"I have been too sudden." He drew himself up, and his eyes followed hers out to the darkness. And a touch of latent nobility seemed to come out in him; a quiet dignity like her own that appealed to her strongly. "I won't take your answer to-night. I shall come to you again when you come back. Perhaps then ... when you have thought about it ..." He broke off abruptly. "May I write to you?... Will you sometimes write to me?... Perhaps I could follow ..."

They heard steps and voices coming towards them from the drawing-room where Diana had wearied of her operas, and in sudden haste he caught her hand and raised it to his lips.

"I think I have to thank you for a good deal," he told her a trifle huskily. "Men of all nations are better for being admitted to the friendship of women like you. If there were anything I could do to serve you?..." and he waited for her to speak.

"Serve South Africa," she breathed tensely. "I could ask no more of any man."

His hand tightened upon hers.

"Serve her with me. Together we could do so much."

He saw her waver.

"Let me tell you when I come back. Yes ... together we might do so much...."

"When you come back ..." he said, and pressed her hand in understanding.

Then Diana stepped out of the brightness of the drawing-room.

"How can you two stay sleepily there, looking at the stars like two cats, when I am trying to lure you indoors with the latest comic-opera music! Meinheer van Hert, Mister Pym says, will you drink with him?..."



VI

THE JOURNEY

As he had three ladies with him Mr. Pym decided to take a private saloon-car, but no saloon in the world could prevent them being nearly smothered with the dust through Bechuanaland and Matabeleland in August, and while Aunt Emily rent the air with her complainings and sufferings, Diana chose to pass disparaging remarks upon the long-suffering British Empire, which she considered responsible for her journey north. Meryl said nothing, but there was often a wistful expression in her eyes as they sighted a lonely farmstead, or stood in a little wayside station with perhaps one corrugated-iron building, where some white-faced woman looked listlessly at the train. When she tried to voice her sympathy with their loneliness, however, Diana snapped her up a little impatiently.

"My dear Meryl, you will look at things always in the sentimental light. A woman with a husband and child in this freshness and sunshine is at least better off than if she were in a city slum, and her man probably out of work, and her child dying for want of fresh air."

"But that is not the only alternative!... And in any case to suffer in company is almost always easier than to suffer alone."

"But they don't suffer, or, at any rate, they needn't necessarily. That is where you are so short-sighted. The average woman wants a husband and a child, and I don't see that it matters much whether she has them in the wilderness or in a city; the main thing is to have them."

"Well, for my part," put in Aunt Emily in an aggrieved voice, "if I could only have a man in a cloud of dust I'd sooner never see the species again," which tickled Diana hugely and caused her to horrify her aunt by adding, "But what an advantage for him never to be able to see what you were doing! One could have such high jinks!..." Then, changing her voice subtly, she enquired, "Is it too much for you, aunty?... I mean the dust and the journey? because there must be such very much worse things ahead, and ..."

"That will do, my dear. I can bear it," and her expression of mournful resignation tickled Diana more than ever. On the day before they reached Bulawayo, however, when hour after hour brought very little but scrub and sand, she and her aunt were very nervy and irritable, and only Meryl, with her dreams and ideals, continued quietly interested. When they reached Bulawayo matters did not improve much, because a sand-storm was blowing and it was almost impossible to go out. Mr. Pym packed them off to the Victoria Falls as soon as possible, and remained behind himself to complete the arrangements for his trip. On the further railway journey the dust was worse than ever, and utterly out of heart with everything Rhodesian, Aunt Emily retired to a suite of rooms at the hotel on their arrival and said she should stay there until the cool of the evening.

So Diana and Meryl stood on Danger Point alone, when they took their first long look at the amazing cataract of waters. Neither spoke for many seconds, and then Diana breathed, "I'm glad Aunt Emily didn't come. She would have called it 'lovely' or 'sweet.'"

Meryl laid a sympathetic hand on her arm and murmured, "And you?..."

"One couldn't call it anything. It just is." And Meryl with her understanding heart pressed her arm in silence.

They walked together through the rain forest, getting drenched with spray and hardly noticing it, until they came to the opening near the Devil's Cataract at the south end, and sat down to gaze at the splendour and wonder outspread.

Then Diana spoke a little in something of an undertone, half to Meryl, half to the air:

"A god did it. I don't know which—Jupiter or Pan, or Apollo or Hercules—and when they grew tired of the earth and went off to other planets, they just left it behind as a child might a castle he has built in the sand; and by and by some crabs crawled along and found the castle, and sat down and looked at it because it seemed to them so wonderful; and by and by some humans found the gods' waterfall, crawled up to it, and sat down and wondered. That's all there is to do. O, Meryl, I wish I were a goddess and not a worm. The waters are mocking us. Don't you hear them?... I just feel as if there were something about it all I can't bear."

Meryl smiled a little tender smile. To her Diana in all her moods was adorable. In her shy, fierce, tense ones, as now, she was best of all.

"What does it say to you, Meryl?..." the girl went on. "Do you feel as if you hated it and worshipped it both together? Hated its remote magnificence and devilish cruelty, and worshipped it because you couldn't help yourself, either from fear or wonder? I don't know which, only I feel ... I feel ... as if I ought to throw over something I loved as a sacrifice of propitiation. And it goes on just the same—think of it—year after year, century after century, just calmly spilling magnificence on the desert air! I believe I'm frightened, Meryl. Tell me what it all says to you."

Meryl looked dreamily along the glistening mighty cascades, and then spoke softly:

"I feel I'm in the presence of one of the world's biggest things, and it is inspiring. You know that sentence of James Lane Allen's, 'When one has heard the big things calling, how they call and call, day and night, day and night!...' Here they call louder, that is my chief feeling. I look at this great natural wonder, and whatever there is in me most akin to it swells upward. I feel I must do great things or die ... be great or not at all. And while I feel like this there is a sense of kinship, as if some spirit of the waters understands."

"Perhaps that is why I am afraid," breathed Diana. "I don't care about greatness. I don't want to be great. It all seems so unreal. I like the sunshine, and flowers, and trees, and birds, and four-footed things. I don't want to be bothered with my fellow-creatures; they are a nuisance. If they are in difficulties, and can't find a way out for themselves, they might just as well go under."

"You heartless little heathen!" affectionately.

The girl brightened suddenly. "Why! it understands, Meryl!... The Spirit of the Waters heard me, and now it is laughing. It is great enough to understand and appreciate the feelings of both of us. Don't you hear the note of revelling now?... Why!... it's all revelling. The waters are shrieking with joy. They've come tearing down the Zambesi valley for the rapture of plunging over the precipice, and now they are just beside themselves with the excitement and delight of it. O!... they heard me say I don't care about my fellow-creatures, that they are just a nuisance, and they're shouting to me, 'Neither do we ... neither do we!... Silly, wide-eyed, open-mouthed humans come and stare at us, and try to describe us, saying we are lovely and wonderful and pretty and such-like, and we just roar at them and their puniness and take our glorious plunge.' That is what the waters are saying to me now, Meryl. I feel as if I simply must plunge with them. Take me away. I can't bear any more to-day." And they went silently back through the lovely plantations to the hotel.

But in the evening, in the moonlight, her mood changed again.

"I feel a little like you to-night, Meryl. The big things do matter, of course. If I'm such a silly little goat I can't do anything big myself, I guess I'll help you whenever it's possible. And, of course, even humans matter a little, though I do like dogs and horses so much better; but there's something so calm and big and strong about the waters to-night, they are telling me all the time that the big things matter. O, Meryl, it's so lovely—so lovely—it hurts dreadfully...."

And after a pause: "If it hadn't been for you I should never have taken the trouble to come and see it. I won't grouse at the dust any more."

And later: "I'm glad there's no sign of a human habitation at hand, and that the wilderness is all round. They had to be splendidly isolated—magnificently alone—the god who did it understood that. One can think of the wide reaches of Africa afterwards, and the gem, like a priceless jewel, set in them. Deep silence, wide horizons, untrodden country on every hand, and this in the midst like a treasure tenderly enfolded."

After three days they returned to Bulawayo, and found their pilot impatient to be off. He unfolded his plans, and the two girls listened eagerly when he said:

"I am told there is every indication of gold in the Victoria district, and my engineer is anxious I should journey down there and see one or two properties. The railway does not extend beyond Selukwe, so if we go we must take a travelling ambulance and tents and sleep out in them for three or four weeks. I think there is a pretty good hotel in Edwardstown, where you could remain if you like while I travel round, and then we might all journey to Salisbury up the old pioneer route."

The girls were delighted, but Aunt Emily's mournful resignation had reached its limit. She informed them, in a voice which implied, no matter how they pleaded with her, she should remain firm, that nothing would induce her to accompany them upon such a journey.

Her brother said quietly, "Just as you like, Emily. I think I can take care of the girls. Will you stay in Bulawayo, or go back to Johannesburg?"

Aunt Emily's face wore rather a reproachful expression as she replied, "I suppose I had better return to Johannesburg, and then if any of you get ill with malaria or typhoid, you must wire for me and I will come back."

"You were very good to come so far," said Meryl gently, seeing the veiled disappointment that they could dispense with her so easily.

"If it is any consolation," volunteered Diana, "you may be quite sure we are all going to be most horribly uncomfortable for the next month or two. The only illness I anticipate is an utter and complete weariness of life. I don't know which sounds the most dreadful: being bumped along dusty roads in an ambulance, and sleeping with snakes and toads under a tent; or being stifled in an odious little corrugated-iron hotel, living on poisonous tinned stuffs in a perpetual odour of stale roast nigger. If I am going to endure it for my country, I hope my country will give me the only fitting reward—the Victoria Cross."

"Perhaps we needn't stay in the hotel," said Meryl hopefully. "We can probably camp out. Surely the wonderful old ruins are somewhere near Edwardstown, father? How splendid if we could camp beside them!..."

