PIET VREIBOOM
It was a strange friendship that developed between Sylvia and
Matilda Merston during the days that followed; for they had little
in common. The elder woman leaned upon the younger, and, perhaps
in consequence of this, Sylvia's energy seemed inexhaustible. She
amazed Bill Merston by her capacity for work. She lifted the
burden that had pressed so heavily upon her friend, and manfully
mastered every difficulty that arose. She insisted that her
hostess should rest for a set time every day, and the effect of
this unusual relaxation upon Matilda was surprising. Her husband
marvelled at it, and frankly told her she was like another woman.
For, partly from the lessening of the physical strain and partly
from the influence of congenial companionship, the carping
discontent that had so possessed her of late had begun to give way
to a softer and infinitely more gracious frame of mind. The bond
of their womanhood drew the two together, and the intimacy between
them nourished in that desert place though probably in no other
ground would it have taken root.
Work was as an anaesthetic to Sylvia in those days. She was
thankful to occupy her mind and at night to sleep from sheer
weariness. The sense of being useful to someone helped her also.
She gave herself up to work as a respite from the torment of
thought, resolutely refusing to look forward, striving so to become
absorbed in the daily task as to crowd out even memory. She and
Merston were fast friends also, and his wholesome masculine
selfishness did her good. He was like a pleasant, rather spoilt
child, unconventionally affectionate, and by no means difficult to
manage. They called each other by their Christian names before she
had been twenty-four hours at the farm, and chaffed each other with
cheery inconsequence whenever they met. Sylvia sometimes marvelled
at herself for that surface lightheartedness, but somehow it seemed
to be in the atmosphere. Bill Merston's hearty laugh was
irresistible to all but his wife.
It was but a brief respite. She knew it could not last, but its
very transience made her the more ready 10 take advantage of it.
And she was thankful for every day that carried her farther from
that terrible time at Brennerstadt. It had begun to seem more like
an evil dream to her now--a nightmare happening that never could
have taken place in ordinary, normal existence.
Burke did not come over to see them again, nor did he write.
Evidently he was too busy to do either. But one evening Merston
announced his intention of riding over to Blue Hill Farm, and asked
Sylvia if she would like to send a note by him.
"You've got ten minutes to do it in," he gaily told her. "So you'd
better leave all the fond adjectives till the end and put them in
if you have time."
She thanked him carelessly enough for his advice, but when she
reached her own room she found herself confronted with a problem
that baffled her. How was she to write to Burke? What could she
say to him? She felt strangely confounded and unsure of herself.
Eight of the allotted ten minutes had flown before she set pencil
to paper. Then, hurriedly, with trembling fingers, she scribbled a
few sentences. "I hope all is well with you. We are very busy
here. Matilda is better, and I am quite fit and enjoying the work.
Is Mary Ann looking after you properly?" She paused there.
Somehow the thought of Burke with only the Kaffir servants to
minister to him sent an odd little pang through her. She had begun
to accustom him to better things. She wondered if he were
lonely--if he wanted her. Ought she to offer to go back?
Something cried out sharply within her at the thought. Her whole
being shrank as the old nightmare horror swept back upon her.
No--no! She could not face it--not yet. The memory of his
implacability, his ruthlessness, arose like a menacing wave,
shaking her to the soul.
Then, suddenly, the vision changed. She saw him as she had seen
him on that last night, when she had awaked to find him kneeling by
her bed. And again that swift pang went through her. She did not
ask herself again if he wanted her.
The door of her room opened on to the yard. She heard Merston lead
his horse up to the front of the bungalow and stand talking to his
wife who was just inside. She knew that in a moment or two his
cheery shout would come to her, calling for the note.
Hastily she resumed her task. "If there is any mending to be done,
send it back by Bill."
Again she paused. Matilda was laughing at something her husband had
said. It was only lately that she had begun to laugh.
Almost immediately came an answering shout of laughter from
Merston, and then his boyish yell to her.
"Hi, Sylvia! How much longer are you going to keep me waiting for
that precious love-letter?"
She called an answer to him, dashing off final words as she did so.
"I feel I am doing some good here, but if you should specially wish
it, of course I will come back at any time." For a second more she
hesitated, then simply wrote her name.
Folding up the hurried scrawl, she was conscious of a strong sense
of dissatisfaction, but she would not reopen it. There was nothing
more to be said.
She went out with it to Bill Merston, and met his chaff with
careless laughter.
"You haven't told him to come and fetch you away, I hope?" Matilda
said, as he rode away.
And she smiled and answered, "No, not unless he specially needs me."
"You don't want to go ?" Matilda asked abruptly.
"Not unless you are tired of me," Sylvia rejoined.
"Don't be silly!" said Matilda briefly.
Half an hour after Merston's departure there came the shambling
trot of another horse, and Piet Vreiboom, slouched like a sack in
the saddle rode up and rolled off at the door.
"Oh, bother the man!" said Matilda, "I shan't ask him in with Bill
away."
The amiable Piet, however, did not wait to be asked. He fastened
up his horse and rolled into the house with his hat on, where he
gave her perfunctory greeting, grinned at Sylvia, and seated
himself in the easiest chair he could find.
Matilda's face of unconcealed disgust nearly provoked Sylvia to
uncontrolled laughter, but she checked herself in time, and went to
get the unwelcome visitor a drink in the hope of speeding his
departure.
Piet Vreiboom however was in no hurry, though they assured him
repeatedly that Merston would probably not return for some hours.
He sat squarely in his chair with his little greedy eyes fixed upon
Sylvia, and merely grunted in response to all their efforts.
