The Great Amulet

by Maud Diver

  CHAPTER XV.

  "How the light light love, he has wings to fly At suspicion of a bond." --Browning.

  The rugged peak of Bakrota was enveloped in a grey winding-sheet,impenetrable, all-pervading; a dense mass of vapour ceaselessly rollingonward, yet never rolling past. It was as if the mountain had becomeentangled in the folds of a giant's robe.

  The Banksia rose that climbed over the verandah of the Crow's Nest hadshed its first crop of blossoms. The border below was strewn withbright petals of storm-scattered flowers; while above the dank pinesdripped and drooped beneath the dead weight of universal moisture. Thefar-off glory of the mountains was blotted out, as though it had neverbeen; and the doll's house, with its subsidiary group of native huts,had the aspect of a dwelling in Cloudland. From within came the plashof water falling drop by drop, suggesting a vision of zinc tubs, pails,and basins, set here, there, and everywhere, to check the too completeinvasion of the saturated outer world.

  Just outside the drawing-room door, heedless of the mist that hungdewdrops on her lashes, and on blown wisps of hair, Quita stood,devouring with her eyes a damp note, handed to her a minute since byone of Mrs Desmond's _jhampannis_.

  "DEAR MISS MAURICE"--(it ran)--"At last I am allowed to write andsay--Come. Not this afternoon, because he had quite a long outing thismorning in that blessed spell of sunshine; and he is sound asleep afterit, has been for an hour and more; or of course he would send a linewith this himself. Come to dinner. Half-past seven. Then you canhave a long evening together without keeping him up too late. For Theois still high-handed with him about sleep and rest. But really he hasmade astonishing progress since we got him over here. Dr O'Malley isquite comically elated over his recuperative power. Says he has seldomseen such a rapid and vigorous convalescence after concussion; andtakes more than half the credit to himself; but I am convinced that itis you who are mainly responsible for it. He says little enough, evento Theo. Yet one can see how impatient he is to be well again, becauseof you; and that's half the battle. Though perhaps my prosaic zeal forconcentrated food of all kinds deserves to be taken into account!Theo, who is reading every word of this over my shoulder--in spite ofmy insistence on the privacy of _all_ correspondence!--wishes to pointout that his own genius for nursing is really at the bottom of it.(_N.B._--This is simply because he wants you to be extra charming tohim to-night!) But apart from all my nonsense, the point remains thatamong us all we have done great things in less than three weeks. Comeand see for yourself, and we can squabble over our laurels at leisure!

  "Theo sends sympathy and _salaams_, and I think you know that I am veryreally 'yours,'

  "HONOR M. DESMOND."

  Quita smiled as she folded up the note, though her lashes were wet withmore than mist. Tears came too readily to her eyes just now, a factthat engendered occasional bickerings between herself and Michael.

  "And to think that I was blind enough to hate that dear woman," shethought. "I, who pride myself on my intuition!"

  Then she scribbled a hasty note of acceptance, despatched the_jhampanni_, and remained standing absently by the verandah rail,looking out into nothingness; trying to grasp the fact that thelongest, hardest three weeks of her life were over; that in less thanfour hours' time she would once more set eyes on the man who was, toall intents and purposes, her newly accepted lover; would verify in theflesh the remembrance of that wonderful night and morning.

  The thought so unsteadied her, that she clenched her hands, and jerkedherself together. Having more of Diana than of Venus in hercomposition, the intensity of her love--since avowal had levelled allbarriers--was a constant surprise to her; and now she was even a littleashamed of her natural longing for the touch of hands and lips, thatshe had at times been disposed to scorn. None the less, she hoped,unblushingly, that she would be allowed to have him to herself for anhour, or so; hoped also--nay, confidently expected--that she would endin overruling this stern purpose of his, that irritated her, even whileit compelled her admiration.

  To her, as to all eager natures, the appeal of the present wasall-powerful, the more so when that present offered her with both handsthe best that life has to give. To sacrifice it on the altar of aproblematical future seemed sheer folly; magnificent folly, perhaps,but, in the circumstances her quickened heart leaned towards a lessmagnificent wisdom. She detected in this unmanageable husband of hersa strain of unpretentious heroism, which delighted her in the abstract.But when the heroic puts on flesh and blood, and shoulders itself intoour narrow lives, it is apt to appear a little too big for the stage;and Quita had an artist's eye for proportion, whether in pictures or inthe human comedy.

