BOOK II.

E-text prepared by Stephen Hope, Jen Haines, and the Project Gutenberg

Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

Transcribers note:

All inconsistent, unusual and unorthodox spelling has been left

as as it was in the original book.

CAPTAIN DESMOND, V.C.

by

MAUD DIVER

Author of 'The Great Amulet,' 'Candles in the Wind,' Etc.

"One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward,

Never doubted clouds would break;

Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph;

Held, we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,

Sleep--to wake."

--ROBERT BROWNING.

Revised Edition, in Large Part Rewritten

William Blackwood and Sons

Edinburgh and London

MCMXVII

All Rights reserved

_THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO_

_MY SON CYRIL,_

_AND TO_

_Mrs ALAN BATTEN_

_IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF ALL THAT IT OWES_

_TO HER GENEROUS HELP AND INTEREST._

_M. D._

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

In revising and partially rewriting my novel, 'Captain Desmond, V.C.,' I

have been glad to make good the opportunity afforded me of bringing the

Aftermath nearer to my original conception than it was in its first form.

The three short chapters now substituted for the one final scene are

therefore, in essence, no innovation. They represent more or less what I

conceived at the time, but suppressed through fear of making my book too

long; and thereby risked upsetting the balance of sympathy, which I hope

the fresh chapters may tend to restore.

M. D.

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

CHAP. PAGE

I. JUDGE FOR YOURSELF 3

II. I WANT TO BE FIRST 13

III. THE BIG CHAPS 21

IV. ESPECIALLY WOMEN 30

V. AN EXPURGATED EDITION 39

VI. GENIUS OF CHARACTER 46

VII. BRIGHT EYES OF DANGER 55

VIII. STICK TO THE FRONTIER 66

IX. WE'LL JUST FORGET 80

X. A SQUARE BARGAIN 94

XI. YOU DON'T KNOW DESMOND 108

XII. NOW IT'S DIFFERENT 119

XIII. IT ISN'T FAIR 129

XIV. I SIMPLY INSIST 140

XV. GOOD ENOUGH, ISN'T IT? 151

XVI. SIGNED AND SEALED 156

BOOK II.

XVII. YOU WANT TO GO! 167

XVIII. LOVE THAT IS LIFE! 177

XIX. IT'S NOT MAJOR WYNDHAM 182

XX. THE DEVIL'S PECULIARITY? 196

XXI. I AM YOURS 207

XXII. THE CHEAPER MAN 213

XXIII. YOU GO ALONE 228

XXIV. I WANT LADYBIRD 234

XXV. THE MOONLIGHT SONATA 242

XXVI. STAND TO YOUR GUNS 249

XXVII. THE EXECRABLE UNKNOWN 259

XXVIII. YOU SHALL NOT--! 265

XXIX. THE UTTERMOST FARTHING 274

XXX. SHE SHALL UNDERSTAND 285

XXXI. THE LOSS OF ALL 298

XXXII. EVEN TO THE UTMOST 303

XXXIII. THE ONE BIG THING 313

XXXIV. C'ÉTAIT MA VIE 319

AFTERMATH 323

BOOK I.

"If we impinge, never so lightly, on the life of a fellow-mortal,

the touch of our personality, like the ripple of a stone cast

into a pond, widens and widens, in unending circles, through the

æons, till the far-off gods themselves cannot tell where action

ceases."--KIPLING.

Captain Desmond, V.C.

CHAPTER I.

JUDGE FOR YOURSELF.

"Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an Unseen Hand at

a game?"--TENNYSON.

Honor Meredith folded her arms upon the window-ledge of the carriage

and looked out into the night: a night of strange, unearthly beauty.

The full moon hung low in the west like a lamp. A chequered mantle of

light and shadow lay over the mountain-barrier of India's

north-western frontier, and over the desolate levels through which the

train, with its solitary English passenger, sauntered at the rate of

seven miles an hour. Even this degree of speed was clearly something

of an achievement, attainable only by incessant halting to take

breath--for ten or fifteen minutes--at embryo stations: a platform, a

shelter, and a few unhappy-looking out-buildings set down in a land of

death and silence--a profitless desert, hard as the nether millstone

and unfruitful as the grave.

During these pauses the fret and jar of the labouring train gave place

to a babel of voices--shouting, expostulating, denunciating in every

conceivable key. For the third-class passenger in the East is nothing

if not vociferous, and the itch of travel has penetrated even to these

outskirts of empire.

Sleep, except in broken snatches, was a blessing past praying for,

and as the moon swung downward to the hills, Honor Meredith had

settled herself at the open window, to watch the lifeless wastes glide

silently past, and await the coming of dawn.

She had been journeying thus, with only moon and stars, and unfamiliar

scenes of earth for company, since eight o'clock; and morning was near

at hand. The informal civilisation of Rawal Pindi lay fifty miles

behind her; and five miles ahead lay Kushalghur, a handful of

buildings on the south bank of the Indus, where the narrow line of

railway came abruptly to an end. Beyond the Indus a lone wide

cart-road stretched, through thirty miles of boulder-strewn desert, to

the little frontier station of Kohat.

For six years it had been Honor's dream to cross the Indus and join

her favourite brother, the second-in-command of a Punjab cavalry

regiment; to come into touch with an India other than the

light-hearted India of luxury and smooth sailing, which she had

enjoyed as only daughter of General Sir John Meredith, K.C.B., and

now, with the completion of her father's term of service, her dream

had become an almost incredible reality.

It was not without secret qualms of heart and conscience that the

General had yielded to her wish. For frontier life in those earlier

times still preserved its distinctive flavour of isolation and hazard,

which has been the making of its men, and the making or marring of its

women; and which the northward trend of the "fire-carriage" has almost

converted into a thing of the past. But sympathy with her mettlesome

spirit, which was of his own bestowing, had outweighed Sir John's

anxiety. On the eve of sailing he had despatched her with his blessing

and, by way of practical accessory, a handsome revolver, which he had

taught her to use as accurately as a man.

And now, while she sat alone in the mellow moonlight of early morning,

within a few miles of the greatest river of the Punjab, not even the

pain of recent parting could lessen the thrill of independence and

adventure, that quickened her pulses, and stirred the deep waters of

her soul.

At five-and-twenty this girl still remained heart-whole, as at

nineteen: still looked confidently forward to the best that life has

to give. For, despite a strong practical strain in her nature, she was

an idealist at the core. She could not understand that temper of mind

which sets out to buy a gold watch, and declines upon a silver one

because the other is not instantly attainable. She would have the best

or none: and, with the enviable assurance of youth, she never doubted

but that the best would be forthcoming in good time.

For this cause, no doubt, she had failed to make the brilliant match

tacitly expected of her by a large circle of friends ever since her

arrival in the country. None the less, she had gone cheerfully on her

way, untrammelled by criticism, quite unaware of failure, and

eternally interested in the manifold drama of Indian and Anglo-Indian

life. Her father and four soldier brothers had set her standard of

manhood, and had set it high; and although in the past eight years

many men had been passionately convinced of their ability to satisfy

her needs of heart and brain, not one among them had succeeded in

convincing Sir John Meredith's clear-sighted daughter.

But thought of all these things was far from her as she watched the

moon dip to the jagged peaks that shouldered the stars along the

western horizon. The present held her; the future beckoned with an

encouraging finger; and she had no quarrel with the past.

* * * * *

By now the moon's last rim formed a golden sickle behind a blunt

shoulder of rock; while over the eastward levels the topaz-yellow of

an Indian dawn rushed at one stride to the zenith of heaven. In the

clear light the girl's beauty took on a new distinctness, a new living

charm. The upward-sweeping mass of her hair showed the softness of

bronze, save where the sun burnished it to copper. Breadth of brow,

and the strong moulding of her nose and chin, suggested powers rather

befitting a man than a woman. But in the eyes and lips the woman

triumphed--eyes blue-grey under very straight brows, and lips that

even in repose preserved a rebellious tendency to lift at the corners.

From her father, and a long line of fighting ancestors, Honor had

gotten the large build of a large nature; the notable lift of her

head; and the hot blood, coupled with endurance, that stamps the race

current coin across the world.

A jolt of unusual violence, flinging her against the carriage door,

announced conclusively her arrival at the last of the embryo stations,

and straightway the stillness of dawn was affronted by a riot of life

and sound. Men, women, and children, cooking-pots and bundles,

overflowed on to the sunlit platform; and through their midst, with a

dignified aloofness that only flowers to perfection in the East, Honor

Meredith's tall _chuprassee_[1] made his way to her carriage window.

Beside him, in a scarlet coat over full white skirts, cowered the

distressed figure of an old ayah, who for twenty years had been a

pillar of the household of Meredith.

[1] Government servant.

"Hai, hai, Miss Sahib!" she broke out, lifting wrinkled hands in

protest. "How was it possible to sleep in such a night of strange

noises, and of many devils let loose; the rail _gharri_[2] itself

being the worst devil of them all! Behold, your Honour hath brought us

to an evil country, without water and without food. A country of

murderers and barefaced women. Not once, since the leaving of Pindi,

have I dared close an eyelid lest some unknown evil befall me."

[2] Carriage.

A statement which set her companion smiling under the shelter of his

moustache and beard, at thought of the many times he had saved her

slumbering form from collision against the woodwork of the train. But,

with the courtesy of his kind, he forebore to discomfort her by

mention of such trifling details.

"It is necessary to cross the river on foot, Miss Sahib," he said: and

without more ado Honor fared forth into the untempered sunlight,

closely followed by her two attendants, and a string of half-naked

coolies bearing her luggage.

From the dreary little terminus a cart-track sloped to the river,

which at this point sweeps southward with a strong rush of water, its

steep banks forming a plateau on either hand. The narrow gorge was

spanned by a rough bridge of boats lashed firmly together; and on the

farther side Honor found a lone dak bungalow, its homely dovecot and

wheeling pigeons striking a friendly note amid the callousness of the

surrounding country.

An armed orderly, who had been taking his ease in the verandah, sprang

smartly to his feet and saluted; and behind him, on the threshold, a

red-bearded khansamah, who might have walked straight out of an Old

Testament picture-book, proffered obsequious welcome to the _Major

Sahib's Miss_. Honor bestowed a glance of approval upon her new

protector, whose natural endowments were enhanced by the picturesque

uniform of the Punjab Cavalry. A khaki tunic, reaching almost to his

knees, was relieved by heavy steel shoulder-chains and a broad

kummerband of red and blue. These colours were repeated in the peaked

cap and voluminous turban, while over the kummerband was buckled the

severe leathern sword-belt of the West.

The man held out a letter; and Honor, summarily dismissing the

khansamah,--who thrust himself upon her notice with the insistent

meekness of his kind,--passed on into the one sitting-room, with its

bare table and half-dozen dilapidated chairs. Balancing herself on the

former, she broke the seal with impatient fingers, for the sight of

her brother's handwriting gladdened her like a hand-clasp across

thirty miles of space.

Then she started, and all the light went out of her eyes.

"DEAREST GIRL" (she read),--

"Just a line to save you from a shock at sight of me.

The old trouble--Peshawar fever. Mackay has run me to

earth at last and insisted on a Board. I'm afraid it's a

case of a year's sick leave at home, bad luck to it. But

I see no reason to throw up our fine plan altogether. If

you would like to wait out here for me, the Desmonds

will gladly give you a home. He made the offer at once,

and I know I couldn't leave you in better hands. Full

details when we meet. It's a hard blow for us both; but

you have grit enough for two, and here's a chance to

prove it. Hurry up that tonga-driver.--Your loving,

JOHN."

Honor read the short letter through twice, then, with less of

elasticity in her step, sought refreshment of mind and body in the hot

water awaiting her in the next room.

An hour later the tonga was well on its way, speeding at a hand-gallop

over the dead level of road, with never an incident of shade, or a

spear-point of green, to soften the forbidding face of it; with never

a sound to shatter the sunlit stillness, save the three-fold sound of

their going--the clatter of hoofs, the clank and rattle of the

tonga-bar rising and falling to a tune of its own making, and the

brazen-throated twang of the horn, which the tonga-drivers of Upper

India have elevated to a fine art.

And on either hand, to the utmost limit of vision, lay the emptiness

of the desert, bounded by unfriendly hills. A pitiless country, where

the line of duty smites the eye at every turn; the line of beauty

being conspicuous only by its absence. A country that straightens the

back, and strings up nerve and muscle; where men learn to endure

hardness, and carry their lives in their hands with cheerful

unconcern, expecting and receiving small credit for either from those

whose safety they ensure, and who know little, and care less, about

matters so scantly relevant to their immediate comfort or concern.

Honor had elected to sit in front by the strapping Pathan driver;

while Parbutti, ayah, her flow of speech frozen at its source by the

near neighbourhood of a sword and loaded carbine, put as much space

between the orderly and her own small person as the narrow back-seat

of the tonga would permit.

The English girl's eyes had in them now less of dreaminess, and more

of thought. The abrupt change in her outlook brought Evelyn Desmond's

pretty, effective figure to the forefront of her mind. For ten

years,--the period of Honor's education in England,--the two girls had

lived and learned together as sisters; and, despite natures radically

opposed, a very real love had sprung up between them. They had not

met, however, since Evelyn Dacre's somewhat hasty marriage to Captain

Desmond, V.C., a brother officer of John Meredith; a soldier of no

little promise and distinction, and a true frontiersman, both by

heritage and inclination, since every Desmond who came to India went

straight to the Border as a matter of course. Honor knew the man by

hearsay only, but she knew every inch of her friend's character, and

the knowledge gave her food for much interested speculation. There are

few things more puzzling than the marriages of our friends, unless it

be our own.

But after the first stoppage to change horses, Honor flung meditation

to the winds, and turned her eyes and mind upon the life of the road.

For, as day took completer possession of the heavens, it became

evident that life, of a leisurely, intermittent sort, flourished even

upon this highway to the other end of nowhere.

A line of camels, strung together like a grotesque living necklace,

sauntered past, led by a loose-robed Pathan, as supercilious of aspect

as the shuffling brutes who bobbed and gurgled in his wake. Or it

might be a group of bullock-carts going down to Kushalghur, to meet

consignments of stores and all the minor necessaries of life,--for in

those days Kohat was innocent of shops. At rare intervals, colourless

mud hamlets--each with its warlike watch-tower--huddled close to the

road as if for company and protection. Here the monotonous round of

life was already astir. Women of a remarkable height and grace, in

dark-blue draperies peculiar to the Frontier, went about their work

with superb movement of untrammelled limbs, and groups of shiny bronze

babies shrilled to the heartsome notes of the tonga-horn. There were also

whitewashed police _chokhis_,[3] where blue-coated, yellow-trousered

policemen squatted, and smoked, and spat, in glorious idleness, from dawn

to dusk, and exchanged full-flavoured compliments with the Pathan driver

in passing. For the rest there was always the passionless serenity of the

desert, with its crop of thriftless thorn-bushes, whose berries showed

like blood-drops pricked from the hard heart of the land; and beyond the

desert, looming steadily nearer with every mile of progress, the rugged

majesty of the hills.

[3] Police stations.

As the third hour of their journeying drew to an end, a sudden vision

of green, like an emerald dropped on the drab face of the plain,

brought a flush to Honor's cheeks, a light into her eyes.

"It is Kohat, Miss Sahib," the driver announced with a comprehensive

wave of his hand.

A breath of ice-cool air came to her from an open watercourse at the

roadside, and the fragrance of a hundred roses from the one beautiful

garden in the station that surrounded the Deputy-Commissioner's house.

They passed for a while between overarching trees, but the glimpse of

Eden was short-lived. At the avenue's end they came abruptly into the

cantonment itself: stony, barren, unlovely, the dead level broken here

and there by rounded hummocks unworthy to be called hills. On the

east, behind a protective mud-wall, lay the native city; on the north

and west, the bungalows of the little garrison--flat-roofed,

square-shouldered buildings, with lizard-haunted slits of windows

fifteen feet above the ground, set in the midst of bare, pebble-strewn

compounds; though here and there some fortunate boasted a

thirsty-looking tree, or a handful of rose-bushes blooming bravely in

this, the Indian month of roses.

At the foot of the highest hummock, crowned with buildings of uniform

ugliness, the tonga-driver drew rein and indicated a steep pathway.

"The bungalow of the Major Sahib is above," he said, "and the Presence

must needs walk."

The Presence did more than walk. In the verandah at the path's end a

tall figure stood awaiting her; and before Parbutti and the orderly

had collected her belongings, she was in John Meredith's arms.

The remarkable likeness between the two was very apparent as they

stood together thus; though the man's face was marred by ill-health,

and by the distressing prominence of his eye-bones and strongly-marked

jaw. He led her into the dining-room with more of lover-like than

brother-like tenderness; for despite his forty years no woman had yet

dethroned this beautiful sister of his from the foremost place in his

heart.

He set her down at the breakfast-table, himself poured out her tea,

and dismissed the kitmutgar as soon as might be, Honor watching him

the while with troubled solicitude in her eyes.

"It's crushing, John!" she said at length. "And you do look horribly

ill."

"Well, my dear girl, is it likely I'd desert the regiment, and forfeit

a year of your good company unless devils within were pretty

imperative?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"But you ought to have told us about it sooner, ... me, at any rate.

When did you know the decision of the Board?"

"Yesterday. Desmond was with me at the time. I didn't write before

that about things being uncertain, for fear the good old man should

take fright and whisk you off home. And I thought that even if I

couldn't square the Board, you'd find waiting out here for me the

lesser evil."

"Very much the lesser evil. What a barbarian people at home would

think me if they knew it! And you must go, ... when?"

"In four or five days; as soon as my leave is sanctioned."

"And, naturally, I stay here with you till then."

"Well, ... partially. But when your heavy luggage came yesterday, it

seemed simpler to send it straight to the Desmonds, and that you

should settle in and sleep over there. We're all sitting in one

another's pockets here, and you and I can be together all day, never

fear. Will that arrangement suit your Royal Highness?"

"My Royal Highness is as wax in your hands," she answered, with a

swift softening of face and voice. "I won't start being autocratic

till I get you back again. Only--sit down at once, please. You don't

look fit to stand."

He obeyed with unconcealed willingness, at the same time handing her a

note.

"It is from Mrs Desmond. She is expecting you over there this

afternoon."

Honor looked mutinous.

"But I want to stay with you. I shall see plenty of Evelyn later."

"Still, I think we must spare her an hour to-day. The little woman's

keen to see you, and I'd like Desmond to feel that we appreciate his

prompt kindness. He'll be down at the Lines all the afternoon. It's

our day for tent-pegging. You might ride down with Mrs Desmond, and

bring me news of what my men are doing. I'm mad at not being able to

be there myself."

She deserted her breakfast, and knelt down beside him.

"Dear man! Of course I'll go and find out all about it from Captain

Desmond. I needn't stay long to do that."

"No. You can say you want to get back to me. Desmond will understand."

"He's rather a fine fellow, isn't he?"

"One of the best I know. The last man who ought to be hampered by a

woman."

"I might take that as a dismissal! How about yourself!"

"Ah, that's quite another matter." And he laid a hand upon the soft

abundance of her hair. "Mine is only a two years' contract. And, in

any case, _I_ would never allow myself to be handicapped by a

woman--not even by you. But I don't feel so certain about Desmond."

"Poor little Evelyn! Do you mean, ... is there any question of her

really hampering him, ... seriously?"

Meredith hesitated. A half-smile hovered in his tired eyes.

"As I'm strongly against the whole affair, and have hardly forgiven

him yet for marrying at all, it is fairer for me to say nothing about

her one way or the other. You must judge for yourself."

CHAPTER II.

I WANT TO BE FIRST.

"A breath of light, a pulse of tender fire,

Too dear for doubt, too driftless for desire."

--SWINBURNE.

Sixteen months earlier, Evelyn Dacre--having come out to India with a

party of tourist friends--had chanced to spend Christmas week at

Lahore: a week which brings half the Punjab together for purposes of

festivity and sport. Here, by some mysterious process, which no

science will ever be able to fathom or explain, she had cast an

instantaneous and unaccountable spell over a man of rare singleness of

purpose, whose heart was set to court action, danger, hardship in

every conceivable form: a man for whom a girl-wife fresh out from

"Home" seemed as hazardous an investment as could well be imagined.

But with all his fine qualities of head and heart, Theo Desmond was

little given to cool deliberation in the critical moments of life.

This chance-met girl, fragile as a flower and delicately tinted as a

piece of porcelain, full of enthusiasm for her new surroundings and of

a delight half shy, half spontaneous in the companionship of a man so

unlike the _blasé_, self-centred youths of her limited experience,

had, for the time being, swept him off his feet. And men are apt to do

unaccountable things during those hot-headed moments when the feet are

actually off the ground.

A moonlight picnic; an hour of isolated wandering in a garden of

tombs; the witchery of the moment; the word too much; the glance that

lingered to a look;--and the irrevocable was upon them. Desmond had

returned to the Frontier, to a circle of silently amazed brother

officers; and in less than three months from their time of meeting the

two had become man and wife.

Honor, having been away in England at the time, had had but a

second-hand hearing of the whole affair; and for all the keenness of

her present disappointment, a natural spark of interest was aroused in

her at the prospect of spending a year with this unequally yoked

husband and wife.

She found her friend awaiting her in the verandah: a mere slip of

womanhood, in a grey habit.

"Oh, _there_ you are at last, Honor!" she cried eagerly. "It's grand

to see you again! I'm dreadfully sorry about Major Meredith--I am,

truly. But it's just lovely getting you on a long visit like this.

Come in and have tea before we start."

And taking possession of the girl with both hands, she led her into

the house, talking ceaselessly as she went.

"It's really very charming of you two to be so pleased to have me,"

Honor said quietly, as she settled herself, nothing loth, in the

spaciousness of Captain Desmond's favourite chair. Then, because her

head still hummed with the clatter of travel, she fell silent;

following with her eyes the movements of this graceful girl-wife,

whose engaging air of frankness and simplicity was discounted, at

times, by an odd lack of both dimly shadowed in the blue-green eyes.

Evelyn Desmond's eyes were, not without reason, her dearest bit of

vanity. The tint of the clear iris suggested sea shallows on a day of

light cloud--more green than blue; yet with just enough of the sky's

own colour to lend the charm of a constant variability, that

harmonised admirably with her iridescent changes of mood.

Honor Meredith, who understood her curious mingling of charm and

unsatisfactoriness better than any one else in the world, noted her

afresh, inwardly and outwardly, with the result that she desired more

than ever to know the man who had been hardy enough to place his

life's happiness in the hollow of Evelyn's clinging, incompetent

hands.

At this juncture Mrs Desmond sank on to a low stool beside her, set

her own cup and plate unceremoniously on the carpet, and laid a

caressing hand upon her knee.

"It _does_ feel like old times," she said. "And I so badly want to

show you to Theo."

The young simplicity of the words brought a very soft light into

Honor's eyes.

"I promised John I would go down just in order to be 'shown to Theo,'"

she answered smiling. "But you must put off showing me to the rest

till another day. I'm a little tired: and I can't keep my mind off

John for very long just now."

"You still love him better than any one in the world, then?"

"Isn't the fact of my coming here to stay two years sufficient proof

of that?"

"The very greatest proof imaginable!" Mrs Desmond flung out her hands

with a pretty, characteristic gesture. "I'm only wondering if you know

what you've let yourself in for? I thought India was a lovely placed

_till_ I came here. Theo warned me it wouldn't be a bit like Pindi or

Lahore. But that didn't seem to matter, so long as I had him. Only I

am so seldom _able_ to have him! The regiment swamps _every_thing. The

men are always in uniform, and always at it; and the aggravating part

is that they actually like that better than anything."

Honor laid her hand over the one that rested on her knee. She saw both

sides of the picture with equal vividness.

"What a dire calamity!" she said gently. "I am afraid that on the

Frontier, if a man is keen, his wife is bound to stand second; and if

only she will accept the fact, it must surely be happier for both in

the long-run."

Mrs Desmond looked up at her with pathetic eyes.

"But I don't _want_ to accept the fact. I want to be first always: and

I ought to be. It's easy enough for _you_ to talk, because you haven't

a notion how nice Theo is! When you've married a man like that, and

buried yourself in a howling wilderness because of him, he ought to

belong more to you than to his sacred Frontier Force! But Theo seems

to be the private property of half the regiment! There's his chief

friend Major Wyndham, and the Boy, his subaltern, he thinks the world

of them; and they seem to live in the house. Then there's a tiresome

old Ressaldar always coming over to do Persian with him for his Higher

Proficiency exam; and I don't find it half amusing to be one of a

mixed crowd like that!"

Her whimsical air of woe disarmed all save the mildest disapproval. It

was one of Evelyn Desmond's unfair advantages that she always did

manage to disarm disapproval, even in her least admirable moments; and

the smile deepened in Honor's eyes.

"It seems to me, Evelyn," she said quietly, "that your husband must be

a very large-hearted man."

"Why, of course! That's just the trouble, ... don't you see?"

"Yes, I do see; and I am woman enough to sympathise. But it will do

you no harm, dear, to be one of a crowd, and to get out of the glass

case you have been kept under ever since you were born. Show me this

wonderful Theo now. People's faces tell me a great deal, you know; and

you have roused my curiosity."

"Look round and see if you can recognise him," was the laughing

answer.

There were some half-dozen photographs of men, in uniform and out of

it, set about the incongruous room; but the girl's eyes were speedily

caught and riveted by a full-length presentment of a Punjab

cavalryman, which stood, solitary and conspicuous, on the upright

piano. She rose and went quickly towards it.

"I choose here," she said decisively. "Am I right?" And seeing that

Evelyn nodded, she went on: "What a very remarkable picture. So

extraordinarily alive! One can see how he hates standing still inside

that frame!"

Then she fell into a long silence: for she was a practised observer of

men and things, and the face before her compelled attention. The

keynote of the whole was vigour: not mere impetuosity, though that was

present also, but a sustained, indwelling vigour, that keeps endeavour

bright.

Evelyn stood watching her in no little wonderment, awaiting further

comment.

"Don't you like him?" she asked at length.

"Decidedly; if that picture does him justice."

"Well, come on down to the tent-pegging, and find out for yourself."

* * * * *

From the bungalows crowning the mound a bare road sloped northward to

the cavalry lines. Along it the two women rode at a foot's pace; for

Evelyn still had much to say, and the girl was a notable listener. But

even so the parade-ground below them came rapidly into view--a level

expanse of brown earth, hard as a usurer's heart, varied only by lines

of featureless mud huts, and backed by the dragon's teeth of the

hills, brown also, save where sharply defined shadows broke the

prevailing monotony of hue.

But the foreground of this toneless setting vibrated with life,

movement, colour.

Groups of native troopers, in blue belted tunics and turbans of blue

and gold, occupied the central space. English officers, in undress

uniform, rode to and fro among them, criticising, encouraging, and

generally directing the course of events. In an open _shamianah_,[4]

eight or ten men divided their attention between a table at the back

of the tent and the four ladies of the station, who perforce converted

military events into those friendly gatherings which are the mainstay

of Anglo-Indian life. Native onlookers, of all races and ranks, formed

a mosaic border to the central theme; and a jumble of rollicking Irish

airs from the Sikh band set Honor's foot tapping the air with brisk

precision.

[4] Marquee.

"Wait, Evelyn," she said. "I would like to see those four Pathans take

the pegs from here. One gets the effect better from rising ground."

And Evelyn, whose knowledge of effects was limited to hats and

hairdressing, drew rein obediently, her eyes probing the crowd for the

one figure, to whom the rest were mere accessories, and rather

troublesome accessories at that.

But Honor's eyes and mind were set upon the four Pathans drawn up in

line at the starting-point, the sunlight flashing from their

lance-heads, and from every link of eight steel shoulder-chains; their

faces inscrutable; their eyes points of living fire. A pathway of

straw softened the ground for galloping, and in the midst of it four

pegs awaited the furious onset.

The horses, all eagerness to be off, tossed impatient heads, straining

impotently at the tightened rein. On a given word they sprang forward

with a thundering rush of hoofs, swooping down upon the pegs at

lightning speed, the men's faces level with the flying manes, their

lance-heads skimming the ground. Followed the stirring moment of

impact, the long-drawn shout, steadily rising to a yell of triumph, as

four lances whirled aloft, each bearing the coveted morsel of wood

spiked through the centre.

The girl drew a deep breath, and her face glowed with that pagan

exultation in bodily strength and prowess, which all the refining

fires of civilisation will never burn out of the human heart. But as

she turned with praise on her lips, Evelyn leaned eagerly towards her.

"Theo has seen us. He is coming up here. Look!"

And Honor looked accordingly.

A man on a superb bay "waler" had detached himself from the crowd, and

was coming towards them at a swinging trot, sitting the horse as

though he were part of the animal. Honor realised at a glance that

here was that stimulating thing, a positive personality alive to the

finger-tips, realised also with what success the photographer had

caught and rendered the living essence of the man. Desmond was dark as

his wife was fair, though a hint of chestnut in his moustache, and a

peculiar light in the hazel-grey eyes, suggested fire not far below

the surface. The whole face was stamped with that sovereign quality of

sympathy which, even in a world of failure, never fails of its reward.

His wife effected an introduction in her own ingenuous fashion.

"There, Theo, ... this is Honor, that you have heard so much about."

Desmond saluted.

"I'm uncommonly glad to meet you, Miss Meredith," he said; but before

Honor could reply Evelyn made haste to interpose.

"Theo, ... I can't have you calling her Miss Meredith! She's just

like my sister, and you must simply be Honor and Theo, ... d'you see?"

Desmond's eyes showed a flicker of amusement.

"Perhaps you'll allow us to shake hands first," he suggested, and the

friendliness of his grasp dispelled the sense of isolation that

weighed upon the girl at thought of her brother's departure.

"How did that last performance strike you? Pretty good, wasn't it?"

"Splendid. They went by like a wall. Such magnificent riding."

"They were your brother's men. Wish he could have seen them. He's so

tremendously keen. They've tied with my Sikhs, so there'll be an

exciting finish. Won't you come down and see it out?"

"I think not, thanks, if it doesn't seem unfriendly. I really only

came because John and Evelyn wished it, just to make your acquaintance

and see how things were going, and I would honestly like to go

straight back to him now, ... if I may. He said you would understand."

"He was right. I'll see you to the gate myself. Go on down to the

_shamianah_, Ladybird, the Boy is looking out for you. I'll not be

gone long."

And with a rebellious crumpling of her forehead Evelyn obeyed.

"I am afraid the Major's news must have been rather a shock to you,

Miss Meredith," Desmond went on, as their horses mounted the slope.

"But we've all been expecting it this long while. He takes too little

leave and steadily overworks himself, ... that's the truth. But then,

... you should see what he's done for the regiment in the last ten

years!"

The spark of enthusiasm in the man's tone struck an answering spark

from his companion.

"That's the true way to look at it," she declared warmly. "So many

people simply call him a fool. It's the fashion to sneer at enthusiasm

in these days."

"We don't sneer at it in this part of the world," Desmond replied with

quiet emphasis. "I see now why the Major said I should find you the

right sort for the Frontier and a help to ... my Evelyn. I have

transplanted her to a very rough soil, I only hope she's fit to stand

it."

"_I_ think so. She has been too carefully sheltered till now; and it's

just a matter of adapting herself to fresh conditions. You may count

on me to do all I can for her while I am here."

"Your name is sufficient guarantee for that!" he answered simply; and

the implied compliment to her brother quickened every pulse in her

body.

They parted at Major Meredith's gate, Desmond promising to report the

result of the final contest on his way home; and the girl sat watching

him thoughtfully till a dip in the road hid him from view.

CHAPTER III.

THE BIG CHAPS.

"Love that is loud or light in all men's ears,

* * * * *

That binds on all men's feet, or chains, or wings."

--SWINBURNE.

Honor woke early, springing from dreamless sleep to alert wakefulness,

as is the way of vivid natures, and the first sight that greeted her

was the huddled form of Parbutti, her chin between her knees, her dark

eyes bright and watchful.

Honor's smile was answered by a flash of light across the old woman's

face as she arose and salaamed to the ground.

"Behold, while the Miss Sahib slept like a little child, I have laid

out the riding-gear as of custom, and now I go to prepare the

_terail_[5] for _chota hazri_.[6] They are not ill folk in this

compound, Hazúr; and there goes but one word among them, that our

Sahib is a diamond fit for a king's turban, understanding the heart of

black men, giving no shame words, neither smiting with his foot as do

many officer-sahibs. It is well for us, who come strangers to a

country of murderers, to be of the household of such a Sahib. Nay,

then, child of my heart, I will cease from idle talk, ... it is an

order. Doth not my pearl and the light of my life await her chota

hazri?"

[5] Tray.

[6] Small breakfast.

And the old woman, whose garrulity was as dust in the balance when

weighed against twenty years of faithful service, shuffled out of the

room.

Half an hour later Honor was in the saddle--a gallant figure in

well-cut brown habit and white helmet, the sunlight finding out gleams

of bronze in her abundant hair, while all about her shone the

uncompromising blue and gold of a mid-March morning--fresh without

sharpness, and fragrant with the ethereal fragrance of dawn.

