There was probably no family in Johannesburg better known or better loved than that of Henry Pym, the millionaire. Even Aunt Emily was something of a favourite, in spite of her peculiarities, perhaps a little for the sake of the delightful entertaining that took place at Hill Court. Diana was adored for her spirits, and Meryl was regarded somewhat as a treasure Johannesburg had a right to be proud of. Certain it was that if eventually she followed the example of her American cousins and enriched an English peerage with her wealth, she would hold her own amidst the loveliest and most charming of England's peeresses. At the same time, though many perhaps hoped that she would lead the way for the young South African heiresses, not many had much belief that she would lead it in the particular fashion they hoped; for there was ever that uncertain elusive quality about Meryl, that suggestion of the visionary and dreamer, that betold a nature not very likely to follow in any beaten path, or give overmuch value to the advantages of a high alliance from a worldly point of view. It was probable she would see things in quite a different light to the majority and act for herself. Nevertheless Johannesburg hoped for the best, and would have been pleased to number a peeress among her daughters; if it were only to show the world, for one thing, that some of South Africa's heiresses were every whit as refined and clever and charming as America's, whatever may have been implied to the contrary by scathing comments on Johannesburg's millionaires which have appeared from time to time in varied guise.
Mr. Pym himself, however, was not among those who nursed such high hopes. When he took the Piccadilly mansion the preceding spring, and transferred his household to London for the season, he meant to entertain lavishly, and give the girls every possible opportunity to see the world of the highest London society, knowing full well he could do this because his friends numbered many among England's high names. That he should take them into the wilds of Rhodesia instead had certainly been the very last thought in his mind. On the other hand, as we have said, it did not greatly perturb him. He was inclined to think they might gain as much from their pioneer pilgrimage as from a rush of continuous gaiety. What exactly theyhadgained it would have been difficult to gauge; nothing perhaps that Aunt Emily would detect, fussing and exclaiming round them upon their first arrival.
Diana, in a mood for merriment, and possibly to cover a certain invisible shadow that rested as a dim cloud upon the party, rouged her face to a brilliant red with an alarmingly fiery nose end. When she lifted her veil and confronted her aunt with a perfectly unconcerned smile, that lady raised her hands in horror and bemoaning. "O, my dear!... my dear!... your complexion is ruined. How could you be so careless? How could Meryl let you?... It will take weeks of care to undo the mischief."
"O, don't make a fuss, aunty! Complexions don't matter tuppence-halfpenny in Rhodesia. You surely didn't imagine I was going to carry a sun-umbrella about, did you?"
"But my dear child!..." still in great distress. "It is a dreadful thing to say, but you really look as if ... as if ..." but there her courage forsook her, and she could not name the dreadful possibility.
"As if I had been drinking!" finished Diana cheerfully. "Yes, it's a little awkward, but perhaps if I don't lurch or look foolish ..." Then she encountered the astonished eyes of a young footman, who had come in with some small paraphernalia from the motor, and unable to keep her face, turned hurriedly away.
"I'm rather afraid James is going to have a fit," she remarked to Meryl. "I hope it won't incapacitate him for the rest of the day," and she chuckled to herself. Meryl had not yet raised her veil, and the anxiety on Aunt Emily's face, which she vainly strove to hide, was delighting Diana more than ever. "Better not take your veil off downstairs, Meryl. Aunt Emily has had rather a shock from my face; I don't think she could bear any more."
But the poor lady's concern was too pitiful to Meryl, and she threw her veil far back, saying, "She is a wicked creature, aunty. Her face only wants washing"; and then Aunt Emily, reassured and comforted, joined in the general laugh.
"But soap and water won't remedy all the defects," Diana told her. "I've acquired a violent dislike to houses and rooms and tableclothes and clean hands, and all the absurd paraphernalia of civilised existence. Of course, I suppose I shall become rational again in time, but at present I thought of having a tent on the lawn and becoming a hermit."
"How is everyone, Aunty?" Meryl asked, as the poor lady seemed again somewhat overcome. "Have you had hosts of visitors while you were all alone?"
"Yes, people have been very kind, and I have not had much time to be dull; and everyone is delighted you are back again. Mr. van Hert has called twice this week to know which day you would arrive."
Meryl's lips contracted a little, but Diana murmured, "Oho!... Dutch Willie! ready to be on the doorstep, of course, in spite of the hullabaloo you've been causing in the country, unrestrained by my caustic criticisms."
"I expect he thought he would make hay while the sun shone," Meryl told her, "and air his pet theories while they were not in danger of being stamped on."
Then they both went upstairs, and Meryl stood awhile at the wide window, looking over the lovely garden; and though she still answered kindly to her aunt's flow of chatter, the good lady having followed them to their room, her heart was far away among distant kopjes, where mysterious grey walls basked in the sunlight with the silence and the patience of the ages.
For the next two or three days a continuous stream of visitors passed up and down the drive, and invitations poured in, and the girls found themselves quickly in a very vortex of social life.
William van Hert did not come until the third day, and then he chose as late an hour as he well could, hoping to escape the throng. This he succeeded in doing, but Diana he could not escape. If it had been his hope to see Meryl alone he was entirely frustrated. Diana's small, practical head perceived the wisdom of avoiding all haste in what these two might have to say to each other, and van Hert had to bow to her decision. Still further, he had to undergo a small fire of chaff with an edge to it, concerning some of his political doings and sayings during their absence. But this from Diana he could always take. Whether she knew it or not, and whether she cared or not, at the time she probably wielded a more direct influence over van Hert than anyone else living. Certainly a more direct influence than Meryl and her father, for whereas his liking for them only tempered his rashness and indiscretions, Diana aimed shafts straight at any of his rabid policies in a manner that caused him secretly to reconsider. Yet all his devotion was drawn to Meryl in her fairness and quiet strength, and the hope of his heart was still to win her.
