ON THE BRINK
For a few weeks after John Niel’s adventure at the shooting-party no
event of any importance occurred at Mooifontein. Day followed day in
charming monotony, for, whatever “gay worldlings” may think, monotony
is as full of charm as a dreamy summer afternoon. “Happy is the country
that has no history,” says the voice of wisdom, and the same remark may
be made with even more truth of the individual. To get up in the
morning conscious of health and strength, to pursue the common round
and daily task till evening comes, and finally to go to bed pleasantly
tired and sleep the sleep of the just, is the true secret of happiness.
Fierce excitements, excursions, and alarms do not conduce either to
mental or physical well-being, and it is for this reason that we find
that those whose lives have been chiefly concerned with them crave the
most after the quiet round of domestic life. When they get it, often,
it is true, they pant for the ardours of the fray whereof the dim and
distant sounds are echoing through the spaces of their heart, in the
same way that the countries without a history are sometimes anxious to
write one in their own blood. But that is a principle of Nature, who
will allow of no standing still among her subjects, and who has
ordained that strife of one sort or another shall be the absolute
condition of existence.
On the whole, John found that the life of a South African farmer came
well up to his expectations. He had ample occupation; indeed, what
between ostriches, horses, cattle, sheep, and crops, he was rather over
than under occupied. Nor was he much troubled by the lack of civilised
society, for he was a man who read a great deal, and books could be
ordered from Durban and Cape Town, while the weekly mail brought with
it a sufficient supply of papers. On Sundays he always read the
political articles in the “Saturday Review” aloud to Silas Croft, who,
as he grew older, found that the print tried his eyes, an attention
which the old man greatly appreciated. Silas was a well-informed man,
and notwithstanding his long life spent in a half-civilised country,
had never lost his hold of affairs or his interest in the wide and
rushing life of the world in one of whose side eddies he lived apart.
This task of reading the “Saturday Review” aloud had formerly been a
part of Bessie’s Sunday service, but her uncle was very glad to effect
an exchange. Bessie’s mind was not quite in tune with the profundities
of that learned journal, and her attention was apt to wander at the
most pointed passages.
Thus it came about, what between the “Saturday Review” and other
things, that a very warm and deep attachment sprang up twixt the old
man and his younger partner. John was a taking man, especially to the
aged, for whom he was never tired of performing little services. One of
his favourite sayings was that old people should be “let down easy,”
and he acted up to it. Moreover, there was a quiet jollity and a bluff
honesty about him which was undoubtedly attractive both to men and
women. Above all, he was a well-informed, experienced man, and a
gentleman, in a country in which both were rare. Each week Silas Croft
came to rely more and more on him, and allowed things to pass more and
more into his hands.
“I’m getting old, Niel,” he said to him one night; “I’m getting very
old; the grasshopper is becoming a burden to me: and I’ll tell you what
it is, my boy,” laying his hand affectionately upon John’s shoulder, “I
have no son of my own, and you must be a son to me, as my dear Bessie
has been a daughter.”
John looked up into the kindly, handsome face, crowned with its fringe
of snowy hair, and at the keen eyes set deep in it beneath the
overhanging brows, and thought of his old father who was long since
dead; and somehow he was moved, and his own eyes filled with tears.
“Ay, Mr. Croft,” he said, taking the old man’s hand, “that I will to
the best of my ability.”
“Thank you, my boy, thank you. I don’t like talking much about these
things, but, as I said, I am getting old, and the Almighty may require
my account any hour, and if He does I rely on you to look after these
two girls. It is a wild country this, and one never knows what will
happen in it from day to day, and they may want help. Sometimes I wish
I were clear of the place. And now I’m going to bed. I am beginning to
feel as though I had done my day’s work in the world. I’m getting
feeble John, this is the fact of it.”
After that he always called him John.
Of Jess they heard but little. She wrote every week, it is true, and
gave an accurate account of all that was going on at Pretoria and of
her daily doings, but she was one of those people whose letters tell
one absolutely nothing of themselves and of what is passing in their
minds. They ought to have been headed “Our Pretoria Letter,” as Bessie
said disgustedly after reading through three sheets in Jess’s curious,
upright handwriting. “Once you lose sight of Jess,” she went on, “she
might as well be dead for all you learn about her. Not that one learns
very much when she is here,” she added reflectively.
