them while Diana was finishing her toilet, "because there is plenty of
room in our motor."
Carew thanked him, and they all moved away together. At the hotel,
however, he vanished, and it was only after a little adroit persuasion
later that Mr. Pym got him to accept an invitation to dine with them
in their private room in the evening.
And after accepting, Carew went about the work that had brought him to
Bulawayo with an uneasy mind. The fortnight that had elapsed since the
evening he found Meryl unexpectedly at the Grenvilles' had been a
somewhat disturbed one for him. For many years now his life had flown
so evenly in all big essentials. Little worries, little disturbances,
disappointments, were inevitable for a man whose heart was so
thoroughly in his work, and for whom the conditions of work were often
so trying. But these had only ruffled the surface; underneath the
smooth river flowed along strong and self-contained. After the
upheaval that had been as a volcanic eruption upon smiling
sunshine-flooded fields in his life, and the black desolation that
followed, there had succeeded a long quiet period of calm action that,
if it held nothing which could be termed joy, held nothing either that
was sorrow except his buried memories. And he had been well content
that it should be so; well content to contemplate just that and
nothing else to the journey's end.
And now, suddenly, had come this vague unrest. He sought for its
source and its reason, and could not find a satisfactory answer. For
though it dated from the coming of the millionaire and his party, he
would not admit himself capable of the folly of falling in love with
Meryl. To him it was such inexcusable foolishness, in view of many
things. Rather he chose to believe it was a voice from the old life,
reawakened in his heart, and calling to him across the years. When he
smoked his pipe outside the huts, and pondered deeply some knotty
point in his report and in the work of the Native Commission, he found
himself suddenly remembering that it was September. And away in his
beloved Devon they would be out after the partridges--striding
through the heather and across the stubble-fields, ranging over the
purple moors with purple horizons all round, and in the distance a
strip of turquoise, which was the sea. He could almost hear the whir
... rr of wings and the shots on some far hill-side. And he knew that,
though the shooting in a wild, vast country like Rhodesia is a far
finer and more sportsmanlike affair than shooting driven birds in
England, he yet felt, and would ever feel, that intense British love
of the soil that had reared him, and the moors where he fired his
first gun and shot his first bird. And, of course, upon the heels of
the shooting came the hunting, which had once been the joy of his
life, ever after he first put his pony at a stiff fence, entirely on
his own, and sailed gloriously over, in spite of an anxious groom
shouting caution to the winds.
And then all the woodcraft and fieldcraft he had learnt from his
uncle's keepers and his uncle's farmer tenants. He remembered how it
had been part of his education as a youngster, and how in pursuit of
knowledge he had been up early and late and in the middle of the
night, picking up information about the woodland creatures from anyone
who could teach him or finding things out for himself. There was the
poacher who had shown him, for love of the sport, if sport it could be
called, how he got the pheasants silently off the boughs in the
night--taking them from their roosting-places and never a sound. He
had given that poacher a bright half-crown, he remembered, and his
firm lips twitched a little over the recollection. He had not seen the
humour then of paying the man who was stealing his uncle's
pheasants--the pheasants that would some day be his. He wondered if
the boys in England now, the future landowners, were taught woodlore
as he had been taught it, because it was good for an English gentleman
to know all the scents and signs and sounds of his estate.
And after all, he was no landowner at all. By his own act, instead,
merely an officer in the British South Africa Police, with a few
hundreds a year income, and nothing but a meagre pension ahead.
Ah well! he had had a good deal besides for what he had lost, and it
had been a good life enough, dependent solely on himself, and far
removed from the caprices of a rich uncle. He regretted nothing at
this stage of what had transpired after the upheaval came. Of course,
his brother was now owner of the estates that might have been his, and
was married, and had children; whereas he was a soldier-policeman
looking forward to a meagre pension.
Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered. It was only that, seeing so
much more of the Pyms socially than he had been wont to see of anyone,
old memories had been awakened. He hoped they would soon go to sleep
again, for, in passing, they had taken some of the restfulness out of
Rhodesia's far horizons, and fretted the flow of the strong, silent
river, with a vague discontent. Sometimes between him and those far
horizons there was a face now--sometimes a voice--sometimes just a dim
presence--the voice and the face and the presence of Meryl Pym. And it
was a thing to be fought down and crushed and conquered--a weakness
that was well-nigh a foolishness--a folly such as stern men trample
underfoot.