As it happened, it was a very white-faced, silent Meryl who sat on the deep verandah that afternoon of his first call, and was content chiefly to listen to Diana waging her usual war. That astute young person had much to say, in her own slangy phraseology, concerning certain utterances of the Dutch extremists, openly derogatory to the English, and seemingly opposed to any spirit of racial conciliation.
"Why don't you try and teach your people to play the game?" she asked him, with a fine scorn. "Do you hear any of our eminent men haranguing about 'keeping down the Dutch' and 'steam-rollering the Dutch,' and without any hesitation openly speaking of themselves as a separate and superior race? Whatever our men think, they are at least sportsmen enough just now to keep it to themselves, for the sake of the hopes and aims of the country. But you apparently allow your following to say anything, and either pretend not to hear or take no notice. Listen to this, said by a predicant of the Dutch Reformed Church...." She picked up a pamphlet, lying near, and read aloud: "'We are a nation with our own taal, traditions, and history. We must now stand shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand for the rights ofourpeople.... May God giveourpeople strength to be unanimous!' Unanimous in what?... Why, forcing the issue of the language question according to their own ends, and retrenching English teachers, and generally looking upon themselves as the superior, chosen people whom God meant to reign alone in South Africa."
"My dear young lady," he remonstrated, "can you blame me for the unwise, indiscreet utterances of every Dutch predicant who opens his mouth?"
"Why, of course I do. You are a leader, and you ought to protest openly against any such utterance; but naturally, if you only consider it unwise and indiscreet, you don't regret the purport of the words at all, merely their being uttered at perhaps the wrong time. Well, that sort of spirit isn't 'cricket,' as we understand it; and your attitude, in professing to hold out a hand to the English section, while the other is making secret signs to the Dutch, is what we call trying to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds; and that is an experiment being attempted by far too many of your colleagues just now."
"I am doing nothing of the kind," he repudiated indignantly. "I am standing by my countrymen, that they may maintain the dignity of their nation and not be trampled under foot by the English."
"O fiddlesticks! No one wants to trample you under foot. We mostly want to raise you. We want to broaden your outlook and widen your views. But you know perfectly well that that means a great united country, for the back-veldters might learn at last where strength lay; and then your precious taal, traditions, and history will have to take their proper place in the general scheme, and that will be on a plane of equality and not blatantly on top."
Again he protested with outspread hands. "But we have a great country now through union. You overlook the most important fact."
"We should have had," she corrected, "if the Bond in Cape Colony, and Het Volk in the Transvaal, and the Unie in the Orange River Colony had not chanced to be powerful enough to work almost entirely in the interests of a Dutch South Africa all the time they were waving a flag, and cheering the colours, and delivering orations on the beauty of Union and their love for the great Mother Country, meaning the Liberal Government, who mostly, it would seem, told them to do as they like and please themselves and not make a fuss, so long as they called it Union."
He turned to Meryl with a deprecating air, as if asking for her support, and she smiled rather a tired smile and said, "It is only that she has had to bottle it all up for a long time, as you were not at hand. The next time you come she will be ready to smile on you."
"But I hope in the meantime you do not endorse the slander?..."
"I have plenty of hope to balance a certain amount of doubt; and if it is any pleasure to you to know it, Diana never troubles to cross swords with a man she has not considerable regard for."
He flushed and looked gratified, and Diana remarked coolly, "O, I've lots of regard for you. I'm only sorry that a man who might be brilliant is content to be mediocre because of his prejudices. Now when we were in Rhodesia ..." and she paused, regarding him with the bright, piquant eyes of a small bird.
"Well, what about Rhodesia? You didn't find much brilliance there, I imagine? Brilliance does not thrive on bully beef and existence in a mud hut."
"Neither does 'back-veldt' obtuseness and narrow-minded bigotry and indiscreet loquacity, Meinheer van Hert."
He could not help laughing at the droll way she made the statement. "Well, what does thrive?"
"Silence," thoughtfully.
"But that did not appeal to you?" with significance.
"Not perhaps so much as the growl," was her enigmatic reply.
"And did you like this wild, wilderness land of silence?"
She regarded him with half-grave, half-mocking eyes. "Well, we understood whyyouwant to have a finger in Rhodesia's pie, you and your various active organisations working in the interests of a Dutch South Africa. Any child could see what such a country would be worth to you. But you won't succeed, my friend. They've got a few strong men up there who believe in 'to-morrow' more than 'to-day,' and are not afraid to forego present honours for future progress. You won't bribe them, and you won't hoodwink them, and you won't get them. They may not have much weight or power or money to back them, but there's something in the atmosphere up there, something in the very air, that would tell anyone with a grain of perspicacity they could be dangerous if they liked. I shouldn't rouse the sleeping lion in Rhodesia if I were you, Meinheer, you and your colleagues, with coercion or anything else—that way lie explosives."
