“Not impossible,” she insisted. “You are altogether mistaken,” he went on. “You won’t admit that, of course. Most persons with a grievance are unreasonable; they become obsessed with the one idea. You imagine you are out for reform. Even if you were sincere in believing that, you are too clever not to know that reforms don’t come about the way you are working. Impulsive reform leads to reaction. Change to be enduring must be gradual. That—the right sort of reform—is taking place every day; it goes on year by year. Injustice was deported long since. We are making all the compensation possible.”
She rested a hand on the table and leaned towards him, a gathering resentment smouldering in her eyes.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “You can’t put yourself in our place—in the place of any of these people who have suffered. What right have you to talk of these things? You haven’t lost your birthright. If you had,”—she smiled faintly—“I am quite convinced you would fight for its recovery.”
“You haven’t lost your birthright either,” he replied—“and some of you know it.”
Herman Nel’s words leapt suddenly to his mind: “A country belongs to the people who live in it.” South Africa belonged to the South African. The British Empire could not, did not desire to, dispute that.
She turned aside and went to the window and stood there, her air a little drooping as though she were weary, her eyes travelling listlessly across the shining wonder of dew-drenched sunlit veld.
“What’s the good of talking?” she said. “I’ve tried to show you—to make you see our side. At one time I thought I was succeeding. But you don’t understand.”
“I appreciate the hurt, but not your remedy,” he answered. “You would start a rebellion for a grievance. No successful upheaval was ever based on so paltry a foundation. Nothing worth achieving can be brought about by unworthy methods. Look here!” He joined her at the window, and stood beside her scrutinising her partly averted face. “You don’t know how much this means to me... your part in it. I’m not concerning myself for the present with anything outside that I hate the idea of your becoming obsessed with this cult of revenge. I hate it—in connexion with you. You are splendid and sweet; you are too good for that sort of thing—altogether. Miss Krige—Honor, don’t waste anything so precious as life by living in the past: the present is so good—so tremendously good. Don’t spoil it.”
He possessed himself of her hand and gripped it firmly, holding it between both his.
“I’m a blundering idiot. I’m saying all the wrong things. Be patient with me,” he entreated. “I know you’ve been hurt—badly hurt. I’d like to make reparation, if that were possible... and it isn’t. But I do care... Honor, you know I care...”