up and down the drive, and invitations poured in, and the girls found
themselves quickly in a very vortex of social life.
William van Hert did not come until the third day, and then he chose
as late an hour as he well could, hoping to escape the throng. This he
succeeded in doing, but Diana he could not escape. If it had been his
hope to see Meryl alone he was entirely frustrated. Diana's small,
practical head perceived the wisdom of avoiding all haste in what
these two might have to say to each other, and van Hert had to bow to
her decision. Still further, he had to undergo a small fire of chaff
with an edge to it, concerning some of his political doings and
sayings during their absence. But this from Diana he could always
take. Whether she knew it or not, and whether she cared or not, at the
time she probably wielded a more direct influence over van Hert than
anyone else living. Certainly a more direct influence than Meryl and
her father, for whereas his liking for them only tempered his rashness
and indiscretions, Diana aimed shafts straight at any of his rabid
policies in a manner that caused him secretly to reconsider. Yet all
his devotion was drawn to Meryl in her fairness and quiet strength,
and the hope of his heart was still to win her.
As it happened, it was a very white-faced, silent Meryl who sat on the
deep verandah that afternoon of his first call, and was content
chiefly to listen to Diana waging her usual war. That astute young
person had much to say, in her own slangy phraseology, concerning
certain utterances of the Dutch extremists, openly derogatory to the
English, and seemingly opposed to any spirit of racial conciliation.
"Why don't you try and teach your people to play the game?" she asked
him, with a fine scorn. "Do you hear any of our eminent men haranguing
about 'keeping down the Dutch' and 'steam-rollering the Dutch,' and
without any hesitation openly speaking of themselves as a separate and
superior race? Whatever our men think, they are at least sportsmen
enough just now to keep it to themselves, for the sake of the hopes
and aims of the country. But you apparently allow your following to
say anything, and either pretend not to hear or take no notice. Listen
to this, said by a predicant of the Dutch Reformed Church...." She
picked up a pamphlet, lying near, and read aloud: "'We are a nation
with our own taal, traditions, and history. We must now stand shoulder
to shoulder and hand in hand for the rights of _our_ people.... May
God give _our_ people strength to be unanimous!' Unanimous in what?...
Why, forcing the issue of the language question according to their own
ends, and retrenching English teachers, and generally looking upon
themselves as the superior, chosen people whom God meant to reign
alone in South Africa."
"My dear young lady," he remonstrated, "can you blame me for the
unwise, indiscreet utterances of every Dutch predicant who opens his
mouth?"
"Why, of course I do. You are a leader, and you ought to protest
openly against any such utterance; but naturally, if you only consider
it unwise and indiscreet, you don't regret the purport of the words at
all, merely their being uttered at perhaps the wrong time. Well, that
sort of spirit isn't 'cricket,' as we understand it; and your
attitude, in professing to hold out a hand to the English section,
while the other is making secret signs to the Dutch, is what we call
trying to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds; and that is an
experiment being attempted by far too many of your colleagues just
now."
"I am doing nothing of the kind," he repudiated indignantly. "I am
standing by my countrymen, that they may maintain the dignity of their
nation and not be trampled under foot by the English."
"O fiddlesticks! No one wants to trample you under foot. We mostly
want to raise you. We want to broaden your outlook and widen your
views. But you know perfectly well that that means a great united
country, for the back-veldters might learn at last where strength lay;
and then your precious taal, traditions, and history will have to take
their proper place in the general scheme, and that will be on a plane
of equality and not blatantly on top."
Again he protested with outspread hands. "But we have a great country
now through union. You overlook the most important fact."
"We should have had," she corrected, "if the Bond in Cape Colony, and
Het Volk in the Transvaal, and the Unie in the Orange River Colony had
not chanced to be powerful enough to work almost entirely in the
interests of a Dutch South Africa all the time they were waving a
flag, and cheering the colours, and delivering orations on the beauty
of Union and their love for the great Mother Country, meaning the
Liberal Government, who mostly, it would seem, told them to do as they
like and please themselves and not make a fuss, so long as they called
it Union."
