Abruptly Matheson dropped the lid, faced about and looked up. The
sensation of being observed, of not being, for all that the hut appeared
to be empty, alone, was explained. Some one--he had no means of knowing
who--was familiar with Nel's secret. Whoever it was, it appeared very
certain that he was at the moment watching him from the room above, was
aware moreover through his incautiousness that the hiding place was
equally well known to the man who stood staring up at the movable thatch
in amazed and thwarted curiosity.
To Matheson it was the most astonishing and perplexing moment in his
life. He remained riveted to the spot staring, staring helplessly at
the innocent-looking grass roof, trying to discern the intruder; seeing
no one and hearing no sound of movement, yet acutely aware that some one
lay concealed in the roof, some one who had thought to hide from him,
who was undoubtedly even then observing him, secure in the knowledge of
remaining himself unseen.
Matheson felt his disadvantage and stood for a space irresolute. The
sensation of being furtively observed was uncanny. He had no means of
knowing whether it were an enemy who hid thus, or some one who, like
himself, enjoyed Nel's confidence and hesitated to discover the secret
to a stranger, even though the stranger by his action had made it clear
that he shared the knowledge with him.
The uncertainty was nerve-racking. To continue in ignorance of the
identity of the intruder he felt to be impossible: by some means or
other he must ascertain who it was who lay concealed up there and gave
no sign of his presence. While the unseen person had the advantage in
one respect, the greater advantage of holding him there virtually a
prisoner was his. He drew a chair out from beneath the table and seated
himself astride it, and taking a revolver from his pocket, leaned with
his arms folded on the back of the chair and his gaze lifted to the
roof.
If the intruder's purpose were innocent the chances were he would
proclaim the fact rather than remain a prisoner at the other's pleasure;
if, on the other hand, it was Holman who had concealed himself there he
was likely to be armed also, in which event the advantage would again
lay with him.
Matheson sat rigid and very much on the alert, and awaited developments.
In the unnatural stillness the ticking of the watch in his pocket was
distinctly audible. There was no other sound. But that he felt the
presence of the unseen watcher through that sense which apprises one of
the nearness of another human being, he would have doubted whether any
one could be in the upper chamber, so absolutely still did he remain.
By making it so obvious that he suspected his presence, Matheson had
thought to provoke the other into giving some sign; every moment he
expected to see the thatch open; but there was no movement from above;
whoever was hiding there had no wish to be discovered.
The minutes dragged wearily. An hour passed in watchful suspense. He
wondered why Butter Tom did not come with the supper. It was after the
usual time, but there was no preparation for a meal. This neglect on
the part of Nel's trusted servant puzzled him. It was not, he believed,
accidental: there was treachery afoot. Whoever the mysterious visitor
was, he had by some device or other got rid of the Kaffir. The device
must have been fairly plausible to have deceived Butter Tom, prepared as
he was against surprises of this nature; that the Kaffir had willingly
entered into a conspiracy against him he did not for a moment believe.
He felt that he must speak, must question this hidden person--force him
into making some sign--into revealing himself. It was impossible to sit
through the night with his finger on the trigger of his revolver,
waiting for he knew not what; alert and wakeful in the darkness, with
the concealed foe above like some hidden danger ready to strike. At
least he would get a light and wait for darkness to overtake him and add
the uncertainty of gloom to the perils of the situation.
There was a lamp on the table. He moved towards it, taking the
precaution always to face the danger, and holding his revolver in
readiness against a surprise attack. The business of removing the globe
and striking a match thus hampered took time. It was still quite light
in the rondavel, though the shadows were falling quickly; he had no
difficulty in seeing clearly. His glance travelled continually from the
lamp he was occupied with to the roof, some instinct warning him that
the utmost vigilance was necessary for his safety. During the brief
moment while he struck a match and held it to the wick, his attention
temporarily diverted, he became aware of a sudden noise, so faint and so
instantly ceasing that, had his senses not been so keenly alive to any
sound, he might have fancied himself mistaken in supposing he heard more
than the rustling of the wind without. Instantly his eyes lifted to the
roof, his hand arrested in the act of lighting the lamp, the match
spluttering out between his fingers. The thatch had moved ever so
slightly, and through the aperture thus made he saw distinctly the
muzzle of a gun pointing in his direction.
