“God is in all men, but all men are not in God: that is the
reason why they suffer.”
IT was hot, with that intense silken quiver in the air which turns the
atmosphere into a living creature.
That “certain twilight” moment was already beginning to “cut the glory
from the gray,” and across the Indian garden strolled two figures
scarcely conscious of the breathless life, so interested were they in
each other. Gladys Travers, in a well-fitting gown, a cloud of something
soft that sunk into a shower of lovely curves, led the way through the
trees to a seat.
“I call it a summer-house,” she said. “It sounds so English!”
“Ah!” Jack Hurstly answered half wistfully, “you’ve already begun to
hunger for home. We all have it, you know, and try to call the most
un-English things by familiar names, just to trick ourselves into
thinking—Heaven knows what—that it isn’t quite so far away, I
suppose.”
“It seems hardly possible that we have been here two months,” sighed
Gladys. “And it _was_ so strange to find you here!”
Strange, indeed, Gladys! after the care-succeeding stratagem and
innocent purposeful planning that took you and your good-natured cousin
so straight across India to the station (not so frequently a resort for
English travellers), simply because there this broad-shouldered young
Englishman lived and rode and shot and spoke bitterly of life.
“It was most lucky for me,” he answered honestly; “and I shall miss you
awfully when you go.”
“You are very fond of Mary, aren’t you?” she said looking at the ground.
“Yes, Miss Travers.” Gladys smiled.
“You’re rather stupid, you know,” she said.
“I think it’s you who are rather unkind,” he answered. “And what are you
going to do with Jim?” Gladys frowned; the conversation at that moment
was more interesting without Jim.
“_Do_ with him!” she began indignantly, and then suddenly she laughed
and turned dancing eyes upon her companion. “Do you know,” she cried, “I
haven’t the faintest _idea_ what to do with him! What should you think?”
“He’s a very nice fellow, Miss Gladys.”
“Then shall I marry him?” Captain Hurstly drew a long breath; it was
rather like playing with fire. The sun sunk speedily in the west, and
now in a glowing rose veil plunged behind the hills. Gladys looked up at
him from under her long eyelashes. There was something a little wistful
in her glance.
“Do you _want_ me to marry him, please?” she asked. Jack looked from the
sky to her face; it had caught the glow of the sunset.
“I don’t want you to marry anybody,” he said simply.
“Ah!” said Gladys, and there was a silence—dangerous, electric, full of
unspoken things.
“You knew Muriel?” he said abruptly at last.
“She was a dear friend of mine,” Gladys replied softly.
“_Was!_ Isn’t she now, then?” he questioned. She blushed and looked
away. “Won’t you tell me?” he asked gently.
“I thought she was unjust—very unjust to you!” Gladys murmured. “It
hurt me that she should misunderstand any one.”
“You’re very generous,” he replied gravely. “But how do you know, Miss
Gladys, that she did misjudge me? Perhaps she was right to have nothing
to do with such a poor sort of chap.”
Gladys sprang to her feet, her eyes flashed, and she shook a little, her
voice was low and intense, and Jack, who rose to his feet also and stood
opposite to her, was drawn into the circle of her emotions.
“No! Captain Hurstly. She was wrong—utterly wrong!” the girl cried.
“What are we sheltered, protected darlings, brought up with closed eyes
and within walls, to know of the world and man’s temptations? How dare
we judge who have no standards of comparison? And if we love”—her voice
grew so tender it was like music—“and if we love it is for man’s
redemption, not for the satisfaction of our own, thin, misty ideals! And
it should be the crown of our life to raise the man we love from lower
things, and trust in his love to leave them for ever far behind!” She
moved nervously back to the seat, and turned that she might still half
face him. “I don’t know what I’ve been saying,” she said breathlessly.
“I am afraid it must sound very silly and foolish to you, and
rather—rather uncalled for; but it has always seemed to me that women
like Muriel, who think God’s tools not good enough for them, do a
terrible amount of harm.” Jack took a step forward and looked down at
her.
“If there were more women like you,” he said huskily, “there would be
fewer men—like me, Miss Gladys.” Gladys smiled a little. It was
difficult for her to be serious for long.
“Then,” she said, “it’s certainly a good thing that I’m unique.” . . .
“My dear child! you know perfectly well that this is the most unhealthy
time to be out in. Go in at once and dress for dinner! Really, Jack, I
should have thought you would have known better!”—Mary Huntly shook her
head at him reproachfully. Gladys lifting her eyes up to Jack, with a
mixture of amusement and regret, turned gracefully and passed into the
house. Mary Huntly, for all her sage advice, stayed out in the fast
deepening darkness.
They walked for a little in silence towards the gate. Mary turned over
in her mind what she should say to him. It was hard—extremely
hard—and, worse, it looked disagreeable. She was used to doing
difficult things, but as a rule they had delightful effects. She very
much doubted as a woman of the world whether what she had to say would
have any effect, but as a woman a little beyond the world she knew she
ought to say it.
“My dear boy!” she said as they reached the gate, “that girl doesn’t
ring true.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Huntly?” Jack asked sternly. “Are you talking
of—Miss Gladys?” He made that fatal half instant’s pause before her
name that marks a lover.
“You have made one mistake already in falling in love with a woman too
good for you,” she answered quietly, “don’t make the worse one of
falling in love with a woman—not good enough! Good-night! I think you
had better not come in after dinner this evening.”
Jack would have stayed and insisted on further explanations, for he was
perplexed and angry—there’s nothing that makes a straightforward man so
angry as perplexity—but Jim Musgrave who was going to dine with them
came up, and in a mixture of greetings and farewells he had to go, but
as he went he said very distinctly:—
“Mrs. Huntly, may I come in to-morrow?” Mrs. Huntly saw in a flash it
had been no use.
“Oh, yes!” she said. “What a lot of moths you have in this climate of
yours. Good-night!”
The gorgeous moon, the thin low whisper of the tropic night, the
rustling, murmuring life, which rose from the earth to the low sky
above, seemed something of a new birth to Jack as free from the fetters
of an old love he paused on the brink of a new, and because it was new
imagined there would be no fetters.