"ONLY A BOER GIRL."
A vision of the portraits flashed through Colvin's mind--the portraits
at which he had so often looked, with but faint interest, representing
as they did a heavy-looking awkward girl, with hunched shoulders, whom
he had set down in his own mind as a mere squat, ugly replica of
Condaas. One of the portraits itself stared him in the face even now,
over and beyond the shoulder of its original. And this was the
original! He saw before him a tall and graceful girl, straight as a
dart. Her head, slightly thrown back, as she greeted him with frank and
self-possessed composure, was beautifully poised, and crowned with a
bounteous coil of silky brown hair. She had lustrous hazel eyes, which
could light up in a wonderful way when animated, and a fresh and
delicate colour. He noticed, too, that the hand which he took in his
was long and soft and tapering--in short, she looked thoroughbred from
head to heel, and yet, judged by the most ordinary canons of beauty, he
recognised that Aletta De la Rey was not even pretty.
Her features were lacking. They were not regular, and the mouth was
somewhat too large. But it was redeemed by white and even teeth, and a
way of rippling into a sudden, whole-hearted, and very musical laugh;
indeed, the whole expression of her face would light up in a way that
rendered it subtly but most unequivocally taking and attractive.
Now, as she greeted Colvin Kershaw for the first time a gleam of just
that sudden mirth shot from her eyes. He, reading it aright, became
alive to the fact that he did not show to his best advantage, rigged out
in a suit of her father's clothes, which was both too long and too wide
for him, and, for once in a way, he owned, within his inner self, to a
consciousness of feeling ever so slightly disconcerted. But he said
quietly:
"Be merciful, Miss De la Rey. At any rate, I am dry and warm after my
soaking, for which I feel devoutly grateful."
The colour rushed into Aletta's face as a very wave, but the laugh did
not go out of her eyes; on the contrary, it intensified in its struggle
not to break forth.
"What a thought-reader you are, Mr Kershaw!" she answered. "But,
don't--please don't think me very rude, but--I've--I've heard so much
about you that--I seem to know you well already--"
And then the laugh would no longer be kept down. It broke forth in a
merry, hearty, silvery peal.
"Aletta!" cried her mother, horror-stricken. "How can you be so rude?
What will Mr Kershaw think of you? And when are you going to begin and
pour out his coffee for him?"
But, whatever Colvin thought or did not think, there was something so
entirely infectious in that laugh that he was joining in it himself with
a whole-heartedness which left nothing to be desired; and there was the
strange spectacle of two people who had just met for the first time,
laughing--as they afterwards put it to each other--like a pair of
idiots, one at the other, and that other joining heartily in the joke
against himself.
"It's--it's all right, Miss De la Rey," said the latter, when
sufficiently recovered to be able to speak coherently. "I am glad to
hear you say you seem to know me so well already, because in that case
you wilt know that I like nothing better than to be treated as one of
the family."
It was a tactful speech, and the girl looked thoroughly capable of
appreciating it. So, too, was her mother, who remarked:
"It's so good of you to say so, Mr Kershaw. Really, I don't know what
has come over Aletta. They don't seem to have improved at all in Cape
Town."
Colvin, to himself, opined that they rather had; indeed, exhaustively
so, remembering the weird impression of her set up within his mind by
the portraits taken before she left for that capital. He knew, however,
that the tone in which this reproach was conveyed took the sting out of
the words, which, indeed, it clean belied.
"I didn't know that your eldest daughter was even expected back, Mrs De
la Rey," he said.
"No? Aletta came back rather suddenly, and she has come back with all
sorts of notions she had better have left behind. Of course, all our
people down there belong to the Bond, and we support the Bond ourselves.
Yet politics and war-talk over and over again are not fit subjects for
girls."
"Now, mother, you are far too old-fashioned. I am going to brush you
quite up to date," answered Aletta brightly, but in a sort of caressing
tone. "And you must not start Mr Kershaw with a bad opinion of me,
like that. It isn't fair."
Colvin owned to himself that that would be difficult, inasmuch as he had
started with too good a one on sight and his own responsibility. He had
been observing her narrowly while he sat there thoroughly enjoying an
excellent supper, and already had not failed to notice that she had a
soft and perfectly refined voice and pretty ways. Unlike the others,
her English was without accent, save for the little tricks of speech by
which you may pick out a born Cape Colonist in any crowd, such as
clipping the final "r," or ever so slight a hardening of the vowel at
the beginning of the word, and others; tricks of speech which are not
unpleasing, and are, moreover, as fully prevalent among children born in
the Colony, of emigrated English parents and without a drop of Dutch
blood in them.
