by Maud Diver
BOOK I.--AFTER FIVE YEARS.
CHAPTER I.
"I, who am Love, burn with too fierce a fire, Even if I only pass and touch the soul, Life is not long enough to heal the wound. I pass, but my touch for ever leaves its mark. I, who am Love, burn with too fierce a fire." --Turkish Song.
Max Richardson lifted the "chick," paused on the threshold, andsurveyed the empty room.
A bachelor's room, in a frontier bungalow, boasts little of beauty,less of luxury. The legend of Anglo-India--"Here to-day, and goneto-morrow"--is visible on its nail-disfigured walls, battered campchairs and tables, supplemented by chance purchases from the "effects"of brother officers, retired, or untimely hurried out of "the day, andthe dust, and the ecstasy."
To the observer for whom one hint of human revelation outweighs invalue a warehouseful of inexpressive furniture, a room of this typeholds one superlative interest. It is an index of character no lessinfallible than its owner's face. Its salient features may tell thesame tale as a dozen others in the same station--the tale of a soldiergoing to and fro in a land of unrest. But its minor details reveal theman beneath the uniform.
There is as much individuality after all in a soldier as in any otherspecimen of God's handiwork; even though tradition and the War Officecompel him to an external suggestion of having been turned out by thedozen.
The ramshackle room whereon Eldred Lenox had set his seal differed inone notable respect from others of its type. It contained no pictureeither of a woman or a horse. The dingy white wall was relieved bygroups of barbarous weapons--Thibetan daggers, a pair of wicked-lookingkookries, the jezail and Brown Bess of Border tribesmen, and themurderous Afghan knife, whose triangular two-foot blade has disfiguredtoo many British uniforms.
In peaceful contrast to these trophies were one or two rough sketchesof the mountain regions beyond Kashmir; desolate stretches of glacierand moraine, or groups of stately peaks, the colouring washed in with asingular sureness of touch. There were also maps, finely executed byhand, of Thibet and Central Asia. To these fresh names and markingswere added, from time to time, with a thrill of satisfaction only to begauged by the man for whom the waste places of earth are a goodlyheritage, and who would sooner contribute a new name to the world'satlas than rule a kingdom. Higher up the twenty-foot walls, heads ofsambhur, markor, and the lesser deer of the Himalayas showed dimly inthe light of one lowered lamp. Skins of bear and leopard, and one ortwo costly Persian prayer-rugs, partially hid the groundwork of dustymatting, taken over with the bungalow from its former occupant, and inplaces revealing the stone floor beneath. The broad mantel-shelf wasgiven over to books, a motley crowd in divers stages of dilapidation.'The Master of Ballantrae' shouldered 'The Queen's Regulations,' onewould fancy with a swaggering hint of scorn; a battered copy of the'Pilgrim's Progress' stood resignedly between Bogle's 'Mission toThibet' and a technical handbook on Topography, the whole row beingpropped into position at one end by a great brown tobacco-jar, and atthe other by a bronze image of the Buddha in cross-legged meditation--amemento of Lenox's latest expedition to Thibet.
The solitary lamp, its green shade set at a rakish angle, stood upon aspacious writing-table, strewn with closely written sheets of foolscap,pens, pencils, pipes, and books of reference, half a dozen of theselast being piled on the floor, close to the writer's chair. It was thetable of a man who leaves his work reluctantly, leaves it in such afashion that he can take it up again exactly where he left off, withoutwasting precious time upon preliminaries.
On Lenox's bare deck-lounge a bull terrier, of powerful build anduncompromising ugliness, slept soundly, nose to tail, and on one of thecostly prayer-rugs his Pathan bearer slept also. The deep, evenbreathing of dog and man formed a murmurous duet in the twilightstillness.
All these things Max Richardson noted, with a twinkle of amusement inhis blue eyes. Every detail of the room spoke to him eloquently of theman he had not seen for a year. Since his departure on furlough thebattery had changed stations, marching across sixty miles of sanddesert from Bunnoo to Dera Ishmael Khan, familiarly known as "DeraDismal," a straggling station a few miles beyond the Indus.
Richardson had arrived from Bombay late that evening, just in time tochange and hurry across to the station mess. To his surprise Lenox hadnot put in an appearance at the mess table, and Richardson,anticipating fever,--the curse of frontier life,--had left early,inquired the way to his Commandant's bungalow, and now stood on thethreshold, scarcely able to believe the evidence of his senses.Strange developments must have taken place during his absence, ifLenox--the woman-hater, the confirmed recluse--were actually dining out.
