unheeded upon Diana's hand. He held her fast and made no attempt to
speak. And Diana hid her face because there were great tears in her
eyes also.
After a moment she got up, and shook the hair back from her face, and
rallied him tenderly.
"You see, Meryl must 'mother' something in the way of a country: it is
her tremendous Imperial instinct; so I thought she had better 'mother'
Rhodesia." And with a last tender kiss she went softly away and left
him.
In their own room she found Meryl had sent the maid away, and was
waiting for her in the dark, standing in the window with her form
dimly outlined against a moonlit sky.
She went up to her at once and slipped her arm through that of the
silent figure. Meryl pressed it, but for a moment or two did not
speak. Diana did not speak either; for once in her life she had
nothing to say.
At last Meryl said, as if answering some thought deep in her own mind,
"William told me to-night that there was someone else he loved. Di
darling, I think there is only one woman it could be."
And still Diana was silent.
"I gathered also that something had been said between you and him;
something that resulted in ... what has happened to-night...."
"But you are not angry?..." Diana whispered.
"O no. Every moment now I see more clearly what I ought to have seen
before. I am afraid I have only been foolish, and ... and ... I wanted
so to do what seemed the best," with a little break in her voice.
"Of course you did; we all know that," said Diana loyally. "But I saw
the mistake quickest, and I couldn't just sit still and do nothing; I
am not made that way."
Meryl pressed her arm affectionately.
"Di," she whispered, "I want it all to come right as quickly as
possible. I won't ask you any questions. Of course, I know it is you
William cares for, and it seems so perfectly natural now that it
should be. If you care for him, don't delay anything on my account. It
would make me glad to hear that you were engaged to him to-morrow."
Diana pressed the hand in hers. She felt strangely bashful with Meryl
to-night; unable to say anything at all. In her heart she was a little
shy with herself too. When she started out with a more or less light
spirit to change the course of two lives, she had hardly realised how
great a mountain she would be moving.
"Do you love him, Di?..." Meryl asked her softly.
"Yes," and Diana felt a little breathless as she made the admission.
"God bless you! I'm very glad." And Meryl took the girl's face in her
two hands and kissed her.
Then they went quietly to bed, and Diana knew she had said no word of
Carew's coming because she was afraid to.
XXXI
THE SOLUTION IS SEALED
It was a rather sobered Diana who rode out the next morning to meet
William van Hert, and when she saw him she felt suddenly conscious of
herself in a way she had never done before and hoped she never would
again. The glow in his eyes made it difficult for her to meet them,
and they dismounted and went almost in silence to their usual seat.
"You know, of course, what happened last night," he said, with
ill-suppressed eagerness. "It has seemed like weeks and months since;
every hour a week. I have not slept all night with longing for the
morning."
He was looking at his very best: another man almost since they last
sat there; not good-looking, no one would ever call van Hert
good-looking, but muscular and lean, with an air of virility and force
always alluring. A man destined to be a leader in some way; one who
must carry others along with him, if only because of his enthusiasm
and fervour. The main point was, that he should carry them in a
useful, practical direction. And hitherto there had been no special
reason to hope this would be the case; it seemed more probable that,
for the sake of making a noise in the world and gaining a following,
he would identify himself with policies which the older and wiser men
left alone; not from any indifference to the influence he was likely
to wield, but because he was so full of warmth and intensity it must
find an outlet. Some men are like that, especially politicians. They
seem to be obsessed with the idea that they must make a hit somehow at
once and come to the front _now_. And so they are apt to seize upon
the first available policy likely to prove a good solid tub to stand
and shout on; whether it is a durable tub, or one certain to be to
their credit, is something of a side issue. The main point is a tub
big enough and strong enough to bear them while they make the
commotion and gain the hearing they are bent upon. And this spirit,
like most spirits, may have its uses; it is not entirely to be
deprecated. It may bring home very forcibly to the electors a weak
spot that had otherwise been overlooked. In listening to the shouter,
they may perceive how very entirely he is wrong; and, none the less,
make the useful discovery that he is a good shouter. This then becomes
the critical point. Having gained his hearing, will he condescend to
moderate his views and listen to a little wisdom from older and more
experienced men; or will he be obtuse enough to continue to stamp and
shout on his tub, for fear people will call him a turncoat, or a few,
who really do not matter, will leave off listening to him if he grows
less noisy? And it is then perhaps a great politician is marred or
made. Perhaps it often depends very much upon the main influence that
held sway when the moment came to leave off shouting. That moment had
come for van Hert, and he had the perspicacity to perceive it; though
whether he would have acted upon his wiser judgment, left entirely to
himself, it is impossible to say. It is, on the whole, pleasanter to
think that, just because he was a clever, capable, sincere man and
South Africa had need of such, the God of nations placed the matter
beyond all doubt by sending the right influence across his path.
