CAREW RIDES AWAY

With the coming of the dark, velvety southern night, resplendent with brilliant southern stars, it would seem the time for probing was at hand. By the tents on the hill-side Mr. Pym, the engineer, Meryl, and Diana sat outside in the starlight, rather a silent party, listening to the intermittent sound of tom-toms coming from some kraal near by.

Then Mr. Pym alluded somewhat suddenly to their departure, and Meryl made the discovery that it was a topic she had been dreading all the evening. Diana, on the other hand, seemed relieved.

“I have one more journey to make,” he told them, “and then I propose to start at once for Enkeldorn and Salisbury. Unfortunately, I am afraid this journey will take two and possibly three days.”

“Then take us with you,” said Diana at once.

“It is an unhealthy district or I would. I do not think it would harm you, but I am afraid for Meryl.” There was a slight pause, then he added, “As we returned to-day we stayed for a cup of tea at the mission station with Mr. and Mrs. Grenville. I happened to mention my journey, and Mrs. Grenville said she would be delighted if you would both go and spend the two or three days with her.”

“But I want to come with you,” Diana cried; and leaning towards him added confidently, “Uncle, you will have to take me; don’t make a fuss.”

“Why shall I have to take you?” with amusement in his small, keen eyes.

“Because I have made up my mind to go,” was the prompt rejoinder; and he gave an amused chuckle.

“And what do you say, Meryl? Will you spend two or three days with Mrs. Grenville?”

“I should like to, if Di really wants to go; otherwise we could quite well have remained on here, couldn’t we?” There was a note of anxiety in her voice that she was unable to entirely hide. Only three more days, and they to be spent several miles away!

“I do not particularly want to leave you here as long as that. I would rather you visited Mrs. Grenville, and I think it would be an interesting change. She invited you both.”

“It was very kind of her,” said Diana, “but I am quite decided about wanting to go with you. I suppose we could both come?”

“I think I would as soon go to Mrs. Grenville”; and Meryl sat very still, gazing at a distant star.

“What do you think?” said Mr. Pym to his engineer. “Will it be all right for my niece to accompany us?”

“Why, yes, certainly, if she takes quinine regularly. It is a beautiful neighbourhood. She can either ride her mule or be carried in a machila.”

Diana clapped her hands, feeling her point was won easily, and then added, “Couldn’t we take Mr. Stanley with us? He would so love the shooting, and he is such good company.”

“As I came past to-night I called in and asked both him and Major Carew. Stanley accepted at once.”

There was a slight movement where Meryl sat, but she did not speak; and her father, almost as if with intent, kept his eyes turned away.

“What did Major Carew say?” asked Diana.

“He was uncertain. He thought he might be obliged to go to Edwardstown on business, and he left the question open.”

Diana laughed. “He wanted to make quite certain sure that there were to be no ladies in the party.”

“I don’t know why he should suppose there were likely to be.”

“Possibly not, but he is a cautious man. Anyhow, when you tell him I am going he will make ready to start to Edwardstown on business.”

So they sat on under the stars, each busy with thoughts. Henry Pym’s were a trifle anxious. So little ever escaped his clear eyes that it was not in the least surprising he had seen whither Meryl’s mind was trending, almost before she knew of it herself. And much as he admired Major Carew, he feared, with the clear sight of a great love, that indefinable something that stood as a barrier between the man and his outlook upon certain phases of life. Whatever it was, his studied avoidance of social intercourse, and his turning his back so resolutely upon England and all his people there, suggested to the astute man of the world that he had taken out of his life’s plan all thought of marriage, and was not very likely to turn from his purpose. Hence the shadow of anxiety in the father’s eyes, for his deep knowledge of Meryl told him further that she would neither love lightly nor forget easily.

And still the girl herself sat on and made no sign. The joy of the evening hour was still too new. Under the stars at present she asked nothing better than to live through it again and again in her memory. For whereas a woman is often fearful to anticipate a joy for dread of a disappointment, afterwards, when the realisation is sure and sweet and all her own, she will draw delight from it for many a silent hour in quiet contentment.