He approached the snoring Pathan and roused him, not ungently, with thetoe of his boot. The native sprang up, fumbled at his disarrangedturban, salaamed deeply, and finally stood upright, a splendid figureof a man, six feet of him, if his peaked turban were taken intoaccount--hard, wiry, with aquiline features, grey beard, and eyes keenas a sword-thrust; a man without knowledge of fear, cunning andimplacable in hatred, but staunchly devoted to the Englishman heserved, who, in his eyes, was the first of living men.
"The Captain Sahib--where is he?" Richardson demanded in the vernacular.
"At Desmond Sahib's bungalow for dinner. By eleven o'clock hereturneth. Your Honour will await his coming?"
"Decidedly."
Zyarulla turned up the lamp, and proceeded to set whisky, soda-water,and a tumbler among his master's scattered papers. Brutus, at thesound of a remembered voice, tapped the cane chair vigorously with hisstump of a tail, without offering to relinquish the one comfortableseat in the room. Richardson sat down beside him, caressed the strongugly head, and lit a cigar.
The Pathan withdrew, leaving him alone with the dog and the whiskybottle, from which he helped himself liberally. Then, drawing one ofthe closely written sheets of paper towards him, he fell to reading itwith interest and attention. It was a minute geographical record of arecent journey through tracts of mountain country hitherto unexplored,a journey which had gained Lenox the letters C.I.E. after his name.Richardson, while failing to emulate the older man's zeal forwanderings that cut him off for months together from intercourse withhis kind, was yet keenly interested in their practical outcome.
The stronger light in which he now sat revealed him as a big fair man,by no means ill-featured, his soldierly figure emphasised by the gunnermess-dress of those days, with its high scarlet waistcoat and profusionof round gilt buttons, in each of which twin flames winked andsparkled. A suggestion of kindly, uncritical contentment with thingsin general pervaded his face and bearing. The blue eyes were rarelyserious for long together; the mouth, under a neatly trimmed moustache,showed no harsh lines, no traces of past conflict. Had the greatOverseer of men's destinies not seen fit to guide him to the Frontier,out of reach of demoralising influences, it is doubtful whether hewould have escaped the trail of the petticoat, the snare of thegrass-widow in determined search of amusement. As it was, he hadpassed through the critical twenties with a clean defaulter sheet; hadestablished himself as a good soldier and a good comrade, a"friend-making, everywhere friend-finding soul," and the closest amongthese was the Commandant of his battery--a wholesome and pleasant stateof things for both.
He was beginning to weary of geographical detail, when steps sounded inthe verandah, and he was on his feet as Lenox came in.
"Hullo, Dick! Good man to wait for me! Thought I should have seen youbefore mess, though. What do you mean by not coming here straight?"
"None of my fault, old chap. We were delayed as usual crossing thatblamed old Indus. Stuck on a sandbank for over an hour. Gives afellow time to count up his sins and renounce the devil, eh? Expectedto find you at mess, of course. I wasn't prepared for this sort ofupheaval in the natural order of things!"
Lenox stooped to caress Brutus, who was urgently demanding attention.
"Upheavals belong to the natural order of things," he said quietly."The world would come to a stand
still without them. Light a freshcheroot, and fill up."
He indicated the chair vacated by Brutus, sat down by thewriting-table, and picking up a pipe proceeded to clean it out withscrupulous care. Richardson watched him the while, his face grownsuddenly thoughtful. Once he leaned forward, as though he had someurgent matter to communicate, but apparently changed his mind, andspoke conversationally between puffs at his cigar.
"Zyarulla said you were at the Desmonds. Is that the cavalry Desmond,the V.C. chap, whose wife was shot by a brute of a Ghazi four yearsago?"
"Yes;--a hideous affair. Yet, in the face of his second marriage, onecan hardly call it a misfortune. It was one of those evils that hadfar better happen to a man than not--that's a fact; and there are agood many such on this amazing planet."
"Sounds a bit brutal, though, when the murder of a man's wife is inquestion."
"Facts are apt to be brutal; even facts relating to the holy estate ofmatrimony!" Lenox's tone had an edge to it, and Richardson somewhathastily shifted to another aspect of the subject.
"You are really intimate with these Desmonds,--both of them?"