She followed the downward road, noting a landmark here and there for

guidance. Her delight was in the rhythm of movement; in the waiting

stillness of earth and sky; the momentous pause between all that has

been, and all that shall be, which gives a dramatic sense of

responsibility to the day's first hours.

Her eyes rejoiced in the least detail of form and light and colour; in

the signs of reviving life; the alert ubiquitous sentries, the sharp

alternations of sun and shadow on hills naked and unpromising as the

harsh face of poverty; hills that for all time have had but one gift

for the giving--"not peace, but a sword." From the cavalry Lines

behind her the trumpet call to "stables" set the blood stirring in her

veins, with that peculiar thrill which no other instrument can

produce. The very spirit of battle breathes in the sound.

An expectant interest glowed within her like a star. It was her great

good-fortune to be blessed with that poetic understanding which is

neither deceived by custom nor dulled by repetition, which sees all

things--even the most familiar--virginally fresh, as on the morning of

creation.

Her random wanderings brought her to a stretch of un-metalled road,

and at the road's edge, some few hundred yards away a man on a white

horse had drawn rein at sight of her. Instantly her thought alighted

on Evelyn's husband, but nearer view revealed a different type of

man--taller, and equally erect, yet lacking in the suggestion of force

and virility that emanated from Captain Desmond, even in repose. With

a rapidity born of much practice Honor took stock of him, from his

helmet to his boots, as he sat awaiting her, with a coolness which at

once amused her and piqued her interest. A slim square chin,

indeterminate colouring, and eyes of a remarkable thoughtfulness under

very level brows, went to make up a satisfying, if not very striking

whole.

"A modest, understanding sort of man," was Honor's mental verdict. "A

student every inch of him. I wonder how in the world he comes to be a

soldier."

By this time Dilkusha had been drawn up, and the man who ought not to

have been a soldier was saluting her with a singularly charming smile,

that began in the eyes, and broke up the gravity of the face as

sunshine breaks up a cloud.

"You must be Miss Meredith," he said. "One doesn't meet a new face

haphazard in Kohat, and ... you are wonderfully like your brother. I

am Major Wyndham. You may have heard the name?"

"Why, ... yes. You are Captain Desmond's friend."

"You couldn't give a completer description of me! I hear you are to

put up with them till Meredith comes back."

"Yes. They have been quite charming about it, and I am so glad not to

be driven away from the Frontier at once. I have been longing to get

to it for years."

He watched her while she spoke, his quietly observant eyes missing no

detail of her face.

"And now you have got here, I wonder how it will strike you after the

imposing official circles of Simla and Lahore. You'll find none of the

'beer and skittles' of the country up here. But the Frontier has its

own fascination all the same; especially when a man has the spirit of

it in his blood. Desmond, for instance, wouldn't give a brass farthing

for life out of sight of those hard-featured hills. Do you know him

and his wife at all?"

"I never saw him till yesterday, except in the distance at polo

matches. But I have known her since she was quite a child."

"And I have known Desmond since he was thirteen. Rather odd! You can't

fail to be good friends with _him_ Miss Meredith."

"Are you as rabid as my brother and the Colonel because the poor man

has dared to marry?" she asked, with an incurable directness which to

some natures was a stumbling-block, and to others her chiefest charm.

"It seems to be a part of the regimental creed."

"It is. And I subscribe to it ... _as_ a creed. But my belief has not

yet been tried in the fire. Desmond is the keenest soldier I know; yet

he has seen fit to marry. I have an immense faith in him, and,

whatever others may think, I prefer to reserve my judgment."

"If only a few more of us had the wisdom to do that," the girl said

softly. "How much easier life would be for every one!"

Wyndham smiled.

"I have a notion that life isn't meant to be easy," he said. "And the

fact remains that Meredith and the Colonel are right in principle. Few

men are strong enough to stand the strain of being pulled two ways at

once, and marriage is bound to be a grave risk for a man whose heart

is set on soldiering--Frontier soldiering above all. But then Desmond

loves a risk better than anything else in life."

And with an abrupt laugh he dismissed the subject.

"I must be going on now," he added. "But no doubt we shall meet again

soon. I am constantly over at the bungalow."

And, saluting her again, he trotted leisurely northward to the cavalry

Lines.

His thoughts as he went hovered about the girl. The mere picture she

left upon his brain was not one to be lightly set aside by a man with

an ardent eye for the beautiful, and a spirit swift to discern those

hidden elements which gave to Honor Meredith's beauty its distinctive

quality and charm.

Some men are born with a genius for looking on at life, a form of

genius not to be despised. They are of the type from which great

naturalists, great philosophers are made; men quick to perceive, slow

to assert; men whose large patience rests upon freedom from the fret

of personal desire. Of such was Paul Wyndham, and in his accepted rôle

of onlooker he fell to pondering upon the new element in his own

immediate drama.

If only Desmond had chosen for his helpmate such a girl as Miss

Meredith, how different might have been the regiment's feelings in

regard to the unwelcome fact of his marriage. Yet Wyndham was aware of

an instant recoil from the idea, aware that he personally preferred

matters as they stood. With which conclusion he spurred his horse to

a canter, as though he could thus outrun the quickened current of

thought and feeling which this unlooked-for meeting had set stirring

in his brain.

* * * * *

Meantime Honor Meredith had fallen in with another member of her

newly-adopted family:--a big, raw-boned Irishwoman, who wore her

curling reddish hair cropped short, answered to the name of "Frank,"

and dressed chronically in a serviceable skirt and covert coat, and a

man's shikarri helmet. When riding, the skirt was replaced by that of

a country-made habit; and in the simplest evening gown this

large-featured, large-hearted woman stood a martyr confessed. For ten

years she had been the only woman in a regiment of sworn bachelors;

had nursed her "brother officers" whenever need arose; had shared

their interests, their hardships, their amusements; till,--in the

symbolism of the India she loved,--they and the regiment had become

"her father and her mother, her people and her God."

At sight of Honor she hurried her grey country-bred across the road,

and held out a square, loosely-gloved hand.

"It's bound to be Miss Meredith!" she exclaimed, in a pronounced

brogue, with a flash of white even teeth--her sole claim to beauty.

"It's very welcome you are to Kohat and to the regiment. I'm Frank

Olliver, ... Captain Olliver's wife. I'll turn now and ride back a bit

of the way with you. Then we can talk as we go. 'Tis the worst of bad

luck about your brother. When'll he be leaving?"

"In four or five days. He moves across into our bungalow this morning.

It was splendid of Captain Desmond to think of it."

"Ah, Theo's just made that way!" Then, noting a glimmer of surprise in

Honor's face, her wide smile shone out once more. "Is it shocked you

are because I speak of him so? Well, ... truth is, I'm a privileged

person since I pulled him through typhoid seven years ago, when by

rights he should have died. I'm a rare hand, anyway, at dropping the

formalities with them that suit me taste. Though, by the same token,

I've taken no liberties with little Mrs Desmond yet. It's queer. We

don't seem to get much further with her; though we'd be glad enough to

do it for Theo's sake. You mustn't mind straight speech from me, Miss

Meredith. Sure I must have been born with the whole truth in me mouth,

for as fast as I open me lips a bit of it slips out. I'll be finding

she's your half-sister, or first cousin, or some such thing!"

Honor laughed outright. It would clearly be impossible to take amiss

anything that this woman might choose to say. The kindliness of her

soul shone through her plain face, like sunlight through a

window-pane.

"Her mother is a distant connection of ours," the girl admitted

frankly. "And we were brought up for a time like sisters. It must have

been rather a startling change for her from a country town at home to

a Border station; and she is very young still, and very devoted to her

husband."

"She is that, ... after a queer fashion of her own. But Theo's bound

to make his mark on the Frontier, like his father before him; and you

know the proverb, 'He travels the fastest who travels alone.' Tis

hardly meself, though, that should be upholding such a saying as

that!"

"No, indeed! No woman ought to uphold it. And, after all," Honor

added, with a very becoming touch of seriousness, "there may be better

things for a man than to travel fast. He may learn more by travelling

slowly, don't you think? And I should imagine that fast or slow,

Captain Desmond is bound to arrive in the end--Now I must turn in

here, and see if John is awake. I'll come and see you when he is gone.

I can spare no time for any one else till then!"

Frank Olliver beamed in unqualified approbation.

"You're just a brick, Miss Meredith," she declared with ready Irish

warmth. "An' 'twas a fine wind indeed that carried you up to Kohat."

Honor found her hand enclosed in a grasp as strong as a man's; and

three minutes later Mrs Olliver--whose seat on a horse was as ungainly

as her hand on its mouth was perfect--had become a mere speck on the

wide sunlit road.

Honor entered the hall of her new home pondering many things. She

laid aside her sun helmet, and in obedience to the promptings of her

interested soul turned her steps toward the drawing-room.

The door was ajar, and passing between the looped gold and white

_phulkaris_, she came to a standstill; for the room was not empty.

Captain Desmond, in undress uniform, sat at the piano with his back

towards her. His white helmet lay, spike downward, on the carpet; and

an Aberdeen terrier--ears rigidly erect, head tilted at a critical

angle--sat close beside it, watching his master with intent eyes, in

which all the wisdom and sorrow of the ages seemed writ.

While the girl hesitated on the threshold, Desmond struck a succession

of soft chords in a minor key; and she stood spellbound, determined to

hear more. Music was no mere accomplishment to her, but a simple

necessity of life; and this man possessed that rare gift of touch,

which no master in the world can impart, because it is a produce

neither of hand nor brain, but of the player's individual soul.

Desmond's fingers were unpractised, but he gave every note its true

value; and he played slowly, as though composing each chord as it

came, or building it up from memory. It was almost as if he were

thinking aloud; and Honor had just decided that she really had no

business to be overhearing his thoughts, when an apprehensive "woof"

from the Aberdeen brought them suddenly to an end.

Desmond swung round upon the music-stool, and at sight of her sprang

up hastily, a dull flush showing through his tan.

"Amar Singh told me you were out," he said, as they shook hands.

"So I was. I only came in this minute. Won't you let me hear a little

more, please?"

He shook his head with good-humoured decision.

"I never play to any one ... except Rob, who, being a Scots

Covenanter, disapproves on principle."

"I call that selfish. It's such a rare treat to hear a man play well.

I was delighted when you began. I thought pianos were unheard of up

here."

"Well, ... they are hardly a legitimate item in a Frontier officer's

equipment! This one was ... my mother's," he laid a hand on the

instrument, as though it had been the shoulder of a friend. "The

fellows sat upon me, I assure you, when I brought it out. Told me it

was worse than a wife. But I've carried my point, ... wife and all.

And now, perhaps you will reward me,--if I haven't been too ungracious

to deserve it?"

He whisked away his solitary photo, and opened the piano.

"How do you know I play?" she asked, smiling. She liked his

impetuosity of movement and speech.

"I don't know. I guessed it last night. You carry it in your head?"

"Yes; most of it."

"Real music? The big chaps?"

"Very little else, I'm afraid."

"No need to put it that way here, Miss Meredith. A sonata, please. The

Pathetic."

She sat down to the piano with a little quickening of the breath and

let her fingers rest a moment on the keyboard. Then--sudden, crisp,

and vigorous came the crash of the opening chord.

Honor Meredith's playing was of a piece with her own nature--vivid,

wholesome, impassioned. Her supple fingers drew the heart out of each

wire. Yet she did not find it necessary to sway her body to and fro;

but sat square and upright, her head a little lifted, as though

evolving the music from her soul.

Desmond listened motionless to the opening bars; then, with a long

breath of satisfaction, moved away, and fell to pacing the room.

The Scots Covenanter, scenting the joyful possibility of escape,

trotted hopefully to heel: but, being a dog of discernment, speedily

detected the fraud, and retired to the hearth-rug in disgust. Thence

he scrutinised his master's irrational method of taking exercise,

unfeigned contempt in every line of him, from nose-tip to tail.

The sonata ended, Honor let her hands fall into her lap, and sat very

still. She had lost all thought of her companion in the joy of

interpretation; but Desmond's voice at her side recalled her to

reality.

"Thank you," he said. "I haven't heard it played like _that_ ... for

five years. If you can do much of this sort of thing you'll find me

insatiable. We're bound to be good friends at this rate, and I see no

reason why we should not comply with Ladybird's request to us. Do you,

... Honor?"

She started and flushed at the sound of her name; then turned her

clear eyes full upon him, the shadow of a smile lifting the rebellious

corners of her mouth.

"No reason at all, ... in good time, Captain Desmond."

He returned her look with an equal deliberation.

"Is that a hint to me to keep my distance?"

"No. Only to ... 'go slow,' if you'll forgive the expressive slang.

It's so much wiser in the long-run."

"Is it? Bad luck for me. I've never managed it yet, and I doubt if I

ever shall. The men of my squadron call me _Bijli-wallah Sahib_,[7]

and I didn't earn the name by going slow, ... Miss Meredith. If I have

been overbold, your music was to blame. But Ladybird seemed to wish

it; and, believe me, I did _not_ mean it to seem like impertinence.

Why, there she is herself, bless her; and we're neither of us ready

for breakfast!"

[7] _Bijli_--lightning.

CHAPTER IV.

ESPECIALLY WOMEN.

"We are fearfully and wonderfully made--especially women."

--THACKERAY.

The afternoon sunlight flung lengthening shadows across the cavalry

Lines, where men and native officers alike were housed in

mud-plastered huts, innocent of windows; and where life was beginning

to stir anew after the noontide tranquillity of the East.

The eighty horses of each troop stood, picketed with ample lengths of

head and heel rope, between the lines of huts occupied by their

sowars; while at the permanently open doorways squatted the men

themselves,--Sikhs, Punjabi-Mahomedans, Pathans, each troop composed

entirely of one or the other,--smoking, gambling, or putting final

touches to their toilet in the broad light of day. The native officers

alone aspired to a certain degree of privacy. Their huts were detached

a little space from those that guarded the horses; and flimsy walls of

grass matting, set around them, imparted a suggestion of dignity and

aloofness from the common herd.

The hut of Jemadar Alla Dad Khan, of the Pathan troop of Desmond's

squadron, boasted just such a matting wall, with a gateless gateway,

even as in the bungalows of Sahibs; and withinsides all was very

particularly set in order. There was an air of festivity in the open

courtyard, on either side of which lay two smoke-grimed rooms, that

made up the entire house.

For this was a red-letter day in the eyes of the Jemadar, and of

Fatma Bibi, his wife, who had spent a full hour in adorning her plump

person, and emphasising its charms according to the peculiar methods

of the East. That done, she came forth into the sunlight, attired as

becomes a Mahomedan woman who is expecting a visit of ceremony. Above

her mysteriously draped trousers she wore a sleeveless coat, adorned

with crescent-shaped pockets and a narrow gold braid. A _sari_[8] of

gold-flecked muslin was draped over her head and shoulders, and

beneath it her heavily oiled hair made a wide triangle of her

forehead. The scarlet of betel-nut was upon her lips; the duskiness of

kol shadowed her lashes. Ornaments of glass and silver encircled her

neck and arms, and were lavishly festooned around her delicate ears.

[8] Veil.

Her entire bearing exhaled satisfied vanity like a perfume, as she sat

at ease upon a bare _charpoy_[9] watching her husband's preparations

for the expected guests.

[9] String-bed.

He was arrayed in full-dress uniform, even to the two cherished medals

on his chest; and his appearance sorted strangely with the peaceful

nature of his occupation.

In the midst of the courtyard he had set forth--not without a secret

glow of pride--as exact an imitation of the Sahibs' "afternoon tea" as

his limited knowledge and resources would permit. From the mess

khansamah he had borrowed a japanned tea-tray that had seen much

service, a Rockingham teapot, chipped at the spout, two blue-rimmed

cups and saucers, and half a dozen plates, which last he had set round

the table at precisely equal distances from each other. Two of them

were left empty for the use of his guests, and the other four were

piled with dainties suitable for so high an occasion--sugar-topped

biscuits (beloved of natives throughout the land), raw pistachio nuts,

Cabul grapes and oranges. Then, because the central space had a barren

aspect, the sugar-bowl was promoted to the place of honour for lack of

a more suitable adornment.

The only two chairs the courtyard contained were set opposite to one

another, and it was uplifting to reflect that in a short time they

would be occupied by his captain's own Memsahib and the Generailly

Sahib's Miss, they having, of their great condescension accepted his

hospitality by the gracious favour of the Captain Sahib himself.

"According to this fashion, are all things made ready, O Fatma Bibi,

when there is a tea-drinking in the bungalows of Sahibs," he

announced, for the enlightenment of his wife, who had seen little of

the world beyond the four mud walls roofed by her private patch of

sky, and therefore could not be expected to have accurate acquaintance

with the mysterious ways of Sahibs.

Fatma Bibi acknowledged the information with just such a nod as a

mother might bestow on a contented child. Despite her limited

experience of the outer world, she knew herself many degrees wiser

than her husband in matters of far greater moment than the setting out

of a few plates and cups after the manner of the Sahib-log, who, in

respect of food and feeding are completely and comprehensively

"without sense," as all India knows.

"Bear in mind also," the man went on, sublimely unconscious of his

wife's indulgent attitude, "that the Memsahib knoweth the simplest

words of Hindostani only; but Meredith Miss Sahib will render our

speech unto her, making all things clear. Behold--they come."

The sound of hoofs, and the thud of a "dandy" set down outside

confirmed his words; and not many minutes later the Jemadar ushered

two Englishwomen into the presence of his wife,--Evelyn, looking more

flower-like than usual, in a many-frilled gown of creamy muslin and a

big simple hat to match.

"By the goodness of the Captain Sahib's heart my house is honoured

beyond deserving," the man gave them greeting as they crossed the

threshold, while Fatma Bibi's eyes rested in frank curiosity upon the

exceeding whiteness and simplicity of the English "Mem," whose

appearance was so direct a contrast to her own.

"Without doubt these women of _Belait_[10] possess no true beauty,"

she assured herself, with a nod of satisfaction, as she resumed her

seat and the new-comers accepted their appointed chairs.

[10] England.

It was a strange meal, and Evelyn Desmond was, in all respects, the

least happy of the oddly assorted quartette. She made a conscientious,

if not very successful, effort to drink the pale block tea, and eat

the strange mixture of foods pressed upon her by the Jemadar, who

would obviously feel disheartened if his guests did not empty all four

plates at a sitting. Nor was this the least of her troubles. Fatma

Bibi's valiant attempts at conversation filled her with a bewilderment

and discomfort, bordering on irritation. In an impulse of childish

wickedness, she caught herself wishing heartily that Theo had never

seen fit to distinguish himself by saving the Jemadar's life.

She looked enviously across the table at Honor, who, by a few

spontaneous questions, set both at their ease. She spoke of her

father, and the man's face glowed.

"How should men forget the Generailly Sahib, who have beheld him, as

did we of the _Rissalar_,[11] in war time, leading men and horses and

guns through the terrible mountain country beyond Peshawur? We that

serve the British Raj, Miss Sahib, are not men of ready tongue; but

our hearts are slow to forget."

[11] Regiment.

In proof thereof, the good Jemadar--his tongue effectually unloosed

for the moment--regaled his guests with tale upon tale of bygone raids

and murders and of swift retribution meted out by those watch-dogs of

the Border, the Punjab Frontier Force; tales set forth with the

Oriental touch of exaggeration which lent colour to a narrative

already sufficiently inspiring.

"These things have I seen, Miss Sahib," he concluded, with a sudden

deepening of his voice, "and these things have I done, through the

godlike courage of my Captain Sahib Bahadur"--the man saluted on the

words--"who, in the beginning of my service, when I lay wounded almost

to the death, amid bullets that fell like hail, bore me to safety on

his own shoulders, earning thereby the Victoria Cross that he weareth

even now. True talk, Hazúr. Among all the officer Sahibs of Hind, and

I have seen more than a few, there be none like unto my Captain Sahib

for courage and greatness of heart."

At this point Evelyn's voice broke in on a note of querulous

weariness.

"Do come away, Honor. I've eaten queer things enough to give me

indigestion for a week; and I can't understand a word any one is

saying. What was he getting so excited about just now?"

"Something that must make you feel a very proud woman, Evelyn," the

girl answered; and with a thrill in her low voice she translated the

man's last words.

Mrs Desmond flushed softly; praise of her husband being only a few

degrees less acceptable than praise of herself.

"It sounds very magnificent," she agreed, without enthusiasm, "but I

daresay he doesn't really mean half of it. These natives never do.

Anyway, please say the polite and proper things and let's get home as

soon as possible. I'm sure we've done enough to satisfy even Theo by

this time."

And Honor, who would fain have listened to their host for another

half-hour, had no choice but to obey.

"Why, Evelyn," she said, as they left the striped sun and shadow of

the lines, "you never told me that Captain Desmond won his V.C. by

saving the Jemadar's life. I want to hear all about it, please."

Evelyn smiled, and shrugged her shoulders.

"You probably know as much as I do. Theo never _will_ tell about

himself. Besides, in my own heart, I think he was rather foolish to

risk getting killed several times over just for the sake of a

_native_." The scorn that some few Anglo-Indians never lose lurked in

her tone. "Of course it's very nice for him to have the V.C., and I

suppose he thought it was worth while just for that. But I hope he

won't go in for any _more_ things of that sort. There's _me_ to be

considered now."

Such peculiar views on the subject of heroism smote Honor to silence,

and with a hurried murmur that Dilkusha seemed impatient to get home

she set the mare into a trot.

Arrived in the cool dimness of her own drawing-room, Evelyn Desmond

sank gratefully into a chair, her skirts billowing softly about her.

"How refreshing it is here, after that glaring courtyard! This place

is getting too hot already. I _do_ wish Theo would let me go to Simla

again this year. Last season the Walters asked him to let me join

them; and it was simply lovely. Though I didn't half like leaving him

behind; and I suppose I shan't like it much this year either."

"Then why go at all?" suggested practical Honor. "You're not obliged

to. Surely Mrs Olliver stays?"

"Mrs Olliver! She's not a woman! She's a Regimental Institution. I

can't think _what_ the men see in her to make such a fuss about! A

plain, badly-made Irishwoman, who dresses abominably. And she's much

too casual with all of them--especially with Theo, even if she _did_

save his life from typhoid fever."

Honor made no immediate reply. It was only charitable to suppose that

an overdose of sunshine and block tea was responsible for the note of

irritation in Evelyn's tone.

"I suppose you think I ought to imitate her," Mrs Desmond went on,

after an expectant pause. "Kohat is hateful enough in the cold

weather, and with heat and cholera, and flies added, it would kill me

outright! Besides, I don't believe a man loves one any better for that

sort of thing in the end. He probably gets horribly bored, and doesn't

like to say so. Besides--Theo _prefers_ me to go, he _said_ so; and

that settles everything quite comfortably for us both. By the way,

I've been planning a sort of introduction picnic for you, only that

stupid tea-party put it out of my head. I'll make out a list of people

at once and send the invitations out this evening."

She crossed over to her bureau, which, apart from the piano, was the

only piece of furniture the room contained that in England would be

considered worthy of the name.

While she sat absorbed in her congenial task, Desmond entered equipped

for polo, and after a few words with Honor went over to his wife.

"What are you so taken up with, Ladybird?" he asked.

"Something lovely! A picnic--for Honor."

Desmond laughed.

"Six for her and half a dozen for yourself! Let's see who we're

inviting."

He ran his eye down the list of guests--twelve in all. At sight of the

last two names--Mr Kresney, Miss Kresney--he frowned sharply, and

taking up his wife's discarded pencil ran a broad black line through

both.

She pushed his hand aside with an unusual display of irritation.

"What did you do _that_ for?" she demanded, a ring of defiance in her

voice. "I want to ask the Kresneys; and I will--all the same."

"Indeed, little woman, you'll do nothing of the sort."

"Why? What's wrong with them, Theo? They're quite decent people, as

far as I can see."

"Which doesn't prove that you can see very far! You must just take my

word for it, that whatever else they may be, the Kresneys are not our

sort at all."

"I suppose you really mean they're not up to _Frontier Cavalry form!_"

she retorted, not without a thrill of fear at her own daring; for the

pride of the Frontier Force is a deeply-rooted pride; and, considering

its records, not unjustifiable after all.

Desmond's eyes flashed fire, and a sharp retort rose to his lips. But,

after a brief silence, he answered his wife with a restraint that

spoke volumes to the girl at the tea-table behind him.

"Your taunt is unjust and untrue. In a general way we accept most

people for what they are, out here. But one has to draw the line

somewhere, even in India. If I were Deputy-Commissioner, the Kresneys

would be asked along with the rest. But, in my position, I am free to

make distinctions. And I have very good reasons for not asking Kresney

to an informal picnic of my particular friends. On neutral ground,

such as the club, or the tennis-courts, I have nothing to say; though

I should naturally feel pleased if you considered my wishes a little

in this matter."

"Well, then, why can't you consider _mine_ a little too? I told Miss

Kresney about it, and she's expecting to come."

"I'm sorry for that; I don't want to hurt the girl's feelings. But you

can't take people up just for once and ignore them afterwards. The

truth is, they both see plainly enough that you haven't quite got the

hang of things out here yet, and they are naturally taking full

advantage of the fact."

Evelyn's passing gentleness evaporated on the instant.

"They're _not!_" she protested wrathfully. "And it's horrid of you to

say such things! They like me, I don't see why I shouldn't be nice to

them. Besides, this is _my_ picnic--I planned it--and if _I'm_ the

hostess I can ask who I please." The touch of young importance that

sounded through the petulance of her tone dispelled the last shadow of

Desmond's annoyance and set him smiling.

"Why, of course, Ladybird--within reasonable limits. But after all,

the hospitality offered is mine; and what's more, the hostess is mine

into the bargain!"

He laid his hand lightly against the rose-flush of her cheek, but she

jerked it impatiently aside.

"Oh, well, if you will take it that way," he said, in a tone of

resigned weariness, and turning abruptly on his heel came across to

Honor, whose cheeks were almost as hot as Evelyn's own.

"I'm glad Alla Dad Khan made himself interesting this afternoon," he

remarked conversationally. "Ressaldar Rajinder Singh, who commands my

Sikh troop, is very anxious to come and pay his respects some day

soon. You see, as your father's daughter and the Major's sister you

are a rather special person for us all. But I must be off now. The

fellows will be waiting. I'll arrange about the Sirdar to-morrow."

On the threshold he paused and looked towards his wife, who still sat

with her back to the room, her head supported on her hand.

"Good-bye, Ladybird," he said, and there was marked kindliness in his

tone.

She acknowledged the words with a scarcely perceptible movement, and a

few minutes later the rattle of hoofs on the road came sharply to

their ears.

Honor's anger flamed up and overflowed.

"Oh, Evelyn, how _can_ you behave like that to him!"

Still no answer; only, after a short silence, Evelyn rose and faced

her friend. Then Honor saw that her cheeks were wet and her eyes

brimming with tears.

It is to be feared that her first sensation was one of pure annoyance.

Evelyn thoroughly deserved a scolding: and here she was, as usual,

disarming rebuke by her genuine distress.

"_Now_, I suppose he'll go--and get _killed!_" she said, in a choked

voice.

"My dear child, what nonsense! He'll come back safe enough. You don't

deserve that he should be so patient with you--you don't indeed!"

Evelyn looked up at her with piteous drowned eyes, whose expression

had the effect of making Honor feel altogether in the wrong.

"He shouldn't have made such disagreeable remarks about me and the

Kresneys, then," she said brokenly. "All the same, I wanted to speak

to him. But--I was crying, and I couldn't make a scene--with _you_

there. And now--if anything happens to him, and--I never see him

again,--it'll be all _your_ fault!"

With that finely illogical conclusion she swept out of the room,

leaving Honor serenely unimpressed by her own share in the impending

tragedy, yet not a little troubled at thought of the man who, for the

rest of his natural life, lay at the mercy of such bewildering methods

of reasoning.

CHAPTER V.

AN EXPURGATED EDITION.

"A little lurking secret of the blood;

A little serpent secret, rankling keen."

The Kresneys looked in vain for the coveted invitation, and the

trifling circumstance loomed largely on their narrow horizon.

Owen Kresney possessed in a high degree that talent for discovering or

inventing slights which is pride of race run crooked, and reveals the

taint of mixed blood in a man's veins. As District Superintendent of

Police he had relieved his predecessor in the middle of the hot

weather. His sister being at Mussoorie, he had arrived alone; and, in

accordance with the friendly spirit of the Frontier, had been made an

honorary member of the station Mess, where he had found himself very

much a stranger in a strange land.

The man's self-conceit was unlimited; his sense of humour _nil_; and

in less than a month he had been unanimously voted a "_pukka_[12]

bounder" by that isolated community of Englishmen, who played as hard

as they worked, and invariably "played the game"; a code of morals

which had apparently been left out of Kresney's desultory education.

The fact revealed itself in a hundred infinitesimal ways, and each

revelation added a fresh stone to the wall that sprang up apace

between himself and his companions.

[12] Thorough.

Among them all Desmond and Wyndham represented, in the highest degree,

those unattainable attributes which Kresney was secretly disposed to

envy; and his narrow soul solaced itself by heartily detesting their

possessors. This ability to recognise the highest without the least

desire to reach it, breeds more than half the pangs of envy, hatred,

and malice that corrode the lesser natures of earth. But there were

also, in Kresney's case, personal and particular reasons which served

to nourish these microbes of the soul.

Toward the close of the hot weather the man's growing unpopularity had

been established by an incident at Mess, which brought him into such

sharp contact with Desmond as he was not likely to forget.

There had been a very small party at dinner. Several of the older men

were absent on leave, and three were on the sick list, no uncommon

occurrence in Frontier stations. Thus it had chanced that Desmond was

the senior officer present.

The wine had already been round twice when the sound of a lady's name,

spoken in passing, had diverted Kresney's attention from his own

dissatisfied thoughts.

It chanced that he had met this same lady at Murree a year ago, and

that she had roundly snubbed his advances towards intimacy. The

unexpected mention of her name revived that sense of injury which

smoulders in such natures like a live coal; and on the same instant

awoke the desire to hit back with the readiest weapon available.

Forgetful of the restriction imposed by the rigid code of the

mess-table, he launched the first disparaging comment that sprang to

his mind.

Directly the sentence was out, he could have bitten his own tongue for

pure vexation.

It fell crisp and clear into a chasm of silence, as a dropped pebble

plashes into a well.

The stillness lasted nearly a minute, and while it lasted Kresney felt

the fire of Desmond's glance through his lowered lids. Then some one

hazarded a remark, and the incident was submerged in a renewed tide of

talk.

When dinner broke up, with a general movement towards the ante-room,

Kresney became aware that Desmond was at his side.

"You will be good enough to come into the verandah with me," he had

said in a tone of command; and Kresney, feeling ignominiously like a

chidden schoolboy, had had no choice but to obey.

Before that brief interview was ended, the man had heard the truth

about himself for the first time in his life, with the sole result

that he registered in his heart an unquenchable hatred of the speaker.

But Desmond had been in no mood just then to reckon with

after-results. All the inborn chivalry of the man was up in arms, less

against the spoken words than against the petty spite underlying

them--the cowardly hit at a woman powerless to defend herself. In an

unguarded moment he gave full vent to the scorn and disgust that

consumed him, and lashed the man without mercy.

Then--realising the utter inability to alter the other's peculiar

point of view--natural magnanimity checked his impetuous outburst:

"I don't know whether you are aware," he said, "that after to-night I

should be justified in asking the Mess President to remove your name

from the list of Honorary Members. But that is rather a strong

measure, and I decided instead to speak a few straight words to you

myself. If they've been a trifle too straight, I am sorry. But remarks

of the kind you made this evening are inadmissible at a mess-table;

or, for that matter, at any other table where--gentlemen are present.

Now, if you give me your word to keep the rules of the Mess strictly

in future, I will give you mine that this incident shall never be

mentioned to any one by me, or by any one of the fellows here

to-night."

Kresney had given the required promise none too graciously. But his

effort at perfunctory thanks stuck in his throat; nor did Desmond

appear to expect them. With a brief reassurance in respect of his own

silence he turned back into the Mess; and there, so far as externals

went, the incident had ended.

* * * * *

Yet, on this still March evening, as Kresney strolled back and forth

on his narrow verandah, enjoying an after-dinner cigar, every detail

of that detested interview darted across his memory for the hundredth

time, like a lightning-streak across a cloud. Wounded, in the most

susceptible part of his nature, Kresney saw no reason to deny himself

the satisfaction of hitting back. Whatever may have been his

principles in regard to debts in general, he was scrupulously

punctilious in settling debts of malice,--indirectly, if possible; and

in this instance personal antipathy added zest to the mere duty of

repayment.

Very early in the cold weather Kresney had become aware that an

effective weapon lay ready to his hand, and had taken it up without

scruple or reluctance. Evelyn Desmond's natural lack of discernment,

her blindness to the subtle impertinence of flattery, and her zeal for

tennis--a game seldom patronised by cavalrymen,--had worked all

together for good; and Kresney had gone forward accordingly, nothing

loth.

