CHAPTER XLV.

THE DEATH WRESTLE.

Tidings had come, as stated, to the zereba of Sheikh Moussa of the deportation of his kinsman Zebehr in a British ship of war as a State prisoner to Gibraltar, and Malcolm Skene—no longer cared for as a hostage—found himself in greater peril than before among his unscrupulous captors.

He was conscious that his movements by day were watched more closely than ever now, and by night he was always placed in a close prison beyond the court wherein the lions were chained.

Other Sheikhs came and went, with their standard-bearers and horsemen; conferences were evidently held with Moussa Abu Hagil; Skene found himself an object of growing hostility, and suspected 'that something, he knew not what,' was in progress; that Gordon had actually been victorious or rescued at Khartoum, or some great battle had been lost by the Mahdi.

He could gather from his knowledge of the language, and the remarks that were let fall unwittingly in his hearing that the zereba was to be abandoned for a general movement on Khartoum, or for another fortified post farther up the country—a move worse for him; and the consequent preparations, therefore, packing tents, provisions, and spoil, had begun.

To save further trouble, and gratify the lust of blood which forms a part of the Oriental nature, he might be assassinated after all—after having found protection under the roof and eaten the salt of Moussa—killed as poor Hector MacLaine was killed after the battle of Candahar, two or three years before this time.

The expression of Moussa's face as he regarded him occasionally now, was neither pleasant nor reassuring; his deep set eyes, when he was excited, glared with fire, like lights in the sockets of a skull; and Malcolm Skene never knew when the supreme moment might come.

In the morning he had no assurance that he should see night—in the night that he would be a live man in the morning.

Anything—death itself—were better than this keen and cruel suspense.

One evening about sunset there was a vehement beating of tom-toms, and a body of Baggara Arabs, some on horseback, others on camels, but many on foot—a fierce and jabbering mob, all but nude—though well-armed with bright-bladed Solingen swords and excellent Remington rifles, passed the zereba, bound for some point of attack; and the Sheikh Moussa, with every man he could muster, joined them in hot haste.

So great had been the bustle and hurry of their departure that Malcolm Skene, to his astonishment, found himself forgotten, overlooked; and, full of hopeful thoughts, he lay quiet and still in the poor apartment allotted to him, watching the strange constellations and stars unknown to Europe through the unglazed aperture that served as a window, and listening to the silence—if we may use such a paradox—a silence that seemed to be broken only by the pulsations of his own heart, as hope grew up in it suddenly, and he thought that, considering a kind of crisis that had come in his fate, now or never was the time to make a stroke for liberty, and to elude, if possible, the few Arabs who were left to watch the gates in the dense mimosa hedge that surrounded the zereba.

To elude them—but how?

The stars were singularly bright even for that hemisphere; but there was no moon as yet, fortunately, and softly quitting his hut, he looked sharply about the 'compound,' as it would be called in India, and found himself alone there, unnoticed and unseen. He drew near the hedge in the hope of finding, as he ultimately did, an opening in that barrier, a thinner portion of its dense branches, close to the ground, and at once he proceeded to creep through.

How easy it seemed of accomplishment just then; but when the zereba was full of armed men, and watchers and sentinels were numerous, the attempt would have been useless.

Slowly, softly, and scarcely making a twig or a thorn crack, he drew himself through on his hands and face ere many minutes passed; minutes? they could not have been more than five, if so many; but with life trembling in the balance, to poor Skene they seemed as ages.

At last he was through!

He was outside that hated place of confinement, every feature of which he knew but too well, and every detail of which he loathed; and yet he was not quite free. Keen eyes might see him after all, and every moment he expected to hear an alarm.

He thanked Heaven for the absence of the moonlight, and, favoured by the obscurity, crept on his hands and knees for a considerable distance ere he ventured to stand erect, to draw a long breath, and with a prayer of hope and thankfulness on his lips, set out at a run towards the Nile.

By the oft-studied landmarks he knew well in what direction the great river lay, a few miles off, however.

A boat thereon, could he but find one, might be the means of ultimate escape, by taking him lower down the stream to more civilized regions.

Anyway, he could not be worse off, be in greater hourly peril, or have a more dark future, than when in the zereba, unless, too probably, thirst and starvation came upon him.

