Transcriber's note:
Inconsistent spelling, particularly names of characters in
the original text, has been retained, as has variable
punctuation.
The table of contents has been added for the convenience of
readers.
In the advertisements at the end, text enclosed by equal signs
was in bold face in the original (=bold=) and text enclosed by
plus signs was underscored (+underscored+).
THE RHODESIAN
* * * * *
GERTRUDE PAGE'S NOVELS.
_In cloth gilt, 6s._
SOME THERE ARE----.
FOLLOW AFTER.
WHERE THE STRANGE ROADS GO DOWN.
WINDING PATHS.
_In cloth gilt, 3s. 6d._
TWO LOVERS AND A LIGHTHOUSE.
_Also in cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. net._
JILL'S RHODESIAN PHILOSOPHY.
_In cloth, uniform with this volume, 1s. net_.
PADDY THE NEXT BEST THING.
LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS.
THE GREAT SPLENDOUR.
THE EDGE O' BEYOND.
THE SILENT RANCHER.
* * * * *
THE RHODESIAN
by
GERTRUDE PAGE
Author of "The Edge o' Beyond," "The Silent Rancher," etc.
London: Hurst & Blackett, Ltd. Paternoster House, E.C.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I THE POLICE STATION
II THE MISSION STATION
III TWO HEIRESSES
IV THE RHODESIAN PROJECT
V WILLIAM VAN HERT
VI THE JOURNEY
VII CAREW IS DISTURBED
VIII TWO UNEXPECTED MEETINGS
IX THE BEAR
X A MINING CAMP
XI AN EVENING RIDE
XII THE MISSION STATION
XIII A DECISION THAT FAILED
XIV THE ANCIENT RUINS
XV CAREW RIDES AWAY
XVI "THE SHIP OF FOOLS"
XVII AN EVENING CONVERSATION
XVIII THE CHARTER FLATS
XIX THE CONVENTIONALITIES ONCE MORE
XX FAREWELL
XXI A "HOARDING HUSTLING"
XXII MERYL'S DECISION
XXIII CAREW'S STORY
XXIV A RAIN-WASHED MORNING AND A DISCUSSION
XXV AILSA LEARNS CAREW'S SECRET
XXVI "HOW CAN I GO TO HER!..."
XXVII DIANA BEGINS TO GROW PERPLEXED
XXVIII DIANA'S PERPLEXITIES INCREASE
XXIX A USEFUL BLUNDER
XXX DIANA IS RESTLESS
XXXI THE SOLUTION IS SEALED
XXXII A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES
FINIS
TO THE PATHFINDERS
"Fate lies hid,
But not the deeds that true men dared and did."
THE RHODESIAN.
I
THE POLICE CAMP
The velvety darkness of a southern night, with its sense of rich,
luscious, breathing intensity, lay over that romantic spot in Southern
Rhodesia where the grey walls of the Zimbabwe ruins, with a sublime,
imperturbable indifference, continue to baffle the ingenuity and
ravish the curiosity of all who would read their story. Scientists,
archæologists, tourists come and go, but the stern old walls, guarded
by the sentinel hills, give back no answer to eager questioning, eager
delving, eager surmise.
But in the meantime the Valley of Ruins no longer lies alone and
unheeded in the sunlight; and no longer do the hills look down upon
rich plains left solely to the idle pleasure of a careless black
people. The forerunners of to-day's great civilising army have marched
into the valley, and beside the ancient walls there is now a police
camp of the British South Africa Police, presided over by two robust
young troopers.
In the velvety darkness on the night in question there is a single
bright light pouring through the open doorway of a dwelling-hut.
Through the enfolding silence breaks the bizarre music of an
indifferent gramophone, recklessly mocking the sublime grandeur of
the age-old antiquities. Laughter and gay music and devil-may-care
colonists awaking echoes that have been more or less silent to
civilisation for how many thousand years?
But on this particular evening it is as though some shadow had fallen
upon the little camp. Nothing tangible--nothing that changed the
general habits or surroundings--but a vague regret and introspective
sadness upon the faces of two young men, usually full of careless
content. Cecil Stanley, the more refined, a gentleman by birth and
education, lounged low in his chair, with his hands behind his head
and his feet on the table, and ever and anon his eyes looked with
pained regret into the surrounding depths of night. Patrick Moore,
with a grave face, cleaned his gun in a deeper silence than usual,
proceeding with an occupation that was his joy on many evenings,
whether the gun needed cleaning or not, rather as if it eased his mind
to have his hands busy.
"I wonder if the Major will come through to-night?" he remarked, as if
the silence were growing over-oppressive.
"Sure to," laconically. "The moon will be up directly, and he can't be
very far away."
"I suppose he won't have heard?"
"Not likely to have done. Gad! I feel as if I'd give anything to have
had a chance to stand three hours in that queue. It will hit him hard.
If it's bad for us, who have at least known all along, it will be
worse for him, hearing it suddenly at this late hour. Those newspapers
to-day have made me feel like a kid on his first day at
boarding-school. I'd like to cry if I weren't ashamed to."
"I liked that professor," said Moore, changing the subject. "Decent
old Johnny, wasn't he? Jolly nice of him to bring all those papers in
case he came across anyone glad of them."