So when Mr. Pym asked him to dine with them privately, he made some
excuse, and only yielded under pressure. And when he joined them he
was in one of his gravest moods, as if he had barricaded himself round
with impenetrable reserve. There were two other guests, so Diana did
not twit him openly; she only murmured in an aside, for his ear alone,
"I'm so sorry it's a party, and we shall feel obliged to be polite.
This civilisation is becoming a positive burden."
Meryl was a little late, and she wore a beautiful gown, of a classic
cut, with exquisite classic embroideries and a filigree band on her
lovely hair. It was the first time he had seen her in evening dress,
and he took one keen, sweeping glance and then looked away. He had
rather the attitude of a soldier on parade, to whom the colonel had
said "eyes front." Only he was his own colonel, obeying his own laws
and restrictions. And Meryl only dared to take a fleeting glance also,
for fear her eyes might betray her. And though he looked as striking
as a man may, in immaculate evening dress, with his strong, clear-cut
features, and inches that dwarfed most men, with the inconsistency of
a woman she decided she liked him best in khaki that had seen hard
service, and that look of being all of a piece, because his hands and
face were so brown. He sat on her left, while Lord Elmsleigh, who was
passing through from the Victoria Falls, sat on her right; and though
she chatted lightly to his lordship, she was conscious every second of
the hour of the big, silent, rather grim soldier-policeman. He spoke
very little. Just an opinion now and then when he was asked for it, or
the corroboration or correction of a statement, when someone looked to
him questioningly. The millionaire, chatting in his quiet, weighty way
to his two other guests, noted everything. He knew that Carew and
Meryl scarcely once looked at each other, or addressed each other
direct, and with a deep sense of regret he had again that feeling of
being brought up against some barrier where neither his money nor
power nor influence could be of any avail. And at the same time he
knew in his heart that he had never met any man to whom he would
sooner entrust Meryl and the fortune that must be hers. For though
their very silence together revealed to his astute brain that neither
was indifferent to the other, he could not but see also that
undercurrent of grim determination in Carew. True, he was almost
always silent, but Henry Pym perceived that his silence to-day was not
quite of that of yesterday. Something had gone out of it--some quiet,
grave, unquestioning content. In the keen, direct, steel-blue eyes now
there was a shadow lurking behind, that might have been of some old
memory, or might have been of some new pain, but which vaguely hurt
the millionaire host.
Meryl's eyes were less smiling than her lips, turning a little
unsteadily this way and that, with a restlessness that added a touch
of vivacity to her quiet beauty. But that, he knew, was the thing we
baldly name pluck. It was not to-night he need fear what he should see
in her eyes, nor perhaps to-morrow. It was any day, any hour, any
moment in the weeks to come, when she believed no one was observing
her.
So the evening passed, and the last rubber of bridge was played, and
the first move made towards departure.
"Shall we have your company for a day or two? I must stay here over
to-morrow!" Mr. Pym said to Carew.
"I leave early in the morning," was the quiet reply. "I only came here
to see Mr. Ireson, and now I go to Salisbury."
Meryl, with her face turned away, blanched a little in the shadow.
This was the end then. This casual, conventional good-bye at a
dinner-party. To-morrow he would go east before they were up; and the
next day she would go back to Johannesburg, and later England. She
turned quickly to make a gay remark. Something in her heart tightened.
She felt suddenly appalled at the future, and was afraid she might
show it.
But the evening had still one little unexpected treat in store for
her. Lord Elmsleigh had a big-game trophy in his room that he wanted
to show Mr. Pym and their other guests--something that he had shot in
the Kafue valley. And in consequence, while Diana and Carew and Meryl
were standing together by the open window that led on to the wide
balcony, he took them both off with him.
And then Diana said to Carew, "As you are going to-morrow, I will give
you those snapshots to-night. I have them in my room," and she went
away, pulling the door to after her.