He had looked to the riding picnic to mark a definite step in advance,

and Mrs Desmond's intention of inviting them was beyond doubt.

Remained the inference that Desmond had used either authority or

persuasion to prevent it.

The idea stirred up all the dregs of the man's soul. A sudden

bitterness overwhelmed him--a sense of the futility of attempting to

strike at a man so obviously favoured by the gods; a man who held his

head so resolutely above the minor trivialities of life.

But the will to strike would soon or late evolve a way. There were

other means of achieving intimacy with a woman as inexperienced as

little Mrs Desmond, and he would get Linda to help him. Linda was a

good girl, if a trifle stupid. At least she had the merit of believing

in him and obeying his wishes with unquestioning fidelity--a very

creditable merit in the eyes of the average man.

These reflections brought him to a standstill by one of the doors that

opened into the drawing-room. It was a long narrow room of an

aggressively Anglo-Indian type--overcrowded with aimless tables,

painted stools and chairs in crumpled bazaar muslins, or glossy with

Aspinall's enamel. The dingy walls were peppered with Japanese fans,

China plates, liliputian brackets, and photographs in plush frames.

Had Miss Kresney taken her stand on each door-sill in turn and flung

her possessions, without aim or design, at the whitewashed spaces

around her, she could not have produced a more admired disorder. This

she recognised with a thrill of pride; for she aspired to be artistic,

and some misguided friend had assured her that the one thing needful

was to avoid symmetry or regularity in any form.

Her own appearance harmonised admirably with her surroundings. She

wore the shapeless tea-gown beloved of her kind--made in the verandah,

and finished with dingy lace at the neck and wrists, and even at this

hour a suggestion of straw slippers showed beneath the limp silk of

her gown. Yet, as Evelyn Desmond saw her on the tennis-courts, she was

a neatly clad, angular girl of eight-and-twenty, with a suppressed,

furtive air that was an unconscious reflection upon her brother's

character. In her heart she cherished a lurking admiration for

Desmond, and aspired to become the wife of a cavalry officer--Harry

Denvil being the temporary hero of her dreams.

When her brother entered the room she was fitfully engaged in

perpetrating a crewel-work atrocity for one of her many chairs.

He did not speak his thought at once, but stood looking down at her

critically through the smoke-wreaths of his cigar. The major share of

good looks certainly rested with himself; but for eyes set too near

together, and the relentless lines that envy and ill-humour pencil

about a man's mouth, the face was attractive enough, in its limited

fashion. He had the same air of being "off duty" which pervaded his

sister, and his Japanese smoking-suit showed signs of being a very old

friend indeed.

"Look here, Linda," he began at last, "when are we playing tennis

again with little Mrs Desmond?"

"I think it was Tuesday," she said.

"Well, then, ask her to tea here first, d'you see?"

Linda's brown eyes--it pleased her to call them hazel--widened with

surprise.

"Oh, my! D'you think she would reallee come? It was nastee of her to

leave us out of her picnic like that, after she told me all about it,

too."

Miss Kresney's insistence on the consonants and the final vowels was

more marked than her brother's; for although three-fourths of the

blood in her veins was English, very few of her intimate associates

could make so proud a boast without perjuring their souls: and there

are few things more infectious than tricks of speech.

"Yes, of course," he acquiesced readily. "But I'm jolly well certain

that was not her doing. She'll come, right enough, if you ask her

nicely. At all events it is worth trying, if only on the chance of

annoying her insufferable husband."

"If you wish it, certainlee. I would like to be better friends with

Mrs Desmond. Only, I do not quite see why you dislike _him_ so much

more than the others."

Kresney hesitated before replying. It was not often that Linda aspired

to question either his motives or decisions; and he had begun to

suspect that her loyalty wavered, by a hair's-breadth, where Desmond

was concerned. After all, why not tell her an expurgated edition of

the truth. The idea commended itself to him for many reasons, and even

as she was beginning to wonder at his silence he sat down beside her

and spoke; the sting of humiliation stimulating his inventive faculty

as he went on.

Desmond himself would scarce have recognised the incident, but Miss

Kresney was clearly impressed.

"You see, Linda," her brother concluded, "a fellow can't be expected

to stand that sort of thing without hitting back, and I am trying to

hit back a bit now. It is only fair. These Frontier Force chaps need a

lot of setting down, I can tell you. They fancy they hold all India in

their hands. And what is it they do after all, except play polo like

maniacs, and play all manner of foolish pranks at Mess? They make a

god out of this Desmond, here; and the fellow is as proud as the

devil. He will be jolly well mad if his wife gets really friendly with

me. As he will not ask us there, we will ask her here--you see? And

you must be as nice as you can. Say pretty things to her--that pleases

her more than anything: and make yourself useful, if you get the

chance. She's not half a bad little woman; and if you help me, Linda,

I shall get in with her yet in spite of her conceited prig of a

husband."

The smile that accompanied the words was not a pleasant one, but the

girl returned it with an uncritical fervour of affection.

"You know I am always glad to please you, Owen. I am onlee sorree you

did not tell me all about it sooner."

Her ready championship put him in high good-humour with himself and

the world at large.

"You really _are_ no end of a good girl, Linda," he said, as he rose

to his feet. "I shall ask Denvil to tea for you on Tuesday; and you

shall have a new frock as soon as ever I get next month's pay. Not a

thing made in the verandah; but a good style of frock from Mussoorie

or Lahore, whichever you please; and you can ask Mrs Desmond to help

you choose it. Her dresses are always first class, and she is

interested in such things."

CHAPTER VI.

GENIUS OF CHARACTER.

"For still the Lord is Lord of Might,

In deeds, in deeds, He takes delight."

--R. L. S.

Evelyn Desmond's picnic was an accomplished fact. At four o'clock, in

the full glare of a late March sun, a business-like detachment of

twenty horses, and one disdainful camel, proceeded at a brisk trot

along the lifeless desolation of the Bunnoo Road. The party kept in

close formation, straggling of any sort being inadmissible when the

bounds of the station have been left behind. Ten of the riders were

English, and an armed escort guarded them in front and rear; the

camel, in gala trappings of red and blue, being responsible for

provisions, enamelled iron tea-things, and the men's guns.

Notwithstanding the absence of the Kresneys, Evelyn Desmond was in a

mood of unusual effervescence. Harry Denvil rode at her side, and the

two kept up a perpetual flow of such aimless, happy nonsense as is apt

to engender vague regret in the hearts of those who have arrived at

greater wisdom.

Three miles of riding brought them to the welcome refreshment of a

river running crystal clear over a bed of pebbles. Beside the river

rose an isolated plateau--abrupt, inconsequent, and, like all things

else in the tawny landscape, unsoftened by a blade of living green.

The face of the rock was riddled with rough, irregular holes, as

though Titans had been using it for a target. Around and above it a

bevy of blue rock-pigeons--circling, dipping, and darting with a

strong rush of wings--shone like iridescent jewels, green and blue and

grey, against the unstained turquoise of the sky, whose intensity of

colour made generous atonement for the lack of it on earth. At the

foot of the cliff a deep pool mirrored the calm wonder of the sky.

Here the camel was brought to his knees, and the escort, dismounting,

formed a wide circle of sentries round the little party, the undernote

of danger suggested by their presence giving a distinct flavour to the

childishly simple affair. The white man's craze for carrying his food

many miles from home, in order to eat it on the ground, remains a

perpetual bewilderment to the natives, who express their opinion on

the matter in all frankness and simplicity by christening it the

"dinner of fools."

Pigeon-shooting was the established amusement of afternoons spent

under the cliff; and, the meal being over, sport was soon in full

progress, Frank Olliver and Mrs Jim Conolly handling their guns as

skilfully as any man present.

While Honor stood watching them, Wyndham drew near and remained by her

for a few seconds without a word. Then: "Shall we go and sit over by

the river, Miss Meredith, and leave them to their sport?" he asked

suddenly, his eyes and voice more urgent than he knew.

"Yes; I'd far rather watch the birds than shoot them. They are too

beautiful to be killed for the sake of passing the time. But you

probably don't see it that way--men seldom do."

"I must be the eternal exception, then!" he answered, as they turned

away. "It's not a creditable confession for a right-minded man: but I

shrink from taking life, even in the exigencies of my profession."

At that she turned upon him with a spontaneous frankness of interest,

which had lured many men to their undoing.

"Will you think me very ill-mannered if I ask how you ever came to

choose such a profession at all? I wondered about it the first time I

saw you."

"Do I look as hopelessly unsoldier-like as all _that?_"

"No--a thousand times, no!" And the quick colour flamed in her cheeks.

"Well, then?"

"I only meant--I see a good deal in faces, and--yours gave me a strong

impression that you would prefer reading and thinking to acting and

striving."

His smile had in it both surprise and satisfaction.

"You were not far out there. Let us sit down on this rock for a bit. I

would like to answer your question. May I light a cigarette?"

"Do."

He took his time over the simple operation. His impulse towards

unreserve puzzled him, and several seconds of silence passed before he

spoke again; silence, emphasised by broken snatches of talk and

laughter; by the sharp crack of guns; and the whirring of a hundred

wings, like the restless murmuring in the heart of a shell.

"It may sound strange to you," he began, not without an effort, "but

the truth is that my choice of a profession was simply the result of

my friendship with Desmond. I think I told you we were at school

together. _His_ future was a foregone conclusion, and when it came to

the point--I chose just to throw in my lot with his. I am quite aware

that many people thought me a fool. But we have had twelve years of it

together here, he and I; and it has certainly been good enough for

me."

He spoke in a tone of great quietness, his eyes set upon the shining

reaches of the river which, by now, ran molten gold in the westering

sunlight.

"Thank you for telling me," she said; and the simple words set his

pulses travelling at an unreasonable rate of speed. "I had no idea

friendship could ever mean quite so much."

"It doesn't in nine cases out of ten. But I think that's enough about

myself. It isn't my habit to entertain ladies with egotistical

monologues!"

"But then, properly behaved ladies don't ask you direct personal

questions, do they?"

"Well--no--not often."

And they exchanged one of those smiles that ripen intimacy more

speedily than a month of talk.

"I'm quite unrepentant, all the same!" she said. "And I'm rather

wanting to ask you another. It's about Captain Desmond this time. May

I?"

"Ask away!"

"Well, I want to know more of how he won his V.C. Evelyn could give me

no details when I asked her; and it struck me just now that you were

probably there at the time."

"Yes, indeed, I _was_," he said, with a new ring in his voice. "There

were a few bad minutes when we in the valley felt morally certain we

had seen the last of him."

She turned on him with kindling eyes.

"Oh, tell me--please! Tell me everything. I am soldier enough to

understand."

"I verily believe you are! And, since you wish it, you shall have it

in full. It happened during a rising of the Ghilzais six years ago.

They had given us rather a stiff time of it for some weeks, and on

this occasion a strong body of them had to be dislodged from a height

where they were safely entrenched behind one of their stone sangars,

ready to pick off any of us who should attempt the ascent. But the

thing had to be done, like many other hopeless-looking things, and a

party of infantry and cavalry were detailed for the duty,--a company

of Sikhs, and twenty-five dismounted men of Desmond's squadron, led by

himself. Our main force was stationed in the valley, you understand,

and the advance was covered by three mountain guns. The men were

deployed in an extended line at the foot of the hill, and began a

careful ascent, taking advantage of every scrap of cover available,

the Ghilzais picking them off with deadly certainty whenever they got

the smallest chance. About two-thirds of the way up Alla Dad Khan was

bowled over and lay out in the open dangerously wounded, under the

full brunt of the enemy's fire. In a flash Desmond was out from under

the rock he had just reached. He crossed that open space under a rain

of bullets it made one sick to see, and got the poor fellow up in his

arms. It seemed a sheer impossibility for him to get back under cover

alive, hampered as he was by the wounded man, who--as you know--is a

much bigger fellow than himself. I gave up every shred of hope as I

watched, and one or two of the sowars near me broke down and cried

like children. But if ever I beheld a miracle it was during those few

astounding minutes--the worst I've ever known. His clothes were

riddled with bullets; two of them passed clean through his helmet; yet

except for a flesh wound in the left arm, he was untouched."

Wyndham paused, and the girl drew in a long breath.

"Oh, I can see it all!" she said softly. "But isn't there more?"

"A little more, if you want it."

"Please."

"Well, the hill was successfully cleared, and you may imagine the

welcome we gave Theo, when at last he got back to camp, with his

uniform in ribbons and his helmet gone. I don't know when I've heard

such cheering from natives. Besides saving the Jemadar, the success of

the whole affair had been due to his leadership and example. He

wouldn't hear of it, of course; but when the account came out in the

'Gazette,' he found himself belauded from start to finish, with a V.C.

conferred on him to crown all. One couldn't say much to him even then.

He's not the sort."

Honor's cheeks were on fire, her eyes like stars; and it is

characteristic of Paul Wyndham that he noted these facts without a

shadow of envy.

"The genuine modesty of genius," she said; and Paul bent his head in

acquiescence.

"Theo's genius is of the best kind," he added; "it is genius of

character, of a wide sympathetic understanding of men and things. And

on the Frontier, Miss Meredith, that sort of understanding counts for

more than anywhere else in the country. We control our fellows here as

much by love and respect as by mere discipline. Get a native to love

you, and believe in you, and you are sure of him for good. That is why

officers like Theo and your brother, who hold their men's hearts in

their hands, are, without exaggeration, the pillars on which the

safety of India rests. It is when the cry of 'Jehad' runs like fire

along the Border, and the fidelity of our troops is being tampered

with, that we get the clearest proof of this. At such times pay,

pension, and Orders of Merit have no more power to restrain a Pathan

than a thread of cotton round his ankle. But there's just one thing he

will _not_ do--he will not desert, in his hour of need, an officer

whom he has found to be just, upright, and fearless, and whom he has

praised as a hero to his own people."

Wyndham's unwonted eloquence, and the glow of feeling underlying it,

lifted the girl to fresh heights of enthusiasm.

"Oh, how glad I am to have come here!" she said with sudden fervour.

"Captain Desmond was talking in much the same strain just before we

started; and one cannot listen to him without catching the fire of his

enthusiasm, which is surely the best kind of fire that ever came down

from heaven!"

Just as she finished speaking, Desmond himself strode up to them.

"I say, Paul, old man," he remonstrated, "isn't it some one else's

turn for an innings by this time? Mrs Conolly is keen to have a talk

with Miss Meredith before we start. You both looked so absorbed that

she begged me not to interrupt! I ought to have introduced her to you

before starting, Miss Meredith. She's the wife of our acting Civil

Surgeon and quite an old friend of yours, it seems. Will you come?"

The girl rose and turned to Wyndham with a friendly smile. "You and I

can have our talk out another time, can't we?"

"By all means."

He sat watching her as she left him, with a tender concentration of

gaze, his brain stunned by a glimpse into undreamed-of possibilities;

into a region of life whereof he knew nothing, and had believed

himself content to know nothing all his days.

Mrs Jim Conolly was a large woman, nearer forty than thirty. Twenty

years of India, of hot weathers resolutely endured, of stretching

small means to the utmost limit and beyond it, had left their mark, in

sallowness of skin, in broken lines of thought between her brows, and

of restrained endurance about her firmly-closed lips. She had the air

of a woman who has never allowed herself to be worsted by the minor

miseries of life; and in India the minor miseries multiply

exceedingly. Unthinking observers stigmatised her face as harsh and

unprepossessing; but it was softened and illumined by a glow of

genuine welcome as she greeted Honor Meredith.

"I wonder if you have the smallest recollection of me?" she said. "My

last glimpse of you was in a dak gharri at Pindi, when you were first

starting for home nineteen years ago, and the sight of what you have

grown into makes me feel a very old woman indeed! Do you remember

those Pindi days at all?"

"Bits, here and there, quite vividly. I had been wondering already why

I seemed to know your face. It was you who had the two nice babies I

loved so dearly. Haven't you any for me to play with now?"

"Yes, my two youngest are still with me. But they are rather big

babies by this time. You must come over and see them soon, and we will

pick up the threads of our dropped friendship, Honor. Your father and

mother were very good to me in the old days, but you were my chief

friend from the start. You have grown into a very beautiful woman,

dear," she added, in a lower tone; "and if you ever want help or

advice while you are here alone, I hope you will turn to me for it as

readily as you would to your own mother. I haven't seen Lady Meredith

for years. Sit down under the cliff with me, and give me some news of

them all."

By the time dusk had set in the little party was back again in

Desmond's compound, the escort deserting them at the gate; and as

Honor Meredith prepared to dismount, Paul Wyndham came forward, a

certain restrained eagerness in his eyes.

"May I?" he asked, with the diffidence of a man unused to making such

requests.

"I generally manage all right, thanks."

"You might make an exception, though--just this once."

For an instant of time his hands supported her--an instant of such

keen sensation that, when it was passed, he pulled himself up

sharply--called himself a fool, and in the same breath wished that she

had been a few degrees less skilful in springing lightly to the

ground.

Ready-made talk was, for the moment, beyond him; and he departed

something hastily, leaving Honor and his friend alone together in the

darkening verandah.

Voices and laughter came out to them from the drawing-room, where

Evelyn and Denvil were carrying on their young foolishness with

undiminished zeal; and Desmond turned upon the girl the irresistible

friendliness of his eyes.

"You enjoyed yourself, I hope,--Miss Meredith?"

"Immensely, thank you,--Captain Desmond."

Her tone was a deliberate echo of his; and their eyes met in mutual

laughter.

"Aren't we good friends enough now to drop the formality?" he asked.

And at the question a lightning vision came to her of the scene on the

hillside, so vividly described by his friend.

"Yes--I think--we are," she said slowly.

"That's right. I think so too."

"I seem to have made quite an advance in that direction this

afternoon," she added, in no little surprise at her own boldness.

"How's that? Paul?"

"Yes."

"Oh! so that was the engrossing subject. I might have known Paul

wasn't likely to be expatiating on himself."

"He gave me a stirring account of a certain day in October, six years

ago," she went on, with an unconscious softening of her voice.

Desmond's short laugh had in it a genuine touch of embarrassment.

"Did he? That was superfluous of him. The good fellow would have done

no less himself in the circumstances. Listen to those two children in

there! How finely they're enjoying themselves! I say, Harry!" he

shouted to the invisible Denvil, who came forth straightway;--a

squarely built, chestnut-haired boy, his sea-blue eyes still full of

laughter; "have you quite decided to invite yourself to dinner?"

"_Rather_--if you'll have me?"

"Of course I'll have you. Cut away and make yourself respectable."

And as the boy vanished in the darkness Desmond turned to find his

wife's figure in the open doorway, its purity of outline thrown into

strong relief by the light within.

She stood on the threshold balancing herself on the tips of her toes

in a light-hearted ecstasy of unrest, and flung out both hands towards

her husband.

"Oh, Theo, it was delicious! I had lovely fun!"

She came and nestled close to him with the confiding simplicity of a

child; and Honor, under cover of the dusk, slipped round by the back

of the house to her own room.

CHAPTER VII.

BRIGHT EYES OF DANGER.

"My mistress still, the open road;

And the bright eyes of danger."

--R. L. S.

By mid-April, life in the blue bungalow had undergone an unmistakable

change for the better; and Theo Desmond, sitting alone in the

congenial quietness of his study, an after-dinner pipe between his

teeth, a volume of Persian open before him, and Rob's slumbering body

pressed close against his ankles, told himself that he and his wife,

in befriending Honor Meredith at a moment of difficulty, had without

question entertained an angel unawares. Evelyn had blossomed visibly

in the pleasure of her companionship; while he himself found her good

to talk with, and undeniably good to look at.

There was also a third point in her favour, and that by no means the

least. Her sympathetic rendering of the great masters of music had

renewed a pleasure linked with memories sacred beyond all others.

Althea Desmond bid fair to retain undivided supremacy over the strong

son, who had been the crown and glory of her life. Death itself seemed

powerless to affect their essential unity. Her spirit--vivid and

vigorous as his own--still shared and dominated his every thought; and

her photograph, set in a silver frame of massive simplicity, stood

close at his elbow, while he reviewed the changes wrought in the past

few weeks by the unobtrusive influence of John Meredith's sister.

The mere lessening of strain and friction in regard to the countless

details of an Indian household was, in itself, an unspeakable relief.

During the first few months of his marriage he had persevered steadily

in the thankless task of instructing his cheerfully incompetent bride

in the language and household mysteries of her adopted country. But

the more patiently he helped her the more she leaned upon his help;

till the futility of his task had threatened to wear his temper

threadbare, and to put a severe strain on a relationship more complex

than he had imagined possible.

Now, however, the tyranny of trifles was overpast. The man's elastic

nature righted itself, with the spring of a finely-tempered blade

released from pressure, and as the passing weeks revealed his wife's

progress under Honor's tuition, he readily attributed her earlier

failures to his own lack of skill.

As a matter of fact, her power to cope with Amar Singh--Desmond's

devoted Hindu bearer--and the eternal enigmas of charcoal,

_jharrons_,[13] and the _dhobie_,[14] had not increased one whit: and

she knew it. But the welcome sound of praise from her husband's lips

convinced her that she must have done something to deserve it. She

accepted it, therefore, in all complacency, without any acknowledgment

of the guiding hand upon the reins.

[13] Dusters.

[14] Washerman.

Great peace dwelt also in the compound, where a colony of servants and

their families lived their unknown lives apart; and great pride in the

heart of Parbutti, since Amar Singh had so far unbent as to prophesy

that the Miss Sahib would without doubt become a Burra Mem before the

end of her days.

While Desmond sat alone in this warm April evening, studying the

fantastic Persian characters with something less than his wonted

concentration, the sound of the piano came to him through the

half-open door.

For a few moments he listened, motionless, to the first weird

whispering bars of Grieg's Folkscene, "Auf den Bergen," then the book

was pushed hastily aside and the lamp blown out. Rob--rudely awakened

from a delectable dream of cats and the naked calves of unsuspecting

coolies--found himself plunged in darkness, and his master vanishing

through the curtains into the detested drawing-room.

Evelyn was installed on the fender-stool of dull red velvet, her hands

clasped about her knees, her head raised in expectation. A dress of

softly flowing white silk, and a single row of pearls at her throat,

intensified her fragile freshness, as of a lily of the field, a

creature out of touch with the sterner elements of life. It was at

such moments that her husband was apt to suffer a contraction of

heart, lest, in an impulse of infatuation, he had undertaken more than

he would be able to perform.

She patted his favourite chair; then, impulsively deserting her seat,

crouched on the hearth-rug beside him and nestled her head against his

knee.

"I told her to play it! I knew it would bring you at once," she

whispered, caressing him lightly with a long slim hand.

"You shall sing to me afterwards yourself," he said, "a song in

keeping with your appearance to-night. You look like some sort of

elf-maiden in that simple gown and my pearls. Only one touch wanted to

complete the effect!"

With smiling deliberation he drew out four tortoise-shell pins that

upheld the silken lightness of her hair, so that it fell in a fair

soft cloud about her neck and shoulders.

"Theo! How dare you!"

And as she turned her face up to him, in laughing remonstrance, he was

struck anew by the childishness of its contour, in spite of the

pallor, which had become almost habitual of late. Taking it between

his hands he looked steadfastly into the limpid shallows of her eyes,

as though searching for a hidden something which he had little hope to

find.

"Ladybird, what a baby you are still!" he murmured, "I wonder _when_

you mean to grow into a woman?"

Then with a start he became aware that Amar Singh, having entered

noiselessly through the door behind him, stood at his side in a pose

of imperturbable reverence and dignity.

"Olliver Memsahib _ghora per argya_,"[15] he announced with discreetly

lowered lids; while Evelyn, springing up with rose-petal cheeks and a

small sound of dismay, must needs try and look as if ladies in

evening dress habitually wore their hair hanging loose about their

shoulders.

[15] Has come on a horse.

Honor swung round upon the music-stool as Frank Olliver, in evening

skirt and light drill jacket strode into the room.

Before she could bring out her news, a blare of trumpets, sounding the

alarm, startled the quiet of the night, and Desmond leapt to his feet.

"There you are, Theo, man," she said. "You can hear for yourself. It's

a fire in the Lines. Geoff and I caught sight of the flare just now

from our back verandah. He's gone on ahead; but I said I'd look in

here for you."

"Thanks. Tell 'em to saddle the Demon, will you? I'll be ready in two

minutes."

And Mrs Olliver vanished from the room.

As Desmond prepared to follow her, his wife's fingers closed firmly on

the edge of his dinner-jacket.

She was sitting now in the chair he had left; and turned up to him a

face half beseeching, half resentful in its frame of soft hair.

"Why must _you_ go, Theo? There are heaps of others who--aren't

married."

"Don't be a little fool, child!" he broke out in spite of himself.

Then gently, decisively, he disengaged her fingers from his coat; but

their clinging grasp checked his impatience to be gone.

He bent down, and spoke in a softened tone. "I've no time for

arguments, Evelyn. I am simply doing my duty."

He was gone--and she remained as he had left her, with hands lying

listlessly in her lap, and a frown between her finely pencilled

brows,--mollified, but by no means convinced.

Honor had hurried into the hall, where Frank Olliver greeted her with

impulsive invitation.

"Why don't you 'boot and saddle' too, Honor, an' ride along with us?"

"I only wish I could! I'd love to go! But I _must_ stay with Evelyn.

She is upset and nervous about Theo as it is."

"Saints alive! How _can_ you put up with her at all--at all!"

muttered irrepressible Frank. "But hush, now, here's the blessed

fellow himself!"

Theo Desmond strode rapidly down the square hall, hung with trophies

of the chase and implements of war--an incongruous figure enough, in

forage cap and long brown boots with gleaming spurs, his sword buckled

on over his evening clothes. He snatched a long clasp-knife from the

wall in passing, and the Irishwoman, with an nod of approval, hurried

out into the verandah, where the impatient horses could be heard

champing their bits.

Desmond had a friendly smile for Honor in passing.

"Pity you can't come too. Be good to Ladybird. Don't let her work

herself into a fever about nothing."

* * * * *

For eight breathless minutes the grey and the dun sped through the

warm night air, under a rising moon, their shadows fleeing before

them, long and black,--two perspiring saïses following zealously in

their wake;--till their riders drew rein before a pandemonium of

scurrying men and horses, silhouetted against a background of fire.

The great pile of sun-dried bedding burnt merrily: sending up fierce

tongues of flame, that shamed the moonlight, as dawn shames the lamp.

A brisk wind from the hills caught up shreds and flakes from the

burning mass, driving them hither and thither, to the sore distraction

of man and beast.

Lithe forms of grass-cutters and water-carriers, in the scantiest

remnants of clothing, leaped and pranced on the outskirts of the fire,

like demons in a realistic hell.

In valiant spurts and jerks, alternating with ignominious flight, they

were combating that column of flame and smoke with thimblefuls of

water, flung out of stable buckets, or squirted from mussacks. They

were beating it also with stript branches, making night radiant with a

thousand sparks.

But the soaring flames jeered at their pigmy efforts; twinkled

derisively on their glistening bodies; and assailed the vast composure

of the skies with leaping blades of light.

To the bewildering confusion of movement was added a no less

bewildering tumult of sound, whose most heart-piercing note was the

maddened scream of horses; and whose lesser elements included shouts

of officers and sowars; high-pitched lamentations from the audience of

natives; the barking of dogs; and the drumming of a hundred hoofs upon

the iron-hard ground.

During the first alarm of the fire, which had broken out perilously

close to the quarters occupied by Desmond's squadron, the terrified

animals in their frenzied efforts to break away from the ropes, had

reduced the Lines to a state of chaos. Those of them, and they were

many, who succeeded in wrenching out their pegs, had instinctively

headed for the parade-ground beyond the huts; their flight complicated

by wandering lengths of rope that trailed behind them, whirled in

mid-air, or imprisoned their legs in treacherous coils; while sowars

and officers risked life and limb in attempting to free them from

their dilemma.

The restless brilliance gave to all things a strange nightmare

grotesqueness: and a blinding, stifling shroud of smoke whirled and

billowed over all.

As the riders drew up, there was a momentary lull, and before

dismounting Desmond flung a ringing shout across the stillness.

"_Shahbash_,[16] men, _shahbash_! Have no fear! Give more water--water

without ceasing!"

[16] Well done.

He was answered by an acclamation of welcome from all ranks.

"_Wah!_ _Wah!_ Desmin Sahib _argya_!"[17] the sowars of his squadron

called to one another through the curling smoke; and the new arrivals

were speedily surrounded by a little crowd of officers and men:

Wyndham, Denvil, Alla Dad Khan, and Ressaldar Rajinder Singh, in the

spotless tunic and vast silken turban of private life.

[17] Has come.

The Jemadar took possession of the Demon's bridle, and Desmond,

leaping lightly to the ground, hurried straightway to the relief of a

distressed grass-cut. The man had been rash enough to attempt the

capture of two horses at once, and now stood in imminent danger of

being kicked to death by his ungrateful charges.

Desmond took both horses in hand, holding them at arm's length, and

soothing them with his voice alone.

"Here you are, Harry!" he said, as Denvil came to his assistance.

"This poor fellow will go with you now, quietly enough."

Handing over his second horse to the grass-cut, he vanished into the

darkness; where, betwixt stampeding horses and the incredible

swiftness of fire, he found more than sufficient scope for action.

He came to a standstill, at length, for a second's breathing

space;--and lo, Rajinder Singh emerging suddenly from the heart of

pandemonium, breathless with haste, a great distress in his eyes.

"Hullo, Ressaldar!" Desmond exclaimed. "What's up now?"

The tall Sikh saluted.

"The knife, Sahib! Give me your knife! It is _Sher Dil_,[18] fallen

amongst his ropes. He is like to strangle----"

[18] Lion Heart.

"Great Scott! I'll see to it myself."

And he set out, full speed, Rajinder Singh after him, protesting at

every step.

The great black charger, the glory of the squadron and of his owner's

heart, was in a perilous case. So securely had he entangled himself in

the head-rope that, despite the freedom of his heels, and spasmodic

efforts to regain his feet, he remained pinned to earth, not many

yards from where the fire was raging,--his fear and misery increased

by wind-blown fragments of lighted straw, by the roar and crackle of

the burning pile.

Desmond saw at a glance that his rescue might prove a dangerous

business, but Rajinder Singh was beside him now, still hopeful of

turning him from his purpose.

"Hazúr--consider--the horse is mine----"

"No more words!" Desmond broke in sharply. "Stay where you are!"

He plunged forthwith into the stinging, blinding smoke; dexterously

avoiding the hoofs of Sher Dil, subduing his terror with hand and

voice, though himself half choked, and constantly forced to close his

eyes at the most critical moments; while the task of avoiding the

burning fragments that fell about him seemed in itself to demand

undivided attention.

Rajinder Singh, stationed at the nearest possible point, anxiously

watched his Captain's progress; and here Paul Wyndham joined him

hurriedly.

"Who is that?" he asked. "The Captain Sahib?"

"To my shame, your honour speaks truth," the old man made answer

humbly. "His heart was set to do this thing himself----"

"Have no fear," Wyndham reassured him kindly; and, with a sharp

contraction of heart, ran to his friend's assistance.

Desmond had already stooped to slit the rope that pressed so cruelly

against the charger's throat; and, as Wyndham reached him, the animal

gave a last convulsive plunge; threw out his forelegs in an ecstasy of

freedom; and struck his deliverer full on the shoulder.

"Damnation!" Desmond muttered, as he fell to the ground, and Sher Dil

staggered, panting, to his feet.

Rajinder Singh sprang forward with a smothered cry. But, quick as

lightning, Desmond was up again, and had secured the morsel of rope

dangling by the horse's head. Only his left arm hung limp and

helpless, the droop of the shoulder telling its own tale.

"Collar-bone," he said laconically, in reply to the mute anxiety of

Paul's face. "Same old spot again!"

"It might just as well have been--your head," Paul answered, with a

twist of his sensitive mouth. He had not quite got over his few

moments of acute suspense.

Desmond laughed.

"So it might, you old pessimist! But it wasn't! Here you are,

Ressaldar Sahib! Never have I seen a horse so set on killing himself.

But it was needful to disappoint him on your account."

Rajinder Singh, who had come forward, plucking the muslin scarf from

his shoulders for a bandage, saluted in acknowledgment of the words.

"How is it possible to make thanks, Hazúr...?"

Desmond laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

"No need of thanks," said he. "This fine fellow hath already thanked

me in his own rough fashion, clapping me on the shoulder,--forgetful

of his great strength,--because he had no power to say 'Shahbash!'"

The old Sikh shook his head slowly, a great tenderness in his eyes.

"Such is the gracious heart of the Captain Sahib, putting a good face

even upon that which is evil. Permit, at least, that we make some

manner of bandage till it be possible to find the Doctor Sahib."

It was permitted; and the useless arm having been strapped into place,

Wyndham insisted upon his friend's departure; a fiat against which

Desmond's impetuous protests were launched in vain. For, like many men

of habitually gentle bearing, Paul Wyndham's firmness was apt to be

singularly effective on the rare occasions when he thought it worth

while to give proof of its existence.

