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_Afterwards_
_By Kathlyn Rhodes_
_Author of "The Desert Dreamers," "The Will of Allah," "The Lure of the
Desert," etc._
LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
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AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
_PROLOGUE_
I
"Dr. Anstice"--the girl spoke slowly, and her voice was curiously
flat--"how much longer have we--before dawn?"
Without replying, the man glanced at his watch; and when he spoke his
voice, too, was oddly devoid of tone.
"I think--only an hour now."
"Only an hour." In the gloom of the hut the girl's face grew very pale.
"And then----" She broke off, shuddering.
"Miss Ryder, don't think of it. After all, we need not give up hope yet.
An hour--why, heaps of things may happen in an hour."
A wan little smile touched the girl's lips, and she came a step nearer
her companion.
"Don't let us buoy ourselves up with false hopes," she said quietly. "In
your heart you know quite well that nothing on earth can save us now.
When the sun rises"--in spite of herself she shivered--"we shall die."
The man said nothing for a moment. In his heart he knew she spoke the
truth; yet being a man he tried once more to reassure her.
"Miss Ryder, I won't allow that." Taking her hand he led her once more
to the rude bench on which she had spent the night. "There _is_ a
chance--a faint one, I admit, but still an undeniable chance."
"You mean----?" Although she tried to speak calmly he heard the tiny
thrill of hope in her voice, and in his soul he wondered whether, after
all, he were not acting cruelly in speaking thus.
"I mean our absence must have been noticed long ago. When we did not
return in time for the picnic lunch or tea, someone must have wondered
where we were; and it is quite possible we were seen to enter the Temple
earlier in the day."
"That awful Temple!" The horror in her eyes made his heart beat
pitifully over her. "If only I had not been so foolish as to insist on
entering! You didn't know how dangerous it was to go in, but I did--at
least, I knew something of the danger--and I would go ... and then--the
uncanny silence, the sudden knowledge that we were not alone ... that
something, _someone_ malignant, hateful, was watching us--and then those
awful men who seized us ... oh!" The agony of remembrance was too much
for her, and she sank back, half-fainting, against the wall.
"Miss Ryder, don't go over it all again!" Although it seemed certain
that they had only an hour to live, Anstice could not bear to see her
suffer now. "Don't let us think of what has happened--let us try to
imagine that we are saved--as indeed we may be yet!" But he stole a
glance out of the empty window-space as he spoke, and his heart sank to
note the lightening of the Indian night's soft dusk.
"I think not." Her tone was calm, almost indifferent, but her
apprehensive eyes belied her voice. "Dr. Anstice, you have not forgotten
your promise? If ... if it comes to the worst, you--you won't let me
fall into--_their_ hands?"
And then he knew that in spite of her endeavours to be brave, to face
the impending fate heroically, she too had had her doubts throughout the
long hours of their imprisonment--doubts as to whether death would
indeed come to her with the merciful swiftness of a fanatic's bullet....
And because he shared her doubt, because he, too, had wondered whether
he alone would be shot at dawn, while she, his companion in this
horrible nightmare, were reserved for some far more ghastly fate,
because of his wonder and his doubt Anstice rejoiced in the fact that he
had it in his power to save her from the worst that could happen.
He had not given his promise-lightly; yet having given it he would
fulfil it, if the God who seemed to have deserted them in their need
should see fit to nerve him to the deed.
She was looking at him wistfully, with something of horror behind the
wistfulness; and he could not bear to keep her waiting any longer for
the assurance she craved.
"Yes," he said gently, and there was a tender note in his voice. "I will
keep my word. You shall not fall into their hands. I promise you that."
She sighed faintly, and made room for him beside her on the rough seat.
"That is settled, then. And now, just for this last half-hour, let us
pretend that we are in no danger, that we are waiting for our friends,
the friends we ran away from at the picnic--yesterday."
Something in her own words startled her, and she broke off abruptly.
"Well?" He smiled at her. "Let us pretend. How shall we begin?"
"Was it only yesterday?" Her accent thrilled him through and through.
"Did we really start out from my uncle's bungalow yesterday morning? How
gay we were, weren't we--all the twenty of us ... you and I leading
because our horses were the best and I knew the way...."
"Yes--and all the smart young officers looking daggers at me because I
had carried you off!" His tone was admirably light.
"Nonsense!" Hilda Ryder actually laughed, and in the dim and gloomy hut
her laughter sounded almost uncanny. "I'm sure no one was in the least
envious! You see, we were new friends--and it is such a treat to meet
someone new out here!"
"Yes. By Jove, we'd only met twice, hadn't we? Somehow I was thinking we
were quite old friends, you and I! But as you say, I was a new-comer,
this was my first visit to the East. Rather a change, India and the
snows, from a slum in Shoreditch!"
"Shoreditch? Did you really live in a slum?"
"Rather--and quite enjoyed it!" He laughed at her incredulous face. "It
was experience, you see--disease flourishes in many and divers forms
down there, and although I couldn't contemplate staying there for ever,
the time wasn't wasted."
"And then--you left your slum?"
"Yes. I wanted more time to myself." He threw back his head as he
talked, and swept the curly black hair off his brow with an impatient
hand. "You see I had visions--oh, purely futile ones, I daresay--but I
had a great idea of finding a cure for a certain disease generally
considered incurable----" He broke off suddenly.
"Well? You have found it?" Her tone was eager.
"Not yet--but I shall!" In his enthusiasm he had forgotten the present,
forgotten the horror which was coming nearer with great strides as the
morning brightened in the sky. He saw only the future--not the immediate
future--death, with his back against the wall of the courtyard, his face
turned to the rising sun; but the splendid, strenuous future, when after
good years of toil, of experience, even of suffering, he should make the
great discovery which should free mankind from one of its most grievous
foes, and add a precious treasure to the scientific storehouse of the
world....
"It's a difficult task--almost superhumanly difficult!" His black eyes
snapped at the thought of the difficulties in the way. "But thank God
I'm young and full of hope--the hope that belongs to youth--and with
luck I believe I'll win through in the end...."
A sudden shaft of rosy light, striking slantwise through the windowless
aperture in the wall, brought him to a standstill.
"Sunrise! My God--I--I'd forgotten!" In an instant the youth and
enthusiasm were wiped out of his face as by a ruthless hand, and he
started to his feet. "Miss Ryder, forgive me! I've been talking like a
fool, and you sit there listening like an angel, while all the time----"
"Hush, please!" She laid her hand on his arm, and through the sleeve of
his thin riding-suit he felt the chill of her slender fingers. "It isn't
time--yet. Let us pretend until the last minute. You know--you haven't
asked me what I intend--intended"--for a second she faltered--"to make
of _my_ life!"