At that moment Mr. Pym joined them, and the conversation at once became general, though van Hert laughingly told his host he had been undergoing a regular hoarding hustling. Then he told them of a few happenings since they went away, and because he was as glad as he could be to see them back again, all his natural versatility came uppermost, and one could easily perceive why he was a leader of men, and likely to remain so.
"If only one could make him see straight," said Diana, when they spoke of it afterwards, "instead of with the warped vision of a one-idea'd fanatic."
Later she tried to draw Meryl a little concerning her attitude towards him, but Meryl would only maintain an unrevealing silence, and Diana was baffled and troubled. She felt vaguely that some new thought was forming in Meryl's mind, some thought that held danger, but she could not grasp in what direction it tended.
And van Hert smoked his pipe with a very thoughtful air that evening, pondering deeply. Meryl had neither encouraged him nor repulsed him, and she seemed just the same and yet different; and once more that half-formed dread came back to his memory that through Rhodesia he might lose her.
And then he thought he would put the uncertainty at an end quickly and learn his fate as soon as possible; for he was treading on rather thin ice in his public capacity just now, and a strong coalition against him, which was rumoured in the air, might place him in an unpleasant position.
On the other hand, Mr. Pym's support and Meryl's charm might prove weapons which would see him safely through, and help him to mould his position anew on broader lines.
But for another three weeks Diana successfully baffled his intention, influenced by that vague fear she could not fathom, and a futile, helpless desire to ward off some pending destiny. And in the meantime she puzzled her small head daily concerning the invulnerable silence and aloofness of Peter Carew, and the blue shadows deepening under Meryl's eyes, though she strove hourly to be ever her old self and show no sign.
Although van Hert had no opportunity to reopen the subject of his hopes to Meryl during those three weeks, she knew quite well that he had in no wise changed to her. His every look showed it, and an intangible something in his manner whenever he addressed her. And all the time, though her heart was given hopelessly elsewhere, she felt herself in the grip of circumstances that might determine her action against her inclination.
It would be difficult to relate just what passed in her mind through those three weeks, while outwardly she moved in the whirl of social happenings dependent upon their return with all her usual charm and dignity. Certainly she was rather quieter than usual, but as Diana talked and laughed faster, possibly with intent, the change was not noticed. She was specially quieter when van Hert was there, and Diana was specially talkative; entertaining him, rallying him, teazing him, in a way that, at any rate, brought out his best side, and in a sense buffeted the bigot good-naturedly into the attractive companion. And it seemed to show Diana at her best too, for behind all her flippancy there was undoubtedly a purpose and a depth which she would not for a moment have admitted, but which nevertheless was sincere and true.
"Of course, I don't really care either way," she would tell him mockingly. "You may have a Dutch South Africa and welcome, if you won't interfere with my personal schemes and general affairs. I've nothing modern about me, in the sense of wanting to reconstruct the world generally and be a Joan of Arc to my retrenched compatriots. But when some of you talkers get up and express high-flown sentiments of brotherhood and union for the benefit of the public Press one moment, and swerve right down and wink at such sentiments as steamroller the English or the finances or the language question the next, it is time you had a little wholesome plain speaking. Anyhow, whodidvote the money for the new Government buildings?..."
But whether Diana cared or not, one thing was certain: the utterances of that well-known minister William van Hert were showing gradually a higher and broader tone, and an atmosphere of conciliation was beginning to spread over his hitherto rabid sectarianism.
And van Hert himself found it went well with his feelings to exchange wordy battles with Diana and keep his dreams for Meryl. The younger girl invigorated and enthused him, while the elder, curiously enough, appealed more to his senses. He wanted her fairness, as a strong, dark man often feels himself drawn to a woman who is frail and fair. And yet even while he wanted her he was a little afraid of her, a little baffled, a little uncertain of himself.
Thus the three weeks passed, and the moment of the inevitable decision came near.
And all the time Meryl felt herself rather as one who stood upon a difficult, stony place, with the forbidden land behind her and the clear call of a great need before. She believed that she would never see Carew again; that definitely and forever he had cut the threads of deep sympathy both had known existed. It was his dictum and she could only abide by it. What then should she do with her life? To what end turn this existence, blessed by fortune with wealth and the power wealth brings, though suddenly swept bare of joy?
And ever and again back to her mind came Carew's words that last evening at Bulawayo: "Help to bridge over the gap. Help to make division become union. That were a work that any man might be proud to give his life to."
And every day, more and more fully, she recognised that whatever she had to give she owed to South Africa. She gradually thought herself into a state in which she existed for herself and her own inclinations no more, but only for that sacred claim upon her.
For the spirit of noble deeds, the spirit that carried Joan of Arc to the rescue of her country and to martyrdom, is not dead in the world, though no modern historian may depict a woman in armour leading allied armies on the battlefield. In quieter guise, in hidden corners, in unsung self-forgetfulness, women still answer to the divine call that sounds in their hearts, more inspiringly perhaps than in a man's; and for the everlasting good of the human race let us hope it will never cease to sound.
Lamartine has said: "Nature has given woman two painful but heavenly gifts which distinguish her from the condition of men, and often raise her above it: pity and enthusiasm. Through pity she sacrifices herself; enthusiasm ennobles her. Self-sacrifice and enthusiasm! What else is there in heroism? Women have more heart and imagination than men. Enthusiasm arises from the imagination, self-sacrifice springs from the heart. They are therefore by nature more heroic than heroes."
