"Miss Pym, I presume," he said, coldly, and bowed to her.
"Miss Diana Pym," she replied, and slightly inclined her head.
"My name is Carew," he told her, with bluntness.
"And are you ... er ... a scientist, evolving a theory about the ruins?"
"I am a policeman." He said it brusquely, almost rudely, and Diana was taken with a sudden desperate inclination to laugh. All in a moment he reminded her forcibly of the uniformed autocrat holding up one lordly hand to stop the traffic. She moved towards the entrance, keeping her face averted. "The same sort of policeman as Mr. Stanley, I suppose?" she suggested, affably, but he seemed not to hear her, and a covert glance at his face was not reassuring. But the mere fact only spurred her on. If she was silent he might think he had overawed her. Goodness! how appalling! She quickened her step, and tossed her small head a little with a kind of challenging jerk.
"I rather like your ruin," she said. "It's quite a nice old heap of stones."
Once more Carew vouchsafed no reply, but Diana knew perfectly well that his lips tightened slightly, which signified that in some way she had hit him.
So pretending to be perfectly unaware of his non-responsive attitude, she ran airily on:
"Such a mad idea to travel hundreds of miles to see a few old remains of a doubtful edifice, built by Bantus! or is the plural Bantams?... I'm sure when you heard we were coming you wondered if you had better prepare a dwelling for us with padded walls. Now, didn't you?..." and she looked up archly into his face.
"I understood Mr. Pym had come to this neighbourhood about some gold claims," in cold, even tones.
"Yes, so he has. But we haven't; at least Meryl hasn't. She came to see Rhodesia. I don't quite know what I've come for," naïvely. "I was just wondering about it sitting on that wall." And still he refused to be drawn. "You were looking very grave. Were you wondering what you are here for too?"
At that moment they reached a spot where the path divided into two: one fork leading to their tent and the other to the police camp. He stood still. "I believe I was considering the best solution to a native problem that has lately arisen." He glanced towards their tent. "I see Mr. Stanley is helping to arrange your camp. Please let him know of anything you want. You will find him an excellent guide." Then, scarcely looking at her, he saluted and walked away.
Diana returned to their tent feeling baffled and interested, half-inclined to be cross and half-inclined to laugh. And almost at the same time from the other direction came Meryl.
"O, it's wonderful!" Meryl cried softly, with all her face aglow. "I never imagined anything half so fascinating; and I haven't even seen the temple yet. Mr. Stanley, do stay and dine with us. Our cook-boy is quite good."
"All except his soup," put in Diana, "and he is only good at that in the sense of making it out of nothing. Sometimes I think he just boils a bit of the harness, or a corner of the tent-flap, or probably he makes it of rats if he can catch enough."
Stanley looked at her with all his eyes and accepted the invitation eagerly, saying that he must first go back to the camp to change. Half an hour later he reappeared, looking quite smart in a white duck dress-jacket and a starched collar.
As they sat down to their alfresco meal, taken under the stars, with two lanterns suspended on sticks for lights, Diana suddenly said to him:
"Who is the bear?..."
"The bear?..." doubtfully.
"Yes. The bear who lives down there in the police camp, and rejoices in the name of Carew."
Stanley, looking much amused, replied, "You must mean the Major; but you haven't met him, have you?"
"I had the pleasure of being snarled at for about fifteen minutes this afternoon."
Stanley laughed outright. "But where? He never said that he had seen you."
"I don't think he did see me. We merely met. Most of the time he either looked away or looked through me at something beyond. Still, he might have mentioned the meeting. I don't feel flattered."
"O, but that is nothing with Carew. He is an awfully silent chap."
"Silent!... do you call it?... I never felt so ... so ... suppressed ... in my life. I thought he seemed rather inclined to bite me."
"But where did you meet him, Di?..." asked Meryl, with interest.
"I was sitting on a wall in the temple, and he strode in and sat on another wall and stared at the ground ... and I stared at him ... and then he looked up and saw me ... and afterwards ..." she paused.
"Do you mean to say you sat perfectly still in front of him, and let him sit on, thinking himself alone, and then suddenly discover you?..."
"Yes. Why not?"
"Well, it wasn't very fair on him."
"Such nonsense, Meryl! That's just what he seemed to think. Why shouldn't I have a little romance if I want to? Such a dull, prosaic, commonplace old world as it is, generally speaking! I was having a lovely one. He was a great hunter who had lost his way, and dragged himself into the temple to die...."
"I thought you said he strode in?..."
"Don't be silly; he wasn't in the romance then. And I was a lovely, mysterious veiled lady who lived in the wilderness; but my veil happened to be thrown back, and when the dying hunter raised his eyes...." she stopped short.
"Well?..."
"That's where the romance stopped, where he brutally spoilt it, because when he raised his eyes and saw me there he just scowled horribly."
Stanley and Meryl laughed whole-heartedly, but Meryl told her it served her right because she was unfairly taking him at a disadvantage.
"But I did nothing of the kind. No one was at a disadvantage except myself."
"I'm sure you weren't," Meryl remarked. "You never have been yet."
"That's where you are mistaken, my dear. When you are sitting in a lovely romance, gazing at a dreadfully handsome, distinguished-looking man who is the hero prince, and will presently discover you and smile divinely with all his soul in his eyes, and when instead an iron-visaged person looks up at you, and scowls and grows as black as thunder, I defy any woman not to find herself at a disadvantage."
"Well, how did you get out of it?... What did you do?..."
The alluring twinkle shone suddenly in Diana's eyes, and her lips twitched mischievously, as she replied:
"Well, I smiled divinely instead, and asked him to help me down from my high wall."
"O, you are quite incorrigible," laughed Meryl. "If I had been him I would have left you there to get down the same way you went up. But who is he?..." turning to Stanley. "He sounds rather interesting."
"He's a splendid fellow," The Kid asserted, warmly. "We couldn't stick him at first, Moore and I, but we soon found he only wants knowing. There's some history attached to his being out here that no one quite knows; but he is a Fountenay-Carew and used to be in the Blues."
"But how nice!" quoth Diana. "This is much more interesting than the old ruins. Is he rich and haughty, with lovely estates left to dishonest stewards, and all that?..."
"No very poor, I should imagine; nothing but his pay, anyhow. I believe when he was in the Blues an old uncle gave him a big allowance, but something happened, and he threw the money in the old chap's face, and the old chap chucked him out."
"And what happened to cause the quarrel?" asked Diana, all ears. "Why, he is more romantic than my prince!"
"That is what I fancy no one knows. Anyhow, in a country like this, no one asks. It isn't quite the game, you see; and, anyhow, no one is interested now. He has done a tremendous lot for Rhodesia in one way and another, especially for the police force and natives; and we're quite proud of him in our way for that, independent of his history."
"How nice!" and Meryl's eyes grew very soft. "It is a much finer reward than he would probably ever have gained in the Blues. I hope he thinks so?"
"I don't suppose he cares either way. Certainly, he doesn't appear to. He just loves the country, and seems only to want to stay here; but he never speaks even of that. Since he came here a few months ago he has done a lot of investigation work among the ruins privately. He is most awfully attached to them."
