October scene, when his love lay dead upon the heather. Could he ask
any other woman to share that with him?... let the burden of such a
memory faintly touch her life?... He knew that at the inquest it had
been decided no one could possibly say who fired the shot. His uncle
and brother were both shooting at the time, in the same direction; but
though his friend Maitland had insisted upon a verdict of accidentally
shot by someone unknown, and Richard Carew had resolutely supported
him, in his own heart he had stood condemned. Yet if penance were
required, what had he not given?... Exile, loneliness, nonentity for
all the best years of his life; and her image, the beloved face of his
lost Joan, the only woman's presence in his life. And yet now, as he
stood gazing, gazing to the far blue hills, it seemed that her face
and Meryl's were strangely blended. From the very first their eyes
had been as the eyes of one woman, infinitely comprehending,
infinitely true. Was it possible that Ailsa's accusation was true? One
woman had been sacrificed more or less to his mad, insensate fury
against his brother. Was the other perhaps to be sacrificed to his
rigid, indomitable pride? One picture seemed to stamp itself upon his
brain with ever-increasing strength and clearness: the picture of
Meryl, leaning up against the window lintel that last evening at
Bulawayo, white as a frail, exquisite lily, with the anguish in her
deep eyes that she could not entirely hide. That, and the iron control
he had needed to put upon himself, making him seem grim and unfeeling
for fear one instant's weakness should make his longing arms enfold
her. Well, he had played his man's part as well as he could; ridden
away from her, disappointed her, openly avoided her, only in the end
to love her with the deep, wise, understanding, all-embracing love of
a man past his first youth, and with a wide knowledge of human nature.
And this engagement of hers to van Hert! What might it not result
from?... What hopelessness, what despair, what heroic resolve to play
her little part in the country's good, and win some satisfaction
perhaps, since she might not have happiness!
Standing silently at the window it all seemed to pass through his mind
with piercing clearness, and Ailsa's spirited attack rang still in his
ears: "First you will let your sad story come between you, then her
hateful gold, then your lowly position, answering to the call of your
own pride, careless whether it wreck her life's happiness or no."
Yes, she was quite right, it _was_ his pride. Even now the thought of
the gold was hateful to him.
Still, if some day he would indeed be the Marquis of Toxeter!... if he
could at least offer her a high position!... if it was no longer a
question of going to her empty-handed....
The silence continued, and in the background Ailsa waited and watched.
She could read nothing from the tall figure in the window, except that
his thoughts were far away and he was probing deeply. She leaned back
in a low chair, feeling suddenly very tired and overwrought. She had
come all the way from far Zimbabwe for this interview, just to say to
this man, before it was too late, the spirited things she had said.
And now?...
She looked round the den of the man who was her friend, and his, and
had helped her to win the interview, noting each trivial detail, each
attempt at decoration and hominess, each cunning substitute such as
every Rhodesian contrives out of his ingenuity for some trifle not
easily procured in that far land. And all the time she was tensely
painfully aware of that strong man in the window, and of the issues
that hung upon his decision. How, in the event of his deciding to
approach Meryl, the recognised fiancé was to be treated, was beyond
her. She was too tired to probe further. She only cared that Meryl's
happiness should be saved. Her own had been so nearly lost, she had
seen so much unspeakable bitterness arise out of one great mistake,
made once by many women at the altar, and she only waited to know if
she had lost or won.
At last the silent figure moved. At the window Carew turned and came
towards her. She watched him with all her soul in her eyes, unable to
rise from her chair for very tension.
"What are you going to do?..." she asked, hoarsely.
"Can you tell me where I can find Henry Delcombe?" he said.
XXVII
DIANA BEGINS TO GROW PERPLEXED
In the meantime the household at Hill Court was a restless, uneasy,
depressed one. No person in it, except Meryl, seemed undisturbed by
the unsatisfactory atmosphere. She by taking thought, had, contrary to
the old dictum, added to her stature; but it was the stature of her
mind. The spirit that takes a woman through the troubled waters at
hand, with all her consciousness set upon the great goal ahead, upheld
her now; and in the presence of onlookers gave her a grave serenity,
not in any way akin to joy, but baffling to those who would fain have
seen her show a stronger feeling either of gladness or regret.
