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Updated: June 21, 2025
Friendship is good, a strong stick; but when the hour comes to lean hard, it gives. In the day of their bitterest need all souls are alone. Lyndall stood by him in the dark, pityingly, wonderingly. As he walked to the door, she came after him. "Eat your supper; it will do you good," she said. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder and then ran away.
She held it carefully to the paper. For an instant it burnt up brightly, then flickered and went out. She blew the spark, but it died also. Then she threw the paper on to the ground, trod on it, and went to her bed, and began to undress. Em rushed to the door, knocking against it wildly. "Oh, Tant Sannie! Tant Sannie! Oh, let us out!" she cried. "Oh, Lyndall, what are we to do?"
"Waldo," she said, "Lyndall is dead." Slowly over the flat came a cart. On the back seat sat Gregory, his arms folded, his hat drawn over his eyes.
Waldo watched them both in at the door and then walked away alone. He was satisfied that at least his dog was with her. It was just after sunset, and Lyndall had not yet returned from her first driving-lesson, when the lean coloured woman standing at the corner of the house to enjoy the evening breeze, saw coming along the road a strange horseman.
Less lovely, too, by daylight was the dead Englishman's child, her little stepdaughter, upon whose freckles and low, wrinkled forehead the sunlight had no mercy. "Lyndall," the child said to her little orphan cousin, who sat with her on the floor threading beads, "how is it your beads never fall off your needle?" "I try," said the little one gravely, moistening her tiny finger. "That is why."
He held her arm so tightly that her fingers relaxed their hold, and the cloak fluttered down on to the ground, and the wind played more roughly than ever with the little yellow head. "I do love you very much," she said; "but I do not know if I want to marry you. I love you better than Waldo, but I can't tell if I love you better than Lyndall.
"You need not make yourself unhappy on that point your poor return for his love, my dear," said Lyndall. "A man's love is a fire of olive-wood. It leaps higher every moment; it roars, it blazes, it shoots out red flames; it threatens to wrap you round and devour you you who stand by like an icicle in the glow of its fierce warmth.
At the centre table, with his arms folded on an open paper, which there was not light enough to read, sat Gregory. He was looking at her. The light from the open window fell on Em's little face under its white kapje as she looked in, but no one glanced that way. "Go and fetch me a glass of water!" Lyndall said, at last.
"He has been to sleep," said freckled Em. "No," said beautiful little Lyndall, looking curiously at him: "he has been crying." She never made a mistake. The Confession. One night, two years after, the boy sat alone on the kopje. He had crept softly from his father's room and come there.
Since that day, when he had come home and found Lyndall gone, he had never talked of her; but Em knew who it was who needed to be spoken of by no name. She said, when he had released her hand: "But you do not know where she is?" "Yes, I do. She was in Bloemfontein when I heard last. I will go there, and I will find out where she went then, and then, and then! I will have her."
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