Suddenly Diana asked, "I suppose he is pretty sick about two modern young women presuming to journey here to gaze at his treasure?"
Stanley coloured up, and Diana laughed. "O, don't bother to deny it. I could feel it in my very bones when we met this afternoon."
They finished their meal, and the boys moved the table away, so that they could sit round the glowing embers of a small fire, not so much for warmth as for the idea, and they lazed low in their chairs, talking idly and enjoying the cool, fragrant night.
And presently, not à propos of anything in particular, Diana said, quite aloud, "I guess The Bear is growling and scowling away nicely to-night down there in his den. I expect the first time we meet I shall forget and call him Bear Carew instead of Major Carew, and then he'll shrivel me up with a glance."
A sound beside them in the shadow made all look up suddenly, and the lamplight fell full upon Carew's face as he stood near Diana's chair.
Meryl rose hurriedly, blushing to the roots of her hair, while Stanley, secretly much amused, stood up likewise. Only the culprit remained unperturbed to outward seeming, glancing archly round.
"I'm afraid you overheard what I said ...MajorCarew.... I'm quite ready to apologise, only ..."
"Please, don't...." For one instant the coldly even voice had a tiny inflection in it, as of humour, though he stifled it immediately, as he turned to Meryl and said, gravely, with a bow, "Miss Pym, I think?... A letter has come for you from Edwardstown by runner. I brought it on in case you might wish to send a reply, and to enquire if you are quite comfortable here for the night."
Meryl took it from him, thanking him in her low, sweet voice, and with a rather shy, upward glance. And Diana, in the shadow, saw the soldier suddenly flinch and suddenly grow sterner, standing in an attitude of almost unnatural rigidity.
"There is no heed to reply," Meryl said, after reading her note. "It is only a message from father to say he may be detained until afternoon. Thank you so much for bringing it. Won't you sit down? Can I offer you anything? I'm afraid there is not much choice. Father does not like luxuries in the wilderness, and we only carry whisky."
"No, thank you." The tones were even again now, and he made no movement towards a chair. "Have you everything you need for the night? I hope Mr. Stanley has made himself very useful?"
"He has been splendid. I am only afraid we have tired him out. Won't you sit down?" and she shyly motioned to a chair.
"Thank you. I'm afraid I must get back. I have some despatches to write. Would you like a police-boy to keep guard here all night? There is nothing whatever to fear, but if it would add to your comfort?..."
"O no, thank you," warmly. "We are not in the least nervous. I think there are no lions very near," with a little laugh.
Diana, lying back in her chair, had scarcely taken her eyes off the tall soldier, though she watched him covertly, and without seeming to; and her quick brain perceived dimly that his aloof attitude was partly a mask which had become a habit, and that, however much he suppressed her, there was nothing whatever repellant about his chilly reserve. And then, suddenly, the little mischievous devil possessed her again, and she longed to try her arts upon him, just to see what happened, and to show him she was not seriously in the least afraid of him.
And no sooner had Meryl remarked that there were no lions near them, than she could not for the life of her help murmuring, "No lions, only bears."
Again there was an instant's answering gleam in Carew's eyes, but he only smiled very slightly, and said, "Perhaps a bear's growl, like a dog's bark, is worse than his bite."
It was as though something altogether too much for him was struggling with an inclination to relax just the least bit on Diana's behalf and insistently conquering. With scarcely a second look at her he drew himself up tautly and said he must be going. Then he saluted gravely, said good night in a voice that included them all, and strode away through the darkness towards the police camp.
For a moment there was silence round the glowing embers.
"It was kind of him to say good night," said Diana, sarcastically.
"What a fine-looking man!" commented Meryl.
"He is gruffer than usual to-night. Perhaps something has happened to upset him. I think I must be going also," and Stanley reluctantly rose to follow his chief.
"Of course he is gruffer," said Diana. "Two tiresome women have dared to journey to Zimbabwe to look at his ruins."
In the darkness Carew strode on to where a light shone through the doorway of a hut, but his eyes were looking straight before him into the night, and had the expression of one whose thoughts were very far away. It had cost him an effort to go up there with the note, but he had made it purposely, determined to take in hand quickly that vein of weakness which threatened him at sight of Meryl. He would go up and speak to her and break the spell as quickly as possible, regaining his old fortitude. More particularly as he felt he could not now leave on the morrow, just as Mr. Pym was arriving expecting to find him there. Not that there appeared any reason why, just because he happened to be a millionaire, a police officer should be expected to wait on him, but no doubt the Administration had its own reason for showing special attention to a very rich man, and hoped for some benefit to the country thereby.
So he had taken the bull by the horns and strode up to the lamplit camp, where the travellers sat over the glowing embers; and, of course, he had heard Diana's remark, and smiled grimly to himself, in no way displeased, for it suited him perfectly to be shunned as a bear. And then, keeping an iron control over himself, he had addressed Meryl, and looked straight into her face without flinching. The upward look, for one second, had shaken him, but the iron control held good, and before he left them he had spoken to her and looked at her with perfect calmness. The visit had been quite as he wished it, and for a few seconds, striding into the dark, he congratulated himself upon having so satisfactorily coped with a situation that had threatened to be a little difficult and had disturbed him so in the afternoon. Of course, she wasn't really like Joan, except in a very general way. Just her height and figure and graceful movements and colouring; and, of course, the upward glance from confiding, thoughtful, blue-grey eyes that had humour lurking in them, and power and possibilities, and were so curiously framed in dark lashes in spite of light hair. In the midst of his self-congratulation he remembered the upward look again, and all in a moment once more it shook him. His gaze went blindly to the stars, and his mind flew back. Ah! how sweet Joan had been; how strong, how true! How she had stood by him through the beginning of the storm, turning the clouds to sunshine, making everything worth while! And then, the swift tragedy, the climax; the awful, awful days and nights that followed. How he had trodden the lonely Devon moors, blindly, passionately seeking a dead weariness of body that would dull his mind! How he had cursed the two men who drove in the final barb, and vowed never to see their faces again!
And then the little note-book he had found, in which Joan had inscribed some of her thoughts from time to time, and copied a few favourite passages from favourite authors! It had come to him like a voice from the dead—Joan's voice, calling to him to rise above his despair and prove himself still worthy of her. And out there on the moors at sunrise he had vowed that he would. Calmly, coldly, as an austere monk, he had laid down for ever the things that had made his life gay and joyous before, and prepared to turn his back on England and all that it held pertaining to him.
And now there is a distant wilderness and great southern stars, and mysterious, antique ruins, and a man who has grown strong and silent in aloofness, and won a sort of soothing content out of what he has given, seeking no reward.
Not, perhaps, that "renewing" a royal friend had spoken of fifteen years ago, for the contentment was void of hope and fear and joy, but balm upon the passionate, frantic bitterness and despair. But the "renewing" might come even yet, however much he scorned the thought; for forty-two is at the prime of years, and Life has a tender way of her own of healing when she will.