It was the work of a second to spring aside. The report from the gun
followed his movement. Quick as thought he levelled the revolver and
blazed away at the opening in the thatch. There was a second loud
report from the gun. He felt the sting of the bullet in his shoulder.
The revolver dropped from his hand to the floor. Dazed with the noise
as much as by the pain of the wound, he remained for a moment inactive,
till, brought sharply back to the realisation of his danger, he stooped,
moved by a passionate anger at the outrage, and seized the fallen weapon
in his left hand and fired again at the opening.
The grass panel slid back noisily, and with an oath, the discharged gun
in his hand, a man dropped from the roof on to his shoulders, bringing
him to the ground with a force that partially stunned him. Bewildered
and dazed though he was, Matheson was quick to appreciate the fact that
his assailant was lighter in weight than himself. With the
consciousness of his own superior muscular strength the power returned
to his arms. He forgot his wound; his brain cleared surprisingly,
became active and extraordinarily keen. The man, vainly trying to pin
him down while he raised the empty gun to use as a club, was Holman; and
Holman he knew was no match for him physically.
He flung aside the revolver and seized his assailant by the throat.
Holman loosened his grasp on his own weapon for purposes of
self-defence, and struck wildly at the fierce, resolute face that stared
back at him with the grim determination of implacable enmity in the
eyes. He struck at these eyes blindly; again and again he struck with
little effect; then with a snarl of rage he flung himself across the
other man and fixed his teeth in his neck. Matheson felt sickened: hate
of the man maddened him. It was like fighting with a wild beast, this
horrible struggle with a creature that tore and bit, and uttered a
snarling whine between the parted lips that was scarcely human in sound.
He choked the whine into silence under the pressure of his fingers till
the desperate resistance slackened, the limp body dropped inert. One
minute more and he would squeeze the life out of him and fling his body
out on the veld.
A fierce exhilaration thrilled him. For the first time in his life the
lust of killing held him; he was dominated by a passion greater, more
brutal in quality, more relentless, than anything he had felt before.
He experienced a savage joy in the thought of taking life. All of evil
which this man had accomplished to his knowledge flooded his brain and
inflamed it while he held him pinned powerless to the ground, and stared
pitilessly into the protruding, agonised eyes from which terror even
could not drive the malevolent hatred they expressed.
And then in a moment everything was altered. With a swiftness, a
silence, a curious unreality, that suggested an apparition rather than a
human presence in the stupefying unexpectedness of its approach, a
woman's figure emerged out of the shadows, as though, lurking there
invisible, it now assumed shape for some definite purpose, and detaching
itself from the gloom, became significant, alive, compelling--a power, a
deterrent power, quiet and insistent, with eyes that blazed horrified
reproach into the surprised, upturned gaze of the man who, kneeling
there with murder in his heart, yet let his fingers insensibly relax
their grip, and slowly rose to his feet, and stood shaking from head to
foot like a man seized with an ague, as he faced fully the woman whom he
had last seen on the morning when he had asked her to be his wife.
While he faced her all the love he had ever felt for her surged anew in
his heart, till the pain of it was wellnigh unbearable. What was she
doing there? And why had she through her coming saved the life of a
scoundrel whose destiny overshadowed her own?
Without speaking, she passed him and approached the prostrate figure and
knelt beside it on the mud floor. At her touch Holman stirred, groaned
once, and sat up. He stared about him wildly, and, seeing Matheson,
caught at Honor's dress as though for protection, and shrank further
away. Matheson stood and surveyed their grouping with a numb sensation
of utter weariness stealing over him. He was too physically used up
even to think connectedly. Holman was choking and spluttering. He
caught his breath on a sob, and turned his face and spat noisily on the
floor. Doubtless he felt a necessity for expectorating; but the act
appealed to Matheson as disgusting, and unseemly in Honor's presence.
He expected her to wince. Observing that she made no sign of
repugnance, he wondered whether her compassion exceeded her
fastidiousness; and felt vaguely disappointed in her for showing so
great a forbearance.
