Chapter 2

"Ah, how long you have been coming! I have watched for you ever since we heard the sad news. Billy and I so wanted someone from _home_ to talk to."

"I could not help it. I have been right away into the Ingigi district. How are you?"

He did not give her his hand because the formalities had long been dropped between them, but as he walked beside her to the building his face seemed a shade softer.

"We are both well. We are splendid. But we have felt very cut off these two weeks. England seemed so terribly far away. The evening we heard, Billy and I just sat hand in hand under the stars, dabbing the tears away. Don't smile, it was the only thing to do, and we longed so to be in London." As she talked she passed into the cool shade of the hut and busied herself preparing a lemon squash for him, not needing to ask if it were his choice. "We were miserable for days. I'm sure all of you were too."

"I did not hear until I came back yesterday."

"Ah ... I was afraid so. Of course, that made it worse."

She brought him the lemon squash and stood leaning against the table beside him while he drank it, with the gladness of seeing him still in her eyes, though they were grave now with sympathy. It was evident their friendship had in it a wide understanding.

She was silent a few moments, and then added simply, "I suppose you knew him personally?"

"Yes."

He did not tell her more, and she did not ask him. There was one subject that no deepening of friendship had ever made it possible to approach, and that was the story of his past. She knew only, from her husband, who was extremely vague on the subject, that he had once held a commission in the Blues, and been, not only a well-known society man, but the heir of a rich old uncle. And then suddenly something had happened, and his brother became the heir, and England had known him no more. Even William Grenville himself was in the dark as to the cause of the lost inheritance, as he had been abroad at the time, and had never had much intercourse with Carew's branch of the family. He was supposed to be in disgrace himself, because his soul was too honest to allow him to continue in a comfortable country living, after his convictions lost faith in the tenets of the English Church; but if it were so it never troubled him, and he loved his wilderness home dearly. Ailsa had her story also, but she too, it was evident, had found a solution that held satisfaction.

After giving Carew his drink she moved away and picked up some needlework, seating herself near the open door, with sympathy in her face and in her silence.

"We had a splendid service," she told him. "We did all we possibly could to show our loyalty. But how little it seemed! The far countries hurt at a time like this."

He assented in silence, looking out over the lovely landscape as if it were a sight his soul loved, and she bent lower over her needlework.

"Tell me about your Ingigi trip, unless you would rather wait for Billy. He will be in directly, and he will want to hear everything."

He glanced towards her a moment, noting half indifferently that she looked unusually pretty to-day; but he only said a few generalities about his work, with his eyes again on the landscape. Ailsa sewed on, not in the least dismayed. It was good enough to have him there, whether he were communicative or not, and she was glad she chanced to have put on her new, pretty dress from home. For, of course, all women liked to look fair in the eyes of Peter Carew, quite indifferent to the fact that in all probability he scarcely saw them.

But Ailsa Grenville could not have looked other than fair to any man, though to some she looked so much more besides. Her frank grey eyes, full of expression, her low, broad forehead and chestnut hair, were so full of beauty that they seemed to counteract entirely a nose that was a little too small and a mouth a little too large. One felt that nature had intended to make her a beautiful woman, and then changed her mind and allowed a flaw in her beauty, possibly to give her more character and an attraction of a different order. To the lonely men within reach of the mission station she was goddess and angel combined, and knowing it was one of the joys of her uneventful life.

Thus they sat on together in the doorway, speaking quietly of the loss they had chosen to make their own, in an intimate sense perhaps only possible to far-off Empire-builders. And while they talked the missionary himself appeared, and all his face lit up when he saw Carew.

"By Jove! I'm glad to see you," he exclaimed, tossing his khaki helmet carelessly aside. "We hoped you would come soon. Ailsa was sure you would."

