Читать книгу The Shadow of the Past - F. E. Mills Young - Страница 5

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The girl faced about at the sound of Matheson’s approach. She was vainly attempting to ward off the dog’s exuberant attacks, which Matheson quelled promptly with the effective argument of force. She looked from him to the collie as it ran howling behind her, and her eyes rebuked the man’s roughness.

“He did not intend to hurt,” she said. “He is always like that when he grows excited; one has to keep him off with a stick; but I forgot.”

“I am afraid he bit you,” he said. “Yes. But it isn’t much, I think. I’ll go back and bathe it. I am staying quite close.”

“A dog’s bite can be a nasty thing, particularly in this country,” he said. “I wish you would let me have a look at it.” She flushed brightly, and asked: “Are you a doctor?”

“Doctor enough for that sort of operation,” he replied, smiling. “There is a natural and effective way of treating all bites when one has no artificial remedy handy.”

“Oh! I don’t think it is necessary to trouble you,” she said quickly. “The dog is perfectly healthy.”

“That may be; but it is a wise precaution,” he urged. He was quietly insistent; but the girl was determined in her objection, which he had a persuasion arose from prudish reasons rather than indifference to the wound. A feeling of irritation gripped him. He wondered why he should concern himself about her. If she chose to run risks, that was her affair.

“I am afraid you consider my interference impertinent,” he said. “It was not meant so.”

Quickly she lifted her eyes, brown, earnest eyes, to his face, and scrutinised him closely.

“I am sorry if you really think that,” she said. “And it isn’t true. I feel only gratitude for your kindness. If I thought there was the least danger I would gladly follow your suggestion. But it’s such a trifling matter. I cried out because I was startled. I didn’t think you would hear up there by the wall.”

“I happened to be watching,” he said, “and saw what happened. I am glad the injury is only slight. All the same, I wouldn’t stand about; a bandage and rest would be advisable.”

“Yes,” she said.

She hesitated for a moment, manifestly undecided whether to part without thanking him formally for his kindly interest would not appear rather ungracious. She had been prepared at first to resent his interference. It had annoyed her when he kicked the dog; the action had struck her as brutal, and consistent in a man who gambled away the best of the hours. A mental picture of a sunburnt face, flushed and absorbed in the game, of strong indolent hands fingering the cards, recurred persistently and prejudiced her against him. She wished that she had not discovered him thus engaged. As though he divined the reason of her hesitation, and sought to relieve her of further embarrassment, he glanced rapidly over his shoulder, made some remark about the necessity for following his friend, and turned away. Abruptly the girl held out her hand.

“Thank you very much for troubling about me,” she said.

“There is nothing to thank me for,” he answered, facing her again with a lazy smile. “You wouldn’t let me render any service.”

“Because there wasn’t any need,” she said quickly, as though thinking her refusal needed explaining. “But I am obliged to you for your concern for me.”

She started to walk up the beach; and the dog, barking remonstrance that she should forsake the sea, remained with its feet planted protestingly in the wet sand in the hope that she would think better of it and return. Matheson walked beside her.

“Since we are both bound for the road,” he said, “may I go so far with you?”

He stepped aside to pick up his jacket from the sands and slipped into it. The coat gave him a more civilised appearance, his companion thought. But, though she strove to, she could not place him to her satisfaction. He might be anything, from a miner to a trooper in the mounted police. He was, as a matter of fact, a civil engineer, though for the past year or two he had neglected his profession for more adventurous pursuits.

When they reached the road the girl pointed to a large house with a tower, lying back in a pleasant garden, and informed him that she was staying there.

“It’s nothing of a walk, you see,” she added, smiling suddenly. “Now I am going in to follow your prescription.”

“I’ll walk to the gate with you, if I may,” he said.

His persistence surprised her. It occurred to her as unusual that a man who a few minutes before had been a complete stranger to her should consider an accidental introduction which left them both in ignorance regarding each other’s name sufficient grounds for developing the acquaintance. She looked at him with her steady eyes, which seemed to be gravely considering him, as though she would estimate his worth before committing herself, and answered slowly:

“If it is not taking you out of your way.”

He smiled at the primness of the conventionally worded permission which she so reluctantly gave; it pleased him, he hardly knew why. She pleased him altogether, this little brown girl, with the dark soft eyes that looked so straight into his with their wondering expression which was fearless and shy as well. He liked the clear rich olive of her sun-kissed skin, and the warm unruly brown of her hair. She was not in any sense of the word pretty, save with the beauty that is youth’s, and which vanishes with youth. But there was about her some quality which appealed to Matheson as no physical attraction could appeal; for lack of a more suitable phrase he designated it the essential feminine; but he knew in using the term that it failed in embodying all he wished to convey, failed to portray that brooding spirit of womanhood which he recognised looking out at him from her soft eyes. Possibly had it not been for this look, which he detected when for the first time he met her gaze fully, she would not have caught his attention, would certainly not have stimulated his curiosity. He found himself searching for the look whenever she lifted her eyes; and when for a fleeting second he surprised it in them he had a curious feeling that he wanted to kiss her. He wondered what she would have said had he yielded to the temptation.

