Rhodesian vices, such as an unlimited capacity for tea-drinking, and
Gelungwa can make quite a decent apology for the beverage which cheers
but not inebriates."
They sat down, and laughed and chatted together until the kettle
boiled, and before the tea was finished The Kid had fallen in love
with both, and was congratulating himself that Carew had taken that
afternoon ride. Then the girls said they would ramble while their tent
was pitched, but disagreed as to which direction they would take
first. Meryl had left her little guide-book with her father, and
wanted to postpone the temple until she had it. Diana said it was too
hot to attempt the Acropolis Hill. In the end they separated. Meryl
strolled towards the Acropolis and Diana sought the cool shadiness of
the temple.
About the same time Carew started his homeward ride, and when he
reached the base of the Acropolis Hill he gave his horse to the runner
who had gone with him to carry some books for Ailsa Grenville, and
climbed a little way into the hill to remark a point of investigation
he had been discussing with Grenville; and, quite suddenly, round a
sharp piece of masonry, he came upon Meryl Pym. She wore a large,
shady hat, and she was standing quite still, gazing across the
country. For a moment Carew stood quite still also. It was odd that
she had not heard his steps upon the rough footpath, but apparently
she was too absorbed to hear anything at all. He was exceedingly
relieved and drew aside stealthily, prepared to return quickly the way
he had come. But before he started he glanced once more, for something
in her quiet pose struck oddly upon his heart. She looked very slim
and graceful and girlish in a simple washing frock of some soft grey
material, with little Quakerish cuffs and collar, and the big, shady
hat tied on with a ribbon. And all in a moment he was transported
years before, and there was a Devonshire wood, and a slim lassie, and
little Quakerish cuffs and collar, and eyes that watched and
waited--watched and waited for him.
And then....
No, not even in thought would he dwell again upon what followed. It
was a weakness he had fought down. A weakness that even now, given
rein, could unman him. The quick light vanished from his eyes, the
mouth grew stern again, and he turned to descend.
At the same moment Meryl turned also and came towards his
hiding-place. He had just time to step further back and take shelter
behind a low, bushy tree, which would hardly reveal his khaki, before
she passed. And just in front of him she raised her head and glanced
upwards, so that he saw her eyes, and for a moment his pulses seemed
to stop beating. If her pose had reminded him of someone it was as
nothing compared to her face with that upward glance. The delicate
contour, the fine features, the wistful, dreamy, quiet eyes. Were they
blue, or were they grey?... How came they with long, dark, curling
lashes when her hair was a dusky, light shade, with soft waves and
gleams of sunlight? In his hiding-place he stood very still and very
rigid. For a moment he might have been part of the rock behind him.
Then she passed on up the steep ascent, and he came out and retraced
his steps, feeling a little dazed.
Who could she be?... But, of course, the party must have arrived
unexpectedly: had not remained in Edwardstown as they intended. And she
was one of the heiresses--one of the flaunting, gaping, vulgar,
dressed-up young women he had been secretly so resentful over. And, of
course, she was none of these. Then suddenly he almost laughed; almost
laughed aloud. For she was worse--far, far worse. The gushing,
loud-voiced heiress he might have coped with. His frigidity froze most
people if he chose; and avoidance was not difficult. But what could he do
with Joan--his love, his dead love Joan--looking at him out of this
girl's beautiful eyes, touching him with this girl's slender hands,
speaking to him from this stranger's lips? It was impossible--impossible;
all the careful training of that fifteen years in exile would be undone.
His very life would be undermined again. For the moment it seemed
incredible, preposterous. He felt stunned by it.
Then his rigid self-control came to his aid, and his face grew stern
and hard.
The preposterous thing was that he should let a chance resemblance hit
him so; should even admit the possibility of being undone after all
his careful self-training. No, a thousand times no; he was not such a
weak fool as that. The strength he had won was his still. He had only
to go on being resolute and cold and the past would lie down again,
and once more go quietly to sleep.
He defied it to overcome him now. By every agonised pang, by every
hour of unfathomable bitterness, by every solitary year of self-chosen
exile, he insisted that he must prevail. He strode on, scarcely seeing
anything about him, and his face grew sterner and sterner. Then he
came within sight of the camping-place, and saw the white tent, and
Stanley giving directions, while Moore and some black boys unpacked
things from the ambulance.
