had dis-
appeared on the horizon; then he stooped and kissed
passionately a hoof-mark in the sand. Then he called
his young birds together, and put his book under
his arm, and walked home along the stone-wall.
There was a rare beauty to him in the sunshine that
evening.
CHAPTER III.
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY.
THE new man, Gregory Rose, sat at the door of his
dwelling, his arms folded, his legs crossed, and a pro-
found melancholy seeming to rest over his soul. His
house was a little square daub-and-wattle building,
far out in the karroo, two miles from the home-
stead. It was covered outside with a sombre coat-
ing of brown mud, two little panes being let into
the walls for windows. Behind it were the sheep
kraals, and to the right a large dam, now principally
containing baked mud. Far off the little "kopje "
concealed the homestead, and was not itself an object
conspicuous enough to relieve the dreary monotony
of the landscape.
Before the door sat Gregory Rose in his shirt-
sleeves, on a camp-stool, and ever and anon he sighed
deeply. There was that in his countenance for which
even his depressing circumstances failed to account.
Again and again he looked at the little "kopje," at the
milk-pail at his side, and at the brown pony who a
short way off cropped the dry bushes, and sighed.
Presently he rose and went into his house. It was
one tiny room, the whitewashed walls profusely cov-
ered with prints cut from the "Illustrated London
News," and in which there was a noticeable prepon-
derance of female faces and figures. A stretcher
filled one end of the hut, and a rack for a gun, and
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY.
203
a little hanging looking-glass diversified the gable
opposite, while in the centre stood a chair and table.
All was scrupulously neat and clean, for Gregory kept
a little duster folded in the corner of his table-drawer,
just as he had seen his mother do, and every morning
before he went out he said his prayers, and made his
bed, and dusted the table and the legs of the chairs,
and even the pictures on the wall and the gun-
rack.
On this hot afternoon he took from beneath his
pillow a watch-bag made by his sister Jemima, and
took out the watch. Only half-past four! With a
suppressed groan he dropped it back, and sat down
beside the table. Half-past four! Presently he
roused himself. He would write to his sister Jemima.
He always wrote to her when he was miserable. She
was his safety-valve. He forgot her when he was
happy; but he used her when he was wretched.
―
He took out ink and paper. There was a family
crest and motto on the latter, for the Roses since
coming to the colony had discovered that they were
of distinguished lineage. Old Rose himself, an honest
English farmer, knew nothing of his noble descent;
but his wife and daughter knew, especially his
daughter. There were Roses in England who kept
a park and dated from the Conquest. So the colonial
"Rose Farm" became "Rose Manor" in remem-
brance of the ancestral domain, and the claim of the
Roses to noble blood was established, — in their own
minds at least.
Gregory took up one of the white, crested sheets;
but on deeper reflection he determined to take a pink
one, as more suitable to the state of his feelings. He
began:-
204
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"KOPJE ALONE, Monday Afternoon.
"MY DEAR JEMIMA,
وو
--
Then he looked up into the little glass opposite.
It was a youthful face reflected there, with curling
brown beard and hair; but in the dark blue eyes
there was a look of languid longing that touched him.
He re-dipped his pen and wrote,
"When I look up into the little glass that hangs
opposite me, I wonder if that changed and sad face—”
Here he sat still and reflected. It sounded almost
as if he might be conceited or unmanly to be looking
at his own face in the glass. No, that would not do.
So he looked for another pink sheet, and began again.
KOPJE ALONE, Monday Afternoon.
DEAR SISTER,It is hardly six months since I left
you to come to this spot, yet could you now see me I
know what you would say, I know what mother
would say,
"Can that be our Greg, that thing
-
-
with the strange look in his eyes?"
-
Yes, Jemima, it is your Greg, and the change has
been coming over me ever since I came here; but
it is greatest since yesterday. You know what sor-
rows I have passed through, Jemima; how unjustly I
was always treated at school, the masters keeping
me back and calling me a blockhead, though, as they
themselves allowed, I had the best memory of any
boy in the school, and could repeat whole books from
beginning to end. You know how cruelly father al-
ways used me, calling me a noodle and a milk-sop,
just because he could n't understand my fine nature.
You know how he has made a farmer of me instead
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY.
205
of a minister, as I ought to have been. You know it
all, Jemima; and how I have borne it all, not as a
woman who whines for every touch, but as a man
should, in silence.
-
-
-
But there are things, — there is a thing, - which the
soul longs to pour forth into a kindred ear.
Dear sister, have you ever known what it is to keep
wanting and wanting and wanting to kiss some one's
mouth, and you may not, - to touch some one's hand,
-
and you cannot? I am in love, Jemima.
The old Dutch-woman, from whom I hire this
place, has a little step-daughter, and her name begins
with E.
She is English. I do not know how her father
came to marry a Boer-woman. It makes me feel so
strange to put down that letter that I can hardly go
on writing, — E. I've loved her ever since I came
here. For weeks I have not been able to eat or drink;
my very tobacco, when I smoke, has no taste; and I
can remain for no more than five minutes in one
place, and sometimes feel as though I were really
going mad.
Yes-
fell on
Every evening I go there to fetch my milk.
terday she gave me some coffee. The spoon
the ground. She picked it up; when she gave it me
her finger touched mine. Jemima, I do not know if
I fancied it; I shivered hot, and she shivered too.
I thought, "It is all right; she will be mine; she
loves me!" Just then, Jemima, in came a fellow,
a great, coarse fellow, a German, a ridiculous fel-
low, with curls right down to his shoulders; it makes
one sick to look at him. He's only a servant of the
Boer-woman's, and a low, vulgar, uneducated thing,
that's never been to boarding-school in his life. He
-
―
206
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
had been to the next farm seeking sheep. When -
he came in she said, "Good evening, Waldo. Have
some coffee!" and she kissed him.
All last night I heard nothing else but "Have some
coffee! have some coffee!" If I went to sleep for a
moment I dreamed that her finger was pressing mine;
but when I woke with a start I heard her say, "Good
evening, Waldo. Have some coffee!"
Is this madness?
I can
I have not eaten a mouthful to-day. This evening
I go and propose to her. If she refuses me, I shall go
and kill myself to-morrow. There is a dam of water
close by. The sheep have drunk most of it up, but
there is still enough if I tie a stone to my neck.
It is a choice between death and madness.
endure no more.
If this should be the last letter you
ever get from me, think of me tenderly, and forgive
me. Without her life would be a howling wilderness,
- a long tribulation. She is my affinity; the one love
of my life, of my youth, of my manhood; my sun-
shine; my God-given blossom.
66
They never loved who dreamed that they loved once,
And who saith, I loved once'?
Not angels, whose deep eyes look down through realms of light!"
Your disconsolate brother, on what is, in all proba-
bility, the last and distracted night of his life,
P. S.
GREGORY NAZIANZEN ROSE.
Tell mother to take care of my pearl studs.
I left them in the wash-hand-stand drawer. Don't let
the children get hold of them.
P. P. S.-I shall take this letter with me to the
farm. If I turn down one corner you may know I
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY.
207
have been accepted; if not, you may know it is all up
with your heart-broken brother.
G. N. R.
Gregory having finished this letter read it over
with much approval, put it in an envelope, addressed
it, and sat contemplating the ink-pot, somewhat re-
lieved in mind.
The evening turned out chilly and very windy after
the day's heat. From afar off, as Gregory neared the
homestead on the brown pony, he could distinguish
a little figure in a little red cloak at the door of the
cow-kraal. Em leaned over the poles that barred the
gate, and watched the frothing milk run through
the black fingers of the herdsman, while the unwilling
cows stood with tethered heads by the milking-poles.
She had thrown the red cloak over her own head, and
held it under her chin with a little hand, to keep her
ears from the wind, that playfully shook it, and tossed
the little fringe of yellow hair into her eyes.
"Is it not too cold for you to be standing here?
said Gregory, coming softly close to her.
"Oh, no; it is so nice. I always come to watch
the milking. That red cow with the short horns is
bringing up the calf of the white cow that died. She
loves it so,
-just as if it were her own! It is so nice
to see her lick its little ears,
-
"The clouds are black.
to-night," said Gregory.
-
- just look!"
I think it is going to rain
"Yes," answered Em, looking up as well as she
could for the little yellow fringe.
"But I'm sure you must be cold," said Gregory, and
put his hand under the cloak, and found there a small
fist doubled up, soft, and very warm. He held it fast
in his hand.
208
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
66
Oh, Em, I love you better than all the world. be-
sides! Tell me, do you love me a little ?”
"Yes, I do," said Em, hesitating, and trying softly
to free her hand.
―
"Better than everything, better than all the
world, darling?" he asked, bending down so low that
the yellow hair was blown into his eyes.
"I don't know," said Em, gravely. "I do love you
very much; but I love my cousin who is at school,
and Waldo, very much. You see, I have known them
so long!"
"Oh, Em, do not talk to me so coldly," Gregory
cried, seizing the little arm that rested on the gate,
and pressing it till she was half afraid. The herds-
man had moved away to the other end of the kraal
now, and the cows, busy with their calves, took no
notice of the little human farce. "Em, if you talk so
to me, I will go mad! You must love me,
- love me
better than all! You must give yourself to me. I have
loved you since that first moment when I saw you walk-
ing by the stone-wall with a jug in your hands. You
were made for me, created for me! I will love you
till I die! Oh, Em, do not be so cold, so cruel to me!
-
He held her arm so tightly that her fingers relaxed
their hold, and the cloak fluttered down on to the
ground, and the wind played more roughly than ever
with the little yellow head.
"I do love you very much," she said ; "but I do
not know if I want to marry you. I love you better
than Waldo, but I can't tell if I love you better than
Lyndall. If you would let me wait for a week, I think
perhaps I could tell you.”
Gregory picked up the cloak, and wrapped it round
her.
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY.
209
"If you could but love me as I love you," he said;
"but no woman can love as a man can. I will wait
till next Saturday; I will not once come near you
till then. Good-by! Oh, Em," he said, turning again,
and twining his arm about her, and kissing her sur-
prised little mouth, "if you are not my wife I cannot
live. I have never loved another woman, and I never
shall,
never, never!"
-
"You make me afraid," said Em.
go, and I will fill your pail."
"I want no milk.
again till Saturday."
"Come let us
Good-by! You will not see me
Late that night, when every one else had gone to
bed, the yellow-haired little woman stood alone in the
kitchen. She had come to fill the kettle for the next
morning's coffee, and now stood before the fire. The
warm reflection lit the grave old-womanish little face,
that was so unusually thoughtful this evening.
"Better than all the world, better than everything,
- he loves me better than everything!" She said the
words aloud, as if they were more easy to believe if
she spoke them so. She had given out so much love
in her little life, and had got none of it back with
interest. Now one said, "I love you better than all
the world." One loved her better than she loved him.
How suddenly rich she was! She kept clasping and
unclasping her hands. So a beggar feels who falls
asleep on the pavement wet and hungry, and who
wakes in a palace-hall with servants and lights, and a
feast before him. Of course the beggar's is only a
dream, and he wakes from it; and this was real.
Gregory had said to her, "I will love you as long
as I live." She said the words over and over to her-
self like a song.
14
210
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"I will send for him to-morrow, and I will tell him
how I love him back," she said.
But Em needed not to send for him. Gregory dis-
covered on reaching home that Jemima's letter was
still in his pocket. And, therefore, much as he dis-
liked the appearance of vacillation and weakness, he
was obliged to be at the farm-house before sunrise to
post it.
"If I see her," Gregory said, "I shall only bow to
her. She shall see that I am a man, one who keeps
his word."
As to Jemima's letter, he had turned down one cor-
ner of the page, and then turned it back, leaving a
deep crease. That would show that he was neither
accepted nor rejected, but that matters were in an
intermediate condition. It was a more poetical way
than putting it in plain words.
Gregory was barely in time with his letter, for
Waldo was starting when he reached the homestead,
and Em was on the doorstep to see him off. When
he had given the letter, and Waldo had gone, Gregory
bowed stiffly and prepared to remount his own pony,
but somewhat slowly. It was still early; none of the
servants were about. Em came up close to him, and
put her little hand softly on his arm as he stood by
his horse.
"I do love you best of all," she said. She was not
frightened now, however much he kissed her. "I
wish I was beautiful and nice," she added, looking up
into his eyes as he held her against his breast.
"My darling, to me you are more beautiful than all
the women in the world; dearer to me than every-
thing it holds. If you were in hell, I would go after
you to find you there! If you were dead, though my
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY.
211
body moved, my soul would be under the ground with
you. All life as I pass it with you in my arms will
be perfect to me.
sunshine."
It will pass, pass like a ray of
Em thought how beautiful and grand his face was
as she looked up into it.
She raised her hand gently,
and put it on his forehead.
"You are so silent, so cold, my Em," he cried.
"Have you nothing to say to me?"
A little shade of wonder filled her eyes.
"I will do everything you tell me," she said.
What else could she say? Her idea of love was
only service.
"Then, my own precious one, promise never to kiss
that fellow again. I cannot bear that you should love
any one but me. You must not! I will not have it!
If every relation I had in the world were to die to-
morrow, I would be quite happy if I still only had
you! My darling, my love, why are you so cold?
Promise me not to love him any more. If you asked
me to do anything for you, I would do it, though it
cost my life."
Em put her hand very gravely round his neck.
"I will never kiss him," she said, "and I will try
not to love any one else. But I do not know if I will
be able."
"Oh, my darling, I think of you all night, all day.
I think of nothing else, love, nothing else," he said,
folding his arms about her.
Em was a little conscience-stricken; even that
morning she had found time to remember that in six
months her cousin would come back from school, and
she had thought to remind Waldo of the lozenges for
his cough, even when she saw Gregory coming.
212
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"I do not know how it is," she said humbly, nest-
ling to him, "but I cannot love you so much as yoù
love me. Perhaps it is because I am only a woman;
but I do love you as much as I can."
Now the Kaffir maids were coming from the huts.
He kissed her again, eyes and mouth and hands, and
left her.
Tant' Sannie was well satisfied when told of the
betrothment. She herself contemplated marriage
within the year with one or other of her numerous
"vrijers," and she suggested that the weddings might
take place together.
Em set to work busily to prepare her own house-
hold linen and wedding garments. Gregory was with
her daily, almost hourly, and the six months which
elapsed before Lyndall's return passed, as he felici-
tously phrased it, "like a summer night, when you
are dreaming of some one you love."
Late one evening, Gregory sat by his little love,
turning the handle of her machine as she drew her
work through it, and they talked of the changes they
would make when the Boer-woman was gone, and
the farm belonged to them alone. There should be a
new room here, and a kraal there. So they chatted
on. Suddenly Gregory dropped the handle, and im-
pressed a fervent kiss on the fat hand that guided
the linen.
"It
"You are so beautiful, Em," said the lover.
comes over me in a flood suddenly, how I love you."
Em smiled.
"Tant' Sannie says when I am her age no one will
look at me; and it is true. My hands are as short
and broad as a duck's foot, and my forehead is so low,
and I have n't any nose. I can't be pretty."
GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY.
213
She laughed softly. It was so nice to think he
should be so blind.
"When my cousin comes to-morrow, you will see
a beautiful woman, Gregory," she added presently.
"She is like a little queen; her shoulders are so up-
right, and her head looks as though it ought to have
a little crown upon it. You must come to see her
to-morrow as soon as she comes. I am sure you will
love her."
"Of course I shall come to see her, since she is
your cousin; but do you think I could ever think any
woman as lovely as I think you ?"
He fixed his seething eyes upon her.
"You could not help seeing that she is prettier,"
said Em, slipping her right hand into his; "but you
will never be able to like any one so much as you like
me."
Afterwards, when she wished her lover good-night,
she stood upon the doorstep to call a greeting after
him; and she waited, as she always did, till the brown
pony's hoofs became inaudible behind the "kopje."
Then she passed through the room where Tant' San-
nie lay snoring, and, through the little room that was
all draped in white, waiting for her cousin's return,
on to her own room.
She went to the chest of drawers to put away the
work she had finished, and sat down on the floor
before the lowest drawer. In it were the things she
was preparing for her marriage. Piles of white linen,
and some aprons and quilts; and in the little box in
the corner, a spray of orange-blossoms which she had
brought from a smouse." There too was a ring Gre-
gory had given her, and a veil his sister had sent, and
there was a little roll of fine embroidered work which
66
214
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
Trana had given her. It was too fine and good even
for Gregory's wife, just right for something very
small and soft. She would keep it. And she touched
it gently with her forefinger, smiling; and then she
blushed, and hid it far behind the other things. She
knew so well all that was in that drawer, and yet she
turned them all over as though she saw them for the
first time, packed them all out, and packed them all
in, without one fold or crumple; and then sat down
and looked at them.
-
To-morrow evening when Lyndall came she would
bring her here, and show it all to her. Lyndall would
so like to see it — the little wreath, and the ring, and
the white veil! It would be so nice! Then Em fell
to seeing pictures. Lyndall should live with them.
till she herself got married some day.
Every day when Gregory came home, tired from
his work, he would look about and say, "Where is
my wife? Has no one seen my wife? Wife, some
coffee!" and she would give him some.
Em's little face grew very grave at last, and she
knelt up and extended her hands over the drawer of
linen.
"Oh, God!" she said, "I am so glad! I do not
know what I have done that I should be so glad.
Thank you!"
CHAPTER IV.
LYNDALL.
SHE was more like a princess, yes, far more like a
princess, than the lady who still hung on the wall in
Tant' Sannie's bedroom. So Em thought. She leaned
back in the little armchair; she wore a gray dressing-
gown, and her long hair was combed out and hung to
the ground. Em, sitting before her, looked up with
mingled respect and admiration.
Lyndall was tired after her long journey, and had
come to her room early. Her eyes ran over the fa-
miliar objects. Strange to go away for four years,
and come back, and find that the candle standing on
the dressing-table still cast the shadow of an old
crone's head in the corner beyond the clothes-horse.
Strange that even a shadow should last longer than
man! She looked about among the old familiar
objects; all was there, but the old self was gone.
"What are you noticing?" asked Em.
"Nothing, and everything. I thought the windows
were higher. If I were you, when I get this place I
should raise the walls. There is not room to breathe
here; one suffocates."
"Gregory is going to make many alterations," said
Em; and drawing nearer to the gray dressing-gown,
respectfully, "Do you like him, Lyndall? Is he not
handsome?"
216
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"He must have been a fine baby," said Lyndall,
looking at the white dimity curtain that hung above
the window.
Em was puzzled.
"There are some men," said Lyndall, "whom you
never can believe were babies at all; and others you
never see without thinking how very nice they
must have looked when they wore socks and pink
sashes."
Em remained silent; then she said with a little
dignity, "When you know him you will love him as
I do. When I compare other people with him, they
seem so weak and little. Our hearts are so cold, our
loves are mixed up with so many other things. But
he no one is worthy of his love. I am not. It is
so great and pure."
-
"You need not make yourself unhappy on that
point, your poor return for his love, my dear," said.
Lyndall. "A man's love is a fire of olive-wood. It
leaps higher every moment; it roars, it blazes, it
shoots out red flames; it threatens to wrap you round
and devour you,— you who stand by like an icicle in
the glow of its fierce warmth. You are self-reproached
at your own chilliness and want of reciprocity. The
next day, when you go to warm your hands a little,
you find a few ashes. 'Tis a long love and cool
against a short love and hot; men, at all events, have
nothing to complain of."
"You speak so because you do not know men,”
said Em, instantly assuming the dignity of superior
knowledge so universally affected by affianced and
married women in discussing man's nature with their
uncontracted sisters. "You will know them too some
day, and then you will think differently," she said,
LYNDALL.
217
with the condescending magnanimity which superior
knowledge can always afford to show to ignorance.
Lyndall's little lip quivered in a manner indicative
of intense amusement. She twirled a massive ring
upon her forefinger a ring more suitable for the
hand of a man, and noticeable in design- a diamond
cross let into gold, with the initials "R. R." below it.
"Ah, Lyndall," Em cried, "perhaps you are en-
gaged yourself that is why you smile. Yes; I am
sure you are. Look at this ring!"
-
-
Lyndall drew the hand quickly from her.
"I am not in so great a hurry to put my neck be-
neath any man's foot; and I do not so greatly admire
the crying of babies," she said, as she closed her eyes
half wearily and leaned back in the chair. "There
are other women glad of such work."
Em felt rebuked and ashamed. How could she take
Lyndall, and show her the white linen and the wreath
and the embroidery? She was quiet for a little while,
and then began to talk about Trana and the old farm-
servants, till she saw her companion was weary; then
she rose and left her for the night. But after Em
was gone Lyndall sat on, watching the old crone's
face in the corner, and with a weary look, as though
the whole world's weight rested on these frail young
shoulders.
The next morning, Waldo, starting off before break-
fast with a bag of mealies slung over his shoulder to
feed the ostriches, heard a light step behind him.
"Wait for me; I am coming with you," said Lyn-
dall, adding as she came up to him, "if I had not
gone to look for you yesterday you would not have
come to greet me till now. Do you not like me any
longer, Waldo?”
218
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Yes - but
-
you are changed."
It was the old clumsy, hesitating mode of speech.
"You liked the pinafores better?" she said quickly.
She wore a dress of a simple cotton fabric, but very
fashionably made, and on her head was a broad white
hat. To Waldo she seemed superbly attired. She saw
it. "My dress has changed a little," she said, "and
I also; but not to you. Hang the bag over your other
shoulder, that I may see your face. You say so little
that if one does not look at you, you are an uncompre-
hended cipher." Waldo changed the bag, and they
walked on side by side. "You have improved," she
said. "Do you know that I have sometimes wished
to see you while I was away; not often, but still
sometimes."
They were at the gate of the first camp now. Waldo
partly emptied his bag of mealies, and they walked on
over the dewy ground.
"Have you learned much?" he asked her simply,
remembering how she had once said, "When I come
back again I shall know everything that a human
being can."
She laughed, -
-
"Are you thinking of my old boast? Yes; I have
learned something, though hardly what I expected,
and not quite so much. In the first place, I have
learned that one of my ancestors must have been a
very great fool; for they say nothing comes out in a
man but one of his forefathers possessed it before
him. In the second place, I have discovered that of
all cursed places under the sun, where the hungriest
soul can hardly pick up a few grains of knowledge, a
girls' boarding-school is the worst. They are called
finishing-schools, and the name tells accurately what
LYNDALL.
219
they are. They finish everything but imbecility and
weakness, and that they cultivate. They are nicely
adapted machines for experimenting on the question,
'Into how little space can a human soul be crushed?
I have seen some souls so compressed that they would
have fitted into a small thimble, and found room to
move there, wide room. A woman who has been for
many years at one of those places carries the mark
of the beast on her till she dies, though she may ex-
pand a little afterwards, when she breathes in the
free world."
-
"Were you miserable?" he asked, looking at her
with quick anxiety.
――
"I? - No. I am never miserable, and never happy.
I wish I were. But I should have run away from the
place on the fourth day, and hired myself to the first
Boer-woman whose farm I came to, to make fire under
her soap-pot, if I had had to live as the rest of the drove
did. Can you form an idea, Waldo, of what it must
be to be shut up with cackling old women, who are
without knowledge of life, without love of the beauti
ful, without strength, to have your soul cultured by
them? It is suffocation only to breathe the air they
breathe; but I made them give me room. I told them
I should leave, and they knew I came there on my
own account; so they gave me a bedroom without the
companionship of one of those things that were having
their brains slowly diluted and squeezed out of them.
I did not learn music, because I had no talent; and
when the drove made cushions, and hideous flowers
that the roses laugh at, and a footstool in six weeks
that a machine would have made better in five minutes,
I went to my room. With the money saved from such
work I bought books and newspapers, and at night I
220
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
sat up. I read and epitomized what I read; and I
found time to write some plays, and find out how
hard it is to make your thoughts look anything but
imbecile fools when you paint them with ink on paper.
In the holidays I learned a great deal more. I made
acquaintances, saw a few places and many people, and
some different ways of living, which is more than any
books can show one. On the whole I am not dissatis-
fied with my four years. I have not learned what I
expected; but I have learned something else. What
have you been doing?"
"Nothing."
"That is not possible. I shall find out by-and-by."
They still stepped on side by side over the dewy
bushes. Then suddenly she turned on him.
"Don't you wish you were a woman, Waldo?"
"No," he answered readily.
She laughed.
"I thought not. Even you are too worldly-wise for
that. I never met a man who did. This is a pretty
ring," she said, holding out her little hand, that the
morning sun might make the diamonds sparkle.
"Worth fifty pounds at least. I will give it to the
first man who tells me he would like to be a woman.
There might be one on Robben Island¹ who would win
it perhaps, but I doubt it even there. It is delightful
to be a woman; but every man thanks the Lord de-
voutly that he is n't one.'
She drew her hat to one side to keep the sun out of
her eyes as she walked. Waldo looked at her so in-
tently that he stumbled over the bushes. Yes, this
was his little Lyndall who had worn the check pina-
1 Lunatics at the Cape are sent to Robben Island.
LYNDALL.
221
fores; he saw it now, and he walked closer beside her.
They reached the next camp.
"Let us wait at this camp and watch the birds,"
she said, as an ostrich hen came bounding towards
them, with velvety wings outstretched, while far away
over the bushes the head of the cock was visible as
he sat brooding on the eggs.
Lyndall folded her arms on the gate bar, and Waldo
threw his empty bag on the wall, and leaned beside
her.
"I like these birds," she said; "they share each
other's work, and are companions. Do you take an
interest in the position of women, Waldo?"
"No."
"I thought not. No one does, unless they are in
need of a subject upon which to show their wit. And
as for you, from of old you can see nothing that is
not separated from you by a few millions of miles,
and strewed over with mystery. If women were the
inhabitants of Jupiter, of whom you had happened to
hear something, you would pore over us and our con-
dition night and day; but because we are before your
eyes you never look at us. You care nothing that this
is ragged and ugly," she said, putting her little finger
on his sleeve; "but you strive mightily to make an im-
aginary leaf on an old stick beautiful. I'm sorry you
don't care for the position of women; I should have
liked us to be friends; and it is the only thing about
which I think much, or feel much, if, indeed, I have
any feeling about anything," she added flippantly, re-
adjusting her dainty little arms. "When I was a
baby, I fancy my parents left me out in the frost one
night, and I got nipped internally; it feels so!"
-
"I have only a few old thoughts," he said, "and I
222
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
think them over and over again, always beginning
where I left off. I never get any further; I am weary
of them."
"Like an old hen that sits on its eggs month after
month, and they never come out?" she said quickly.
"I am so pressed in upon by new things that, lest
they should trip one another up, I have to keep forc-
ing them back. My head swings sometimes. But this
one thought stands, never goes, if I might but be
one of those born in the future; then, perhaps, to be
born a woman will not be to be born branded."
-
Waldo looked at her. It was hard to say whether
she were in earnest or mocking.
"But we
"I know it is foolish. Wisdom never kicks at the
iron walls it can't bring down," she said.
are cursed, Waldo; born cursed from the time our
mothers bring us into the world till the shrouds are
put on us. Do not look at me as though I were talking
nonsense. Everything has two sides, the outside
that is ridiculous, and the inside that is solemn.”
"I am not laughing," said the boy, sedately enough;
"but what curses you 99
?
He thought she would not reply to him she waited
so long.
"It is not what is done to us, but what is made of
us," she said at last, "that wrongs us. No man can
be really injured but by what modifies himself. We
all enter the world little plastic beings, with so much
natural force, perhaps, but for the rest-blank; and
the world tells us what we are to be, and shapes us
by the ends it sets before us. To you it says, Work!
and to us it says, Seem! To you it says, As you
approximate to man's highest ideal of God, as your
arm is strong and your knowledge great, and the
LYNDALL.
223
power to labor is with you, so you shall gain all that
human heart desires. To us it says, Strength shall
not help you, nor knowledge, nor labor. You shall
gain what men gain, but by other means. And so the
world makes men and women.
"Look at this little chin of mine, Waldo, with the
dimple in it. It is but a small part of my person;
but though I had a knowledge of all things under the
sun, and the wisdom to use it, and the deep loving
heart of an angel, it would not stead me through life
like this little chin. I can win money with it, I can
win love; I can win power with it, I can win fame.
What would knowledge help me? The less a woman
has in her head the lighter she is for climbing. I
once heard an old man say that he never saw intellect
help a woman so much as a pretty ankle; and it was
the truth. They begin to shape us to our cursed end,"
she said, with her lips drawn in to look as though they
smiled, "when we are tiny things in shoes and socks.
We sit with our little feet drawn up under us in the
window, and look out at the boys in their happy play.
We want to go. Then a loving hand is laid on us.