While the darkness of night lasted, he had a certain chance of safety and concealment, and he dared scarcely long for day and the perils it might bring forth in a land where every man's hand was certain to be against him.

He was totally defenceless, unarmed—oh, thought he, for a weapon of any description, that he might strike, if not a blow for liberty or life, at least one in defiance and for vengeance!

So, full of vague and desperate yet hopeful ideas, he pushed in the direction to where he knew the river lay. On its banks he hoped to obliterate or leave behind all trace of his footsteps, for he knew but too well the risk he ran of recapture on his flight or absence being discovered; and that there were Arabs in the zereba who had applied themselves diligently to the study of tracking or tracing the human foot.

So acute are these men of vision that they can know whether the footsteps belong to their own or to another tribe, and consequently whether a friend or a foe has passed that way; they know by the depth of the impression whether the man bore a load or not; by the regularity of the steps whether the man was fatigued or fresh and active, and hence can calculate to a nicety the chances of overtaking him; whether he has trodden in sand or on grass, and bruised its blades, and by the appearance of the traces whether the stranger had passed on that day or several days before.

Malcolm Skene knew all this, and that with dawn they would be like scenting beagles on his trail, hence his intense anxiety to reach the river's bank.

Swiftly the dawn came in, red and fiery, and his own shadow and the shadows of every object were cast far behind him. He looked back again and again; no sign of pursuit was in his rear. In the distance he saw a few Arab huts with sakias or water-wheels, and then with something like a start of joy that elicited an exclamation, he got a glimpse of the river, rolling clear and blue, its banks a stripe of narrow green, between the rocky, rugged, inexorable black mountains; but there no boat floated on and no sail whitened the yellowish blue of the Nile. But the morning light was vivid, the breeze from the river was pleasant and exultant, the glories of Nature were around him, yet anxiety made him gasp for breath as he struggled forward.

Not a bird or other living thing was visible. The silence was intense, and not even an insect hummed amid the scrub mimosas; the hot, red sun came up in his unclouded glory. All seemed sad, solitary, yet intensely sunny.

Ere long he did hear a sound of life; it was the shrill cry of a little naked boy attending on a sakia wheel. Irrigation is done by the latter, which is driven by oxen turning a chain of water-jars, which admits of being lengthened as the river falls. It is usually enclosed in an edifice like an old tower, green with creeping plants, and as the boy drives the oxen, his cry and the creaking of the great wheel are sounds that never cease, day or night, by the Nile.

To avoid this sakia and its too probable surroundings or adjuncts, Malcolm Skene turned aside into a rocky chasm that overhung the river at a considerable height, and then, far down below, on the blue surface of the stream and between its banks, which in some places were barred in by rocks, blackened by the sun and rent by volcanic throes into strange fragments, and which in others, where the desert touched the stream, was bordered by level sand, he saw a sight which, were he to live a thousand years, he thought he could never, never forget!

There, about half a mile distant, was a regular flotilla of boats, manned by redcoats, with sails set and oars out—broad-bladed oars that flashed like silver as they were feathered in the sunshine, pulled steadily against the downward current of the river, and all apparently advancing merrily within talking distance—a sight that made his heart leap within his breast, for he knew that this was a relieving column, or part of it, en route for Khartoum!

For a minute he stood still, as if he could scarcely believe his senses, or that he was not dreaming—paralysed, as it were, with this sudden joy and sight—one far, far beyond his conception or hope of ever being realised.

He stretched his tremulous hands towards these advancing boats; he fancied he could hear the voices and see the faces of the oarsmen in their white helmets and red coats; and never did 'the old red rag that tells of Britain's glory' seem more dear to his eye and more dear to his heart than at that supreme moment!

What force might already have passed up?

How many days had they been passing, and if so, how narrowly had he escaped being left behind? This was assuredly the Khartoum Expedition, or part of it, and the recent bustle, consternation, and excitement at the zereba of Moussa Abu Hagil were quite accounted for now.

The sight of his comrades imbued him with renewed strength of mind and purpose, and his whole soul became inspired with new impatience, hope, and joy—hope on the eve of fulfilment.

While looking about for a means of descent to the river bank, from whence to attract the attention of the nearest crew, he heard a sound like a mocking laugh or ironical shout. He turned and looked back, and—with what emotions may be imagined, but not described—he beheld a man clad like an Arab, and covering him with a levelled rifle, at about a hundred yards' distance.

