dreamer as Meryl the desirability of a martyr's crown?... She is far
better suited to love in a cottage and babies, but just because that
is the case and it is easy to obtain, she chooses to break her heart
on some vague altar of sacrifice. I have no patience with these
high-falutin ideas myself, nor with the cottage and babies either, for
the matter of that; but I suppose a few people had to be practical and
selfish and commonplace, to keep the world going round without violent
bumps and jerks. Don't send Meryl congratulations; send her an In
Memoriam card. Believe me, it is better suited to the auspicious
occasion."
Ailsa showed the letter to her husband, feeling that it was the worst
news she had had for many years. "What does it mean, Billy?... What
can have influenced her?... My sweet Meryl! What is it?... What can it
be?... that keeps Major Carew so aloof? It was easy to see how they
attracted each other."
"He is a proud man," her husband said, gravely. "It is not easy for a
proud man with nothing to choose a wife with a large fortune."
"Ah, but there is something more," she cried, "it cannot be only that.
What has kept him so reserved in every particular all these years?"
But Grenville could not help her, and all the afternoon she worried
and fretted in silence.
In the evening she said to him anxiously, after again discussing the
news, "Mrs. Fleetwood has often asked me to visit her in Salisbury.
Shall I go now? Perhaps if I could get Major Carew to talk?..."
"You will never get him to talk," with quiet conviction.
"Nevertheless, my husband, I feel I must try. We have so much, you and
I. One can but make the effort."
She got up from her chair and went round to him, and climbed on to his
knee and hid her face, because she was troubled and unhappy.
"Tell me something I can do to help them, Billy?" she pleaded.
He fondled her hair in silence a moment, and then, because he thought
it might comfort her afterwards to know she had tried, he said, "There
is no harm in your going to Mrs. Fleetwood's. I think the change would
do you good."
And Ailsa went to bed a little comforted that at least he sanctioned
her journey.
XXV
AILSA LEARNS CAREW'S SECRET
Ailsa had to journey to Selukwe in the post-cart, and she found it
very trying; all the more so because her tender heart, which loved all
animals, suffered agonies of compassion for the poor underfed,
overworked mules, some with sores, urged pitilessly along by their
black driver. She wished vainly that she was the happy possessor of a
fortune, and might at once finance in Rhodesia the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, for which funds are so urgently
needed. At Selukwe she had some little time to wait at the hotel
before taking the train, and she went round to the posting-stables to
interview any white man she could find who might be in a responsible
position towards the post-cart mules on the subject of their
condition. The man, of course, complained of the roads, which were in
a hopeless condition, and beyond satisfying in a measure her own sense
of compassion, she knew she had done little good. But while she talked
to the white man at the stables, a thin, scholarly looking,
grey-haired gentleman chanced to overhear their discourse, and raising
his hat to her with grave courtesy, expressed his admiration of her
action.
"But can nothing be done, do you think?" she asked him dolefully.
"I'm afraid not. You see, the Government do not particularly wish that
route used, and so they have allowed the road to lapse. Let us hope
there will very shortly be a railway, at any rate, to Edwardstown, and
that then visitors will be encouraged to go and see your wonderful
Zimbabwe ruins, instead of discouraged by the discomforts of the way."
They moved towards the hotel together, and Ailsa asked, "Have you seen
them?"
"Only for a few short hours, which were all I could spare from some
research work I was doing elsewhere in Rhodesia. I was tremendously
impressed by the little I had time to see, and look forward to a long
sojourn there presently."
They talked on, their conversation drifting from one subject to
another, and then he discovered her name was Grenville, and she that
his was Delcombe, and they greeted each other anew as both hailing
from lovely Devon. After that he proudly assumed the rôle of escort,
and waited upon her hand and foot. As it chanced, he also was
journeying to Salisbury, so they became travelling companions, and the
chance acquaintanceship ripened rapidly. In the evening they dined
together in the restaurant-car and sat long over their meal; and then
it was that Ailsa chanced to mention the name of Major Carew.
Henry Delcombe at once remarked, "There was a Major Carew at the
Zimbabwe police camp, I think, when I visited the ruins, but I did not
see him. I should like to have done. I understood from the young
trooper there that he is some relation to the Fourtenay-Carews?" and
he paused interrogatively.