"Quite a good old bird. That's a rum theory of his about the corpses
in the temple being buried deeper than anyone has yet dug, and hung
with valuable ornaments. Wouldn't it be a jolly lark to dig down for
one and have a look at it!..."
He gave a low, half-hearted chuckle over his gruesome suggestion, and
lazily getting to his feet, selected another tune for his gramophone.
Moore, busy still with his gun, gave a corresponding chuckle, and
remarked:
"Begorra, lad!... if we could get a few out one at a time on moonlight
nights, and fill up the blooming holes again, we shouldn't want any
blasted machinery for our gold mine, except a pickaxe and a shovel."
"We'd want a bit of pluck, though. The ghosts of the corpses might
come dancing round to have their say in the matter."
"We'd chance the ghosties. Shure! if they've been hanging round for
three or four thousand years, they'd maybe like a new sensation by
this time."
Stanley put on "The Stars and Stripes," wound up the gramophone, and
slid into his lounge chair again.
Moore glanced up as the music started.
"What!... that thing again!... I'm beginning to feel like those old
ghosts about it. The same moth-eaten tune for three or four thousand
years. I'd like a new sensation."
"It can't be much staler than cleaning that old gun."
"Shure, she's a daisy." The Irishman looked tenderly at his treasure.
"An' she just loves me to be fondlin' her like."
"If it weren't for the Major I don't know what is to prevent us
proving the old man's theory," said Stanley, evidently harping again
on his corpses.
"Him, and the bloomin' Company! The old gentlemen sittin' on the Board
in London suddenly find that the Yankees have been snaffling a lot of
valuable trinkets and things from the ruins while they took forty
winks, and then they up and says no one's to look for anything more at
all; not even a _boney fidey_ Rhodesian, sweating in the police camp
outside the walls."
"Still, it would be a rare lark to find a corpse with gold ornaments
on it, and say nothing at all."
"And what should you be doing with the old corpse when you've taken
the gold?"
"Oh! put him in the soup!" And Stanley slid lower in his chair, with
another chuckle.
The gramophone ran down with a horrible grind, but its owner only
looked at it dully and took no notice.
"Shall I wind up again?" Moore asked.
"No, let it rip. It sounds all wrong to-night. Everything is all
wrong. The whole world gone awry. It's like being on another planet to
be out here in this wilderness at such a time. I don't believe I've
ever felt exiled before, but, begad! I do to-night. Let's turn in.
Probably he won't come now."
Moore carried his gun into one of the huts and stood it carefully
beside his little stretcher-bed. Stanley took the gramophone into
another hut, and planked it down somewhat roughly on a table,
evidently made by an amateur. Without going outside again, he shouted
"Good night," and after that no sound broke the silence, except sundry
mutterings from the Irishman, who had discovered an enormous frog
under his bed, and his beloved pointer pup inside the blankets
serenely sleeping.
All the next morning Stanley hung about the camp as one who waited,
but it was not until three o'clock that Major Carew rode slowly up to
the huts. As he dismounted, briefly acknowledging Stanley's salute,
there was a characteristic absence of all superfluous words. The
latter waited until the soldier-servant had led away the mule and
another boy relieved the officer of his water-bottle, which he always
carried himself, and then he looked hard at the thin, brown, resolute
face, with an expression in his eyes that made Carew ask shortly:
"Any news?"
"Bad news from England. I suppose you haven't heard?"
"I haven't heard anything."
For one pulsing second the two men stood and looked at each other; and
to a looker-on it might have appeared that, however laconic and
indifferent their attitude, their relationship was not solely that of
officer and subordinate. The elder man, in his gruff way, was the
friend of the man under him. The younger had acquired a respect that
held something deeper than casual liking, and his face showed it now
as he hesitated before breaking his news. Then he said, very simply:
"The King is dead."
A quick, incredulous expression filled Carew's eyes.
"The King?..." he repeated. "Not ... surely not ..." He paused,
leaving his sentence unfinished.
"Yes. King Edward. After a few days' illness."
The man's mouth grew rigid. He stood like a figure of bronze, staring
with unseeing eyes to the far horizon. Stanley drew in his breath a
little sharply. Yes, he had been right, the news had hit Carew very
hard.
"When?..." came at last, abruptly.
"A fortnight ago. Just after you left. The funeral took place
yesterday."
Carew made no comment. Evidently it was true. Little else mattered.
Nearly all through this trek of his round those distant kraals his
King had been lying dead, and he had not known it. Such a man as he is
not stunned by tidings; but he recedes still further into his shell,
if possible. There is no comment, no discussion, just a grim silence
sealing a deep pain that cannot express itself.
He stayed a moment longer, while Stanley told him a few details, and
then he went away into his hut and shut his door to the sunlight--one
of those exiles for whom the news had, as it were, an added sorrow,
because during the first shock he had remained in ignorance, and had
thus been prevented joining in the loyal homage of grief that had been
offered by his countrymen from the four corners of the earth.
It was thus with many of the far-off Empire-builders. They heard so
late, so unpreparedly, so suddenly; and in the first shock, an exile
which had been a calmly accepted condition, became almost a menace,
seemed swiftly to develop a force. The men in the far places _felt_
their aloofness; knew that their souls were beating vainly against
prison bars, for the longing to annihilate space and stand beside the
beloved dead. That quiet band of men whom we sometimes call "The
Pathfinders," and who go away across the world to bring the wilderness
into line; to smooth the rough, link the severed, subdue the untamed,
and carry prosperity to the waste places. The men who cope with
strange, deadly diseases; who fight fever swamps, and compel them to
carry a railroad across their reluctant bosoms, though the swamps in
turn exact a heavy toll of human life; who make the paths that the
women and children will presently pass over, though no such
soul-stirring cry urges their exhausting efforts.
