Chapter Twenty Five.It is a sad moment in a woman’s life when she realises that she does not possess the heart of the man she loves. If one may use a sordid simile in this connexion, her position resembles that of the owner of a beautiful home in possession of which the bailiff has been placed through the indiscretion of another. In this instance Honor was in possession with full power to hold, and without personal interest in the value of what she held, and what she would never claim for her own. But her right robbed the other of all the joy of ownership. An empty jewel casket has little intrinsic value, and stands only as a reminder of the precious thing it was intended to contain.It was impossible for Brenda to hide altogether from Matheson the difference which his confidence had made to her. She endeavoured to maintain their former relations of pleasant and intimate comradeship, but he detected behind the assumed brightness of her manner the increasing restraint, the shy reserve, beneath which she sought to cloak her feelings, and the pain of her disappointment. He realised with considerable dismay that his matrimonial plans were in danger of further defeat. The fear of defeat goaded him and gave a keener edge to his desire. He could not, he found on making the attempt, reconcile himself to the thought of losing her. For one entire, unforgettable week he refrained from going near her. He had no means of discovering whether she missed him, but he missed her almost intolerably. In the end he threw over his resolves and went in search of her.Again it was on a Sunday that he sought her after his brief avoidance. On the previous afternoon he had been at the Aplins. Something he heard there stripped his last scruple from him and determined him to see Brenda on the morrow. Mrs Aplin had pressed him to stay to dinner, and he had stayed; he did not know why; he had not wished to, and he had demurred on account of being in flannels. They waived the matter of dressing. No one would dress, Mrs Aplin announced; the girls would merely change their blouses.The change had been somewhat elaborate, and only stopped short of being full evening dress. Instead of rousing his admiration, as had been intended, it kept alive a consciousness of his own negligent attire, which did not add to his enjoyment. He had never felt so unutterably bored with the inconsequent chatter of Rosie, nor more annoyed with May’s noisy performance on the piano. She sang popular songs with choruses in which every one joined; and when this form of amusement wearied they all repaired to the billiard-room, just to knock about the balls, Mrs Aplin said, beaming, thoroughly satisfied, having started the young people playing games, that they were having a good time.Before he left she contrived with an openness that was not diplomatic to get a few words alone with him. Her insistence on a little private talk robbed her confidences of the air of being casual which she had intended to give them, and prepared him against surprises.“The girls monopolise you,” she said pleasantly. “I never seem to get the opportunity for a talk.”He wondered what was coming and felt apprehensive; but his wildest conjectures could not anticipate what she had it in mind to say. She started on irrelevant topics, wandered rather aimlessly from one subject to another, and finally came to her point.“I am so pleased you came to-day,” she said. “We began to feel neglected. The girls tell me they see you sometimes in town; and of course at the theatre last week... I don’t think you saw us though. You were with the Uptons.”“I saw you,” he answered, and felt himself flushing awkwardly. “But I wasn’t sure... I thought perhaps... You see, Miss Aplin told me there was a little difficulty...” He looked at her squarely and shifted his ground. “It was a jolly fine play, wasn’t it? And the acting was quite good.”“I thought it a little sensational,” she replied, and disposed of that, smiling at him with almost maternal solicitude as she added: “It was thoughtful of you to consider my prejudices. Having girls, you see, I have to be very careful. But I am sorry for Brenda Upton. She is thrown with undesirable associates, and has been talked about in connexion with men. Her mother is always striving to get her married. That sort of thing is very bad for a girl; and with their history they ought to besocareful. She is naturally anxious to marry for the sake of a home; and I hope she will succeed in finding some honest man in her own sphere who will overlook what is undesirable in her past. She is not after all responsible for her father’s failings.”“I should think not,” he answered, with a curtness he was unable to prevent. He felt almost uncontrollably angry. He apprehended quite clearly that Mrs Aplin was desirous of warning him against a mésalliance, and he considered it not only an unwarranted impertinence, but a mischievous and scurrilous aspersion of Brenda’s reputation. “I doubt whether any man of average common sense would think twice about that,” he said.“You know her quite intimately, I suppose?” she ventured.“Yes,” he answered, and added with a certain dry malice: “I imagine I am the only man in connexion with whom she has ever been talked about.”“Really, Mr Matheson!” Her tone was as shocked as her look. He laughed savagely.“Oh! it’s an entirely innocuous scandal. To be honoured with Miss Upton’s friendship is a guarantee of discretion. Believe me, you have been doing her a grave injustice.”“I don’t wish to be unjust.” Mrs Aplin surveyed him with displeased, protesting eyes. “And I am sure if I had known you were suchgreatfriends I wouldn’t have spoken. But I know somuchmore of them than you can possibly know.”“I know only good of her,” he returned quietly, and was immeasurably relieved that May should choose that moment for breaking in upon their talk, which he felt was getting altogether beyond his patience.“You look,” she said, assuming a graceful pose by the head of the sofa upon which she leaned, “abnormally serious. I believe mother has been fault finding. Come and sit over here, and I’ll comfort you.”He laughed, and answered her jestingly; but he did not avail himself of the invitation. That was the general idea in that house, that a man must be comfortably placed, and submit to being petted. Possibly some men liked petting, but that sort of thing was not in his line.“It’s getting late,” he said, with an attentive eye on the clock, the big hand of which seemed to drag with such exasperating slowness. He felt grateful for the first time in their acquaintance to Mrs Aplin for silencing her daughter’s protests against his leaving so soon.“Whatever did you say to him to make him so huffy?” Rosie asked when he had gone. “I always knew he had a horrid temper.”“I warned him against that Upton girl. Those people are shameless in their pursuit of him. But he wouldn’t hear a word. If he spends all his spare time with the girls in the cafés, I don’t think it advisable to ask him out here any more.”“It will be a triumph for her if she succeeds in marrying him,” May opined.“Oh! he won’t marry her. Men don’t marry those sort of girls.”As an outcome of that unfortunate talk Matheson went the following afternoon in search of Brenda. It was a cold dark day. A south-east gale was blowing, and the town was enveloped in a sticky dust that clung to the clothes and hair. Grit and small pebbles were carried by the force of the wind and stung the unprotected faces of the few pedestrians who ventured abroad in the teeth of the gale. The clouds hung dense and low upon the mountain, pouring over the rocky sides with the effect of cascades of foam tumbling over a precipice. Matheson, with his head down, buffetted against the gale, and arrived damp and rather breathless at his destination. He was early. He had timed his arrival in the hope of getting Brenda to himself. He asked for Brenda on being admitted. She came to him almost immediately, and it was manifest from her manner that his visit was unexpected.She shook hands, looked out at the lowering sky and the waving branches of the trees, and smiled.“You are brave to venture out in this,” she said.“I’ve been lonely for a week,” he replied, as though that explained everything, as perhaps it did; “an earthquake couldn’t have kept me away to-day.”The wind rattled the window, and flung a shower of tiny stones against the glass.“God! how it blows!” he cried. He drew her to the sofa, and seated himself beside her.“I’m not in the way, am I? You weren’t lying down?”“No.” She laughed brightly. “I don’t do those nice reposeful things even on a Sunday afternoon. Mother is resting though, and I imagine every one else in the house. There is nothing much to do with a black south-easter blowing.”“We won’t disturb them,” he said, and smiled at her. “I am needing at the moment only you. You don’t mind if I stay?”She looked surprised at this question, and answered in the negative.“You’ve made me dependent on you somehow,” he explained. “I’ve never felt so intolerably lonely as during this past week. You ought not to teach me to rely on you and then send me into banishment. It isn’t kind.”“But,” she protested quickly, a soft amazement in her voice, “I never suggested that I didn’t wish to see you.”“I know,” he said, “but...”He paused, and regarded her fixedly. Their eyes met for a moment; then she turned her gaze from his deliberately and looked out through the window, an expression of distressed embarrassment sweeping over her face. He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa behind her and leaned slightly towards her.“That isn’t enough,” he said—“not as things stand. You see, I can’t always have your comradeship that way. The time will come—it’s approaching now—when my work will take me away from here. What’s the good of friendship then? When I go, I’ll miss you—as I have missed you this week. I can’t face it. I’ve grown to want you. I want to keep you with me. There’s only one way to do that, and I’m not sure you’ll agree to it. Had I been sure I’d have said all this weeks ago. But you... you haven’t let me somehow. You’ve held me off. And since that day at the Monument I’ve been conscious of—a sort of estrangement. You made me feel that I haven’t enough to offer—”“No,” she interrupted sharply. “Surely not that?”The tears rose in her eyes: slowly they overflowed and rolled down her cheeks. She made no effort to stay them. She sat still with her face averted and wept silently.“I’m a clumsy fool,” he said; “I hurt you without intending it. And you’re so sweet and kind... Dear, if you will marry me I will do everything a man can do to make you happy.”Never one word of love! ... Not one word of love had he ever let fall in all their talks together. She dropped her quivering face suddenly between her hands to hide its sorrow from him.“All that I have to give is yours,” she whispered—“everything... If all my love can help you just a little I will be glad. I’ve loved you—from that first morning when you spoke to me on the beach.”He put his arms about her and drew her close and held her, still weeping, with her face hidden upon his shoulder—giving all of herself to him, taking the little that he offered, because she was a woman in love who must have denied the crumbs of his affection.“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” she sobbed... “I couldn’t bear it. I’ve thought I couldn’t marry you even if you wished it, but—I can’t—give you up.”Without answering her, he kissed her, if not with passion, with a great tenderness and an almost reverential gratitude; and in his heart he resolved that he would make good to her in every way in which it was humanly possible for the one thing which he could not give her—that which was given already, and which no one can give twice—the pure flame of a first passion. The love which he had for her was the steady glow which succeeds the fierce upward flash of the white flame that leaps from the heart and leaves behind only memories.