Inwardly cursing his own folly, Anstice sat down again beside her and
took her hand in his as a brother might have done.
"Well, what is ... was...." He, too, bungled over the tense, but she
pretended not to notice his confusion. "What are you going to be--or do?
I hope your dreams are as wild as mine!"
"Not quite!" Her tone robbed the words of all offence. "Mine are very
humble dreams, I'm afraid! You see"--for a second her voice shook, but
she steadied it and continued to speak--"there's a man in Egypt whom I
am--was--oh, what can I say?--whom I was to marry--some day."
"Really? You're engaged?" A fresh pang of pity shot through his heart.
"Yes. He's an engineer--in the Irrigation Department--and the best man
in all the world!" For a moment love triumphed over death, and its glory
illuminated the gloom of that fatal place of imprisonment with a hint of
immortality. "That's _my_ ambition, Dr. Anstice--to love him and marry
him, and be a true and faithful wife--and perhaps"--her voice sank a
note--"perhaps in time to bear his children. That"--said Hilda Ryder,
and now her eyes were full of dreams--"would be to me the most glorious
destiny in the world!"
Her soft voice trembled into silence, and for the space of twenty
heart-beats the two sat motionless, only their hands seeking the mutual
comfort which their warm contact might well bring.
Then, with a sudden movement, Hilda Ryder sprang to her feet and crossed
the mud floor to the aperture in the wall.
"Dr. Anstice, the sun is rising. I suppose--now--we have only a few
minutes more to live."
He followed her across the floor and together they watched the dawning
of the day which was to be the herald of death. With the inexorable
swiftness of the East the sun was rushing into the sky in all his glory
of scarlet and pearl, and in spite of the significance of his triumphal
rising the two who watched him caught their breath at the rosy
magnificence of his entry.
But Hilda's words must not go unanswered; and with a resolute squaring
of his shoulders Anstice turned from the gorgeous world outside to the
dimness of the hut.
"Yes," he said, rather slowly and deliberately. "I am afraid we have
only a few minutes left--now."
Curiously, she cavilled at his choice of words.
"Why do you say--afraid?" He could not understand her tone. "You are not
afraid to die--it's I who am such a pitiful coward that I daren't face
death--out there in the sunlight."
"You're not a coward, Miss Ryder!" Impulsively he patted her shoulder,
and in spite of everything his action thrilled her with a sense of
comfort. "Why, all through this dreadful night you've behaved like a
heroine, and if your courage fails you a little now--which I hardly
believe--well, that's excusable, at any rate!"
"Have I been brave?" She looked at him with wide blue eyes like the eyes
of a child. "I am glad of that, seeing it was I who led us into this by
profaning--and making you profane--their Temple. I was afraid I had been
dreadfully cowardly. I--I didn't feel brave, you know!"
"You poor little girl!" She was nearly as tall as he, a stately young
woman, in truth, but suddenly he saw her as a frightened child. "You've
been braver--much braver than I--and I wish to God I could have got you
safely out of this! What do you say? Shall we break open the door and
make a dash for it? We might win through--if the guards were taken by
surprise----"
"Have you forgotten the high wall of the courtyard--and the great gates
which can only be opened by three men?" He _had_ forgotten, and her
reminder seemed to close the last avenue of escape. "No, Dr. Anstice,
that's not the way out. But----" A sudden noise outside made her start,
and her voice grew hoarse suddenly and broke. "Oh, you won't fail me,
will you? You have my revolver safe?"
"Yes." It lay safely hidden in an inner pocket, its tiny size alone
having prevented its discovery by alien hands. "I have it in my pocket.
There's only one cartridge, but that will be enough if--if we have need
of it."
"Thank you, Dr. Anstice." To his surprise and admiration she had
regained her courage, the threatened collapse of the previous moment
gone for ever. "Then I can wait quite calmly. But"--her blue eyes met
his very fully--"you won't delay too long? The moment they come you
will--do what you have promised?"
"Yes, dear." In that second he forgot that their acquaintance was barely
a week old, forgot that Hilda Ryder was the promised bride of another
man. In this moment all external circumstances were forgotten, and
nothing remained but the fact that they were called upon to face death
together, and that to him alone could the girl look for comfort and help
in the bitter hour which faced them. And he knew that his hand must be
steady to do her service; that he must guide her footsteps unfalteringly
to the gate through which she must pass in all her radiant youth; must
support and strengthen her with hand and voice so that she might look
the dark angel fearlessly in the face and pass that frowning portal with
unflinching step and dauntless mien.
In the hour of death he must help her to be true to herself, so that no
craven fear should sully her proud soul, and with this high resolve he
turned to her with the little word of endearment on his lips, and laid
his hand on her arm with a touch of real affection.
"I will do what I have promised when the moment comes." He felt a little
shiver run over her body and his hand tightened on her arm. "Dear, it
will soon be over. Really you need not be afraid."
"Tell me"--she turned to him, and the look in her eyes thrilled him
through and through--"does it _hurt_--death when it comes like--that?"
"No." He spoke firmly. "You must not think of that. It is all over in a
second--and you know"--he hesitated--"after all, this life is not
everything."
"No." A new light touched her eyes for a moment, a light brighter than
that of the rising sun. "There is a life beyond, isn't there? My mother
died three years ago, and I have missed her sorely," said Hilda Ryder
simply. "Surely she will greet me--there. But"--for a moment a great
human yearning shook her soul--"it's hard to leave this dear life
behind ... the world is so wonderful, so lovely--I'm sure no other world
can ever be half so beautiful as this."
A sudden clamour in the courtyard outside drove the colour from her
cheeks, and instinctively she clung to him.
"Dr. Anstice, they're coming, aren't they? Is this--really--the end?"
For a second he listened, the blood running icily in his veins. Then he
turned to her with a smile on his lips.
"Yes. I think they are coming--now. But"--his voice changed--"after all,
there might be a chance--for you!"
Instead of reassuring her his words drove her to a white-lipped terror.
"You're not going to fail me now? Dr. Anstice, for the love of God, do
as you promised--I will be brave, I will indeed--only don't let them
take me--oh, don't!"
"It's all right, dear." He slipped his arm round her and drew her
closely to him. "I won't fail you. I thought for a moment there might be
a chance, but after all this is the better way."
