It was the first time that Matheson had visited the place. Its influence upon him in the quiet grandeur, the spirit-invaded atmosphere of this spot where Rhodes in his lifetime spent so many thoughtful hours, where even now in bronze he mounted guard over this chosen place, was tremendous. It did not surprise him, on looking towards her after a pregnant silence, to see the tears standing in Brenda's eyes. There was a greatness in the quality and the inspiration of this monument to greatness which touched the secret springs of emotion and stirred the imagination.

"Let us go and sit on the seat below there, under the trees, where he used to sit," he said.

And without further speech they descended the steps and walked quietly to the plain wooden bench where Rhodes in his lifetime sat often and dreamed his big dreams, looking away through the golden haze over the limitless scene.

"He was wonderful," Brenda said... "His is the greatest name in South African history."

Matheson, looking towards the distant mountains, nodded acquiescence.

"He died too soon," he said. "That's the worst of it... Had he lived long enough he would have linked up the south with the north. He won more territory for the Empire without bloodshed than any other man."

"And then came the Boer war..."

Quickly he brought his face round and looked at her.

"Well, yes," he said. "But I don't suppose he could help that."

"When I stand in front of his bust up there, and gaze away over this scene, and realise the greatness of him and the vastness of his ambition, I incline to believe that he could," she said.

"Yes!"

Her words obviously impressed him. Involuntarily his mind travelled bade to Benfontein, to the impressions obtained from that visit, and the memory of the bitterness of racial hate he had discovered among the Dutch whom he had met.

"He cherished so many schemes--too many for one man to carry out Perhaps you are right, and he neglected the finest and wisest scheme of all, that of welding together the two white races in the Colony by the closest ties of friendship and trust. One can't determine these things now."

"He was an Empire builder," she returned, and looked at him with a smile in her eyes. "The Empire builder inclines to overlook the great human essentials. The field of his operations is necessarily impersonal."

For a moment or so he looked back at her steadily. She was wise, this slender slip of a girl. He already entertained a profound respect for her opinion; and it occurred to him while he gazed at her, that she would be ready also of understanding, that he had less to fear in giving her his entire confidence than in holding a part, the vitally important part, back.

And then abruptly he began to talk to her about Honor.

"I think I ought to tell you," he said in a slightly constrained voice, and without looking at her, "that while I was away, before I came back here, something happened to me, something of tremendous importance. I met--some one--a girl... You understand... She meant a lot to me. I fell in love. She was Dutch. She hated the British... she couldn't forget. That stood between us--her resentment struck deeper than anything else."

He paused, and leaned forward slightly, peering into the distance.

"That's all," he added jerkily. "I felt I would like to tell you."

She was silent for a s.p.a.ce, watching him, seeing the strained look in the eyes staring straight ahead of him, the set lines of his mouth. One strong hand was clenched on the bench beside him; the prominent knuckles showed white. She put out her hand and covered his.

"Poor dear!" she said, and repeated softly after a moment: "Poor dear!

... That explains it."

"Explains what?" he asked dully.

"Explains everything I haven't understood in you of late... Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I don't know," he answered. "I wasn't sure, I suppose, that I ought to tell you... I'm not sure now that I've done well."

"Oh! yes," she returned quickly. "I'm glad you trusted me... I'm sorry. I hate to see you hurt."

"One gets over that--in time," he said. "I'm not going to let it swamp me."

And then abruptly he drew his hand from under hers and stood up.

"They provide tea in the cottage up there," he said. "Come along and have some."

He drew her up from the bench, and gripped her hand hard when she stood beside him, forcing a smile to his lips.

"This spot stirs the emotions," he said. "I shall always think of it as the Place of Memories..."

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

It is a sad moment in a woman's life when she realises that she does not possess the heart of the man she loves. If one may use a sordid simile in this connexion, her position resembles that of the owner of a beautiful home in possession of which the bailiff has been placed through the indiscretion of another. In this instance Honor was in possession with full power to hold, and without personal interest in the value of what she held, and what she would never claim for her own. But her right robbed the other of all the joy of ownership. An empty jewel casket has little intrinsic value, and stands only as a reminder of the precious thing it was intended to contain.