The condition of his uniform—in tatters long since—had not been improved by the thorns of the prickly zereba hedge in his passage through it; his helmet had since given place to a tarboosh, and, all unkempt and unshorn, his aspect was somewhat remarkable now, but quite familiar to Pietro Girolamo—for Girolamo it was—who knew him in an instant.

Whether the revengeful Greek had tracked him or not, or whether Moussa's followers were within hearing of a musket-shot, Skene might never know; the fact was but too evident that, intent on death and dire mischief, the Ionian Isleman and ci-devant gambling-den keeper was there, with his white, pallid visage, fierce hawk nose, long jetty moustache, and gleaming black eyes.

Every detail of his tantalising and most critical position flashed on the mind of Malcolm Skene.

On one hand were the boats of the River Column—life and freedom!

On the other, death—no captivity, but death, certain and sure; for even if he escaped Girolamo, in the direction where the zereba lay he could now see a cloud of dust, and amid it the dusky figures of men and camels, with the gleam of burnished steel, and then within almost his grasp, was Girolamo, rifle in hand, arresting his path to the boats.

With another mocking laugh, the Greek levelled his weapon more surely, took aim, and fired.

Skene heard—yes, felt—the bullet whiz past his ear. Powerless, defenceless, unarmed, his heart burned with rage and desperation at the narrow escape his life had; but discretion and scheming were then the better part of valour, and, with thought that came upon him quick as a flash of lightning, instead of risking another discharge, he resolved to feign death, and, after reeling round as if shot, he fell on the ground.

Then he heard the steps of his would be assassin approach ing him slowly and steadily, to give a coup de grace if requisite with his knife, perhaps, rather than to seek plunder, as Skene, he knew, would possess nothing worth taking.

Restraining his breath till the Greek was close upon him, Skene lay still; and then, as the former was about to stoop, he sprang to his feet and confronted him. So startled was Girolamo by this unexpected movement that the rifle dropped from his hand, slipped over the rocks, and the two enemies were face to face on equal terms, for Girolamo was minus knife or poniard.

He clenched his teeth; his glittering eyes blazed; his long, lean fingers were curled like the claws of a kite; and he uttered strange, guttural sounds of astonishment and rage; but Skene had no time to lose.

Straight out from the shoulder he planted his left fist, clenched, with a dull thud on the hooked beak of Girolamo, followed by a similar application of his right, and knocked him with a crash on the rocks.

Agile as a tiger and blindly infuriated like one, the Greek sprang again to his feet, and was rushing forward like a mad thing to get Skene's throat in the grasp of his long and powerful fingers, which would speedily have strangled the life out of him, but the latter bestowed upon his antagonist another 'facer,' which sent more than one of his sharp teeth rattling down his throat and loosened many of the rest, covering his pale face with blood; but, blinded by fury—a fury that endowed his wiry form with double strength—he closed in, and contrived to encircle Skene in his grasp—an iron one; for, long accustomed to a seafaring life, his muscles and nerves were like bands of steel, and now came the tug of war, even while distant cries came to the ears of the wrestlers.

No sound escaped either now, but hard and concentrated breathing; it was a struggle for death or for life, and each scarcely paused a moment to glare into the other's eyes. Fiercely as the first of his race and name is said to have grappled with the wolf in the wilds of Stocket Forest, did Skene grapple with his athletic adversary.

Near the edge of the rocks that overhung the river at the end of the chasm, backwards and forwards they swayed, locked in a savage and deadly grasp. Finding that every effort to uproot Skene, to get him off his legs and throw him, so that he might resort to strangulation, proved unavailing, he strove to drag him towards the Nile, in the hope of flinging him down the bank; but whether the said bank was a precipice of a hundred feet or only the drop of a few yards Skene knew not, and in the blind fury of the moment, with pursuers coming on, never thought of it.

Nearer and nearer the verge, by sheer strength of muscle and weight of limb, the Greek was dragging him, and already some shouts in English ascending from the bosom of the river evinced that the struggle was visible from the boats; but Skene now gave up all hope of being able to conquer his opponent or free himself from his terrible grasp, and had but one thought—that if he perished, Pietro Girolamo should perish too!

