Chapter THIRTY FOUR

Some years later Dare sat in his room before an untidy desk with a letter spread out before him among the litter of papers and things lying about. The letter was from Pamela, between whom and himself, since the occasion when he had been present at her marriage in Pretoria, these regular but infrequent communications formed the sole link.

This letter in its quiet reflective tone differed from any other he had received from her. It breathed through every line of it a calm satisfaction, a resigned acceptance of the conditions of her life, that was in no wise morbid, that held, indeed, a note of hope, of quiet gladness even. Clearly for her the turbulent discontent was past. She had glided into some forgotten backwater, and discovered there beauties that lie unsuspected in these restful retreats of the mind.

"I am thinking much of you to-day," she wrote. "There is nothing
unusual in that; but to-day my thoughts are more intent on you than at
other times. Your friendship means so much to me. I doubt if any
woman has ever received more unselfish service than I have had from
you. It has been a tremendous help to me.

"Life has been very difficult often since we parted,--it is difficult
still at times; but each year brings some compensation. And in
waiting on him, in caring for the straining thread of life,--it is
straining very fine now,--I have learnt to understand him better, and
to get back some of the old kindly feeling which I believed was dead.
He is very dependent on me, and, despite the querulousness of ill
health, truly grateful. I am so glad we acted as we did, my dear,--
that we didn't shirk. Plainly this is the work it was intended I
should do. It is irksome to me no longer. And if in doing it I have
lost my youth, and that which was infinitely more precious, at least I
have the satisfaction of knowing that the happiness we both
relinquished remains a beautiful, untarnished memory, which for me, at
least, lightens the burden of these weary years.

"I am growing old now, dear. You would scarcely know me. My hair is
turning grey. I looked in the glass to-day and saw many little lines
in my face which used not to be there. What does it matter? The
outward semblance of youth, like the restless fever of love, is
something which remains with us only for a short while. But these
things live on in our hearts, warm and glowing, like the fires on the
hearth of winter when the glory of summer is gone. To me you will
always seem as I knew you first, as you will ever remain in my
thoughts--a king among men. I hope my son will grow up brave and
strong, like yourself. In my children I renew my youth."

Dare rested his elbow on the desk, and supported his head on his hand, and fell to thinking. "The straining thread of life,--it is straining very fine now..." When, he wondered, with his gaze fixed on the closely written lines, would his summons come?

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The End.

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