Enthusiasm and a divine spirit of self-sacrifice held a very deep part in Meryl's heart, though never for a moment would the thought of heroism have occurred to her. Where Diana, out of her mocking, but staunch and loyal heart, amused herself dashing cold water and playful satire upon all heroics, Meryl said nothing at all, but at a critical moment both were equally capable ofacting.
And it did not require much thought on Meryl's part to see now where this spirit of enthusiasm and self-sacrifice seemed to call her. South Africa was at the cross-roads; she was at the period of her most urgent need for great women as well as great men. The only question that seemed to arise was, what did she specially want of the women ready to serve her?
In her own case Meryl found an answer from the lips of Carew himself. "Intermarriage," he had said; "that is the real solution to this great barrier of racialism. The same hopes united upon the same hearth." And it did not need much thought to perceive that should she, the admired and beloved heiress, fondly expected to marry an English nobleman and blossom into a peeress, marry instead a Dutchman and devote herself absolutely to South Africa, she would give a tremendous impetus to this question of intermarriage which was to consolidate the great South African Union. She saw herself giving this impetus, because it seemed to be the service life asked of her, and following it up by a wise and steadying influence upon the man who was likely always to be in the forefront of South Africa's politics.
And yet, sometimes in the silence of the night, how her spirit shuddered and shrank from it, lying bare and desolate and bleeding under the hopeless, unconquerable ache for that strong Englishman in the north—that soldier-policeman for whom she would willingly have foregone all pride of place, all luxury of wealth, all satisfaction of achievement! Yet this he would never know, seeing her, as he ever must, framed in a vast fortune from which she could not extricate herself. She thought if she might choose, she would remain quietly with her father for ever, doing good, as he, by stealth and without ostentation, feeding her heart on a memory that would never die; but here the spirit of self-sacrifice intervened, and gave her no hope of rest but in fulfilment of what she believed life asked of her.
And so the day of decision came, and all unconsciously Diana struck the final note. In the morning, glancing through various papers, magazines, and pamphlets with an extraordinary skill to glean any little essential point without wading through column upon column of matter, she came upon a paragraph that aroused her instant indignation.
"O listen to this!" she cried. "If they are not at it again! Somewhere or other General Grets has been making a speech, and here is part of his noble sentiment: 'I earnestly appeal to parents to prevent their children marrying any of the English race. They must not let this colony become a bastard race the same as the Cape Colony. If God had wanted us to be one race, He would not have made a distinction between English and Dutch.' Well, I wonder what Dutch Willie will have to say to that?" and she smiled grimly to herself in anticipation of some satisfaction to come. "This man Grets is certainly one of his supporters. If he comes this afternoon I shall have a nice little bomb ready for him!"
But instead of waiting for his usual late hour, van Hert came early, and asked to see Miss Meryl Pym alone; and when Diana returned from a game of golf ready for the fray, she was presented to van Hert as her future cousin.
For once even she was nonplussed and at a loss for words. "O well, it would be silly to pretend to be surprised, wouldn't it?" she said rather lamely, and crossed to the tea-table to pour out her own cup of tea. "And it is superfluous to hope you'll be happy and prosperous and all that; so I'll just say, my dear future-in-law, I think you're a devilish lucky man!..." And Diana snapped it out as if an unaccountable sensation demanded an explosive of some sort.
"My dear!... my dear!..." cried Aunt Emily in outraged horror. "Do try to remember where you are and who you are! If you indulge in such vulgar, disgraceful language on the golf course, you certainly cannot expect to repeat it in the drawing-room." But Diana paid no heed. She had already observed that Meryl, though blushing faintly, avoided meeting her eyes.
"And what about this brilliant speech of General Grets' reported this morning? Will your party allow you to consummate the match, do you think?..." with biting sarcasm.
But van Hert only laughed good-temperedly. "Could it in any way better be given the lie?" he asked, and before that irrefutable logic Diana was silent.
Neither could she see her way to raising any reasonable objections, when a little, later the engagement was announced broadcast with considerable beating of big drums, but she flung a few sarcasms about with some violence.
She flung one or two at her uncle, being at a loss to understand his taking the engagement so quietly; but if she had been present at the interview between him and Meryl before the final sanction was given, she would have seen that he too could hardly act otherwise. In truth, Meryl perplexed them both in those first few days, for she was so calm and quiet and self-contained they both felt a little dumb before her. It was as if, having finally made up her mind, she was determined to avoid all paths that might weaken her and take her stand alone. She was far more quiet and composed than either her father or Diana. These did not say much, but they showed perhaps the more. Henry Pym's hair whitened perceptibly, as if from some stern mental trouble, and Diana was uncertain, peevish, and difficult to please. Only once the subject was alluded to between them.
"I confess the news took me rather by surprise," her uncle admitted in reply to some sally of hers, "and I was a little at a loss to follow her actions."
"Actions?..." sniffed Diana. "What actions?... None were needed; it is the result of meditation."
"You mean?..." questioningly.
"Heroics and martyrdom," she snapped, and flung out of the room, leaving him perplexed and grave.
"If I thought so," he said in his heart, "if I were sure of it, I would forbid the banns myself."
He moved to the window, and stood for a long time looking silently and sadly to the far blue hills. He was thinking that, though he had given his life almost to be all in all to Meryl since she was left motherless, there was one part now he could not play.
"A mother would have seen through anything and known what to do," he finished, and sighed heavily.
