Chapter 2.VI. A Boer-wedding.
"I didn't know before you were so fond of riding hard," said Gregory tohis little betrothed.
They were cantering slowly on the road to Oom Muller's on the morning ofthe wedding.
"Do you call this riding hard?" asked Em in some astonishment.
"Of course I do! It's enough to break the horses' necks, and knock oneup for the whole day besides," he added testily; then twisted his headto look at the buggy that came on behind. "I thought Waldo was such amad driver; they are taking it easily enough today," said Gregory. "Onewould think the black stallions were lame."
"I suppose they want to keep out of our dust," said Em. "See, they standstill as soon as we do."
Perceiving this to be the case, Gregory rode on.
"It's all that horse of yours: she kicks up such a confounded dust, Ican't stand it myself," he said.
Meanwhile the cart came on slowly enough.
"Take the reins," said Lyndall, and "and make them walk. I want to restand watch their hoofs today--not to be exhilarated; I am so tired."
She leaned back in her corner, and Waldo drove on slowly in the greydawn light along the level road. They passed the very milk-bush behindwhich so many years before the old German had found the Kaffer woman.But their thoughts were not with him that morning: they were thethoughts of the young, that run out to meet the future, and labour inthe present. At last he touched her arm.
"What is it?"
"I feared you had gone to sleep and might be jolted out," he said; "yousat so quietly."
"No; do not talk to me; I am not asleep;" but after a time she saidsuddenly: "It must be a terrible thing to bring a human being into theworld."
Waldo looked round; she sat drawn into the corner, her blue cloud woundtightly about her, and she still watched the horses' feet. Having nocomment to offer on her somewhat unexpected remark, he merely touched uphis horses.
"I have no conscience, none," she added; "but I would not like to bringa soul into this world. When it sinned and when it suffered somethinglike a dead hand would fall on me--'You did it, you, for your ownpleasure you created this thing! See your work!' If it lived to beeighty it would always hang like a millstone round my neck, have theright to demand good from me, and curse me for its sorrow. A parent isonly like to God--if his work turns out bad, so much the worse for him;he dare not wash his hands of it. Time and years can never bring the daywhen you can say to your child: 'Soul, what have I to do with you?'"
Waldo said dreamingly:
"It is a marvellous thing that one soul should have power to causeanother."
She heard the words as she heard the beating of the horses' hoofs; herthoughts ran on in their own line.
"They say, 'God sends the little babies.' Of all the dastardly revoltinglies men tell to suit themselves, I hate that most. I suppose my fathersaid so when he knew he was dying of consumption, and my mother when sheknew she had nothing to support me on, and they created me to feed likea dog from stranger hands. Men do not say God sends the books, or thenewspaper articles, or the machines they make; and then sigh, and shrugtheir shoulders and say they can't help it. Why do they say so aboutother things? Liars! 'God sends the little babies!'" She struck her footfretfully against the splashboard. "The small children say so earnestly.They touch the little stranger reverently who has just come from God'sfar country, and they peep about the room to see if not one whitefeather has dropped from the wing of the angel that brought him. Ontheir lips the phrase means much; on all others it is a deliberate lie.Noticeable, too," she said, dropping in an instant from the passionateinto a low, mocking tone, "when people are married, though they shouldhave sixty children, they throw the whole onus on God. When they arenot, we hear nothing about God's having sent them. When there has beenno legal contract between the parents, who sends the little childrenthen? The devil perhaps!" She laughed her little silvery, mocking laugh."Odd that some men should come from hell and some from heaven, and yetall look so much alike when they get here."
Waldo wondered at her. He had not the key to her thoughts, and did notsee the string on which they were strung. She drew her cloud tighterabout her.
"It must be very nice to believe in the devil," she said; "I wish I did.If it would be of any use I would pray three hours night and morning onmy bare knees, 'God, let me believe in Satan.' He is so useful to thosepeople who do. They may be as selfish and as sensual as they please,and, between God's will and the devil's action, always have some oneto throw their sin on. But we, wretched unbelievers, we bear ourown burdens: we must say, 'I myself did it, I. Not God, not Satan; Imyself!' That is the sting that strikes deep. Waldo," she said gently,with a sudden and complete change of manner, "I like you so much, I loveyou." She rested her cheek softly against his shoulder. "When I am withyou I never know that I am a woman and you are a man; I only know thatwe are both things that think. Other men when I am with them, whetherI love them or not, they are mere bodies to me; but you are a spirit; Ilike you. Look," she said quickly, sinking back into her corner, "whata pretty pinkness there is on all the hilltops! The sun will rise in amoment."