"I knew you could be brave--for me," she said, very softly; and then, as
a native voice outside the hut called an order, he felt her tremble in
his arms. "They are coming--Dr. Anstice, let us say good-bye--or"--she
actually smiled--"shall it be _au revoir_?"
"That, I think," he said steadily, holding the little revolver hidden in
his hand as he spoke. "Dear, I'm going to do it now ... close your eyes,
and then you will know nothing till you open them to see your mother's
face."
A long sigh shook her from head to foot. Then she closed her eyes
obediently.
"Thank you." They were the last words he heard her say as he raised the
revolver; and the next moment the merciful deed was done, and Hilda
Ryder was safe for ever from the vengeance of the fanatics whom she had
all unwittingly enraged.
Then, as the door opened at last, and two grave-faced Indians entered
and motioned to Anstice to accompany them into the courtyard, he went
out unflinchingly into the sunlight to meet his fate.
II
Late that night two British officers sat on the verandah of a bungalow
in the hills, discussing the tragedy which had happened at dawn.
"It's an appalling affair altogether," said the elder man, as he threw
away his half-smoked cigar. "If we had been five minutes earlier we
should have saved the girl, and the man would have been spared a
lifetime's regret."
"Yes." The other officer, who was young and very human, spoke slowly,
and his eyes were thoughtful. "It is a good deal worse for the man than
the woman, after all. Shall you ever forgot his face when he realized
that he was saved? And by Jove it was a near thing for him, too."
"Too near to be pleasant," rejoined his companion grimly. "Of course, no
one but a lunatic would have allowed the girl to enter that Temple.
Don't you remember that affair a couple of years ago, when two American
fellows only just got out in time?"
"Yes." Young Payton's voice was dubious. "But you must remember, sir,
Anstice was a new-comer, and didn't know the yarn--and it is just
possible Miss Ryder didn't know it either. Or she may have
over-persuaded him."
"Well, she's paid for her folly, poor girl." Colonel Godfrey rose. "Her
uncle's off his head about it, and what the fellow she was to marry will
say remains to be seen. I suppose he'll want an explanation from
Anstice."
"Why, you don't mean he'll blame the man for doing what he did?" The
young officer spoke boyishly. "After all, it was the only thing to do.
Fancy, if the girl had fallen into the hands of those fanatics! Shooting
would have been a merciful death compared to the life she might have had
to endure."
"Of course, of course!" Colonel Godfrey rose and moved to the steps of
the verandah, where he stood looking absently out over the moonlit
world. "It was the only thing to do--and yet, what a tragedy it has all
been! By the way, where is Anstice? I've not seen him since we came in."
"He's in hospital. Got a nasty swipe across the shoulder in the
rough-and-tumble before we got away, and it gave Dr. Morris an excuse to
shove morphia into him to keep him quiet a bit. Of course when he comes
round I expect he'll be pretty sick about it all, but at least the poor
devil has got a few hours' respite."
"That's a blessing, anyway. Wonder what he'll do after this. Sort of
thing to ruin a man's nerve, what?"
"Probably take to drink--or drugs," said Payton succinctly. "Some chaps
would put a bullet through their brains, but I don't fancy Anstice is
the sort to do that."
"Don't you?" For a second Colonel Godfrey hesitated, still looking out
over the garden to where the line of the eternal snows glimmered white
and passionless in the splendid moonlight. "Yet you know, my boy, one
could hardly blame a man for blowing out his brains after a tragedy of
this sort. No." With a last glance at the mystery of the snows he turned
back to the lighted verandah and took out his cigar-case. "I think one
could not blame this fellow Anstice if he chose that way out." He
selected a cigar with care. "After all, he must feel as though he had
murdered the girl, and though I fully agree with you that there was
nothing else to be done, still one can imagine how the memory of the
deed will haunt the poor chap all his life."
"Yes." Rex Payton lifted his cap from the table and prepared to take his
leave. "Well, good-night, sir. I think I'll just step across and see how
he's getting on. By Jove, what a magnificent night. It's as bright as
day out here."
"Yes. Let me know in the morning how things are going."
"Right you are, sir." With another hasty good-night Rex turned and
strode away across the compound in search of the doctor.
"Still asleep, thank God," was Morris' report. "Give you my word I dread
his awakening."
"Seems a pity he's got to wake at all," said Payton moodily. "Couldn't
you have given him a double dose while you were about it, and put the
poor devil out of his misery?"
"That's not the way we work," returned the other dryly. "There's been
one--miscalculation--to-day, and we can't afford any more. If he likes
to do it himself, when he comes round, that's a different matter. I
don't think he will, somehow. He doesn't strike me as that sort. He'll
face it out, I believe, though it will go hard with him in the doing."
"When will he be himself again?"
"I don't know. I shall keep him under as long as I dare. After all"--the
doctor, who prided himself on his lack of emotion, for once betrayed a
glimpse of the real humanity beneath the rather grim exterior--"he'll
have to serve a life-sentence in the way of regret, and one can't grudge
the poor wretch an hour or two's Nirvana."
And:
"By God, sir, I agree with you," was all Rex Payton could find to say.
III
One evening three weeks later Anstice sat in the smoke-room of a
well-known hotel in Bombay waiting for the arrival of the one person in
the world whom he might have been expected to avoid.
The P. and O. boat had docked that afternoon; and among the passengers
was the man to whom Hilda Ryder had been engaged--the man to whom
Anstice must answer for the deed done as the sun rose on that fatal
morning twenty-one dawns ago.
The news of the girl's death had been cabled to the young engineer in
Cairo immediately, followed by a letter from Colonel Godfrey relating so
much of the affair as he himself knew; and in response had come a
laconic message to the effect that Bruce Cheniston had sought and
obtained leave, and would be in India at the first possible moment. He
had been delayed by one or two accidents, but now he had really arrived;
and Anstice had come down to meet him, knowing that before he himself
could leave this fatal country there must be an explanation between the
man who had loved Hilda Ryder, and the one who had been too hasty in
carrying out a promise.
To say that he shrank from this interview would hardly be true. As a
matter of fact, in the weeks which had elapsed since that fatal morning
Anstice had wandered in a world of shadows. Nothing seemed real, acute,
not even the memory of the thing he had done. Everything was mercifully
blurred, unreal. He was like a man stunned, who sees things without
realizing them; or a man suffering from some form of poison--from
indulgence in _hashish_, for instance, when time and space lose all
significance, and the thing which was and that which is become strangely
and unaccountably interchangeable.