But it is not usual to laud these men, who win their colours at the
dull, prosaic work of path-finding, as it is to laud those who
encounter shot and shell in the lurid atmosphere of battle, and one
feels they do not ask it. Yet now and then they must surely be glad to
know that thoughtful women and thoughtful men follow their work and
bless them in silence, sending across the world to them a homage of
praise that is, perhaps, richer than the plaudits of the crowd. And
not to them only, but also to the mothers who bid them go, accepting
their hard part of lonely, anxious waiting without complaint.
And if they fall by the wayside, unrecognised, unknown, but having
carried the path forward, maybe a mile, maybe a yard, maybe an inch,
how great a thing is that compared to the small happenings that of
necessity make up most men's lives!
In the sultry midday heat Carew sat alone in his hut, and certain
memories, that for fifteen years he had tried to crush out of his
mind, crowded back upon him with overwhelming force in the grip of his
sudden sorrow. For that sad event which had plunged a great nation
into grief had been to him a personal loss. In the silence and shadow
he mourned deeply, not only the idol of his youth and dear object of
his heart's best loyalty, but the memory of a friend.
For long ago, or so it seemed, there had been a moment when a royal
hand had clasped his, and a royal voice--the royalty all lost in the
friend--had said, "Perhaps you are right. It is best to begin again.
But do not imagine your life is over and its aims purposeless. Out
there you will find renewing. Some day come back and tell me about
it."
That was fifteen years ago, but he had never gone back. Never sought
the second hand-clasp that would have been his. Never unfolded to
those interested ears his personal experiences with the pioneer column
that led the way to do the path-finding in Rhodesia. In the hush of
the afternoon, with his head bowed on his arms, the years between
seemed to pass out of mind, and that which once had been to stand
alone, awaking within him an infinite regret.
He saw again certain lovely park-lands--the woods and hills and
dales--of a rich inheritance that should have been his. He saw
himself, the gay guardsman. He saw the dear face of the woman for whom
he had chosen to cross that arbitrary will which would brook no
disobedience, and sought to intimidate him with disinheritance.
Through his mind passed in slurred detail the sordid story which had
given him a brother's hate in return for a quixotic championing of the
weak--a hate which proved to have power enough behind it to draw a
devastating hand across the promise of his future.
Lastly--and here in the silence it was as though his head sank deeper
in its pain--he saw that woman's dear face, as he had last seen it,
lying white upon the heather--_dead_.
Ah, the memories were terribly alive to-day; not even fifteen years in
a new life, with new interests, had done anything but draw a thin
curtain of silence over the unforgettable pain. Would anything ever
ease it in reality? Had he for a moment believed that it would? Or had
he always known, that just as surely as his hand had held the gun
which killed her, so to his last breath the tragedy would cast a
shadow over the whole of his life?
He might look out upon the world with quiet eyes and firm lips and
fearless mien, but the gnawing ache would surely go with him to his
grave.
And because of it he knew that he had grown somewhat churlish; that
men who did not understand his unsociable ways and extreme reticence
looked at him askance. But what of it? How little such things
mattered! The tragedy was his and the silence was his, and he had
never asked anyone to share either.
Only to-day, for just this one afternoon, fifteen years was as
yesterday, and he seemed to realise thoroughly for the first time all
that royal hand-clasp had meant, before he went to his voluntary exile
in a far wilderness.
But after a time, when it grew cool enough to walk, he came out into
the sunshine and started off towards the steep rock pathway that leads
to the summit of the Acropolis Hill, following an impulse to seek
comfort in the fresh hopefulness of a height, and to lessen the pain
in his heart by looking out across a world still living and loving and
striving. So he climbed on up the winding pathway, enfolded with
mystery and romance concerning the feet that trod it in the far-off
centuries, and made his way between the mighty natural boulders out on
to the high platform, where eyes, all those long centuries ago, must
have looked out even as his, across the lovely land.
Was it as lovely then?... Could it have been less so?...
How the quiet beauty soothed and caressed him! Surely there were
moments when the wilderness, tamed at last, like a lovely, wayward
mistress become entrancingly docile, fondles the hand, and ravishes
the senses of the strong man who conquered it.
Is this one of the rich rewards Life holds in the palm of her hand for
the path-finders?... This glorious sense of ownership. This winsome
soothing of shy gratitude when the fierce first resistance to conquest
is overpast. A man may call England his country because he was born
there, and his father before him; but, perhaps, after all, that is a
small thing compared to standing upon a high eminence, and looking
across a quiet world which is your country because of all you yourself
have given to it of hope and faith and steadfast purpose.
In some such spirit soothing came to the quiet man on the top of the
Acropolis Hill, whispering to him that, after all, this was _his_
country, and if the beloved dead did indeed seem so far away in fact,
in spirit he was perhaps nearer to his Empire-builders than he had
ever been before.