Waldo lifted his eyes to look round over the circle of golden hills; andthe horses, as the first sunbeams touched them, shook their heads andchamped their bright bits, till the brass settings in their harnessglittered again.
It was eight o'clock when they neared the farmhouse: a red-brickbuilding, with kraals to the right and a small orchard to the left.Already there were signs of unusual life and bustle: one cart, a wagon,and a couple of saddles against the wall betokened the arrival of a fewearly guests, whose numbers would soon be largely increased. To a Dutchcountry wedding guests start up in numbers astonishing to one who hasmerely ridden through the plains of sparsely-inhabited karoo.
As the morning advances, riders on many shades of steeds appear from alldirections, and add their saddles to the long rows against the walls,shake hands, drink coffee, and stand about outside in groups to watchthe arriving carts and ox-wagons, as they are unburdened of their heavyfreight of massive Tantes and comely daughters, followed by swarms ofchildren of all sizes, dressed in all manner of print and moleskin, whoare taken care of by Hottentot, Kaffer, and half-caste nurses, whosemany-shaded complexions, ranging from light yellow up to ebony black,add variety to the animated scene.
Everywhere is excitement and bustle, which gradually increases as thetime for the return of the wedding-party approaches. Preparations forthe feast are actively advancing in the kitchen; coffee is liberallyhanded round, and amid a profound sensation, and the firing of guns,the horse-wagon draws up, and the wedding-party alight. Brideand bridegroom, with their attendants, march solemnly to themarriage-chamber, where bed and box are decked out in white, with endsof ribbon and artificial flowers, and where on a row of chairs the partysolemnly seat themselves. After a time bridesmaid and best man rise, andconduct in with ceremony each individual guest, to wish success and tokiss bride and bridegroom.
Then the feast is set on the table, and it is almost sunset before thedishes are cleared away, and the pleasure of the day begins. Everythingis removed from the great front room, and the mud floor, well rubbedwith bullock's blood, glistens like polished mahogany. The femaleportion of the assembly flock into the side-rooms to attire themselvesfor the evening; and re-issue clad in white muslin, and gay with brightribbons and brass jewelry. The dancing begins as the first tallowcandles are stuck up about the walls, the music coming from a couple offiddlers in a corner of the room. Bride and bridegroom open the ball,and the floor is soon covered with whirling couples, and every one'sspirits rise. The bridal pair mingle freely in the throng, and here andthere a musical man sings vigorously as he drags his partner through theBlue Water or John Speriwig; boys shout and applaud, and the enjoymentand confusion are intense, till eleven o'clock comes. By this time thechildren who swarm in the side-rooms are not to be kept quiet longer,even by hunches of bread and cake; there is a general howl and wail,that rises yet higher than the sc
raping of fiddles, and mothers rushfrom their partners to knock small heads together, and cuff littlenursemaids, and force the wailers down into unoccupied corners of beds,under tables and behind boxes. In half an hour every variety of childishsnore is heard on all sides, and it has become perilous to raise or setdown a foot in any of the side-rooms lest a small head or hand should becrushed.
Now too the busy feet have broken the solid coating of the floor, and acloud of fine dust arises, that makes a yellow halo round the candles,and sets asthmatic people coughing, and grows denser, till to recogniseany one on the opposite side of the room becomes impossible, and apartner's face is seen through a yellow mist.
At twelve o'clock the bride is led to the marriage-chamber andundressed; the lights are blown out, and the bridegroom is brought tothe door by the best man, who gives him the key; then the door is shutand locked, and the revels rise higher than ever. There is no thought ofsleep till morning, and no unoccupied spot where sleep may be found.
It was at this stage of the proceedings on the night of Tant Sannie'swedding that Lyndall sat near the doorway in one of the side-rooms, towatch the dancers as they appeared and disappeared in the yellow cloudof dust. Gregory sat moodily in a corner of the large dancing-room. Hislittle betrothed touched his arm.
"I wish you would go and ask Lyndall to dance with you," she said; "shemust be so tired; she has sat still the whole evening."
"I have asked her three times," replied her lover shortly. "I'm notgoing to be her dog, and creep to her feet, just to give her thepleasure of kicking me--not for you, Em, nor for anybody else."
