and on the top dismounted and sat upon a boulder, looking over a vast
tract of lovely country to infinite blue distances. As ever in moments
of stress, he had chosen the height, with wide horizons, fresh-blowing
winds, far spaces of sunlight; and in the flickering shade of the
thinly foliaged trees he took off his helmet, baring his head to the
breeze. And it could be seen that the grey about the temples had been
increasing, while the strong lines on the face had deepened already,
as if it had gone hardly with him of late.
He sat very still; so still that a little squirrel ran down almost to
his feet to investigate the strange figure, and little birds chirped
all kinds of personalities about him to each other close at hand. He
was taking a journey into a far land--the far land of the buried past.
He was thinking of that story he would have had to tell Meryl Pym. Of
Joan's sad life, sad love, sad death. Of how long ago she had lain
dead upon the heather, as far as anyone could tell, slain by his hand.
He went back to it now, page by page; it seemed in some sort of
penance that he must give. The first pages dealt with those two gay
young brothers in the Blues; the elder, Peter, the recognised heir to
the rich bachelor uncle, who now made life gay for them with an
allowance of two thousand a year each; but he was an autocrat and
something of a tyrant, the old uncle, and his will had to be law. He
did not mind their sowing of wild oats if they were what he called
gentlemanly wild oats, and merely got them talked about as gay young
dogs, and he was always generous with an extra cheque if they got into
difficulties; but he would not have foolhardy, quixotic affairs at
all. There he put his foot down. When the younger brother, Geoffrey, a
youth of small, mean aims and temperament, led the pretty daughter of
one of the keepers into trouble, he told his uncle he was going to
give her a fixed sum out of his own allowance yearly while she was
unmarried, and something always for the child.
"Nonsense," said the old gentleman tartly; "the girl shouldn't have
been such a fool. I will pay one hundred pounds into the bank for her,
and she shall not have another penny." Geoffrey thought himself well
out of the scrape, but before the incident closed there were words
between the brothers that neither ever forgot. Peter took a different
view of the matter entirely; he knew the girl, and he knew that she
was gentle and confiding, and that Geoffrey had won her round with
promises. So he called his brother a cur, and a few other things with
strong adjectives, and because he knew he was in the wrong Geoffrey
never forgave him. He went further, and hated him from that time
onward.
But the incident was destined to bear fruit of a far more searching
nature. Because he heard the girl was very ill and quietly fretting
herself to death, Peter went one day to see her, prepared to make any
amends in his power for his brother's sin. And beside the sofa where
the girl lay he met Joan Whitby. And such are the vagaries of human
nature, with its beginning on that day, the gay, light heart, the
fickle fancies, light loves, wild escapades of the devil-may-care
young sportsman, all vanished away into thin air before a love that
filled his whole being. Lovelier, gayer, cleverer women, ready enough
to meet the heir of Richard Fourtenay-Carew halfway, had left him only
gay and careless. Joan Whitby, shy, distrustful, reserved, won the
prize unsought. She had run away from him, avoided any spot where they
might meet, hidden if she saw him in the distance, tried to hurry past
if they met unawares; more than that she could not do, because she was
the governess at the agent's house, and she and her charge must often
cross the park. But Captain Peter Fourtenay-Carew was a hot-headed,
determined young man, and having lost his heart to Joan's grey eyes
and delicate, lovely face, he was not very likely to be abashed by the
fact that she hid from him; rather it whetted his determination to win
her. And in the end, because Joan perceived he was an honest gentleman
and that he truly loved her, and because with all her pure, strong
soul she truly loved him, she left off running away and came shyly
through the wood to meet him. And of course Geoffrey, the jealous,
spiteful brother, discovered their secret, and carried the tale to his
uncle in violent, indignant guise, precipitating anger for his own
ends, where a little discretion might have found a compromise. Mr.