He turned his head at last, and his eyes rested upon the circular
wall, four hundred feet below, that enclosed the temple ruins. Then
for a moment a wave of depression swept over him, blotting out the
landscape loveliness. Was it all, then, vanity, this building and
striving?... The making of walls and fortifications for another race,
centuries afterwards, to look upon with cold wonder and curiosity?
Three thousand years ago perhaps another man had stood even there and
mourned his king that was dead. And so soon ... so soon ... he also
died, and the massive walls became ruins, and the dynasty, or empire,
or era, passed away into oblivion. How soon might a similar fate
overtake his own great Empire!... and the beloved King, Edward the
Peacemaker, be perhaps but a legend to some strange new race.
And then it was as though the land to which he had given so much rose
up to give in her turn the might of hope and renewing. His eyes
wandered again to the distant mountains and over the fertile plain
lying between, and all the outspread richness called to him that at
least there was no ruin here, no hopelessness, no decay.
Progress spoke to him from the rolling plains and from the mysterious
kopjes, and his blood warmed to that glad sense of possession--if not
in fact, at least in the fancy born of what he had given. For it is
when we give, and not when we take, we become the truest possessors,
rich owners of so much that neither wealth, nor birth, nor striving
can buy.
In the quiet evening hour the stars were just beginning to light their
brilliant lamps, and a glow like a rose-flush in the west marked the
passage of the departed sun. Carew prepared to make the steep descent.
And as he looked out across this country, that seemed so intensely his
country, he felt himself heir of all the ages, the strong product of
long eons of careful development, too rich in those vague splendours
of the human and the divine not to realise the weak futility of musing
sadly upon dead dynasties and bygone races.
On the northernmost point, ere the path drops suddenly on its way to
the valley, he stood still once more and gazed steadily to the north
where England lay.
Then, thinking deep thoughts of love and loyalty of the King who had
been his friend, and the friend who had been his King, he gravely gave
the salute.
II
THE MISSION STATION
Although only stationed for a short time at the Zimbabwe camp, Carew
had chosen always to conduct his own _ménage_, and take his meals in
solitary state apart from Stanley and Moore. This was in every case
typical of the man, who rarely sought company, and was often quiet to
taciturnity when he had it. He had not come to the wilderness for
adventure, or for the companionship of the men he might find there; he
had come because he wanted to forget. Not even to seek renewing and
fresh hopes, but only to crowd out of his life the memory of that
upheaval and tragedy that, it seemed, had placed a stern hand upon
mere joy for evermore. And he believed he would achieve this best with
the vigorous, interesting occupation of helping a young country
struggle through to fulfilment.
It was not until after the dinner-hour that he again showed himself,
and then he came outside his hut, filling his pipe, and stood for a
moment beside Stanley and Moore without saying anything.
"Did you have a successful trip, sir?" Stanley asked.
"Quite," dryly.
The young trooper watched him a moment, and then added:
"Did you have trouble with M'Basch?"
"He tried to make trouble. He is a dangerous native."
"And you gave him a lesson?"
"I burnt his kraal."
"Whew!..." and Stanley gave a low whistle. The man was courageous
indeed who dare resort to such a step, now that it was necessary to
pamper the natives if one wanted no trouble at headquarters.
Carew took no notice of the significant rejoinder, but his firm mouth,
if anything, grew a little firmer.
"I gave him due warning, but he thought I dare not carry out my
threat. He was mistaken. Never make a threat that you can't carry out.
It matters more than anything with natives. He will not give trouble
again at present."
"But they may say a good deal at headquarters if he carries his story
there!"
"I had to risk that. But he is so entirely in the wrong, and so
clearly aware of it, I don't think he will venture to say anything. I
have three cases of diabolical cruelty against him, besides stealing
and law-breaking generally."
Stanley watched him with eyes of admiration. To him the man's strength
was ever a source of delight, now that his unsociable ways were no
longer a puzzle.
"We had a scientific man here yesterday to view the ruins," he
continued, as Carew still lingered while he lit his pipe. "He has a
remarkable theory for divining corpses by the gold ornaments buried on
them. He thinks there are probably several in the temple, deeper than
anyone has yet dug."
Carew did not look very interested. His eyes had still the
retrospective, pained expression that had come into them instantly,
when he grasped the import of Stanley's sad tidings.
"Where did he come from?" he asked, half turning away.
"I don't know. He was only here for a few hours. We gave him some tea,
and he left us some interesting papers, if you would care to have
them. He seemed rather interested in you!..." and Stanley looked
keenly into his face.
"In what way?" Carew pulled hard at his beloved pipe and spoke with
studied carelessness.
"Your name cropped up about something, and he wanted to know if you
were a Fourtenay-Carew."
The officer started very slightly, but made no comment, and Stanley
added, "He particularly wanted to know if you were a Devonshire man. I
said you were."
"I _was_ a Devonshire man," Carew corrected; "I _am_ a Rhodesian."
Then he turned and with a short good night went back into his hut.
The next morning, directly his official work was finished, he started
to ride over to the mission station, where some far-off connections of
his, William and Ailsa Grenville, found by chance in the wilderness,
lived the simple life with a contentment that surprised all who beheld
them.
It was the first visit he had been able to pay for some weeks, and
almost before he dismounted a woman stepped out from the large rustic
building, with its thatched roof, and came towards him with eagerness
and sorrow strangely blended in her eyes.
"Ah, how long you have been coming! I have watched for you ever since
we heard the sad news. Billy and I so wanted someone from _home_ to
talk to."