And down at the police camp the two troopers and the officer sat likewise under the stars. Stanley was very full of his trip, for Carew had readily given him the two or three days’ leave; and in the direction whither they journeyed were roan and sable and water-buck and probably lions to rejoice the heart of a game young British South African policeman with a bloodthirsty desire to kill. Moore, in his quaint, Irish way, chaffed him a good deal, as was his wont; for though one had received his education at the Bedford Grammar School and was a clergyman’s son, and the other at a board-school and was the son of a small innkeeper, in the Rhodesia police force all troopers are equals, and there is a frank camaraderie which is very creditable to its members. Carew himself showed very little difference, and in the same spirit the homely Moore had received a cup of tea from Diana’s dainty hands, poured out for him by Meryl.

Only, as they twitted each other in slow, easy tones, neither of them attempted to include Carew, who sat a little apart in the darkness smoking his beloved pipe; and when they rose to turn in, he merely acknowledged their pleasant “Good night, sir,” with a short “Good night” in reply, and made no movement himself. Even when the lights at the hill-side tents went out he still sat on, alone with the night and the stars. Later, because he knew he should not sleep, he started off up the valley towards the store, feeling a need for action.

And all the time, under the covering darkness, his face seemed to grow graver and graver. He was too wise not to know when danger threatened, and too direct not to face it squarely at once. And the danger that seemed to threaten him now was the likelihood that if he saw much of Meryl Pym he would grow to love her, and perhaps she would reciprocate his love, and for them both there would be only a great pain. That it could by any possibility be anything else did not enter his cogitations. According to his own ideas he could not marry, and least of all could he marry the only child of a millionaire. And it seemed to him further that if he cut off all intercourse at once the danger would be averted. He was quite satisfied in his own mind that the evident attraction had not had time to sink very far down. In two or three days she would go away again and he would go on with his work, and it would all be the same as if they had never met. Manifestly the chief consideration now was to avoid any further friendliness whatever, except the merest courtesy which had obtained at the beginning. If possible, he decided it would be better not to meet any more at all. When a man is strong in one thing, he is usually strong in others; and the quiet strength that had enabled him to break away from an old life of leisure and ease and excitement, and build up another life for himself on entirely different lines in a new country, helped him now quietly to make his decision and try to take the simple, direct course, out of a threatening danger.

And yet it was not entirely easy; the simple, direct way very seldom is. Byways are apt to have softer grass for the feet, deeper shade from the sun, smoother banks to rest upon. The direct, straightforward way often goes on mercilessly up the steep hill, having sharp flints in its pathway, cold winds, dry dust, untempered glare. But the man who dares it with steady eyes usually arrives first at the goal, tempered metal ringing true, while he who dallies in the pleasant byways may find his armour has grown rusty and his powers lax.

As he walked quietly back to the police camp Peter Carew looked straight before him to the dim horizon, and in his eyes there was an expression that few, if any, had ever been permitted to behold. For the hidden sorrow that was his was his alone, and he had never sought nor asked the sympathy of a fellow-creature. In the starlight he looked back into the eyes of his dead love, and it was between him and her only the sorrow might be shared. As he had loved her memory all these years, he would love her still, though in the great loneliness of his heart he might be drawn to that one other woman who so strangely resembled her and so deeply attracted him.

But Meryl was not for him, the penniless policeman, and he knew it.

The hour spent together in the temple ruins had been too sweet, too dangerously sweet, and therefore he would run no further risk. He would not go with Mr. Pym, because that might forge a link of friendship it would be difficult to break; and he would not remain at the camp, because that might involve considerable intercourse if Meryl and Diana stayed behind at the hill-side home alone. He would instead retire to Segundi on the pretext of meeting the Resident Commissioner expected there, and stay until the millionaire’s party had departed from Zimbabwe for good. It would be as well to start early, he could easily manage it; and if he saw no prospect of saying good-bye to Mr. Pym in person, he would write him a short note giving some sort of explanation.

So it happened the next morning, before anyone at the hill-side camp was dressed, a Black Watch boy presented a note to Mr. Pym’s boy, and a little distance off on the road Major Carew waited on his horse for a message.