Carew's lips curled a little cruelly as he remarked he would easily
nip that peccadillo in the bud. He would have no penniless, unknown
governess reigning at Dartwood Hall, having already quite other views
for his future successor. Then he informed his agent the young lady
holding the post of governess in his house must be sent away at once,
with a quarter's wages which he would be pleased to remit. To Peter he
said nothing; he merely waited for an indignant scene, easily to be
squashed with cold and cursory logic concerning allowances and future
inheritance if his wishes were disregarded. But it was just there that
he misjudged this gay, handsome nephew of his, possessed also of a
fund of spirit and strong character which his uncle had not had the
perspicacity to perceive.
The interview duly transpired, but there was no indignation at all. If
he had looked for melodrama he was disappointed; the melodramatic did
not appeal to Peter Fourtenay-Carew. He merely told his uncle quite
quietly and respectfully that he intended to marry Joan Whitby.
Richard Carew condescended to reason a little before he resorted to
that cold, cursory logic, but he might just as well have saved himself
both. Peter stood in the library window, looking across the grand old
park, and heard, apparently unmoved, that all those rich acres and
woodlands and well-stocked waters and preserves would pass from him to
his brother, if he chose to remain obdurate and marry the poor
governess, instead of the lady of high lineage his uncle had already
selected for him.
What he said was, "Do you wish me also to lose my career and leave the
Blues?"
For the moment his uncle had been too angry to reply. "Get out," he
had said roughly. "You can't be yourself this morning. I will not
believe you seriously contemplate losing anything."
Peter had turned back from the window, and stood a moment looking
squarely into his uncle's face. "I am going to marry Joan," he said,
"and as you have brought me up to be perfectly useless, except in a
crack regiment, I only want to know if you will continue my allowance
long enough to give me time to find out what I can be useful at," then
he had walked quietly out of the room.
And Richard Carew, distrusting his own ears and far more upset than he
would ever for a moment admit, remembered that he had seen just that
look on the face of Peter's mother when he had had to break to her
that her husband had been killed in the hunting-field--a look of
desperate finality and unswerving resolve. Within the year he had
stood beside her grave also, and taken the two baby boys home to his
own house.
Then Geoffrey had come to him, and because he was clever and
unscrupulous he fanned the flame easily to white-heat. Finally the
uncle had decreed, "I will give him a week to think it over, and in
the event of his remaining obdurate I will offer him one thousand a
year for five years, and at the end of that time the allowance to be
renewed or decreased, or stopped, according to my pleasure."
At the end of the week Peter's reply was "I am going to marry Joan on
the 25th by special licence, in London. If you will not receive us
together, I should be glad if my man might pack my clothes and bring
them to me, with a few other belongings."
And Richard Carew's answer to that had been a lawyer's letter,
politely enquiring of Captain Peter Fourtenay-Carew to what address he
wished the allowance sent, which was to be his for five years. Peter,
not yet too angry to be cautious, asked if the five thousand pounds
might be invested for him in entirety, and made arrangements at once
to exchange into a far cheaper regiment, aware that as a soldier he
might still keep a home for his wife, whereas any experiment in the
untried fields of labour might swallow up all he had. In due course
the solicitor replied that the request would be granted. But ere the
wedding was solemnised the unlooked-for hand of fate dealt him a
pitiless blow. He had many friends in the neighbourhood of his uncle's
estate, friends who were glad and willing to receive Joan for his sake
and her own; and in an unhappy hour he received a pressing invitation
to meet her at the house of one of them, and have a week with the
pheasants before he had to rejoin his regiment. It was a bitter cold
month that year, and every sportsman's temper was a little on edge at
having to face December blasts in October. And one day when they were
out in a preserve that adjoined Richard Carew's, he and his friend
heard shots and voices over the dividing hedge; and it brought up the
subject of young Geoffrey's cold-blooded delight in his good fortune
at becoming his uncle's heir, and unthinkingly the friend commenced to
repeat a report of something he had said in the local club when a
little the worse for drink. Then he had stopped short abruptly, trying
to turn away the subject, but with a sudden dangerous light in his
eyes Peter had demanded to be told; and because the other man's heart
was sore for his friend, and he wanted to give Peter an excuse to
cross swords with his brother, he told how Geoffrey had implied his
relations with Joan had been exactly the same as his own, Geoffrey's,
with the keeper's daughter in the beginning, but that he had not been
clever enough to get clear of the affair as he had done, and that now
he was nicely sold for his high-flown superiority.