  Moreover, a mingling of French and Irish blood rarely results in anirksome development of the conscience, or of that moral bugbear, asense of responsibility; and deep down, Quita knew herself to be morelike her brother in both respects than she quite cared to acknowledge.For all her husband's conscientious suggestion that marriage was a"complicated affair," she persisted in regarding it simply as the crownand completion of their great love, a happiness to which they wereentitled by every law human and divine. The generations still to behad not yet laid their arresting hand upon her. In her esteem, suchshadowy probabilities had neither right nor power to stem the newimperious forces at work within her.

  It remains to add that Eldred's avowal had not shocked or repelled heras much as he had feared. For, among Michael's promiscuous intimatesin Paris, Vienna, Rome, she had seen and heard more than Lenox waslikely to guess of that enslavement to drugs and absinthe to which theartist's temperament seems peculiarly prone; though she was far fromrealising in detail the full horror and degradation involved. Shemerely felt certain that--heredity or no--Eldred was, by the nature ofhim, incapable of travelling far down that awful road; that with her athis side to hearten and help him, he could not fail to free himselffrom "the accursed chain."

  But they must fight the battle together. That was the Alpha and Omegaof her thoughts. He had not yet measured the height and depth of herlove. Let her only make this clear to him, and he must give in; if notto-night, at least before his leave was up. Years of living withMichael had accustomed her to getting her own way in all essentials.But she had yet to try her strength against the bed-rock of Scottishgranite underlying her husband's surface quietness; against theterrible singleness of mind that cannot--even for Love's dearsake--view harsh facts through a medium of rosy mist.

  While she stood thus, trying to see into the darkness that shrouds thecoming day, even the coming hour, from inquisitive eyes, the driftingvapour all about her paled from grey to white, from white to a gossamerfilm; and finally uprose from the valley, like a spotless scroll rolledbackward by an unseen Hand, giving gradually to view a multitude ofmountains, newly washed; mountains that glowed with richest tints ofpurple and amethyst and rose, in the level light of afternoon. AndQuita, being in a fanciful mood, saw in this "good gigantic smile" ofthe rain-soaked earth a happy omen; an assurance that so would themists rise from her own life, and the sunlight prevail. A suddenrecollection of the buffalo "_Mela_" set her smiling.

  "How idiotic I am!" she reproved herself gently;--we are apt to begentle with our own foolishness; it never seems quite so egregious asother people's--"I might be a girl of twenty, after my first proposal,instead of nearly thirty, and a nominal wife of five years' standing."

  She drew out her watch. Four o'clock. Three mortal hours before shecould even think of starting. There was nothing for it but to haverecourse to her easel, _faute de mieux_. The last words waked hernormal self. They were no less than heresy, treason to her art.Michael would have disowned her, had she spoken them in his hearing!Was Art, then, so small a thing when compared with this overwhelmingforce of Love, which dwarfed all thoughts and acts that did notminister to its needs? It was too early days as yet to answer so largea question. She simply knew that since that first kiss had set her onthe threshold of an unexplored world, Art had lost its grip; that,
forthe present, at all events, she did not want to paint, but to love andlive!

  "Pity Michael isn't here to scold me," she thought, as she turned backinto the house.

  But Michael was away at Jundraghat, the Rajah's summer Residency. Hisfinished portrait had been sent off that afternoon; and he had followedit, for the pleasure of hearing Elsie's thanks and praise in person.

  The little room, robbed of the picture that had been its chief ornamentfor many weeks, looked empty, desolate; and with a restless sigh shewent over to her easel. This also was empty. Her study of a hillgirl,--begun half jestingly, as a contrast to Michael's flower ofWestern Maidenhood,--had so grown and beautified under her hands, thatit had been voted worthy of a Home Exhibition; and its case now stoodagainst the wall, awaiting mail day. Three or four unfinished picturesleaned against the easel. Quita looked through them, aimlessly, insearch of a congenial subject. But they were chiefly landscapestudies; and in her present mood Nature seemed a little tame, andbloodless. Her heart cried out for something human, and she wishedthat Michael would come back.