And in his tent, still in a sleeping-suit, Mr. Pym read the note, and looked hard for a moment at the sunshine beyond the open flap, as if seeking out there to read, not what was said in the little letter, but what was not said.

Then he stood up, slipped on some shoes, and went outside into the fragrant morning air. Directly he saw Carew on his horse, he took the little path through the scrub and rocks and went towards him. Carew alighted, and came a short distance along the path.

Mr. Pym spoke first. The other had already done his speaking in the note.

“This is very sudden. I hoped you would have accompanied us to Susi.” He looked up hard into the soldier’s bronzed face, though without seeming to do so. To any other man the steadiness of Carew’s eyes might have been disconcerting.

“I hardly expected to be able to. Mr. Jardine was almost certain to be at Segundi one day this week, and I knew I should have to meet him.”

“How long will you be away?”

“Possibly a week.”

Henry Pym was a little taken aback, but he did not show it. The cool brain that had manufactured the income of a millionaire was fully alert now, not so much because he did not wish to be taken unawares, but because Carew interested him beyond most men, and he wanted to try and grasp the working of his mind.

“Then we may not see you again before we start for Salisbury?”

“Possibly not. Will you kindly say good-bye to the ladies for me, should I be prevented doing so in person?”

“They will be disappointed not to see you.”

“I am sorry also.” A little smile of grim humour played suddenly about his lips. “You must tell your niece The Bear sent her a farewell growl, and he hopes she will find more amiable Rhodesians at her future camping-places.”

“I think she is not one to care much about the average type of amiable cavalier. She will miss The Bear’s growl a good deal. But we shall see you again shortly, I hope,” he hastened to add. “Any time if you care to come to Johannesburg we shall be delighted if you will visit us at Hill Court.”

“Thank you. If I come that way, I shall remember.”

Then he held out his hand. Mr. Pym grasped it with unwonted warmth.

“Good-bye, sir,” said the soldier simply.

“Good-bye, Carew; I have been glad to meet you,” answered the millionaire. And then as the horseman rode away without one backward look, he walked slowly along the little path to the tents.

At breakfast he broke the news quite simply, but once more he did not look at Meryl. He told them Major Carew had been called away to Segundi, and would not return before they had departed north.

“Gone?...” echoed Diana blankly. “Do you mean he has gone already and without saying good-bye?”

He felt Meryl’s eyes upon him with a strained expression, and he turned lightly to Diana to give her time to grasp the news.

“Yes; but he left you a message. He passed before you were up, and I went out to speak to him. He asked me to make his farewells to both of you, and particularly to tell you that The Bear sent you a growl, and he hopes you will find more amiable Rhodesians at your other camping-places.”

But Diana was in no mood for light messages; rather unaccountably, she received it with impatience.

“O, he is simply odious!” she exclaimed. “I have no patience with him. Why can’t he behave like an ordinary man just once in a way? Going off at sunrise, and never stopping to say good-bye! It is downright rudeness, and there is no reason why he should conclude he can be as rude as he likes with impunity. You don’t seem to mind his bearishness, Meryl? but I hope you have spirit enough to resent his casual departure.”

Meryl was rather pale, but she managed to reply lightly, “I can’t see why you seem so surprised. He is only acting as he has done all along. It is his affair, whether he keeps it up to the last, or suddenly changes altogether and becomes the polite, conventional society man. Personally, it would have surprised me far more to see the change.”

“O, you’re just shielding him,” with impatient disdain; “I suppose because he happens to be rather good to look at. But I call it rude; just plain, unvarnished rudeness to go off like that for some trumped-up reason and never say good-bye to you and me. I hope I shall meet more amiable Rhodesians elsewhere, and I should like to have a chance to tell him so.” Then she rattled off into another subject, leaving neither Meryl nor her uncle any necessity to help the conversation, for which, in their secret hearts, they were deeply grateful.

And perhaps Diana’s clever little head made an effort which had no appearance of an effort; for like the two brothers who had been respectively her father and her uncle, very little transpiring in her immediate circle ever escaped her notice.