Nel showed something of the disposition of a boy when later he revealed
to Matheson the secret of his rondavel. He fixed his rope ladder to a
beam in the roof, mounted, and, removing a part of the thatch,
disappeared into the obscurity beyond through the opening he had made.
For a moment his face showed in the opening, smiling down on Matheson,
who stood below watching the proceedings with interest.
"Follow me," he said. "It is quite spacious up here, but somewhat hot.
And there are cockroaches."
Matheson swarmed up the ladder after him, and thrust his head and
shoulders through the opening and looked about him. It was difficult to
see anything in the gloom, but after a while he made out Nel's figure
seated with the shoulders against the thatch. It was not possible to
stand upright; the room at its highest point was not above five feet;
but there was space enough for three or four persons to sit with ease,
and a certain amount of ventilation came through holes in the grass
roof.
"One would not perhaps use it for a sitting-room," Nel said; "but it is
a good hiding place."
"Excellent," Matheson replied. "No one would suppose, judging from the
exterior, that there was space enough between the roof for a room like
this. It's deceptive from below."
"Yes. I decided on a high roof for coolness, and the double thatch for
the same reason. It was an afterthought to make use of the space
between. I planned this loft, and elaborated it until it developed into
my secret chamber. The movable thatch and rope ladder I made myself. I
will ask you to descend now. It would not distress me if Miss Krige
surprised my secret, but I would not have it generally known."
Matheson, as he observed Nel unhitch his ladder and fold it up and
thrust it inside a chest which stood on the floor, realised that this
display of confidence was Herman Nel's way of showing that he trusted
him, that he accepted his word as to his ignorance of the nature of the
enterprise he had so heedlessly embarked upon. It was a practical proof
of faith in his future discretion.
They resumed their seats and discussed South African politics and the
future of the country, until the arrival of Honor, with Cornelius, his
wife, and the baby, broke up their talk.
Mrs Nel was a heavily made woman, dark complexioned and far from
handsome. Cornelius had married her for no physical attraction, but for
the many domestic qualities for which she was justly renowned. The baby
was not handsome either; but it was good, and in Cornelius' opinion a
good baby was preferable to a pretty baby. He, himself, was rather like
his brother, only taller and more stoutly built.
Matheson was introduced, and the newcomers shook hands.
"Why did you not come to my house?" asked Cornelius. "My wife and I
would have been very pleased."
Matheson explained that the rondavel had interested him, that Mr Herman
Nel had kindly invited him to breakfast, and he had been glad to accept
Mrs Nel laughed when he finished speaking.
"Ach! Herman lives like the Kaffirs," she said. "There is never
anything to eat by his house. You will be hungry just now."
"Indeed, we fared sumptuously," Matheson answered.
"And we have not finished," Herman Nel put in. "We are about to taste
some of your very good meiboss. Come and join us."
Mrs Nel took some meiboss, and allowed the baby to suck a small piece,
which it did with considerable enjoyment. She listened complacently to
the general appreciation of this delicious preserve which she made
according to a recipe that had been in the family for generations. Mrs
Nel's meiboss was unrivalled.
"Lekker!" she said to the baby. "It is lekker, eh?"
She put her fingers in the jar and drew out another piece. For the
first time since she had entered Honor looked in Matheson's direction,
looked with a quick gleam of hostility in her eyes, as though expecting
to detect in his expression something of the amusement she believed he
experienced at the Nels' expense. His steady gaze as it met hers
disarmed her resentment. If it was a little unusual to thrust one's
fingers into a jar the contents of which others were sharing, it was a
practice for which a precedent could be claimed. He helped himself from
the jar and passed it to Honor.
"Jolly good stuff," he said. "I don't know when I have tasted anything
half so good. Made with apricots... They'd like this in England."
Mrs Nel proceeded to ply him with elucidatory questions about England.
"It is always raining there," she announced by way of comment.