"I could not help it. I have been right away into the Ingigi district.
How are you?"
He did not give her his hand because the formalities had long been
dropped between them, but as he walked beside her to the building his
face seemed a shade softer.
"We are both well. We are splendid. But we have felt very cut off
these two weeks. England seemed so terribly far away. The evening we
heard, Billy and I just sat hand in hand under the stars, dabbing the
tears away. Don't smile, it was the only thing to do, and we longed so
to be in London." As she talked she passed into the cool shade of the
hut and busied herself preparing a lemon squash for him, not needing
to ask if it were his choice. "We were miserable for days. I'm sure
all of you were too."
"I did not hear until I came back yesterday."
"Ah ... I was afraid so. Of course, that made it worse."
She brought him the lemon squash and stood leaning against the table
beside him while he drank it, with the gladness of seeing him still in
her eyes, though they were grave now with sympathy. It was evident
their friendship had in it a wide understanding.
She was silent a few moments, and then added simply, "I suppose you
knew him personally?"
"Yes."
He did not tell her more, and she did not ask him. There was one
subject that no deepening of friendship had ever made it possible to
approach, and that was the story of his past. She knew only, from her
husband, who was extremely vague on the subject, that he had once held
a commission in the Blues, and been, not only a well-known society
man, but the heir of a rich old uncle. And then suddenly something had
happened, and his brother became the heir, and England had known him
no more. Even William Grenville himself was in the dark as to the
cause of the lost inheritance, as he had been abroad at the time, and
had never had much intercourse with Carew's branch of the family. He
was supposed to be in disgrace himself, because his soul was too
honest to allow him to continue in a comfortable country living, after
his convictions lost faith in the tenets of the English Church; but if
it were so it never troubled him, and he loved his wilderness home
dearly. Ailsa had her story also, but she too, it was evident, had
found a solution that held satisfaction.
After giving Carew his drink she moved away and picked up some
needlework, seating herself near the open door, with sympathy in her
face and in her silence.
"We had a splendid service," she told him. "We did all we possibly
could to show our loyalty. But how little it seemed! The far countries
hurt at a time like this."
He assented in silence, looking out over the lovely landscape as if it
were a sight his soul loved, and she bent lower over her needlework.
"Tell me about your Ingigi trip, unless you would rather wait for
Billy. He will be in directly, and he will want to hear everything."
He glanced towards her a moment, noting half indifferently that she
looked unusually pretty to-day; but he only said a few generalities
about his work, with his eyes again on the landscape. Ailsa sewed on,
not in the least dismayed. It was good enough to have him there,
whether he were communicative or not, and she was glad she chanced to
have put on her new, pretty dress from home. For, of course, all women
liked to look fair in the eyes of Peter Carew, quite indifferent to
the fact that in all probability he scarcely saw them.
But Ailsa Grenville could not have looked other than fair to any man,
though to some she looked so much more besides. Her frank grey eyes,
full of expression, her low, broad forehead and chestnut hair, were so
full of beauty that they seemed to counteract entirely a nose that was
a little too small and a mouth a little too large. One felt that
nature had intended to make her a beautiful woman, and then changed
her mind and allowed a flaw in her beauty, possibly to give her more
character and an attraction of a different order. To the lonely men
within reach of the mission station she was goddess and angel
combined, and knowing it was one of the joys of her uneventful life.
Thus they sat on together in the doorway, speaking quietly of the loss
they had chosen to make their own, in an intimate sense perhaps only
possible to far-off Empire-builders. And while they talked the
missionary himself appeared, and all his face lit up when he saw
Carew.
"By Jove! I'm glad to see you," he exclaimed, tossing his khaki helmet
carelessly aside. "We hoped you would come soon. Ailsa was sure you
would."
He sat on the edge of the table, swinging one putteed leg, a fine,
athletic, big fellow, with a khaki shirt open at the throat, and
sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and a brown attractive face with
honest eyes. "How are the others?... Going strong?... We had them all
here for our funeral service: the Macaulays, White, Richards, Henley,
the three prospectors out Chini way, everyone within reach. And
afterwards we gave them a feed. A homely one, with cakes and jam, as
Englishy as possible. By gad, Carew! how a loss like this makes you
think of home and country; and how we Britishers in the colonies ought
to hang together through thick and thin! If we all felt it more, it
would be a great thing for the dear old Mother Country. She'll want
her boys in the colonies to stand by her stoutly, if she is to go on
holding her own, I'm thinking."
He got up and strode about the hut, his hands in his pockets and his
pipe in his mouth. "Hang it all!... since I came out here to try and
do a little useful development among the blacks, I've grown more and
more to feel that helping the settlers to live clean lives and pull
together and care about the Old Country, is every bit as important, in
fact far more so, than teaching Christianity to the heathen."
He stood in the doorway, blocking the view with his immense bulk, a
rarely attractive man, with boyish enthusiasm in his eyes, and
fearless honesty in his whole aspect, and just that touch of the
fanatic which helped him to soar above disappointments and keep his
charming wife devoted and content with him out there in the
wilderness.
From his post in the doorway he swung round suddenly, and was about to
launch upon one of his enthusiastic tirades on the natives or settlers
or both, when Ailsa stayed him lightly, declaring that lunch was
ready, and they all proceeded to the dining-room hut.