It is a sad moment in a woman’s life when she realises that she does not possess the heart of the man she loves. If one may use a sordid simile in this connexion, her position resembles that of the owner of a beautiful home in possession of which the bailiff has been placed through the indiscretion of another. In this instance Honor was in possession with full power to hold, and without personal interest in the value of what she held, and what she would never claim for her own. But her right robbed the other of all the joy of ownership. An empty jewel casket has little intrinsic value, and stands only as a reminder of the precious thing it was intended to contain.
It was impossible for Brenda to hide altogether from Matheson the difference which his confidence had made to her. She endeavoured to maintain their former relations of pleasant and intimate comradeship, but he detected behind the assumed brightness of her manner the increasing restraint, the shy reserve, beneath which she sought to cloak her feelings, and the pain of her disappointment. He realised with considerable dismay that his matrimonial plans were in danger of further defeat. The fear of defeat goaded him and gave a keener edge to his desire. He could not, he found on making the attempt, reconcile himself to the thought of losing her. For one entire, unforgettable week he refrained from going near her. He had no means of discovering whether she missed him, but he missed her almost intolerably. In the end he threw over his resolves and went in search of her.
Again it was on a Sunday that he sought her after his brief avoidance. On the previous afternoon he had been at the Aplins. Something he heard there stripped his last scruple from him and determined him to see Brenda on the morrow. Mrs Aplin had pressed him to stay to dinner, and he had stayed; he did not know why; he had not wished to, and he had demurred on account of being in flannels. They waived the matter of dressing. No one would dress, Mrs Aplin announced; the girls would merely change their blouses.
The change had been somewhat elaborate, and only stopped short of being full evening dress. Instead of rousing his admiration, as had been intended, it kept alive a consciousness of his own negligent attire, which did not add to his enjoyment. He had never felt so unutterably bored with the inconsequent chatter of Rosie, nor more annoyed with May’s noisy performance on the piano. She sang popular songs with choruses in which every one joined; and when this form of amusement wearied they all repaired to the billiard-room, just to knock about the balls, Mrs Aplin said, beaming, thoroughly satisfied, having started the young people playing games, that they were having a good time.
Before he left she contrived with an openness that was not diplomatic to get a few words alone with him. Her insistence on a little private talk robbed her confidences of the air of being casual which she had intended to give them, and prepared him against surprises.
“The girls monopolise you,” she said pleasantly. “I never seem to get the opportunity for a talk.”
He wondered what was coming and felt apprehensive; but his wildest conjectures could not anticipate what she had it in mind to say. She started on irrelevant topics, wandered rather aimlessly from one subject to another, and finally came to her point.
“I am so pleased you came to-day,” she said. “We began to feel neglected. The girls tell me they see you sometimes in town; and of course at the theatre last week... I don’t think you saw us though. You were with the Uptons.”
“I saw you,” he answered, and felt himself flushing awkwardly. “But I wasn’t sure... I thought perhaps... You see, Miss Aplin told me there was a little difficulty...” He looked at her squarely and shifted his ground. “It was a jolly fine play, wasn’t it? And the acting was quite good.”
“I thought it a little sensational,” she replied, and disposed of that, smiling at him with almost maternal solicitude as she added: “It was thoughtful of you to consider my prejudices. Having girls, you see, I have to be very careful. But I am sorry for Brenda Upton. She is thrown with undesirable associates, and has been talked about in connexion with men. Her mother is always striving to get her married. That sort of thing is very bad for a girl; and with their history they ought to besocareful. She is naturally anxious to marry for the sake of a home; and I hope she will succeed in finding some honest man in her own sphere who will overlook what is undesirable in her past. She is not after all responsible for her father’s failings.”
“I should think not,” he answered, with a curtness he was unable to prevent. He felt almost uncontrollably angry. He apprehended quite clearly that Mrs Aplin was desirous of warning him against a mésalliance, and he considered it not only an unwarranted impertinence, but a mischievous and scurrilous aspersion of Brenda’s reputation. “I doubt whether any man of average common sense would think twice about that,” he said.
“You know her quite intimately, I suppose?” she ventured.
“Yes,” he answered, and added with a certain dry malice: “I imagine I am the only man in connexion with whom she has ever been talked about.”
“Really, Mr Matheson!” Her tone was as shocked as her look. He laughed savagely.
“Oh! it’s an entirely innocuous scandal. To be honoured with Miss Upton’s friendship is a guarantee of discretion. Believe me, you have been doing her a grave injustice.”
“I don’t wish to be unjust.” Mrs Aplin surveyed him with displeased, protesting eyes. “And I am sure if I had known you were suchgreatfriends I wouldn’t have spoken. But I know somuchmore of them than you can possibly know.”
“I know only good of her,” he returned quietly, and was immeasurably relieved that May should choose that moment for breaking in upon their talk, which he felt was getting altogether beyond his patience.
“You look,” she said, assuming a graceful pose by the head of the sofa upon which she leaned, “abnormally serious. I believe mother has been fault finding. Come and sit over here, and I’ll comfort you.”
He laughed, and answered her jestingly; but he did not avail himself of the invitation. That was the general idea in that house, that a man must be comfortably placed, and submit to being petted. Possibly some men liked petting, but that sort of thing was not in his line.
“It’s getting late,” he said, with an attentive eye on the clock, the big hand of which seemed to drag with such exasperating slowness. He felt grateful for the first time in their acquaintance to Mrs Aplin for silencing her daughter’s protests against his leaving so soon.
“Whatever did you say to him to make him so huffy?” Rosie asked when he had gone. “I always knew he had a horrid temper.”
“I warned him against that Upton girl. Those people are shameless in their pursuit of him. But he wouldn’t hear a word. If he spends all his spare time with the girls in the cafés, I don’t think it advisable to ask him out here any more.”
“It will be a triumph for her if she succeeds in marrying him,” May opined.
“Oh! he won’t marry her. Men don’t marry those sort of girls.”
As an outcome of that unfortunate talk Matheson went the following afternoon in search of Brenda. It was a cold dark day. A south-east gale was blowing, and the town was enveloped in a sticky dust that clung to the clothes and hair. Grit and small pebbles were carried by the force of the wind and stung the unprotected faces of the few pedestrians who ventured abroad in the teeth of the gale. The clouds hung dense and low upon the mountain, pouring over the rocky sides with the effect of cascades of foam tumbling over a precipice. Matheson, with his head down, buffetted against the gale, and arrived damp and rather breathless at his destination. He was early. He had timed his arrival in the hope of getting Brenda to himself. He asked for Brenda on being admitted. She came to him almost immediately, and it was manifest from her manner that his visit was unexpected.
She shook hands, looked out at the lowering sky and the waving branches of the trees, and smiled.
“You are brave to venture out in this,” she said.
“I’ve been lonely for a week,” he replied, as though that explained everything, as perhaps it did; “an earthquake couldn’t have kept me away to-day.”
The wind rattled the window, and flung a shower of tiny stones against the glass.
“God! how it blows!” he cried. He drew her to the sofa, and seated himself beside her.
“I’m not in the way, am I? You weren’t lying down?”
“No.” She laughed brightly. “I don’t do those nice reposeful things even on a Sunday afternoon. Mother is resting though, and I imagine every one else in the house. There is nothing much to do with a black south-easter blowing.”
“We won’t disturb them,” he said, and smiled at her. “I am needing at the moment only you. You don’t mind if I stay?”
She looked surprised at this question, and answered in the negative.
“You’ve made me dependent on you somehow,” he explained. “I’ve never felt so intolerably lonely as during this past week. You ought not to teach me to rely on you and then send me into banishment. It isn’t kind.”
“But,” she protested quickly, a soft amazement in her voice, “I never suggested that I didn’t wish to see you.”
“I know,” he said, “but...”
He paused, and regarded her fixedly. Their eyes met for a moment; then she turned her gaze from his deliberately and looked out through the window, an expression of distressed embarrassment sweeping over her face. He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa behind her and leaned slightly towards her.
“That isn’t enough,” he said—“not as things stand. You see, I can’t always have your comradeship that way. The time will come—it’s approaching now—when my work will take me away from here. What’s the good of friendship then? When I go, I’ll miss you—as I have missed you this week. I can’t face it. I’ve grown to want you. I want to keep you with me. There’s only one way to do that, and I’m not sure you’ll agree to it. Had I been sure I’d have said all this weeks ago. But you... you haven’t let me somehow. You’ve held me off. And since that day at the Monument I’ve been conscious of—a sort of estrangement. You made me feel that I haven’t enough to offer—”
“No,” she interrupted sharply. “Surely not that?”
The tears rose in her eyes: slowly they overflowed and rolled down her cheeks. She made no effort to stay them. She sat still with her face averted and wept silently.
“I’m a clumsy fool,” he said; “I hurt you without intending it. And you’re so sweet and kind... Dear, if you will marry me I will do everything a man can do to make you happy.”
Never one word of love! ... Not one word of love had he ever let fall in all their talks together. She dropped her quivering face suddenly between her hands to hide its sorrow from him.
“All that I have to give is yours,” she whispered—“everything... If all my love can help you just a little I will be glad. I’ve loved you—from that first morning when you spoke to me on the beach.”
He put his arms about her and drew her close and held her, still weeping, with her face hidden upon his shoulder—giving all of herself to him, taking the little that he offered, because she was a woman in love who must have denied the crumbs of his affection.
“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” she sobbed... “I couldn’t bear it. I’ve thought I couldn’t marry you even if you wished it, but—I can’t—give you up.”
Without answering her, he kissed her, if not with passion, with a great tenderness and an almost reverential gratitude; and in his heart he resolved that he would make good to her in every way in which it was humanly possible for the one thing which he could not give her—that which was given already, and which no one can give twice—the pure flame of a first passion. The love which he had for her was the steady glow which succeeds the fierce upward flash of the white flame that leaps from the heart and leaves behind only memories.