"I'll ride back with you myself," he announced, in a tone of finality,

"and go on to the Mess for Mackay afterwards. The worst is over now,

and you'll only let yourself in for a demonstration if your men find

out that any harm has come to you." The diplomatic suggestion had the

desired effect; and they rode leisurely back to the bungalow, under a

moon no longer robbed of its radiance.

Few words passed between them as they went; but on arriving at the

squat, blue gate-posts Wyndham drew rein and spoke.

"Good-night, dear old chap. Take a stiff 'peg' the minute you get in.

I'm in need of one myself."

"Sorry if I gave you a bit of a shock, old man," Desmond answered

smiling, and rode at a foot's pace toward the house.

"Here I am, Ladybird!" he announced, on entering the drawing-room; and

Evelyn, springing from the depths of his chair, made an eager movement

towards him.

But at sight of his bandaged arm and damp dishevelled appearance she

halted with lips apart. A curious coldness crept into her eyes and

entirely banished the young look from her face.

"Theo--you're hurt--you've broken something."

"Well, and if I have?" he answered laughing. "It's a mere nothing.

Only a collar-bone."

"Your collar-bone isn't nothing. And I can't _bear_ to see you all

hideous and bandaged up like that. I knew something would happen! I

was sure it would!"

The light of good-humour faded from his eyes.

"Well, well, if you knew it all beforehand, no need to make so many

words about it now. Let me sit down. It's been stifling work and--I'm

tired."

He sank into the chair and closed his eyes, his face grown suddenly

weary. His wife drew near to him slowly, with more of pained curiosity

than of solicitude in her face, and laid a half-reluctant hand on the

arm of his chair.

"Does it hurt, Theo?" she asked softly.

"Nothing to bother about. Mackay will be here soon."

"Won't you tell us how it happened?"

"There's not much to tell, Ladybird. Rajinder Singh's charger kicked

me while I was cutting his head-rope--that's all. The good old chap

was quite upset because I wouldn't let him do it himself."

"Well, I think you _ought_ to have let him. It wouldn't have mattered

half so much if _he_----"

"That's enough, Evelyn!" the man broke out in a flash of genuine

anger. "If you're only going to say things of that sort, you may as

well hold your tongue."

And once again he closed his eyes, as if in self-defence against

further argument or upbraiding.

His wife stood watching him with a puzzled frown, while Honor, a

keenly interested observer, wondered what would happen next.

Her sympathy, as always, inclined to the man's point of view. But a

passionate justness, very rare in women, forced her to acknowledge

that Evelyn's remonstrance, if injudicious, was not unjustifiable. The

girl saw clearly that the sheer love of danger for its own sake, which

Frontier life breeds in men of daring spirit, had impelled Desmond to

needless and inconsiderate risk; saw also that his own perception of

the fact added fire to his sharp retort.

He stirred at length, with an uneasy shifting of the damaged shoulder.

"This bandage is hideously uncomfortable," he said in a changed tone.

"Could you manage to untie it and fix it up more firmly till Mackay

comes?"

Thus directly appealed to, Evelyn cast a nervous glance at Honor. The

girl made neither sign nor movement, though her hands ached to relieve

the discomfort of the wounded man; and after a perceptible moment of

hesitation, Evelyn went to Desmond's side, her heart fluttering like

the heart of a prisoned bird.

With tremulous fingers she unfastened the knot behind his shoulder,

and, having done so, rested her hand inadvertently on the broken bone.

It yielded beneath her touch, and she dropped the end of the bandage

with a little cry.

"Oh, Theo, it _moved_! I can't touch it again! It's ... it's

horrible!"

Her husband stifled an exclamation of pain and annoyance.

"Could _you_ do it for me, Honor?" he asked. "It can hardly be left

like this?"

She came to him at once, and righted the bandage with deft,

unshrinking fingers, rolling part of the long scarf into a pad under

his arm to ease the aching shoulder.

"Thank you," he said. "That's first-rate."

And as he shouted for a much-needed "peg," Honor passed quietly out of

the room.

Evelyn remained standing a little apart, watching her husband with

speculative eyes. Then she came and stood near him, on the side

farthest from the alarming bone that moved at a touch.

"I'm sorry, Theo. Are you very cross with me?"

Her lips quivered a little, and the pallor of her face caught at his

heart.

"No, no. We won't make mountains out of molehills, eh, Ladybird? Kiss

and be friends! like a good child, and get to bed as fast as possible.

Mackay will be here soon, and you'll be best out of the way."

He drew her down and kissed her forehead. Then, as she slipped

silently away through his study, and on into the bedroom beyond, he

lay back with a sigh in which relief and weariness were oddly mingled.

He was devoutly thankful when the arrival of James Mackay dispelled

his disturbing train of thought.

CHAPTER VIII.

STICK TO THE FRONTIER.

"We know our motives least in their confused beginning."

--BROWNING.

Honor sat alone in the drawing-room, a basket of socks and stockings

at her elbow, her thoughts working as busily as her needle. This girl

had reduced the prosaic necessity of darning to a fine art; and since

Evelyn's efforts in that direction bore an odd resemblance to

ill-constructed lattice windows, Honor had taken pity on the

maltreated garments very early in the day.

Evelyn herself was at the tennis-courts, with the Kresneys and Harry

Denvil, a state of things that had become increasingly frequent of

late; and a ceaseless murmur of two deep voices came to Honor's ears

through the open door of the study, where Desmond was talking and

reading Persian with his friend Rajinder Singh.

Honor enjoyed working to the accompaniment of that sound. It had grown

pleasantly familiar during the past week, in which Desmond had been

cut off from outdoor activities. When the Persian lesson was over, he

would come in to her for a talk. Then there would be music, and

possibly a game of chess; for Desmond was an enthusiastic player. They

had spent one or two afternoons in this fashion already, since the

night of the fire; and their intimacy bid fair to ripen into a very

satisfying friendship.

To the end of time, writers and thinkers will continue to insist upon

the impossibility of such friendships; and to the end of time, men and

women will persist in playing with this form of fire. For it is

precisely the possibility of fire under the surface which lends its

peculiar fascination to an experiment old as the Pyramids, yet

eternally fresh as the first leaf-bud of spring.

In the past five years Honor had established two genuine friendships

with men of widely different temperaments; and she saw herself

now--not without a certain quickening of heart and pulse--in a fair

way to establishing a third.

The hum of voices ceased; there were footsteps in the hall; a few

hearty words of leave-taking from the Englishman, and two minutes

later he stood before her, his left sleeve hanging limp and empty; the

arm and shoulder strapped tightly into place beneath the flap of his

coat.

"Not gone out yet?" he said, a ring of satisfaction in his tone.

"Going to join Ladybird at the club later on?"

"No. As she had this engagement I stayed at home in case you might be

glad to have some one to 'play with' after your long lesson was over."

"Just like you!" he declared, with a touch of brotherly frankness,

which was peculiarly pleasing to this brother-loving girl. "I've been

rather overdoing the Persian this week. You must give me some

Beethoven presently. And if you really mean to 'play with' me you must

also leave off looking so aggressively industrious."

His eyes rested, in speaking, on the rapid movement of her needle, and

he became suddenly aware of the nature of her work.

"Look here, Honor," he exclaimed. "I draw the line at that! Ladybird

ought not to allow it. We've no right to turn you into a domestic

drudge."

"Ladybird--as you so delightfully call her--knows me far too well to

try and stop me when she sees I mean to have my own way! Shall you

mind if I go shares in your special name for her? It suits her even

better than her own."

"Yes, it seems to express her, somehow--doesn't it?"

An unconscious tenderness invaded his tone, and his glance turned upon

a panel photograph of his wife in her wedding-dress that stood near

him on the mantelpiece. Watching it thus, he fell into a thoughtful

silence, which Honor made no attempt to break. Speaking or silent his

companionship was equally acceptable to her: and while she awaited

his pleasure a great hole, made by the removal of one of Evelyn's

"lattice windows," filled up apace.

Of a sudden he turned from the picture, and, drawing up a low chair,

sat down before her, leaning a little forward, his elbow resting on

his knee. The urgency and gravity of his bearing made her at once lay

down her work.

"Honor," he began, "I'm bothered ... about Ladybird, ... that's the

truth. I wonder if I can speak without fear of your misunderstanding

me?"

"Try me! I am only too glad to help her in any way."

His intense look softened to a smile.

"You've made that clear enough already. I begin to wonder what she

will do when John comes back to claim you again. You so thoroughly

understand her, and thoroughly--love her."

"She is a creature born to be loved."

"_And_ to be kept happy," he added very quietly. "But the vital

question is whether that is at all possible in Kohat, or in any other

of our stations; for Kohat is by no means the worst. She hates the

place, doesn't she? She's counting the days to get away to the Hills.

You know you can't look me straight in the face and say she is happy

here."

The unexpected attack struck Honor into momentary silence. Desmond was

fatally quick to perceive the shadow of hesitation, transient as a

breath upon glass; and when she would have spoken he silenced her with

a peremptory hand.

"Don't perjure yourself, Honor. Your eyes have told me all I wanted to

know."

Distress gave her a courage that surprised herself.

"Indeed they have done nothing of the kind! You ask a direct question,

and you are bound in fairness to hear my answer. The life here is

still very new to Evelyn, and she has not quite found her footing

yet;--that is all. I have had it from her own lips that the place

matters very little to her so long as she is--with you; and you go too

far in saying that she is not happy here."

But her words did not carry conviction. He was still under the

influence of his wife's curious aloofness since the night of the

fire.

"You're trying to let me down gently, Honor," he said, with a rather

cheerless smile. "And you may as well save yourself the trouble.

Only--this is where you must _not_ misunderstand me, please,--no

shadow of blame attaches to Ladybird if she isn't happy. I had no

right to bring her up to this part of the world, knowing it as I did;

and I've no right to keep her here. That's the position, in a

nutshell."

"Do you mean you ought to--send her away?"

"No--_take_ her away."

Honor started visibly.

"But--surely--that's impossible?"

"I think not," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone that distressed her

more keenly than any display of emotion. "It's merely a question of

facing facts. If I had money enough, I could throw up the Army and

take her home. But, as matters stand, I can only do the next best

thing, and give up--the Frontier, by exchanging into a down-country

regiment."

"_The Frontier...!_ Theo! Do you realise what you are saying?"

"Perfectly."

"Oh, but it's folly--worse than folly! To give up what you have worked

for all these years--the men who worship you--your friends, the

regiment----"

"They would survive the loss. I don't flatter myself I'm

indispensable. Besides, this isn't a question of me or my friends. I

am thinking of Ladybird."

The coolness of his tone, and the set determination of his mouth,

chilled her fervour like a draught of cold air.

"Oh, if only Major Wyndham were here!" she murmured desperately.

"Thank God he is not! And if he were, it would make no difference. I

shouldn't dream of discussing such a matter with him or--any of them.

When my mind is made up, I shall tell him; that is all."

He rose as though the matter were ended; but Honor had no mind to let

him shut the door upon it--yet.

"It is strange that you can speak so," she said, "when you must know,

better than any one, what your leaving the regiment would mean--to

Major Wyndham."

"Yes--I know," he answered quietly, and the pain in his eyes made her

half regret her own daring. "The only two big difficulties in the way

are my father--and Paul."

"_I_ see a whole army of others almost as big."

"That is only because you are always in sympathy with the man's point

of view."

"A matter like this _ought_ to be looked at first and foremost from

the man's point of view. The truth is, Theo, that you have simply

appealed to me in the hope of having your own Quixotic notion

confirmed. You want me to say, 'Yes, go; you will be doing quite

right.' And--think what you will of me--I flatly refuse to say it!"

He regarded her for a few seconds in an admiring silence, the smile

deepening in his eyes. Then:

"Don't you think you are a little hard on me?" he said at length. "It

is not altogether easy to do--this sort of thing."

Honor made no immediate reply, though the strongest chords of her

being vibrated in response to his words. Then she rose also, and stood

before him; her head tilted a little upwards; her candid eyes resting

deliberately upon his own. Standing thus, at her full height, she

appeared commandingly beautiful, but in the stress of the moment the

fact counted for nothing with either of them. All the hidden forces of

her nature were set to remove the dogged line from his mouth; and he

himself, looking on the fair outward show of her, saw only a mind

clear as crystal, lit up by the white light of truth.

For an instant they fronted one another--spirits of equal strength.

Then Honor spoke.

"If I _do_ seem hard on you, it is only because I want, above all

things, to convince you that your idea is wrong from every point of

view. You have paid me a very high compliment to-day. I want you to

pay me a still higher one: to believe that I am speaking the simple

truth, as I see it, from a woman's standpoint, not merely trying to

save you from unhappiness. May I speak out straight?"

"As plainly as you please, Honor. Your opinion will not be despised, I

promise you."

"Well, then--is it fair on Evelyn to make her upbringing responsible

for such a serious turn of the wheel? Would you give her no voice in

the matter--treat her as if she were a mere child?"

"She is very little more than a child."

"Indeed, Theo, she is a great deal more. She is a woman, ... and a

wife. The woman's soul isn't fully awake in her yet; but it may come

awake any day. And then--how would she feel if she ever found out----"

"She never would----"

"How can you tell? Women find out most things about the men they--care

for. It's a risk not worth running. Would she even acquiesce if you

put the matter before her now, child as she is?"

"Frankly, I don't know. Possibly not. She isn't able to see ahead

much, or look all round a subject."

"Shall you be very angry if I say that you haven't yet looked

thoroughly round this one? The idea probably came to you as an

impulse--a very fine impulse, I admit; and, instead of fairly weighing

pros and cons, you have simply been hunting up excuses that will

justify you in carrying it out; because, for the moment, Evelyn seems

a little discontented with things in general."

The hard lines about his mouth relaxed.

"You _are_ speaking straight with a vengeance, Honor!"

"I know I am. It's necessary sometimes, when people are--obstinate!"

And she smiled frankly into his troubled face. "Oh, believe me, it's

fatal for the man to throw all his life out of gear on account of the

woman. It's putting things the wrong way about altogether. In

accepting her husband, a woman must be prepared to accept his life and

work also."

"But, suppose she can't realise either till--too late?"

"That's a drawback. But if she really cares, it can still be done. I

am jealous for Evelyn. I want her to have the chance of showing that

she has good stuff in her. Give her the chance, Theo; and if she

doesn't quite rise to it, don't feel that you are in any way to

blame."

"I'd be bound to feel that."

"Then I can only say it would be very wrong-headed of you." Her eyes

softened to a passing tenderness nevertheless. "Let the blame, if

there is any, rest on my shoulders; and we'll hope that the need may

never arise. Now, have I said enough? Will you--_will_ you leave

things as they are, and put aside your impossible notion for good?"

The urgency of her request so touched him that he answered with a

readiness which surprised himself.

"No question but you're a friend worth having! I promise you this

much, Honor. I will think very thoroughly over it all, since you

accuse me of not having done so yet! And we'll let the matter rest for

the present, anyway. I'd like to get you both to the Hills as soon as

possible. These Kresneys are becoming something of a nuisance. It's

past my comprehension how she can find any pleasure in their company.

But she has little enough amusement here, and I'm loth to spoil any of

it. She'll enjoy going up to Murree, though, sooner than she expected;

and as Mackay insists on my taking fifteen days before getting back to

work, I can go with you, and settle you up there in about a week's

time. You'll see after her, for me, won't you, Honor? She's a little

heedless and inexperienced still; and you'll keep an eye on household

matters more or less?"

"Of course I will, and make her see to them herself, too; though it

seems rather like expecting a flower to learn the multiplication

table! She is so obviously just made to be loved and protected."

"_And_ kept happy," he insisted, with an abrupt reversion to his

original argument.

"Yes--within reasonable limits. Now, sit down, please, and light up.

You've been all this time without a cigar!"

But the cigar was hardly lighted before they were startled by a

confused sound of shouting from the compound;--a blur of shrill and

deep voices, punctuated by the strained discordant bark of a dog;--a

bark unmistakable to ears that have heard it once. Desmond sprang out

of his chair.

"By Jove! A mad pariah!"

Lifting Rob by the scruff of his neck, he flung that amazed and

dignified person with scant ceremony into the study, and shut the

door; then, judging by the direction of the sound, hurried out to the

front verandah, snatching up a heavy stick as he passed through the

hall. Honor, following not far behind, went quickly into her own room.

Desmond found his sun-diffused compound abandoned to a tumult of

terror. Fourteen servants and their belongings had all turned out in

force, with sticks, and staves, and valiant shakings of partially

unwound turbans, against the unwelcome intruder--a mangy-coated

pariah, with lolling tongue and foam-flecked lips, whose bones showed

through hairless patches of skin; and whose bared fangs snapped

incessantly at everything and nothing, in a manner gruesome to behold.

A second crowd of outsiders, huddled close to the gates, was also very

zealous in the matter of shouting, and of winnowing the empty air.

As Desmond set foot on the verandah, a four-year-old boy, bent on

closer investigation of the enemy, escaped from the "home" battalion.

His small mother pursued him, shrieking; but at the first snap the

dog's teeth met in the child's fluttering shirt, and his shrieks

soared, high and thin, above the deeper torrent of sound.

In an instant Desmond was beside him, the stick swung high over his

head. But a low sun smote him straight in the eyes, and there was

scant time for accurate aim. The stick merely grazed the dog's

shoulder in passing; and Desmond almost lost his balance from the

unresisted force of the blow.

The girl-mother caught wildly at her son; and prostrating herself at a

safe distance, babbled incoherent and unheeded gratitude. The dog, mad

with rage and pain, made a purposeful spring at his one definite

assailant; and once again Desmond, half-blinded with sunlight, swung

the heavy stick aloft. But before it fell a revolver shot rang out

close behind him; and the dog dropped like a stone, with a bullet

through his brain.

A shout of quite another new quality went up from the crowd; and

Desmond, turning sharply on his heel, confronted Honor Meredith, white

to the lips, the strong light making an aureole of her hair.

The hand that held the revolver quivered a little, and he caught it in

so strong a grip that she winced under the pressure.

"It would be mere impertinence to say 'thank you,'" he murmured with

low-toned vehemence. But his eyes, that sought her own, shamed the

futility of speech. "The sun was blinding me; and if I'd missed the

second time----"

"Oh, hush, hush!" she pleaded with a quick catch of her breath. "Look,

there's Rajinder Singh coming back."

"He must have seen what happened; and by the look of him, I imagine

_he_ will have no great difficulty in expressing his feelings."

Indeed, the tall Sikh, whose finely-cut face and cavernous eye-bones

suggested a carving in old ivory, bowed himself almost to the ground

before the girl who had saved his admired Captain Sahib from the

possibility of a hideous death.

But in the midst of an impassioned flow of words, his deep voice

faltered; and squaring his shoulders, he saluted Desmond with a gleam

of fire in his eyes.

"There be more things in the heart of a man, Hazúr, than the tongue

can be brought to utter. But, of a truth, the Miss Sahib hath done

good service for the Border this day."

Desmond flung a smiling glance at Honor.

"_There's_ fame for you!" he said, with a lightness that was mere foam

and spray from great deeps. "The whole Border-side is at your

feet!--But what brought you back again, Rajinder Singh?"

"Merely a few words I omitted to say to your Honour at parting."

The words were soon spoken; and the crowd, breaking up into desultory

groups, was beginning to disperse, when, to his surprise, Desmond saw

his wife's jhampan appear between the gate-posts, and pause for a

moment while she took leave of some one on the farther side.

Instinctively he moved forward to greet her; but, on perceiving her

companion, changed his mind, and stood awaiting her by the verandah

steps.

The dead dog lay full in the middle of the path; and Honor, still

holding her revolver, stood only a few yards away. At sight of these

things the faint shadow of irritation upon Evelyn's face deepened to

disgust, not unmixed with fear, and her voice had a touch of

sharpness in it as she turned upon her husband.

"Who on earth put that horrible dog there, Theo? And why is Honor

wandering about with a pistol? I met a whole lot of natives coming

away. Has anything been happening?"

"The dog was mad, and Honor shot him," Desmond answered, with cool

abruptness. Her manner of parting from Kresney had set the blood

throbbing in his temples. "I only had a stick to tackle him with; and

she very pluckily came to my rescue."

While he spoke, Honor turned and went into the house. She was

convinced that Evelyn would strike a jarring note, and in her present

mood felt ill able to endure it.

Evelyn frowned.

"Oh, Theo, how troublesome you are! If the dog had bitten a few

natives, who'd have cared?"

"Their relations, I suppose. And there was a child in danger, Evelyn."

"Poor little thing! But you really can't go about trying to get killed

for the benefit of any stray sort of people. I am thankful I wasn't

here!"

"Yes--it was just as well," her husband answered drily, as he handed

her out of the jhampan. "What brought you back so early?"

"The sun was too hot. I had a headache; and we were all playing

abominably. I'm going in now, to lie down."

She paused beside him, and her eyes lingered upon his empty

coat-sleeve. Lifting it distastefully between finger and thumb, she

glanced up at him with a droop of her delicate lips.

"When is it going to be better? I hate to see you looking all

one-sided like that."

"I'm sorry," he answered humbly. "But Nature won't be persuaded to

hurry herself--even to please you." He scrutinised her face with a

shade of anxiety.

"You do look white, Ladybird. How would it be if I took you to Murree

in a week's time?"

"It would be simply lovely! _Can_ you do it--really? Would you _let_

me go so soon?"

"_Let_ you go? Do you think I want to keep you here a moment later

than you care to stay?"

"Theo!" Instant reproach clouded the April brightness of her face.

"How horrid you are! I thought you liked to have me here as long as

possible."

He laughed outright at that. He was apt to find her unreasonableness

more charming than irritating.

"Surely, little woman, that goes without saying. But if the heat is

troubling you, and headaches, I like better to have you where you can

be rid of both; and as the notion seems to please you, we'll consider

the matter settled."

* * * * *

Between nine and ten that evening, when the three were sitting

together in the drawing-room, the outer stillness was broken by a

sound of many footsteps and voices rapidly nearing the house. No

native crowd this time. The steps and voices were unmistakably

English; and Desmond rose hastily.

"This must be Rajinder Singh's doing! It looks as if they meant to

overwhelm us in force."

Evelyn had risen also, with a slight frown between her brows.

"Can't I go to bed before they come, Theo? I'm very tired, and they're

sure to make a dreadful noise."

"I'm afraid that won't do at all," he said decisively, a rare note of

reproof in his tone. "They probably won't stop long, and you must

please stay up till they go."

As he spoke, Harry Denvil in white Mess uniform, scarlet kummerband,

and jingling spurs, plunged into the room.

"I'm only the advance guard! The whole regiment's coming on

behind--even the Colonel--to drink Miss Meredith's health!" He turned

upon the girl and shook hands with her at great length. "All the same,

you know," he protested laughing, "it's not fair play for _you_ to go

doing that sort of thing. Wish I'd had the chance of it myself!"

Such speeches are impossible to answer; and Honor was thankful that

the main body of troops arrived in time to save her from the futile

attempt.

But she was only at the beginning of her ordeal.

By the time that Mrs Olliver and six men had wrung her hand with

varying degrees of vigour, each adding a characteristic tribute of

thanks and praise, her cheeks were on fire; and a mist, which she

tried vainly to dispel, blurred her vision.

Through that mist, she was aware of Frank vigorously shaking hands

with Desmond, scolding and blessing him in one breath. "Ah, Theo, man,

you're a shocking bad lot!" was her sisterly greeting. "Never clear

out o' one frying-pan till you're into the next! Thank the Powers Miss

Meredith was handy." And swinging round on her heel she accosted the

girl herself. "No mistaking the stock _you_ come of, Honor, me dear!"

Submerged in blushes, Honor could scarce command her voice. "But

really--I only----"

"You only hit the bull's eye like a man, Miss Meredith," Captain

Olliver took her up promptly. "The Major never told us he was adding a

crack shot to the regiment!" And he swept her a bow that reduced her

to silence.

More overwhelming than all were the few direct words from Colonel

Buchanan himself; a tall, hard-featured Scot, so entirely absorbed in

his profession that he never, save of dire necessity, set foot in a

lady's drawing-room.

Paul Wyndham introduced him, and moved aside, leaving them together.

For an instant he treated the girl to the quiet scrutiny of clear blue

eyes, unpleasantly penetrating. He had scarcely looked at her till

now. Still unreconciled to Desmond's marriage, he had resented the

introduction of a third woman into the regiment; and he found himself

momentarily bewildered by her beauty.

"I ought to be better acquainted with you, Miss Meredith," he said a

little stiffly, sincerity struggling through natural reticence, like a

light through a fog. "I'm no lady's man, as you probably know, but I

had to come and thank you to-night. Desmond's quite my finest

officer--no disrespect to your brother; he knows it as well as I

do----"

"Here you are, Colonel!" Geoff Olliver thrust a long tumbler into his

senior's hand. "We're going to let off steam by drinking Miss

Meredith's health before we go back."

Honor looked round hastily, in hopes of effecting an escape, and was

confronted by Desmond's eyes looking straight into her own. He lifted

his glass with a smile of the frankest friendliness; and the rest

followed his example.

"Miss Meredith, your very good health."

The words went round the room in a deep disjointed murmur; and Frank

Olliver, stepping impulsively forward, held out her glass to the girl.

"Here's to your health and good luck, with all my heart, Honor, ...

the Honor o' the regiment!" she added, with a flash of her white

teeth.

Uproarious shouts greeted the spontaneous sally.

"Hear, hear! Well played, indeed, Mrs Olliver! Pity Meredith couldn't

have heard that."

Olliver laid a heavy hand on Desmond's shoulder.

"Tell you what, old chap," he said. "You must come back with us; and,

by Jove, we'll make a night of it. Finest possible thing for you after

a week's moping on the sick list; and we'll just keep Mackay hanging

round in case you get knocked out of shape. I'll slip into uniform

myself and follow on. That suit you, Colonel?"

"Down to the ground; if Mackay has no objection."

But Mackay knew his men too well to have anything of the sort; and

Desmond's eyes gleamed.

"How about uniform for me, sir?" he asked. "I could manage it after a

fashion."

Colonel Buchanan smiled.

"No doubt you could! But I'll overlook it to-night. The fellows want

you. Won't do to keep them waiting!"

Followed a babel of talk and laughter, in the midst of which Honor,

who had moved a little apart, became aware that Desmond was at her

side.

"Never mind them, Honor," he said in a low voice. "They mean it very

well, and they don't realise that it's a little overwhelming for us

both. I won't pile it on by saying any more on my own account. _Wait_

till I get a chance to repay you in kind--that's all!"

His words spurred her to a sudden resolve.

"You have the chance now, if it doesn't seem like taking a mean

advantage of--things."

"Mean advantages are not in your line. You've only to say the word."

"Then _stick to the Frontier_!" she answered, an imperative ring in

her low voice. "Doesn't to-night convince you that you've no right to

leave them all?"

His face grew suddenly grave.

"The only right is to stand by Ladybird--at all costs."

"Yes, yes--I know. But remember what I said about her side of it. Give

her the chance to find herself, Theo; and give _me_ your word now to

think no more about leaving the Border. Will you?"

He did not answer at once, nor did he remove his eyes from her face.

"Do you care so much what I do with the rest of my life?" he said at

last very quietly.

"Yes--I do; for Ladybird's sake."

"I see. Well, there's no denying your privilege--now to have some

voice in the matter. I give you my word, and if it turns out a

mistake, the blame be on my own head. The fellows are making a move

now. I must go. Good-night."

The men departed accordingly with much clatter of footsteps and

jingling of spurs; and only Mrs Olliver remained behind.

Evelyn Desmond had succeeded in slipping away unnoticed a few minutes

earlier. She alone, among them all, had spoken no word of gratitude to

her friend.

CHAPTER IX.

WE'LL JUST FORGET.

"Les petites choses ont leur importance; c'est par elles

toujours qu'on se perde."--DOSTOIEVSKY.

"So the picnic was a success?"

"Yes, quite. Mrs Rivers was so clever. She paired us off beautifully.

My pair was Captain Winthrop of the Ghurkas; an awfully nice man. He

talked to me the whole time. He knows Theo. Says he's the finest

fellow in Asia! Rather nice to be married to the 'finest fellow in

Asia,' isn't it?"

"Decidedly. But I don't think we needed _him_ to tell us that sort of

thing." A touch of the girl's incurable pride flashed in her eyes.

"Well, I was pleased all the same. He said he was never so surprised

in his life as when he heard Theo had married; but now he had seen me,

he didn't feel surprised any more."

"That was impertinence."

"Not a bit! I thought it was rather nice."

A trifling difference of opinion; but, in point of character, it

served to set the two women miles apart.

Evelyn's remark scarcely needed a reply; and Honor fell into a

thoughtful silence.

She had allowed herself the rare indulgence of a day "off duty."

Instead of accompanying Evelyn to the picnic, she had enjoyed a

scrambling excursion with Mrs Conolly--whose friendship was fast

becoming a real possession--and her two big babies; exploring

hillsides and ravines; hunting up the rarer wild flowers and ferns;

and lunching off sandwiches on a granite boulder overhanging

infinity. This was her idea of enjoying life in the Himalayas; but the

June sun proved a little exhausting; and she was aware of an unusual

weariness as she lay back in her canvas chair in the verandah of "The

Deodars,"--a woodland cottage, owing its pretentious name to the

magnificent cedars that stood sentinel on either side of it.

Her eyes turned for comfort and refreshment to the stainless wonder of

the snows, that were already beginning to don their evening

jewels--coral and amethyst, opal and pearl. The railed verandah, and

its sweeping sprays of honeysuckle, were delicately etched upon a sky

of warm amber, shading through gradations of nameless colour into

blue, where cloud-films lay like fairy islands in an enchanted sea.

Faint whiffs of rose and honeysuckle hovered in the still air, like

spirits of the coming twilight, entangling sense and soul in a

sweetness that entices rather than uplifts.

Evelyn Desmond, perched lightly on the railings, showed ethereal as a

large white butterfly, in the daintiness of her summer finery against

a background of glowing sky. She swung a lace parasol aimlessly to and

fro, and her gaze was concentrated on the buckle of an irreproachable

shoe.

Honor, withdrawing her eyes reluctantly from the brooding peace of

mountain and sky, wondered a little at her pensiveness; wondered also

where her thoughts--if mere flittings of the mind are entitled to be

so called--had carried her.

As a matter of fact, she was thinking of unpaid bills; since human

lilies of the field, though they neither toil nor spin, must pay for

irreproachable shoes and unlimited summer raiment.

The girl's own thoughts, as they were apt to do in leisure moments,

had wandered to Kohat: to the men who were working with cheerful,

matter-of-fact courage in the glare of the little desert-station; and

to the one brave woman, who remained in their midst to hearten them by

her own indomitable gladness of soul.

The beauty of the evening bred a longing--natural in one so

sympathetic--that they also could be up on this green hill-top, under

the shade of the deodars, enjoying the exquisite repose of it all.

"Have you heard from Theo this week, Ladybird?" she asked suddenly. It

was the first time she had used the name, for habit is strong; and

Evelyn looked up quickly, the colour deepening in her cheeks.

"Don't call me Ladybird!" she commanded, with unusual decision. "It

belongs to Theo."

Honor noted her rising colour with a smile of approval.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said gently. "I quite understand. But--have you

heard lately?"

Evelyn's face cleared as readily as a child's.

"Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you. I had quite a long letter this

morning. Perhaps you would like to read it."

And drawing an envelope from her pocket she tossed it into Honor's

lap.

The girl glanced down at it quickly; but allowed it to lie there

untouched. She knew that Desmond wrote good letters, and she would

have dearly liked to read this one. But a certain manly strain in her

forbade her to trespass on the privacy of a letter written to his

wife.

"Thank you," she said; "I think I won't read it, though. I don't

suppose Theo would care about his letters being passed on to me. I

only want to know if things are going on all right."

"Oh, yes; in the usual sort of way. They've had trouble with those

wretched Waziris. Two sentries murdered last week; and some horses

stolen. Oh! and Mrs Olliver has had a bad touch of fever; and there's

cholera in the city, but they don't think it'll spread. What a

gruesome place it is! And what a mercy we're not there now. By the

way," she added, working her parasol into a crack between two boards,

"I met the Kresneys as I was coming home."

"The Kresneys! Here?"

Honor sat suddenly upright, all trace of weariness gone from her face.

"Yes. They're up for six weeks, and they seemed so pleased to see me

that--I asked them in to dinner to-night."

"Evelyn!"

"Well--why not?" A spark of defiance glinted through the dark curves

of her lashes.

"You know Theo would hate it."

"I daresay. But he isn't here; so it can't matter to him. And he need

not know anything about it."

"My dear! That would be worse than all!"

Evelyn frowned.

"Really, Honor, for a clever person, you're rather stupid. It would be

simply idiotic to tell him what is sure to annoy him, when the thing's

done and he can't prevent it."

The girl leaned back with an impatient sigh.

"If you feel so sure it will annoy him, why on earth do you do it? He

is so good to you in every possible way."

A great longing came upon her to disclose all that he had been ready

to relinquish five weeks ago.