It baffled even van Hert himself. To him she seemed so strangely the
same, yet different, from the woman he had loved before the Rhodesian
tour. In all his work, his plans, his schemes, she was as earnest and
interested as he could possibly wish; but that fairness his dark
strength had coveted seemed to elude him at every turn. When he kissed
her, he felt vaguely that she suffered his caress; on one or two
occasions it almost seemed as if she went further and shuddered, and
yet she never actually repulsed him. And then the dainty, light humour
that had been hers as well as Diana's!... What had become of it?... It
seemed now as if Diana had absorbed it all, for Meryl was nearly
always quiet, while the younger girl was almost boisterous. And yet
even in Diana there was a note that puzzled him. She was so jumpy and
uncertain. Childishly gay one moment, and cuttingly brilliant the
next. He was glad she was there. After the first week of the
engagement he found himself quite willing to further Meryl's obvious
wish for her company upon every occasion. So if she rose to leave them
alone they deterred her with vague requests and excuses; and when they
went in public together, Diana was always with them. And when she was
snappy, they laughed at her and did not mind. Diana snappy was better
than no Diana at all.
Aunt Emily thought otherwise, and was deeply grateful to them in her
heart whenever they took her refractory niece safely out of her way.
Her escapades were apt to be so wild nowadays, and her language so
horrifying; and whenever the poor lady remonstrated, she was always
told that it was the result of the Rhodesian trip.
"It will take me quite a year to get over it," Diana informed her.
"You can't eat rats, and sleep with a frog in your bed, and go
unwashed for weeks on end, without suffering from it in some way. God
bless my soul!... is it likely?..."
At the end of the second week, anyone watching with keen insight might
have seen a still more significant change creeping over the three most
noticeable inmates of the house; for Mr. Pym was only silent and grave
and retiring, going early to his study and feigning to be much
occupied. And Aunt Emily had acquired a habit of going to sleep after
dinner during her solitariness, which Diana wickedly called a
dispensation from Heaven to bless the household of Henry Pym.
So the lovers and Diana were left to themselves, and usually sat upon
the deep verandah. And it became apparent presently that all the
talking was done by Diana and van Hert; Meryl was merely a silent
listener. Perhaps she was not even a listener; one could not tell. She
sat so still, with wistful eyes looking out beyond the stars. But
Diana, on the other hand, exceeded herself; and in doing so she made
van Hert exceed himself also. She was brilliant, mischievous,
reckless, serious, satirical, nonsensical, all in a breath. She drove
him hither and thither; led him on one moment, and withered him with
her satire the next. It was obvious the man very soon left off
treating her with any careless levity; if he did he was outwitted in
no time; torn to shreds, and cast to the four winds on merry logic
that had ever the sting of satire behind its laughing lightness. Very
quickly he was on his guard, with thrust and parry; keen, watchful,
alert--the politician to whom South Africa listened. And finally there
came a day when, after unfolding a plan to Meryl, he added, "That is
my idea, but I thought I would consult your cousin first." It seemed
to strike him that it was a little odd, and he added, "She is
extraordinarily observant. She may see some weak point we have
overlooked."
"Yes, consult Diana," Meryl had replied at once; "she knows a lot
about statistics of that kind. She has often had arguments with father
over them."
So in the evening van Hert came in eager haste to have his talk with
Diana. And Diana had taken herself off to a dinner-party and was not
forthcoming. So the lovers sat on the verandah alone, and after a
little they began to feel at a loss for anything to say, and wished
devoutly that Diana would return.
As she was likely to be late, van Hert got up and spoke of departing.
He said he had a measure to study carefully, ready for the reopening
of Parliament at Cape Town. And while he was still explaining, Diana
returned. She had made an excuse and left the party early.
"It was so dull," she said. "I have no patience with people who let me
bite them, and do not try to bite back. I bit them all, more or less,
in the end, and left them bathing each other's sores, so to speak, and
exclaiming with bated breath at my cleverness. Fools and blockheads!
just because I've got a banking account that would buy half of them
up, and never miss it. As if I didn't know, when I'm in that mood, I'm
a cattish little spitfire!..."
"So you came home to worry us?..." and the pleasure in his face was
suddenly illuminating.
