Chapter 20

He opened his lips to expostulate and deny, but she rested a little hand on his arm a moment and interrupted. "No, do not trouble to deny it. I should not have dared to say such a thing without being sure of my ground. Your face told me on Tuesday."

He was silent, feeling himself unaccountably in the grip of something he could no longer thwart.

"Now listen to me. When Meryl went to Rhodesia you _did_ love her. I think she was all the world to you. So she was when she came back, _at first_. You were in haste to win her, and she consented to be engaged to you. Afterwards...." She paused.

"Well, afterwards?..." in a strained, unnatural voice.

"Afterwards you found in some vague way she was changed. You had won her, but you did not possess her. Something had happened. You seemed to have seized the substance and found it shadow. I seem to be talking like a book, but we will let that pass! Instead of trying to find out whether this really was the case, you attempted to hurry forward the wedding. That, I think, was weak of you."

"And something had happened?..." he asked, hoarsely. "What?..."

Diana spread out her hands with a little French gesture. "It is sometimes just as poignant to say, '_Cherchez l'homme_' as, '_Cherchez la femme_.'"

"You mean?..."

"That what had happened was another man."

"Ah!..." in quick surprise; and after a short, tense silence, "Then why in the world?..." But again she stayed him with a little arresting hand.

"You wonder why she engaged herself to you?... When you have the clue it is quite simple. The other man loves her, but he has not told her so. I do not know that he ever will. He is a proud, obstinate Englishman, and has no position and no money. Apparently he is ready to let Meryl wreck her life, rather than bless his with herself and her fortune. Some men are like that. It is a mixture of pride and heroics very difficult for a well-meaning cousin like myself to cope with. I think it may even turn my hair grey yet." Again she spread out her hands. "Can you not see the rest?... You yourself led up to it. You urged your united service to South Africa (though why poor South Africa should be dragged in, I don't know), and she, having as she thought lost all hope of simple, personal happiness, decided to give herself to you and to her country. Now do you understand?"

He was silent for a considerable time, thinking deeply; and then, with one of his quick versatile changes, he turned and pounced upon her with the question, "Granting all is as you say, what I want to know is, how have you discovered it?" He looked hard into her face with keen, searching eyes. "How did _you_ know that _I_ had changed?"

He had taken her a little unawares, and suddenly she felt the hot, tell-tale blood mounting higher and higher up her face. She moved restlessly, impatiently, as if his gaze were intolerable, and then replied a trifle lamely, "You must have heard the English proverb, 'Lookers-on see most of the game.'"

"Ah! I wonder at what particular point you saw first?..."

"In any case it is beside the question," she declared, anxious to get the conversation away from herself. "As I asked you on Tuesday, I ask you again, 'What do you think of a man who marries a woman when he does not love her?'"

"That is not the question you asked me."

"Yes it is," a trifle shortly. Diana was beginning to feel rather like a swimmer out of his depth.

"I beg your pardon, it is not; but we will let it pass for the moment. Granting that what you have told me is true, what do you expect me to do?"

"Tell Meryl the truth."

"And what is the truth?" He was gazing hard at her again, and Diana began to wish she could run away and hide. She knew that her changing colour and averted eyes were telling him something he badly wanted to know.

"O, you're very dense!" she cried, seeking to cover her discomfort. "Tell her you have discovered it is all a mistake; that you do not think she loves you better than all the world; and that you feel yourself wedded to your work, and ... and ... that kind of thing. Of course it won't be nice, but surely you can see it is a far _braver_ thing to do, than just to go on because you are afraid of what the world will say?"

"And suppose Meryl wishes to hold to her promise and give herself to her country?"

"She can still do that, only in some other way."

"And what do you think South Africa will say?"

"O, that's quite beyond me!..." with a little comical grimace, "but, of course, at any cost, you must avert another war!..." They both smiled, and she added more seriously, "You can announce that you discovered in time you were not very well suited to each other, and mutually agreed to break off the engagement."