"Oh, I didn't know you had asked her, Greg," said his little betrothed,humbly; and she went away to pour out coffee.
Nevertheless, some time after Gregory found he had shifted so far roundthe room as to be close to the door where Lyndall sat. After standingfor some time he inquired whether he might not bring her a cup ofcoffee.
She declined; but still he stood on (why should he not stand there aswell as anywhere else?), and then he stepped into the bedroom.
"May I not bring you a stove, Miss Lyndall, to put your feet on?"
"Thank you."
He sought for one, and put it under her feet.
"There is a draught from that broken window: shall I stuff something inthe pane?"
"No, we want air."
Gregory looked round, but nothing else suggesting itself, he sat down ona box on the opposite side of the door. Lyndall sat before him, her chinresting in her hand; her eyes, steel-grey by day, but black by night,looked through the doorway into the next room. After a time he thoughtshe had entirely forgotten his proximity, and he dared to inspect thelittle hands and neck as he never dared when he was in momentary dreadof the eyes being turned upon him.
She was dressed in black, which seemed to take her yet further from thewhite-clad, gewgawed women about her; and the little hands were white,and the diamond ring glittered. Where had she got that ring? He bentforward a little and tried to decipher the letters, but the candle-lightwas too faint. When he looked up her eyes were fixed on him. She waslooking at him--not, Gregory felt, as she had ever looked at him before;not as though he were a stump or a stone that chance had thrown in herway. Tonight, whether it were critically, or kindly, or unkindly, hecould not tell, but she looked at him, at the man, Gregory Rose, withattention. A vague elation filled him. He clinched his fist tightto think of some good idea he might express to her; but of all thoseprofound things he had pictured himself as saying to her, when he satalone in the daub-and-wattle house, not one came. He said, at last:
"These Boer dances are very low things;" and then, as soon as it hadgone from him, he thought it was not a clever remark, and wished itback.
Before Lyndall replied Em looked in at the door.
"Oh, come," she said; "they are going to have the cushion-dance. I donot want to kiss any of these fellows. Take me quickly."
She slipped her hand into Gregory's arm.
"It is so dusty, Em; do you care to dance any more?" he asked, withoutrising.
"Oh, I do not mind the dust, and the dancing rests me."
But he did not move.
"I feel tired; I do not think I shall dance again," he said.
Em withdrew her hand, and a young farmer came to the door and bore heroff.
"I have often imagined," remarked Gregory--but Lyndall had risen.
"I am tired," she said. "I wonder where Waldo is; he must take me home.These people will not leave off till morning, I suppose; it is threealready."
She made her way past the fiddlers, and a bench full of tired dancers,and passed out at the front door. On the stoep a group of men and boyswere smoking, peeping in at the windows, and cracking coarse jokes.Waldo was certainly not among them, and she made her way to the cartsand wagons drawn up at some distance from the homestead.
"Waldo," she said, peering into a large cart, "is that you? I am sodazed with the tallow candles, I see nothing."
He had made himself a place between the two seats. She climbed up andsat on the sloping floor in front.
"I thought I should find you here," she said, drawing her skirt up abouther shoulders. "You must take me home presently, but not now."
She leaned her head on the seat near to his, and they listened insilence to the fitful twanging of the fiddles as the night-wind bore itfrom the farmhouse, and to the ceaseless thud of the dancers, and thepeals of gross laughter. She stretched out her little hand to feel forhis.
"It is so nice to lie here and hear that noise," she said. "I like tofeel that strange life beating up against me. I like to realise formsof life utterly unlike mine." She drew a long breath. "When my own lifefeels small, and I am oppressed with it, I like to crush together, andsee it in a picture, in an instant, a multitude of disconnected unlikephases of human life--a mediaeval monk with his string of beads pacingthe quiet orchard, and looking up from the grass at his feet tothe heavy fruit-trees; little Malay boys playing naked on a shiningsea-beach; a Hindoo philosopher alone under his banyan tree, thinking,thinking, thinking, so that in the thought of God he may lose himself;a troop of Bacchanalians dressed in white, with crowns of vine-leaves,dancing along the Roman streets; a martyr on the night of his deathlooking through the narrow window to the sky, and feeling that alreadyhe has the wings that shall bear him up" (she moved her hand dreamilyover her face); "an epicurean discoursing at a Roman bath to a knot ofhis disciples on the nature of happiness; a Kaffer witchdoctor seekingfor herbs by moonlight, while from the huts on the hillside come thesound of dogs barking, and the voices of women and children; a mothergiving bread-and-milk to her children in little wooden basins andsinging the evening song. I like to see it all; I feel it run throughme--that life belongs to me; it makes my little life larger, it breaksdown the narrow walls that shut me in."
