doorway of a hut, but his eyes were looking straight before him into
the night, and had the expression of one whose thoughts were very far
away. It had cost him an effort to go up there with the note, but he
had made it purposely, determined to take in hand quickly that vein of
weakness which threatened him at sight of Meryl. He would go up and
speak to her and break the spell as quickly as possible, regaining his
old fortitude. More particularly as he felt he could not now leave on
the morrow, just as Mr. Pym was arriving expecting to find him there.
Not that there appeared any reason why, just because he happened to be
a millionaire, a police officer should be expected to wait on him, but
no doubt the Administration had its own reason for showing special
attention to a very rich man, and hoped for some benefit to the
country thereby.
So he had taken the bull by the horns and strode up to the lamplit
camp, where the travellers sat over the glowing embers; and, of
course, he had heard Diana's remark, and smiled grimly to himself, in
no way displeased, for it suited him perfectly to be shunned as a
bear. And then, keeping an iron control over himself, he had addressed
Meryl, and looked straight into her face without flinching. The upward
look, for one second, had shaken him, but the iron control held good,
and before he left them he had spoken to her and looked at her with
perfect calmness. The visit had been quite as he wished it, and for a
few seconds, striding into the dark, he congratulated himself upon
having so satisfactorily coped with a situation that had threatened to
be a little difficult and had disturbed him so in the afternoon. Of
course, she wasn't really like Joan, except in a very general way.
Just her height and figure and graceful movements and colouring; and,
of course, the upward glance from confiding, thoughtful, blue-grey
eyes that had humour lurking in them, and power and possibilities, and
were so curiously framed in dark lashes in spite of light hair. In the
midst of his self-congratulation he remembered the upward look again,
and all in a moment once more it shook him. His gaze went blindly to
the stars, and his mind flew back. Ah! how sweet Joan had been; how
strong, how true! How she had stood by him through the beginning of
the storm, turning the clouds to sunshine, making everything worth
while! And then, the swift tragedy, the climax; the awful, awful days
and nights that followed. How he had trodden the lonely Devon moors,
blindly, passionately seeking a dead weariness of body that would dull
his mind! How he had cursed the two men who drove in the final barb,
and vowed never to see their faces again!
And then the little note-book he had found, in which Joan had
inscribed some of her thoughts from time to time, and copied a few
favourite passages from favourite authors! It had come to him like a
voice from the dead--Joan's voice, calling to him to rise above his
despair and prove himself still worthy of her. And out there on the
moors at sunrise he had vowed that he would. Calmly, coldly, as an
austere monk, he had laid down for ever the things that had made his
life gay and joyous before, and prepared to turn his back on England
and all that it held pertaining to him.
And now there is a distant wilderness and great southern stars, and
mysterious, antique ruins, and a man who has grown strong and silent
in aloofness, and won a sort of soothing content out of what he has
given, seeking no reward.
Not, perhaps, that "renewing" a royal friend had spoken of fifteen
years ago, for the contentment was void of hope and fear and joy, but
balm upon the passionate, frantic bitterness and despair. But the
"renewing" might come even yet, however much he scorned the thought;
for forty-two is at the prime of years, and Life has a tender way of
her own of healing when she will.
But to-night the memories are bitter, and the reopened wound throbs
and burns. Carew strode up to his hut, with only a curt good night to
the trooper, and when Stanley arrived back there was no light burning,
only darkness and silence.
X
A MINING CAMP
The following day Carew avoided the camp, after telling Stanley he
might devote his time to the ladies if he wished. In the afternoon,
however, he saw Mr. Pym and his engineer arrive, and then, presently,
the party all went down to the ruins together. About an hour later
they re-emerged, and while the two girls went back to the tents, the
millionaire strolled towards the police camp. Carew, seizing his
opportunity, came out, and went to meet him. He considered himself
fortunate in being able to offer the necessary courtesies when the
ladies of the party were absent. Mr. Pym hid his surprise at seeing so
distinguished-looking an officer at such an out-of-the-way camp, and
received his somewhat curt greetings in his own quiet, business-like
manner. He thanked him for the attentions he had already rendered, and
hoped they were not causing any inconvenience in pitching their tents
near the ruins. Carew assured him they were not, and mentioned that
Mr. Stanley would be happy to place his time at their service and do
anything he could to make their stay agreeable.