'Little one, you cannot go,' they say; 'your little face
will burn, and your nice white dress be spoiled.' We
feel it must be for our good, it is so lovingly said; but
we cannot understand, and we kneel still with one
little cheek wistfully pressed against the pane. After-
wards we go and thread blue beads, and make a string
for our neck; and we go and stand before the glass.
We see the complexion we were not to spoil, and the
white frock, and we look into our own great eyes.
Then the curse begins to act on us. It finishes its
work when we are grown women, who no more look
out wistfully at a more healthy life; we are contented.
224
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
We fit our sphere as a Chinese woman's foot fits her
shoe, exactly as though God had made both; and
yet he knows nothing of either. In some of us the
shaping to our end has been quite completed. The
parts we are not to use have been quite atrophied,
and have even dropped off; but in others—and we
are not less to be pitied-they have been weakened
and left. We wear the bandages, but our limbs have
not grown to them; we know that we are compressed,
and chafe against them.
"But what does it help? A little bitterness, a
little longing when we are young, a little futile
searching for work, a little passionate striving for
room for the exercise of our powers, - and then we
go with the drove. A woman must march with her
regiment. In the end she must be trodden down or
go with it; and if she is wise she goes.
-
"I see in your great eyes what you are thinking,"
she said, glancing at him; "I always know what the
person I am talking to is thinking of. How is this
woman who makes such a fuss worse off than I? I
will show you by a very little example. We stand
here at this gate this morning, both poor, both young,
both friendless; there is not much to choose between
us. Let us turn away just as we are, to make our
way in life. This evening you will come to a farmer's
house. The farmer, albeit you come alone and on
foot, will give you a pipe of tobacco and a cup of
coffee and a bed. If he has no dam to build and no
child to teach, to-morrow you can go on your way
with a friendly greeting of the hand. I, if I come
to the same place to-night, will have strange ques-
tions asked me, strange glances cast on me. The
Boer-wife will shake her head and give me food to
LYNDALL.
225
-
eat with the Kaffirs, and a right to sleep with the
dogs. That would be the first step in our progress,
a very little one, but every step to the end would
repeat it. We were equals once when we lay new-
born babes on our nurse's knees. We shall be equals
again when they tie up our jaws for the last sleep."
Waldo looked in wonder at the little quivering
face; it was a glimpse into a world of passion and
feeling wholly new to him.
--
"Mark you," she said, "we have always this ad-
vantage over you, - we can at any time step into
ease and competence, where you must labor patiently
for it. A little weeping, a little wheedling, a little
self-degradation, a little careful use of our advantages,
and then some man will say, 'Come, be my wife!'
With good looks and youth marriage is easy to attain.
There are men enough; but a woman who has sold
herself, even for a ring and a new name, need hold
her skirt aside for no creature in the street. They
both earn their bread in one way. Marriage for love
is the beautifulest external symbol of the union of
souls; marriage without it is the uncleanliest traffic
that defiles the world." She ran her little finger
savagely along the topmost bar, shaking off the dozen
little dew-drops that still hung there. "And they
tell us we have men's chivalrous attention!" she
cried. "When we ask to be doctors, lawyers, law-
makers, anything but ill-paid drudges, they say,
'No; but you have men's chivalrous attention; now
think of that and be satisfied! What would you do
without it?" "
The bitter little silvery laugh, so seldom heard,
rang out across the bushes. She bit her little teeth
together.
15
226
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"I was coming up in Cobb and Co.'s the other day.
At a little wayside hotel we had to change the large
coach for a small one. We were ten passengers,
eight men and two women. As I sat in the house
the gentlemen came and whispered to me, 'There is
not room for all in the new coach, take your seat
quickly.' We hurried out, and they gave me the
best seat, and covered me with rugs, because it
was drizzling. Then the last passenger came run-
ning up to the coach, an old woman with a won-
derful bonnet, and a black shawl pinned with a
yellow pin.
-
"There is no room,' they said; 'you must wait
till next week's coach takes you up;' but she climbed
on to the step, and held on at the window with both
hands.
"My son-in-law is ill, and I must go and see him,'
she said.
"My good woman,' said one, 'I am really exceed-
ingly sorry that your son-in-law is ill; but there is
absolutely no room for you here.' -
"You had better get down,' said another, 'or the
wheel will catch you.'
"I got up to give her my place.
666
that.'
6
'Oh, no, no!' they cried, we will not allow
"I will rather kneel,' said one, and he crouched
down at my feet; so the woman came in.
"There were nine of us in that coach, and only one
showed chivalrous attention, and that was a woman
to a woman.
-
"I shall be old and ugly too one day, and I shall
look for men's chivalrous help, but I shall not
"find it.. men's
1
LYNDALL.
227
"The bees are very attentive to the flowers till
their honey is done, and then they fly over them. I.
don't know if the flowers feel grateful to the bees;
they are great fools if they do.”
"But some women," said Waldo, speaking as though
the words forced themselves from him at that mo-
ment, some women have power."
""
She lifted her beautiful eyes to his face.
"Power! Did you ever hear of men being asked
whether other souls should have power or not? It is
born in them. You may dam up the fountain of
water, and make it a stagnant marsh, or you may let
it run free and do its work; but you cannot say
whether it shall be there; it is there. And it will
act, if not openly for good, then covertly for evil;
but it will act. If Goethe had been stolen away a
child, and reared in a robber horde in the depths of
a German forest, do you think the world would have
had Faust and Iphigenie? But he would have been
Goethe still stronger, wiser than his fellows. At
night, round their watch-fire, he would have chanted
wild songs of rapine and murder, till the dark faces
about him were moved and trembled.
His songs
would have echoed on from father to son, and nerved
the heart and arm, for evil. Do you think if Na-
poleon had been born a woman that he would have
been contented to give small tea-parties and talk
small scandal? He would have risen; but the world
would not have heard of him as it hears of him now,
-
a man great and kingly, with all his sins; he
would have left one of those names that stain the leaf
of every history, the names of women, who, having
power, but being denied the right to exercise it openly,
rule in the dark, covertly, and by stealth, through
-
228
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
the men whose passions they feed on and by whom
they climb.
"Power!" she said suddenly, smiting her little
hand upon the rail. "Yes, we have power; and
since we are not to expend it in tunnelling mountains,
nor healing diseases, nor making laws, nor money,
nor on any extraneous object, we expend it on you.
You are our goods, our merchandise, our material for
operating on; we buy you, we sell you, we make fools
of you, we act the wily old Jew with you, we keep
six of you crawling to our little feet, and praying
only for a touch of our little hand; and they say
truly, there was never an ache or pain or a broken
heart but a woman was at the bottom of it.
We are
not to study law, nor science, nor art, so we study
you. There is never a nerve or fibre in your man's
nature but we know it. We keep six of you dancing
in the palm of one little hand," she said, balancing
her outstretched arm gracefully, as though tiny be-
ings disported themselves in its palm. "There — we
throw you away, and you sink to the devil," she said,
folding her arms composedly. "There was never
a man who said one word for woman but he said two
for man, and three for the whole human race.
-
She watched the bird pecking up the last yellow
grains; but Waldo looked only at her.
When she spoke again it was very measuredly.
66
They bring weighty arguments against us when
we ask for the perfect freedom of women," she said;
"but, when you come to the objections, they are like
pumpkin devils with candles inside, hollow, and
can't bite. They say that women do not wish for the
sphere and freedom we ask for them, and would not
use it.
-
LYNDALL.
229
"If the bird does like its cage, and does like its
sugar, and will not leave it, why keep the door so
very carefully shut? Why not open it, only a little?
Do they know, there is many a bird will not break
its wings against the bars, but would fly if the doors
were open." She knit her forehead, and leaned
farther over the bars.
"Then they say, 'If the women have the liberty
you ask for, they will be found in positions for which
they are not fitted!' If two men climb one ladder,
did you ever see the weakest anywhere but at the
foot? The surest sign of fitness is success. The
weakness never wins but where there is handicapping.
Nature left to herself will as beautifully apportion a
man's work to his capacities as long ages ago she
graduated the colors on the bird's breast. If we are
not fit, you give us to no purpose the right to labor;
the work will fall out of our hands into those that
are wiser."
She talked more rapidly as she went on, as one
talks of that over which they have brooded long, and
which lies near their hearts.
Waldo watched her intently.
66
They say women have one great and noble work
left them, and they do it ill. That is true; they do
it execrably. It is the work that demands the broad-
est culture, and they have not even the narrowest.
The lawyer may see no deeper than his law-books,
and the chemist see no further than the windows of
his laboratory, and they may do their work well. But
the woman who does woman's work needs a many-
sided, multiform culture; the heights and depths of
human life must not be beyond the reach of her
vision; she must have knowledge of men and things
230
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
in many states, a wide catholicity of sympathy, the
strength that springs from knowledge, and the mag-
nanimity which springs from strength. We bear the
world, and we make it. The souls of little children
are marvellously delicate and tender things, and keep
forever the shadow that first falls on them, and that
is the mother's, or at best a woman's. There was
never a great man who had not a great mother - it is
hardly an exaggeration. The first six years of our
life make us; all that is added later is veneer; and
yet some say, if a woman can cook a dinner or dress
herself well she has culture enough.
-
"The mightiest and noblest of human work is
given to us, and we do it ill. Send a navvy into an
artist's studio to work, and see what you will find
there! And yet, thank God, we have this work,"
she added quickly; "it is the one window through
which we see into the great world of earnest labor.
The meanest girl who dances and dresses becomes
something higher when her children look up into her
face, and ask her questions. It is the only education
we have, and this they cannot take from us." ;
She smiled slightly; "They say that we complain
of woman's being compelled to look upon marriage as
a profession; but that she is free to enter upon it or
leave it as she pleases.
66
Yes, and a cat set afloat in a pond is free to sit
in the tub till it dies there, it is under no obligation
to wet its feet; and a drowning man may catch at a
straw or not, just as he likes; it is a glorious liberty!
Let any man think for five minutes of what old
maidenhood means to a woman, and then let him be
silent. Is it easy to bear through life a name that
in itself signifies defeat; to dwell, as nine out of
LYNDALL.
231
ten unmarried women must, under the finger of an-
other woman? Is it easy to look forward to an old
age without honor, without the reward of useful
labor, without love? I wonder how many men there
are who would give up everything that is dear in life
for the sake of maintaining a high ideal purity."
She laughed a little laugh that was clear without
being pleasant. "And then, when they have no other
argument against us, they say, 'Go on; but when
you have made women what you wish, and her chil-
dren inherit her culture, you will defeat yourself.
Man will gradually become extinct from excess of
intellect, the passions which replenish the race will
die.' Fools!" she said, curling her pretty lip.
"A
Hottentot sits at the roadside, and feeds on a rotten
bone he has found there, and takes out his bottle of
Cape-smoke, and swills at it, and grunts with satisfac-
tion; and the cultured child of the nineteenth century
sits in his armchair, and sips choice wines with the
lip of a connoisseur, and tastes delicate dishes with
a delicate palate, and with a satisfaction of which
the Hottentot knows nothing. Heavy jaw and slop-
ing forehead all have gone with increasing intel-
lect; but the animal appetites are there still,-refined,
discriminative, but immeasurably intensified. Fools!
Before men forgave or worshipped, while they still
were weak on their hind legs, did they not eat and
drink, and fight for wives? When all the later ad-
ditions to humanity have vanished, will not the foun-
dation on which they are built remain ?”
She was silent then for a while, and said somewhat
dreamily, more as though speaking to herself than to
him,
-
"They ask, 'What will you gain, even if man does
232
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
not become extinct? You will have brought justice
and equality on to the earth, and sent love from it.
When men and women are equals they will love no
more. Your highly-cultured women will not be lova-
ble, will not love.'
"Do they see nothing, understand nothing? It is
Tant' Sannie who buries husbands one after another,
and folds her hands resignedly, -The Lord gave,
and the Lord hath taken away, and blessed be the
name of the Lord,' and she looks for another. It
is the hard-headed, deep thinker who, when the wife
who has thought and worked with him goes, can find
no rest, and lingers near her till he finds sleep beside
her.
"A great soul draws and is drawn with a more
fierce intensity than any small one. By every inch
we grow in intellectual height our love strikes down
its roots deeper, and spreads out its arms wider. It
is for love's sake yet more than for any other that we
look for that new time." She had leaned her head
against the stones, and watched with her sad, soft
eyes the retreating bird. "Then when that time
comes," she said lowly, "when love is no more bought
or sold, when it is not a means of making bread, when
each woman's life is filled with earnest, independent
labor, then love will come to her, a strange sudden
sweetness breaking in upon her earnest work; not
sought for, but found. Then, but not now
--
""
Waldo waited for her to finish the sentence, but she
seemed to have forgotten him.
"Lyndall," he said, putting his hand upon her-
she started —“if you think that that new time will
be so great, so good, you who speak so easily - "
She interrupted him.
LYNDALL.
233
"Speak! speak!" she said; "the difficulty is not
to speak; the difficulty is to keep silence."
"But why do you not try to bring that time ?" he
said with pitiful simplicity. "When you speak I be-
lieve all you say; other people would listen to you
also."
"I am not so sure of that," she said with a smile.
Then over the small face came the weary look it
had worn last night as it watched the shadow in the
corner. Ah, so weary!
"I, Waldo, I?" she said. "I can do nothing good
for myself, nothing for the world, till some one wakes
me. I am asleep, swathed, shut up in self; till I have
been delivered I can deliver no one."
He looked at her wondering, but she was not look-
ing at him.
"To see the good and the beautiful," she said, "and
to have no strength to live it, is only to be Moses on
the mountain of Nebo, with the land at your feet and
no power to enter. It would be better not to see it.
Come," she said, looking up into his face, and seeing
its uncomprehending expression, "let us go, it is get-
ting late. Doss is anxious for his breakfast also," she
added, wheeling round and calling to the dog, who
was endeavoring to unearth a mole, an occupation to
which he had been zealously addicted from the third
month, but in which he had never on any single occa-
sion proved successful.
Waldo shouldered his bag, and Lyndall walked on
before in silence, with the dog close to her side. Per-
haps she thought of the narrowness of the limits
within which a human soul may speak and be under-
stood by its nearest of mental kin, of how soon it
reaches that solitary land of the individual experience,
234
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
in which no fellow footfall is ever heard. Whatever
her thoughts may have been, she was soon interrupted.
Waldo came close to her, and standing still, produced
with awkwardness from his breast-pocket a small
carved box.
"I made it for you," he said, holding it out.
"I like it," she said, examining it carefully.
The workmanship was better than that of the grave-
post. The flowers that covered it were delicate, and
here and there small conical protuberances were let in
among them. She turned it round critically. Waldo
bent over it lovingly.
“There is one strange thing about it," he said earn-
estly, putting a finger on one little pyramid. "I made
it without these, and I felt something was wrong; I
tried many changes, and at last I let these in, and then
it was right. But why was it? They are not beauti-
ful in themselves."
"They relieve the monotony of the smooth leaves,
I suppose."
He shook his head as over a weighty matter.
"The sky is monotonous," he said, "when it is blue,
and yet it is beautiful. I have thought of that often;
but it is not monotony and it is not variety makes
beauty. What is it? The sky, and your face, and
this box,
the same thing is in them all, only more in
the sky and in your face. But what is it?"
-
She smiled, -
"So you are at your old work still. Why, why,
why? What is the reason? It is enough for me,"
she said, "if I find out what is beautiful and what is
ugly, what is real and what is not. Why it is there,
and over the final cause of things in general, I don't
trouble myself; there must be one, but what is it to
LYNDALL.
235
me? If I howl to all eternity, I shall never get hold
of it; and if I did, I might be no better off. But you
Germans are born with an aptitude for burrowing;
you can't help yourselves. You must sniff after rea-
sons, just as that dog must after a mole. He knows
perfectly well he will never catch it, but he's under
the imperative necessity of digging for it."
"But he might find it."
66
'Might; but he never has and never will. Life is
too short to run after 'mights'; we must have
certainties."
She tucked the box under her arm and was about to
walk on, when Gregory Rose, with shining spurs, an
ostrich feather in his hat, and a silver-headed whip,
careered past. He bowed gallantly as he went by.
They waited till the dust of the horse's hoofs had laid
itself.
-
one
"There," said Lyndall, "goes a true woman
born for the sphere that some women have to fill with-
out being born for it. How happy he would be sewing
frills into his little girl's frocks, and how pretty he
would look sitting in a parlor, with a rough man mak-
ing love to him! Don't you think so?"
"I shall not stay here when he is master," Waldo
answered, not able to connect any kind of beauty with
Gregory Rose.
"I sheuld imagine not. The rule of a woman is
tyranny; but the rule of a man-woman grinds fine.
Where are you going?"
"Anywhere."
"What to do?
99
"See, see everything."
-
"You will be disappointed."
"And were you?"
236
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Yes; and you will be more so. I want some
things that men and the world give; you do not. If
you have a few yards of earth to stand on, and a bit
of blue over you, and something that you cannot see
to dream about, you have all that you need, all that
you know how to use. But I like to see real men.
Let them be as disagreeable as they please, they are
more interesting to me than flowers, or trees, or stars,
or any other thing under the sun. Sometimes," she
added, walking on, and shaking the dust daintily from
her skirts, "when I am not too busy trying to find a
new way of doing my hair that will show my little
neck to better advantage, or over other work of that
kind, sometimes it amuses me intensely to trace out
the resemblance between one man and another; to
see how Tant' Sannie and I, you and Bonaparte, Saint
Simon on his pillar and the Emperor dining off larks'
tongues, are one and the same compound, merely
mixed in different proportions. What is microscopic
in one is largely developed in another; what is a ru-
dimentary in one man is an active organ in another;
but all things are in all men, and one soul is the model
of all. We shall find nothing new in human nature
after we have once carefully dissected and analyzed
the one being we ever shall truly know, -ourself.
The Kaffir girl threw some coffee on my arm in bed
this morning; I felt displeased, but said nothing.
Tant' Sannie would have thrown the saucer at her
and sworn for an hour; but the feeling would be the
same irritated displeasure. If a huge animated stom-
ach like Bonaparte were put under a glass by a skilful
mental microscopist, even he would be found to have
an embryonic doubling somewhere indicative of a
heart, and rudimentary buddings that might have
1
LYNDALL.
237
become conscience and sincerity
-
Let me take your
arm, Waldo. How full you are of mealie dust. No,
never mind; it will brush off. And sometimes what
is more amusing still than tracing the likeness be-
tween man and man is to trace the analogy there
always is between the progress and development of
one individual and of a whole nation; or again, be-
tween a single nation and the entire human race. It
is pleasant when it dawns on you that the one is just
the other written out in large letters; and very odd to
find all the little follies and virtues, and developments
and retrogressions, written out in the big world's book
that you find in your little internal self. It is the
most amusing thing I know of; but of course being
a woman, I have not often time for such amusements.
Professional duties always first, you know. It takes
a great deal of time and thought always to look per-
fectly exquisite, even for a pretty woman. Is the old
buggy still in existence, Waldo?"
66 Yes;
but the harness is broken."
"Well, I wish you would mend it. You must teach
me to drive. I must learn something while I am here.
I got the Hottentot girl to show me how to make
'sarsarties' this morning; and Tant' Sannie is going
to teach me to make kappjes. I will come and sit
with you this afternoon while you mend the harness."
"Thank you."
"No, don't thank me; I come for my own pleasure.
I never find any one I can talk to. Women bore me,
and men, I talk so to, 'Going to the ball this eve-
ning? Nice little dog that of yours. Pretty little
ears. So fond of pointer pups!' And they think me
fascinating, charming! Men are like the earth and
we are the moon; we turn always one side to them,
238
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
and they think there is no other, because they don't
see it; but there is."
―
They had reached the house now.
"Tell me when you set to work," she said, and
walked towards the door.
Waldo stood to look after her, and Doss stood at
his side, a look of painful uncertainty depicted on his
small countenance, and one little foot poised in the
air. Should he stay with his master or go? He
looked at the figure with the wide straw hat moving
towards the house, and he looked up at his master;
then he put down the little paw and went. Waldo
watched them both in at the door, and then walked
away alone. He was satisfied that at least his dog
was with her.
CHAPTER V.
TANT' SANNIE HOLDS AN UPSITTING, AND GREGORY
WRITES A LETTER.
Ir was just after sunset, and Lyndall had not yet
returned from her first driving-lesson, when the lean
colored woman standing at the corner of the house to
enjoy the evening breeze, saw coming along the road
a strange horseman. Very narrowly she surveyed him
as slowly he approached. He was attired in the deep-
est mourning, the black crape round his tall hat totally
concealing the black felt, and nothing but a dazzling
shirt-front relieving the funereal tone of his attire.
He rode much forward in his saddle, with his chin
resting on the uppermost of his shirt-studs, and there
was an air of meek subjection to the will of Heaven,
and to what might be in store for him, that bespoke
itself even in the way in which he gently urged his
steed. He was evidently in no hurry to reach his des-
tination, for the nearer he approached to it the slacker
did his bridle hang. The colored woman having duly
inspected him dashed into the dwelling.
"Here is another one," she cried; "a widower, - I
see it by his hat.”
"Good Lord!" said Tant' Sannie; "it's the seventh
I've had this month; but the men know where sheep
and good looks, and money in the bank are to be
found," she added, winking knowingly. "How does
he look?"
240
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Nineteen, weak eyes, white hair, little round nose,"
said the maid.
"Then it's he! then it's he!" said Tant' Sannie,
triumphantly; "Little Piet Vander Walt, whose wife
died last month; two farms, twelve thousand sheep.
I've not seen him; but my sister-in-law told me about
him, and I dreamed about him last night."
Here Piet's black hat appeared in the doorway, and
the Boer-woman drew herself up in dignified silence,
extended the tips of her fingers, and motioned solemnly
to a chair. The young man seated himself, sticking
his feet as far under it as they would go, and said
mildly,
-
"I am Little Piet Vander Walt, and my father is
Big Piet Vander Walt."
Tant' Sannie said solemnly, "Yes."
"Aunt," said the young man, starting up spasmodi-
cally, can I off-saddle?'"
66
"Yes."
He seized his hat, and disappeared with a rush
through the door.
"I told you so! I knew it!" said Tant' Sannie.
"The dear Lord does n't send dreams for nothing.
Did n't I tell you this morning that I dreamed of a
great beast like a sheep, with red eyes, and that I
killed it? Was n't the white wool his hair, and the
red eyes his weak eyes, and my killing him meant
marriage? Get supper ready quickly; the sheep's
inside and roaster-cakes. We shall sit up to-night."
To young Piet Vander Walt that supper was a
period of intense torture. There was something over-
awing in that assembly of English people, with their
incomprehensible speech; and, moreover, it was his
first courtship. His first wife had courted him, and
TANT' SANNIE HOLDS AN UPSITTING.
241
ten months of severe domestic rule had not raised his
spirit nor courage. He ate little, and when he raised
a morsel to his lips, glanced guiltily round to see if he
were not observed. He had put three rings on his
little finger, with the intention of sticking it out stiffly
when he raised a coffee-cup; now the little finger was
curled miserably among its fellows. It was small re-
lief when the meal was over, and Tant' Sannie and he
repaired to the front room. Once seated there, he set
his knees close together, stood his black hat upon
them, and wretchedly turned the brim up and down.
But supper had cheered Tant' Sannie, who found it
impossible longer to maintain that decorous silence,
and whose heart yearned over the youth.
"I was related to your Aunt Selena who died,"
said Tant' Sannie. "My mother's step-brother's child
was married to her father's brother's step-nephew's
niece."
"Yes, Aunt," said the young man, "I knew we
were related."
"It was her cousin," said Tant' Sannie, now fairly
on the flow," who had the cancer cut out of her breast
by the other doctor, who was not the right doctor they
sent for, but who did it quite as well."
"Yes, Aunt," said the young man.
"I've heard about it often," said Tant' Sannie.
"And he was the son of the old doctor that they say
died on Christmas Day; but I don't know if that's
true. People do tell such awful lies. Why should he
die on Christmas Day more than any other day?"
"Yes, Aunt, why?" said the young man, meekly.
"Did you ever have the toothache?" asked Tant'
Sannie.
"No, Aunt."
16
242
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
--
"Well, they say that doctor, not the son of the
old doctor that died on Christmas Day; the other that
didn't come when he was sent for, - he gave such
good stuff for the toothache that if you opened the
bottle in the room where any one was bad they got
better directly. You could see it was good stuff,"
said Tant' Sannie; "it tasted horrid. That was a
real doctor! He used to give a bottle so high," said
the Boer-woman, raising her hand a foot from the
table, "you could drink at it for a month and it
would n't get done, and the same medicine was good
for all sorts of sicknesses, croup, measles, jaundice,
dropsy. Now you have to buy a new kind for each
sickness. The doctors are n't so good as they used
to be."
-
"No, Aunt," said the young man, who was trying to
gain courage to stick out his legs and clink his spurs
together. He did so at last.
Tant' Sannie had noticed the spurs before; but she
thought it showed a nice manly spirit, and her heart
warmed yet more to the youth.
“Did you ever have convulsions when you were a
baby?" asked Tant' Sannie.
"Yes," said the young man.
too.
"Strange!" said Tant' Sannie; "I had convulsions
Wonderful that we should be so much alike!"
"Aunt," said the young man, explosively, "can we
sit up to-night?"
Tant' Sannie hung her head and half-closed her
eyes; but finding that her little wiles were thrown
away, the young man staring fixedly at his hat, she
simpered "Yes," and went away to fetch candles.
In the dining-room Em worked at her machine, and
Gregory sat close beside her, his great blue eyes turned
TANT' SANNIE HOLDS AN UPSITTING.
243
to the window where Lyndall leaned out talking to
Waldo.
Tant' Sannie took two candles out of the cupboard,
and held them up triumphantly, winking all round the
room.
"He's asked for them," she said.
"Does he want them for his horse's rubbed back?"
asked Gregory, new to up-country life.
"No," said Tant' Sannie, indignantly; "we're go-
ing to sit up!" and she walked off in triumph with the
candles.
Nevertheless, when all the rest of the house had re-
tired, when the long candle was lighted, when the
coffee-kettle was filled, when she sat in the elbow-
chair, with her lover on a chair close beside her, and
when the vigil of the night was fairly begun, she be-
gan to find it wearisome.
The young man looked
chilly, and said nothing.
"Won't you put your feet on my stove?" said
Tant' Sannie.
“No, thank you, Aunt," said the young man; and
both lapsed into silence.
At last Tant' Sannie, afraid of going to sleep, tapped
a strong cup of coffee for herself, and handed another
to her lover. This visibly revived both.
"How long were you married, Cousin?"
"Ten months, Aunt."
"How old was your baby?
"Three days when it died."
99
"It's very hard when we must give our husbands
and wives to the Lord," said Tant' Sannie.
"Very," said the young man; "but it's the Lord's
will."
"Yes," said Tant' Sannie, and sighed.
244
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"She was such a good wife, Aunt: I've known her
break a churn-stick over a maid's head for only letting
dust come on a milk-cloth."
Tant' Sannie felt a twinge of jealousy. She had
never broken a churn-stick on a maid's head.
"I hope your wife made a good end," she said.
"Oh, beautiful, Aunt: she said up a psalm and two
hymns and a half before she died."
"Did she leave any messages?" asked Tant' Sannie.
"No," said the young man; "but the night before
she died I was lying at the foot of her bed; I felt her
foot kick me.
"Piet,' she said.
"Annie, my heart,' said I.
"My little baby that died yesterday has been here,
and it stood over the wagon-box,' she said.
"What did it say?' I asked.
"It said that if I died you must marry a fat woman.'
"I will,' I said, and I went to sleep again. Pres-
ently she woke me.
"The little baby has been here again, and it says
you must marry a woman over thirty, and who's had
two husbands.'
"I didn't go to sleep after that for a long time,
Aunt; but when I did she woke me.
I
"The baby has been here again,' she said, 'and it
says you must n't marry a woman with a mole.'
told her I would n't; and the next day she died."
"That was a vision from the Redeemer," said Tant'
Sannie.
The young man nodded his head mournfully. He
thought of a younger sister of his wife's who was not
fat, and who had a mole, and of whom his wife had
always been jealous, and he wished the little baby
TANT' SANNIE HOLDS AN UPSITTING.
245
had liked better staying in heaven than coming and
standing over the wagon-chest.
"I suppose that's why you came to me," said Tant'
Sannie.
"Yes, Aunt. And pa said I ought to get married
before shearing-time. It is bad if there's no one to
see after things then; and the maids waste such a lot
of fat."
"When do you want to get married?
"Next month, Aunt," said the young man, in a tone
of hopeless resignation. "May I kiss you, Aunt?"