It was impossible for Brenda to hide altogether from Matheson the difference which his confidence had made to her. She endeavoured to maintain their former relations of pleasant and intimate comradeship, but he detected behind the a.s.sumed brightness of her manner the increasing restraint, the shy reserve, beneath which she sought to cloak her feelings, and the pain of her disappointment. He realised with considerable dismay that his matrimonial plans were in danger of further defeat. The fear of defeat goaded him and gave a keener edge to his desire. He could not, he found on making the attempt, reconcile himself to the thought of losing her. For one entire, unforgettable week he refrained from going near her. He had no means of discovering whether she missed him, but he missed her almost intolerably. In the end he threw over his resolves and went in search of her.

Again it was on a Sunday that he sought her after his brief avoidance.

On the previous afternoon he had been at the Aplins. Something he heard there stripped his last scruple from him and determined him to see Brenda on the morrow. Mrs Aplin had pressed him to stay to dinner, and he had stayed; he did not know why; he had not wished to, and he had demurred on account of being in flannels. They waived the matter of dressing. No one would dress, Mrs Aplin announced; the girls would merely change their blouses.

The change had been somewhat elaborate, and only stopped short of being full evening dress. Instead of rousing his admiration, as had been intended, it kept alive a consciousness of his own negligent attire, which did not add to his enjoyment. He had never felt so unutterably bored with the inconsequent chatter of Rosie, nor more annoyed with May's noisy performance on the piano. She sang popular songs with choruses in which every one joined; and when this form of amus.e.m.e.nt wearied they all repaired to the billiard-room, just to knock about the b.a.l.l.s, Mrs Aplin said, beaming, thoroughly satisfied, having started the young people playing games, that they were having a good time.

Before he left she contrived with an openness that was not diplomatic to get a few words alone with him. Her insistence on a little private talk robbed her confidences of the air of being casual which she had intended to give them, and prepared him against surprises.

"The girls monopolise you," she said pleasantly. "I never seem to get the opportunity for a talk."

He wondered what was coming and felt apprehensive; but his wildest conjectures could not antic.i.p.ate what she had it in mind to say. She started on irrelevant topics, wandered rather aimlessly from one subject to another, and finally came to her point.

"I am so pleased you came to-day," she said. "We began to feel neglected. The girls tell me they see you sometimes in town; and of course at the theatre last week... I don't think you saw us though.

You were with the Uptons."

"I saw you," he answered, and felt himself flushing awkwardly. "But I wasn't sure... I thought perhaps... You see, Miss Aplin told me there was a little difficulty..." He looked at her squarely and shifted his ground. "It was a jolly fine play, wasn't it? And the acting was quite good."

"I thought it a little sensational," she replied, and disposed of that, smiling at him with almost maternal solicitude as she added: "It was thoughtful of you to consider my prejudices. Having girls, you see, I have to be very careful. But I am sorry for Brenda Upton. She is thrown with undesirable a.s.sociates, and has been talked about in connexion with men. Her mother is always striving to get her married.

That sort of thing is very bad for a girl; and with their history they ought to be _so_ careful. She is naturally anxious to marry for the sake of a home; and I hope she will succeed in finding some honest man in her own sphere who will overlook what is undesirable in her past.

She is not after all responsible for her father's failings."

"I should think not," he answered, with a curtness he was unable to prevent. He felt almost uncontrollably angry. He apprehended quite clearly that Mrs Aplin was desirous of warning him against a mesalliance, and he considered it not only an unwarranted impertinence, but a mischievous and scurrilous aspersion of Brenda's reputation. "I doubt whether any man of average common sense would think twice about that," he said.

"You know her quite intimately, I suppose?" she ventured.

"Yes," he answered, and added with a certain dry malice: "I imagine I am the only man in connexion with whom she has ever been talked about."

"Really, Mr Matheson!" Her tone was as shocked as her look. He laughed savagely.

"Oh! it's an entirely innocuous scandal. To be honoured with Miss Upton's friendship is a guarantee of discretion. Believe me, you have been doing her a grave injustice."

"I don't wish to be unjust." Mrs Aplin surveyed him with displeased, protesting eyes. "And I am sure if I had known you were such _great_ friends I wouldn't have spoken. But I know so _much_ more of them than you can possibly know."

"I know only good of her," he returned quietly, and was immeasurably relieved that May should choose that moment for breaking in upon their talk, which he felt was getting altogether beyond his patience.