Again he was silent for a long time, lost in thought. At last, "And when do you think I should say this to Meryl?"

"It will not be any easier through waiting. Why not to-night?"

Again he was silent, and something in the air, some secret, veiled magnetism, told Diana whither his thoughts were tending, and her cheeks grew hot in spite of herself.

"If I speak to Meryl to-night, and she decrees that the engagement shall end, will you promise to ride this way to-morrow morning?"

"What for?" trying to speak with nonchalance.

"To answer the question I asked you just now."

"Which question? I have forgotten it."

"I will ask it again to-morrow."

"But why all this mystery?... Ask me now. I will answer it if I can."

"I would rather wait until to-morrow. Come, you have said all you wanted to say to me. Let me have my turn now." And she knew that his eyes, sharpened by love, were reading things she had scarcely yet admitted to herself.

She got up suddenly, feeling a little breathless. She began to have again that alarming sensation of being mastered; as if he had some hold upon her, against which it was her instinct to fight, not because of any antipathy to him, but because, like all women of her independent character and fearlessness, she dreaded the mere thought of losing her liberty or yielding her independence. And at the same time she knew that the thought which held a dread held a charm also. Diana would never lose her grit and personality, she would never submit for a moment to any overshadowing, but deep in her heart she knew she was true woman enough to like to be conquered by the right man. Her instinct was to contradict van Hert in anything just then and deny any wish, but she was glad he quietly insisted upon her granting his request, and that when they finally rode away it was an understood thing she would come again the next morning.

XXX

DIANA IS RESTLESS

It would be most difficult, indeed well-nigh impossible, for any chronicler to describe the state of Diana's feelings that afternoon; and very certain that under no circumstances would she have attempted to describe them herself. The swift coming into life of the love between her and van Hert was like the man who said he had not been born, he just happened. One could imagine Diana calmly stating their love had no explanation, it just happened. Perhaps it had been there longer than either of them knew; perhaps it took form suddenly when each realised the unsubstantial nature of the engagement to Meryl. Diana had always had a special liking for van Hert, and had said so openly; but as he had for some time been presented in her mind as her cousin's lover, there had been no reason why the liking should grow to anything warmer, and probably it never would have. But when she thoroughly realised how unsatisfactory a basis he was about to build his wedded happiness upon, a certain resentment on his behalf took shape in her mind, as well as troubled anxiety for Meryl. From this it was not a very far step to a warmer feeling still, and as we have seen, the old gaieties ceased to attract her if he was not a partaker. And then, knowing well that Meryl's heart was given elsewhere, she spent no anxious moments as to whether this warmer feeling of hers were unfair to her cousin. It was as though it was just held in abeyance waiting for something to happen; and when the something had happened, she swam out fearlessly into the deep water. With van Hert it had necessarily been different. He knew nothing of Carew, and only felt vaguely that Meryl had changed; nothing tangible that he could take hold of, and yet a something that was as an invisible barrier between their closer knowledge of each other. Puzzled and baffled, he turned with eagerness to Diana's frank camaraderie, to awake suddenly one evening to the fact that, unknown to him, his heart had slipped out of his and Meryl's keeping into hers. Yet even then he tried to deny the change even to himself; he would not believe he could so suddenly transfer his affection. It was not until later, seeing the whole from the vantage-ground of distance, that he realised his affections had not been transferred. His affection for Meryl still existed; he admired her profoundly as before. What had died was his desire, starved by the growing sense that she chiefly suffered his caress. But he had not the moral courage to go to her frankly and tell her this; and rather than face the consequences he attempted to stifle this strong longing for Diana and put himself beyond the reach of it. Fortunately for all three, that practical common sense of Diana's, which she was pleased to call selfish commonplaceness, dared swift, unconventional measures, careless of consequences, rather than to sit still and let the mistake pass beyond recall.