"Fie! fie!" said Tant' Sannie, and then gave him
a resounding kiss. "Come, draw your chair a little
closer," she said; and their elbows now touching they
sat on through the night.
The next morning at dawn, as Em passed through
Tant' Sannie's bedroom, she found the Boer-woman
pulling off her boots preparatory to climbing into bed.
"Where is Piet Vander Walt?"
"Just gone," said Tant' Sannie; "and I am going
to marry him this day four weeks. I am dead sleepy,"
she added; "the stupid thing does n't know how to talk
love-talk at all," and she climbed into the four-poster,
clothes and all, and drew the quilt up to her chin.
On the day preceding Tant' Sannie's wedding,
Gregory Rose sat in the blazing sun on the stone-wall
behind his daub-and-wattle house. It was warm, but
he was intently watching a small buggy that was being
recklessly driven over the bushes in the direction of
the farm-house. Gregory never stirred till it had
vanished; then finding the stones hot he slipped
down and walked into the house. He kicked the
little pail that lay in the doorway, and sent it into
246
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
one corner; that did him good. Then he sat down on
the box, and began cutting letters out of a piece of
newspaper. Finding that the snippings littered the
floor, he picked them up, and began scribbling on his
blotting-paper. He tried the effect of different initials
before the name Rose, G. Rose, E. Rose, L. Rose,
L. Rose, L. L. L. L. Rose. When he had covered the
sheet, he looked at it discontentedly a little while,
then suddenly began to write a letter.
BELOVED SISTER, It is a long while since I last
wrote to you, but I have had no time. This is the
first morning I have been at home since I don't know
when. Em always expects me to go down to the
farm-house in the morning; but I did n't feel as
though I could stand the ride to-day.
I have much news for you.
Tant' Sannie, Em's Boer step-mother, is to be mar-
ried to-morrow. She is gone to town to-day, and the
wedding feast is to be at her brother's farm. Em and
I are going to ride over on horseback, but her cousin
is going to ride in the buggy with that German. I
don't think I've written to you since she came back
from school. I don't think you would like her at all,
Jemima; there's something so proud about her. She
thinks just because she's handsome there's nobody
good enough to talk to her, and just as if there had
nobody else but her been to boarding-school before.
They are going to have a grand affair to-morrow :
all the Boers about are coming, and they are going to
dance all night; but I don't think I shall dance at
all; for, as Em's cousin says, these Boer dances are
low things. I am sure I only danced at the last to
please Em. I don't know why she is fond of dancing.
TANT' SANNIE HOLDS AN UPSITTING.
247
Em talked of our being married on the same day as
Tant' Sannie; but I said it would be nicer for her if
she waited till the shearing was over, and I took her
down to see you. I suppose she will have to live
with us (Em's cousin, I mean), as she has not any-
thing in the world but a poor fifty pounds. I don't
like her at all, Jemima, and I don't think you would.
She's got such queer ways; she's always driving
about in a gig with that low German, and I don't
think it's at all the thing for a woman to be going
about with a man she's not engaged to. Do you?
If it was me now, who am a kind of connection, of
course it would be different. The way she treats
me, considering that I am so soon to be her cousin, is
not at all nice. "I took down my album the other day
with your likenesses in it, and I told her she could
look at it, and put it down close to her; but she just
said, Thank you, and never even touched it, as much
as to say, What are your relations to me?
She gets the wildest horses in that buggy, and a
horrid snappish little cur, belonging to the German,
sitting in front, and then she drives out alone. I
don't think it's at all proper for a woman to drive
out alone; I would n't allow it if she was my sister.
The other morning, I don't know how it happened,
I was going in the way from which she was coming,
and that little beast, they call him Doss, began to
bark when he saw me, he always does, the little
wretch, and the horses began to spring, and kicked
the splash-board all to pieces. It was a sight to see,
Jemima. She has got the littlest hands I ever saw,
I could hold them both in one of mine, and not know
that I'd got anything except that they were so soft;
but she held those horses in as though they were
-
-
--
248
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
made of iron. When I wanted to help her she said,
"No, thank you; I can manage them myself. I've
got a pair of bits that would break their jaws if I
used them well," and she laughed and drove away.
It's so unwomanly.
Tell father my hire of the ground will not be out
for six months, and before that Em and I will be
married. My pair of birds is breeding now, but I
haven't been down to see them for three days.. I
don't seem to care about anything any more. I don't
know what it is; I'm not well. If I go into town
on Saturday, I will let the doctor examine me; but
perhaps she'll go in herself. It's a very strange
thing, Jemima, but she never will send her letters
to post by me. If I ask her she has none, and the
very next day she goes in and posts them herself.
You must n't say anything about it, Jemima, but
twice I've brought her letters from the post in a gen-
tleman's hand, and I'm sure they were both from the
same person, because I noticed every little mark, even
the dotting of the i's. Of course it's nothing to me;
but for Em's sake I can't help feeling an interest in
her, however much I may dislike her myself; and I
hope she's up to nothing. I pity the man who marries
her; I would n't be him for anything. If I had a wife
with pride, I'd make her give it up, sharp. I don't
believe in a man who can't make a woman obey him.
Now, Em-I'm very fond of her, as you know, but
if I tell her to put on a certain dress, that dress she
puts on; and if I tell her to sit on a certain seat, on
that seat she sits; and if I tell her not to speak to
a certain individual, she does not speak to him. If
a man lets a woman do what he does n't like, he's
a muff.
TANT' SANNIE HOLDS AN UPSITTING.
249
Give my love to mother and the children. The
"veld" here is looking pretty good, and the sheep
are better since we washed them. Tell father the
dip he recommended is very good.
Em sends her love to you. She is making me some
woollen shirts; but they don't fit me so nicely as
those mother made me.
Write soon to
Your loving brother,
GREGORY.
P. S. She drove past just now. I was sitting on,
the kraal wall right before her eyes, and she never
even bowed.
G. N. R.
CHAPTER VI.
A BOER-WEDDING.
“I DID N't know before you were so fond of riding
hard," said Gregory, to his little betrothed.
They were cantering slowly on the road to Oom
Muller's, on the morning of the wedding.
"Do you call this riding hard?" asked Em, in some
astonishment.
"Of course I do! It's enough to break the horses'
necks, and knock one up for the whole day besides,"
he added testily; then twisted his head to look at the
buggy that came on behind. "I thought Waldo was
such a mad driver. They are taking it easily enough
to-day," said Gregory. "One would think the black
stallions were lame."
"I suppose they want to keep out of our dust," said
Em. "See, they stand still as soon as we do."
Perceiving this to be the case, Gregory rode on.
"It's all that horse of yours; she kicks up
such a
confounded dust I can't stand it myself," he said.
Meanwhile the cart came on slowly enough.
"Take the reins," said Lyndall, "and make them
walk. I want to rest and watch their hoofs to-day,
not to be exhilarated, — I am so tired."
-
She leaned back in her corner, and Waldo drove on
slowly in the gray dawn light along the level road.
They passed the very milk-bush behind which, so
many years before, the old German had found the
A BOER-WEDDING.
251
Kaffir woman. But their thoughts were not with him
that morning; they were the thoughts of the young,
that run out to meet the future, and labor in the
present. At last he touched her arm.
"What is it?'
"9
"I feared you had gone to sleep, and might be jolted
out," he said, "you sat so quietly."
"No; do not talk to me. I am not asleep; " but
after a time she said suddenly, "it must be a terrible
thing to bring a human being into the world."
Waldo looked round; she sat drawn into the corner,
her blue cloud wound tightly about her, and she still
watched the horses' feet. Having no comment to
offer on her somewhat unexpected remark, he merely
touched up his horses.
-
"I have no conscience, - none," she added; "but I
would not like to bring a soul into this world. When
it sinned, and when it suffered, something like a dead
hand would fall on me, 'You did it, you; for
your own pleasure you created this thing! See your
work!' If it lived to be eighty it would always hang
like a millstone round my neck, have the right to
demand good from me, and curse me for its sorrow.
A parent is only like to God; if his work turns out
bad, so much the worse for him; he dare not wash
his hands of it. Time and years can never bring the
day when you can say to your child, 'Soul, what have
I to do with you ?""
Waldo said dreamily,-
"It is a marvellous thing that one soul should have
power to cause another.”
She heard the words as she heard the beating of
the horses' hoofs; her thoughts ran on in their own
line.
252
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"They say, 'God sends the little babies.' Of all the
dastardly revolting lies men tell to suit themselves, I
hate that most. I suppose my father said so when he
knew he was dying of consumption, and my mother
when she knew she had nothing to support me on;
and they created me to feed like a dog from stranger
hands. Men do not say God sends the books, or the
newspaper articles, or the machines they make, and
then sigh and shrug their shoulders, and say they
can't help it. Why do they say so about other things?
Liars! God sends the little babies!" "
6
She struck
her foot fretfully against the splash-board.
"The
small children say so earnestly. They touch the little
stranger reverently who has just come from God's far
country, and they peep about the room to see if not
one white feather has dropped from the wing of the
angel that brought him. On their lips the phrase
means much; on all others it is a deliberate lie!
Noticeable, too," she said, dropping in an instant
from the passionate into a low mocking tone, "when
people are married, though they should have sixty
children, they throw the whole onus on God. When
they are not, we hear nothing about God's having
sent them. When there has been no legal contract
between the parents, who sends the little children
then? The devil, perhaps!" she laughed her little
silvery mocking laugh. "Odd that some men should
come from hell and some from heaven, and yet all
look so much alike when they get here."
Waldo wondered at her. He had not the key to
her thoughts, and did not see the string on which
they were strung. She drew her cloud tighter about
her.
"It must be very nice to believe in the devil," she
A BOER-WEDDING.
253
said. "I wish I did. If it would be of any use I
would pray three hours, night and morning, on my
bare knees, 'God, let me believe in Satan.' He is so
useful to those people who do. They may be as self-
ish and as sensual as they please, and, between God's
will and the devil's action, always have some one to
throw their sin on. But we, wretched unbelievers,
we bear our own burdens; we must say, 'I, myself,
did it, I. Not God, not Satan; I, myself!' That is
the sting that strikes deep. Waldo," she said gently,
with a sudden and complete change of manner, "I like
you so much I love you." She rested her cheek softly
against his shoulder. "When I am with you, I never
know that I am a woman and you are a man; I only
know that we are both things that think. Other
men, when I am with them, whether I love them
or not, they are mere bodies to me; but you are a
spirit. I like you. Look," she said, quickly, sink-
ing back into her corner, "what a pretty pinkness
there is on all the hill-tops! The sun will rise in a
moment."
Waldo lifted his eyes to look round over the circle
of golden hills; and the horses, as the first sunbeams
touched them, shook their heads and champed their
bright bits, till the brass settings in their harness
glittered again.
It was eight o'clock when they neared the farm-
house a red-brick building, with kraals to the right
and a small orchard to the left. Already there were
signs of unusual life and bustle; one cart, a wagon,
and a couple of saddles against the wall betokened
the arrival of a few early guests, whose numbers
would soon be largely increased. To a Dutch country-
wedding guests start up in numbers astonishing to
254
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
one who has merely ridden through the plains of
sparsely inhabited karroo.
As the morning advances, riders on many shades
of steeds appear from all directions, and add their
saddles to the long rows against the walls, shake
hands, drink coffee, and stand about outside in groups
to watch the arriving carts and ox-wagons, as they
are unburdened of their heavy freight of massive
Tantes and comely daughters, followed by swarms
of children of all sizes, dressed in all manner of print
and moleskin, who are taken care of by Hottentot,
Kaffir, and half-caste nurses, whose many-shaded com-
plexions, ranging from light yellow up to ebony black,
add variety to the animated scene. Everywhere is
excitement and bustle, which gradually increases as
the time for the return of the wedding party ap-
proaches. Preparations for the feast are actively
advancing in the kitchen; coffee is liberally handed
round, and amid a profound sensation, and the firing
of guns, the horse-wagon draws up, and the wedding
party alight. Bride and bridegroom, with their at-
tendants, march solemnly to the marriage-chamber,
where bed and box are decked out in white, with ends
of ribbon and artificial flowers, and where on a row
of chairs the party solemnly seat themselves. After
a time bridesmaid and best man rise, and conduct in
with ceremony each individual guest, to wish success
and to kiss bride and bridegroom. Then the feast is
set on the table, and it is almost sunset before the
dishes are cleared away, and the pleasure of the day
begins. Everything is removed from the great front
room, and the mud floor well rubbed with bullock's
blood, glistens like polished mahogany. The female
portion of the assembly flock into the side-rooms to
A BOER-WEDDING.
255
attire themselves for the evening, and reissue clad
in white muslin, and gay with bright ribbons and
brass jewelry, The dancing begins as the first tal-
low candles are stuck up about the walls, the music
coming from a couple of fiddlers in a corner of the
room. Bride and bridegroom open the ball, and the
floor is soon covered with whirling couples, and every
one's spirits rise. The bridal pair mingle freely in
the throng, and here and there a musical man sings
vigorously as he drags his partner through the "Blue
Water" or "John Speriwig; " boys shout and applaud,
and the enjoyment and confusion are intense, till
eleven o'clock comes. By this time the children who
swarm in the side-rooms are not to be kept quiet
longer, even by hunches of bread and cake; there is
a general howl and wail, that rises yet higher than
the scraping of fiddles, and mothers rush from their
partners to knock small heads together, and cuff
little nursemaids, and force the wailers down into un-
occupied corners of beds, under tables, and behind
boxes. In half an hour every variety of childish
snore is heard on all sides, and it has become perilous
to raise or set down a foot in any of the side-rooms
lest a small head or hand should be crushed. Now
too the busy feet have broken the solid coating of the
floor, and a cloud of fine dust arises, that makes a
yellow halo round the candles, and sets asthmatic
people coughing, and grows denser, till to recognize
any one on the opposite side of the room becomes im-
possible, and a partner's face is seen through a yel-
low mist.
At twelve o'clock the bride is led to the marriage-
chamber and undressed; the lights are blown out,
and the bridegroom is brought to the door by the best
256
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
man, who gives him the key; then the door is shut
and locked, and the revels rise higher than ever.
There is no thought of sleep till morning, and no
unoccupied spot where sleep may be found.
It was at this stage of the proceedings, on the night
of Tant' Sannie's wedding, that Lyndall sat near the
doorway in one of the side-rooms, to watch the dancers
as they appeared and disappeared in the yellow cloud
of dust. Gregory sat moodily in a corner of the large
dancing-room. His little betrothed touched his arm.
"I wish you would go and ask Lyndall to dance with
you," she said; "she must be so tired; she has sat
still the whole evening."
"I have asked her three times," replied her lover,
shortly. "I'm not going to be her dog, and creep to
her feet, just to give her the pleasure of kicking me, -
not for you, Em, nor for anybody else.""
-
"Oh, I did n't know you had asked her, Greg," said
his little betrothed, humbly; and she went away to
pour out coffee.
Nevertheless, some time after, Gregory found he had
shifted so far round the room as to be close to the
door where Lyndall sat. After standing for some time
he inquired whether he might not bring her a cup of
coffee. She declined; but still he stood on (why
should he not stand there as well as anywhere else ?),
and then he stepped into the bedroom.
"May I not bring you a stove, Miss Lyndall, to put
your feet on?"
"Thank you."
He sought for one, and put it under her feet.
"There is a draught from that broken window; shall
I stuff something in the pane?"
"No; we want air."
A BOER-WEDDING.
257
Gregory looked round, but nothing else suggesting
itself he sat down on a box on the opposite side of
the door. Lyndall sat before him, her chin resting in
her hand; her eyes, steel-gray by day, but black by
night, looked through the doorway into the next room.
After a time he thought she had entirely forgotten his
proximity, and he dared to inspect the little hands and
neck, as he never dared when he was in momentary
dread of the eyes being turned upon him. She was
dressed in black, which seemed to take her yet further
from the white-clad, gewgawed women about her; and
the little hands were white, and the diamond ring
glittered. Where had she got that ring? He bent
forward a little and tried to decipher the letters, but
the candle-light was too faint. When he looked up,
her eyes were fixed on him. She was looking at him,
- not, Gregory felt, as she had ever looked at him
before; not as though he were a stump or a stone,
that chance had thrown in her way. To-night, whether
it were critically, or kindly, or unkindly he could
not tell, but she looked at him, at the man, Gregory
Rose, with attention. A vague elation filled him.
He clinched his fist tight to think of some good idea.
he might express to her; but of all those profound
things he had pictured himself as saying to her, when
he sat alone in the daub-and-wattle house, not one
came. He said at last,
-
-
-
"These Boer dances are very low things;" and then,
as soon as it had gone from him, he thought it was
not a clever remark, and wished it back.
Before Lyndall replied, Em looked in at the door.
"Oh, come!" she said; "they are going to have the
cushion-dance. I do not want to kiss any of these
fellows. Take me quickly!"
17
258
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
She slipped her hand into Gregory's arm.
"It is so dusty, Em; do you care to dance any
more?" he asked, without rising.
"Oh, I do not mind the dust, and the dancing rests
me."
But he did not move.
"I feel tired; I do not think I shall dance again,"
he said.
Em withdrew her hand, and a young farmer came to
the door and bore her off.
"I have often imagined," remarked Gregory — but
Lyndall had risen.
"I am tired," she said.
"I wonder where Waldo is;
he must take me home. These people will not leave
off till morning, I suppose; it is three already."
She made her way past the fiddlers, and a bench full
of tired dancers, and passed out at the front door.
On the "stoep" a group of men and boys were smok-
ing, peeping in at the windows, and cracking coarse
jokes. Waldo was certainly not among them, and she
made her way to the carts and wagons drawn up at
some distance from the homestead.
"Waldo," she said, peering into a large cart, "is
that you? I am so dazed with the tallow candles, I
see nothing."
He had made himself a place between the two seats.
She climbed up, and sat on the sloping floor in front.
"I thought I should find you here," she said, draw-
ing her skirt up about her shoulders. "You must
take me home presently, but not now.”
She leaned her head on the seat near to his, and
they listened in silence to the fitful twanging of the
fiddles as the night-wind bore it from the farm-house,
and to the ceaseless thud of the dancers, and the peals
A BOER-WEDDING.
259
of gross laughter. She stretched out her little hand´
to feel for his.
"It is so nice to lie here and hear that noise," she
said. "I like to feel that strange life beating up
against me. I like to realize forms of life utterly un-
like mine." She drew a long breath. "When my own
life feels small, and I am oppressed with it, I like to
crush together, and see in a picture, in an instant, a
multitude of disconnected unlike phases of human life,
-a medieval monk with his string of beads pacing the
quiet orchard, and looking up from the grass at his
feet to the heavy fruit-trees; little Malay boys playing
naked on a shining sea-beach; a Hindoo philosopher
alone under his banyan tree, thinking, thinking, think-
ing, so that in the thought of God he may lose him-
self; a troop of Bacchanalians dressed in white, with
crowns of vine-leaves, dancing along the Roman
streets; a martyr on the night of his death looking
through the narrow window to the sky, and feeling
that already he has the wings that shall bear him up"
(she moved her hand dreamily over her face); "an
Epicurean discoursing at a Roman bath to a knot of
his disciples on the nature of happiness; a Kaffir
witch-doctor seeking for herbs by moonlight, while
from the huts on the hill-side come the sound of dogs
barking, and the voices of women and children; a
mother giving bread and milk to her children in little
wooden basins and singing the evening song. I like
to see it all; I feel it run through me, - that life be-
longs to me; it makes my little life larger, it breaks
down the narrow walls that shut me in."
She sighed, and drew a long breath.
"Have you made any plan?" she asked him,
presently.
260
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
"Yes," he said, the words coming in jets, with
pauses between; "I will take the gray mare, I will
travel first, I will see the world, then I will find
work."
-
"What work?"
"I do not know."
-
----
-
--
She made a little impatient movement.
"That is no plan; travel- see the world - find
work! If you go into the world aimless, without a
definite object, dreaming, dreaming, you will be
definitely defeated, bamboozled, knocked this way and
that. In the end you will stand with your beautiful
life all spent, and nothing to show. They talk of
genius, it is nothing but this, that a man knows
what he can do best, and does it, and nothing else.
Waldo," she said, knitting her little fingers closer
among his, "I wish I could help you; I wish I could
make you see that you must decide what you will be
and do. It does not matter what you choose, — be a
farmer, business-man, artist, what you will, but
know your aim, and live for that one thing. We have
only one life. The secret of success is concentration;
wherever there has been a great life, or a great work,
that has gone before. Taste everything a little, look
at everything a little; but live for one thing. Any-
thing is possible to a man who knows his end, and
moves straight for it, and for it alone. I will show
you what I mean," she said, concisely; "words are
gas till you condense them into pictures.
―
66 Suppose a woman, young, friendless as I am, the
weakest thing on God's earth. But she must make
her way through life. What she would be she cannot
be because she is a woman; so she looks carefully at
herself and the world about her, to see where her path
A BOER-WEDDING.
261
-
―
must be made. There is no one to help her; she
must help herself. She looks. These things she has,
a sweet voice, rich in subtle intonations; a fair,
very fair face, with a power of concentrating in itself,
and giving expression to, feelings that otherwise must
have been dissipated in words; a rare power of enter-
ing into other lives unlike her own, and intuitively
reading them aright. These qualities she has. How
shall she use them? A poet, a writer, needs only the
mental; what use has he for a beautiful body that
registers clearly mental emotions? And the painter
wants an eye for form and color, and the musician an
ear for time and tune, and the mere drudge has no
need for mental gifts. But there is one art in which
all she has would be used, for which they are all
necessary, the delicate, expressive body, the rich
voice, the power of mental transposition. The actor,
who absorbs and then reflects from himself other hu-
man lives, needs them all, but needs not much more.
This is her end; but how to reach it? Before her
are endless difficulties; seas must be crossed, poverty
must be endured, loneliness, want. She must be con-
tent to wait long before she can even get her feet
upon the path. If she has made blunders in the past,
if she has weighted herself with a burden which she
must bear to the end, she must but bear the burden
bravely, and labor on. There is no use in wailing
and repentance here; the next world is the place for 7
that; this life is too short. By our errors we see
deeper into life. They help us." She waited for a
while. "If she does all this, if she waits patient-
ly, if she is never cast down, never despairs, never
forgets her end, moves straight towards it, bend-
ing men and things most unlikely to her purpose,
---
262
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
66
she must succeed at last. Men and things are
plastic; they part to the right and left when one
comes among them moving in a straight line to one
end. I know it by my own little experience,” she said.
Long years ago I resolved to be sent to school. It
seemed a thing utterly out of my power; but I waited,
I watched, I collected clothes, I wrote, took my place
at the school; when all was ready I bore with my full
force on the Boer-woman, and she sent me at last.
It was a small thing; but life is made up of small
things, as a body is built up of cells. What has been
done in small things can be done in large. Shall be,"
she said softly.
Waldo listened. To him the words were no confes-
sion, no glimpse into the strong, proud, restless heart
of the woman. They were general words with a gen-
eral application. He looked up into the sparkling sky
with dull eyes.
"Yes," he said; "but when we lie and think, and
think, we see that there is nothing worth doing. The
universe is so large, and man is so small —”
She shook her head quickly.
"But we must not think so far; it is madness; it
is a disease. We know that no man's work is great,
and stands forever. Moses is dead, and the prophets;
and the books that our grandmothers fed on the mould
is eating. Your poet and painter and actor, - before
the shouts that applaud them have died their names
grow strange; they are milestones that the world
has passed. Men have set their mark on mankind
forever, as they thought; but time has washed it out
as it has washed out mountains and continents." She
raised herself on her elbow. "And what, if we could
help mankind, and leave the traces of our work upon.
A BOER-WEDDING.
263
it to the end? Mankind is only an ephemeral blos-
som on the tree of time; there were others before it
opened; there will be others after it has fallen.
Where was man in the time of the dicynodont, and
when hoary monsters wallowed in the mud? Will he
be found in the eons that are to come? We are
sparks, we are shadows, we are pollen, which the next
wind will carry away. We are dying already; it is
all a dream.
"I know that thought. When the fever of living
is on us, when the desire to become, to know, to do, is
driving us mad, we can use it as an anodyne to still
the fever and cool our beating pulses. But it is a
poison, not a food. If we live on it, it will turn our
blood to ice; we might as well be dead. We must
not, Waldo; I want your life to be beautiful, to end
in something. You are nobler and stronger than I,"
she said; "and as much better as one of God's great
angels is better than a sinning man. Your life must
go for something."
66
Yes, we will work," he said.
She moved closer to him, and lay still, his black
curls touching her smooth little head.
Doss, who had lain at his master's side, climbed
over the bench, and curled himself up in her lap.
She drew her skirt up over him, and the three sat
motionless for a long time.
"Waldo," she said, suddenly, "they are laughing.
at us."
"Who?" he asked, starting up.
-
"They, the stars!" she said softly.
"Do you
not see?—there is a little, white, mocking finger
pointing down at us from each one of them!
We are
talking of to-morrow, and to-morrow; and our hearts
264
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
are so strong; we are not thinking of something that
can touch us softly in the dark, and make us still for-
ever. They are laughing at us, Waldo."
Both sat looking upwards.
"Do you ever pray?" he asked her, in a low
voice.
"No."
"I never do; but I might when I look up there. I
will tell you," he added, in a still lower voice, "where
I could pray. If there were a wall of rock on the edge
of a world, and one rock stretched out far, far into
space, and I stood alone upon it, alone, with stars
above me, and stars below me, - I would not say any-
thing; but the feeling would be prayer."
-
-
There was an end to their conversation after that,
and Doss fell asleep on her knee. At last the night-
wind grew very chilly.
66 Ah,"
," she said, shivering, and drawing the skirt
about her shoulders, "I am cold. 'Span-in' the
horses, and call me when you are ready."
She slipped down and walked towards the house,
Doss stiffly following her, not pleased at being roused.
At the door she met Gregory.
"I have been looking for you everywhere; may I
not drive you home?" he said.
"Waldo drives me," she replied, passing on; and
it appeared to Gregory that she looked at him in
the old way, without seeing him. But before she had
reached the door an idea had occurred to her, for she
turned.
"If you wish to drive me, you may.”
Gregory went to look for Em, whom he found pour-
ing out coffee in the back room. He put his hand
quickly on her shoulder.
A BOER-WEDDING.
265
"You must ride with Waldo; I am going to drive
your cousin home.”
"But I can't come just now, Greg; I promised
Tant' Annie Muller to look after the things while she
went to rest a little."
I
"Well, you can come presently, can't you?
did n't say you were to come now. I'm sick of this
thing," said Gregory, turning sharply on his heel.
"Why must I sit up the whole night because your
step-mother chooses to get married?"
"Oh, it's all right, Greg; I only meant-"
But he did not hear her, and a man had come up to
have his cup filled.
An hour after Waldo came in to look for her, and
found her still busy at the table.
"The horses are ready," he said; “but if you would
like to have one dance more, I will wait."
She shook her head wearily.
"No; I am quite ready. I want to go."
And soon they were on the sandy road the buggy
had travelled an hour before. Their horses, with
heads close together, nodding sleepily as they walked
in the starlight, you might have counted the rise and
fall of their feet in the sand; and Waldo in his saddle
nodded drowsily also. Only Em was awake, and
watched the starlit road with wide-open eyes. At
last she spoke.
"I wonder if all people feel so old, so very old,
when they get to be seventeen ?"
"Not older than before," said Waldo, sleepily, pull-
ing at his bridle.
Presently she said again, "I wish I could have been
a little child always. You are good then. You are
never selfish; you like every one to have everything;
266
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
but when you are grown-up there are some things you
like to have all to yourself; you don't like any one
else to have any of them."
"Yes," said Waldo, sleepily, and she did not speak
again.
When they reached the farm-house all was dark, for
Lyndall had retired as soon as they got home.
Waldo lifted Em from her saddle, and for a mo-
ment she leaned her head on his shoulder, and clung
to him.
"You are very tired," he said, as he walked with
her to the door; "let me go in and light a candle for
you."
"No, thank you; it is all right," she said.
night, Waldo, dear."
"Good-
But when she went in she sat long alone in the
dark.
CHAPTER VII.
WALDO GOES OUT TO TASTE LIFE, AND EM STAYS AT
HOME AND TASTES IT.
AT nine o'clock in the evening, packing his bundles
for the next morning's start, Waldo looked up, and
was surprised to see Em's yellow head peeping in at
his door. It was many a month since she had been
there. She said she had made him sandwiches for
his journey, and she stayed a while to help him put
his goods into the saddle-bags.
"You can leave the old things lying about," she
said; "I will lock the room, and keep it waiting for
you to come back some day."
