He turned in at last, still in indecision, but the next morning he said he would not go.
So Meryl waited a little forlornly through the morning hours. It was unusually cool for Zimbabwe, the hot sun being hidden by grey clouds, and she knew no question of heat could possibly be detaining him. She had hoped he would call for her about eleven and then come back to lunch; but the morning wore on, and no tall figure in khaki strode out from the clearing where the police camp stood.
Neither did the afternoon bring any word or sign, until Stanley arrived for a cup of tea and to ask them to stroll up to the store with him at the head of the valley. Diana agreed readily, having found the hours somewhat tedious; but Meryl felt tired and headachy, and chose to remain behind. Once, as casually as she could, she asked if Carew had gone anywhere for the day.
"No, he's grinding away at his report for the Native Commission, and as solemn as a judge. I don't think he has spoken two words all day."
"Is there some special haste then?"
"O no; it is just his mood. He gets a sort of black day sometimes, when he barely answers if you speak to him, and looks like a bronze figure. Then he grinds away at something or other as if his life depended on it, and Moore and I have to just shut up."
When they had gone away up the valley Meryl sat on alone in the shade, thinking deeply. Evidently he had some reason of his own for not following up his promise, and she need not any longer expect him. He did not want to take her, and probably was vexed that he had said that he would. It did not seem very polite, but she hardly looked at it in that way. Somehow, with this stern-featured soldier-policeman, the ordinary amenities of conventional intercourse seemed to have little weight. If he regretted his words and did not want to go, she liked him better for calmly remaining away, than coming against his wish, because he felt he ought. Another man would have done that, any man, in fact; only Peter Carew, and a few like him, would calmly change his mind and remain aloof without saying anything.
Yet how keenly she was disappointed. It was quite idle to pretend otherwise to herself, and with a strength like his she calmly faced the fact. When she went to bed the previous night she had lain awake thinking of the morrow, hugging to her consciousness with shy gladness that he was on the point of unbending at last and showing a little friendliness. In a few days now they would be journeying on, and she had begun to expect he would remain unbending to the last, and let them go away, perhaps never to meet again, with nothing beyond the official courtesy and the occasional sparring with Diana. And then had come this sudden hope, and she had been strangely glad. One might live a lifetime and not again meet a man quite like him. Even if their intercourse were to be of the merest afterwards, still it was better than nothing, better than a final end to all friendship when they journeyed on again, leaving him and the ruins behind.
And now had come this swift disappointment. He must have regretted his move instantly, and made up his mind to be more rigid than ever.
She hardly troubled to ask why. Doubtless he had his own reasons, and whatever they were, they were nothing petty or small. Her eyes strayed a little longingly to the police camp, and she watched the door of his hut from her chair securely hidden behind some low bushes.