"But where are the other girls, Mrs De la Rey?" he asked.
"Away. They went to stay with their uncle, Piet Venter, for a few days
just before we knew Aletta was coming back. They will be home
to-morrow, or as soon as he can bring them."
"Who is that talking over there?" croaked a feminine voice from a far
corner, in Dutch--a voice that sounded both irritable and antique. "It
seems like that of an Englishman. Nay--I don't know what this good land
of ours is coming to. The tongue our fathers spoke with before us was
good enough for me in my young days. Now everybody must be chattering
in English--a tongue only fit for baboons."
"It is Tant' Plessis," said Mrs De la Rey in English and an undertone,
"a sort of distant cousin of Stephanus'; I had forgotten she was in the
room. She doesn't say a word for a whole day, sometimes."
Colvin, who had now finished his meal, went over to the speaker, who was
seated in a huge armchair in a dark corner. She was a typical old-time
Boer _vrouw_, large-faced, heavy, and shapeless. She had small eyes,
and her thin hair, which, however, was still almost black, was plastered
down flat upon her head.
"_Daag, Tanta_," [Good-day, Aunt] he said, extending his hand. The old
woman stared at him for a moment in a sort of semi-distrustful,
semi-resentful way, then touched it with a flabby paw.
"_Daag, Neef_," [Good-day, nephew] she replied, then subsided, leaving
the other to carry on the conversation--which he did, descanting mainly
upon the fine rain which was still falling. She cut him short
ruthlessly by calling out:
"Gertruida, who is he?"
Mrs De la Rey, thus invoked, came over to explain.
"Ah, yes. An Englishman! I could have seen that by the way he talks.
He does not talk well."
Colvin, glancing round sedately, caught the flash of mirth which had
begun to light up Aletta's face. He thought there was some fun coming
directly.
"Who is he? What is his name?" she went on.
"It's Mr Kershaw, Tanta," explained Mrs De la Rey. "He often comes
here."
"I asked what his name was," shrilled the old woman, bringing the end of
her stick down hard upon the floor. "Is it Abram Kershaw, or Izaak
Kershaw, or what is it?"
"No, Tanta. It's Colvin--Colvin Kershaw," replied that worthy himself,
conscious of something between a gurgle and a sob in the direction of
Aletta.
"Calvin. Oh, yes. Calvin--Calvinus, that is. You have a good name,
nephew. _Ja_, I have often heard the _predikant_ talk of Calvinus--and
preach about him too. Johan was his first name. _Ja_, he was a good
man was Calvinus. He killed a great many Roman Catholics--burnt them
all. I have often heard Mynheer say so."
The gurgling in Aletta's direction was now becoming convulsive. Colvin
himself was inconveniently infected.
"Perhaps you are of his family, nephew," went on Tant' Plessis. "His
grandson, perhaps? You must be of his family if you have his name.
Well, follow in his footsteps--though to be sure there could not be such
a good and great man as Calvinus. He burnt ever so many Roman
Catholics. I've heard Mynheer say so; and if he does not know, who
does?"
This was too much. Aletta fairly broke down, and, striving to flee from
the room in blind precipitation, was brought up in the doorway by the
stalwart and substantial proportions of her father, who was entering,
and against whom she collided violently.
"So--so! What fun is on now?" cried Stephanus, at once infected by her
mirth. "Aletta, you are a very wicked little girl. You are always
laughing. Only wicked little girls always laugh, and at their elders
too, I believe. What is it, Tanta? You have been amusing the child?"
This was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance.
"_Nee_--_nee_! I have not been amusing anybody," replied the old lady
very testily. "I do not know what girls are coming to in these days--
jabbering nothing but English--a tongue only fit for baboons--and
laughing at their elders."
"Softly, softly, Tanta. There is an Englishman here!" expostulated
Stephanus, with a wink at Colvin.
"_Ja_, I know there is," was the still more testy reply. "But he is not
like other Englishmen. His name is Calvin. He is of the family of that
good man Calvinus, who burnt ever so many Roman Catholics. He did. Ask
Mynheer if he did not. I have heard him say so ever so many times, both
in church and out. And he ought to know. I have been telling this
Englishman I hoped he would ever remember his grandfather's example."
"Let the joke stand, Stephanus," said Colvin in an undertone. "It's
about the very best I've heard for such a long time."
But the next utterance put forward by this weird old party was destined
to prove somewhat less amusing--to the object thereof, at any rate.
"When is this Englishman going to marry Wenlock's sister?" she blared
out, during an interval of profound silence, and talking sublimely past
the object of the remark. "When is it to be, Gertruida?"