And then the wrath in Peter's face had been a terrible thing to see.
It was as if his very nature reeled. He ground his teeth together, and
his eyes had a red look as he muttered savagely, "God damn him; he
shall pay for this!" He was standing with his face towards his uncle's
preserve, and even as he cursed there was a sound of shots, and a
second later a hare dashed out and fled past them.
Scarcely knowing what he did in the blind white-heat of his passion,
but possessed suddenly with an awful desire to kill, he swung
completely round and fired at it. And just at that moment Joan and
their hostess were coming up behind, hidden by the brushwood and
shrubs, to go with them to the luncheon-place,--and Joan fell, shot
through the heart. In the first awful moment no one seemed able to
grasp the appalling fact. Peter threw himself down on his knees beside
her, and was like a man struck dazed and speechless. He had a feeling
that it was some horrible dream or hallucination, and presently this
bewildering dazed sense would pass away and he would find the horror
had not been real. Then across his torment he heard a voice that stung
him alive with dreadful venom. His uncle and his brother had climbed
the fence and had come to see what had happened, hearing from a scared
keeper that someone was shot. Peter looked up and saw them. It was a
dreadful moment for the three to meet. His friend, Maitland, seeing
the unnatural ferocity in his eyes, tried to draw him away. Even
Richard Carew, the uncle, looked a little alarmed. But Peter in his
madness took a step forward. "You cur, you libelled her," he hissed at
his brother, and cursed him bitterly. And then Geoffrey lost his head
too. An ugly sneer distorted his face as he answered, "Well, anyhow,
you won't get your inheritance back now, just through a casual shot.
Lady Lilton is going to marry me, and ..." But he had no time to
finish, for Peter suddenly hurled himself upon him, and struggled
fiercely to get his hands at his throat.
The scene was terrible. Those who were present never forgot it, and by
the time a keeper and Maitland managed to separate them Geoffrey was
too much hurt to stand alone. They left him lying on the ground, while
Richard Carew forced a little brandy between his clenched teeth, and
Maitland dragged Peter away to where his wife and a keeper were
watching with horror in their eyes beside Joan's lifeless form. For a
moment they feared he had lost his reason, and then some dreadful
tension in his brain seemed to snap suddenly and they saw he was
himself again. Without a word to either of them he stooped down and
lifted the still form in his arms, and carried her unaided back to
the Maitlands' house.
He did not lose hold of himself again, but for weeks suffered a mind
agony that might well have permanently turned the brain of a weaker
man. Night after night the Maitlands heard him leave the house, after
all had gone to bed; and they knew that he went out to tramp the moors
till morning, for it was only from utter physical exhaustion he ever
slept. No word came from the Hall, but rumour said the younger brother
was injured so that he would not walk for months. Richard Carew's only
action was to lavish hush-money, and keep as much as possible out of
the papers. One mistake he made. Through his solicitor he informed his
nephew he was willing to give him his former income, that he might
remain in his old regiment. In answer to that Peter wrote to the
lawyer: "I am leaving England for ever, and I shall cease to remember
from this moment that I have the misfortune to be related to Richard
and Geoffrey Fourtenay-Carew. No letters will reach me. I leave no
address," and then he signed himself "Peter Carew" without the
Fourtenay, and used the second name no more. And immediately
afterwards he joined one of the early pioneer bands setting out for
Rhodesia, possessing nothing in the world but a little money gained by
the sale of his personal possessions and a memory that would shadow
his whole life.
Sitting alone on the kopje-top, he leaned his elbows on his knees and
buried his face in his hands, and it was as though the waters of
bitterness overflowed him.
No, of course he could never tell Meryl such a story as that. For
sixteen years his path had lain alone and his bitterness been shared
with none. It must go on so now to the end. When he could bear it the
memory of Joan's dear face still came to him as in infinite love and
compassion; but he seldom dared allow himself even that; it was better
to have nothing in his life--no past, present, nor future except his
work.