"The sun is to be seen on occasions," he returned. "Also cases of heat
apoplexy have been known. Still, it is drier on the Karroo."
"Ach, the Karroo! Generally we have a drought here. One wishes the
Lord had distributed things more evenly. But no doubt. He had His
reasons. It would not be well for us to have everything as we would
like."
The conversation hung after that, until Herman Nel revived it by a
discussion of the various accepted methods for raising water: he put
forward certain projects of his own in this connexion which Cornelius
and Matheson disposed of as impractical. Cornelius was inclined to
accept the drought, as the unenlightened Boer accepts scab and other
evils, as a visitation of Providence which it would be futile as well as
impious to attempt to evade. He was a fairly prosperous man, but the
profitable working of the farm was largely owing to the more energetic
younger brother, whose keener intelligence and sound judgment
co-operated successfully with the other's undoubted skill in, and
knowledge of, all branches of farming. Cornelius disapproved of many of
his brother's advanced, and what he termed English, ideas; but he was
quick to appreciate the advantage when he reaped a profitable return on
them. He was shrewd enough to recognise that alone he could not have
achieved the prosperity he enjoyed.
The conversation shifted from wells to motor-cars. This convenient
means of transport had found its way on to many farms. It linked up
scattered districts and decreased distances enormously. Herman Nels
spoke of getting a car, but his brother, and his brother's wife, opposed
the idea energetically.
"My! I would never trust myself in one of those things," Mrs Nel
declared emphatically, unconscious that her decision was in her
brother-in-law's opinion an argument in favour of the thing she
depreciated. "It was never intended that we should rush through the air
like that."
"And yet there is the railway," Matheson reminded her.
"Ach! the railway has its uses. But it does a lot of damage. Do you
remember, Cornelius, when a spark from the engine fired your good trucks
loaded with forage? And the Government would give no compensation,
because no one actually saw the spark that set it alight come from the
engine. As though it could have been fired any other way! Ach ne! the
railway is no good. The Lord gave us oxen for beasts of burden."
"A bit slow in the going, aren't they?" Matheson suggested.
"Those who travel slowly travel surely," she answered conclusively.
"I would like a car if we could afford one," Honor said. "But nothing
is so good as a horse." She looked at Matheson, and added: "We ought to
be mounting."
He rose promptly, and a general move followed. When he was on his feet
Cornelius delivered himself of the weighty reflections which had kept
him silent during the recent discussion.
"The railway is very well; but it should make full compensation for all
loss. The railway is controlled by the government; the government is
controlled by the capitalists. That is not good, no!"
"The landowner is something of a capitalist himself," Herman Nel put in
drily.
His brother bent on him a look of heavy displeasure.
"The landowner in the future will represent the power of this country,"
he said, and closed the argument by lighting his pipe.
Every one accompanied the visitors outside, and watched them mount and
ride away. Herman Nel assisted Honor to the saddle, and while he
remained with his hand on the rein he looked up at her and said quietly:
"Carry my love to Freidja."
He did not seem to expect an answer, for he stepped back as he spoke;
and Honor made no response, only when the other adieux were spoken and
the horses started, she looked back at the man standing apart from the
rest and smiled at him as she rode away.
For a while Matheson and his companion rode in unbroken silence. He was
busy with the thoughts which Herman Nel's disclosure had set fermenting
in his brain. The course he would follow was plain. But it was not
easy after the Kriges' courtesy to leave them summarily; it was not
possible, he felt, to do so and refuse to carry Krige's message without
causing offence. The risk had to be taken however. He could no longer
lend himself to the furtherance of a matter which he now admitted freely
he had not approved of from the first. He ought never to have allowed
himself to be mixed up in the affair. It was not easy to draw back; it
was less easy to rid himself of the influences which, spreading over
three weeks of intimate daily life with Honor--for it was always in
Honor his thoughts centred--affected him powerfully, changing all his
view of things, altering his entire perspective. It was amazing what a
grip this girl had succeeded in getting on his imagination. Try how he
would he could not shake his thoughts clear of her. Abruptly he glanced
in her direction. She rode with the reins loose on the horse's neck;
her face, which was partly averted, wore an air of abstraction, the eyes
fixed with unfocussed vision upon the distance. She too seemed to have
much to occupy her thoughts.