Henry Pym, noting the obvious intention of the officer not to place
much of his own time at their disposal, looked quietly into the
resolute face, and felt his interest growing apace. At the same time,
following his lead, he made no attempt to lengthen the interview,
which he felt was more or less regarded as an official duty; and with
courteous thanks said good night, hoped Major Carew would dine with
them one evening, and returned to his tent.
"Well, uncle," was Diana's greeting, "what do you make of The Bear?"
"The Bear?..." questioningly.
"The cast-iron soldierman, who condescends to breathe the same air as
ordinary mortals down there in the police camp."
"O, Major Carew!..." with a quick gleam in his eyes. "I thought him
rather a fine fellow. Don't you?" and he smiled at her slyly.
"A fine bear," quoth Diana, with a little pout. "I prefer a man with a
little more flexibility. A little more commonplace flesh and blood, so
to speak."
"I asked him to dinner to-morrow," her uncle remarked.
"And is he coming?" with ill-concealed interest.
"No. He is going to see two young miners named Macaulay a few miles
away, and was regretfully compelled to decline," and the humorous
smile on his face widened, for he knew that Diana would be piqued.
"As if he couldn't go there any day!" she grumbled. "O, of course, he
is perfectly odious."
Meryl's eyes met her father's, and they both laughed, while he
remarked, "Never mind; perhaps we can lay a trap for him another time.
Evidently he has no particular fancy for ladies' company."
"Do you know the Macaulays?" Meryl asked.
"No, but I am going to see them in two or three days on business."
"And you will take us?..." she pleaded. "I do want so to see all we
can of the settlers as well as the country."
"We will see later," he said, and made a move to prepare for dinner.
During the next two days he and his engineer made sundry small
excursions on business. Their investigation of several outcrops in the
Victoria district had convinced them the gold was by no means worked
out by that ancient people who had left so many traces of mining
operations, and Mr. Pym was prepared to buy up claims and properties.
On the fourth day he went to see the Macaulays, and took the girls
with him, having procured a mule each for them to ride. Stanley and
Carew were also to be of the party; the latter not a little to
everyone's surprise.
All through the four days he had held consistently aloof, personating
merely the courteous official upon whom Mr. Pym had a certain claim
because of the letter from headquarters. As a matter of fact, he had
undertaken a journey of some length on two of the days to outlying
kraals; and Diana, hearing of it from Stanley, had laughed a little
grimly, and said, "He need not have troubled. We have no wish to speak
to him"; and Stanley, not quite clever enough to understand, remarked
regretfully, "But you would like him so much if you knew him
properly."
The reason was not very apparent for his accompanying them to the
Macaulays' mine, but Meryl shrewdly suspected her father, who had gone
quietly to smoke a pipe in the police camp with him on one or two
occasions, had asked him to come more or less as a personal favour.
For though Stanley knew the road perfectly he knew very little about
the surrounding country itself; and Mr. Pym, with his unerring
instinct, had quickly discovered that Carew's mind was a well of
knowledge on most things Rhodesian. So the taciturn soldier joined the
cavalcade, though he succeeded in attaching himself to Mr. Pym and
riding well on ahead.
The two Macaulays were "small miners," working on tribute a mine
belonging to a block owned by a company in which Henry Pym had large
interests. Complaints had come through to his ears concerning the
difficult conditions upon which the two young miners, and many others
like them, struggled to make a fortune or a livelihood, and he had a
fancy to go and see them for himself. The mine was in a hollow, banked
round by tall, gloomy kopjes, which seemed to stand like a bodyguard,
sternly shutting them off from all sight or sound of the outside
world. At the same time, the road to it was delightful. Sometimes they
climbed nearly to the top of a kopje, the mules going up stairways of
granite as if born to it, and the lovely country lay outspread in a
glorious panorama before them.
The party said very little, but their eyes told that the fascination
had crept into their hearts already, though they could only appreciate
in silence, wondering, perhaps, why they felt this strong attraction
for a land that was chiefly kopjes and veldt.