"It was the man I am speaking of. He _is_ a Fourtenay-Carew."
"Ah!..." and Ailsa saw instantly the swift interest in her companion's
eyes; a wave as of thought-telepathy that this man probably held the
key to Peter Carew's past. Delcombe read in her sparkling eyes that
her interest in the soldier-policeman was no casual one, but of the
warmest friendship.
"Did you know him before he came out here?" she ventured.
"I knew his father well; I lived near to them in Devon. I was doing
some research work, and I had a quiet little home in a lovely valley
close to the little place that was then this man's home, and quite
near also to Dartwood Hall, where the elder brother, Richard
Fourtenay-Carew, lived. They are not a rich family at all, you know.
Dartwood Hall and estates and money came to Richard Carew through a
very eccentric godmother, who brought him up, and he could do as he
liked with it all. His younger brother, Peter Fourtenay-Carew, and his
wife had, I think, only a very small income between them besides his
pay as a captain. They rented a pretty little place in Devonshire
close to Dartwood Hall, and came there for the hunting whenever he was
able. The brothers were good friends, and he always had the run of
the Dartwood stables. They were an interesting pair, but it was the
younger whom I regarded as a friend, and that was why I was anxious to
find out if I had stumbled across his son. As you may have heard,
Captain Fourtenay-Carew, the father, was killed in the hunting-field
and his wife died within the year. The two boys, then quite babies,
were adopted by Richard Carew and brought up as his own sons."
He paused and studied Ailsa's face gravely. She was almost breathless
with interest, and he seemed a little taken aback by it. She saw the
question in his eyes, and hastened to add frankly, "I cannot tell you
how interested I am to hear this. My husband and I think there is no
one in the world like Major Carew; in fact, in some vague, distant way
I believe we are related. But he never speaks of his past life at all.
For some reason he seems to regard it as a closed book; he even
persists in calling himself a Rhodesian, and resolutely ignores the
fact that he is anything else as well."
"Ah!..." and the thin, scholarly face of her companion looked as if he
were obtaining a clue he wanted. There was a pause, and each seemed to
be weighing something in his and her mind. Then Ailsa spoke: "I
conclude he has some reason for his extreme reticence, and I hope I
should be one of the last to pry into anyone's secrets; but for a
reason I can hardly explain, I should be very glad to know something
now that might possibly help me to do a special service for him. I
shall see him in Salisbury."
"What I know is no secret in a general sense," said Delcombe, speaking
with grave deliberation; "but the facts of it were cleverly hushed up
by his uncle, and you will easily understand that Major Carew would
never speak of it now. My own interest in the matter is because of my
regard for his father, and, I think I may say, admiration for himself.
Anyone seeing the two brothers together as I did--that is, the younger
men--must have felt deeply drawn to the elder and repulsed by the
younger. A finer young fellow than Peter Fourtenay-Carew never
stepped. The other brother was good-looking also, but he was cunning
and crafty and little liked. Yet, such are the mysterious ways of
Providence, the younger brother, by an unlooked-for turn of events,
became the possessor of wealth and place and influence, and the elder
went out from his country penniless, exiled, and alone. As far as I
can judge, no one in England has ever heard of him since. I don't
think it is even known where he is. A few of us knew that he came out
to South Africa, and journeyed to Rhodesia with one of the pioneer
columns, but that is quite sixteen years ago, and events at home move
quickly, and his utter silence lost him the warm places he might have
held in most hearts, or, at any rate, left them in abeyance. I only
came out to Rhodesia a few months ago, and I have been much on the
veldt, studying ancient relics; but I have kept my ears open. I heard
of the man you are speaking of at the police camp at Zimbabwe, but the
young trooper, Mr. Stanley, was not communicative. With a very
praiseworthy _esprit de corps_, he declined to be drawn into any
discussion whatever concerning his officer. I heard after I left that
he, Major Carew, was a very reserved, taciturn man, but it was
generally credited he had once held a captaincy in the Blues; that and
a personal description persuaded me he was my old friend's son."
