Chapter Seventeen.
Oom Koos Marais was a Boer of the old style, who had acquired what little education he possessed, as he had acquired other things during the leisurely course of a frugal, industrious, and accumulative span of fifty odd years, unaided and by dint of his own perseverance and his lack of all pretence. Most men trusted Oom Koos; Oom Koos in turn trusted no man, and only one woman—his wife. He concealed his wealth in his house; read his Testament; did not flog his Kaffirs, because he had grown too stout and the power had gone from his arm; and was bitterly opposed to the Scab Act. Apart from this, he was an amiable, simple-minded man, of staunchly conservative principles, with a big heart, and certain fixed ideas of life which no argument could unsettle. Any one who attempted to convince Oom Koos against his judgment inevitably arrived at the cul-de-sac which prohibited further progress when Oom Koos broke in gently with the relevant impertinence: “As my old father used to say, I have my good sight and my good hearing, which remain unaffected when men talk foolishness.”
Oom Koos was partaking of a late breakfast when Matheson rode up with Honor. Honor dismounted and went inside, and Matheson took the horses to the stable, a privilege he had insisted upon after the first ride, off-saddled, and then returned to the house to find the newcomer smoking a big calabash pipe near the open window of the living-room, sending heavy wreaths of blue smoke into the air through which his big face looked serenely like a setting sun obscured by clouds.
Andreas, with his hat on, about to depart to his work, delayed his start in order to introduce Matheson when the hitter appeared on the stoep; and, following upon the introduction, a huge hand, having first waved aside the smoke-cloud which obscured the vision, was slowly extended, a hand which looked capable of felling an ox, and assuredly of gripping another heartily, and Matheson felt a moist palm lying in his, and was almost ashamed of his own strong grip in returning the flabby handshake.
“Moiré, Mynheer!” said Oom Koos.
Matheson replied to this greeting in English, explaining, apologetically that always he had been a fool at languages, and that he did not speak the taal.
“You will not have been long in the country, eh?” Oom Koos said pleasantly, as one who considered the taal the language of the country, and its acquirement the natural outcome of residence therein. “Do you think of becoming a farmer?”
“Mr Matheson takes more interest in gold than in mohair,” Honor put in, with the tiniest shade of malice in her smile.
Oom Koos farmed two thousand morgen and principally ran goats on the land. At Honor’s speech his face lost its amiable complacency, his expression darkened.
“That is all the English care for,” he said abruptly—“to make big holes in the ground and take the gold and leave the holes. Ja.”
“Miss Krige does me an injustice,” Matheson protested. “The mines lured me only for a brief while. Engineering is my profession. I go back to it when I leave here.”
“So!” remarked Oom Koos, and smoked reflectively. “Do you make a long stay at Benfontein?” he asked.
“I have made a long stay,” Matheson answered. “I leave to-morrow, if that is convenient to Mrs Krige.”
“To-morrow, eh? I am going by De Aar to-morrow. If it suits you, I will be very pleased to drive you.”
This arrangement was so entirely convenient, and so satisfactory in that it fixed the day and settled definitely the time for his departure, that Matheson’s reluctant acceptance of the kindly intentioned offer sounded somewhat ungracious even in his own ears. He was amazed at himself. Here was an offer which exactly suited his plans, and which relieved the Kriges of the necessity of driving him into town, and he felt resentful at having to avail himself of it. At the back of his mind had loomed the hope that Honor would drive with him to De Aar. For some reason of her own Honor appeared equally dissatisfied with the arrangement. She listened to Matheson’s halting acceptance, and to her mother’s mildly uttered protest against this sudden departure, with thinly disguised impatience, breaking in on Mrs Krige’s expressions of regret.
“It all depends on what hour you start, Oom Koos. Mr Matheson has an engagement to ride with me to-morrow morning,” she announced.
“Certainly. I am not forgetting that,” Matheson said promptly.
Oom Koos looked from one to the other and smoked deliberately and smiled.
“Mijn Maachtij!” He delivered himself of a deep breath. “I have been young myself, Honor. When you release Mr Matheson I will drive him to the town. That shall not interfere with your pleasure.”
Inexplicably, now that his departure was definitely fixed, though the responsibility for its settlement was his, Matheson chafed at the thought of going, and felt quite unjustly aggrieved with the worthy Dutchman’s amiable endeavour to suit his convenience. He considered Oom Koos officious. And then he fell to blaming Honor. Why had she not attempted to dissuade him that morning? Why had she taken the announcement of his departure so calmly, showing an indifference that seemed to indicate that his going affected her no more than the going of any other chance visitor? Simply she had appeared not to care; and that hurt him. Bidding good-bye to her would not, he knew, be an easy matter for him. It would have consoled him somewhat to know that it would not have left her unaffected. He had a persuasion that though he was leaving Benfontein it would not be for ever: some day he would travel again in that direction; and the next time he came it would not be on another man’s business.
The thought of that unfinished business harassed him not a little. He had yet to inform Krige that he had reconsidered his offer to carry a message for him to Holman, that it was uncertain when he would see Holman. It was an awkward explanation to make, involving unpleasant possibilities, and raising invidious suggestions; but there was no prospect of evasion; it had to be done. It was not possible, he felt, to go into this before a third person; he must mention the matter to Krige privately. Usually no difficulty to private talk presented itself. In ordinary circumstances he would have deferred it till the evening, and said what was necessary during the half-hour when he was left to the uninterrupted enjoyment of Krige’s society; but the arrival of Oom Koos complicated matters. His best chance of seeing Krige alone he believed was after the newcomer had gone to bed. He decided to await his opportunity, and put the affair aside with the quick impatience that characterised his treatment generally of unpleasant matters. After all, the man could not oblige him to carry his communications. If no alternative offered he could at least refuse point blank at the last moment.
