AND THE RIFLE
Thresk, alone in the tent, looked impatiently towards the grass-screen.
He wanted half-a-dozen words with Stella alone. Here was the opportunity,
the unhoped-for opportunity, and it was slipping away. Through the open
doorway of the tent he saw Ballantyne standing by a big fire and men
moving quickly in obedience to his voice. Then he heard the rustle of a
dress in the corridor, and she was in the room. He moved quickly towards
her, but she held up her hand and stopped him.
"Oh, why did you come?" she said, and the pallor of her face reproached
him no less than the regret in her voice.
"I heard of you in Bombay," he replied. "I am glad that I did come."
"And I am sorry."
"Why?"
She looked about the tent as though he might find his answer there.
Thresk did not move. He stood near to her, watching her face intently
with his jaw rather set.
"Oh, I didn't say that to wound you," said Stella, and she sat down on
one of the cushioned basket-chairs. "You mustn't think I wasn't glad to
see you. I was--at the first moment I was very glad;" and she saw his
face lighten as she spoke. "I couldn't help it. All the years rolled
away. I remembered the Sussex Downs and--and--days when we rode there
high up above the weald. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"How long was that ago?"
"Eight years."
Stella laughed wistfully.
"To me it seems a century." She was silent for a moment, and though he
spoke to her urgently she did not answer. She was carried back to the
high broad hills of grass with the curious clumps of big beech-trees upon
their crests.
"Do you remember Halnaker Gallop?" she asked with a laugh. "We found it
when the chains weren't up and had the whole two miles free. Was there
ever such grass?"
She was looking straight at the bureau, but she was seeing that green
lane of shaven turf in the haze of an August morning. She saw it rise and
dip in the open between long brown grass. There was a tree on the
left-hand side just where the ride dipped for the first time. Then it ran
straight to the big beech-trees and passed between them, a wide glade of
sunlight, and curved out at the upper end by the road and dipped down
again to the two lodges.
"And the ridge at the back of Charlton forest, all the weald to Leith
Hill in view?" She rose suddenly from her chair. "Oh, I am sorry that
you came."
"And I am glad," repeated Thresk.
The stubbornness with which he repeated his words arrested her. She
looked at him--was it with distrust, he asked himself? He could not be
sure. But certainly there was a little hard note in her voice which had
not been there before, when in her turn she asked:
"Why?"
"Because I shouldn't have known," he said in a quick whisper. "I should
have gone back. I should have left you here. I shouldn't have known."
Stella recoiled.
"There is nothing to know," she said sharply, and Thresk pointed at
her throat.
"Nothing?"
Stella Ballantyne raised her hand to cover the blue marks.
"I--I fell and hurt myself," she stammered.
"It was he--Ballantyne."
"No," she cried and she drew herself erect. But Thresk would not accept
the denial.
"He ill-treats you," he insisted. "He drinks and ill-treats you."
Stella shook her head.
"You asked questions in Bombay where we are known. You were not told
that," she said confidently. There was only one person in Bombay who
knew the truth and Jane Repton, she was very sure, would never have
betrayed her.
"That's true," Thresk conceded. "But why? Because it's only here in camp
that he lets himself go. He told us as much to-night. You were here at
the table. You heard. He let his secret slip: no one to carry tales, no
one to spy. In the towns he sets a guard upon himself. Yes, but he looks
forward to the months of camp when there are no next-door neighbours."
"No, that's not true," she protested and cast about for explanations.
"He--he has had a long day and to-night he was tired--and when you are
tired--Oh, as a rule he's different." And to her relief she heard
Ballantyne's voice outside the tent.
"Thresk! Thresk!"
She came forward and held out her hand.
"There! Your camel's ready," she said. "You must go! Goodbye," and as he
took it the old friendliness transfigured her face. "You are a great man
now. I read of you. You always meant to be, didn't you? Hard work?"
"Very," said Thresk. "Four o'clock in the morning till midnight;" and she
suddenly caught him by the arm.
"But it's worth it." She let him go and clasped her hands together. "Oh,
you have got everything!" she cried in envy.
"No," he answered. But she would not listen.
"Everything you asked for," she said and she added hurriedly, "Do you
still collect miniatures? No time for that now I suppose." Once more
Ballantyne's voice called to them from the camp-fire.
"You must go."
Thresk looked through the opening of the tent. Ballantyne had turned and
was coming back towards them.
"I'll write to you from Bombay," he said, and utter disbelief showed in
her face and sounded in her laugh.
"That letter will never reach me," she said lightly, and she went up to
the door of the tent. Thresk had a moment whilst her back was turned and
he used it. He took his pipe out of his pocket and placed it silently and
quickly on the table. He wanted a word with her when Ballantyne was out
of the way and she was not upon her guard to fence him off. The pipe
might be his friend and give it him. He went up to Stella at the
tent-door and Ballantyne, who was half-way between the camp-fire and the
tent, stopped when he caught sight of him.
"That's right," he said. "You ought to be going;" and he turned again
towards the camel. Thus for another moment they were alone together, but
it was Stella who seized it.
"There go!" she said. "You must go," and in the same breath she added:
"Married yet?"
"No," answered Thresk.
"Still too busy getting on?"
"That's not the reason"--and he lowered his voice to a whisper--"Stella."
Again she laughed in frank and utter disbelief.
"Nor is Stella. That's mere politeness and good manners. We must show the
dear creatures the great part they play in our lives." And upon that all
her fortitude suddenly deserted her. She had played her part so far, she
could play it no longer. An extraordinary change came over her face. The
smiles, the laughter slipped from it like a loosened mask. Thresk saw
such an agony of weariness and hopeless longing in her eyes as he had
never seen even with his experience in the Courts of Law. She drew back
into the shadow of the tent.
"In thirteen days you'll be steaming up the Channel," she whispered, and
with a sob she covered her face with her hands. Thresk saw the tears
trickle between her fingers.
Ballantyne at the fire was looking back towards the tent. Thresk hurried
out to him. The camel was crouching close to the fire saddled and ready.
"You have time," said Ballantyne. "The train's not in yet," and Thresk
walked to the side of the camel, where a couple of steps had been placed
for him to mount. He had a foot on the step when he suddenly clapped his
hand to his pocket.
"I've left my pipe," he cried, "and I've a night's journey in front of
me. I won't be a second."
He ran back with all his speed to the tent. The hangings at the door were
closed. He tore them aside and rushed in.
"Stella!" he said in a whisper, and then he stopped in amazement. He had
left her on the very extremity of distress. He found her, though to be
sure the stains of her tears were still visible upon her face, busy with
one of the evening preparations natural in a camp-life--quietly,
energetically busy. She looked up once when he raised the hanging over
the door, but she dropped her eyes the next instant to her work.
She was standing by the table with a small rook-rifle in her hands. The
breech was open. She looked down the barrel, holding up the weapon so
that the light might shine into the breech.
"Yes?" she said, and with so much indifference that she did not lift her
eyes from her work. "I thought you had gone."
"I left my pipe behind me," said Thresk.
"There it is, on the table."
"Thank you."
He put it in his pocket. Of the two he was disconcerted and at a loss,
she was entirely at her ease.