sunshine made a network of gold through the leafy trees upon the
antique masonry. Yet as she looked around upon the empty desolation
her heart grew sad with a nameless sorrow; that old, old ache, and
old, old tiredness, for the utter futility of work and of striving,
that sometimes seems to fill the human heart, when in a depressed mood
it looks upon the ruins of something that has once had strength and
greatness. Meryl carried in her hand a little pocket edition of Omar,
but she did not open the leaves nor read the lines. In a vague way it
was enough to have it with her; it was like having in her hand the
hand of a friend who understood. For of all poets the world has known,
perhaps none have so perfectly voiced the cry of the human heart when
it questions the why and the wherefore and the worthwhileness of its
own mysterious existence. So she sat very still in the ancient temple,
and pondered the old questions that live from age to age--unanswered.
And because Sorrow seemed for the moment to have her in his keeping,
all her thoughts were tinged with sadness. She looked around upon the
broken walls, and it seemed to be brought home to her with sudden
force, how little time was given to each one to play his part before
he must make room for another.
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly, and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
And because there was that element of greatness in her, which was also
in her father, she thought less of the "worthwhileness" of doing than
of the poorness of _not_ doing. His talents were given to
money-making, because it was the thing he had a genius for; but she
knew that in a measure he fulfilled his trust, and besides subscribing
generously to charities, helped many a "lame dog" over his stile in
secret. But what had this to do with the trust that was hers? She who
did not even bear the heat and burden of the day in making the
money?... She who had but to spend it.
In the ruined temple she sat on--thinking, thinking.
How the spot fascinated her!
In this far Rhodesia, how strange that she, the product of the most
modern and presumably enlightened age, should linger there amidst
these broken walls, and feel strange kinship and fascination about
those old people in that remote age; should stretch a hand out to
them, as it were, across the centuries, with this feeling that their
thoughts had been even as her thoughts, and that the passing of the
ages could never eradicate the essential likeness of one people to
another in those old eternal questions of whence and why and
wherefore.
And they, the maidens of that day, had loved the man who was big and
strong and true, even as the maidens of to-day; the man who achieved;
who was ever fearless to do and dare; who gave his service to the
world quietly, unostentatiously, indifferent to praise or reward. And
what was the use of it all: the love, the heartache, the silent
admiration.... The maidens were dust now, and all the strength and the
heroism of the strong men could not give them one age longer to do and
dare ere they too made room for others.
Yet always--always--deep-rooted in the heart and mind of humanity, was
this ineradicable belief in the simple act of _doing_; this
half-contempt of the lives content to flutter their little way in
aimless self-seeking. The spirit that took men through the terrible
solitudes of untrodden places, that urged them across uncharted seas,
that carried them fearlessly aloft to conquer the air--not for gain,
not for notoriety, not for praise, but just that simple splendid need
to be _doing_. How it appealed to her, how it enthralled her senses,
how it made her ache with a great overwhelming desire to discover
quickly what "doing" in a big sense there might be for her!
Of course he, the stern soldier-policeman, was of the fearless band.
In his quiet way he was "doing" with the foremost, though it might be
a work that would never bring him anything in this world but enough
pay just to live upon. But that was beside the point. The band to
which he belonged did not linger in the shallows, counting the cost,
counting the gain; they plunged straightway into the deep waters, and
struggled to some mysterious, perhaps fugitive, goal ahead, finding
their reward in the struggle itself and the difficult headway won.
And afterwards!...
O, what did it matter about afterwards, if one had put up a good fight
and dared the deep waters? How much better to be overwhelmed there,
than to fritter away a butterfly life in the shallows! How splendid to
win through and stand on the far bank with the quiet band of strong
workers, even though no one knew aught of the struggle, instead of
being lauded to the skies by the playing butterflies!
Only, what could she do; ah, what?
A wave of hopelessness seemed to seize upon her, and back across her
mind like a lash cut the dictum of the strong, rigid man, "A
millionaire's daughter can generally be pretty useful if she likes."
