No opportunity for talking with Krige offered itself to Matheson that
night; he left him still earnestly conferring with Oom Koos when he went
to bed. Honor assured him that they would probably remain so until the
day broke. They did. He heard Mynheer Marais going heavily to bed in
the dawn; heard later Mynheer Marais' loud snoring which sounded so
plainly through the thin wall that he was prevented from getting further
sleep.
He rose early, and dressed to the accompaniment of Oom Koos' trumpeting,
and went quietly out by the window and along the stoep. The window of
the living-room remained open, as it had been left overnight, in despite
of which the fumes of Mynheer Marais' pipe hung about the room even as
Mrs Krige had described, a coarse heavy smell of stale tobacco.
Matheson halted at the window and thrust his head inside and sensed the
atmosphere. Then he stepped within. On the floor beneath the table,
where presumably it had fallen and been overlooked, lay the letter
Holman had written to Andreas Krige. He recognised the neat legible
handwriting without difficulty; he had studied it to some purpose coming
along in the train, and he knew the greyish-blue tint of the paper. The
letter was not in its envelope, nor could he see the envelope anywhere
in the room.
He stooped deliberately and picked up the written sheet of paper, and
stood by the table with the mysterious document in his hand. There was
no thought in his mind of reading it; it was, he knew, written in Dutch;
but he had a wish to satisfy himself in regard to the signature; and he
opened the letter and turned to the second page and looked at the name
which footed it--K. Holmann. There was no doubt about that; and yet he
had seen Holman sign his name at least a dozen times, and on no occasion
had he affixed the second N. Herman Nel was right: the man was a
scoundrel, and engaged in devil's work.
So absorbed was he, while he stood there by the table turning the letter
in his hands, so deeply plunged in thought, piecing what he had recently
learnt with the imperfectly remembered past which recurred in fitful and
broken consecutiveness; episodes and fragments of speech, all relevant
to the main issue and seldom joining on to one another, darting into his
mind with the quick unexpectedness, the blinding bewilderment of a
lantern flashed out of darkness into the eyes; so fiercely angry at
having lent himself to this man's nefarious schemes--schemes which while
Herman Nel had talked he had inclined to doubt, considering them too
wildly improbable for credence, and which now he doubted no longer; so
intent was he upon the problem of how he should act in regard to this
knowledge which had come to him unsought, that he did not hear the door
open, nor see the figure standing in the opening, quietly observant of
him. It was not until the draught caused by the open door fluttered the
paper in his hand that he looked up; and immediately he became aware of
Honor watching him from the threshold, a cold little smile on her face
and a look of scorn in her deep eyes.
She came forward into the room, closing the door behind her. Matheson
was so surprised by the strange manner of her entry, and by the scornful
disapproval of her look, that he remained motionless and silent, staring
at her, with the open letter crushed in his hand.
"It is my brother's letter you have there, I believe?" she said.
He relinquished it to her.
"It was on the floor," he explained.
"I understood you had no knowledge of Dutch," she said. "You gave us to
understand that... but you were reading the letter."
Matheson flushed darkly.
"I have no knowledge of Dutch," he answered. "I have not read the
letter--if I were sufficiently curious, and also sufficiently
dishonourable to wish to do so, I could not. I was interested in the
German signature of a man I always believed to be English."
She still, he saw, disbelieved him. He had never felt so passionately
angry with any one in his life before.
"If I had read the letter I doubt whether it could give me more
information of this miserable business than I have already," he added in
tones like edged steel.
"We will see," she rejoined, and spread the letter on the table, while
he remained in a cold amazed silence, and read it aloud.
"My dear Andreas,--
"I am in communication with Piet van der Byl, and friendly burghers in
the F.S. You will be glad to hear that we have every reason to hope
for a good response in the event of such happenings as are predicted.
