The Story of an African Farm

by Olive Schreiner

  Chapter 2.XII. Gregory's Womanhood.

  Slowly over the flat came a cart. On the back seat sat Gregory, his armsfolded, his hat drawn over his eyes. A Kaffer boy sat on the front seatdriving, and at his feet sat Doss, who, now and again, lifted his noseand eyes above the level of the splashboard, to look at the surroundingcountry; and then, with an exceedingly knowing wink of his left eye,turned to his companions, thereby intimating that he clearly perceivedhis whereabouts. No one noticed the cart coming. Waldo, who was at workat his carpenter's table in the wagon-house, saw nothing, till chancingto look down he perceived Doss standing before him, the legs trembling,the little nose wrinkled, and a series of short suffocating barks givingutterance to his joy at reunion.

  Em, whose eyes had ached with looking out across the plain, was now atwork 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 greetedher quietly, hung his hat up in its old place behind the door, and forany change in his manner or appearance he might have been gone only theday before to fetch letters from the town. Only his beard was gone, andhis face was grown thinner. He took off his leather gaiters, said theafternoon was hot and the roads dusty, and asked for some tea. Theytalked of wool, and the cattle, and the sheep, and Em gave him the pileof letters that had come for him during the months of absence, but ofthe thing that lay at their hearts neither said anything. Then he wentout to look at the kraals, and at supper Em gave him hot cakes andcoffee. They talked about the servants, and then ate their meal inquiet. She asked no questions. When it was ended Gregory went into thefront 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; Iwant to talk to you."

  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 showedhim to her, where he lay, with his arm thrown across his eyes. At lasthe spoke. Perhaps it was a relief to him to speak.

  To Bloemfontein in the Free State, to which through an agent he hadtraced them, Gregory had gone. At the hotel where Lyndall and herstranger had stayed he put up; he was shown the very room in which theyhad slept. The coloured boy who had driven them to the next town toldhim in which house they had boarded, and Gregory went on. In that townhe found they had left the cart, and bought a spider and four greys,and Gregory's heart rejoiced. Now indeed it would be easy to trace theircourse. And he turned his steps northward.

  At the farmhouses where he stopped the ooms and tantes rememberedclearly the spider with its four grey horses. At one place the Boer-wifetold how the tall, blue-eyed Englishman had bought milk, and asked theway to the next farm. At the next farm the Englishman had bought a bunchof flowers, and given half a crown for them to the little girl. It wasquite true; the Boer-mother made her get it out of the box and showit. At the next place they had slept. Here they told him that the greatbulldog, who hated all strangers, had walked in in the evening and laidits head in the lady's lap. So at every place he heard something, andtraced them step by step.

  At one desolate farm the Boer had a good deal to tell. The lady had saidshe liked a wagon that stood before the door. Without asking the pricethe Englishman had offered a hundred and fifty pounds for the old thing,and bought oxen worth ten pounds for sixteen. The Dutchman chuckled, forhe had the Salt-riem's money in the box under his bed. Gregory laughedtoo, in silence; he could not lose sight of them now, so slowly theywould have to move with that cumbrous ox-wagon. Yet, when that eveningcame, and he reached a little wayside inn, no one could tell himanything of the travellers.

  The master, a surly creature, half stupid with Boer-brandy, sat on thebench before the door smoking. Gregory sat beside him, questioning, buthe smoked on. He remembered nothing of such strangers. How should heknow who had been there months and months before? He smoked on. Gregory,very weary, tried to wake his memory, said that the lady he was seekingfor was very beautiful, had a little mouth, and tiny, very tiny, feet.The man only smoked on as sullenly as at first. What were little, verylittle, mouths and feet to him. But his daughter leaned out in thewindow above. She was dirty and lazy, and liked to loll there whentravellers came, to hear the men talk, but she had a soft heart.Presently a hand came out of the window, and a pair of velvet slipperstouched his shoulder, tiny slippers with black flowers. He pulled themout 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 youare looking for. Never saw any feet so small."