"I say!" he said, and broke off suddenly, not knowing after all what he
intended saying.
She turned her face and looked towards him with gravely inquiring eyes.
"I've got to go away," he jerked out after a pause. "I've got to get
back. This is very pleasant, but... it has to come to an end."
"Yes," she agreed, and looked a little puzzled--"of course. We expected
you would be leaving shortly. I'm sorry."
"I don't want to go." He was insistent on this point. "I regret
going--immensely." He paused, and added after a thoughtful moment: "For
some reasons I regret that I ever came."
"That is not very kind," she said. "No," he allowed; "it doesn't sound
kind. But... you know. You understand... I've been here too long."
"I think," she said, breaking the short embarrassed silence with a
remark so apposite that he was considerably taken aback, "that Herman
Nel's company has affected you. I did not wish to leave you with him."
"Why not?" he asked.
"He is a man who holds mistaken ideas," she replied. "In my opinion he
is a very fine man," he returned, a note of quiet admiration in his
voice. "But I don't see what grounds you have for assuming my mind to
be so responsive to tutelage. I am not more readily impressed than most
people."
She laughed in some amusement, but made no comment on his speech. It
flashed into her mind to wonder whether he was so fixed in his opinions
that she would fail to sway him if she essayed the task? And thinking
so, and looking up with the laugh still in her eyes, she surprised so
warm an expression of admiration in his glance that her cheeks burned
under his look. She turned her face away. It seemed to her that in his
eyes she had read an answer to her thought.
"You do not go to-day?" she asked presently.
"No," he answered sharply.
A conviction that he ought to go without delay assailed him with
irritating persistence. With the moment for decision, the thought of
leaving Benfontein became less easy; he did not want to go. He believed
that she was aware of his reluctance, that in a measure she shared it.
He felt her will joining with his to oppose his decision.
"Then at least we can have one other ride together," she said softly.
"Yes." He flicked at the flies that were worrying the horse, and did
not look at her. "We will have one last ride together--since you are
good enough to propose it."
"That is my way of showing I am sorry for being disagreeable," Honor
observed.
Which remark, calling for contradiction, making too a special claim upon
his gratitude, moved him to express warm appreciation of her consistent
kindness, and his deep regret at the thought of departure. He did not
intend to have any misunderstandings on that head. He wanted to make it
quite clear that it was in relation to herself the approaching
separation affected him so gravely. He was busy with his explanation,
and getting, as he was aware, somewhat deeply involved in an analysis of
emotions that threatened, while leading nowhere in particular, to leave
him presently stranded high and dry above the watermark of conventional
intercourse, when Honor interrupted him, snapping effectually the chain
of his ideas.
"Visitors!" she cried.
The displeased ring in her voice, the vexed surprise of her expression,
were eloquent of her resentment at this unlooked-for event. They were
nearing the homestead. Matheson, intent upon his companion to the
exclusion of everything, failed, until roused by her exclamation to a
closer observation, to see the low buggy standing in the shade of the
big aloes. A Kaffir stood by the horses' heads. He presently led the
animals towards the stable, and the buggy, bumping into the open, showed
a heavy list on the driving side which witnessed to the girth of the
owner beneath whose weight the springs had all but collapsed. This
familiar sight drove the vexation out of Honor's eyes. She smiled
suddenly.
"It's Oom Koos," she said--"Oom Koos Marais. That's all right. I
feared it might be a stranger."
On the whole, Matheson decided on reflection, the presence of the
newcomer would facilitate rather than hinder his departure.