"Well, you have the pluck to hit back," and she looked at him with a
flash of her eyes that made his senses reel a little. She threw her
costly evening-cloak on to a chair, and pushed it a little aside with
her foot, with a graceful action that displayed a dainty slipper and
ankle, in no wise lost upon him. "I always hit back myself," she
continued. "I've no sympathy with the 'other cheek' theory. I hit
twice as hard as the attacker if possible. If Aunt Emily were here, I
should say I give a dickens of a smack; but as she isn't, it is not
worth while." She came forward with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"Poor dear Aunt Emily! I sometimes have her conscience very much on my
mind; but there ... I can bear it." And her comical enunciation in the
poor lady's exact tones set both Meryl and van Hert off laughing.
The laughter was coming back to her own eyes too. When she entered
they had been clouded, and her lips pouting. If they only knew it,
she had been bored to tears at the party; bored utterly and
completely, longing to be back on the verandah fighting a wordy, keen,
good-tempered battle with van Hert; and she felt sure he would have
gone when she returned. She had noticed he never stayed late when she
was absent. But she was just in time. He had not gone, was only just
going, and she perceived the face of each was tired and depressed.
"What have you been doing?" she rallied them. "You looked as if you
had been intending to read the marriage service through together, and
had read the funeral one by mistake; or possibly because it appealed
to you more!... You both seemed doleful enough for anything."
"We missed you," Meryl said, simply. "William wanted to ask you about
a new measure he is planning."
Van Hert said nothing, but he was looking at her unconsciously, with a
light in his eyes that staggered her. Other men had looked at her with
admiration, but this man had an expression that seemed to envelop her
with himself. She felt throughout her pulses that he was all fire and
eagerness and intensity, a strong, wilful, obstinate, fierce, virile
personality that reached out mute, unconscious arms to her
level-headed coolness. The fire in his eyes was only smouldering as
yet, but it seemed to tell her that he was a fine-toned, brilliant
instrument that she, and perhaps she only, could play upon as she
liked, bringing forth both thundering chords and enveloping sweetness.
And in the sudden silence that had fallen upon the verandah, Diana
knew that she liked to play, would always like to play, that with this
man at least boredom would never fret her restless soul.
Then she plunged into words with him, and they sparred delightedly,
and that work he had spoken of as awaiting him at home was left to
take care of itself.
Later, Diana went outside on the verandah of her room and Meryl's and
looked at the stars. The tables had turned utterly, but it was
doubtful if either of them perceived it. Meryl went quietly to bed
with only a few words, and either slept, or feigned sleep. Diana
loitered on the verandah, and looked at the stars. She hardly knew
why, only some strange half-consciousness was springing up inside her
that made her restless. Somehow van Hert seemed to be gaining a hold
over her. She could not gauge how, nor why, nor wherefore; but as she
thought of his fine dark eyes in the starlight, with that luminous,
glad expression when he looked at her, she had a sense of violent
antipathy one moment, and of a gladness that made her blush secretly
the next.
But within three days the date of the wedding was fixed, and all the
papers paragraphed it far and wide.
It appeared in Salisbury the day after Ailsa had had her talk with
Carew, and it came as a shock to both of them. It left just three
weeks for action, and no more. What was to be done? Ailsa tried to get
another interview with Carew at once, and found he had had to ride to
some place twenty miles distant, and might not be back until the
morrow. So, in distress, she sought Henry Delcombe. What he had to
tell her was faintly reassuring. Carew had gone to see him after he
left Ailsa, and had asked for proofs of his heirship to the marquisate
of Toxeter. Delcombe had been able to satisfy him, and he had been
gravely friendly, but that was all. At last, in desperation, Ailsa
decided to write to Diana. The mail left that morning, and would reach
Johannesburg in three days. Diana was full of resource, and she might
think of a plan. Ailsa decided to tell her as much as she could
without betraying any confidence. She said no word of the tragedy.
That only concerned Meryl, and if she were to hear it at all, she must
hear it from him. Neither did she mention his changed position; that
also he should tell himself. She contented herself with letting Diana
know that he had admitted he loved Meryl.
In the meantime she waited anxiously for Carew to return, but heard no
word of him until the Sunday afternoon. In reply to an urgent little
note he came to see her. She had wondered if he would be changed at
all; if his new position would shed a ray of gladness in his steady
eyes. But he seemed exactly the same, and she could read nothing.
"Did you see the announcement yesterday?" she asked. "There is so
little time. I had to see you."
"I did."
"And what are you going to do?"