The northern and eastern areas are sympathetic. Every quarter which I
have tapped responds with the most encouraging readiness. I have
little doubt that the desire which lies so near to our hearts will be
achieved entirely to our satisfaction and sooner than we expect.
"The messenger who delivers this has no knowledge of the taal. He is,
I believe, a fool, who can be bought over if judiciously approached.
You can safely send by him an answer to this. I shall be glad to have
some account of the attitude your district takes up, and the names of
any men who are likely to be of service to the cause. The time is not
yet fulfilled when our expectations can be realised, but I feel it
approaching, and it is well to be prepared.
"Faithfully yours,
"H.K. Holmann."
When she had finished reading Honor folded the letter deliberately and
looked up.
"You have gained a little information, haven't you?" she asked; and
Matheson realised that she referred to the insulting allusion to himself
in the letter.
Why she had read the letter to him he failed to understand; he could not
divine her reason. Quite possibly she was not moved by any reason; some
swift inexplicable impulse more probably governed her action. He
believed that already she regretted having yielded to this impulse; he
read signs of a growing distress in her look.
"I have gained a little information," he answered--"nothing that
matters. I wish I could feel obliged to you for this unlooked-for
display of confidence, but unfortunately it doesn't carry any sort of
conviction. You've no trust in me; your words prove that. You think,
with the writer of the letter, that I'm a fool who can be made use of,
and who isn't dangerous, who doesn't in short count--"
"No," she interrupted in a low voice. "No!" He went on as though he
had not heard her. "In one sense you are right--I'm not dangerous.
Simply I could not, if it lay in my power, injure you. Whatever you
did--and I believe you contemplate something hateful--I could only stand
by silent, and regret the misconception which is leading you on to this
miserable folly. You are led away by others--by men who have some
ignoble end to serve, and are using you, as one of them has used me, as
a tool."
She lifted her head proudly and looked him steadily in the eyes, and
answered with a quiet, and what appeared to him absurd dignity:
"I am led by patriotism and a hatred of injustice, Mr Matheson--not by
any man." He made an impatient movement. "You are ignorant of the very
rudiments of patriotism," he said. "You have educated yourself to one
end, and you go forward blindly, seeing nothing of the evil of this
flame of hate you are helping to fan into a conflagration--intent on an
impossible goal."
"Not impossible," she insisted. "You are altogether mistaken," he went
on. "You won't admit that, of course. Most persons with a grievance
are unreasonable; they become obsessed with the one idea. You imagine
you are out for reform. Even if you were sincere in believing that, you
are too clever not to know that reforms don't come about the way you are
working. Impulsive reform leads to reaction. Change to be enduring
must be gradual. That--the right sort of reform--is taking place every
day; it goes on year by year. Injustice was deported long since. We
are making all the compensation possible."
She rested a hand on the table and leaned towards him, a gathering
resentment smouldering in her eyes.
"You don't understand," she said. "You can't put yourself in our
place--in the place of any of these people who have suffered. What
right have you to talk of these things? You haven't lost your
birthright. If you had,"--she smiled faintly--"I am quite convinced you
would fight for its recovery."
"You haven't lost your birthright either," he replied--"and some of you
know it."
Herman Nel's words leapt suddenly to his mind: "A country belongs to the
people who live in it." South Africa belonged to the South African.
The British Empire could not, did not desire to, dispute that.
She turned aside and went to the window and stood there, her air a
little drooping as though she were weary, her eyes travelling listlessly
across the shining wonder of dew-drenched sunlit veld.
"What's the good of talking?" she said. "I've tried to show you--to
make you see our side. At one time I thought I was succeeding. But you
don't understand."
"I appreciate the hurt, but not your remedy," he answered. "You would
start a rebellion for a grievance. No successful upheaval was ever
based on so paltry a foundation. Nothing worth achieving can be brought
about by unworthy methods. Look here!" He joined her at the window,
and stood beside her scrutinising her partly averted face. "You don't
know how much this means to me... your part in it. I'm not concerning
myself for the present with anything outside that I hate the idea of
your becoming obsessed with this cult of revenge. I hate it--in
connexion with you. You are splendid and sweet; you are too good for
that sort of thing--altogether. Miss Krige--Honor, don't waste anything
so precious as life by living in the past: the present is so good--so
tremendously good. Don't spoil it."