That there must be a reckoning between himself and Cheniston, Anstice
vaguely knew. Yet he felt no dread, and very little curiosity as to the
manner of their meeting; and although he recognized the fact that the
man to whom Hilda Ryder had been engaged might well look on him with
horror, inasmuch as his hand had sent her to her death, Anstice felt
little interest in the matter as it concerned himself.
Possibly he was still feeling the effects of that morning's happening,
although unaware of it. He had received a nasty wound--even now his
shoulder was stiff and painful--and since he had discontinued the use of
opiates he had had little or no sleep; but he was a man of good
physique, and only an unaccustomed pallor and a few finely-drawn lines
round his mouth betrayed the fact that he had suffered--was suffering
still.
One or two men glanced at him curiously as he sat in a corner, gazing
ahead of him with an unseeing stare; but only one man, a young officer
called Trent, recognized him as the hero of the tragedy which had shaken
the district of Alostan a few weeks earlier.
Being a talkative person he could not refrain from pointing Anstice out
to his companion.
"See that chap over there--the tall fellow in grey?" Trent had been one
of the picnic party which had ended in disaster; and although a
good-hearted boy was thrilled with the importance of his own position.
"Know who it is? Well, it's that chap Anstice--you remember, the fellow
who shot that girl up in the hills when they were in a tight place."
"Oh! That the man?" The other, who was a portly civilian, looked at the
unconscious Anstice with open interest. "Shocking affair, what? If he'd
held his hand five minutes they would both have been rescued. Wasn't
that it?"
"Yes. Looks a bit sick about it, doesn't he?"
"Um ... yes. Good-looking fellow, in a hard-bitten sort of way." The
civilian looked Anstice over, approving the thin, well-cut face, the
tall, loosely-built figure, the long hands lying idly on the arms of his
chair. "Rather foreign-looking, with that black hair and those dark
eyes, isn't he?"
"Yes. Looks years older than he did before it happened," said Trent,
speaking the truth. "I expect, though, it _is_ the sort of thing to age
one."
"Yes. What's he doing here? Going home?"
"Yes, but I fancy he's got an appointment with Cheniston first,"
explained the younger man importantly. "Boat got in this afternoon, and
I expect Cheniston wants to hear the affair at first-hand."
"Daresay. Rather rough on the poor devil." The civilian, beneath his
pompous exterior, had a kind heart. "Bad enough to have to shoot the
girl first, without explaining it all afterwards. Hope to goodness the
other chap lets him down lightly."
"Oh, well, he can't say much." Trent broke off abruptly. "Here is
Cheniston ... by Jove, I wouldn't like to be Anstice at this moment."
Unconscious of the interest he was arousing, a young man had just
entered the room. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered and bronzed,
with a good-looking, square face and a resolute chin. Just now he was
pale beneath his tan, and his eyes, which were narrow in shape and of a
rather hard blue, were strained and anxious.
Inside the room, he looked uncertainly round; and the next moment
Anstice rose slowly to his feet.
"You are Mr. Cheniston?" They might have been alone in a desert for all
the notice he took of any onlookers. "I think you are looking for me. My
name is Anstice."
Bruce Cheniston nodded abruptly.
"Yes. I'm Cheniston. We can't talk here. Will you come up to my room?"
"Thanks." He moved forward, and Cheniston turned to the door.
"This way. I'm some floors up--we'll take the lift."
In silence they made the ascent; and now to his own unwelcome surprise
Anstice felt himself awaking from the merciful stupor in which he had
been sunk for so many unnoticed days.
Suddenly he began to realize what this interview must mean to Cheniston;
and the knowledge that he must tear the knife from his own wound in
order to plunge it into the heart of the young man opposite him made him
feel as though he were already inwardly bleeding to death.
From being vague and blurred his senses now became preternaturally
acute. His surroundings were no longer dim and formless, rather
everything grew inhumanly sharp and vivid. To the end of his life he
would preserve an extraordinarily faithful recollection of the room into
which Cheniston presently ushered him--the usual hotel bedroom in India,
with high green walls, mosquito curtains, and an entire absence of all
superfluities in the way of furniture or adornment.
On the floor lay a Gladstone bag, half open as the owner had carelessly
left it; and Anstice found himself idly speculating as to whether the
white and purple striped glory which protruded from it was a shirt or a
pair of pyjamas....
His wandering thoughts were suddenly recalled to the affair of the
moment; and the minor things of life were forgotten in the onrush of the
vital things, the things which matter....
"Now, Dr. Anstice"--Anstice's professional instinct, so long in
abeyance, warned him that the man's self-control was only, so to speak,
skin-deep; and a quite unexpected and inexplicable rush of pity
overwhelmed him as the cold voice went on speaking--"I think you will
realize that I should like to hear your account of--of the affair that
took place in that accursed Temple."
"I quite realize that." Anstice spoke slowly. "And I am ready to answer
any questions you may like to ask."
"I--I think----" For a second Cheniston wavered, then spoke more
humanly. "Won't you sit down? I should like, if I may, to hear the whole
story from the beginning."
"I see. Well, you are quite within your rights in wishing to hear the
story. No, I won't sit down, thanks. It won't take very long to tell."
Cheniston moved a step backwards and sat down on the edge of the bed,
pushing the mosquito curtain impatiently aside. Then he took out his
cigarette case, and, still with his steel-blue eyes on the other man's
face, selected a cigarette which he held, unlighted, as he listened.
Standing in the middle of the floor, his hands in the pockets of his
coat, Anstice began his story, and in spite of the fact that this man
had robbed him of all that he held dear in life, Cheniston was forced to
admit that at least he was proving himself no coward.
"When we set off on that fatal picnic"--Anstice took it for granted that
his hearer knew the details of the occasion--"Miss Ryder and I went on
ahead. We were both well mounted, and she was, as you know, a fearless
horsewoman. We very soon out-distanced the others, and had gone a good
way when Miss Ryder suggested we should visit a certain Temple of which
it seems she had heard a great deal from a native servant. Had I known
then, as I know now, the reputation of the place, and the intense hatred
which the priests felt for any of the white races since that unlucky
American affair"--he realized suddenly that he appeared to be excusing
himself, and his manner hardened--"well, I can only regret that I
allowed Miss Ryder to set foot in the place."
"You went?"
"Yes. It was only a few miles off the track, and we were so far ahead of
the party that we should easily have had time to get to our original
destination for lunch. Well, we went on, found the Temple, apparently
deserted----"
"Apparently?" The question shot out like steel. "There was someone
there?"