To come back some day! Would the bird ever
return to its cage? But he thanked her. When she
went away, he stood on the doorstep, holding the can-
Idle till she had almost reached the house. But Em
was that evening in no hurry to enter, and instead of
going in at the back door walked with lagging foot-
steps round the low brick wall that ran before the
house. Opposite the open window of the parlor she-
stopped. The little room, kept carefully closed in
Tant' Sannie's time, was well lighted by a paraffine
lamp; books and work lay strewn about it, and it
wore a bright, habitable aspect. Beside the lamp, at
the table in the corner sat Lyndall, the open letters
and papers of the day's post lying scattered before
268
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
her, while she perused the columns of a newspaper.
At the centre table, with his arms folded on an open
paper, which there was not light enough to read, sat
Gregory. He was looking at her. The light from
the open window fell on Em's little face, under its
white kappje as she looked in, but no one glanced that
way.
"Go and fetch me a glass of water," Lyndall said
at last.
Gregory went out to find it; when he put it down
at her side, she merely moved her head in recogni-
tion, and he went back to his seat and his old occupa-
tion. Then Em moved slowly away from the window,
and through it came in spotted, hard-winged insects,
to play round the lamp, till, one by one, they stuck to
its glass, and fell to the foot dead.
Ten o'clock struck. Then Lyndall rose, gathered
up her papers and letters, and wished Gregory good-
night. Some time after Em entered; she had been
sitting all the while on the loft ladder, and had drawn
her kappje down very much over her face.
Gregory was piecing together the bits of an envel-
ope when she came in.
"I thought you were never coming," he said, turn-
ing round quickly, and throwing the fragments on to
the floor. "You know I have been shearing all day,
and it is ten o'clock already."
"I'm sorry. I did not think you would be going
so soon," she said in a low voice.
66
"I can't hear what you say.
What makes you
mumble so? Well, good-night, Em."
He stooped down hastily to kiss her.
"I want to talk to you, Gregory."
"Well, make haste," he said pettishly. "I'm
WALDO GOES OUT TO TASTE LIFE.
269
awfully tired. I've been sitting here all the evening.
Why could n't you come and talk before?"
"I will not keep you long," she answered, very
steadily now. "I think, Gregory, it would be better
you and I were never to be married."
if
"Good heavens ! Em, what do you mean? I
thought you were so fond of me?
fessed to be. What on earth have
your head now?"
You always pro-
you taken into
"I think it would be better," she said, folding her
hands over each other, very much as though she were
praying.
66
Better, Em! What do you mean? Even a wo-
man can't take a freak all about nothing! You must
have some reason for it, and I'm sure I've done noth-
ing to offend you. I wrote only to-day to my sister,
to tell her to come up next month to our wedding,
and I've been as affectionate and happy as possible.
Come - what's the matter?"
-
He put his arm half round her shoulder, very
loosely.
"I think it would be better," she answered slowly.
"Oh, well," he said, drawing himself up, "if you
won't enter into explanations, you won't; and I'm
not the man to beg and pray not to any woman,
and you know that! If you don't want to marry me,
I can't oblige you to, of course."
-
""
She stood quite still before him.
"You women never do know your own minds for
two days together; and of course you know the state
of your own feelings best; but it's very strange.
Have you really made up your mind, Em?”
"Yes."
"Well, I'm very sorry. I'm sure I've not been in
270
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
anything to blame. A man can't always be billing
and cooing; but, as you say, if your feeling for me
has changed, it's much better you should n't marry
There's nothing so foolish as to marry some one
you don't love; and I only wish for your happiness,
I'm sure. I dare say you'll find some one can make
you much happier than I could; the first person we
love is seldom the right one. You are very young;
me.
it's quite natural you should change."
She said nothing.
66 Things often seem hard at the time, but Provi-
dence makes them turn out for the best in the end,"
said Gregory. "You'll let me kiss you, Em, just for
old friendship's sake." He stooped down. "You
must look upon me as a dear brother, as a cousin, at
least; as long as I am on the farm I shall always be
glad to help you, Em."
Soon after the brown pony was cantering along the
footpath to the daub-and-wattle house, and his master
as he rode whistled "John Speriwig" and the "Thorn
Kloof Schottische."
The sun had not yet touched the outstretched arms
of the prickly pear upon the "kopje," and the early
cocks and hens still strutted about stiffly after the
night's roost, when Waldo stood before the wagon-
house saddling the gray mare. Every now and then
he glanced up at the old familiar objects; they had
a new aspect that morning. Even the cocks, seen in
the light of parting, had a peculiar interest, and he
listened with conscious attention while one crowed
clear and loud as it stood on the pigsty wall. He
wished good-morning softly to the Kaffir woman who
was coming up from the huts to light the fire. He
WALDO GOES OUT TO TASTE LIFE.
271
was leaving them all to that old life, and from his
height he looked down on them pityingly. So they
would keep on crowing, and coming to light fires,
when for him that old colorless existence was but a
dream.
He went into the house to say good-by to Em,
and then he walked to the door of Lyndall's room to
wake her; but she was up, and standing in the
door-way.
"So you are ready," she said.
Waldo looked at her with sudden heaviness; the
exhilaration died out of his heart. Her gray dressing-
gown hung close about her, and below its edge the
little bare feet were resting on the threshold.
"I wonder when we shall meet again, Waldo?
What you will be, and what I?"
"Will you write to me?" he asked of her.
"Yes; and if I should not, you can still remember,
wherever you are, that you are not alone."
"I have left Doss for you," he said.
"Will you not miss him?"
"No; I want you to have him. He loves you bet-
ter than he loves me."
"Thank you." They stood quiet.
66
Good-by!" she said, putting her little hand in
his, and he turned away; but when he reached the
door she called to him, "Come back, I want to kiss
you." She drew his face down to hers, and held it
with both hands, and kissed it on the forehead and
mouth. "Good-by, dear!"
When he looked back, the little figure with its
beautiful eyes was standing in the doorway still.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE KOPJE.
"GOOD-MORNING!"
•
Em, who was in the store-room measuring the
Kaffirs' rations, looked up, and saw her former lover
standing betwixt her and the sunshine. For some
days after that evening on which he had ridden home
whistling, he had shunned her. She might wish to
enter into explanations, and he, Gregory Rose, was
not the man for that kind of thing. If a woman had
once thrown him overboard, she must take the conse-
quences, and stand by them. When, however, she
showed no inclination to revert to the past, and
shunned him more than he shunned her, Gregory
softened.
"You must let me call you Em still, and be like a
brother to you till I go," he said; and Em thanked
him so humbly that he wished she had n't. It was n't
so easy after that to think himself an injured man.
On that morning he stood some time in the door-
way, switching his whip, and moving rather restlessly
from one leg to the other.
"I think I'll just take a walk up to the camps and
see how your birds are getting on. Now Waldo 's
gone you've no one to see after things. Nice morn-
ing, is n't it?" Then he added suddenly, "I'll just
go round to the house and get a drink of water
first;" and somewhat awkwardly walked off. He
THE KOPJE.
273
might have found water in the kitchen, but he never
glanced towards the buckets. In the front room a
monkey and two tumblers stood on the centre table;
but he merely looked round, peeped into the parlor,
looked round again, and then walked out at the front
door, and found himself again at the store-room with-
out having satisfied his thirst. Awfully nice morn.
ing this," he said, trying to pose himself in a graceful
and indifferent attitude against the door. "It is n't
hot and it is n't cold. It's awfully nice."
"Yes," said Em.
-
66
"Your cousin, now," said Gregory, in an aimless.
sort of way,
"I suppose she's shut up in her room
writing letters."
"No," said Em.
"Gone for a drive, I expect? Nice morning for
a drive."
"No."
"Gone to see the ostriches, I suppose?"
"No." After a little silence Em added, "I saw
her go by the kraals to the 'kopje.""
Gregory crossed and uncrossed his legs.
66
'Well, I think I'll just go and have a look about,"
he said, "and see how things are getting on before I
go to the camps. Good-by; so long."
Em left for a while the bags she was folding and
went to the window, the same through which, years
before, Bonaparte had watched the slouching figure
cross the yard. Gregory walked to the pigsty first,
and contemplated the pigs for a few seconds; then
turned round, and stood looking fixedly at the wall
of the fuel-house as though he thought it wanted re-
pairing; then he started off suddenly with the evi-
dent intention of going to the ostrich-camps; then
18
274
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
paused, hesitated, and finally walked off in the di-
rection of the "kopje."
Then Em went back to the corner, and folded more
sacks.
On the other side of the "kopje " Gregory caught
sight of a white tail waving among the stones, and a
succession of short, frantic barks told where Doss
was engaged in howling imploringly to a lizard who
had crept between two stones, and who had not the
slightest intention of resunning himself at that par-
ticular moment.
The dog's mistress sat higher up, under the shelv-
ing rock, her face bent over a volume of plays upon
her knee. As Gregory mounted the stones she started
violently, and looked up; then resumed her book.
"I hope I am not troubling you," said Gregory, as
he reached her side. “If I am, I will go away. I
just-"
"No; you may stay."
"I fear I startled you."
"Yes; your step was firmer than it generally is, I
thought it was that of some one else."
"Who could it be but me?" asked Gregory, seating
himself on a stone at her feet.
"Do you suppose you are the only man who would
find anything to attract him to this 'kopje'?"
"Oh, no," said Gregory.
He was not going to argue that point with her, nor
any other; but no old Boer was likely to take the
trouble of climbing the "kopje," and who else was
there?
She continued the study of her book.
"Miss Lyndall," he said at last, "I don't know why
it is you never talk to me."
THE KOPJE.
275
"We had a long conversation yesterday," she said,
without looking up.
"Yes; but you ask me questions about sheep and
oxen. I don't call that talking. You used to talk to
Waldo, now," he said, in an aggrieved tone of voice.
"I've heard you when I came in, and then you've
just left off. You treated me like that from the first
day; and you could n't tell from just looking at me
that I could n't talk about the things you like. I'm
sure I know as much about such things as Waldo
does," said Gregory, in exceeding bitterness of spirit.
"I do not know what things you refer to. If you
will enlighten me, I am quite prepared to speak of
them," she said, reading as she spoke.
"Oh, you never used to ask Waldo like that," said
Gregory, in a more sorely aggrieved tone than ever.
"You used just to begin."
"Well, let me see," she said, closing her book and
folding her hands on it. "There at the foot of the
'kopje' goes a Kaffir; he has nothing on but a blan-
ket; he is a splendid fellow-six feet high, with a
magnificent pair of legs. In his leather bag he is
going to fetch his rations, and I suppose to kick his
wife with his beautiful legs when he gets home. He
has a right to; he bought her for two oxen. There is
a lean dog going after him, to whom I suppose he
never gives more than a bone from which he has
sucked the marrow; but his dog loves him, as his
wife does. There is something of the master about
him in spite of his blackness and wool. See how he
brandishes his stick, and holds up his head!"
"Oh, but are n't you making fun?" said Gregory,
looking doubtfully from her to the Kaffir herd, who
rounded the "kopje."
276
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"No; I am very serious. He is the most interest-
ing and intelligent thing I can see just now, except
perhaps Doss. He is profoundly suggestive. Will
his race melt away in the heat of a collision with a
higher? Are the men of the future to see his bones
only in museums, a vestige of one link that spanned
between the dog and the white man? He wakes
thoughts that run far out into the future and back
into the past."
Gregory was not quite sure how to take these re-
marks. Being about a Kaffir, they appeared to be of
the nature of a joke; but, being seriously spoken,
they appeared earnest; so he half laughed and half
not, to be on the safe side.
"I've often thought so myself. It's funny we
should both think the same; I knew we should if
once we talked. But there are other things, love,
now," he added. "I wonder if we should think alike
about that. I wrote an essay on love once; the mas-
ter said it was the best I ever wrote, and I can re-
member the first sentence still, 'Love is something
that you feel in your heart.'
999
―
"That was a trenchant remark. Can't you remem-
ber any more?"
"No," said Gregory, regretfully; "I've forgotten
the rest. But tell me what do you think about
love?"
A look, half of abstraction, half of amusement, played
on her lips.
"I don't know much about love," she said, “and I
do not like to talk of things I do not understand ;
but I have heard two opinions. Some say the devil
carried the seed from hell, and planted it on the earth
to plague men and make them sin; and some say, that
THE KOPJE.
277
when all the plants in the garden of Eden were
pulled up by the roots, one bush that the angels had
planted was left growing, and it spread its seed over
the whole earth, and its name is love. I do not know
which is right perhaps both. There are different
species that go under the same name.
There is a
love that begins in the head, and goes down to the
heart, and grows slowly; but it lasts till death, and
asks less than it gives. There is another love, that
blots out wisdom, that is sweet with the sweetness
of life and bitter with the bitterness of death, lasting
for an hour; but it is worth having lived a whole life
for that hour. I cannot tell, perhaps the old monks
were right when they tried to root love out; perhaps
the poets are right when they try to water it. It is
a blood-red flower, with the color of sin; but there
is always the scent of a god about it."
Gregory would have made a remark; but she said,
without noticing,
-
"There are as many kinds of loves as there are
flowers: everlastings that never wither; speedwells
that wait for the wind to fan them out of life; blood-red
mountain-lilies that pour their voluptuous sweetness
out for one day, and lie in the dust at night. There
is no flower has the charm of all the speedwell's
purity, the everlasting's strength, the mountain-lily's
warmth; but who knows whether there is not a love
that holds all friendship, passion, worship?
"Such a love," she said in her sweetest voice, "will
fall on the surface of strong, cold, selfish life as the
sunlight falls on a torpid winter world; there, where
the trees are bare, and the ground frozen, till it rings
to the step like iron, and the water is solid, and the
air is sharp as a two-edged knife, that cuts the un-
1
278
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
wary. But when its sun shines on it, through its
whole dead crust a throbbing yearning wakes; the
trees feel him, and every knot and bud swell, aching
to open to him. The brown seeds, who have slept
deep under the ground, feel him, and he gives them
strength, till they break through the frozen earth, and
lift two tiny, trembling green hands in love to him.
And he touches the water, till down to its depths it
feels him and melts, and it flows, and the things,
strange sweet things that were locked up in it, it
sings as it runs, for love of him. Each plant tries
to bear at least one fragrant little flower for him, and
the world that was dead lives, and the heart that was
dead and self-centred throbs, with an upward, out-
ward yearning, and it has become that which it
seemed impossible ever to become. There, does that
satisfy you?" she asked, looking down at Gregory.
"Is that how you like me to talk?"
"Oh, yes," said Gregory, "that is what I have
already thought. We have the same thoughts about
everything. How strange!"
66
"Very," said Lyndall, working with her little toe,
at a stone in the ground before her.
Gregory felt he must sustain the conversation.
The only thing he could think of was to recite a piece
of poetry. He knew he had learned many poems
about love; but the only thing that would come into
his mind now was the "Battle of Hohenlinden,” and
"Not a drum was heard," neither of which seemed
to bear directly on the subject in hand.
But unexpected relief came to him from Doss, who,
too deeply lost in contemplation of his crevice, was
surprised by the sudden descent of the stone Lyndall's
foot had loosened, which, rolling against his little
THE KOPJE.
279
fore paw, carried away a piece of white skin. Doss
stood on three legs, holding up the paw with an ex-
pression of extreme self-commiseration; he then pro-
ceeded to hop slowly upwards in search of sympathy.
"You have hurt that dog," said Gregory.
"Have I?" she replied indifferently, and reopened
the book, as though to resume her study of the play.
"He's a nasty, snappish little cur!" said Gregory,
calculating from her manner that the remark would
be indorsed. "He snapped at my horse's tail yester-
day, and nearly made it throw me. I wonder his
master did n't take him, instead of leaving him here
to be a nuisance to all of us!"
Lyndall seemed absorbed in her play; but he ven-
tured another remark.
―
66 Do you think now, Miss Lyndall, that he'll ever
have anything in the world, that German, I mean,
-money enough to support a wife on, and all that
sort of thing? I don't. He's what I call a soft."
She was spreading her skirt out softly with her left
hand for the dog to lie down on it.
"I
"I think I should be rather astonished if he ever be-
came a respectable member of society," she said.
don't expect to see him the possessor of bank-shares,
the chairman of a divisional council, and the father
of a large family, wearing a black hat, and going to
church twice on a Sunday. He would rather astonish
me if he came to such an end."
"Yes; I don't expect anything of him either," said
Gregory, zealously.
"Well, I don't know," said Lyndall; "there are
some small things I rather look to him for. If he
were to invent wings, or carve a statue that one might
look at for half an hour without wanting to look at
280
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
something else, I should not be surprised. He may
do some little thing of that kind, perhaps, when he
has done fermenting, and the sediment has all gone
to the bottom."
Gregory felt that what she said was not wholly
intended as blame.
66
'Well, I don't know," he said sulkily; "to me he
looks like a fool. To walk about always in that dead-
and-alive sort of way, muttering to himself like an old
Kaffir witch-doctor! He works hard enough, but it's
always as though he did n't know what he was doing.
You don't know how he looks to a person who sees
him for the first time."
Lyndall was softly touching the little sore foot as
she read, and Doss, to show he liked it, licked her
hand.
"But, Miss Lyndall," persisted Gregory, "what do
you really think of him?"
"I think," said Lyndall, "that he is like a thorn-
tree which grows up very quietly, without any one's
caring for it, and one day suddenly breaks out into
yellow blossoms."
"And what do you think I am like?" asked Gre-
gory, hopefully.
Lyndall looked up from her book.
"Like a little tin duck floating on a dish of water,
that comes after a piece of bread stuck on a needle,
and the more the needle pricks it the more it comes
on."
"Oh, you are making fun of me now,
are!" said Gregory, feeling wretched.
making fun, are n't you, now?"
-
- you really
"You are
"Partly. It is always diverting to make com-
parisons."
THE KOPJE,
281
"Yes; but you don't compare me to anything nice,
and you do other people. What is Em like, now?"
"The accompaniment of a song. She fills up the
gaps in other people's lives, and is always number
two; but I think she is like many accompaniments,
a great deal better than the song she is to
accompany."
"She is not half so good as you are!" said Greg-
ory, with a burst of uncontrollable ardor.
"She is so much better than I that her little fin-
ger has more goodness in it than my whole body. I
hope you may not live to find out the truth of that
fact."
"You are like an angel," he said, the blood rushing
to his head and face.
"Yes, probably; angels are of many orders."
"You are the one being that I love!" said Greg-
ory, quivering. "I thought I loved before, but I
know now! Do not be angry with me.
I know you
could never like me; but if I might but always be
near you to serve you I would be utterly, utterly
happy. I would ask nothing in return! If you could
only take everything I have and use it. I want noth-
ing but to be of use to you."
She looked at him for a few moments.
"How do you know," she said slowly, "that you
could not do something to serve me?
serve me by giving me your name."
You could
He started, and turned his burning face to her.
"You are very cruel; you are ridiculing me," he
said.
"No, I am not, Gregory. What I am saying is
plain, matter-of-fact business. If you are willing to
give me your name within three weeks' time, I am
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willing to marry you; if not, well. I want nothing
more than your name.
That is a clear proposal, is it
not?"
He looked up. Was it contempt, loathing, pity,
that moved in the eyes above? He could not tell;
but he stooped over the little foot, and kissed it.
She smiled.
"Do you really mean it?" he whispered.
"Yes. You wish to serve me, and to have nothing
in return! - you shall have what you wish." She
held out her fingers for Doss to lick.
"Do you see
this dog? He licks my hand because I love him;
and I allow him to. Where I do not love I do not
allow it. I believe you love me; I too could love so,
that to lie under the foot of the thing I loved would
be more heaven than to lie in the breast of another.
Come! let us go. Carry the dog," she added; "he
will not bite you if I put him in your arms. So - do
not let his foot hang down."
They descended the "kopje." At the bottom he
whispered, "Would you not take my arm, the path is
very rough?"
She rested her fingers lightly on it.
-
"I may yet change my mind about marrying you,
before the time comes. It is very likely. Mark you!"
she said, turning round on him; "I remember your
words, You will give everything, and expect nothing.
The knowledge that you are serving me is to be your
reward; and you will have that. You will serve me,
and greatly. The reasons I have for marrying you I
need not inform you of now; you will probably dis-
cover some of them before long."
"I only want to be of some use to you," he said.
It seemed to Gregory that there were pulses in the
THE KOPJE.
283
66
soles of his feet, and the ground shimmered as on a
summer's day. They walked round the foot of the
kopje," and past the Kaffir huts. An old Kaffir
maid knelt at the door of one, grinding mealies. That
she should see him walking so, made his heart beat so
fast that the hand on his arm felt its pulsation. It
seemed that she must envy him.
Just then Em looked out again at the back window,
and saw them coming. She cried bitterly all the
while she sorted the skins.
But that night when Lyndall had blown her candle
out, and half turned round to sleep, the door of Em's
bedroom opened.
"I want to say good-night to you, Lyndall," she
said, coming to the bedside and kneeling down.
"I thought you were asleep," Lyndall replied.
"Yes, I have been asleep; but I had such a vivid.
dream," she said, holding the other's hands, "and
that awoke me. I never had so vivid a dream before.
It seemed I was a little girl again, and I came some-
where into a large room.
On a bed in the corner
there was something lying dressed in white, and its
little eyes were shut, and its little face was like wax.
I thought it was a doll, and I ran forward to take it;
but some one held up her finger and said, 'Hush! it
is a little dead baby.' And I said, 'Oh, I must go
and call Lyndall, that she may look at it also.' And
they put their faces close down to my ear and whis-
pered, 'It is Lyndall's baby.' And I said, 'She can-
not be grown up yet; she is only a little girl! Where
is she?' And I went to look for you, but I could not
find you. And when I came to some people who were
dressed in black, I asked them where you were, and
they looked down at their black clothes, and shook
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their heads, and said nothing; and I could not find
you anywhere. And then I awoke.
"Lyndall," she said, putting her face down upon
the hands she held, "it made me think about that time
when we were little girls and used to play together,
when I loved you better than anything else in the
world. It is n't any one's fault that they love you;
they can't help it. And it is n't your fault; you don't
make them love you. I know it."
"Thank you, dear," Lyndall said. "It is nice to be
loved, but it would be better to be good."
Then they wished good-night, and Em went back
to her room. Long after Lyndall lay in the dark,
thinking, thinking, thinking; and as she turned round
wearily to sleep, she muttered, "There are some wiser
in their sleeping than in their waking.”
CHAPTER IX.
LYNDALL'S STRANGER.
A FIRE is burning in the unused hearth of the cabin.
The fuel blazes up, and lights the black rafters, and
warms the faded red lions on the quilt, and fills the
little room with a glow of warmth and light made
brighter by contrast, for outside the night is chill and
misty.
Before the open fireplace sits a stranger, his tall,
slight figure reposing in the broken armchair, his keen.
blue eyes studying the fire from beneath delicately
pencilled, drooping eyelids. One white hand plays
thoughtfully with a heavy flaxen mustache; yet once
he starts, and for an instant the languid lids raise
themselves; there is a keen, intent look upon the
face as he listens for something. Then he leans back
in his chair, fills his glass from the silver flask in his
bag, and resumes his old posture.
Presently the door opens noiselessly. It is Lyn-
dall, followed by Doss. Quietly as she enters, he
hears her, and turns.
"I thought you were not coming."
"I waited till all had gone to bed. I could not
come before."
She removed the shawl that enveloped her, and the
stranger rose to offer her his chair; but she took her
seat on a low pile of sacks before the window.
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"I hardly see why I should be outlawed after this
fashion," he said, reseating himself, and drawing his
chair a little nearer to her; "these are hardly the
quarters one expects to find after travelling a hundred
miles in answer to an invitation."
"I said, 'Come if you wish.""
"And I did wish. Yet you give me a cold
reception."
"I could not take you to the house. Questions
would be asked which I could not answer without
prevarication."
"Your conscience is growing to have a certain vir-
gin tenderness," he said, in a low melodious voice.
-
"I have no conscience. I spoke one deliberate lie
this evening. I said the man who had come looked
rough, we had best not have him in the house;
therefore I brought him here. It was a deliberate
lie, and I hate lies. I tell them if I must, but they
hurt me."
"Well, you do not tell lies to yourself, at all events.
You are candid, so far.”
She interrupted him. "You got my short letter?”
"Yes; that is why I came. You sent a very fool-
ish reply; you must take it back.
you talk of marrying?"
"A
farmer."
young
"Lives here?"
"Yes;
wedding."
Who is this fellow
he has gone to town to get things for our
"What kind of a fellow is he?"
"A fool."
"And you would rather marry him than me?"
"Yes; because you are not one."
"That is a novel reason for refusing to marry a
LYNDALL'S STRANGER.
287
man," he said, leaning his elbow on the table, and
watching her keenly.
"It is a wise one," she said shortly. "If I marry
him, I shall shake him off my hand when it suits me.
If I remained with him for twelve months, he would
never have dared to kiss my hand. As far as I wish
he should come, he comes, and no farther. Would
you ask me what you might, and what you might not
do?"
Her companion raised the mustache with a caress-
ing movement from his lip, and smiled. It was not a
question that stood in need of any answer.
"Why do you wish to enter on this semblance of
marriage?"
"Because there is only one point on which I have a
conscience. I have told you so."
"Then why not marry me?
99
22
"Because if once you have me, you would hold me
fast. I shall never be free again." She drew a long,
low breath.
"What have you done with the ring I gave you?”
he said.
"Sometimes I wear it; then I take it off and wish
to throw it into the fire; the next day I put it on
again, and sometimes I kiss it."
"So you do love me a little ?"
-
"If you were not something more to me than any
other man in the world, do you think "" She
paused. "I love you when I see you; but when you
are away from me, I hate you."
"Then I fear I must be singularly invisible at the
present moment," he said. "Possibly if you were
to look less fixedly into the fire, you might perceive
me."
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He moved his chair slightly so as to come between
her and the firelight. She raised her eyes to his face.
"If you do love me," he asked her, "why will you
not marry me?”
"Because if I had been married to you for a year,
I should have come to my senses, and seen that your
hands and your voice are like the hands and the voice
of any other man. I cannot quite see that now. But
it is all madness. You call into activity one part
of my nature; there is a higher part that you know
nothing of, that you never touch. If I married you,
afterwards it would arise and assert itself, and I should
hate you always, as I do now sometimes."
"I like you when you grow metaphysical and ana-
lytical," he said, leaning his face upon his hand. "Go
a little farther in your analysis; say, 'I love you with
the right ventricle of my heart, but not the left, and
with the left auricle of my heart, but not the right;
and, this being the case, my affection for you is not
of a duly elevated, intellectual, and spiritual nature.'
I like you when you get philosophical."
She looked quietly at him; he was trying to turn
her own weapons against her.
"You are acting foolishly, Lyndall," he said, sud-
denly changing his manner, and speaking earnestly,
"most foolishly; you are acting like a little child. I
am surprised at you. It is all very well to have ideals
and theories; but you know as well as any one can
that they must not be carried into the practical world.
I love you. I do not pretend that it is in any high,
superhuman sense; I do not say that I should like
you as well if you were ugly and deformed, or that I
should continue to prize you whatever your treatment
of me might be, or to love you though you were a
LYNDALL'S, STRANGER.
289
spirit without any body at all. That is sentimentality
for beardless boys. Every one not a mere child (and
you are not a child, except in years) knows what love
between a man and a woman means. I love you with
that love. I would not have believed it possible that
I could have brought myself twice to ask any woman
to be my wife, more especially one without wealth,
without position, and who-"
"Yes, go on. Do not grow sorry for me. Say
what you were going to, 'who has put herself into
my power, and who has lost the right of meeting me
on equal terms.' Say what you think; at least we
two may speak the truth to each other."
Then she added after a pause,
"I believe you do love me as much as you possibly
could love anything, and I believe that when you ask
me to marry you, you are performing the most gener-
ous act you ever have performed in the course of your
life, or ever will. But at the same time if I had re-
quired your generosity, it would not have been shown
me. If when I got your letter a month ago hinting
at your willingness to marry me I had at once written
imploring you to come, you would have read the letter,
'Poor little devil!' you would have said, and torn it
up. The next week you would have sailed for Europe,
and have sent me a check for a hundred and fifty
pounds (which I would have thrown in the fire), and
I would have heard no more of you." The stranger
smiled. "But because I declined your proposal, and
wrote that in three weeks I should be married to an-
other, then what you call love woke up. Your man's
love is a child's love for butterflies. You follow till
you have the thing, and break it. If you have broken
one wing, and the thing flies still, then you love it
19
290
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
then
more than ever, and follow till you break both;
you are satisfied when it lies still on the ground."
"You are profoundly wise in the ways of the world;
you have seen far into life," he said.
He might as well have sneered at the firelight.