He turned to Meryl with a deprecating air, as if asking for her
support, and she smiled rather a tired smile and said, "It is only
that she has had to bottle it all up for a long time, as you were not
at hand. The next time you come she will be ready to smile on you."
"But I hope in the meantime you do not endorse the slander?..."
"I have plenty of hope to balance a certain amount of doubt; and if it
is any pleasure to you to know it, Diana never troubles to cross
swords with a man she has not considerable regard for."
He flushed and looked gratified, and Diana remarked coolly, "O, I've
lots of regard for you. I'm only sorry that a man who might be
brilliant is content to be mediocre because of his prejudices. Now
when we were in Rhodesia ..." and she paused, regarding him with the
bright, piquant eyes of a small bird.
"Well, what about Rhodesia? You didn't find much brilliance there, I
imagine? Brilliance does not thrive on bully beef and existence in a
mud hut."
"Neither does 'back-veldt' obtuseness and narrow-minded bigotry and
indiscreet loquacity, Meinheer van Hert."
He could not help laughing at the droll way she made the statement.
"Well, what does thrive?"
"Silence," thoughtfully.
"But that did not appeal to you?" with significance.
"Not perhaps so much as the growl," was her enigmatic reply.
"And did you like this wild, wilderness land of silence?"
She regarded him with half-grave, half-mocking eyes. "Well, we
understood why _you_ want to have a finger in Rhodesia's pie, you and
your various active organisations working in the interests of a Dutch
South Africa. Any child could see what such a country would be worth
to you. But you won't succeed, my friend. They've got a few strong men
up there who believe in 'to-morrow' more than 'to-day,' and are not
afraid to forego present honours for future progress. You won't bribe
them, and you won't hoodwink them, and you won't get them. They may
not have much weight or power or money to back them, but there's
something in the atmosphere up there, something in the very air, that
would tell anyone with a grain of perspicacity they could be dangerous
if they liked. I shouldn't rouse the sleeping lion in Rhodesia if I
were you, Meinheer, you and your colleagues, with coercion or anything
else--that way lie explosives."
At that moment Mr. Pym joined them, and the conversation at once
became general, though van Hert laughingly told his host he had been
undergoing a regular hoarding hustling. Then he told them of a few
happenings since they went away, and because he was as glad as he
could be to see them back again, all his natural versatility came
uppermost, and one could easily perceive why he was a leader of men,
and likely to remain so.
"If only one could make him see straight," said Diana, when they spoke
of it afterwards, "instead of with the warped vision of a one-idea'd
fanatic."
Later she tried to draw Meryl a little concerning her attitude towards
him, but Meryl would only maintain an unrevealing silence, and Diana
was baffled and troubled. She felt vaguely that some new thought was
forming in Meryl's mind, some thought that held danger, but she could
not grasp in what direction it tended.
And van Hert smoked his pipe with a very thoughtful air that evening,
pondering deeply. Meryl had neither encouraged him nor repulsed him,
and she seemed just the same and yet different; and once more that
half-formed dread came back to his memory that through Rhodesia he
might lose her.
And then he thought he would put the uncertainty at an end quickly and
learn his fate as soon as possible; for he was treading on rather thin
ice in his public capacity just now, and a strong coalition against
him, which was rumoured in the air, might place him in an unpleasant
position.
On the other hand, Mr. Pym's support and Meryl's charm might prove
weapons which would see him safely through, and help him to mould his
position anew on broader lines.
But for another three weeks Diana successfully baffled his intention,
influenced by that vague fear she could not fathom, and a futile,
helpless desire to ward off some pending destiny. And in the meantime
she puzzled her small head daily concerning the invulnerable silence
and aloofness of Peter Carew, and the blue shadows deepening under
Meryl's eyes, though she strove hourly to be ever her old self and
show no sign.
XXII
MERYL'S DECISION
Although van Hert had no opportunity to reopen the subject of his
hopes to Meryl during those three weeks, she knew quite well that he
had in no wise changed to her. His every look showed it, and an
intangible something in his manner whenever he addressed her. And all
the time, though her heart was given hopelessly elsewhere, she felt
herself in the grip of circumstances that might determine her action
against her inclination.