Afterwards they lazed in a wide verandah, commanding one of the
loveliest views in Rhodesia, and talked a little of the West Country,
because the ache was still with each one to be at home at that sad
time.
When Carew, later, prepared to depart homewards, she gave a large plum
cake carefully into the hands of his black soldier-servant, telling
him, Carew, that it was for The Kid and Patrick, and not to let The
Kid overeat himself, and tell him to come over and see her at once.
"He is rather interested in the subject of corpses just now," Carew
said, with something approaching a gleam in his eye, "but I don't
encourage him, because, for two pins, I believe he would dig up the
entire temple, if the spirit took him."
"The scoundrel!..." with an affectionate laugh. "Tell him if he dares
to touch one stone of my temple he shall never, never have a cake
again."
"Oh, I only surmise it from the expression in his eyes when he told
me, rather wistfully, that some scientific visitor had described to
him how the corpses, if found, would certainly be decked with valuable
gold ornaments."
Then he mounted and saluted her gravely as he rode away.
III
TWO HEIRESSES
In a Piccadilly mansion, about the same time that Major Carew returned
from his long trek, two girls sat in a wide window-seat and looked
somewhat disconsolately across the fresh spring green of the park.
Both were the daughters of South African millionaires. Both were
motherless, and one an orphan. They were also cousins, and the same
roof usually was their home.
Two months previously the father of the one and guardian of the other
had brought them to England, that they might duly "come out" the
ensuing season in London society. Their presentation at Court had
taken place in April, followed by a splendid ball at the stately
mansion taken for their stay, and both girls had looked eagerly
forward to the festivities ahead.
And now, a few weeks later, they found themselves suddenly dressed in
black, with nearly all the expected gaieties cancelled, and this
overshadowing loss weighing upon their spirits. Added to this the
death of first one mother and then the other, followed by a period of
ill-health to the guardian and father, had postponed that "coming out"
long past the ordinary age for such functions; Diana, the orphan,
being now twenty-two, and Meryl two years older.
Meryl was the graver of the two; graver indeed than is at all usual at
twenty-four, but with a quiet fund of humour and a romantic
dreaminess, and withal a certain elusive quality that made her always
interesting, and pleasantly something of a mystery. Diana was a
sparkling, practical, outspoken young woman, much adored of young men
whom she treated with scant courtesy, and with a great deal of common
sense in her pretty head. The girls' influence upon each other, which
was cemented by a very deep affection, was wholly beneficial; for
whereas Diana awakened Meryl from too much dreaminess, Meryl's quiet
dignity had a softening effect upon Diana's too great exuberance of
spirits and occasional boyish lack of refinement, which was more the
result of a boisterous capacity for enjoyment than inbred.
Meryl, as became the dreamer, had been profoundly touched by the event
which had called forth that swift grief; and whereas Diana could not
refrain from bemoaning all she must necessarily lose through the
season of mourning, Meryl thought chiefly of how they could get away
quickly into the country and replace the lost gaieties with quiet
delight.
She had already spoken to her father about her wish to leave town, but
he had been much occupied of late, and not yet had time thoroughly to
discuss the question. And meanwhile she and Diana waited a little
disconsolately to see what the days brought forth. Diana was disposed
for a trip to Switzerland, or Norway, or even Iceland, but she wanted
to go in a party, and not just they two and a chaperon. Meryl was not
enthusiastic and it nettled her a little, so that, on the wide
window-seat, there was a cloud on her face as she drummed idly with
her fingers and watched the traffic go by.
"If you would only say what you _do_ want," she asserted impatiently,
"instead of just mooning about and making no plans whatever."
But the fact was, Meryl could not quite make up her mind what she did
want. In some vague way a kind of upheaval had been taking place in
her heart, and left her high and dry upon the rocks of uncertainty and
dim dissatisfaction. New thoughts, new questions, new desires had
risen in her during that sad month of May, and she felt as one seeking
vainly she knew not what. She looked beyond the trees of the Green
Park to the far skies with wistful eyes, and asked herself deep
questions concerning many things, born of the thoughts that arose in
her mind when she stood amid a people mourning tenderly a dearly loved
sovereign, and beheld how in hearts all over the world he had won love
and admiration, in that, to the best of his endeavour, he had
splendidly fulfilled his high trust.
And a high trust was hers. How could she not know it, when she was
sole heiress to her father's millions; and yet, what was she doing,
or preparing to do, in fulfilment of that trust? That it was no less
so with Diana did not weigh with her. Diana was different. When she
was allowed a free hand with her fortune she would buy yachts and
houses and diamonds, and scatter it right and left, which was good in
its way; but it would never satisfy her, Meryl, the visionary and
dreamer, who looked with grave eyes to the far skies, and asked vague
questions.
Presently, with an impatient little kick at a footstool, Diana broke
the silence. "_Do_ you know what you want? Have you any ideas at all,
or are you just a blank?"
Meryl smiled charmingly. "I'm not exactly a blank, but something of a
confusion. I confess crowded Swiss hotels do not sound alluring. I
like Iceland better, but it seems rather ... well ... purposeless."
"And what in the world do you want it to be? Do you want to go a
journey to convert heathen, or preach Christian Science, or explore
untrodden country? If so, you had better take Aunt Emily and go alone.
I'm hoping for a little life and amusement."
"We always have that. I want something bigger for a change."