Diana's mocking spirit loved to make game of heroics and big matters,
but it was an affectation and nothing more: as Meryl and Henry Pym had
long ago perceived, not van Hert himself nor Meryl cared more at heart
for the great questions of the day affecting South Africa, and through
her the Empire itself, since every year shows more clearly how
tremendously England's colonies must matter to the mother country. The
older and wiser men were already beginning to shake their heads over
the grave and difficult problem of the white races and the black; over
the tremendous increase of the latter in comparison, which threatened
to swamp the white man out of South Africa altogether. One thing was
obvious to all thinkers, the white races _must_ combine. Union must
indeed be Union and not an empty name. The Englishman and the Dutchman
_must_ join hands and sink differences, not only for the common good,
but the common safety. So when Diana's practical spirit perceived how
great and real an attraction van Hert had for her, she did not try to
put it from her and struggle against it because he was a Dutchman. The
moment she was sure, and the course was clear, she let herself go
fearlessly; not as an act of sacrifice at all, she was far too
practical to have much faith in a sacrifice such as Meryl had
conceived, but because she loved the man and believed in him, and had
no shadow of doubt as to his courage and sincerity if he were but
influenced to move in the right direction.
Well, he had stood on his tub and done his shouting right well; and
now he had a goodly following and was the object of not a little
execration, which is a usual thing for tub-shouters, and does not
matter very much. What mattered was whether he possessed the genius to
keep his followers and carry them along with him, after moderating his
views and coming into line with the older and wiser men. Diana
believed that he did, and as to be believed in is a very strong aid to
all men, there was very little doubt that eventually the God of
nations would prove to have given South Africa a fine statesman, even
if he were built up upon a rabid politician. And if the instrument
used was a woman, has not a great nation itself been built up through
such instrumentality?
And here one pauses a moment to think the old question, how often is a
woman at the back of a man's greatness or a country's or any greatness
whatsoever? Only these women do not need to do any shouting, because,
as a rule, they only want to be heard by _one_. And when the result is
a fine edifice, they are still content to go unnamed and unsung if
that _one_ be lauded generously. For God made women in the beginning,
the best women of all, to want love and be content with love, and care
very little about fame. And so they go quietly on their way, creating
great results, moving mountains, and saying very little about it. It
is that old heroic spirit Lamartine wrote about. And there is a spark
of it in the soul of every woman waging her solitary fight on the
outposts of the Empire, whether she put new life and hope and spirit
into a miner's cabin, or a farmer's little wattle-and-daub home, or in
the heart of any servant of the Empire. What the colonies owe to their
women is so little talked about, partly perhaps because words are all
too inadequate to express it, and also perhaps because if the _one_ is
there to listen and the _one_ to love, many women want no recognition.
But all this time it only remains to be said that Diana believed in
van Hert and believed in his work for her country, and that was why
she had been able to give her love so frankly and absolutely, and was
not in the least deterred by those mutterings of execration which
there is very little doubt she intended shortly to put an end to for
good and all; for if she had entertained any doubts as to how much he
loved her and was ready to do for her, they must have been swept away
utterly out of sight after the first moment of their meeting this
morning. What he had fought to keep out of his face before was now
flooding through it. Never at any moment, even when he first loved
Meryl, had he looked at her as he now looked at Diana. In every pulse
of her being she felt he loved her, not perhaps with the calm, strong
love of her own countrymen, but with a fierceness and intensity,
inherited maybe from some French ancestor, that appealed to her love
of vigour. She at least had level-headedness enough for the two.
