"What for?" trying to speak with nonchalance.

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

"Which question? I have forgotten it."

"I will ask it again to-morrow."

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

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

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



XXX

DIANA IS RESTLESS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you knew he cared for someone else?"

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

"Yes."

"Did he say whom?"

"I do not know."

"Perhaps Meryl knew?"

"She did not say."

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

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

"Then why was she crying?"

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

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

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

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

Then slowly a great tear gathered in Henry Pym's eyes and fell unheeded upon Diana's hand. He held her fast and made no attempt to speak. And Diana hid her face because there were great tears in her eyes also.

After a moment she got up, and shook the hair back from her face, and rallied him tenderly.

"You see, Meryl must 'mother' something in the way of a country: it is her tremendous Imperial instinct; so I thought she had better 'mother' Rhodesia." And with a last tender kiss she went softly away and left him.

In their own room she found Meryl had sent the maid away, and was waiting for her in the dark, standing in the window with her form dimly outlined against a moonlit sky.

She went up to her at once and slipped her arm through that of the silent figure. Meryl pressed it, but for a moment or two did not speak. Diana did not speak either; for once in her life she had nothing to say.

At last Meryl said, as if answering some thought deep in her own mind, "William told me to-night that there was someone else he loved. Di darling, I think there is only one woman it could be."

And still Diana was silent.

"I gathered also that something had been said between you and him; something that resulted in ... what has happened to-night...."

"But you are not angry?..." Diana whispered.

"O no. Every moment now I see more clearly what I ought to have seen before. I am afraid I have only been foolish, and ... and ... I wanted so to do what seemed the best," with a little break in her voice.

"Of course you did; we all know that," said Diana loyally. "But I saw the mistake quickest, and I couldn't just sit still and do nothing; I am not made that way."

Meryl pressed her arm affectionately.

"Di," she whispered, "I want it all to come right as quickly as possible. I won't ask you any questions. Of course, I know it is you William cares for, and it seems so perfectly natural now that it should be. If you care for him, don't delay anything on my account. It would make me glad to hear that you were engaged to him to-morrow."

Diana pressed the hand in hers. She felt strangely bashful with Meryl to-night; unable to say anything at all. In her heart she was a little shy with herself too. When she started out with a more or less light spirit to change the course of two lives, she had hardly realised how great a mountain she would be moving.

"Do you love him, Di?..." Meryl asked her softly.

"Yes," and Diana felt a little breathless as she made the admission.

"God bless you! I'm very glad." And Meryl took the girl's face in her two hands and kissed her.

Then they went quietly to bed, and Diana knew she had said no word of Carew's coming because she was afraid to.



XXXI

THE SOLUTION IS SEALED

It was a rather sobered Diana who rode out the next morning to meet William van Hert, and when she saw him she felt suddenly conscious of herself in a way she had never done before and hoped she never would again. The glow in his eyes made it difficult for her to meet them, and they dismounted and went almost in silence to their usual seat.

"You know, of course, what happened last night," he said, with ill-suppressed eagerness. "It has seemed like weeks and months since; every hour a week. I have not slept all night with longing for the morning."

He was looking at his very best: another man almost since they last sat there; not good-looking, no one would ever call van Hert good-looking, but muscular and lean, with an air of virility and force always alluring. A man destined to be a leader in some way; one who must carry others along with him, if only because of his enthusiasm and fervour. The main point was, that he should carry them in a useful, practical direction. And hitherto there had been no special reason to hope this would be the case; it seemed more probable that, for the sake of making a noise in the world and gaining a following, he would identify himself with policies which the older and wiser men left alone; not from any indifference to the influence he was likely to wield, but because he was so full of warmth and intensity it must find an outlet. Some men are like that, especially politicians. They seem to be obsessed with the idea that they must make a hit somehow at once and come to the front now. And so they are apt to seize upon the first available policy likely to prove a good solid tub to stand and shout on; whether it is a durable tub, or one certain to be to their credit, is something of a side issue. The main point is a tub big enough and strong enough to bear them while they make the commotion and gain the hearing they are bent upon. And this spirit, like most spirits, may have its uses; it is not entirely to be deprecated. It may bring home very forcibly to the electors a weak spot that had otherwise been overlooked. In listening to the shouter, they may perceive how very entirely he is wrong; and, none the less, make the useful discovery that he is a good shouter. This then becomes the critical point. Having gained his hearing, will he condescend to moderate his views and listen to a little wisdom from older and more experienced men; or will he be obtuse enough to continue to stamp and shout on his tub, for fear people will call him a turncoat, or a few, who really do not matter, will leave off listening to him if he grows less noisy? And it is then perhaps a great politician is marred or made. Perhaps it often depends very much upon the main influence that held sway when the moment came to leave off shouting. That moment had come for van Hert, and he had the perspicacity to perceive it; though whether he would have acted upon his wiser judgment, left entirely to himself, it is impossible to say. It is, on the whole, pleasanter to think that, just because he was a clever, capable, sincere man and South Africa had need of such, the God of nations placed the matter beyond all doubt by sending the right influence across his path.

