What would he not have given to be able to make her understand that, if she would be kind to him, he would be what she chose—to be able to show her the clean, peaceful farm, known throughout the district as High Farm, owing to its being the only house for miles which was built English fashion on two floors—and tell her that, if she would be mistress there, he would use all his vast strength to work as never man worked before, and keep her like a lady?
But how to get at her? He felt that any written expression of his desires would be ludicrously inadequate. At one time he thought of begging Mayne to speak for him; but his pride jibbed too violently at the notion of having to confess that he lacked courage to speak. His heart was heavy as lead. Four times since his last strikingly unsatisfactory interview he had hung over the gate in vain. Each evening it was Kattie the Kaffir girl who had been sent to draw the water; and he was too proud to send a message by her.
But on the fourth night he had yielded to unbearable longing, and entrusted the grinning damsel with a note for Millie—a folded scrap of paper, on which he had written:
"Do let me have a word. I'm so blamed sorry I said that to you. "BERT."
He had some self-questionings as to whether "blamed" might be looked upon as a swear-word; but he decided that it must be harmless.
"If you don't say that, dashed if I know what you could say," he reflected irritably.
His heart beat insufferably as he watched the girl stagger across the yard, the pail in one hand, the little note in the other.
Strange thrills crept through his nerves, his breath seemed to trouble him as he drew it If Millie herself should come in answer, what should he say to her? He was all unprepared.
A shadowy figure was stealing towards him stealthily in the gathering gloom. It was slim—it moved quietly. He grew crimson in the dark. An unmistakable Kaffir chuckle broke on his ear: it was only Kattie back again. She handed him a piece of paper and ran away in an instant He struck a match and looked eagerly at what he held: it was just his own message, crumpled up and returned without comment.
He had been enraged, but not daunted for long. It was highly possible that Tante Wilma had got hold of the message, and that Millie had never seen it. The thing now was to invent some new plan of campaign—some scheme by which the plenty and good plenishing of his home might burst upon the vision of the girl.