  Then, like a ray of light, came the required inspiration, satisfying atonce the counter-claims of Art and Love. She sought out a freshcanvas, set it on the easel, and plunged, forthwith, into a roughhead-and-shoulder study of her husband.

  Now time no longer stood still. Michael was forgotten. And, while herbrush sped hither and thither, she crooned low and clear, the song thathad proved the open sesame to her cave of enchantment.

  And, in the meantime, Michael--the forgotten--was manipulating a newand delicate complication in a fashion peculiarly his own.

  On entering Mrs Mayhew's drawing-room, he had found, not his "moonlightmaiden," as it pleased him to call her, but the Button Quail herself,who greeted him with a rather embarrassing effusion of thanks.

  "And the best point about it is, that it's really _like_ Elsie," sheconcluded, with an air of paying an exceptional tribute to his skill."Portraits so seldom _are_ like people. Haven't you noticed it?That's why I generally prefer photographs. But your picture isdifferent. There are only two things about it that don't _quite_please me." She paused, eyeing the canvas with her head on one side;and Maurice, who was irresistibly reminded of a bird contemplating aworm, wondered idly what was coming in the way of criticism. "I wishyou had allowed her to wear something _smarter_ than that limp whitesilk; and I think she looks much too unpractical, day-dreaming on averandah railing at that hour of the morning! But then, Elsie _is_rather unpractical; or would be," she added quickly, "if I didn'tinsist on her helping me with the house. That's where moatAnglo-Indian mothers make such a mistake. But _I_ always say it is amother's duty to have _some_ consideration for her girl's futurehusband!"

  And she smiled confidentially upon the aspirant at her side. ButMaurice, absorbed in critical appraisement of his own skill inrendering the luminous quality of Elsie's eyes, missed the smile;missed also most of the interesting disquisition on her education.

  "Yes, yes,--no doubt," he agreed with vague politeness, and Mrs Mayhewopened her round eyes.

  But the direction of his gaze was excuse enough for any breach ofmanners; and she returned to the charge undismayed, approaching hersubject this time from a less prosaic point of view.

  "Really, Mr Maurice, I never knew till now that I _had_ such a prettydaughter! The whole effect is so charming, that I begin to think youmust have flattered her!" she remarked archly; and Maurice fellheadlong into the trap.

  "Flattered her? _Mon Dieu_, no! Nature has taken care to make thatimpossible. For, although she falls short of true beauty, she has suchdelicacy of outline, of colouring, an atmosphere so ethereal, that onewants a brush of gossamer dipped in moonlight, not coarse canvas,camel's hair, and oils, if one is even to do her justice. Some day Imust try water-colours, or pastels. _Sans doute ca ira mieux_." Hewas off on his Pegasus now, far above Mrs Mayhew's bewildered head."She would make a divine Undine--moonlight, and overhanging trees. Theface and figure dimly seen through a veil of water weeds.--But where isshe, then?" he broke off, falling suddenly to earth like a rocket."May one see her this afternoon? I want to hear from herself that sheis satisfied."

  Mrs Mayhew smiled and nodded, a world of comprehension in her eyes.

  "Yes, yes, I can quite believe _that_. I will tell her you are here.She looked rather a wisp after the dance last night, so I sent her upto rest, for the sake of her complexion! But, of _course_, she mustcome down now. You will find her more entertaining than '_la petitemere_,' She has taken to calling me that lately!"

  The complacent little lady took a step forward, then--a bubble withmaternal satisfaction--spoke the word too much that is responsible forhalf the minor miseries of life.

  "Do you know, Mr Maurice, it is quite charming of you to have shown meyour feelings so openly, and I think the least that I can do is toassure you of my sympathy and approval. I don't feel _quite_ socertain about her father. He is wrapped up in the child, and man-like,wants to keep her for himself. But no doubt between us we shallpersuade him to listen to reason! Now, I will go to Elsie."