  Gregory rose and questioned her.

  They might have come in a wagon and spider, she could not tell. But thegentleman was very handsome, tall, lovely figure, blue eyes, wore glovesalways 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, dullair, silent. They stayed for, it might be, five days; slept in the wingover against the stoep; quarrelled sometimes, she thought--the lady.She had seen everything when she went in to wait. One day the gentlemantouched her hair; she drew back from him as though his fingers poisonedher. 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 girlthought; she evidently pitied him, he was such a beautiful man. Theywent away early one morning, how, or in which way, the girl could nottell.

  Gregory inquired of the servants, but nothing more was to be learnt; sothe next morning he saddled his horse and went on. At the farms he cameto the good old ooms and tantes asked him to have coffee, and the littleshoeless children peeped out at the stranger from behind ovens andgables; but no one had seen what he asked for. This way and that he rodeto pick up the thread he had dropped, but the spider and the wagon, thelittle lady and the handsome gentleman, no one had seen. In the towns hefared yet worse.

  Once indeed hope came to him. On the stoep of an hotel at which hestayed the night in a certain little village, there walked a gentleman,grave and kindly-looking. It was not hard to open conversation with himabout the weather, and then--Had he ever seen such and such people,a gentleman and a lady, a spider and wagon, arrive at that place? Thekindly gentleman shook his head. What was the lady like, he inquired.

  Gregory painted. Hair like silken floss, small mouth, underlip very fulland pink, upper lip pink but very thin and curled; there were four whitespots on the nail of her right hand forefinger, and her eyebrows werevery delicately curved.

  "Yes; and a rose-bud tinge in the cheeks; hands like lilies, andperfectly seraphic smile."

  "That is she! that is she!" cried Gregory.

  Who else could it be? He asked where she had gone to. The gentleman mostthoughtfully stroked his beard.

  He would try to remember. Were not her ears--. Here such a violent fitof coughing seized him that he ran away into the house. An ill-fedclerk and a dirty barman standing in the doorway laughed aloud. Gregorywondered if they could be laughing at the gentleman's cough, and then heheard some one laughing in the room into which the gentleman had gone.He must follow him and try to learn more; but he soon found that therewas nothing more to be learnt there. Poor Gregory!

  Backward and forward, backward and forward, from the dirty little hotelwhere 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 mighthave gone its own way and the spider another was an idea that didnot occur to him. At last he saw it was no use lingering in thatneighbourhood, and pressed on.

  One day coming to a little town, his horses knocked up, and he resolvedto rest them there. The little hotel of the town was a bright and sunnyplace, like the jovial
face of the clean little woman who kept it,and who trotted about talking always--talking to the customers in thetaproom, and to the maids in the kitchen, and to the passers-by when shecould hail them from the windows; talking, as good-natured women withlarge mouths and small noses always do, in season and out.

  There was a little front parlour in the hotel, kept for strangers whowanted to be alone. Gregory sat there to eat his breakfast, and thelandlady dusted the room and talked of the great finds at the DiamondFields, and the badness of maid-servants, and the shameful conduct ofthe Dutch parson in that town to the English inhabitants. Gregory atehis breakfast and listened to nothing. He had asked his one question,and had had his answer; now she might talk on.

  Presently a door in the corner opened and a woman came out--aMozambiquer, with a red handkerchief twisted round her head. Shecarried in her hand a tray, with a slice of toast crumbled fine, and ahalf-filled cup of coffee, and an egg broken open, but not eaten. Herebony 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. "Themaids say so; but I'm sure you wouldn't do such a thing."

  The Mozambiquer grinned.

  "Husband says I must go home."

  "But she hasn'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 asickroom, not if I was paid anything for it."

  The Mozambiquer only showed her white teeth good-naturedly for answer,and went out, and the landlady followed her.

