The Shadow of the Past Part 12

"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 att.i.tude 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 trespa.s.s 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.