The Rhodesian. Gertrude Page
Table of Contents
TWO HEIRESSES
In a Piccadilly mansion, about the same time that Major Carew returned from his long trek, two girls sat in a wide window-seat and looked somewhat disconsolately across the fresh spring green of the park. Both were the daughters of South African millionaires. Both were motherless, and one an orphan. They were also cousins, and the same roof usually was their home.
Two months previously the father of the one and guardian of the other had brought them to England, that they might duly "come out" the ensuing season in London society. Their presentation at Court had taken place in April, followed by a splendid ball at the stately mansion taken for their stay, and both girls had looked eagerly forward to the festivities ahead.
And now, a few weeks later, they found themselves suddenly dressed in black, with nearly all the expected gaieties cancelled, and this overshadowing loss weighing upon their spirits. Added to this the death of first one mother and then the other, followed by a period of ill-health to the guardian and father, had postponed that "coming out" long past the ordinary age for such functions; Diana, the orphan, being now twenty-two, and Meryl two years older.
Meryl was the graver of the two; graver indeed than is at all usual at twenty-four, but with a quiet fund of humour and a romantic dreaminess, and withal a certain elusive quality that made her always interesting, and pleasantly something of a mystery. Diana was a sparkling, practical, outspoken young woman, much adored of young men whom she treated with scant courtesy, and with a great deal of common sense in her pretty head. The girls' influence upon each other, which was cemented by a very deep affection, was wholly beneficial; for whereas Diana awakened Meryl from too much dreaminess, Meryl's quiet dignity had a softening effect upon Diana's too great exuberance of spirits and occasional boyish lack of refinement, which was more the result of a boisterous capacity for enjoyment than inbred.
Meryl, as became the dreamer, had been profoundly touched by the event which had called forth that swift grief; and whereas Diana could not refrain from bemoaning all she must necessarily lose through the season of mourning, Meryl thought chiefly of how they could get away quickly into the country and replace the lost gaieties with quiet delight.
She had already spoken to her father about her wish to leave town, but he had been much occupied of late, and not yet had time thoroughly to discuss the question. And meanwhile she and Diana waited a little disconsolately to see what the days brought forth. Diana was disposed for a trip to Switzerland, or Norway, or even Iceland, but she wanted to go in a party, and not just they two and a chaperon. Meryl was not enthusiastic and it nettled her a little, so that, on the wide window-seat, there was a cloud on her face as she drummed idly with her fingers and watched the traffic go by.
"If you would only say what you do want," she asserted impatiently, "instead of just mooning about and making no plans whatever."
But the fact was, Meryl could not quite make up her mind what she did want. In some vague way a kind of upheaval had been taking place in her heart, and left her high and dry upon the rocks of uncertainty and dim dissatisfaction. New thoughts, new questions, new desires had risen in her during that sad month of May, and she felt as one seeking vainly she knew not what. She looked beyond the trees of the Green Park to the far skies with wistful eyes, and asked herself deep questions concerning many things, born of the thoughts that arose in her mind when she stood amid a people mourning tenderly a dearly loved sovereign, and beheld how in hearts all over the world he had won love and admiration, in that, to the best of his endeavour, he had splendidly fulfilled his high trust.
And a high trust was hers. How could she not know it, when she was sole heiress to her father's millions; and yet, what was she doing, or preparing to do, in fulfilment of that trust? That it was no less so with Diana did not weigh with her. Diana was different. When she was allowed a free hand with her fortune she would buy yachts and houses and diamonds, and scatter it right and left, which was good in its way; but it would never satisfy her, Meryl, the visionary and dreamer, who looked with grave eyes to the far skies, and asked vague questions.
Presently, with an impatient little kick at a footstool, Diana broke the silence. "Do you know what you want? Have you any ideas at all, or are you just a blank?"
Meryl smiled charmingly. "I'm not exactly a blank, but something of a confusion. I confess crowded Swiss hotels do not sound alluring. I like Iceland better, but it seems rather … well … purposeless."
"And what in the world do you want it to be? Do you want to go a journey to convert heathen, or preach Christian Science, or explore untrodden country? If so, you had better take Aunt Emily and go alone. I'm hoping for a little life and amusement."
"We always have that. I want something bigger for a change."
"O, now you're getting to high altitudes. Meryl, do come down and be rational. I just feel as if I could shake you." She got up and roamed round the room, then returned to the window-seat and leaned out of the window watching some workmen who were painting the balcony below them. Meryl sat on silently, still seeking some sort of a solution to something she could not name.
"There's such a good-looking workman," Diana remarked presently, "I'm sure he's an artist. I wish he would look up, but he is too shy."
"Too wise, perhaps. Why are you sure he is an artist?"
"O, well, because he looks like it. He has a Grecian head, and his hair curls adorably, and I'm certain his eyes are blue. He'll be just underneath the window soon, and if he doesn't look up then I shall drop something to make him."
"Come away to lunch and don't be a goose. The gong sounded quite five minutes ago."
Diana withdrew her head reluctantly.
"Who wants to eat cutlets when they can watch a Grecian profile!"
"Perhaps you would sooner drop one on his head to make him look up?"
"I would; much sooner. Do you think they've brought their lunch with them, or shall we send them some?"
"I expect they've got their dinners in red pocket-handkerchiefs, hidden away somewhere at the back."
"Except my Greek"—with a little smile—"and I'm sure his is in a Liberty silk square."
They sat down to lunch in the big, oppressive dining-room alone, as their chaperon, Aunt Emily, was laid up with a headache, and Mr. Henry Pym, Meryl's father, was usually in the City at midday. And after lunch, for the sake of something to do, they ordered the motor and drove out to Ranelagh to see the polo.
Then came dinner, and with it in quiet, unsuspected guise the news that would presently change their lives. Henry Pym, a small, dark man, with the keen eyes and quiet manner that so often go with success, told them that because there would be practically no London season at all that year he had decided to go back to Africa, and he would take a country house for them anywhere they liked and leave them there for the summer with Aunt Emily.
Aunt Emily nodded her head with an approving air. A quiet country house instead of a season's racketing was quite to her taste, and she felt dear Henry, as ever, was showing the marked common sense for which she humbly worshipped him afar off. Meryl looked at her father inquiringly and with a thoughtful air. Diana remarked, rather disgustedly, "O, uncle, what rot! Why should we be condemned to some dull little hole of an English village, just because there is to be no London season?"
"My dear Diana," remonstrated the lady who was supposed to fill the post of mother and chaperon to both girls, and was therefore in duty bound to express disapproval of Diana's English, "you surely do not imagine your uncle admires that unladylike mode of speech!"
"But he understands it," said the incorrigible, "and that is far more important."
There was a decided gleam in the millionaire's