  Gregory, glad to be alone, watched the sunshine as it came over thefuchsias in the window, and ran up and down on the panelled door in thecorner. The Mozambiquer had closed it loosely behind her, and presentlysomething touched it inside. It moved a little, then it was still, thenmoved again; then through the gap a small nose appeared, and a yellowear overlapping one eye; then the whole head obtruded, placed itselfcritically on one side, wrinkled its nose disapprovingly at Gregory, andwithdrew. Through the half-open door came a faint scent of vinegar, andthe room was dark and still.

  Presently the landlady came back.

  "Left the door open," she said, bustling to shut it; "but a darky willbe a darky, and never carries a head on its shoulders like other folks.Not ill, I hope sir?" she said, looking at Gregory when she had shut thebedroom door.

  "No," said Gregory, "no."

  The landlady began putting the things together.

  "Who," asked Gregory, "is in that room?"

  Glad to have a little innocent piece of gossip to relate, and some onewilling to hear it, the landlady made the most of a little story as shecleared the table. Six months before a lady had come alone to the hotelin a wagon, with only a coloured leader and driver. Eight days after alittle baby had been born.

  If Gregory stood up and looked out at the window he would see abluegum-tree in the graveyard; close by it was a little grave. The babywas buried there. A tiny thing--only lived two hours, and the motherherself almost went with it. After a while she was better; but one dayshe 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 hersitting on the wet ground under the bluegum-tree, with the rain drippingfrom her hat and shawl. They went to fetch her, but she would not comeuntil she chose. When she did, she had gone to bed and had not risenagain from it; never would, the doctor said.

  She was very patient, poor thing. When you went in to ask her how shewas she said always "Better," or "Nearly well!" and lay still in thedarkened room, and never troubled any one. The Mozambiquer took careof her, and she would not allow any one else to touch her; would not somuch as allow any one else to see her foot uncovered. She was strangein many ways, but she paid well, poor thing; and now the Mozambiquer wasgoing, and she would have to take up with some one else.

  The landlady prattled on pleasantly, and now carried away the tray withthe breakfast things. When she was gone Gregory leaned his head on hishands, but he did not think long.

  Before dinner he had ridden out of the town to where on a rise a numberof transport-wagons were outspanned. The Dutchman driver of one wonderedat the stranger's eagerness to free himself of his horses. Stolenperhaps; but it was worth his while to buy them at so low a price. Sothe horses changed masters, and Gregory walked off with his saddlebagsslung across his arm. Once out of sight of the wagons he struck out ofthe road and walked across the veld, the dry, flowering grasses wavingeverywhere about him; half-way across the plain he came to a deep gullywhich the rain torrents had washed out, but which was now dry. Gregorysprung down into its red bed. It was a safe place, and quiet. When hehad looked about him he sat down under the shade of an overhanging bankand fanned himself with his hat, for the afternoon was hot, and he hadwalked fast. At his feet the dusty ants ran about, and the high red bankbefore him was covered by a network of roots and fibres washed bare bythe rains. Above his head rose the clear blue African sky; at his sidewere the saddlebags full of women's clothing. Gregory looked up halfplaintively into the blue sky.

  "Am I, am I Gregory Nazianzen Rose?" he said.

  It was also strange, he sitting there in that sloot in that up-countryplain!--strange as the fantastic, changing shapes in a summer cloud. Atlast, tired out, he fell asleep, with his head against the bank. When hewoke the shadow had stretched across the sloot, and the sun was on theedge of the plain. Now he must be up and doing. He drew from his breastpocket a little sixpenny looking-glass, and hung it on one of the rootsthat stuck out from the bank. Then he dressed himself in one of theold-fashioned gowns and a great pinked-out collar. Then he took out arazor. Tuft by tuft the soft brown beard fell down into the sand, andthe little ants took it to line their nests with. Then the glass showeda face surrounded by a frilled cap, white as a woman's, with a littlemouth, a very short upper lip, and a receding chin.

