As they climbed slowly up the zigzag path, neither of them troubled to make conversation. All in a moment it had come back—mysteriously, unaccountably—the sense of understanding, the quiet kinship of minds—for her, the sudden utter content at his nearness. While he was there beside her, by his own seeking, what did the future matter?—the future might wait. It is generally so with women. In the "afterwards," the deepest pain is usually theirs, because it is not given them to break away and drown the ache and the longing in action and change; but in the present, if he, the loved, is with her, she can forget so much in that blessed sense of nearness. The man's ache, perhaps, spreads more uniformly over both presence and absence, for in each, for him, there is the very human craving to possess.

So they reached the summit, and stood a moment gazing at the prospect outspread. A sunset in a novel has become too banal for repetition; it seems, indeed, almost the last word in literary mediocrity; and yet at the evening hour in Rhodesia, in September, when the rains are nearly due, and great masses of cloud begin to gather on the horizon, there is again and again a pageant of wonder and colouring to steep man's senses afresh at every renewal, as if it was the first time of beholding. Nothing banal, nothing mediocre in the actual phenomenon—just a riot of colouring, a riot of splendour, a riot of revelation. It is not a glory in the west spreading a little way overhead. It is an all around, north, south, east, and west, colouring beyond all telling—something aloof, overpowering, incomprehensible, with the remote majestic splendour of the Rockies, or the Sahara, or the Victoria Falls.

Neither Carew nor Meryl spoke. They were of those who know that the highest appreciation of all is in silence. But to herself Meryl whispered:

"Lord, Thy glory fills the heavens."

At last he turned and glanced at the little book in her hand.

"You read Omar?"

"Yes. And you?"

"I like Adam Lindsay Gordon better. Omar is apt to undermine a strong purpose. Gordon inspires one."

"Doesn't Omar help one to see things as they are, and dare to be strong in spite of it, while Gordon avoids many essentials, and writes chiefly of how we would have things be?"

"But surely the inspiration is the chief thing. The man who inspires is better than the man who reveals, and in revealing unnerves." She was silent, and he added, "I suppose it is the difference between the Æsthetic and the practical, and so they appeal to the Æsthetic or the practical side of man."

She wondered if it were possible such as he should have an Æsthetic side, and presently said:

"You are all practical, I should imagine."

He glanced at her half humorously. "I wonder why you say that?"

"I don't know, except that one does not usually associate Æstheticism and strength." Another man might have asked her if she was satisfied he was strong, but Carew only looked to the horizon. He was asking it of himself instead.

And he asked it, because he was leaning there beside her, alone on the kopje top. Suddenly yielding to an impulse he did not seek to analyse, he said quietly, "I have never been a great reader of poetry, but long ago I was engaged to be married, to some one who cared very much for it. Omar was one of her favourites, and sixteen years ago he was very little known compared with to-day."

Meryl felt the colour ebbing from her face, and averted her eyes. Without any telling, she knew that this woman he had loved sixteen years ago was the cause of that mysterious shadow on his life to-day. When she felt she had complete control of her voice, she asked, "And you were never able to be married?"

"She died." There was a pause, before he added, "You remind me of her more than anyone I have ever known." And for both their sakes he finished, "That is one reason why I have been glad to talk to you one day, and found it perhaps too painful the next."

Meryl felt suddenly as if an icy hand had closed on her heart. His meaning to her was so obvious. But she managed to say naturally, "I am afraid it has been a great sorrow to you. Was she ill for long?"

"She died suddenly. There was a tragedy. Afterwards I came out here."

"And you have never been back?"

"No, I have never been back."

"But you will go?"

"I think not. When I came away it was like closing a book and writing 'Finis.' I do not want to reopen the book for many reasons."

"But your people?" she ventured, longing to hear more, yet fearful of staying his unexpected confidence.

"I have no people," and his voice was suddenly stern.

"But your home?..." bravely; "your country?..."

"My home is here. My country is here. I am a Rhodesian."

Still with her face averted, she looked to the far kopjes lost in thought. She seemed to be realising slowly all that his words meant; feeling throughout her consciousness the utter exclusion of herself from any plan of life he might formulate. It was as she had seen before. His work, the country were everything to him—would continue to be everything. Any unusual softness he had shown to her, any unexpected pleasure in her company, was just for the sake of a certain memory he held very precious, for the sake of what the book contained, upon which he had written "Finis."

Of course, she might have known. What should such a man as he be drawn to except in friendly intercourse in a girl as young and simple and undeveloped as herself? What a madness it had been, what a foolishness! and yet how it hurt, how it hurt!

With a sudden blind sense of ineradicable pain, she breathed over to herself one verse of the "Immortal Persian" that is not contained in many editions:

What pain there had evidently been for him! What pain for her now—and to what end....