He possessed himself of her hand and gripped it firmly, holding it
between both his.
"I'm a blundering idiot. I'm saying all the wrong things. Be patient
with me," he entreated. "I know you've been hurt--badly hurt. I'd like
to make reparation, if that were possible... and it isn't. But I do
care... Honor, you know I care..."
A soft colour crept into her cheeks, deepened, spread to her brow and
throat. There was a quality in his voice, in his touch, which was
unmistakable. She was unprepared. He had come perilously near, she
felt, to hating her that morning. She had realised his anger and been
unmoved by it; his tenderness affected her deeply; but she managed to
control her emotion.
"You have been very considerate always," she returned quietly--"and
impartial I've liked that in you. Whatever happens, I believe that in
our hearts you and I will remain friends--even if we don't meet in the
future."
"Oh! we shall meet," he said confidently.
But she shook her head and smiled faintly and made no reply in words.
"Do you mean you would rather we didn't meet?" he asked, in tones of
hurt surprise.
"No; not that."
She attempted to withdraw her hand, but he prevented her, and she
desisted.
"What then?" he asked, and was conscious of a sudden overmastering
passion for her. A fierce desire to seize her and crush her in his arms
wellnigh swept him off his balance. Hunger for her gripped him and hurt
him like a physical ache. He wanted Honor at that moment more than he
had ever wanted anything in his life.
"Nothing can keep us apart but your own wish... nothing. Honor, I want
you... I love you."
His voice shook. He pulled her towards him a little roughly and threw
an arm about her and held her close.
"Dear! ... my beautiful dear!" he said. "I love you. Do you love me?
... a little?"
The soft colour deepened in her face. She looked up at him and smiled;
then her eyelids drooped over the shining eyes.
"I like you," she admitted. "Ah!"
The disappointment occasioned by this mild concession betrayed itself in
his voice. With her intense nature, so lukewarm a response was almost a
rebuff.
"That isn't strong enough to throw down the barriers," he said. He took
her face between his hands and gazed deeply into her eyes. "I love you
more than life. Haven't you something a little better than liking to
give me in return? Honor, I want to marry you."
For a moment she was silent. Her breath fluttered nervously between her
parted lips; her eyes lifted to his, fell, lifted to his again.
"Is _your_ love strong enough to throw down barriers?" she asked.
"There aren't any barriers on my side to knock over," he answered,
smiling.
"Are there not?" Her face was grave now, and purposeful, her gaze
steadfast. She put up her hands and clasped his wrists. "I will marry
you--on one condition."
"Yes!" he said, and waited, feeling curious and oddly chilled. The
excitement of his passion died down before her strange composure.
"If you renounce your country, and become one of us," she said; "if you
fight--supposing it comes to fighting--on our side, I will marry you.
That is my condition."
He still held her face between his hands, and now he drew it nearer,
pressed his face to her face, kissed her tenderly upon the brow, pushed
her face gently away.
"You ask more than you expect me to give," he said. "You wouldn't make
such a condition if you loved me..."
Without looking at him Honor went swiftly and silently out through the
window and along the stoep. He remained quite still, looking after her,
a feeling of finality, of flatness, weighing upon him, and a queer sense
of loss, which was not after all loss because he had never possessed,
never been near possession; until that morning the hope of
proprietorship had not entered into his thoughts of her; passion had not
before gripped him. It was odd, he reflected, how swiftly and
unexpectedly the factor of passion had entered and provoked this crisis.
The whole thing was an amazement; and it left him a little dazed, with
a sensation of plunging into sudden darkness after being in the light.