"_I_ know that without your telling me," Evelyn retorted sharply. "But

I think I might do as I like just while I'm up here. And I mean

to--whatever you say. The Kresneys came here, instead of going to

Mussoorie, chiefly to see me. I can't ignore them; and I won't."

"Well, for goodness' sake, don't ask them to the house again, that's

all." Then, because she could scarcely trust herself to say more on

the subject, and because she had no wish to risk a quarrel, she added

quickly: "A parcel came while we were out. Perhaps you'd like to open

it before dinner."

Evelyn was on her feet at once--the Kresneys forgotten as though they

were not.

"It must be my new dress for the General's garden-party. How lovely!"

"Another dress? Your almirah's choked with them already."

"Those are only what I got at Simla last year."

"You seem to have gone in rather extensively for dresses last year,"

Honor remarked, a trifle critically. Since their arrival in Murree she

had become better acquainted with the details of Evelyn's wardrobe;

and the knowledge had troubled her not a little. "How about your

trousseau?"

"Mother gave me hardly _any_ dresses. She said I wouldn't need them on

the Frontier. But I _must_ have decent clothes, even in the

wilderness."

"Yes, I suppose so. Still you will find continual dresses from Simla a

terrible drain on a limited allowance."

A delicate flush crept into Evelyn's cheeks, and her eyes had an odd

glitter that came to them when she felt herself hard-pressed, yet did

not intend to give in.

"What do _you_ know about my allowance?"

"I happen to know the amount of it," Honor answered quietly. "I also

know the cost of clothes such as you have been getting in Simla,

and--I am puzzled to see how the two can be made to fit. You do _pay_

for your things, I suppose?" she added, with a flash of apprehension.

She herself had never been allowed to indulge in bills.

Evelyn's colour ebbed at the direct question; and she took instant

refuge in anger and matrimonial dignity, as being safer than truth.

"Really, Honor, you're getting rather a nuisance just lately. Scolding

and preaching never does me a scrap of good--and you know it. What I

do with my allowance isn't anybody's business but my own, and I won't

be treated as if I were a child. After all"--with a fine mingling of

dignity and scorn--"_I'm_ the married woman. You're only a

girl--staying with me; and I think I might be allowed to manage my own

affairs, without _you_ always criticising and interfering."

By this time Honor had risen also; a line of sternness hardening her

beautiful mouth. Beneath her sustained cheerfulness lay a passionate

temper; and Evelyn's unexpected attack stung it fiercely into life.

Several seconds passed before she could trust herself to speak.

"Very well, Evelyn," she said, at length, "from to-day there shall be

an end of my criticism and interference. You seem to forget that you

asked for my help. But as you don't need it any longer I will hand

over the account books to you to-morrow morning; and you had better

give Nazar Khan some orders about dinner. There isn't very much in the

house."

Only once before had Evelyn seen her friend roused to real

indignation; and she was fairly frightened at the effect of her own

hasty words.

"Oh, Honor, don't be so angry as that!" she pleaded brokenly. "You

know I simply can't----"

But with a decisive gesture Honor set her aside, and walking straight

past her, mounted the steep staircase to her own room.

Arrived there, she stood still as one dazed, her hands pressed against

her temples. There were times when this girl felt a little afraid of

her own vehemence; which, but for the heritage of a strong will, and

her unfailing reliance on a Higher Judgment, might indeed have proved

disastrous for herself and others.

With controlled deliberation of movement, she drew a chair to the

hired dressing-table, which served as davenport, and began to write.

She set down date and address and the words, "My dear Theo,"--no more.

What was it she meant to say to him? That from to-day Evelyn must be

left to manage her affairs alone; that she could no longer be

responsible for her friend's doings, social or domestic; but that she

was willing to remain with her for the season, if he wished it? How

were such things to be worded? Was it even possible to say them at

all?

Her eye fell upon the envelope containing his last letter.

Mechanically she drew it out and read it through again very slowly. It

was a long letter, full of their mutual interests; of the music and

the Persian,--which she was now studying under his tuition;--of

Wyndham, Denvil, Mrs Olliver, and his men; very little about himself.

But it was written as simply and directly as he spoke,--the only form

of letter that annihilates space; and it was signed, "Always your

friend, Theo Desmond."

Before she reached the signature the fire had faded from her eyes. She

returned it to the envelope, took up the sheet on which three lines

were written, and tearing it across and across, dropped it into the

cane basket at her side.

"I can't do it," she murmured. "What right have I to let him call

himself my friend, if I fail him the first time things take an

unpleasant turn?"

She decided, nevertheless, that Evelyn might well be allowed to

realise her own helplessness a little before the reins were again

taken out of her hands. Then she went downstairs and out into the

golden evening, to cool her cheeks and quiet her pulses by half an

hour of communing with the imperturbable peace of the hills.

Evelyn, standing alone in the drawing-room, bewildered and helpless as

a starfish stranded by the tide, heard Honor's footsteps pass the door

and die away in the distance. An unreasoning fear seized her that she

might be going over to Mrs Conolly to stay there for good; and at the

thought a sob rose in her throat. Flinging aside her parasol, which

fell rattling to the floor, she sank into the nearest chair and buried

her face in the cushion.

She knew right well that her words had been ungrateful and unjust; yet

in her heart she was more vexed with Honor for having pushed her into

a corner than with herself for her defensive flash of resentment. More

than all was she overwhelmed by a sense of utter helplessness, of not

knowing where to turn or what to do next.

"Oh, if only Theo were here!" she lamented. "He would never be unkind

to me, I know." Yet the ground of her woe reminded her sharply that if

her husband had knowledge of the bills lying at that moment in her

davenport, he might possibly be so unkind to her--as she phrased

it--that she did not dare tell him the truth. He had spoken to her

once on the subject of debt in no uncertain terms; and she had

resolved thenceforth to deal with her inevitable muddles in her own

way,--the simple fatal way of letting things slide, and hoping that

they would somehow come right in the end. But there seemed no present

prospect of such a consummation; and for a while she gave herself up

to a luxury of self-pity. Tides in her mind ebbed and flowed aimlessly

as seaweed. Everything was hopeless and miserable. It was useless

trying to be good; and she supposed Honor would never help her again.

Then her thoughts stumbled on the Kresneys. It must be nearly

half-past six, and dinner was at a quarter past eight. But, as things

now stood, their coming was impossible. She must send them a note to

say Honor was not well; for who could tell how this new, angry Honor

might choose to behave if they arrived in spite of all?

The need for action roused her, and she went over to her davenport.

But on lifting the lid her eyes fell upon the little sheaf of

bills--and again the Kresneys faded into insignificance. She took up

the detested slips of paper; laid them out one by one on the table;

and, sitting down before them, contemplated them with knitted brows

and a hopeless droop of her lips.

No need to look into them in detail. She knew their contents, and the

sum of them by heart. She knew that they amounted in all to more than

six hundred rupees; and that another four hundred, possibly more, was

still owing in different directions.

Where in all the world was such a sum to be found without Theo's help?

An appeal to Honor would be worse than useless. Honor was so stupid

about such things. Her one idea would be immediate confession. A hazy

notion haunted Evelyn that people who were in straits borrowed money

from somewhere, or some one. But her knowledge of this mysterious

transaction went no further; and even she was able to perceive that

from so nebulous a starting-point no definite advance could be made.

She had also heard of women selling their jewels, and wondered vaguely

who were the convenient people who bought them; though this

alternative did not commend itself to her in any case.

Yet by some means the money must be found. Her earliest creditors were

beginning to assert themselves; to thank her in advance for sums which

she saw no hope of sending them; and, worse than all, she lived in

daily dread lest any of them should be inspired to apply to Theo

himself. Look where she would a blank wall confronted her; and in the

midst of the blankness she sat, a dainty, dejected figure, with her

pitiless pile of bills.

"Krizney, Miss Sahib, _argya_."[19]

[19] Has come.

The kitmutgar's voice jerked her back to the necessities of the

moment.

Well, mercifully, Honor was out. It would be a comfort to see any

one, and get away from her own thoughts. Also she could explain about

the dinner; and, hastily gathering up her papers, she sent out the

customary "salaam."

"Oh, Mrs Desmond, I _do_ hope I am not disturbing you." Miss Kresney

came forward with a rather too effusive warmth of manner. "But you

forgot to mention if you dine at a quarter to eight or a quarter past;

and I was not certain if you meant us to dress or not."

Miss Kresney would probably have been amazed could she have seen these

two Englishwomen dining together.

"Why, yes," Evelyn answered simply, "we always dress in the evening,

Honor and I. But--please don't think me very rude--I'm afraid I must

ask you and your brother to put off coming till--some other night. I

was just going to send you a note; because Honor is--not at all well.

She has been out in the sun all day, and her head is bad. She must

keep quiet to-night. You see, don't you, that I can't help it? It

isn't my fault."

Linda Kresney's face had fallen very blank; but she pulled herself

together, and called up a cold little smile.

"Of course not, Mrs Desmond. How could I think it is _your_ fault,

when you have always been so veree kind to us? We often say it is a

pity every one is not so kind as you are. I am sorry Miss Meredith is

not well." An acid note invaded her voice. She had her own suspicions

of Honor, as being too obviously Captain Desmond's friend. "My brother

will be terribly disappointed. No doubt we can come some day veree

soon instead."

But Evelyn was too self-absorbed to detect the obvious hint.

"Yes--I hope so," she agreed, without enthusiasm; then, seeing puzzled

dissatisfaction in Linda Kresney's eyes, made haste to add: "Perhaps

you'll stay a little now, as you are not coming to-night. It's quite

early still, and I'm all alone."

Miss Kresney sat down with unconcealed alacrity, and Evelyn followed

her example, laying her hand on the tell-tale papers. The trouble of

her mind showed so clearly in her eyes and lips, that the girl, who

had begun to grow really fond of her, was emboldened to risk a vague

proffer of sympathy. She had never as yet found the opportunity her

brother so desired of making herself useful; and she was quick-witted

enough to perceive that Fate might be favouring her at last.

"I am afraid you have been worried about something, Mrs Desmond," she

began warily. "Perhaps after all I had better not stay here, bothering

you to make talk. Unless perhaps--I can help you in any way. I should

be very glad to, if you will not think me officious to say so. I

cannot bear to see you look so unhappee. It is not bad news from

Kohat, I hope?"

Evelyn's smile was a very misty affair.

"Oh, no--it's not that," she said, and broke off short.

Miss Kresney waited for more--her face and figure one fervent note of

interrogation. She had tact enough to realise that she could not press

verbal inquiry further.

But her air of interested expectation was not lost on Evelyn Desmond.

A pressing need was urging her to unburden her mind through the

comforting channels of speech. Cut off, by her own act, from the two

strong natures on whom she leaned for sympathy and help, there

remained only this girl, who would certainly give her the one, and

might possibly give her the other, in the form of practical

information. It was this last thought that turned the scale in Miss

Kresney's favour; and Evelyn spoke.

"I think it's very nice of you to mind that I am unhappy, and to want

to help me. But I don't know whether you can; because it's--it's about

money."

The merest shadow of astonishment flittered across Miss Kresney's

face. But she said no word, and Evelyn went on--her nervousness giving

way rapidly before the relief of speech.

"I have a whole heap of bills here, for dresses and things, that I

simply can't pay for out of my allowance. It's not because my husband

doesn't give me enough," she added, with a pathetic flash of loyalty.

"He gives me all he can possibly spare. But I'm stupid and

unpractical. I just order clothes when I want them, and never think

about the price till the bill comes in, and then it's too late! My

mother did it all before I married. I wish to goodness she had taught

me to manage for myself; but it's no use thinking of that now. The

question is--where can I get money to pay these bills without

troubling my husband about them. I must find some way to do it,

only--I don't the least know how. Aren't there natives out here who

buy people's jewels, or--or lend them money when they want it in a

hurry? I thought--perhaps--you might know whether I could manage to do

it--up here?"

The surprise in Miss Kresney's face deepened to alarm.

"Oh, but indeed, Mrs Desmond, you cannot do anything like that. The

native money-lenders are veree bad people to deal with; and they ask

such big interest, that if you once start with them it is almost

impossible to get free again. You say you are inexperienced about

money, and that would make it far worse. You cannot do anything of

that kind--reallee."

Evelyn rose in an access of helpless impatience.

"But if I can't do that, what _can_ I do?" she cried. "I've got to do

_some_thing--somehow, don't you see? Some of them are beginning to

bother me already, and--it frightens me."

A long silence followed upon her simple, impassioned statement of the

case. Miss Kresney was meditating a startling possibility.

"There is only one thing that I can suggest," she ventured at length,

"and that is I could lend you some money myself. I haven't a great

deal. But if three hundred rupees would help you to settle some of the

bills, I would feel only too proud if you would take it. There will be

no interest to pay; and you could let me have it back in small sums

just whenever you could manage it."

With a gasp of incredulity Evelyn sank back into her chair.

"D'you _mean_ that?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh, Miss Kresney, I don't know why you should be so kind to me! How

can I take such a lot of money--from you?"

"Why not, if I am glad to give it?"

Indeed the sum seemed to her an inconsiderable trifle beside the

certainty of Owen's praise, of Owen's entire satisfaction.

For a clear three minutes Evelyn Desmond sat silent, irresolute; her

mind a formless whirl of eagerness and uncertainty, hope and fear. The

novelty of the transaction rather than any glimmering of the

complications it might engender held her trembling on the brink; and

Miss Kresney awaited her decision with downcast eyes, her fingers

mechanically plaiting and unplaiting the silken fringe of the

table-cloth.

Sounds crept in from without and peopled the waiting stillness. Evelyn

Desmond had no faintest forewarning of the grave issues that hung upon

her answer, yet she was unaccountably afraid. Her driven heart cried

out for the support of her husband's presence; and her voice, when

words came at last, was pitifully unsteady.

"It is so difficult not to say Yes."

"Why will you not say it, then? And it would all be comfortably

settled."

"Would it? I don't seem able to believe that. Only if I _do_ say Yes,

you must promise not to tell--your brother."

"I am afraid that would not be possible. How could I arrange such a

thing without letting my brother know about it?"

"Then I can't take the money."

Evelyn's voice was desperate but determined. Some spark of intuition

enabled her to see that any intrusion of Kresney set the matter beyond

the pale of possible things; and nothing remained for Linda but

compromise or retreat.

She unhesitatingly chose the former. A few reassuring words would cost

little to utter; and if circumstances should demand a convenient

forgetfulness, none but herself need ever be aware of the fact. She

leaned across the table, and her tone was a triumph of open-hearted

sympathy.

"Mrs Desmond, you know quite well that I cannot leave you unhappy like

this. If you are so determined that my brother must not know, I think

I could manage without his help. Come to the Hotel to-morrow at

half-past ten, and we will send off three hundred rupees to those who

are troubling you most for payment."

Miss Kresney was as good as her word. She drew three hundred rupees in

notes from her own small bank account, and herself went with Evelyn to

the post-office whence they were safely despatched to Simla.

Some three evenings later, Owen Kresney bade his sister good-night

with a quite phenomenal display of affection.

"You're a regular little trump, Linda!" he declared. "I never gave you

credit for so much good sense. By Jove! I'd give a month's pay for a

sight of Desmond's face if he ever finds _this_ out! I expect he

stints that poor little woman and splashes all the money on polo

ponies. Glad you were able to help her; and whatever you do, don't let

her pay you back too soon. If you're short of cash, you've only to ask

me."

* * * * *

For the space of a week Honor held inflexibly aloof; and the effort it

cost her seemed out of all proportion to the mildness of the

punishment inflicted. It is an old story--the inevitable price paid by

love that is strong enough to chastise. But this great paradox, the

corner-stone of man's salvation, is a stumbling-block to lesser

natures. In Evelyn's eyes Honor was merely cruel, and her own week of

independence a nightmare of helpless irritation. She made one effort

at remonstrance; and its futility crushed her to earth.

During the evening of their talk the matter had been tacitly avoided

between them; but when, on the following morning, Honor laid books and

bills upon the davenport where Evelyn sat writing, she caught

desperately at the girl's hand.

"Honor, it isn't fair. How _can_ you be so unkind?"

Honor drew her hand decisively away.

"Please let the subject alone," she said coolly. "If you persist in

talking of it, you will drive me to go and sit in my own room--that's

all."

A week later, however, when she returned from a ride to find Evelyn

again at the detested davenport, her head bowed upon her arms, like a

flower broken with the wind, all the inherent motherhood in her rose

up and overflowed. Hastily crossing the room she knelt down beside the

small tragic figure and kissed a pearl-white fragment of forehead; the

only spot available at the moment. "Poor darling!" she whispered. "Is

it really as bad as all that?"

Caresses from Honor were so rare that for an instant Evelyn was taken

aback; then she laid her head on the girl's shoulder with a sigh of

pure content.

"Oh, Honor! the world seems all broken to pieces when _you_ are unkind

to me!"

Honor kissed her again.

"I won't be unkind to you any more; and we'll just forget from this

minute that it ever happened at all."

But to forget is not to undo; and during their brief estrangement

Evelyn Desmond had added a link to the chain of Fate, whose strongest

coils are most often wrought by our own unskilful fingers.

CHAPTER X.

A SQUARE BARGAIN.

"The faith of men that ha' brothered men,

By more than easy breath;

And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men,

In the open books of death."

--KIPLING.

"Behold! Captain Sahib,--there where the sky touches earth. In the

space of half an hour we arrive."

Desmond lifted sun-weary eyes to the horizon, and nodded.

When a man is consumed with thirst, and scorched to the bone, by five

hours of riding through a furnace seven times heated in the teeth of a

blistering wind, he is chary of speech; and the two rode forward in

silence--mere specks upon the emptiness of earth and sky--keeping

their horses to the long-distance canter that kills neither man nor

beast. A detachment of forty sabres followed in their wake; and the

rhythmical clatter rang monotonously in their ears.

The speck on the horizon was an outpost--a boundary mark of

empire,--where a little party of men watched, night and day, for the

least sign of danger from the illusive quiet of the hills.

It is these handfuls of men, natives of India all, stationed in stone

watch-towers twenty miles apart along the Border, who keep the gateway

of India barred; and who will keep it barred against all intruders for

all time. The unobtrusive strength of India's Frontier amazes the

new-comer. But only those who have spent their best years in its

service know the full price paid for the upkeep of that same strength

in hardship, unremitting toil, and the lives of picked men.

As the riders neared the post its outline showed, stern and clear-cut,

against the blue of the sky. A single circular room, loop-holed and

battlemented, set upon an outward sloping base of immense solidity,

and surrounded by a massive stone wall:--a tower in which ten men

could hold their own against five hundred. The look-out sentry,

sighting the detachment afar off, gave the word to his companions, who

lowered the ladder that served them for staircase; and when Desmond's

party drew rein the door in the wall stood open to receive them.

During the halt that followed, the men, having fed and watered their

horses, took what rest they might in patches of burning shadow within

the wall. Though the sun-saturated masonry breathed fire, it served to

shelter them from the withering wind that scours the Border at this

fiery time of year.

Desmond, who had breakfasted five hours earlier on stale bread and a

few sardines, lunched, with small appetite, on biscuits and a slab of

chocolate, and moistened his parched throat with tepid whisky-and-water.

Quenching his thirst was an achievement past hoping for till Kohat

itself should be reached.

He had left the station with his detachment early on the previous day;

had relieved four outposts between dawn and dusk, covering eighty

miles of desert road, with four brief halts for rest; and had spent a

night of suffocating wakefulness in a sun-baked windowless room, built

out from the base of the last post relieved. It was all in the day's

work--as Frontier men understand work. The exposure and long hours in

the saddle had little effect upon his whipcord and iron frame: but a

sharp attack of fever--unrecorded in his letter to his wife--had

slackened his alertness of body and spirit; and it was with an unusual

sense of relief that he faced the last twenty-mile stretch of road,

leaving behind him six fresh men to take up the task of watching the

blank, unchanging face of the hills.

Three hours later, the little party turned their horses' heads towards

Kohat. The sun still smote the uncomplaining earth, and many miles of

riding lay before them. But at least it was the beginning of the end;

a fact which the two stout-hearted chargers seemed to recognise as

clearly as their riders. The Ressaldar, who had not failed to note his

Captain's slight change of bearing, proposed a short cut across

country well known to himself.

"Hazúr," he urged, "there runs a long deep nullah, straight as a

lance, across the plain; and as the sun falls lower, it would give

some measure of shade."

"Well spoken, Ressaldar Sahib! I have had my fill of the road. I'm for

the nullah. Come on, men."

And, striking out across country, they vanished from the earth's

surface, entering one of those giant clefts in the clay soil formed by

the early downrush of torrents from the hills.

Suddenly, in the midst of a swinging canter, the Ressaldar reined in

his horse, and the rest followed suit. The old Sikh threw up his head,

as a stag will do at the first whisper of danger. In the strong light

his chiselled face, with its grey beard scrupulously parted and drawn

up under his turban, showed lifeless as a statue; and his eyes had the

far-off intentness of one who listens with every fibre of his being.

Desmond watched him in a growing bewilderment that verged on

impatience.

"What's up now?" he demanded sharply.

But no flicker disturbed the rigid face: the keen eyes gave no sign.

The old man raised a hand as if enjoining silence, dismounted hastily,

and, kneeling down, pressed his ear close against the ground.

Desmond's suspense was short-lived but keen.

In less than ten seconds the Ressaldar was beside him, one hand on his

bridle, a consuming anxiety in his eyes.

"Hazúr, it is a spate from the hills," he said between quick breaths.

"It is coming with the speed of ten thousand devils and there are five

miles to go before we can leave the nullah."

"Mount, then," the Englishman replied with cool decision. "We can but

ride."

And swiftly, as tired horses could lay legs to ground, they rode.

Desmond could catch no sound as yet of the oncoming danger; but the

practised ears of the native detected its increase, even through the

rattle of hoofs that beat upon the brain like panic terror made

audible.

"Faster,--faster!" he panted. His Captain's danger was the one

coherent thought in his mind. Desmond merely nodded reassurance; and

shifting a little in his saddle, eased matters as far as possible for

_Badshah Pasand_.[20]

[20] Beloved of kings.

The ground raced beneath their horses' hoofs. The serene strip of sky

raced above their heads. The imprisoning walls fell apart before their

eyes, seeming to divide like a cleft stick as they drew near, and

reeling away on either hand as they passed on. All things in earth and

heaven seemed fleeing in mortal haste save only themselves.

Theo Desmond heard the voice of the enemy at last:--an ominous roar,

growing inexorably louder every minute. At the sound his head took a

more assured lift; his mouth a firmer line; and the fire of

determination deepened in his eyes.

By a movement of the rein he urged Badshah Pasand to renewed effort.

But the devoted animal was nearing the end of his tether, and his

rider knew it. Thick spume flakes blew backward from his lips, and the

sawing motion of his head told its own tale.

Sher Dil, who was still going lustily, gained upon him by a neck, and

the Ressaldar turned in his saddle.

"The spurs, Hazúr--the _spurs_!" he entreated, knowing well his

Captain's abstemiousness in this regard.

But Desmond shook his head. Badshah Pasand was doing his utmost; and

neither man nor beast can do more. He merely rose in the stirrups,

pressed his heels lightly against the quivering flanks and, leaning

forward, spoke a few words of encouragement almost in the charger's

ear.

The sensitive animal sprang forward with a last desperate output of

strength; and in the same instant a hoarse shout broke from Rajinder

Singh.

"An opening--an opening, Captain Sahib! By the mercy of God we are

saved!"

Five minutes later the whole party drew rein on the upper levels of

earth, and their sometime pursuer swept tumultuously onward fifteen

feet below.

Desmond's eyes had an odd light in them as he turned from the swirling

waters to the impassive face of the man who had saved their lives.

"I do--not--forget," he said with quiet emphasis.

The old Sikh shook his head with a rather uncertain smile.

"True talk, Hazúr. I had known it without assurance. Yet was mine own

help no great matter. It was written that my Captain Sahib should not

die thus!"

"That may be," Desmond answered gravely, for he had been strangely

upheld by the same conviction. "Yet there be also--these others. In my

thinking it is no small _matter_ that, except for your quickness of

mind and hearing, forty-four good men and horses would now be at the

mercy of that torrent. But this is no time for words. It still remains

to reach Kohat before sundown."

The sun was slipping behind the hills, with the broad smile of a

tyrant who fully enjoys the joke, when Desmond drew up before his own

verandah and slid to the ground.

"Thank God that's over!" he muttered audibly. But he did not at once

enter the house. His first care, as always, was for the horse he rode;

and with him it was no mere case of the "merciful man," but of sheer

love for that unfailing servant of the human race.

He accompanied Badshah Pasand to the stable, superintended the removal

of his saddle, and looked him carefully all over. That done, he issued

explicit orders for his treatment and feeding: the great charger--as

though fully aware of his master's solicitude,--nuzzling a

mouse-coloured nose against his shoulder the while.

Arrived in the comparative coolness of the hall, he shouted for a

drink, and a bath. Then, turning towards the drawing-room, promised

himself a few minutes blessed relaxation in the depths of his

favourite chair.

But passing between the gold-coloured curtains he saw that which

checked his advance, and banished all thought of relaxation from his

brain.

Harry Denvil--whose buoyancy and simplicity of heart had led Desmond

to christen him the Boy--sat alone at Evelyn's bureau, his head

between his hands, despair in every line of his figure.

Desmond regarded him thoughtfully, marvelling that the sounds of his

own arrival should have passed unheard. Then he went forward, and laid

his hand on the Boy's shoulder.

"Harry! I don't seem to recognise _you_ in that attitude. Anything

seriously wrong?"

Denvil started, and revealed a face of dogged dejection.

"You here?" he said listlessly. "Never heard you come in."

"That's obvious. But--about yourself?"

The Boy choked down a sigh.

"Why the deuce should I bore you with myself, when you're hot and

tired? I've been a confounded fool; if not worse, and the devil's in

the luck wherever I turn."

But Desmond waited in expectant silence for the Boy's trouble to

overflow. While he waited, the coveted "drink" arrived, and he emptied

the long tumbler almost at a gulp. The station had run out of ice--a

cheerful habit of Frontier stations; but at least the liquid was cool

and stinging.

"Well?" he said at length, Denvil having returned to his former

attitude. "I want something more explicit. How am I to help you, if

you slam the door in my face?"

"Don't see how you can help me. I've only been ... a great many kinds

of a fool: and _you_----"

"Well, what of me? I've been plenty of kinds of fool in my time, I

assure you. Money's the backbone of your trouble, no doubt. Nothing

worse, I hope?"

Denvil's honest eyes met his own without flinching.

"No, on my honour--nothing worse. The money's bad enough." And the

trouble came out in a quick rush of words--explanatory, contrite,

despairing--all in one breath. For the Boy had Irish blood in his

veins; and the initial difficulty over, he found it an unspeakable

relief to disburden his soul to the man who had "brothered" him ever

since he joined the Force.

Desmond, perceiving that the overflow, once started, was likely to be

exhaustive and complete, took out pipe and tobacco, balanced himself

on the arm of a chair, and listened gravely to the Boy's disjointed

story.

It was a long story, and a commonplace one, if even the most trivial

record of human effort and failure can be so styled. It was the story

of half the subalterns in our Imperial Army--of small pay, engulfed by

heavy expenses, avoidable and unavoidable; the upkeep of much needless

uniform; too big a wine bill at Mess; polo ponies, and other luxurious

necessities of Indian life, bought on credit; the inevitable appeal to

the "_shroff_,"[21] involving interest upon interest; the final

desperate attempt to mend matters by high stakes at cards, and fitful,

injudicious backing of horses, most often with disastrous results.

[21] Native money-lender.

"Have you the smallest idea what the total damage amounts to?" asked

Desmond, when all was said. "I'm bound to know everything now."

Denvil nodded.

"Close on fifteen hundred, I think," he answered, truthfully.

"Why, in Heaven's name, didn't you tell me all this sooner?"

"Oh, I kept hoping to get square somehow--without that. I wanted to

stay in your good books; and I saw you were rather down on chaps who

are casual about money. But I seem to be made that way, and----"

"So are most of us, my dear chap. But it's up to you to make yourself

some other way, if you don't want to come a cropper and leave the

Service. I hope I am no Pharisee, but I've been reared to believe that

living in debt is an aristocratic, and rather mean form of theft. My

notion of you doesn't square with that; and I know a good man when I

see one. You'll never mend matters, I assure you, by playing the fool

over horses and cards. How about your mother?"

Denvil looked down at the blank sheet of foreign note-paper before

him, and answered nothing. He was the only son of his mother, and she

was a widow.

"Can't you see that the fact of your having no father to pull you up

sharp puts you on your honour to keep straight in every way, on her

account? Does she know anything about all this?"

"How _could_ I tell her?" the Boy murmured, without looking up. "She

thinks me no end of a fine chap; and--and--I'm hanged if I know how to

answer her letters since--things have got so bad----"

"When did you write last?"

"About six weeks ago."

Desmond flung out an oath.

"Confound you!" he cried hotly. "What do you think she's imagining by

now? All manner of hideous impossibilities. I suppose you never gave

_that_ a thought----"

The Boy looked up quickly, pain and pleading in his blue eyes. "I say,

Desmond, don't hit so straight. I know I've been a brute to her; and I

feel bad enough about it, without being slanged--by _you_."

Theo Desmond's face softened, and he took the Boy's shoulders between

his hands.

"My dear lad," he said gently. "I'm sorry if I hit too hard. But I

feel rather strongly on that subject. I've no wish to slang you. I

only want to set you on your feet, and _keep you_ there. So we may as

well get to business at once."

"Set me on my feet! How the devil's _that_ to be done?"

Desmond smiled.

"It's simply a question of making up one's mind to things. In the

first place we must sell Roland. He's the best pony you have."

Harry straightened himself sharply, but Desmond's gesture commanded

silence.

"It's a cruel wrench, I know," he said gently. "Few men understand

that better than myself. But it's all you can do. And you're bound to

do it. You can advertise him as trained by me. He's safe to fetch

seven hundred that way."

Denvil bent his head in desperate resignation.

"You are down on a fellow, Desmond. How about the other eight?"

"That will be--my affair."

Again the Boy was startled into protest.

"Look here! That's impossible. I couldn't pay you back within the next

three years."

"Did I say anything about paying me back?"

"_Desmond_--you don't mean----?"

Their eyes met, and Denvil was answered. He brought his fist down on

the bureau with such force that Evelyn's knick-knacks danced again.

"By God, I won't have it!" he protested passionately. "I'll not take

such a sum of money from you."

Desmond's smile showed both approval and amusement.

"No call for violence, Boy! I told you my mind was made up; and it's

folly wasting powder and shot against a stone wall."

"Look here, though--can you manage it--easily?"

"Yes, I can manage it." And in the rush of relief Harry failed to note

the significant omission of the adverb. "But it's to be a square

bargain between us. No more _shroffs_; no more betting, or I come down

on you like a ton of coals for my eight hundred. Stick to whist and

polo in playtime. Polish up your Pushtoo, and get into closer touch

with your Pathans. Start Persian with me, if you like, and replace

Roland with the money you get for passing. But first of all write to

your mother, and tell her the chief part of the truth. Not my share in

it, please. That remains between ourselves and--my wife. She'll

understand, never fear. Now--shake hands on that, and stick to it,

will you?"

"Desmond, you _are_ a trump!"

"No need for compliments between you and me, Harry. Shut up and get on

with your letter."

Then, because his mind was freed from anxiety, he realised that the

Boy's hand felt like hot parchment, and that his eyes were unusually

bright.

"You've got fever on you," he said brusquely. "Feel bad?"

"Pretty average. My head's been going like an engine these two days.

Couldn't eat anything yesterday or get a wink of sleep last night.

That's what set my conscience stirring perhaps."

Desmond laughed.

"Likely as not! I'm off for Mackay all the same. Get into my chair and

stay there till further orders. Don't bother your head about that

letter. It shan't miss the mail. I'll write it myself to-night."

An invisible reminder from the doorway that the Heaven-born's bath had

long been waiting, elicited a peremptory order for the Demon; and Amar

Singh departed, mystified but obedient. The Sahib he worshipped, with

the implicit worship of his race, was a very perplexing person at

times.

James Mackay's verdict--given well out of the patient's hearing--was

immediate and to the point.

"Typhoid, of course--104°. Fool of a boy not to have sent for me

sooner. Ought to have been in bed two days ago. Get him there sharp,

and do what you can with wet sheets and compresses. I'll wire for a

nurse, but we shan't get one. Never do. Not a ounce of ice in the

place, and won't be for three days. That's always the way. He'll keep

you on the go all night by the looks of him. May as well let the Major

do most of it. You'd be none the worse for a few hours in bed

yourself."

A certain lift of Desmond's head signified tacit denial, and the

astute Scotsman knew better than to insist. Meeting Wyndham at the

gate, he counselled a policy of non-resistance.

"The fellow's overdone without knowing it," he said. "Take my advice,

man, and let him gang his ain gait. Fever or no, he's hard as nails,

and he'll be glad enough to knock under in twenty-four hours' time."

