[a/]
Chapter Seven.
Ocular Evidence.
Not until Colvin had gone did Aletta actually realise all that that parting meant.
Why had she let him go? she asked herself, a score of times a day. She could have restrained him had she put forth all her influence. Why were men so restless? Why could not this one have sat still and made the most of the happiness that was his—that was theirs? Ah, and now those happy times—and they had been happy times—were in the past. Never to come again, perhaps—her heart added with a sinking chill.
If the English would but make peace; and then she remembered, with sad amusement, her patriotic enthusiasms in the old days at Ratels Hoek, and how condescendingly she had been willing that her countrymen should allow a few English to remain, during her discussions with Adrian—yes, and even with Colvin himself. What now was the patriotic cause to her? She was only conscious of an empty, aching, and utterly desolate heart.
“Aletta is fretting, Piet,” said the latter’s consort one day—the subject of the remark not being present. “She is fretting terribly. I can see it, although she is very brave, and tries not to show it. I did not think she had it in her to allow herself to be so entirely wrapped up in one man, and that an Englishman. What can we do to cheer her up?”
“Get the ‘one man’ back, I suppose,” rejoined the practical official. “Maagtig, Anna—if ever any man had reason to sit still and be thankful, that man was Colvin. But, no. Off he must go, not because he’s wanted for fighting purposes, but just to see the fun—as he calls it. Well, he’ll see a great deal that he won’t find fun at all. But these English are all alike, fussy, restless—must have a finger in everything that goes on—in a fight most of all.”
Yes, Aletta was fretting, if a pale and careworn look upon her face was any index to the mind within. Now, with a rush, all came back—all that this man was to her. She recalled the hours they had spent together—every tone and every look—all that he had ever said, and how time had fled like a streak of sunbeam when she was in his presence—how, too, her first thought on awaking to another day, again and again, had been one of half-incredulous, blissful gratitude that in this way she was to go through life. And now he was gone, and at any moment, for all she knew, he might be lying dead and still for ever upon the veldt. Oh, it would not bear thinking on! She had not known what love was before, she told herself. She knew now, and when he returned to her he should know too. This separation had taught her. Surely, too, it had taught him.