The news reached Carew through a newspaper. He was back in Salisbury now, attending the renewed sitting of the Commission, giving invaluable assistance. Whatever he said was instantly listened to. The chief members of the Commission, men of note and weight, wondered a little over this distinguished-looking man, merely a soldier-policeman, who knew such an extraordinary amount about the black races in Rhodesia; but if they sought enlightenment they were disappointed. No one knew anything about Major Carew, except that he was once in the Blues and now in the British South Africa police, and that the natives were more or less his hobby.
But there was one morning when he was more silent than usual; when he seemed a littledistraitand very difficult to approach. And the moment the sitting was over he declined, somewhat curtly, an invitation to dinner that evening, and rode out across the veldt alone. That was the morning the daily newspaper contained the news that the only child of Henry Pym, the well-known millionaire, was engaged to be married to Mr. William van Hert, the eminent politician.
And Carew's comment was to ride out across the veldt alone.
The news was undoubtedly a shock to him. Of course, he had known she would marry, but, more or less unconsciously, he had pictured her with an English home and a permanent place in English society.
The reality,—what actually had happened,—had not entered his head at all. Of course he knew van Hert by name; everyone did. And because of his reputation for anti-English views Carew both marvelled and at the same time gleaned a probable motive. And the result of his cogitations was that added sternness which always came into his face when he was seriously troubled.
Yet what use to fret and trouble now? She had gone out of his life for ever, and with her his last chance of glad renewing. Henceforth he must go back to his quiet life of service which asked and gave nothing else, and to the companionship of those old memories which sometimes awakened from their sleep.
He rode far across the veldt, and for the first time for many a long year turned back the leaves of the closed book. And the reason he did this was the remembrance of Meryl's face, as she leaned up against the lintel of the window that last evening at Bulawayo, when they both felt it was a final parting. Something that had been in the depths of her eyes, and which she had been powerless to hide, although she made no other sign. It was a remembrance that called that added sternness to his face: the sternness of deep trouble suppressed. For he knew no woman of Meryl's nature would look as she had looked that evening and love another man in a month. Therefore it was probably for some altruistic motive and not love that she had consented to marry van Hert; no shallow, selfish motive he knew well enough, but perhaps some call she had found the courage to answer.
But if it was also a sacrifice, an offering of herself and her happiness upon some altar of need, ought he to let her fulfil it? Between her and the husband he had pictured for her he could not allow himself to stand; between her and van Hert, whom he was convinced she did not love, was another matter. Yet he knew in his heart that he could not save her now; the die was cast, both of them must abide by it. And in any case, how could he tell her his story? How could he go to her with that story and empty-handed as well; she the heiress of great wealth, and he without even a name and position?
Away out in the kopjes he rode his horse slowly up a steep hill-side, and on the top dismounted and sat upon a boulder, looking over a vast tract of lovely country to infinite blue distances. As ever in moments of stress, he had chosen the height, with wide horizons, fresh-blowing winds, far spaces of sunlight; and in the flickering shade of the thinly foliaged trees he took off his helmet, baring his head to the breeze. And it could be seen that the grey about the temples had been increasing, while the strong lines on the face had deepened already, as if it had gone hardly with him of late.
He sat very still; so still that a little squirrel ran down almost to his feet to investigate the strange figure, and little birds chirped all kinds of personalities about him to each other close at hand. He was taking a journey into a far land—the far land of the buried past. He was thinking of that story he would have had to tell Meryl Pym. Of Joan's sad life, sad love, sad death. Of how long ago she had lain dead upon the heather, as far as anyone could tell, slain by his hand.
He went back to it now, page by page; it seemed in some sort of penance that he must give. The first pages dealt with those two gay young brothers in the Blues; the elder, Peter, the recognised heir to the rich bachelor uncle, who now made life gay for them with an allowance of two thousand a year each; but he was an autocrat and something of a tyrant, the old uncle, and his will had to be law. He did not mind their sowing of wild oats if they were what he called gentlemanly wild oats, and merely got them talked about as gay young dogs, and he was always generous with an extra cheque if they got into difficulties; but he would not have foolhardy, quixotic affairs at all. There he put his foot down. When the younger brother, Geoffrey, a youth of small, mean aims and temperament, led the pretty daughter of one of the keepers into trouble, he told his uncle he was going to give her a fixed sum out of his own allowance yearly while she was unmarried, and something always for the child.
"Nonsense," said the old gentleman tartly; "the girl shouldn't have been such a fool. I will pay one hundred pounds into the bank for her, and she shall not have another penny." Geoffrey thought himself well out of the scrape, but before the incident closed there were words between the brothers that neither ever forgot. Peter took a different view of the matter entirely; he knew the girl, and he knew that she was gentle and confiding, and that Geoffrey had won her round with promises. So he called his brother a cur, and a few other things with strong adjectives, and because he knew he was in the wrong Geoffrey never forgave him. He went further, and hated him from that time onward.