"Quite near. We will certainly go and see them. They tell me there is a police camp there, and at this time of the year it is quite healthy."

"But how glorious!..." cried Meryl. "I had no idea you were going in their direction."

"I meant to if possible," her father said; and so the trip was decided upon.

Three days later the cavalcade started off from Gwelo with great eclat. Two ambulances: one containing the two girls, a driver, a fore-looper, and a small black boy named Gelungwa, who was everything from ladies' maid to general adviser; and the other containing Mr. Pym, his engineer, driver, fore-looper, and the engineer's black cook-boy, who proved himself an invaluable asset.

Each ambulance was drawn by eight mules, and carried its share of the paraphernalia necessary to a long sojourn in the wilderness, and being thoroughly well equipped, they had decided to dispense with any further railway service until they reached Salisbury.

They started from Gwelo, with its wide, tree-lined roads, in the freshness of the morning, and leaving the surrounding bare, uninteresting common quickly behind, dived straightway into a track of Rhodesia that is like a vast, undulating park. The red road wound across a wide, breezy stretch of veldt to wooded hills and valleys, and beyond this was an enchanting vista of dreaming blue kopjes on a far horizon. Even Diana found nothing to grumble at. Like Meryl, her eyes rested often on that dreaming distance, and the unique charm of a journey into the unknown, independent of railways and hotels, held her senses. When two graceful buck sprang up in the grass near them, stood a moment to investigate, and then fled away, leaping and bounding to safety, she drew a deep breath of delight.

"Di, it's going to be a glorious trip!" Meryl exclaimed in low-voiced ecstasy.

Diana paused before she remarked in answer:

"It seems so natural somehow, to be journeying out to an unknown bourne in this primitive fashion. I wonder if, in another existence, I was one of the wives or handmaidens in Abraham's caravanserai? Perhaps I was his favourite concubine!... How interesting!... I'm sure I've journeyed like this into a far land before."

And again:

"How jolly to have two drivers who don't understand a word we say, instead of a chauffeur who is all ears and an Aunt Emily who is all prejudices!"

"Still," said Meryl, "you couldn't very well have a coachman in England wearing a sky-blue felt hat that was obviously meant for a lady, and with a large blue patch upon brown trousers."

"He's just a dear," was Diana's laughing comment. "I love his awful solemnity. He's like a Hindoo idol. And what luck to have a side wind instead of a forward one!"

At twelve they stayed in a welcome piece of shade for their first veldt meal. Lounge-chairs were untied for them to rest in, and an excellent little repast prepared by the cook-boy, while the small black imp waited upon them like a trained butler. Then they dozed through the hot midday hours, continuing their journey to those alluring blue distances after all were rested, until they reached the first night's camping place and pitched their tents near a rippling river—as Diana described it, "all mixed up with stars, and dreams, and niggers, and kopjes, and mules."

For a week they journeyed on, each day seeming lovelier than the last, and the dreaming repose of a great content hovered over all of them. There was no need for haste and none was made. There was no pitiless urging of tired mules as in the post-cart; no shouting natives, no hurried pauses for a snatched rest. The mules jogged contentedly along, realising they were in good hands, and always through the midday hours everyone lazed. An early spring had brought many young leaves out, although it was still August, and these were often beautiful shades of red, bronze, orange, scarlet, gold, and emerald-green, beyond or through which blue kopjes took on a yet more dream-like, ethereal air. Sometimes the red road wound along through woods of loveliest colouring, carpeted already with spring flowers. Sometimes it ran out into open spaces where the trees stood back in line, revealing wonderful glimpses of the fascinating land to their eager gaze.

Strange, fantastical, granite kopjes like mighty mausoleums adorned with ilex trees barred their path, and Diana was convinced some of the bones of her ancestors lay buried there, because she felt so weirdly at home with them.

"This is my natural environment," she informed her uncle and the engineer. "I ought to be dwelling here in state, as the favourite wife of the greatest chief in the land."

Meryl grew dreamier with every day, though sometimes her eyes were sad as she looked out over the country, as if she already loved it with a love that was akin to pain.

Had he, that great Imperialist, looked at it with those calm eyes of his, and known just that sense of aching love?... When he journeyed out into its enchanting untrodden spaces, accompanied only by some kindred spirit, had the land risen up and enslaved and enfolded him, like some enchantress who bound men's souls for ever?... Had Rhodesia, in her sunny loveliness, been wife and child to the great man who went lonely to his grave?...

As they drove along and the fascination increased, far outweighing any discomfort of glare and dust and jolting roads, Meryl felt herself engraving the sight and the sound and the freshness of it upon her soul, that she might have hidden pictures to gaze upon with closed eyes when the exigencies of life called her back into the throng.

Her father was mostly silent as was his wont, planning and scheming with a brain that knew little other rest than following its natural bent, yet with that in his silence, and in his watchful eyes that made one feel he too loved the land for itself, as well as for what he could get out of it; and that when occasion came, like Alfred Beit and Cecil Rhodes, he would pay his debt a hundredfold.

So they came at last to the wide, open veldt where Edwardstown was situated, and knew themselves in the district teeming with pioneer memories.

Meryl and Diana descended reluctantly at the hotel, and looked round disparagingly at their little hot bedroom, thinking regretfully of their tent in the wilderness.

"How awful," said Diana, "if we find ourselves never able to exist in an ordinary house again! We shall have to pitch two tents in Hyde Park. Ugh!... it positively smells of walls and doors and windows; how I hate them!"

"We'll go on to Zimbabwe to-morrow and camp beside the ruins," answered Meryl. "How splendid to be going there so soon!"

"Ruins are not much in my line," quoth the outspoken. "Let's hope there'll be a man there as well."



VII

CAREW IS DISTURBED

The news that the millionaire Henry Pym with his daughter and a niece were journeying to Great Zimbabwe reached the police camp first through a letter from the Administration to Major Carew, requesting him to have the long, disfiguring dry grass burnt, and the surroundings of the temple tidied up a little, and to show every attention to the travellers. When he received the letter it was obvious at once that the information did not give him any pleasure. On the contrary, his expression as nearly approached a frown as he was likely to permit it on receiving orders from headquarters. He had opened the letter standing outside his hut, where it had been handed to him by the native runner, and Stanley was reading a newspaper near, while Moore affectionately handled an antediluvian gun he was thinking of buying from a prospector.

Stanley glanced up, wondering what letters had come, and saw the hovering frown.

"Any news, sir?" he asked frankly, for he was no longer in awe of his silent chief. As a matter of fact, he never had been to any degree. The Kid would have found it difficult to be in awe of anyone, but for a few days Carew had baffled him.

"Henry Pym, you've probably heard of him, is likely to arrive here in a few days."

Stanley opened his eyes a little. "What! the millionaire?... Good biz! We'll rook him at poker and bridge and shooting, and a few other things. It isn't right for him to have all that money. It would even things up a little if we could transfer some of it to poor, penniless policemen."

"He is accompanied by his daughter and a niece," said Carew in even tones.

"Lord love a holy duck!..." exclaimed the young policeman, and was fairly astonished on to his feet. "Coming here, sir?... Coming here to Zimbabwe?"

"So the letter says. It also adds that they may wish to camp near, and they are to be shown every attention."

"They shall be ..." quoth The Kid, so comically that even Carew's lips relaxed. "I suppose the letter doesn't specify the attention?... Christopher Columbus!... Great Scott!... Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!... To think of two millionaires' daughters all at once in this benighted, thirsty land!... It fairly catches me in the breath," and he sat down again suddenly as if the news was too much for him.

"By gad, Moore!... do you hear that?... a bloated millionaire and two millionairesses are about to descend upon us from the skies. Talk of manna and blessings coming down from heaven!... Give me millionairesses!..."

The Irishman looked up with a knowing smile. "Shure!" said he, "give me whisky...."

"Begorra, Pat!" laughed The Kid. "If you got the heiress you could swim in whisky." Then he looked again at Major Carew and observed the suggestion of a frown still on his face while he stood with the letter in his hand.

"Heiresses are seemingly not much in your line, sir?" he suggested humorously. "You ... well, you don't quite look overjoyed!..."

Carew in his quiet way had grown fond of the gay young trooper, and he showed no offence at the attitude of familiarity.

"We shall have to consider a good camping-place for them, and probably give up two huts to the ladies. I gather they may be here in two or three days. Is the grass dry enough to burn to-night?"

The Kid glanced round doubtfully. "Hardly; and the place won't look well all black."

"That's why I thought we had better begin at once. If they are some days the ash will have had time to blow away. Arrange for a gang of boys to be ready at six o'clock, and we will light up and see what we can do."

In the hut he tossed the letter down on to his table. "Confound it!..." he said under his breath. "Fancy women down here, staring and chattering, and prying! I suppose they will expect the entire police force in the neighbourhood to be at their disposal, and nothing else will matter at all." His face grew more and more gloomy. "If I had only started to M'rekwas yesterday, I could have been absent a fortnight, and by then they would have departed again." He stood a moment considering if he could start at once, and decided, as the letter was sent specially to him, he could hardly leave before carrying out his instructions.

Stanley and the other trooper meanwhile made hurried preparations for a great fire. They lit up in the evening, having stationed boys at intervals to keep the flames within bounds, and themselves stood posted with their guns, hoping for a shot at wild pig or cheetah, or possibly a lion or leopard. Carew kept guard at the huts, with a few boys to beat off the flames that encroached to any danger points and watch for flying sparks that might ignite the thatch. It was a wonderful sight, and his eyes were full of appreciation as he watched it. The gathering darkness, the lurid flames lighting up with swift brightness the ancient ruins; the high Acropolis Hill on one side, the low granite-strewn kopjes on the other, and running between the Valley of Ruins, now a vale of fire.