And he thought he would get more complete control of himself before he
joined them; take this thing fairly by the throat and throttle it,
that he might regain his peace of mind absolutely before the second
encounter with the owner of the face and form that seemed for a moment
to have made an upheaval in his life. So he turned aside and made for
the temple, feeling glad and relieved at the consciousness that the
mood was passing, and reassured that, being no more taken by surprise,
he would successfully master it. Probably he could still go away on
the morrow, and once away, Rhodesia would take him to her heart again.
He knew it full well. Every day now the country was giving back to him
of what he had given to her; lulling him, soothing him, revivifying
him with her freshness and her charm.
But his mind was very occupied still and his vision clouded as he
passed into the cool shade of the temple, and he did not see a small,
dainty person with an impish face perched high on a broken wall, with
her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and a queer,
fitful, half-serious, half-bored expression in her dark eyes. Instead,
seeing no one and thinking himself alone, he sat down on a low wall
quite near to her and stared gloomily at the ground. Diana, not a
little amused, surveyed him at her leisure. "What in the world," she
wondered, "was this smart, soldierly looking man, correctly booted and
spurred, sitting down there for in the ruins?..."
The great temple at Zimbabwe has never been roofed. The ruins consist
of a wonderful outer wall, from twenty-two to thirty-two feet high and
in some places fifteen feet thick, of an elongated shape, and within
this wall are remnants of other walls which formed separate small
enclosures. There is also the sacred enclosure with the conical tower,
and leading into it from the north entrance the wonderfully contrived
passage, between two high walls, scarcely more than a shoulder's
breadth apart in one place. Amid the ruins trees have grown up, many
of them higher than the outer wall, and these shade the glare of the
sun, casting cool shadows and networks of sunlight upon the broken
walls. And on the afternoon in question here and there were splashes
of brilliant scarlet, where a Kaffir Boom tree flowered with a
flaunting indifference to the passing of centuries and races.
Diana, with her whimsical, artistic temperament, was fully alive to
the fascination and uniqueness of her surroundings, but being a little
tired with the drive, she felt for the moment somewhat impatient with
ruins generally, and just a shade depressed with a certain air of dead
forlornness that hovered all around. Then into the midst of this dream
of antiquity strode a stern, fierce-looking, very up-to-date
sportsman, who sat, for no conceivable reason, on a broken wall and
stared at the ground. For one moment her sense of the ludicrous made
her almost laugh aloud. Then, with sudden, upleaping interest, she sat
still as a mouse and watched him. Once she half smiled to herself.
There was a man, then, as well as a boy! She was not going to be
entirely stifled in ruins, after all! She went on with her
cogitations, staring hard, her head a little to one side. A real man,
too, with a lean, brown face, and a square, determined chin, and a
nose quite Roman enough to suit any novelist, and dark hair a little
thin on the top and a little grey at the temples. She could not be
sure if he were a soldier or not, but evidently he had been riding,
for he still carried a hunting-crop; and also, judging by his face and
attitude, something was considerably on his mind.
Without the slightest movement she sat on and waited; and that was
exceedingly characteristic of Diana. Where another girl would have
felt embarrassed and made some sound to relieve the tension, she
almost held her breath to retain it. The situation was unique. In a
life that offered deplorably little of novelty and adventure she would
not for worlds have thrown away such a chance. Meryl, on the other
hand, would probably not have felt the tension; she would have quietly
walked past him out at the entrance. Diana felt the atmosphere of the
footlights and calmly waited.
And, of course, in the end, vaguely conscious of some disturbing, not
quite accountable element, Carew looked up straight into her eyes.
Diana looked straight back and tried hard to keep her lips from
twitching. She noticed pleasurably that he did not start; that he
scarcely even showed surprise. Such a man, she felt, would not. Yet
the very fact that for several seconds he remained perfectly still,
staring at her, showed that he was quite satisfactorily astounded.
Then he stood up, and waited a moment as if he expected her to speak.
She thought he might have smiled. The hero on the stage, of course,
would smile--divinely--and a blush like a tender dawn would overspread
the heroine's rose-leaf cheeks.
But he did not smile; to be honest, he looked excessively annoyed, and
no tender blush of any sort could possibly have shown upon her
sunburnt face.
