Freidja Krige went many times to the window to look for the riders'
return. She had prepared the breakfast; the sarsates were cooked and
ready to be served, and Andreas had come in from the land and was
waiting with extraordinary patience for the meal, which usually made its
appearance with his own. He glanced up from an agricultural journal he
was reading when for about the fourth time his sister came through from
the kitchen and took her stand by the window and looked out across the
veld.
"They must have ridden far," he observed.
"They are coming now," she said--"walking the horses. I expect they
find it hot. I'll make the coffee, Andreas, and bring in your
porridge."
He shook his head.
"I will wait," he said.
Mrs Krige entered the room, and her son rose and kissed her
uneffusively but with affection. She stood at the window and watched
with him the slow advance of the riders.
"It's so hot," she said. "They should have got back half an hour ago.
Honor ought to think of these things."
"Why does Honor ride with a stranger?" he asked. "I consider it
unnecessary. He can ride on the farm with me."
Mrs Krige raised surprised eyes to his.
"I see no reason for objecting," she returned. "I think we may trust
Honor."
He lifted his loose shoulders heavily.
"It is always wise to go slow," he said.
Then he caught up his hat and stepped out on to the stoep and went to
meet the horses.
Honor slipped from the saddle, and relinquished the reins to him, making
some remark about the warmth of the day to which he made no response.
He shifted the rein to his left hand, and raised the right, which he
proffered the guest.
"You had better dismount," he said. "I will take the horses to the
stable."
Matheson offered a protest; at least he would accompany him; but Krige
was firmly insistent. Finally Matheson swung himself from the saddle
and followed Honor to the house, while Krige, whistling for a boy as he
went, led the horses away.
Matheson had a persuasion that for some reason or other Krige did not
like him. He had felt that on the stoep the previous night. Why, he
wondered, should a man dislike another of whom he knew nothing, whom he
met now for the first time? It was not reasonable. Racial prejudice
possibly influenced him to some extent. It was obvious that as a family
the Kriges were antagonistic to British supremacy; but that in itself
seemed insufficient to justify personal animus, particularly in view of
the fact of Mrs Krige's nationality. Having regard to that last point,
the attitude of the family towards all things British puzzled him. He
felt that in her quiet acceptance of her children's view, this
Englishwoman displayed a strange disloyalty. It would have been
altogether finer and more natural had she, through her marriage,
attempted to bring the two white races in the Colony into closer and
more sympathetic relations. She might have inculcated in this new
generation a love for the best ideals of both races. In doing which she
would have rendered a greater service to South Africa than in fostering
racial jealousy, would have accomplished some worthier end than the poor
satisfaction born of harbouring bitter feeling and petty distrust.
He resented this lade of patriotism in a countrywoman of his own, it
forced him into a strong and quite sincere opposition. Love of country
is the moral backbone of the individual; a vaunted contempt for one's
birthright is a tacit admission of unworthiness of the privilege it
confers.
He stepped on to the stoep in Honor's wake, and went along to his room
and entered by the window.
"Don't be long," Honor called after him. "We are late."
He made what haste he could; and entered the living-room to find the
delayed breakfast steaming on the table, and every one obviously waiting
amid a savoury smell of coffee and grilled meat Honor was not present.
She came in when the rest were seated, looking cool and beautiful and
fresh in a white muslin frock with blue ribbons, that drew Andreas
Krige's eyes in her direction in silent disapproval.
"I am sorry to be so late," she said. "We rode farther than I intended.
It was all so interesting that I did not think of the time."
"What was interesting?" Freidja asked.
Honor looked across at her sister with a show of faint surprise.
"I was interested in watching Mr Matheson's appreciation," she said.
"Mr Matheson will not find much to appreciate on the Karroo at this dry
season," Freidja returned. "My! there's nothing but burnt scrub to be
seen. Don't you wonder," she asked, turning towards him, "how anything
grows here?"