It crossed his mind that it was almost a pity they had not left the burning of the grass until the travellers arrived, that they might see the strange, fantastic sight. But he cogitated that the millionaires he had known hitherto had little appreciation for much beyond money-making, and no doubt they were merely taking a passing glimpse at the ruins; the man on some money-making quest, and the girls just to be able to say they had seen them. His eyes rested on the temple wall, and he felt suddenly absurdly resentful that these rich pleasure-seekers should come even there to gape and stare. He had grown to love the ruins dearly, until that moment he had scarcely known how dearly, and to him it seemed for the moment like showing some treasured personal relics to barbarians.

There were so many other things for the pleasure-seekers. Let them go to the Falls, and Lake Nyassa, and the Himalayas, and those tourist treasures; but why come and chatter inane banalities about his ruins: his treasured, mysterious relic of perhaps the oldest civilisation the world has known?

Of course, he knew perfectly that much controversy had raged round the question, and that one or two learned scientists had definitely stated their belief that the ruins were of comparatively recent date, and deduced more or less convincing proofs in support of their theory; but controversies and carefully worded reports were small things to the man who had dwelt beside the mysterious temples and fortifications, and learnt to love and treasure them. He had his proofs too and his deductions, and such as they were they satisfied him, in the face of all opposition, that the curious remains were indeed of great antiquity, quite probably the ancient Havilah of the Scriptures. To him every nook and every corner had its meaning and its history. In the play of his fancy he had seen the white-robed priests and acolytes in stately procession, amid the old, old walls; heard strains of far-off music when an ancient worship offered its votary of prayer and praise to that mysterious deity whom they believed in; heard perhaps a single lovely voice, or seen a single lovely convert kneel before the Sacred Enclosure. He had seen their strong men and their brave men and their great men marshalling a host of women and children and infirm citizens safely into the fastnesses of the Acropolis Hill, where, with a sufficient supply of food and water, three thousand people might be safely shielded for any length of time. He had seen them stand on the high battlements, and look out across the plain or into the rock-hewn kopjes for the hosts of the enemy. He had seen them, even when besieged upon that mighty hill, assembling together to worship in the temples they had laboriously raised upon the giant granite ledges. Were they fair, those women of that old, old day? Were they brave, were they mighty in stature, those men who evolved and achieved those wonderful defence works? Did they love the fair land that fed them with the love of home and country, or were they but sojourners for a while amid unfriendly, cruel tribes, that needed watchful eyes day and night? Led perhaps by a spirit of adventure, or by persecution elsewhere, or by the lust of gold, yet faithful always to the worship of their race, and building at infinite, incomprehensible pains those temples in the alien land. How they held him; how they fascinated; how they soothed with infinite soothing the bitter sorrow, the gaping, stinging wound that had driven him furiously away, all those years before, from the flesh-pots of a modern Babylon! Had he cared for it all very much then?... He wondered, looking full and deep into his hidden memories. Had the lights and the music, the song and dance, the laughing women and reckless men, the midnight orgies and morning headaches, really given him so much pleasure that he must needs fling it all aside with such bitter anger and harsh regret when the thunderbolt fell and the searching dart stabbed him awake? Outraged, hurt-maddened, he had flung away, as he believed, to outer darkness, and to a joyless, purposeless, colourless life. And he had found?...

Ah!... when he looked at the ancient, mysterious ruins he had grown to love, and around upon a country that was life-hope and life-interest to him, he knew that it was the other life which had been purposeless, and all of one colour, and the self-chosen exile that had given him the things it is good to live and breathe and die for.

And thinking of it all, with that shy softness which sometimes stole, as it were, stealthily into his strong face in moments of dreaming thought, he remembered with growing regret the advent of the party for which he was bidden to make preparations, and resented it yet more forcibly. Why need they come?... these women ... these spoiled, flattered, perhaps vulgar, heiresses. What did they want with ancient rites and wonderful relics of antiquities? What were they doing in Rhodesia at all, flaunting their finery and their possessions before the eyes of the hardy settlers and the plucky women who shared their difficulties and disappointments? In a young, struggling country what place was there for the idly, gracefully rich?

In his goaded fancy he saw their elegant, costly garments, and he heard strident voices exclaiming shrilly at his treasure, perhaps calling it an interesting heap of stones. Was there still time to get away, he wondered? Could a sudden call be arranged?... a sudden need for hasty departure?...

Let The Kid laugh the hours away with them, and take his fill of gay companionship; and let him return when the siege was over, and the soothing and the restfulness and the splendour had come back.

Wondering still, and with the sore regretfulness growing, he looked round to make sure all was safe, and that no further danger need be feared from blowing sparks or creeping flames; and then went gravely into his hut to read.

The next morning he told Stanley that he might be obliged to go east the following day on important business, and leave him to receive the travellers, and remained imperturbably grave and non-seeing when Stanley raised his eyebrows and regarded him with a little amused twinkle of understanding.

But in the afternoon the party quite unexpectedly turned up, and somewhere away in the blue, dreaming kopjes the voice of a following fate laughed softly.



VIII

TWO UNEXPECTED MEETINGS

Early in the afternoon Carew rode to the mission station to tell Ailsa Grenville and her husband of the expected visitors, and of how he was likely to depart in the morning for M'rekwas and be away about a fortnight.

Ailsa Grenville smiled at him archly when he told her. "Why do you run away when, for once in a way, you have the chance of a little companionship? It would do you more good to stay."

"I think not; and besides," he added, hastily, "I am going on business."

"A convenient sort of business, I fancy. Why not wait and see them first?"

"Well, I could hardly go away immediately after their arrival, when Mr. Pym probably knows of the letter despatched to me from headquarters. It is far simpler to send a runner back with excuses."

"But why go at all?" in a persuasive voice.

Carew walked to the door and knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the heel of his boot; and Ailsa knew by his face that, though he did not resent her questioning, he would take no notice of it. And it made her a little sad, for of all the men she knew, next to Billy, her husband, she admired Carew, and she regretted deeply his insistent determination to stand aloof from mankind generally behind the barriers he had built up.

Then Billy himself came in: khaki-clad, vigorous, and gay as ever; and when he heard the news he was less reticent, and exclaimed outright, "But what do you want to go away for? Why, it will be quite a treat for you to have ladies there; and who knows, one of the heiresses may be very charming—charming enough even for your fastidious taste!"

"I prefer the company of the veldt," was all he said, without relaxing the fixity of his face; "ladies are more in Stanley's line."

"The Kid must be awfully pleased," Ailsa said, smiling. "I'm sure he isn't going away."

Carew, lying back in a big chair, was leisurely lighting his pipe, and he did not reply. All his attitude showed only cold indifference, and it would have been difficult to believe that, even in his heart, he had taken the trouble to be resentful. Ailsa, watching, felt a little impatient with him. She wanted to break through the shell in which he chose to hide that self which her instinct told her was so different to his outward seeming. What had become of the gay Londoner, who drove the smartest four-in-hand in the park, and rode the fastest horse to hounds? She longed to write home and ask her people of his story, but bitter things had been said when she elected to go into exile with her husband, and there had been almost no correspondence since. And Billy had been away in South Africa at the time of the crash and heard nothing about it. All he could tell her was that Carew of the Blues had been known as one of the gayest of the gay fifteen years or so ago, and that suddenly he had seemed to vanish off the face of the earth; and that Carew of the B.S.A.P. was the same man, only different, and he must be over forty years of age. So she had to content herself as well as she could, and be glad that, at any rate, while he remained in the Victoria district, they could have his companionship, though he chose to keep his own counsel as to why he was there.

At first she had been rather afraid of him, and felt shy and awkward when he came to see them; but Billy's attitude of jovial good fellowship, in no way repulsed by the other's cold reserve, had helped to reassure her, and now they both appeared unconscious of any lack of warmth in their visitor. If he liked to be silent he could, and if he seemed in a taciturn mood they took no notice.

When he called for his horse to return he said good-bye to her before mounting, and spoke of not coming again for a fortnight, and she watched him ride away regretfully. Evidently he did not mean to be sociable, even to the lady travellers, and it was no use hoping anything for him.

In the meantime, the first ambulance, containing Meryl and Diana, arrived at the ruins. Mr. Pym was detained in Edwardstown with his engineer, and might not join them until the next day, but the girls begged him to let them go on, longing to be out in the open again, away from hotels and bungalows.

So a police-boy from the town camp was sent on to escort them, and the Zimbabwe camp notified by runner of their approach. Stanley opened the letter in the absence of his chief, and much to his own delectation, was waiting alone to receive them upon the chosen camping-ground on their arrival. Diana saw him first, and remarked joyfully that he was white.

"Hooroosh!..." said she, "there's a man as well as ruins." And a little later, "I'm afraid he's only a boy, but he looks a nice boy, and there are occasions when the 'half a loaf' proverb applies to 'half a man.'"

Then he helped her out of the ambulance after receiving them with a grave salute, and regretted that, in the absence of Major Carew, there was no one but himself to receive them. He was evidently a trifle shy and embarrassed, stammering a little as he offered his services to superintend the pitching of their camp, with eyes that would wander from the elder cousin to Diana's small, impish, alluring face.

"Have some tea with us first," said she. "We've already acquired a few Rhodesian vices, such as an unlimited capacity for tea-drinking, and Gelungwa can make quite a decent apology for the beverage which cheers but not inebriates."

They sat down, and laughed and chatted together until the kettle boiled, and before the tea was finished The Kid had fallen in love with both, and was congratulating himself that Carew had taken that afternoon ride. Then the girls said they would ramble while their tent was pitched, but disagreed as to which direction they would take first. Meryl had left her little guide-book with her father, and wanted to postpone the temple until she had it. Diana said it was too hot to attempt the Acropolis Hill. In the end they separated. Meryl strolled towards the Acropolis and Diana sought the cool shadiness of the temple.