Very gently she loosened the injured man's collar, and assisted him to
an easier position, tending him with such solicitude that Matheson,
watching her in surprised silence, was moved to a yet greater hatred of
the man whose life her coming had spared. Could she be so completely
dominated by racial antagonism as to be dead to every other
consideration? It seemed to him that the tragedy of her mother's life,
the division between the Nels, who in every respect save their sense of
right in allegiance to opposite causes, were fraternal in feeling, could
not fail to have some effect on her. He could not understand her
attitude of unrelenting enmity. Even allowing that from her point of
view his country had done her people a real injury in the past, surely
she must realise that in this struggle for right against tyranny, every
country which spent its strength in the defence of the weaker nations
was to be honoured for the sacrifices it was called upon to make? For
any injustice Great Britain had been guilty of in the past she was
making a splendid atonement.
While he pondered these things, dizzy from the effects of his wound and
the recent struggle, Honor rose to her feet and confronted him with so
kindly a look that he was led to believe that her solicitude for Holman
went no deeper than a womanly compassion which any suffering would
excite--which she might have shown towards himself had his condition
seemed to call for sympathy. She had not observed that he was hurt. In
the gathering dusk the blood that was soaking through his coat showed
only as a dark stain which passed unremarked in the agitation of the
moment.
"Go," she said in a quiet voice, and lifted an arm and pointed towards
the open doorway. "Your presence excites him. You have hurt him. What
had he done to you that you should seek to kill him?"
"Honor!" he said, and hardly recognised his own voice, so hoarse and
strange it sounded in the stillness. He made a step towards her, gazing
hungrily into the beautiful, upraised face. "Honor!" he repeated dully.
He saw, without appreciating in his dazed condition the significance of
the action, Holman groping upon the floor for his gun, saw him feel in
his pocket for ammunition. He was aware that the man was loading the
gun; but he paid no heed to that in the stress of emotion that gripped
him in the presence of this girl whose power over him exceeded any other
influence that had ever swayed him. He saw the blood warming the pale
face while he gazed at it with such strained and eager intensity, and
noticed the look of distressed embarrassment in her eyes, the sudden
shrinking away before his approach. There was neither dislike nor
distrust in her look, only a quick, unaccountable nervousness which he
attributed to the unexpectedness of their meeting, with its tragic and
ugly introduction.
"You shouldn't have come," she said. "You didn't come as a friend. You
thought to do him an injury... I know... You hate him because of the
letter I foolishly read to you. I made a mistake--but I thought I could
trust you."
"A damned Englishman is never to be trusted," Holman's voice broke in
raspingly behind her. "He'd sell you all... Why couldn't you blasted
English keep out of this war?" he demanded aggressively. "It's not your
quarrel. You've come in for selfish ends, and you'll get shot to pieces
for interfering when you weren't called up."
Honor turned her head suddenly at a sound from his direction. Looking
over her shoulder she saw the gun raised to his shoulder, his finger
crooked round the trigger.
"Stand aside," he commanded her roughly.
She swung round quickly and faced him, standing resolutely between him
and the man he would have shot down before her eyes.
"I will never let you do that," she said firmly. "You can only shoot
through me. We may be rebels, we aren't murderers, Heinrich."
He lowered the gun, scowling at her, and answered nothing. Matheson
laid a hand on her arm and pushed her aside. Something in the calm
proprietary tones, despite the service she had rendered him, goaded him
to fury. There was a quality in her look and manner when addressing the
German that roused him to a pitch of jealous bitterness which he was
unable to control. Still gripping her shoulder, he stared into her
eyes.
"What's he to you?" he asked harshly. "Why do you interfere? What is
this German spy to you, other than an enemy?"
"He has never been my enemy," she answered proudly. "We Dutch have the
virtue of gratitude, and he has served our cause faithfully. Be careful
how you miscall my husband to me."
For a long moment he continued to stare at her, incredulous, angry,
amazed; then he seized her left hand and raised it and saw, encircling
her finger, the plain gold band which proclaimed her married state.
Without a word he dropped her hand, and turned abruptly and walked
unsteadily from the hut out into the warm dusk; and as he went,
stumbling and feeling his way like a man suddenly blinded, a sound
reached his ears, the sound of a man's sneering laugh of triumph. A
wave of unrestrained passion swept over him. He stood still, hesitated,
and looked back: then, still stumbling as he walked, he hurried on into
the shadows.