So Carew and Meryl were left alone by the window, looking out into the
pulsing southern night. Meryl, quite suddenly, felt a little dizzy,
and she drew back into the corner, leaning against the woodwork,
feeling glad of some support. Carew remained upright and rigid, with
something in that very rigidity that suggested a special need to keep
himself well in hand. If he had stopped to think about it, he might
have felt that Fate was treating him a little unkindly. So far he had
done the strong thing every time, and gone quietly away from danger;
not because he was a coward, but because he knew it is sometimes far
more cowardly to skate on thin ice, and hope it will be all right,
than to remain in safety on the bank. For Meryl's sake as well as his
own he had chosen to remain on the bank. And yet here, for the third
time, was Fate deliberately bringing the danger zone to him, in spite
of his efforts to avoid it. But he did not stop to cogitate either one
way or the other. Sufficient for him that he knew himself in the
danger zone, and therefore it behoved him to be very wary. Not by act
or word, if he could help it, must he let Meryl see how she had
disturbed his peace. And there, again, it would seem, Fate had played
with him. A subtler man would have perceived that an added rigidity
was not entirely the safeguard he needed now. Meryl already knew him
too well for that. Had he talked and laughed a little, she might have
been puzzled and baffled. But Carew was not subtle. He was simply
sincere. And so he just stood very rigid and silent; not perceiving
that in the circumstances that it was hardly the best way to baffle
the eyes of love. Meryl knew instinctively he was putting some special
restraint on himself, and the knowledge made her quietly glad,
underneath the sudden pain of the knowledge that it was farewell.
Back, in her vantage of shadow, she looked at him. And she saw, not
for the first time, but perhaps more fully, that inner force in this
man, which told any who had eyes to see and understanding to perceive,
that nothing would turn him from a set purpose, if he were persuaded
it was a right one; and whatever woman's arts she might possess, they
would be as the waves against a granite rock. They might play round
him, and sprinkle foam on him, and soften his aspect, but they would
not _move_ him. So, with an inner strength not unlike his own, she
accepted his decree. For some reason, or set of reasons, love might
not come into being between them. He was determined that it should
not. Very well, she would hide her hurt and face her future without
it.
And if she chose to cherish his image, hidden deep down in her heart,
that was her affair. A laughing, mocking world need never know.
She broke the silence first:
"If you are going early to-morrow, we shall not meet again."
"No." He looked at her a moment, about to say something else; then
changed his mind, and looked out of the window in silence. Leaning up
against the lintel, in the softened light, her outline and features
and deep, true eyes made too fair a picture for him to trust himself
to look upon.
"Perhaps you will be coming to Johannesburg presently?"
"I think not."
"Nor England?..." with a little wistful smile.
"Nor England."
"You speak almost as if you never expected to go there again?"
"I shall never go there again."
There was a pause; then she continued:
"Yet you are so absolutely an Englishman, and they say"--with another
little smile--"an Englishman always wants to go home to be buried."
"I am more a Rhodesian."
"And you feel like Cecil Rhodes?... We went out to the Matopos this
afternoon. It was a big thought, that of his, to be buried there. It
gives you people in the north something that we of the south have
not--your own special great man, lying in your midst. What a country
you will be some day! I envy you your share of the building."
"The south is a great country _now_. It is not a small thing to be
building there."
"Yes, but we have two races, and it spells division and weakens our
enthusiasm."
"Help to bridge over the gap. Help to make it spell union. That were a
work that any man might be proud to give his life to."
And at that slowly she became taut and rigid almost as he, with wide
eyes gazing into the night. He had struck a hidden chord; struck it
full and strong.
"Do you mean," she said a little breathlessly, "that though my
sympathies are so much with the north, my work, any usefulness I may
attain to, ought to be given to the south?... that ... that ...
perhaps it belongs to it?..."
He was silent a moment, weighing his words.