"I admit," he replied, "that it occurs to me to doubt whether results
justify the outlay. You are up against pretty well everything, aren't
you? Farming in this country must entail endless labour."
"We do fairly well with ostriches," Krige interposed. "If you care
about it, I will show you our birds. I am making a speciality of the
new breed, the feathers of which have a natural curl. They are very
handsome."
"Thanks; it will interest me immensely," Matheson said. "Besides, there
is the well. I am to look at that to-day."
"Andreas," Mrs Krige remonstrated, "we must not trespass too much on
Mr Matheson's good nature. I think he will be glad to rest a little.
There are other days."
Her words, seeming to imply an acceptance of his continued presence on
the farm, pleased Matheson. He was very ready to stay as long as they
were willing to entertain him. Krige had not yet referred to the
purpose of his visit; he had made no mention of the letter which he was
to carry away. Matheson was undecided whether there was a motive in his
reticence, or whether he took it for granted that he was in Holman's
confidence and therefore in no need of enlightenment.
In response to his mother's remark Krige simply said:
"The well will keep till another time."
He did not after that make any observation unless directly appealed to,
but despatched his breakfast in grave preoccupation, and left the table
before the rest. Mrs Krige turned her face to look after him as he
went out through the window; and Matheson was struck by the light of
affection which shone in her eyes as they followed the tall figure till
it disappeared from view.
"He works so hard. There is no one to help him," she said, and sighed.
"He is interested in his work," Freidja put in quickly. "As for hard
work, every one works hard on a farm."
Involuntarily her glance travelled in her sister's direction. How did
Honor purpose making beds and helping with the dinner in that frock?
Honor proceeded leisurely with her breakfast, as though work were the
last thing to concern her. It did not concern her for the immediate
present. With the finish of breakfast the visitor must be disposed of;
he would sit in the garden in the shade of the pepper trees--her mother
would see to that; then she would slip out of her clean frock and get
through the morning's work and dress again. It was quite simple,
entailing merely a little additional trouble. Honor did not object to
trouble of that nature, and visitors were rare.
"You shame my idleness, Miss Krige," Matheson said. "I don't see why I
should be told off to rest. I think I'll go and have a look at that
well."
Honor laughed.
"You know you just long to sit in the shade and smoke," she said.
And Freidja, who, like Andreas, disapproved of her sister's easy
familiarity with the stranger, replied that she thought her brother
would prefer to accompany him when he inspected the wells.
"You see," he said, and turned in protest to Mrs Krige. "I am not
allowed to do anything. Every one insists upon encouraging my natural
indolence."
He would have been very willing to sit in the garden had Honor consented
to sit with him; but, breakfast over, Honor disappeared with her sister;
and Mrs Krige, explaining that they had duties to attend to, offered to
show him a pleasant corner in the shade of the trees, where he would
feel as cool as it was possible to feel in such warm weather.
She led the way into the garden. There were chairs under the trees, and
a primitive wooden seat formed with roughly sawn logs, which served the
double purpose of a seat and table. Beyond the garden were lucerne
beds, and beyond these again was a fencing of wire confining a number of
Krige's best birds. It was neither a restful nor a pretty garden; it
was burnt up and sunbaked like the surrounding veld, save for one long
bed below the stoep which was planted with flowers and carefully tended.
Some one who loved flowers cared for these and watered them.
"It is not pretty," Mrs Krige said. "We had a beautiful garden when we
lived in the town. I miss it."
"It would be difficult," he replied, "to make a beautiful garden with so
poor a supply of water. But the trees are fine. Trees in this country
are more acceptable than anything else."
She looked about her with a vague discontent in her eyes, eyes which
held at times, which held now, a haunting expression of sorrow.
"Yes, trees are good," she agreed. "Do you observe that so far as the
gaze can reach there is not one patch of shade except just here?--not a
bush, only that small clump of prickly-pear yonder to throw its scant
shadow on the ground? Sometimes there are mirage trees. One
wonders..."
She broke off without completing the sentence and seated herself in one
of the chairs.