  Presently a rather tall woman's figure was making its way across theveld. As it passed a hollowed-out antheap it knelt down, and stuffed inthe saddlebags with the man's clothing, closing up the anthill with bitsof ground to look as natural as possible. Like a sinner hiding his deedof sin, the hider started once and looked round, but yet there was noone near save a meerkat, who had lifted herself out of her hole and saton her hind legs watching. He did not like that even she should see, andwhen he rose she dived away into her hole. Then he walked on leisurely,that the dusk might have reached the village streets before he walkedthere. The first house was the smith's, and before the open door twoidle urchins lolled. As he hurried up the street in the gatheringgloom he heard them laugh long and loudly behind him. He glanced roundfearingly, and would almost have fled, but that the strange skirts clungabout his legs. And after all it was only a spark that had alighted onthe 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 thestreet. He knocked, and the landlady came. She peered out to look forthe cart that had brought the traveller; but Gregory's heart was bravenow he was so near the quiet room. He told her he had come with thetransport 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, thoughthe recording angel had stood in the next room with his pen dipped inthe ink. What was it to him? He remembered that she lay there sayingalways: "I am better."

  The landlady put his supper in the little parlour where he had sat inthe 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 forher customers in the taproom. In the white face under the queer,deep-fringed cap she saw nothing of the morning's traveller. Thenewcomer was communicative. She was a nurse by profession, she said; hadcome to the Transvaal, hearing that good nurses were needed there. Shehad not yet found work. The landlady did not perhaps know whether therewould be any for her in that town?

  The landlady pu
t down her knitting and smote her fat hands together.

  If it wasn't the very finger of God's providence, as though you saw ithanging out of the sky, she said. Here was a lady ill and needing a newnurse that very day, and not able to get one to her mind, and now--well,if it wasn't enough to convert all the Atheists and Freethinkers in theTransvaal, she didn't know!

  Then the landlady proceeded to detail facts.

  "I'm sure you will suit her," she added; "you're just the kind. She hasheaps of money to pay you with; has everything that money can buy. And Igot a letter with a check in it for fifty pounds the other day from someone, who says I'm to spend it for her, and not to let her know. She isasleep 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 bedwas a great four-poster with white curtains, and the quilt was of richcrimson satin. But Gregory stood just inside the door with his head bentlow, and saw no further.

  "Come nearer! I'll turn the lamp up a bit, that you can have a look ather. A pretty thing, isn't it?" said the landlady.

  Near the foot of the bed was a dent in the crimson quilt, and out of itDoss' small head and bright eyes looked knowingly.

  Then Gregory looked up at what lay on the cushion. A little white, whiteface, transparent as an angel's with a cloth bound round the forehead,and with soft 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 beautiful eyes openedwidely, looked round the room and into the dark corners.

  "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 stayand take care of you, if you can come to terms with her."

  Lyndall raised herself on her elbow, and cast one keen scrutinizingglance over him.

  "Have I never seen you before?" she asked.

  "No."

  She fell back wearily.

  "Perhaps you would like to arrange the terms between yourselves," saidthe landlady. "Here is a 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 bearthe light."

  Then his heart grew braver in the shadow, and he spoke. Nursing wasto him, he said, his chosen life's work. He wanted no money if-- Shestopped him.

  "I take no service for which I do not pay," she said. "What I gave to mylast nurse I will give to you; if you do not like it you may go."

  And Gregory muttered humbly, he would take it.

  Afterward she tried to turn herself. He lifted her! Ah! a shrunkenlittle body, he could feel its weakness as he touched it. His hands wereto 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 sat down trembling. His little ewe-lamb, could they hurt her?

  The doctor said of Gregory four days after, "She is the most experiencednurse I ever came in contact with."

  Gregory, standing in the passage, heard it and laughed in his heart.What need had he of experience? Experience teaches us in a millenniumwhat passion teaches us in an hour. A Kaffer studies all his life thediscerning of distant sounds; but he will never hear my step, when mylove 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 afterward 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, andGregory sat in his dark corner watching.