Diana's mocking spirit loved to make game of heroics and big matters, but it was an affectation and nothing more: as Meryl and Henry Pym had long ago perceived, not van Hert himself nor Meryl cared more at heart for the great questions of the day affecting South Africa, and through her the Empire itself, since every year shows more clearly how tremendously England's colonies must matter to the mother country. The older and wiser men were already beginning to shake their heads over the grave and difficult problem of the white races and the black; over the tremendous increase of the latter in comparison, which threatened to swamp the white man out of South Africa altogether. One thing was obvious to all thinkers, the white races must combine. Union must indeed be Union and not an empty name. The Englishman and the Dutchman must join hands and sink differences, not only for the common good, but the common safety. So when Diana's practical spirit perceived how great and real an attraction van Hert had for her, she did not try to put it from her and struggle against it because he was a Dutchman. The moment she was sure, and the course was clear, she let herself go fearlessly; not as an act of sacrifice at all, she was far too practical to have much faith in a sacrifice such as Meryl had conceived, but because she loved the man and believed in him, and had no shadow of doubt as to his courage and sincerity if he were but influenced to move in the right direction.

Well, he had stood on his tub and done his shouting right well; and now he had a goodly following and was the object of not a little execration, which is a usual thing for tub-shouters, and does not matter very much. What mattered was whether he possessed the genius to keep his followers and carry them along with him, after moderating his views and coming into line with the older and wiser men. Diana believed that he did, and as to be believed in is a very strong aid to all men, there was very little doubt that eventually the God of nations would prove to have given South Africa a fine statesman, even if he were built up upon a rabid politician. And if the instrument used was a woman, has not a great nation itself been built up through such instrumentality?

And here one pauses a moment to think the old question, how often is a woman at the back of a man's greatness or a country's or any greatness whatsoever? Only these women do not need to do any shouting, because, as a rule, they only want to be heard by one. And when the result is a fine edifice, they are still content to go unnamed and unsung if that one be lauded generously. For God made women in the beginning, the best women of all, to want love and be content with love, and care very little about fame. And so they go quietly on their way, creating great results, moving mountains, and saying very little about it. It is that old heroic spirit Lamartine wrote about. And there is a spark of it in the soul of every woman waging her solitary fight on the outposts of the Empire, whether she put new life and hope and spirit into a miner's cabin, or a farmer's little wattle-and-daub home, or in the heart of any servant of the Empire. What the colonies owe to their women is so little talked about, partly perhaps because words are all too inadequate to express it, and also perhaps because if the one is there to listen and the one to love, many women want no recognition.

But all this time it only remains to be said that Diana believed in van Hert and believed in his work for her country, and that was why she had been able to give her love so frankly and absolutely, and was not in the least deterred by those mutterings of execration which there is very little doubt she intended shortly to put an end to for good and all; for if she had entertained any doubts as to how much he loved her and was ready to do for her, they must have been swept away utterly out of sight after the first moment of their meeting this morning. What he had fought to keep out of his face before was now flooding through it. Never at any moment, even when he first loved Meryl, had he looked at her as he now looked at Diana. In every pulse of her being she felt he loved her, not perhaps with the calm, strong love of her own countrymen, but with a fierceness and intensity, inherited maybe from some French ancestor, that appealed to her love of vigour. She at least had level-headedness enough for the two.