About the same time Carew started his homeward ride, and when he reached the base of the Acropolis Hill he gave his horse to the runner who had gone with him to carry some books for Ailsa Grenville, and climbed a little way into the hill to remark a point of investigation he had been discussing with Grenville; and, quite suddenly, round a sharp piece of masonry, he came upon Meryl Pym. She wore a large, shady hat, and she was standing quite still, gazing across the country. For a moment Carew stood quite still also. It was odd that she had not heard his steps upon the rough footpath, but apparently she was too absorbed to hear anything at all. He was exceedingly relieved and drew aside stealthily, prepared to return quickly the way he had come. But before he started he glanced once more, for something in her quiet pose struck oddly upon his heart. She looked very slim and graceful and girlish in a simple washing frock of some soft grey material, with little Quakerish cuffs and collar, and the big, shady hat tied on with a ribbon. And all in a moment he was transported years before, and there was a Devonshire wood, and a slim lassie, and little Quakerish cuffs and collar, and eyes that watched and waited—watched and waited for him.

And then....

No, not even in thought would he dwell again upon what followed. It was a weakness he had fought down. A weakness that even now, given rein, could unman him. The quick light vanished from his eyes, the mouth grew stern again, and he turned to descend.

At the same moment Meryl turned also and came towards his hiding-place. He had just time to step further back and take shelter behind a low, bushy tree, which would hardly reveal his khaki, before she passed. And just in front of him she raised her head and glanced upwards, so that he saw her eyes, and for a moment his pulses seemed to stop beating. If her pose had reminded him of someone it was as nothing compared to her face with that upward glance. The delicate contour, the fine features, the wistful, dreamy, quiet eyes. Were they blue, or were they grey?... How came they with long, dark, curling lashes when her hair was a dusky, light shade, with soft waves and gleams of sunlight? In his hiding-place he stood very still and very rigid. For a moment he might have been part of the rock behind him. Then she passed on up the steep ascent, and he came out and retraced his steps, feeling a little dazed.

Who could she be?... But, of course, the party must have arrived unexpectedly: had not remained in Edwardstown as they intended. And she was one of the heiresses—one of the flaunting, gaping, vulgar, dressed-up young women he had been secretly so resentful over. And, of course, she was none of these. Then suddenly he almost laughed; almost laughed aloud. For she was worse—far, far worse. The gushing, loud-voiced heiress he might have coped with. His frigidity froze most people if he chose; and avoidance was not difficult. But what could he do with Joan—his love, his dead love Joan—looking at him out of this girl's beautiful eyes, touching him with this girl's slender hands, speaking to him from this stranger's lips? It was impossible—impossible; all the careful training of that fifteen years in exile would be undone. His very life would be undermined again. For the moment it seemed incredible, preposterous. He felt stunned by it.

Then his rigid self-control came to his aid, and his face grew stern and hard.

The preposterous thing was that he should let a chance resemblance hit him so; should even admit the possibility of being undone after all his careful self-training. No, a thousand times no; he was not such a weak fool as that. The strength he had won was his still. He had only to go on being resolute and cold and the past would lie down again, and once more go quietly to sleep.

He defied it to overcome him now. By every agonised pang, by every hour of unfathomable bitterness, by every solitary year of self-chosen exile, he insisted that he must prevail. He strode on, scarcely seeing anything about him, and his face grew sterner and sterner. Then he came within sight of the camping-place, and saw the white tent, and Stanley giving directions, while Moore and some black boys unpacked things from the ambulance.

And he thought he would get more complete control of himself before he joined them; take this thing fairly by the throat and throttle it, that he might regain his peace of mind absolutely before the second encounter with the owner of the face and form that seemed for a moment to have made an upheaval in his life. So he turned aside and made for the temple, feeling glad and relieved at the consciousness that the mood was passing, and reassured that, being no more taken by surprise, he would successfully master it. Probably he could still go away on the morrow, and once away, Rhodesia would take him to her heart again. He knew it full well. Every day now the country was giving back to him of what he had given to her; lulling him, soothing him, revivifying him with her freshness and her charm.

But his mind was very occupied still and his vision clouded as he passed into the cool shade of the temple, and he did not see a small, dainty person with an impish face perched high on a broken wall, with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and a queer, fitful, half-serious, half-bored expression in her dark eyes. Instead, seeing no one and thinking himself alone, he sat down on a low wall quite near to her and stared gloomily at the ground. Diana, not a little amused, surveyed him at her leisure. "What in the world," she wondered, "was this smart, soldierly looking man, correctly booted and spurred, sitting down there for in the ruins?..."

The great temple at Zimbabwe has never been roofed. The ruins consist of a wonderful outer wall, from twenty-two to thirty-two feet high and in some places fifteen feet thick, of an elongated shape, and within this wall are remnants of other walls which formed separate small enclosures. There is also the sacred enclosure with the conical tower, and leading into it from the north entrance the wonderfully contrived passage, between two high walls, scarcely more than a shoulder's breadth apart in one place. Amid the ruins trees have grown up, many of them higher than the outer wall, and these shade the glare of the sun, casting cool shadows and networks of sunlight upon the broken walls. And on the afternoon in question here and there were splashes of brilliant scarlet, where a Kaffir Boom tree flowered with a flaunting indifference to the passing of centuries and races.

Diana, with her whimsical, artistic temperament, was fully alive to the fascination and uniqueness of her surroundings, but being a little tired with the drive, she felt for the moment somewhat impatient with ruins generally, and just a shade depressed with a certain air of dead forlornness that hovered all around. Then into the midst of this dream of antiquity strode a stern, fierce-looking, very up-to-date sportsman, who sat, for no conceivable reason, on a broken wall and stared at the ground. For one moment her sense of the ludicrous made her almost laugh aloud. Then, with sudden, upleaping interest, she sat still as a mouse and watched him. Once she half smiled to herself. There was a man, then, as well as a boy! She was not going to be entirely stifled in ruins, after all! She went on with her cogitations, staring hard, her head a little to one side. A real man, too, with a lean, brown face, and a square, determined chin, and a nose quite Roman enough to suit any novelist, and dark hair a little thin on the top and a little grey at the temples. She could not be sure if he were a soldier or not, but evidently he had been riding, for he still carried a hunting-crop; and also, judging by his face and attitude, something was considerably on his mind.

Without the slightest movement she sat on and waited; and that was exceedingly characteristic of Diana. Where another girl would have felt embarrassed and made some sound to relieve the tension, she almost held her breath to retain it. The situation was unique. In a life that offered deplorably little of novelty and adventure she would not for worlds have thrown away such a chance. Meryl, on the other hand, would probably not have felt the tension; she would have quietly walked past him out at the entrance. Diana felt the atmosphere of the footlights and calmly waited.

And, of course, in the end, vaguely conscious of some disturbing, not quite accountable element, Carew looked up straight into her eyes.

Diana looked straight back and tried hard to keep her lips from twitching. She noticed pleasurably that he did not start; that he scarcely even showed surprise. Such a man, she felt, would not. Yet the very fact that for several seconds he remained perfectly still, staring at her, showed that he was quite satisfactorily astounded. Then he stood up, and waited a moment as if he expected her to speak. She thought he might have smiled. The hero on the stage, of course, would smile—divinely—and a blush like a tender dawn would overspread the heroine's rose-leaf cheeks.

But he did not smile; to be honest, he looked excessively annoyed, and no tender blush of any sort could possibly have shown upon her sunburnt face.

Still, she did not intend to flinch, and if the mischievous smile lurking at the corners of her mouth died away, she still regarded him with a calmness equal to his own, and with the impishness quite emphatically still in her eyes. Then suddenly she felt as if there had been some invisible sword-play between them. Her instinct told her he resented her silent watching, and that his cool, collected front now and his silence were the expression of his resentment. It was not in the least like a fairy story, of course; here was the prince, surly, stony, and bearish, and the princess, red and brown with sunburn, on the point of being caught at a disadvantage. But there Diana's native wits came to her aid, and she did a clever thing.

"Would you mind helping me down?" she asked, sweetly. "I climbed up here to get a good view of the interior, and when I try to descend the stones slip so, I am nervous. I did not like to disturb you before," she finished, unabashed and unblushing, but carefully lowering her eyes a moment.

He stepped forward at once and reached his hand up to her, and she saw that his keen eyes were of that intense clear blue seen in so many strong, notable men, but that they looked at her in a cold, aloof manner which made her feel rather small and childish. "Surely," she thought, "he is not genuinely angry just because I did not tell him I was there?" Aloud she said:

"Thank you," and placed her hand quite calmly in the strong, inviting brown one upheld to her.

Then, taken with a fit of devilry out of growing exasperation, she added, "I'm not the daughter, I'm the niece."

"Miss Pym, I presume," he said, coldly, and bowed to her.

"Miss Diana Pym," she replied, and slightly inclined her head.

"My name is Carew," he told her, with bluntness.

"And are you ... er ... a scientist, evolving a theory about the ruins?"

"I am a policeman." He said it brusquely, almost rudely, and Diana was taken with a sudden desperate inclination to laugh. All in a moment he reminded her forcibly of the uniformed autocrat holding up one lordly hand to stop the traffic. She moved towards the entrance, keeping her face averted. "The same sort of policeman as Mr. Stanley, I suppose?" she suggested, affably, but he seemed not to hear her, and a covert glance at his face was not reassuring. But the mere fact only spurred her on. If she was silent he might think he had overawed her. Goodness! how appalling! She quickened her step, and tossed her small head a little with a kind of challenging jerk.

"I rather like your ruin," she said. "It's quite a nice old heap of stones."