But the incident was destined to bear fruit of a far more searching nature. Because he heard the girl was very ill and quietly fretting herself to death, Peter went one day to see her, prepared to make any amends in his power for his brother's sin. And beside the sofa where the girl lay he met Joan Whitby. And such are the vagaries of human nature, with its beginning on that day, the gay, light heart, the fickle fancies, light loves, wild escapades of the devil-may-care young sportsman, all vanished away into thin air before a love that filled his whole being. Lovelier, gayer, cleverer women, ready enough to meet the heir of Richard Fourtenay-Carew halfway, had left him only gay and careless. Joan Whitby, shy, distrustful, reserved, won the prize unsought. She had run away from him, avoided any spot where they might meet, hidden if she saw him in the distance, tried to hurry past if they met unawares; more than that she could not do, because she was the governess at the agent's house, and she and her charge must often cross the park. But Captain Peter Fourtenay-Carew was a hot-headed, determined young man, and having lost his heart to Joan's grey eyes and delicate, lovely face, he was not very likely to be abashed by the fact that she hid from him; rather it whetted his determination to win her. And in the end, because Joan perceived he was an honest gentleman and that he truly loved her, and because with all her pure, strong soul she truly loved him, she left off running away and came shyly through the wood to meet him. And of course Geoffrey, the jealous, spiteful brother, discovered their secret, and carried the tale to his uncle in violent, indignant guise, precipitating anger for his own ends, where a little discretion might have found a compromise. Mr. Carew's lips curled a little cruelly as he remarked he would easily nip that peccadillo in the bud. He would have no penniless, unknown governess reigning at Dartwood Hall, having already quite other views for his future successor. Then he informed his agent the young lady holding the post of governess in his house must be sent away at once, with a quarter's wages which he would be pleased to remit. To Peter he said nothing; he merely waited for an indignant scene, easily to be squashed with cold and cursory logic concerning allowances and future inheritance if his wishes were disregarded. But it was just there that he misjudged this gay, handsome nephew of his, possessed also of a fund of spirit and strong character which his uncle had not had the perspicacity to perceive.
The interview duly transpired, but there was no indignation at all. If he had looked for melodrama he was disappointed; the melodramatic did not appeal to Peter Fourtenay-Carew. He merely told his uncle quite quietly and respectfully that he intended to marry Joan Whitby. Richard Carew condescended to reason a little before he resorted to that cold, cursory logic, but he might just as well have saved himself both. Peter stood in the library window, looking across the grand old park, and heard, apparently unmoved, that all those rich acres and woodlands and well-stocked waters and preserves would pass from him to his brother, if he chose to remain obdurate and marry the poor governess, instead of the lady of high lineage his uncle had already selected for him.
What he said was, "Do you wish me also to lose my career and leave the Blues?"
For the moment his uncle had been too angry to reply. "Get out," he had said roughly. "You can't be yourself this morning. I will not believe you seriously contemplate losing anything."
Peter had turned back from the window, and stood a moment looking squarely into his uncle's face. "I am going to marry Joan," he said, "and as you have brought me up to be perfectly useless, except in a crack regiment, I only want to know if you will continue my allowance long enough to give me time to find out what I can be useful at," then he had walked quietly out of the room.
And Richard Carew, distrusting his own ears and far more upset than he would ever for a moment admit, remembered that he had seen just that look on the face of Peter's mother when he had had to break to her that her husband had been killed in the hunting-field—a look of desperate finality and unswerving resolve. Within the year he had stood beside her grave also, and taken the two baby boys home to his own house.
Then Geoffrey had come to him, and because he was clever and unscrupulous he fanned the flame easily to white-heat. Finally the uncle had decreed, "I will give him a week to think it over, and in the event of his remaining obdurate I will offer him one thousand a year for five years, and at the end of that time the allowance to be renewed or decreased, or stopped, according to my pleasure."
At the end of the week Peter's reply was "I am going to marry Joan on the 25th by special licence, in London. If you will not receive us together, I should be glad if my man might pack my clothes and bring them to me, with a few other belongings."
And Richard Carew's answer to that had been a lawyer's letter, politely enquiring of Captain Peter Fourtenay-Carew to what address he wished the allowance sent, which was to be his for five years. Peter, not yet too angry to be cautious, asked if the five thousand pounds might be invested for him in entirety, and made arrangements at once to exchange into a far cheaper regiment, aware that as a soldier he might still keep a home for his wife, whereas any experiment in the untried fields of labour might swallow up all he had. In due course the solicitor replied that the request would be granted. But ere the wedding was solemnised the unlooked-for hand of fate dealt him a pitiless blow. He had many friends in the neighbourhood of his uncle's estate, friends who were glad and willing to receive Joan for his sake and her own; and in an unhappy hour he received a pressing invitation to meet her at the house of one of them, and have a week with the pheasants before he had to rejoin his regiment. It was a bitter cold month that year, and every sportsman's temper was a little on edge at having to face December blasts in October. And one day when they were out in a preserve that adjoined Richard Carew's, he and his friend heard shots and voices over the dividing hedge; and it brought up the subject of young Geoffrey's cold-blooded delight in his good fortune at becoming his uncle's heir, and unthinkingly the friend commenced to repeat a report of something he had said in the local club when a little the worse for drink. Then he had stopped short abruptly, trying to turn away the subject, but with a sudden dangerous light in his eyes Peter had demanded to be told; and because the other man's heart was sore for his friend, and he wanted to give Peter an excuse to cross swords with his brother, he told how Geoffrey had implied his relations with Joan had been exactly the same as his own, Geoffrey's, with the keeper's daughter in the beginning, but that he had not been clever enough to get clear of the affair as he had done, and that now he was nicely sold for his high-flown superiority.
And then the wrath in Peter's face had been a terrible thing to see. It was as if his very nature reeled. He ground his teeth together, and his eyes had a red look as he muttered savagely, "God damn him; he shall pay for this!" He was standing with his face towards his uncle's preserve, and even as he cursed there was a sound of shots, and a second later a hare dashed out and fled past them.