"I think," he said, "that you in the south are passing through a
critical stage, and there must be much need for strong women as well
as strong men. Dutch Predominance is the cry now, but the scales turn
easily, and it may be English Predominance to-morrow. No country can
make real headway, and consolidate its greatness, while there is this
changing and interchanging of power. There must be no predominance but
that of the country's good; and to that end Dutch and English _must_
be merged into South African. It is the duty of every true patriot to
look this way and that, and see how it can best be achieved; and to be
ready to sink all personal aims and triumphs for the furtherance of
the great end."
"Is it possible," she asked slowly, "when it seems one side only is
honest in its protestations?"
"You cannot be sure about that. Seek out the strongest and best men of
both sides, and help them to gain the power and hold it. Your own side
is not without blame. At the first big election after the country was
settling down again, you could not even stand together. At the polls
there were three parties, where there should have been only two.
Englishmen opposed Englishmen, mostly over a question of small
differences, and for personal pride of place. South Africa has never
yet recovered from that mistake. You must not hold two hands out to
the Boers--the hands of differing Englishmen--but _one hand_, that is
absolutely reliable and sincere."
"It is what I have heard my father say, and others also, but progress
is very slow. There is much racial hatred rampant still."
"It will yield gradually. The fittest must prevail in the end; but
obviously that fittest will prove to be neither Dutch nor English, but
South African."
"How do you think it will prevail?" She was white now, and her eyes
were gazing very straight out into the night.
"By intermarriage chiefly. It is almost the only solution to the
problem. Speaking one tongue, owning one country, will never help it,
as Dutch and English interests united upon one hearth. That is why you
must be patient, and just go steadily on, avoiding dissension as much
as possible, while trying to raise the tone of both races on every
side."
There was a little tremor in her voice as she said, "And are we to
take it just meekly when Englishmen are ousted for Dutchmen and loyal
service ignored?"
"I think you can only be patient at present. The strong part will lie
with you, though the others seem to triumph. If the party in power
find the country is at a standstill, and not progressing as they want
it to, they will end by rearranging the public posts, and the
Englishmen will come back because they are the fittest. As a race, you
know, we are inclined to be domineering and somewhat overbearing. We
certainly have ourselves to thank for some of the trouble. Probably
while the Dutchman is 'top dog' he is having his fling, and we are
learning a little wholesome wisdom. When the reaction comes the
country will be the gainer."
"And in the meantime intermarriage?" she questioned slowly.
"In the meantime intermarriage," he said, with quiet emphasis.
But he little dreamt that at the cross-roads he was pointing her to a
path of tears.
They heard Diana returning, and he moved restlessly.
"If I do not see you again"--with a hesitating voice unlike
himself--"I hope you will be very happy.... Meeting you has been a
great and unexpected pleasure."
"Thank you," was all she could trust herself to say.
And then Diana came into the room.
A moment later the other men returned, and they all said good-bye. And
when Carew shook hands with Meryl, he noticed that her hand was as
cold as ice and her cheeks as white as snow, and that she scarcely
raised her eyes to his face.
And wondering and fearing, he walked away into the darkness, with the
sense of a new shadow walking beside him--a shadow that had come to
stay, in spite of all his resolutions and strong endeavours, the
shadow of his love for the woman he had just left in silence and never
thought to see again.
XXI
A "HOARDING HUSTLING"
There was probably no family in Johannesburg better known or better
loved than that of Henry Pym, the millionaire. Even Aunt Emily was
something of a favourite, in spite of her peculiarities, perhaps a
little for the sake of the delightful entertaining that took place at
Hill Court. Diana was adored for her spirits, and Meryl was regarded
somewhat as a treasure Johannesburg had a right to be proud of.
Certain it was that if eventually she followed the example of her
American cousins and enriched an English peerage with her wealth, she
would hold her own amidst the loveliest and most charming of England's
peeresses. At the same time, though many perhaps hoped that she would
lead the way for the young South African heiresses, not many had much
belief that she would lead it in the particular fashion they hoped;
for there was ever that uncertain elusive quality about Meryl, that
suggestion of the visionary and dreamer, that betold a nature not very
likely to follow in any beaten path, or give overmuch value to the
advantages of a high alliance from a worldly point of view. It was
probable she would see things in quite a different light to the
majority and act for herself. Nevertheless Johannesburg hoped for the
best, and would have been pleased to number a peeress among her
daughters; if it were only to show the world, for one thing, that some
of South Africa's heiresses were every whit as refined and clever and
charming as America's, whatever may have been implied to the contrary
by scathing comments on Johannesburg's millionaires which have
appeared from time to time in varied guise.