But it would hardly have been Diana to sit demurely and listen to his
outpouring, now that he might speak and she might hear. It was far
more natural that the very certainty of everything should make her
feel contrary and want to tantalise him; particularly when, after his
first question had been answered with a quiet affirmative, he plunged
into the subject filling his heart without any preliminary, and with
all that quick enthusiasm of his bursting its bounds.
"Then we need not say any more about it. Why should we?... There is
only you and I now. It seems for the moment as if there were no one
else in the entire universe. But I want the answer to that other
question of mine"; and he leaned near to her, with his whole attitude
a sort of inspired interrogation.
"What question?..." A shade of lightness had crept into Diana's voice;
the shadow of a smile into her eyes. She felt on the verge of being a
little unnerved, and a feigned or real inconsequence was ever her
refuge.
"The question you were not willing to answer yesterday, and which I
told you I should ask again to-day. You said that you had asked me
what I thought of a man who married a woman when he did not love her.
And I said that was not what you had asked. Do you remember the
original question, or must I tell you what it was?"
"I don't remember anything about it. I'm afraid I'm rather given to
asking questions."
"That means I must tell you. Diana, what you asked me was, what did I
think of a man who married one woman and loved another? Now, I want to
know how and when you discovered that I loved another?..."
"It was the obvious conclusion"--studying the toe of her smart
riding-boot with exaggerated interest. "Otherwise you must have loved
Meryl; you could not help it."
"I see." The smile dawned in his eyes now. "And was it equally obvious
who the other woman was?"
She glanced away to hide her tell-tale mouth. "It might have been if
it had interested me."
"But, of course, it didn't?..." and he laughed a low, happy laugh.
"Not in the least. Why should it?..."
"Ah, why?..." and his hand suddenly closed over hers, and at the
strong, possessive touch the magnetism of the man made her blood race
through her veins. She tried to draw her hand away, but he only held
it more tightly, and his face was very engaging as he said, "I've a
good mind not to tell you who the other woman is as you are not
interested."
"Then I shall conclude she will not have anything to do with you,"
came the quick retort. And then her fascinating mouth twitched at the
corners in a way that threatened to undo van Hert entirely. He looked
away with a half-fierce expression. "If you don't want me to crush you
in my arms out here in a public road, don't do that."
"Don't do what?..." innocently; and then they both laughed.
When they were serious again his voice sounded a deeper and more
forceful note. "Dearest," he said, still imprisoning her hand, "it
seems superfluous for me to tell you how much I love that other woman,
as superfluous as to name her. I seem as if I had neither a thought
nor an idea nor a feeling that does not love her."
"Then let us hope she is not a stiff-necked Britisher," quoth Diana,
still as if a little afraid to be serious.
"Ah!..." and he raised her hand to his lips. "I believe you will make
me love the whole race."
"That would complicate matters exceedingly for you," with a
mischievous taunt in her eyes. "You seem to have hated them so very
satisfactorily up to now. What shall you say to your colleagues the
next time they are expecting you at one of their fiery denunciation
meetings?... I have married a wife, an English one, therefore I cannot
come?..."
"Shall I have married her?..." and he looked hard into her face,
blissfully indifferent to her shafts.
"Married whom?..." she asked, provokingly.
He clenched his teeth together. "I feel as if I could shake you!..."
and he glanced round to see if anyone were in sight.
"O, if you're going to be that sort of a tyrant!..." Diana began. But
she got no further. No one was in sight, not even the boy with the
horses. And van Hert just gathered her into his arms and crushed her
for the sheer joy of it until she cried for mercy. "Say you will be
good and treat me with proper respect," he demanded before he released
her, and Diana was compelled to promise.
"But I won't marry you," she added, wickedly, the moment she was free.
And then to save herself from a second undignified surrender she had
to capitulate quickly, and add, "At least, not before next week."
