The new man, Gregory Rose, sat at the door of his dwelling, his arms
folded, his legs crossed, and a profound melancholy seeming to rest over
his soul. His house was a little square daub-and-wattle building, far
out in the karoo, two miles from the homestead. It was covered outside
with a sombre coating 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 covered with prints cut from the
“Illustrated London News”, and in which there was a noticeable
preponderance of female faces and figures. A stretcher filled one end
of the hut, and a rack for a gun and 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 remembrance 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:
“Kopje Alone,
“Monday afternoon.
“My Dear Jemima--”
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 sorrows 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 always used me, calling me a noodle and
a milksop, just because he couldn’t understand my fine nature. You know
how he has made a farmer of me instead 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 Dutchwoman from whom I hire this place has a little
stepdaughter, 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.
“Every evening I go there to fetch my milk. Yesterday she gave me some
coffee. The spoon fell on 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 fellow, 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 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 have not eaten a mouthful today. This evening I go and propose to
her. If she refuses me I shall go and kill myself tomorrow. 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. I can 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 sunshine; my God-given blossom.
“‘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 probability, the last and
distracted night of his life.
“Gregory Nazianzen Rose.
“P.S.--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 have been accepted; if not, you may know it is
all up with your heartbroken 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 inkpot,
somewhat relieved 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 from her ears 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. Just look!”
“The clouds are black. I think it is going to rain tonight,” said
Gregory.
“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.
“Oh, Em, I love you better than all the world besides! 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 herdsman 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 walking by the stone wall with the 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.
“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 Saturday. I will not once come near
you till then. Good-bye! Oh, Em,” he said, turning again, and twining
his arm about her, and kissing her surprised 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. “Come, let us go, and I will fill your
pail.”
“I want no milk. Good-bye! You will not see me again till Saturday.”
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 herself like a song.
“I will send for him tomorrow, and I will tell him how I love him back,”
she said.
But Em needed not to send for him. Gregory discovered on reaching home
that Jemima’s letter was still in his pocket. And, therefore, much as he
disliked the appearance of vacillation and weakness, he was obliged to
be at the farmhouse 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 corner 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 then 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 everything it holds. If you were in hell I
would go after you to find you there! If you were dead, though my body
moved, my soul would be under the ground with you. All life as I pass
with you in my arms will be perfect to me. It will pass, pass like a ray
of sunshine.”
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 tomorrow,
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.
“I do not know how it is,” she said humbly, nestling to him, “but I
cannot love you so much as you love me. Perhaps it is because I am only
a woman; but I do love you as much as I can.”
Now the Kaffer 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 household linen and wedding
garments. Gregory was with her daily, almost hourly, and the six months
which elapsed before Lyndall’s return passed, as he felicitously 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
impressed a fervent kiss on the fat hand that guided the linen.
“You are so beautiful, Em,” said the lover. “It 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 haven’t any nose. I can’t be pretty.”
She laughed softly. It was so nice to think he should be so blind.
“When my cousin comes tomorrow you will see a beautiful woman, Gregory,”
she added presently. “She is like a little queen: her shoulders are so
upright, and her head looks as though it ought to have a little crown
upon it. You must come to see her tomorrow 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.”
Afterward, 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 Sannie 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 a little box in the corner a spray of
orange-blossom which she had bought from a smouse. There, too, was a
ring Gregory had given her, and a veil his sister had sent, and there
was a little roll of fine embroidered work which 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.
Tomorrow evening when Lyndall came she would bring her here, and show
it her all. 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!”