She sighed, and drew a long breath.
"Have you made any plans?" she asked him presently.
"Yes," he said, the words coming in jets, with pauses between; "I willtake the grey mare--I will travel first--I will see the world--then Iwill find work."
"What work?"
"I do not know."
She made a little impatient movement.
"That is no plan; travel--see the world--find work! If you go into theworld aimless, without a definite object, dreaming--dreaming, you willbe definitely defeated, bamboozled, knocked this way and that. In theend you will stand with your beautiful life all spent, and nothing toshow. They talk of genius--it is nothing but this, that a man knowswhat he can do best, and does it, and nothing else. Waldo," she said,knitting her little fingers closer among his, "I wish I could help you;I wish I could make you see that you must decide what you will beand do. It does not matter what you choose--be a farmer, businessman,artist, what you will--but know your aim, and live for that one thing.We have only one life. The secret of success is concentration; whereverthere has been a great life, or a great work, that has gone before.Taste everything a little, look at everything a little; but live
forone thing. Anything is possible to a man who knows his end and movesstraight for it, and for it alone. I will show you what I mean," shesaid, concisely; "words are gas till you condense them into pictures."
"Suppose a woman, young, friendless as I am, the weakest thing on God'searth. But she must make her way through life. What she would be shecannot be because she is a woman; so she looks carefully at herself andthe world about her, to see where her path must be made.
"There is no one to help her; she must help herself. She looks. Thesethings she has--a sweet voice, rich in subtile intonations; a fair,very fair face, with a power of concentrating in itself, and givingexpression to, feelings that otherwise must have been dissipated inwords; a rare power of entering into other lives unlike her own, andintuitively reading them aright. These qualities she has. How shall sheuse them? A poet, a writer, needs only the mental; what use has he fora beautiful body that registers clearly mental emotions? And the painterwants an eye for form and colour, and the musician an ear for time andtune, and the mere drudge has no need for mental gifts.
"But there is one art in which all she has would be used, for which theyare all necessary--the delicate expressive body, the rich voice, thepower of mental transposition. The actor, who absorbs and then reflectsfrom himself other human lives, needs them all, but needs not muchmore. This is her end; but how to reach it? Before her are endlessdifficulties: seas must be crossed, poverty must be endured, loneliness,want. She must be content to wait long before she can even get her feetupon the path. If she has made blunders in the past, if she has weightedherself with a burden which she must bear to the end, she must butbear the burden bravely, and labour on. There is no use in wailing andrepentance here: the next world is the place for that; this life is tooshort. By our errors we see deeper into life. They help us." She waitedfor a while. "If she does all this--if she waits patiently, if she isnever cast down, never despairs, never forgets her end, moves straighttoward it, bending men and things most unlikely to her purpose--she mustsucceed at last. Men and things are plastic; they part to the right andleft when one comes among them moving in a straight line to one end.I know it by my own little experience," she said. "Long years ago Iresolved to be sent to school. It seemed a thing utterly out of mypower; but I waited, I watched, I collected clothes, I wrote, took myplace at the school; when all was ready I bore with my full force on theBoer-woman, and she sent me at last. It was a small thing; but life ismade up of small things, as a body is built up of cells. What has beendone in small things can be done in large. Shall be," she said softly.
Waldo listened. To him the words were no confession, no glimpse into thestrong, proud, restless heart of the woman. They were general words witha general application. He looked up into the sparkling sky with dulleyes.
"Yes," he said; "but when we lie and think, and think, we see that thereis nothing worth doing. The universe is so large, and man is so small--"
She shook her head quickly.
"But we must not think so far; it is madness, it is a disease. We knowthat no man's work is great, and stands forever. Moses is dead, and theprophets and the books that our grandmothers fed on the mould is eating.Your poet and painter and actor,--before the shouts that applaud themhave died their names grow strange, they are milestones that the worldhas passed. Men have set their mark on mankind forever, as theythought; but time has washed it out as it has washed out mountains andcontinents." She raised herself on her elbow. "And what if we could helpmankind, and leave the traces of our work upon it to the end? Mankind isonly an ephemeral blossom on the tree of time; there were others beforeit opened; there will be others after it has fallen. Where was man inthe time of the dicynodont, and when hoary monsters wallowed in the mud?Will he be found in the aeons that are to come? We are sparks, we areshadows, we are pollen, which the next wind will carry away. We aredying already; it is all a dream.
