It was Matheson's intention to return to the work--to the old firm, if
it would take him back--which at Holman's instigation he had thrown up
for the uncertain but more attractive methods of livelihood which
speculation, under the expert tutelage of the German, offered. It
seemed a long time since those days of careless adventurous living,
though the actual period was under a month. He had thought so much,
thought more deeply, during that month than he had ever done before.
And he had felt things--understood with a wider sympathy than he had any
idea he possessed. It was not so much that he had developed, as that he
had tumbled by accident upon those unexplored mental regions which
remain in cases of indulged indolence often unsuspected. The discovery
had only now come about, but his feet had unconsciously turned into the
road on the morning when he had first seen Brenda Upton, and been moved
to unaccustomed self-analysis by the criticism in her eyes. It had
pulled him up. He had not before considered himself or life seriously;
the sense of responsibility had not touched him.
From that time onward he had felt his way forward, as an explorer might,
curious and heedful, observant of every fresh surprise of the unfamiliar
way, inquiring, acquisitive, immensely interested. And now he had
received a check, the most serious check he had met with in life. It
was not very clear how this would affect him; it was bound to leave a
deeper impression on his mind than anything that had gone before. For
the present he was conscious only of a feeling of defeat, of exasperated
misery, that moved him to the same insensate anger that a man tortured
with toothache feels sometimes towards the cause of his discomfort.
It was not Honor he was angry with; it was the systematic perversion of
ideals, and the hypocrisy which exalted this mischievous doctrine into
something fine and ennobling that enraged him. He saw Honor as a bright
soul following blindly the path into which others had directed her
steps, following it tirelessly, the brightness fading and the beauty of
her fading with it as her nature became more warped and embittered with
the years. No nature, however fine and sweet, can pursue a policy of
revenge without hurt to itself.
During the greater part of the long drive from the farm to the hotel at
which he had lunched on his arrival, Matheson sat wrapped in his own
gloomy meditations, while Mynheer Marais smoked his huge calabash and
grunted encouragement to the horses at frequent intervals, occasionally
turning to address a remark to his silent companion.
It was plain to Matheson that Mynheer Marais did not trust him; he was
reserved and guarded in his speech, confining himself to such safe
topics as the climate and the uncertain distribution of the rainfall,
and the visitations of God in the form of drought and other ills
peculiar to the country.
"You will go back to England some day, perhaps--eh?" he suggested--"and
will talk of these things and be glad you are out of the sun."
"I don't think that at all likely," Matheson replied. "It is my
intention to colonise."
Oom Koos scrutinised him closely and smiled and stroked his horses'
flanks gently with the whip.
"When you have made much money you will return to England," he said
confidently. "That is what all the English do. Ja."
Which speech tended only to harden Matheson in his resolve to remain in
the country and do his part towards furthering British interests there.
Why should a man regard this, or any, country simply as a place in which
to accumulate wealth? The ultimate purpose of a man's life rightly
planned was to found a home and carry on: the getting of wealth should
be concomitant and subordinated to that idea. Herman Nel had placed his
hand upon the very heart of truth when he asserted that the secret of
conquest lay not in destruction, but in the production and safeguarding
of life. To pass on leaving one's life work finished with one's own
brief span is to fail in the greatest achievement possible to the
individual.
At the hotel Matheson and Mynheer Marais separated. The big Boer was
well known in the town, and as soon as he appeared on the stoep of the
hotel he was accosted by some Dutch acquaintance, with whom Matheson
left him exchanging greetings in the taal.
Later he saw Oom Koos again for a few minutes after lunch; and then,
accompanied by his friend, Oom Koos departed for the town, which was the
last Matheson saw of him, a huge, ungainly, genial figure, talking and
gesticulating freely, walking heavily amid the dust that stirred lazily
about his big feet as he disappeared in the golden haze of the sultry
afternoon.
Matheson experienced a curious and inexplicable loneliness after he had
watched the lumbering figure of the Dutchman out of sight. The going of
Oom Koos closed the Benfontein episode finally. He felt as though a
door had been slammed in his face and the key turned in the lock.
The same feeling of loneliness, that sense of being shut out, clung to
him after he left De Aar. It remained with him throughout the journey
to Johannesburg. But with the sight of the straggling town, of its
innumerable buildings and red streets, its busy crowded station, other
emotions held him, and obliterated for a time the strange unaccustomed
sensation of being adrift and without bearings. At least he could find
his bearings here. He knew very well what he intended to do.
He drove to his old rooms and settled in. Then he went straightway to
ascertain if there was any likelihood of getting back with his old firm,
and was more successful than he had anticipated. The firm had a big
Government contract at Cape Town and was glad to take him on in
connexion with the work. That settled the uncertainty as to his future
finances.
He returned to his rooms considerably lightened in spirit, and with as
many daily papers as he could procure. He had been living out of the
world, and had not the remotest idea of what was going on in it. There
is nothing so isolating as existing without newspapers. Beyond a Dutch
paper, principally concerned with agricultural matters, which Andreas
received once a week, no newspaper, so far as Matheson was aware, ever
found its way to the farm.
Having read his papers, which contained nothing of particular interest--
the country was still recovering from the stupefying effects of the
great strike and the subsequent deportations, and did not appear to have
altogether regained its breath--he went out again for the purpose of
hunting up Holman and having a plain talk with him. He found him in the
private room he called his office, where he transacted business
principally through the medium of the telephone, and received the few
callers who penetrated the mysteries of the winding passage and outer
premises which led to the rather squalid quarters he inhabited at the
lower end of the town.