Still, she did not intend to flinch, and if the mischievous smile
lurking at the corners of her mouth died away, she still regarded him
with a calmness equal to his own, and with the impishness quite
emphatically still in her eyes. Then suddenly she felt as if there had
been some invisible sword-play between them. Her instinct told her he
resented her silent watching, and that his cool, collected front now
and his silence were the expression of his resentment. It was not in
the least like a fairy story, of course; here was the prince, surly,
stony, and bearish, and the princess, red and brown with sunburn, on
the point of being caught at a disadvantage. But there Diana's native
wits came to her aid, and she did a clever thing.
"Would you mind helping me down?" she asked, sweetly. "I climbed up
here to get a good view of the interior, and when I try to descend the
stones slip so, I am nervous. I did not like to disturb you before,"
she finished, unabashed and unblushing, but carefully lowering her
eyes a moment.
He stepped forward at once and reached his hand up to her, and she saw
that his keen eyes were of that intense clear blue seen in so many
strong, notable men, but that they looked at her in a cold, aloof
manner which made her feel rather small and childish. "Surely," she
thought, "he is not genuinely angry just because I did not tell him I
was there?" Aloud she said:
"Thank you," and placed her hand quite calmly in the strong, inviting
brown one upheld to her.
Then, taken with a fit of devilry out of growing exasperation, she
added, "I'm not the daughter, I'm the niece."
"Miss Pym, I presume," he said, coldly, and bowed to her.
"Miss Diana Pym," she replied, and slightly inclined her head.
"My name is Carew," he told her, with bluntness.
"And are you ... er ... a scientist, evolving a theory about the
ruins?"
"I am a policeman." He said it brusquely, almost rudely, and Diana was
taken with a sudden desperate inclination to laugh. All in a moment he
reminded her forcibly of the uniformed autocrat holding up one lordly
hand to stop the traffic. She moved towards the entrance, keeping her
face averted. "The same sort of policeman as Mr. Stanley, I suppose?"
she suggested, affably, but he seemed not to hear her, and a covert
glance at his face was not reassuring. But the mere fact only spurred
her on. If she was silent he might think he had overawed her.
Goodness! how appalling! She quickened her step, and tossed her small
head a little with a kind of challenging jerk.
"I rather like your ruin," she said. "It's quite a nice old heap of
stones."
IX
THE BEAR
Once more Carew vouchsafed no reply, but Diana knew perfectly well
that his lips tightened slightly, which signified that in some way she
had hit him.
So pretending to be perfectly unaware of his non-responsive attitude,
she ran airily on:
"Such a mad idea to travel hundreds of miles to see a few old remains
of a doubtful edifice, built by Bantus! or is the plural Bantams?...
I'm sure when you heard we were coming you wondered if you had better
prepare a dwelling for us with padded walls. Now, didn't you?..." and
she looked up archly into his face.
"I understood Mr. Pym had come to this neighbourhood about some gold
claims," in cold, even tones.
"Yes, so he has. But we haven't; at least Meryl hasn't. She came to
see Rhodesia. I don't quite know what I've come for," naïvely. "I was
just wondering about it sitting on that wall." And still he refused to
be drawn. "You were looking very grave. Were you wondering what you
are here for too?"
At that moment they reached a spot where the path divided into two:
one fork leading to their tent and the other to the police camp. He
stood still. "I believe I was considering the best solution to a
native problem that has lately arisen." He glanced towards their tent.
"I see Mr. Stanley is helping to arrange your camp. Please let him
know of anything you want. You will find him an excellent guide."
Then, scarcely looking at her, he saluted and walked away.
Diana returned to their tent feeling baffled and interested,
half-inclined to be cross and half-inclined to laugh. And almost at
the same time from the other direction came Meryl.
"O, it's wonderful!" Meryl cried softly, with all her face aglow. "I
never imagined anything half so fascinating; and I haven't even seen
the temple yet. Mr. Stanley, do stay and dine with us. Our cook-boy is
quite good."
"All except his soup," put in Diana, "and he is only good at that in
the sense of making it out of nothing. Sometimes I think he just boils
a bit of the harness, or a corner of the tent-flap, or probably he
makes it of rats if he can catch enough."
Stanley looked at her with all his eyes and accepted the invitation
eagerly, saying that he must first go back to the camp to change. Half
an hour later he reappeared, looking quite smart in a white duck
dress-jacket and a starched collar.