"Yes," Ailsa said, "there can be no doubt about it. I suppose you knew
that he was going to be married just before he came away, and
something rather dreadful happened?"
"Ah; he has revealed that much, has he?" in some surprise.
"Not to me; to a great friend of mine."
"I see."
He seemed perplexed, uncertain evidently, how much to tell her. Ailsa
understood, and was a little at a loss how to act herself.
"I should not have mentioned the fact to anyone else," she said, "as
he evidently wishes to keep all personal matters entirely to himself;
but, of course, you were very likely to know it. I also learnt from my
husband that he was the elder brother and originally his uncle's heir,
but something happened to cause Mr. Carew to change his mind."
Then Mr. Delcombe said thoughtfully, "I think there is no reason why I
should not tell you a little more about him. I have always felt
exceedingly sorry for his determined exile, and the isolation from all
his old friends and old delights. I know that he dearly loved Devon,
and one feels it is time now that he came back to try and pick up the
threads. You and your husband appear to be his only friends, and as a
distant connection you might be able to approach him upon a subject
where a stranger, or shall we say a forgotten friend, would be
diffident." He paused, then added, "I wonder if he has the remotest
idea that, owing to several deaths, he is now the next heir to the
Marquis of Toxeter?"
A sudden joy seemed to sweep Ailsa through and through, and her eyes
shone, and she clasped and unclasped her hands with excitement as she
breathed, "O, is that _really_ true? It seems too good; too much like
a story-book."
"Yes, it is a fact. Major Carew's family was a younger branch, and
sixteen years ago it would never have entered anyone's head that the
marquisate might fall to them. Time makes many changes, and three
heirs have died in succession. The present marquis is old and has no
children, therefore the next heir was Richard Fourtenay-Carew, also
childless, and after him Major Carew's father. Richard Carew died very
shortly after this man left England, and young Geoffrey Carew then
succeeded to all his possessions. I believe something was left to
Major Carew, but he refused to touch it. It is since then that (his
uncle being dead) he has become the heir of the present marquis, and I
think it highly probable he has no notion of the fact whatever."
"I am almost certain he has not," Ailsa intercepted, "for I think he
would have mentioned it to my husband."
"Unfortunately there is very little money with the title, but he is
not a man to trouble much about that; and, of course, the present
marquis may live some time. But I have thought sometimes if he _knew_
it might wipe out a little of the past bitterness. His brother robbed
him of so much, but in the end it would seem Nature is making things
even again. Geoffrey would give half his wealth to have the title, and
I have reason to believe that it is a great bitterness to him to know
that his brother, who cares nothing at all about it probably, must
inevitably inherit it if he outlives the present owner."
"And you will tell him?..." eagerly.
"Perhaps. Or it may be that you!..." He hesitated, and looked at her
thoughtfully.
And then Ailsa said impulsively, "Let me give you trust for trust. I
am taking this journey now chiefly on Major Carew's account. There is
trouble in the air. I cannot tell you the facts; I scarcely know them.
But he has lived his isolated, reserved life so long, I feel it has
perhaps warped his view a little, and if he could be persuaded to open
his heart to a friend he might see things in a clearer light, and save
himself and a dear friend of mine great unhappiness." She paused, then
added sadly, "But I am so much in the dark concerning him I hardly
know how to win his confidence. There appears to have been this
something before he left England, something rather terrible, that has
shadowed all his life."
"There was; I will tell you in confidence. Richard Carew hushed it all
up, but there were a few of us who _knew_. His quarrel with his uncle
was because he insisted upon marrying a poor governess, a most lovely
and charming lady, instead of the bride his uncle had chosen. He was
disinherited, and his allowance so curtailed that he would have to
leave his regiment; but none of that troubled him in the least. He
adored his fiancée, and was supremely happy, as anyone could see. Then
the tragedy fell. I cannot tell you all the details, probably no one
knows them except his friends the Maitlands and his brother, and uncle
who is now dead. He was out shooting with Maitland, and the other two
were near at hand; and Maitland had repeated something to him his
brother had said, which was a deadly insult to Miss Whitby. He was in
a blind fury, and scarcely knew what he was doing, when he swung round
and fired at a hare behind him...." There was a moment's intense pause
before he finished in a low voice--"and the shot killed the poor girl
he was to have married in a week."
