the story of an african farm-第48章

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humbly；　and　she　went　away　to　pour　out　coffee。



Nevertheless；　some　time　after　Gregory　found　he　had　shifted　so　far　round　the

room　as　to　be　close　to　the　door　where　Lyndall　sat。　　After　standing　for　some

time　he　inquired　whether　he　might　not　bring　her　a　cup　of　coffee。



She　declined；　but　still　he　stood　on　（why　should　he　not　stand　there　as　well

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　in

the　pane？〃



〃No；　we　want　air。〃



Gregory　looked　round；　but　nothing　else　suggesting　itself；　he　sat　down　on　a

box　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　door。　　Lyndall　sat　before　him；　her　chin

resting　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　thought　she

had　entirely　forgotten　his　proximity；　and　he　dared　to　inspect　the　little

hands　and　neck　as　he　never　dared　when　he　was　in　momentary　dread　of　the　eyes

being　turned　upon　him。



She　was　dressed　in　black；　which　seemed　to　take　her　yet　further　from　the

white…clad；　gewgawed　women　about　her；　and　the　little　hands　were　white；　and

the　diamond　ring　glittered。　　Where　had　she　got　that　ring？　　He　bent　forward

a　little　and　tried　to　decipher　the　letters；　but　the　candle…light　was　too

faint。　　When　he　looked　up　her　eyes　were　fixed　on　him。　　She　was　looking　at

himnot；　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　her　way。　　Tonight；

whether　it　were　critically；　or　kindly；　or　unkindly；　he　could　not　tell；　but

she　looked　at　him；　at　the　man；　Gregory　Rose；　with　attention。　　A　vague

elation　filled　him。　　He　clinched　his　fist　tight　to　think　of　some　good　idea

he　might　express　to　her；　but　of　all　those　profound　things　he　had　pictured

himself　as　saying　to　her；　when　he　sat　alone　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　had　gone

from　him；　he　thought　it　was　not　a　clever　remark；　and　wished　it　back。



Before　Lyndall　replied　Em　looked　in　at　the　door。



〃Oh；　come；〃　she　said；　〃they　are　going　to　have　the　cushion…dance。　　I　do　not

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；　without

rising。



〃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　her　off。



〃I　have　often　imagined；〃　remarked　Gregorybut　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　three

already。〃



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　boys　were

smoking；　peeping　in　at　the　windows；　and　cracking　coarse　jokes。　　Waldo　was

certainly　not　among　them；　and　she　made　her　way　to　the　carts　and　wagons

drawn　up　at　some　distance　from　the　homestead。



〃Waldo；〃　she　said；　peering　into　a　large　cart；　〃is　that　you？　　I　am　so　dazed

with　the　tallow　candles；　I　see　nothing。〃



He　had　made　himself　a　place　between　the　two　seats。　　She　climbed　up　and　sat

on　the　sloping　floor　in　front。



〃I　thought　I　should　find　you　here；〃　she　said；　drawing　her　skirt　up　about

her　shoulders。　　〃You　must　take　me　home　presently；　but　not　now。〃



She　leaned　her　head　on　the　seat　near　to　his；　and　they　listened　in　silence

to　the　fitful　twanging　of　the　fiddles　as　the　night…wind　bore　it　from　the

farmhouse；　and　to　the　ceaseless　thud　of　the　dancers；　and　the　peals　of　gross

laughter。　　She　stretched　out　her　little　hand　to　feel　for　his。



〃It　is　so　nice　to　lie　here　and　hear　that　noise；〃　she　said。　　〃I　like　to　feel

that　strange　life　beating　up　against　me。　　I　like　to　realise　forms　of　life

utterly　unlike　mine。〃　　She　drew　a　long　breath。　　〃When　my　own　life　feels

small；　and　I　am　oppressed　with　it；　I　like　to　crush　together；　and　see　it　in

a　picture；　in　an　instant；　a　multitude　of　disconnected　unlike　phases　of

human　lifea　mediaeval　monk　with　his　string　of　beads　pacing　the　quiet

orchard；　and　looking　up　from　the　grass　at　his　feet　to　the　heavy　fruit…

trees；　little　Malay　boys　playing　naked　on　a　shining　sea…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　death　looking　through　the　narrow

window　to　the　sky；　and　feeling　that　already　he　has　the　wings　that　shall

bear　him　up〃　（she　moved　her　hand　dreamily　over　her　face）；　〃an　epicurean

discoursing　at　a　Roman　bath　to　a　knot　of　his　disciples　on　the　nature　of

happiness；　a　Kaffer　witchdoctor　seeking　for　herbs　by　moonlight；　while　from

the　huts　on　the　hillside　come　the　sound　of　dogs　barking；　and　the　voices　of

women　and　children；　a　mother　giving　bread…and…milk　to　her　children　in

little　wooden　basins　and　singing　the　evening　song。　　I　like　to　see　it　all；　I

feel　it　run　through　methat　life　belongs　to　me；　it　makes　my　little　life

larger；　it　breaks　down　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　will　take

the　grey　mareI　will　travel　firstI　will　see　the　worldthen　I　will　find

work。〃



〃What　work？〃



〃I　do　not　know。〃



She　made　a　little　impatient　movement。



〃That　is　no　plan；　travelsee　the　worldfind　work！　　If　you　go　into　the

world　aimless；　without　a　definite　object；　dreamingdreaming；　you　will　be

definitely　defeated；　bamboozled；　knocked　this　way　and　that。　　In　the　end　you

will　stand　with　your　beautiful　life　all　spent；　and　nothing　to　show。　　They

talk　of　geniusit　is　nothing　but　this；　that　a　man　knows　what　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　be　and　do。　　It　does　not　matter　what

you　choosebe　a　farmer；　businessman；　artist；　what　you　willbut　know　your

aim；　and　live　for　that　one　thing。　　We　have　only　one　life。　　The　secret　of

success　is　concentration；　wherever　there　has　been　a　great　life；　or　a　great

work；　that　has　gone　before。　　Taste　everything　a　little；　look　at　everything

a　little；　but　live　for　one　thing。　　Anything　is　possible　to　a　man　who　knows

his　end　and　moves　straight　for　it；　and　for　it　alone。　　I　will　show　you　what

I　mean；〃　she　said；　concisely；　〃words　are　gas　till　you　condense　them　into

pictures。〃



〃Suppose　a　woman；　young；　friendless　as　I　am；　the　weakest　thing　on　God's

earth。　　But　she　must　make　her　way　through　life。　　What　she　would　be　she

cannot　be　because　she　is　a　woman；　so　she　looks　carefully　at　herself　and　the

world　about　her；　to　see　where　her　path　must　be　made。



〃There　is　no　one　to　help　her；　she　must　help　herself。　　She　looks。　　These

things　she　hasa　sweet　voice；　rich　in　subtile　intonations；　a　fair；　very

fair　face；　with　a　power　of　concentrating　in　itself；　and　giving　expression

to；　feelings　that　otherwise　must　have　been　dissipated　in　words；　a　rare

power　of　entering　into　other　lives　unlike　her　own；　and　intuitively　reading

them　aright。　　These　qualities　she　has。　　How　shall　she　use　them？　　A　poet；　a

writer；　needs　only　the　mental；　what　use　has　he　for　a　beautiful　body　that

registers　clearly　mental　emotions？　　And　the　painter　wants　an　eye　for　form

and　colour；　and　the　musician　an　ear　for　time　and　tune；　and　the　mere　drudge

has　no　need　for　mental　gifts。



〃But　there　is　one　art　in　w