Poor Mrs De la Rey grew red with confusion.
"What are you saying, Tanta?" she stammered.
"What am I saying? Why, he is engaged to her. Several people have told
me. Of course he is. She is the only English girl here, and he is the
only Englishman. So of course they are engaged. That settles it."
"But, Tanta, I assure you I am not engaged to anybody," struck in
Colvin. Coming on the top of his own meditations only that morning the
remark jarred on him. Somehow, being made as it was this evening, it
more than doubly jarred on him, why, he could not have told then, but he
knew afterwards.
"Not engaged to her?" repeated this antique terror. "Then you ought to
be. All young men ought to be married as soon as possible; it is a duty
they owe to themselves and the community, and you are rather an old
young man. _Nee_, I do not believe you. Your grandfather, the great
and good Calvinus, would not have said what was not true; and I have
heard this from many people, so it must be true."
"Well, it is not true, Tanta, however many people say it," said Colvin,
with emphasis, and an unpleasant consciousness of feeling ever so
slightly foolish. Aletta, he could see, was in the wildest throes of
suppressed mirth, and Stephanus had to flee the room and go and stand
out in the pouring rain and laugh till he cried. "I tell you it is
absolutely true that I am not engaged to anybody, and am not in the
least likely to be."
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, nephew," retorted the old
woman, whacking the floor with her stick. "What do you suppose the good
God gave you health and strength for--"
"No, this is getting too thick," said Colvin in an undertone.
"Good-night, Tanta. I want to see Stephanus upon some very important
business before he goes to bed. Good-night"; and he made for the door.
The old woman subsided, nodded a little, and then made up her mind to go
to bed. When she had done so Colvin returned, accompanied by Stephanus.
Aletta's bright face lit up at sight of him, and with the consciousness
that she could now laugh unrestrained.
"Upon my word, Miss De la Rey," he said, "your respected relative is
something of a terror. First, she wants to make me three or four
hundred years old by assigning me for grandfather some historic old bore
who flourished in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, I forget which.
Then she is eager to rush me into a haphazard matrimonial contract. No,
really it is laying it on just a little too thick."
"Oh, it was awfully funny. But, do you know, Mr Kershaw, we had heard
just the same thing? _We_ didn't tell her, you know, but we had heard
it," said Aletta, her face brimming over with mischief.
"Well, you heard what has no foundation in fact, what is entirely
untrue," he answered, with some vague stirring over the emphasis
wherewith he did answer, remembering the psychological moment of two or
three nights ago.
"You met the Patriot here not long since, did you not, Mr Kershaw?"
said Aletta, changing the subject with perfect ease.
"Which Patriot? There are so many patriots now," he replied.
"Why, _the_ Patriot. The one from Pretoria, of course."
"Andries Botma? Oh yes, I met him. We had some very interesting talk
together. I had long wanted to see him."
"But--but--you are not of us," said the girl, looking up quickly from
her work-basket.
"This little girl is a red-hot patriot, Colvin," said Stephanus, resting
a large hand lightly upon the silky brown coil. "But, to be serious, I
hope this will all quiet down and find its level."
"Of course; are we not all jolly good friends together, Stephanus? We
don't want to be at each other's throats at the bidding of other
people."
This remark brought Aletta up.
"But you said you had long wanted to meet the Patriot, Mr Kershaw. Why
did you want to see him, then?"
"Because he is something unique--a really honest agitator. He means
what he says and believes every word of it most thoroughly. He is full
of _verve_ and fire--in a word, a strong man. His is an immensely
striking personality."
"Well done, well done," cried Aletta, clapping her hands
enthusiastically. "I shall make a convert of you yet. Oh yes, I
shall."
It became bedtime. As she gave him his candle Colvin once more could
not help being struck with the refined grace of Aletta's every
movement--the soft, clear, thoroughbred tone of her voice. She seemed
somehow to have been cast in a different mould from her sisters, to whom
he had always pictured her as inferior both in looks and presence. It
fairly puzzled him. The tones of her voice seemed to linger long after
he had retired. He had had a long, tiring, exciting day--had undergone
a very narrow escape for his life--which circumstance, by the way, he
had not yet mentioned to his host, being desirous to sleep on it first,
and having enjoined strict silence upon his retainer--yet, now that he
should have dropped into a sound, recuperative slumber, he could not.
And the sole reason that he could not--as he must perforce admit to
himself in the darkness and privacy of his chamber--was the recollection
of this girl whom he had met but the first time that night--here, on a
remote Dutch farm in the Wildschutsbergen. And she was "only a Boer
girl!"