But to-night the memories are bitter, and the reopened wound throbs and burns. Carew strode up to his hut, with only a curt good night to the trooper, and when Stanley arrived back there was no light burning, only darkness and silence.
The following day Carew avoided the camp, after telling Stanley he might devote his time to the ladies if he wished. In the afternoon, however, he saw Mr. Pym and his engineer arrive, and then, presently, the party all went down to the ruins together. About an hour later they re-emerged, and while the two girls went back to the tents, the millionaire strolled towards the police camp. Carew, seizing his opportunity, came out, and went to meet him. He considered himself fortunate in being able to offer the necessary courtesies when the ladies of the party were absent. Mr. Pym hid his surprise at seeing so distinguished-looking an officer at such an out-of-the-way camp, and received his somewhat curt greetings in his own quiet, business-like manner. He thanked him for the attentions he had already rendered, and hoped they were not causing any inconvenience in pitching their tents near the ruins. Carew assured him they were not, and mentioned that Mr. Stanley would be happy to place his time at their service and do anything he could to make their stay agreeable.
Henry Pym, noting the obvious intention of the officer not to place much of his own time at their disposal, looked quietly into the resolute face, and felt his interest growing apace. At the same time, following his lead, he made no attempt to lengthen the interview, which he felt was more or less regarded as an official duty; and with courteous thanks said good night, hoped Major Carew would dine with them one evening, and returned to his tent.
"Well, uncle," was Diana's greeting, "what do you make of The Bear?"
"The Bear?..." questioningly.
"The cast-iron soldierman, who condescends to breathe the same air as ordinary mortals down there in the police camp."
"O, Major Carew!..." with a quick gleam in his eyes. "I thought him rather a fine fellow. Don't you?" and he smiled at her slyly.
"A fine bear," quoth Diana, with a little pout. "I prefer a man with a little more flexibility. A little more commonplace flesh and blood, so to speak."
"I asked him to dinner to-morrow," her uncle remarked.
"And is he coming?" with ill-concealed interest.
"No. He is going to see two young miners named Macaulay a few miles away, and was regretfully compelled to decline," and the humorous smile on his face widened, for he knew that Diana would be piqued.
"As if he couldn't go there any day!" she grumbled. "O, of course, he is perfectly odious."
Meryl's eyes met her father's, and they both laughed, while he remarked, "Never mind; perhaps we can lay a trap for him another time. Evidently he has no particular fancy for ladies' company."
"Do you know the Macaulays?" Meryl asked.
"No, but I am going to see them in two or three days on business."
"And you will take us?..." she pleaded. "I do want so to see all we can of the settlers as well as the country."
"We will see later," he said, and made a move to prepare for dinner.
During the next two days he and his engineer made sundry small excursions on business. Their investigation of several outcrops in the Victoria district had convinced them the gold was by no means worked out by that ancient people who had left so many traces of mining operations, and Mr. Pym was prepared to buy up claims and properties. On the fourth day he went to see the Macaulays, and took the girls with him, having procured a mule each for them to ride. Stanley and Carew were also to be of the party; the latter not a little to everyone's surprise.
All through the four days he had held consistently aloof, personating merely the courteous official upon whom Mr. Pym had a certain claim because of the letter from headquarters. As a matter of fact, he had undertaken a journey of some length on two of the days to outlying kraals; and Diana, hearing of it from Stanley, had laughed a little grimly, and said, "He need not have troubled. We have no wish to speak to him"; and Stanley, not quite clever enough to understand, remarked regretfully, "But you would like him so much if you knew him properly."
The reason was not very apparent for his accompanying them to the Macaulays' mine, but Meryl shrewdly suspected her father, who had gone quietly to smoke a pipe in the police camp with him on one or two occasions, had asked him to come more or less as a personal favour. For though Stanley knew the road perfectly he knew very little about the surrounding country itself; and Mr. Pym, with his unerring instinct, had quickly discovered that Carew's mind was a well of knowledge on most things Rhodesian. So the taciturn soldier joined the cavalcade, though he succeeded in attaching himself to Mr. Pym and riding well on ahead.
The two Macaulays were "small miners," working on tribute a mine belonging to a block owned by a company in which Henry Pym had large interests. Complaints had come through to his ears concerning the difficult conditions upon which the two young miners, and many others like them, struggled to make a fortune or a livelihood, and he had a fancy to go and see them for himself. The mine was in a hollow, banked round by tall, gloomy kopjes, which seemed to stand like a bodyguard, sternly shutting them off from all sight or sound of the outside world. At the same time, the road to it was delightful. Sometimes they climbed nearly to the top of a kopje, the mules going up stairways of granite as if born to it, and the lovely country lay outspread in a glorious panorama before them.
The party said very little, but their eyes told that the fascination had crept into their hearts already, though they could only appreciate in silence, wondering, perhaps, why they felt this strong attraction for a land that was chiefly kopjes and veldt.
Was it, perhaps, the marvellous, translucent atmosphere, or was it the blue intensity of the dreaming kopjes, ornamented ever and anon by gleaming white battlements of granite, where the sun blazed down on giant boulders, or was it the unfathomable, mysterious, syren-like allurement of the country, that, without effort, without thought, steeped the senses in an irresistible fascination? Why does Rhodesia fascinate? Why does she call men back again and again to her manifold discomforts and unnerving disappointments, to her pests and glare, to her bully beef and unwashed Kaffirs? Who shall say?... Who shall attempt to explain?...
There is no explanation; only the foolish would seek it. The country just gets up and takes hold of one and smiles, and men become enslaved to her. Ever after "the hazy blue of her mountains, the waft of the veldt-born scent," is like a germ in the blood. The discomforts are forgotten, the disappointments dissolve into air, the noontide glare and choking dust are a mere nothing: libellous creations of some discontented grumbler. And in the midst of the crowd, or in England's green lanes, or on some far shore, the wanderer is caught in the old mesh suddenly, and all his pulses beat with swift longing at just that heaven-sweet impression: "The hazy blue of her mountains, the waft of the veldt-born scent...."
And she, the syren, lies there in her sunshine and her loveliness; locked in the arms of the deep, luscious, dreaming nights, whispering and murmuring softly under embracing, star-lit heavens; making wild riot when the splendid storms fling after each other across her bosom, while the thunders roll deafeningly amidst her kopjes, and the lightning pierces brilliantly the riotous clouds and makes a glory of the mighty scene. Sulky and colourless when she is waiting impatiently for the delayed rains; resplendent, and with a colouring that is like a Te Deum, when the renewing has come, and all her soul sings aloud in the joy of spring, and all her flowers and trees lend her loveliness past telling, and her hills a yet deeper blueness under yet intenser, rain-washed skies. All this—all her moods and whims and waywardness—going serenely on—splendidly, superbly indifferent to the men who come to tame her and stay to love in silent enslavement; as also to the men who come solely for gain and gold, and go away shrieking their complainings to the four winds. Because, perhaps, the enchantress has not troubled to show them her allurements, and ruffled, discontented minds have discovered only the dust and heat and pests.