IX

THE BEAR

Once more Carew vouchsafed no reply, but Diana knew perfectly well that his lips tightened slightly, which signified that in some way she had hit him.

So pretending to be perfectly unaware of his non-responsive attitude, she ran airily on:

"Such a mad idea to travel hundreds of miles to see a few old remains of a doubtful edifice, built by Bantus! or is the plural Bantams?... I'm sure when you heard we were coming you wondered if you had better prepare a dwelling for us with padded walls. Now, didn't you?..." and she looked up archly into his face.

"I understood Mr. Pym had come to this neighbourhood about some gold claims," in cold, even tones.

"Yes, so he has. But we haven't; at least Meryl hasn't. She came to see Rhodesia. I don't quite know what I've come for," naively. "I was just wondering about it sitting on that wall." And still he refused to be drawn. "You were looking very grave. Were you wondering what you are here for too?"

At that moment they reached a spot where the path divided into two: one fork leading to their tent and the other to the police camp. He stood still. "I believe I was considering the best solution to a native problem that has lately arisen." He glanced towards their tent. "I see Mr. Stanley is helping to arrange your camp. Please let him know of anything you want. You will find him an excellent guide." Then, scarcely looking at her, he saluted and walked away.

Diana returned to their tent feeling baffled and interested, half-inclined to be cross and half-inclined to laugh. And almost at the same time from the other direction came Meryl.

"O, it's wonderful!" Meryl cried softly, with all her face aglow. "I never imagined anything half so fascinating; and I haven't even seen the temple yet. Mr. Stanley, do stay and dine with us. Our cook-boy is quite good."

"All except his soup," put in Diana, "and he is only good at that in the sense of making it out of nothing. Sometimes I think he just boils a bit of the harness, or a corner of the tent-flap, or probably he makes it of rats if he can catch enough."

Stanley looked at her with all his eyes and accepted the invitation eagerly, saying that he must first go back to the camp to change. Half an hour later he reappeared, looking quite smart in a white duck dress-jacket and a starched collar.

As they sat down to their alfresco meal, taken under the stars, with two lanterns suspended on sticks for lights, Diana suddenly said to him:

"Who is the bear?..."

"The bear?..." doubtfully.

"Yes. The bear who lives down there in the police camp, and rejoices in the name of Carew."

Stanley, looking much amused, replied, "You must mean the Major; but you haven't met him, have you?"

"I had the pleasure of being snarled at for about fifteen minutes this afternoon."

Stanley laughed outright. "But where? He never said that he had seen you."

"I don't think he did see me. We merely met. Most of the time he either looked away or looked through me at something beyond. Still, he might have mentioned the meeting. I don't feel flattered."

"O, but that is nothing with Carew. He is an awfully silent chap."

"Silent!... do you call it?... I never felt so ... so ... suppressed ... in my life. I thought he seemed rather inclined to bite me."

"But where did you meet him, Di?..." asked Meryl, with interest.

"I was sitting on a wall in the temple, and he strode in and sat on another wall and stared at the ground ... and I stared at him ... and then he looked up and saw me ... and afterwards ..." she paused.

"Do you mean to say you sat perfectly still in front of him, and let him sit on, thinking himself alone, and then suddenly discover you?..."

"Yes. Why not?"

"Well, it wasn't very fair on him."

"Such nonsense, Meryl! That's just what he seemed to think. Why shouldn't I have a little romance if I want to? Such a dull, prosaic, commonplace old world as it is, generally speaking! I was having a lovely one. He was a great hunter who had lost his way, and dragged himself into the temple to die...."

"I thought you said he strode in?..."

"Don't be silly; he wasn't in the romance then. And I was a lovely, mysterious veiled lady who lived in the wilderness; but my veil happened to be thrown back, and when the dying hunter raised his eyes...." she stopped short.

"Well?..."

"That's where the romance stopped, where he brutally spoilt it, because when he raised his eyes and saw me there he just scowled horribly."

Stanley and Meryl laughed whole-heartedly, but Meryl told her it served her right because she was unfairly taking him at a disadvantage.

"But I did nothing of the kind. No one was at a disadvantage except myself."

"I'm sure you weren't," Meryl remarked. "You never have been yet."

"That's where you are mistaken, my dear. When you are sitting in a lovely romance, gazing at a dreadfully handsome, distinguished-looking man who is the hero prince, and will presently discover you and smile divinely with all his soul in his eyes, and when instead an iron-visaged person looks up at you, and scowls and grows as black as thunder, I defy any woman not to find herself at a disadvantage."

"Well, how did you get out of it?... What did you do?..."

The alluring twinkle shone suddenly in Diana's eyes, and her lips twitched mischievously, as she replied:

"Well, I smiled divinely instead, and asked him to help me down from my high wall."

"O, you are quite incorrigible," laughed Meryl. "If I had been him I would have left you there to get down the same way you went up. But who is he?..." turning to Stanley. "He sounds rather interesting."

"He's a splendid fellow," The Kid asserted, warmly. "We couldn't stick him at first, Moore and I, but we soon found he only wants knowing. There's some history attached to his being out here that no one quite knows; but he is a Fountenay-Carew and used to be in the Blues."

"But how nice!" quoth Diana. "This is much more interesting than the old ruins. Is he rich and haughty, with lovely estates left to dishonest stewards, and all that?..."

"No very poor, I should imagine; nothing but his pay, anyhow. I believe when he was in the Blues an old uncle gave him a big allowance, but something happened, and he threw the money in the old chap's face, and the old chap chucked him out."

"And what happened to cause the quarrel?" asked Diana, all ears. "Why, he is more romantic than my prince!"

"That is what I fancy no one knows. Anyhow, in a country like this, no one asks. It isn't quite the game, you see; and, anyhow, no one is interested now. He has done a tremendous lot for Rhodesia in one way and another, especially for the police force and natives; and we're quite proud of him in our way for that, independent of his history."

"How nice!" and Meryl's eyes grew very soft. "It is a much finer reward than he would probably ever have gained in the Blues. I hope he thinks so?"

"I don't suppose he cares either way. Certainly, he doesn't appear to. He just loves the country, and seems only to want to stay here; but he never speaks even of that. Since he came here a few months ago he has done a lot of investigation work among the ruins privately. He is most awfully attached to them."

Suddenly Diana asked, "I suppose he is pretty sick about two modern young women presuming to journey here to gaze at his treasure?"

Stanley coloured up, and Diana laughed. "O, don't bother to deny it. I could feel it in my very bones when we met this afternoon."

They finished their meal, and the boys moved the table away, so that they could sit round the glowing embers of a small fire, not so much for warmth as for the idea, and they lazed low in their chairs, talking idly and enjoying the cool, fragrant night.

And presently, not a propos of anything in particular, Diana said, quite aloud, "I guess The Bear is growling and scowling away nicely to-night down there in his den. I expect the first time we meet I shall forget and call him Bear Carew instead of Major Carew, and then he'll shrivel me up with a glance."

A sound beside them in the shadow made all look up suddenly, and the lamplight fell full upon Carew's face as he stood near Diana's chair.

Meryl rose hurriedly, blushing to the roots of her hair, while Stanley, secretly much amused, stood up likewise. Only the culprit remained unperturbed to outward seeming, glancing archly round.

"I'm afraid you overheard what I said ... Major Carew.... I'm quite ready to apologise, only ..."

"Please, don't...." For one instant the coldly even voice had a tiny inflection in it, as of humour, though he stifled it immediately, as he turned to Meryl and said, gravely, with a bow, "Miss Pym, I think?... A letter has come for you from Edwardstown by runner. I brought it on in case you might wish to send a reply, and to enquire if you are quite comfortable here for the night."

Meryl took it from him, thanking him in her low, sweet voice, and with a rather shy, upward glance. And Diana, in the shadow, saw the soldier suddenly flinch and suddenly grow sterner, standing in an attitude of almost unnatural rigidity.

"There is no heed to reply," Meryl said, after reading her note. "It is only a message from father to say he may be detained until afternoon. Thank you so much for bringing it. Won't you sit down? Can I offer you anything? I'm afraid there is not much choice. Father does not like luxuries in the wilderness, and we only carry whisky."

"No, thank you." The tones were even again now, and he made no movement towards a chair. "Have you everything you need for the night? I hope Mr. Stanley has made himself very useful?"

"He has been splendid. I am only afraid we have tired him out. Won't you sit down?" and she shyly motioned to a chair.

"Thank you. I'm afraid I must get back. I have some despatches to write. Would you like a police-boy to keep guard here all night? There is nothing whatever to fear, but if it would add to your comfort?..."

"O no, thank you," warmly. "We are not in the least nervous. I think there are no lions very near," with a little laugh.

Diana, lying back in her chair, had scarcely taken her eyes off the tall soldier, though she watched him covertly, and without seeming to; and her quick brain perceived dimly that his aloof attitude was partly a mask which had become a habit, and that, however much he suppressed her, there was nothing whatever repellant about his chilly reserve. And then, suddenly, the little mischievous devil possessed her again, and she longed to try her arts upon him, just to see what happened, and to show him she was not seriously in the least afraid of him.

And no sooner had Meryl remarked that there were no lions near them, than she could not for the life of her help murmuring, "No lions, only bears."

Again there was an instant's answering gleam in Carew's eyes, but he only smiled very slightly, and said, "Perhaps a bear's growl, like a dog's bark, is worse than his bite."

It was as though something altogether too much for him was struggling with an inclination to relax just the least bit on Diana's behalf and insistently conquering. With scarcely a second look at her he drew himself up tautly and said he must be going. Then he saluted gravely, said good night in a voice that included them all, and strode away through the darkness towards the police camp.

For a moment there was silence round the glowing embers.

"It was kind of him to say good night," said Diana, sarcastically.

