THE CONVENTIONALITIES ONCE MORE

Later in the day they reached Enkeldorn and once more pitched their tent beside the police camp; but the place is not inviting, and they were glad to leave early the following morning; for Enkeldorn is the centre round which many Dutch people congregate to farm small farms, in what it must be confessed is often the most slovenly and lazy fashion conceivable. And some of them speak quite openly of how they hate the English, and look forward to a day when they will be strong enough to turn them out of the country.

But before that day can come, before union with a South Africa in which there is Dutch predominance, it is to be hoped England will send out more and yet more strong, vigorous young settlers, to put brains and heart and energy into the virgin soil, waiting only for the craftsman’s hand; and so ensure for ever, in union or out of it, an unswerving predominance of Cecil Rhodes’s countrymen: holding his high aims and hopes and splendid Imperialism in Cecil Rhodes’s land.

Two days later the party arrived in Salisbury, and not a little to their regret, the fashionable garments that had travelled thither by train to await their arrival had to be duly unpacked and worn. Diana glanced at herself disconsolately the first afternoon, dressed in an elegant summer frock, awaiting tea in a drawing-room, and one or two lady callers known to Mr. Pym who were likely shortly to arrive. Meryl, seeming lovelier than ever, though perhaps a trifle frailer, as if some sadness in her mind weighed upon her waking and sleeping hours, stood at the window, looking over the pretty, well-kept town.

“Why are we here? This is not the wilderness,” Diana said grumblingly; “this is suburban mediocrity. It was not fair to bring me all this way from home, to have to dress up and look pleasant, and talk banalities to people I have never seen before and probably shall never see again.”

“You are so inconsistent, Di,” Meryl said, with a little affectionate laugh. “When we arrived at Zimbabwe you said you did not want only old ruins, you wanted a man. Judging by the number of cyclists in flannels, carrying tennis racquets or golf clubs, who have passed this window in the last half-hour, you will find more men, ready no doubt to hang upon your lightest smile, than you will know what to do with.”

“I don’t want them,” with an impish pettiness. “I hate young men in flannels. I hate houses. I hate afternoon frocks. I hate clean hands. I hate having to be polite. I want The Kid, giggling insanely at his own silly jokes. I want The Bear’s den and The Bear inside it. I want to have grubby hands and old shoes and a red face, and eat things in my fingers, and forget I have heaps and heaps of money for the simple reason that it is no earthly use if I have.”

Meryl smiled softly and wistfully. “I wonder what they are doing?... I think they will miss us. It is extraordinary how Zimbabwe gets into one’s heart. I have never seen anything anywhere that appealed to me quite like those old walls, with their untold story and their patience of the ages. The Sphinx in Egypt may be older, but we know how it came to be there and who built it. One of Zimbabwe’s fascinations seems to be the absence of all knowledge about it, of all why and wherefore.” She broke off as a Cape cart drove up to the door. “Here is someone coming to call. I think it is Mrs. Cluer, by father’s description.”

“Then bother Mrs. Cluer!” snapped the peevish one. “In this country I wonder if people say they are ‘out’ or ‘asleep’ when they do not want to be found ’at home’?”

But Mrs. Cluer knew both Major Carew and Stanley, so the conversation was not quite so uninteresting as Diana had anticipated. She was, moreover, a woman of exceptional charm, and at any other time they would both have lost their hearts to her.

“You probably did not see much of Major Carew,” she said. “He is the most unsociable man in the country. One can get him to a man’s bridge-party, but not much else; and most of us have given up trying. I expect it is partly his own doing that he is down there. He always manages to get work that takes him out on the veldt, if possible.”

“He appears to like it,” Meryl commented; “and Mr. Stanley and his companion are very fond of him, in spite of his unsociable ways.”

“O, all the men are fond of him,” she told them, evidently glad of an opportunity to sing his praises. “He never gives himself any airs with them for one thing, and he’s just a man all through, living a clean, sportsman’s life; and whether they do the same themselves or not, they all look up to him and admire him for it, without being afraid he will come down like a sledgehammer upon their failings. One knows the tone of the whole police force is better for having an officer like Major Carew, and it is a thousand pities there are not more like him. And Cecil Stanley is just the dearest boy in the world. Every one in Salisbury was fond of him. He is so good at games and dancing, and always so jolly and boyish and natural. We miss him badly, but I believe he likes being down there better than in the town.”

“I think he does; he seemed perfectly happy.”

They went on to speak of the gaiety of Salisbury; its golf and tennis and polo and dancing; and their visitor urged them to stay for a fancy-dress ball, when four hundred guests all in costume were expected. But neither of them were in the mood for balls, and the only attraction they cared about was an early-morning gallop with the hounds after jackal. Nothing could solace them for the careless, happy days they had left, and as soon as Mr. Pym had transacted his business, they persuaded him to take them out to Lomagundi with him, rather than be left behind in the town.