But it would hardly have been Diana to sit demurely and listen to his outpouring, now that he might speak and she might hear. It was far more natural that the very certainty of everything should make her feel contrary and want to tantalise him; particularly when, after his first question had been answered with a quiet affirmative, he plunged into the subject filling his heart without any preliminary, and with all that quick enthusiasm of his bursting its bounds.

"Then we need not say any more about it. Why should we?... There is only you and I now. It seems for the moment as if there were no one else in the entire universe. But I want the answer to that other question of mine"; and he leaned near to her, with his whole attitude a sort of inspired interrogation.

"What question?..." A shade of lightness had crept into Diana's voice; the shadow of a smile into her eyes. She felt on the verge of being a little unnerved, and a feigned or real inconsequence was ever her refuge.

"The question you were not willing to answer yesterday, and which I told you I should ask again to-day. You said that you had asked me what I thought of a man who married a woman when he did not love her. And I said that was not what you had asked. Do you remember the original question, or must I tell you what it was?"

"I don't remember anything about it. I'm afraid I'm rather given to asking questions."

"That means I must tell you. Diana, what you asked me was, what did I think of a man who married one woman and loved another? Now, I want to know how and when you discovered that I loved another?..."

"It was the obvious conclusion"—studying the toe of her smart riding-boot with exaggerated interest. "Otherwise you must have loved Meryl; you could not help it."

"I see." The smile dawned in his eyes now. "And was it equally obvious who the other woman was?"

She glanced away to hide her tell-tale mouth. "It might have been if it had interested me."

"But, of course, it didn't?..." and he laughed a low, happy laugh.

"Not in the least. Why should it?..."

"Ah, why?..." and his hand suddenly closed over hers, and at the strong, possessive touch the magnetism of the man made her blood race through her veins. She tried to draw her hand away, but he only held it more tightly, and his face was very engaging as he said, "I've a good mind not to tell you who the other woman is as you are not interested."

"Then I shall conclude she will not have anything to do with you," came the quick retort. And then her fascinating mouth twitched at the corners in a way that threatened to undo van Hert entirely. He looked away with a half-fierce expression. "If you don't want me to crush you in my arms out here in a public road, don't do that."

"Don't do what?..." innocently; and then they both laughed.

When they were serious again his voice sounded a deeper and more forceful note. "Dearest," he said, still imprisoning her hand, "it seems superfluous for me to tell you how much I love that other woman, as superfluous as to name her. I seem as if I had neither a thought nor an idea nor a feeling that does not love her."

"Then let us hope she is not a stiff-necked Britisher," quoth Diana, still as if a little afraid to be serious.

"Ah!..." and he raised her hand to his lips. "I believe you will make me love the whole race."

"That would complicate matters exceedingly for you," with a mischievous taunt in her eyes. "You seem to have hated them so very satisfactorily up to now. What shall you say to your colleagues the next time they are expecting you at one of their fiery denunciation meetings?... I have married a wife, an English one, therefore I cannot come?..."

"Shall I have married her?..." and he looked hard into her face, blissfully indifferent to her shafts.

"Married whom?..." she asked, provokingly.

He clenched his teeth together. "I feel as if I could shake you!..." and he glanced round to see if anyone were in sight.

"O, if you're going to be that sort of a tyrant!..." Diana began. But she got no further. No one was in sight, not even the boy with the horses. And van Hert just gathered her into his arms and crushed her for the sheer joy of it until she cried for mercy. "Say you will be good and treat me with proper respect," he demanded before he released her, and Diana was compelled to promise.

"But I won't marry you," she added, wickedly, the moment she was free. And then to save herself from a second undignified surrender she had to capitulate quickly, and add, "At least, not before next week."

Then she raised her eyes, shining with happiness, to his. "Meinheer van Hert, if my memory serves me rightly, you have not yet asked me the most important question of all."

He raised her hand again to his lips, with a movement of reverence, and said, very simply, "Diana, I love you with all my heart and soul and strength; will you do me the honour to become my wife?"