He sat on the edge of the table, swinging one putteed leg, a fine, athletic, big fellow, with a khaki shirt open at the throat, and sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and a brown attractive face with honest eyes. "How are the others?... Going strong?... We had them all here for our funeral service: the Macaulays, White, Richards, Henley, the three prospectors out Chini way, everyone within reach. And afterwards we gave them a feed. A homely one, with cakes and jam, as Englishy as possible. By gad, Carew! how a loss like this makes you think of home and country; and how we Britishers in the colonies ought to hang together through thick and thin! If we all felt it more, it would be a great thing for the dear old Mother Country. She'll want her boys in the colonies to stand by her stoutly, if she is to go on holding her own, I'm thinking."

He got up and strode about the hut, his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth. "Hang it all!... since I came out here to try and do a little useful development among the blacks, I've grown more and more to feel that helping the settlers to live clean lives and pull together and care about the Old Country, is every bit as important, in fact far more so, than teaching Christianity to the heathen."

He stood in the doorway, blocking the view with his immense bulk, a rarely attractive man, with boyish enthusiasm in his eyes, and fearless honesty in his whole aspect, and just that touch of the fanatic which helped him to soar above disappointments and keep his charming wife devoted and content with him out there in the wilderness.

From his post in the doorway he swung round suddenly, and was about to launch upon one of his enthusiastic tirades on the natives or settlers or both, when Ailsa stayed him lightly, declaring that lunch was ready, and they all proceeded to the dining-room hut.

Afterwards they lazed in a wide verandah, commanding one of the loveliest views in Rhodesia, and talked a little of the West Country, because the ache was still with each one to be at home at that sad time.

When Carew, later, prepared to depart homewards, she gave a large plum cake carefully into the hands of his black soldier-servant, telling him, Carew, that it was for The Kid and Patrick, and not to let The Kid overeat himself, and tell him to come over and see her at once.

"He is rather interested in the subject of corpses just now," Carew said, with something approaching a gleam in his eye, "but I don't encourage him, because, for two pins, I believe he would dig up the entire temple, if the spirit took him."

"The scoundrel!..." with an affectionate laugh. "Tell him if he dares to touch one stone of my temple he shall never, never have a cake again."

"Oh, I only surmise it from the expression in his eyes when he told me, rather wistfully, that some scientific visitor had described to him how the corpses, if found, would certainly be decked with valuable gold ornaments."

Then he mounted and saluted her gravely as he rode away.

III

TWO HEIRESSES

In a Piccadilly mansion, about the same time that Major Carew returned from his long trek, two girls sat in a wide window-seat and looked somewhat disconsolately across the fresh spring green of the park. Both were the daughters of South African millionaires. Both were motherless, and one an orphan. They were also cousins, and the same roof usually was their home.

Two months previously the father of the one and guardian of the other had brought them to England, that they might duly "come out" the ensuing season in London society. Their presentation at Court had taken place in April, followed by a splendid ball at the stately mansion taken for their stay, and both girls had looked eagerly forward to the festivities ahead.

And now, a few weeks later, they found themselves suddenly dressed in black, with nearly all the expected gaieties cancelled, and this overshadowing loss weighing upon their spirits. Added to this the death of first one mother and then the other, followed by a period of ill-health to the guardian and father, had postponed that "coming out" long past the ordinary age for such functions; Diana, the orphan, being now twenty-two, and Meryl two years older.

Meryl was the graver of the two; graver indeed than is at all usual at twenty-four, but with a quiet fund of humour and a romantic dreaminess, and withal a certain elusive quality that made her always interesting, and pleasantly something of a mystery. Diana was a sparkling, practical, outspoken young woman, much adored of young men whom she treated with scant courtesy, and with a great deal of common sense in her pretty head. The girls' influence upon each other, which was cemented by a very deep affection, was wholly beneficial; for whereas Diana awakened Meryl from too much dreaminess, Meryl's quiet dignity had a softening effect upon Diana's too great exuberance of spirits and occasional boyish lack of refinement, which was more the result of a boisterous capacity for enjoyment than inbred.