He looked down at the carpet, lost in thought. "I hardly know," he
said.
"O, won't you at least go to Johannesburg?..." she pleaded. "See Meryl
once. If you fail her now, perhaps you will never forgive yourself."
"On the other hand, I may only disturb her mind. How do you know she
has not cared for this man for a long time? In any case, what right
have I to cross _his_ path now?"
"O, your logic!..." she cried. "The way you men think this and that
and the other, when a woman just _knows_! Go and see her. Go and make
sure of things for yourself."
But he shook his head in doubt and perplexity. To him it seemed almost
like stealing to go and attempt to take from this other man what he
had won fairly and openly; and though Ailsa tried other arguments, she
could not move him. Only one half-hope she extracted from him.
"Perhaps," he said, "I will write to Mr. Pym and ask his advice."
Then he went back to the hours of desperate mental stress, that were
steadily increasing the grey about his temples. To Ailsa he might have
seemed cold and self-contained as ever, but if she could have known
it, all his being was torn with conflict. With the hourly growing ache
and longing to throw everything to the winds and to try to carry Meryl
off while there was yet time there was the fear lest a wrong step on
his part should shatter for her some newly found content.
XXVIII
DIANA'S PERPLEXITIES INCREASE
The two days after Diana came home early from her dinner-party were
chiefly noticeable for the fact that for the first time since the
engagement van Hert remained away from Hill Court. No one knew why,
and the excuse he sent was of the vaguest. Diana asked her own heart
and was troubled. When he came on the third day, he walked into the
drawing-room to look for Meryl, and found Diana reading in the window
alone. They discovered each other suddenly, and it was almost as if he
gave a guilty start; and he looked unusually pale, with haggard eyes,
as if he had slept badly of late. Diana saw it all, but gave no sign.
"You are something of a stranger, Meinheer van Hert," she said
lightly. "My sword had almost time to rust."
"It would never do that. The best of swords is none the worse for an
occasional rest; unless"--with a somewhat tired gleam of humour--"you
have been keeping it bright at the expense of poor Aunt Emily."
"No, it has had a real rest. I am saving it again for the best
swordsman worthy of it."
His eyes came suddenly to her face, and she realised at once that
until that moment he had scarcely looked at her; and in that second's
flash she saw something in them that hurt: a swift, deep trouble that
he was struggling to hide. He looked away again quickly, noting the
lovely shades of the room, the masses of violets, the general airiness
and elegance.
"Is Meryl at home?"
"Yes. I will go and tell her you are here."
Diana went upstairs very slowly, lost in thought. And when she had
told Meryl, she stood a long time at the window, thinking still.
Presently Meryl came back. "William came to ask me to definitely fix
the date of the wedding. We decided on the fifth; that will give us
just a week before he must go to Cape Town." Then, as if she did not
expect Diana to make any comment, she added, "The invitations must go
out to-night."
That evening van Hert came as usual, but, simply because he was gayer
than usual, Diana perceived that his gaiety was forced; and she saw
also that he shunned meeting her eyes, looking anywhere, nowhere,
rather than into her face.
The next day she rode in a direction where she and Meryl often met and
joined him for a gallop. Meryl had suggested coming as usual, but
Diana had contrived to put her off. She wanted if possible, without
quite knowing why, to see van Hert alone; and as it happened, Fortune
favoured her, for he appeared up a side road suddenly, and had no time
to escape her, even had he wished. So they rode together, and he tried
to talk to her as usual. When they came to a spot where they often
dismounted, and sat to enjoy the lovely view of distant hills, Diana
prepared to get off her horse. She saw him hesitate, and then he
muttered something about an important engagement.
"O, nonsense!..." with a gay, airy smile. "If I'm not in a hurry, you
can't be. I only want to sit for about fifteen minutes."
So they gave their horses' reins to the smart black groom, who always
rode with the girls, and sat on the rustic bench where the three had
several times sat together.
And suddenly, Diana, giving rein to her impulsive temperament, said,
"What is your opinion of a man who marries one woman and loves
another?"
She saw him start and stiffen, but he tried to parry the thrust. "What
a question to ask a fiancé of a few weeks, on the eve of becoming a
bridegroom!..."
"Well, that's why! I thought you would have formed many opinions on
the subject of love and marriage."
"And why do you want to know?"
"O, just a fancy! I know men sometimes do that kind of thing.