"I have seen enough to tell me that you love me
because you cannot bear to be resisted, and want to
master me. You liked me at first because I treated
you and all men with indifference. You resolved to
That is all
have me because I seemed unattainable.
your love means.”
He felt a strong inclination to stoop down and kiss
the little lips that defied him; but he restrained him-
He said quietly, "And you loved me. .?"
"Because you are strong.
self.
ever was afraid of. And "
-
-
-
You are the first man I
a dreamy look came into
her face "because I like to experience, I like to try.
You don't understand that."
He smiled.
--
"Well, since you will not marry me, may I inquire
what your intentions are, the plan you wrote of.
You asked me to come and hear it, and I have come."
"I said: Come if you wish.' If you agree to it,
well; if not, I marry on Monday."
"Well?"
6
She was still looking beyond him at the fire.
"I cannot marry you," she said slowly, "because I
cannot be tied; but if you wish, you may take me
away with you, and take care of me; then when we
do not love any more we can say good-by. I will not
go down country," she added; "I will not go to
Europe. You must take me to the Transvaal. That
is out of the world. People we meet there we need
not see again in our future lives."
LYNDALL'S STRANGER.
291
"Oh, my darling," he said, bending tenderly, and
holding his hand out to her, "why will you not give
yourself entirely to me? One day you will desert me
and go to another."
She shook her head, without looking at him.
"No; life is too long. But I will go with you.”
"When?"
"To-morrow.
I have told them that before day-
I will write from the
I do not want them to
light I go to the next farm.
town, and tell them the facts.
trouble me; I want to shake myself free of these old
surroundings; I want them to lose sight of me.
can understand that this is necessary for me."
You
He seemed lost in consideration; then he said,
"It is better to have you on those conditions than
not at all. If you will have it, let it be so."
He sat looking at her. On her face was the weary
look that rested there so often now when she sat
alone. Two months had not passed since they parted;
but the time had set its mark on her. He looked at
her carefully, from the brown, smooth head to the
little crossed feet on the floor. A worn look had
grown over the little face, and it made its charm
for him stronger. For pain and time, which trace
deep lines and write a story on a human face, have
a strangely different effect on one face and another.
The face that is only fair, even very fair, they mar
and flaw; but to the face whose beauty is the har-
mony between that which speaks from within and the
form through which it speaks, power is added by all
that causes the outer man to bear more deeply the
impress of the inner. The pretty woman fades with
the roses on her cheeks, and the girlhood that lasts
an hour; the beautiful woman finds her fulness of
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bloom only when a past has written itself on her, and
her power is then most irresistible when it seems
going.
From under their half-closed lids the keen eyes
looked down at her. Her shoulders were bent; for a
moment the little figure had forgotten its queenly
bearing, and drooped wearily; the wide, dark eyes
watched the fire very softly.
It certainly was not in her power to resist him, nor
any strength in her that made his own at that moment
grow soft as he looked at her.
He touched one little hand that rested on her knee.
"Poor little thing!" he said; "you are only a
child."
She did not draw her hand away from his, and
looked up at him.
"You are very tired?"
"Yes."
She looked into his eyes as a little child might
whom a long day's play had saddened.
He lifted her gently up, and set her on his knee.
"Poor little thing!" he said.
She turned her face to his shoulder, and buried it
against his neck; he wound his strong arm about her,
and held her close to him. When she had sat for a
long while, he drew with his hand the face down, and
held it against his arm. He kissed it, and then put
it back in its old resting-place.
"Don't you want to talk to me?"
"No."
"Have you forgotten the night in the avenue?"
He could feel that she shook her head.
"Do you want to be quiet now?"
"Yes."
1
LYNDALL'S STRANGER.
293
They sat quite still, excepting that only sometimes
he raised her fingers softly to his mouth.
Doss, who had been asleep in the corner, waking
suddenly, planted himself before them, his wiry legs
moving nervously, his yellow eyes filled with anxiety.
He was not at all sure that she was not being retained
in her present position against her will, and was not a
little relieved when she sat up and held out her hand
for the shawl.
"I must go," she said.
The stranger wrapped the shawl very carefully
about her.
66
Keep it close around your face, Lyndall; it is
very damp outside. Shall I walk with you to the
house?"
"No. Lie down and rest; I will come and wake
you at three o'clock."
She lifted her face that he might kiss it, and, when
he had kissed it once, she still held it that he might
kiss it again. Then he let her out. He had seated
himself at the fireplace, when she reopened the door.
"Have you forgotten anything?"
"No."
She gave one long, lingering look at the old room.
When she was gone, and the door shut, the stranger
filled his glass, and sat at the table sipping it thought-
fully.
The night outside was misty and damp; the faint
moonlight, trying to force its way through the thick
air, made darkly visible the outlines of the buildings.
The stones and walls were moist, and now and then a
drop, slowly collecting, fell from the eaves to the
ground. Doss, not liking the change from the cabin's
warmth, ran quickly to the kitchen doorstep; but his
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
mistress walked slowly past him, and took her way
up the winding footpath that ran beside the stone-
wall of the camps. When she came to the end of the
last
camp, she threaded her way among the stones and
bushes till she reached the German's grave. Why
she had come there she hardly knew; she stood look-
ing down. Suddenly she bent and put one hand on
the face of a wet stone.
"I shall never come to you again," she said.
Then she knelt on the ground, and leaned her face
upon the stones.
――
"Dear old man, good old man, I am so tired!
she said (for we come to the dead to tell secrets we
would never have told to the living). "I am so tired.
There is light, there is warmth," she wailed; "why
amn I alone, so hard, so cold? I am so weary of my-
self! It is eating my soul to its core, self, self,
self! I cannot bear this life! I cannot breathe, I
cannot live! Will nothing free me from myself?"
She pressed her cheek against the wooden post. "I
want to love! I want something great and pure to
lift me to itself! Dear old man, I cannot bear it any
more ! I am so cold, so hard, so hard; will no one
help me?"
The water gathered slowly on her shawl, and fell
on the wet stones; but she lay there crying bitterly.
For so the living soul will cry to the dead, and the
creature to its God; and of all this crying there comes
nothing. The lifting up of the hands brings no salva-
tion; redemption is from within, and neither from
God nor man: it is wrought out by the soul itself,
with suffering and through time.
Doss, on the kitchen doorstep, shivered, and won-
dered where his mistress stayed so long; and once,
LYNDALL'S STRANGER.
295
sitting sadly there in the damp, he had dropped
asleep, and dreamed that old Otto gave him a piece of
bread, and patted him on the head, and when he woke
his teeth chattered, and he moved to another stone to
see if it was drier. At last he heard his mistress's
step, and they went into the house together. She lit
a candle, and walked to the Boer-woman's bedroom.
On a nail under the lady in pink hung the key of the
wardrobe. She took it down, and opened the great
press. From a little drawer she took fifty pounds,
all she had in the world, relocked the door, and
turned to hang up the key. Then she paused, hesi-
tated. The marks of tears were still on her face, but
she smiled.
"Fifty pounds for a lover! A noble reward!" she
said, and opened the wardrobe, and returned the notes
to the drawer, where Em might find them.
Once in her own room, she arranged the few arti-
cles she intended to take to-morrow, burned her old
letters, and then went back to the front room to look
at the time. There were two hours yet before she
must call him, She sat down at the dressing-table to
wait, and leaned her elbows on it, and buried her face
in her hands. The glass reflected the little brown
head with its even parting, and the tiny hands on
which it rested. "One day I shall love something
utterly, and then I shall be better," she said once.
Presently she looked up. The large dark eyes from
the glass looked back at her. She looked deep into
them.
"We are all alone, you and I," she whispered; "no
one helps us, no one understands us; but we will help
ourselves." The eyes looked back at her. There was
a world of assurance in their still depths. So they
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
had looked at her ever since she could remember, when
it was but a small child's face above a blue pinafore.
“We shall never be quite alone, you and I,” she said;
we shall always be together, as we were when we
were little."
66
The beautiful eyes looked into the depths of her
soul.
"We are not afraid; we will help ourselves!" she
said. She stretched out her hand, and pressed it over
them on the glass. "Dear eyes! we will never be
quite alone till they part us; - till then!"
CHAPTER X.
GREGORY ROSE HAS AN IDEA.
GREGORY ROSE was in the loft putting it neat.
Outside the rain poured; a six months' drought had
broken, and the thirsty plain was drenched with
water. What it could not swallow ran off in mad
rivulets to the great sloot, that now foamed like an
angry river across the flat. Even the little furrow
between the farm-house and the kraal was now a
stream, knee-deep, which almost bore away the Kaffir
women who crossed it. It had rained for twenty-
four hours, and still the rain poured on. The fowls
had collected a melancholy crowd-in and about
the wagon-house, and the solitary gander, who alone
had survived the six months' want of water, walked
hither and thither printing his webbed foot-marks on
the mud, to have them washed out the next instant by
the pelting rain, which at eleven o'clock still beat
on the walls and roofs with unabated ardor.
Gregory, as he worked in the loft, took no notice of
it beyond stuffing a sack into the broken pane to keep
it out; and, in spite of the pelt and patter, Em's clear
voice might be heard through the open trap-door from
the dining-room, where she sat at work, singing the
"Blue Water,"
"And take me away,
And take me away,
And take me away,
To the Blue Water,".
298
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
that quaint, childish song of the people, that has a
world of sweetness, and sad, vague yearning when
sung over and over dreamily by a woman's voice as
she sits alone at her work. But Gregory heard neither
that nor yet the loud laughter of the Kaffir maids,
that every now and again broke through from the
kitchen, where they joked and worked. Of late Greg-
ory had grown strangely impervious to the sounds
and sights about him. His lease had run out, but
Em had said, “Do not renew it; I need one to help
me; just stay on. And she had added, "You must
not remain in your own little house; live with me;
you can look after my ostriches better so."
And Gregory did not thank her. What difference
did it make to him, paying rent or not, living there or
not; it was all one. But yet he came. Em wished
that he would still sometimes talk of the strength and
master-right of man; but Gregory was as one smitten
on the cheek-bone. She might do what she pleased,
he would find no fault, had no word to say. He had
forgotten that it is man's right to rule. On that rainy
morning he had lighted his pipe at the kitchen fire,
and when breakfast was over, stood in the front door
watching the water rush down the road, till the pipe
died out in his mouth. Em saw she must do some-
thing for him, and found him a large calico duster.
He had sometimes talked of putting the loft neat, and
to-day she could find nothing else for him to do. So
she had the ladder put to the trap-door, that he need
not go out in the wet, and Gregory with the broom
and duster mounted to the loft. Once at work he
worked hard. He dusted down the very rafters, and
cleaned the broken candle-moulds and bent forks that
had stuck in the thatch for twenty years. He placed
GREGORY ROSE HAS AN IDEA.
299
the black bottles neatly in rows, on an old box in the
corner, and piled the skins on one another, and sorted
the rubbish in all the boxes; and at eleven o'clock his
work was almost done. He seated himself on the
packing-case which had once held Waldo's books, and
proceeded to examine the contents of another, which
he had not yet looked at. It was carelessly nailed
down. He loosened one plank, and began to lift out
various articles of female attire, old-fashioned caps,
aprons, dresses with long pointed bodies, such as he
remembered to have seen his mother wear when he
was a little child. He shook them out carefully to
see there were no moths, and then sat down to fold
them up again one by one. They had belonged to
Em's mother, and the box, as packed at her death, had
stood untouched and forgotten these long years. She
must have been a tall woman, that mother of Em's,
for when he stood up to shake out a dress, the neck
was on a level with his, and the skirt touched the
ground. Gregory laid a nightcap out on his knee, and
began rolling up the strings; but presently his fingers
moved slower and slower, then his chin rested on his
breast, and finally the imploring blue eyes were fixed
on the frill abstractedly. When Em's voice called to
him from the foot of the ladder, he started, and threw
the nightcap behind him.
She was only come to tell him that his cup
of soup
was ready; and when he could hear that she was
gone, he picked up the nightcap again, and a great
brown sun-kappje, - just such a kappje and such a
dress as one of those he remembered to have seen a
Sister of Mercy wear. Gregory's mind was very full
of thought. He took down a fragment of an old look-
ing-glass from behind a beam, and put the kappje
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
T
on.
His beard looked somewhat grotesque under it;
he put up his hand to hide it — that was better. The
blue eyes looked out with the mild gentleness that
became eyes looking out from under a kappje. Next
he took the brown dress, and, looking round furtively,
slipped it over his head. He had just got his arms
in the sleeves, and was trying to hook up the back,
when an increase in the patter of the rain at the
window, made him drag it off hastily. When he per-
ceived there was no one coming, he tumbled the things
back into the box, and covering it carefully, went down
the ladder.
Em was still at her work, trying to adjust a new
needle in the machine. Gregory drank his soup, and
then sat before her, an awful and mysterious look in
his eyes.
"I am going to town to-morrow," he said.
"I'm almost afraid you won't be able to go," said
Em, who was intent on her needle; "I don't think it
is going to leave off to-day."
"I am going," said Gregory.
Em looked up.
"But the sloots are as full as rivers -
not go. We can wait for the post,” she said.
"I am
you can-
not going for the post," said Gregory,
impressively.
Em looked for explanation; none came.
"When will you be back?"
"I am not coming back."
"Are you going to your friends?"
Gregory waited, then caught her by the wrist.
"Look here, Em," he said between his teeth, "I
can't stand it any more. I am going to her."
Since that day, when he had come home and found
GREGORY ROSE HAS AN IDEA.
301
Lyndall gone, he had never talked of her; but Em
knew who it was who needed to be spoken of by no
name.
She said, when he had released her hand, "But you
do not know where she is?"
"Yes, I do. She was in Bloemfontein when I
heard last. I will go there, and I will find out where
she went then, and then, and then! I will have her."
Em turned the wheel quickly, and the ill-adjusted
needle broke into twenty fragments.
66
Gregory," she said, "she does not want us; she
told us so clearly in the letter she wrote." A flush
rose on her face as she spoke. "It will only be pain
to you, Gregory. Will she like to have you near
her?"
There was an answer he might have made, but it
was his secret, and he did not choose to share it.
said only,-
"I am going."
"Will you be gone long, Gregory?"
He
"I do not know; perhaps I shall never come back.
Do what you please with my things. I cannot stay
here!"
He rose from his seat.
"People say, forget, forget!" he cried, pacing the
room. "They are mad! They are fools! Do they
say so to men who are dying of thirst-forget, for-
get? Why is it only to us they say so? It is a lie
to say that time makes it easy; it is afterwards,
afterwards, that it eats in at your heart!
"All these months," he cried bitterly, "I have
lived here quietly, day after day, as if I cared for
what I ate, and what I drank, and what I did! I
care for nothing! I cannot bear it! I will not. For-
302
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
get, forget!" ejaculated Gregory. "You can forget
all the world, but you cannot forget yourself. When
one thing is more to you than yourself, how are you
to forget it?
-
"I read," he said 'yes; and then I come to a
word she used, and it is all back with me again! I
go to count my sheep, and I see her face before me,
and I stand and let the sheep run by. I look at you,
and in your smile, a something at the corner of your
lips, I see her. How can I forget her when, when-
ever I turn, she is there, and not there? I cannot,
I will not, live where I do not see her.
"I know what you think," he said, turning upon
Em. "You think I am mad; you think I am going
to see whether she will not like me! I am not so
foolish. I should have known at first she never could
suffer me.
Who am I, what am I, that she should
look at me? It was right that she left me; right
that she should not look at me. If any one says it is
not, it is a lie! I am not going to speak to her," he
added, "only to see her; only to stand sometimes in
a place where she has stood before."
CHAPTER XI.
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
GREGORY ROSE had been gone seven months. Em
sat alone on a white sheepskin before the fire.
The August night-wind, weird and shrill, howled
round the chimneys and through the crannies, and in
walls and doors, and uttered a long low cry as it
forced its way among the clefts of the stones on the
"kopje." It was a wild night. The prickly-pear
tree, stiff and upright as it held its arms, felt the
wind's might, and knocked its flat leaves heavily to-
gether, till great branches broke off. The Kaffirs, as
they slept in their straw huts, whispered one to an-
other that before morning there would not be an
armful of thatch left on the roofs; and the beams of
the wagon-house creaked and groaned as if it were
heavy work to resist the importunity of the wind.
Em had not gone to bed. Who could sleep on a
night like this? So in the dining-room she had
lighted a fire, and sat on the ground before it, turning
the roaster-cakes that lay on the coals to bake. It
would save work in the morning; and she blew out
the light because the wind through the window-chinks
made it flicker and run; and she sat singing to her-
self as she watched the cakes. They lay at one end
of the wide hearth on a bed of coals, and at the other
end a fire burned up steadily, casting its amber glow
over Em's light hair and black dress, with the ruffle
304
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
of crape about the neck, and over the white curls of
the sheepskin on which she sat.
Louder and more fiercely yet howled the storm;
but Em sang on, and heard nothing but the words of
her song, and heard them only faintly, as something
restful. It was an old, childish song she had often
heard her mother sing long ago,
"Where the reeds dance by the river,
Where the willow's song is said,
On the face of the morning water,
Is reflected a white flower's head."
She folded her hands and sang the next verse
dreamily
-
"Where the reeds shake by the river,
Where the moonlight's sheen is shed
On the face of the sleeping water,
Two leaves of a white flower float dead.
Dead, dead, dead!"
She echoed the refrain softly till it died away, and
then repeated it. It was as if, unknown to herself, it
harmonized with the pictures and thoughts that sat
with her there alone in the firelight. She turned
the cakes over, while the wind hurled down a row of
bricks from the gable, and made the walls tremble.
Presently she paused and listened; there was a
sound as of something knocking at the back doorway.
But the wind had raised its level higher, and she
went on with her work. At last the sound was re-
peated. Then she rose, lit the candle at the fire, and
went to see. Only to satisfy herself, she said, that
nothing could be out on such a night.
She opened the door a little way, and held the light
behind her to defend it from the wind. The figure
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
305
of a tall man stood there, and before she could speak
he had pushed his way in, and was forcing the door
to close behind him.
"Waldo!" she cried in astonishment.
He had been gone more than a year and a half.
"You did not expect to see me," he answered, as
he turned towards her; "I should have slept in the
out-house, and not troubled you to-night; but through
the shutter I saw glimmerings of a light."
"Come in to the fire," she said; "it is a terrific
night for any creature to be out. Shall we not go
and fetch your things in first?" she added.
"I have nothing but this," he said, motioning to the
little bundle in his hand.
"Your horse?"
"Is dead."
He sat down on the bench before the fire.
"The cakes are almost ready," she said. "I will
get you something to eat. Where have you been
wandering all this while?"
"Up and down, up and down," he answered wea-
rily; "and now the whim has seized me to come back
here. Em," he said, putting his hand on her arm
as she passed him, "have you heard from Lyndall
lately?"
"Yes," said Em, turning quickly from him.
"Where is she? I had one letter from her, but
that is almost a year ago now,—just when she left.
Where is she?"
"In the Transvaal. I will go and get you some
supper; we can talk afterwards."
"Can you give me her exact address? I want to
write to her."
But Em had gone into the next room.
20
306
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
When food was on the table, she knelt down before
the fire, turning the cakes, babbling restlessly, eagerly,
now of this, now of that. She was glad to see him ;
Tant' Sannie was coming soon to show her her new
baby; he must stay on the farm now and help her.
And Waldo himself was well content to eat his meal
in silence, asking no more questions.
"Gregory is coming back next week," she said.
"He will have been gone just a hundred and three
days to-morrow. I had a letter from him yester-
day."
"Where has he been?"
But his companion stooped to lift a cake from the
fire.
"How the wind blows! One can hardly hear one's
own voice," she said. "Take this warm cake; no
one's cakes are like mine. Why, you have eaten
nothing!"
"I am a little weary," he said; "the wind was mad
to-night."
He folded his arms, and rested his head against the
fireplace, whilst she removed the dishes from the
table. On the mantelpiece stood an ink-pot and some
sheets of paper. Presently he took them down, and
turned up the corner of the tablecloth.
"I will write a few lines," he said, "till you are
ready to sit down and talk.”
Em, as she shook out the tablecloth, watched him
bending intently over his paper. He had changed
much. His face had grown thinner; his cheeks were
almost hollow, though they were covered by a dark
growth of beard.
She sat down on the skin beside him, and felt the
little bundle on the bench; it was painfully small and
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
307
He
soft. Perhaps it held a shirt and a book, but nothing
more. The old black hat had a piece of unhemmed
muslin twisted round it, and on his elbow was a large
patch so fixed on with yellow thread that her heart
ached. Only his hair was not changed, and hung in
silky beautiful waves almost to his shoulders. To-
morrow she would take the ragged edge off his collar,
and put a new band round his hat. She did not in-
terrupt him, but she wondered how it was that he sat
to write so intently after his long weary walk.
was not tired now; his pen hurried quickly and rest-
lessly over the paper, and his eye was bright. Pres-
ently Em raised her hand to her breast, where lay the
letter yesterday had brought her. Soon she had for-
gotten him as entirely as he had forgotten her; each
was in his own world with his own. He was writing
to Lyndall. He would tell her all he had seen, all he
had done, though it were nothing worth relating. He
seemed to have come back to her, and to be talking to
her now he sat there in the old house.
66
and then I got to the next town, and my horse
was tired, so I could go no farther, and looked for
work. A shopkeeper agreed to hire me as salesman.
He made me sign a promise to remain six months,
and he gave me a little empty room at the back of the
store to sleep in. I had still three pounds of my own,
and when you have just come from the country three
pounds seems a great deal.
"When I had been in the shop three days, I wanted
to go away again. A clerk in a shop has the lowest
work to do of all people. It is much better to break
stones; you have the blue sky above you, and only
the stones to bend to. I asked my master to let me
308
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
go, and I offered to give him my two pounds, and the
bag of mealies I had bought with the other pound;
but he would not.
―
"I found out afterwards he was giving me only
half as much as he gave to the others - that was
why. I had fear when I looked at the other clerks,
that I would at last become like them. All day they
were bowing and smirking to the women who came
in; smiling, when all they wanted was to get their
money from them. They used to run and fetch the
dresses and ribbons to show them, and they seemed
to me like worms with oil on. There was one re-
spectable thing in that store; it was the Kaffir store-
man. His work was to load and unload, and he never
needed to smile except when he liked, and he never
told lies.
"The other clerks gave me the name of 'Old Salva-
tion;' but there was one person I liked very much.
He was clerk in another store. He often went past
the door. He seemed to me not like others; his
face was bright and fresh like a little child's. When
he came to the shop I felt I liked him. One day I saw
a book in his pocket, and that made me feel near him.
I asked him if he was fond of reading, and he said
Yes, when there was nothing else to do. The next
day he came to me, and asked me if I did not feel
lonely; he never saw me going out with the other fel,
he would come and see me that evening, he said.
"I was glad, and bought some meat and flour, be-
cause the gray mare and I always ate mealies; it is
the cheapest thing; when you boil it hard you can't
eat much of it. I made some cakes, and I folded my
great coat on the box to make it soft for him; and
at last he came.
lows;
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
309
"You've got a rummy place here,' he said.
“You see there was nothing in it but packing-cases
for furniture, and it was rather empty. While I was
putting the -food on the box he looked at my books;
he read their names out aloud. Elementary Physi-
ology,' First Principles.'
"Golly!' he said, 'I've got a lot of dry stuff like
that at home, I got for Sunday-school prizes; but I
only keep them to light my pipe with now; they
come in handy for that.' Then he asked me if I
had ever read a book called the 'Black-eyed Creole.'
'That is the style for me,' he said; there where the
fellow takes the nigger-girl by the arm, and the other
fellow cuts off. That's what I like.'
6
"But what he said after that I don't remember,
only it made me feel as if I were having a bad dream,
and I wanted to be far away.
"When he had finished eating he did not stay long;
he had to go and see some girls home from a prayer-
meeting; and he asked how it was he never saw me
walking out with any on Sunday afternoons. He said
he had lots of sweethearts, and he was going to see
one the next Wednesday on a farm, and he asked me
to lend my mare. I told him she was very old. But
he said it did n't matter; he would come the next
day to fetch her.
"After he was gone my little room got back to its
old look. I loved it so; I was so glad to get into it
at night, and it seemed to be reproaching me for
bringing him there. The next day he took the gray
mare. On Thursday he did not bring her back, and
on Friday I found the saddle and bridle standing at
my door.
"In the afternoon he looked into the shop, and
310
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
6
called out, Hope you got your saddle, Farber?
Your bag-of-bones kicked out six miles from this.
I'll send you a couple of shillings to-morrow, though
the old hide was n't worth it. Good-morning.'
"But I sprang over the counter, and got him by his
throat. My father was so gentle with her; he never
would ride her up hill, and now this fellow had mur-
dered her! I asked him where he had killed her,
and I shook him till he slipped out of my hand. He
stood in the door grinning.
6
"It did n't take much to kill that bag-of-bones,
whose master sleeps in a packing-case, and waits till
his company's finished to eat on the plate. Should n't
wonder if you fed her on sugar-bags,' he said; and
if you think I've jumped her, you'd better go and
look yourself. You'll find her along the road by the
"aas-vogels" that are eating her.'
"I caught him by his collar, and I lifted him from
the ground, and I threw him out into the street, half-
way across it. I heard the book-keeper say to the
clerk that there was always the devil in those mum fel-
lows; but they never called me Salvation after that.
"I am writing to you of very small things, but
there is nothing else to tell; it has been all small, and
you will like it. Whenever anything has happened,
I have always thought I would tell it to you. The
back thought in my mind is always you. After that
only one old man came to visit me. I had seen him
in the streets often; he always wore very dirty black
clothes and a hat with crape round it, and he had one
eye, so I noticed him. One day he came to my
room with a subscription-list for a minister's salary.
When I said I had nothing to give, he looked at me
with his one eye.
-
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
311
-
"Young man,' he said, 'how is it I never see you
in the house of the Lord ?' I thought he was trying
to do good, so I felt sorry for him, and I told him I
never went to chapel. 'Young man,' he said, 'it
grieves me to hear such godless words from the
lips of one so young, so far gone in the paths of
destruction. Young man, if you forget God, God will
forget you. There is a seat on the right-hand side as
you go at the bottom door that you may get.
If you
are given over to the enjoyment and frivolities of
this world, what will become of your never-dying
soul?'.
"He would not go till I gave him half a crown for
the minister's salary. Afterwards I heard he was the
man who collected the pew-rents, and got a percentage.
I did n't get to know any one else.
"When my time in that shop was done I hired my-
self to drive one of a transport-rider's wagons.
"That first morning, when I sat in the front and
called to my oxen, and saw nothing about me but the
hills with the blue coming down to them, and the
karroo bushes, I was drunk; I laughed; my heart was
beating till it hurt me. I shut my eyes tight, that
when I opened them I might see there were no shelves
about me. There must be a beauty in buying and
selling, if there is beauty in everything; but it is
very ugly to me. My life as transport-rider would
have been the best life in the world if I had had only
one wagon to drive. My master told me he would
drive one, I the other, and he would hire another per-
son to drive the third. But the first day I drove two
to help him, and after that he let me drive all three.
Whenever we came to a hotel he stopped behind to
get a drink, and when he rode up to the wagons he
312
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
could never stand;
the Hottentot and I used to lift
him up. We always travelled all night, and used to
out-span for five or six hours in the heat of the day
to rest. I planned that I would lie under the wagon,
and read for an hour or two every day before I went
to sleep, and I did for the first two or three; but after
that I only wanted to sleep like the rest, and I packed
my books away. When you have three wagons to
look after all night, you are sometimes so tired you
can hardly stand. At first when I walked along driv-
ing my wagons in the night it was glorious; the stars
had never looked so beautiful to me; and on the dark
nights when we rode through the bush there were
will-o'-the-wisps dancing on each side of the road.
found out that even the damp and dark are beautiful.
But I soon changed, and saw nothing but the road
and my oxen. I only wished for a smooth piece of
road, so that I might sit at the front and doze. At
the places where we out-spanned there were some-
times rare plants and flowers, the festoons hanging
from the bush-trees, and nuts and insects, such as we
never see here; but after a little while I never looked
at them; I was too tired. I ate as much as I could,
and then lay down on my face under the wagon till
the boy came to wake me to 'in-span,' and then we
drove on again all night; so it went, so it went. I
think sometimes when we walked by my oxen I called
to them in my sleep, for I know I thought of nothing;
I was like an animal. My body was strong and well
to work; but my brain was dead. If you have not
felt it, Lyndall, you cannot understand it. You may
work, and work, and work, till you are only a body, not
a soul. Now, when I see one of those evil-looking men
that come from Europe, - navvies, with the beast-like
―
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
313
-
-
sunken face, different from any Kaffir's, I know
what brought that look into their eyes; and if I have
only one inch of tobacco I give them half. It is work,
grinding mechanical work, that they or their ances-
tors have done that has made them into beasts. You
may work a man's body so that his soul dies. Work
is good. I have worked at the old farm from the sun's
rising till its setting, but I have had time to think and
time to feel. You may work a man so that all but
the animal in him is gone; and that grows stronger
with physical labor. You may work a man till he is
a devil. I know it, because I have felt it. You will
never understand the change that came over me. No
one but I will ever know how great it was.. But I
was never miserable; when I could keep my oxen
from sticking fast, and when I could find a place to
lie down in, I had all I wanted. After I had driven
eight months a rainy season came. For eighteen
hours out of the twenty-four we worked in the wet.