"Yes. We both realized at the same moment that we were not alone. You
must understand that the place is half in ruins--it's a clever
subterfuge of the priests to keep out intruders by pretending there is
nothing there of interest. Most people turn back after a perfunctory
look round; but in reality if one penetrates through one or two passages
one comes to the Temple proper, where Heaven knows what rites go on."
"You reached it?"
"Yes. Thinking the place was merely a ruin I went on quite
comfortably ... and suddenly we found ourselves in a sort of Holy of
Holies ... a queer, pillared place with an enormous idol in a kind of
recess--an altar, I suppose." His voice was tense. "It was at that moment
we both realized someone was watching us, malignantly, from some unseen
vantage-point. I turned to Miss Ryder to suggest, as quietly as
possible, that we should retrace our steps, and found her, very pale,
staring ahead of her with horror in her face."
"She had seen--something?"
"Yes. Afterwards she told me it was the glitter of the man's eyes ... he
was looking through a kind of hole in the embroidered drapery behind the
idol ... that had attracted her attention; and she was only too ready to
fall in with my suggestion."
"You were--prevented?"
"Yes. As we turned towards the opening we found we were too late. Three
tall fellows--priests, I suppose they were--had come up behind us, and
as we moved they seized us ... two men held my arms--the third----" His
voice broke.
"He--held Miss Ryder?"
"Yes. He wasn't rough with her." The words, which happened to be untrue,
sounded painfully inadequate in his own ears. "They gave us no time to
explain anything, but took us before the Chief Priest, or someone of the
kind, and stated that we had been found desecrating the Temple by our
unhallowed presence."
"You explained that you had done it in ignorance?"
"Of course. But"--he smiled rather cynically--"they had evidently heard
that before. You know the Americans who got into trouble there had
really laid a plot to carry away some memento of their visit, and they
thought we were after loot of some kind, too, I suppose."
"They wouldn't listen?"
"Oh, yes, they listened all right while I tried, with Miss Ryder's help,
to explain. She knew a few words of their tongue, and somehow a
situation of that sort sharpens one's wits to the extent of helping one
to understand a strange lingo. The upshot was we were blindfolded"--he
saw Cheniston wince at the thought of the indignity to the girl he had
loved--"and led away. Later we were placed in a conveyance of some sort,
a bullock cart, I imagine, and driven for hours over some of the worst
ground I've ever struck."
"Well?" The interest of the story was gripping the other man through all
his horror, and his tone had lost its hostility for the moment. "And
then?"
"Finally we were released, led into a small hut, our eyes were
unbandaged, and we were informed that our fate was being deliberated,
and the result would be made known to us at sunset."
"And at sunset----"
"At sunset we were sent for to the presence of a still more important
personage, another High Priest, I suppose. We were taken into a kind of
presence chamber, across the large courtyard, and found our friends of
the morning, kow-towing to this still higher potentate. He didn't waste
words on us. Through the miserable creature who had interpreted for us
earlier, he made us understand that the penalty for setting foot in
their holy place was death--by strangulation as a general rule----"
Cheniston's lips turned white, and his cigarette dropped to the floor;
but though Anstice saw his agitation he paid no attention.
"But in consideration of the fact that we were English and one of us was
a woman"--Cheniston uttered an involuntary exclamation--"our sentence
was that we should be shot in the courtyard at sunrise."
"One moment." Cheniston's voice was harsh, and he moistened his lips
before he spoke. "Weren't you armed? Couldn't you have--have made a
fight for it?"
For the first time Anstice lost control of himself. The dark blood
rushed to his brow and his eyes flashed with anger.
"Good God, man, do you suppose if I'd been armed we should have
submitted tamely? As a matter of fact, the brutes who attacked us in the
first place seized my revolver before I had a chance to draw it ... and
though I'm pretty tough, when it came to a struggle with those Indian
devils they were like steel--iron--anything you choose to compare them
with."
"I know--their muscles are marvellous--especially the Hill-men." His
tone held a note of apology. "Of course, if you had had half a
chance--but"--suddenly his voice changed, grew suspicious--"you had a
revolver, in the end?"
"Yes. Miss Ryder's. They did not suspect her of carrying a weapon, you
see, and it was a tiny one her uncle had given her, more as a toy than
as a serious protection."
"She couldn't get at it to use it?"
"No. We were bound as well as blindfolded, you know." He spoke grimly.
"Luckily Miss Ryder had the presence of mind to say nothing about it
till we were alone in the hut, our hands untied. Then she gave it to me,
and we found to our dismay that there was only one cartridge left."
"How was that?" He spoke quickly, but there was no suspicion in his tone
now.
"Miss Ryder explained that she had been practising shooting with her
uncle and had forgotten to reload. But"--he paused--"even had it been
fully charged, I'm afraid our fate would have been unchanged."
Cheniston rose suddenly, took a few aimless steps across the floor, and
then sank down on the bed again almost in his former position. In front
of him Anstice stood motionless, his hands, clenched now, still in his
pockets, his eyes the only live feature in the grey pallor of his face.
"Well!" Suddenly he threw back his head with a restless gesture, as
though the strain of the interview was beginning to tell on him. "After
hearing our sentence we were taken back to our hut, there to await the
moment of sunrise--of our death."
"They gave you no food?" The question was almost futile in its
triviality; but Anstice answered it quite naturally.
"Oh, yes, we were given food of a sort. Luckily I had a little flask of
brandy, and once--at midnight--I persuaded Miss Ryder to take a few
drops. She was splendidly brave throughout."
There was a short silence. Both men felt that the crux of the interview
was at hand; and each, in his way, was preparing himself for it.
"Well?" It was Cheniston who spoke first. "The night wore on, I suppose,
and you saw no hope of escape? But didn't you guess your absence would
be remarked upon?"
"Of course. And we hoped against hope that someone would remember the
Temple."
"They did--in the end?"
"Yes, and made all possible speed to reach it. But by that time we had
been taken away, there was no one to be seen, and of course all traces
of us had absolutely disappeared."
"Then how did they find you in the end?"
"The native servant who had talked of the wonders of the Temple to Miss
Ryder was aghast when he found what harm his talk had done. It seems she
had cured his little boy of some childish illness, and he simply
worshipped her in consequence. So he was wild to rescue her, and after
dispatching parties of searchers in every likely direction he suddenly
recollected hearing of some mysterious High Priest in a tiny village in
the hills, which was so securely hidden from observation that very few
people knew of its existence."
"Colonel Godfrey said he would never have reached it without the
guidance of some native," said Cheniston thoughtfully. "Would that be
the man himself?"