Personally I think it is rather cowardly."
"Why cowardly?..."
"Because it shows a man hasn't the pluck to own he has made a mistake.
He would rather go on with it, and pretend everything is all right."
She saw him bite his lip, and felt more thoroughly that he would not
meet her eyes.
"It is hard on the other woman, the one he _does_ love, too. It might
make her very happy to be told. One joy is better than two miseries
any day, even if his lordship did have to own to a mistake and look
rather silly!..." with a little laugh.
"Perhaps I shall know more about it when I am married," trying to
speak carelessly. "You must ask me later."
"Probably I shall not want to know then; my fancies are always
varying. What should _you_ do, for instance, if you suddenly found you
cared for someone else more than Meryl?"
She was watching him closely, and she saw the swift, tell-tale blood
rush to his face.
"I'm sure I don't know," he answered, with a forced, unnatural laugh.
"It is rather a remote probability now."
"O, one never knows!..." Diana spoke with assumed lightness, and
looked away to the hills, feeling a little unnerved by the sudden,
swift palpitating in her blood. "Shall we go on now?" rising and
turning her back to him. "I mustn't keep you any longer from that
important engagement."
She might have added that she had learnt what she came out to learn;
but instead she put her horse to a smart gallop, and rode back without
scarcely speaking, flinging him a gay good-bye over her shoulder when
their roads separated.
When she reached home she found Meryl surrounded by dressmakers, and
trying hard to assume an interest in the proceedings; but Diana's
clear eyes saw the effort as plainly as if it had been written across
her forehead. She saw that she looked ill, too; ill and worn and
joyless, as if something had damped for ever her natural fount of
gaiety. And withal she was so sweet-tempered and considerate, studying
everybody else's feelings in this wedding of hers; everyone's
apparently except her own. Diana wanted to shake her one moment, and
howl round her neck the next. Instead of doing either she was a little
more snappy than usual.
"Will you have your dress fitted now?" Meryl asked her. "Madame has it
all ready."
"No," shortly. "I haven't time this morning; and besides, one can't be
fitted just after a ride. I'm going to have a hot bath and a
cigarette," and she flung out of the room, leaving Meryl a little
perplexed and Madame considerably perturbed.
In her own apartment she tossed things about, and was very irritable
with her maid. Later, she went out into the garden to a shady nook
where she was not likely to be disturbed, because she wanted to think.
But thinking was no easy matter. On every side were perplexities.
"It's just the devil's own mess," she summed up at last, unable to
think of any other sufficiently strong description. "Meryl doesn't
want to marry van Hert, and van Hert doesn't want to marry Meryl; they
both want to marry someone else; and yet they both mean to go on to
the bitter end, because of some rotten-cotton notion about serving
South Africa. O! I've no patience with these heroic attitudes! They
are not suited to commonplace everyday life. If they'd a little more
sound common sense, and a little less of the noble and lofty soul
spirit, they would perceive they will only do more harm than good by
going against nature and trying to force inclinations. But the absurd
thing is, that neither has yet had the perspicacity to perceive the
other's unwilling frame of mind. That exactly bears out my point.
These heroic attitudes do not suit the exigencies of everyday life. If
they weren't both so bent on doing the noble thing, they would
perceive they are merely making fools of themselves, and incidentally
straining my powers of resource beyond all reason. Of course it can't
go on; but what in the name of all that's wonderful can I do to stop
it?... Send for The Bear, and compel him to make the best of the awful
fact that Meryl possesses a fortune, and console dear Dutch Willie
myself, I suppose!..." And she smiled grimly. Then her face softened,
and tears unexpectedly gleamed in her eyes. She brushed them away,
apostrophising herself impatiently. Then she swallowed down a sob,
murmuring, "I can't bear the thought of Meryl, standing with that
smile on her lips and that expression in her eyes, to be fitted for
her wedding-dress. It makes one want to tear the whole world to
pieces, and sink South Africa in the nethermost ocean. No wonder uncle
shuts himself in his study so much nowadays. He must be just as hard
put to it as I am to know what to do." A step disturbed her
cogitations at that moment, and Aunt Emily came into view.
"Ah, my dear, I thought I saw you come down the garden. There is a
letter for you with a Rhodesian stamp. I thought you might like to
have it." And she handed it to her, at the same time sitting down on
the garden-seat beside her.