"You're late, child. Had a long ride?" said Colonel Jermyn, who was
already at breakfast when Vivien entered.
"Not very. The mountain paths here are so rough, you have to keep
almost entirely to a walk. And I met Mr Campian, so we stopped and
chatted a little."
"Did you? Where?"
"Somewhere on the side of the mountain. I don't know the localities
here yet," replied Vivien, with perfect ease. She had been about to
say, "at the markhor cave," but remembering Campian's hint, refrained.
"He had been out after markhor, with that nice-looking old forester of
Mr Upward's, and was on his way back."
"Did he get any shots?"
"One, and missed it. He was quite unconcerned about it though, and
didn't go out of his way to invent half a hundred excuses for having
missed it."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the colonel. "So many of these young fellows--and old
ones too--are always full of reasons of that kind. A stone slipped from
under their foot, or the _shikari_ sneezed, or something. There is
something I rather like about that man. Who is he? Do you know
anything about him?"
This was shooting the bolt home with a vengeance. But Vivien's
self-possession was equal to the strain.
"Isn't there a family of that name in Brackenshire?" she asked
carelessly.
"I believe there is. Yes, very likely. I thought we might ask him to
come and stay a week or so when he has done with the Upwards, or even
before. What do you think about it, Vivien?"
"Wouldn't he find it desperately slow here, Uncle Edward?" she said, as
serenely as before.
"Perhaps; I don't know. If he did, he could always take himself off
again. And now, if you'll excuse me, dear, I'll do likewise, for that
confounded Levy sowar will be here directly for the _dak_, and I've got
a whole pile of letters to write. It's mail day, too."
Left to herself, Vivien moved about the room arranging here, dusting a
little there. No flowers were obtainable in this arid region of rocks,
save a few wild ones, but even of these she had made the best; and what
with little touches of feminine tastefulness in the arrangement of the
rooms, the old forest bungalow, rough and racketty, and hardly better
than a mere rest-house, stood quite transformed. Then, passing into her
own room, she shut the door, and sat down to think.
Far away from wild, craggy Baluchistan her thoughts went back. A chance
call, a chance introduction in a room full of people. A few minutes of
ordinary conversation as between strangers who met for the first time,
and--she had learned the mystery of life when life is young--though not
always then--had gazed within the golden gates of love; had trodden the
flower-springing sod of that radiant and mystic realm; and not only
that, but she had known, with a wondrous magnetic instinct, that in the
same moment of time another had learned that mystery too. Then she had
begun to live; then she had begun to realise what life could contain.
Other scenes rose before her as she sat here thinking--a vision of the
Park corner, in all the joyous glow and brilliancy of the London season
at its height--with one ever at her side--one who there in the midst of
all the varied types of beauty, and style and attractiveness of the
kingdom collected together, never--as she used to tell him half
playfully, but all proudly--never had eyes for any but herself. Ah, it
was something to be loved like that; and yet this was not the perfervid
enthusiasm, the red-hot glow of youthful adoration, but the love of one
considerably past that illusive stage; whose experiences had been
multifold, and frequently bitter. Again, she saw the green glories of
the Cliveden woods, mirrored in the broad placid surface, as she and one
other floated down that loveliest of lovely reaches in the fire-path of
the westering sunlight, alone together, the murmur of their voices and
the dipped wing of the hovering swallow blending with the lazy splash of
the sculls. Again, in the opera box, while the most splendid staging
perhaps that "Faust" had ever been put on with, held the entranced and
densely packed multitude in the lowered light, _she_ dwelt in a paradise
all her own, for had she not the presence, even the contact of that one?
Many and many a scene came before her now. Ah, that year! It had been
indeed a year of love. And in every such scene, in every such
recollection he had been ever the same. Never a moment of time that he
could spare but had been spent with her--indeed not a few also that he
could not--and throughout it all how perfectly free and happy together,
how thoroughly at home with each other they had been.
Why, then, had such a state of things been allowed to come to a close?