Scarcely knowing what he did in the blind white-heat of his passion, but possessed suddenly with an awful desire to kill, he swung completely round and fired at it. And just at that moment Joan and their hostess were coming up behind, hidden by the brushwood and shrubs, to go with them to the luncheon-place,—and Joan fell, shot through the heart. In the first awful moment no one seemed able to grasp the appalling fact. Peter threw himself down on his knees beside her, and was like a man struck dazed and speechless. He had a feeling that it was some horrible dream or hallucination, and presently this bewildering dazed sense would pass away and he would find the horror had not been real. Then across his torment he heard a voice that stung him alive with dreadful venom. His uncle and his brother had climbed the fence and had come to see what had happened, hearing from a scared keeper that someone was shot. Peter looked up and saw them. It was a dreadful moment for the three to meet. His friend, Maitland, seeing the unnatural ferocity in his eyes, tried to draw him away. Even Richard Carew, the uncle, looked a little alarmed. But Peter in his madness took a step forward. "You cur, you libelled her," he hissed at his brother, and cursed him bitterly. And then Geoffrey lost his head too. An ugly sneer distorted his face as he answered, "Well, anyhow, you won't get your inheritance back now, just through a casual shot. Lady Lilton is going to marry me, and ..." But he had no time to finish, for Peter suddenly hurled himself upon him, and struggled fiercely to get his hands at his throat.
The scene was terrible. Those who were present never forgot it, and by the time a keeper and Maitland managed to separate them Geoffrey was too much hurt to stand alone. They left him lying on the ground, while Richard Carew forced a little brandy between his clenched teeth, and Maitland dragged Peter away to where his wife and a keeper were watching with horror in their eyes beside Joan's lifeless form. For a moment they feared he had lost his reason, and then some dreadful tension in his brain seemed to snap suddenly and they saw he was himself again. Without a word to either of them he stooped down and lifted the still form in his arms, and carried her unaided back to the Maitlands' house.
He did not lose hold of himself again, but for weeks suffered a mind agony that might well have permanently turned the brain of a weaker man. Night after night the Maitlands heard him leave the house, after all had gone to bed; and they knew that he went out to tramp the moors till morning, for it was only from utter physical exhaustion he ever slept. No word came from the Hall, but rumour said the younger brother was injured so that he would not walk for months. Richard Carew's only action was to lavish hush-money, and keep as much as possible out of the papers. One mistake he made. Through his solicitor he informed his nephew he was willing to give him his former income, that he might remain in his old regiment. In answer to that Peter wrote to the lawyer: "I am leaving England for ever, and I shall cease to remember from this moment that I have the misfortune to be related to Richard and Geoffrey Fourtenay-Carew. No letters will reach me. I leave no address," and then he signed himself "Peter Carew" without the Fourtenay, and used the second name no more. And immediately afterwards he joined one of the early pioneer bands setting out for Rhodesia, possessing nothing in the world but a little money gained by the sale of his personal possessions and a memory that would shadow his whole life.
Sitting alone on the kopje-top, he leaned his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, and it was as though the waters of bitterness overflowed him.
No, of course he could never tell Meryl such a story as that. For sixteen years his path had lain alone and his bitterness been shared with none. It must go on so now to the end. When he could bear it the memory of Joan's dear face still came to him as in infinite love and compassion; but he seldom dared allow himself even that; it was better to have nothing in his life—no past, present, nor future except his work.
He got up and stood for a moment leaning against his horse, resting his arms on the saddle and gazing far away. Then he rode slowly home under the stars, and by the time he reached the police camp his face was only rigid and mask-like.
It was the first rain-washed morning of the wet season when Ailsa Grenville heard the news, through a letter from Diana.
And the first rain-washed morning is an epoch in the Rhodesian year; therefore it cannot be dismissed with a curt announcement.
All night long the vigorous, boisterous spring-cleaning had been in progress. Ailsa, snug in her little bed, with the rain slashing and banging and pounding on the corrugated-iron roof, and the trees swishing and swaying, and the wind rushing around like a mad thing, apparently from all four corners of the earth at once, had laughed softly to herself at the commotion Mother Nature was making upon the dusty, dishevelled, rubbish-strewn land. It was as if, having been very busy elsewhere for three months, she meant to stand no nonsense now, but get the whole country furbished up in one night. What a time they were having, those dusty, untidy-looking trees! Bucket after bucket, millions of buckets as big as a house, full of delicious rain-water, flung at their heads! And the dusty, disgraceful roads swept bare, with gallons upon gallons of water driving their refuse hither and thither, all of it, as if mightily ashamed of itself, scrambling along in masses; and, of course, in its haste choking up the drains, and becoming a serious hindrance until a veritable water-spout was necessary to clear the course.
And then the dead branches and twigs that the trees had been too lazy to shed; short shrift for them on the first spring-cleaning night. Down they came, helter-skelter, and no notice taken of the tree's groaning, or its crackling cries of protest.
And the little river-beds and stream-beds, carelessly left to get filled up with dead leaves and rank grass, such a turning out for them as the resistless water was driven in sweeping streams along their bosoms! And woe betide any carelessly thatched or unsightly roofs! Off they went, away with the general medley. The coming summer would have none of them. And the granite, which had allowed dust and dirt and dead grasses to accumulate upon it, how it got its face scrubbed and washed that first night, and the wind shrieking with glee all the time, dashing the sheets of rain against it with its whole might!