She stood up suddenly and brushed her hands across her eyes. This was a weakness, and she knew it. He must not know, he must not guess.

But he saw enough to cause him to say suddenly, with quick concern, "You are not well. Something is troubling you."

"O no," and she gave a little laugh that he could not but know was forced. "I've been rather bothered with a headache to-day. Shall we go back?" She had been carrying the large grey hat slung over her arm, but now she tied it on, pulling it down over her face, so that he could see nothing but the small, firm chin and sensitive mobile mouth. And neither could she see that, under or through the rigidity, his face wore now a troubled aspect, and his eyes looked to the horizon seeing nothing. Why had he come back? he was asking. Why was he hovering in the grip of it again, that strong need of the human, however resolute, for sympathy, for companionship, for understanding? For now, as they stood together alone on the kopje, all the ache of the last sixteen years seemed to be merged into one great longing for her. And then in his heart he laughed harshly. He, the British South African policeman, not even a regular soldier; and she, the only child, and sole heiress, of a millionaire father who adored her. He, with his tragedy in the background, that he could not speak of, in his forty-third year. She young, beautiful, fresh, with all the world at her feet. Ah, of course, he had been a fool to run any risk of another encounter; and he was sore with the fate that had led him thither in ignorance.

And Meryl, walking a little stumblingly over the rough pathway, was glad of the big shady hat that hid her eyes and gave her time to pull herself together. Of course, that other woman he had loved sixteen years ago had been one of his own people—one of those whom the great Fourtenay family of Devon regarded as an equal. Whereas she was just Meryl Pym, and though many needy peers chose rich wives from across the sea, anyone might know Peter Carew was not of these, and would sooner shun such riches than seek them.

So they walked back, mostly in silence, only no longer the silence of quiet, contented understanding, but rather a silence which she showed no inclination to break, and he felt baffled, and worried, and anxious. And at dinner, though Meryl made one of her spasmodic efforts and contrived to be gay, he remained somewhat preoccupied and taciturn. And Ailsa looked from one to the other secretly, and wondered what had been said before they reached the Mission Station; and felt again that womanlike desire to shake the man for the very resoluteness she most admired in him.

When she said good night to Meryl she could not refrain, from just one little delve into the perplexing situation. "If you and Major Carew met at six o'clock and did not get back until seven, you must have had quite a long chat together. Such a new thing for him! I don't think even I, his trusted friend, can boast of such an incident."

"We just stayed to watch the sunset," and Meryl turned away on some slight pretext. "He certainly was a little more communicative than usual. Did you know he was once engaged to someone who died?"

"No," in slow surprise, "I had never heard of it. But then, he never speaks of himself, and I did not know his branch of the family at all. We lived near London about that time, and seldom went into Devonshire. Still, I wonder Billy did not know. Probably he heard it, and took no notice. That would be so like Billy. He was perhaps scheming some new move for his boys, as he used to call his parishioners."

"Perhaps he would rather I had not mentioned it," Meryl said.

"It will be safe with me, dear. I shall only speak of it to Billy. How terrible it must have been! It is Impossible not to feel it has shadowed all his life. And for her!—he must have been a very striking, attractive man in those days. One hears rumours without attaching much interest to them at the time, but looking back now, I remember my father alluding once or twice to the two brothers as if they were very well-known men. But that would be when I was but a schoolgirl, and soon afterwards I went abroad for a year with an aunt." She lingered a moment longer. "I am glad he told you. It was nice of him. And he tells so little. It was a great compliment. Good night, dearie. Sleep well."

Meryl sat on the little bed, in the round wattle and daub hut, and pressed her fingers against her eyes to still their throbbing. Then she looked round at her surroundings, and a little wry smile twisted her lips. A rough floor of ant-heap composition and cow-dung hardened to cement, with some native reed matting laid down; a small stretcher bed; a packing-case for a washhand-stand, and enamel ware. Another packing-case for a dressing-table, and a little cheap glass nailed to the wall. Walls of baked mud, which had fallen in places, laying bare the wattle stems, and a door made from packing-cases which fitted badly, and was fastened only by a string and a nail. For ceiling long, thin wattle stems converging upwards, and outside a thatch of dried grass. And against this in her mind she placed the Johannesburg bedroom, with its costly appointments, its beautiful windows opening to a wide, flower-decked verandah, which commanded a lovely view of distant hills; its lavish display of wealth and luxury. And she smiled that little wry smile, because for the sake of just one man, a mere soldier-policeman, this room might have been a paradise, and the other a grave. In truth she had learnt much from her sojourn in the wilderness—much beyond the life and aspect of a far country.

Then she crept to bed feeling tired and disheartened, but finding a little comfort in the thought that she would see him in the morning.

But at sunrise Carew aroused Grenville and said good-bye, and rode away before breakfast.