It would be difficult to relate just what passed in her mind through
those three weeks, while outwardly she moved in the whirl of social
happenings dependent upon their return with all her usual charm and
dignity. Certainly she was rather quieter than usual, but as Diana
talked and laughed faster, possibly with intent, the change was not
noticed. She was specially quieter when van Hert was there, and Diana
was specially talkative; entertaining him, rallying him, teazing him,
in a way that, at any rate, brought out his best side, and in a sense
buffeted the bigot good-naturedly into the attractive companion. And
it seemed to show Diana at her best too, for behind all her flippancy
there was undoubtedly a purpose and a depth which she would not for a
moment have admitted, but which nevertheless was sincere and true.
"Of course, I don't really care either way," she would tell him
mockingly. "You may have a Dutch South Africa and welcome, if you
won't interfere with my personal schemes and general affairs. I've
nothing modern about me, in the sense of wanting to reconstruct the
world generally and be a Joan of Arc to my retrenched compatriots. But
when some of you talkers get up and express high-flown sentiments of
brotherhood and union for the benefit of the public Press one moment,
and swerve right down and wink at such sentiments as steamroller the
English or the finances or the language question the next, it is time
you had a little wholesome plain speaking. Anyhow, who _did_ vote the
money for the new Government buildings?..."
But whether Diana cared or not, one thing was certain: the utterances
of that well-known minister William van Hert were showing gradually a
higher and broader tone, and an atmosphere of conciliation was
beginning to spread over his hitherto rabid sectarianism.
And van Hert himself found it went well with his feelings to exchange
wordy battles with Diana and keep his dreams for Meryl. The younger
girl invigorated and enthused him, while the elder, curiously enough,
appealed more to his senses. He wanted her fairness, as a strong, dark
man often feels himself drawn to a woman who is frail and fair. And
yet even while he wanted her he was a little afraid of her, a little
baffled, a little uncertain of himself.
Thus the three weeks passed, and the moment of the inevitable decision
came near.
And all the time Meryl felt herself rather as one who stood upon a
difficult, stony place, with the forbidden land behind her and the
clear call of a great need before. She believed that she would never
see Carew again; that definitely and forever he had cut the threads of
deep sympathy both had known existed. It was his dictum and she could
only abide by it. What then should she do with her life? To what end
turn this existence, blessed by fortune with wealth and the power
wealth brings, though suddenly swept bare of joy?
And ever and again back to her mind came Carew's words that last
evening at Bulawayo: "Help to bridge over the gap. Help to make
division become union. That were a work that any man might be proud to
give his life to."
And every day, more and more fully, she recognised that whatever she
had to give she owed to South Africa. She gradually thought herself
into a state in which she existed for herself and her own inclinations
no more, but only for that sacred claim upon her.
For the spirit of noble deeds, the spirit that carried Joan of Arc to
the rescue of her country and to martyrdom, is not dead in the world,
though no modern historian may depict a woman in armour leading allied
armies on the battlefield. In quieter guise, in hidden corners, in
unsung self-forgetfulness, women still answer to the divine call that
sounds in their hearts, more inspiringly perhaps than in a man's; and
for the everlasting good of the human race let us hope it will never
cease to sound.
Lamartine has said: "Nature has given woman two painful but heavenly
gifts which distinguish her from the condition of men, and often raise
her above it: pity and enthusiasm. Through pity she sacrifices
herself; enthusiasm ennobles her. Self-sacrifice and enthusiasm! What
else is there in heroism? Women have more heart and imagination than
men. Enthusiasm arises from the imagination, self-sacrifice springs
from the heart. They are therefore by nature more heroic than heroes."
Enthusiasm and a divine spirit of self-sacrifice held a very deep part
in Meryl's heart, though never for a moment would the thought of
heroism have occurred to her. Where Diana, out of her mocking, but
staunch and loyal heart, amused herself dashing cold water and playful
satire upon all heroics, Meryl said nothing at all, but at a critical
moment both were equally capable of _acting_.