As they sat down to their alfresco meal, taken under the stars, with
two lanterns suspended on sticks for lights, Diana suddenly said to
him:
"Who is the bear?..."
"The bear?..." doubtfully.
"Yes. The bear who lives down there in the police camp, and rejoices
in the name of Carew."
Stanley, looking much amused, replied, "You must mean the Major; but
you haven't met him, have you?"
"I had the pleasure of being snarled at for about fifteen minutes this
afternoon."
Stanley laughed outright. "But where? He never said that he had seen
you."
"I don't think he did see me. We merely met. Most of the time he
either looked away or looked through me at something beyond. Still, he
might have mentioned the meeting. I don't feel flattered."
"O, but that is nothing with Carew. He is an awfully silent chap."
"Silent!... do you call it?... I never felt so ... so ... suppressed
... in my life. I thought he seemed rather inclined to bite me."
"But where did you meet him, Di?..." asked Meryl, with interest.
"I was sitting on a wall in the temple, and he strode in and sat on
another wall and stared at the ground ... and I stared at him ... and
then he looked up and saw me ... and afterwards ..." she paused.
"Do you mean to say you sat perfectly still in front of him, and let
him sit on, thinking himself alone, and then suddenly discover
you?..."
"Yes. Why not?"
"Well, it wasn't very fair on him."
"Such nonsense, Meryl! That's just what he seemed to think. Why
shouldn't I have a little romance if I want to? Such a dull, prosaic,
commonplace old world as it is, generally speaking! I was having a
lovely one. He was a great hunter who had lost his way, and dragged
himself into the temple to die...."
"I thought you said he strode in?..."
"Don't be silly; he wasn't in the romance then. And I was a lovely,
mysterious veiled lady who lived in the wilderness; but my veil
happened to be thrown back, and when the dying hunter raised his
eyes...." she stopped short.
"Well?..."
"That's where the romance stopped, where he brutally spoilt it,
because when he raised his eyes and saw me there he just scowled
horribly."
Stanley and Meryl laughed whole-heartedly, but Meryl told her it
served her right because she was unfairly taking him at a
disadvantage.
"But I did nothing of the kind. No one was at a disadvantage except
myself."
"I'm sure you weren't," Meryl remarked. "You never have been yet."
"That's where you are mistaken, my dear. When you are sitting in a
lovely romance, gazing at a dreadfully handsome, distinguished-looking
man who is the hero prince, and will presently discover you and smile
divinely with all his soul in his eyes, and when instead an
iron-visaged person looks up at you, and scowls and grows as black as
thunder, I defy any woman not to find herself at a disadvantage."
"Well, how did you get out of it?... What did you do?..."
The alluring twinkle shone suddenly in Diana's eyes, and her lips
twitched mischievously, as she replied:
"Well, I smiled divinely instead, and asked him to help me down from
my high wall."
"O, you are quite incorrigible," laughed Meryl. "If I had been him I
would have left you there to get down the same way you went up. But
who is he?..." turning to Stanley. "He sounds rather interesting."
"He's a splendid fellow," The Kid asserted, warmly. "We couldn't stick
him at first, Moore and I, but we soon found he only wants knowing.
There's some history attached to his being out here that no one quite
knows; but he is a Fountenay-Carew and used to be in the Blues."
"But how nice!" quoth Diana. "This is much more interesting than the
old ruins. Is he rich and haughty, with lovely estates left to
dishonest stewards, and all that?..."
"No very poor, I should imagine; nothing but his pay, anyhow. I
believe when he was in the Blues an old uncle gave him a big
allowance, but something happened, and he threw the money in the old
chap's face, and the old chap chucked him out."
"And what happened to cause the quarrel?" asked Diana, all ears. "Why,
he is more romantic than my prince!"
"That is what I fancy no one knows. Anyhow, in a country like this, no
one asks. It isn't quite the game, you see; and, anyhow, no one is
interested now. He has done a tremendous lot for Rhodesia in one way
and another, especially for the police force and natives; and we're
quite proud of him in our way for that, independent of his history."
"How nice!" and Meryl's eyes grew very soft. "It is a much finer
reward than he would probably ever have gained in the Blues. I hope he
thinks so?"
