THE MISSION STATION

Although only stationed for a short time at the Zimbabwe camp, Carew had chosen always to conduct his own ménage, and take his meals in solitary state apart from Stanley and Moore. This was in every case typical of the man, who rarely sought company, and was often quiet to taciturnity when he had it. He had not come to the wilderness for adventure, or for the companionship of the men he might find there; he had come because he wanted to forget. Not even to seek renewing and fresh hopes, but only to crowd out of his life the memory of that upheaval and tragedy that, it seemed, had placed a stern hand upon mere joy for evermore. And he believed he would achieve this best with the vigorous, interesting occupation of helping a young country struggle through to fulfilment.

It was not until after the dinner-hour that he again showed himself, and then he came outside his hut, filling his pipe, and stood for a moment beside Stanley and Moore without saying anything.

“Did you have a successful trip, sir?” Stanley asked.

“Quite,” dryly.

The young trooper watched him a moment, and then added:

“Did you have trouble with M’Basch?”

“He tried to make trouble. He is a dangerous native.”

“And you gave him a lesson?”

“I burnt his kraal.”

“Whew!...” and Stanley gave a low whistle. The man was courageous indeed who dare resort to such a step, now that it was necessary to pamper the natives if one wanted no trouble at headquarters.

Carew took no notice of the significant rejoinder, but his firm mouth, if anything, grew a little firmer.

“I gave him due warning, but he thought I dare not carry out my threat. He was mistaken. Never make a threat that you can’t carry out. It matters more than anything with natives. He will not give trouble again at present.”

“But they may say a good deal at headquarters if he carries his story there!”

“I had to risk that. But he is so entirely in the wrong, and so clearly aware of it, I don’t think he will venture to say anything. I have three cases of diabolical cruelty against him, besides stealing and law-breaking generally.”

Stanley watched him with eyes of admiration. To him the man’s strength was ever a source of delight, now that his unsociable ways were no longer a puzzle.

“We had a scientific man here yesterday to view the ruins,” he continued, as Carew still lingered while he lit his pipe. “He has a remarkable theory for divining corpses by the gold ornaments buried on them. He thinks there are probably several in the temple, deeper than anyone has yet dug.”

Carew did not look very interested. His eyes had still the retrospective, pained expression that had come into them instantly, when he grasped the import of Stanley’s sad tidings.

“Where did he come from?” he asked, half turning away.

“I don’t know. He was only here for a few hours. We gave him some tea, and he left us some interesting papers, if you would care to have them. He seemed rather interested in you!...” and Stanley looked keenly into his face.

“In what way?” Carew pulled hard at his beloved pipe and spoke with studied carelessness.

“Your name cropped up about something, and he wanted to know if you were a Fourtenay-Carew.”

The officer started very slightly, but made no comment, and Stanley added, “He particularly wanted to know if you were a Devonshire man. I said you were.”

“I was a Devonshire man,” Carew corrected; “I am a Rhodesian.”

Then he turned and with a short good night went back into his hut.

The next morning, directly his official work was finished, he started to ride over to the mission station, where some far-off connections of his, William and Ailsa Grenville, found by chance in the wilderness, lived the simple life with a contentment that surprised all who beheld them.

It was the first visit he had been able to pay for some weeks, and almost before he dismounted a woman stepped out from the large rustic building, with its thatched roof, and came towards him with eagerness and sorrow strangely blended in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

“I did not hear until I came back yesterday.”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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