"O, now you're getting to high altitudes. Meryl, do come down and be
rational. I just feel as if I could shake you." She got up and roamed
round the room, then returned to the window-seat and leaned out of the
window watching some workmen who were painting the balcony below them.
Meryl sat on silently, still seeking some sort of a solution to
something she could not name.
"There's such a good-looking workman," Diana remarked presently, "I'm
sure he's an artist. I wish he would look up, but he is too shy."
"Too wise, perhaps. Why are you sure he is an artist?"
"O, well, because he looks like it. He has a Grecian head, and his
hair curls adorably, and I'm certain his eyes are blue. He'll be just
underneath the window soon, and if he doesn't look up then I shall
drop something to make him."
"Come away to lunch and don't be a goose. The gong sounded quite five
minutes ago."
Diana withdrew her head reluctantly.
"Who wants to eat cutlets when they can watch a Grecian profile!"
"Perhaps you would sooner drop one on his head to make him look up?"
"I would; much sooner. Do you think they've brought their lunch with
them, or shall we send them some?"
"I expect they've got their dinners in red pocket-handkerchiefs,
hidden away somewhere at the back."
"Except my Greek"--with a little smile--"and I'm sure his is in a
Liberty silk square."
They sat down to lunch in the big, oppressive dining-room alone, as
their chaperon, Aunt Emily, was laid up with a headache, and Mr. Henry
Pym, Meryl's father, was usually in the City at midday. And after
lunch, for the sake of something to do, they ordered the motor and
drove out to Ranelagh to see the polo.
Then came dinner, and with it in quiet, unsuspected guise the news
that would presently change their lives. Henry Pym, a small, dark man,
with the keen eyes and quiet manner that so often go with success,
told them that because there would be practically no London season at
all that year he had decided to go back to Africa, and he would take a
country house for them anywhere they liked and leave them there for
the summer with Aunt Emily.
Aunt Emily nodded her head with an approving air. A quiet country
house instead of a season's racketing was quite to her taste, and she
felt dear Henry, as ever, was showing the marked common sense for
which she humbly worshipped him afar off. Meryl looked at her father
inquiringly and with a thoughtful air. Diana remarked, rather
disgustedly, "O, uncle, what rot! Why should we be condemned to some
dull little hole of an English village, just because there is to be no
London season?"
"My dear Diana," remonstrated the lady who was supposed to fill the
post of mother and chaperon to both girls, and was therefore in duty
bound to express disapproval of Diana's English, "you surely do not
imagine your uncle admires that unladylike mode of speech!"
"But he understands it," said the incorrigible, "and that is far more
important."
There was a decided gleam in the millionaire's eyes as he inquired,
"And what do you want to do instead, Di?"
"Oh, yacht, or travel, or go in an aeroplane, or anything. I simply
can't sit down in an English village until further notice."
Then Meryl spoke:
"Why can't we go back with you to South Africa, father?"
"Because I'm going to take a trip north. I'm going up to Rhodesia
about some mining claims."
"And couldn't we go there with you?"
"Not very well. I'm not going to the towns, except for a day or two. I
shall have to do a lot of trekking in the wild, outlying parts. You
couldn't manage that."
"Of course not," murmured Aunt Emily. "How dreadful that you should
have to go, Henry! Why, there are lions and elephants and things, and
the natives are savages; surely no mines are worth running such
risks?"
"Not quite as bad as all that, Emily, but hardly the place for you and
the girls. Would you all like to go to Norway?"
"And fish?..." from Diana, with a sudden light in her eyes.
"You could have a yacht and take a party," he continued, "and come
back when you are all tired of it. I'll ask Sir Robert to let me have
the 'Skylark,' because his captain is so reliable. What do you say,
Meryl?... Shall you like that?..."
"I wish you could come," was her rather evasive answer, and she gazed
at the table decorations as if pondering something in her mind.
"Well, you can think it over," said the millionaire quietly, "and if
there is something you would like better tell me." He was peeling a
pear in a slow, methodical fashion, and his face quickly seemed to
assume the expression of one whose thoughts were already elsewhere;
but not before, with a quick, characteristic movement, he had glanced
keenly and surreptitiously into Meryl's face and read her indecision.
Something was on her mind. He knew it quite well; and his busy brain,
under its mask of complacent thoughtfulness, probed into the question.
Ever since the day of the King's funeral she had worn that thoughtful
air and baffled him a little with her wistful indecision. And though
he said nothing, he thought about it in his leisured moments; for
dearer than all his wealth and his power and his success was his only
child.
That night, trying still to probe the unrest in her heart, Meryl
stepped out on to their balcony and looked at the stars. Straight
before her, outlined in a misty moonlight that was almost overpowered
by the glare of the city's lights, were the tall towers of
Westminster. Down below the traffic passed ceaselessly to and fro.
From all sides came the mysterious hum of a great city's life. And as
she leaned listening, and gazing at the far-off stars that seemed such
mere pin-pricks above the glare, there came to her a thought of the
majestic stars that hung over Africa and the majesty of silence upon
the African veldt. And then gradually there stirred in her a warm
remembrance of Africa, and of how she had always loved it, and a
swift, unaccountable feeling of kinship with all the Britishers
scattered far and wide who called some colony "home."