"I know that thought. When the fever of living is on us, when thedesire to become, to know, to do, is driving us mad, we can use it asan anodyne, to still the fever and cool our beating pulses. But it is apoison, not a food. If we live on it it will turn our blood to ice;we might as well be dead. We must not, Waldo; I want your life to bebeautiful, to end in something. You are nobler and stronger than I," shesaid; "and as much better as one of God's great angels is better than asinning man. Your life must go for something."
"Yes, we will work," he said.
She moved closer to him and lay still, his black curls touching hersmooth little head.
Doss, who had lain at his master's side, climbed over the bench, andcurled himself up in her lap. She drew her skirt up over him, and thethree sat motionless for a long time.
"Waldo," she said, suddenly, "they are laughing at us."
"Who?" he asked, starting up.
"They--the stars!" she said, softly. "Do you not see? There is a littlewhite, mocking finger pointing down at us from each one of them! We aretalking of tomorrow and tomorrow, and our hearts are so strong; we arenot thinking of something that can touch us softly in the dark and makeus still forever. They are laughing at us Waldo."
Both sat looking upward.
"Do you ever pray?" he asked her in a low voice.
"No."
"I never do; but I might when I look up there. I will tell you," headded, in a still lower voice, "where I could pray. If there were a wallof rock on the edge of a world, and one rock stretched out far, far intospace, and I stood alone upon it, alone, with stars above me, and starsbelow me,--I would not say anything; but the feeling would be prayer."
There was an end to their conversation after that, and Doss fell asleepon her knee. At last the night-wind grew very chilly.
"Ah," she said, shivering, and drawing the skirt about her shoulders, "Iam cold. Span-in the horses, and call me when you are ready."
She slipped down and walked toward the house, Doss stiffly followingher, not pleased at being roused. At the door she met Gregory.
"I have been looking for you everywhere; may I not drive you home?" hesaid.
"Waldo drives me," she replied, passing on; and it appeared to Gregorythat she looked at him in the old way, without seeing him. But beforeshe had reached the door an idea had occurred to her, for she turned.
"If you wish to drive me you may."
Gregory went to look for Em, whom he found pouring out coffee in theback room. He put his hand quickly on her shoulder.
"You must ride with Waldo; I am going to drive your cousin home."
"But I can't come just now, Greg; I promised Tant Annie Muller to lookafter the things while she went to rest a little."
"Well, you can come presently, can't you? I didn't say you were to comenow. I'm sick of this thing," said Gregory, turning sharply on his heel."Why must I sit up the whole night because your stepmother chooses toget married?"
"Oh, it's all right, Greg, I only meant--"
But he did not hear her, and a man had come up to have his cup filled.
An hour after Waldo came in to look for her, and found her still busy atthe table.
"The horses are ready," he said; "but if you would like to have onedance more I will wait."
She shook her head wearily.
"No; I am quite ready. I want to go."
And soon they were on the sandy road the buggy had travelled an hourbefore. Their horses, with heads close together, nodding sleepily asthey walked in the starlight, you might have counted the rise and fallof their feet in the sand; and Waldo in his saddle nodded drowsily also.Only Em was awake, and watched the starlit road with wide-open eyes. Atlast she spoke.
"I wonder if all people feel so old, so very old, when they get to beseventeen?"
"Not older than before," said Waldo sleepily, pulling at his bridle.
Presently she said again:
"I wish I could have been a little child always. You are good then. Youare never selfish; you like every one to have everything; but when youare grown up there are some things you like to have all to yourself, youdon't
like any one else to have any of them."
"Yes," said Waldo sleepily, and she did not speak again.
When they reached the farmhouse all was dark, for Lyndall had retired assoon as they got home.
Waldo lifted Em from her saddle, and for a moment she leaned her head onhis shoulder and clung to him.
"You are very tired," he said, as he walked with her to the door; "letme go in and light a candle for you."
"No, thank you; it is all right," she said. "Good night, Waldo, dear."
But when she went in she sat long alone in the dark.
The Story of an African Farm Page 21