But at the beginning she had not given much thought to her own personal feelings in the matter, and it was only after the ride with van Hert she found these suddenly confronting her in their full significance. And because the turn of events was becoming a little overwhelming, she spent the hours between parting with him and his coming interview with Meryl in a whirl of emotion wholly new to her.

Once or twice Meryl asked her if anything was the matter, she was so extraordinarily restless, but she only laughed it off and tried to steady her feelings.

In the evening, when they left the dinner-table after dessert, she mysteriously vanished; but later, swept with an inexplicable wave of longing and uncertain dread, she crept down to the dining-room to try and discover what had happened. It was growing in her consciousness with illuminating clearness that her own happiness depended upon what decision Meryl made.

At last there was a movement in the drawing-room as of someone stepping in from the verandah, and she waited breathlessly for a glimpse of Meryl's face. She and van Hert came out into the hall together, and Diana saw that her cousin looked extraordinarily frail and white and rather exhausted. Van Hert was very gentle to her.

"Shall I see your father to-night?" he asked, and she answered, "No, I will tell him myself. I expect he will see you to-morrow."

"Good night," and Meryl held out her hand.

Diana saw him hesitate; and then, with a movement that had in it the graceful courtesy of the Huguenot and the reverence of a fine spirit, he bent very low before her and kissed her hand. Afterwards he went quietly away, and Meryl stood alone in the hall. For one moment she waited, as if listening to his departing footsteps, and then very slowly turned and walked to her father's study.

Diana slipped out and went upstairs, but presently her restlessness again caused her to descend. She could not settle to anything until she knew the truth and how Meryl took it. Thus she was again in the dining-room when the study door opened and Meryl came out. Her father came with her to the threshold, and it was evident that she had been crying. Diana saw her raise a white, tear-stained face, and saw Henry Pym kiss his child with ineffable tenderness. Then Meryl went slowly upstairs, and Mr. Pym went back into his study and closed the door.

But something in his face, at her last glimpse of it, went swiftly to Diana's loyal, devoted heart; and because she loved him as if he were her own father, an impulse carried her straight across the hall with noiseless feet to the study door. Without knocking, she opened it softly and crept in. Henry Pym was seated at his writing-table, with his face hidden in his hand; and she saw, perhaps more poignantly than ever before, how the last few weeks had whitened his hair.

As she softly closed the door and crossed the room he looked up. Diana warm-hearted to a degree when she deeply loved, slipped on to her knees beside him, and taking the hand hanging limply at his side in both hers, raised it to her lips.

Henry Pym looked down into her eyes, and for the first time guessed from whence the solution had come.

"You saved her?..." he said a little huskily.

Diana nestled up against him. "I saved _them_," she corrected. "Van Hert is a fine man; he deserves a wife who gives him her whole heart, just as truly as Meryl deserves a husband who has no thought for anyone else in the world."

"Then you knew he cared for someone else?"

"Did he tell her so?" She lowered her head that he might not see her face.

"Yes."

"Did he say whom?"

"I do not know."

"Perhaps Meryl knew?"

"She did not say."

She kissed his hand again, and asked in low tones, "Why was she crying when she came out of the study? She ... she ... is not sorry about things?..."

"No; she is glad. She sees she made a mistake."

"Then why was she crying?"

She saw him flinch, and read in his face all the pain in his heart. Evidently he knew of that hidden sorrow shadowing his child's life; evidently her sorrow was his sorrow. The wedding he so dreaded was safely prevented, but would the happiness come back?... the happiness that had been in that household before they went to Rhodesia? Could all his love and hope and tenderness bring back joy to the eyes that were his heaven and his earth?

"Dearie," murmured Diana again, "was she crying because of that big soldier-policeman up north?"

He did not reply, and suddenly she knelt upright, and took his sad, careworn face in her hands and nestled her soft cheek against it.

"Because he's coming on Saturday, dearie. Hush! don't breathe a word; it is my secret; only I had to tell you because of what I saw in your face just now. He is coming because he loves her."

Then slowly a great tear gathered in Henry Pym's eyes and fell 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.