  She seldom slept, and through those long, long days she would liewatching the round streak of sunlight that came through the knot in theshutter, or the massive lion's paw on which the wardrobe rested. Whatthoughts were in those eyes? Gregory wondered; he dared not ask.

  Sometimes Doss where he lay on her feet would dream that they two werein the cart, tearing over the veld, with the black horses snorting, andthe wind in their faces; and he would start up in his sleep andbark aloud. Then awaking, he would lick his mistress' hand almostremorsefully, and slink quietly down into his place.

  Gregory thought she had no pain, she never groaned; only sometimes, whenthe light was near her, he thought he could see contractions about herlips and eyebrows.

  He slept on the sofa outside her door.

  One night he thought he heard a sound, and, opening it softly, he lookedin. She was crying out aloud, as if she and her pain were alone in theworld. The light fell on the red quilt, and the little hands that wereclasped over the head. The wide-open eyes were looking up, and the heavydrops fell slowly from them.

  "I cannot bear any more, not any more," she said in a deep voice. "Oh,God, God! have I not borne in silence? Have I not endured these long,long months? But now, now, oh, God, I cannot!"

  Gregory knelt in the doorway listening.

  "I do not ask for wisdom, not human love, not work, not knowledge, notfor all things I have longed for," she cried; "only a little freedomfrom 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 quietstarlight. When he came back she was lying in her usual posture, thequiet eyes looking at the lion's claw. He came close to the bed.

  "You have much pain tonight?" he asked her.

  "No, not much."

  "Can I do anything for you?"

  "No, nothing."

  She still drew her lips together, and motioned with her fingers towardthe dog who lay sleeping at her feet. Gregory lifted him and laid him ather side. She made Gregory turn open the bosom of her nightdress, thatthe dog might put his black muzzle between her breasts. She crossed herarms over him. Gregory left them lying there together.

  Next day, when they asked her how she was, she answered "Better."

  "Some one ought to tell her," said the landlady; "we can't let her soulgo out into eternity not knowing, especially when I don't think it wasall 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 cameout of the room he shook his fist in the landlady's face.

  "The next time you have any devil's work to do, do it yourself," hesaid, and he shook his fist in her face again, and went away swearing.

  When Gregory went into the bedroom he only found her moved, her bodycurled up, and drawn close to the wall. He dared not disturb her. Atlast, after a long time, she turned.

  "Bring me food," she said, "I want to eat. Two eggs, and toast, andmeat--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 eatit all." She tried to draw the things near her with her fingers, andre-arranged the plates. She cut the toast into long strips, broke openboth eggs, put a tiny morsel of bread into her own mouth, and fed thedog 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 soearly. Put it away, please, carefully--no, do not take it away--only onthe 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
tomorrow. I should get up now, but it israther 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.

  "Put it nearer," she said, "I cannot see it;" and she lay watching theclothes, 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; andopened the shutter, and raised her up among the pillows.

  "Now bring my books to me," she said, motioning eagerly with herfingers; "the large book, and the reviews and the plays--I want themall."

  He piled them round her on the bed; she drew them greedily closer, hereyes 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 mybook," she said; "I can hold it for myself."

  Gregory went back to his corner, and for a little time the restlessturning over of leaves was to be heard.

  "Will you open the window," she said, almost querulously, "and throwthis book out? It is so utterly foolish. I thought it was a valuablebook; but the words are merely strung together, they make no sense.Yes--so!" she said with approval, seeing him fling it out into thestreet. "I must have been very foolish when I thought that book good."

  Then she turned to read, and leaned her little elbows resolutely on thegreat volume, and knit her brows. This was Shakespeare--it must meansomething.

  "I wish you would take a handkerchief and tie it tight round my head, itaches so."

  He had not been long in his seat when he saw drops fall from beneath thehands 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 theroom completely.

  When Gregory went to his sofa that night, she told him to wake herearly; she would be dressed before breakfast. Nevertheless, when morningcame, she said it was a little cold, and lay all day watching herclothes upon the chair. Still she sent for her oxen in the country; theywould start on Monday and go down to the Colony.

