She laughed, and the laugh sounded frankly incredulous.

"But--there is some one? ... There must be someone."

He was sensible anew as he met her gaze of the barrier which divided them. And inexplicably her words called up the memory of a pair of brown, disapproving eyes; of a rock-strewn coast and moonlight upon the sea; of moonlight striking through the oleanders in a quiet road and falling upon a serious, upturned face; of the feel of soft lips meeting his...

"Isn't there some one?" the sceptical voice persisted.

And he answered slowly:

"I--don't--know."

He wondered why until that moment he had not given Brenda a thought.

The more dominating personality of Honor, with her surprising beauty, had submerged the other affair entirely. In less than a month he had almost forgotten the girl of the beach.

"Ah!" Honor exclaimed, and the note of disbelief was still distinguishable in her voice. "There is always some one."

He found himself wishing almost fiercely that he had not admitted that state of doubt, but had repudiated promptly the suggestion conveyed in her question. He had put himself in a false position. There was not the slightest foundation for her supposition. It even crossed his mind to explain this--to go into details. He had a profound conviction that it would be prejudicial to his interests to leave matters in this unsatisfactory, indeterminate condition.

While he was weighing these important considerations, Honor abruptly snapped his chain of thought with a wholly irrelevant remark about the sunset; and he realised with a sense of mingled regret and relief that the time was past in which any explanation was possible. Honor never encouraged personalities, as he had noticed before; whenever the talk showed a tendency to slip to a more intimate note than usual she speedily brought it back to the impersonal.

He ignored the sunset. He did not even glance towards it.

"When are you going to show me more of the beauty of the Karroo?" he asked. "You have never taken me for a second ride."

"Oh!" she cried, and he wondered whether it were simply the glow of the setting sun that flushed her cheeks so brightly. "We have ridden every day."

"We have ridden, yes--but never alone since that first morning. The magic of the solitudes is not found among crowds."

"Crowds!" murmured Honor, with a suspicion of laughter in her voice.

"Don't tease," he entreated. "You know exactly what I mean. One mind not entirely in sympathy with another can create its mult.i.tudes. Won't you go with me again alone in search of the truth and the mystery which make the beauty of the veld? I want to see these things with your eyes."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because of your wonderful insight. One person looking into a puddle would see only the mud at the bottom, and another would perceive sufficient beauties of light and shade to transform even mud into a glorious substance. You have the gift of imagination--which is merely another term for being able to see truth. Teach me to see it also. I begin to believe that my destiny has led me here that I may learn that of you."

"To see truth!" she said, and regarded him thoughtfully. "I wonder if you are being sincere? One doesn't learn those things from another human being. But I'll ride with you--to-morrow. Rise an hour earlier, and we will start before any one is about."

She stood up suddenly and faced the west.

"See!" she said. "The sun has gone. I must go in and see about supper."

He stood up also, and interposed himself in her path and looked down into her face, flushed with the sunset, and very fair and earnest in expression.

"I am always entirely sincere with you," he said. "You mustn't ever again question my sincerity."

Honor appeared surprised, even a little startled; his outburst was unusual and unexpected, and his manner was very insistent. Without intending it she had hurt him; she regretted that.

"I was mistaken," she acknowledged generously. "I believe that you are sincere."

Then she left him, standing in the path feeling a little surprised at himself, and went swiftly up to the stoep and entered the house. For the first time in her life she had experienced shyness in a man's presence.

Matheson remained for a while in a state of indecision; then he went indoors and stayed in his room until supper was ready. From his window he watched Krige ride away, as he had done on several occasions during the past week. That the business upon which he rode was important, Matheson judged from the fact that Krige dressed with care on these evenings, and discarded the veldschoens he used daily about the farm for highly varnished black boots; his clothes also were black. Invariably he rode away in advance of supper, and seldom returned before eleven o'clock, which was late for a man who rose daily with the sun.

Matheson was undecided whether these journeys were taken in pursuance of revolutionary or matrimonial designs. Krige did not wear the air of a lover; but a man may cherish romance who does not cut a romantic figure.

It was difficult to imagine Krige in ardent mood; yet the picture of Krige as a married man and a father, seemed perfectly natural and likely; he was not the type of man who remains single.

No reference of his absence was ever made by the other members of the family; only his place at the supper-table was not set for him, which omission, with the agreeable subst.i.tute of the company of Mrs Krige and one of her daughters for Krige's silent presence on the stoep after supper, marked the general acceptance of the fact.

Matheson experienced an increasing curiosity as to the nature of these journeys. Some inward prompting suggested that the message for Holman depended upon these nightly pilgrimages; and into his mind the first misgivings as to the honourableness of acting as intermediary in this business insinuated themselves, and gave him food for much unpleasant thought. A man has no sort of moral right to traffic in his honour.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

When Honor appeared on the stoep the next morning, dressed for the ride and carrying the early cup of coffee, the horses were saddled and waiting below the stoep, and Matheson stood in the path beside them doing something to his stirrup leather. He left what he was doing and came up the steps and joined her.

"That's too bad," she cried; "you've done all the work this morning."

"No," he contradicted, taking the cup from her hand. "You made the coffee. I call that sharing. But I have been waiting a good while."

"It's early though," she said, and looked beyond the aloe fence to where the dew spread its silvery cobwebbed veil along the ground.

"Yes; it's early."

He drank the coffee slowly, standing beside her watching the soft colour deepening her clear skin, and the look of pleased expectancy shining in her eyes. He wondered whether she too knew the satisfaction which he was feeling in antic.i.p.ation of their uncompanioned ride? It was not possible that she felt it in the same degree.

He put down the empty cup and a.s.sisted her to mount.

"Which direction do we take to-day?" he asked. "Last time we rode to the south."

"So you remember?" She looked up, smiling, "There isn't any choice to-day. I have a letter to carry for Andreas to Cornelius Nel. The Nels' farm is about five miles from here. You will see it when we top the rise."

"Isn't it somewhat early for making calls?" he asked.

"We need only leave the letter," she said. "We will stop there on our way home. It is possible they will want us to stay to breakfast; but if you prefer--"

"Oh, please!" he interrupted. "It's for you to decide."

"Yes. But you don't understand. Cornelius hates the English; his brother, Herman, is different. Often they do not speak for months as a result of political disagreement. The farm is jointly theirs, but they have separate houses."

"In that case," he said, smiling involuntarily, "if we remain to breakfast, it would seem wise that you should breakfast with Cornelius and I with Herman. Are they married, by the way?"

"Cornelius is."

"And does Mrs Nel share her husband's prejudices?"

Honor reflected a moment. Then unexpectedly she broke into a laugh.

"Mrs Nel is of the opinion that had the Lord intended the different peoples of the earth to remain on friendly terms. He would never have contrived the confusion of tongues."