Meryl, as became the dreamer, had been profoundly touched by the event which had called forth that swift grief; and whereas Diana could not refrain from bemoaning all she must necessarily lose through the season of mourning, Meryl thought chiefly of how they could get away quickly into the country and replace the lost gaieties with quiet delight.

She had already spoken to her father about her wish to leave town, but he had been much occupied of late, and not yet had time thoroughly to discuss the question. And meanwhile she and Diana waited a little disconsolately to see what the days brought forth. Diana was disposed for a trip to Switzerland, or Norway, or even Iceland, but she wanted to go in a party, and not just they two and a chaperon. Meryl was not enthusiastic and it nettled her a little, so that, on the wide window-seat, there was a cloud on her face as she drummed idly with her fingers and watched the traffic go by.

"If you would only say what you _do_ want," she asserted impatiently, "instead of just mooning about and making no plans whatever."

But the fact was, Meryl could not quite make up her mind what she did want. In some vague way a kind of upheaval had been taking place in her heart, and left her high and dry upon the rocks of uncertainty and dim dissatisfaction. New thoughts, new questions, new desires had risen in her during that sad month of May, and she felt as one seeking vainly she knew not what. She looked beyond the trees of the Green Park to the far skies with wistful eyes, and asked herself deep questions concerning many things, born of the thoughts that arose in her mind when she stood amid a people mourning tenderly a dearly loved sovereign, and beheld how in hearts all over the world he had won love and admiration, in that, to the best of his endeavour, he had splendidly fulfilled his high trust.

And a high trust was hers. How could she not know it, when she was sole heiress to her father's millions; and yet, what was she doing, or preparing to do, in fulfilment of that trust? That it was no less so with Diana did not weigh with her. Diana was different. When she was allowed a free hand with her fortune she would buy yachts and houses and diamonds, and scatter it right and left, which was good in its way; but it would never satisfy her, Meryl, the visionary and dreamer, who looked with grave eyes to the far skies, and asked vague questions.

Presently, with an impatient little kick at a footstool, Diana broke the silence. "_Do_ you know what you want? Have you any ideas at all, or are you just a blank?"

Meryl smiled charmingly. "I'm not exactly a blank, but something of a confusion. I confess crowded Swiss hotels do not sound alluring. I like Iceland better, but it seems rather ... well ... purposeless."

"And what in the world do you want it to be? Do you want to go a journey to convert heathen, or preach Christian Science, or explore untrodden country? If so, you had better take Aunt Emily and go alone. I'm hoping for a little life and amusement."

"We always have that. I want something bigger for a change."

"O, now you're getting to high altitudes. Meryl, do come down and be rational. I just feel as if I could shake you." She got up and roamed round the room, then returned to the window-seat and leaned out of the window watching some workmen who were painting the balcony below them. Meryl sat on silently, still seeking some sort of a solution to something she could not name.

"There's such a good-looking workman," Diana remarked presently, "I'm sure he's an artist. I wish he would look up, but he is too shy."

"Too wise, perhaps. Why are you sure he is an artist?"

"O, well, because he looks like it. He has a Grecian head, and his hair curls adorably, and I'm certain his eyes are blue. He'll be just underneath the window soon, and if he doesn't look up then I shall drop something to make him."

"Come away to lunch and don't be a goose. The gong sounded quite five minutes ago."

Diana withdrew her head reluctantly.

"Who wants to eat cutlets when they can watch a Grecian profile!"

"Perhaps you would sooner drop one on his head to make him look up?"

"I would; much sooner. Do you think they've brought their lunch with them, or shall we send them some?"

"I expect they've got their dinners in red pocket-handkerchiefs, hidden away somewhere at the back."

"Except my Greek"--with a little smile--"and I'm sure his is in a Liberty silk square."

They sat down to lunch in the big, oppressive dining-room alone, as their chaperon, Aunt Emily, was laid up with a headache, and Mr. Henry Pym, Meryl's father, was usually in the City at midday. And after lunch, for the sake of something to do, they ordered the motor and drove out to Ranelagh to see the polo.