But what of it to the syren?... There are others who stay, as many, perhaps, as she wants, and to whom she puts out a shy hand of friendship, and presently soothes and consoles as the strong, silent, storm-tossed man who rode with so soldierly a bearing beside Mr. Pym; suffering no stab of love and longing any more as he looked over her fair bosom, because the shy hand was in his, because there was that subtle sense of understanding in his heart which seemed to tell him that even as he loved Rhodesia, Rhodesia loved him.
And so they came to the Saucy Susan Gold Mine, at least to the ridge of the surrounding kopjes, and looked down to where a cluster of huts like beehives told them humans dwelt down there in the hollow.
"It can't be a mine," said Diana. "It's just a hollow in the hills; the sort of place giants hide in when they play hide-and-seek."
"But it is," Stanley assured her. "We shall see a little more as we wind down."
And presently they came within view of a shaft, and two honest-eyed young Englishmen, both old Charterhouse boys, came forward to greet them.
Meryl shook hands with her face all aglow with interest; and to their humble apologies that they had only huts to invite them into, she said, "But it is so nice of you to invite us at all. You wouldn't believe how proud I am to come here to see you, and how tremendously interested."
And Diana, with a droll expression, remarked, "You seem to live rather in the nethermost depths. You must feel as if you were going to heaven literally and figuratively every time you ascend to the outer world."
The elder brother laughed pleasantly, but the younger, who had a white face and a delicate, refined air, looked at her a little wistfully. Meryl chatted on with the elder, but Diana, with her quick perception, scented a silent, wordless, plucky endurance of adverse conditions in the younger, and gave her attention to him.
Then they went into the dining-room hut, and found a meal spread on a roughly made table, with only two chairs for seats and all the rest packing-cases.
"Who has to sit on a chair?" asked Diana. "I needn't, need I?..."
"Why, they are quite sound!... Are you afraid of a spill?..." asked Lionel Macaulay, looking amused.
"No, only I can sit on a chair any day of my life. I simply insist upon having a packing-case when such a good opportunity offers."
So Meryl and her father were duly ensconced in the only two chairs, and Diana mounted gaily on to a tall, thin packing-case, which would certainly have gone over backwards if Colin, the rather sad-eyed brother, had not caught her just as she was overbalancing.
"How clever of you!..." she laughed. "What happens when you two overbalance and don't happen to be near enough to catch each other?... Does the dinner come in and find you both sprawling on the floor?"
"Well, we've had a good deal of practice, you see," he told her, already cheering visibly. "The tables are turned for us, and we choose a chair when we can get it, for a treat."
Afterwards she made him show her all his clever contrivances for packing-case furniture, and admired his sackcloth curtain, barrel washhand stand, and made him feel vigorous and hopeful.
Stanley was talking to Meryl, and Lionel Macaulay was showing Mr. Pym, the engineer, and Carew over the mine, so she gossiped away to him all by herself. And she drew from him a little of the bitter disappointments they had encountered in the country. A story of first one mine and then another failing them; of capital slipping away and bills mounting; of the gradual cutting down of comforts and increased austerity of living: a story common enough in all colonies where Life puts men through the mill again and again to prove and harden them. Acting perhaps on the lines:
"It is easy enough to be pleasantWhen life moves along like a song,But the man worth while is the man who can smileWhen everything goes dead wrong."
"It is easy enough to be pleasantWhen life moves along like a song,But the man worth while is the man who can smileWhen everything goes dead wrong."
Life wants a lot of men and women whom she knows are "worth while" in carrying out her great affairs, and that is perhaps why so often "everything goes dead wrong."
Diana maintained her rôle of gay inconsequence because it pleased her best.
"It all sounds very superior and all that rot, and I'm sure Meryl would call you a hero; but I should swear myself black and blue in your shoes, and that's about what you do pretty often, I expect."
His smile grew fresher and more genuine.
"It doesn't do much good though."
"O yes it does. Don't tell me! When things get into a silly stupid mess with me I just shut the door and say every swear word I know until I feel better. That's one advantage of living in a hollow in the desert. You needn't even bother to shut the door!... You can shout your ruffled feelings to the kopjes, and I suppose they echo the words back to you. How perfectly splendid! That's a thing about Rhodesia I hadn't thought of before. Of course, the echoes are sometimes wonderful; so if you were to shout a few swear words the kopjes would shout them after you; and that's much better than 'dreaming stillness' in my opinion. But why aren't you and your brother making a fortune? I thought everyone in Rhodesia was making one who had a mine."
"We don't get up enough gold. By the time we have paid our royalty and the expenses there is nothing left."
"Then the royalty must be too big. Who do you pay it to?"
He coloured, and she watched him humorously.
"Has my uncle something to do with your company? O, don't look uncomfortable. I'll just talk to him about it. There ought to be occasions when no royalty is taken at all. I'll tell him so."
Colin Macaulay laughed into her smiling eyes.
"As it is, there is a charge for everything, even the grass the donkeys eat!..."
"O, monstrous! I never heard of such a thing. I'll interview the board about it if you like. Tell your donkeys they may eat anything they choose in future, it is not going down in the bill any more!..." and they both laughed gaily.
In a more serious mood, however, she asked him presently, "I suppose it has been rather a disappointment?... This coming out to Rhodesia to make a fortune!"
"Why do you think so?"
"O, well, lots of reasons. You haven't come within sight of the fortune, for one thing; and you've still got packing-case furniture and live in huts. And you eat a lot of bully beef, now don't you?"
"We do."
"But that isn't what you came for?"
"Still"—meditatively—"it's not a small thing to be in a country where a fortune may be won any day. It is that, of course, which keeps us going. It is better anyhow than a stool and one hundred and fifty pounds a year in England."
"Are you sure?" And she watched him with keen eyes.
He coloured slightly, but answered with firmness:
"Quite."
"But not better than something else, perhaps?"
He saw that her interest was kindly and genuine, and suddenly drawn to expand he told her simply:
"It's the isolation that hurts. Day after day, day after day, just this hollow and these kopjes, and never anyone to speak to except each other. We send for the mail once a week, but sometimes very little comes by it; and we get nothing fresh to read except a weekly Rhodesian paper. That is a gold mine to us for just one evening; but for all the rest there is nothing. Lionel is studying French, and I do a little also, but it palls after a time badly."
"I should think so. It sounds as dry as dead bones."
They were sitting upon a rocky knoll, and Diana had her hands clasped round her drawn-up knees, presenting a very attractive picture. "I'm not a true Imperialist at heart," she informed him. "I hate gush and talk and heroics, but between you and me I think an awful lot of you men making your solitary fight in the wilderness. It's always a lot easier to put up with discomforts when you know your next-door neighbour is jolly uncomfortable too. Of course, most people don't say so, but that's because they are conventional, and fondly try to persuade themselves, very unselfish also; but when they are honest they know quite well a misfortune is lightened when several others are in the same box. That's why, on a wet day, I console myself sitting at the window and watching folks struggling with drenched umbrellas and bedraggled skirts. It's so good to be safe inside."
He waited with amused eyes.