Chapter Twenty Six.It seemed to Matheson that with his engagement events multiplied with such amazing rapidity that the deep significance of the step he had taken was lost sight of; its importance was swamped in the whirlpool of calamitous happenings that marked the year of 1914 in bloody letters upon the calendar of the world.It was in July that he became engaged, and within a week of his proposal the world war had made its puling start with the faked dispute over an assassinated archduke. The insignificant start swelled to compelling significance; and the world awaited with suspended breath each new development of the most appalling disaster in the history of the nations. From the first Matheson had no doubt that Great Britain would be forced into the struggle. There was no choice about it; it was a question of national safety as well as of honour. He began to consider the subject in connexion with himself. Plainly if the country went to war it was his duty to see the matter through. Quite apart from inclination the man of military age and fitness was called upon to serve.He talked to Macfarlane about it. Macfarlane was cautious and reserved his opinion.“You’ve got a girl now,” he said. “You’ve got to consider her.”“But that’s all the greater reason why a man should stand by his country,” Matheson insisted.“Better talk it over with her first. And, look here!” Macfarlane became more alert. “This trouble, if it involves England, is going to reach out here. Have you forgotten your talk about a Boer rebellion? I thought you were rotting at the time—but you weren’t. You are something of a prophet, you know, Matheson. If England is full up with her own affairs, that’s just the time the Boers will seize for getting hold of this country. It’s all cut and dried, you can depend on that. Should there be trouble out here,” Macfarlane added in a hard decisive voice, “I am for helping to quell that anyway. If your talk of colonisation is worth anything, you will do the same.”Matheson made no immediate answer. Macfarlane’s speech somehow visualised for him the whitewashed walls of Benfontein, and Honor’s face showing wanly in the moonlight while the low-pitched voice breathed its earnest question: “I wonder if you will ever see into the heart of the veld?”“I can’t tell what I’ll do,” he answered after a long silence, and got up and went away with rather surprising suddenness.July ended and August came in on the pathetic note of Belgium’s appeal against the savage bestiality of this new-born oppression which overran her territory, an appeal to which there could be but one answer. The hour for Great Britain’s intervention struck with that piteous cry for help.To Matheson, after the first shock of amaze wore off, it did not appear so much a question of a European crisis as of the deepening of that sinister shadow which stretched its forbidding length across this land. Dark though the cloud of war loomed in Europe, this lesser cloud, which lay like a black stain upon the sunlit peacefulness, was even more tragic in the bitter personal nature of its animus. If no human agency could disperse this cloud, brother would be against brother, friend against friend.Matheson did not believe that anything would avert the disaster. Quite clearly he saw it coming. Every word in Holman’s letter was indelibly fixed in his memory—the letter which Honor had read to him, and which breathed through every line the insidious cunning of the spy who is paid to organise rebellion. It was coming surely, and it would come soon.The first intimation of active trouble revealed itself in the impudent invasion of the Union by a German force from South-West Africa, an act of war that could have originated only in a confident assurance of a prompt and general rising of the Boers.Matheson applied to his firm for leave to volunteer, and received immediate permission. He was in a state of considerable indecision. His interest in the country inclined him to stay to defend it. Had it been a matter simply of fighting the Germans there would have been no hesitation in respect of choice; but he felt an increasing reluctance to take the field against Honor’s people. They were wrong, they were wholly mistaken; but at bottom, the motives which actuated the majority of them were pure in conception. If later in the heat of conflict, and with a free rein given to hatred, some among them lowered their ideals and committed base acts, these were in the minority. He knew what they would fight for—Liberty. Man has sought after and fought for his ideal of liberty since the beginning of time.One result of the war was to precipitate his marriage. Whether he went to Europe, or whether he remained in the Colony and joined the Union forces, now commanded by the Premier since General Beyers’ resignation of troops he knew he could never take over with him in his treacherous alliance with the Germans, the question of Brenda’s future could not remain unsettled.He took her for a walk and discussed the matter with her.“I can’t, you see,” he said, “go away and leave you at the café. I want to provide for you. It will be an inadequate provision, but it will be an improvement on the café. I can’t leave you there. I don’t like your being there. I’ve never liked it. It’s rather inconsiderate to hurry you like this... Do you mind?”“No. I can be ready as soon as you wish. But if you go to Europe I’ll go too. I could put my hand to something to help. At least,” she said, smiling, “I could undertake canteen work. I’m qualified for that. You wouldn’t object to my doing that—for the war?”“No. I suppose I never imagined you would be satisfied to sit still and look on.”He felt for her hand and held it, and they walked on together in the dusky starlight, rather silent and preoccupied, thinking of many things.“This settles any chance of honeymooning,” he said presently. “We’ll have to have that later. It’s rough on you all round.”She drew closer to him.“I’m not minding that. Those things don’t seem to matter any more. If only you come through!”He squeezed her hand hard, and they were silent again. The possibility of losing him had wrought a considerable change in Brenda’s view of things. Her own phrase perhaps best expressed this alteration:“Those things don’t seem to matter any more.” The sting of bitterness had gone out of her sorrow. Those minor distresses, the jealousy of another’s claim, and the knowledge that she did not possess his entire heart, shrunk to inconsiderable dimensions in the face of this greater disaster—before the haunting spectre of possible death for him. The fear of losing him in a sudden and tragic manner made him very precious to her. There was no room in her mind for any but loving thoughts.“What a lot of things have happened,” he said presently, “since you and I first mooned about this beach! I remember having a feeling in those days that you had come into my life to some purpose... come to stay. One knows somehow instinctively the people who are going to count.”He stooped suddenly and kissed her lips.“Salt kisses,” he said... “like the salt kisses I first took from you.” He held her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward slightly. “The spray has got into your dear eyes... There were no tears there on that other occasion.”She smiled at him and attempted to wink the tears away.“It’s only spray... don’t heed that. Go on talking... I want to hear you talk. These remembrances... I love to hear them.”“Confidence for confidence,” he said teasingly. “Tell me something of your early impressions. Did you ever dream of me?—I’ve dreamed of you.”“No.” She laughed happily. “I don’t dream. But I used to lean from my bedroom window and think and think and think.”“What about?” he asked.“You... You peopled my world from the outset. There were nights when I lost count of time, and leaned there and watched the dawn break.”“That last night?” he asked.—“When we said good-bye under the oleanders?”“That last night of course,” she answered. “I stayed at the window until the sun rose.”“Dear little lonely watcher!” he said. “I wish I could have been with you... And you were in trouble too that night.”“I hadn’t time to think of that. I was enjoying in retrospect my perfect hour. The troubles began next day.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder caressingly. “We won’t talk of that I refuse to remember unpleasant things.”“Wise little woman! ... Stand here a moment. I want to listen with you to the wash of the waves between the rocks. How often have we stood here like this?” he said with his arm about her. “There is no other music—is there?—like the music of the sea.”“With you beside me—no. When I listen to it in your absence it will be as sound divorced from the spirit of music.”Bending over her, he asked quickly:“You wouldn’t wish to keep me back?”He thought of Macfarlane’s words: “You’ve got a girl now. You have to consider her.” He had not considered her in this matter at all. He had not even consulted her. He had taken her approval for granted.“Of course I wouldn’t keep you back. Only I hate war. You can’t expect me to be glad.”“There isn’t much in it to occasion any one gladness,” he replied. “It’s a bad business however one lodes at it.” The old reckless smile shone for a moment in his eyes. “Though, if it wasn’t for a certain young woman, I think I could find the prospect somewhat alluring. Man was born to kill his enemy.”“It’s high time man had outgrown his primitive instincts,” she said, smiling with him.“That he will never do,” he answered with conviction. “Love and hate, the primordial emotions, hang together—the antithesis of each other, irreconcilable yet inseparable. Humanity without love is inconceivable—and so is a world without hate. At best civilisation teaches us to control these elemental passions—and our control is about as effective in a crisis as the outer petals which conceal the canker in the heart of a flower. If you look close enough you see the stain of evil showing through.”He discussed their immediate plans for a while, and referred to the growing difficulties of the South African situation. Her own brothers had joined the Union forces: he felt that it caused her surprise that he did not do the same. Her mother had taken it for granted that he would. He found it more difficult to deal with Mrs Upton; she required explanations. He was a little uncertain how she would receive the news of their immediate marriage. Although she liked him, and approved of the engagement, she had expressed the hope that they would do nothing hastily, but would learn to know one another more thoroughly before taking any decisive step.He went back with Brenda that night to break the news to her, braced to meet opposition, and bent on overcoming it. But when he faced her and made his half-defiant announcement, he saw by the look in her eyes that there was no opposition to fear. She lifted a serious, unsurprised face to his, and said quietly:“I’ve been expecting this... You want to marry before joining up?”“Yes. It’s awfully jolly of you to take it like this.”She smiled briefly.“When it comes to war,” she said, “we stand aside and yield your sex first place. It’s your hour. You’ve a right to consideration. But for the war, I would rather you had waited—years.”“You don’t mean that?” he said, and scrutinised her closely. “There is a little distrust at the back of your mind which I haven’t succeeded in allaying.”She changed colour, showing signs of embarrassment, and turned away a little disconcerted at this outspoken attack.“Do you suppose any mother ever thinks a man good enough for her girl?” she asked with a slightly nervous laugh.“If that’s all...” he said, and waited.She faced round again and held out both her hands to him in an impulsive appeal.“You will be good to her?” she cried... “Oh! you will be good to her?”“Surely,” he answered earnestly, “you know I will be?” and took her hands and kissed them.
It seemed to Matheson that with his engagement events multiplied with such amazing rapidity that the deep significance of the step he had taken was lost sight of; its importance was swamped in the whirlpool of calamitous happenings that marked the year of 1914 in bloody letters upon the calendar of the world.