  In the afternoon she told him to open the window wide, and draw the bednear it.

  It was a leaden afternoon, the dull rain-clouds rested close to theroofs of the houses, and the little street 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 againinto the gutter; then all was quiet. She lay looking out.

  Presently the bell of the church began to toll, and up the villagestreet came a long procession. They were carrying an old man to his lastresting-place. She followed them with her eyes till they turned in amongthe 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 dieit is well; they have had their time. It is when the young die that thebells 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 answered, "but whatof that? They have had their time. They knew that a man's lifeis three-score years and ten; they should have made their plansaccordingly!

  "But the young," she said, "the young, cut down, cruelly, when they havenot seen, when they have not known--when they have not found--it is forthem that the bells weep blood. I heard in the ringing it was an oldman. When the old die-- Listen to the bell! it is laughing--'It isright, it is right; he has had his time.' They cannot ring so for theyoung."

  She fell back exhausted; the hot light died from her eyes, and she laylooking out into the street. By and by stragglers from the funeral beganto come back and disappear here and there among the houses; then allwas quiet, and the night began to settle down upon the village street.Afterward, when the room was almost dark, so that they could notsee each other's faces, she said, "It will rain tonight;" and movedrestlessly on the pillows. "How terrible when the rain falls down onyou."

  He wondered what she meant, and they sat on in the still darkening room.She moved again.

  "Will you presently take my cloak--and new grey cloak from behind thedoor--and go out with it. You will find a little grave at the foot ofthe tall gum-tree; the water drips off the long, pointed leaves; youmust cover it up with that."

  She moved restlessly as though in pain.

  Gregory assented, and there was silence again. It was the first time shehad ever spoken of her child.

  "It was so small," she said; "it lived such a little while--only threehours. They laid it close by me, but I never saw it; I could feel it byme." She waited; "its feet were so cold; I took them in my hand to makethem 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; itwanted to drink, it wanted to be warm." She hardened herself--"I did notlove it; its father was not my prince; I did not care for it; but it wasso 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 littlelife. They might have kissed it, one of them."

  Gregory felt that some one was sobbing in the room.

  Late on in the evening, when the shutter was closed and the lamplighted, and the rain-drops beat on the roof, he took the cloak frombehind the door and went away with it. On his way back he called atthe village post-office and brought back a letter. In the hall he stoodreading the address. How could he fail to know whose hand had writtenit? Had he not long ago studied those characters on the torn fragmentsof paper in the old parlour? A burning pain was at Gregory's heart.If now, now at the last, one should come, should step in between! Hecarried the letter into the bedroom and gave it to her. "Bring me thelamp 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 thecurtain, and heard the pencil move on the paper. When he looked roundthe curtain she was lying on the pillow musing. The open letter lay ather side; she glanced at it with soft eyes. The man with the languideyelids must have been strangely moved before his hand set down thosewords:

  "Let me come back to you! My darling, let me put my hand round you, andguard you from all the world. As my wife they shall never touch you.I have learnt to love you more wisely, more tenderly, than of old; youshall have perfect freedom. Lyndall, grand little woman, for your ownsake be my wife!

  "Why did you send that money back to me? You are cruel to me; it is notrightly done."

  She rolled the little red pencil softly between her fingers, and herface grew very soft. Yet:

  "It cannot be," she wrote; "I thank you much for the love you have shownme; but I cannot listen. You will call me mad, foolish--the world woulddo so; but I know what I need and the kind of path I must walk in. Icannot marry you. I will always love you for the sake of what lay by methose three hours; but there it ends. I must know and see, I cannot bebound to one whom I love as I love you. I am not afraid of the world--Iwill fight the world. One day--perhaps it may be far off--I shall findwhat 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, selfish, erring woman. One day I shall find something toworship, and then I shall be--"

  "Nurse," she said; "take my desk away; I am suddenly so sleepy; I willwrite more tomorrow." She turned her face to the pillow; it was thesudden 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. Ata quarter-past twelve he rose, and took a last look at the bed where shelay sleeping so peacefully; then he turned to go to his couch. Before hehad 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 terrorat the window. "It will not fall open in the night, the shutter--you aresure?"