"What a fine-looking man!" commented Meryl.

"He is gruffer than usual to-night. Perhaps something has happened to upset him. I think I must be going also," and Stanley reluctantly rose to follow his chief.

"Of course he is gruffer," said Diana. "Two tiresome women have dared to journey to Zimbabwe to look at his ruins."

In the darkness Carew strode on to where a light shone through the doorway of a hut, but his eyes were looking straight before him into the night, and had the expression of one whose thoughts were very far away. It had cost him an effort to go up there with the note, but he had made it purposely, determined to take in hand quickly that vein of weakness which threatened him at sight of Meryl. He would go up and speak to her and break the spell as quickly as possible, regaining his old fortitude. More particularly as he felt he could not now leave on the morrow, just as Mr. Pym was arriving expecting to find him there. Not that there appeared any reason why, just because he happened to be a millionaire, a police officer should be expected to wait on him, but no doubt the Administration had its own reason for showing special attention to a very rich man, and hoped for some benefit to the country thereby.

So he had taken the bull by the horns and strode up to the lamplit camp, where the travellers sat over the glowing embers; and, of course, he had heard Diana's remark, and smiled grimly to himself, in no way displeased, for it suited him perfectly to be shunned as a bear. And then, keeping an iron control over himself, he had addressed Meryl, and looked straight into her face without flinching. The upward look, for one second, had shaken him, but the iron control held good, and before he left them he had spoken to her and looked at her with perfect calmness. The visit had been quite as he wished it, and for a few seconds, striding into the dark, he congratulated himself upon having so satisfactorily coped with a situation that had threatened to be a little difficult and had disturbed him so in the afternoon. Of course, she wasn't really like Joan, except in a very general way. Just her height and figure and graceful movements and colouring; and, of course, the upward glance from confiding, thoughtful, blue-grey eyes that had humour lurking in them, and power and possibilities, and were so curiously framed in dark lashes in spite of light hair. In the midst of his self-congratulation he remembered the upward look again, and all in a moment once more it shook him. His gaze went blindly to the stars, and his mind flew back. Ah! how sweet Joan had been; how strong, how true! How she had stood by him through the beginning of the storm, turning the clouds to sunshine, making everything worth while! And then, the swift tragedy, the climax; the awful, awful days and nights that followed. How he had trodden the lonely Devon moors, blindly, passionately seeking a dead weariness of body that would dull his mind! How he had cursed the two men who drove in the final barb, and vowed never to see their faces again!

And then the little note-book he had found, in which Joan had inscribed some of her thoughts from time to time, and copied a few favourite passages from favourite authors! It had come to him like a voice from the dead—Joan's voice, calling to him to rise above his despair and prove himself still worthy of her. And out there on the moors at sunrise he had vowed that he would. Calmly, coldly, as an austere monk, he had laid down for ever the things that had made his life gay and joyous before, and prepared to turn his back on England and all that it held pertaining to him.

And now there is a distant wilderness and great southern stars, and mysterious, antique ruins, and a man who has grown strong and silent in aloofness, and won a sort of soothing content out of what he has given, seeking no reward.

Not, perhaps, that "renewing" a royal friend had spoken of fifteen years ago, for the contentment was void of hope and fear and joy, but balm upon the passionate, frantic bitterness and despair. But the "renewing" might come even yet, however much he scorned the thought; for forty-two is at the prime of years, and Life has a tender way of her own of healing when she will.

But to-night the memories are bitter, and the reopened wound throbs and burns. Carew strode up to his hut, with only a curt good night to the trooper, and when Stanley arrived back there was no light burning, only darkness and silence.



X

A MINING CAMP

The following day Carew avoided the camp, after telling Stanley he might devote his time to the ladies if he wished. In the afternoon, however, he saw Mr. Pym and his engineer arrive, and then, presently, the party all went down to the ruins together. About an hour later they re-emerged, and while the two girls went back to the tents, the millionaire strolled towards the police camp. Carew, seizing his opportunity, came out, and went to meet him. He considered himself fortunate in being able to offer the necessary courtesies when the ladies of the party were absent. Mr. Pym hid his surprise at seeing so distinguished-looking an officer at such an out-of-the-way camp, and received his somewhat curt greetings in his own quiet, business-like manner. He thanked him for the attentions he had already rendered, and hoped they were not causing any inconvenience in pitching their tents near the ruins. Carew assured him they were not, and mentioned that Mr. Stanley would be happy to place his time at their service and do anything he could to make their stay agreeable.

Henry Pym, noting the obvious intention of the officer not to place much of his own time at their disposal, looked quietly into the resolute face, and felt his interest growing apace. At the same time, following his lead, he made no attempt to lengthen the interview, which he felt was more or less regarded as an official duty; and with courteous thanks said good night, hoped Major Carew would dine with them one evening, and returned to his tent.

"Well, uncle," was Diana's greeting, "what do you make of The Bear?"

"The Bear?..." questioningly.

"The cast-iron soldierman, who condescends to breathe the same air as ordinary mortals down there in the police camp."

"O, Major Carew!..." with a quick gleam in his eyes. "I thought him rather a fine fellow. Don't you?" and he smiled at her slyly.

"A fine bear," quoth Diana, with a little pout. "I prefer a man with a little more flexibility. A little more commonplace flesh and blood, so to speak."

"I asked him to dinner to-morrow," her uncle remarked.

"And is he coming?" with ill-concealed interest.

"No. He is going to see two young miners named Macaulay a few miles away, and was regretfully compelled to decline," and the humorous smile on his face widened, for he knew that Diana would be piqued.

"As if he couldn't go there any day!" she grumbled. "O, of course, he is perfectly odious."

Meryl's eyes met her father's, and they both laughed, while he remarked, "Never mind; perhaps we can lay a trap for him another time. Evidently he has no particular fancy for ladies' company."

"Do you know the Macaulays?" Meryl asked.

"No, but I am going to see them in two or three days on business."

"And you will take us?..." she pleaded. "I do want so to see all we can of the settlers as well as the country."

"We will see later," he said, and made a move to prepare for dinner.

During the next two days he and his engineer made sundry small excursions on business. Their investigation of several outcrops in the Victoria district had convinced them the gold was by no means worked out by that ancient people who had left so many traces of mining operations, and Mr. Pym was prepared to buy up claims and properties. On the fourth day he went to see the Macaulays, and took the girls with him, having procured a mule each for them to ride. Stanley and Carew were also to be of the party; the latter not a little to everyone's surprise.

All through the four days he had held consistently aloof, personating merely the courteous official upon whom Mr. Pym had a certain claim because of the letter from headquarters. As a matter of fact, he had undertaken a journey of some length on two of the days to outlying kraals; and Diana, hearing of it from Stanley, had laughed a little grimly, and said, "He need not have troubled. We have no wish to speak to him"; and Stanley, not quite clever enough to understand, remarked regretfully, "But you would like him so much if you knew him properly."

The reason was not very apparent for his accompanying them to the Macaulays' mine, but Meryl shrewdly suspected her father, who had gone quietly to smoke a pipe in the police camp with him on one or two occasions, had asked him to come more or less as a personal favour. For though Stanley knew the road perfectly he knew very little about the surrounding country itself; and Mr. Pym, with his unerring instinct, had quickly discovered that Carew's mind was a well of knowledge on most things Rhodesian. So the taciturn soldier joined the cavalcade, though he succeeded in attaching himself to Mr. Pym and riding well on ahead.

The two Macaulays were "small miners," working on tribute a mine belonging to a block owned by a company in which Henry Pym had large interests. Complaints had come through to his ears concerning the difficult conditions upon which the two young miners, and many others like them, struggled to make a fortune or a livelihood, and he had a fancy to go and see them for himself. The mine was in a hollow, banked round by tall, gloomy kopjes, which seemed to stand like a bodyguard, sternly shutting them off from all sight or sound of the outside world. At the same time, the road to it was delightful. Sometimes they climbed nearly to the top of a kopje, the mules going up stairways of granite as if born to it, and the lovely country lay outspread in a glorious panorama before them.

The party said very little, but their eyes told that the fascination had crept into their hearts already, though they could only appreciate in silence, wondering, perhaps, why they felt this strong attraction for a land that was chiefly kopjes and veldt.

Was it, perhaps, the marvellous, translucent atmosphere, or was it the blue intensity of the dreaming kopjes, ornamented ever and anon by gleaming white battlements of granite, where the sun blazed down on giant boulders, or was it the unfathomable, mysterious, syren-like allurement of the country, that, without effort, without thought, steeped the senses in an irresistible fascination? Why does Rhodesia fascinate? Why does she call men back again and again to her manifold discomforts and unnerving disappointments, to her pests and glare, to her bully beef and unwashed Kaffirs? Who shall say?... Who shall attempt to explain?...

There is no explanation; only the foolish would seek it. The country just gets up and takes hold of one and smiles, and men become enslaved to her. Ever after "the hazy blue of her mountains, the waft of the veldt-born scent," is like a germ in the blood. The discomforts are forgotten, the disappointments dissolve into air, the noontide glare and choking dust are a mere nothing: libellous creations of some discontented grumbler. And in the midst of the crowd, or in England's green lanes, or on some far shore, the wanderer is caught in the old mesh suddenly, and all his pulses beat with swift longing at just that heaven-sweet impression: "The hazy blue of her mountains, the waft of the veldt-born scent...."

