“If I had read the letter I doubt whether it could give me more information of this miserable business than I have already,” he added in tones like edged steel.
“We will see,” she rejoined, and spread the letter on the table, while he remained in a cold amazed silence, and read it aloud.
“My dear Andreas,—
“I am in communication with Piet van der Byl, and friendly burghers in the F.S. You will be glad to hear that we have every reason to hope for a good response in the event of such happenings as are predicted. The northern and eastern areas are sympathetic. Every quarter which I have tapped responds with the most encouraging readiness. I have little doubt that the desire which lies so near to our hearts will be achieved entirely to our satisfaction and sooner than we expect.
“The messenger who delivers this has no knowledge of the taal. He is, I believe, a fool, who can be bought over if judiciously approached. You can safely send by him an answer to this. I shall be glad to have some account of the attitude your district takes up, and the names of any men who are likely to be of service to the cause. The time is not yet fulfilled when our expectations can be realised, but I feel it approaching, and it is well to be prepared.
“Faithfully yours,
“H.K. Holmann.”
When she had finished reading Honor folded the letter deliberately and looked up.
“You have gained a little information, haven’t you?” she asked; and Matheson realised that she referred to the insulting allusion to himself in the letter.
Why she had read the letter to him he failed to understand; he could not divine her reason. Quite possibly she was not moved by any reason; some swift inexplicable impulse more probably governed her action. He believed that already she regretted having yielded to this impulse; he read signs of a growing distress in her look.
“I have gained a little information,” he answered—“nothing that matters. I wish I could feel obliged to you for this unlooked-for display of confidence, but unfortunately it doesn’t carry any sort of conviction. You’ve no trust in me; your words prove that. You think, with the writer of the letter, that I’m a fool who can be made use of, and who isn’t dangerous, who doesn’t in short count—”
“No,” she interrupted in a low voice. “No!” He went on as though he had not heard her. “In one sense you are right—I’m not dangerous. Simply I could not, if it lay in my power, injure you. Whatever you did—and I believe you contemplate something hateful—I could only stand by silent, and regret the misconception which is leading you on to this miserable folly. You are led away by others—by men who have some ignoble end to serve, and are using you, as one of them has used me, as a tool.”
She lifted her head proudly and looked him steadily in the eyes, and answered with a quiet, and what appeared to him absurd dignity:
“I am led by patriotism and a hatred of injustice, Mr Matheson—not by any man.” He made an impatient movement. “You are ignorant of the very rudiments of patriotism,” he said. “You have educated yourself to one end, and you go forward blindly, seeing nothing of the evil of this flame of hate you are helping to fan into a conflagration—intent on an impossible goal.”