Chapter 7 - Page 2

seeking me. But now that YOU
have followed me openly, with your name blazoned forth in the company's
passenger-lists, and your traces left plain in hotels and stages across
the map of South Africa--why, the spoor is easy. If Sebastian cares to
find us, he can follow the scent all through without trouble."

"I never thought of that!" I cried, aghast.

She was forbearance itself. "No, I knew you would never think of it. You
are a man, you see. I counted that in. I was afraid from the first you
would wreck all by following me."

I was mutely penitent. "And yet, you forgive me, Hilda?"

Her eyes beamed tenderness. "To know all, is to forgive all," she
answered. "I have to remind you of that so often! How can I help
forgiving, when I know WHY you came--what spur it was that drove you?
But it is the future we have to think of now, not the past. And I must
wait and reflect. I have NO plan just at present."

"What are you doing at this farm?" I gazed round at it, dissatisfied.

"I board here," Hilda answered, amused at my crestfallen face. "But, of
course, I cannot be idle; so I have found work to do. I ride out on
my bicycle to two or three isolated houses about, and give lessons to
children in this desolate place, who would otherwise grow up ignorant.
It fills my time, and supplies me with something besides myself to think
about."

"And what am _I_ to do?" I cried, oppressed with a sudden sense of
helplessness.

She laughed at me outright. "And is this the first moment that that
difficulty has occurred to you?" she asked, gaily. "You have hurried all
the way from London to Rhodesia without the slightest idea of what you
mean to do now you have got here?"

I laughed at myself in turn. "Upon my word, Hilda," I cried, "I set out
to find you. Beyond the desire to find you, I had no plan in my head.
That was an end in itself. My thoughts went no farther."

She gazed at me half saucily. "Then don't you think, sir, the best thing
you can do, now you HAVE found me, is--to turn back and go home again?"

"I am a man," I said, promptly, taking a firm stand. "And you are
a judge of character. If you really mean to tell me you think THAT
likely--well, I shall have a lower opinion of your insight into men than
I have been accustomed to harbour."

Her smile was not wholly without a touch of triumph.

"In that case," she went on, "I suppose the only alternative is for you
to remain here."

"That would appear to be logic," I replied. "But what can I do? Set up
in practice?"