"And, of course, the trouble for you is just sitting down here among these monotonous kopjes and being uncomfortable all alone. No one to grumble to—ugh, how I should hate that!—no one to feel superior with; no one to envy you, even if there were anything to envy. It's a positive grave."
"You've left out one of the worst contingencies. No one to discuss with; no friction of mind and opinions."
"That comes under the heading of grumbling. When I discuss I almost always grumble about something. It is good for the progress of the world." And she laughed whimsically. Then, with one of her sudden changes, "How long do you expect to stay on trying to dig up a fortune, and pretending it is worth while when you know you hate it like Old Harry?"
"We shall probably try another mine soon. That is what we want to do; but it cost so much to get our machinery down into this hollow we don't quite know where to find the money to get it out again. So we just go on hoping we shall strike a good reef soon."
She remained thoughtful and silent some moments, and then, as if to change the subject, remarked, "Mr. Stanley seems happy enough in his solitary place. He says he used to be in Salisbury, but very much prefers Zimbabwe."
"Most of the police prefer a quiet place with good shooting; and now that he has Major Carew there so much it must often be interesting."
"Do you know Major Carew well?" and her quick voice failed to entirely hide her interest.
"As well as perhaps anyone does. He comes to see us fairly often on Sundays."
"But he is so silent, he can't be very interesting."
"He is not always silent."
"No, sometimes he snarls," with a little laugh.
"Ah! you don't know him. Get him to talk to you about the natives; about their habits and legends and customs. There isn't a man in Rhodesia knows more, and there isn't one they trust more absolutely. He is down in this district now on their behalf, and before he set foot here they knew all about him. Natives a hundred miles apart communicate that sort of thing to each other. Every kraal here knew perfectly that he was stern and rigid, but absolutely just. If he once says a thing he stands by it, even if he gets into trouble at headquarters, which isn't so very unusual. Someone out of jealousy or pique or utter inability to understand stern justice, will misrepresent his actions and misreport him for doing his duty. It's a heart-breaking business for him sometimes; but he never gives in when it is keeping his word one way or the other with natives. He would sooner resign, and they know it; and fortunately they recognise his value and meet him somehow. Of course, he isn't in the Native Department, properly speaking, but he has done a lot of work with them for some time."
"And what do you think he is down here for now?"
"I don't know; but it is some abuse or other that has reached the ears of the administration. This sort of thing happens among the short-sighted, small-minded Native Commissioners. There was a man a short time back who charged his house boys five shillings for everything they broke. At the end of six months they had had no pay at all, and were pretty heavily in debt. He was magistrate as well as commissioner and had them brought before his court, and promptly sentenced them to work six months for nothing."
"What a shame!" she burst out indignantly.
"Or a Native Commissioner may terrorise a native into selling cattle to him for a mere song by nothing but a look. Of course, they are not allowed to buy cattle really, but if they are married their wives buy them instead sometimes, and then the Commissioner in an outlying district can fairly easily fix the price, if he has made himself a dread to all the kraals round. He can collect taxes, too, not strictly just, to make his accounts look well at headquarters."
"But I thought Native Commissioners were always gentlemen?"
"They are generally, but they don't all live up to the usually accepted standard. Some of them seem rather to glory in behaving like bounders and treating the native unjustly. It is bad for the country, but things are improving. Almost all new appointments now are made among public-school boys and Varsity men."
"And do you think Major Carew is here about some such matters?"
"Yes; but it isn't given out so, and no one knows just what. But the natives are fortunate to have him on their side. He is not in the least afraid, and he won't shelter any unjust steward. On the other hand, whatever complaints there are against the natives will be just as honestly examined, and woe betide the kraals that are in the wrong! He is no Exeter Hall sentimentalist, and they must know it pretty well by now."
"Why do you think he is out here at all? Surely he might have been a general with his K.C.M.G. if he had stayed in the army?"
"I rather fancy Carew would think that a small thing compared to what he has done in Rhodesia. After all, K.C.M.G.'s are pretty cheap nowadays, aren't they? But it isn't every man who can know a new country is grateful to him, and who has achieved all he has at a work he loves."
"Why did he come?" Still Diana strove vainly to hide her interest. "Do you know?"
"Adventure, probably. A good many men from crack regiments came in the early days."
"There must have been something more."
"Perhaps."
"Don't youknow?"
"No." He looked at her with a little smile. "It isn't the game to ask questions out here."
"That is just what Mr. Stanley said, and it is so dull of you both. The man's a perfect bear. I christened him 'The Bear' before I had known him an hour. But why is he? Why should he be? That's what I want to know."
"I don't fancy you will. I doubt if anyone knows. He has never made friends, I think, out here, except with the Grenvilles, and they are some connection."
"That's the missionary and his wife, isn't it? What in the world can a man like that see in a missionary? Of all the soppy, flabby individuals give me the usual specimen who goes out to preach Christianity to the heathen, and generally disgusts them and everyone else."
"Not this missionary."
"O, is he an original also?"
"He's one of the finest men I've ever known."
"Then what in the world isheburied in the wilderness for? I never knew anything so absurd. A fine soldier and administrator, just a policeman; a splendid man, just a missionary. And you and your brother just grubbing about in a God-forsaken mine, apparently for nothing. It is enough to make anyone wild." And she faced him with that smouldering indignation she rarely allowed to come to the surface.
"But they are both in Rhodesia"—ignoring her kindly inclusion of himself and his brother—"and Rhodesia wants good men."
"And when she gets them just buries them at her outposts. I haven't much faith in your Rhodesia. She is a capricious jade. She absorbs a man's finest qualities and best years and gives him nothing in return."
"Ask Carew if she gives him nothing. Probably she has given him more than anyone else could give."
She got up impatiently. "All the more reason why he shouldn't be such a bear. People who have got what they want out of life ought to be amiable and friendly."
She turned round, and found herself face to face with Carew himself, looking, if anything grimmer than ever.
"I came to tell you that tea is ready, and the others have already commenced."
Diana looked straight into his eyes, with a daring, challenging expression. "And you heard me discussing your amiable attributes? I'm sorry, but"—with a swift gleam—"I do discuss something else sometimes."
"I heard nothing," he answered, returning her direct gaze, and stood aside for her to pass.
As they rode home in the evening Diana, more nettled with Carew's impassivity than she would have cared to own, contrived to get a little apart from the others with her uncle, and in her frank, engaging way explained to him the rapaciousness of certain mining companies and her own promise on behalf of the donkeys. Mr. Pym regretted that he could not immediately grant her request without consulting his co-directors, but Diana knew perfectly, by the friendly gleam in his eye, that he meant to look into the question; and because he was impressed by the sturdy, plucky fight of the two brothers he would probably do a good deal more for them in the end.
