CHAPTER XLII.
BY THE OLD RIFLE-RANGE.
A powerful and determined temptation, that was deaf to reason or argument, struggled hourly to drag Mark Jervis to Hawal Bagh. It changed its fierce wrestlings, and passionate and even frantic pleadings to soft alluring whispers. It whispered that life was but an hour in the æons of time—a drop in the ocean of eternity. Why not taste the drop—enjoy the hour? Snatch the sunshine and live one’s little day, ere passing for ever into eternal darkness and oblivion! It even quoted the Scriptures, and vehemently urged him to take no thought for the morrow—that sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. It seized the brush from the hand of memory, and painted Honor Gordon as an angel. It babbled of a visit to Mrs. Brande—she had always been his friend. Surely there was no harm in going to see her! But the young man sternly silenced alike whisperings or pleadings. He beat the mad tempter to its knees, choked it, and, as he believed, put it to death. Why undergo the anguish of parting twice—why walk across red-hot plough-shares a second time?
For four whole days he held aloof, and never visited the cantonment—save in his thoughts and dreams. On the fifth he conscientiously set forth in the opposite direction, and after a long and aimless ride was astonished to find himself—no, not exactly on the enchanted ground, but close to the old rifle-range, which lay at the back of its encompassing hills. To the left dipped a long valley, on the right of the path towered a forest of rhododendrons and ever-green oaks, carpeted with ferns, and a blaze of delicate autumn flowers; here and there the Virginia creeper flared, and here and there a pale passion-flower had flung abroad its eager tendrils and attached two noble trees. All at once, a fat white puppy came bustling through the undergrowth; he was chasing a family of respectable elderly monkeys, with the audacity common to his age and race. Truly the pup is the father of the dog; and Jervis, who was walking slowly with his pony following him, recognized this particular pup at once as an old friend. He had bought him and presented him to Mrs. Brande, when her grief was as yet too fresh—and this same rollicking, well-to-do animal had once been indignantly spurned! To whom did he now belong? Who was his master or his mistress? There was a sound of light young footsteps, a crashing of small twigs, a glimpse of a white dress, and an anxious girlish voice calling, “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy!”
In another second Honor Gordon ran down into the path, about thirty yards ahead of Tommy’s donor. She was almost breathless, her hat was in her hand—possibly it had been snatched off by an inquisitive branch as she struggled after the runaway. The soft little locks on her forehead were ruffled, and she had an unusually brilliant colour.
As Mark’s starving eyes devoured her face he thought he had never seen her look so lovely. He summoned up all his self-command—there must be no going back to “old days,” no moaning over “what might have been.” No; he was the stronger, and must set a stern example.
For quite twenty seconds there was a dead silence, a silence only broken by the trickling of a snow-born mountain stream, passing lingeringly through the ferns and orchids—who seemed to stoop and bend over—listening intently to its timid silvery song.
“How changed he was!” thought Honor, with a queer tight feeling in her throat, “only three short months, and the bright look of buoyant youth had faded from his face.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a supreme effort. “I had a presentiment that I should see you soon—I dreamt it!”
“Dreams sometimes go by contraries,” he answered, with a rather fixed smile.
“And how clever of Tommy to find you! The dear dog remembered you.”
“Well, up to the present he has not shown any symptoms of recognizing me; on the contrary, he has cut me dead. He is in hot pursuit of some venerable lumgoors. How long is it since he has seen me?” asked Mark.
“The day of the bachelors’ ball. I recollect you gave him a méringue, and very nearly killed him! It was on the eighth of June. This is the tenth of September; just three months and two days.”
“So it is,” he acquiesced, with forced nonchalance.
“Do you live near here?” she continued.
“About four miles, by a goat path across that hill.”
“Pray are you aware that we are picnicing below, with half Shirani?”
“Yes, I know; but not another starvation picnic I hope?”
“And yet,” ignoring his ill-timed jest, “you have never come to see us, and we leave to-morrow!”
He looked down to avoid her questioning eyes, and made no answer, beyond a faint, half-strangled sigh.
“At least we are still friends,” she urged, swallowing something in her throat.
“Yes—always; but I thought I had better remain away. The Shirani folk would take me for a ghost, and I might upset their nerves. What is the latest station news?”
“Our latest news is, that Mrs. Sladen is to go home at Christmas. Miss Clover is engaged to Captain Burne, and Miss Paske to Sir Gloster Sandilands,” she answered stiffly.
“Poor Toby! I suppose my former acquaintances believe me to be in England—if they ever think of me at all?”
She hesitated, twisted her ring round and round, and then said—
“Your friends,” with emphasis, “know that you are out in this country, looking after your father. How is he?”