True, she was English born and English educated; but so also was she
South African, for quite half her life had been passed in
Johannesburg, and it was there that her actual home existed. And so,
by slow imperceptible degrees, out of nowhere and without explanation,
crept into her mind the sudden realisation of Africa's claim upon her.
She remembered that it was there her father had amassed his wealth.
There had been won for her all the smooth, luxurious ways of her life;
and, but a step further, as it were, stood out the answer to her
questioning doubts. Whatever trust is yours in the future, whatever
life asks of you in return for all she has given, it must be for
Africa. Her heart warmed and swelled swiftly, and her eyes glowed in
the misty darkness. She felt in her blood that Africa was calling.
Africa, so sunny, so gay, so breezy, so lovable, and withal with so
great a need of strong women as well as strong men, to help her to win
through to the great future that should be hers.
She leaned lower, and it was as though her gaze looked beyond the
darkness to some unseen horizon. She saw the veldt with its far blue
mountains, that called to men again and again with such resolute
calling. Overhead, in her fancy, she saw the luminous Southern Cross.
All around were the wide, boundless horizons, the swift, scented
winds. In her spirit she was back again in the sun-soaked land,
breathing the sun-soaked atmosphere, looking far to the "never, never"
country that called from the clear distance.
And it was her Africa,--hers, hers, hers.
What did she want with an English village? What to her was a yachting
cruise in Norway? These might be won some day as restful leisure hours
in a strenuous life; but without the just winning, what had they to do
with her?
Africa needed strong women as well as strong men; and, strong or weak,
Africa was calling--calling.
She had come to London for the season because it was what all the
other rich men's daughters did; but was she honestly grieved that
their plans had all to be changed? Surely, now she was free, she could
find something to do that would fill her hours afterward with gladder
remembrance than just a season's triumphs.
But what?...
She leaned on in the starlight, chin sunk in hands, thinking,
dreaming.
And so presently, still by those imperceptible degrees, through which
works the hand of Fate, her thoughts came at last to the dinner-table
conversation.
As in a flash, she remembered Rhodesia; and, remembering, it was as
though the romance of the land reached out strong arms to enfold her.
Here in very truth was a young country, offering a wide field to all
who sought work, adventure, achievement. Her thoughts ran on
exultantly. She was rich, she was free, she was young, she was strong;
why dawdle and dream among the fiords of Norway? Why scale Swiss
mountains? Let that come later, when she had earned a playtime. In the
first vigorous years of her youth, let her go out to the sunny land
that was her home and give it of her best. Let her go north and see a
young country struggling towards fruition, and perhaps win the joy
and privilege, generally reserved for men, of helping it forward. All
in a moment her decision was made. If she could anyhow win her
father's consent, she would go with him on his trip to Rhodesia.
She stood up, tall and slim, and the subdued light glowed more deeply
in her eyes. The eyes of the visionary, who sees great things and
dreams great dreams, and, alas! how often, breaks a heart that of its
very fineness could only do or die.
Yet better, how much better, to hope and dare and die upon the
heights, than linger content in the warm, snug valley of little joys
and little sorrows!
And then across her dreams broke the sound of a sleepy voice from the
room behind her.
"If you stay out there any longer, Meryl, you will grow wings and fly
away. Do be rational enough to come in and go to bed."
"I thought you were asleep, Di. I'm sure I haven't been keeping you
awake."
"No, but you are doing so now; and, besides, it's so imbecile to stand
out there and stare at the stars."
"I've been thinking hard, Di." She came in and sat on the little gilt
bedstead, with its dainty hangings, and looked lovingly at the pretty
head on the lace-decked pillow.
"That's nothing new. If you _hadn't_ been thinking hard it would be
worth while mentioning it," and there was half a pout and half a smile
on the winsome mouth.
"But there was more object than usual to-night. Listen. If I persuade
father to take me up to Rhodesia with him, will you come too?..."
"O, golly!... to be eaten by lions, and tigers, and savages, and
elephants, and things!..."
"Well, there wouldn't be much apiece if they all had a bite."
Diana sat up and shook the hair out of her eyes, looking very much
like a small imp of ten, instead of a finished young lady of
twenty-two. "There's just a chance they would eat Aunt Emily first,"
said she, "and as that is a consummation devoutly to be wished, I
think we'll go...."
They both laughed, but Meryl soon grew serious again. "I'm awfully in
earnest, Di. Who cares about Norway when they might go to Rhodesia!
You'll perhaps fall overboard and be eaten by commonplace fishes if
you go there."
"What has given you the notion, Meryl? I thought only miners and
farmers went to Rhodesia, except a few tourists to the Victoria Falls.
Do you think there is anything to eat there except locusts and wild
honey?"
"Let's go and see. I ... I ... want to do some Empire work or
something. I can't explain. But we've just got into such a maze of
petty happenings and petty pleasures, and since the King died ..."
"Of course!... you've been miles away ever since, dreaming and
romancing and imperialising. But it won't last, and when you've landed
us all high and dry in some Rhodesian wilderness we shall just hate
each other and everything else, and be ready to murder you."
"Nonsense. We shall explore all round, and study the natives and the
animals, and make friends with the settlers; and it will all be just
new and big and teeming with interest."
"Not if you are chewing the mule harness, because you've had nothing
to eat for days."
"O yes, even that; why not?... We should love it all when we came
safely back."
"Well, I'll have the bridle, then. It won't, perhaps, be quite so
greasy."