After Gideon had become somewhat accustomed to Elsie’s presence that awe with which she had at first inspired him began to lessen. Now that he meant to go away finally nothing she knew or could do mattered to him very much. He was fond of Aletta in a way,—more or less as one is fond of a faithful dog, but she was the only being in the wide world who cared for him, so he felt the prospect of parting from her very keenly. He determined to make a full confession of his transgression to her before leaving, feeling persuaded that thenceforth she would look upon him with abhorrence and thus would not sorrow at his departure. The thought that he was about to destroy his patient wife’s regard for his lonely self was not the least of Gideon’s troubles.
He tried to carry off his distress with an air of unconcern which, however, did not deceive anyone. As the preparations for his departure were being hurried towards completion he became more talkative than usual. Aletta, at the near prospect of the parting, was sunk in the depths of misery. Adrian and his wife who resided with Uncle Gideon, now and then visited the homestead. Jacomina had refused to leave her father, on the pretext that her assistance in his medical practice was indispensable. The true reason was, however, that she wanted, if possible, to prevent him marrying again.
Elsie, to whom the night was as the day, continued her old habit of wandering abroad after all the others had gone to bed. She invariably dressed in light colours and used to flit like a ghost among the trees. Gideon had dubbed her “White Owl,” and he never addressed her as anything else.
Two days before Gideon’s intended departure the three were sitting at breakfast. A messenger who had been despatched to the residence of the Field Cornet, some forty miles away, was seen approaching. Gideon was in one of his forced sardonic moods.
“Aletta,” he said, “your eyes are red again; have you been boiling soap?”
“No, Gideon; it is not only the steam from the soap-pot that reddens the eyes.”
“Has the maid spoilt a batch of bread? If she has, her eyes ought to be red and not yours.”
“No, Gideon,—the bread has been well baked.”
“What is the matter, then? Sunday, Monday and Tuesday your face is like a pumpkin when the rain is falling; Wednesday, Thursday and Friday the water is still running; Saturday it is not dry. Did you ever laugh in your life?”
“It is long since I have heard you laugh, Gideon.”