"Yes. It seemed his father had known the way and had told him in direst
secrecy how to reach the village; and when the officers were ready to
start he went with them, and by some stroke of luck hit the right road
at once, although the directions were fearfully complicated."
"If only you had known----"
"Do you think I don't say that to myself day after day?" Anstice's brow
was pearled with sweat. "If I had had the faintest idea there was any
chance of a rescue----"
"I know, I know!" The other man moved restlessly. "Good God, man, I'm
not condemning you"--Anstice flushed hotly--"I'm only saying what a
pitiful mistake the whole thing was ... the tragedy might have been
averted if only----"
"It's no use talking now." Anstice's tone was icy. "The thing's
happened, the mistake is made and can't be unmade. Only, if you think
_you_ could have let her fall into the hands of those fanatics--well, I
couldn't, that's all."
"She ... she asked you to ... to save her from that?" He hung on the
other man's answer as though his own life depended upon it.
"Yes. I shouldn't have ventured to shoot her without her permission, you
know!" In a moment he repented of the ghastly pleasantry into which
exasperation had led him. "Forgive me, Cheniston--the thing's got on my
nerves ... I hardly know what I'm saying...."
Cheniston, who had turned a sickly white beneath his bronze, looked at
him fiercely.
"I'm making all allowances for you," he said between his teeth, "but I
can't stand much of that sort of thing, you know. Suppose you tell me,
without more ado, the nature of the--the bargain between you."
Without more ado Anstice complied.
"Miss Ryder made me promise that if the sun should rise before any help
came to us I would shoot her with my own hand so that she should not
have to face death--or worse--at the hands of our enemies."
"You thought it might be--worse?"
"Yes. My father was a doctor in China at the time of the Boxer rising,"
said Anstice with apparent irrelevance. "And as a boy I heard stories
of--of atrocities to women--which haunted me for years. On my soul,
Cheniston"--he spoke with a sincerity which the other man could not
question--"I was ready--no, glad, to do Miss Ryder the service she asked
me."
Twice Cheniston tried to speak, and twice his dry lips refused their
office. At last he conquered his weakness.
"You waited till the sun rose ... and then ... you were sure ... you did
not doubt that the moment had come?"
"No. I waited as long as I dared ... the sun had risen and we heard the
clamour in the courtyard outside...."
"And so----" Again his parched lips would not obey his bidding.
"When the men were at the very door of the hut I carried out my
promise," said Anstice steadily. "She closed her eyes ... I told her to,
so that she should not be afraid to see death coming ... and then ..."
at the recollection of that last poignant moment a slow shudder shook
him from head to foot, "... it was all over in a second. She did not
suffer--of that, at least, you may be certain."
Cheniston's hand was over his eyes; and for a space the room was very
still.
Then:
"And you--you went out, as you thought, to meet your own death?"
"Yes--and I wish to God I'd met it," said Anstice with an uncontrollable
outburst of bitterness. "I endured the shame, the horror of it all in
vain. You know what happened ... how just as the men were about to fire
the rescuers burst into the courtyard.... My God, why were they so late!
Or, being late, why did they come at all!"
Cheniston's blue eyes, which had been full of a natural human anguish,
grew suddenly hard.
"You are not particularly grateful to your rescuers," he said. "Yet if
they had been a few minutes later, you too would have been beyond their
help."
Anstice was quick to notice the renewed hostility in the young man's
tone.
"Just so." His manner, too, had changed. "But can you expect me to feel
a very vivid gratitude to the men who restored my life to me, seeing
with what memories that life must always be haunted?"
"Need you endure the haunting of those memories?"
The question, spoken quietly, yet with an obvious significance, took
Anstice aback. For a moment he frowned, his dazed mind fumbling after
the speaker's meaning.
"_Need_ I?" Suddenly he knew what Cheniston had meant to imply. "Ah--you
mean a man may always determine the length of his days?"
Cheniston nodded, never taking his eyes off the other's face.
"I see. Well, suicide would be a way out, of course. But"--for a second
his eyes hardened, grew stern--"I don't mean to take that way--unless
life grows too much for me. A second--mistake"--he spoke slowly--"would
not annul the first."
"No." Cheniston's face had lost all its boyishness; it looked haggard,
unhappy, old. "Possibly not. But when one has made a mistake of so
tragic a nature I should have thought one would have been only too ready
to pay the price of one's miscalculation."
For a second Anstice stared at him silently.
"Just so," he said at last, very quietly, taking his hands out of his
pockets for the first time. "The question is, What is the price? And do
you really think that to repudiate a debt by running away from one's
creditor, so to speak, is as satisfactory a settlement as to pay it coin
by coin, each coin drawn from one's own heart's blood?"
This time it was Cheniston who stared at him in non-comprehension.
Presently he said slowly:
"I think I understand. You mean the strongest man is the one who can
stand up to any situation with which life confronts him; can pay a debt
to the uttermost farthing though it may make him bankrupt in the doing.
That is what you mean?"
"Yes," said Anstice steadily. "That is what I mean. God only knows what
the price may be, and whether I shall have the coin in my treasury when
I'm called on to pay ... if I am so called upon. And by the way"--his
face hardened--"do I understand you to mean that I'm your debtor--that
it is to you that the price may--one day--be paid?"
Cheniston made no reply. The hostility had suddenly died out of his
eyes; and for a moment Anstice caught a glimpse of the man Hilda Ryder
had loved.
"You know"--his square fingers played absently with his cigarette
case--"I have loved Hilda Ryder all my life. We were brought up together
as children; I was a few years older than she ... by the way, how old
are you?"
Surprised, Anstice owned to his twenty-nine years.
"And I am twenty-six. Hilda was twenty-four last year. Well, all my life
she has been the one--the only--woman in the world for me. We've been
engaged four years; her people wouldn't sanction it till she was twenty,
but we always knew we were made for one another, and Hilda used to say
she would rather be my wife than marry the richest, the most famous man
on earth!"
Suddenly Anstice heard her soft voice in his ear.
"To marry him ... perhaps in time to bear his children, would be to me
the most glorious destiny in the world...."
A spasm of uncontrollable anguish convulsed his features for a moment;
but Cheniston was too intent on his own self-revelation to notice.
"Life--without--Hilda seems impossible somehow." He laughed drearily.
"We have always been so happy together ... I can't imagine going on
without her."
He paused, but Anstice said nothing. He did not know what to say.
