CHAPTER XX
In his study Sir George Barclay sat alone. Sixteen years had passed since, in far-away Gambia, he had had to condemn to death the marauding Arab chief. In a few weeks' time he would be returning to the country, not in any minor capacity, but as its Governor.
Although his thoughts just then were in Gambia, the incident of the shooting of the Sultan Casim Ammeh had long since gone from his mind. And he never gave a thought nowadays to the boy who, unavailingly, had come to the Arab chief's rescue. But he still carried the mark of the youngster's sword upon his cheek.
The passing years had changed Barclay very little. His hair was grey, his face thinner, and a studious look now lurked in the grey eyes where tragedy had once been. For, in his profession, Barclay had found some of the forgetfulness he had set out in search of.
As he sat at his desk the door opened suddenly. The manner of opening told him that the daughter he imagined to be a thousand or more miles away was home again. For no one, save this cherished legacy from his lost love, would enter his study with such lack of ceremony.
He looked round quickly, as a slim girl in ermine and purple velvet entered.
"Why, Pansy, my darling, I thought you were in Grand Canary," he said, rising quickly to greet her.
"So I was, father, five days ago. And then ... and then——!"
She paused, and laughing in a rather forced manner, kissed him affectionately.
"Father, will you take me out to Gambia with you?" she finished.
There was very little George Barclay ever refused his daughter. On this occasion, he did make some sort of stand.
"Gambia is no place for you, my darling. There's nothing there to amuse and interest a young girl."
"Perhaps not," Pansy said as she took off her hat and gloves, watching him with a rather set smile. "But I don't care where I go so long as I can be with you and get away from myself."
Her words made Barclay look at her sharply.
To want to get away from one's self was a feeling he could understand and sympathise with, only too well. But to hear such a sentiment on his daughter's lips surprised and hurt him.
"My little girl, what has happened?" he asked gently.
Pansy laughed again, but there was a sharp catch of pain in her mirth.
"I think my heart is broken, that's all," she said with a would-be casual air.
Barclay did not wait to hear any more at that moment. He drew her down on to a couch and sat there with his arm about her.
"My poor little girl," he whispered. "Tell me all about it."
Pansy laid her head on his shoulder, and smiled at him with lips that trembled woefully.
"It's nobody's fault but my own, Daddy," she said. "I brought it on myself with my silly, impetuous ways. And it serves me right for hankering after strange men, and not being content with my old father."
For all her light talk Barclay knew something serious had happened. To him his daughter was but a new edition of a well-read book; the girl was her mother over again.
There was a brief pause as Sir George sat watching his child, stroking her curls with a thin, affectionate hand, wondering what tragedy had come into this bright, young life.
"Hearts are silly things, aren't they?" Pansy said suddenly. "Soft, flabby, squashy sort of things that get hurt easily if you don't keep a sharp eye on them. And I'd so many things to keep an eye on that I forgot all about mine. Hearts ought not to be left without protection. They should have iron rails put round them to keep all trespassers off, like the rails we put round the trees in the park to keep the cattle from hurting them."
There was a further pause, and a little sniff. Then Pansy said:
"Father, lend me your handkerchief, I know it's a nice big one. I believe I'm going to cry. For the first time since it happened. It must be seeing you again. And I shall cry a lot on your coat, and perhaps spoil it. But, since it's me, I know you won't mind."
Sir George drew out a handkerchief.
"I was walking along in heaven with my head up and my nose in the air," the sweet, hurt voice explained, "blissfully happy because he was there. There was a hole in the floor of heaven and I never saw it. And I fell right through, crash, bang, right down to earth again. A rotten old earth with all the fun gone out of it. And I'm awfully sore and bruised, and the shock has injured my heart. It has never been the same since and will never be the same again, because ... because, I did love him, awfully."
As she talked Sir George watched her with affection and concern, his heart aching for this slim, beautiful daughter of his, to whom love had come as a tragedy.
"Oh, Daddy," she said, tears choking her voice, "why is life so hard?"
Then the storm broke.
Sir George listened to her sobs, as with a gentle hand he stroked the golden curls. All the time he wondered who was responsible for her tears, who had broken the heart of his cherished daughter.
He went over the multitude of men she knew. But he never gave one thought to the savage boy who, sixteen years before, had scarred his face—the Sultan Casim Ammeh.