When he had refreshed himself and lighted his pipe, he began to
search his mind for the few English words at his disposal and to
arrange these in a fashion intelligible to the two very inferior
beings who were listening to him. He told them in laboured
language that he had come from Brennerstadt, that the races were
over and the great Wilbraham diamond was lost and won. Who had won
it? No one knew. Some said it was a lady. He looked again at
Sylvia who turned out the pockets of her overall, and assured him
that she was not the lucky one.
He looked as if he suspected ridicule behind her mirth, and changed
the subject. Guy Ranger had disappeared, and no one knew what had
become of him. Some people thought he was dead, like Kieff. Again
he looked searchingly at Sylvia, but she did not joke over this
information. She began to peel some potatoes as if she had not
heard it. And Piet Vreiboom sat back in his chair and stared at
her, till the hot colour rose and spread over her face and neck,
and then he puffed forth a cloud of vile smoke and laughed.
At that juncture Mrs. Merston came forward with unusual briskness.
"You had better go," she said, with great decision. "There is
going to be a storm."
He began to dispute the point, but meeting most unexpected
lightning in her pale eyes he thought better of it, and after a few
seconds for deliberation and the due assertion of his masculine
superiority, he lumbered to his feet and prepared to depart.
Mrs. Merston followed him firmly to the door, reiterating, her
belief in a coming change. Certainly the sky was overcast, but the
clouds often came up thickly at night and dispersed again without
shedding any rain. There had not been rain for months.
Very grimly Matilda Merston watched the departure of her unwelcome
visitor, enduring the dust that rose from his horse's hoofs with
the patience of inflexible determination. Then, when she had seen
him go and the swirling dust had begun to settle again, she turned
inwards and proceeded to wash the glass that the Boer had used with
an expression of fixed disgust.
Suddenly she spoke. "I shouldn't believe anything that man said on
oath."
"Neither should I," said Sylvia quietly. She did not look up from
her task, and Matilda Merston said no more.
There was a brief silence, then Sylvia spoke again. "You are very
good to me," she said.
"My dear!" said Matilda almost sharply.
Sylvia's hands were trembling a little, but she continued to occupy
them. "You must sometimes wonder why Guy is so much to me," she
said. "I think it has been very sweet of you never to ask. But I
feel I should like to tell you about it."
"Of course; if you want to," said Matilda.
"I do want you to know," Sylvia said, with slight effort. "You
have taken me so much on trust. And I never even told you how I
came to meet--and marry--Burke."
"There was no necessity for you to tell me," said Matilda.
"Perhaps not. But you must have thought it rather sudden--rather
strange." Sylvia's fingers moved a little more rapidly. "You see,
I came out here engaged to marry Guy."
"Good gracious!" said Matilda.
Sylvia glanced up momentarily. "We had been engaged for years. We
were engaged before he ever came here. We--loved each other.
But--" Words failed her suddenly; she drew a short, hard breath
and was silent.
"He let you down?" said Matilda.
She nodded.
Matilda's face hardened. "That was Burke's doing."
"No--no!" Sylvia found her voice again with an effort. "It isn't
fair to say that. Burke tried to help him,--has tried--many times.
He may have been harsh to him; he may have made mistakes. But I
know he has tried to help him."
"Was that why he married you?" asked Matilda, with a bitter curl of
the lip.
Sylvia winced. "No. I--don't quite know what made him think of
that. Perhaps--in a way--he felt he ought. I was thrown on his
protection, and he never would believe that I was capable of
fending for myself."
"Very chivalrous!" commented Matilda. "Men are like that."
Sylvia shivered. "Don't--please! He--has been very good to me."
"In his own way," said Matilda.
"No, in every way. I can't tell you how good till--till Guy came
back. He brought him back to please me." Sylvia's voice was low
and distressed. "That was when things began to go wrong," she said.
"There was nothing very magnanimous in that," commented Matilda.
"He wanted you to see poor Guy when he was down. He wanted to give
you a lesson so that you should realize your good luck in being
married to him. He didn't count on the fact that you loved him.
He expected you to be disgusted."
"Oh, don't!" Sylvia said quickly. "Really that isn't fair. That
isn't--Burke. He did it against his judgment. He did it for my
sake."
"You don't know much about men, do you?" said Matilda.
"Perhaps not. But I know that much about Burke. I know that he
plays fair."
"Even if he kills his man," suggested Matilda cynically.
"He always plays fair." Sylvia spoke firmly. "But he doesn't know
how to make allowances. He is hard."
"Have you found him so?" said Matilda.
"I?" Sylvia looked across at her.
Their eyes met. There was a certain compulsion in the elder
woman's look.
"Yes, you," she said. "You personally. Has he been cruel to you,
Sylvia? Has he? Ah no, you needn't tell me! I--know." She went
suddenly to her, and put her arm around her.
Sylvia was trembling. "He didn't--understand," she whispered.
"Men never do," said Matilda very bitterly. "Love is beyond them.
They are only capable of passion. I learnt that lesson long ago.
It simplified life considerably, for I left off expecting anything
else."
Sylvia clung to her for a moment. "I think you are wrong," she
said. "I know you are wrong--somehow. But--I can't prove it to
you."
"You're so young," said Matilda compassionately.
"No, no, I am not." Sylvia tried to smile as she disengaged
herself. "I am getting older. I am learning. If--if only I felt
happy about Guy, I believe I should get on much better.
But--but--" the tears rose to her eyes in spite of her--"he haunts
me. I can't rest because of him. I dream about him. I feel torn
in two. For Burke--has given him up. But I--I can't."
"Of course you can't. You wouldn't." Matilda spoke with warmth.
"Don't let Burke deprive you of your friends! Plenty of men
imagine that when you have got a husband, you don't need anyone
else. They little know."
Sylvia's eyes went out across the _veldt_ to a faint, dim line of
blue beyond, and dwelt upon it wistfully. "Don't you think it
depends upon the husband?" she said.