Of course, signing cheques, cheques, cheques--a mere machine--and
never to get in touch with the deep need, the inarticulate sorrow of
the world that her soul ached to comfort. It would seem that even to
him, the figure of bronze, it was what she should seek as her
_métier_. She almost wondered if somewhere in his heart he had a
faint contempt for her, because she was a millionaire's daughter: a
product of the new régime; someone who could not be permitted to stand
in the same light as the women of his ancient, illustrious name; who
had no part with the proud, patrician ladies of his great family.
She rose to her feet suddenly, feeling unaccountably hurt by the
thought, and her eyes roved half unconsciously, and fixed themselves
upon the spot where the scarlet petals of the Kaffir boom showed
blood-red against the ancient northern wall. The ache in her heart
coloured all her mind for the moment, shutting out the glad sunshine
with its golden evening glow resting tenderly upon the granite blocks,
showing her only the splashes of scarlet like blood upon the ancient
walls. Was it the altar of sacrifice? Did the Kaffir boom shed its
great red flowers for ever, like drops of blood upon the altar of the
world's pain?
The sound of a step upon broken stones roused her suddenly; a man's
firm tread close beside her. She looked round slowly as it stood
still, and with the ache and the question lingering in her face, found
herself looking into blue eyes of a disconcerting directness--the eyes
of the soldier-policeman.
"I saw you from the Acropolis Hill," he said, "and so I came."
No word of why he had not come sooner; no explanation of his presence
on the Acropolis Hill when she had a right to expect him with her; no
preliminaries at all, no self-conscious excuses, no apparent
realisation that he had behaved a little oddly; only the simple,
direct announcement, "I saw you, so I came."
Yet there was something more--a vague intangible something, that made
the directness of his eyes disconcerting in a way it had not been
before. Meryl felt a pink flush stealing over her face, and turned her
head away to hide it.
"I wonder what you were thinking about just then?" he said, with the
slightest softening. "I awoke you from a very deep reverie."
She raised her eyes, and they fell again upon the scarlet flowers.
Something born of her own deep understanding told her, give this man
straightness for straightness always if you would stand well with
him; no begging the question, no subterfuge.
"I was thinking," she answered simply, "that those scarlet petals of
the Kaffir boom, falling on these ancient walls, suggest great blood
drops offered, upon the altar of the world's pain throughout the
ages."
"Ah!..." The exclamation escaped him quickly, unheedingly--sharp,
short, abrupt. It was as though she had struck him suddenly in a
vulnerable place. It told her, as perhaps nothing else could have
done, she had gauged rightly when she remarked to Diana that sometime
something had hurt him very much.
For a moment there was a tense, pulsing silence, and then he turned
aside towards the sacred enclosure which stood behind them. Meryl
turned also, and ventured as she did so to glance into his face. It
was stern again now, but she knew for a brief moment as he made the
exclamation it had not been so, and for a reason she did not seek to
fathom her heart was strangely glad.
XIV
THE ANCIENT RUINS
When Carew had started up into the Acropolis Hill an hour previously,
he had not had the faintest intention of fulfilling his engagement and
going in search of Meryl. On the contrary, he had gone there to avoid
her.
All day long, as Stanley described, he had been grinding away at his
native report in a gruff, determined silence: a silence even gruffer
and more determined than usual. Because of his thoughts the previous
evening and of his decision in the morning, he had finally made up his
mind not to visit the temple with Meryl Pym, and not to run any
further risk of slipping unconsciously into the friendly attitude he
was so anxious to avoid. When Stanley set out towards the tents, he
mentioned casually that he was going up the valley to the store, which
is also a most attractive and comfortable hostel for Zimbabwe
visitors, and should ask the two girls to go with him. A little later,
glancing in the valley direction, Carew saw the khaki figure for a
moment going up the pathway, and the flutter of a light dress, or
possibly two, just ahead. He took it for granted that Meryl and Diana
had both accompanied Stanley, and that his escort was no longer
expected. He told himself he was glad, and decided to go into the
Acropolis Hill, about that point of interest still unravelled between
himself and Grenville, and so avoid any chance encounter.
But when he found himself among the ruined fortifications, he became
conscious of a flagging interest wholly unlooked for. Something seemed
to have gone out of him, or out of the ancient stones, and he knew
himself in some vague way not in tune. He gazed at the amazing walls,
erected upon granite boulders two hundred to two hundred and fifty
feet above the valley, and the marvel in him that never seemed to die
was, at any rate, less arresting than it had ever been before.