"I wonder--can I go on? Is it really required of me that I should
continue to hang on to an existence which is absolutely devoid of all
attraction, of all meaning?" He fixed his blue eyes on the other's face.
"You're a doctor, aren't you?"
Anstice nodded.
"Yes."
"Well, I daresay it has happened in your experience that some poor devil
doomed to a lifetime of torture, condemned, perhaps, to bear the burden
of the sins of his ancestors, has begged you to furnish him with the
means of escape ... there must be cases in which death is infinitely
preferable to life, and a doctor must know plenty of safe ways of
setting free the poor imprisoned wretch as one would free a miserable
caged bird. Tell me, has such an experience ever come your way?" He
spoke almost irritably now.
"Well," said Anstice, "and if it has? What then?"
"How have you answered such entreaties, I wonder? Even you can't pretend
that life is always a sacred thing; that a man isn't sometimes justified
in turning his back on the existence he never desired and yet has to
endure." He paused, and his eyes held a queer blue glitter. "Well, have
you nothing to say?"
"No," said Anstice resolutely, moving a step forward as he spoke. "On
such a subject I have nothing to say--to you. If, as seems possible, you
are suggesting that I should furnish either you or myself with an easy
solution of the problem of our respective lives, I fear I must decline
the suggestion. I'm a doctor, not a murderer, although"--suddenly he bit
his lip and his face turned grey--"you, of all men, may be pardoned for
thinking me ready to act as one."
The passing softness which had given him back his youth faded out of
Cheniston's face; and when he spoke even his voice sounded years older.
"Well, it's no use talking, I suppose. After all"--his lip curled--"no
man is dependent on another's good offices if he decides to cut short
his sojourn on this delightful planet. Though it strikes me that if, as
you say, you feel you owe me a debt, you might perhaps allow me to fix
the method of payment."
He stopped short, taken aback by Anstice's imperious gesture.
"Look here, Cheniston." He spoke curtly, his eyes ablaze. "Life has
given us both--me as well as you--a terrible jar. But you won't make
things better by resenting what has happened. You have lost the woman
you loved, but I have lost a good deal more. With the best
intentions"--he smiled ironically at his own phrase--"I have ruined your
life; and my own. I am ready to admit I owe you some reparation for the
wrong I have quite innocently done you; and I am ready, also, to pay you
any price in reason which you may ask, either now or in the future. But
the price must be one which may decently be paid."
"I see." Cheniston spoke slowly. "I think, after all, we may shelve the
question of payment between you and me. Personally I hope--you will
forgive my frankness--that we may never be called upon to meet again.
You see"--his voice broke, but he cleared his throat angrily and went
on--"I can't help remembering that if you had waited Miss Ryder would
still be alive."
Anstice was stung to a last impulse of self-defence.
"If I had waited--and the rescuers had not come, it is possible death
would have been a merciful alternative to Miss Ryder's fate," he said.
"I have tried to explain that what I did was done--as Miss Ryder would
be the first to admit--for the best. But I see you are determined to
look upon me as a criminal; and as I don't intend to excuse myself
further, well, I will echo your hope that we may never meet again."
And without any further attempt at farewell Anstice turned on his heel
and walked out of the room; leaving Bruce Cheniston staring after him
with an expression of amazement not untinged with shame in his narrow
blue eyes.
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
"If you please, sir, a telephone message has come for you from Cherry
Orchard just now."
Anstice put down the paper he had been idly studying and looked at the
maid.
"Cherry Orchard? That's the big house on the Littlefield Road, isn't
it?"
"Yes, sir. It has just been reopened, cook tells me."
"Oh. And I am wanted there?"
"Yes, sir. At once, the message was."
"Very good. Tell Andrews to bring round the car immediately. And put
dinner back a bit, Alice, please."
"Yes, sir." The trim maid hurried away, and Anstice rose to obey the
summons, congratulating himself on the fact that the night was fine, and
the Littlefield Road good going.
Ten minutes later he was on his way; and in due course arrived at his
destination, a pretty old gabled house standing in a large and
old-fashioned garden, from whose famous cherry trees the place derived
its quaint name.
Six months earlier Anstice had bought a practice in the Midlands, on the
death of its former owner; but this was the first time he had visited
Cherry Orchard; and as he waited for his ring to be answered he
remembered the maid's remark as to the recent reopening of the house
with a slight feeling of curiosity as to its tenant.
He was not kept waiting long. An elderly manservant speedily appeared;
and his face, which wore a worried expression, lightened as he saw
Anstice standing on the steps.
"Thank God you've come, sir." The gratitude was so obviously sincere
that Anstice felt glad he had not delayed his coming. "If you'll kindly
go upstairs, sir--the housekeeper is waiting for you, I believe."
He relieved Anstice of his hat and coat with hands which shook; and at
the same moment a swarthy, foreign-looking woman hurried forward with
unmistakable eagerness.
"You are the doctor, sir? Then will you come up at once? My mistress is
upstairs, and the sooner you see her the better."
Without wasting time in questioning her, Anstice motioned to the speaker
to lead the way; which she did accordingly, hurrying up the black oak
staircase at a surprising pace; and giving Anstice no time to do more
than glance at the artistic treasures which were in evidence on every
side.
She led him a few steps down a broad gallery, lighted by large and
finely-designed windows; and paused outside a door, turning to him with
an expression of appeal--he could call it nothing else--in her small but
intensely bright eyes.
"You'll be very gentle with the poor lady, sir? You won't--won't fluster
her?" She broke off suddenly, appeared as though about to say something
more, then closed her lips as though she had thought better of the
impulse, and opening the door invited Anstice to enter.
Somehow her last words had given Anstice a queer, but possibly
justifiable, suspicion that he was about to encounter a _malade
imaginaire_; and just for a second he felt a spasm of irritation at the
stress which had been laid on the urgent need for haste.
All such thoughts fled, however, as his eyes fell on the face of the
patient he had come to see; for here was no neurotic invalid, no
hysterical sufferer who craved sympathy for quite imaginary woes.
On the bed drawn up in front of one of the big casement windows lay a
young woman with closed eyes; and as he approached her side Anstice saw
that it was not sleep but unconsciousness which claimed her at that
moment.
"How long has she been like this?" He spoke sharply, one hand on the
slender wrist.
"It's two hours since she was seized, sir." The woman's voice shook. "No
sooner was my mistress in the house--she came home only to-day--than she
fainted clean away. We brought her round, the maids and me, and she was
better for a bit ... then up she would get to look after Miss Cherry,
and off she went again. It's nearly half an hour ago ... and we got so
anxious that Hagyard telephoned for you ... we thought it was the right
thing to do."