Then came dinner, and with it in quiet, unsuspected guise the news that would presently change their lives. Henry Pym, a small, dark man, with the keen eyes and quiet manner that so often go with success, told them that because there would be practically no London season at all that year he had decided to go back to Africa, and he would take a country house for them anywhere they liked and leave them there for the summer with Aunt Emily.

Aunt Emily nodded her head with an approving air. A quiet country house instead of a season's racketing was quite to her taste, and she felt dear Henry, as ever, was showing the marked common sense for which she humbly worshipped him afar off. Meryl looked at her father inquiringly and with a thoughtful air. Diana remarked, rather disgustedly, "O, uncle, what rot! Why should we be condemned to some dull little hole of an English village, just because there is to be no London season?"

"My dear Diana," remonstrated the lady who was supposed to fill the post of mother and chaperon to both girls, and was therefore in duty bound to express disapproval of Diana's English, "you surely do not imagine your uncle admires that unladylike mode of speech!"

"But he understands it," said the incorrigible, "and that is far more important."

There was a decided gleam in the millionaire's eyes as he inquired, "And what do you want to do instead, Di?"

"Oh, yacht, or travel, or go in an aeroplane, or anything. I simply can't sit down in an English village until further notice."

Then Meryl spoke:

"Why can't we go back with you to South Africa, father?"

"Because I'm going to take a trip north. I'm going up to Rhodesia about some mining claims."

"And couldn't we go there with you?"

"Not very well. I'm not going to the towns, except for a day or two. I shall have to do a lot of trekking in the wild, outlying parts. You couldn't manage that."

"Of course not," murmured Aunt Emily. "How dreadful that you should have to go, Henry! Why, there are lions and elephants and things, and the natives are savages; surely no mines are worth running such risks?"

"Not quite as bad as all that, Emily, but hardly the place for you and the girls. Would you all like to go to Norway?"

"And fish?..." from Diana, with a sudden light in her eyes.

"You could have a yacht and take a party," he continued, "and come back when you are all tired of it. I'll ask Sir Robert to let me have the 'Skylark,' because his captain is so reliable. What do you say, Meryl?... Shall you like that?..."

"I wish you could come," was her rather evasive answer, and she gazed at the table decorations as if pondering something in her mind.

"Well, you can think it over," said the millionaire quietly, "and if there is something you would like better tell me." He was peeling a pear in a slow, methodical fashion, and his face quickly seemed to assume the expression of one whose thoughts were already elsewhere; but not before, with a quick, characteristic movement, he had glanced keenly and surreptitiously into Meryl's face and read her indecision. Something was on her mind. He knew it quite well; and his busy brain, under its mask of complacent thoughtfulness, probed into the question.

Ever since the day of the King's funeral she had worn that thoughtful air and baffled him a little with her wistful indecision. And though he said nothing, he thought about it in his leisured moments; for dearer than all his wealth and his power and his success was his only child.

That night, trying still to probe the unrest in her heart, Meryl stepped out on to their balcony and looked at the stars. Straight before her, outlined in a misty moonlight that was almost overpowered by the glare of the city's lights, were the tall towers of Westminster. Down below the traffic passed ceaselessly to and fro. From all sides came the mysterious hum of a great city's life. And as she leaned listening, and gazing at the far-off stars that seemed such mere pin-pricks above the glare, there came to her a thought of the majestic stars that hung over Africa and the majesty of silence upon the African veldt. And then gradually there stirred in her a warm remembrance of Africa, and of how she had always loved it, and a swift, unaccountable feeling of kinship with all the Britishers scattered far and wide who called some colony "home."