Here, on an isolated hill, rising to a height of three hundred and
fifty feet, were fortifications which in their ingenuity, massive
character, and persistent repetition at every point of vantage had
astonished the highest experts of modern military engineering. Rampart
walls, traverses, screen-walls, intricate entrances, narrow and
labyrinthine passages, sunken thoroughfares, banquettes, parapets, and
other devices of a people thoroughly conversant with military
engineering and defence, and not one word, not one line, not one clue
as to the identity of the builders nor the object of their colossal
labours; labours which one felt could only have been achieved through
the compulsory service of many slaves, for thousands of tons of
granite blocks had been transported up the precipitous kopje to a
height of no less than two hundred feet, which a careful examination
of the rocks on the hill proves must mostly have been quarried from
granite about twelve miles distant. And all this in spite of the fact
that Nature alone had made the hill already impregnable, it being
inaccessible on three sides and very difficult of ascent on the
fourth. It is one of Rhodesia's mysteries, and one also of its
fascinations; those mysteries and fascinations which so far have
effectually baffled all efforts to find the clue and read the closed
book. Who was it came for gold in those old, old days? Who was it
built the line of forts to Solfala on the coast to guard the route
along which the gold was undoubtedly carried, and of which remains may
still be seen at regular intervals the whole distance? Where was the
gold taken to from Solfala, and by whom?
And no less strange perhaps is the absence of all clue to the
burial-ground of this stalwart race; for only a stalwart people could
have built those temple walls and those amazing fortifications. Where
then are the bones of their dead? Strange and incomprehensible as it
may seem, no excavations have yet unearthed human bones, or brought to
light any spot that might be supposed to have been a burial-ground.
To Peter Carew the mystery and the fascination had become such an
ever-present companion in his thoughts, that it was not surprising a
moment should come when he stood among the ramparts and found their
interest for the time being crowded out. The surprising thing was the
source of that crowding out. For it was not even the lengthy report
for the Native Commission to which he was giving such infinite thought
and pains that filled his mind; neither was it anything to do with the
police force he had grown to care for as truly as his old regiment;
nor any far-reaching, visionary dream for the welfare of the country.
Chiefly it was a pair of grave blue-grey eyes, with a gleam in them as
their owner said, "Will you take me if I promise not to ask any silly
questions?" And he had said "Yes." Yet now he was here on the
Acropolis Hill alone.
He stared moodily at the broken walls and pondered within himself. Why
had he not taken her? Or why, since he had chosen not to do so, could
he not put the whole remembrance from his mind? Nay, why did he half
begin to wish that he had not let himself be overruled by his own
counsel of prudence? They would be going so soon now, and it might be
long before he would again be given an opportunity to speak with any
woman of Meryl's charm, or look into any face so full of attraction.
And yet that was just what he wished; was actually the chief reason
for his unsociable resolutions. His own inconsistency puzzled and
worried him, and his eyes as he looked steadily to the horizon had a
lurking cloud in them.
Then quite suddenly and unexpectedly he had turned his gaze to the
temple walls lying far below, and seen the figure seated idly on
fallen masonry, lost in thought.
Then she had not gone with Stanley and Diana? She had remained behind
alone, nettled perhaps by his bearishness, and choosing to be
independent, and still take her stroll to the temple without him.
But it was not the thought of her possible censure that spurred him
unexpectedly to a new decision. He had accustomed himself to be
indifferent to that in most people. It was a perfectly simple and
direct desire to join her. And because at heart he was a perfectly
simple and direct man, he suddenly left off cogitating and started
down the hill. Perhaps until that moment he had not truly known which
way his desire lay. Perhaps in the first discovery he had purposely
not chosen to give himself time to weigh and probe. Anyhow, he
hesitated no more, until he stood at her side and looked into her
eyes with that direct gaze that Meryl so unexpectedly found
disconcerting. But the sensation passed rapidly, and in its place came
a quiet content. Whether he had avoided her all day or not, at least
he came now entirely of his own initiative, and for the time it was
enough. She was too honest to pretend anything herself, and possessed
too fine a nature to cover what might have held embarrassment by a
coquettish taunt or feigned pique.