  But Michael made haste to interpose;--a changed Michael, puzzled to theverge of anger, yet punctiliously polite withal.

  "One moment, Mrs Mayhew, please. It might be as well if you and Iunderstood one another first. It seems that I have been clumsy inexpressing myself, that I have given you a false impression. If so, Iask your pardon. Believe me, I fully sympathise with Colonel Mayhew'sreluctance to part with such a daughter; and I am not arrogant enoughto dream of asking him to make such a sacrifice,--on my behalf."

  It was very neatly done. Michael's detached self, looking on at thelittle scene, applauded it as quite a masterpiece in its way. But MrsMayhew stood petrified. Her brain worked slowly, and it took her anappreciable time to realise that she had been something more than afool. Then, drawing herself up to her full height--barely five feet inher heels,--she answered him with an attempt at hauteur that quitemissed fire.

  "Since you are so _considerate_ of Colonel Mayhew's feelings, I onlywonder it has not occurred to you that your conduct during the past twomonths has been little short of dishonourable?"

  "Dishonourable?" His eyes flashed. "_Mais comment_?"

  "You have given every one in Dalhousie the impression that you were--inlove with Miss Mayhew."

  His relief was obvious.

  "Naturally, my dear lady. For I _am_ in love with her. How could aman, and an artist, be anything else? But marriage--no----" He shookhis head decisively. "That is another pair of sleeves. Women areadorable. But they are terrible monopolists; and, frankly, I have notalent for the domesticities. As a lover, I am well enough. But as ahusband--believe me, in six months I should drive a woman distracted!Ask Quita. She knows. If I have given Miss Mayhew cause to regret herkindness to me, I am inconsolable; though, in any case, I can neverregret the privilege of having known, and--loved her."

  Throughout this ingenious jumble of egoism and gallantry, his listenerhad been freezing visibly. On the last word she compressed her mouthto a mere line, and stabbed the unrepentant sinner with her eyes; sinceit was unhappily impossible to stab him with a hat-pin, which she wouldinfinitely have preferred.

  "I have never in my _life_ heard any man express such improper ideasupon a serious subject," she remarked with icy emphasis. "And I am_quite_ thankful that your peculiar views prevent you from wishing tomarry my daughter."

  "_Bien_! Then we are of one mind after all," Maurice answeredcheerfully. "And since we understand each other, may I at least bepermitted to see Miss Mayhew before I go?"

  "See her? Certainly _not_. Really, Mr Maurice, your effronteryastounds me! Understand, please, that from to-day there is an _end_ ofyour free-and-easy French intimacies! Colonel Mayhew and I have toconsider her good name and her future happiness; and we cannot allowyou, or any man, to endanger either."

  Michael shrugged his shoulders. His disappointment was keener than hecared to show; but this
hopeless little woman, with her bourgeois pointof view, was obviously blind and deaf to common-sense or reason.

  "I would not for the world endanger Miss Mayhew's happiness, or hergood name," he said, not without dignity. "And as one may not see her,there is no more to be said."

  He held out his hand. But Mrs Mayhew's manners were not proof againstso severe a shock to her maternal vanity. She bowed as if the gesturehad escaped her notice.

  "Good-bye, Mr Maurice," she said rigidly.

  He returned her bow in silence, slipped the rejected hand into hispocket, and went out.

  In passing through the hall he was aware of a slim white figure comingdown the broad staircase; and without an instant's hesitation he stoodstill. In spite of "the little she-dragon in there," he would see heryet. For the knowledge that he had lost her increased her valuetenfold.

  "You are really pleased with it--tell me?" he said eagerly as theirhands met, for he saw the question in her eyes.

  "Pleased? You know I am. It is _much_ too good of you to give me sucha splendid present; and father is simply delighted. But why are yougoing away? I thought you would stay to tea."

  He still held her hand, in defiance of a gentle attempt to withdraw it,and now he pressed it closer.

  "Unhappily I must go," he said, without looking at her. "Your motherwill tell you why, better than I can do. Good-bye---_petite amis_.Think well of me, if you can."

  He bent over her hand, kissed it lingeringly, and was gone before shecould find words to express her bewilderment.