Then she raised her eyes, shining with happiness, to his. "Meinheer
van Hert, if my memory serves me rightly, you have not yet asked me
the most important question of all."
He raised her hand again to his lips, with a movement of reverence,
and said, very simply, "Diana, I love you with all my heart and soul
and strength; will you do me the honour to become my wife?"
And there was a little warm glisten in her eyes as she answered, "Yes,
dear; I am ready to take the long trek with you."
A little later she went home with an air of quiet radiance that told
Meryl all she needed to know the moment she set eyes on her, and her
embrace was full of warmest affection.
Only Aunt Emily seemed thoroughly perplexed, and not able to entirely
grasp the happy aspect of affairs when she heard it all for the first
time.
"How extraordinary!..." she exclaimed; and then, with an air full of
mournful reproach, she looked at Diana and added, "I told you
something dreadful would happen, my dear, if you spoke of the wedding
so strangely."
"Yes, aunty, so you did! and it was very clever of you," Diana
replied. "But, of course, you ought to have warned me before I said
it. Now, you see, I've got caught in the net myself. Ah well!..." she
finished comically, "I can bear it."
And Meryl's low laughter, as she hastened to soothe poor Aunt Emily's
wounded feelings, had a happier note than it had known for many a day.
"I don't think I quite understand," continued the perplexed lady. "It
reminds me of a story I once heard about the aunt of a friend of my
father's, that is to say, the aunt of a friend of your grandfather's...."
"Yes, I remember," said the incorrigible; "but she didn't do it in the
end, you know. And, anyhow, the great question just now is, having
taken over the bridegroom, ought I to take over the wedding presents
as well?..."
"Of course, they must all be sent back," Aunt Emily replied, with
great gravity. "Dear me, what a pity!... What a pity!... And he is
really quite a nice man, although he is Dutch."
"O, do you really think so?..." Diana asked, and went laughing out of
the room.
XXXII
A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES
In Diana's happy state of mind there was not the slightest doubt her
interview with Carew, when it came off, would be the reverse of
conventional.
He arrived at the Carlton the day after it had been notified to the
papers that the engagement between Miss Pym and William van Hert was
broken off by mutual agreement. The new engagement was looked upon
only as a secret understanding at present, and no announcement was to
be made for some weeks.
Carew saw the news in a paper he got at Kimberley, so that when he
stepped out upon Johannesburg station, from a difficult, perplexing,
somewhat equivocal situation he found himself suddenly and
unexpectedly with a clear course.
He had responded to Diana's urgent summons with alacrity, although it
left him entirely in the dark as to what had transpired; his action
had in fact something of the daring which had led to the sending of
the telegram. Wearied out physically and mentally with the struggle,
he seized swiftly the chance of a solution the message suggested, and
trusting to Diana's resourcefulness let himself go with the tide. It
was as though after sixteen years some spirit of the past suddenly
re-entered him; some of that old reckless, dare-devil spirit that had
distinguished him in his regiment long ago.
Without doubt the news that he would some day inherit the Marquisate
of Toxeter, if he outlived the present owner, had worked a wonderful
change in him. He still hated Meryl's fortune, when he dared to let
himself think of a future they might possibly share, but at least he
could now offer her a position that might one day be among the highest
in England. And all that it meant to him after his long exile and
lonely life, apart from all the friends and delights of his youth, lit
a new light in his eyes. And when he saw the paragraph in the paper,
and realised Diana had indeed not sent for him for nothing, he seemed
to let many years slip from his shoulders. Only a week earlier he had
felt middle-aged, and looked every year of his forty-two. The man who
strode down the platform on Johannesburg station, drawing all eyes
after his upright, distinguished form, looked at the very prime of
manhood, and the grey on his temples only enhanced whatever it was
that caused those eyes to turn in his direction.
Diana, waiting for his message in no small trepidation, went off at
once to the hotel. Nothing was to be gained by hanging back, and she
felt more sure of herself generally if she dashed headlong into a
delicate situation.
So she walked boldly up to the door of his private sitting-room, gave
a little sharp knock, and entered.
He was standing with his back to the door, looking idly from the
window, but when he heard the door open he turned round and faced her.