“She is a peculiar woman,” said John thoughtfully. At first he had
missed her very much, for, strange as she undoubtedly was, she had
touched a new string in him, of the existence of which he had not till
then been himself aware. And what is more, it had answered strongly
enough for some time; but now it was slowly vibrating itself into
silence again, much as a harp does when the striker takes his fingers
from the strings. Had she stayed on another week or so the effect might
have been more enduring.
But although Jess had gone away Bessie had not. On the contrary, she
was always about him, surrounding him with that tender care a woman,
however involuntarily, cannot prevent herself from lavishing on the man
she loves. Her beauty moved about the place like a beam of light about
a garden, for she was indeed a lovely woman, and as pure and good as
she was lovely. Nor could John long remain in ignorance of her liking
for himself. He was not a vain man—very much the reverse, indeed—but
neither was he a fool. And it must be said that, though Bessie never
overstepped the bounds of maidenly reserve, neither did she take
particular pains to hide her preference. Indeed, it was too strong to
permit her so to do. Not that she was animated by the half-divine,
soul-searing breath of passion, such as animated her sister, which is a
very rare thing, and, take it altogether, as undesirable and unsuitable
to the ordinary conditions of this prosaic and work-a-day life as it is
rare. But she was tenderly and truly in love after the usual
young-womanly fashion; indeed, her passion, measured by the everyday
standard, would have proved to be a deep one. However this might be,
she was undoubtedly prepared to make John Niel a faithful and loving
wife if he chose to ask her to marry him.
And as the weeks went on—though, of course, he knew nothing of all
this—it became a very serious question to John whether he should not
ask her. It is not good for a man to live alone, especially in the
Transvaal, and it was not possible for him to pass day by day at the
side of so much beauty and so much grace without thinking that it would
be well to draw the bond of union closer. Indeed, had John been a
younger man of less experience, he would have succumbed to the
temptation much sooner than he did. But he was neither very young nor
very inexperienced. Ten years or more ago, in his green and gushing
youth, as has been said, he had burnt his fingers to the bone, and a
lively recollection of this incident in his career heretofore had
proved a very efficient warning. Also, he had reached that period of
life when men think a great many times before they commit themselves
wildly to the deep matrimonial waters. At three-and-twenty, for the
sake of a pretty face, most of us are willing to undertake the serious
and in many cases overwhelming burdens, risks, and cares of family
life, and the responsibility of the parentage of a large and healthy
brood, but at three-and-thirty we take a different view of the matter.
The temptation may be great, but the per contra list is so very
alarming, and we never know even then if we see all the liabilities.
Such are the black thoughts that move in the breasts of selfish men, to
the great disadvantage of the marriage market; and however it may lower
John Niel in the eyes of those who take the trouble to follow this
portion of his life’s history, in the interests of truth it must be
confessed that he was not free from them.
In short, sweet and pretty as Bessie might be, he was not violently in
love with her; and at thirty-four a man must be violently in love to
rush into the near risk of matrimony. But, however commendably cautious
that man may be, he is always liable to fall into temptation
sufficiently strong to sweep away his caution and make a mockery of his
plans. However strong the rope, it has its breaking strain; and in the
same way our power of resistance to any given course depends entirely
upon the power of the temptation to draw us into it. Thus it was
destined to be with our friend John Niel.
It was about a week after his conversation with old Silas Croft that it
occurred to John that Bessie’s manner had grown rather strange of late.
It seemed to him that she had avoided his society instead of showing a
certain partiality for it, if not of courting it. Also, she had looked
pale and worried, and evinced a tendency to irritation that was quite
foreign to her natural sweetness of character. Now, when a person on
whom one is accustomed to depend for most of that social intercourse
and those pleasant little amenities which members of one sex value from
another, suddenly cuts off the supply without any apparent rhyme or
reason, it is enough to induce a feeling of wonder, not to say of
vexation, in the breast. It never occurred to John that the reason
might be that Bessie was truly fond of him, and perhaps unconsciously
disappointed that he did not show a warmer interest in her. If,
however, we were to examine into the facts of the case we should
probably discover that here was the real explanation of this change.
Bessie was a straightforward young person, whose mind and purposes were
as clear as running water. She was vexed with John—though she would
probably not have owned it even to herself in so many words—and her
manner reflected the condition of her mind.
