CHAPTER XXXIV

We were not able to return to Johannesburg that night. The shells

were coming over pretty fast, and I gathered that we were now more

or less cut off, owing to the rebels having obtained possession of

a new part of the suburbs.

Our place of refuge was a farm some twenty miles or so from

Johannesburg—right out on the veld. I was dropping with fatigue.

All the excitement and anxiety of the last two days had left me

little better than a limp rag.

I kept repeating to myself, without being able to believe it, that

our troubles were really over. Harry and I were together and we

should never be separated again. Yet all through I was conscious

of some barrier between us—a constraint on his part, the reason of

which I could not fathom.

Sir Eustace had been driven off in an opposite direction accompanied

by a strong guard. He waved his hand airily to us on departing.

I came out on to the _stoep_ early on the following morning and

looked across the veld in the direction of Johannesburg. I could

see the great dumps glistening in the pale morning sunshine, and

I could hear the low rumbling mutter of the guns. The Revolution

was not over yet.

The farmer’s wife came out and called me in to breakfast. She was

a kind, motherly soul, and I was already very fond of her. Harry

had gone out at dawn and had not yet returned, so she informed me.

Again I felt a stir of uneasiness pass over me. What was this

shadow of which I was so conscious between us?

After breakfast I sat out on the _stoep_, a book in my hand which

I did not read. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I never saw

Colonel Race ride up and dismount from his horse. It was not until

he said “Good morning, Anne,” that I became aware of his presence.

“Oh,” I said, with a flush, “it’s you.”

“Yes. May I sit down?”

He drew a chair up beside me. It was the first time we had been

alone together since that day at the Matoppos. As always, I felt

that curious mixture of fascination and fear that he never failed

to inspire in me.

“What is the news?” I asked.

“Smuts will be in Johannesburg to-morrow. I give this outbreak

three days more before it collapses utterly. In the meantime the

fighting goes on.”

“I wish,” I said, “that one could be sure that the right people

were the ones to get killed. I mean the ones who wanted to fight—not

just all the poor people who happen to live in the parts where the

fighting is going on.”

He nodded.

“I know what you mean, Anne. That’s the unfairness of war. But I’ve

other news for you.”

“Yes?”

“A confession of incompetency on my part. Pedler has managed to

escape.”

“What?”

“Yes. No one knows how he managed it. He was securely locked up

for the night—in an upper-story room of one of the farms roundabouts

which the Military have taken over, but this morning the room was

empty and the bird had flown.”

Secretly I was rather pleased. Never, to this day, have I been able

to rid myself of a sneaking fondness for Sir Eustace. I dare say

it’s reprehensible, but there it is. I admired him. He was a

thorough-going villain, I dare say—but he was a pleasant one. I’ve

never met any one half so amusing since.

I concealed my feelings, of course. Naturally Colonel Race would

feel quite differently about it. He wanted Sir Eustace brought to

justice. There was nothing very surprising in his escape when one

came to think of it. All round Jo’burg he must have innumerable

spies and agents. And, whatever Colonel Race might think, I was

exceedingly doubtful that they would ever catch him. He probably

had a well-planned line of retreat. Indeed, he had said as much to

us.

I expressed myself suitably, though in a rather lukewarm manner,

and the conversation languished. Then Colonel Race asked suddenly

for Harry. I told him that he had gone off at dawn and that I

hadn’t seen him this morning.

“You understand, don’t you, Anne, that apart from formalities, he

is completely cleared? There are technicalities, of course, but

Sir Eustace’s guilt is well assured. There is nothing now to keep

you apart.”

He said this without looking at me, in a slow, jerky voice.

“I understand,” I said gratefully.

“And there is no reason why he should not at once resume his real

name.”

“No, of course not.”

“You know his real name?”

The question surprised me.

“Of course I do. Harry Lucas.”

He did not answer, and something in the quality of his silence

struck me as peculiar.

“Anne, do you remember that, as we drove home from the Matoppos

that day, I told you that I knew what I had to do?”

“Of course I remember.”

“I think that I may fairly say I have done it. The man you love is

cleared of suspicion.”

“Was that what you meant?”

“Of course.”

I hung my head, ashamed of the baseless suspicion I had entertained.

He spoke again in a thoughtful voice:

“When I was a mere youngster, I was in love with a girl who jilted

me. After that I thought only of my work. My career meant everything

to me. Then I met you, Anne—and all that seemed worth nothing. But

youth’s call to youth. . . . I’ve still got my work.”

I was silent. I suppose one can’t really love two men at once—but

you can feel like it. The magnetism of this man was very great. I

looked up at him suddenly.

“I think that you’ll go very far,” I said dreamily. “I think that

you’ve got a great career ahead of you. You’ll be one of the

world’s big men.”

I felt as though I was uttering a prophecy.

“I shall be alone, though.”

“All the people who do really big things are.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

He took my hand and said in a low voice:

“I’d rather have had—the other.”

Then Harry came striding round the corner of the house. Colonel

Race rose.

“Good morning—Lucas,” he said.

For some reason Harry flushed up to the roots of his hair.

“Yes,” I said gaily, “you must be known by your real name now.”

But Harry was still staring at Colonel Race.

“So you know, sir,” he said at last.

“I never forget a face. I saw you once as a boy.”

“What’s all this about?” I asked, puzzled, looking from one to the

other.

It seemed a conflict of wills between them. Race won. Harry turned

slightly away.

“I suppose you’re right, sir. Tell her my real name.”

“Anne, this isn’t Harry Lucas. Harry Lucas was killed in the War.

This is John Harold Eardsley.”