And it did not require much thought on Meryl's part to see now where
this spirit of enthusiasm and self-sacrifice seemed to call her. South
Africa was at the cross-roads; she was at the period of her most
urgent need for great women as well as great men. The only question
that seemed to arise was, what did she specially want of the women
ready to serve her?
In her own case Meryl found an answer from the lips of Carew himself.
"Intermarriage," he had said; "that is the real solution to this great
barrier of racialism. The same hopes united upon the same hearth." And
it did not need much thought to perceive that should she, the admired
and beloved heiress, fondly expected to marry an English nobleman and
blossom into a peeress, marry instead a Dutchman and devote herself
absolutely to South Africa, she would give a tremendous impetus to
this question of intermarriage which was to consolidate the great
South African Union. She saw herself giving this impetus, because it
seemed to be the service life asked of her, and following it up by a
wise and steadying influence upon the man who was likely always to be
in the forefront of South Africa's politics.
And yet, sometimes in the silence of the night, how her spirit
shuddered and shrank from it, lying bare and desolate and bleeding
under the hopeless, unconquerable ache for that strong Englishman in
the north--that soldier-policeman for whom she would willingly have
foregone all pride of place, all luxury of wealth, all satisfaction of
achievement! Yet this he would never know, seeing her, as he ever
must, framed in a vast fortune from which she could not extricate
herself. She thought if she might choose, she would remain quietly
with her father for ever, doing good, as he, by stealth and without
ostentation, feeding her heart on a memory that would never die; but
here the spirit of self-sacrifice intervened, and gave her no hope of
rest but in fulfilment of what she believed life asked of her.
And so the day of decision came, and all unconsciously Diana struck
the final note. In the morning, glancing through various papers,
magazines, and pamphlets with an extraordinary skill to glean any
little essential point without wading through column upon column of
matter, she came upon a paragraph that aroused her instant
indignation.
"O listen to this!" she cried. "If they are not at it again! Somewhere
or other General Grets has been making a speech, and here is part of
his noble sentiment: 'I earnestly appeal to parents to prevent their
children marrying any of the English race. They must not let this
colony become a bastard race the same as the Cape Colony. If God had
wanted us to be one race, He would not have made a distinction between
English and Dutch.' Well, I wonder what Dutch Willie will have to say
to that?" and she smiled grimly to herself in anticipation of some
satisfaction to come. "This man Grets is certainly one of his
supporters. If he comes this afternoon I shall have a nice little bomb
ready for him!"
But instead of waiting for his usual late hour, van Hert came early,
and asked to see Miss Meryl Pym alone; and when Diana returned from a
game of golf ready for the fray, she was presented to van Hert as her
future cousin.
For once even she was nonplussed and at a loss for words. "O well, it
would be silly to pretend to be surprised, wouldn't it?" she said
rather lamely, and crossed to the tea-table to pour out her own cup of
tea. "And it is superfluous to hope you'll be happy and prosperous and
all that; so I'll just say, my dear future-in-law, I think you're a
devilish lucky man!..." And Diana snapped it out as if an
unaccountable sensation demanded an explosive of some sort.
"My dear!... my dear!..." cried Aunt Emily in outraged horror. "Do try
to remember where you are and who you are! If you indulge in such
vulgar, disgraceful language on the golf course, you certainly cannot
expect to repeat it in the drawing-room." But Diana paid no heed. She
had already observed that Meryl, though blushing faintly, avoided
meeting her eyes.
"And what about this brilliant speech of General Grets' reported this
morning? Will your party allow you to consummate the match, do you
think?..." with biting sarcasm.
But van Hert only laughed good-temperedly. "Could it in any way better
be given the lie?" he asked, and before that irrefutable logic Diana
was silent.
Neither could she see her way to raising any reasonable objections,
when a little, later the engagement was announced broadcast with
considerable beating of big drums, but she flung a few sarcasms about
with some violence.
She flung one or two at her uncle, being at a loss to understand his
taking the engagement so quietly; but if she had been present at the
interview between him and Meryl before the final sanction was given,
she would have seen that he too could hardly act otherwise. In truth,
Meryl perplexed them both in those first few days, for she was so calm
and quiet and self-contained they both felt a little dumb before her.