After which she prattled to him gaily, until Stanley was clever enough to distract her attention and remanipulate the party. He had been riding with Carew, and the engineer with Meryl; but on the party being disarranged the engineer joined Mr. Pym to discuss the mining properties they had been visiting, and Carew found himself unavoidably partnered with Meryl, while Stanley and Diana went gaily on ahead. It was the first time, what he was pleased to term "his luck" had deserted him. Heretofore there had been no singletête-à-têtebetween him and either of the cousins since Diana surprised him in the temple ruins. It was his fixed intention that there should be none. He argued in himself that he had no "small talk" in his vocabulary, and would only reciprocate the boredom he would himself suffer, and rather than either should be inflicted he steered a resolute course which partnered him with a man. In vain Diana, spurred by pique, had once or twice laid a trap for him; and Meryl, with growing interest, had sought to draw him into conversation. With masterly art he had steered clear of both, and continued his serene, impassive way.
But on that homeward ride Fate, for once, got the better of him. Stanley and Diana were cantering gaily ahead along the narrow path, that meant smooth-going for one horse and a stumbling amid small rocks or long, dry grass for the other; while Mr. Pym and his engineer conversed with a solemnity no one could lightly disturb between the two front horsemen and the two back.
At first Carew rode along with his eyes fixed rigidly on the horizon, and, except for its innate strength, an almost expressionless face. Meryl was a little amused. She realised thoroughly that the situation was none of his seeking, and she was in two minds whether to give him expressionless rigidity in return, or purposely tease him with questions. At first she chose silence, and looked around her with eyes of growing tenderness at the kopje-strewn country.
And so, instead of being irritated with the "small talk" he dreaded, Carew found himself left entirely to his own cogitations; while, judging from her rapt expression, she scarcely realised his presence. And then, just because human nature is stronger, after all, than most things, memory, for the sake of a dream-face he would treasure while he had breath, made him look at her covertly with seeing eyes. He noted first that she was a perfect horsewoman—slim and upright and easy, almost like a part of her horse. Both girls rode astride, wearing long holland coats and specially made light top-boots, with large shady sun helmets; and because for a long time he had not seen anything much but slipshod garments among women riders, or exceedingly warm-looking correct home attire, he appreciated their cool smartness.
Unconsciously it took him back to the old buried days, when the Devonshire moors and Devonshire lanes knew no hotter rider than Peter Carew. To the steeplechases, when he was so slim and wiry that, in spite of his height, he had ridden many a horse to victory. To the polo matches, when his matchless horsemanship had scored goal after goal for his regiment of picked riders. She recalled to his mind the stag-hunting in Devon and Somerset, where the first women had ridden astride to the meet, realising mercifully how the steep ascents and descents were eased for their horses, without the tightly girthed side-saddle, and for themselves without the side-seat strain. Almost as if it were a carefully permitted luxury, he saw the wide, wind-swept moors, heard the cheery shouts and the excited hounds, felt his thoroughbred sweeping gloriously along, as if its soul and his soul were both one in feeling the joy and exhilaration of the chase. What glories there were in those wind-swept, sun-bathed mornings in Devon! What joy of life! What lust of manhood! What splendid, whole-hearted young inconsequence! In his heart he smiled a little grimly. Peter Carew of the Blues had been no shunner of women in those days; no taciturn, silent, unappreciative onlooker. Rather he had loved too many, kissed too freely, ridden away too light-heartedly.
Until the blue-grey eyes, so like Meryl's, looked shyly up, and then in their turn ran away from him. Of course, he had followed blindly like the hot-headed, hard-riding sportsman he was—followed blindly, wooed irresistibly, and won gloriously.
And then ...
Over the kopjes, over the vleis, over the veldt a black cloud came down, and suddenly all the picture was blotted out. An expression that was momentarily almost wistful left the fine mouth; the far-away softness left the keen blue eyes, and his face hardened strangely. Then he looked up at Meryl, riding beside him, and saw all the questioning interest in her face.
"I'm afraid you have a very dull companion," he said; but it was in the voice that Diana usually called his snarl.
Meryl smiled. "I did not for a moment suppose that you would talk."
She could hardly say that his face relaxed, but at least there was that in it which suggested he liked her answer far better than any conventional politeness.
Suddenly a wholly unlooked-for twinkle lurked somewhere in his eyes.
"Bears don't usually," he said.
Meryl laughed. "Diana is too fond of nicknaming her friends and acquaintances; but on the whole I think she has let you off lightly. A bear is a magnificent animal."
"Not given to much amiability. No Prince Charming, for instance," and he smiled a little grimly.
"But strong—and—well—dangerous, which is better."
"You think so?" He looked at her rather curiously.
"Decidedly."
They rode on in silence, and, for a little way, the road being rough, he reined in his horse to the narrow path behind her. Then, when it grew smoother again, she waited for him to come alongside.
"You haven't always been in this part of Rhodesia?"
"No; only recently."
"Long enough to get very attached to it."
"More or less," and suddenly his voice hardened a little, as if scenting a discussion and wishful to ward it off.
"I wonder why Rhodesia is so fascinating?" And her eyes roved with love in them from far horizon to far horizon. "I suppose you do not attempt to analyse it? You are content to care unquestioningly."
"Yes"—with an effort—"after a time, one just cares."
"And at first?..."
"At first one has to find one's footing, so to speak. She is somewhat the bewildering, uncomfortable stranger to the new-comer."
She marvelled that he should say so much, but hid her pleasure lest she should unwittingly change his mood.
"She has never seemed that to me. Something has attracted me from the very first. I came, I saw, I loved."
"You must remember that you came under exceptional circumstances."
"And you?"
"I was among the early pioneers."
"How splendid! I wish I could say the same."
"It was extremely uncomfortable."
"But you didn't mind. I don't need to be told that. There was so much to make up for it. How good it must be to be a man!"
"Yet the women are the true heroes out here."
"Why?"
"We get what we came for. Interest, excitement of a kind, freedom...."
"And the women?"
"There is not much for the women, but the plucky ones are often heroines."
"Only no one tells them so?"
"No one tells them so; therein lies the heroism."
"I see. They put up a good fight, and no one says, 'Well done!' Isn't it the same with the men?"
"The men get many compensations."
"Compensations that make it worth while?"
"Distinctly."
They rode on in silence, both looking ahead to the blue mountain that guards the north of Zimbabwe. The peaceful loveliness soothed his spirit because he loved it, but in her it awakened a vague, swift ache. She felt somehow that he had a right to love the country, because he had made it his and given it of his best; that, for all his presumable poverty in many things, he was yet so rich in what he had achieved, and in what he had won for himself of interest and usefulness. While for her?... She was an alien, a mere tourist, a looker-on; the daughter of a millionaire who came to Rhodesia for wealth, and gave—how little in return!
He might look at the tender outline of the lovely mountain with the glad, restful consciousness of work well done. She could only look at it with that ache of divine discontent: unplumbed, wordless longing. Even the heroism of the settler's wife was not for her. The women who were plucky enough to put up that good fight, although no one ever said "Well done!" Compared with them, in his eyes she was probably a mere cumberer of the earth; an ornament, intended only to be admired by the leisured classes. The young splendid country had no use for her, no place for her. She was an alien, an interloper; child of a man who came only for gain, and took his gain elsewhere, recognising no claim from a land that was no home to him, only an investment.
Her soul cried out it was no wish of hers that it should be so; but only silent condemnation seemed to echo back to her from the far blue hills.