It was in July that he became engaged, and within a week of his proposal the world war had made its puling start with the faked dispute over an assassinated archduke. The insignificant start swelled to compelling significance; and the world awaited with suspended breath each new development of the most appalling disaster in the history of the nations. From the first Matheson had no doubt that Great Britain would be forced into the struggle. There was no choice about it; it was a question of national safety as well as of honour. He began to consider the subject in connexion with himself. Plainly if the country went to war it was his duty to see the matter through. Quite apart from inclination the man of military age and fitness was called upon to serve.
He talked to Macfarlane about it. Macfarlane was cautious and reserved his opinion.
“You’ve got a girl now,” he said. “You’ve got to consider her.”
“But that’s all the greater reason why a man should stand by his country,” Matheson insisted.
“Better talk it over with her first. And, look here!” Macfarlane became more alert. “This trouble, if it involves England, is going to reach out here. Have you forgotten your talk about a Boer rebellion? I thought you were rotting at the time—but you weren’t. You are something of a prophet, you know, Matheson. If England is full up with her own affairs, that’s just the time the Boers will seize for getting hold of this country. It’s all cut and dried, you can depend on that. Should there be trouble out here,” Macfarlane added in a hard decisive voice, “I am for helping to quell that anyway. If your talk of colonisation is worth anything, you will do the same.”
Matheson made no immediate answer. Macfarlane’s speech somehow visualised for him the whitewashed walls of Benfontein, and Honor’s face showing wanly in the moonlight while the low-pitched voice breathed its earnest question: “I wonder if you will ever see into the heart of the veld?”
“I can’t tell what I’ll do,” he answered after a long silence, and got up and went away with rather surprising suddenness.
July ended and August came in on the pathetic note of Belgium’s appeal against the savage bestiality of this new-born oppression which overran her territory, an appeal to which there could be but one answer. The hour for Great Britain’s intervention struck with that piteous cry for help.
To Matheson, after the first shock of amaze wore off, it did not appear so much a question of a European crisis as of the deepening of that sinister shadow which stretched its forbidding length across this land. Dark though the cloud of war loomed in Europe, this lesser cloud, which lay like a black stain upon the sunlit peacefulness, was even more tragic in the bitter personal nature of its animus. If no human agency could disperse this cloud, brother would be against brother, friend against friend.
Matheson did not believe that anything would avert the disaster. Quite clearly he saw it coming. Every word in Holman’s letter was indelibly fixed in his memory—the letter which Honor had read to him, and which breathed through every line the insidious cunning of the spy who is paid to organise rebellion. It was coming surely, and it would come soon.
The first intimation of active trouble revealed itself in the impudent invasion of the Union by a German force from South-West Africa, an act of war that could have originated only in a confident assurance of a prompt and general rising of the Boers.
Matheson applied to his firm for leave to volunteer, and received immediate permission. He was in a state of considerable indecision. His interest in the country inclined him to stay to defend it. Had it been a matter simply of fighting the Germans there would have been no hesitation in respect of choice; but he felt an increasing reluctance to take the field against Honor’s people. They were wrong, they were wholly mistaken; but at bottom, the motives which actuated the majority of them were pure in conception. If later in the heat of conflict, and with a free rein given to hatred, some among them lowered their ideals and committed base acts, these were in the minority. He knew what they would fight for—Liberty. Man has sought after and fought for his ideal of liberty since the beginning of time.
One result of the war was to precipitate his marriage. Whether he went to Europe, or whether he remained in the Colony and joined the Union forces, now commanded by the Premier since General Beyers’ resignation of troops he knew he could never take over with him in his treacherous alliance with the Germans, the question of Brenda’s future could not remain unsettled.
He took her for a walk and discussed the matter with her.
“I can’t, you see,” he said, “go away and leave you at the café. I want to provide for you. It will be an inadequate provision, but it will be an improvement on the café. I can’t leave you there. I don’t like your being there. I’ve never liked it. It’s rather inconsiderate to hurry you like this... Do you mind?”
“No. I can be ready as soon as you wish. But if you go to Europe I’ll go too. I could put my hand to something to help. At least,” she said, smiling, “I could undertake canteen work. I’m qualified for that. You wouldn’t object to my doing that—for the war?”
“No. I suppose I never imagined you would be satisfied to sit still and look on.”
He felt for her hand and held it, and they walked on together in the dusky starlight, rather silent and preoccupied, thinking of many things.
“This settles any chance of honeymooning,” he said presently. “We’ll have to have that later. It’s rough on you all round.”
She drew closer to him.
“I’m not minding that. Those things don’t seem to matter any more. If only you come through!”
He squeezed her hand hard, and they were silent again. The possibility of losing him had wrought a considerable change in Brenda’s view of things. Her own phrase perhaps best expressed this alteration:
“Those things don’t seem to matter any more.” The sting of bitterness had gone out of her sorrow. Those minor distresses, the jealousy of another’s claim, and the knowledge that she did not possess his entire heart, shrunk to inconsiderable dimensions in the face of this greater disaster—before the haunting spectre of possible death for him. The fear of losing him in a sudden and tragic manner made him very precious to her. There was no room in her mind for any but loving thoughts.
“What a lot of things have happened,” he said presently, “since you and I first mooned about this beach! I remember having a feeling in those days that you had come into my life to some purpose... come to stay. One knows somehow instinctively the people who are going to count.”
He stooped suddenly and kissed her lips.
“Salt kisses,” he said... “like the salt kisses I first took from you.” He held her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward slightly. “The spray has got into your dear eyes... There were no tears there on that other occasion.”
She smiled at him and attempted to wink the tears away.
“It’s only spray... don’t heed that. Go on talking... I want to hear you talk. These remembrances... I love to hear them.”
“Confidence for confidence,” he said teasingly. “Tell me something of your early impressions. Did you ever dream of me?—I’ve dreamed of you.”
“No.” She laughed happily. “I don’t dream. But I used to lean from my bedroom window and think and think and think.”
“What about?” he asked.
“You... You peopled my world from the outset. There were nights when I lost count of time, and leaned there and watched the dawn break.”
“That last night?” he asked.—“When we said good-bye under the oleanders?”
“That last night of course,” she answered. “I stayed at the window until the sun rose.”
“Dear little lonely watcher!” he said. “I wish I could have been with you... And you were in trouble too that night.”
“I hadn’t time to think of that. I was enjoying in retrospect my perfect hour. The troubles began next day.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder caressingly. “We won’t talk of that I refuse to remember unpleasant things.”
“Wise little woman! ... Stand here a moment. I want to listen with you to the wash of the waves between the rocks. How often have we stood here like this?” he said with his arm about her. “There is no other music—is there?—like the music of the sea.”
“With you beside me—no. When I listen to it in your absence it will be as sound divorced from the spirit of music.”
Bending over her, he asked quickly:
“You wouldn’t wish to keep me back?”
He thought of Macfarlane’s words: “You’ve got a girl now. You have to consider her.” He had not considered her in this matter at all. He had not even consulted her. He had taken her approval for granted.
“Of course I wouldn’t keep you back. Only I hate war. You can’t expect me to be glad.”
“There isn’t much in it to occasion any one gladness,” he replied. “It’s a bad business however one lodes at it.” The old reckless smile shone for a moment in his eyes. “Though, if it wasn’t for a certain young woman, I think I could find the prospect somewhat alluring. Man was born to kill his enemy.”
“It’s high time man had outgrown his primitive instincts,” she said, smiling with him.
“That he will never do,” he answered with conviction. “Love and hate, the primordial emotions, hang together—the antithesis of each other, irreconcilable yet inseparable. Humanity without love is inconceivable—and so is a world without hate. At best civilisation teaches us to control these elemental passions—and our control is about as effective in a crisis as the outer petals which conceal the canker in the heart of a flower. If you look close enough you see the stain of evil showing through.”
He discussed their immediate plans for a while, and referred to the growing difficulties of the South African situation. Her own brothers had joined the Union forces: he felt that it caused her surprise that he did not do the same. Her mother had taken it for granted that he would. He found it more difficult to deal with Mrs Upton; she required explanations. He was a little uncertain how she would receive the news of their immediate marriage. Although she liked him, and approved of the engagement, she had expressed the hope that they would do nothing hastily, but would learn to know one another more thoroughly before taking any decisive step.
He went back with Brenda that night to break the news to her, braced to meet opposition, and bent on overcoming it. But when he faced her and made his half-defiant announcement, he saw by the look in her eyes that there was no opposition to fear. She lifted a serious, unsurprised face to his, and said quietly:
“I’ve been expecting this... You want to marry before joining up?”
“Yes. It’s awfully jolly of you to take it like this.”
She smiled briefly.
“When it comes to war,” she said, “we stand aside and yield your sex first place. It’s your hour. You’ve a right to consideration. But for the war, I would rather you had waited—years.”
“You don’t mean that?” he said, and scrutinised her closely. “There is a little distrust at the back of your mind which I haven’t succeeded in allaying.”
She changed colour, showing signs of embarrassment, and turned away a little disconcerted at this outspoken attack.
“Do you suppose any mother ever thinks a man good enough for her girl?” she asked with a slightly nervous laugh.
“If that’s all...” he said, and waited.
She faced round again and held out both her hands to him in an impulsive appeal.
“You will be good to her?” she cried... “Oh! you will be good to her?”
“Surely,” he answered earnestly, “you know I will be?” and took her hands and kissed them.