"Quite the right thing." He was too intent on his patient to pay much
attention to the woman's speech; but she was quite content to stand
silent as he tried one means of restoration after another; and when,
finally, his efforts were successful, both Anstice and the housekeeper
breathed more freely.
"Your mistress ... her name, by the way...."
"Mrs. Carstairs, sir." She spoke with a tinge of reluctance, and even in
the stress of the moment Anstice wondered why.
"Oh. Well, Mrs. Carstairs is coming round now, she will be herself in a
moment or two. By the way, just go and fill a hot-water bottle, will
you? It is chilly to-night, and Mrs. Carstairs will probably feel cold."
With a last look at her mistress the woman turned to obey; and Anstice
moved back to the bed to find his patient's eyes open and fixed upon him
with something of perplexity in their depths.
"Don't try to move just yet," he counselled her quickly. "You've had a
bad faint, and must lie still for a little while. Do you feel better?"
"Much better, thank you." Her voice, though it sounded weak, was oddly
deep in tone. "I suppose I fainted. Did they send for you?"
"Yes. Your servants were getting alarmed." He smiled. "But there is no
need for alarm now. What you want is a long rest. You have been
overtiring yourself, perhaps?"
A peculiar smile, which was mocking and yet sad, curved her lips for a
moment. Then she said quietly:
"Perhaps I have overtired myself a little lately. But it was quite
unavoidable."
"I see." Something about this speech puzzled Anstice, and for a moment
he was rather at a loss to know what to say in reply.
She did not wait for him, however.
"Do you think I shall faint again? These faints are so
unpleasant--really I don't think"--she paused, and when she resumed her
voice sounded still deeper, with a true contralto note--"I don't think
even death itself can be much more horrible. The sensation of falling,
of sinking through the earth----"
She broke off, and he hastened to reply.
"I don't think you need anticipate any further trouble to-night. I
suppose you have had your heart sounded?"
Again she smiled; and once more he could have sworn there was mockery in
her smile.
"Yes. But I don't think my heart is wrong. It--it is due to other
causes----"
She stopped abruptly as the door opened, and the woman came in, carrying
the hot-water bottle for which she had been sent.
"That you, Tochatti?" She seemed to welcome the interruption. "Thank you
so much." She let the servant fuss over her for a moment, then turned to
Anstice. "You see," she said, "I am well looked after."
"I am glad you are," he rejoined promptly. "You know you are really in
need of a little care at present. If you will allow me, I should like to
sound your heart myself."
She acquiesced rather wearily; and having satisfied himself that the
state in which he found her was due rather to weakness than to any
specific disease, he turned to the strangely named woman, whom he now
guessed to be a foreigner, and gave her a few directions for the night.
"I'll see to it, sir," she said quietly; and Anstice knew his orders
would be faithfully carried out.
"Well, I can't do you any good by staying," he said, bending over the
bed and holding out his hand. "But send for me if you want me, won't
you? And I'll look in to-morrow to see how you are."
"One moment." Her hand in his felt strangely alive in spite of her
recent unconsciousness. "Put on a little more light, please, Tochatti. I
should like to see"--she spoke without any embarrassment--"to what sort
of person I am indebted this evening."
When, the next instant, the room was flooded with light, Anstice had no
scruples in looking at his patient with an interest which, though less
openly expressed, was quite as strong as that with which she evidently
intended to scrutinize him.
The first thing he noticed was that Mrs. Carstairs was young--probably
not more than twenty-five. The next, that she looked as though she had
recently gone through some nerve-racking experience; and the last, which
came upon him with a shock of unjustifiable surprise, that she was more
than commonly good-looking.
Her features, as he saw for the first time, were classical in outline,
and the silky black hair which lay in heavy waves on her forehead shaded
a brow which in contour was almost purely Greek. Her skin was of so thin
and transparent a whiteness that her black eyebrows traced two inky
lines across her face; and the almond shape of her sapphire blue eyes
gave them a somewhat Oriental look, in spite of their eminently Western
colouring.
When, in response to his stare, she vouchsafed a faint smile, he saw
that the mouth which was sad in repose was fascinating when she smiled;
and the white teeth which the smile displayed were perfect in shape and
colour.
"Well?" Her deep voice took him so much aback that he absolutely
started. "You've seen me--haggard wreck that I am--and I've seen you. So
now we may consider our acquaintance inaugurated and say good-night."
"Certainly." He looked at her closely; and noted her extreme pallor. "I
hope you will sleep--you look shockingly tired."
"I told you I was a wreck," she said, still with that inscrutable smile.
"But if you will take me in hand I have no doubt I shall soon recover my
ordinary rude health."
"I hope so." His tone was absent--he was wondering whether he had ever
seen this woman before; and coming, finally, to the conclusion that he
had not. "Well, I will leave you now, and hope to find you a great deal
better in the morning."
"Thanks." She spoke wearily. "I'm sorry to have troubled you.
Good-night."
In the hall the manservant waited, and Anstice, pitying his evident
anxiety, spoke reassuringly to him as he took his coat. "Your mistress
is much better now--with a little care she will soon be all right, I
hope."
"Thank you, sir." The man's voice quivered with feeling. "We--we are all
very anxious when our lady is not well."
"Of course." Anstice took the hat the servant held and moved to the
door. "Is that nine striking? I didn't know it was so late."
Yet in spite of the lateness of the hour Anstice did not drive home at a
particularly rapid pace. Something in the episode just closed had
intrigued him, piqued his curiosity as well as stimulated his interest;
and he was wondering, as he drove, what there was about his patient
which suggested a mystery--something, at least, unusual unexpected, in
her character or surroundings.
"She's uncommonly handsome--but so are heaps of women. Nice house,
plenty of money, I should say, and of course she herself is well bred.
Yet there is something odd about her--about her manner, rather. Looks at
one queerly--almost quizzically--and yet when she smiled she looked
extraordinarily sad." He turned a corner rather carelessly and a
surprised motor-cyclist sounded his horn reproachfully. "I wonder--is
she a widow? There was no sign of a husband, though I believe the
servant said something about a child. Anyhow"--he had reached his own
house now and slowed down before the gate--"I will see her to-morrow and
perhaps learn a little more about her--if there is anything to learn. If
not--well, women love to appear mysterious. There never was a woman yet
who didn't long to rival the Sphinx and appear an enigma in the eyes of
wondering men!"
And he went in to his belated dinner with a rather cynical smile on his
lips.