"I had given you up," she said; "it seemed probable that you had
spoken unthinkingly when you said you would come."
"I have been working all day at my report," he replied simply.
He seemed a little different somehow, and besides, he had come
entirely of his own free will. She remembered it, and put away all
sense of restraint, fought down and conquered the self-consciousness
that sometimes seemed to grip her when he was taciturn and aloof.
He had placed one foot on a low wall, and leaned back against a tree
in a natural, unrestrained attitude, and quite naturally she seated
herself on the wall before him.
"You found it very engrossing?"
"It is interesting work."
"Has it any special object, or just a general one?"
"A little of both. We want to benefit the natives as a whole and
improve their conditions; and we want also to make some changes in the
native administration of the country."
"And you are fond of the natives? For you at least they are worth
while?"
"Emphatically so."
"To any particular end?"
His face grew grave and thoughtful, but the hardening stayed away
still--the hardening that so often came when either she or Diana,
sought to draw him. Only apparently to men would he speak of his work
and his beliefs.
"It is difficult to say. Probably nothing but time will show us the
true solution of the problem of the black and the white race living
together in one country. But meanwhile the black man is eminently
worth while. With firm and just treatment he is capable of great
development."
He raised his eyes and looked out into the distance. "If only we could
ensure it for him everywhere! Native commissioners and their clerks
and the magistrates, all men of fine fibre, who honestly care about
the natives under them and the welfare of the country. So much could
be done if ... if ..." He smiled a little grimly. "We are so apt to
expect the impossible," he finished. "How should numbers of men of
fine fibre ever reach Rhodesia at all? In so many cases we must just
take what we can get."
"But the standard will improve as the country grows?"
"O yes; it is improving steadily. All the signs are hopeful, if we can
but light upon what is truly the best method of administering the
native laws, and get good men to carry the work out."
And still the heavenly sense of unrestrained mental kinship lingered.
Happy, yet fearful, Meryl ventured a word of appreciation.
"It must make you glad to feel you are doing such a useful work for a
young country. It seems as if ... as if ... it is just what a man
might ask to be doing."
He drew himself up with a slightly taut movement, and she divined he
did not wish for any personal praise; yet, because a tinge of red
showed under the bronze, she was glad she had seized the opportunity
to offer a tribute that might at some odd moment heal a passing sense
of uselessness and appreciation.
She stood up also, and they moved slowly round the ruins together,
while he explained to her much that he had read and gathered and
surmised in his leisure hours, not only about the temple itself, but
about all the ancient remains and the mysterious people who had dwelt
there long ago. Told as he told it, the listener could only find it
enthralling, for the man's heart was in his subject; and where another
might have rhapsodised or sentimentalised, he only stated certain
remarkable facts, and gave her the simple reasons for and against
certain deductions, that she might decide her own view for herself.
"But you?..." she questioned at last. "In spite of the scientific men
who have scoffed, and their followers who have thrown cold water upon
all enthusiastic belief in the antiquity of the ruins, you are quite
satisfied that they are really of a very great age, are you not?"
"Absolutely."
"Can you tell me why chiefly?" She smiled a little. "I believe it
absolutely myself, but I am afraid it is partly a sentimental belief.
Already I love them, and it makes me jealous for them. I feel I cannot
bear anyone to throw doubt upon their antiquity."
"It is not easy to explain in a few words, without a great many facts
and a lot of detail, but I can tell you one or two salient points. For
one thing, Zimbabwe was evidently connected with a gold industry on a
very large scale. Mr. Telford Edwards, a well-known and able mining
engineer in Rhodesia, measured up, about fourteen years ago, the
length, breadth, and depth of most of the then known old workings in
Rhodesia, and calculated the cubic contents of what had been taken
out. And taking the assay value in each old working to be per ton the
same as it is in the reef in each case now, he estimated that at the
present value of gold more than one hundred million pounds' worth had
been taken out. Even two hundred years ago gold was worth very much
more than it is now; so that it is inconceivable that such an amount
had been produced within the last two thousand years without any
mention of it anywhere. Such a production of gold would have upset the
markets of the world."
"Yes," she said eagerly as he paused; "please go on."
He did so, but without withdrawing his gaze from the distance.