"Yes. Both of them. I dine there about once a-week, just myself andDesmond's inseparable pal, Wyndham, who is over there most days. Youmust call at once. She is Colonel Meredith's sister, a magnificentwoman in every way."
"A miraculous one, I should say, to have dragged such an adjective outof you!"
Lenox smiled. "No. Only one of the right sort. The sort that makesfine sons. She has one already; splendid little chap. The three of'em are off to Dalhousie early in May, and they have just persuaded meto spend my two months there instead of beyond Kashmir. Mrs Desmondhas a misguided notion that I am knocking myself to bits over my workin the interior."
"Deuced sensible woman!" laughed Richardson. "It'll give me thegreatest pleasure in life to shake hands with her."
"Come and do it to-morrow then. I'll go along with you."
While he talked Lenox had filled a long German pipe with a bowl ofgenerous dimensions. Now he set a match to it, and as the first blueclouds curled upward a peculiarly aromatic fragrance filled the room.
"That stuff of yours is A1," Richardson remarked, with an appreciativesniff. "Pretty costly, I suppose?"
"Yes. My one extravagance. A special brand that I get out from home,a big batch at a time. Nothing like it for settling a man's nerves inthe small hours."
"Do you still sit up over that sort of thing till the small hours?"
"Yes, most nights. What moonshine are you bothering your head aboutnow?"
"Strikes me that sleeplessness of yours must be becoming serious. Youlook several degrees less fit than you did a year ago, and that'ssaying a good deal."
Lenox took his pipe from between his teeth, and regarded his subalternsteadily for a few seconds.
"When I need medical advice I'll send for Courtenay," he said, a hintof authority in his bantering tone. "We were discussing tobacco, and awoman; and the conjunction reminds me of an inspired German proverb Ihappened on the other day. 'God made man first; then He made woman;then He felt so sorry for man that He made--tobacco.' Supreme, isn'tit?"
Lenox chuckled with keen appreciation over the characteristicallyTeuton bit of cynicism, and Richardson laughed aloud.
"Rather rough on woman, that. You might almost have originated ityourself."
"Wish I had. I'd be proud of it. Stick to tobacco, Dick, and you'llnever be tempted to blow your brains out. You may take my word for it,that jar of Arcadian mixture," he specified it with his pipe-stem, "isworth all the women in creation put together."
The bitterness that of late years had so puzzled and distressed hisfriend sounded again in his tone, and the laughter went out ofRichardson's eyes.
But Lenox, absorbed in his own reflections, noticed nothing.
"Let's hear what you've been doing with yourself at home, Dick," hesaid suddenly. "You're not coherent on paper. I want a few facts.You went abroad latterly, didn't you? Toboganning, and that sort ofthing, I suppose?"
"Yes; went with those cousins I told you of--to Zermatt."
"Delectable spot," Lenox remarked drily, his eyes on the bowl of hispipe. "Hope you enjoyed yourself there?"
"Yes, rather so. Had a rattling good time." Then he leaned forwardagain, elbows on knees. "Look here, Lenox, old chap; I'm no hand atskirting round a subject, and I feel bound to tell you that I know now. . . what happened there five years ago."
Lenox started so violently that the pipe dropped from his hand. Aminimum of sleep and a maximum of tobacco do not tend to steady a man'snerve.
"How the devil d'you come to do that?" he asked, picking up his fallentreasure, and readjusting its contents.
"Well, you see, I happened to be with my cousins when they found outabout it. Queer what a deal of trouble some women will take just tosatisfy a bit of curiosity."
"Damn their curiosity!" Lenox muttered between his teeth, addingsomething hastily, "You can spare me the details. Nothing stands achance against a woman's passion for other people's affairs. Verystraight of you to speak out at once. Don't allude to it again,though;--that's all."
"But, Lenox," Richardson persisted, not without misgiving, for it isill work tampering with the reserve of a Scot, "there's just onequestion I want to ask you, and I think I have a right to know thetruth. I remember writing a certain letter to you that autumn; arather disparaging letter about--Miss Maurice." The name tripped himup, and he reddened. "I beg your pardon; I ought to say Mrs Lenox,though she still paints under the other name."
"Say Miss Maurice, then, by all means," Lenox answered coldly. "She iswelcome to call herself what she pleases so far as I am concerned. Goon."
"I want to know when that letter reached you."
"On the afternoon of the day--I was married."
"Good Lord!" the other ejaculated blankly. "And all that I wroteof,--was it news to you?"