But, of course, one could tell that everything liked it. The laughter in the trees and the wind was quite distinct, and the little rivers were fairly shouting with joy. It was not their fault that all that piece of the earth had grown so dusty and untidy; it was Mother Nature's own fault for being so long coming with those big buckets of hers. How could any land, however willing, look spruce and green and clean with no rain for four months? No wonder there was such a commotion, and it was such a noisy, vigorous business, when at last the rain did come! Every tree and every blade and every flower had a special little life-plan of its own to carry out, if only it could get enough moisture, to say nothing of all the myriad insects and birds and animals, who were too lackadaisical, after the long, dry heat, to thoroughly begin their summer preparations until the rain came. The activity among the humans, with their gold-mines and farms and fanciful erections, would be nothing, would not be worth mentioning, compared with the activity going on in the hidden world all around them on the morrow. Even the flowers had been chary of wearing their best dresses in such a dusty, untidy world.
But wait till to-morrow, and then see them! Far, far outvying any assembly of Ascot frocks or Lords' cricket week or Henley Sunday. The boisterous rain was a little severe on the dainty blossoms, but one may be sure they bore it with the pluckiest patience, whispering to each other gleefully about the lovely frocks they were going to wear the next day. And there would be such eager, joyful cogitations in the bosoms of all the little males anxious to be off on their spring courting affairs. How could any self-respecting young cock bird or male insect go and pay his addresses in a dusty, dirty, faded coat? Of course, it wasn't to be thought of. The other chap, who waited, would get all the running. But to-morrow there would be no further need to wait at all. Plumage and coats would be spring-cleaned, and expectations for the coming summer of the highest. Well-filled storehouses, leaf-cosy nests, glorious hunting-grounds. Never mind these boisterous winds and the violent way they hurl the rain about; sit tight and make lovely plans for to-morrow.
Ailsa, snug in her little bed, thought happily about the earth and its glad renewing, and woke up her precious Billy to say, "Are you awake, Billy? Can you hear it?... We shan't know our little world to-morrow."
And Billy, who was sometimes of a very prosaic turn of mind, answered, with a grunt, "Just in time to save that top patch of mealies and the bed of onions, by Jove!..." and then rolled over and went to sleep again.
"Bother your onions and mealies," said his adoring wife. "The world wasn't made for you to grow vegetables in!..."
But the next morning they climbed a kopje together, just for the joy of it, and laughed softly, and exclaimed in hushed voices at all the wonder outspread.
Such a glorious new heaven and new earth! In the heaven a rain-washed sky, resplendent with armaments of fairy cloud-vessels sailing across deepest, loveliest blue. On the earth every leaf and every blade flashing light, as if it had a little sun of its own; every flower in its loveliest court dress; the very stones gay with beautiful shades of lichen; the granite kopjes in the distance, with their faces so thoroughly scrubbed, gleaming with the dazzling brightness of new-fallen snow. Dark, rich soil where the plough had been, renewed with the richness of velvet. Sullen, colourless veldt, radiant in a few short hours with the first outposts of its coming spring glory. Far, blue hills, bluer and intenser than ever in the rain-washed atmosphere. Little cock birds and male insects away off soon after sunrise about those courting affairs that had been delayed. A whole world rejoicing; a whole world singing Te Deums of praise and thanksgiving in its own dear, happy, overflowing way.
No wonder the big fellow in the well-worn khaki, with his vigorous enthusiasms and wide sympathies, thought a little regretfully of the hide-bound, clause-bound, doctrine-bound, sober-minded black cloth he had felt himself obliged to put off. Would humanity ever sing again as the sons of the morning? Ever burst into Te Deums of overflowing thanksgiving to the Giver of all good, such as echoed and re-echoed from a long-parched earth on its first rain-washed morning.
Well, he could but try to keep the long face and depressing atmosphere and thin air of superiority safely out of his own little sphere, and while he taught the natives to be active, useful members of society, try to help all the settlers about him, hard cases or otherwise, to be honest, fearless, clean-living men, whether they achieved it to the accompaniment of good round oaths and a Sunday morning spent in bed, or on their knees between consecrated walls in the accepted way. Of course, he liked them to come to his little stone tabernacle with its thatched roof, and he made his service just as attractive as ever he could on their behalf; but if they were too lazy or too busy to come—well, it didn't follow they couldn't be honest, clean-living fellows without it; so then he went to them, and sat over their camp fire, and told them a good story or two, and in the end there wasn't a camp within twelve miles where the "bloomin' sky pilot" wasn't one of the most welcome guests.
But to do them justice, they mostly liked going to his little tabernacle, for it was always a pleasant meeting-place, and men in exile, even "hard cases," like to sing a good old-fashioned hymn just once in a way; to say nothing of the big home-made cake, full of plums, which was usually ready to be handed round afterwards on the "sky pilot's" verandah, and which he teasingly informed Ailsa was her way of bribing his congregation to come to church, rather than suffer the ignominy of hearing him preach to empty benches.
But that was as it might be; anyhow, if a settler within reach chanced to be ill, he might be sure he would get a jelly or soup or milk, even if he had never put a foot inside the little wilderness church. And if Billy could not take it The Kid or Moore had to, for Ailsa ruled her little sphere with a rod of iron, and the two troopers had long been her willing slaves.
But though she had cut herself adrift from the pleasant world of her girlhood, and won a real satisfaction out of life that would be death to most women, she had never lost her sympathies with all that went on in that existence, where