“If it took me any part of the way out of my road,” he replied, “it could not be reckoned an appreciable distance. I’ve a fancy to see that you take advantage of the side gate instead of mounting all those steps on to the stoep.”

She emitted a quiet laugh.

“You would make me out quite an invalid,” she said. “I’ve always been encouraged not to fuss over trifles.”

“That advice suggests brothers,” he ventured.

He became aware of some one standing on the balcony, gravely intent upon their figures as they climbed the shadeless road; and he saw a faint flush steal into his companion’s cheeks, a tiny pucker of vexation contract her brows.

“I shall have to explain you,” she said. “They’ll never let me take Bruno out again.”

“Not take out your dog!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, he isn’t mine. He belongs to the house. I have never owned anything so valuable as a dog.” She laughed again, entirely without bitterness, and added: “The advantage of possessing nothing lies in the knowledge that one can never suffer the disappointment of loss.”

He wondered whether she guessed that he was suffering keenly from the particular disappointment of which she spoke, whether, when those clear eyes had fastened upon his in the surprise of that first encounter, she had discerned the breathless, almost feverish, anxiety with which he hung on the issue of the game. He felt that she would not sympathise with him if he confessed to her that he had lost his all, that he could boast no greater possessions than herself. He recalled the disapproval in her look; and he felt that in no circumstance could he be drawn to confide in her that for over a week he had been steadily gambling, and, for the greater part of the time, losing heavily. She simply would not understand.

“It is an advantage truly,” he allowed—“so long as one is sure of one’s next meal. I enjoy that enviable condition with yourself.”

“Yes. But you won’t enjoy it for long.”

“You mean?” he asked.

“You’ll acquire... Men can.”

“And can’t women too?”

“It’s possible, of course; but it isn’t so easy for us; we’re up against so many obstacles—tradition is the biggest of them.”

“Some of you have climbed over that,” he said.

“Some of us have.” She lifted her face with a brief smile. “When we’ve climbed over in sufficient numbers we’ll roll it out of the way. Don’t come with me any farther, please; Mrs Graham won’t like it. That is Mrs Graham on the balcony. I am her companion.”

“Oh!” he said.

He opened the gate for her and stood with his hand upon it. Because of the watchful figure on the balcony he made no offer to shake hands; the girl, he believed, would prefer that her employer should not witness how far they had advanced towards a friendly intimacy.

“I hope the leg will soon be well,” he said. “I am often on the beach; I’m on holiday. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again, and hearing from you of its progress. I’m staying in town. Matheson is my name—Guy Matheson.”

“Mine is Brenda Upton,” she returned with a sort of shy bluntness that seemed to hint at unwillingness to respond to his insistent confidences. He was gaining information by insidious methods. In a few minutes he had learnt more about her than is sometimes revealed after a long acquaintance. She resented this. It conferred privileges to which he was entitled.

“Good morning,” she said, and passed through the gate, leaving him to shut it after her.

She did not look back; and, after following her retreating figure for a moment with his eyes, he turned about and walked slowly away in the sunshine. On one point he was determined; he intended to make it his business to see Brenda Upton again.

He returned to the main road and boarded the tram for Adderley Street; he was staying in the vicinity with Holman. The latter’s acquaintance he had made in Johannesburg. They had in a very brief space of time become surprisingly intimate. He was not quite dear what had been responsible for the development of the intimacy. He had never felt especially drawn towards the older man, who had pursued the friendship with a determination that was flattering and irresistible in the case of a man who was indolent in the matter of selection as in most things, and who, as a recent arrival in Africa, was fairly ready to respond to friendly overtures, particularly from a man long and closely associated with the country.

Holman seemed to have no specified profession. He was interested in company promoting, and had undoubtedly some influence in mining circles. He was a man of mystery, whose movements were abrupt and always uncertain, and whose friends were as insignificant in numbers as his circle of acquaintances was large. He travelled at irregular intervals to Europe; but he was seldom absent from Africa for longer than three months at a stretch. He hated the land, he was wont to say; but it was too important an investment to disregard.

“Rhodes realised the value of Africa,” he informed Matheson. “He would have connived at anything so that he could hold it for the Empire in the hollow of his hand. But there was one thing he didn’t foresee.”

“What is that?” Matheson had asked.

“The near future will shed a light upon that,” was the unexpected reply. “I’ll leave it to the future to answer your question.”

Matheson’s knowledge of African politics and African history was superficial. He had considered the Boer war necessary as putting the only possible finish to an intolerable situation. He further considered independent government a mistake. Older and wiser men thought the same, but they were in the minority. The blunders of misgovernment are the inevitable result of circumscribed powers. To quote a wise and able statesman: It is better that a country should govern itself from within, even if at first it govern badly.