And there was a little warm glisten in her eyes as she answered, "Yes, dear; I am ready to take the long trek with you."

A little later she went home with an air of quiet radiance that told Meryl all she needed to know the moment she set eyes on her, and her embrace was full of warmest affection.

Only Aunt Emily seemed thoroughly perplexed, and not able to entirely grasp the happy aspect of affairs when she heard it all for the first time.

"How extraordinary!..." she exclaimed; and then, with an air full of mournful reproach, she looked at Diana and added, "I told you something dreadful would happen, my dear, if you spoke of the wedding so strangely."

"Yes, aunty, so you did! and it was very clever of you," Diana replied. "But, of course, you ought to have warned me before I said it. Now, you see, I've got caught in the net myself. Ah well!..." she finished comically, "I can bear it."

And Meryl's low laughter, as she hastened to soothe poor Aunt Emily's wounded feelings, had a happier note than it had known for many a day.

"I don't think I quite understand," continued the perplexed lady. "It reminds me of a story I once heard about the aunt of a friend of my father's, that is to say, the aunt of a friend of your grandfather's...."

"Yes, I remember," said the incorrigible; "but she didn't do it in the end, you know. And, anyhow, the great question just now is, having taken over the bridegroom, ought I to take over the wedding presents as well?..."

"Of course, they must all be sent back," Aunt Emily replied, with great gravity. "Dear me, what a pity!... What a pity!... And he is really quite a nice man, although he is Dutch."

"O, do you really think so?..." Diana asked, and went laughing out of the room.



XXXII

A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES

In Diana's happy state of mind there was not the slightest doubt her interview with Carew, when it came off, would be the reverse of conventional.

He arrived at the Carlton the day after it had been notified to the papers that the engagement between Miss Pym and William van Hert was broken off by mutual agreement. The new engagement was looked upon only as a secret understanding at present, and no announcement was to be made for some weeks.

Carew saw the news in a paper he got at Kimberley, so that when he stepped out upon Johannesburg station, from a difficult, perplexing, somewhat equivocal situation he found himself suddenly and unexpectedly with a clear course.

He had responded to Diana's urgent summons with alacrity, although it left him entirely in the dark as to what had transpired; his action had in fact something of the daring which had led to the sending of the telegram. Wearied out physically and mentally with the struggle, he seized swiftly the chance of a solution the message suggested, and trusting to Diana's resourcefulness let himself go with the tide. It was as though after sixteen years some spirit of the past suddenly re-entered him; some of that old reckless, dare-devil spirit that had distinguished him in his regiment long ago.

Without doubt the news that he would some day inherit the Marquisate of Toxeter, if he outlived the present owner, had worked a wonderful change in him. He still hated Meryl's fortune, when he dared to let himself think of a future they might possibly share, but at least he could now offer her a position that might one day be among the highest in England. And all that it meant to him after his long exile and lonely life, apart from all the friends and delights of his youth, lit a new light in his eyes. And when he saw the paragraph in the paper, and realised Diana had indeed not sent for him for nothing, he seemed to let many years slip from his shoulders. Only a week earlier he had felt middle-aged, and looked every year of his forty-two. The man who strode down the platform on Johannesburg station, drawing all eyes after his upright, distinguished form, looked at the very prime of manhood, and the grey on his temples only enhanced whatever it was that caused those eyes to turn in his direction.

Diana, waiting for his message in no small trepidation, went off at once to the hotel. Nothing was to be gained by hanging back, and she felt more sure of herself generally if she dashed headlong into a delicate situation.

So she walked boldly up to the door of his private sitting-room, gave a little sharp knock, and entered.

He was standing with his back to the door, looking idly from the window, but when he heard the door open he turned round and faced her.

Diana closed the door and walked into the room, glancing about her.

"What a nice den!..." she said. "I'm sure you could only growl prettily here."

He came towards her with outstretched hand, and she was instantly struck with the change in his eyes. The steadiness was still there, the expression of unflinching purpose, but behind it all was that new light now: the light she had never seen in Carew's eyes before.