"I want to talk to you," she said. "It is long since I met a
fellow-countryman. I have become so identified with the Dutch that the
few English friends I possessed have dropped away one by one. In this
country a divided allegiance is impossible. I belong to my husband's
people--my admiration and sympathies are all with them. You can't
understand that," she added, with a swift look into his grave eyes. "I
saw last night while Honor talked that you failed to understand. I
believe it was your restraint then that decided me to attempt to explain
what is to you incredible. You didn't understand; but I saw that you
were trying to understand."
He sat forward with his hands between his knees, and gazed very intently
into her face--an earnest, pleasant face with patient eyes.
"No; I don't understand," he said. "It's puzzled me a lot. You see,
your daughter disclaimed your nationality, and you offered no protest.
That's un-English. You can't change your nationality at will; it's as
much a part of yourself as the colour of your eyes. We are proud as a
race of our nationality. We are the finest nation in the world. I'm
not for giving preference to any other. I don't say I'd talk like that
to a foreigner--unless he challenged me; and then," he smiled slightly,
"I'd probably be emphatic."
Mrs Krige caught something of his humour, and smiled in sympathy. Deep
down in her heart, so jealously hidden that she almost doubted its
existence there, the undying love for her own people kept its place in
spite of the sadness and injustice her life had known.
"I felt as you do at one time," she said--"oh! for long after I was
married. My husband was a Free State Boer--one of the old type, a
little narrow and prejudiced, but a good man--an excellent husband and
father. My married life was very happy."
She folded her hands on her lap and turned aside her face and looked
away with reminiscent gaze over the sunlit landscape. Possibly she saw
anew those long dead years passing before her mind like the mirage trees
of the veld which appear only to vanish again. Matheson watched her
curiously, anticipating something of her story. How many persons in
that country, he wondered, had been hurt by the conflicting interests of
the two white races?
"And then," she added quietly, "all the happiness came to an end...
everything came to an end with the war--with those three bitter years of
struggle and hatred. The British were wrong--very wrong. I believe if
I had not been married to a Dutchman I should have felt that. It is a
black mark against our national honour."
He noticed with faint surprise that in her condemnation of her country
she associated herself with it for the first time--it might have been
unconsciously, or it might have been that, in condemning it, some
instinct of race caused her to identify herself with its disgrace.
There was a suggestion of a desire to defend in that simple connection,
to defend what she could not condone.
"You don't know," she said--"no one could know who was not directly
concerned--all the injustice of the war... I lost my husband, I lost my
son--not fighting; it wouldn't have been so hard had they died fighting
for their independence. They were both prisoners, in an internment camp
near Matjesfontein. And they died there. My boy was delicate. I don't
know... I suppose things were rough and he needed care. He developed
consumption, and died and was buried there. I was not allowed to see
him. I have never seen his grave."
Her voice was slightly tremulous, but she betrayed no other sign of
emotion, and resumed quietly with only a brief pause:
"His father died later. I think myself his heart was broken." She
lifted protesting eyes. "Is it worth it? ... these broken hearts and
broken lives--the price of territorial gain! It is too much to pay for
any country's aggrandisement. And the bitterness to me lay in the
knowledge that it was my own country inflicting this injustice on a
weaker people. I cannot convey all I suffered. I was treated with
great indignity--a prisoner in my own house, where I remained with my
three youngest children. I wasn't allowed outside the house save by
permit, and it was with difficulty I obtained that. I insisted on
seeing the officer in charge, and informed him I was an Englishwoman.
He was very rough with me, and told me to be careful or I might find
myself interned also.
"Oh! I cannot describe the misery and the hopelessness of that time. I
don't know how I lived through it; but one learns to endure. Now you
know why I am bitter, why my children are bitter, against the English.
They have nothing to teach them love of reverence for England--the
nation that made them orphans, and treated their mother harshly. These
wrongs live in the memory--they embitter life."