Throughout that night of anxious battling with the fire of fever the

two Englishmen seemed translated into mechanical contrivances for the

administering of milk, brandy, and chicken-broth; for the incessant

changing of soaked sheets, that were none too cool at best; and for

allaying, as far as might be, a thirst that no water on earth can

quench.

Nothing draws men into closer union than a common danger, or a common

anxiety; and in the past twelve years these two had stood shoulder to

shoulder through both many times over. But their zeal produced no

manifest results. Denvil's temperature rose steadily, and his stress

of mind broke out in a semi-coherent babble of remorse and

self-justification, of argument and appeal, of desperate reckonings in

regard to ways and means. Desmond left his station by the bed and

crossed over to his friend, who was noiselessly washing a cup and

saucer.

"Don't hear any more of that than you can help. Fact, you might as

well take your chance of a short rest till he's quieter. I'll come and

tell you, no fear."

Paul glanced up with his slow smile from the saucer he was polishing

with elaborate care.

"On your word, Theo?"

"On my word."

And he retired obediently to his own room--the room that in the cold

weather had belonged to Honor Meredith; that, even now, empty casket

though it was, awoke in him a subtle sense of her presence; of the

strength and cheerfulness that crowned her beauty like a diadem, and

transformed his outlook on life.

The letter to Mrs Denvil was written in the small hours. Harry never

discovered its contents; but his mother, after reading it half a dozen

times, locked it up with a hoard of sacred treasures pertaining to her

boy. And soon after six, in the pitiless gold of dawn, the two men

cantered leisurely down to early parade.

Here Desmond's attention was arrested by the absence of Rajinder

Singh. Hailing a lesser native officer, he learnt that the Ressaldar

had been ill with sun-fever all night, and was still quite unfit for

work. Hindus are creatures of little or no stamina, and they go down

like mown grass before the unhealthy heat of the Frontier.

Desmond despatched a message to the stricken man, adding that he

himself would come to make inquiry before eleven o'clock. On his

return he found Harry temporarily quieter, and fallen into a light

sleep.

"I must see Frank about him," he reflected, "on my way back from the

Lines." For Frank was the regimental standby in every emergency, and

would claim the lion's share of the nursing as a matter of course.

True to his word, Desmond was back on the deserted parade-ground by

half-past ten, his syce pursuing him closely, a flat paper parcel

under his arm. It contained a full-length photo of himself in the

silver frame that had held his mother's picture, because frames were

not to be procured at an hour's notice in Kohat, and he had a great

wish that his gift should be complete: a lasting memento--such as the

old Sikh would keenly appreciate--of their stirring ride, and of the

fact that he owed his life to the man's remarkable quickness of ear

and brain.

Rajinder Singh lived alone; for the Sikh, when he enters Imperial

service, leaves his wife behind in her own village. His one-roomed hut

was saturated with heat, and almost devoid of light. It contained a

chair, a strip of matting, and a low string-bed, with red cotton quilt

and legs of scarlet lacquer. Mud walls and floor alike were

scrupulously clean. Sacred vessels, for cooking and washing, were

stowed away out of reach of defilement. Above his bed the

simple-hearted soldier had nailed a crude coloured print of the

_Kaiser-i-Hind_ in robes and crown; and on the opposing wall hung a

tawdry looking-glass, almost as dear to his heart.

The Sirdar was nominally in bed; that is to say, he lay on the bare

strings, beneath his cotton quilt, fully dressed in loose white tunic

and close-fitting trousers. His turban alone had been discarded, and

stood ready-folded beside him, a miracle of elaborate precision.

At the sound of hoofs he sat up instantly, his uncut hair and beard

flowing down to his waist. In less than twenty seconds both had been

twisted to a deft knot high on the head, his turban adjusted at an

irreproachable angle; and, as Desmond's figure darkened the doorway,

he staggered to his feet and saluted with a trembling hand.

"Sit down, sit down!" his Captain commanded him; and he obeyed, rather

suddenly, with a rueful smile.

"The years steal away my strength, Hazúr. A little fever, and my bones

become as water--yea, though I had once the might of ten in this

dried-up arm."

Desmond smiled and shook his head.

"No reason to speak evil of the years, after yesterday, and the fever

hath the power of seven devils over any man. I have been all night

beside Denvil Sahib, who lieth without sense and strength this

morning, young as he is."

"Denvil Sahib! I had not known. Is it fever also?"

"Yes,--the great fever. A matter of many weeks, and sore trouble of

mind; for disease takes strong hold upon the strong. And what will

come to the squadron, with both my troop commanders laid in their

beds?"

"_Na_,--na, Hazúr. I will arise, even as I am----"

"That you will not, Sirdar Sahib," Desmond interposed with kindly

decision; "we will rather give Bishan Singh a chance to prove that he

is fit for promotion. I have had the assurance from him many times in

words. Now I will have it in deeds--the fittest language for a

soldier."

The deep-set eyes gleamed approval.

"Great is the wisdom of the Captain Sahib, understanding the

deceitfulness of man's heart. Bishan Singh's tongue is as a horse

without bit or bridle. If head and hand carry him as far, he will do

well."

"True talk," Desmond answered, smiling. Then with the incurable

diffidence of the Englishman when he is moved to do a gracious action,

he held out his parcel. "See here, Rajinder Singh. This is a small

matter enough for your acceptance. A token merely that--I do not

forget."

"_Hazúr!_"

The eagerness of a child transfigured the man's weatherbeaten face,

and his fingers plucked unsteadily at the string.

Desmond took out a knife and slit it without a word.

For a long moment Rajinder Singh gazed upon the miracle before him in

silent wonder. To the unsophisticated native--and there are happily

many left in India--a photograph remains an abiding miracle; a fact to

be accepted and reverenced without explanation, like the

inconsistencies of the gods.

"In very truth, it is the Captain Sahib himself!" he muttered with the

air of one who makes an amazing discovery. Then, grasping his

possession in both hands, he held it out at arm's length, examining

every detail with loving care; glancing from the counterfeit to the

original as if to satisfy himself that the artist had omitted nothing;

for Desmond was wearing the undress uniform of the picture.

"_Bahut, bahut salaam_,[22] Sahib!" he broke out in a tremulous

fervour of gratitude. "It is your Honour's self, as I said, lacking

only speech. Feature for feature--cord for cord. All things are

faithfully set down. Behold, even these marks upon the scabbard,--the

very scar upon your Honour's hand! Now, indeed, hath God favoured me

beyond deserving; for my Captain Sahib abideth under this my roof

until I die."

[22] Many, many thanks.

Rising unsteadily, in defiance of Desmond's mute protest, he removed

the cherished looking-glass, hung the photo in its place, and, drawing

himself up to his full six-feet-two of height, gravely saluted it.

"_Salaam, hamara_,[23] Captain Sahib Bahadur!"

[23] Salaam, my Captain Sahib.

Then he turned to find Desmond, who had risen also, watching him

intently, his full heart in his eyes.

"I thought it would give you pleasure," he said, in a tone of

restrained feeling, "but I had no knowledge that it would please you

as much as that. I am very glad I thought of it. But now," he added

more briskly, "enough of talk. There waiteth more work to be done than

a man can accomplish before dark. Get you back to bed, Ressaldar

Sahib, and stay there until I order otherwise."

Once outside, he sprang to the saddle, and set off at a canter through

the withering, stupefying sunlight towards Captain Olliver's

bungalow.

CHAPTER XI.

YOU DON'T KNOW DESMOND.

"Suffer with men, and like a man be strong."--MYERS.

Frank Olliver, looking remarkably fresh and cool in a holland gown of

severe simplicity, greeted him from the verandah with a flour-covered

hand. At the sound of hoofs, her ready brain had sprung to the right

conclusion, and she hurried out to save him the necessity of

dismounting. She had learned to know the value of minutes to a

hard-worked man.

"Geoff told me," she said, a rare seriousness veiling the laughter of

her eyes. "It's cruel bad news, but you mustn't dream of being anxious

yet awhile, Theo, man. I'll be round by half-past eleven sharp; stay

till you two are through with your work; rest this afternoon and come

on again at seven, till morning. You'll just take one clear night in

bed before I let you go shares in _that_ part o' the work. You can

trust him to me, can't you, though I _am_ a mad Irishwoman? I'll

promise not to be waking up the patient to take his sleeping draught,

or any such cleverness!"

Her nonsense dispelled Desmond's gravity. "I can trust you as far as

that, I think!" he answered with a laugh; "but I won't have you

knocking yourself up again over this. The lad's my subaltern, and it's

my business. You shall take to-night, though, if you've a mind to, and

my best thanks into the bargain. God alone knows where we should all

be without you."

"Just precisely where you are at present, no doubt!" But the softened

tone betrayed her appreciation of his honest praise. "It's just a bad

habit you've got into, that's the truth, and I've not the heart to

break you of it either. But 'tis no time now for playing ball with

compliments. I'm busy over a cake. My cook has a pain, an' swears 'tis

cholera. An' what with dosing him, an' trying to convince him he's a

fool, and seeing after Geoff's tiffin, I'll be melted to one tear-drop

presently; but the good man'll have to dine at Mess to-night."

Desmond gathered up his reins, and she waved to him as he rode away.

Punctually at the half-hour she entered the sick-room--cool,

practised, business-like, and took over her case as composedly as any

trained nurse. For in those early days nursing was as persistent a

feature of the hot weather as the punkah itself, and her skill had

been acquired in a hard school.

The Boy had been installed, for greater comfort, in Desmond's own bed;

and he greeted her with a faint smile of recognition.

"Poor, dear old fellow," she murmured tenderly, pushing the damp hair

from his brow; "wait only till the ice comes, an' we'll pull you round

finely, never fear."

His lids fell under her soothing touch, and sprinkling her fingers

with lavender water she passed them across and across his forehead; a

look in her eyes the while that none save her "brother officers" had

ever seen there; a look such as her children might have seen, had she

been so blest.

Among acquaintances Mrs Olliver passed for a masculine woman,

boisterous and good-humoured, though somewhat lacking in the lesser

proprieties and affectations which passed for delicacy of feeling. But

with all her angularity and mannish ways, she was a fine mother

wasted: and in her heart she knew it. There are too many such among

us. A mystery of pain and unfulfilled hope which there seems no

justifying, save that at times the world is the gainer by their

individual loss; and Frank Olliver, being denied the blessedness of

children, mothered all the men of her regiment, the formidable Colonel

not excepted.

Having charmed her patient into a light sleep, she made a noiseless

tour of the room, smiling at the revelation of Paul Wyndham's hand in

the exquisite neatness wherewith all things had been set in order. A

towel pinned to the punkah frill brought the faint relief of moving

air nearer to Denvil's face. In the hasty manner of its pinning Theo's

workmanship stood revealed, and the smile deepened in her eyes. She

knew each least characteristic of these her grown children; knew, and

loved them, with a strong unspoken love.

Her next move brought her to the thermometer. It registered 95°. A

long while after sundown the mercury might drop three degrees,

certainly not more. She cast an anxious glance at the sleeper, and her

quick eye caught the lagging of the punkah, broken by fitful jerks,

which denotes that the coolie--squatting on his heels in the

verandah--is pulling the inexorable rope in his dreams.

Opening the outer door and letting in a blast as from the mouth of

hell, she reasoned with that much-enduring human machine in a forcible

Irish whisper, that set the towel flapping and billowing like a flag

in a wind. The room was none the cooler for his exertions, but in such

intensity of heat mere movement of the air serves to prevent

suffocation.

Mrs Olliver sat down beside her patient and her mind reverted to her

own domestic calamity. She wondered with a simple practical

wonderment, devoid of fear, whether or no she had a case of cholera in

her compound. To-morrow it would be well to ascertain the truth; and

in the meantime she dismissed the matter from her mind.

Before tiffin was over at the station Mess, Wyndham made his

appearance, and with a friendly nod of welcome took the reins out of

her hands. But by seven o'clock she was back at her post; and one look

at Harry's flushed face and unseeing eyes convinced her that the next

twelve hours would make a high demand upon her energies, and her

resolute hopefulness of heart.

Desmond came in before Mess. His eyes were grave and anxious, and for

many minutes he stood looking down upon the boy in silence; the slim

uprightness of his figure emphasised by the close-fitting white

uniform, with its wide splash of scarlet at the waist. Then he

crossed to the table and studied the chart, that strange hieroglyph,

like a negative print of forked lightning, so full of dread meaning to

those who can read it aright. The latest entry was 106°.

"You saw Mackay?" he asked, under his breath.

"I did."

"You're in for a hard night of it. I'd better stay up and help."

"I'll not have you at any price," she answered bluntly.

He frowned. But the fact that he did not insist spoke volumes to her

understanding heart.

"Swear you'll send Amar Singh to wake me if it seems necessary."

"I will--no fear."

"He'll sit handy, just outside, all night and help you in any possible

way. He's a jewel at times like this. I'll look in again when I get

home."

"Come back early," she commanded with a sudden smile, "and have a

solid night of sleep. It's plain your needing it badly."

"Thanks. I believe I am. I'll make a fresh start afterwards and take

my fair share of the work. Jove! It's a furnace of a night. There goes

the trumpet; I'll be back before long."

His words were truer than he knew.

Shortly after nine o'clock, while Mrs Olliver was persuading her

semi-delirious patient to swallow two tablespoonfuls of chicken-broth,

quick footsteps and the clink of spurs made her sit suddenly upright,

with a listening look in her eyes. She knew the country of her service

well enough to be prepared for anything at any hour of the day or

night--and she was barely surprised when, two minutes later, Desmond

stood before her in his forage cap, his sword buckled on over his

mess-jacket and held high to prevent it from clanking.

"What is it?" she asked in a hurried whisper. "A beacon fire alight?"

He nodded, and passed a handkerchief across his forehead, for he had

come at lightning speed.

"A raid of sorts--out Hangu way. Can't tell if it'll be a big thing or

not. The whole garrison's ordered out."

It was a matter of seconds, and he spoke in a breathless rush.

"I dashed on ahead to give you a few instructions. Olliver is ordering

Griselda to be saddled and brought across at once. If the affair looks

serious we'll send an orderly back to fetch a doolie from the

hospital, come on here for you and the Boy, and see you safely to the

Fort, where you must stay till further orders. Get all possible

necessaries together, and be ready to leave at a moment's notice."

"If we move him to-night, Theo, 'twill be--the end of it all."

A spasm of pain crossed his face.

"I hope to God it mayn't be necessary. But we must take our chance of

that. It won't be safe for you to have a light in the house, with

every door open, and the city full of _budmashes_.[24] Can you manage

with just a night-light carefully screened?"

[24] Bad characters.

"Sure I can. I'll manage to see with me fingers well enough!"

"Right! Amar Singh'll sit outside the door. He'll not sleep a wink, I

promise you."

The suspicion of a tremor in her brave smile caught at his heart. He

pressed her shoulder with a reassuring hand.

"Sorry Olliver couldn't see you before leaving," he said gently.

"Hullo, there's Paul; I must be off. God bless you for a plucky woman,

Frank. We'll all get back--sometime, never fear." And in an instant

she was alone.

Nothing remained but to blow out the lamp and set the screened

night-light on a table farthest from the outer doors. Its uncertain

flicker served to make darkness visible and through the darkness she

crept back to her station by the bed.

Denvil, who had fallen into an unrefreshing sleep, stirred and tossed

with broken mutterings that threatened every moment to break out into

the babble of delirium; and for a while she sat beside him in a

stunned quietness, her ears strained to catch the sounds that came up

from below--the hasty gathering of men and horses and mules; the

jingle of harness; brisk words of command; the tramping of many feet.

Comforting sounds, since they spoke of the protective presence of

Englishmen.

But those that followed were less reassuring, for they were sounds of

massed movement, of an organised body under way: the muffled tread of

infantry, the cheerful clatter of cavalry at the trot. She knew the

order of their going, to the minutest detail. A vision of it all was

photographed upon her brain as she had witnessed it these many times

within the past ten years; and perhaps owing to the mental vividness

of her race, custom had not yet ground the edge off the poignant

moment of departure.

Rapidly, inexorably, the sounds retreated toward the hills; and as

they drew farther away she listened the more intently. It was as if

her spirit, freed from her body, followed the men she loved, till the

unheeding night absorbed them--till hearing, stretched to its utmost

limit, could catch no lightest echo of sound.

Then silence, intensified by stifling darkness, enveloped her,

pressing in upon heart and brain like an invisible force that held her

prisoner against her will.

The practical side of her fought squarely against this obsession of

the intangible; but it persisted and prevailed. The mocking shadows

crowded about her, compelled her to a discomfortable realisation of

her solitude in a station needing the perpetual alertness of armed men

to ensure peace and safety. For Kohat city boasted a creditable

average of bad characters and murder cases--a corpse more or less on

the Border being of no more consequence than the fall of a sparrow;

and the Waziris had of late been unusually daring in regard to

Government horses and carbines. Nor was it an unknown thing for them

to creep past the sentries on very black nights into the station

itself; and for all her courage, Frank Olliver was by no means

fearless. The two are a contradiction in terms. Only the unimaginative

are fearless, and only the keenly imaginative, capable of feeling fear

in every fibre, ever scale the heights of true courage.

Save for the wakeful vigilance of sentries, the huddled bungalows of

the cantonment lay below her empty as a handful of shells on a lone

shore; and in the overpowering stillness each least sound stood out

crisp and clear-cut as twigs against a winter sunset; the fitful

rustle of bedclothes; Rob breathing peacefully in a distant corner;

the whisper of the punkah; the querulous creaking of the rope answered

by a whine from the back verandah, where a resigned coolie swayed a

basket of damp straw, packed with bottles of milk and soda-water for

Denvil's consumption during the night.

The reiteration of these still small voices grew distracting as the

whisper of an unseen clock. They dominated the silence, paralysing

thought, and compelling her to note every change in their pitiless

regularity.

Resolved to break the spell by the only definite action available, she

decided to prepare for the emergency which her brain refused to face.

But on rising she was arrested by a voice from the bed--a voice not of

speech but of song, a snatch from a burlesque the Boy had played in

during the winter:

"My name it is Abanazar

If you want me you needn't go far;

I'm sure to be found, if you'll only look round,

Number Seventy, Suddar Bazaar."

Denvil's deep baritone, distorted to a guttural travesty of itself,

rose to a shout on the ascending notes of the last line. Then, without

pause for breath, came the voice of speech--hurried, expressionless,

heartrending to hear.

"Safe for an encore, that--what? Should ha' been Desmond, though. See

him in tights you'd think he could slip through a wedding-ring. Done

it too, by Jove! Better than horses that, in the long-run.--How about

Grey Dawn?--Confound your luck! Always a dead cert till I lay anything

on. Hold hard, though.... I'm done with all that now.... Wouldn't go

back on Desmond--not for a mine of gold. _You_ don't know

Desmond;--wait till you're in a hole! Eight hundred rupees, I tell

you--more than his month's pay! Said I was to keep quiet about it too.

Not mail-day to-morrow, is it? Where's the use of writing to her?

She'd never understand. Look out--some one's coming,--there by the

door. Great Scott! It's--it's mother!"

The voice broke into an unnatural sound between a laugh and a sob, and

Frank, who was already praying for the lesser evil of silence, bent

over the Boy, soothing him with tender words and tone, as though she

were his mother in very deed.

The delusion was strong upon him. He clung to her fiercely when she

would have risen to fetch milk, overwhelming her with a rush of

disjointed questions varied by snatches of enthusiasm for Desmond,

till exhaustion reduced him to incoherent mutterings; and she was free

at last to grope for milk and brandy and a fresh packing of wet

sheets.

He grew quieter after a space, and sank into a more restful sleep,

leaving Frank Olliver to face another spell of whispering silence; her

ears strained now to catch the dread sound of a single horseman

returning from the hills.

The first white streak of dawn found her still at her post, with hands

quietly folded and unclosed eyes; found Amar Singh wide-eyed also, his

lean face and figure rigid as a stone image, a bared sword lying like

a flash of light across his knees.

And with the dawn came also the far-off mutter of the footsteps that

night had stolen from her; an inverted repetition of the same sounds

in a steady crescendo that rang like music in her ears--a sound to

lift the heart.

The massed tramping of men and horses broke up at length, scattered in

all directions, and within five minutes she looked up to find her

husband in the doorway--a thickset man, with more of force than

perception in his blunt features and heavily-browed eyes.

She rose and went to him straightway, her face alight with

satisfaction, and he took a friendly hold of her arm by way of

greeting. They had always been more like good comrades than man and

wife, these two.

"Well, old girl," he said, "there was no show after all, you see. It

seems that the raid didn't quite come off; and we had our scamper for

nothing, worse luck! The Boy going on all right?"

"'Tis hard to tell. He's in a quiet sleep just now, anyway."

"You may as well come out of this, then, and give us some breakfast.

I'm going to the Major's room to tidy up."

As his wife stepped back into the sick-room, Theo Desmond came quickly

towards her.

"Well done," he said heartily; "you didn't expect us quite so soon,

did you? Not a shot fired, and I should have been swearing all the way

home--but for the Boy. Looks peaceful enough now, doesn't he?

Temperature any lower?"

"Just a little, these last few hours. But he's been talking a deal of

madness, poor fellow."

"What about?" he asked sharply. "Money?"

She smiled, with an odd mixture of pride and tenderness in her eyes.

"Faith, I can see what's been happening, Theo, clear as daylight. But

I'll say no word to a soul, not even Geoff; you know that sure

enough."

"Yes, I know it. But I'll feel grateful when he stops airing the

subject."

Her low laugh had a break in it, and he scanned her face keenly.

"You're played out, Frank. I was afraid you were hardly fit for this

sort of thing yet. You don't do a stroke more till to-morrow morning.

Come along now and have five grains of quinine and some food. Amar

Singh can mount guard in case the Boy wakes up."

Paul Wyndham greeted her with his nod and smile, which were apt to

convey more friendliness than other people's words. Desmond set her

ceremoniously in the place of honour; and the 6.30 breakfast, prepared

at ten minutes' notice, and eaten in Mess uniform, proved a remarkably

cheerful affair; one of those simple, commonplace events which, for

all their simplicity, go far to cement friendship and form refreshing

cases along the dusty path of life.

The morning post-bag contained an envelope in Evelyn's handwriting;

and, the Ollivers being gone, Theo retired to the study to enjoy it at

his leisure. It proved to be short, and contained little beyond

querulous upbraiding. Her husband could almost catch the tone of her

voice as he read; and the light of satisfaction left his face. Evelyn

had an insatiable appetite for long and detailed letters, though she

by no means returned them in kind; and it appeared that Theo had not

written for a week. In the fulness of his days he had not realised the

fact which was now brought forcibly to his notice.

"It's just laziness and selfishness," she wrote in her sweeping

fashion, "when you _know_ how I look out for your letters, to leave me

a whole week without a line. If it was _me_, there might be some

excuse, because there's always something or another going on, and I

never seem to get a minute to sit down and write. But you must have

hours and hours of spare time in the long days down there. I expect

you play chess with Major Wyndham all the while, and quite forget

about writing to me. I suppose if you were ill _some one_ would have

the decency to write and tell me. But if you don't write yourself

_directly_ you get this, I shall think something dreadful has

happened; and it's such a nuisance not to know if you are all right. I

can't enjoy things properly a bit."

And so on, _ad lib._, _da capo_, until the end.

Having read it through twice, with a flicker of amusement in his tired

eyes, he sat down straightway, wrote for a quarter of an hour at the

top of his speed, and left the letter ready for the afternoon post. It

contained a polite apology for remissness, followed by an account in

bare outline of his doings during the past five days; a few details in

regard to Harry's illness; and an intimation that if letters were

short, she must remember that, for the present, every hour of spare

time would be taken up with nursing the Boy or writing detailed

accounts to his mother. And, in truth, before that wearisome illness

was over Mrs[.] Denvil and her boy's Captain had struck up a lasting

friendship across six thousand miles of sea.

* * * * *

On her return from a tennis party the following afternoon Evelyn

Desmond found the letter awaiting her; and her face took such rueful

lines as she read it, that Honor's anxiety was roused.

"_Evelyn_--what is it?" she asked, a slight catch in her breath.

Evelyn shrugged her shoulders in meek resignation.

"Oh, it's only rather more Kohatish than usual! Mr. Denvil seems to

be quite bad with typhoid, and Theo has been galloping over half the

Frontier after outposts--such rubbishy work for a man like that!

And--oh, you'd better read it all for yourself. You needn't bother

about it having been written for _me_. It might just as well be a

paragraph out of a newspaper!"

With a childish grimace she tossed the letter across the table. But

hid in her heart lay the rankling knowledge that she had been both

hasty and unjust to her husband, who had emphasised the fact by

ignoring it,--a method peculiarly his own.

Honor read every line of the closely-written pages with eager

interest, read also the much that had not been written, that Evelyn

had failed to discern; and a great thankfulness overwhelmed her that

she had refrained from adding her own passing vexation to the burden

of work and anxiety already resting on her friend's shoulders.

Her spoken comment was brief and characteristic.

"Oh, how I envy Mrs Olliver! We're just playing at life up here, you

and I, like two dolls, while she is living the real thing down there."

Evelyn Desmond, in utter astonishment, flung annoyance to the winds.

"Really and truly, Honor," she declared, with conviction, "you are the

most amazing person I've ever known!"

CHAPTER XII.

NOW IT'S DIFFERENT.

"A word! how it severeth!

O Power of Life and Death,

In the tongue, as the preacher saith."

--BROWNING.

The great monsoon--a majestic onrush of cloud hurtling across the

heavens, with dazzle of lightning and clangour of thunder--had long

since rolled up from India's coastline to her utmost hills; bringing

new forms of torment to the patient plains; filling mountain and

valley and water-courses innumerable with the voice of melody.

On the cedar-crowned heights of Murree, dank boughs dripped and

drooped above ill-made houses, that gave free admittance to the moist

outer world; tree ferns, springing to sudden life on moss-clad trunks

and boughs, showed brilliant as emeralds on velvet. The whole earth

was quick with hidden stirrings and strivings, the whole air quick

with living sound--plash of rain-drops; evensong of birds; glad

shouting of cicadas among the branches, and the laughter of a hundred

fairy falls.

Theo Desmond drank in the cool green wonder of it all with a keenly

perceptive enjoyment; drew into his lungs deep draughts of the strong,

clean mountain air; watched the frail curtain of mist swaying,

lifting, spreading to a pearl-white film, till, through a sudden rent,

the red gold of sunset burned, deepening to a mass of velvet shadow

the inexpressible blue of rain-washed hills.

His post of observation on this August evening was the saturated

verandah of "The Deodars," where he had flung himself full length in

Honor's canvas chair, a pipe between his teeth; hands locked behind

his head; lavishly muddied boots and gaiters outstretched; the whole

supple length of him eloquent of well-earned relaxation and repose.

Three days earlier he had ridden up through a world of driving mist

and rain in the wake of Harry Denvil's doolie; having secured a

blessed month of respite for himself and two months for the Boy, who,

by the efforts of three tireless nurses and a redoubtable Scotch

doctor, had been dragged back from death; and was but just beginning

to take hold on life and health again.

From outset to close he had clung to the support of Desmond's presence

with the tenacity of an exhausted body and a fevered brain;--a

tenacity which could not fail to touch the older man's heart, and

which had made it difficult for others to take their due share in the

nursing. Thus the slow weeks of dependence on one side, and unwearied

service on the other, together with the underlying bond between them,

had wrought a closeness of friendship to which the Boy had long

aspired; and which promised to add depth and stability to the warmth

and uprightness of heart that were already his. Harry Denvil's present

need was for a tacit wiping out of the past, an unquestioning trust in

regard to the future; and his Captain, after the wordless manner of

men, gave him full assurance of both. It is just this power to draw

out the best and strongest by the simple habit of taking it for

granted that marks the true leader; the man who compels because he

never insists; whose influence is less a force than a subtle

radiation.

And now, as Theo Desmond sat alone fronting a world compact of mist

and fire, and the fragrance of moist earth, his mind was mainly

concerned with the Boy's future, and with certain retrenchments of his

own expenditure, whereby alone he could hope to cancel the debts that

remained after the disposal of Roland. His sole trouble in respect of

these retrenchments lay in the fact that they must, to some extent,

affect his wife. If only she could be persuaded to see the necessity

as clearly as he did himself, all would be well. She and Harry had

been good friends from the outset. He hoped--he believed--she would

understand.

Light footsteps on the boards behind him brought a smile to his lips;

but he neither turned nor stirred. An instant later, hands cool and

imponderable as snowflakes rested on his forehead, and silken strands

of hair brushed it softly as his wife leaned over him, nestling her

head against his own.

"Are you very happy sitting there?" she whispered.

"Supremely happy."

"Why? Because you're so nice and wet, and messy?"

"Yes; and a few other reasons as well."

"What other reasons? Me?"

"Naturally, you dear little goose! Come round and let me get a sight

of you, instead of perching behind me like a bird."

She came round obediently, standing a little away from him,--a slim

strip of colour that reflected the uncertain sea-tint of her

eyes,--and looked down upon his disordered appearance with a small

grimace.

"I'm not _sure_ that I love you properly, Theo, when you're _quite_ as

muddy as that."

"Oh yes, you do; come on!"

And putting out an arm, he drew her down till she knelt beside him,

her hands resting on his knee. He covered them quietly with one of his

own.

"Ladybird, it's turning out a glorious evening! Come for a walk."

"Oh, Theo, _don't_ be so uncomfortably energetic! I hate going out in

the wet. You only came in half an hour ago, and you've been walking

all day."

He laughed--the glad laugh of a truant schoolboy--and knocked the

ashes out of his pipe.

"I'm capable of walking all night too! Only then you might imagine the

hot weather had turned my brain. But indeed, little woman, if you had

been sickened with sunlight and scorched earth as I have been for the

last three months, you'd understand how a man may feel a bit

lightheaded in the first few days that he's quit of it all."

"And was I very horrid to be playing up here in the cool all the

time?" she asked, pricked by the memory of Honor's words to one of her

rare touches of compunction.

"My dear, what nonsense! It would have been double as bad if you had

been there too."

Sincerity rang in his tone, and she noted the fact with a sigh of

relief. She was not altogether heartless, this fragile slip of

womanhood. She merely desired, like many of us, the comfort of being

selfish without the unbecomingness of appearing so.

"We'll sit out here together and talk till it gets dark," she

announced with a pretty air of decision, lest the invitation to walk

should be renewed. "Stay where you are, and I'll fetch a stool. It's

quite a treat to see you looking lazy for once in a way."

She brought a stool and established herself close to him. He

acknowledged her presence without removing his eyes from the

storm-tossed glory of the sky.

"Look, Ladybird--look!" he urged in a low tone. "We can talk

afterwards."

But her attention was caught and riveted by the reflection of the

glory in her husband's face.

"Does it please you so tremendously?" she asked in honest

bewilderment. "Just a sunset! You've seen hundreds of them before."

He smiled and answered nothing. Speech and emotion inhabit different

hemispheres of a man's brain; woman alone is rash enough to force them

into unwilling union.

The clinging garment of mist, driven and dispersed by day's last flash

of self-assertion, lay heaped and tumbled in the valleys, and the

mountains stood knee-deep in an opalescent sea of foam. It was as

though Nature, in a mood of capricious kindliness, had rent the veil,

that mortals might share in the triumphal passing of the sun, whose

supremacy had been in eclipse these many days.

Above the deep-toned quiet of earth, blurred and ragged clouds showed

every conceivable tone of umber and grey, from purest pearl-white to

darkest depths of indigo. Only low down, where a blue-black mass ended

with level abruptness, a flaming strip of day was splashed along the

west--one broad brush-stroke, as it were, by some Titanic artist whose

palette held liquid fire. Snows and mist alike caught and flung back

the radiance in a maze of rainbow hues; while beyond the bank of

cloud a vast pale fan of light shot outward and upward to the very

zenith of heaven. Each passing minute wrought some imperceptible

change of grouping, form, or colour; blurred masses melted to flakes

and strata on a groundwork of frail blue; orange deepened to crimson;

and anon earth and sky were on fire with tints of garnet and rose.

Each several snow-peak blushed like an angel surprised in a good deed.

Splashes of colour sprang from cloud-tip to cloud-tip with invisible

speed, till even the chill east glowed with a faint hue of life.

And in the midst of the transient splendour, enveloped by the

isolation of the falling day, husband and wife sat silent, absorbed in

strangely opposite reflections. Verily they dwelt in different

planets, these two who had willed to be one, but whom forces more

potent held it inexorably apart.

Desmond had long since passed beyond the border-line of definite

thought; while Evelyn's mind rapidly reverted to the more congenial

atmosphere of things terrestrial. An unknown force was urging her to

speak openly to her husband, to rid herself of the shadow that had

begun to tarnish the bright surface of life. It would be easier to

speak in dusk than in bald daylight--easier also before the bloom of

reunion had been rubbed off by the prosaic trivialities of life. In

her present position, too, it would be possible to avoid his gaze; and

she found a singular difficulty in tampering with facts when Theo's

eyes were on her face.

She watched him speculatively for a few moments, and wondered what

change would come over him when her tale was told. Anger frightened

and repelled her; and for all his hastiness she had seldom seen more

than a mere spark of his inner fire.