As the day wore on two things became dear to Matheson: that the enormous Dutchman belonged to the same faction as Krige, and that his visit to Benfontein had some connexion with Holman’s communication. He saw Oom Koos, with the letter in his hand and his big glasses on his large nose, seated at the table in the living-room poring over its contents during the quiet hour of the hot afternoon when he himself was resting in the shade of the trees, and inclined, but for his interest in Oom Koos’ doings, to sleep.
After a while Mynheer Marais came out and joined him, lowering his great bulk with heavy cautiousness into one of the cane chairs.
“You take your ease,” he said. “That is well in this country. It is very warm, eh?”
“A Turkish bath would seem cool by comparison,” Matheson replied.
“So! You like the heat? ... No!” Oom Koos chuckled, and mopped the perspiration from his florid brow. “It makes some men thin, while others prow fat—according how they take their ease. But you like the country?”
“Yes; the country’s all right,” Matheson replied without enthusiasm.
“It is a fine agricultural country,” Oom Koos proceeded. “South Africa has a great future. Oh, ja! There will be more gold got out of mohair than out of the ground. You cut the wool and it grows again; the ground yields its minerals, and that is finished. If you ever travel by Three Sisters come to my farm—any one will tell you where Oom Koos Marais lives. I and my good wife and my good son will make you welcome.”
“Thanks. It’s very kind of you.”
Matheson’s tone was non-committal. He was undecided whether Oom Koos accepted him as a friend, or was merely trying to sound him in respect to his opinions. Possibly Krige had told him that he was uncertain as to his views. If Krige felt any curiosity in this matter he had not revealed it; he had never, even indirectly, tried to get information from him. Oom Koos’ next remark settled his indecision.
“You are a friend of Mr Holman, I hear? He is also my very good friend.”
Matheson faced him more directly.
“I am no friend of Mr Holman,” he replied. “I have some acquaintance with him. The little I know of him does not reflect to his credit.”
The big Dutchman evinced surprise, but of so mild a nature and untinged with any resentment, that it struck Matheson the surprise was not altogether genuine.
“So! You amaze me, Mr Matheson. I have always believed that to be a very good man,” he declared. “It is a proof that men are not lightly to be trusted. You are not perhaps mistaken; ... Ach, né! A man should select his friends, as he selects his wife, with consideration for their virtues.”
Matheson smiled broadly.
“A good many of us would be fairly lonely if that rule were applied,” he said.
Whereat Oom Koos laughed gently, refusing in his amiable good nature to take this cynical conclusion seriously. And after that he talked of farming, and the increasing export trade in mealies, and the excellence of his mohair.
As a result of their conversation it did not surprise Matheson that he was debarred from bearing any part in the conference that took place between the two Dutchmen that same evening. With the finish of supper when, according to custom, he went out on the stoep to smoke, instead of being accompanied by Krige, he discovered Mrs Krige following in his wake, cutting him off from the others, who remained seated at the table which Honor, assisted by Koewe, was clearing.
“Mr Marais wants to talk business with Andreas,” Mrs Krige explained.
When the white cloth was removed the two men drew their chairs closer about the table; and the hum of their voices, with the pungent smell of Oom Koos’ calabash, assailed the senses insistently, and afforded reasonable grounds for Mrs Krige’s suggestion that they should move their chairs farther along the stoep. Matheson accordingly moved them beyond sight of the room and its inmates, where the sound of voices reached them muffled and indistinct, and the powerful scent of Boer tobacco ceased from being an offence.
“He is the kindest dear in the world,” she said; “but he does smoke vile tobacco. And he prefers to smoke inside. The smell of it hangs about the room for days.”
Freidja came out and joined them, and after a long interval Honor made her appearance on the stoep, tired and rather cross and unnaturally silent. She had been making bread, and still wore her sleeves rolled above the elbow. Matheson’s glance fell admiringly to the round white arms, and then lifted to the fair face which even in the fading light showed plainly its owner’s discontent.
“Come and sit down,” he said.
“No.” She stood with her shoulders flattened against the wall of the house, and did not move. “I want air. How hot it is!”
“You are tired, Honor,” Mrs Krige said. “It has been a trying day.”
The ghost of a smile flickered across Honor’s face.
“It has,” she agreed. And Matheson felt that she included him in the day’s list of trying experiences.
“I think you tire yourself with riding so much before breakfast,” Freidja observed.
In the jagged state of Honor’s nerves her temper was not proof against this. She turned sharply in her sister’s direction.
“Some one had to ride to the Nels’ farm,” she retorted. “I hadn’t any choice since you wouldn’t go.”
She emitted a short, vexed laugh, and moved abruptly.
“I am going into the garden to search for what I shan’t find.”
Matheson rose promptly.
“I say,” he cried, “that sounds interesting. Let me go with you and help in the search... May I?”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“You don’t know what I am wanting to find,” she said.
“Well, whatever it is, two people are more assured of success than one.”
“All right.” Honor preceded him down the steps. “I am going in search of my lost temper,” she announced over her shoulder.
Freidja looked after the two figures disappearing in the obscurity of the shadowy garden, and her face hardened as the sound of a laugh was borne bade to their ears on the motionless air.
“I think it is well that Mr Matheson leaves to-morrow,” she said, and turned in sullen protest towards her mother.
Mrs Krige, looking deep into the shadows, answered nothing.