Lenox nodded without looking up.
"My dear fellow, for God's sake don't tell me that a thoughtless letterof mine was responsible----"
Lenox rose and went over to the mantelpiece. The full light on hisface was more than he cared about just then.
"You asked for the truth," he said, in a hard, even voice, "and--youhave made a clean shot at it. We separated that day. I have neitherseen nor heard of her since."
A long silence followed this bald statement of the case. MaxRichardson had no words in which to express the pain he felt. Brutusarose, and rubbed himself against his master's legs, as if dimly awarethat sympathy of some sort was required of him, and the regular beat ofthe sentry's footsteps asserted itself in the stillness.
At last Richardson spoke. "Wonder you cared about shaking hands withme again after that."
Lenox came nearer, and took him by the shoulder.
"My dear good Dick," he said quietly, "don't talk rubbish; and obligeme by putting the whole affair out of your head. It's as dead as adoor-nail. Has been these five years. After all, you were simply aninstrument--a providential instrument," he added grimly--"in thegeneral scheme of things." He paused for a moment; then returned tohis station on the hearth-rug.
"You say she has been painting under her own name. Has she been doingmuch in that line lately?"
"Yes. She has made great strides. Her Academy pictures fetched highprices last year."
"I am glad of that."
The words were spoken with such grave politeness that Richardson lookedup as if suspecting sarcasm. But the other's face was inscrutable."Do you happen to know where she is at present?" he asked, after apause.
"No. I believe she and her brother travel about Europe. They nevercame back to England. That's what made my cousins feel sure there wassomething behind."
"Yes, naturally." Then, with an abrupt return to his usual manner, headded, "Now, old chap, I'm going to send you packing, and get to work.Deuced glad to have you back again. Hodson's a slacker of theslackest. We shan't keep
_him_ up here much longer, I fancy. Bordernotions of work don't agree with his delicate digestion! See you againat early parade:--sharp up to time."
And as Richardson's footsteps died into silence, Eldred Lenox wentslowly back to the writing-table.
The past five years had not dealt tenderly with this man of surfacehardness and repressed sensibilities. The black hair at his templeswas too freely powdered with silver, the lines between his brows, andabout his well-formed mouth and jaw, were too deeply indented for a manof five-and-thirty. The whole rugged face of him was only saved fromharshness by a humorous kindliness in the keen blue eyes, that hadmeasured distance and faced death with an equal deliberation; and by aforehead whose breadth made the whole face vivid with intellect andpower. He looked ten years older than the inwardly exultant bridegroomwho had stood upon that sunlit road outside Zermatt, waiting to takepossession of the woman he had won.
The attempt to relieve bitterness of spirit with the stimulant ofincessant work, and the questionable sedative of tobacco stronglytinctured with opium, was already producing its insidious, inevitableresult--was, in truth, threatening to undermine an iron constitutionwhile failing conspicuously to achieve the end in view.
After sitting for twenty minutes before a blank sheet of foolscap,Lenox gave up all further effort at mental concentration. A nostalgiaof vast untenanted spaces was upon him,--of those great glacier regionswhere a man could stand alone with God and the universe, could shakehimself free from the fret of personal desire. And he had agreed toforgo this--the one real rest and refreshment life afforded him,--to"suffer gladly" the insistent trivialities of hill-station life,merely, forsooth, because a woman had asked it of him. Heanathematised himself for an inconsistent weak-minded fool. But he hadno intention of breaking his promise to Mrs Desmond.
Since work was out of the question, he pushed his chair backimpatiently, left the table, and flung out both arms with a gesture ofdesperate weariness. Yet sleep was far from him, and he knew it;unless he chose to induce it by the only means ready to his hand.
And to-night he did so choose. In general he had steeled himself toresist the temptation to smoke no more than was needed to quicken andclarify thought. But the short talk with Richardson had set all hisover-strained nerves on edge. His sum of sleep in the past week didnot amount to twenty-four hours, and for once in a way oblivion must bepurchased at any cost.
Going over to the tall tobacco-jar that supported his library, herefilled his pouch with cool deliberation, stretched himself out uponthe deck-lounge, and smoked pipe after pipe, till the portion of thedrug contained in each accumulated to a perceptible dose. Then thegreat Dream Compeller took pity upon him, deadening thought, feeling,consciousness itself, till the pipe fell from between his fingers,--andhe slept.