"You look very well," she told him, warming swiftly to their old friendship and forgetting her moments of trepidation. "You ... really ... you almost look as if you might have come into a kingdom!..."

"Perhaps I have," with a humorous gleam.

"Umh!... I'd be very sorry for the subjects; they would be ruled with a rod of iron."

He pulled a chair forward, a large cosy one, such as he knew her soul loved, and she sank down into it. He still stood upright, watching her with kindly eyes.

"Well!..." he began. "You sent me a very curt summons."

Diana coloured a little, not quite clear where to begin.

"Won't you sit down? You seem so far away up there. I feel a little lost somehow, you are so ... so ... Perhaps if you were to growl I should feel more at home with you!..." she finished.

He smiled and took the chair beside her.

"I never did growl really. It was all your imagination."

"O, was it?..." emphatically. "Why, thunder in the distance was dulcet music beside it!..."

"Well," he said again, "about that summons?..."

"It's just this way," began Diana. "I had a letter from Mrs. Grenville...." She watched him keenly, and saw that he grasped at once something of what the letter had contained.

"And she told you?..."

"Not very much, but enough, in my mind"—with a sudden flash—"to justify my summons."

"I don't think I quite understand." He was grave again now, with a line between the straight brows.

"Well, don't get too serious or you will frighten me. I suppose I'd better be quite direct. You and I don't either of us care for much beating about the bush and subterfuge, do we?"

He signified his agreement, and she ran on.

"I knew that Meryl cared for you; I have known it a long time. Yet she was going to marry van Hert. And van Hert cared ... well, he cared for someone else too, yet he was going to marry Meryl. It was just a silly muddle altogether, do you see?... Honestly, I was at my wits' end-to know how to prevent them making fools of themselves. Then came Mrs. Grenville's letter. Mrs. Grenville had seen you. She had discovered that you cared for Meryl, and she told me so. I didn't stop to think then. I saw in a moment it was your business to help me help them out of the tangle. So I just sent you a telegram and asked you to come at once."

"And now I am here?"

Diana began to look roguish. "I just wanted to suggest," she said, demurely, "whether it wouldn't simplify things all round if Mr. Pym disinherited Meryl, and divided all the silly money between me and charities!..."

He could not help smiling, but there was something more than mere friendship in his eyes as he looked at her. He understood perfectly that she had strained every nerve to bring him and Meryl together.

"And in the meantime," he commented, "I gather from the newspaper the knot disentangled itself, and everything is smoothed out."

"Well, I shouldn't exactly say there were no wounded left on the battlefield!..." with a low laugh.

"I see; and you think it is for me to attend to the wounded?"

"To one of them," with significance; and then suddenly her unmanageable mouth began to twitch. Carew divined something lay beyond the remark.

"And what about the other one?"

"Well," with a little air of coyness, "I rather thought of attending to his hurt myself."

He watched her keenly for a moment, and at last she raised a pair of laughing eyes to his face.

"The only thing that's worrying me is that I may unintentionally find myself a heroine."

His low laugh was full of amusement, and his eyes grew kindlier still.

"You are evidently a most resourceful young woman. Have you made up your mind how you propose to heal him?"

"Yes," with feigned gravity. "I thought on the whole it would simplify matters if I took Meryl's place at the wedding."

He stared at her with undisguised astonishment. "You mean?..."

"Just exactly what I say. I've taken over the prospective bridegroom, and incidentally I thought of taking over the wedding presents as well...." And then she threw her head back and laughed whole-heartedly at his incredulous face.

"You have given me a great surprise," he said. "I suppose you are in earnest?"

"Your surprise is nothing to what is coming upon my friends. Just think of it!... I can hardly think of anything else. I do so love giving people shocks. Do you remember our first meeting in the ruins, when I sat quite still and watched you until you looked up?... That was your shock!... You were frightfully disgusted with me, but I didn't mind, I'd had my bit of amusement and no one was hurt; any other silly girl would have coughed or walked away. Goodness!... how black you looked!..." And again she laughed mirthfully.

He began to tell her he hoped she would be very happy, but she stayed him and suddenly sobered.