He got up and stood for a moment leaning against his horse, resting
his arms on the saddle and gazing far away. Then he rode slowly home
under the stars, and by the time he reached the police camp his face
was only rigid and mask-like.
XXIV
A RAIN-WASHED MORNING AND A DISCUSSION
It was the first rain-washed morning of the wet season when Ailsa
Grenville heard the news, through a letter from Diana.
And the first rain-washed morning is an epoch in the Rhodesian year;
therefore it cannot be dismissed with a curt announcement.
All night long the vigorous, boisterous spring-cleaning had been in
progress. Ailsa, snug in her little bed, with the rain slashing and
banging and pounding on the corrugated-iron roof, and the trees
swishing and swaying, and the wind rushing around like a mad thing,
apparently from all four corners of the earth at once, had laughed
softly to herself at the commotion Mother Nature was making upon the
dusty, dishevelled, rubbish-strewn land. It was as if, having been
very busy elsewhere for three months, she meant to stand no nonsense
now, but get the whole country furbished up in one night. What a time
they were having, those dusty, untidy-looking trees! Bucket after
bucket, millions of buckets as big as a house, full of delicious
rain-water, flung at their heads! And the dusty, disgraceful roads
swept bare, with gallons upon gallons of water driving their refuse
hither and thither, all of it, as if mightily ashamed of itself,
scrambling along in masses; and, of course, in its haste choking up
the drains, and becoming a serious hindrance until a veritable
water-spout was necessary to clear the course.
And then the dead branches and twigs that the trees had been too lazy
to shed; short shrift for them on the first spring-cleaning night.
Down they came, helter-skelter, and no notice taken of the tree's
groaning, or its crackling cries of protest.
And the little river-beds and stream-beds, carelessly left to get
filled up with dead leaves and rank grass, such a turning out for them
as the resistless water was driven in sweeping streams along their
bosoms! And woe betide any carelessly thatched or unsightly roofs! Off
they went, away with the general medley. The coming summer would have
none of them. And the granite, which had allowed dust and dirt and
dead grasses to accumulate upon it, how it got its face scrubbed and
washed that first night, and the wind shrieking with glee all the
time, dashing the sheets of rain against it with its whole might!
But, of course, one could tell that everything liked it. The laughter
in the trees and the wind was quite distinct, and the little rivers
were fairly shouting with joy. It was not their fault that all that
piece of the earth had grown so dusty and untidy; it was Mother
Nature's own fault for being so long coming with those big buckets of
hers. How could any land, however willing, look spruce and green and
clean with no rain for four months? No wonder there was such a
commotion, and it was such a noisy, vigorous business, when at last
the rain did come! Every tree and every blade and every flower had a
special little life-plan of its own to carry out, if only it could get
enough moisture, to say nothing of all the myriad insects and birds
and animals, who were too lackadaisical, after the long, dry heat, to
thoroughly begin their summer preparations until the rain came. The
activity among the humans, with their gold-mines and farms and
fanciful erections, would be nothing, would not be worth mentioning,
compared with the activity going on in the hidden world all around
them on the morrow. Even the flowers had been chary of wearing their
best dresses in such a dusty, untidy world.
But wait till to-morrow, and then see them! Far, far outvying any
assembly of Ascot frocks or Lords' cricket week or Henley Sunday. The
boisterous rain was a little severe on the dainty blossoms, but one
may be sure they bore it with the pluckiest patience, whispering to
each other gleefully about the lovely frocks they were going to wear
the next day. And there would be such eager, joyful cogitations in the
bosoms of all the little males anxious to be off on their spring
courting affairs. How could any self-respecting young cock bird or
male insect go and pay his addresses in a dusty, dirty, faded coat? Of
course, it wasn't to be thought of. The other chap, who waited, would
get all the running. But to-morrow there would be no further need to
wait at all. Plumage and coats would be spring-cleaned, and
expectations for the coming summer of the highest. Well-filled
storehouses, leaf-cosy nests, glorious hunting-grounds. Never mind
these boisterous winds and the violent way they hurl the rain about;
sit tight and make lovely plans for to-morrow.