He seemed to have forgotten her existence; and by way of gentle

reminder she shifted her position.

"Theo," she said under her breath.

He felt the movement without catching the sound of his name, and

turned to her quickly, impulsive speech upon his lips.

"By the way, Ladybird, there's something I want to tell you, and this

is a good opportunity."

The coincidence so startled her that her own half-fledged impulse

scurried back to its nest. Nor was she certain whether the sigh that

escaped her expressed disappointment or relief.

"What is it?" she asked--"something nice?"

The characteristic question set him smiling.

"You must judge for yourself. It chiefly concerns the Boy. You're fond

of him, aren't you?"

"Yes; he's nice enough. But why?"

"You wouldn't mind if we put ourselves out a little to get him out of

a difficulty?"

"Well, that would rather depend on what we had to do." Her tone,

though still pleasant, was guarded. "What kind of difficulty?"

"Money."

She turned her face away something suddenly, and felt very thankful

that day was fading from the sky.

"Do you mean--lending him money?" she asked blankly.

"No--giving it. I prefer it that way. There's no need to tell you his

troubles in detail; it would hardly be fair to him. They, are of a

kind you can't know anything about; and I hope you never will."

In the fewest possible words he gave her an outline of Harry's story;

of the parting with Roland, and the promise he had exacted in return

for his help. He spoke throughout with such unfailing kindness that

vexation pricked and stung her, like thorns under the skin. She might

have told him after all. He would not have been angry. Now she had

been forestalled. She failed to perceive that the backslidings of his

wife must of necessity touch him more nearly than those of his

subaltern, and that to her own extravagance was added a host of petty

evasions and deceits such as a man of his type would be little able to

condone or understand.

"You see," he was saying when her mind harked back from the excursion

into her own point of view, "the poor fellow has done all he can

towards putting matters straight, and I am thankful I can manage the

rest myself, so as to give him a fair start for the future."

"But how much is--_your_ share?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

"Rather more than eight hundred rupees."

"And you have actually--_done_ it, Theo?"

"Yes. You surely couldn't have wished otherwise?"

For a moment she hesitated, then her repressed bitterness brimmed

over.

"Oh, I don't know. Only I think you might have considered _me_ a

little first. I've more right to your money than he has; and if you

can afford to throw away eight hundred rupees on a careless,

extravagant subaltern, you could quite well let me go to Simla; or at

least add something to my dress allowance. It's not so very easy to

manage on the little you give me."

She spoke with averted face in a tone of clear hardness, and each word

smote her husband like a small sharp stone.

"I am sorry you see it that way," he said, a new restraint in his

voice, "and that you don't find your allowance sufficient. I give you

all I can, and you seem to have pretty frocks enough, anyhow. If I had

eight hundred rupees to throw away,--as you choose to express it,--I

should hardly have spoken of putting ourselves out; in fact, I

shouldn't have spoken at all. But you have been such good friends with

the Boy all along that I hoped you would be ready to help give him a

hand up. I can only manage such a sum by knocking two hundred off my

pay for the next four months. This means cutting down expenses a

little; but we can easily do it, Ladybird--_if_ we pull together."

At any other time such an appeal from Theo would have proved

irresistible, would have drawn them into a closer union of thought and

purpose than they had ever attained as yet. But the appeal came at the

wrong moment, and Evelyn Desmond sat silent, her hands so fast

interlocked that her rings bruised their delicate surface.

"I am thinking of the Boy's mother as well as himself, you see," her

husband urged with increasing gentleness; "he is her only son, and she

is wrapped up in him; and I know from experience what that means."

She lifted her head and faced him.

"You think a great deal too much about--those sort of stray people,

Theo, and it's rather hard on me. Why am _I_ to be made uncomfortable

on account of Mrs Denvil, when I've never even met her in my life?"

"If you can't see that for yourself, Ladybird, I'm afraid I can't tell

you. I've no taste for preaching sermons."

"It would be rather a mercy if you had no taste for acting them

either," she retorted, with a little laugh that failed to take the

edge off her words. "_I_ don't much like them in any form. How are you

going to cut down expenses?"

"Chiefly in ways that need not concern you. But to start with, I'm

afraid I must take you and Honor down with me on the third of next

month. I can do nothing while I am crippled by a double establishment.

You'll barely miss four weeks up here, and the heat is over earlier in

Kohat than in the Punjab. Paul gets his leave when mine is up, and he

will spend it here with the Boy, so as to take the last month of rent

off my hands."

"So you've _settled_ it all without saying a word to _me_?"

"Yes. I had to fix things up before I left. It's a pity the difficulty

includes Honor, but I don't think she'll mind when I tell her why."

"Oh dear, no; _Honor_ won't mind. I believe she's happier in

Kohat,--but----"

"But _you_ are _not_?" he broke out abruptly, leaning forward and

searching her face with anxious eyes.

The vehement question startled her.

"I never said _that_, Theo--and it isn't true. Only--I do hate the

ugliness and the heat, and September's the loveliest month of all up

here."

"Doesn't it make things any easier to feel you are helping the Boy by

giving up these few weeks of enjoyment?"

"No--it doesn't. Not a bit."

Desmond frowned.

"Try and fancy yourself in a strait like that, Evelyn, and the

thundering relief it would be to get out of it."

His words stabbed her unwittingly.

"I'm not good at fancying things, and I'm not good at cutting down

expenses either--I was never taught. I hope you don't do these

uncomfortable sort of things often, Theo. It seems to me you're too

much inclined to rush in and help people without stopping to think

of--of other people at all! It would have been much better for the

Boy if you'd left him to get clear of his muddle, instead of upsetting

every one by spending money on him that you can't really spare."

Her husband leaned farther back into the shadow, his mouth hardened to

a rigid line. All that he chose to say on the subject had been said.

Emboldened by his silence, and the fact that his face was hidden from

her, she continued her small flow of remonstrance, undermining herself

more completely with each fresh word.

"It was all very well while you were a bachelor for you to go throwing

your life and your money about so foolishly. But now it's different;

and I don't think you have a right to do it any more. Where's the good

of us trying so hard to live on our pay, if it's only to be flung

about to help subalterns who don't try at all? You can't cure Mr

Denvil of being casual; and for all your generosity, you'll probably

find him in just as bad a hole again by this time next year."

The words stung him to sharp retort.

"I never asked for _your_ opinion of the Boy, Evelyn; and you seem to

forget that he has given me his word."

"Oh, no doubt he has! It's easy enough to make promises when one's

unhappy; but it isn't so easy to keep them when things get smooth

again." And she nodded her head wisely, for her conviction sprang from

the depths of personal experience.

Her husband rose and walked to the verandah's edge. Here he remained

standing, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his Norfolk coat,

his eyes fixed absently on the last gleam of light in the west, where

all that now remained of the sunset's stormy splendour was a handful

of filmy fragments, like rose petals dropped from some Olympian

rose-bush, and the sickle of a young moon, outrivalled by the mellow

radiance of the evening star. The snows lay dead and cold, awaiting

the resurrection of dawn. Their chill pallor struck at his heart in a

manner new to him.

Evelyn studied his eloquent outline with a mild surprise. She was not

a little proud of her valiant protest against his mistaken ideas; and

he was surely not foolish enough to be annoyed because she had talked

practical common-sense.

She went to him at last, and lightly touched his arm.

"You look as solemn as a funeral, Theo! Why don't you speak?"

"Because I have no more to say. Too much has been said already. I am

sorry I mentioned the matter at all."

With that he turned from her and entered the house.

Honor met him on the threshold, and her eyes were quick to catch the

lurking shadow in his. But she merely said what she had come to say.

"Mr Denvil is longing for you. I have done my small best to amuse him;

only there comes a stage when nothing will satisfy him but you.

Where's Evelyn?"

"Outside there. It's time she came in."

Honor found her by the verandah rails, standing like a pensive ghost

in the dying light.

"Studying the sunset, Evelyn?" she remarked cheerfully. "That's a new

departure for you!"

Whereat Evelyn flung out both hands--a pretty appealing gesture all

her own.

"Oh, Honor, Theo's been _so_ troublesome! And he wants to take us down

on the third of next month. He will explain to you the why of it all;

perhaps you'll understand better than I could. Such high-flown notions

don't appeal to me a bit. _I_ think Theo is rather like that silly man

in the Middle Ages who was always trying to fight windmills, or sheep,

or something; and there really ought to be a law to prevent people who

want to go about being unselfish to everybody from ever having wives

at all!"

CHAPTER XIII.

IT ISN'T FAIR.

"Though thou repent, yet have I still the loss;

The offender's sorrow yields but weak relief

To him who bears the strong offence's cross."

--SHAKESPEARE.

The measure of a man's worth is not to be found in a heroic impulse or

a fine idea, but in the steadfast working out of either through weeks

and months--when the glow has faded from the heights, when the

inspiration of an illumined moment has passed into the unrecognised

chivalry of daily life; and the three months following upon that

crucial August evening put no light tax upon Desmond's staying

power,--the power that is the corner-stone of all achievement.

Border life is, in every respect, more costly than life in "down

country" cantonments. To keep within the narrow bounds of his pay was

already a difficult matter; and such minor retrenchments as could be

achieved were inadequate to meet his present need. He saw that he

would be called upon to part with one or two cherished possessions,

acquired in days of young extravagance; and possibly to break into the

few hundred rupees laid aside for emergencies shortly after his

marriage.

Wine, cigars, and cigarettes must be banished outright; and he limited

himself to one pipe and one "peg" a-day. Stores of all kinds were

ruthlessly cut down; and only the Anglo-Indian housewife knows what it

means to be flung almost entirely upon the tender mercies of the

Bazaar. Informal dinner-parties, for which the Desmonds were famous,

became rare events; and nights at Mess--a favourite and justifiable

luxury--were reduced in number as far as might be without eliciting

remonstrance from his brother officers. For in India, and more

especially in the Army of India, it is profoundly true that "no man

liveth unto himself." In the Land of the Open Door the second of the

two great commandments is apt to be set before the first; and nowhere,

perhaps, is the bond of union stronger, more compelling, than in the

isolated regiments of the Frontier Force. But, with due regard for

this unwritten law, Desmond accomplished much in those few months of

unremitting self-denial; and if his friends noted certain changes in

his way of life, they accepted these in the true spirit of

comradeship, without question or comment.

Even Wyndham kept silence, though he had fuller knowledge of his

friend's abstemiousness, and was disturbed by a great longing to

remove the hidden cause. But intimate speech played a minor part in

the friendship of these two men. The very depth and strength of their

feeling for each other constrained them to a particular reticence in

the matter of self-expression.

On the first occasion of Paul's dining at the blue bungalow, after his

return from Murree, Desmond spoke a few words of apology for the

absence of wine and cigars.

"Sorry to treat you shabbily, old man," he said, when they were alone.

"Just a little necessary economy. It won't last long."

Paul nodded, smiling, and quietly proffered his own cigar-case.

"At least you'll not refuse one of mine, Theo," he said; and their

talk drifted into the fertile channel of "shop," and the prospect of

serious collision with Russia, which at that time loomed on the

political horizon.

Paul was thus left to draw his own conclusions, which were not

complimentary to his friend's wife. For reserve has its drawbacks,

like every other virtue; and those who practise it often, forget that

if there is a time for silence, there is also a time for speech.

Evelyn clung tenaciously to her disapproval of the whole proceeding.

The scarcity of stores, and of pleasant little dinners, were the only

retrenchments that directly disturbed her comfort, and she made the

most of them, though the problems of housekeeping fell mainly upon

Honor's shoulders. The girl's readiness to accept Evelyn's burden, as

a matter of course, could not fail to rouse Desmond's admiration: and

these three months of friction and stress, of working bravely together

for one end, went far to strengthen the bond of their friendship.

Evelyn contented herself with a thinly veiled air of martyrdom, and

with raising objections whenever opportunity offered. Only after

Denvil's first dinner did she venture a direct attack. For on this

occasion economy was not. Wine and cigars appeared with the dessert;

and the two men sat an inordinately long while over both. But the

inner significance of her husband's acts being a sealed book to Evelyn

Desmond, she spent the evening in a state of suppressed irritation,

which, on the Boy's departure, overflowed in petulant reproof.

"Why did you have everything different to-night just because of Mr

Denvil?" she demanded in a note of challenge.

"Because I preferred it so."

Desmond's tone was polite, but final. He sat down and opened a book in

self-defence. But Evelyn was not to be baulked by a policy of masterly

inactivity. She remained standing before him.

"Is it going to be like that every time he comes?"

"Yes."

"Theo--it's perfectly ridiculous the way you put yourself out for that

boy!" she protested with unusual heat, kindled by a hidden spark of

jealousy. "It's bad enough to have you giving up everything, and

making Honor and me thoroughly uncomfortable, without this sort of

nonsense on the top of it all."

Honor glanced up in quick remonstrance; but Desmond caught the look in

her eyes, and it was enough. "Haven't you the sense to see that just

because he is so fond of you he _ought_ to be allowed to know how much

trouble he has given you. It's the only way to make him more careful,

now he's back again; and if you _will_ go on in this way, I shall end

in speaking to him myself."

She had overshot the mark.

Desmond shut the book with a snap; flung it on the table, and sprang

up with such anger in his eyes that his wife shrank back

instinctively. Her movement, slight as it was, checked the impetuous

speech upon his lips.

"You will do nothing of the sort," he said in a restrained voice. "It

is a matter entirely between him and me; and that's an end of the

subject, once for all."

Evelyn, startled into silence, stood motionless till the study door

closed behind her husband; then, with a sigh of exasperation, hurried

out of the room, leaving Honor to her own disturbing thoughts.

* * * * *

Each month was forcing upon the girl a clearer revelation of the clash

of temperament, which threatened to bring about serious disunion

between these two, whose happiness had become a vital part of her

life; and her spirit was troubled beyond measure. The strongest

passion of Honor Meredith's heart was the true woman's passion--to

protect and help. But worldly wisdom warned her that her hands were

tied; that man and wife must work out their own salvation, or the

reverse, without help or hindrance from her.

Since their return from Murree such flashes of dissension had become

increasingly frequent between them. It is astonishing how quickly two

people can fall into a habit of discord. Abstinence from tobacco was

not without its effect upon Desmond's nerves and temper, tried as they

were by Evelyn's pin-prick methods of warfare; while she herself was

often strung into irritability by her own unacknowledged troubles.

The passing relief wrought by Miss Kresney's loan had evaporated with

the realisation that she had only contracted a debt in another

direction--a debt more embarrassing than all the rest put together;

for she knew that she would never have the courage to speak of it to

her husband. Miss Kresney had told her to take her time in the matter

of repayment, and she had taken it in generous measure. Not a fraction

of the three hundred rupees had been repaid as yet; and, by way of

atonement, Evelyn felt constrained to a more decisive friendliness

with both brother and sister--a fact which Owen Kresney noted with

satisfaction; and which did not improve matters between herself and

Theo.

As the weeks wore on he devoted his spare time more exclusively to

polo and Persian; continuing his lessons to Honor; and rarely spending

his evenings in the drawing-room, unless the girl's music held him

spellbound, and ensured the avoidance of dangerous topics. Evelyn

retorted by a renewed zest for tennis and tea-parties; an increasing

tendency to follow the line of least resistance, regardless of

results. Thus Honor found herself thrown more and more upon the

companionship of Mrs Olliver, Mrs Conolly, and Paul Wyndham, whose

anxiety for Theo she guessed at, even as they guessed her own, though

never a word on the subject passed between them.

Evelyn's anxiety was reserved exclusively for herself. She had sense

enough to perceive that nothing could defer the day of reckoning much

longer; and on a certain afternoon in early December she exhumed her

detested sheaf of bills and sat down at her bureau to a

reconsideration of the hopelessness of things in general.

A panel of winter sunshine, flung across the room from the verandah

door, enveloped her in a glow of light and warmth. The drowsiness of

an Indian noon brooded over the compound. Honor was out riding with

Paul Wyndham; Theo busy in the next room, and very unlikely to

interrupt her, she reflected with a pang of regret. In an hour's time

she was going over to tea and tennis with the Kresneys; and had

decided that, after six months of silence, some mention must be made

of a fixed scale of repayment, to begin with the New Year. But in that

event, what hope of meeting any of those other demands, that were

again being urgently brought to her notice? What possibility of

ordering the two new gowns--bare necessities, in her esteem--to grace

the coming Christmas week at Lahore?

This same "week" is the central social event of the Punjab cold

weather, when most officers on the Border are certain of their fifteen

days' leave; when from all corners of the Province men and women

gravitate towards its dusty capital--women with dress baskets of

formidable size; men armed with polo-sticks, and with ponies, beloved

cricket-bats and saddles!

Through all the dismal coil of things, this one hour of festivity

gleamed on Evelyn Desmond's horizon like a light in a dark room. For

one brief blessed week she would be in her element, would escape from

the galling restraint of economy; and, more than all, in the

background of her mind there lurked a hope that by some means she

might recapture that vigorous, self-poised husband of hers, whose love

was, after all, the one real necessity of her life; and whom she now

saw slipping slowly, surely out of reach. But to recapture she must

recaptivate; and to that end faultless frocks were indispensable.

She leaned her head upon her hands, and fell to building extravagant

air-castles that eclipsed all practical considerations whatsoever.

So complete was her abstraction, that she failed to hear the study

door open, and was rudely startled back to reality by her husband's

voice at her elbow, sharp and stern, as she had never heard it till

now.

"What _is_ the meaning of this, Evelyn?" he demanded, bringing his

hand down on the desk beside her; and one glance at the half sheet

lying beneath it was enough. That particular bill had grown painfully

familiar during the last few months. It was from Lahore, and its total

was no less than three hundred rupees. Her husband's waiting silence

was more disconcerting than speech.

"It's mine," she murmured breathlessly; and snatched at the offending

scrap of paper, tearing it in two.

"The bill is mine now," Desmond rebuked her with studied equanimity.

"You can't cancel it by destroying it. No doubt you've got another

copy. Will you let me have it and any others you happen to have by

you?"

"Where's the use of that?... You can't pay off anything now."

"I can and will pay off every penny. But I must know exactly how you

stand."

For all his coldness, the assurance fell on her heart like rain on

thirsty soil. Where the money was to come from she could not guess.

But she knew enough of the man to feel sure that his words would be

fulfilled to the letter.

One consideration only withheld her from reply. How much did she dare

confess to him even now? Not Miss Kresney's transaction; nor the need

of new dresses for Lahore. But the rest!... What an unspeakable

comfort it would be to fling all the rest on to his shoulders, that

seemed broad and strong enough to carry her burdens and his own.

Her hesitancy pricked him to impatience.

"Well, Evelyn, I am waiting for your answer. Are there other bills

besides that one?--Yes or No. I want the truth. Don't stop to

embroider it."

At that the blood flew to her cheeks. She sprang up and faced him,

tremulous, but defiant.

"If you say things like _that_ to me, I won't tell you anything at all

... ever." And turning sharply away, to hide her tears, she went over

to the mantelpiece and leaned upon it, keeping her back towards him.

Desmond followed her.

"I am sorry if I hurt you," he said, a touch of bitterness in his

tone. "But the fact that I can speak so without doing you a gross

injustice hurts me more than you are ever likely to understand."

"You make it all seem much worse--than it really is," she answered

without looking round. "I haven't done anything dreadful, after all.

Heaps of people get into debt. You weren't so angry with Mr Denvil;

and--and--if you hadn't been in such a hurry to help him, you'd have

found it easier to help me now."

"No need to fling that in my teeth, or drag the Boy into the

discussion. The cases are not parallel, and you have only yourself to

thank that my money went to him instead of you. In my anxiety to avoid

anything of this sort, I have questioned you several times, and each

time you have told me a lie. The whole pile of bills are nothing to me

in comparison with that. I suppose I ought to have known that you

could hardly dress as you do on the little I can spare. But I was fool

enough to trust you implicitly." He paused, and added with greater

gentleness: "What's more, I shall trust you again, unless you make

that quite impossible. But I warn you--Ladybird, that if ever you do

kill my trust in you, you will kill--everything else along with it."

"_Theo!_"

There was sharp pain in the cry, and she swung round, flinging out her

hands with a pathetic gesture of entreaty. He did not take them as she

half hoped he would; but stood looking at her in a thoughtful silence.

Then, "If you care as much as that," he said slowly, "it lies with you

not to fling away the thing you care for. Will you please let me see

those bills."

"They are on the bureau. You can take them."

She turned again to the mantelpiece, for her lips were not quite

steady.

"You were going to tell me about them, perhaps?"

"N--no. I wasn't."

He sighed; and taking up the papers, looked through them absently, too

deeply troubled to grasp their contents.

"Are these all?" he asked quietly.

"Nearly all."

"Have you any idea of the total?"

"About six hundred rupees."

A short silence followed, during which she again heard the rustle of

paper behind her, and longed for a sight of his face.

"I am afraid this knocks the Lahore week on the head," he said at

length. "I am bound to run down for the Polo Tournament, of course;

but I can come straight back, and we must do without the rest of it

this year."

The incredible words roused Evelyn to open mutiny. Once more she faced

him, her head flung backward, a ring of resolve in her voice.

"No, Theo, ... I _won't_ do without the rest of it. _You_ don't care,

I daresay! So long as you can win the Punjab Cup, nothing else

matters. But Christmas week is my only bit of real pleasure in all the

cold weather, and I _will_ go down for it, ... what_ever_ you say."

Theo Desmond was completely taken aback; and when surprise gave place

to speech, his tone suggested the iron hand under the velvet glove.

"My dear little woman, you are talking nonsense. If I find it

impossible to manage Lahore, you will remain here. There can be no

question about that."

But Evelyn persisted with the courage of despair.

"Then you mustn't find it impossible, ... that's all! There has been

nothing but giving up ever since we came from Murree. I'm sick of it;

and I won't give up Christmas week, too. It's quite hard enough for me

as it is, being stranded in the most hopeless part of India because of

you, without your grudging my few little pleasures as well." And

sinking into a chair, she hid her face in her hands.

The victory is more often to the unscrupulous than to the strong. His

wife's injustice cut Desmond to the quick. Impulsive renunciation

sprang to his lips; and was only checked by the remembrance that he

had given Honor his word.

"Evelyn--Evelyn," he pleaded with sudden vehemence, "for Heaven's sake

have a little consideration for facts--if you have none for me. I

grudge you nothing--I have never done so--and you know it. But--if you

really find Frontier life intolerable, I can only give you free leave

to go home, directly I scrape together the money for your passage."

"Go home----?" she echoed in blank bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

"What I say."

"But--wouldn't you come too?"

"No. I have no leave due now; and if I had, I couldn't afford to take

it."

"You want me to go?" she flashed out in a tremor of apprehension. "I'm

only a hindrance to you here. That's the real truth, I suppose?"

"I never said that, and I have given you no grounds for thinking it."

"But do you, Theo--_do_ you?"

Her eyes searched his face for confirmation of her suspicion, and

found none.

"What I want or don't want is beside the mark," he said. "I naturally

wish to see you happy; and as that evidently can't be managed here, I

am willing to let you go and be happy elsewhere."

Her eyes fell and her answer came almost in a whisper.

"But I couldn't be happy anywhere else--without you."

"Is that the truth?"

"Yes."

"You'd prefer to stay here--with me?"

"Yes."

He laid his hand for an instant on her bent head.

"Stay then, Ladybird, by all means. Only, for pity's sake, spare me

any more of the sort of things you said just now."

"And you won't stop me from going to Lahore, Theo?--Promise."

A swift change of expression crossed his face.

"I can't promise that. I'll do my best not to disappoint you, but I

must get all these cleared off before I think of anything else."

"How _can_ you manage to clear them off--now?"

"Why trouble your head about side issues? They will all be paid before

Christmas; that ought to be enough for you."

"But it's not enough. Tell me what you are going to do--tell me. I

won't be pushed on one side like a child."

Desmond frowned.

"Well--if you insist on having it, I am going to sell Diamond."

She started and caught at his arm. For all his matter-of-fact

coolness, she knew what those half-dozen words meant to her husband.

"No,--no Theo. Not Diamond! He's the best of them all."

"Exactly. He'll sell quicker and fetch a longer price than any of the

others; that's why--he must go."

"But the tournament? Captain Olliver's mad about winning the Cup this

year."

"I know that. So am I. I shall manage about a third pony, no fear.

Time enough to think of that later. I must go and make out those

advertisements."

He set his teeth upon the word and turned to leave her, but her voice

arrested him half-way to the door.

"Theo!"

"Well?"

"Are you _sure_ there's nothing else that can be done? It--it isn't

fair for you to lose the pony you love best, just because of a few

dressmakers' bills."

At that his pent-up bitterness slipped from leash.

"Upon my soul, Evelyn, you're right. But there's no other way out of

the difficulty, so let's have no more words about it: they don't make

things easier to bear."

CHAPTER XIV.

I SIMPLY INSIST.

"The fountains of my hidden life,

Are, through thy friendship, fair."

--EMERSON.

Not many days later Desmond's advertisements appeared simultaneously

in the only two newspapers of Upper India; and he set his face like a

flint in anticipation of the universal remonstrance in store for him,

when the desperate step he had taken became known to the regiment.

He was captain of the finest polo team on the frontier; the one great

tournament of the year--open to every Punjab regiment, horse and

foot--would begin in less than a fortnight; and he, who had never

parted with a polo pony in his life, was advertising the pick of his

stable for sale. A proceeding so unprecedented, so perplexing to all

who knew him, could not, in the nature of things, be passed over in

silence. Desmond knew--none better--that victory or defeat may hang on

the turn of a hair; that, skilled player though he was, the

introduction of a borrowed pony, almost at the last moment, into a

team trained for months to play in perfect accord was unwise, to say

the least of it; knew also that he would be called upon to justify his

own unwisdom at so critical a juncture, when all hearts were set on

winning the coveted Punjab Cup.

And justification was out of the question,--there lay the sting.

Loyalty to Evelyn sealed his lips; and even the loss of his best-loved

pony was less hard to bear than the possibility of being misjudged by

his brother officers, whose faith in him had come to be an integral

part of his life.

In his present cooler frame of mind he saw that his action had been

over-hasty; but with men of vehement temperament, to think is to feel,

to feel is to act,--reflection comes last, if it ever comes at all.

The first heat of vexation, the discovery of his wife's

untrustworthiness and the sacrifice it entailed, had blinded him to

all minor considerations.

But these were details that could not be put into words. The thing was

done. To put a brave face on it, and to shield Evelyn from the result

of her own misdoing--there lay his simple duty in a nutshell. The risk

must be accepted, and the Punjab Cup carried off in its despite. This

man owed more than he knew to the "beholden face of victory"; to his

life-long determination that, no matter what happened, he must

conquer.

In the meanwhile immediate issues demanded his full attention.

Harry Denvil, as might be expected, sounded the first note of protest.

He invaded the sacred precincts of his senior's study with audacious

lack of ceremony.

"Forgive me, Desmond: but there was no one in the verandah, and I

couldn't wait. Of course you know what's in the wind. The Colonel came

on that advertisement of yours in 'The Pioneer' just before tiffin,

and you should have heard him swear! He showed it to Major Wyndham,

and asked: 'Was it a practical joke?' But the Major seemed quite cut

up; said he knew nothing about it, and you would probably have good

reasons to give. The rest didn't take it so quietly; but of course _I_

understood at once. For God's sake, old chap, cancel that confounded

advertisement, and take back your eight hundred. I can borrow it again

from the _shroff_, just for the present. Anything's better than

letting you in for the loss of Diamond at a time like this."

He broke off more from lack of breath than lack of matter; and

Desmond, who had risen to cope with the intruder, put both hands upon

the Boy's shoulders, a great kindliness softening his eyes.

"My dear Harry, don't distress yourself," he said. "I appreciate your

generosity a good deal more than I care to say. But you are not in any

way to blame for the loss of Diamond."

"But, Desmond--I don't understand----"

"There are more things in heaven and earth...!" Desmond quoted,

smiling. "It's like your impertinence to understand everything at

four-and-twenty."

"Oh, shut up!" the other retorted, laughing in spite of himself.

"Can't you see I'm in earnest? You don't mean to tell me----?"

"No, Harry, I don't mean to tell you anything about it. I'm not

responsible to you for my actions. Stay and have a pipe with me to

cool you down a bit. Not another word about my affairs, or I take you

by the shoulders and put you outside the door."

Thus much for Denvil. But the rest could not be treated in this

summary fashion.

Wyndham put in an appearance at polo that afternoon. He played

fitfully; and at other times rode out to the ground, which lay a mile

or so beyond the station. To-day it chanced--or possibly Paul so

contrived it--that he and Desmond rode home together, a little behind

the others.

A low sun stretched out all the hills; distorted the shadows of the

riders; and flung a golden pollen of radiance over the barren land.

The habit of silence was strong between these two men; and for a while

it lasted unbroken. Desmond was riding his favourite pony, a spirited

chestnut Arab, swift as a swallow, sensitive as a child, bearing on

his forehead the white star to which he owed his name. The snaffle

hung loose upon his neck, and Desmond's hand rested upon the silken

shoulder as if in a mute caress. He knew what was coming, and awaited

Paul's pleasure with stoical resignation.

Wyndham considered the strong, straight lines of his friend's profile

thoughtfully; then he spoke:

"You gave us all rather a shock this morning, Theo."

"I'm sorry for that. I was afraid there'd be some bother about it. But

needs must--when the devil drives."

"The devil that drives you is your own incurable pride," Paul answered

with unusual warmth. "You know, without forcing me to put it in

words, that every rupee I possess is at your service. You might have

given me a chance before going such lengths as this."

Desmond shook his head. The man's fastidious soul revolted from the

idea of using Paul's money to pay his wife's bills.

"Not in these circumstances," he said. "It wasn't pride that held me

back; but a natural sense of the justice and--fitness of things. You

must take that on trust, Paul."

"Why, of course, my dear chap. But how about the fitness of parting

with that pony just before the tournament? As captain of the team, do

you think you are acting quite fairly by the Regiment?"

The shot told. Among soldiers of the best sort the Regiment is apt to

be a fetish, and to Desmond the lightest imputation of disregard for

its welfare was intolerable.

"Is that how the other fellows look at it?" he asked, a troubled note

in his voice.

"Well, if they do, one can hardly blame them. They naturally want to

know what you mean to do about the tournament after you have let your

best pony go? I take it for granted that you have some sort of plan in

your head."

"Yes. I am counting on you to lend me Esmeralda. It's only the 6th

now; and if I train her for all I'm worth between this and the 20th, I

can get her up to the scratch."

Paul's answering smile was oddly compact of tenderness and humour.

"So that's your notion? You'll deign to make use of me so far? Upon my

soul, Theo, you deserve that I should refuse, since you won't give me

the satisfaction of doing what would be far more to the purpose."

Desmond looked his friend steadily in the eyes.

"You'll not refuse, though," he said quietly, and Paul shook his head.

By way of thanks, Theo laid his hand impulsively upon Wyndham's arm.

"I'm sure you understand, dear old man, that it's not easy or pleasant

for me to part with Diamond, or to shut you out and refuse your help;

but I can't endure that the rest of them should think me slack or

careless of their interests."

"They know you far too well to think anything of the sort. By the way,

what arrangements are you making for Lahore?"

"None at all. Honor will go, I daresay; and I shall run down for the

polo. But fifteen days' leave is out of the question."

Paul turned sharply in his saddle.

"Now, look here, Theo--you're going too far. I make no offer this

time. I simply insist!"

Desmond hesitated. The thought of Evelyn was knocking at his heart.

"You know I hate accepting that sort of thing," he objected, "even

from you."

Wyndham laughed.

"That's your peculiar form of selfishness, my dear chap. You want to

keep the monopoly of giving in your own hands. Very wholesome for you

to have the tables turned. Besides," urged the diplomatist, boldly

laying down his trump card, "it would be a great disappointment to

your wife not to go down with us all and see the matches."

"Yes. That's just the difficulty."

"I'm delighted to hear it! The Lahore week shall be my Christmas

present to her and you; and there's an end of _that_ dilemma."

"Thank you, Paul," Desmond said simply. "I'll tell her to-night. Come

over to dinner," he added as they parted. "The Ollivers will be there;

and I may stand in need of protection."

The sound of music greeted him from the hall, and he found Honor

playing alone in the dusk.

"Please go on," he said, as she rose to greet him. "It's what I want

more than anything at this moment."

The girl flushed softly, and turned back to the instrument. Any one

who had heard her playing before Desmond came in, could scarcely have

failed to note the subtle change in its quality. She made of her music

a voice of sympathy, evolved from the heart of the great German

masters; whose satisfying strength and simplicity--so far removed from

the restless questioning of our later day--were surely the outcome of

a large faith in God; of the certainty that effort, aspiration, and

endurance, despite their seeming futility, can never fail to be very

much worth while.

In this fashion Honor reassured her friend to his complete

comprehension; and while he sat listening and watching her in the half

light, he fell to wondering how it came about that this girl, with her

generous warmth of heart, her twofold beauty of the spirit and the

flesh, should still be finding her central interest in the lives of

others rather than in her own. Was the inevitable awakening over and

done with? Or was it yet to come? He inclined to the latter view, and

the thought of Paul sprang to his mind. Here, surely, was the one

woman worthy of his friend. But then, Paul held strong views about

marriage, and it was almost impossible to picture the good fellow in

love.

