“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.”