It was as if, having finally made up her mind, she was determined to
avoid all paths that might weaken her and take her stand alone. She
was far more quiet and composed than either her father or Diana. These
did not say much, but they showed perhaps the more. Henry Pym's hair
whitened perceptibly, as if from some stern mental trouble, and Diana
was uncertain, peevish, and difficult to please. Only once the subject
was alluded to between them.
"I confess the news took me rather by surprise," her uncle admitted in
reply to some sally of hers, "and I was a little at a loss to follow
her actions."
"Actions?..." sniffed Diana. "What actions?... None were needed; it is
the result of meditation."
"You mean?..." questioningly.
"Heroics and martyrdom," she snapped, and flung out of the room,
leaving him perplexed and grave.
"If I thought so," he said in his heart, "if I were sure of it, I
would forbid the banns myself."
He moved to the window, and stood for a long time looking silently and
sadly to the far blue hills. He was thinking that, though he had given
his life almost to be all in all to Meryl since she was left
motherless, there was one part now he could not play.
"A mother would have seen through anything and known what to do," he
finished, and sighed heavily.
XXIII
CAREW'S STORY
The news reached Carew through a newspaper. He was back in Salisbury now,
attending the renewed sitting of the Commission, giving invaluable
assistance. Whatever he said was instantly listened to. The chief members
of the Commission, men of note and weight, wondered a little over this
distinguished-looking man, merely a soldier-policeman, who knew such an
extraordinary amount about the black races in Rhodesia; but if they
sought enlightenment they were disappointed. No one knew anything about
Major Carew, except that he was once in the Blues and now in the British
South Africa police, and that the natives were more or less his hobby.
But there was one morning when he was more silent than usual; when he
seemed a little _distrait_ and very difficult to approach. And the
moment the sitting was over he declined, somewhat curtly, an
invitation to dinner that evening, and rode out across the veldt
alone. That was the morning the daily newspaper contained the news
that the only child of Henry Pym, the well-known millionaire, was
engaged to be married to Mr. William van Hert, the eminent politician.
And Carew's comment was to ride out across the veldt alone.
The news was undoubtedly a shock to him. Of course, he had known she
would marry, but, more or less unconsciously, he had pictured her with
an English home and a permanent place in English society.
The reality,--what actually had happened,--had not entered his head at
all. Of course he knew van Hert by name; everyone did. And because of
his reputation for anti-English views Carew both marvelled and at the
same time gleaned a probable motive. And the result of his cogitations
was that added sternness which always came into his face when he was
seriously troubled.
Yet what use to fret and trouble now? She had gone out of his life for
ever, and with her his last chance of glad renewing. Henceforth he
must go back to his quiet life of service which asked and gave nothing
else, and to the companionship of those old memories which sometimes
awakened from their sleep.
He rode far across the veldt, and for the first time for many a long
year turned back the leaves of the closed book. And the reason he did
this was the remembrance of Meryl's face, as she leaned up against the
lintel of the window that last evening at Bulawayo, when they both
felt it was a final parting. Something that had been in the depths of
her eyes, and which she had been powerless to hide, although she made
no other sign. It was a remembrance that called that added sternness
to his face: the sternness of deep trouble suppressed. For he knew no
woman of Meryl's nature would look as she had looked that evening and
love another man in a month. Therefore it was probably for some
altruistic motive and not love that she had consented to marry van
Hert; no shallow, selfish motive he knew well enough, but perhaps some
call she had found the courage to answer.
But if it was also a sacrifice, an offering of herself and her
happiness upon some altar of need, ought he to let her fulfil it?
Between her and the husband he had pictured for her he could not allow
himself to stand; between her and van Hert, whom he was convinced she
did not love, was another matter. Yet he knew in his heart that he
could not save her now; the die was cast, both of them must abide by
it. And in any case, how could he tell her his story? How could he go
to her with that story and empty-handed as well; she the heiress of
great wealth, and he without even a name and position?