Heavens! It is a rare--well nigh unique--one, in all conscience. Had
he deceived her--disappointed her? Not any. But there had come
stalking along that goggle-eyed, sheet-and-turnip bogey hight Duty--that
Juggernaut which has crushed far more lives than it has ever fortified,
and now, in her retrospect, Vivien Wymer realised, not for the first
time, and no less bitterly, that this is just what it had done for hers.
For at the period to which her thoughts went back, she owned a mother--
and a selfish one, as mothers now and again are, all cant to the
contrary notwithstanding--and this devoted parent could not do without
her daughter, although she had another. Here was the jagged rock
beneath the surface of their unruffled sea, and upon it their freight of
happiness had been wrecked and cast away.
At the time Vivien had thought herself passing strong, and the
consciousness of this had done much to buoy her up amid such an
experience of agony and heartbreak that even now she hardly cares to
look back to. That had been five years ago. She was young then, and
now that she is nearer thirty than twenty she is able to realise that
she acted insanely; is able to realise that the love which that one had
lavished upon her was worth more than that of all the kindred in the
world ten times over, let alone such a consideration as an imaginary
duty towards a thoroughly selfish and exacting woman, merely because the
latter happened to be her nearest relation. She has come to realise the
absolute truth of his words, and the realisation brings with it no
solace, for, like most other experiences worth gaining, it has come too
late. Her mother has been dead for three years past, and her younger
sister, now married, is not eager to see too much of her; and to Duty,
as represented by these, Vivien has sacrificed her life.
But he--will he not relent and return? Can he live without her? Well,
five years have passed since they parted, and he has kept to their
agreement. She knows his nature--unswerving, vindictive--indeed the
very contrast afforded between this and the completeness of his love for
herself had not a little to do with drawing her to him. His words
during that awful parting had been few, and their raging bitterness to
some degree suppressed, and that he should come second to anything or
anybody, was what he never could and never would forgive.
Would he relent? Never. She went back to their chance meeting in the
markhor cave but a few hours ago, recalled every word of their
conversation. The very tone of his voice had never swerved. Her ear,
quick to detect any change, had detected none--not even by the smallest
inflection. His manner had been kind, friendly, full of a certain
modicum of regard--but that was all. Had he not often told her that a
lost illusion was gone for ever? Never could it be set up again. His
love was dead, and she had killed it.
But--was it? Surely not. It was only sleeping, deeply perhaps, but
would re-awaken. She would re-awaken it. It was impossible that such a
love as theirs had been could die in either of them as long as life
should last. Then a blank misgiving seized her. They had not met for
five years. Then she was twenty-three. What changes had the
intervening period effected in her?
She gazed into her mirror long and steadily. Yes, she was growing old--
old and plain, decidedly, she told herself with an aching bitterness of
heart. The soft sprightliness of five years earlier was no longer in
her face. It had gone. Alone with herself she need not dissimulate.
In those days the bright and sunny spirits of rejoicing youth had
radiated from her eyes; now, though her eyes were as lustrous and
brilliant as ever, their glance was a tired one, reflecting but the
sadness of a lonely and disappointed woman. Undoubtedly the change had
struck him, and with startling force. No; his love would never
re-awaken now. Why should it? In the day of her power she had let it
go; now her power had departed.
Then another thought came to her. That blue-eyed girl staying with the
Upwards--she was wondrously pretty. Vivien had seen her once in
Shalalai. The two would be thrown together day after day, and all day
long--had been so thrown together. They had even shared a common peril.
And she had youth on her side. What sort of tone would his voice have
taken while talking to her, Vivien wondered, again recalling the perfect
composure of his conversation but an hour or two ago in the cave. No
reference--not even a veiled one--to the past; no remark upon the
unexpectedness of their first meeting. True, he had seemed a trifle
disconcerted on the occasion of that meeting; but that was only
natural--and momentary. Yes, Nesta Cheriton was wonderfully pretty and
taking. Thus she tortured herself.