  He comforted her. Yes, it was tightly fastened.

  "Even if it is shut," she said, in a whisper, "you 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 downamong the blankets.

  "I dreamed just now that it was not put up," she said, looking into hiseyes; "and it crept right in and I was alone with it."

  "What do you fear?" he asked, tenderly.

  "The Grey Dawn," she said, glancing round at the window. "I was neverafraid of anything, never, when I was a little child, but I have alwaysbeen 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 astart; you must be tired. I am childish, that is all;" but she shiveredagain.

  He sat down beside her, after some time she said: "Will you not rub myfeet?"

  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 andcovered it with kisses.

  "It makes it better when you kiss it; thank you. What makes you all loveme so?" Then dreamily she muttered to herself: "Not utterly bad, notquite bad--what makes them all love me so?"

  Kneeling there, rubbing softly, with his cheek pressed against thelittle foot, Gregory dropped to sleep at last. How long he knelt therehe could not tell; but when he started up awake she was not looking athim. The eyes were fixed on the far corner, gazing wide and intent, withan unearthly light.

  He looked round fearfully. What did she see there? God's angels cometo call her? Something fearful? He saw only the purple curtain withthe shadows that fell from it. Softly he whispered, asking what she sawthere.

  And she said, in a voice strangely unlike her own: "I see the vision ofa poor, weak soul striving after good. It was not cut short, and in theend it learnt, through tears and much pain, that holiness is an infinitecompassion for others; that greatness is to take the common things oflife and walk truly among them; that"--She moved her white hand and laidit on her forehead--"happiness is a great love and much serving. It wasnot cut short; and it loved what it had learnt--it loved--and--"

  Was that all she saw in the corner?

  Gregory told the landlady the next morning that she had been wanderingall night. Yet, when he came in to give her her breakfast, she wassitting up against the pillows, looking as he had not seen her lookbefore.

  "Put it close to me," she said, "and when I have had breakfast I amgoing to dress."

  She finished all he had brought her eagerly.

  "I am sitting up quite by myself," she said. "Give me his meat;" and shefed the dog herself, cutting his food small for him. She moved to theside of the bed.

  "Now bring the chair near and dress me. It is being in this room solong, and looking at that miserable little bit of sunshine that comes inthrough 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." Gregoryknelt on the floor before her, and tried to draw on one stocking, butthe little swollen foot refused to be covered.

  "It is very funny that I should have grown so fat since I have beenso ill," she said, peering down curiously. "Perhaps it is want ofexercise." She looked troubled and said again, "Perhaps it is want ofexercise." She wanted Gregory to say so too. But he only found a largerpair; and then tried to force the shoes, oh, so tenderly, on to herlittle feet.

  "There," she said, looking down at them when they were on, with thedelight 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 prepared for her, "I willnot put that on. Get one of my white dresses--the one with the pinkbows. I do not even want to think I have been ill. It is thinking andthinking of things that makes them real," she said. "When you drawyour mind together, and resolve that a thing shall not be, it gives waybefore you; it is not. Everything is possible if one is resolved," shesaid. She drew in her little lips together, and Gregory obeyed her; shewas so small and slight now it was like dressing a small doll. He wouldhave lifted her down from the bed when he had finished, but she pushedhim from her, laughing very softly. It was the first time she hadlaughed in those long, dreary months.

  "No, no; I can get down myself," she said, slipping cautiously on to thefloor. "You see!" She cast a defiant glance of triumph when she stoodthere. "Hold the curtain up high, I want to look at myself."

  He raised it, and stood holding it. She looked into the glass on theopposite wall.