“Wonderfully better, thank you.”
“And you—you have been ill?” she remarked rather tremulously.
“No, indeed; I never was better in my life. Of course you saw Waring before he went down?”
“No,” with undeniable embarrassment. “In fact, he copied your example, and dispensed with all farewells. He—he—left rather suddenly,” and she coloured.
“Why do you hesitate?” looking at her keenly. “What did he do? He has been doing something, I can see.”
“It was rather what he did not do,” with a constrained laugh. “Of course it is no business of mine. He did not pay any of his bills. I am not sure whether I ought to tell you.”
“And I am quite sure you ought,” he answered with decision.
“But he left such quantities of debts behind him, and no—address——”
“Debts?” he repeated incredulously.
“Yes, he paid for nothing. Club accounts, card accounts, mess bills, servants’ wages—not even his bearer’s bill for thread and buttons and blacking. People,” with a nervous little laugh, “seem to think that was the greatest enormity of all!”
“No!” cried Mark, his pale face turning to a vivid red, “I will tell you of a greater. I knew he had spent and muddled away most of our joint-funds, and the day I was last in Shirani I collected the bills and gave him all the money I had in the world—a cheque for five hundred pounds—to settle our affairs. He swore, on his honour, he would pay them at once and send me the receipts. Now, of course, every one in Shirani believes me to be as great a swindler and thief as he is! They must naturally suppose that I—I—bolted from my creditors! I,” with increasing warmth, “now understand why you stammered and hesitated when I asked if I was not forgotten. Forgotten! I shall live in people’s memories for years—on the principle that ‘the evil which men do lives after them.’”
“I am sorry I told you——” she began eagerly.
“And I have chiefly myself to blame. I was an idiot to trust Waring. I had had one lesson; but—I was half mad with my own troubles, and determined to tear myself away from Shirani at once. I felt that if I stayed on I might yield to temptation—good resolutions and fresh impressions might fade—and I might never return here——”
The pup, flouted and evaded by the scornful lumgoors, and exhausted by his tremendous efforts, now squatted on the path, apparently listening open-mouthed to every word.
The grey pony had also drawn near, and occasionally rubbed his handsome head against his master’s shoulder, as much as to say—“Enough of such fooling; let us move on!”
“This is horrible!” continued Mark. “I hate to owe a penny, and I have no means of paying our joint-debts, for Waring has wolfed the cheque.”
“And your uncle?”
“He has never written once. From his point of view I have treated him atrociously, and I am awfully sorry he should think so, for I am very fond of him. Of course he has done with me.” And, with a grim smile, “I am now in sober truth—a real poor relation. I am a pretty sort of fellow,” he went on, “I have talked of nothing but myself—and money—money—money, for the last five minutes. Tell me of yourself. Are you having a good time?”
“A good time!” she echoed, with a flash of her dark grey eyes.
“I beg your pardon, Honor,” he said, humbly. “But it has been one of my few consolations when I roam about these hills, to think that you were happier than I am.”
“And had forgotten you?” she added expressively.
“And,” with a slight tremor in his voice—“had forgotten me.”
“Never!” she returned, with passionate energy.
“Yes—you will, in time; perhaps not for two or three years—for you are not like other girls. I am your first lover—nothing can deprive me of that memory.”
“No, nothing,” she admitted, almost in a whisper.
“But, you know, they say a woman generally marries her second love,” with a laborious effort to speak steadily.
“How calmly you can discuss my lovers, and my future!” cried Honor, indignantly. “Oh, how hard you have become—how cold—how cruel!”
“Cruel—if I am cruel—only to be kind,” he replied steadily. “For, years to come, you will thank me—and think——”
“I think,” she interrupted, with a pitiful little gesture, “that when we meet so—seldom—scarcely ever—that you might be——” here her voice totally failed her.
She had grown much paler, and her breath came quickly, as she tried to keep down a sob.
Mark resisted a wild impulse to take her in his arms—and stooping, picked up the pup instead.
“Your uncle got my letter?” he asked, in a cool formal tone.
“Yes, and was dreadfully concerned; but he said you were a man of honour, and your views and his were identical—but—I don’t agree with them.”
“You don’t agree with them! What do you mean?”