“Bessie,” said John one lovely day, just as the afternoon was merging
into evening, “Bessie”—he always called her Bessie now—“I am going down
to the black wattle plantation by the big mealie patch. I want to see
how those young trees are doing. If you have done your cooking”—for she
had been engaged in making a cake, as young ladies, to their souls’
health, often have to do in the Colonies—“I wish you would put on your
hat and come with me. I don’t believe that you have been out to-day.”
“Thank you, Captain Niel, I don’t think that I want to come out.”
“Why not?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know—because there is too much to do. If I go out that
stupid girl will burn the cake,” and she pointed to a Kafir _intombi_
(young girl), who, arrayed in a blue smock, a sweet smile, and a
feather stuck in her wool, was vigorously employed in staring at the
flies on the ceiling and sucking her black fingers. “Really,” she added
with a little stamp, “one needs the patience of an angel to put up with
that idiot’s stupidity. Yesterday she smashed the biggest dinner-dish
and then brought me the pieces with a broad grin on her face and asked
me to ‘make them one’ again. The white people were so clever, she said,
it would be no trouble to me. If they could make the china plate once,
and could cause flowers to grow on it, it would surely be easy to make
it whole again. I did not know whether to laugh or cry or throw the
pieces at her.”
“Look here, young woman,” said John, taking the sinning girl by the arm
and leading her solemnly to the oven, which was opened to receive the
cake; “look here, if you let that cake burn while the _inkosikaas_
(lady chieftain) is away, when I come back I will cram you into the
oven to burn with it. I cooked a girl like that in Natal last year, and
when she came out she was quite white!”
Bessie translated this fiendish threat, whereat the girl grinned from
ear to ear and murmured “_Koos_” (chief) in cheerful acquiescence. A
Kafir maid on a pleasant afternoon is not troubled by the prospect of
being baked at nightfall, which is a long way off, especially when it
is John Niel who threatened the baking. The natives about Mooifontein
had taken the measure of John’s foot by this time with accuracy. His
threats were awful, but his performances were not great. Once, indeed,
he was forced to engage in a stand-up fight with a great fellow who
thought that he could be taken advantage of on this account, but after
he had succeeded in administering a sound hiding to that champion he
was never again troubled in this respect.
“Now,” he said, “I think we have provided for the safety of your cake,
so come on.”
“Thank you, Captain Niel,” answered Bessie, looking at him in a
bewitching little way she well knew how to assume, “thank you, but I
think I had rather not go out walking.” This was what she said, but her
eyes added, “I am offended with you; I want to have nothing to do with
you.”
“Very well,” said John; “then I suppose I must go alone,” and he took
up his hat with the air of a martyr.
Bessie looked through the open kitchen door at the lights and shadows
that chased each other across the swelling bosom of the hill behind the
house.
“It certainly is very fine,” she said; “are you going far?”
“No, only round the plantation.”
“There are so many puff-adders down there, and I hate snakes,”
suggested Bessie, by way of finding another excuse for not coming.
“Oh, I’ll look after the puff-adders—come along.”
“Well,” she said at last, as she slowly unrolled her sleeves, which had
been tucked up during the cake-making, and hid her beautiful white
arms, “I will come, not because I want to come, but because you have
over-persuaded me. I don’t know what is happening to me,” she added,
with a little stamp and a sudden filling of her eyes with tears, “I do
not seem to have any will of my own left. When I want to do one thing
and you want me to do another it is I who have to do what you want; and
I tell you I don’t like it, Captain Niel, and I shall be very cross out
walking;” and sweeping past him, on her way to fetch her hat, in that
peculiarly graceful fashion which angry women can sometimes assume, she
left John to reflect that he never saw a more charming or taking lady
in Europe or out of it.
He had half a mind to risk it and ask her to marry him. But then,
perhaps, she might refuse him, and that was a contingency which he did
not quite appreciate. After their first youth few men altogether relish
the idea of putting themselves in a position that gives a capricious
woman an opportunity of first figuratively “jumping” on them, and then
perhaps holding them up to the scorn and obloquy of her friends,
relations, and other admirers. For, unfortunately, until the opposite
is clearly demonstrated, many men are apt to believe that not a few
women are by nature capricious, shallow, and unreliable; and John Niel,
owing, possibly, to that unhappy little experience of his youth, must
be reckoned among their misguided ranks.