"O, how terrible!..." Ailsa gasped, and went white to the lips. "How
terrible! Poor man! O, poor man!" Tears came into her eyes, and she
turned away to hide them, and for some moments both were silent.
Then Delcombe continued, "It is no wonder that he has been always
reserved and silent. I suppose in a way it killed the part of him that
could be anything else. He just went right away to a strange country,
dropped the double name they had always been proud of, and cut himself
adrift altogether from everything connected with his old life. It is
no doubt his intention to remain apart, and take up the old threads no
more. But I loved his father, and I loved him in my old-fashioned way
which he was not likely to perceive; and when the Royal Geographical
Society offered me a chance of a trip to Rhodesia I took it gladly.
One of my first thoughts, when the decision was finally made and I was
appointed, was, 'Perhaps I shall come across Peter Carew's son.'"
Ailsa rested her elbow on the table and leaned her head on her hand,
still with the glisten of tears in her eyes. "It makes one feel there
is surely a Providence," she told him softly, "for my chance meeting
with you may save him, and that other, from everlasting regret."
A little later, when they went to their separate compartments for the
night, she thanked him again. "You have made me feel quite
broken-hearted for our dear soldier-policeman. Think what his memories
must have been all these years! But perhaps his dark day is finished.
I am very hopeful now. God bless you for remaining so staunch a friend
to him and giving me your confidence!"
And in Johannesburg that night Meryl said simply and quietly to van
Hert, "I will marry you as soon as you wish. As you say, there is
nothing to wait for, and, afterwards, there is much that we can do
together."
"In a fortnight?" he urged, and she assented.
But Diana insisted otherwise. "It is simply indecent haste," she
exclaimed, "and nothing in this world will persuade me to decide upon
my bridesmaid's frock and have it ready in less than three weeks, and
it may be a month."
And Meryl--a quiet, white-faced Meryl nowadays, with little enough
enthusiasm for frocks and wedding-presents--let her have her way.
XXVI
"HOW CAN I GO TO HER!..."
The first meeting between Ailsa and Carew was a very difficult one for
the woman. Directly she saw him she realised that he had drawn back
into his shell further than ever, and the increased greyness on his
temples spoke for itself of anxious, troubled hours. At first he had
been difficult to entrap. In reply to her note came just a vague
regret that he was exceptionally busy, and often out on the veldt,
with a hope that he would see her before she left. One or two other
attempts failed entirely to procure the interview, and she was almost
at her wits' end. Finally, she had to resort to strong measures, and
gain her end by subterfuge. Carew went to the house of a man friend by
invitation, and was shown into his friend's den to find Ailsa awaiting
him alone. The expression on his face told her instantly that he felt
himself trapped, and resented it. But she could be very disarming when
she liked, and she had tact enough to follow the straight course most
likely to appeal to him now that she had gained her interview.
"You must not be angry with me," she said, with engaging frankness. "I
simply had to see you."
He stood very upright, with a cold, unresponsive face, and waited for
her to proceed.
"Won't you sit down? You make it difficult for me when you are ... so
... so ... distant and unbending."
He moved away to the window, and stood looking out, with his back to
the room. "Will you tell me what it is you have to say?" he asked very
quietly. He knew perfectly well it had to do with Meryl, and he did
not want her to see his secret in his face. In fact, he did not wish
to speak of the subject at all.
Ailsa stood silently a moment, looking at his back, and then she said
very quietly, "I have heard the story of your past life. I ... I ...
know it all."
For a moment there was such a stillness in the room that one could
almost hear heart beats. The figure in the window never moved.
"Who told you?..." he asked at last.
"Mr. Henry Delcombe, the scientist, who was a great friend of your
father's."
Another silence. At last--
"Is he in Rhodesia now?"
"He is here, in Salisbury. He will not tell anyone else," she added.
"He told me because ... because ... he perceived that Billy and I
cared for you very much, and for your happiness." She moved a little
nearer to him, and continued gently, "I felt almost as if I could
break my heart with sympathy for you,--and that you should have borne
such memories all these years, _alone_."