The mud went up to the axles sometimes, and we had
to dig the wheels out, and we never went far in a day.
My master swore at me more than ever, but when he
had done he always offered me his brandy-flask. When
I first came he had offered it me, and I had always
refused; but now I drank as my oxen did when I gave
them water, without thinking. At last I bought
brandy for myself whenever we passed a hotel.
"One Sunday we out-spanned on the banks of a
swollen river to wait for its going down. It was
drizzling still, so I lay under the wagon on the mud.
There was no dry place anywhere; and all the dung
was wet, so there was no fire to cook food. My little
flask was filled with brandy, and I drank some and
went to sleep. When I woke it was drizzling still,
t
314
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
I
so I drank some more. I was stiff and cold; and my
master, who lay by me, offered me his flask, because
mine was empty. I drank some, and then I thought
I would go and see if the river was going down.
remember that I walked to the road, and it seemed to
be going away from me. When I woke up, I was
lying by a little bush on the bank of the river. It
was afternoon; all the clouds had gone, and the sky
was deep blue. The Bushman boy was grilling ribs
at the fire. He looked at me, and grinned from ear
to ear. 'Master was a little nice,' he said, 'and lay
down in the road. Something might ride over master,
so I carried him there.' He grinned at me again. It
was as though he said, 'You and I are comrades. I
have lain in a road too. I know all about it.' When
I turned my head from him I saw the earth, so pure
after the rain, so green, so fresh, so blue; and I
was a drunken carrier, whom his leader had picked
up in the mud, and laid at the roadside to sleep out
his drink. I remembered my old life, and I remem-
bered you. I saw how, one day, you would read
in the papers,
'A German carrier, named Waldo
Farber, was killed through falling from his wagon,
being instantly crushed under the wheel. Deceased
was supposed to have been drunk at the time of the
accident.' There are those notices in the paper every
month. I sat up, and I took the brandy-flask out of
my pocket, and I flung it as far as I could into the
dark water. The Hottentot boy ran down to see if
he could catch it; it had sunk to the bottom. I never
drank again. But, Lyndall, sin looks much more ter-
rible to those who look at it than to those who do it.
A convict, or a man who drinks, seems something so
far off and horrible when we see him; but to himself
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
315
he seems quite near to us, and like us. We wonder
what kind of a creature he is; but he is just we our-
selves. We are only the wood, the knife that carves
on us is the circumstance.
1
"I do not know why I kept on working so hard for
that master. I think it was as the oxen come every
day and stand by the yokes; they do not know why.
Perhaps I would have been with him still; but one
day we started with loads for the Diamond Fields.
The oxen were very thin then, and they had been
standing about in the yoke all day without food while
the wagons were being loaded. Not far from the
town was a hill. When we came to the foot the first
wagon stuck fast. I tried for a little while to urge
the oxen, but I soon saw the one span could never
pull it up. I went to the other wagon to loosen that
span to join them on in front, but the transport-
rider, who was lying at the back of the wagon,
jumped out.
"They shall bring it up the hill; and if half of
them die for it, they shall do it alone,' he said.
"He was not drunk, but in a bad temper, for he
had been drunk the night before. He swore at me,
and told me to take the whip and help him. We
tried for a little time, then I told him it was no use,
they could never do it. He swore louder, and called
to the leaders to come on with their whips, and to-
gether they lashed. There was one ox, a black ox,
so thin that the ridge of his backbone almost cut
through his flesh.
"It is you, devil, is it, that will not pull?' the
transport-rider said. 'I will show you something.'
He looked like a devil.
"He told the boys to leave off flogging, and he held
316
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
L
the ox by the horn, and took up a round stone, and
knocked its nose with it till the blood came. When
he had done, they called to the oxen, and took up their
whips again, and the oxen strained with their backs
bent, but the wagon did not move an inch.
"So you won't, won't you?' he said. 'I'll help
you.'
"He took out his clasp-knife, and ran it into the
leg of the trembling ox three times, up to the hilt.
Then he put the knife in his pocket, and they took
their whips. The oxen's flanks quivered, and they
foamed at the mouth. Straining, they moved the
wagon a few feet forward, then stood with bent
backs to keep it from sliding back. From the black
ox's nostril foam and blood were streaming on to the
ground. It turned its head in its anguish, and looked
at me, with its great starting eyes. It was praying
for help in its agony and weakness, and they took
their whips again. The creature bellowed out aloud.
If there is a God, it was calling to its Maker for help.
Then a stream of clear blood burst from both nos-
trils; it fell on the ground, and the wagon slipped
back. The man walked up to it.
"You are going to lie down, devil, are you?
We'll see you don't take it too easy.'
"The thing was just dying. He opened his clasp-
knife and stooped down over it. I do not know what
I did then. But afterwards I know I had him on the
stones, and I was kneeling on him. The boys dragged
me off. I wish they had not. I left him standing in
the sand in the road, shaking himself, and I walked
back to the town. I took nothing from that accursed
wagon, so I had only two shillings. But it did not
matter. The next day I got work at a wholesale
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
317
store. My work was to pack and unpack goods, and
to carry boxes, and I had only to work from six in
the morning till six in the evening; so I had plenty
of time. I hired a little room, and subscribed to a
library, so I had everything I needed; and in the
week of Christmas holidays I went to see the sea. I
walked all night, Lyndall, to escape the heat, and
a little after sunrise I got to the top of a high hill.
Before me was a long, low, blue, monotonous moun-
tain. I walked looking at it, but I was thinking of
the sea I wanted to see. At last I wondered what
that curious blue thing might be; then it struck me
it was the sea. I would have turned back again,
only I was too tired. I wonder if all the things we
long to see the churches, the pictures, the men in
Europe will disappoint us so! You see I had
dreamed of it so long. When I was a little boy,
minding sheep behind the 'kopje,' I used to see the
waves stretching out as far as the eye could reach in
the sunlight. My sea! Is the ideal always more
beautiful than the real?
-
-
"I got to the beach that afternoon, and I saw the
water run up and down on the sand, and I saw the
white foam breakers; they were pretty, but I thought
I would go back the next day. It was not my sea.
"But I began to like it when I sat by it that night
in the moonlight; and the next day I liked it better;
and before I left I loved it. It was not like the sky
and stars, that talk of what has no beginning and no
end; but it is so human. Of all the things I have
ever seen, only the sea is like a human being; the sky
is not, nor the earth. But the sea is always moving,
always something deep in itself is stirring it. It
never rests; it is always wanting, wanting, wanting.
318
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
It hurries on; and then it creeps back slowly, without
having reached, moaning. It is always asking a ques-
tion, and it never gets the answer. I can hear it in
the day and in the night; the white foam breakers
are saying that which I think. I walk alone with
them when there is no one to see me, and I sing
with them. I lie down on the sand and watch them
with my eyes half shut.
so high above our heads.
we must look down too.
to Grahamstown.
―
The sky is better, but it is
I love the sea. Sometimes
After five days I went back
"I had glorious books, and in the night I could sit
in my little room and read them; but I was lonely.
Books are not the same things when you are living
among people. I cannot tell why, but they are dead.
On the farm they would have been living beings to
me; but here, where there were so many people about
me, I wanted some one to belong to me. I was lonely.
I wanted something that was flesh and blood. Once
on this farm there came a stranger; I did not ask his
name, but he sat among the karroo and talked with
me. Now, wherever I have travelled I have looked
for him in hotels, in streets, in passenger-wagons
as they rushed in, through the open windows of
houses I have looked for him, but I have not found
him, never heard a voice like his. One day I went
to the Botanic Gardens. It was a half holiday, and
the band was to play. I stood in the long raised
avenue and looked down. There were many flowers,
and ladies and children were walking about, beauti-
fully dressed. At last the music began. I had not
heard such music before. At first it was slow and
even, like the every-day life, when we walk through
it without thought or feeling; then it grew faster,
-
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
319
then it paused, hesitated, then it was quite still for an
instant, and then it burst out. Lyndall, they made
heaven right when they made it all music. It takes
you up and carries you away, away, till you have the
things you longed for; you are up close to them. You
have got out into a large, free, open place. I could not
see anything while it was playing; I stood with my
head against my tree; but, when it was done, I saw
that there were ladies sitting close to me on a wooden
bench, and the stranger who had talked to me that
day in the karroo was sitting between them. The
ladies were very pretty, and their dresses beautiful.
I do not think they had been listening to the music,
for they were talking and laughing very softly. I
heard all they said, and could even smell the rose on
the breast of one. I was afraid he would see me; so
I went to the other side of the tree, and soon they got
up and began to pace up and down in the avenue.
All the time the music played they chatted, and he
carried on his arm the scarf of the prettiest lady. I
did not hear the music; I tried to catch the sound of
his voice each time he went by. When I was listen-
ing to the music I did not know I was badly dressed;
now I felt so ashamed of myself. I never knew be-
fore what a low, horrible thing I was, dressed in tan-
cord. That day on the farm, when we sat on the
ground under the thorn-trees, I thought he quite be-
longed to me; now, I saw he was not mine. But he
was still as beautiful. His brown eyes are more
beautiful than any one's eyes, except yours.
"At last they turned to go, and I walked after
them. When they got out of the gate he helped the
ladies into a phaeton, and stood for a moment with
his foot on the step talking to them. He had a little
320
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
cane in his hand, and an Italian greyhound ran after
him. Just when they drove away one of the ladies
dropped her whip.
"Pick it up, fellow,' she said; and when I brought
it her she threw sixpence on the ground. I might
have gone back to the garden then; but I did not
want music: I wanted clothes, and to be fashionable
and fine. I felt that my hands were coarse, and that
I was vulgar. I never tried to see him again.
"I stayed in my situation four months after that,
but I was not happy. I had no rest.
The people
about me pressed on me, and made me dissatisfied. I
could not forget them. Even when I did not see
them they pressed on me, and made me miserable.
I did not love books; I wanted people. When I
walked home under the shady trees in the street I
could not be happy, for when I passed the houses
I heard music, and saw faces between the curtains.
I did not want any of them, but I wanted some one
for mine, for me. I could not help it. I wanted a
finer life.
"Only one day something made me happy. A nurse
came to the store with a little girl belonging to one of
our clerks. While the maid went into the office to
give a message to its father, the little child stood
looking at me. Presently she came close to me and
peeped up into my face.
"Nice curls, pretty curls,' she said; 'I like curls.'
"She felt my hair all over with her little hands.
When I put out my arm she let me take her and set
her on my knee. She kissed me with her soft mouth.
We were happy till the nurse-girl came and shook
her, and asked her if she was not ashamed to sit on
the knee of that strange man. But I do not think my
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
321
little one minded. She laughed at me as she went
out.
"If the world were all children, I could like it; but
men and women draw me so strangely, and then press
me away, till I am in agony. I was not meant to live
among people. Perhaps some day, when I am grown
older, I will be able to go and live among them and
look at them as I look at the rocks and bushes, with-
out letting them disturb me, and take myself from
me; but not now. So I grew miserable; a kind of
fever seemed to eat me; I could not rest, or read, or
think; so I came back here. I knew you were not
here, but it seemed as though I should be nearer you;
and it is you I want, — you that the other people
suggest to me, but cannot give."
-
He had filled all the sheets he had taken, and now
lifted down the last from the mantelpiece. Em had
dropped asleep, and lay slumbering peacefully on the
skin before the fire. Out of doors the storm still
raged, but in a fitful manner, as though growing half
weary of itself. He bent over his paper again, with
eager flushed cheek, and wrote on.
"It has been a delightful journey, this journey
home. I have walked on foot. The evening before
last, when it was just sunset, I was a little footsore
and thirsty, and went out of the road to look for water.
I went down into a deep little 'kloof.' Some trees ran
along the bottom, and I thought I should find water
there. The sun had quite set when I got to the bot-
tom of it. It was very still,- not a leaf was stirring
anywhere. In the bed of the mountain torrent I
thought I might find water. I came to the bank, and
leaped down into the dry bed. The floor on which I
-
21
322
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
stood was of fine white sand, and the banks rose on
every side like the walls of a room. Above there was
a precipice of rocks, and a tiny stream of water oozed
from them and fell slowly on to the flat stone below.
Each drop you could hear fall like a little silver bell.
There was one among the trees on the bank that stood
cut out against the white sky. All the other trees
were silent; but this one shook and trembled against
the sky. Everything else was still; but those leaves
were quivering, quivering. I stood on the sand; I
could not go away. When it was quite dark, and the
stars had come, I crept out. Does it seem strange to
you that it should have made me so happy? It is be-
cause I cannot tell you how near I felt to things that
we cannot see but we always feel. To-night has been
a wild, stormy night. I have been walking across the
plain for hours in the dark. I have liked the wind,
because I have seemed forcing my way through to
you. I knew you were not here, but I would hear of
you. When I used to sit on the transport wagon half-
sleeping, I used to start awake because your hands
were on me. In my lodgings, many nights I have
blown the light out, and sat in the dark, that I might
see your face start out more distinctly. Sometimes it
was the little girl's face who used to come to me be-
hind the 'kopje' when I minded sheep, and sit by me
in her blue pinafore; sometimes it was older. I love
both. I am very helpless, I shall never do anything;
but you will work, and I will take your work for mine.
Sometimes such a sudden gladness seizes me when I
remember that somewhere in the world you are living
and working. You are my very own; nothing else is
my own so. When I have finished I am going to look
at your room door —”
AN UNFINISHED LETTER.
323
He wrote; and the wind, which had spent its fury,
moaned round and round the house, most like a tired
child weary with crying.
Em woke up, and sat before the fire, rubbing her
eyes, and listening, as it sobbed about the gables, and
wandered away over the long stone walls.
"How quiet it has grown now," she said, and
sighed herself, partly from weariness and partly from
sympathy with the tired wind. He did not answer
her; he was lost in his letter.
She rose slowly after a time, and rested her hand
on his shoulder.
"You have many letters to write," she said.
"No," he answered; "it is only one to Lyndall."
She turned away, and stood long before the fire
looking into it. If you have a deadly fruit to give,
it will not grow sweeter by keeping.
"Waldo, dear," she said, putting her hand on his,
"leave off writing."
He threw back the dark hair from his forehead,
and looked at her.
"It is no use writing any more," she said.
"Why not?" he asked.
She put her hand over the papers he had written.
"Waldo," she said, "Lyndall is dead."
CHAPTER XII.
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
SLOWLY Over the flat came a cart. On the back
seat sat Gregory, his arms folded, his hat drawn over
his eyes.
A Kaffir boy sat on the front seat driving,
and at his feet sat Doss, who, now and again, lifted
his nose and eyes above the level of the splash-board,
to look at the surrounding country; and then, with
an exceedingly knowing wink of his left eye, turned
to his companions, thereby intimating that he clearly
perceived his whereabouts. No one noticed the cart
coming. Waldo, who was at work at his carpenter's
table in the wagon-house, saw nothing, till chancing
to look down he perceived Doss standing before him,
the legs trembling, the little nose wrinkled, and a
series of short suffocating barks giving utterance to
his joy at reunion.
Em, whose eyes had ached with looking out across
the plain, was now at work in a back room, and knew
nothing till, looking up, she saw Gregory, with his
straw hat and blue eyes, standing in the doorway.
He greeted her quietly, hung his hat up in its old
place behind the door, and for any change in his man-
ner or appearance he might have been gone only the
day before to fetch letters from the town.. Only his
beard was gone, and his face was grown thinner. He
took off his leather gaiters, said the afternoon was
hot and the roads dusty, and asked for some tea.
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
325
1
They talked of wool, and the cattle, and the sheep,
and Em gave him the pile of letters that had come
for him during the months of absence, but of the
thing that lay at their hearts neither said anything.
Then he went out to look at the kraals, and at supper
Em gave him hot cakes and coffee. They talked
about the servants, and then eat their meal in quiet.
She asked no questions, When it was ended Gregory
went into the front room, and lay in the dark on the
sofa.
"Do you not want a light?" Em asked, venturing
to look in.
"No," he answered; then presently called to her,
"Come and sit here; I want to talk to you."
22
She came, and sat on a footstool near him.
"Do you wish to hear anything?" he asked.
She whispered, "Yes, if it does not hurt you."
“What difference does it make to me?” he said.
"If I talk or am silent, is there any change??
Yet he lay quiet for a long time. The light through
the open door showed him to her, where he lay, with
his arm thrown across his eyes. At last he spoke.
Perhaps it was a relief to him to speak.
To Bloemfontein in the Free State, to which
through an agent he had traced them, Gregory had
gone. At the hotel where Lyndall and her stranger
had stayed he put up; he was shown the very room
in which they had slept. The colored boy who had
driven them to the next town, told him in which
house they had boarded, and Gregory went on. In
that town he found they had left the cart, and bought
a spider and four grays, and Gregory's heart rejoiced.
Now, indeed, it would be easy to trace their course.
And he turned his steps northwards.
326
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
At the farm-houses where he stopped, the ooms
and tantes remembered clearly the spider with its
four gray horses. At one place the Boer-wife told
how the tall, blue-eyed Englishman had bought milk,
and asked the way to the next farm. At the next
farm the Englishman had bought a bunch of flowers,
and given half a crown for them to the little girl. It
was quite true; the Boer-mother made her get it out
of the box, and show it. At the next place they had
slept. Here they told him that the great bull-dog,
who hated all strangers, had walked in in the evening,
and laid its head on the lady's lap. So at every place
he heard something, and traced them step by step.
At one desolate farm the Boer had a good deal to
tell. The lady had said she liked a wagon that stood
before the door. Without asking the price, the En-
glishman had offered a hundred and fifty pounds for
the old thing, and bought oxen worth ten pounds for
sixteen. The Dutchman chuckled, for he had the
"Salt-reim's" money in the box under his bed. Greg-
ory laughed too, in silence; he could not lose sight
of them now, so slowly they would have to move with
that cumbrous ox-wagon. Yet, when that evening
came, and he reached a little wayside inn, no one
could tell him anything of the travellers.
The master, a surly creature, half-stupid with Boer-
brandy, sat on the bench before the door, smoking.
Gregory sat beside him, questioning, but he smoked
on. He remembered nothing of such strangers. How
should he know who had been there months and
months before? He smoked on. Gregory, very
weary, tried to awake his memory, said that the lady
he was seeking for was very beautiful, had a little
mouth, and tiny, very tiny, feet. The man only
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
327
What were little,
But his daughter
She was dirty and
smoked on as sullenly as at first.
very little mouths and feet to him.
leaned out in the window above.
lazy, and liked to loll there when travellers came, to
hear the men talk, but she had a soft heart. Pres-
ently a hand came out of the window, and a pair of
velvet slippers touched his shoulder, tiny slippers
with black flowers. He pulled them out of her hand.
Only one woman's feet had worn them, he knew that.
"Left here last summer by a lady," said the girl;
might be the one you are looking for. Never saw
any feet so small."
66
Gregory rose and questioned her.
They might have come in a wagon and spider, she
could not tell. But the gentleman was very hand-
some, tall, lovely figure, blue eyes, wore gloves always
when he went out. An English officer, perhaps; no
Africander, certainly.
Gregory stopped her.
The lady? Well, she was pretty, rather, the girl
said; very cold, dull air, silent. They stayed for, it
might be, five days; slept in the wing over against
the stoep; quarrelled sometimes, she thought-
the lady. She had seen everything when she went
in to wait. One day the gentleman touched her hair;
she drew back from him as though his fingers poisoned
her. Went to the other end of the room if he came
to sit near her. Walked out alone. Cold wife for
such a handsome husband, the girl thought; she evi-
dently pitied him, he was such a beautiful man.
They went away early one morning, how, or in which
way, the girl could not tell.
e
Gregory inquired of the servants, but nothing more
was to be learned; so the next morning he saddled
328
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
his horse and went on. At the farms he came to
the good old ooms and tantes asked him to have
coffee, and the little shoeless children peeped out at
the stranger from behind ovens and gables; but no
one had seen what he asked for. This way and that
he rode to pick up the thread he had dropped; but
the spider and the wagon, the little lady and the
handsome gentleman, no one had seen. In the towns
he fared yet worse.
Once, indeed, hope came to him. On the stoep of
a hotel, at which he stayed the night in a certain
little village, there walked a gentleman, grave and
kindly-looking. It was not hard to open conversation
with him about the weather; and then - Had he ever
seen such and such people, a gentleman and lady, a
spider and wagon, arrive at that place? The kindly
gentleman shook his head. What was the lady like,
he inquired.
Gregory painted. Hair like silken floss, small
mouth, under lip very full and pink, upper lip pink,
but very thin and curled; there were four white spots
on the nail of her right hand forefinger, and her eye-
brows were very delicately curved.
The gentleman looked thoughtful, as trying to
remember.
"Yes; and a rose-bud tinge in the cheeks; hands
like lilies, and perfectly seraphic smile."
“That is she! that is she!" cried Gregory.
Who else could it be? He asked where she had
gone to. The gentleman most thoughtfully stroked
his beard. He would try to remember. Were not
Here such a violent fit of coughing
seized him that he ran away into the house. An ill-
fed clerk and a dirty barman standing in the doorway
her ears
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
329
laughed aloud. Gregory wondered if they could be
laughing at the gentleman's cough; and then he heard
some one laughing in the room into which the gentle-
man had gone. He must follow him and try to learn
more; but he soon found that there was nothing more
to be learned there. Poor Gregory!
Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards,
from the dirty little hotel where he had dropped the
thread, to this farm and to that, rode Gregory, till his
heart was sick and tired. That from that spot the
wagon might have gone its own way and the spider
another was an idea that did not occur to him. At
last he saw it was no use lingering in that neighbor-
hood, and pressed on.
--
One day, coming to a little town, his horses knocked
up, and he resolved to rest them there. The little
hotel of the town was a bright and sunny place, like
the jovial face of the clean little woman who kept it,
and who trotted about talking always, talking to
the customers in the tap-room, and to the maids in
the kitchen, and to the passers-by when she could hail
them from the windows, talking, as good-natured
women with large mouths and small noses always do,
in season and out.
There was a little front parlor in the hotel kept for
strangers who wanted to be alone. Gregory sat there
to eat his breakfast, and the landlady dusted the room,
and talked of the great finds at the Diamond Fields,
and the badness of maid-servants, and the shameful
conduct of the Dutch parson in that town to the Eng-
lish inhabitants. Gregory ate his breakfast, and lis-
tened to nothing. He had asked his one question,
had had his answer; now she might talk on.
Presently a door in the corner opened, and a woman
330
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
---
came out, a Mozambiquer, with a red handkerchief
twisted round her head. She carried in her hand a
tray, with a slice of toast crumbled fine, and a half-
filled cup of coffee, and an egg broken open, but not
eaten. Her ebony face grinned complacently as she
shut the door softly, and said, "Good-morning."
The landlady began to talk to her.
"You are not going to leave her really, Ayah, are
you?" she said. "The maids say so; but I'm sure
you would n't do such a thing."
The Mozambiquer grinned.
"Husband says I must go home."
"But she has n't got any one else, and won't have
any one else. Come now," said the landlady, “I've
no time to be sitting always in a sick room, not if I
was paid anything for it."
The Mozambiquer only showed her white teeth good-
naturedly for answer, and went out, and the land-
lady followed her.
Gregory, glad to be alone, watched the sunshine as
it came over the fuchsias in the window, and ran up
and down on the panelled door in the corner. The
Mozambiquer had closed it loosely behind her, and
presently something touched it inside. It moved a
little, then it was still, then moved again; then
through the gap a small nose appeared, and a yellow
ear over-lapping one eye; then the whole head ob-
truded, placed itself critically on one side, wrinkled
its nose disapprovingly at Gregory, and withdrew.
Through the half-open door came a faint scent of vine-
gar, and the room was dark and still.
Presently the landlady came back.
"Left the door open," she said, bustling to shut it;
"but a darky will be a darky, and never carries a
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
331
head on its shoulders like other folks. Not ill, I hope,
sir?" she said, looking at Gregory when she had
shut the bedroom door.
"No," said Gregory, "no."
The landlady began putting the things together.
66
Who," asked Gregory, "is in that room?"
Glad to have a little innocent piece of gossip to
relate, and some one willing to hear it, the landlady
made the most of a little story as she cleared the
table. Six months before a lady had come alone to
the hotel in a wagon, with only a colored leader and
driver. Eight days after a little baby had been born.
If Gregory stood up and looked out at the window, he
would see a blue gum-tree in the graveyard; close by
it was a little grave. The baby was buried there. A
tiny thing, only lived two hours, and the mother
herself almost went with it. After a while she was
better; but one day she got up out of bed, dressed
herself without saying a word to any one, and went
out. It was a drizzly day; a little time after some
one saw her sitting on the wet ground under the blue
gum-tree, with the rain dripping from her hat and
shawl. They went to fetch her, but she would not
come until she chose. When she did she had gone
to bed, and had not risen again from it; never would,
the doctor said.
She was very patient, poor thing. When you went
in to ask her how she was she said always "Better,"
or "Nearly well!" and lay still in the darkened
room, and never troubled any one. The Mozambiquer
took care of her, and she would not allow any one
else to touch her; would not so much as allow any
one else to see her foot uncovered. She was strange
in many ways, but she paid well, poor thing; and
332
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
now the Mozambiquer was going, and she would have
to take up with some one else.
The landlady prattled on pleasantly, and now car-
ried away the tray with the breakfast-things. When
she was gone, Gregory leaned his head on his hands,
but he did not think long.
Before dinner he had ridden out of the town to
where on a rise a number of transport-wagons were
out-spanned. The Dutchman driver of one wondered.
at the stranger's eagerness to free himself of his
horses. Stolen perhaps; but it was worth his while
to buy them at so low a price. So the horses changed
masters, and Gregory walked off with his saddle-bags
slung across his arm. Once out of sight of the wag-
ons he struck out of the road and walked across the
"veld,” the dry, flowering grasses waving everywhere
about him; half way across the plain he came to a
deep gully which the rain torrents had washed out,
but which was now dry. Gregory sprang down into
its red bed. It was a safe place, and quiet. When
he had looked about him he sat down under the shade
of an overhanging bank and fanned himself with his
hat, for the afternoon was hot, and he had walked
fast. At his feet the dusty ants ran about, and the
high red bank before him was covered by a network
of roots and fibres washed bare by the rains. Above
his head rose the clear blue African sky; at his side
were the saddle-bags full of women's clothing. Greg-
ory looked up half plaintively into the blue sky.
"Am I, am I Gregory Nazianzen Rose ?" he said.
It was all so strange, he sitting there in that sloot
in that up-country plain! — strange as the fantastic,
changing shapes in a summer cloud. At last, tired
out, he fell asleep, with his head against the bank.
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
333
When he woke the shadow had stretched across the
sloot, and the sun was on the edge of the plain. Now
he must be up and doing. He drew from his breast-
pocket a little sixpenny looking-glass, and hung it on
one of the roots that stuck out from the bank. Then
he dressed himself in one of the old-fashioned gowns
and a great pinked-out collar. Then he took out a
razor. Tuft by tuft the soft brown beard fell down
into the sand, and the little ants took it to line their
nests with. Then the glass showed a face surrounded
by a frilled cap, white as a woman's, with a little
mouth, a very short upper lip, and a receding chin.
Presently a rather tall woman's figure was making its
way across the veld. As it passed a hollowed-out ant-
heap it knelt down, and stuffed in the saddle bags with
the man's clothing, closing up the ant-hill with bits of
ground to look as natural as possible. Like a sinner
hiding his deed of sin, the hider started once and
looked round, but yet there was no one near save a
"meerkat," who had lifted herself out of her hole and
sat on her hind legs watching. He did not like that
even she should see, and when he rose she dived away
into her hole. Then he walked on leisurely, that the
dusk might have reached the village streets before he
walked there. The first house was the smith's, and
before the open door two idle urchins lolled. As he
hurried up the street in the gathering gloom he heard
them laugh long and loudly behind him. He glanced
round fearingly, and would almost have fled, but that
the strange skirts clung about his legs. And after all
it was only a spark that had alighted on the head of
one, and not the strange figure they laughed at.