“They seem to be rather touchy ladies here, and so superior,” Diana urged, when he demurred; “and you know I am never safe for two minutes with that type. I should be driven into saying appalling things, and our reputation might be ruined for ever.”

In the end, as usual, they won him round, and departed one morning gleefully in the little toy train that runs out across the Gwebi Flats to the Eldorado Gold Mine. And to Diana’s joy, they had a luggage-van fitted up as an impromptu saloon for them, and were able to spin along with both doors wide open, enjoying the air and the country. The Eldorado is the show mine of Rhodesia, having a native compound equal to any in South Africa, and charming bungalows for the staff, and an airy, comfortable hospital. But mines were not likely to hold much interest to lady travellers from Johannesburg, and all their eagerness was to go out to Sinoia to see the limestone caves, where, like an exquisite jewel in a massive setting, an underground lake, of wonderful colouring, lies in lonely loveliness.

Or perhaps it were better likened to a butterfly, with its wings closed, and only the more or less drab outside showing. The veldt, somewhat uniform and colourless, with its surrounding hills, is the butterfly with its wings closed. Enter the wide hole in the ground, beside the hidden lake, and descend the rough natural staircase of rocky boulders, to where the sun through an opening in the ground above shines down on to the translucent water, and there lies the butterfly with its wings open, and all their exquisite design and colouring and blending unfolded to the eye.

“You have some rare treasures in this far Rhodesia,” Meryl said to their guide and host as they reluctantly left the hidden jewel behind; “treasures that your children and your children’s children will be very proud of some day.”

“If they have time,” he answered a trifle cynically. “Not many Rhodesians to-day have time to care for any but the treasures that they can work for and grasp and carry away. The time for natural beauties to be appreciated is not yet. Why, we do not even pay a native half-a-crown a week to keep the caves free from the baboons and bats that defile them. I am afraid, at present, Rhodesia lives almost entirely for to-day,” he continued. “The spirit ready to sacrifice itself for the good of future generations has yet to be developed.” He was a clever-looking man, with quiet, thoughtful eyes, and he and Meryl had talked much together during her short stay. “The nobility of the bee is not found much among humans. In all the annals of the race, is there anything to compare with their service to the coming swarm?”

“Only that we do not know it is the result of calm reasoning,” she answered. “The bee perhaps comes into existence, permeated through and through with this one idea, and lives solely to fulfil it. The service humanity asks of humanity is something even higher, surely a willing, conscious sacrifice of present ease to future good. The spirit of heroes and fools”; and she smiled a little sadly, remembering Ailsa Grenville’s verse and her enthusiasm for the dear Ship of Fools. “But you have some fine men out here,” she added. “I think your future looks exceedingly hopeful.”

A few days later they started on their return to Bulawayo, and the tour was practically ended. There was nothing more now but dusty railway journeys and elegant garments and conventionalities.

“No more grubby hands and red faces and ‘anyhow’ clothes that did not matter,” was Diana’s constant lament. Meryl said nothing. What was there to say? But the pain that dwelt in her eyes sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, sent deep stabs to her father’s heart. With all his money, and all his power and influence, what could he do in this one thing that seemed to matter beyond all other things? Nothing except to look quietly on, and hope the wound was not too deep for healing. That, and to humour her in anything she asked. Which was partly why some of the long hours of the hot, dusty journey were spent in discussing plans for the settlement of young men upon his land, on exceptionally easy terms. He was not quite sure that the country was ripe for such a scheme yet; but Meryl’s great wish for it, and obvious pleasure in the discussions, took him to lengths he might otherwise have avoided.

So they came to Bulawayo, and as they stepped out on to the platform, Meryl saw suddenly among the other passengers a tall form in khaki that caused her to draw in her breath with a little catch, while her eyes grew strained and anxious. Diana was still in the saloon, only half dressed, and her father was talking aside to someone who had come to the station to meet him. She was quite alone, rooted momentarily to the spot, waiting for the tall man to turn in her direction, if he chanced to look that way at all before hurrying off.

Then someone accosted him, and she saw the strong, self-contained face, as he turned to the speaker. A moment’s suspense followed; then the man who had accosted him went towards the station entrance, and Carew came slowly in her direction, with his helmet low over his eyes. Thus he did not see her until they were face to face, and in the first moment of recognition she saw him start, as one taken in swift surprise. Then a slow colour crept up under the sunburn on his cheeks, and something came into his eyes that she had never seen there before.

But he only came forward with a formal air and saluted her solemnly. “I joined the train in the night,” he said. “I had no idea you would be coming to Bulawayo so soon.”

It was all very ordinary, very sedate, and a little wooden, but Meryl paid no heed to that, paid no heed to the obvious conclusion he had taken no chance journey hoping to see her again. For what his lips could not say, and his manner would not, his eyes had revealed to her in that first swift moment of surprise. She knew that whatever came between them in the future, whatever was between them now, Peter Carew was not indifferent to her.