And then Ailsa said impulsively, "Let me give you trust for trust. I am taking this journey now chiefly on Major Carew's account. There is trouble in the air. I cannot tell you the facts; I scarcely know them. But he has lived his isolated, reserved life so long, I feel it has perhaps warped his view a little, and if he could be persuaded to open his heart to a friend he might see things in a clearer light, and save himself and a dear friend of mine great unhappiness." She paused, then added sadly, "But I am so much in the dark concerning him I hardly know how to win his confidence. There appears to have been this something before he left England, something rather terrible, that has shadowed all his life."
"There was; I will tell you in confidence. Richard Carew hushed it all up, but there were a few of us who knew. His quarrel with his uncle was because he insisted upon marrying a poor governess, a most lovely and charming lady, instead of the bride his uncle had chosen. He was disinherited, and his allowance so curtailed that he would have to leave his regiment; but none of that troubled him in the least. He adored his fiancée, and was supremely happy, as anyone could see. Then the tragedy fell. I cannot tell you all the details, probably no one knows them except his friends the Maitlands and his brother, and uncle who is now dead. He was out shooting with Maitland, and the other two were near at hand; and Maitland had repeated something to him his brother had said, which was a deadly insult to Miss Whitby. He was in a blind fury, and scarcely knew what he was doing, when he swung round and fired at a hare behind him...." There was a moment's intense pause before he finished in a low voice—"and the shot killed the poor girl he was to have married in a week."
"O, how terrible!..." Ailsa gasped, and went white to the lips. "How terrible! Poor man! O, poor man!" Tears came into her eyes, and she turned away to hide them, and for some moments both were silent.
Then Delcombe continued, "It is no wonder that he has been always reserved and silent. I suppose in a way it killed the part of him that could be anything else. He just went right away to a strange country, dropped the double name they had always been proud of, and cut himself adrift altogether from everything connected with his old life. It is no doubt his intention to remain apart, and take up the old threads no more. But I loved his father, and I loved him in my old-fashioned way which he was not likely to perceive; and when the Royal Geographical Society offered me a chance of a trip to Rhodesia I took it gladly. One of my first thoughts, when the decision was finally made and I was appointed, was, 'Perhaps I shall come across Peter Carew's son.'"
Ailsa rested her elbow on the table and leaned her head on her hand, still with the glisten of tears in her eyes. "It makes one feel there is surely a Providence," she told him softly, "for my chance meeting with you may save him, and that other, from everlasting regret."
A little later, when they went to their separate compartments for the night, she thanked him again. "You have made me feel quite broken-hearted for our dear soldier-policeman. Think what his memories must have been all these years! But perhaps his dark day is finished. I am very hopeful now. God bless you for remaining so staunch a friend to him and giving me your confidence!"
And in Johannesburg that night Meryl said simply and quietly to van Hert, "I will marry you as soon as you wish. As you say, there is nothing to wait for, and, afterwards, there is much that we can do together."
"In a fortnight?" he urged, and she assented.
But Diana insisted otherwise. "It is simply indecent haste," she exclaimed, "and nothing in this world will persuade me to decide upon my bridesmaid's frock and have it ready in less than three weeks, and it may be a month."
And Meryl—a quiet, white-faced Meryl nowadays, with little enough enthusiasm for frocks and wedding-presents—let her have her way.