"I don't suppose he cares either way. Certainly, he doesn't appear to.
He just loves the country, and seems only to want to stay here; but he
never speaks even of that. Since he came here a few months ago he has
done a lot of investigation work among the ruins privately. He is most
awfully attached to them."
Suddenly Diana asked, "I suppose he is pretty sick about two modern
young women presuming to journey here to gaze at his treasure?"
Stanley coloured up, and Diana laughed. "O, don't bother to deny it. I
could feel it in my very bones when we met this afternoon."
They finished their meal, and the boys moved the table away, so that
they could sit round the glowing embers of a small fire, not so much
for warmth as for the idea, and they lazed low in their chairs,
talking idly and enjoying the cool, fragrant night.
And presently, not à propos of anything in particular, Diana said,
quite aloud, "I guess The Bear is growling and scowling away nicely
to-night down there in his den. I expect the first time we meet I
shall forget and call him Bear Carew instead of Major Carew, and then
he'll shrivel me up with a glance."
A sound beside them in the shadow made all look up suddenly, and the
lamplight fell full upon Carew's face as he stood near Diana's chair.
Meryl rose hurriedly, blushing to the roots of her hair, while
Stanley, secretly much amused, stood up likewise. Only the culprit
remained unperturbed to outward seeming, glancing archly round.
"I'm afraid you overheard what I said ... _Major_ Carew.... I'm quite
ready to apologise, only ..."
"Please, don't...." For one instant the coldly even voice had a tiny
inflection in it, as of humour, though he stifled it immediately, as
he turned to Meryl and said, gravely, with a bow, "Miss Pym, I
think?... A letter has come for you from Edwardstown by runner. I
brought it on in case you might wish to send a reply, and to enquire
if you are quite comfortable here for the night."
Meryl took it from him, thanking him in her low, sweet voice, and with
a rather shy, upward glance. And Diana, in the shadow, saw the soldier
suddenly flinch and suddenly grow sterner, standing in an attitude of
almost unnatural rigidity.
"There is no heed to reply," Meryl said, after reading her note. "It
is only a message from father to say he may be detained until
afternoon. Thank you so much for bringing it. Won't you sit down? Can
I offer you anything? I'm afraid there is not much choice. Father does
not like luxuries in the wilderness, and we only carry whisky."
"No, thank you." The tones were even again now, and he made no
movement towards a chair. "Have you everything you need for the
night? I hope Mr. Stanley has made himself very useful?"
"He has been splendid. I am only afraid we have tired him out. Won't
you sit down?" and she shyly motioned to a chair.
"Thank you. I'm afraid I must get back. I have some despatches to
write. Would you like a police-boy to keep guard here all night? There
is nothing whatever to fear, but if it would add to your comfort?..."
"O no, thank you," warmly. "We are not in the least nervous. I think
there are no lions very near," with a little laugh.
Diana, lying back in her chair, had scarcely taken her eyes off the
tall soldier, though she watched him covertly, and without seeming to;
and her quick brain perceived dimly that his aloof attitude was partly
a mask which had become a habit, and that, however much he suppressed
her, there was nothing whatever repellant about his chilly reserve.
And then, suddenly, the little mischievous devil possessed her again,
and she longed to try her arts upon him, just to see what happened,
and to show him she was not seriously in the least afraid of him.
And no sooner had Meryl remarked that there were no lions near them,
than she could not for the life of her help murmuring, "No lions, only
bears."
Again there was an instant's answering gleam in Carew's eyes, but he
only smiled very slightly, and said, "Perhaps a bear's growl, like a
dog's bark, is worse than his bite."
It was as though something altogether too much for him was struggling
with an inclination to relax just the least bit on Diana's behalf and
insistently conquering. With scarcely a second look at her he drew
himself up tautly and said he must be going. Then he saluted gravely,
said good night in a voice that included them all, and strode away
through the darkness towards the police camp.
For a moment there was silence round the glowing embers.
"It was kind of him to say good night," said Diana, sarcastically.
"What a fine-looking man!" commented Meryl.
"He is gruffer than usual to-night. Perhaps something has happened to
upset him. I think I must be going also," and Stanley reluctantly rose
to follow his chief.
"Of course he is gruffer," said Diana. "Two tiresome women have dared
to journey to Zimbabwe to look at his ruins."