Chapter Twenty Seven.There was a task which, when he had little knowledge of the nearness and the overwhelming nature of the tragedy that had since befallen, Matheson had allocated to himself with every intention of going through with it; the task included fixing the guilt of incitement to rebellion on to Holman. He meant to bring Holman to account for his treachery.Amid the hurried preparations for his wedding, which was to precede his enlistment for Home service, he had no thought of evading this task. It was inconvenient at the moment to give his time to outside matters; but the tracking down of this man—this German spy who for years had been fostering a spirit of hatred among the Boers to the end that these people whom his country was deluding would, when the hour struck, serve his country to their own undoing—the confronting him with his treachery and the bringing of him to justice was a matter of vital importance to him. In his desire to punish Holman he was moved primarily by resentment, fierce, bitter resentment that was mainly concerned with Honor, with the pernicious effect of this mischievous doctrine upon Honor’s warm responsive nature. It seemed to him that the punishment of Holman, the punishment of all those who had planned and assisted in this devil’s work, was an act of bare retribution, incomplete and wholly inadequate though the utmost punishment meted out to the individual could be in consideration of the evil resulting from the insidious poison inculcated for many years into the receptive minds of a simple and credulous people—a people labouring under a sense of past injustice. It had been an easy task for a nation accomplished in crooked measures, this sowing and untiring cultivation of the seed of rebellion. For years this work had been going forward in the Colony unsuspected. Germans who had lived on seemingly friendly relations with their English neighbours for nearly a lifetime had been steadily pursuing this system of intrigue, and secretly sowing dissension among the peoples of the country. Now the trouble had come to a head and the persons most criminally responsible had for the greater part fled to Europe.So far as Matheson knew, Holman might also have gone. He had no knowledge of his whereabouts. The most likely source from whence to glean any information concerning him was the man’s own office in Johannesburg, though in all probability he would find the office deserted if he made the journey. There was, however, the clerk: if he could discover this youth he might possibly learn something of his employer’s movements. In any case it was worth the attempt.He decided to start immediately; and found himself wondering how he should explain this abrupt journey to Brenda. Finally he decided to explain nothing, and left her to infer that business took him up the line. She was much occupied in getting ready for her marriage, and preparing to sail for Europe if necessary with her husband. If he served in France, she purposed serving also in some capacity behind the fixing line. It was understood between them that where he went she would follow whenever practicable. In all things they were to be comrades: only in the matter of Honor did he keep her outside his life. He had confided to her the essential facts in regard to his relations with Honor Krige; he did not deem it expedient after that to go into further detail. That part of his life was finished—he believed it to be finished; but a man cannot finish with a part of his life at will: life has a habit of facing about upon the person who would ignore it. It was so in Matheson’s case. When he had, as he fancied, closed this chapter which related to the past for ever, the chance breeze of an accidental encounter ruffled the pages and turned them bade.On the day before he had arranged to go to Johannesburg he came face to face with Herman Nel in the fine oak avenue outside the Botanical Gardens. He was on his way to fulfil an appointment with Brenda; but when he saw Nel—Nel looking handsome and business-like in the serviceable uniform of the Union Defence Force—he forgot everything for the moment in sheer amaze at this unexpected meeting.It was never clear to him who saw the other first; the recognition seemed to be simultaneous: the grip of their hands was spontaneous and eager.“I never expected to see you here,” he said, and wrung Nel’s hand warmly. “What’s the farm doing in your absence?”“Looking after itself,” Nel answered with a shrug. “I’ve come away to defend it. Leentje imagines she is seeing after things while Cornelius is engaged in espousing the German cause.” His face was grave. “Come into the Gardens here, and sit down and let us talk.”Matheson accompanied him in silence and sat down with him on a seat near the entrance. Nel looked hard at him, looked from his face to his clothes; and Matheson felt that the shrewd eyes were mutely inquiring why he also was not in uniform.“I’ve been in Cape Town only a few days,” Nel volunteered. “I’m following Botha wherever he leads. His lead is straight always, and for the good of the country. Cornelius can’t see that—yet.”“So he has joined the rebellion?” Matheson said.“Yes. He’s with his commando—and Andreas Krige. They have joined Maritz. It’s a bad business. One cannot help feeling sorry for men who deliberately cut their own throats. There is a sort of predestination in it.”“And what,” Matheson asked quickly, “are they doing at Benfontein?”Nel shook his head.“I’ve not been received at Benfontein since the beginning of August,” he said. “My engagement is terminated—temporarily.” He smiled in his old whimsical way. “The outlook is dark at the moment; but always I look forward to the dawn of a to-morrow. And now tell me about yourself. You are remaining outside all this?”His voice was puzzled; there was a ring, Matheson fancied, of disapproval behind its surprise. He took up his own defence eagerly.“No, indeed!” he answered. “Who could remain outside? ... Certainly no one with any interest beyond his own immediate affairs. I intend to volunteer for service in Europe.”“Why in Europe?” Nel asked. “There is quite important work to be done in this country.”“I know it.”Matheson was silent for a while. Presently he said:“I’ve a feeling—I can’t explain it—against fighting out here. If it was simply fighting the Germans I wouldn’t hesitate, but—the Boers... No; I can’t do it. Simply I can’t do it.”Nel scrutinised him closely, a kindly, rather wistful, expression lighting his grave features.“That’s the very reason,” he said at length, “why you ought to remain out here. It’s men who feel as you do about it that we want... Do you suppose that it is easier for me, who have to take the field against the brother I love? ... Do you think it is easy for Botha to fight against men who once fought shoulder to shoulder with him in a just though unequal cause? Botha took the field before for his people; he takes it to-day for the good of South Africa, which before everything else he has at heart. He is fine—a simple and honourable man. I would follow him to the death.”Nel stretched out a hand and laid it on the other’s knee.“It is in no vindictive spirit that we go to war,” he added. “Always it will be in our minds to spare life where that is possible. It is for this reason, and because you have no animosity in your heart against the Dutch, that I say to you with the greatest earnestness, you can do more good here in helping to quell this ill-advised rebellion than ever you can do in Europe. Stay and see it out.”For a while they were silent, looking at one another. Then Matheson said:“I never looked at it like that before.”“Good!” Nel smiled suddenly. “You begin to recognise that your work lies here?”“Yes. I think you have shown me that.”“Then don’t delay. Join up at once.”Matheson thought for a moment. He was no longer in any doubt as to his ultimate decision; but there was one thing that remained to be done before he joined up. He spoke of it to Nel—told of his intention to trade down Holman, and of his projected journey on the morrow.“You won’t find Holman in Johannesburg,” Nel assured him. “On and off for the past three months he has been at Benfontein. He was there, I believe, when I left. But that it seemed to me I had more responsible work to accomplish, I would have shot him like a jackal. I don’t know what he is after at Benfontein, but I don’t trust him. He has been Krige’s evil genius from the beginning. And the women... they simply worship him. His is the hand of the friend stretched forth to deliver them from the oppressor. As though a friendly hand was ever advanced by a stranger nation from entirely disinterested motives! They can’t see that this so strong hand of Germany would make a tool of them.”For a while he remained without speaking, staring abstractedly ahead of him; then with a sudden movement he looked round sharply, and added:“They are quite sincere in desiring their country’s good. That—the good of one’s country, is right in principle, only they look at it crookedly. Botha sees straight: always he works unselfishly for his country’s welfare. That is a principle it would be well for all nations to adopt. Good cannot come to any country through war.”He looked thoughtfully away across the sunlit glory of the gardens, in which the vivid beauty of subtropical flowers and shrubs flourished prodigally, and his face was sad.“I have watched this country grow and expand,” he said. “I have seen it shrivel beneath the devastation of war, and have watched its struggle until it blossomed forth anew. Now I see it bent and scorched before the fires of rebellion. That is the worst event that has yet befallen. But the land survives these things; only man, with his paltry ambitions and his insignificant span, goes under, paying for the folly of others with all that he has to give. It’s senseless, this business of fighting—a puerile defiance of the laws of life.”“And yet,” Matheson said, “you and I are drawn into it.”Nel smiled swiftly.“Yes; you and I are drawn in. And if we have to pay the full price we shall consider the end worth the sacrifice. I recognise sincerity, Mr Matheson, when I meet it. From that first morning when you visited my rondavel I knew that we should be friends. I don’t know how deeply you are interested in South Africa, but if you live here long enough the land will grip you.”“It grips me already,” Matheson said. “I am ready to help purchase the peace of this country without counting the cost.”Nel’s eyes brightened with a sudden fire; his voice, quiet and controlled though it was, vibrated with a ring of triumph.“Boer and Briton!” he said, and laughed quietly... “Boer and Briton! I would merge such distinctions in the comprehensive title of South African. To us—to you and to me—this land belongs by virtue of the reason that we live by it, and are willing to defend it with our lives. The land is our inheritance. Imperial claims concern me very little. A man who has a life’s lease of his homestead doesn’t take much account of the landlord. You haven’t come yet to feel that way?”“No. I don’t suppose an Englishman ever does.” Matheson glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to be going,” he said, and laughed a little consciously. “I’ve an engagement for three, and am overdue now.”He stood up. Nel rose with him. For a second or so they remained still in the path steadily regarding one another.“I’m going to be married,” Matheson said abruptly—“in three weeks’ time.”“Yes!” Nel’s gaze was searching. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr Matheson,” he said. “You are more fortunate than I. Is she English?”“Yes... born out here. I hope some day you’ll meet her. But to-morrow I leave, as you know.”“You are going to Benfontein?”Nel’s tone was discouraging. Matheson answered in the affirmative.“Well, don’t forget,” the Dutchman added cautiously, “that your life is of infinitely greater value to the country than Holman’s death could be. It will be a desperate man you face, remember. Take care of yourself.”“Yes; I’ll do that,” Matheson assured him, and held out his hand. Nel grasped it.“You’ll find the rondavel open and provisioned,” he said. “You may have a use for it.”
There was a task which, when he had little knowledge of the nearness and the overwhelming nature of the tragedy that had since befallen, Matheson had allocated to himself with every intention of going through with it; the task included fixing the guilt of incitement to rebellion on to Holman. He meant to bring Holman to account for his treachery.