Now they were at the edge, the verge of what was evidently a precipice of considerable height, and more fiercely and breathlessly than ever did they wrench, sway, and grasp each other, their arms tightening, as hatred, rage, and ferocious dread grew apace together—the clamorous dread that one might escape the doom he meant to mete out to or compel the other to share with him.

As last a species of gasping sigh escaped them. Both lost their footing at once and fell for a moment through the air; they then crashed upon bushes and stones, and without relaxing their grasp rolled over and over each other with awful speed down a precipitous steep, sending before and bringing after them showers of gravel and little stones, crashing through mimosa bushes and other scrub, maimed, bruised, and covered with each other's blood, for some forty feet or so.

Mad was the thirst for each other's destruction that inspired these two men; for Malcolm Skene, by the peril and circumstances of the time, was reduced to the level of the Ionian savage with whom he fought—if fighting it could be called.

Another moment and they had rolled into the Nile—a fall, ere it was accomplished, that in a second seemed to compress and contain the epitome of life, and down they went under the surface, cleaving the water at a rate that seemed to take all power out of heart and limb, and, parting, they rose at a little distance from each other.

Faint and breathless Skene went down again, water bubbling in his eyes, choking in his throat, and all breath had left him ere he rose to the surface again, and saw Girolamo clinging to a rock round which swept the beginning of a rapid. He was visible for a moment only; exhaustion made him relax his hold. He sank, rose again only to sink; then a hand was visible once or twice above the water as he was swept away into eternity by the fierce current that bubbled round the sun-baked rocks.

Then Skene felt hands laid upon him, and while English voices and exclamations came pleasantly to his half-dulled ears, he was dragged by soldiers on board one of the boats, where he lay so completely exhausted as to be almost insensible; and he had not fallen into the river a moment too soon, for, just as he did so, a group of armed Arabs, the followers of Moussa Abu Hagil, crowned with a spluttering fire of musketry, and with wild gesticulations, the rocks above the Nile.

CHAPTER XLVI.

MAUDE'S VISITOR.

'The lives of some families,' it is said, 'are exactly like a pool in which—without being exactly stagnant—nothing occurs to ruffle the surface of the water from year's end to year's end, and then come a series of tremendous splashes, like naughty boys throwing stones.'

So it was with the Lindsays of Earlshaugh latterly, as we will soon have to show.

The few weeks of his leave of absence that intervened before Jack Elliot would have inexorably to start for Egypt, glided happily and all too swiftly away, when he and Maude took up their residence at the pretty villa in the southern quarter of Edinburgh, near the ancient Grange Loan; and often if they sat silent, or lingered hand in hand amid the faded flower-beds of the garden, they seemed to be only listening—if one may say so—to the silent responses of their own hearts, and that language of instinct understood only by kindred souls.

'We have not exactly Aladdin's lamp in the house, Maude,' said Jack laughingly, 'nor have we all the luxuries of our future home at Braidielee, where now conservatories are springing up, a billiard-room being built, and gardens laid out, all for you; but we are happy as people can be——'

'Who have a coming separation to face and to endure, Jack,' she interrupted, with a break in her voice.

In the newspapers they read the announcement of the marriage, at Earlshaugh, of 'Hawkey Sharpe, Esq., to Miss Annot Drummond, of South Belgravia,' at which Jack laughed loud and long.

'Well, Roland is lucky to be out of the running there!—Sharpe, Esq.—I wonder he did not add "of Earlshaugh," and doubtless the creature would figure in all Roland's splendid jewels and gifts. Pah!' said he; but the gentle Maude had a kind of pity for the girl, and her views of the matter were somewhat mingled.

Annot's mother had toiled always in the matrimonial market—long unaided by the young lady herself—and now the latter had landed a golden fish at last, as she thought, in the future heir of Earlshaugh—Mr. Hawkey Sharpe!

No longer was she to be perplexed by questions how few or how many thousand a year had such as Bob Hoyle, and on other delicate matters dear to the Belgravian mater, and concerning 'detrimentals.' After more than one season spent in the chase, after dinners that were too costly for a limited exchequer, handsome dresses and much showy appearance, laborious days and watchful nights, snubs and disappointments—homme propose, femme dispose—Annot was fairly off her hands, and to be a 'Lady of that Ilk.'

