The Shadow of the Past Part 20

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 pa.s.sionately 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 att.i.tude 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 ign.o.ble 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 pa.s.sion 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."