Amid the hurried preparations for his wedding, which was to precede his enlistment for Home service, he had no thought of evading this task. It was inconvenient at the moment to give his time to outside matters; but the tracking down of this man—this German spy who for years had been fostering a spirit of hatred among the Boers to the end that these people whom his country was deluding would, when the hour struck, serve his country to their own undoing—the confronting him with his treachery and the bringing of him to justice was a matter of vital importance to him. In his desire to punish Holman he was moved primarily by resentment, fierce, bitter resentment that was mainly concerned with Honor, with the pernicious effect of this mischievous doctrine upon Honor’s warm responsive nature. It seemed to him that the punishment of Holman, the punishment of all those who had planned and assisted in this devil’s work, was an act of bare retribution, incomplete and wholly inadequate though the utmost punishment meted out to the individual could be in consideration of the evil resulting from the insidious poison inculcated for many years into the receptive minds of a simple and credulous people—a people labouring under a sense of past injustice. It had been an easy task for a nation accomplished in crooked measures, this sowing and untiring cultivation of the seed of rebellion. For years this work had been going forward in the Colony unsuspected. Germans who had lived on seemingly friendly relations with their English neighbours for nearly a lifetime had been steadily pursuing this system of intrigue, and secretly sowing dissension among the peoples of the country. Now the trouble had come to a head and the persons most criminally responsible had for the greater part fled to Europe.
So far as Matheson knew, Holman might also have gone. He had no knowledge of his whereabouts. The most likely source from whence to glean any information concerning him was the man’s own office in Johannesburg, though in all probability he would find the office deserted if he made the journey. There was, however, the clerk: if he could discover this youth he might possibly learn something of his employer’s movements. In any case it was worth the attempt.
He decided to start immediately; and found himself wondering how he should explain this abrupt journey to Brenda. Finally he decided to explain nothing, and left her to infer that business took him up the line. She was much occupied in getting ready for her marriage, and preparing to sail for Europe if necessary with her husband. If he served in France, she purposed serving also in some capacity behind the fixing line. It was understood between them that where he went she would follow whenever practicable. In all things they were to be comrades: only in the matter of Honor did he keep her outside his life. He had confided to her the essential facts in regard to his relations with Honor Krige; he did not deem it expedient after that to go into further detail. That part of his life was finished—he believed it to be finished; but a man cannot finish with a part of his life at will: life has a habit of facing about upon the person who would ignore it. It was so in Matheson’s case. When he had, as he fancied, closed this chapter which related to the past for ever, the chance breeze of an accidental encounter ruffled the pages and turned them bade.
On the day before he had arranged to go to Johannesburg he came face to face with Herman Nel in the fine oak avenue outside the Botanical Gardens. He was on his way to fulfil an appointment with Brenda; but when he saw Nel—Nel looking handsome and business-like in the serviceable uniform of the Union Defence Force—he forgot everything for the moment in sheer amaze at this unexpected meeting.
It was never clear to him who saw the other first; the recognition seemed to be simultaneous: the grip of their hands was spontaneous and eager.
“I never expected to see you here,” he said, and wrung Nel’s hand warmly. “What’s the farm doing in your absence?”
“Looking after itself,” Nel answered with a shrug. “I’ve come away to defend it. Leentje imagines she is seeing after things while Cornelius is engaged in espousing the German cause.” His face was grave. “Come into the Gardens here, and sit down and let us talk.”
Matheson accompanied him in silence and sat down with him on a seat near the entrance. Nel looked hard at him, looked from his face to his clothes; and Matheson felt that the shrewd eyes were mutely inquiring why he also was not in uniform.
“I’ve been in Cape Town only a few days,” Nel volunteered. “I’m following Botha wherever he leads. His lead is straight always, and for the good of the country. Cornelius can’t see that—yet.”
“So he has joined the rebellion?” Matheson said.
“Yes. He’s with his commando—and Andreas Krige. They have joined Maritz. It’s a bad business. One cannot help feeling sorry for men who deliberately cut their own throats. There is a sort of predestination in it.”
“And what,” Matheson asked quickly, “are they doing at Benfontein?”
Nel shook his head.
“I’ve not been received at Benfontein since the beginning of August,” he said. “My engagement is terminated—temporarily.” He smiled in his old whimsical way. “The outlook is dark at the moment; but always I look forward to the dawn of a to-morrow. And now tell me about yourself. You are remaining outside all this?”
His voice was puzzled; there was a ring, Matheson fancied, of disapproval behind its surprise. He took up his own defence eagerly.
“No, indeed!” he answered. “Who could remain outside? ... Certainly no one with any interest beyond his own immediate affairs. I intend to volunteer for service in Europe.”
“Why in Europe?” Nel asked. “There is quite important work to be done in this country.”
“I know it.”
Matheson was silent for a while. Presently he said:
“I’ve a feeling—I can’t explain it—against fighting out here. If it was simply fighting the Germans I wouldn’t hesitate, but—the Boers... No; I can’t do it. Simply I can’t do it.”
Nel scrutinised him closely, a kindly, rather wistful, expression lighting his grave features.
“That’s the very reason,” he said at length, “why you ought to remain out here. It’s men who feel as you do about it that we want... Do you suppose that it is easier for me, who have to take the field against the brother I love? ... Do you think it is easy for Botha to fight against men who once fought shoulder to shoulder with him in a just though unequal cause? Botha took the field before for his people; he takes it to-day for the good of South Africa, which before everything else he has at heart. He is fine—a simple and honourable man. I would follow him to the death.”
Nel stretched out a hand and laid it on the other’s knee.
“It is in no vindictive spirit that we go to war,” he added. “Always it will be in our minds to spare life where that is possible. It is for this reason, and because you have no animosity in your heart against the Dutch, that I say to you with the greatest earnestness, you can do more good here in helping to quell this ill-advised rebellion than ever you can do in Europe. Stay and see it out.”
For a while they were silent, looking at one another. Then Matheson said:
“I never looked at it like that before.”
“Good!” Nel smiled suddenly. “You begin to recognise that your work lies here?”
“Yes. I think you have shown me that.”
“Then don’t delay. Join up at once.”
Matheson thought for a moment. He was no longer in any doubt as to his ultimate decision; but there was one thing that remained to be done before he joined up. He spoke of it to Nel—told of his intention to trade down Holman, and of his projected journey on the morrow.
“You won’t find Holman in Johannesburg,” Nel assured him. “On and off for the past three months he has been at Benfontein. He was there, I believe, when I left. But that it seemed to me I had more responsible work to accomplish, I would have shot him like a jackal. I don’t know what he is after at Benfontein, but I don’t trust him. He has been Krige’s evil genius from the beginning. And the women... they simply worship him. His is the hand of the friend stretched forth to deliver them from the oppressor. As though a friendly hand was ever advanced by a stranger nation from entirely disinterested motives! They can’t see that this so strong hand of Germany would make a tool of them.”
For a while he remained without speaking, staring abstractedly ahead of him; then with a sudden movement he looked round sharply, and added:
“They are quite sincere in desiring their country’s good. That—the good of one’s country, is right in principle, only they look at it crookedly. Botha sees straight: always he works unselfishly for his country’s welfare. That is a principle it would be well for all nations to adopt. Good cannot come to any country through war.”
He looked thoughtfully away across the sunlit glory of the gardens, in which the vivid beauty of subtropical flowers and shrubs flourished prodigally, and his face was sad.
“I have watched this country grow and expand,” he said. “I have seen it shrivel beneath the devastation of war, and have watched its struggle until it blossomed forth anew. Now I see it bent and scorched before the fires of rebellion. That is the worst event that has yet befallen. But the land survives these things; only man, with his paltry ambitions and his insignificant span, goes under, paying for the folly of others with all that he has to give. It’s senseless, this business of fighting—a puerile defiance of the laws of life.”
“And yet,” Matheson said, “you and I are drawn into it.”
Nel smiled swiftly.
“Yes; you and I are drawn in. And if we have to pay the full price we shall consider the end worth the sacrifice. I recognise sincerity, Mr Matheson, when I meet it. From that first morning when you visited my rondavel I knew that we should be friends. I don’t know how deeply you are interested in South Africa, but if you live here long enough the land will grip you.”
“It grips me already,” Matheson said. “I am ready to help purchase the peace of this country without counting the cost.”
Nel’s eyes brightened with a sudden fire; his voice, quiet and controlled though it was, vibrated with a ring of triumph.
“Boer and Briton!” he said, and laughed quietly... “Boer and Briton! I would merge such distinctions in the comprehensive title of South African. To us—to you and to me—this land belongs by virtue of the reason that we live by it, and are willing to defend it with our lives. The land is our inheritance. Imperial claims concern me very little. A man who has a life’s lease of his homestead doesn’t take much account of the landlord. You haven’t come yet to feel that way?”
“No. I don’t suppose an Englishman ever does.” Matheson glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to be going,” he said, and laughed a little consciously. “I’ve an engagement for three, and am overdue now.”
He stood up. Nel rose with him. For a second or so they remained still in the path steadily regarding one another.
“I’m going to be married,” Matheson said abruptly—“in three weeks’ time.”
“Yes!” Nel’s gaze was searching. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr Matheson,” he said. “You are more fortunate than I. Is she English?”
“Yes... born out here. I hope some day you’ll meet her. But to-morrow I leave, as you know.”
“You are going to Benfontein?”
Nel’s tone was discouraging. Matheson answered in the affirmative.
“Well, don’t forget,” the Dutchman added cautiously, “that your life is of infinitely greater value to the country than Holman’s death could be. It will be a desperate man you face, remember. Take care of yourself.”
“Yes; I’ll do that,” Matheson assured him, and held out his hand. Nel grasped it.