The door of the hotel stood wide open, and the light
fell out into the street. He knocked, and the land-
334
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
lady came. She peered out to look for the cart that
had brought the traveller; but Gregory's heart was
brave now he was so near the quiet room. He told
her he had come with the transport wagons that stood
outside the town.
He had walked in, and wanted lodgings for the
night.
It was a deliberate lie, glibly told; he would have
told fifty, though the recording angel had stood in the
next room with his pen dipped in the ink. What
was it to him? He remembered that she lay there
saying always, "I am better."
The landlady put his supper in the little parlor
where he had sat in the morning. When it was on
the table she sat down in the rocking-chair, as her
fashion was, to knit and talk, that she might gather
news for her customers in the tap-room. In the white
face under the queer, deep-fringed cap she saw noth-
ing of the morning's traveller. The new-comer was
communicative. She was a nurse by profession, she
said; had come to the Transvaal, hearing that good
nurses were needed there. She had not yet found
work. The landlady did not perhaps know whether
there would be any for her in that town?
The landlady put down her knitting, and smote her
fat hands together.
If it was n't the very finger of God's Providence, as
though you saw it hanging out of the sky, she said.
Here was a lady ill and needing a new nurse that very
day, and not able to get one to her mind, and now
well, if it was n't enough to convert all the atheists
and freethinkers in the Transvaal she did n't know!
Then the landlady proceeded to detail facts.
"I'm sure you will suit her," she added; "you're
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
335
just the kind. She has heaps of money to pay you
with; has everything that money can buy. And I
got a letter with a check in it for fifty pounds the
other day from some one, who says I'm to spend it
for her, and not to let her know. She is asleep now,
but I'll take you in to look at her."
The landlady opened the door of the next room, and
Gregory followed her. A table stood near the bed,
and a lamp burning low stood on it; the bed was a
great four-poster with white curtains, and the quilt
was of rich crimson satin. But Gregory stood just
inside the door with his head bent low, and saw no
farther.
"Come nearer; I'll turn the lamp up a bit, that
you can have a look at her. A pretty thing, is n't she?"
said the landlady.
Near the foot of the bed was a dent in the crimson
quilt, and out of it Doss's small head and bright eyes
looked knowingly.
"See how the lips move; she is in pain," said the
landlady.
Then Gregory looked up at what lay on the cushion.
A little white, white face, transparent as an angel's,
with a cloth bound round the forehead, and with soft
short hair, tossed about on the pillow.
"We had to cut it off," said the woman, touching
it with her forefinger. "Soft as silk, like a wax
doll's."
But Gregory's heart was bleeding.
"Never get up again, the doctor says," said the
landlady.
Gregory uttered one word. In an instant the beau-
tiful eyes opened widely, looked round the room and
into the dark corners.
336
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
"Who is here? Whom did I hear speak?"
Gregory had sunk back behind the curtain; the
landlady drew it aside, and pulled him forward.
"Only this lady, ma'am, a nurse by profession.
She is willing to stay and take care of you, if you can
come to terms with her."
―a
Lyndall raised herself on her elbow, and cast one
keen scrutinizing glance over him.
"Have I never seen you before?" she asked.
"No."
She fell back wearily.
"Here is a
"Perhaps you would like to arrange the terms be-
tween yourselves," said the landlady.
chair. I will be back presently."
Gregory sat down, with bent head and quick breath.
She did not speak, and lay with half-closed eyes,
seeming to have forgotten him.
"Will you turn the lamp down a little?" she said
at last; "I cannot bear the light."
Then his heart grew braver in the shadow, and he
spoke. Nursing was to him, he said, his chosen life's
work. He wanted no money; if — She stopped him.
"I take no service for which I do not pay," she
said. “What I gave to my last nurse I will give to
you; if you do not like it, you may go."
And Gregory muttered humbly, he would take it.
Afterwards she tried to turn herself. He lifted her.
Ah! a shrunken little body, he could feel its weakness
as he touched it. His hands were to him glorified for
what they had done.
"Thank you; that is so nice. Other people hurt
me when they touch me," she said. "Thank you."
Then after a little while she repeated humbly, "Thank
you; they hurt me so."
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
337
Gregory sat down trembling. His little ewe-lamb,
could they hurt her?
The doctor said of Gregory four days after, "She is
the most experienced nurse I ever came in contact
with."
Gregory, standing in the passage, heard it, and
laughed in his heart. What need had he of experi-
ence? Experience teaches us in a millennium what
passion teaches us in an hour. A Kaffir studies all
his life the discerning of distant sounds; but he will
never hear my step, when my love hears it, coming to
her window in the dark over the short grass.
At first Gregory's heart was sore when day by day
the body grew lighter, and the mouth he fed took
less; but afterwards he grew accustomed to it, and
was happy. For passion has one cry, one only,—“Oh,
to touch thee, beloved!"
In that quiet room Lyndall lay on the bed with the
dog at her feet, and Gregory sat in his dark corner,
watching.
She seldom slept, and through those long, long days
she would lie watching the round streak of sunlight
that came through the knot in the shutter, or the
massive lion's paw on which the wardrobe rested.
What thoughts were in those eyes? Gregory won-
dered; he dared not ask.
Sometimes Doss, where he lay on her feet, would
dream that they two were in the cart, tearing over
the veld, with the black horses snorting, and the
wind in their faces; and he would start up in his
sleep and bark aloud. Then awaking, he would lick
his mistress's hand almost remorsefully, and slink
quietly down into his place.
Gregory thought she had no pain, she never
22
338
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
groaned; only sometimes, when the light was near
her, he thought he could see slight contractions about
her lips and eyebrows.
He slept on the sofa outside her door.
heard a sound, and, open-
One night he thought he
ing it softly, he looked in. She was crying out aloud,
as if she and her pain were alone in the world. The
light fell on the red quilt, and the little hands that
were clasped over the head. The wide-open eyes
were looking up, and the heavy drops fell slowly
from them.
"I cannot bear any more, not any more," she said
in a deep voice. "O, God, God! Have I not borne
in silence? Have I not endured these long, long
months? But now, now, O God, I cannot!"
Gregory knelt in the doorway, listening.
"I do not ask for wisdom, not human love, not
work, not knowledge, not for all things I have longed
for," she cried; "only a little freedom from pain!
only one little hour without pain! Then I will suffer
again."
She sat up, and bit the little hand Gregory loved.
He crept away to the front door, and stood looking
out at the quiet starlight. When he came back, she
was lying in her usual posture, the quiet eyes looking
at the lion's claw. He came close to the bed.
"You have much pain to-night?" he asked her.
No, not much."
66
"Can I do anything for you?"
"No, nothing."
She still drew her lips together, and motioned with
her fingers towards the dog who lay sleeping at her
feet. Gregory lifted him and laid him at her side.
She made Gregory turn open the bosom of her night-
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
339
dress that the dog might put his black muzzle between
her breasts. She crossed her arms over him. Gregory
left them lying there together.
The next day, when they asked her how she was,
she answered, "Better."
(6
"Some one ought to tell her," said the landlady;
we can't let her soul go out into eternity not know-
ing, especially when I don't think it was all right
about the child. You ought to go and tell her,
Doctor."
So the little doctor, edged on and on, went in at
last. When he came out of the room he shook his
fist in the landlady's face.
"Next time you have any devil's work to do, do it
yourself," he said, and shook his fist in her face again,
and went away swearing.
When Gregory went into the bedroom he only
found her moved, her body curled up, and drawn close
to the wall. He dared not disturb her. At last, after
a long time, she turned.
"Bring me food," she said, "I want to eat. Two
eggs, and toast, and meat, two large slices of toast,
please."
-
Wondering, Gregory brought a tray with all that
she had asked for.
"Sit me up, and put it close to me," she said; "I
am going to eat it all." She tried to draw the things
near her with her fingers, and rearranged the plates.
She cut the toast into long strips, broke open both
eggs, put a tiny morsel of bread into her own mouth,
and fed the dog with pieces of meat put into his jaws
with her fingers.
"Is it twelve o'clock yet?" she said; "I think I
do not generally eat so early. Put it away, please,
340
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
carefully
―
-
no, do not take it away only on the
table. When the clock strikes twelve I will eat it."
She lay down trembling. After a little while she
said,
―
"Give me my clothes."
He looked at her.
"Yes; I am going to dress to-morrow.
I should
get up now, but it is rather late. Put them on that
chair. My collars are in the little box, my boots
behind the door."
Her eyes followed him intently as he collected the
articles one by one and placed them on the chair as
she directed.
وو
"Put it nearer," she said. "I cannot see it; and
she lay watching the clothes, with her hand under
her cheek.
"Now open the shutter wide," she said. "I am
going to read."
The old, old tone was again in the sweet voice. He
obeyed her, and opened the shutter, and raised her up
among the pillows.
"Now bring my books to me," she said, motioning
eagerly with her fingers; "the large book, and the
reviews, and the plays. I want them all."
He piled them round her on the bed; she drew
them greedily closer, her eyes very bright, but her
face as white as a mountain-lily.
"Now the big one off the drawers. No, you need
not help me to hold my book," she said. "I can hold
it for myself."
Gregory went back to his corner, and for a little
time the restless turning over of leaves was to be
heard.
"Will you open the window," she said, almost
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
341
It is so
querulously, "and throw this book out?
utterly foolish! I thought it was a valuable book;
but the words are merely strung together. They
make no sense. Yes, so!" she said with approval,
seeing him fling it out into the street. "I must
have been very foolish when I thought that book
good."
-
Then she turned to read, and leaned her little
elbows resolutely on the great volume, and knit her
brows. This was Shakspeare; it must mean some-
thing.
"I wish you would take a handkerchief and tie it
tight round my head, it aches so."
He had not been long in his seat when he saw drops
fall from beneath the hands that shaded the eyes on
to the page.
"I am not accustomed to so much light; it makes
my head swim a little," she said. "Go out and close
the shutter."
When he came back, she lay shrivelled up among
the pillows.
He heard no sound of weeping, but the shoulders
shook. He darkened the room completely.
When Gregory went to his sofa that night she told
him to wake her early; she would be dressed before
breakfast. Nevertheless, when morning came, she
said it was a little cold, and lay all day watching her
clothes upon the chair. Still she sent for her oxen
in the country; they would start on Monday and go
down to the Colony.
In the afternoon she told him to open the window
wide, and draw the bed near it.
It was a leaden afternoon, the dull rain-clouds rested
close to the roofs of the houses, and the little street
342
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
was silent and deserted. Now and then a gust of
wind eddying round caught up the dried leaves,
whirled them hither and thither under the trees, and
dropped them again into the gutter. Then all was
Presently the bell of
the church began to toll, and up the village street
came a long procession. They were carrying an old
man to his last resting-place. She followed them
quiet. She lay looking out.
with her eyes till they turned in among the trees at
the gate.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"An old man," he answered; "a very old man.
They say he was ninety-four; but his name I do not
know."
She mused a while, looking out with fixed eyes.
"That is why the bell rang so cheerfully," she said.
"When the old die it is well; they have had their
time. It is when the young die that the bells weep
drops of blood."
"But the old love life," he said, for it was sweet to
hear her speak.
She raised herself on her elbow.
"They love life, they do not want to die," she an-
swered; "but what of that? They have had their
time. They knew that a man's life is three-score
years and ten; they should have made their plans.
accordingly. But the young," she said, "the young,
cut down cruelly when they have not seen, when
they have not known, when they have not found,
it is for them that the bells weep blood. I heard in
the ringing it was an old man. When the old die,
Listen to the bell! it is laughing,
-
-
'It is right, it is
right; he has had his time.' They cannot ring so for
the young."
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
343
She fell back exhausted; the hot light died from
her eyes, and she lay looking out into the street. By
and by stragglers from the funeral began to come back
and disappear here and there among the houses; then
all was quiet, and the night began to settle down upon
the village street. Afterwards, when the room was
almost dark, so that they could not see each other's
faces, she said, "It will rain to-night," and moved
restlessly on the pillows. "How terrible when the
rain falls down on you!"
He wondered what she meant, and they sat on in
the still darkening room. She moved again.
"Will you presently take my cloak, - the new gray
cloak from behind the door, and go out with it.
You will find a little grave at the foot of the tall blue
gum-tree; the water drips off the long, pointed leaves;
you must cover it up with that.”
She moved restlessly, as though in pain.
Gregory assented, and there was silence again. It
was the first time she had ever spoken of her child.
"It was so small," she said; "it lived such a little
while, only three hours. They laid it close by me,
but I never saw it; I could feel it by me." She
waited. "Its feet were so cold, I took them in my
hand to make them warm, and my hand closed right
over them, they were so little." There was an uneven
-
trembling in the voice. "It crept close to me; it
wanted to drink; it wanted to be warm." She hard-
ened herself, "I did not love it; its father was not
my prince; I did not care for it; but it was so little."
She moved her hand. "They might have kissed it,
one of them, before they put it in. It never did any
one any harm in all its little life. They might have
kissed it, one of them."
344
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
Gregory felt that some one was sobbing in the
room.
Late on in the evening, when the shutter was closed
and the lamp lighted, and the rain-drops beat on the
roof, he took the cloak from behind the door and went
away with it. On his way back he called at the village
post-office, and brought back a letter. In the hall he
stood reading the address. How could he fail to know
whose hand had written it? Had he not long ago
studied those characters on the torn fragments of
paper in the old parlor? A burning pain was at
Gregory's heart. If now, now at the last, one should
come, should step in between! He carried the letter
into the bedroom, and gave it her. "Bring me the
lamp nearer," she said. When she had read it, she
asked for her desk.
Then Gregory sat down in the lamp-light on the
other side of the curtain, and heard the pencil move
on the paper.
When he looked round the curtain, she
was lying on the pillow, musing. The open letter lay
at her side; she glanced at it with soft eyes. The
man with the languid eyelids must have been strangely
moved before his hand set down those words: "Let
me come back to you! My darling, let me put my
hand round you, and guard you from all the world.
As my wife they shall never touch you. I have
learned to love you more wisely, more tenderly than
of old; you shall have perfect freedom. Lyndall,
grand little woman, for your own sake be my wife!
"Why did you send that money back to me? You
are cruel to me. It is not rightly done."
She rolled the little red pencil softly between her
fingers, and her face grew very soft. Yet-
"It cannot be," she wrote; 66 I thank you much for
-
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
345
so;
the love you have shown me; but I cannot listen.
You will call me mad, foolish, - the world would do
but I know what I need, and the kind of path I
must walk in. I cannot marry you. I shall always
love you for the sake of what lay by me those three
hours; but there it ends. I must know and see; I
cannot be bound to one whom I love as I love you. I
am not afraid of the world; I will fight the world.
One day perhaps it may be far off I shall find
what I have wanted all my life, something nobler,
stronger, than I, before which I can kneel down. You
lose nothing by not having me now; I am a weak, sel-
fish, erring woman. One day I shall find something
to worship, and then I shall be—”
"Nurse," she said, "take my desk away; I am
suddenly so sleepy; I will write more to-morrow."
She turned her face to the pillow; it was the sudden
drowsiness of great weakness. She had dropped
asleep in a moment, and Gregory moved the desk
softly, and then sat in the chair watching. Hour
after hour passed, but he had no wish for rest, and
sat on, hearing the rain cease, and the still night
settle down everywhere. At a quarter-past twelve he
rose, and took a last look at the bed where she lay
sleeping so peacefully; then he turned to go to his
couch. Before he had reached the door she had
started up, and was calling him back.
"You are sure you have put it up?" she said
with a look of blank terror at the window.
"It
will not fall open in the night, the shutter — you are
sure?"
-
He comforted her. Yes, it was tightly fastened.
"Even if it is shut," she said in a whisper, "you
346
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
cannot keep it out! You feel it coming in at four
o'clock, creeping, creeping, up, up; deadly cold!
She shuddered.
He thought she was wandering, and laid her little
trembling body down among the blankets.
“I dreamed just now that it was not put up," she
said, looking into his eyes; "and it crept right in,
and I was alone with it."
"What do you fear?" he asked tenderly.
"The gray dawn," she said, glancing round at the
window. "I was never afraid of anything, never
when I was a little child, but I have always been
afraid of that. You will not let it come in to me?"
"No, no; I will stay with you," he continued.
But she was growing calmer. "No; you must go
to bed. I only awoke with a start; you must be
tired. I am childish, that is all;" but she shivered
again.
He sat down beside her. After some time she said,
"Will you not rub my feet?"
He knelt down at the foot of the bed, and took the
tiny foot in his hand; it was swollen and unsightly
now, but as he touched it, he bent down and covered
it with kisses.
"It makes it better when you kiss it; thank you.
What makes you all love me so?" Then dreamily
she muttered to herself, "Not utterly bad, not quite
bad - what makes them all love me so? ""
Kneeling there, rubbing softly, with his cheek
pressed against the little foot, Gregory dropped to
sleep at last. How long he knelt there he could not
tell, but when he started up awake she was not look-
ing at him. The eyes were fixed on the far corner,
gazing wide and intent, with an unearthly light.
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
347
He looked round fearfully. What did she see
there? God's angels come to call her? Something
fearful? He saw only the purple curtain, with the
shadows that fell from it.
asking what she saw there.
Softly he whispered,
And she said, in a voice strangely unlike her own,,
"I see the vision of a poor weak soul striving after
good. It was not cut short; and in the end it learned,
through tears and much pain, that holiness is an in-
finite compassion for others; that greatness is to take
the common things of life, and walk truly among
them; that" she moved her white hand and laid
it on her forehead -
happiness is a great love and
much serving. It was not cut short; and it loved
what it had learned
-
66
―
-
it loved
and
Was that all she saw in the corner?
99
Gregory told the landlady the next morning that
she had been wandering all night. Yet when he
came in to give her her breakfast, she was sitting up
against the pillows, looking as he had not seen her
look before.
"Put it close to me," she said, "and when I have
had breakfast I am going to dress."
She finished all he had brought her, eagerly.
"I am sitting up quite by myself," she said. "Give
me his meat;" and she fed the dog herself, cutting
his food small for him. She moved to the side of the
bed.
"Now bring the chair near and dress me. It is
being in this room so long, and looking at that miser-
able little bit of sunshine that comes in through the
shutter, that is making me so ill. Always that lion's
paw !" " she said with a look of disgust at it. "Come
and dress me." Gregory knelt on the floor before
348
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
her, and tried to draw on one stocking, but the little
swollen foot refused to be covered.
"It is very funny that I should have grown so fat
since I have been so ill," she said, peering down cu-
riously. "Perhaps it is want of exercise." She
looked troubled, and said again, "Perhaps it is want
of exercise." She wanted Gregory to say so too.
But he only found a larger pair; and then tried to
force the shoes oh, so tenderly! on to her little
feet.
-
"There," she said, looking down at them when they
were on, with the delight of a small child over its
first shoes, "I could walk far now. How nice it
looks!"
-
"No," she said, seeing the soft gown he had pre-
pared for her, "I will not put that on. Get one of
my white dresses, the one with the pink bows. I
do not even want to think I have been ill. It is
thinking and thinking of things that makes them
real," she said. "When you draw your mind to-
gether, and resolve that a thing shall not be, it gives
way before you; it is not. Everything is possible if
one is resolved," she said. She drew in her little lips
together, and Gregory obeyed her; she was so small
and slight now, it was like dressing a small doll. He
would have lifted her down from the bed when he
had finished, but she pushed him from her, laughing
very softly. It was the first time she had laughed in
those long dreary months.
"No, no; I can get down myself," she said, slip-
ping cautiously on to the floor. "You see!" She
cast a defiant glance of triumph when she stood there.
"Hold the curtain up high, I want to look at myself."
He raised it, and stood holding it. She looked into
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
349
Such a queenly little
the glass on the opposite wall.
figure in its pink and white. Such a transparent
little face, refined by suffering into an almost angel-
like beauty! The face looked at her; she looked
back, laughing softly. Doss, quivering with excite-
ment, ran round her, barking. She took one step
towards the door, balancing herself with outstretched
hands.
"I am nearly there," she said.
Then she groped blindly.
66 Oh, I cannot see! I cannot see! Where am I ?”
she cried.
When Gregory reached her, she had fallen with her
face against the sharp foot of the wardrobe, and cut her
forehead. Very tenderly he raised the little crushed
heap of muslin and ribbons, and laid it on the bed.
Doss climbed up, and sat looking down at it. Very
softly Gregory's hands disrobed her.
"You will be stronger to-morrow, and then we shall
try again," he said; but she neither looked at him nor
stirred.
When he had undressed her, and laid her in bed,
Doss stretched himself across her feet and lay whin-
ing softly.
So she lay all that morning, and all that afternoon.
Again and again Gregory crept close to the bedside.
and looked at her; but she did not speak to him.
Was it stupor or was it sleep that shone under those
half-closed eyelids? Gregory could not tell.
At last in the evening he bent over her.
66
"The oxen have come," he said; we can start
to-morrow if you like. Shall I get the wagon ready
to-night?"
Twice he repeated his question. Then she looked
350
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
up at him, and Gregory saw that all hope had died
out of the beautiful eyes. It was not stupor that
shone there, it was despair.
"Yes, let us go," she said.
"It makes no differente," said the doctor; "staying
or going, it is close now."
So the next day Gregory carried her out in his
arms to the wagon which stood in-spanned before
the door. As he laid her down on the "kartel" she
looked far out across the plain. For the first time
she spoke that day.
"That blue mountain, far away; let us stop when
we get to it, not before." She closed her eyes again.
He drew the sails down before and behind, and the
wagon rolled away slowly. The landlady and the
negroes stood to watch it from the stoep.
Very silently the great wagon rolled along the
grass-covered plain. The driver on the front box did.
not clap his whip or call to his oxen, and Gregory
sat beside him with folded arms. Behind them, in
the closed wagon, she lay with the dog at her feet,
very quiet, with folded hands. He, Gregory, dared
not be in there. Like Hagar, when she laid her
treasure down in the wilderness, he sat afar off,
"For she said, Let me not see the death of the child."
Evening came, and yet the blue mountain was not
reached, and all the next day they rode on slowly,
but still it was far off. Only at evening they reached
it; not blue now, but low and brown, covered with
long waving grasses and rough stones. They drew
the wagon up close to its foot for the night. It was
a sheltered, warm spot.
When the dark night had come, when the tired
oxen were tied to the wheels, and the driver and
GREGORY'S WOMANHOOD.
351
leader had rolled themselves in their blankets before
the fire, and gone to sleep, then Gregory fastened
down the sails of the wagon securely. He fixed a
long candle near the head of the bed, and lay down
himself on the floor of the wagon near the back. He
leaned his head against the kartel, and listened to
the chewing of the tired oxen, and to the crackling
of the fire, till, overpowered by weariness, he fell into
a heavy sleep. Then all was very still in the wagon.
The dog slept on his mistress's feet, and only two
mosquitoes, creeping in through a gap in the front
sail, buzzed drearily round.
The night was grown very old when from a long,
peaceful sleep Lyndall awoke. The candle burned at
her head, the dog lay on her feet; but he shivered;
it seemed as though a coldness struck up to him from
his resting-place. She lay with folded hands, looking
upwards; and she heard the oxen chewing, and she
saw the two mosquitoes buzzing drearily round and
round, and her thoughts, her thoughts ran far back
into the past.
-
Through these months of anguish a mist had rested
on her mind; it was rolled together now, and the old
clear intellect awoke from its long torpor. It looked
back into the past; it saw the present; there was no
future now. The old strong soul gathered itself to-
gether for the last time; it knew where it stood.
Slowly raising herself on her elbow, she took from
the sail a glass that hung pinned there. Her fingers
were stiff and cold. She put the pillow on her breast,
and stood the glass against it. Then the white face
on the pillow looked into the white face in the glass.
They had looked at each other often so before. It
had been a child's face once, looking out above its
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blue pinafore; it had been a woman's face, with a
diin shadow in the eyes, and a something which had
said, "We are not afraid, you and I; we are together;
we will fight, you and I." Now to-night it had come
to this. The dying eyes on the pillow looked into
the dying eyes in the glass; they knew that their
hour had come. She raised one hand and pressed the
stiff fingers against the glass. They were growing
very stiff. She tried to speak to it, but she would.
never speak again. Only, the wonderful, yearning
light was in the eyes still. The body was dead now,
but the soul, clear and uncloudy, looked forth.
Then slowly, without a sound, the beautiful eyes
closed. The dead face that the glass reflected was a
thing of marvellous beauty and tranquillity. The
gray dawn crept in over it, and saw it lying there.
--
Had she found what she sought for something
to worship? Had she ceased from being? Who
shall tell us? There is a veil of terrible mist over
the face of the hereafter.
CHAPTER XIII.
DREAMS.
"TELL me what a soul desires, and I will tell you
what it is.' So runs the phrase.
"Tell me what a man dreams, and I will tell you
what he loves." That also has its truth.
For, ever from the earliest childhood to the latest
age, day by day, and step by step, the busy waking
life is followed and reflected by the life of dreams,
waking dreams, sleeping dreams. Weird, misty, and
distorted as the inverted image of a mirage, or a fig-
ure seen through the mountain mist, they are still the
reflections of a reality.
-
On the night when Gregory told his story, Waldo
sat alone before the fire, his untasted supper before
him. He was weary after his day's work,
too weary
to eat. He put the plate down on the floor for Doss,
who licked it clean, and then went back to his corner.
After a time the master threw himself across the foot
of the bed without undressing, and fell asleep there.
He slept so long that the candle burned itself out, and
the room was in darkness. But he dreamed a lovely
dream as he lay there.
In his dream, to his right rose high mountains, their
tops crowned with snow, their sides clothed with bush,
and bathed in the sunshine. At their feet was the
sea, blue and breezy, - bluer than any earthly sea,
-
23
354
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
like the sea he had dreamed of in his boyhood. In
the narrow forest that ran between the mountains
and the sea, the air was rich with the scent of the
honey-creeper that hung from dark green bushes, and
through the velvety grass little streams ran purling
down into the sea. He sat on a high square rock
among the bushes, and Lyndall sat by him and sang
to him. She was only a small child, with a blue pin-
afore, and a grave, grave little face. He was looking
up at the mountains, -- then suddenly, when he looked
round, she was gone. He slipped down from his rock
and went to look for her, but he found only her little
footmarks; he found them on the bright green grass,
and in the moist sand, and there where the little
streams ran purling down into the sea. In and out,
in and out, and among the bushes where the honey-
creeper hung, he went looking for her. At last, far
off in the sunshine, he saw her gathering shells upon
the sand. She was not a child now, but a woman;
and the sun shone on her soft brown hair, and in her
white dress she put the shells she gathered. She
was stooping, but when she heard his step she stood
up, holding her skirt close about her, and waited for
his coming. One hand she put in his, and together
they walked on over the glittering sand and pink sea-
shells; and they heard the leaves talking, and they
heard the waters babbling on their way to the sea,
and they heard the sea singing to itself, singing,
singing.
-
At last they came to a place where was a long reach
of pure white sand; there she stood still, and dropped
on to the sand one by one the shells that she had
gathered. Then she looked up into his face with her
beautiful eyes. She said nothing, but she lifted one
DREAMS.
355
hand and laid it softly on his forehead; the other she
laid on his heart.
With a cry of suppressed agony Waldo sprang from
the bed, flung open the upper half of the door, and
leaned out, breathing heavily.
Great God! it might be only a dream, but the pain
was very real, as though a knife ran through his
heart, as though some treacherous murderer crept
on him in the dark! The strong man drew his breath
like a frightened woman.
―
"Only a dream! but the pain was very real," he
muttered, as he pressed his right hand upon his breast.
Then he folded his arms on the door, and stood look-
ing out into the starlight.
-
The dream was with him still; the woman who was
his friend was not separated from him by years,
only that very night he had seen her. He looked up
into the night sky that all his life long had mingled
itself with his existence. There were a thousand
faces that he loved looking down at him, a thousand
stars in their glory, in crowns, and circles, and solitary
grandeur. To the man they were not less dear than
to the boy, they had been not less mysterious; yet
he looked up at them and shuddered; at last turned
away from them with horror. Such countless multi-
tudes, stretching out far into space, and yet not in one
of them all was she! Though he searched through
them all, to the farthest, faintest point of light, no-
where should he ever say, "She is here!" To-mor-
row's sun would rise and gild the world's mountains,
and shine into its thousand valleys; it would set and
the stars creep out again. Year after year, century
after century, the old changes of Nature would go
on, day and night, summer and winter, seed-time and
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
harvest; but in none of them all would she have
part.
He shut the door to keep out their hideous shin-
ing, and because the dark was intolerable lit a
candle, and paced the little room, faster and faster
yet. He saw before him the long ages of´eternity
that would roll on, on, on, and never bring her. She
would exist no more. A dark mist filled the little
room.