She glanced at the strong, serene face of her companion, and because somehow he seemed a little less stern and uncompromising to-day she said to him simply, leaning a little to his side:
"I envy you so, the sense that you have won the right to love her. I envy the plucky settlers' wives who are the mothers of her future. I feel myself so utterly an alien. Has Rhodesia any use for ... for such as I?"
He looked at her strangely, and as he looked she saw an expression almost like hungry longing come into his eyes; then as suddenly vanish again, leaving him utterly amazingly stony. He turned his head sharply, and his gaze became fixed and rigid.
"Millionaires' daughters can usually be pretty useful if they like," he said almost brutally; and she felt as if he had struck her. In sudden anger and bewilderment she touched her horse with her whip and darted ahead. It was not the words, but the way in which he had said them. What did he mean?... What did he not mean?... She bit her lips to keep back the smarting tears that blinded her eyes. She felt as if she hated him. For a little space he had been so different to the cold, callous soldier, and in quiet response she had spoken from her heart; and in return he had said this cutting thing with cold intent, making her feel that he despised her. Did he see in her only a willing accomplice to her father's money-making schemes? The one perhaps who spent the gains heartlessly and carelessly elsewhere? Beside those settlers' wives he had said were heroines, was she but an idle, contemptible, useless heiress? She spurred her horse on, letting her thoughts run away with her, unwilling that he should overtake her until she had got herself well in hand; and Carew followed behind, feeling again that sense of a black, rayless abyss all about him. Why had he looked full and deep into her eyes like that?... Why had he not gazed only upon the mountains that soothed and refreshed him?... The mere discovery that the past he thought to have outlived slept so lightly was a shock to him. Had he not then outlived anything? Had he only put his memories lightly to sleep, and dreamt all the life he had lived since? He was scarcely conscious that he had said anything inconsiderate; he hardly knew what he had said. He only remembered he had looked full and deep into beautiful eyes, and suddenly it was as though his dead love Joan had come back to him.
Presently she slowed down so that he came up to her, and it was noticeable that something in her whole attitude had changed. She was as upright as he now, and her eyes also looked rigidly ahead. He saw the change without understanding it and wondered a little, without troubling to probe.
"Your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Grenville," she said coldly, "would they care to see us if we called, or would they think it perhaps just vulgar curiosity?"
"They would be delighted; visitors are a very rare treat to them." He was puzzled a little at her manner, but let it pass. Meryl had it on the tip of her tongue to add, "They don't mind even millionaires' daughters?" but her own good taste saved her from a momentary satisfaction that a man of his breeding could only have considered bourgeoise.
"Perhaps Mr. Stanley would take us," was all she suffered herself; and added, "From his account Mrs. Grenville is evidently one of Rhodesia's heroines."
"She is," he answered so simply that Meryl felt a little nonplussed.
When they reached the camp Diana had already dismounted and gone into their tent, whither Meryl followed her.
"Well," she said, "how did you get on with The Bear? Did he chore you up over anything?"
Meryl considered a moment before replying. "One moment I thought him the rudest man I have ever met, and the next ..." she seemed puzzled how to explain.
"And the next I suppose he didn't seem a man at all, only a pillar of stone!..."
For answer, she said thoughtfully, "I wonder if something hurt him very badly some time or other?"
"If it did, it doesn't exempt him from the ordinary amenities of human intercourse. He isn't the only man who has been hurt." And Diana kicked off her boots impatiently.
"No," said Meryl; "but it makes it a little easier to forgive him."
"Don't do anything so foolish. You'll end by thinking him interesting and falling in love with him; which would be too utterly silly when you are as good as engaged to Dutch Willy, and when he, The Bear, would care about as much as my foot," with which dictum she put her head out through the tent flap, and called to Stanley and Carew, "Hey! Mr. Stanley! don't go away. Stay and keep us company in my uncle's absence. I believe he is venturing into The Bear's den to-night."
Carew smiled quite frankly for him.
"Can't I tempt you to come also? I daren't promise you a decent dinner, but I've some fresh Abdullah cigarettes out from home, if you care to come down afterwards."
Diana was disarmed in spite of herself. "And will you promise to growl very prettily?" with an arch expression.
"I'll try not to frighten you away too quickly."
Diana withdrew into the tent.
"O!" she said, "he's a bear with two faces; and that's the most difficult to cope with of all."
They went to the Grenvilles' the next day, while Mr. Pym took another of his investigation trips. Stanley acted as escort, and Carew went to Edwardstown on business.
Ailsa Grenville met them with her brightest smile, and ushered them proudly into her cool, picturesque drawing-room hut.
"How charming!" they cried, with genuine delight; and Diana added, "O! why can't I have a hut in the wilderness?..."
Then the khaki-clad, sportsmanlike missionary strode in, and after the preliminary greetings Diana asked with charming piquancy, "O! are you really and truly a missionary?"
"Really and truly," he told her gaily, and came over to her side of the hut to sit beside her. "Why do you ask it like that?"
She considered a moment, and then declared impishly, "Because it doesn't seem possible that a man like you should never say 'Damn.'"
He laughed outright. "Well, I'm not going to tell tales out of school; but if you'd only got one pair of brown boots in the world and one pair of brown gaiters, and the boy tried to clean them with blacklead and paraffin oil!..."
Diana moved nearer to him, with her prettiest and most ingratiating air. "O, tell me some more!... Tell me lots more."
"I don't think that is half so bad as the boy washing the saucepans and the teacups all in the same water together," put in Mrs. Grenville.
"How perfectly delicious of him!" cried Diana. "What else did he do?"
"You ought to have been here this morning when our stores came out from Edwardstown," the missionary told her. "The boy carries them on his head, you know; and there was a tin of golden syrup ..."
"Yes ... yes ... and it leaked!..." gleefully.
"Trickled all down his head and neck; you never saw such a sticky mess! And as soon as the other boys discovered ..."
"Did they duck his head in a bucket?..."
"O, dear no!...lickedhim!..."
Diana fairly howled with delight; and then Stanley came in, after seeing that the horses were properly watered and fed, and was immediately accosted by Grenville with, "Hullo, Kid! you're quite a deserter! What have you been doing all the week?"
"Do you call him Kid?" Diana asked. "What a capital name for him!"
"He has been 'The Kid' almost ever since he came to this district."
"It pays," remarked Stanley jocularly; "they give me sugar."
"And he lives with The Bear; how comical! Instead of the lion lying down with the lamb, in Rhodesia you have The Kid feeding with The Bear."
"Who is The Bear?" Ailsa Grenville asked, from the packing-case cupboard, where she was reaching down cups and saucers.
"Need you ask?" queried Diana. "Doesn't Major Carew ever growl when he is here?"
Ailsa looked much amused. "Not exactly," she said; "but I admit sometimes he rolls himself up into a ball, so to speak, and relapses into a sort of winter sleep."
"I hope you prod him," said Diana.
"Billy wouldn't let me," glancing affectionately at her husband. "There is only one Major Carew for him."