But while she could do that alone and with her own thoughts, Vivien
would rather have died than have allowed any glimmering of their gist to
be so much as suspected by any living soul, let alone the object of
them. She forgot to wonder at her own self-possession on the occasion
of that first meeting; and indeed on that of the subsequent one. It had
proved even more complete than his own, and she forgot to speculate as
to whether he might not be taking his cue from her and playing up to her
lead. That is the worst of introspection of the vehement kind, it is
absolutely blinding as regards the attitude towards the object which
inspires it.
Then, by a curious twist in her meditations, pride sprang into arms. If
one man could so completely dismiss her from his heart and memory, there
were others who could not. She unlocked a drawer of her writing-table
and took out a letter. Spreading it open before her, she glanced
through it. It was from one who was the owner of a fine old country
place and a good many thousands a year, and contained a passionate
appeal to her to reconsider her former refusals. This letter she had
intended to answer last week. But now?
She read it through again. Why should she continue to throw away life,
grieving over what was past and done with; what was inevitable; what was
dead and buried? It was more sensible to take life as it is, and make
the best of things. She would accept the man. There was no reason why
she should not, and every reason why she should.
She drew a sheet of paper to her, but before she had got further than
the address, a new thought struck her. What if she had so replied by
last mail--that is to say, the day before this other had been so
unexpectedly thrown back into her life? Nay, worse. What if she had so
replied to a like appeal from the same quarter nearly a year ago? That
decided her. She wrote her reply--and it was in the negative, very
unequivocally so--stamped and directed it, and threw it aside.
Then she did a strange--and in view of her former meditations--an
utterly inconsequent thing. She took another sheet of paper and wrote:
"We were to be strangers to each other. Had we not better remain so?
You will understand my meaning fully within the next few days. Of
course I have no right to try and influence your movements, so must
leave it to your own judgment to order them in what seems to me the only
rational and sensible way.
"Vivien."
This she put into an envelope, which she sealed, but did not stamp.
Then she directed it to "Howard Campian, Esquire, Chirria Bach."
No; she could not bear it. To be under the same roof with him for days,
possibly weeks at a time, and keep up the _role_ of strangers to each
other, would be too great a strain. Now, when he should receive her
uncle's invitation he would know what to do. On the face of such an
intimation there was but one course open to him. A rap came at the
door, and her uncle's voice:
"Got any letters to send, Viv? The Levy sowar is here."
"Only one," she answered, opening the door, and handing him the one
bearing the English address. "The other I want to go in the opposite
direction. The man can take it this evening when he passes here with
the Upwards' _dak_."
"All right." And in a moment more the clatter of the horse's hoofs died
away down the path, and the swarthy Baluchi, in his Khaki uniform,
jogged indifferently upon his way, as though he were not the bearer of
that which by a turn or freak of thought had just escaped being an
agency for entailing solemn consequences upon one or more lives.
"By George! this hill air seems to suit you, child," cried the jolly
colonel, gazing upon his niece with undisguised admiration. "I can't
make out what all these young fellows--young fools, I call them--are
about. Eh?"
"Have I not got a dear old uncle, who talks shocking nonsense on
privileged occasions?" returned Vivien, slipping her hand within his
arm. "Why, I am getting as old as the hills, and am `going off'
perceptibly every hour. Do I not own a looking-glass?"
"A looking-glass? Pooh! it's a lying one then. We'll pitch it over the
_khud_, and send Der' Ali down to the bazaar for one that is more
truthful. But, then--I am forgetting. This isn't Baghnagar, and
there's no bazaar."
"No, there isn't, and a good thing too, if it is going to conduce to
such scandalous waste," retorted Vivien brightly.
"I believe it's not fair, eh? It seems hard lines on you, child,
shutting you up here, with no one to talk to but a prosy old fellow like
me, eh?"
"Now, Uncle Edward, it is you who will have to go over that _khud_
instead of my poor, unoffending, candid looking-glass, if you persist in
talking such a prodigious quantity of nonsense."
That evening the Levy sowar arrived in due course, with Colonel Jermyn's
post, and clattered off, bearing that of Upward. But the letter
addressed to Howard Campian, at Chirria Bach, still lay upon Vivien's
writing-table.