Was it, perhaps, the marvellous, translucent atmosphere, or was it the
blue intensity of the dreaming kopjes, ornamented ever and anon by
gleaming white battlements of granite, where the sun blazed down on
giant boulders, or was it the unfathomable, mysterious, syren-like
allurement of the country, that, without effort, without thought,
steeped the senses in an irresistible fascination? Why does Rhodesia
fascinate? Why does she call men back again and again to her manifold
discomforts and unnerving disappointments, to her pests and glare, to
her bully beef and unwashed Kaffirs? Who shall say?... Who shall
attempt to explain?...
There is no explanation; only the foolish would seek it. The country
just gets up and takes hold of one and smiles, and men become enslaved
to her. Ever after "the hazy blue of her mountains, the waft of the
veldt-born scent," is like a germ in the blood. The discomforts are
forgotten, the disappointments dissolve into air, the noontide glare
and choking dust are a mere nothing: libellous creations of some
discontented grumbler. And in the midst of the crowd, or in England's
green lanes, or on some far shore, the wanderer is caught in the old
mesh suddenly, and all his pulses beat with swift longing at just that
heaven-sweet impression: "The hazy blue of her mountains, the waft of
the veldt-born scent...."
And she, the syren, lies there in her sunshine and her loveliness;
locked in the arms of the deep, luscious, dreaming nights, whispering
and murmuring softly under embracing, star-lit heavens; making wild
riot when the splendid storms fling after each other across her bosom,
while the thunders roll deafeningly amidst her kopjes, and the
lightning pierces brilliantly the riotous clouds and makes a glory of
the mighty scene. Sulky and colourless when she is waiting impatiently
for the delayed rains; resplendent, and with a colouring that is like
a Te Deum, when the renewing has come, and all her soul sings aloud in
the joy of spring, and all her flowers and trees lend her loveliness
past telling, and her hills a yet deeper blueness under yet intenser,
rain-washed skies. All this--all her moods and whims and
waywardness--going serenely on--splendidly, superbly indifferent to
the men who come to tame her and stay to love in silent enslavement;
as also to the men who come solely for gain and gold, and go away
shrieking their complainings to the four winds. Because, perhaps, the
enchantress has not troubled to show them her allurements, and
ruffled, discontented minds have discovered only the dust and heat and
pests.
But what of it to the syren?... There are others who stay, as many,
perhaps, as she wants, and to whom she puts out a shy hand of
friendship, and presently soothes and consoles as the strong, silent,
storm-tossed man who rode with so soldierly a bearing beside Mr. Pym;
suffering no stab of love and longing any more as he looked over her
fair bosom, because the shy hand was in his, because there was that
subtle sense of understanding in his heart which seemed to tell him
that even as he loved Rhodesia, Rhodesia loved him.
And so they came to the Saucy Susan Gold Mine, at least to the ridge
of the surrounding kopjes, and looked down to where a cluster of huts
like beehives told them humans dwelt down there in the hollow.
"It can't be a mine," said Diana. "It's just a hollow in the hills;
the sort of place giants hide in when they play hide-and-seek."
"But it is," Stanley assured her. "We shall see a little more as we
wind down."
And presently they came within view of a shaft, and two honest-eyed
young Englishmen, both old Charterhouse boys, came forward to greet
them.
Meryl shook hands with her face all aglow with interest; and to their
humble apologies that they had only huts to invite them into, she
said, "But it is so nice of you to invite us at all. You wouldn't
believe how proud I am to come here to see you, and how tremendously
interested."
And Diana, with a droll expression, remarked, "You seem to live rather
in the nethermost depths. You must feel as if you were going to heaven
literally and figuratively every time you ascend to the outer world."
The elder brother laughed pleasantly, but the younger, who had a white
face and a delicate, refined air, looked at her a little wistfully.
Meryl chatted on with the elder, but Diana, with her quick perception,
scented a silent, wordless, plucky endurance of adverse conditions in
the younger, and gave her attention to him.
Then they went into the dining-room hut, and found a meal spread on a
roughly made table, with only two chairs for seats and all the rest
packing-cases.