"I have put them behind me," he said, speaking almost harshly. "The
past is dead. What does it matter who and what I was before?... To-day
I am a Rhodesian, and my work is _here_. I shall remain here now until
I die."
"You may not be able to do that," and her voice had suddenly a ring in
it that seemed to arrest him.
"Why may I not?"
"Because presently--very soon perhaps--you will have to answer to a
call that requires you in England."
He half turned to her, waiting silently and unmoved, with grave eyes
fixed on the distance.
She came a step nearer. "Mr. Delcombe told me also, that because of
many changes that have taken place in the sixteen years since you cut
yourself adrift from home, you are now heir to the marquisate of
Toxeter. When the present marquis dies you will succeed him."
It seemed at first as if he heard without understanding. Once more
there was a silence in which one might hear heart beats.
"Will you let me congratulate you?" Ailsa asked a little timidly.
"I think he must have been dreaming," he said in slow comment.
"No; there is no doubt about it whatever. He will tell you himself if
you will let him. He wants to see you very much."
And still he was only silent, gazing, gazing to the far distance. If
it was true, how was it he had never heard?... Could it possibly all
have transpired during the times he had been away shooting in the far
north, or out on the veldt, away from newspapers for months?
"There is something else I want to speak about," and her voice
trembled somewhat. "This news concerning your future will make it a
little easier. You know, of course, that Meryl Pym has become engaged
to Mr. van Hert, the well-known Dutch politician?"
Instantly he stiffened. "I saw it in a newspaper."
She came close up to him suddenly. "O, Major Carew"--and there was an
infinite pleading in her voice--"Billy and I thought you cared for
her, and we believed she cared for you. Don't let her wreck her whole
life now.... Don't stand by and let her marry a man she does not love.
Go to her before it is too late!"
Under his iron control his face seemed to work strangely. She saw the
swift compression of his lips, the swift pain in his eyes, the strong
hunger he could not entirely hide.
"It is impossible," and the usual steadiness of his voice was shaken.
"You say you know my story!... How can I go to her and tell her that
once I killed the woman I loved?... How can I speak to her of love--I,
the policeman, she the heiress?... How can I tell her that story which
was told to you?... The story of damnable hate and passion, when I
tried to strangle my own brother. I tell you she would shrink away in
horror. She must shrink. Why did you speak to me about it at all! Your
thoughts are folly and madness. _I_ offer love to Meryl Pym?... My
God! I have some decency--some pride left." And the pain and
bitterness in his voice shocked and stabbed her.
But in spite of her inward shrinking she answered him boldly, drawing
on a courage lent her by love and sincerity.
"And I say that if you love her truly, you ought to be able to trust
her with your story. It is not noble and spirited of you to stand
aside as you perhaps think. It is cowardly. Pride is generally
cowardly. For the sake of your pride, of your own personal feelings,
you will let her go on with this marriage and never say a word and
never move a finger to save her from shipwrecking her whole life.
First you will let your own sad past come between you; then you will
let her hateful gold drive you away; then you will talk of yourself
as just a policeman. And in any case--you must know it as well as I
know it--none of these things would estrange Meryl Pym from the man
she loved. There is nothing whatever between you except your pride,
and you think that demands a renunciation from you, careless or no
whether it brings heart-break for her."
He had grown deathly white now, with dark hollows round his eyes, and
she could almost see how his teeth were clenched behind the firm lips.
She had taken him entirely by surprise in her outburst, and her news
concerning himself; and he discovered she had swept his secret from
him concerning his love for Meryl, almost before he knew what he was
speaking of.
"There might be something in what you say if Miss Pym cared for me in
return. That she does is the merest supposition."
"And how do you know that with such sureness?" she cried. "No, no,
Major Carew; in your heart you know otherwise. But you just let her go
away without a word, without a hope, and one or two of us know what
this hasty engagement means. Diana calls it martyrdom. She wrote me to
send Meryl an _in memoriam_ card instead of congratulations, for it
was more in accord with the occasion."
His face worked visibly, in spite of his stern suppression, but he
still stood rigid and upright, looking away from her--out over the far
shadowy veldt, seeing nothing.