The Shadow of the Past Part 19

Inexplicably, now that his departure was definitely fixed, though the responsibility for its settlement was his, Matheson chafed at the thought of going, and felt quite unjustly aggrieved with the worthy Dutchman's amiable endeavour to suit his convenience. He considered Oom Koos officious. And then he fell to blaming Honor. Why had she not attempted to dissuade him that morning? Why had she taken the announcement of his departure so calmly, showing an indifference that seemed to indicate that his going affected her no more than the going of any other chance visitor? Simply she had appeared not to care; and that hurt him. Bidding good-bye to her would not, he knew, be an easy matter for him. It would have consoled him somewhat to know that it would not have left her unaffected. He had a persuasion that though he was leaving Benfontein it would not be for ever: some day he would travel again in that direction; and the next time he came it would not be on another man's business.

The thought of that unfinished business hara.s.sed him not a little. He had yet to inform Krige that he had reconsidered his offer to carry a message for him to Holman, that it was uncertain when he would see Holman. It was an awkward explanation to make, involving unpleasant possibilities, and raising invidious suggestions; but there was no prospect of evasion; it had to be done. It was not possible, he felt, to go into this before a third person; he must mention the matter to Krige privately. Usually no difficulty to private talk presented itself. In ordinary circ.u.mstances he would have deferred it till the evening, and said what was necessary during the half-hour when he was left to the uninterrupted enjoyment of Krige's society; but the arrival of Oom Koos complicated matters. His best chance of seeing Krige alone he believed was after the newcomer had gone to bed. He decided to await his opportunity, and put the affair aside with the quick impatience that characterised his treatment generally of unpleasant matters. After all, the man could not oblige him to carry his communications. If no alternative offered he could at least refuse point blank at the last moment.

As the day wore on two things became dear to Matheson: that the enormous Dutchman belonged to the same faction as Krige, and that his visit to Benfontein had some connexion with Holman's communication. He saw Oom Koos, with the letter in his hand and his big gla.s.ses on his large nose, seated at the table in the living-room poring over its contents during the quiet hour of the hot afternoon when he himself was resting in the shade of the trees, and inclined, but for his interest in Oom Koos'

doings, to sleep.

After a while Mynheer Marais came out and joined him, lowering his great bulk with heavy cautiousness into one of the cane chairs.

"You take your ease," he said. "That is well in this country. It is very warm, eh?"

"A Turkish bath would seem cool by comparison," Matheson replied.

"So! You like the heat? ... No!" Oom Koos chuckled, and mopped the perspiration from his florid brow. "It makes some men thin, while others prow fat--according how they take their ease. But you like the country?"

"Yes; the country's all right," Matheson replied without enthusiasm.

"It is a fine agricultural country," Oom Koos proceeded. "South Africa has a great future. Oh, ja! There will be more gold got out of mohair than out of the ground. You cut the wool and it grows again; the ground yields its minerals, and that is finished. If you ever travel by Three Sisters come to my farm--any one will tell you where Oom Koos Marais lives. I and my good wife and my good son will make you welcome."

"Thanks. It's very kind of you."

Matheson's tone was non-committal. He was undecided whether Oom Koos accepted him as a friend, or was merely trying to sound him in respect to his opinions. Possibly Krige had told him that he was uncertain as to his views. If Krige felt any curiosity in this matter he had not revealed it; he had never, even indirectly, tried to get information from him. Oom Koos' next remark settled his indecision.

"You are a friend of Mr Holman, I hear? He is also my very good friend."

Matheson faced him more directly.

"I am no friend of Mr Holman," he replied. "I have some acquaintance with him. The little I know of him does not reflect to his credit."

The big Dutchman evinced surprise, but of so mild a nature and untinged with any resentment, that it struck Matheson the surprise was not altogether genuine.

"So! You amaze me, Mr Matheson. I have always believed that to be a very good man," he declared. "It is a proof that men are not lightly to be trusted. You are not perhaps mistaken; ... Ach, ne! A man should select his friends, as he selects his wife, with consideration for their virtues."

Matheson smiled broadly.

"A good many of us would be fairly lonely if that rule were applied," he said.

Whereat Oom Koos laughed gently, refusing in his amiable good nature to take this cynical conclusion seriously. And after that he talked of farming, and the increasing export trade in mealies, and the excellence of his mohair.

As a result of their conversation it did not surprise Matheson that he was debarred from bearing any part in the conference that took place between the two Dutchmen that same evening. With the finish of supper when, according to custom, he went out on the stoep to smoke, instead of being accompanied by Krige, he discovered Mrs Krige following in his wake, cutting him off from the others, who remained seated at the table which Honor, a.s.sisted by Koewe, was clearing.

"Mr Marais wants to talk business with Andreas," Mrs Krige explained.

When the white cloth was removed the two men drew their chairs closer about the table; and the hum of their voices, with the pungent smell of Oom Koos' calabash, a.s.sailed the senses insistently, and afforded reasonable grounds for Mrs Krige's suggestion that they should move their chairs farther along the stoep. Matheson accordingly moved them beyond sight of the room and its inmates, where the sound of voices reached them m.u.f.fled and indistinct, and the powerful scent of Boer tobacco ceased from being an offence.

"He is the kindest dear in the world," she said; "but he does smoke vile tobacco. And he prefers to smoke inside. The smell of it hangs about the room for days."

Freidja came out and joined them, and after a long interval Honor made her appearance on the stoep, tired and rather cross and unnaturally silent. She had been making bread, and still wore her sleeves rolled above the elbow. Matheson's glance fell admiringly to the round white arms, and then lifted to the fair face which even in the fading light showed plainly its owner's discontent.

"Come and sit down," he said.

"No." She stood with her shoulders flattened against the wall of the house, and did not move. "I want air. How hot it is!"

"You are tired, Honor," Mrs Krige said. "It has been a trying day."

The ghost of a smile flickered across Honor's face.

"It has," she agreed. And Matheson felt that she included him in the day's list of trying experiences.

"I think you tire yourself with riding so much before breakfast,"

Freidja observed.

In the jagged state of Honor's nerves her temper was not proof against this. She turned sharply in her sister's direction.

"Some one had to ride to the Nels' farm," she retorted. "I hadn't any choice since you wouldn't go."

She emitted a short, vexed laugh, and moved abruptly.

"I am going into the garden to search for what I shan't find."

Matheson rose promptly.

"I say," he cried, "that sounds interesting. Let me go with you and help in the search... May I?"

She looked at him uncertainly.

"You don't know what I am wanting to find," she said.

"Well, whatever it is, two people are more a.s.sured of success than one."

"All right." Honor preceded him down the steps. "I am going in search of my lost temper," she announced over her shoulder.

Freidja looked after the two figures disappearing in the obscurity of the shadowy garden, and her face hardened as the sound of a laugh was borne bade to their ears on the motionless air.

"I think it is well that Mr Matheson leaves to-morrow," she said, and turned in sullen protest towards her mother.

Mrs Krige, looking deep into the shadows, answered nothing.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

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 a.s.sured 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 coa.r.s.e 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 doc.u.ment 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.