“You’ll find the rondavel open and provisioned,” he said. “You may have a use for it.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.On parting from Nel, Matheson started to walk briskly, aware that already he was some minutes late for his appointment. It was the first occasion on which he had kept his fiancée waiting. He did not anticipate that she would be vexed; the delay had been unavoidable, and the meeting with Nel had saved him an unprofitable journey. A knowledge of Holman’s whereabouts simplified his quest and would economise time, which was an important factor; the settlement of this business had to be accomplished while he was free to attend to private matters.In his hurried walk he overtook the Aplin girls, very gay and important, bedecked with tricolour ribbons and wearing the Union Jack badges in their hats. They were frightfully busy, they informed him, collecting for Christmas parcels for the troops. It was great sport, begging, but desperately tiring.“One likes to feel that one is helping,” Rosie explained.Their manner towards him was more gracious than it had appeared of late. On the few occasions when they had met since his engagement they had contrived to convey a sense of aggrieved disapproval, and had pointedly refrained from offering him their congratulations on his forthcoming marriage. They never referred to Brenda.“Mr Macfarlane told us you were going to Europe,” May said. “When do you sail? I’ve promised to write to half a dozen boys who have joined up for overseas.”“I’ve changed my mind about that,” he said. “There’s work to be done out here first.”Immediately their interest waned.“If I were a man, as I told Mr Macfarlane, I’d want to go where the big things are doing,” May asserted. “I wouldn’t be bothered with these horrid rebels.”“Somebody must,” he said, and refrained from further comment. It would be wasted labour, he felt, to question their point of view.“But it would be such a lark, going to Europe. It’s the chance of a lifetime. I wish mother would let me go.”“Nursing?” he inquired.“Oh, nursing! That’s horrid work. No. I’d like to drive an ambulance wagon, or do something smart... and wear a uniform like the men.”“Yes,” he answered, and laughed. “I remember you had always a leaning towards fancy dress. I daresay you’ll find something to do even here.”“Oh! we’re having a perfectly gorgeous time,” put in Rosie, “And we are really working—not just stupid sewing meetings, you know, but hard work. We are organising a fancey fête for the relief of the poor Belgians. It will be great fun. We are raising the funds all right.”“After that we start recruiting,” May added, smiling. “The slackers will have a bad time of it. Every man ought to be a soldier.”“Youarebusy,” he said, and wondered whether they ever took anything seriously. The war was not a world disaster, but a huge excitement with possibilities of interesting developments. It gave them something fresh to think about. “I turn in here,” he added, pausing outside the gate leading to Brenda’s lodging.Rosie’s glance travelled towards the windows of the house, and then back again slowly to his face.“I suppose Miss Upton has had something to do in influencing your decision to remain out here?” she said. “She wouldn’t like you to go to Europe.”“She is satisfied either way,” he answered. “Had I sailed for Europe she would have accompanied me. That was settled from the first.”They parted from him unconvinced, and with a slight return of the chill displeasure he had grown to look for from them. The halt at Brenda’s gate had seemed to them an affront.“Of course she stopped him from going,” May declared. “She knows if she lets him out of her sight she risks losing him. She was always an artful little thing. I believe he would get out of that engagement if he could. It seems to have flattened him.”“He hasn’t been the same since,” Rosie admitted, and looked away down the leafy avenue with sentimental eyes. “It’s such a pity; he’s so awfully good looking,” she said, and sighed.Brenda was on the stoep waiting for him when Matheson reached the house. She must have witnessed the parting between him and the Aplin girls, which had been sufficiently leisurely to excite resentment in view of her long wait. He forestalled any remark by apologising for his lateness.“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “Twice I was stopped on the way here. I ought to have been with you half an hour ago. I met a man—a Dutchman—Nel: he kept me. He wants me to join Botha’s army.”She scrutinised him closely.“And you’re going to?” she said.“Yes.”“These changes are a little unsettling,” she observed after a brief reflection. “I was quite prepared for Europe.”“You don’t mind?” he asked quickly.“No.” She stood touching his coat softly, caressingly, with her fingers; and her eyes wore a look of quiet satisfaction, almost of relief. “I’ve dreaded France for you. Out here a man has a chance—a sporting chance; over there it’s a war of chemicals. No; I’m not brave. I never wanted you to go.”“One has to defend the Empire,” he said.“Oh! yes.” She smiled suddenly. “No woman really admires the man who thinks otherwise. But...”She broke off abruptly, and pulled him towards a seat on the stoep and sat down beside him.“Tell me, who is this man? Why should a Dutchman influence you so strongly? I tried from the first to persuade you to join the Union Forces. I’m jealous of this Dutchman.”He laughed and possessed himself or her hand and pressed it warmly.“He’s a Boer I met up country—one of the finest men I know. He has the welfare of South Africa at heart—like Botha and Smuts.”“Oh! a loyal Boer,” she said.Matheson made a gesture of impatience.“That term is applied so differently,” he said. “He is one of the men who are on our side, if you mean that.”“Well, but that’s being loyal, isn’t it?” she said.“Loyal to one’s conception of right—yes. I imagine one needs to be Dutch to see the thing clearly. He is not a son of Empire; he’s a South African, heart and soul. His brother is on the other side.”“Ah!” she said. “A rebel. That’s painful for him.”“Yes,” he agreed. “It cuts him, of course, badly. But he regrets this difference rather than condemns it. That’s where the wider understanding of race comes in: he discriminates between sedition and mistaken ideals.”“And he has tutored you?” she said.“He—and others.”He looked away from her, aware of her searching scrutiny. Did she guess, he wondered, that Nel was somehow connected with the story of Honor? His sympathies with the Dutch, he felt, must wound her in a sense.“I’ll tell you why he wants you to join Botha’s army,” she said, after a short pause; and Matheson was conscious that the fingers of the hand he held closed suddenly tighter about his own—“why you mean to do that rather than go to Europe—because you also understand... You’ve gone into this question, and you can regard it without prejudice. I wish I could do that.”“Any one can,” he asserted. “It’s merely a matter of analysing motives.”“No.” She shook her head. “I know that admittedly there are two sides to every question; but each side sees inevitably its own point of view; occasionally one may obtain an imperfect view of the other side; but it is given only to the largest vision to see both sides clearly. The wider vision lights the path to a more complete understanding. I wish I possessed it.”“Are you so sure you don’t?” he asked, and took her chin between his fingers and turned her face towards his and held it for a while. “They see a long way, those wise brown eyes. Some one once tried to make me see into the heart of Africa... You penetrate deeper than that—you see into the heart of humanity; and there you have the key to everything.”Matheson did not speak of the other change in his plans which the meeting with Nel had brought about Brenda still supposed he was going to Johannesburg; and he allowed her to think that. But he felt some embarrassment when she asked him to send her word of his arrival, and a telegram to let her know when to expect him back.“If I miss writing on my arrival,” he said, and felt mean at the equivocation, “I’ll wire you news of my return. It will be such a hurried affair, I doubt whether there will be much time for writing—and none for receiving any reply from you. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”“I’ll be there at the station to meet you,” she said.“Well, of course.”He experienced a new tenderness for her, a sort of protective love, unlike any other emotion he had felt, as he sat beside her on the tiny ill-kept stoep and talked fragmentally of unimportant things in a determined effort to steer wide of the tragic doings of the times, and to avoid further discussion of his own immediate plans. It afforded him pleasure to reflect that shortly they would be married; that when all this business of fighting was over they would have a home of their own, and this dear girl chum would be his wife and daily companion. He put his arm about her shoulders with an unwonted display of affection that caused her a thrill of shy pleasure. She never invited his caresses; they were the more precious on account of their rareness.“You’re such a chum,” he said. “I think I’m a very lucky fellow to have secured so dear a comrade to march by my side through life.”“That’s all I ask to be, your comrade through life,” she said, and looked up at him with big worshipful eyes, secure in the knowledge that comradeship is the surest foundation upon which to base a successful marriage. The union thus founded is more assured of continuing happiness than a marriage between unequals as the result of physical attraction. Passionate love has its limitations; but comradeship, which is born of a perfect understanding, strengthens with the years.It was odd, Matheson reflected while gazing steadily into Brenda’s quiet eyes, that the encounter with Nel should have brought nothing of the past very vividly back. He wondered whether in returning to the scene of those emotional stresses he would experience anew something of the pain and keen resentment of frustrated desire which had gripped him at the time with what had seemed unforgettable anguish.It struck him, while he pondered these things, as disloyal to Brenda, this contemplated journey to Benfontein; the fact that he kept his destination secret from her was proof in itself of a consciousness of wrong. He was not acting on the square. He was not even sincere with himself. Why should he undertake the punishment of Holman? It was clearly a case for the military authorities, and his duty to furnish the necessary information and leave the matter with them. He recognised that. But the complex motives which drove him to seek out Holman, to confront him with his villainy, and deal personally with this insidious poisoner of innocent minds, were compelling. In striking at Holman he not only struck at a national enemy, he would strike also at the insinuating subtlety which had thrust between himself and Honor; which thrust between Honor and happiness, and trampled ruthlessly over the virgin soil where the tender seed of love lay germinating, and disturbed it and bruised it and left in its stead the unlovely seed of hate, striking its tenacious suckers deep into the ground. There was no punishment to fit this infamy; but at least he could make certain that the lying tongue was silenced and could do no further harm.The urgency of his desire reduced his scruples to a minimum. But he felt shame none the less as his glance rested on the girl beside him, the girl whose entire heart was given into his keeping. It was not much of a return he was making her. Contrasted with the richness of her gift, the poverty of his was painfully apparent.“Come!” he said, grown suddenly restless before the rush of his own thoughts. “We are wasting our afternoon. We’ve a lot to crowd into the next few hours.”She stood up and faced him, laughing.“Man of moods,” she said, “I was just wondering how long you would be satisfied to sit here staring at the gum trees... Let us go out into the sunlight and the wind—and just talk...”