"Another point is that the workings are so widely dispersed and so
numerous, requiring such an enormous amount of time and labour, that
it seems only reasonable to believe that the gold-mining went on for
many hundreds of years, probably before the age of writing at all. I
am not prepared to agree offhand that Zimbabwe is probably the ancient
Havilah of the Scriptures, but I see no very good reason why it should
not be. On the other hand, the ancient workings and fortifications and
temples may have been the work of Phoenicians or Mongols several
thousand years ago. Certainly against Mr. McIver's theory, that the
Temple was the work of Bantus a few hundred years ago, I think we may
put the fact that an admirable drainage system has been
unearthed;--drainage systems of any kind being more or less unknown to
black races of a low order. In the meantime, we can but await fresh
clues, which may put us upon the track of proofs, and hope that the
day is not very far distant when much of the mystery will be cleared."
"O, I hope so," she said; "and thank you so much for telling me all
that you have. I shall think of it often when I am back in 'the cities
of the plain,'" and she smiled a little wistfully.
He did not answer, and she wondered what deep thoughts at the back of
his brain made him always so grave. She felt instinctively he had not
always worn this serious, preoccupied air, and her heart grew tender
anew at the thought of that "something" which had hurt him long ago.
Had he ever told anyone? she wondered. Would he ever tell anyone?...
or would he go quietly on through his life, self-contained,
self-dependent, aloof? Well, it was good to have met him and known
him; a simple, strong soul going quietly about its appointed service
is always good to have known. Perhaps the recollection of the meeting
later would help her to do likewise, and in the maze of her life learn
at least to do the simple, strong thing at the moment.
They were moving towards the western entrance now, and she wondered if
he would accompany her back to the tents, and perhaps stay a little,
as Stanley did evening after evening. But just as they approached the
opening voices were heard, and a moment later Diana and Stanley stood
in the wide aperture. Diana's winsome face was lit with whimsical
mischievousness, but it fell somewhat when she beheld Carew.
"O goodness!" she remarked comically. "Who would have thought of
finding you here?"
Stanley and Meryl laughed at her apparent discomfiture, and even Carew
relaxed as he replied, "You don't seem entirely pleased."
"Well, no, I'm not; but if you are just leaving it doesn't matter."
"I think I shall stay; I scent some vandalism."
"O well," airily, "if you will have it, we were just coming to dig for
corpses;" and she tossed her head with an independent air.
"It is strictly forbidden to dig for anything on pain of various dire
penalties," Carew told her.
"I know it is, and that is just exactly why it interferes with my
plans to find _you_ here."
"I see. And what about Mr. Stanley, who is also a representative of
the Government that made the laws?"
"Mr. Stanley is only a trooper, and I am Diana Pym. It is not his
place to interfere with my actions. It would only be mine to shield
him if he was persuaded to help me and got into trouble."
"And what in the world do you want with a corpse, Di?" asked Meryl.
"Why gold, of course! Mr. Stanley has been telling me a perfectly
thrilling theory about corpses with a lot of antique gold ornaments on
them being buried in the ruins; and he knows where one or two are,
because a gold-diviner showed him with his divining-rod, and he marked
the places in case he wanted to remember later; and to-day is when he
did want to remember later, and he's just strolled round with me to
point out the spots; and if that isn't a long enough sentence for you,
you must add some more yourself," drawing a long breath.
The Kid, enjoying himself hugely, hastened to add for Carew's benefit,
"It's only just a joke. Miss Pym wanted me to show her where our
visitor of the other day said he had divined gold."
"It's not a joke at all," declared Diana defiantly. "It's the key to
the whole mystery. While all you scientific folks are arguing this,
that, and the other, I want to look and see. Besides, if there are
antique gold ornaments, perhaps a few thousand years old, I want some.
I'm not specially in love with your old broken walls, but I'm ready to
be in love with your jewellery, worn a few thousand years ago."
"You Philistine!" exclaimed Meryl. "If you can't appreciate the ruins,
you certainly ought not to be allowed to possess a single treasure
taken from them."
"O rot!... What's the use of decayed old walls anyway? You and Major
Carew can have the heaps of stones. We don't want to rob you of so
much as a pebble. But we do badly want to dig down and look for a
corpse."
"And when did you propose to begin?" asked Carew.