“He told auntie, of course—and of course I insisted on her telling me. After all, it was my affair. I know the obstacle—I am ready to be your wife, just the same. As for poverty——”
“Poverty,” he interrupted quickly, “is not the question! I have a little money of my own, and I could put my shoulder to the wheel and work for you, Honor. It is not that—it is that my future is overshadowed, my reason stalked, by an hereditary and implacable enemy. I have no right to drag another into the pit—and, please God, I never will! When I lived a smooth luxurious sort of life, in those days that seem years ago, I thirsted for some difficult task, something to do that would single me out and set me apart from other men. My task has been allotted to me; it is not what I desired——”
“No!” interposed Honor, whose heart was fighting against her fate with a frenzy of despair. “Your task is to renounce everything—the world, and friends, and wealth, and me—and to bury yourself in these remote hills, with a crazy old gentleman who cannot realize the sacrifice. Don’t!” with an impatient gesture of her hand, “I know that I am speaking as if I were mad, and in my old foolish way. I know in my heart that you are doing what is right—that you could not do otherwise, and I—I am proud of you.”
Then, as she looked into his haggard, altered face and miserable eyes, and caught a glimpse of the real Mark beneath his armour of stoicism—“But, oh, it is hard—it is hard——” she added, as she covered her face with her hands and wept.
“Honor! for God’s sake don’t—don’t—I implore you! I cannot bear this. I would go through all I have struggled with over again to save you one tear. Circumstances—destiny—or whatever they call it—is too strong for us. You must not let me spoil your life. You know I shall love you—you only as long as I draw breath.”
“I know that!” raising her wet eyes to his. “And you dare to talk to me of a good time, of marrying my second love! Oh, Mark, Mark! how could you?”
“I was a brute to say it. I thought it would make it easier for you—when——” and his voice broke—“sometimes—when—you think of me——”
“Which will be every day—and often. And now I must be going. I was already late enough when Tommy ran away. I was afraid of his meeting poor Ben’s fate. Will you come with me as far as the brow of the hill, where our paths part?”
“Yes—part for ever!” he added to himself.
As they turned, she asked him many questions concerning his life, his associates, and his occupations. He on his side made the best of everything, painting the Yellow Bungalow, the gardens, the planters and missionaries with gorgeous colours.
“And are there no white women near you?” she inquired. “Have you never met one lady to speak to since you left Shirani?”
“Yes, I have one acquaintance, and one who is a friend of yours. She is a Persian, I believe. Your little cornelian ring has been a strong link between us. She is a most mysterious person. No one can tell who she is, or where she came from. All we know is, that she spends her present time in doing good, nursing the sick and dying. She told me that you knew the history of her life—you alone——”
“It is true,” bending her head as she spoke, and fixing her eyes on the ground.
“She shrinks from all observation, but she does not hide from me—for your sake; we talk about you constantly, I may say always.”
“Then give her a message from me, please. Tell her that I often think of her, and ask her if I may write to her, or if she will write to me?”
“You forget that she is a Persian. How can she possibly write to you?”
Honor coloured painfully, and twisted her ring round and round before she spoke, and then she said—
“Please give her the message all the same. I—I—can manage to get her letter read. I will understand it.”
They were now at the point where their roads diverged—his went along the hill, hers led down into the valley. She stopped for a moment, and caressed the grey pony’s sleek hard neck; then she turned and gave the pony’s master both her hands. They gazed at one another, with sad white faces, reading their life’s tragedy in each other’s eyes. Then she suddenly tore her fingers from his clasp, and ran down the hill with Tommy in pursuit. Jervis stood where she had left him, until the very last echo of her footsteps had died away.
“And that is a sound I shall never hear again,” he groaned aloud, and flinging himself down on the root of a tree, he covered his face with his hands. How long he remained in this attitude the grey pony alone knew! By-and-by he became tired of waiting—for he was either too well fed or too sympathetic to graze—he came and rubbed his soft black muzzle against the man’s short brown locks (his cap lay on the ground). It was his poor little attempt at consolation, and effectually roused his owner, though it did not comfort him, for what could a dumb animal know of the great distresses of the human heart?
Honor was late for tiffin, in fact it was getting on for afternoon teatime when she arrived. She discovered the bungalow in a state of unusual commotion. There was visible excitement on the servants’ faces, an air of extra importance (were that possible) in the bearer’s barefooted strut—he now appeared to walk almost entirely on his heels.
Mrs. Brande was seated at a writing-table, beginning and tearing up dozens of notes; her cap was askew, her fair hair was ruffled, and her face deeply flushed. What could have happened?
“Oh, Honor, my child, I thought you were never coming back, I have been longing for you,” rushing at her. “But how white you look, dearie; you have walked too far. Are you ill?”
“No, no, auntie. What is it? There is something in the air. What has happened?”
For sole answer, Mrs. Brande cast her unexpected weight upon her niece’s frail shoulder, and burst into loud hysterical tears.
“Only think, dear girl!”—convulsive sobs—“a coolie has just come—and brought a letter from P.—They have made him a K.C.B.”—boisterous sobs—“and your poor old auntie—is—a lady at last!”