"Still, it might do him good. We prodded him last night, didn't we?" addressing Stanley. "We went right into his den, and gave him a good baiting, while we smoked his new Abdullah cigarettes," and she smiled gleefully at the remembrance of the stern soldier, in an astonishingly sociable mood for him, humorously parrying her chaff. "You know," she ran on, "he simply hated our coming. I almost wonder he didn't dig impassable trenches across the road, or fortify himself in the Acropolis Hill. Anyone might have thought we were the bears, and he the woman."
"I expect he was afraid of your charms," said Grenville smilingly. "We wilderness-dwellers have none of the townsmen's armour to withstand fair women."
"Well, growling and scowling are very fair substitutes," quoth Diana; "and, besides, he didn't even trouble to observe if we had charms. As far as he decently could he looked the other way altogether."
While she chatted on, delighting the missionary and his wife with her gaiety, Meryl sat in a low chair, and gazed through the doorway out over the smiling country, much as Carew usually did.
"It must be very wonderful," she said at last, aroused by a sympathetic question from Ailsa Grenville, "to live day after day with such a scene as that in one's doorway."
"Yes," Ailsa told her. "The wonder never grows less, nor the mystery, nor the beauty. Major Carew, when he is here, loves just to sit and look at it; and so do I."
Diana, with the two men, had strolled outside; and Ailsa and Meryl sat alone in the cool interior.
Meryl sat very still, with her hands lightly clasped on her knees, and her eyes always—always—to the lovely prospect that was like a mighty ocean in which the waves were blue, mystical kopjes; and over which the first clouds, that heralded the approach of the rainy season, shed entrancing lights and shadows. Ailsa sat a little behind, and her eyes roved back from the view that had grown into her being and become part of her life to the face of the young heiress. She noted at once its instinctive charm; the charm of a woman blessed with most of the traits that hold and bind men for ever. Strength was there without masterfulness; sweetness that would never cloy; a dreamy elusiveness that meant a closed book it would be a joy to study chapter by chapter; and some of the chapters would surprise with their lightness and mirth, while others would surprise with their depth of sympathetic understanding, and yet others would bewilder alluringly with their whimsical, irresistible uncertainty. She knew that society papers sometimes spoke of the well-known millionaire's daughter as beautiful, but to her it seemed the word was hardly the right one. Meryl's face had in it something too strong and too distinctive for actual beauty; and yet Ailsa thought of all the lovely women she had ever seen none were quite so attractive. And because she was a tender-hearted woman, the thought crossed her mind to wonder if perhaps, out of the dark shadow that she knew hung ever over Peter Carew's life, there might yet be a way of escape; a gracious healing, and a final joy. Could two such humans meet and not love? Could anything truly separate them if once the love were born?
She mused a moment or two happily, sublimely ignorant of all the forces that warred between; of what caused the shadow; of the power of a dead face; of the pride of a resolute man; of that attractive Huguenot Dutchman biding his time down south.
At last Meryl broke the silence. As she sat gazing through the open doorway her mind had lingered unconsciously over that last sentence. "Major Carew, when he is here, loves just to sit and look at it," and in her fancy she saw the silent, watching form of the grim soldier-policeman.
"He is an interesting man," she said simply. "I think I understood he was some connection of yours?"
"You mean Major Carew? Yes; he is a distant sort of cousin, but we are two entirely different branches of the family, and had drifted widely apart until we three met out here. Yet it was not surprising we should meet like this. The Carews were always wanderers and adventurers, like Drake and Frobisher and the other fine old pirates. A humdrum career in the Blues would hardly have continued to satisfy Major Carew, any more than the conventions and hide-bound prejudices of the Established Church could hold my husband."
"Yet, if you will forgive my seeming rudeness, both of them apparently took a decided step downwards from the social point of view."
"That would not trouble either of them for a moment. They sought Freedom, and found it."
"Yet it meant, in a sense, what some people call being buried alive."
"Ah, those people do not understand. That is how I took it at first. Shall I tell you a little, or will it bore you?"
"Please tell me. I think it is kind of you to trust me so soon with your confidence."
Ailsa smiled. "One always knows. Anyone with insight would trust you instinctively. But there isn't much to tell. Only that when I married my husband he held a living in Shropshire, with a sure promise of quick promotion; and then Doubt crept in which he could not overthrow, and after a long struggle he gave it up because his conscience would not let him be a hypocrite."
"But he is still a Church missionary, is he not?"
"In a sense; but he is not paid by any society, and works on his own lines entirely. He had a little money of his own, and I have also, and out here it is ample. But at first I was very bitter with him, and let myself be influenced by my people who were still more bitter, and I would not join him. I went back home and lived the old life of my girlhood. He never uttered one word of reproach, although he was just breaking his heart for me, and—for which I bless him every day of my life—he wrote every mail telling me about the country and his work. At first I scarcely read the letters, and often did not reply; but he wrote on patiently and waited. And at last my mood changed. The endless tea-parties began to pall, and the insipidity of my home life. Week after week, week after week, the same round of social gatherings; the same people, the same conversations, the same everlasting tea, buns, and gossip. In each parish around, so many, many unmarried women, so many empty, monotonous lives. I think the condition of England's country villages is becoming almost a tragedy; all the men seem to have gone away to a bigger and wider world, and all the women to have been left behind to feed on emptiness. There are the clergyman's daughters, the doctor's daughters, the solicitor's daughters, and perhaps a few retired veterans and their daughters; all struggling through the same old empty round; while the men go out to conquer the earth." She paused a moment, but seeing Meryl's rapt attention, went on uninterruptedly, "And one day I awoke to the fact that I had a special right to one of the finest men who had gone out to do his share, and a special place at his side. To cut a long story short, I won through the frantic opposition of my family, cut myself adrift, and came out here to see for myself what Billy was doing that gave him a satisfaction he had never found in his peaceful easy living; in spite of the hunger I had always known was wearing out his soul for me." She looked out across the country dreamily, before she finished. "I shall never forget when I first saw this," motioning to the sunny prospect. "We arrived here in the dusk, owing to a breakdown, and so I had a long night's rest before Billy first showed it to me. I must tell you I was already tremendously impressed, on the quiet, with my brown, stalwart, khaki-clad husband in place of the decorous, black-coated parson I had parted with; and although the journey had been very exhausting, for I had to travel in the post-cart, my interest in him and the country had never abated. Then he opened the door wide about sunrise, and said casually, 'Sit up and look at my view, Ailsa.' I sat up, and for a moment I could not speak at all. Do you know, Miss Pym, the country looked positively hung with diamonds that wonderful morning. I shall never forget it. Just outside the door, forming a sort of framework to the scene beyond, was some tall, dry grass, thin and straggly enough to let the light through. And where at the top it spread into graceful, hanging, feathery seed-ears, it was hung with large dewdrops, reflecting all the colours of the rainbow. Behind them was the bluest of early-morning skies. Beyond them, what you see here, a far dream-country of untold loveliness. I said, 'O, Billy! have you lived beside this all these months?' And then I began to cry, because I didn't know what else to do, and I was so glad that I had come."