And she, the syren, lies there in her sunshine and her loveliness; locked in the arms of the deep, luscious, dreaming nights, whispering and murmuring softly under embracing, star-lit heavens; making wild riot when the splendid storms fling after each other across her bosom, while the thunders roll deafeningly amidst her kopjes, and the lightning pierces brilliantly the riotous clouds and makes a glory of the mighty scene. Sulky and colourless when she is waiting impatiently for the delayed rains; resplendent, and with a colouring that is like a Te Deum, when the renewing has come, and all her soul sings aloud in the joy of spring, and all her flowers and trees lend her loveliness past telling, and her hills a yet deeper blueness under yet intenser, rain-washed skies. All this—all her moods and whims and waywardness—going serenely on—splendidly, superbly indifferent to the men who come to tame her and stay to love in silent enslavement; as also to the men who come solely for gain and gold, and go away shrieking their complainings to the four winds. Because, perhaps, the enchantress has not troubled to show them her allurements, and ruffled, discontented minds have discovered only the dust and heat and pests.

But what of it to the syren?... There are others who stay, as many, perhaps, as she wants, and to whom she puts out a shy hand of friendship, and presently soothes and consoles as the strong, silent, storm-tossed man who rode with so soldierly a bearing beside Mr. Pym; suffering no stab of love and longing any more as he looked over her fair bosom, because the shy hand was in his, because there was that subtle sense of understanding in his heart which seemed to tell him that even as he loved Rhodesia, Rhodesia loved him.

And so they came to the Saucy Susan Gold Mine, at least to the ridge of the surrounding kopjes, and looked down to where a cluster of huts like beehives told them humans dwelt down there in the hollow.

"It can't be a mine," said Diana. "It's just a hollow in the hills; the sort of place giants hide in when they play hide-and-seek."

"But it is," Stanley assured her. "We shall see a little more as we wind down."

And presently they came within view of a shaft, and two honest-eyed young Englishmen, both old Charterhouse boys, came forward to greet them.

Meryl shook hands with her face all aglow with interest; and to their humble apologies that they had only huts to invite them into, she said, "But it is so nice of you to invite us at all. You wouldn't believe how proud I am to come here to see you, and how tremendously interested."

And Diana, with a droll expression, remarked, "You seem to live rather in the nethermost depths. You must feel as if you were going to heaven literally and figuratively every time you ascend to the outer world."

The elder brother laughed pleasantly, but the younger, who had a white face and a delicate, refined air, looked at her a little wistfully. Meryl chatted on with the elder, but Diana, with her quick perception, scented a silent, wordless, plucky endurance of adverse conditions in the younger, and gave her attention to him.

Then they went into the dining-room hut, and found a meal spread on a roughly made table, with only two chairs for seats and all the rest packing-cases.

"Who has to sit on a chair?" asked Diana. "I needn't, need I?..."

"Why, they are quite sound!... Are you afraid of a spill?..." asked Lionel Macaulay, looking amused.

"No, only I can sit on a chair any day of my life. I simply insist upon having a packing-case when such a good opportunity offers."

So Meryl and her father were duly ensconced in the only two chairs, and Diana mounted gaily on to a tall, thin packing-case, which would certainly have gone over backwards if Colin, the rather sad-eyed brother, had not caught her just as she was overbalancing.

"How clever of you!..." she laughed. "What happens when you two overbalance and don't happen to be near enough to catch each other?... Does the dinner come in and find you both sprawling on the floor?"

"Well, we've had a good deal of practice, you see," he told her, already cheering visibly. "The tables are turned for us, and we choose a chair when we can get it, for a treat."

Afterwards she made him show her all his clever contrivances for packing-case furniture, and admired his sackcloth curtain, barrel washhand stand, and made him feel vigorous and hopeful.

Stanley was talking to Meryl, and Lionel Macaulay was showing Mr. Pym, the engineer, and Carew over the mine, so she gossiped away to him all by herself. And she drew from him a little of the bitter disappointments they had encountered in the country. A story of first one mine and then another failing them; of capital slipping away and bills mounting; of the gradual cutting down of comforts and increased austerity of living: a story common enough in all colonies where Life puts men through the mill again and again to prove and harden them. Acting perhaps on the lines:

"It is easy enough to be pleasant When life moves along like a song, But the man worth while is the man who can smile When everything goes dead wrong."

Life wants a lot of men and women whom she knows are "worth while" in carrying out her great affairs, and that is perhaps why so often "everything goes dead wrong."

Diana maintained her role of gay inconsequence because it pleased her best.

"It all sounds very superior and all that rot, and I'm sure Meryl would call you a hero; but I should swear myself black and blue in your shoes, and that's about what you do pretty often, I expect."

His smile grew fresher and more genuine.

"It doesn't do much good though."

"O yes it does. Don't tell me! When things get into a silly stupid mess with me I just shut the door and say every swear word I know until I feel better. That's one advantage of living in a hollow in the desert. You needn't even bother to shut the door!... You can shout your ruffled feelings to the kopjes, and I suppose they echo the words back to you. How perfectly splendid! That's a thing about Rhodesia I hadn't thought of before. Of course, the echoes are sometimes wonderful; so if you were to shout a few swear words the kopjes would shout them after you; and that's much better than 'dreaming stillness' in my opinion. But why aren't you and your brother making a fortune? I thought everyone in Rhodesia was making one who had a mine."

"We don't get up enough gold. By the time we have paid our royalty and the expenses there is nothing left."

"Then the royalty must be too big. Who do you pay it to?"

He coloured, and she watched him humorously.

"Has my uncle something to do with your company? O, don't look uncomfortable. I'll just talk to him about it. There ought to be occasions when no royalty is taken at all. I'll tell him so."

Colin Macaulay laughed into her smiling eyes.

"As it is, there is a charge for everything, even the grass the donkeys eat!..."

"O, monstrous! I never heard of such a thing. I'll interview the board about it if you like. Tell your donkeys they may eat anything they choose in future, it is not going down in the bill any more!..." and they both laughed gaily.

In a more serious mood, however, she asked him presently, "I suppose it has been rather a disappointment?... This coming out to Rhodesia to make a fortune!"

"Why do you think so?"

"O, well, lots of reasons. You haven't come within sight of the fortune, for one thing; and you've still got packing-case furniture and live in huts. And you eat a lot of bully beef, now don't you?"

"We do."

"But that isn't what you came for?"

"Still"—meditatively—"it's not a small thing to be in a country where a fortune may be won any day. It is that, of course, which keeps us going. It is better anyhow than a stool and one hundred and fifty pounds a year in England."

"Are you sure?" And she watched him with keen eyes.

He coloured slightly, but answered with firmness:

"Quite."

"But not better than something else, perhaps?"

He saw that her interest was kindly and genuine, and suddenly drawn to expand he told her simply:

"It's the isolation that hurts. Day after day, day after day, just this hollow and these kopjes, and never anyone to speak to except each other. We send for the mail once a week, but sometimes very little comes by it; and we get nothing fresh to read except a weekly Rhodesian paper. That is a gold mine to us for just one evening; but for all the rest there is nothing. Lionel is studying French, and I do a little also, but it palls after a time badly."

"I should think so. It sounds as dry as dead bones."

They were sitting upon a rocky knoll, and Diana had her hands clasped round her drawn-up knees, presenting a very attractive picture. "I'm not a true Imperialist at heart," she informed him. "I hate gush and talk and heroics, but between you and me I think an awful lot of you men making your solitary fight in the wilderness. It's always a lot easier to put up with discomforts when you know your next-door neighbour is jolly uncomfortable too. Of course, most people don't say so, but that's because they are conventional, and fondly try to persuade themselves, very unselfish also; but when they are honest they know quite well a misfortune is lightened when several others are in the same box. That's why, on a wet day, I console myself sitting at the window and watching folks struggling with drenched umbrellas and bedraggled skirts. It's so good to be safe inside."

He waited with amused eyes.

"And, of course, the trouble for you is just sitting down here among these monotonous kopjes and being uncomfortable all alone. No one to grumble to—ugh, how I should hate that!—no one to feel superior with; no one to envy you, even if there were anything to envy. It's a positive grave."

"You've left out one of the worst contingencies. No one to discuss with; no friction of mind and opinions."

"That comes under the heading of grumbling. When I discuss I almost always grumble about something. It is good for the progress of the world." And she laughed whimsically. Then, with one of her sudden changes, "How long do you expect to stay on trying to dig up a fortune, and pretending it is worth while when you know you hate it like Old Harry?"

"We shall probably try another mine soon. That is what we want to do; but it cost so much to get our machinery down into this hollow we don't quite know where to find the money to get it out again. So we just go on hoping we shall strike a good reef soon."

She remained thoughtful and silent some moments, and then, as if to change the subject, remarked, "Mr. Stanley seems happy enough in his solitary place. He says he used to be in Salisbury, but very much prefers Zimbabwe."

"Most of the police prefer a quiet place with good shooting; and now that he has Major Carew there so much it must often be interesting."

"Do you know Major Carew well?" and her quick voice failed to entirely hide her interest.

"As well as perhaps anyone does. He comes to see us fairly often on Sundays."

"But he is so silent, he can't be very interesting."

"He is not always silent."

"No, sometimes he snarls," with a little laugh.

"Ah! you don't know him. Get him to talk to you about the natives; about their habits and legends and customs. There isn't a man in Rhodesia knows more, and there isn't one they trust more absolutely. He is down in this district now on their behalf, and before he set foot here they knew all about him. Natives a hundred miles apart communicate that sort of thing to each other. Every kraal here knew perfectly that he was stern and rigid, but absolutely just. If he once says a thing he stands by it, even if he gets into trouble at headquarters, which isn't so very unusual. Someone out of jealousy or pique or utter inability to understand stern justice, will misrepresent his actions and misreport him for doing his duty. It's a heart-breaking business for him sometimes; but he never gives in when it is keeping his word one way or the other with natives. He would sooner resign, and they know it; and fortunately they recognise his value and meet him somehow. Of course, he isn't in the Native Department, properly speaking, but he has done a lot of work with them for some time."

"And what do you think he is down here for now?"