Mr. Pym himself, however, was not among those who nursed such high
hopes. When he took the Piccadilly mansion the preceding spring, and
transferred his household to London for the season, he meant to
entertain lavishly, and give the girls every possible opportunity to
see the world of the highest London society, knowing full well he
could do this because his friends numbered many among England's high
names. That he should take them into the wilds of Rhodesia instead had
certainly been the very last thought in his mind. On the other hand,
as we have said, it did not greatly perturb him. He was inclined to
think they might gain as much from their pioneer pilgrimage as from a
rush of continuous gaiety. What exactly they _had_ gained it would
have been difficult to gauge; nothing perhaps that Aunt Emily would
detect, fussing and exclaiming round them upon their first arrival.
Diana, in a mood for merriment, and possibly to cover a certain
invisible shadow that rested as a dim cloud upon the party, rouged her
face to a brilliant red with an alarmingly fiery nose end. When she
lifted her veil and confronted her aunt with a perfectly unconcerned
smile, that lady raised her hands in horror and bemoaning. "O, my
dear!... my dear!... your complexion is ruined. How could you be so
careless? How could Meryl let you?... It will take weeks of care to
undo the mischief."
"O, don't make a fuss, aunty! Complexions don't matter tuppence-halfpenny
in Rhodesia. You surely didn't imagine I was going to carry a
sun-umbrella about, did you?"
"But my dear child!..." still in great distress. "It is a dreadful
thing to say, but you really look as if ... as if ..." but there her
courage forsook her, and she could not name the dreadful possibility.
"As if I had been drinking!" finished Diana cheerfully. "Yes, it's a
little awkward, but perhaps if I don't lurch or look foolish ..." Then
she encountered the astonished eyes of a young footman, who had come
in with some small paraphernalia from the motor, and unable to keep
her face, turned hurriedly away.
"I'm rather afraid James is going to have a fit," she remarked to
Meryl. "I hope it won't incapacitate him for the rest of the day," and
she chuckled to herself. Meryl had not yet raised her veil, and the
anxiety on Aunt Emily's face, which she vainly strove to hide, was
delighting Diana more than ever. "Better not take your veil off
downstairs, Meryl. Aunt Emily has had rather a shock from my face; I
don't think she could bear any more."
But the poor lady's concern was too pitiful to Meryl, and she threw
her veil far back, saying, "She is a wicked creature, aunty. Her face
only wants washing"; and then Aunt Emily, reassured and comforted,
joined in the general laugh.
"But soap and water won't remedy all the defects," Diana told her.
"I've acquired a violent dislike to houses and rooms and tableclothes
and clean hands, and all the absurd paraphernalia of civilised
existence. Of course, I suppose I shall become rational again in time,
but at present I thought of having a tent on the lawn and becoming a
hermit."
"How is everyone, Aunty?" Meryl asked, as the poor lady seemed again
somewhat overcome. "Have you had hosts of visitors while you were all
alone?"
"Yes, people have been very kind, and I have not had much time to be
dull; and everyone is delighted you are back again. Mr. van Hert has
called twice this week to know which day you would arrive."
Meryl's lips contracted a little, but Diana murmured, "Oho!... Dutch
Willie! ready to be on the doorstep, of course, in spite of the
hullabaloo you've been causing in the country, unrestrained by my
caustic criticisms."
"I expect he thought he would make hay while the sun shone," Meryl
told her, "and air his pet theories while they were not in danger of
being stamped on."
Then they both went upstairs, and Meryl stood awhile at the wide
window, looking over the lovely garden; and though she still answered
kindly to her aunt's flow of chatter, the good lady having followed
them to their room, her heart was far away among distant kopjes, where
mysterious grey walls basked in the sunlight with the silence and the
patience of the ages.