"Not now. We haven't much time left, and we must plan something. Meryl will come here and call for me soon in the motor. She knows I have come to see a friend, but she does not know whom. She will not come in herself, because she is shy about being seen just now. What shall we do? When will you see her?"

He got up, and walked to the window with a grave face, and for some time he did not speak.

"Are you still worrying about that absurd money? My dear good man, she isn't stuffed with it, and she doesn't care tuppence about it. Isn't it enough that you know she could love you as a Rhodesian soldier-policeman? Why torture yourself unnecessarily?"

"If I were only a Rhodesian policeman I should not have come."

She looked at him with quick curiosity. Then something had happened! There really was some great change in him. He smiled into her questioning eyes. "Then Mrs. Grenville did not tell you?"

"Tell me what?..." with swift eagerness. "O, do be quick, I love surprises. Have you found a gold-mine up there?... or the corpses in the temple hung with gold ornaments?..."

"Neither."

She took his arm and gave it a little shake.

"Then what? O, do tell me quickly!..."

"It isn't very much, but it gives me courage to hope, where a policeman might consider himself called upon only to renounce. And," he added, quietly, "I owe the knowledge of it to Mrs. Grenville."

"It must be a legacy?..."

"Not exactly. It is only that when the present Marquis of Toxeter dies I shall succeed."

"O, my goodness!..." comically. "Am I going to be own cousin to a marchioness?..."

"That is as your cousin decrees." Then with a little smile he added, "So the shocks are not all given by you, you see."

At that moment a knock sounded on the door, and in reply to Carew's "Come in," a hall-porter informed them that Miss Pym was waiting in the motor.

"And we haven't decided what to do," said Diana, in dismay.

He was thoughtful a moment, then told her he would endeavour to find Mr. Pym at his office and come to Hill Court later.

So Diana went downstairs alone. But on the way, with that mixture of restlessness and level-headedness that was so characteristic of her, she decided Carew's plan was much too prosaic and dull, and speedily commenced to think out a better one. After which she accosted Meryl with the words, "I want to introduce you to my friend. It won't keep us long. She has a sitting-room upstairs, but she has a cold, and could not come down to you."

Meryl looked unwilling, but finally yielded to persuasion and alighted. Outside the door of Carew's room, Diana was so afraid her face would betray her, she had to pretend to sneeze, in order to hide it with her handkerchief. Quite suddenly it had occurred to her humour-loving mind, that if shocks were the order of the hour, Carew and Meryl were going to have the biggest all to themselves for that day at least. Then she opened his door and half pushed Meryl in in front of her. They saw only a broad back at the window first, then he half turned. The next instant the door closed softly, and Meryl found herself alone in the room, face to face with Peter Carew.

There were a few tense seconds in which they each seemed trying to realise the other; and then she understood. She went slowly towards him, seeing with unerring tuition all the love in his eyes, and without knowing it held out both hands.

And across the long years, that self that he had thought for ever dead seemed to reawaken by leaps and bounds. He would always be somewhat quiet perhaps, a little grave, but the spirit of vigour and reckless daring was in him still, if sobered by sixteen years and all that the years had brought. He did not stop to explain. Quite suddenly it all seemed unnecessary. Between these two the hours of probing were ended. He took her outstretched hands in his and drew her into his arms.

It was some time before he told her of his changed position; there was so much else to tell first. And when at last it was said she paid little heed.

She only looked at him a trifle anxiously, saying, "But, of course, you could never give up Rhodesia? You wouldn't let any claim come before hers?"

He kissed the finger-tips of the hand imprisoned in his, and murmured, "Bless you; it would have gone hard with me if you had wanted me to leave Rhodesia for good."

"I shall never do that," softly. "It was the Rhodesian policeman I loved first. The other does not greatly matter, except that perhaps it brought us together." Then with one of her rare flashes of humour she added, "I'm not sure that we shall even have time for a honeymoon. We may have to go up there any time about this settlement scheme of father's and mine. As Diana is going to help William van Hert to run South Africa generally, we must get to work quickly with Rhodesia...." And her smile was a very happy one.



FINIS.

