“No,” she said. “After the war she will marry him. She loves him. Herman is a good man, and he is Dutch. They will live here.”
“And you?” he asked. “Are you going to forsake Benfontein?”
She smiled at the question. The farm on the Karroo was more precious to her than the fairest places of earth. She had come to Benfontein as a child. Every tree and kopje, every flower that blossomed in the veld, was dear to her with the priceless value of long familiar things. To quit Benfontein would be to tear herself up by roots too deeply set to bear such ruthless transplanting.
“Heinrich is working the farm for Andreas in his absence,” she explained; “he rents half the farm. We shall build a house for ourselves on the land, and I shall live near my mother. When Andreas marries, she will come to us.”
“You make plans,” he said, surprised at her confidence in the future. “One cannot think beyond the present these days. I do not look so far ahead.”
“I forgot,” she said, glancing at him swiftly. “You are going to fight—against us...”
“I am going to join Botha’s force as soon as I am married,” he answered.
“You’ve talked with Herman... He has persuaded you?”
Her tone held a note of suspicion. For all his talk of love for her, he had not been ready to yield to her persuasions. He was even prepared to fight against her people, to look upon her people and herself as rebels. That was not consistent with love.
“Herman has persuaded you,” she said again.