He was, Matheson learned on arrival from the youthful clerk, who seemed
to do little beyond guard the inner sanctum and scan the daily news,
engaged for the moment. Since no one emerged from the inner room while
he waited, and no one was present when a few minutes later, in response
to the ring of a bell, he was conducted by the clerk to the presence,
the inference was that the engagement was telephonic. Holman was alone,
seated at his desk. His hand fell from the receiver as the door opened
and closed upon his visitor. He swung round on his swivel chair and
welcomed Matheson cordially.
"You never sent me any word," he said. "When did you arrive? I've been
expecting you daily for the past week. You haven't hurried."
He could not fail to notice the very obvious fact that his extended hand
was ignored, nor that the cordiality of his manner received no response.
He waved the neglected hand in the direction of a seat.
"Sit down," he said, and crossed one leg over the other and regarded
Matheson closely, fidgeting idly and with a suggestion of nervousness in
the quick, uncertain movement of his fingers, with the pen on his
blotting pad. "Now, let me hear all about it," he resumed.
Matheson seated himself.
"Well, in the first place," he said, leaning forward with his hands upon
his knees, "I had better state at once that I know a good deal about
this damnable business... not through the Kriges... there was a sort of
conspiracy to keep me in the dark--Krige never talked to me. I learned
what I know from Herman Nel. Nel called you a damned scoundrel... and I
endorse his sentiments. Have you anything to say to that?"
He paused. Holman ceased fidgeting with the pen and clenched his hand
on the blotter and sat quite still, smiling faintly.
"No. I don't see that any comment of mine would avail anything. Of
course you don't expect me to applaud your opinion. Simply, I refuse to
consider it. What you have learned from Herman Nel doesn't interest me
either. Nel was never a recipient of my confidence. He knows nothing
whatever about me."
"You are mistaken; his knowledge is more complete than you imagine. It
was from Nel I learned that you are German, and not a British subject as
I supposed."
"Did I ever assert that I was British?" Holman interrupted him to
inquire.
"Not to me. But I understood you were. You led me somehow, whether
intentionally or not I can't say, to understand that. And you spell
your name in the English way, and sign the double n only when you
correspond with your Dutch friends. I saw that in your letter to
Krige."
"So you read the letter I entrusted to your safe keeping?" Holman said
with a flash of anger. "Then it was a lie when you said you couldn't
read Dutch?"
"It was nothing of the sort. I leave the lying to men practised in the
art, like yourself. I saw the letter. I did not read it... but it was
read to me. Had Nel's statement needed corroboration I had it in your
own words. You are helping to stir up bad feeling among the Dutch. You
are inciting the dissatisfied Boers to open rebellion--Heaven knows
why!--or the devil, to whom Nel gives the credit of the direction of
this affair. What you expect to gain by it personally is your secret,
but you must realise that it is a hopeless business for them in any
event. A handful of farmers can't fight a great organised nation with
any hope of success."
Holman smiled.
"You are talking arrant nonsense, you know," he said. "If it wasn't
such absolute nonsense it would be offensive. There was not a sentence
in my letter to Krige that even hinted at rebellion; there is not a
sentence in my letter--not a word, for that matter, that I could not
explain satisfactorily if I recognised any necessity for an explanation.
Nel didn't tell you, I suppose, while he was engaged in aspersing my
character, that there is a feud of long standing between us which is
principally of his making?"
"He told me nothing," Matheson replied, "beyond what I have stated, and
the further fact that you have been carrying on this underhand intrigue
for years. What your game is remains to be seen. You have got some
stake in this. It isn't just philanthropy and sympathy with the poor
Boer that actuates you. Time will show, perhaps. In the meanwhile with
men of Herman Nel's type in the country, I don't think you will
accomplish much. As regards my own share in this, I can only say that
your estimate of my intelligence as expressed in your letter would seem
to fit I have been a fool. But you overestimated my complaisance--my
conscience is not for purchase, however high the price."
"You misread that," Holman said, not looking at him. "I don't deal in
consciences. I fancied you were likely game to fall to the lovely
Honor's charm. That was in my mind when I watched you fooling about
with that girl on the beach. You will agree, I imagine, that I would be
scarcely likely to engage in a dangerous intrigue in co-operation with a
girl like Honor?"
"I prefer," Matheson answered brusquely, "to leave Miss Krige's name out
of this. I didn't, as a matter of fact, come here to discuss this ugly
business, but merely to explain my reasons for not fulfilling my
undertaking, and to return your advance, minus my travelling expenses.
That," he said, rising and placing a note on the desk, "finishes
everything between us."
"As you will, of course." Holman made a gesture with his shoulders.
"It seems useless for me to say anything. I don't attempt explanations
twice. You have taken an outrageous tone and closed every door upon a
possible understanding."
"I understand as much as is necessary," Matheson replied. "I'm on watch
now. If any ill results follow upon your mischievous activities you can
regard me as an enemy. I'll track you down, and fix the thing on you."
Holman rang the bell at his elbow sharply.
"I really can't waste time while you talk nonsense," he said. "Your
abuse of me is absurd. If it were less ridiculous I should resent it
more effectively."
He turned back to the desk as the door opened to admit the clerk, and,
speaking over his shoulder, curtly directed the astonished youth to show
the visitor out Matheson, when he emerged from the winding intricacies
of the airless passage into the sunlight, had a feeling that he had not
so much closed that episode as broken an insincere friendship and
started an open feud.