True, she was English born and English educated; but so also was she South African, for quite half her life had been passed in Johannesburg, and it was there that her actual home existed. And so, by slow imperceptible degrees, out of nowhere and without explanation, crept into her mind the sudden realisation of Africa's claim upon her. She remembered that it was there her father had amassed his wealth. There had been won for her all the smooth, luxurious ways of her life; and, but a step further, as it were, stood out the answer to her questioning doubts. Whatever trust is yours in the future, whatever life asks of you in return for all she has given, it must be for Africa. Her heart warmed and swelled swiftly, and her eyes glowed in the misty darkness. She felt in her blood that Africa was calling. Africa, so sunny, so gay, so breezy, so lovable, and withal with so great a need of strong women as well as strong men, to help her to win through to the great future that should be hers.

She leaned lower, and it was as though her gaze looked beyond the darkness to some unseen horizon. She saw the veldt with its far blue mountains, that called to men again and again with such resolute calling. Overhead, in her fancy, she saw the luminous Southern Cross. All around were the wide, boundless horizons, the swift, scented winds. In her spirit she was back again in the sun-soaked land, breathing the sun-soaked atmosphere, looking far to the "never, never" country that called from the clear distance.

And it was her Africa,--hers, hers, hers.

What did she want with an English village? What to her was a yachting cruise in Norway? These might be won some day as restful leisure hours in a strenuous life; but without the just winning, what had they to do with her?

Africa needed strong women as well as strong men; and, strong or weak, Africa was calling--calling.

She had come to London for the season because it was what all the other rich men's daughters did; but was she honestly grieved that their plans had all to be changed? Surely, now she was free, she could find something to do that would fill her hours afterward with gladder remembrance than just a season's triumphs.

But what?...

She leaned on in the starlight, chin sunk in hands, thinking, dreaming.

And so presently, still by those imperceptible degrees, through which works the hand of Fate, her thoughts came at last to the dinner-table conversation.

As in a flash, she remembered Rhodesia; and, remembering, it was as though the romance of the land reached out strong arms to enfold her.

Here in very truth was a young country, offering a wide field to all who sought work, adventure, achievement. Her thoughts ran on exultantly. She was rich, she was free, she was young, she was strong; why dawdle and dream among the fiords of Norway? Why scale Swiss mountains? Let that come later, when she had earned a playtime. In the first vigorous years of her youth, let her go out to the sunny land that was her home and give it of her best. Let her go north and see a young country struggling towards fruition, and perhaps win the joy and privilege, generally reserved for men, of helping it forward. All in a moment her decision was made. If she could anyhow win her father's consent, she would go with him on his trip to Rhodesia.

She stood up, tall and slim, and the subdued light glowed more deeply in her eyes. The eyes of the visionary, who sees great things and dreams great dreams, and, alas! how often, breaks a heart that of its very fineness could only do or die.

Yet better, how much better, to hope and dare and die upon the heights, than linger content in the warm, snug valley of little joys and little sorrows!

And then across her dreams broke the sound of a sleepy voice from the room behind her.

"If you stay out there any longer, Meryl, you will grow wings and fly away. Do be rational enough to come in and go to bed."

"I thought you were asleep, Di. I'm sure I haven't been keeping you awake."

"No, but you are doing so now; and, besides, it's so imbecile to stand out there and stare at the stars."

"I've been thinking hard, Di." She came in and sat on the little gilt bedstead, with its dainty hangings, and looked lovingly at the pretty head on the lace-decked pillow.

"That's nothing new. If you _hadn't_ been thinking hard it would be worth while mentioning it," and there was half a pout and half a smile on the winsome mouth.

"But there was more object than usual to-night. Listen. If I persuade father to take me up to Rhodesia with him, will you come too?..."

"O, golly!... to be eaten by lions, and tigers, and savages, and elephants, and things!..."

"Well, there wouldn't be much apiece if they all had a bite."

Diana sat up and shook the hair out of her eyes, looking very much like a small imp of ten, instead of a finished young lady of twenty-two. "There's just a chance they would eat Aunt Emily first," said she, "and as that is a consummation devoutly to be wished, I think we'll go...."