"I don't know; but it is some abuse or other that has reached the ears of the administration. This sort of thing happens among the short-sighted, small-minded Native Commissioners. There was a man a short time back who charged his house boys five shillings for everything they broke. At the end of six months they had had no pay at all, and were pretty heavily in debt. He was magistrate as well as commissioner and had them brought before his court, and promptly sentenced them to work six months for nothing."

"What a shame!" she burst out indignantly.

"Or a Native Commissioner may terrorise a native into selling cattle to him for a mere song by nothing but a look. Of course, they are not allowed to buy cattle really, but if they are married their wives buy them instead sometimes, and then the Commissioner in an outlying district can fairly easily fix the price, if he has made himself a dread to all the kraals round. He can collect taxes, too, not strictly just, to make his accounts look well at headquarters."

"But I thought Native Commissioners were always gentlemen?"

"They are generally, but they don't all live up to the usually accepted standard. Some of them seem rather to glory in behaving like bounders and treating the native unjustly. It is bad for the country, but things are improving. Almost all new appointments now are made among public-school boys and Varsity men."

"And do you think Major Carew is here about some such matters?"

"Yes; but it isn't given out so, and no one knows just what. But the natives are fortunate to have him on their side. He is not in the least afraid, and he won't shelter any unjust steward. On the other hand, whatever complaints there are against the natives will be just as honestly examined, and woe betide the kraals that are in the wrong! He is no Exeter Hall sentimentalist, and they must know it pretty well by now."

"Why do you think he is out here at all? Surely he might have been a general with his K.C.M.G. if he had stayed in the army?"

"I rather fancy Carew would think that a small thing compared to what he has done in Rhodesia. After all, K.C.M.G.'s are pretty cheap nowadays, aren't they? But it isn't every man who can know a new country is grateful to him, and who has achieved all he has at a work he loves."

"Why did he come?" Still Diana strove vainly to hide her interest. "Do you know?"

"Adventure, probably. A good many men from crack regiments came in the early days."

"There must have been something more."

"Perhaps."

"Don't you know?"

"No." He looked at her with a little smile. "It isn't the game to ask questions out here."

"That is just what Mr. Stanley said, and it is so dull of you both. The man's a perfect bear. I christened him 'The Bear' before I had known him an hour. But why is he? Why should he be? That's what I want to know."

"I don't fancy you will. I doubt if anyone knows. He has never made friends, I think, out here, except with the Grenvilles, and they are some connection."

"That's the missionary and his wife, isn't it? What in the world can a man like that see in a missionary? Of all the soppy, flabby individuals give me the usual specimen who goes out to preach Christianity to the heathen, and generally disgusts them and everyone else."

"Not this missionary."

"O, is he an original also?"

"He's one of the finest men I've ever known."

"Then what in the world is he buried in the wilderness for? I never knew anything so absurd. A fine soldier and administrator, just a policeman; a splendid man, just a missionary. And you and your brother just grubbing about in a God-forsaken mine, apparently for nothing. It is enough to make anyone wild." And she faced him with that smouldering indignation she rarely allowed to come to the surface.

"But they are both in Rhodesia"—ignoring her kindly inclusion of himself and his brother—"and Rhodesia wants good men."

"And when she gets them just buries them at her outposts. I haven't much faith in your Rhodesia. She is a capricious jade. She absorbs a man's finest qualities and best years and gives him nothing in return."

"Ask Carew if she gives him nothing. Probably she has given him more than anyone else could give."

She got up impatiently. "All the more reason why he shouldn't be such a bear. People who have got what they want out of life ought to be amiable and friendly."

She turned round, and found herself face to face with Carew himself, looking, if anything grimmer than ever.

"I came to tell you that tea is ready, and the others have already commenced."

Diana looked straight into his eyes, with a daring, challenging expression. "And you heard me discussing your amiable attributes? I'm sorry, but"—with a swift gleam—"I do discuss something else sometimes."

"I heard nothing," he answered, returning her direct gaze, and stood aside for her to pass.



XI

AN EVENING RIDE

As they rode home in the evening Diana, more nettled with Carew's impassivity than she would have cared to own, contrived to get a little apart from the others with her uncle, and in her frank, engaging way explained to him the rapaciousness of certain mining companies and her own promise on behalf of the donkeys. Mr. Pym regretted that he could not immediately grant her request without consulting his co-directors, but Diana knew perfectly, by the friendly gleam in his eye, that he meant to look into the question; and because he was impressed by the sturdy, plucky fight of the two brothers he would probably do a good deal more for them in the end.

After which she prattled to him gaily, until Stanley was clever enough to distract her attention and remanipulate the party. He had been riding with Carew, and the engineer with Meryl; but on the party being disarranged the engineer joined Mr. Pym to discuss the mining properties they had been visiting, and Carew found himself unavoidably partnered with Meryl, while Stanley and Diana went gaily on ahead. It was the first time, what he was pleased to term "his luck" had deserted him. Heretofore there had been no single tete-a-tete between him and either of the cousins since Diana surprised him in the temple ruins. It was his fixed intention that there should be none. He argued in himself that he had no "small talk" in his vocabulary, and would only reciprocate the boredom he would himself suffer, and rather than either should be inflicted he steered a resolute course which partnered him with a man. In vain Diana, spurred by pique, had once or twice laid a trap for him; and Meryl, with growing interest, had sought to draw him into conversation. With masterly art he had steered clear of both, and continued his serene, impassive way.

But on that homeward ride Fate, for once, got the better of him. Stanley and Diana were cantering gaily ahead along the narrow path, that meant smooth-going for one horse and a stumbling amid small rocks or long, dry grass for the other; while Mr. Pym and his engineer conversed with a solemnity no one could lightly disturb between the two front horsemen and the two back.

At first Carew rode along with his eyes fixed rigidly on the horizon, and, except for its innate strength, an almost expressionless face. Meryl was a little amused. She realised thoroughly that the situation was none of his seeking, and she was in two minds whether to give him expressionless rigidity in return, or purposely tease him with questions. At first she chose silence, and looked around her with eyes of growing tenderness at the kopje-strewn country.

And so, instead of being irritated with the "small talk" he dreaded, Carew found himself left entirely to his own cogitations; while, judging from her rapt expression, she scarcely realised his presence. And then, just because human nature is stronger, after all, than most things, memory, for the sake of a dream-face he would treasure while he had breath, made him look at her covertly with seeing eyes. He noted first that she was a perfect horsewoman—slim and upright and easy, almost like a part of her horse. Both girls rode astride, wearing long holland coats and specially made light top-boots, with large shady sun helmets; and because for a long time he had not seen anything much but slipshod garments among women riders, or exceedingly warm-looking correct home attire, he appreciated their cool smartness.

Unconsciously it took him back to the old buried days, when the Devonshire moors and Devonshire lanes knew no hotter rider than Peter Carew. To the steeplechases, when he was so slim and wiry that, in spite of his height, he had ridden many a horse to victory. To the polo matches, when his matchless horsemanship had scored goal after goal for his regiment of picked riders. She recalled to his mind the stag-hunting in Devon and Somerset, where the first women had ridden astride to the meet, realising mercifully how the steep ascents and descents were eased for their horses, without the tightly girthed side-saddle, and for themselves without the side-seat strain. Almost as if it were a carefully permitted luxury, he saw the wide, wind-swept moors, heard the cheery shouts and the excited hounds, felt his thoroughbred sweeping gloriously along, as if its soul and his soul were both one in feeling the joy and exhilaration of the chase. What glories there were in those wind-swept, sun-bathed mornings in Devon! What joy of life! What lust of manhood! What splendid, whole-hearted young inconsequence! In his heart he smiled a little grimly. Peter Carew of the Blues had been no shunner of women in those days; no taciturn, silent, unappreciative onlooker. Rather he had loved too many, kissed too freely, ridden away too light-heartedly.

Until the blue-grey eyes, so like Meryl's, looked shyly up, and then in their turn ran away from him. Of course, he had followed blindly like the hot-headed, hard-riding sportsman he was—followed blindly, wooed irresistibly, and won gloriously.

And then ...

Over the kopjes, over the vleis, over the veldt a black cloud came down, and suddenly all the picture was blotted out. An expression that was momentarily almost wistful left the fine mouth; the far-away softness left the keen blue eyes, and his face hardened strangely. Then he looked up at Meryl, riding beside him, and saw all the questioning interest in her face.

"I'm afraid you have a very dull companion," he said; but it was in the voice that Diana usually called his snarl.

Meryl smiled. "I did not for a moment suppose that you would talk."

She could hardly say that his face relaxed, but at least there was that in it which suggested he liked her answer far better than any conventional politeness.

Suddenly a wholly unlooked-for twinkle lurked somewhere in his eyes.

"Bears don't usually," he said.

Meryl laughed. "Diana is too fond of nicknaming her friends and acquaintances; but on the whole I think she has let you off lightly. A bear is a magnificent animal."

"Not given to much amiability. No Prince Charming, for instance," and he smiled a little grimly.

"But strong—and—well—dangerous, which is better."

"You think so?" He looked at her rather curiously.

"Decidedly."

They rode on in silence, and, for a little way, the road being rough, he reined in his horse to the narrow path behind her. Then, when it grew smoother again, she waited for him to come alongside.

"You haven't always been in this part of Rhodesia?"

"No; only recently."

"Long enough to get very attached to it."

"More or less," and suddenly his voice hardened a little, as if scenting a discussion and wishful to ward it off.

"I wonder why Rhodesia is so fascinating?" And her eyes roved with love in them from far horizon to far horizon. "I suppose you do not attempt to analyse it? You are content to care unquestioningly."

"Yes"—with an effort—"after a time, one just cares."

"And at first?..."

"At first one has to find one's footing, so to speak. She is somewhat the bewildering, uncomfortable stranger to the new-comer."