"Who has to sit on a chair?" asked Diana. "I needn't, need I?..."
"Why, they are quite sound!... Are you afraid of a spill?..." asked
Lionel Macaulay, looking amused.
"No, only I can sit on a chair any day of my life. I simply insist
upon having a packing-case when such a good opportunity offers."
So Meryl and her father were duly ensconced in the only two chairs,
and Diana mounted gaily on to a tall, thin packing-case, which would
certainly have gone over backwards if Colin, the rather sad-eyed
brother, had not caught her just as she was overbalancing.
"How clever of you!..." she laughed. "What happens when you two
overbalance and don't happen to be near enough to catch each other?...
Does the dinner come in and find you both sprawling on the floor?"
"Well, we've had a good deal of practice, you see," he told her,
already cheering visibly. "The tables are turned for us, and we choose
a chair when we can get it, for a treat."
Afterwards she made him show her all his clever contrivances for
packing-case furniture, and admired his sackcloth curtain, barrel
washhand stand, and made him feel vigorous and hopeful.
Stanley was talking to Meryl, and Lionel Macaulay was showing Mr. Pym,
the engineer, and Carew over the mine, so she gossiped away to him all
by herself. And she drew from him a little of the bitter
disappointments they had encountered in the country. A story of first
one mine and then another failing them; of capital slipping away and
bills mounting; of the gradual cutting down of comforts and increased
austerity of living: a story common enough in all colonies where Life
puts men through the mill again and again to prove and harden them.
Acting perhaps on the lines:
"It is easy enough to be pleasant
When life moves along like a song,
But the man worth while is the man who can smile
When everything goes dead wrong."
Life wants a lot of men and women whom she knows are "worth while" in
carrying out her great affairs, and that is perhaps why so often
"everything goes dead wrong."
Diana maintained her rôle of gay inconsequence because it pleased her
best.
"It all sounds very superior and all that rot, and I'm sure Meryl
would call you a hero; but I should swear myself black and blue in
your shoes, and that's about what you do pretty often, I expect."
His smile grew fresher and more genuine.
"It doesn't do much good though."
"O yes it does. Don't tell me! When things get into a silly stupid
mess with me I just shut the door and say every swear word I know
until I feel better. That's one advantage of living in a hollow in the
desert. You needn't even bother to shut the door!... You can shout
your ruffled feelings to the kopjes, and I suppose they echo the words
back to you. How perfectly splendid! That's a thing about Rhodesia I
hadn't thought of before. Of course, the echoes are sometimes
wonderful; so if you were to shout a few swear words the kopjes would
shout them after you; and that's much better than 'dreaming stillness'
in my opinion. But why aren't you and your brother making a fortune? I
thought everyone in Rhodesia was making one who had a mine."
"We don't get up enough gold. By the time we have paid our royalty and
the expenses there is nothing left."
"Then the royalty must be too big. Who do you pay it to?"
He coloured, and she watched him humorously.
"Has my uncle something to do with your company? O, don't look
uncomfortable. I'll just talk to him about it. There ought to be
occasions when no royalty is taken at all. I'll tell him so."
Colin Macaulay laughed into her smiling eyes.
"As it is, there is a charge for everything, even the grass the
donkeys eat!..."
"O, monstrous! I never heard of such a thing. I'll interview the board
about it if you like. Tell your donkeys they may eat anything they
choose in future, it is not going down in the bill any more!..." and
they both laughed gaily.
In a more serious mood, however, she asked him presently, "I suppose
it has been rather a disappointment?... This coming out to Rhodesia to
make a fortune!"
"Why do you think so?"
"O, well, lots of reasons. You haven't come within sight of the
fortune, for one thing; and you've still got packing-case furniture
and live in huts. And you eat a lot of bully beef, now don't you?"
"We do."
"But that isn't what you came for?"
"Still"--meditatively--"it's not a small thing to be in a country
where a fortune may be won any day. It is that, of course, which keeps
us going. It is better anyhow than a stool and one hundred and fifty
pounds a year in England."
"Are you sure?" And she watched him with keen eyes.
He coloured slightly, but answered with firmness:
"Quite."