-
"Oh, little hand! oh, little voice! oh, little form!"
he cried; "oh, little soul that walked with mine! oh,
little soul, that looked so fearlessly down into the
depths, do you exist no more forever- for all time?"
He cried more bitterly, "It is for this hour - this
that men blind reason, and crush out thought! For
this hour this, this - they barter truth and knowl-
edge, take any lie, any creed, so it does not whisper
to them of the dead that they are dead! O God!
God! for a hereafter!"
-
Pain made his soul weak; it cried for the old faith.
They are the tears that fall into the new-made grave
that cement the power of the priest. For the cry of
the soul that loves and loses is this, only this: "Bridge
over death; blend the here with the hereafter; cause
the mortal to robe itself in immortality; let me not
say of my dead that it is dead! I will believe all
else, bear all else, endure all else!"
Muttering to himself, Waldo walked with bent
head, the mist in his eyes.
To the soul's wild cry for its own there are many
answers. He began to think of them. Was not
there one of them all from which he might suck one
drop of comfort?
"You shall see her again," says the Christian, the
DREAMS.
357
true Bible Christian. "Yes; you shall see her again.
'And I saw the dead, great and small, stand before
God. And the books were opened, and the dead were
judged from those things which were written in the
books. And whosoever was not found written in the
book of life was cast into the lake of fire, which is
the second death.' Yes; you shall see her again.
She died so, with her knee unbent, with her hand
unraised, with a prayer unuttered, in the pride of her
intellect and the strength of her youth. She loved
and she was loved; but she said no prayer to God;
she cried for no mercy; she repented of no sin! Yes;
you shall see her again."
-
In his bitterness Waldo laughed low.
Ah, he had long ceased to hearken to the hellish
voice.
But yet another speaks.
"You shall see her again," says the nineteenth-
century Christian, deep into whose soul modern un-
belief and thought have crept, though he knows it
not. He it is who uses his Bible as the pearl-fishers
use their shells, sorting out gems from refuse; he sets
his pearls after his own fashion, and he sets them
well. Do not fear," he says; "hell and judgment
are not. God is love. I know that beyond this blue
sky above us is a love as widespreading over all. The
All-Father will show her to you again; not spirit only,
the little hands, the little feet you loved, you shall
lie down and kiss them if you will. Christ arose, and
did eat and drink; so shall she arise. The dead, all
the dead, raised incorruptible! God is love. You
shall see her again."
It is a heavenly song, this of the nineteenth-cen-
tury Christian. A man might dry his tears to listen
358
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
to it, but for this one thing - Waldo muttered to
himself confusedly,
-
"The thing I loved was a woman, proud and
young; it had a mother once, who, dying, kissed her
little baby, and prayed God that she might see it
again. If it had lived, the loved thing would itself
have had a son, who, when he closed the weary eyes
and smoothed the wrinkled forehead of his mother,
would have prayed God to see that old face smile
again in the hereafter. To the son heaven will be
no heaven, if the sweet worn face is not in one of
the choirs; he will look for it through the phalanx
of God's glorified angels; and the youth will look
for the maid, and the mother for the baby. 'And
whose then shall she be at the resurrection of the
dead?""
"Ah, God! ah, God! a beautiful dream!" he cried;
"but can any one dream it, not sleeping?"
-
-
Waldo paced on, moaning in agony and longing.
He heard the transcendentalist's high answer,
"What have you to do with flesh, the gross and
miserable garment in which spirit hides itself? You
shall see her again. But the hand, the foot, the fore-
shall see no more. The loves, the
are born with the flesh, with
Let them die! There is that
head you loved, you
fears, the frailties that
the flesh they shall die.
in man that cannot die,
a spiritual essence.
-
a seed, a germ, an embryo,
Higher than she was on earth,
as the tree is higher than the seed, the man than
the embryo, so shall you behold her, changed,
glorified!"
―
High words, ringing well, they are the offering of
jewels to the hungry, of gold to the man who dies for
bread. Bread is corruptible, gold is incorruptible;
DREAMS.
359
bread is light, gold is heavy; bread is common, gold
is rare; but the hungry man will barter all your mines
for one morsel of bread. Around God's throne there
may be choirs and companies of angels, cherubim and
seraphim rising tier above tier, but not for one of them
all does the soul cry aloud. Only perhaps for a little
human woman full of sin, that it once loved.
"Change is death, change is death;" he cried. "I
want no angel, only she, no holier and no better,
with all her sins upon her; so give me her or give me
nothing!"
And, truly, does not the heart love its own
with the strongest passion for their very frailties?
Heaven might keep its angels if men were but left
to men.
66
Change is death!" he cried; "change is death!
Who dares to say the body never dies, because it
turns again to grass and flowers? And yet they
dare to say the spirit never dies, because in space
some strange unearthly being may have sprung up
upon its ruins. Leave me! leave me!" he cried in
frantic bitterness. "Give me back what I have lost,
or give me nothing!"
For the soul's fierce cry for immortality is this, -
only this: Return to me after death the thing as it
was before. Leave me in the hereafter the being
that I am to-day. Rob me of the thoughts, the feel-
ings, the desires that are my life, and you have left
nothing to take; your immortality is annihilation,
your hereafter is a lie.
Waldo flung open the door, and walked out into the
starlight, his pain-stricken thoughts ever driving him
on as he paced there.
"There must be a hereafter because man longs for
360
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
it," he whispered. "Is not all life from the cradle
to the grave one long yearning for that which we
never touch? There must be a hereafter because we
cannot think of any end to life. Can we think of a
beginning? Is it easier to say, 'I was not' than to
say 'I shall not be'? And yet, where were we ninety
years ago? Dreams, dreams! Ah, all dreams and
lies! No ground anywhere."
He went back into the cabin, and walked there.
Hour after hour passed, and he was dreaming.
For, mark you, men will dream. The most that can
be asked of them is but that the dream be not in too
glaring discord with the thing they know. He walked
with bent head.
All dies, all dies! The roses are red with the mat-
ter that once reddened the cheek of the child; the
flowers bloom the fairest on the last-year's battle-
ground; the work of death's finger cunningly wreathed
over, is at the heart of all things, even of the living.
Death's finger is everywhere. The rocks are built up
of a life that was. Bodies, thoughts, and loves die :
from where springs that whisper to the tiny soul of
man, "You shall not die"? Ah! is there no truth
of which this dream is shadow ?
He fell into perfect silence. And at last, as he
walked there with his bent head, his soul passed down
the steps of contemplation into that vast land where
there is always peace, that land where the soul,
gazing long, loses all consciousness of its little self,
and almost feels its hand on the old mystery of
Universal Unity that surrounds it.
"No death, no death," he muttered; "there is that
which never dies, which abides. It is but the indi-
vidual that perishes, the whole remains. It is the
DREAMS.
361
organism that vanishes, the atoms are there. It is
but the man that dies, the Universal Whole of which
he is part reworks him into its inmost self. Ah, what
matter that man's day be short, - that the sunrise
sees him, and the sunset sees his grave; that of which
he is but the breath has breathed him forth and drawn
him back again! That abides, we abide."
--
For the little soul that cries aloud for continued
personal existence for itself and its beloved, there is
no help. For the soul which knows itself no more as
a unit, but as a part of the Universal Unity of which
the beloved also is a part, which feels within itself
the throb of the Universal Life, for that soul there
is no death.
"Let us die, beloved, you and I, that we may pass /
on forever through the Universal Life!" In that
deep world of contemplation all fierce desires die out,
and peace comes down. He, Waldo, as he walked
there, saw no more the world that was about him;
cried out no more for the thing that he had lost. His
soul rested. Was it only John, think you, who saw
the heavens open? The dreamers see it every day.
Long years before the father had walked in the
little cabin, and seen choirs of angels, and a prince
like unto men, but clothed in immortality. The son's
knowledge was not as the father's, therefore the dream
was new-tinted; but the sweetness was all there, the
infinite peace that men find not in the little cankered
kingdom of the tangible. The bars of the real are set
close about us; we cannot open our wings but they
strike against them, and drop bleeding. But when
we glide between the bars into the great unknown be-
yond, we may sail forever in the glorious blue, seeing
nothing but our own shadows.
362
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
So age succeeds age, and dream succeeds dream,
and of the joy of the dreamer no man knoweth but he
who dreameth.
Our fathers had their dream; we have ours; the
generation that follows will have its own.
dreams and phantoms man cannot exist.
Without
CHAPTER XIV.
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE.
IT had been a princely day. The long morning had
melted slowly into a rich afternoon. Rains had cov-
ered the karroo with a heavy coat of green, that hid
the red earth everywhere. In the very chinks of the
stone-walls dark green leaves hung out, and beauty
and growth had crept even into the beds of the sandy
furrows, and lined them with weeds. On the broken
- sod-walls of the old pigsty chickweeds flourished,
and ice-plants lifted their transparent leaves. Waldo
was at work in the wagon-house again.
He was
making a kitchen-table for Em. As the long curls
gathered in heaps before his plane, he paused for an
instant, now and again, to throw one down to a small
naked negro, who had crept from its mother, who
stood churning in the sunshine, and had crawled into
the wagon-house. From time to time the little ani-
mal lifted its fat hand as it expected a fresh shower
of curls, till Doss, jealous of his master's noticing
any other small creature but himself, would catch the
curl in his mouth, and roll the little Kaffir over in the
sawdust, much to that small animal's contentment
It was too lazy an afternoon to be really ill-natured,
so Doss satisfied himself with snapping at the little
negro's fingers, and sitting on him till he laughed.
Waldo, as he worked, glanced down at them now and
then, and smiled; but he never looked out across the
364
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
plain. He was conscious without looking of that
broad green earth; it made his work pleasant to him.
Near the shadow at the gable the mother of the little
negro stood churning. Slowly she raised and let fall
the stick in her hands, murmuring to herself a sleepy
chant, such as her people love; it sounded like the
humming of far-off bees.
A different life showed itself in the front of the
house, where Tant' Sannie's cart stood ready in-
spanned, and the Boer-woman herself sat in the front
room drinking coffee. She had come to visit her step-
daughter, probably for the last time, as she now
weighed two hundred and sixty pounds, and was not
easily able to move. On a chair sat her mild young
husband, nursing the baby, a pudding-faced, weak-
eyed child.
"You take it and get into the cart with it,” said
Tant' Sannie. "What do you want here, listening to
our woman's talk?"
The young man arose, and meekly went out with
the baby.
"I'm very glad you are going to be married, my
child," said Tant' Sannie, as she drained the last drop
from her coffee-cup. "I would n't say so while that
boy was here, it would make him too conceited; but
marriage is the finest thing in the world. I've been
at it three times, and if it pleased God to take this
husband from me, I should have another. There's
nothing like it, my child, nothing."
―
"Perhaps it might not suit all people, at all times,
as well as it suits you, Tant' Sannie," said Em.
There was a little shade of weariness in the voice.
"Not suit every one!" said Tant' Sannie. "If the
beloved Redeemer did n't mean men to have wives
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE. 365
-
what did He make women for? That's what I say.
If a woman's old enough to marry, and does n't, she's
sinning against the Lord, it's a wanting to know
better than Him. What, does she think the Lord
took all that trouble in making her for nothing? It's
evident He wants babies, otherwise why does He send
them? Not that I've done much in that way my-
self," said Tant' Sannie, sorrowfully; "but I've done
my best."
She rose with some difficulty from her chair, and
began moving slowly towards the door.
-
"It's a strange thing," she said, "but you can't
love a man till you've had a baby by him. Now
there's that boy there, when we were first married,
if he only sneezed in the night I boxed his ears; now
if he lets his pipe-ash come on my milk-cloths, I don't
think of laying a finger on him. There's nothing
like being married," said Tant' Sannie, as she puffed
towards the door. "If a woman 's got a baby and a
husband, she's got the best things the Lord can give
her, if only the baby does n't have convulsions. As
for a husband, it's very much the same who one has.
Some men are fat, and some men are thin; some men
drink brandy, and some men drink gin; but it all
comes to the same thing in the end; it's all one. Α
man's a man, you know."
-
Here they came upon Gregory, who was sitting in
the shade before the house. Tant' Sannie shook
hands with him.
"I'm glad you're going to get married," she said.
"I hope you'll have as many children in five years
as a cow has calves, and more too. I think I'll just
go and have a look at your soap-pot before I start,"
she said, turning to Em. "Not that I believe in this
366
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
new plan of putting soda in the pot. If the dear
Father had meant soda to be put into soap, what
would He have made milk-bushes for, and stuck them
all over the veld as thick as lambs in the lambing
season?"
She waddled off after Em in the direction of the
built-in soap-pot, leaving Gregory as they found him,
with his dead pipe lying on the bench beside him,
and his blue eyes gazing out far across the flat, like
one who sits on the sea-shore, watching that which
is fading, fading from him. Against his breast was
a letter found in a desk, addressed to himself, but
never posted. It held only four words: "You must
marry Em." He wore it in a black bag round his
neck. It was the only letter she had ever written to
him
I
"You see if the sheep don't have the scab this year!"
said Tant' Sannie, as she waddled after Em. "It 's
with all these new inventions that the wrath of God
must fall on us. What were the children of Israel
punished for, if it was n't for making a golden calf?
may have my sins, but I do remember the tenth com-
mandment: 'Honor thy father and thy mother that
it may be well with thee, and that thou mayst live
long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee!'
It's all very well to say we honor them, and then to
be finding out things that they never knew, and doing
things in a way that they never did them! My
mother boiled soap with bushes, and I will boil soap
with bushes. If the wrath of God is to fall upon
this land," said Tant' Sannie, with the serenity of
conscious virtue, "it shall not be through me. Let
them make their steam-wagons and their fire-car-
riages; let them go on as though the dear Lord did n't
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE. 367
―
know what He was about when He gave horses and
oxen legs, the destruction of the Lord will follow
them. I don't know how such people read their
Bibles. When do we hear of Moses or Noah riding
on a railway? The Lord sent fire-carriages out of
heaven in those days: there's no chance of His send-
ing them for us if we go on in this way," said Tant'
Sannie, sorrowfully, thinking of the splendid chance
which this generation had lost.
Arrived at the soap-pot she looked over into it
thoughtfully.
"Depend upon it you'll get the itch, or some other
disease; the blessing of the Lord 'll never rest upon
it," said the Boer-woman. Then suddenly she broke
forth. "And she eighty-two, and goats, and rams,
and eight thousand morgen, and the rams real angora,
and two thousand sheep, and a short-horn bull,” said
Tant' Sannie, standing upright and planting a hand
on each hip.
Em looked at her in silent wonder. Had connubial
bliss and the joys of motherhood really turned the
old Boer-woman's head?
"Yes," said Tant' Sannie; "I had almost forgotten
to tell you.
By the Lord if I had him here! We
were walking to church last Sacrament Sunday, Piet
and I. Close in front of us was old Tant' Trana,
with dropsy and cancer, and can't live eight months.
Walking by her was something with its hands under
its coat-tails, flap, flap, flap; and its chin in the air,
and a stick-up collar, and the black hat on the 'very
back of the head. I knew him! Who's that?' I
asked. "The rich Englishman that Tant' Trana mar-
ried last week.' 'Rich Englishman! I'll rich Eng-
lishman him,' I said; 'I'll tell Tant' Trana a thing
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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
1.
or two.' My fingers were just in his little white
curls. If it had n't been the blessed sacrament, he
would n't have walked so 'sourka, sourka, courka,'
any more. But I thought, Wait till I've had it, and
then But he, sly fox, son of Satan, seed of the
Amalekite, he saw me looking at him in the church.
The blessed sacrament was n't half over when he
takes Tant' Trana by the arm, and out they go. I
clap my baby down to its father, and I go after them.
But," said Tant' Sannie, regretfully, "I could n't get
up to them; I am too fat. When I got to the corner,
he was pulling Tant' Trana up into the cart. Tant'
Trana,' I said, 'you 've married a Kaffir's dog, a Hot-
tentot's "brakje." I had n't any more breath. He
winked at me; he winked at me," said Tant' Sannie,
her sides shaking with indignation, "first with one
eye, and then with the other, and then drove away.
Child of the Amalekite!" said Tant' Sannie, "if it
had n't been the blessed sacrament. Lord, Lord,
Lord!"
6
Here the little Bush-girl came running to say that
the horses would stand no longer, and still breathing
out vengeance against her old adversary she labored
towards the cart. Shaking hands and affectionately
kissing Em, she was with some difficulty drawn up.
Then slowly the cart rolled away, the good Boer-
woman putting her head out between the sails to
smile and nod. Em stood watching it for a time,
then as the sun dazzled her eyes she turned away.
There was no use in going to sit with Gregory; he
liked best sitting there alone, staring across the green
karroo; and till the maid had done churning there
was nothing to do; so Em walked away to the wagon-
house, and climbed on to the end of Waldo's table, and
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE. 369
sat there, swinging one little foot slowly to and fro,
while the wooden curls from the plane heaped them-
selves up against her black print dress.
"Waldo," she said at last, "Gregory has given me
the money he got for the wagon and oxen, and I
have fifty pounds besides, that once belonged to some
one. I know what she would have liked to have done
with it. You must take it and go to some place and
study for a year or two."
"No, little one, I will not take it," he said, as he
planed slowly away; "the time was when I would
have been very grateful to any one who would have
given me a little money, a little help, a little power
of gaining knowledge. But now, I have gone so far
alone I may go on to the end. I don't want it, lit-
tle one."
She did not seem pained at his refusal, but swung
her foot to and fro, the little old wrinkled forehead
more wrinkled up than ever.
-
"Why is it always so, Waldo, always so?" she
said; "we long for things, and long for them, and
pray for them; we would give all we have to come
near to them, but we never reach them. Then at
last, too late, just when we don't want them any
more, when all the sweetness is taken out of them,
then they come. We don't want them then," she
said, folding her hands resignedly on her little apron.
After a while she added, "I remember once, very
long ago, when I was a very little girl, my mother
had a work-box full of colored reels. I always wanted.
to play with them, but she would never let me. At
last one day she said I might take the box. I was so
glad I hardly knew what to do. I ran round the
house, and sat down with it on the back steps. But
24
370
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
when I opened the box all the cottons were taken
out."
She sat for a while longer, till the Kaffir maid
had finished churning, and was carrying the butter
towards the house. Then Em prepared to slip off the
table, but first she laid her little hand on Waldo's.
He stopped his planing and looked up.
66
Gregory is going to the town to-morrow. He is
going to give in our banns to the minister; we are go-
ing to be married in three weeks."
Waldo lifted her very gently from the table. He
did not congratulate her; perhaps he thought of the
empty box, but he kissed her forehead gravely.
She walked away towards the house, but stopped
when she had got half way. "I will bring you a
glass of buttermilk when it is cool," she called out;
and soon her clear voice came ringing out through
the back windows as she sang the "Blue Water" to
herself, and washed the butter.
Waldo did not wait till she returned. Perhaps he
had at last really grown weary of work; perhaps he
felt the wagon-house chilly (for he had shuddered
two or three times), though that was hardly likely in
that warm summer weather; or, perhaps, and most
probably, one of his old dreaming fits had come upon
him suddenly. He put his tools carefully together,
ready for to-morrow, and walked slowly out. At the
side of the wagon-house there was a world of bright
sunshine, and a hen with her chickens was scratching
among the gravel. Waldo seated himself near them
with his back against the red-brick wall. The long
afternoon was half spent, and the "kopje" was just
beginning to cast its shadow over the round-headed
yellow flowers that grew between it and the farm-
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE. 371
house. Among the flowers the white butterflies hov-
ered, and on the old kraal mounds three white kids
gambolled, and at the door of one of the huts an old
gray-headed Kaffir woman sat on the ground mending
her mats. A balmy, restful peacefulness seemed to
reign everywhere. Even the old hen seemed well
satisfied. She scratched among the stones and called
to her chickens when she found a treasure; and all
the while clucked to herself with intense inward sat-
isfaction. Waldo, as he sat with his knees drawn up
to his chin and his arms folded on them, looked at it
all and smiled. An evil world, a deceitful, treacher-
ous, mirage-like world, it might be; but a lovely
world for all that, and to sit there, gloating in the
sunlight, was perfect. It was worth having been a
little child, and having cried and prayed, so one might
sit there. He moved his hands as though he were
washing them in the sunshine. There will always
be something worth living for while there are shim-
mery afternoons. Waldo chuckled with intense in-
ward satisfaction as the old hen had done; she, over
the insects and the warmth; he, over the old brick-
walls, and the haze, and the little bushes. Beauty is
God's wine, with which He recompenses the souls that
love Him; he makes them drunk.
The fellow looked, and at last stretched out one
hand to a little ice-plant that grew on the sod-wall of
the sty; not as though he would have picked it, but
as it were in a friendly greeting. He loved it. One
little leaf of the ice-plant stood upright, and the sun
shone through it. He could see every little crystal
cell like a drop of ice in the transparent green, and it
thrilled him.
There are only rare times when a man's soul can
372
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
see Nature. So long as any passion holds its revel
there, the eyes are holden that they should not see
her.
Go out if you will, and walk alone on the hillside in
the evening, but if your favorite child lies ill at home,
or your lover comes to-morrow, or at your heart there
lies a scheme for the holding of wealth, then you will
return as you went out; you will have seen nothing.
For Nature, ever, like the old Hebrew God, cries out,
"Thou shalt have no other gods before me." Only
then, when there comes a pause, a blank in your life,
when the old idol is broken, when the old hope is
dead, when the old desire is crushed, then the Divine
compensation of Nature is made manifest. She shows
herself to you.
So near she draws you, that the blood
seems to flow from her to you through a still uncut
cord; you feel the throb of her life.
When that day comes that you sit down broken,
without one human creature to whom you cling, with
your loves the dead and the living-dead; when the
very thirst for knowledge through long-continued
thwarting has grown dull; when in the present there
is no craving, and in the future no hope, then, oh,
with a beneficent tenderness, Nature enfolds you.
-
Then the large white snowflakes as they flutter
down, softly, one by one, whisper soothingly, "Rest,
poor heart, rest!" It is as though our mother
smoothed our hair, and we are comforted.
And yellow-legged bees as they hum make a dreamy
lyric; and the light on the brown stone-wall is a great
work of art; and the glitter through the leaves
makes the pulses beat.
Well to die then; for if you live, so surely as the
years come, so surely as the spring succeeds the win-
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE. 373
ter, so surely will passions arise. They will creep
back, one by one, into the bosom that has cast them
forth, and fasten there again, and peace will go. De-
sire, ambition, and the fierce agonizing flood of love.
for the living they will spring again. Then Nature
will draw down her veil; with all your longing you
shall not be able to raise one corner; you cannot
bring back those peaceful days. Well to die then!
Sitting there with his arms folded on his knees, and
his hat slouched down over his face, Waldo looked
out into the yellow sunshine that tinted even the
very air with the color of ripe corn, and was happy.
He was an uncouth creature, with small learning,
and no prospect in the future but that of making end-
less tables and stone walls, yet it seemed to him as
he sat there that life was a rare and very rich thing.
He rubbed his hands in the sunshine. Ah, to live on
so, year after year, how well! Always in the pres-
ent, letting each day glide, bringing its own labor,
and its own beauty, — the gradual lighting up of the
hills, night and the stars, firelight and the coals! To
live on so, calmly, far from the paths of men; and to
look at the lives of clouds and insects; to look deep
into the heart of flowers, and see how lovingly the
pistil and the stamens nestle there together; and to
see in the thorn-pods how the little seeds suck their
life through the delicate curled-up string, and how the
little embryo sleeps inside! Well, how well, to sit so
on one side, taking no part in the world's life; but
when great men blossom into books, looking into those
flowers also, to see how the world of men too opens
beautifully, leaf after leaf. Ah! life is delicious;
well to live long, and see the darkness breaking, and
374
THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM.
-
Well to live
Well to live
the day coming, the day when soul shall not thrust
back soul that would come to it; when men shall not
be driven to seek solitude, because of the crying out
of their hearts for love and sympathy.
long and see the new time breaking!
long; life is sweet, sweet, sweet! In his breast
pocket, where of old the broken slate used to be, there
was now a little dancing shoe of his friend who was
sleeping. He could feel it when he folded his arm
tight against his breast; and that was well also. He
drew his hat lower over his eyes, and sat so motion-
less that the chickens thought he was asleep, and
gathered closer around him. One even ventured to
peck at his boot, but he ran away quickly. Tiny,
yellow fellow that he was, he knew that men were
dangerous; even sleeping they might awake. But
Waldo did not sleep, and coming back from his sun-
shiny dream, stretched out his hand for the tiny
thing to mount. But the chicken eyed the hand
askance, and then ran off to hide under its mother's
wing, and from beneath it it sometimes put out its
round head to peep at the great figure sitting there.
Presently its brothers ran off after a little white moth,
and it ran out to join them; and when the moth flut-
tered away over their heads, they stood looking up
disappointed, and then ran back to their mother.
Waldo through his half-closed eyes looked at them.
Thinking, fearing, craving, those tiny sparks of
brother life, what were they, so real there in that old
yard on that sunshiny afternoon? A few years-
where would they be? Strange little brother spirits!
He stretched his hand towards them, for his heart
went out to them; but not one of the little creatures
came nearer him, and he watched them gravely for a
WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE. 375
time; then he smiled, and began muttering to him-
self after his old fashion. Afterwards he folded his
arms upon his knees, and rested his forehead on them.
And so he sat there in the yellow sunshine, muttering,
muttering, muttering to himself.
It was not very long after when Em came out at
the back door with a towel thrown across her head,
and in her hand a cup of milk.
"Ah," she said, coming close to him, "he is sleep-
ing now. He will find it when he wakes, and be glad
of it."
She put it down upon the ground beside him. The
mother-hen was at work still among the stones, but
the chickens had climbed about him, and were perch-
ing on him. One stood upon his shoulder, and rubbed
its little head softly against his black curls; another
tried to balance itself on the very edge of the old felt
hat. One tiny fellow stood upon his hand, and tried
to crow; another had nestled itself down comfortably
on the old coat-sleeve, and gone to sleep there.
Em did not drive them away; but she covered the
glass softly at his side. "He will wake soon," she
said, "and be glad of it."
But the chickens were wiser.
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16mo, $1.00; Mercy Philbrick's Choice, 16mo, $1.00; Hetty's
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16mo, $1.00; Verses and Sonnets and I yrics, in 1 vol., $1.50.
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Messrs. Roberts Brothers'
Richard Jefferies.
Wild Life in a Southern County, 16m0,
$1 25 Gamekeeper at Home, 12mo, $1.50; Illustrated, 8vo,
$3.75; The Amateur Poacher, 12mo, $1.50; Round About a
Great Estate, 12mo, $1.50; Story of My Heart, 16mo, 75 cents.
Francis Jacox. Cues from All Quarters, 16m0, $1.50; Bible
Music, 12m0, $1.75.
Joyce, R. D., Deirdré, a Poem, 16m0, $1.00; Blanid, a Poem,
16mo, $1.50.
Sylvester Judd. Margaret, 16mo, $1.50; Richard Edney,
16m0, $1.50.
John Keats. Poems. Memoir by Lord Houghton. 16m0, $1.50.
The Kernel and the Husk. Letters on Spiritual Christianity,
by the author of "Philochristus" and "Onesimus," 12m0, $1.50.
Edward Lear. Nonsense Books, Illustrated, 12m0, $2.00.
Walter Savage Landor. Pericles and Aspasia, 16m0, $1.50;.
Imaginary Conversations, 5 vols., 12m0, $10.00; Oxford edition,
16m0, $5.00.
Mrs. E. W. Latimer. Familiar Talks on Some of Shakspeare's
Comedies, 12m0, $2.00.
Vernon Lee. Baldwin, 12m0, $2.00; Euphorion, 2 vols., demy
8vo, $4.00; Countess of Albany, 16m0, $1.00; A Phantom Lover,
16m0, 50 cents; Juvenilia, 12m0, $2.00.
Madame Lenormant. Memoirs of Madame Récamier, with
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16m0, $1.50.
Mrs. D. A. Lincoln. Boston Cook Book, Illustrated, 12m0,
half bound, $2.00; Carving and Serving, square 12m0, 60 cents.
W. J. Linton. Rare Poems of Sixteenth and Seventeenth
Centuries, 16m0, $2.00.
A Little Pilgrim, 16mo, 60 cents.
Abiel A. Livermore. Anti-Tobacco, 16m0, 50 cents.
Living English Poets (MDCCCLXXXII), 12m0, $2.00.
Margaret Lonsdale
Sister Dora, with Portrait, 16m0, $1.25.
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