"Yes," he said, and was silent. It was so difficult to say anything in
face of what he had heard. It was because he saw her point of view so
clearly, sympathised with her in her sorrow, that he found it impossible
to attempt to point out that she was taking an altogether wrong view.
Her judgment was biassed. In no question concerning the community is
the individual point of view the one to be considered. But one can't
say these things to a woman who has suffered deeply.
Suddenly he put out a hand and laid it upon hers. There was something
in his action, in the firm reassuring grip of his fingers, that moved
her more than he knew. It was as the outstretched hand of a
fellow-countryman gripping hers in the wilderness; it conveyed hope and
comfort.
"I say, I'm awfully sorry," he said. He pressed her hand firmly and
then released it and sat looking away from her, considering a while.
"It's so often the case," he said presently, "that authority gets into
the wrong hands. Men find themselves in responsible positions who are
not fitted for responsibility, and they make a mess of things. In war,
of course, injustice is inevitable; it's not possible to discriminate.
Aren't you being unjust in your turn by impugning all Englishmen because
one, or even more than one, during a time of intense mental strain,
treated you without consideration?" ... She made no response; and he
continued almost immediately:
"You know, you impress me tremendously. You've made me intensely
interested in these matters. I've not thought about these things
before. I've stood apart from public questions--they haven't seemed to
be any affair of mine. But there's where we make a mistake. Every
question that concerns one's country concerns the individual. The
honour of the Empire is in our keeping. Men and women don't bear that
in mind sufficiently; we ought to have it in mind continually. It
should be as much to us as personal honour, which most of us rate
highly. Take this country, for instance, where old wrongs rankle and
old wounds remain unhealed, it's people like yourself who have the power
to effect the healing process. You could do it--you, and others in this
land which is so vitally important a part of the Empire. There is no
wound of that nature which cannot be healed."
He felt that he had not touched her. She remained manifestly unmoved
and outside it all. She lived with the memories of the past.
"You may heal wounds and there will remain a scar," she answered. "And
for amputation cases there is no remedy."
"You mean," he said, "that in your alienated sympathies your patriotism
has suffered amputation? Fellow-countrywoman, I am not going to believe
that. You have tucked it away out of sight, and are cheating yourself
into believing it isn't there because you no longer see it. Well, I'll
tell you what you've done for me." He smiled suddenly. "You have
called my patriotism into being. I'd forgotten I had so precious a
possession till you showed it to me."
"I!" she said, amazed.
"You... and your daughter. For the greater part of last night I lay
awake thinking over Miss Krige's unpalatable history lesson. I don't
know enough about these things to judge whether it was altogether
accurate, but I imagine she has got hold of facts--though, of course,
there are two ways of presenting facts, and she is obviously biassed.
But, anyway, what she said helped me to see the Dutch point of view, and
it is essential for the complete understanding of a subject to see the
view of either side; there is admittedly always something to be said for
both. And she taught me besides that there are two principles which a
great nation would do well to adopt--to forget the injuries it sustains,
and to remember the wrongs which it inflicts upon others. In my opinion
that is what we, as a nation, do. Aren't we proving that in the way in
which we administer this Colony? The Dutch can suffer no injustice
under the existing system of independent government."
Then suddenly he remembered that Krige was opposed to the present
government. A light of understanding flashed across his brain. Krige
was a revolutionary. He was working in concert with other malcontents
against law and order and the existing state of affairs; and he, an
Englishman, had allowed himself to be used as a tool towards this end.
He wondered what the Kriges thought of him, if they considered him a
dupe?--or worse?
In quick embarrassment he glanced at Mrs Krige. Unless she believed
him to be a dupe, she must take him for a contemptible humbug. Her face
told him nothing; its expression was sad and infinitely remote. After
all, it was rather brutal to pursue the subject further. This stirring
up of painful memories could serve no good purpose. More than a decade
had passed since the sword had been sheathed; but it takes all of that
time to realise the extent of the hurt; afterwards the mind readjusts
itself and finds a new balance.