And so in the end Diana had her little jest, and gave Johannesburg its shock and its nine days' wonder, and was certainly the most surprising bride of the year; though, of course, afterwards most people said they were not surprised at all, and had expected it all along.

Before the wedding a sufficiently characteristic letter found its way to a certain mission station in Rhodesia to delight the hearts of its contented occupants. After duly relating all that had transpired and how the problem had been solved, it added: "And now the only difficulty seems to be how to relieve Meryl of her superfluous fortune, in order that she and The Bear may live upon love and air, and how to save me from appearing in the guise of a heroine!..."

To her old friend Stanley she wrote gaily of the perfectly splendid surprise she had succeeded in administering to about half the English-speaking population of South Africa.

And Stanley wrote back, with many regretful qualms tugging at his heart: "The astonishment of South Africa is a mere detail. When the news reached Zimbabwe, bones that have lain buried for three thousand years rattled in their grave-clothes, and antiquities of the ages crumbled to dust. In the morning, over our coffee, Moore and I ask of the four winds and of the liquid butter and of the unyielding bread, 'Which did he actually marry in the end, and what became of whom?'" ...

* * * * *

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD.,

BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E. 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.



Hutchinson's 1/- Net Novels

Bound in Cloth, with pictorial wrappers.

=THE CAP OF YOUTH= Madame Albanesi =THE SUNLIT HILLS= Madame Albanesi =ODDSFISH= Robert Hugh Benson =INITIATION= Robert Hugh Benson =LONELINESS= Robert Hugh Benson =AN AVERAGE MAN= Robert Hugh Benson =COME RACK! COME ROPE!= Robert Hugh Benson =THE COWARD= Robert Hugh Benson =THE RETURN OF RICHARD CARR= Winifred Boggs =THE WOOD END= J. E. Buckrose =MEAVE= Dorothea Conyers =THE STRAYINGS OF SANDY= Dorothea Conyers =THE SCRATCH PACK= Dorothea Conyers =TWO IMPOSTORS AND TINKER= Dorothea Conyers =A RASH EXPERIMENT= Mrs. B. M. Croker =WHAT SHE OVERHEARD= Mrs. B. M. Croker =IN OLD MADRAS= Mrs. B. M. Croker =THE SERPENT'S TOOTH= Mrs. B. M. Croker =SANDY'S LOVE AFFAIR= S. R. Crockett =TWILIGHT= Frank Danby =LILAMANI= Maud Diver =A DOUBLE THREAD= Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler =WE OF THE NEVER NEVER= AEneas Gunn =BIRD'S FOUNTAIN= Baroness von Hutten =SHARROW= Baroness von Hutten =MARIA= Baroness von Hutten =THE LORDSHIP OF LOVE= Baroness von Hutten =THE GREEN PATCH= Baroness von Hutten =PAUL KELVER= Jerome K. Jerome ="GOOD OLD ANNA"= Mrs. Belloc Lowndes =THE DEVIL'S GARDEN= W. B. Maxwell =A BRIDE OF THE PLAINS= Baroness Orczy =PETTICOAT GOVERNMENT= Baroness Orczy =THE ELUSIVE PIMPERNEL= Baroness Orczy =A TRUE WOMAN= Baroness Orczy =MEADOWSWEET= Baroness Orczy =THE MONEY MASTER = Sir Gilbert Parker

MABEL BARNES-GRUNDY has rapidly come to the front as one of our most successful novelists. Her stories excel in wit, humour, observation and characterisation. The complete and uniform edition of her novels, as under, will be published at short intervals, at the popular price of 1/-

By

MABEL BARNES-GRUNDY

Each bound in cloth, with most attractive picture wrapper in colours, 1/- net.

An Undressed Heroine Marguerite's Wonderful Year Hilary on Her Own Two in a Tent—and Jane The Third Miss Wenderby Patricia Plays a Part Candytuft—I mean Veronica The Vacillations of Hazel

Like Gertrude Page's Shilling Novels, Mabel Barnes-Grundy's Shilling Novels for 1917 will be the outstanding success of the year.

* * * * *

London: HUTCHINSON & CO., Paternoster Row.

THE END