  Such a queenly little figure in its pink and white. Such a transparentlittle face, refined by suffering into an almost angel-like beauty. Theface looked at her; she looked back, laughing softly. Doss, quiveringwith excitement, ran round her, barking. She took one step toward thedoor, balancing herself with outstretched hands.

  "I am nearly there," she said.

  Then she groped blindly.

  "Oh, I cannot see! I cannot see! Where am I?" she cried.

  When Gregory reached her she had fallen with her face against the sharpfoot of the wardrobe and cut her forehead. Very tenderly he raised thelittle crushed heap of muslin and ribbons, and laid it on the bed. Dossclimbed up, and sat looking down at it. Very softly Gregory's handsdisrobed her.

  "You will be stronger tomorrow, 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 himselfacross her feet and lay whining 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 shoneunder those half-closed eyelids. Gregory could not tell.

  At last in the evening he bent over her.

  "The oxen have come," he said; "we can start tomorrow if you like. ShallI get the wagon ready tonight?"

  Twice he repeated his question. Then she looked up at him, and Gregorysaw that all hope had died out of the beautiful eyes. It was not stuporthat shone there, it was despair.

  "Yes, let us go," she said.

  "It makes no difference," said the doctor; "staying or going; it isclose now."

  So the next day Gregory carried her out in his arms to the wagon whichstood inspanned before the door. As he laid her down on the kartel shelooked 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, notbefore." She closed her eyes again. He drew the sails down before andbehind, and the wagon rolled away slowly. The landlady and the niggersstood to watch it from the stoep.

  Very silently the great wagon rolled along the grass-covered plain. Thedriver on the front box did not clap his whip or call to his oxen, andGregory sat beside him with folded arms. Behind them, in the closedwagon, 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 hertreasure down in the wilderness, he sat afar off:--"For Hagar said, Letme not see the death of the child."

  Evening came, and yet the blue mountain was not reached, and all thenext day they rode on slowly, but still it was far off. Only at eveningthey reached it; not blue now, but low and brown, covered with longwaving grasses and rough stones. They drew the wagon up close to itsfoot for the night. It was a sheltered, warm spot.

  When the dark night had come, when the tired oxen were tied to thewheels, and the driver and leader had rolled them
selves in theirblankets before the fire, and gone to sleep, then Gregory fastened downthe sails of the wagon securely. He fixed a long candle near the head ofthe 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 ofthe tired oxen, and to the crackling of the fire, till, overpowered byweariness, he fell into a heavy sleep. Then all was very still in thewagon. The dog slept on his mistress' 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 Lyndallawoke. The candle burnt at her head, the dog lay on her feet; but heshivered; it seemed as though a coldness struck up to him from hisresting-place. She lay with folded hands, looking upward; and she heardthe oxen chewing, and she saw the two mosquitoes buzzing drearily roundand 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 wasrolled together now, and the old clear intellect awoke from its longtorpor. It looked back into the past, it saw the present; there was nofuture now. The old strong soul gathered itself together for the lasttime; it knew where it stood.

  Slowly raising herself on her elbow, she took from the sail a glass thathung pinned there. Her fingers were stiff and cold. She put the pillowon her breast, and stood the glass against it. Then the white face onthe pillow looked into the white face in the glass. They had looked ateach other often so before. It had been a child's face once, looking outabove its blue pinafore; it had been a woman's face, with a dim shadowin the eyes, and a something which had said, "We are not afraid, you andI; we are together; we will fight, you and I." Now tonight it had cometo 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 thestiff fingers against the glass. They were growing very stiff. She triedto speak to it, but she would never speak again. Only the wonderfulyearning light was in the eyes still. The body was dead now, but thesoul, clear and unclouded, looked forth.

  Then slowly, without a sound, the beautiful eyes closed. The deadface that the glass reflected was a thing of marvelous beauty andtranquillity. The Grey Dawn crept in over it and saw it lying there.

  Had she found what she sought for--something to worship? Had she ceasedfrom being? Who shall tell us? There is a veil of terrible mist over theface of the Hereafter.