On parting from Nel, Matheson started to walk briskly, aware that already he was some minutes late for his appointment. It was the first occasion on which he had kept his fiancée waiting. He did not anticipate that she would be vexed; the delay had been unavoidable, and the meeting with Nel had saved him an unprofitable journey. A knowledge of Holman’s whereabouts simplified his quest and would economise time, which was an important factor; the settlement of this business had to be accomplished while he was free to attend to private matters.
In his hurried walk he overtook the Aplin girls, very gay and important, bedecked with tricolour ribbons and wearing the Union Jack badges in their hats. They were frightfully busy, they informed him, collecting for Christmas parcels for the troops. It was great sport, begging, but desperately tiring.
“One likes to feel that one is helping,” Rosie explained.
Their manner towards him was more gracious than it had appeared of late. On the few occasions when they had met since his engagement they had contrived to convey a sense of aggrieved disapproval, and had pointedly refrained from offering him their congratulations on his forthcoming marriage. They never referred to Brenda.
“Mr Macfarlane told us you were going to Europe,” May said. “When do you sail? I’ve promised to write to half a dozen boys who have joined up for overseas.”
“I’ve changed my mind about that,” he said. “There’s work to be done out here first.”
Immediately their interest waned.
“If I were a man, as I told Mr Macfarlane, I’d want to go where the big things are doing,” May asserted. “I wouldn’t be bothered with these horrid rebels.”
“Somebody must,” he said, and refrained from further comment. It would be wasted labour, he felt, to question their point of view.
“But it would be such a lark, going to Europe. It’s the chance of a lifetime. I wish mother would let me go.”
“Nursing?” he inquired.
“Oh, nursing! That’s horrid work. No. I’d like to drive an ambulance wagon, or do something smart... and wear a uniform like the men.”
“Yes,” he answered, and laughed. “I remember you had always a leaning towards fancy dress. I daresay you’ll find something to do even here.”
“Oh! we’re having a perfectly gorgeous time,” put in Rosie, “And we are really working—not just stupid sewing meetings, you know, but hard work. We are organising a fancey fête for the relief of the poor Belgians. It will be great fun. We are raising the funds all right.”
“After that we start recruiting,” May added, smiling. “The slackers will have a bad time of it. Every man ought to be a soldier.”
“Youarebusy,” he said, and wondered whether they ever took anything seriously. The war was not a world disaster, but a huge excitement with possibilities of interesting developments. It gave them something fresh to think about. “I turn in here,” he added, pausing outside the gate leading to Brenda’s lodging.
Rosie’s glance travelled towards the windows of the house, and then back again slowly to his face.
“I suppose Miss Upton has had something to do in influencing your decision to remain out here?” she said. “She wouldn’t like you to go to Europe.”
“She is satisfied either way,” he answered. “Had I sailed for Europe she would have accompanied me. That was settled from the first.”
They parted from him unconvinced, and with a slight return of the chill displeasure he had grown to look for from them. The halt at Brenda’s gate had seemed to them an affront.
“Of course she stopped him from going,” May declared. “She knows if she lets him out of her sight she risks losing him. She was always an artful little thing. I believe he would get out of that engagement if he could. It seems to have flattened him.”
“He hasn’t been the same since,” Rosie admitted, and looked away down the leafy avenue with sentimental eyes. “It’s such a pity; he’s so awfully good looking,” she said, and sighed.
Brenda was on the stoep waiting for him when Matheson reached the house. She must have witnessed the parting between him and the Aplin girls, which had been sufficiently leisurely to excite resentment in view of her long wait. He forestalled any remark by apologising for his lateness.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “Twice I was stopped on the way here. I ought to have been with you half an hour ago. I met a man—a Dutchman—Nel: he kept me. He wants me to join Botha’s army.”
She scrutinised him closely.
“And you’re going to?” she said.
“Yes.”
“These changes are a little unsettling,” she observed after a brief reflection. “I was quite prepared for Europe.”
“You don’t mind?” he asked quickly.
“No.” She stood touching his coat softly, caressingly, with her fingers; and her eyes wore a look of quiet satisfaction, almost of relief. “I’ve dreaded France for you. Out here a man has a chance—a sporting chance; over there it’s a war of chemicals. No; I’m not brave. I never wanted you to go.”
“One has to defend the Empire,” he said.
“Oh! yes.” She smiled suddenly. “No woman really admires the man who thinks otherwise. But...”
She broke off abruptly, and pulled him towards a seat on the stoep and sat down beside him.
“Tell me, who is this man? Why should a Dutchman influence you so strongly? I tried from the first to persuade you to join the Union Forces. I’m jealous of this Dutchman.”
He laughed and possessed himself or her hand and pressed it warmly.
“He’s a Boer I met up country—one of the finest men I know. He has the welfare of South Africa at heart—like Botha and Smuts.”
“Oh! a loyal Boer,” she said.
Matheson made a gesture of impatience.
“That term is applied so differently,” he said. “He is one of the men who are on our side, if you mean that.”
“Well, but that’s being loyal, isn’t it?” she said.
“Loyal to one’s conception of right—yes. I imagine one needs to be Dutch to see the thing clearly. He is not a son of Empire; he’s a South African, heart and soul. His brother is on the other side.”
“Ah!” she said. “A rebel. That’s painful for him.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It cuts him, of course, badly. But he regrets this difference rather than condemns it. That’s where the wider understanding of race comes in: he discriminates between sedition and mistaken ideals.”
“And he has tutored you?” she said.
“He—and others.”
He looked away from her, aware of her searching scrutiny. Did she guess, he wondered, that Nel was somehow connected with the story of Honor? His sympathies with the Dutch, he felt, must wound her in a sense.
“I’ll tell you why he wants you to join Botha’s army,” she said, after a short pause; and Matheson was conscious that the fingers of the hand he held closed suddenly tighter about his own—“why you mean to do that rather than go to Europe—because you also understand... You’ve gone into this question, and you can regard it without prejudice. I wish I could do that.”
“Any one can,” he asserted. “It’s merely a matter of analysing motives.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I know that admittedly there are two sides to every question; but each side sees inevitably its own point of view; occasionally one may obtain an imperfect view of the other side; but it is given only to the largest vision to see both sides clearly. The wider vision lights the path to a more complete understanding. I wish I possessed it.”
“Are you so sure you don’t?” he asked, and took her chin between his fingers and turned her face towards his and held it for a while. “They see a long way, those wise brown eyes. Some one once tried to make me see into the heart of Africa... You penetrate deeper than that—you see into the heart of humanity; and there you have the key to everything.”
Matheson did not speak of the other change in his plans which the meeting with Nel had brought about Brenda still supposed he was going to Johannesburg; and he allowed her to think that. But he felt some embarrassment when she asked him to send her word of his arrival, and a telegram to let her know when to expect him back.
“If I miss writing on my arrival,” he said, and felt mean at the equivocation, “I’ll wire you news of my return. It will be such a hurried affair, I doubt whether there will be much time for writing—and none for receiving any reply from you. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be there at the station to meet you,” she said.
“Well, of course.”
He experienced a new tenderness for her, a sort of protective love, unlike any other emotion he had felt, as he sat beside her on the tiny ill-kept stoep and talked fragmentally of unimportant things in a determined effort to steer wide of the tragic doings of the times, and to avoid further discussion of his own immediate plans. It afforded him pleasure to reflect that shortly they would be married; that when all this business of fighting was over they would have a home of their own, and this dear girl chum would be his wife and daily companion. He put his arm about her shoulders with an unwonted display of affection that caused her a thrill of shy pleasure. She never invited his caresses; they were the more precious on account of their rareness.
“You’re such a chum,” he said. “I think I’m a very lucky fellow to have secured so dear a comrade to march by my side through life.”
“That’s all I ask to be, your comrade through life,” she said, and looked up at him with big worshipful eyes, secure in the knowledge that comradeship is the surest foundation upon which to base a successful marriage. The union thus founded is more assured of continuing happiness than a marriage between unequals as the result of physical attraction. Passionate love has its limitations; but comradeship, which is born of a perfect understanding, strengthens with the years.
It was odd, Matheson reflected while gazing steadily into Brenda’s quiet eyes, that the encounter with Nel should have brought nothing of the past very vividly back. He wondered whether in returning to the scene of those emotional stresses he would experience anew something of the pain and keen resentment of frustrated desire which had gripped him at the time with what had seemed unforgettable anguish.
It struck him, while he pondered these things, as disloyal to Brenda, this contemplated journey to Benfontein; the fact that he kept his destination secret from her was proof in itself of a consciousness of wrong. He was not acting on the square. He was not even sincere with himself. Why should he undertake the punishment of Holman? It was clearly a case for the military authorities, and his duty to furnish the necessary information and leave the matter with them. He recognised that. But the complex motives which drove him to seek out Holman, to confront him with his villainy, and deal personally with this insidious poisoner of innocent minds, were compelling. In striking at Holman he not only struck at a national enemy, he would strike also at the insinuating subtlety which had thrust between himself and Honor; which thrust between Honor and happiness, and trampled ruthlessly over the virgin soil where the tender seed of love lay germinating, and disturbed it and bruised it and left in its stead the unlovely seed of hate, striking its tenacious suckers deep into the ground. There was no punishment to fit this infamy; but at least he could make certain that the lying tongue was silenced and could do no further harm.
The urgency of his desire reduced his scruples to a minimum. But he felt shame none the less as his glance rested on the girl beside him, the girl whose entire heart was given into his keeping. It was not much of a return he was making her. Contrasted with the richness of her gift, the poverty of his was painfully apparent.
“Come!” he said, grown suddenly restless before the rush of his own thoughts. “We are wasting our afternoon. We’ve a lot to crowd into the next few hours.”
She stood up and faced him, laughing.
“Man of moods,” she said, “I was just wondering how long you would be satisfied to sit here staring at the gum trees... Let us go out into the sunlight and the wind—and just talk...”