Nevertheless, the good fellow was, at that time, more profoundly, more

irrevocably in love than Desmond himself had ever been,

notwithstanding the fact of his marriage. His theories had proved mere

dust in the balance when weighed against his strong, simple-hearted

love for Honor Meredith. Yet the passing of nine months found him no

nearer to open recantation. If a man has learnt nothing else by the

time he is thirty-eight, he has usually gained possession of his soul,

and at no stage of his life had Paul shown the least talent for taking

a situation by storm. In the attainment of Honor's friendship, this

most modest of men felt himself blest beyond desert; and watch as he

might for the least indication of a deeper feeling, he had hitherto

watched in vain. It never occurred to him that his peculiarly reticent

form of wooing--if wooing it could be called--was hardly calculated to

enlighten her as to the state of his heart. He merely reined in his

great longing and awaited possible developments; accepting, in all

thankfulness, the certain good that was his, and determined not to

risk the loss of it without some hope of greater gain.

But of all these things Desmond guessed nothing as he sat, in the dusk

of that December evening, speculating on the fate of the girl whose

friendship he frankly regarded as one of the goodliest gifts of life.

When at last she rose from the piano, he rose also.

"_Thank_ you," he said with quiet emphasis. "How well you understand!"

"Don't let yourself be troubled by anything the Ollivers may say or

think," she answered softly. "You are doing your simple duty, Theo,

and I am sure Major Wyndham, even without knowing all the facts, will

understand quite as well--as I do."

With that she left him, because the fulness of her understanding put a

check upon further speech.

That night, when the little party had broken up without open warfare,

and Desmond stood alone with his wife before the drawing-room fire, he

told her of Wyndham's generosity.

"You'll get your week at Lahore, Ladybird," he said. "And you owe it

to Paul. He wishes us to accept the trip as his Christmas present."

"Oh, Theo...!" A quick flush revealed her delight at the news, and she

made a small movement towards him; but nothing came of it. Six months

ago she would have nestled close to him, certain of the tender

endearments which had grown strangely infrequent of late. Now an

indefinable shyness checked the spontaneous caress, the eager words

upon her lips. But her husband, who was looking thoughtfully into the

fire, seemed serenely unaware of the fact.

"You're happy about it, aren't you?" he asked at length.

"Yes--of course--very happy."

"That's all right; and I'm glad I wasn't driven to disappoint you. Now

get to bed; and sleep soundly on your rare bit of good luck. I have

still a lot of work to get through."

She accepted his kindly dismissal with an altogether new docility; and

on arriving in her own room gave conclusive proof of her happiness by

flinging herself on the bed in a paroxysm of stifled sobbing.

"Oh, if only I had told him sooner!" she lamented through her tears.

"Now I don't believe he'll ever really forgive me, or love me properly

again."

And, in a measure, she was right. Trust her he might, as in duty

bound; but to be as he had been before eating the bitter fruit of

knowledge was, for the present at all events, out of his power.

Since their momentous talk nearly a week ago, Evelyn had felt herself

imperceptibly held at arms' length, and the vagueness of the sensation

increased her discomfort tenfold. No word of reproach had passed his

lips, nor any further mention of Diamond or the bills; nothing so

quickly breeds constraint between two people as conscious avoidance of

a subject that is seldom absent from the minds of both. Yet Theo was

scrupulously kind, forbearing, good-tempered--everything, in short,

save the tender, lover-like husband he had been to her during the

first eighteen months of marriage. And she had only herself to

blame,--there lay the sharpest pang of all. Life holds no anodyne for

the sorrows we bring upon ourselves.

As the days wore on she watched Theo's face anxiously, at post time,

for any sign of an answer to that hateful advertisement; and before

the week's end she knew that the punishment that should have been hers

had fallen on her husband's shoulders.

Coming into breakfast one morning, she found him studying an open

letter with a deep furrow between his brows. At sight of her he

started and slipped it into his pocket.

The meal was a silent one. Evelyn found the pattern of her plate

curiously engrossing. Desmond, after a few hurried mouthfuls, excused

himself and went out. Then Evelyn looked up; and the tears that hung

on her lashes overflowed.

"He--he's gone to the stables, Honor," she said brokenly. "He got an

answer this morning;--I'm sure he did. But he--he won't tell me

anything now. Where's the _use_ of being married to him if he's always

going on like this? I wish--I wish he could sell--_me_ to that man,

instead of Diamond. He wouldn't mind it _half_ as much----"

And with this tragic announcement--which, for at least five minutes,

she implicitly believed--her head went down upon her hands.

Honor soothed her very tenderly, realising that she sorrowed with the

despair of a child who sees the world's end in every broken toy.

"Hush--hush!" she remonstrated. "You mustn't think anything so

foolish, so unjust. Theo is very magnanimous, Evelyn. He will see you

are sorry, and then it will all go smoothly again."

"But there's the--the other thing," murmured the pretty sinner with a

doleful shake of her head. "He won't forgive me that; and he _doesn't_

seem to see that I'm sorry. I wanted to tell him this morning, when I

saw that letter. But he somehow makes me afraid to say a word about

it."

"Better not try yet awhile, dear. When a man is in trouble, there is

nothing he thanks one for so heartily as for letting him alone till it

is well over."

Evelyn looked up again with a misty smile.

"I can't think why you know so much about men, Honor. How do you find

out those sort of things?"

"I suppose it's because I've always cared very much for men,"--she

made the statement quite unblushingly. "Loving people is the only sure

way of understanding them in the long-run."

"_Is_ it?... You are clever, Honor. But it doesn't seem to help me

much with Theo."

Such prompt, personal application of her philosophy of the heart was a

little disconcerting. The girl could not well reply that in love there

are a thousand shades, and very few are worthy of the name.

"It _will_ help you in time," she said reassuringly. "It is one of the

few things that cannot fail. And to-day, at least, you have learnt

that when things are going hardly with Theo, it is kindest and wisest

to leave him alone."

Evelyn understood this last, and registered a valiant resolve to that

effect.

But the day's events gave her small chance of acting on her new-found

knowledge. Desmond himself took the initiative: and save for a bare

half-hour at tiffin, she saw him no more until the evening.

Perhaps only the man who has trained and loved a polo pony can

estimate the pain and rebellion of spirit that he was combating,

doggedly and in silence; or condone the passing bitterness he felt

towards his uncomprehending wife.

He spent more time than usual in the stables, where Diamond nuzzled

into his breast-pocket for slices of apple and sugar; and Diamond's

_sais_ lifted up his voice and wept, on receipt of an order to start

for Pindi with his charge on the following day.

"There is no Sahib like my Sahib in all Hind," he protested, his

turban within an inch of Desmond's riding-boot. "The Sahib is my

father and my mother! How should we serve a stranger, Hazúr,--the pony

and I?"

"Nevertheless, it is an order," Desmond answered not unkindly, "that

thou shouldst remain with the pony, sending word from time to time

that all goeth well with him. Rise up. It is enough."

Returning to the house, he hardened his heart, and accepted the

unwelcome offer from Pindi.

"What a confounded fool I am!" he muttered, as he stamped and sealed

the envelope. "I'd sooner shoot the little chap than part with him in

this way."

But the letter was posted, nevertheless.

He excused himself from polo, and rode over to Wyndham's bungalow,

where he found Paul established in the verandah with his invariable

companions--a pipe, and a volume of poetry or philosophy.

"Come along, and beat me at rackets, old man," he said without

dismounting. "I'm 'off' polo to-day. We can go for a canter

afterwards."

Wyndham needed no further explanation. A glance at Theo's face was

enough. They spent four hours together; talked of all things in heaven

and earth, except the one sore subject; and parted with a smile of

amused understanding.

"Quite like old times!" Paul remarked, and Desmond nodded. For it was

a habit, dating from early days, that whenever the pin-pricks of life

chafed Theo's impatient spirit, he would seek out his friend, spend an

hour or two in his company, and tell him precisely nothing.

Thanks to Paul's good offices, dinner was a pleasanter meal than the

earlier ones had been. But Evelyn looked white and woe-begone; and

Honor wisely carried her off to bed, leaving Desmond to his pipe and

his own discouraging thoughts.

These proved so engrossing that he failed to hear a step in the

verandah, and started when two hands came quietly down upon his

shoulders.

No need to ask whose they were. Desmond put up his own and caught them

in a strong grip.

"Old times again, is it?" he asked, with a short satisfied laugh.

"Brought your pipe along?"

"Yes."

"Good business. There's your chair,--it always seems yours to me

still. Have a 'peg'?"

Paul shook his head, and drew his chair up to the fire with deliberate

satisfaction.

"Light up, then; and we'll make a night of it as we used to do in the

days before we learned wisdom, and paid for it in hard cash."

"Talking of hard cash--what price d'you get?" the other asked

abruptly.

"Seven-fifty."

"Will that cover everything?"

"Yes."

"Theo,--why, in Heaven's name, won't you cancel this wretched

business, and take the money from me instead?"

"Too late now. And, in any case, it's out of the question, for reasons

that you would be the first to appreciate--if you knew them."

"But look here--suppose I do know----"

Desmond lifted a peremptory hand.

"Whatever you think you know, for God's sake don't put it into words.

I'm bound to go through with this, Paul, in the only way that seems

right to me. Don't make it harder than it is already. Besides," he

added, with a brisk change of tone, "this is modern history! We're

pledged to old times to-night."

Evelyn's fantastic French clock struck three, in silver tones, before

the two men parted.

"It's an ill wind that blows no good, after all!" Desmond remarked, as

he stood in a wide splash of moonlight on the verandah steps. "I feel

ten years younger since the morning. Come again soon, dear old man;

it's always good to see you."

And Paul Wyndham, riding homeward under the myriad lamps of heaven,

thanked God, in his simple devout fashion, for the courage and

constancy of his friend's heart.

CHAPTER XV.

GOOD ENOUGH, ISN'T IT?

"One crowded hour of glorious life."

--SCOTT.

The dusty parade-ground of Mian Mir, Lahore's military cantonment,

vibrated from end to end with a rising tide of excitement.

On all sides of the huge square eight thousand spectators, of every

rank and race and colour, were wedged into a compact mass forty or

fifty deep: while in the central space, eight ponies scampered,

scuffled, and skidded in the wake of a bamboo-root polo-ball; theirs

hoofs rattling like hailstones on the hard ground.

And close about them--as close as boundary flags and distracted native

policemen would permit--pressed that solid wall of onlookers--soldiers,

British and native, from thirty regiments at least; officers, in

uniform and out of it; ponies and players of defeated teams, manfully

resigned to the "fortune o' war," and not forgetful of the obvious

fluke by which their late opponents had scored the game; official

dignitaries, laying aside dignity for the occasion; drags, phaetons,

landaus, and dog-carts, gay as a summer parterre in a wind, with the

restless parasols and bonnets of half the women in the Punjab; scores

and scores of _saïses_, betting freely on the match, arguing,

shouting, or shampooing the legs of ponies, whose turn was yet to

come; and through all the confused hubbub of laughter, cheering, and

mercifully incoherent profanity, a British infantry band hammering out

with insular assurance, "We'll fight and we'll conquer again and

again."

It was the last day of the old year--a brilliant Punjab December

day--and the last "chukker" of the final match for the Cup was in full

progress. It lay between the Punjab Cavalry from Kohat and a crack

Hussar team, fresh from Home and Hurlingham, mounted on priceless

ponies, six to each man, and upheld by an overweening confidence that

they were bound to "sweep the board." They had swept it accordingly;

and although anticipating "a tough tussle with those game 'Piffer'[25]

chaps," were disposed to look upon the Punjab Cup as their own

property for at least a year to come.

[25] Abbreviation of Punjab Irregular Frontier Force.

Desmond and his men--Olliver and two native officers--knew all this

well enough; knew also that money means pace, and weight, and a

liberal supply of fresh mounts, and frankly recognised that the odds

were heavily against them. But there remained two points worth

considering:--they had been trained to play in perfect unison, horse

and man; and they were all in deadly earnest.

They had fought their way, inch by inch, through the tournament to

this final tie; and it had been a glorious fight so far. The Hussars,

whose self-assurance had led them to underrate the strength of the

enemy, were playing now like men possessed. The score stood at two

goals all, and electric shocks of excitement tingled through the

crowd.

Theo Desmond was playing "back," as a wise captain should, to guard

the goal and ensure the completest control over his team; and his

mount was a chestnut Arab with three white stockings and a star upon

his forehead.

* * * * *

This unlooked-for circumstance requires explanation.

A week earlier, on returning from his morning ride to the bungalow

where Paul and his own party were staying, Desmond had been confronted

by Diamond in a brand-new saddle-cloth marked with his initials; while

Diamond's _sais_, with a smile that displayed every tooth in his head,

salaamed to the ground.

"Well, I'm shot!" he exclaimed. "Dunni,--what's the meaning of this?"

The man held out a note in Colonel Buchanan's handwriting. Desmond

dismounted, flung an arm over the Arab's neck, and opened the note

with a strange quickening of his breath.

The Colonel stated, in a few friendly words, that as Diamond was too

good a pony to be allowed to go out of the Regiment, he and his

brother officers had decided to buy him back for the Polo Club. Major

Wilkinson of the Loyal Monmouth had been uncommonly decent over the

whole thing; and, as captain of the team, Desmond would naturally have

the use of Diamond during the tournament, and afterwards, except when

he happened to be away on leave.

It took him several minutes to grasp those half dozen lines of

writing; and if the letters grew indistinct as he read, he had small

cause to be ashamed of the fact.

On looking up, he found Paul watching him from the verandah; and

dismissing the _sais_ he sprang up the steps at a bound.

"Paul,--was it your notion?"

But the other smiled and shook his head.

"Brilliant inspirations are not in my line, old chap. It was Mrs

Olliver. She and the Colonel did most of it between them, though we're

all implicated, of course; and I don't know when I've seen the Colonel

so keen about anything in his life."

"God bless you all!" Desmond muttered under his breath. "I'm bound to

win the Cup for you after this."

* * * * *

And now, as the final "chukker" of the tournament drew to a close, it

did indeed seem that the ambition of many years was on the eve of

fulfilment. Excitement rose higher every minute. Cheers rang out on

the smallest provocation. General sympathy was obviously with the

Frontier team, and the suspense of the little contingent from Kohat

had risen to a pitch beyond speech.

All the native officers and men who could get leave for the great

occasion formed a picturesque group in the forefront of the crowd;

Rajinder Singh towering in their midst, his face set like a mask; his

eyes fierce with the lust of victory. Evelyn Desmond, installed beside

Honor in a friend's dog-cart, sat with her small hands clenched, her

face flushed to the temples, disjointed murmurs breaking from her at

intervals. Honor sat very still and silent, gripping the iron bar of

the box-seat, her whole soul centred on the game. Paul Wyndham, who

had mounted the step on her side of the cart, and whose hand clasped

the bar within half an inch of hers, had not spoken since the ponies

last went out; and to all appearance his concentration equalled her

own. But her nearness affected him as the proximity of iron affects

the needle of a compass, deflecting his thoughts and eyes continually

from the central point of interest.

And what of Frank Olliver?

Her effervescent spirit can only be likened to champagne just before

the cork flies off. Perched upon the front seat of a drag, with

Colonel Buchanan, she noted every stroke and counter-stroke, every

point gained and lost, with the practised knowledge of a man, and the

one-sided ardour of a woman. She had already cheered herself hoarse;

but still kept up a running fire of comment, emphasised by an

occasional pressure of the Colonel's coat-sleeve, to the acute

discomfiture of that self-contained Scot.

"We'll not be far off the winning post now," she assured him at this

juncture. "Our ponies are playing with their heads entirely, and the

others are losing theirs because of the natives and the cheering.

There goes the ball straight for the boundary again!--Well done,

Geoff! But the long fellow's caught it--Saints alive! 'Twould have

been a goal but for Theo. How's _that_ for a fine stroke, now?"

For Desmond, with a clean, splitting smack, had sent the ball flying

across three-fourths of the ground.

"Mind the goal!" he shouted to his half-back, Alla Dad Khan, as

Diamond headed after the ball like a lightning streak, with three

racers--maddened by whip and spur and their own delirious

excitement--clattering upon his tail; and a fusilade of clapping,

cheers, and yells broke out on all sides.

The ball, checked in mid career, came spinning back to them with the

force of a rifle-bullet. The speed had been terrific, and the wrench

of pulling up wrought dire confusion. Followed a sharp scrimmage, a

bewildering jumble of horses and men, rattling of sticks and

unlimited breaking of the third commandment; till the ball shot out

again into the open, skimming, like a live thing, through a haze of

fine white dust, Desmond close upon it, as before; the Hussar

"forwards" in hot pursuit.

But their "back" was ready to receive the ball, and Desmond along with

it. Both players struck simultaneously. Their cane-handled sticks met

with a crack that was heard all over the ground. Then the ball leapt

clean through the goal-posts, the head of Desmond's stick leapt after

it, and the crowd scattered right and left before a thundering onrush

of ponies. Cheer upon cheer, yell upon yell, went up from eight

thousand throats at once. British soldiers flung their helmets in the

air; the band lost its head and broke into a triumphant clash of

discord; while Colonel Buchanan, forgetful of his Scottish decorum,

stood up in the drag and shouted like any subaltern.

He was down in the thick of the _melée_, ready to greet Desmond as he

rode off the battlefield, a breathless unsightly victor, covered with

dust and glory.

"Stunningly played--the whole lot of you!"

"Thank you, sir. Good enough, isn't it?"

A vigorous handshake supplied the rest; and Desmond trotted forward to

the dog-cart, where Evelyn greeted him with a rush of congratulation.

Honor had no word, but Desmond found her eyes and smile sufficiently

eloquent.

"Best fight, bar none, I ever had in my life!" he declared by way of

acknowledgment. "We're all off to the B.C. Mess as soon as the L.G.

has presented the Cup, and we've got some of the dust out of our

throats. Come along, Paul, old man."

And he went his way in such elation of spirits as a captain may justly

feel whose team has carried off the Punjab Cup in the face of

overwhelming odds.

CHAPTER XVI.

SIGNED AND SEALED.

"Leave the dead moments to bury their dead;

Let us kiss, and break the spell."

--OWEN MEREDITH.

The Fancy Ball, given on Old Year's night by the Punjab Commission,

was, in Evelyn's eyes, the supreme event of the week; and when

Desmond, after a mad gallop from the Bengal Cavalry Mess, threw open

his bedroom door, he was arrested by a vision altogether unexpected,

and altogether satisfying to his fastidious taste.

A transformed Evelyn stood before the long glass, wrapt in happy

contemplation of her own image. From the fillet across her forehead,

with its tremulous wire antennæ, to the sandalled slipper that showed

beneath her silken draperies, all was gold. Two shimmering wings of

gauze sprang from her shoulders; her hair, glittering with gold dust,

waved to her waist; and a single row of topaz gleamed on the pearl

tint of her throat like drops of wine.

"By Jove, Ladybird,--how lovely you look!"

She started, and turned upon him a face of radiance.

"I'm the Golden Butterfly. Do you like me, Theo, really?"

"I do;--no question. Where on earth did you get it all?"

"At Simla, last year. Muriel Walter invented it for me." Her colour

deepened, and she lowered her eyes. "I didn't show it to you

before,--because----"

"Yes, yes,--I know what you mean. Don't distress yourself over that.

You'll have _your_ triumph to-night, Ladybird! Remember my dances,

please, when you're besieged by the other fellows! Upon my word, you

look such a perfect butterfly that I shall hardly dare lay a hand on

you!"

"You may dare, though," she said softly. "I won't break in pieces if

you do."

Shy invitation lurked in her look and tone; but apparently her husband

failed to perceive it.

"I'll put you to the test later on," he said, with an amused laugh. "I

must go now, and translate myself into Charles Surface, or I'll be

late."

Left alone again, she turned back to her looking-glass and sighed; but

a single glance at it comforted her surprisingly.

"He was in a hurry," she reflected, by way of further consolation,

"and I've got four dances with him after all."

* * * * *

Theo Desmond inscribed few names on his programme beyond those of his

wife, Mrs Olliver, and Honor Meredith.

"You must let me have a good few dances, Honor," he said to her, "and

hang Mrs Grundy! We are outsiders here, and you and I understand one

another."

She surrendered her programme with smiling submission. "Do you always

order people to give you dances in that imperative fashion?"

"Only when I'm set on having them, and daren't risk refusal! I'll go

one better than Paul, if I may. I didn't know he had it in him to be

so grasping."

And he returned the card on which the initials P. W. appeared four

times in Wyndham's neat handwriting.

Never, in all his days had Paul asked a woman to give him four dances;

and as he claimed Honor for the first of them, he wondered whether his

new-found boldness would carry him farther still. Her beauty and

graciousness, her enthusiasm over the afternoon's triumph, exalted him

from the sober levels of patience and modesty to unscaled heights of

aspiration. But not until their second valse together did an opening

for speech present itself.

They had deserted the packed moving mass, in whose midst dancing was

little more than a promenade under difficulties, and stood aside in

an alcove that opened off the ballroom.

"Look at Evelyn. Isn't she charming in that dress?" Honor exclaimed,

as the Golden Butterfly whirled past, like an incarnate sunbeam, in

her husband's arms. "I feel a Methuselah when I see how freshly and

rapturously she is enjoying it all. This is my seventh Commission

Ball, Major Wyndham! No doubt most people think it high time I hid my

diminished head in England. But my head refuses to feel

diminished,"--she lifted it a little in speaking,--"and I prefer to

remain where I am."

"On the Border?"

"Yes. On the Border for choice."

"You were keen to get there, I remember," he said, restraining his

eagerness. "And you are not disappointed, after nine months of it?"

"Disappointed?--I think they have been almost the best months of my

life."

She spoke with sudden fervour, looking straight before her into the

brilliant, shifting crowd.

Paul's pulses quickened. He saw possibilities ahead.

"Do you mean----? Would you be content to live there--for good?"

His tone caught her attention, and she turned to him with

disconcerting directness of gaze.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I would be quite content to live on the

Frontier--with John, if only he would have me. Now we might surely go

on dancing, Major Wyndham."

Paul put his arm about her in silence. His time had not yet come; and

he took up his burden of waiting again, if with less hope, yet with

undiminished resolve.

Honor, meanwhile, had leisure to wonder whether she had imagined that

new note in his voice. If not,--and if he were to repeat the question

in a more definite form--how should she answer him?

In truth she could not tell. Sincere admiration is not always easy to

distinguish from love of a certain order. But Paul's bearing through

the remainder of the dance convinced her that she must have been

mistaken, and she dismissed the subject from her mind.

Leaving her in charge of Desmond, Wyndham slipped on his greatcoat,

and spent half an hour pacing to and fro, in the frosty darkness,

spangled with keen stars. Here, forgetful of expectant partners, he

took counsel with his cigar and his own sadly sobered heart. More than

once he asked himself why those months on the Frontier had been among

the best in Honor Meredith's life. The fervour of her tone haunted him

with uncomfortable persistence; yet, had he put the question to her,

it is doubtful whether she could have given him a definite answer,

even if she would.

But although the lights and music and laughter had lost their meaning

for him, the great ball of the year went forward merrily in regular

alternations of sound and silence, of motion and quiescence, to its

appointed end.

It was during one of the intervals, when eye and ear enjoyed a passing

respite from the whirling wheel of things, that Desmond, coming out of

the cardroom--where he had been enjoying a rubber and a

cigarette--caught sight of a gleaming figure standing alone in the

pillared entrance to the Hall, and hurried across the deserted

ballroom. His wife looked pathetically small and unprotected in the

wide emptiness of the archway, and the corners of her mouth quivered

as though tears were not far off.

"Oh, Theo,--I _am_ glad!" she said as he reached her side. "I wanted

you--long ago, but I couldn't find you anywhere in the crowd."

"What's the trouble, little woman?" he asked. "Quite surprising to see

you unappropriated. Any one been bothering you?"

"Yes--a man. One of the stewards introduced him----"

The ready fire flashed in his eyes.

"Confound him! Where is he? What did he do?"

"Nothing--very much. Only--I didn't like it. Come and sit down

somewhere and I'll tell you."

She slipped her hand under his arm, and pressed close to him as they

sought out a seat between the rows of glass-fronted book-shelves in

which the Lawrence Hall library is housed.

"Here you are," he said. "Sit down and tell me exactly what happened."

She glanced nervously at his face, which had in it a touch of

sternness that recalled their painful interview three weeks ago.

"I--I don't think he really knew what he was talking about," she

began, her eyes on the butterfly fan, which she opened and shut

mechanically while speaking. "He began by saying that fancy balls were

quite different to other ones; that the real fun of them was that

every one could say and do just what they pleased, and nothing

mattered at all. He said his own dress was specially convenient,

because no one could expect a Pierrot to be responsible for his

actions. Then he--he said that by coming as a butterfly I had given

every man in the room the right to--to catch me if he could. Wasn't

that hateful?"

"Curse him!" muttered Desmond under his breath. "Well--was that all?"

She shook her head with a rueful smile.

"I don't half like telling you, Theo; you look so stern. I'm afraid

you'll be very angry."

"_Not_ with you, dear. Go on."

"Well, I told him I didn't see it that way at all, and he said of

course not; butterflies never _did_ see that people had any right to

catch them; yet they got caught all the same. Then he took tight hold

of my hands, and came so close to me that--I was frightened, and asked

him to take me back to the ballroom at once. He said it wasn't fair,

that the whole twelve minutes belonged to him, and he wouldn't be

cheated out of any of it. Then when I was getting up to go away,

he--he laughed, and put his arm round me, so that I couldn't move,

though I tried to--I did, truly."

At that her husband's arm went round her, and she yielded with a sigh

of satisfaction to its protective pressure.

"The brute didn't dare to--kiss you, did he, Ladybird?"

"Oh, no--no. The music began, and some people came by, and he had to

let me go. Do men often behave like that at balls, Theo?"

"Well--no; not the right sort!" Desmond answered, a gleam of amusement

in his eyes. "But there's always a good sprinkling of the wrong sort

in a crowd of this kind, and the stewards ought to be more careful."

"The trouble is that--I gave him two dances. The next one is his, and

I _can't_ dance with him again. That's why I so badly wanted to find

you. Listen, they're tuning up now. Must I go and sit in the ladies'

room till it's over?"

"Certainly not. Come out and dance it with me."

"Can I? How lovely! I was afraid you were sure to be engaged."

"Of course I am. But as you happen to need me, that doesn't count."

She leaned forward suddenly, and gave him one of her quick, half-shy

kisses, that were still so much more like the kisses of a child than

of a woman grown. "It is nice to belong to a man like you," she

murmured caressingly. "You really are a dear, Theo! And after I've

been so bad to you, too!"

"What's forgiven should be forgotten, Ladybird," he answered,

tightening the arm that held her. "So that's a closed subject between

us,--you understand? Only remember, there must be _no more_ of that

sort of thing. Do you want the compact signed and sealed?" he added,

smiling.

"Yes--I do." And he sealed it accordingly.

Two bright tears glistened on her lashes, for she had the grace to

realise that she was being blessed and trusted beyond her deserts. A

sudden impulse assailed her to tell him everything--now, while his

forgiveness enfolded her and gave her a transitory courage. But habit,

and dread of losing the surpassing sweetness of reconciliation sealed

her lips; and her poor little impulse went to swell the sum of

unaccomplished things.

He frowned at sight of her mute signals of distress.

"No, no, little woman. That's forbidden also! Come along out; and if

that cad attempts to interfere with us, I'll send him to the right

about effectually, I promise you."

"But who _is_ your real partner?" she asked, as they rose to go.

"You are,--who else? My permanent partner!" he answered, smiling down

upon her. "I haven't a notion who the other is. Let's stop under this

lamp and see."

He consulted his card, and his face clouded for a moment.

"It's Honor! That's rough luck. But at least one can tell her the

truth, and feel sure she'll understand. There she is by that pillar,

wondering what has come to me. Jove! How splendid she looks to-night!

I wish the Major could set eyes on her."

The girl's tall figure, in its ivory and gold draperies, showed

strikingly against a mass of evergreens, and the simple dignity of the

dress she had herself designed emphasised the queenly element in her

beauty.

"Did you think I had deserted you altogether?" Desmond asked, as they

drew near.

"I knew you would come the first moment you could."

"You have a large faith in your friends, Honor."

"I have a very large faith--in you!" she answered simply.

"That's good hearing. But I hardly deserve it at this minute. I have

come to ask if I may throw you over for Ladybird?" And in a few words

he explained the reason of his strange request.

One glance at Evelyn's face told Honor that the untoward incident had

dispelled the last shadow of restraint between husband and wife; and

the loss of a dance with Theo seemed a small price to pay for so happy

a consummation.

The valse was in full swing now,--a kaleidoscopic confusion of colour,

shifting into fresh harmonies with every bar; four hundred people

circling ceaselessly over a surface as of polished steel.

Desmond guided his wife along the edge of the crowd till they came

again to the pillared entrance. Here, where it was possible to stand

back a little from the dancers, they were confronted by a thickset,

heavy-faced man wearing the singularly inept-looking costume of a

Pierrot. Face and carriage proclaimed that he had enjoyed his dinner

very thoroughly before setting out for the ball; and Evelyn's small

shudder fired the fighting blood in Desmond's veins. It needed an

effort of will not to greet his unsuspecting opponent with a blow

between the eyes. But instead, he stood his ground and awaited

developments.

The man bestowed upon Evelyn a bow of exaggerated politeness, which

italicised his scant courtesy towards her partner.

"There's some mistake here," he said bluntly. "This is _my_ dance with

Mrs Desmond, and I've missed too much of it already."

"Mrs Desmond happens to be my wife," Theo made answer with ominous

quietness. "I don't choose that she should be insulted by her

partners; and I am dancing this with her myself."

The incisive tone, low as it was, penetrated the man's muddled brain.

His blustering assurance collapsed visibly, increasing fourfold his

ludicrous aspect. He staggered backward, muttering incoherent words

that might charitably be construed as apology, and passed on into the

library, making an ineffectual effort to combine an air of dignified

indifference with the uncertain gait of a landsman in a heavy sea.

Desmond stood looking after him as he went in mingled pity and

contempt; but Evelyn's eyes never left her husband's face.

His smouldering anger, and the completeness of his power to protect

her by a few decisive words, thrilled her with a new, inexplicable

intensity,--an emotion that startled her a little, and in the same

breath lifted her to an unreasoning height of happiness.

Unconsciously she pressed close against him as he put his arm round

her.

"You're all safe now, my Ladybird," he said with a low laugh. "And

honour is satisfied, I suppose! The creature wasn't worth knocking

down, though I could hardly keep my fists off him at the start."

And he swept her forthwith into the heart of the many-coloured crowd.

The valse was more than half over now, and as the music slackened to

its close some two hundred couples vanished into the surrounding

dimness, each intent on their own few minutes of enjoyment. Evelyn

Desmond, flushed, silent, palpitating, remained standing at her

husband's side, till they were left practically alone under one of the

many arches that surround the great hall.

"That was much too short, wasn't it?" he said. "Now we must go and

look up Honor, and see that she is not left in the lurch."

At that she raised her eyes, and the soft shining in them lent a quite

unusual beauty to her face.

"Must we, Theo,--really? Honor's sure to be all right, and I'm so

badly wanting to sit out--with you."

"Are you, really? That's a charming confession to hear from one's

wife. You look different to-night, Ladybird. What's come to you?"

"I don't know," she murmured truthfully; adding so low that he could

barely catch the words, "Only--I don't seem ever to have

understood--till just now how much--I really care----"

"Why,--_Evelyn_!"

Sheer surprise checked further speech, and with a man's instinctive

sense of reserve he looked hastily round to make sure that they were

alone.

She misread his silence, and slipped a hand under his arm.

"You're not angry, are you--that I--didn't understand sooner?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"Then come--please come. Honor gave me the whole dance.

Besides--look!--there she goes with Major Wyndham. She's always happy

with him!"

Desmond smiled. "That's true enough. No need for us if Paul is in the

field. Come this way, Ladybird. I know the Lawrence Hall of old."

They sought and found a sofa in a retired, shadowy corner.

"That's ever so nice," she said simply. "Sit down there."

He obeyed, and there was a momentary silence between them. Then the

emotion astir within her swept all before it. Turning suddenly, she

flung both arms round his neck and hid her face upon his shoulder, her

breath coming in short, dry sobs, like the breath of an overwrought

child.

Very tenderly, as one who touches that which he fears to bruise or

break, he drew her close to him, his own pulses quickened by a

remembrance of the words that gave the clue to her strange behaviour,

and during those few minutes between dance and dance, Evelyn Desmond

arrived at a truer knowledge of the man she had married, in the

girlish ignorance of mere fascination, than two years of life with him

had brought to her half-awakened heart.

BOOK II.

"In the reproof of chance

Lies the true proof of men."

--SHAKESPEARE.