The priest still apologized to the stone. The people still jabbered and
watched. Crespin smoked on, and Traherne stood quietly studying the
place—the lay of its land, the stand of the rocks, the length and
strength of the castle walls.
“Do you think I could sit on this stone without giving offense to the
deities?” Lucilla called to them over her shoulder.
Traherne answered her after a glance at the flat rock to which she
pointed—a slab of flint quite without vestments of green or of paint.
“Oh, yes, that seems safe enough. I don’t know,” he continued, joining
her where she sat, but not sharing her seat, and speaking in a tone that
Crespin could not fail to hear, “how to apologize for having got you
into this mess.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Dr. Traherne,” she answered cheerfully. “Who can
foresee a Himalayan fog?”
“The only thing to do was to get above it, and then, of course, my
bearings were gone.” He still spoke apologetically—and unconsciously he
dropped his voice as he said it, as every man’s instinct is when he says
even the most trivial things to the one woman. Crespin caught the tone’s
lowering, and shifted about a little where he sat, and listened the more
intently.
“Now that we are safe,” Lucilla’s voice was not lowered at all, “I
should think it all great fun, if it weren’t for the children.”
“Oh, they don’t expect us for a week,” Crespin edged in, “and surely it
won’t take us more than that to get back to civilization.” He spoke with
more confidence than he felt.
And Basil Traherne felt less. The more he studied the place they’d
landed on and the people, the less he thought of the chances of cordial
hospitality or of quick and easy departure. But there was no use in
saying so to Crespin here and now, and there was every reason for not
saying or hinting it to Mrs. Crespin at all, unless a positive necessity
compelled. But the next few days or hours might show brighter than his
fears. God grant it! So he merely said, not too sanguine at heart,
cheerful of voice, “Or at all events to a telegraph line,” and he
marshaled a cheerful smile with his words. A man has a right to be
cheerful as long as he can. And men of Traherne’s breed hold it a
duty—a duty not to be shirked. If to borrow trouble is folly, to lend
or impose it is crime.
“I suppose there’s no chance of flying back?” Mrs. Crespin asked more
anxiously than she knew.
“Not the slightest, I’m afraid,” Traherne admitted. “I fancy the old bus
is done for.”
“Oh, Dr. Traherne, what a shame! And you’d only had it a few weeks!” Her
concern for the wrecked aeroplane was entirely sincere, but something
bigger than that throbbed at her side and shook her voice just a little.
The men were thoroughly frightened, and she sensed it and shared it. But
her fear was far less than theirs; she knew Asia less, and she had two
men beside her, men of her own race, one whom she trusted in all things,
the other her husband. And only very small women can feel as sick a fear
when companioned by men, as men feel who know themselves but inadequate
protection for a woman who shares grave peril with them.
“And you’d only had it a few weeks,” she repeated.
“What does it matter so long as you are safe?” Traherne exclaimed with
an uncontrollable impulse that his voice betrayed far more than the
words did. It was love-making, his tone, and the woman is greatly loved
to whom a strong man speaks with passionate tenderness at a time of
desperate peril.
Lucilla threw up an instant barrier—for his protection, not for her
own. And though she had no fear of Antony—such women do not fear the
men they despise—she had intense fear of the shame of what he might say
might cause her—and cause Traherne.
“What does it matter so long as we’re all safe?” she said quite lightly,
almost gayly.
But Antony Crespin had caught the full significance of Traherne’s
impulsive words. And, “That’s not what Traherne said,” he jibed
bitterly. “Why pretend to be blind to his chivalry?”
Lucilla Crespin paled with anger, Traherne reddened with regret. He knew
now that Crespin knew, and he knew that he had tortured him, inflicting
a needless pain—the last blunder or malpractice any true physician
should forgive himself. He tried to laugh it off—knowing how poor and
tepid the poultice was.
“Of course I’m glad you’re all right, Major, and I’m not sorry to be in
a whole skin myself. But ladies first, you know.”
But Crespin would not be balked. “The perfect knight errant, in fact!”
he snarled.
“Decidedly errant!” Traherne laughed. He had himself well in hand now,
and he meant that nothing should betray him again. It was enough that he
had brought the woman into such acute and odious peril; she should be
subjected to no petty annoyances through him. And he blamed himself, not
Crespin. And Antony Crespin looked murderous now.
“Won’t you _look_ at the machine, and see if it’s quite hopeless?” Mrs.
Crespin urged, and the look she gave was both an imperious command and
an entreaty.
“Yes,” Traherne nodded, “at once.” And he went instantly, went towards
the wreck of the aeroplane, and passed out of sight behind the rocks.
It is difficult for the Oriental mind to believe that a man of a race
other than theirs is braver than they—and the hillsmen of Central Asia
have little cause to believe it. The bleached man was going back to look
at the terrible bird-beast; well, they would go too. If the thing
wounded or dead, or merely resting even, would not harm him, it could
not hurt them. He was only one, they were many. And they had their
weapons. So they followed in the wake of his heels, not following too
closely, not crowding upon him in the least—but they followed—too
proud to show the excitement they felt, but inwardly quivering with
curiosity—followed as close as their grim mountain pride would permit,
intent upon the marvel of the great air-beast.
But they had no need to hush their words, or to veil their interest.
Basil Traherne took no heed of them. He stood beside his ruined toy and
pride, and his hands knotted, and so did his throat. His mouth
stiffened. His eyes filled. “What does it matter?” he had said to the
woman; and there, on the other side of the absurd temple, with his eyes
on her, and her eyes on his, it had not mattered at all. But it mattered
now. It mattered terribly. He stood and looked down on his comrade and
dead, and he was shaken as a sailor who sees his ship go down to the
deep, as a soldier who holds his pistol to the horse that has borne him
in many a battle, and still nozzles its master’s hand while the blood
drips and clots from the panting flank the enemy’s shell has
disemboweled. His poor old bus! His dear old bus! For the first time
since the day he’d met her among the roses of Kathleen Agnew’s
bamboo-shaded garden Lucilla Crespin was nothing to him. He had
forgotten her. It is like that with men at such moments. And the women
who know men best and value them most, resent it the least. Very wise
women do not resent it at all. The sportsman to his sport! Such men make
the staunch lovers, when love’s turn comes.