"But not better than something else, perhaps?"
He saw that her interest was kindly and genuine, and suddenly drawn to
expand he told her simply:
"It's the isolation that hurts. Day after day, day after day, just
this hollow and these kopjes, and never anyone to speak to except each
other. We send for the mail once a week, but sometimes very little
comes by it; and we get nothing fresh to read except a weekly
Rhodesian paper. That is a gold mine to us for just one evening; but
for all the rest there is nothing. Lionel is studying French, and I do
a little also, but it palls after a time badly."
"I should think so. It sounds as dry as dead bones."
They were sitting upon a rocky knoll, and Diana had her hands clasped
round her drawn-up knees, presenting a very attractive picture. "I'm
not a true Imperialist at heart," she informed him. "I hate gush and
talk and heroics, but between you and me I think an awful lot of you
men making your solitary fight in the wilderness. It's always a lot
easier to put up with discomforts when you know your next-door
neighbour is jolly uncomfortable too. Of course, most people don't say
so, but that's because they are conventional, and fondly try to
persuade themselves, very unselfish also; but when they are honest
they know quite well a misfortune is lightened when several others are
in the same box. That's why, on a wet day, I console myself sitting at
the window and watching folks struggling with drenched umbrellas and
bedraggled skirts. It's so good to be safe inside."
He waited with amused eyes.
"And, of course, the trouble for you is just sitting down here among
these monotonous kopjes and being uncomfortable all alone. No one to
grumble to--ugh, how I should hate that!--no one to feel superior
with; no one to envy you, even if there were anything to envy. It's a
positive grave."
"You've left out one of the worst contingencies. No one to discuss
with; no friction of mind and opinions."
"That comes under the heading of grumbling. When I discuss I almost
always grumble about something. It is good for the progress of the
world." And she laughed whimsically. Then, with one of her sudden
changes, "How long do you expect to stay on trying to dig up a
fortune, and pretending it is worth while when you know you hate it
like Old Harry?"
"We shall probably try another mine soon. That is what we want to do;
but it cost so much to get our machinery down into this hollow we
don't quite know where to find the money to get it out again. So we
just go on hoping we shall strike a good reef soon."
She remained thoughtful and silent some moments, and then, as if to
change the subject, remarked, "Mr. Stanley seems happy enough in his
solitary place. He says he used to be in Salisbury, but very much
prefers Zimbabwe."
"Most of the police prefer a quiet place with good shooting; and now
that he has Major Carew there so much it must often be interesting."
"Do you know Major Carew well?" and her quick voice failed to entirely
hide her interest.
"As well as perhaps anyone does. He comes to see us fairly often on
Sundays."
"But he is so silent, he can't be very interesting."
"He is not always silent."
"No, sometimes he snarls," with a little laugh.
"Ah! you don't know him. Get him to talk to you about the natives;
about their habits and legends and customs. There isn't a man in
Rhodesia knows more, and there isn't one they trust more absolutely.
He is down in this district now on their behalf, and before he set
foot here they knew all about him. Natives a hundred miles apart
communicate that sort of thing to each other. Every kraal here knew
perfectly that he was stern and rigid, but absolutely just. If he once
says a thing he stands by it, even if he gets into trouble at
headquarters, which isn't so very unusual. Someone out of jealousy or
pique or utter inability to understand stern justice, will
misrepresent his actions and misreport him for doing his duty. It's a
heart-breaking business for him sometimes; but he never gives in when
it is keeping his word one way or the other with natives. He would
sooner resign, and they know it; and fortunately they recognise his
value and meet him somehow. Of course, he isn't in the Native
Department, properly speaking, but he has done a lot of work with them
for some time."
"And what do you think he is down here for now?"
"I don't know; but it is some abuse or other that has reached the ears
of the administration. This sort of thing happens among the
short-sighted, small-minded Native Commissioners. There was a man a
short time back who charged his house boys five shillings for
everything they broke. At the end of six months they had had no pay at
all, and were pretty heavily in debt. He was magistrate as well as
commissioner and had them brought before his court, and promptly
sentenced them to work six months for nothing."
"What a shame!" she burst out indignantly.