Diana closed the door and walked into the room, glancing about her.
"What a nice den!..." she said. "I'm sure you could only growl
prettily here."
He came towards her with outstretched hand, and she was instantly
struck with the change in his eyes. The steadiness was still there,
the expression of unflinching purpose, but behind it all was that new
light now: the light she had never seen in Carew's eyes before.
"You look very well," she told him, warming swiftly to their old
friendship and forgetting her moments of trepidation. "You ... really
... you almost look as if you might have come into a kingdom!..."
"Perhaps I have," with a humorous gleam.
"Umh!... I'd be very sorry for the subjects; they would be ruled with
a rod of iron."
He pulled a chair forward, a large cosy one, such as he knew her soul
loved, and she sank down into it. He still stood upright, watching her
with kindly eyes.
"Well!..." he began. "You sent me a very curt summons."
Diana coloured a little, not quite clear where to begin.
"Won't you sit down? You seem so far away up there. I feel a little
lost somehow, you are so ... so ... Perhaps if you were to growl I
should feel more at home with you!..." she finished.
He smiled and took the chair beside her.
"I never did growl really. It was all your imagination."
"O, was it?..." emphatically. "Why, thunder in the distance was dulcet
music beside it!..."
"Well," he said again, "about that summons?..."
"It's just this way," began Diana. "I had a letter from Mrs.
Grenville...." She watched him keenly, and saw that he grasped at once
something of what the letter had contained.
"And she told you?..."
"Not very much, but enough, in my mind"--with a sudden flash--"to
justify my summons."
"I don't think I quite understand." He was grave again now, with a
line between the straight brows.
"Well, don't get too serious or you will frighten me. I suppose I'd
better be quite direct. You and I don't either of us care for much
beating about the bush and subterfuge, do we?"
He signified his agreement, and she ran on.
"I knew that Meryl cared for you; I have known it a long time. Yet she
was going to marry van Hert. And van Hert cared ... well, he cared for
someone else too, yet he was going to marry Meryl. It was just a silly
muddle altogether, do you see?... Honestly, I was at my wits' end-to
know how to prevent them making fools of themselves. Then came Mrs.
Grenville's letter. Mrs. Grenville had seen you. She had discovered
that you cared for Meryl, and she told me so. I didn't stop to think
then. I saw in a moment it was your business to help me help them out
of the tangle. So I just sent you a telegram and asked you to come at
once."
"And now I am here?"
Diana began to look roguish. "I just wanted to suggest," she said,
demurely, "whether it wouldn't simplify things all round if Mr. Pym
disinherited Meryl, and divided all the silly money between me and
charities!..."
He could not help smiling, but there was something more than mere
friendship in his eyes as he looked at her. He understood perfectly
that she had strained every nerve to bring him and Meryl together.
"And in the meantime," he commented, "I gather from the newspaper the
knot disentangled itself, and everything is smoothed out."
"Well, I shouldn't exactly say there were no wounded left on the
battlefield!..." with a low laugh.
"I see; and you think it is for me to attend to the wounded?"
"To _one_ of them," with significance; and then suddenly her
unmanageable mouth began to twitch. Carew divined something lay beyond
the remark.
"And what about the other one?"
"Well," with a little air of coyness, "I rather thought of attending
to his hurt myself."
He watched her keenly for a moment, and at last she raised a pair of
laughing eyes to his face.
"The only thing that's worrying me is that I may unintentionally find
myself a heroine."
His low laugh was full of amusement, and his eyes grew kindlier still.
"You are evidently a most resourceful young woman. Have you made up
your mind how you propose to heal him?"
"Yes," with feigned gravity. "I thought on the whole it would simplify
matters if I took Meryl's place at the wedding."
He stared at her with undisguised astonishment. "You mean?..."
"Just exactly what I say. I've taken over the prospective bridegroom,
and incidentally I thought of taking over the wedding presents as
well...." And then she threw her head back and laughed whole-heartedly
at his incredulous face.
"You have given me a great surprise," he said. "I suppose you are in
earnest?"