Ailsa, snug in her little bed, thought happily about the earth and its
glad renewing, and woke up her precious Billy to say, "Are you awake,
Billy? Can you hear it?... We shan't know our little world to-morrow."
And Billy, who was sometimes of a very prosaic turn of mind, answered,
with a grunt, "Just in time to save that top patch of mealies and the
bed of onions, by Jove!..." and then rolled over and went to sleep
again.
"Bother your onions and mealies," said his adoring wife. "The world
wasn't made for you to grow vegetables in!..."
But the next morning they climbed a kopje together, just for the joy
of it, and laughed softly, and exclaimed in hushed voices at all the
wonder outspread.
Such a glorious new heaven and new earth! In the heaven a rain-washed
sky, resplendent with armaments of fairy cloud-vessels sailing across
deepest, loveliest blue. On the earth every leaf and every blade
flashing light, as if it had a little sun of its own; every flower in
its loveliest court dress; the very stones gay with beautiful shades
of lichen; the granite kopjes in the distance, with their faces so
thoroughly scrubbed, gleaming with the dazzling brightness of
new-fallen snow. Dark, rich soil where the plough had been, renewed
with the richness of velvet. Sullen, colourless veldt, radiant in a
few short hours with the first outposts of its coming spring glory.
Far, blue hills, bluer and intenser than ever in the rain-washed
atmosphere. Little cock birds and male insects away off soon after
sunrise about those courting affairs that had been delayed. A whole
world rejoicing; a whole world singing Te Deums of praise and
thanksgiving in its own dear, happy, overflowing way.
No wonder the big fellow in the well-worn khaki, with his vigorous
enthusiasms and wide sympathies, thought a little regretfully of the
hide-bound, clause-bound, doctrine-bound, sober-minded black cloth he
had felt himself obliged to put off. Would humanity ever sing again
as the sons of the morning? Ever burst into Te Deums of overflowing
thanksgiving to the Giver of all good, such as echoed and re-echoed
from a long-parched earth on its first rain-washed morning.
Well, he could but try to keep the long face and depressing atmosphere
and thin air of superiority safely out of his own little sphere, and
while he taught the natives to be active, useful members of society,
try to help all the settlers about him, hard cases or otherwise, to be
honest, fearless, clean-living men, whether they achieved it to the
accompaniment of good round oaths and a Sunday morning spent in bed,
or on their knees between consecrated walls in the accepted way. Of
course, he liked them to come to his little stone tabernacle with its
thatched roof, and he made his service just as attractive as ever he
could on their behalf; but if they were too lazy or too busy to
come--well, it didn't follow they couldn't be honest, clean-living
fellows without it; so then he went to them, and sat over their camp
fire, and told them a good story or two, and in the end there wasn't a
camp within twelve miles where the "bloomin' sky pilot" wasn't one of
the most welcome guests.
But to do them justice, they mostly liked going to his little
tabernacle, for it was always a pleasant meeting-place, and men in
exile, even "hard cases," like to sing a good old-fashioned hymn just
once in a way; to say nothing of the big home-made cake, full of
plums, which was usually ready to be handed round afterwards on the
"sky pilot's" verandah, and which he teasingly informed Ailsa was her
way of bribing his congregation to come to church, rather than suffer
the ignominy of hearing him preach to empty benches.
But that was as it might be; anyhow, if a settler within reach chanced
to be ill, he might be sure he would get a jelly or soup or milk, even
if he had never put a foot inside the little wilderness church. And if
Billy could not take it The Kid or Moore had to, for Ailsa ruled her
little sphere with a rod of iron, and the two troopers had long been
her willing slaves.
But though she had cut herself adrift from the pleasant world of her
girlhood, and won a real satisfaction out of life that would be death
to most women, she had never lost her sympathies with all that went
on in that existence, where
Life treads on life
And heart on heart;
We press too close in church and mart
To keep a dream or grave apart.
And when they came back from their ramble on that joyous morning,
Diana's letter caused a shadow to come over all the sunlight, and a
quick anxious ache to grow up in her heart. After baldly stating the
news of Meryl's engagement her cousin wrote:--