She had played her cards in Scotland beautifully!

And now came to pass the event which ruffled the calm pool of Maude's existence, when within three days of Elliot's departure to rejoin the army in Egypt. The crisis from which she ever shrank seemed now to have come!

Oftentimes before this had she wondered whether it were possible such unbroken happiness as her present life would ever come again, despite the tender, earnest, and trusting love that glowed in her breast; and on one particular evening, when Jack Elliot was absent making some final preparations, and would not be home till late, she sat alone, striving to prepare herself for the change, the solitude and anxiety that were to come, and praying tearfully for strength to pass the bitter ordeal—the wrench that was before them both.

This happy, happy honeymoon of a few weeks was drawing to its close, and her soft blue eyes grew very full as she thought over the whole situation, when a visitor was suddenly announced.

A showily-dressed and smart-looking little woman, about thirty years of age apparently, rather pretty, but flippant and nervous in manner, and having a slight soupçon of 'making-up' about her cheeks and eyelashes, was ushered in, and eyed, with some boldness and effrontery (to conceal the nervousness referred to), Maude, who, by force of habit, bowed and indicated a seat, which her visitor at once took, and threw up her veil.

Maude saw that her features were good, but this colouring and expression made them cunning and daring, if somewhat remarkable and attractive.

Maude then remembering that this person had not sent in a card or announced herself, inquired to what she owed the occasion of her visit.

'The occasion—you'll soon know that—too soon for your own peace of mind, poor girl! You are—Miss Lindsay?'

'I was Miss Lindsay,' replied Maude.

'And who are you now?'

Maude stared at her visitor with some alarm.

'If you take an interest in Captain Elliot, it is a pity,' continued the latter.

'Interest—pity?' questioned Maude, rising now, and drawing near to the handle of the bell.

'Take my advice in time, and don't touch that!' said her strange visitor with sudden insolence of manner, while something of malevolence and triumph sparkled in her dark eyes.

'You must be mad, or——'

'Tipsy, you would say—I am neither; but I have that to say which you may not wish to furnish gossip for your servants, so do not summon them until I am gone.'

'Will you be so kind as to state at once the object of your visit?' said Maude, with as much hauteur as she could summon to her aid.

'So you are his wife—a doll like you! Mrs. Elliot of Braidielee, you think yourself!' said the woman mockingly; 'I fear I have that to tell which your dainty ears will not find very pleasant. But "gather ye rosebuds while ye may;" for ere long only the leaves, dead and without fragrance, will be left you!'

Maude felt herself grow pale and tremble; she knew that there was a great lunatic asylum somewhere in that quarter of the city, and began to fear that her visitor was an escaped patient. She moved a step towards the bell again, and cast a lingering, longing glance at it, on which the woman again said sharply:

'Don't! Listen to me, I tell you!'

Placing her elbows on a small Chippendale table, off which, without ceremony, she thrust a few books, she rested her chin upon her left hand, and looking at the shrinking Maude steadily and defiantly—for the perfect purity of the girl, her position in life, her whole aspect and bearing filled this fallen one—for fallen she was—with rivalry, envy, and hatred, she asked:

'Now, who do you think I am?'

'That I have yet to learn,' replied Maude, who was moving towards the door, when the next words of the woman arrested her steps.

'Learn that I am Captain John Elliot's—lawful wife!'

'Oh—she is mad!' thought Maude, who neither tottered, nor fainted, nor made any outcry, deeming the bold assertion as totally absurd.

'You don't believe me, I suppose?'

'You must hold me excused if I do not,' replied Maude, thinking that she must temporise with a woman who, for all she knew, might bite her like a rabid dog; for poor Maude had very vague ideas of the ways and proclivities of lunatics in general.

She had but one desire, to rush past, to gain the door and escape; but was baffled by the expression of the woman's watchful black eyes. That she was not and never had been a lady was evident; neither did she seem of the servant class; so Maude's inexperienced eye was unable to fix her place in the scale of society, though her costume was good—if showy—even to her well-fitting gloves.

'You would wish to see my marriage-lines, I doubt not,' said the visitor with a smile, drawing a couple of folded papers from her bosom; 'but perhaps you had better read this first. I am a great believer in documentary evidence, and hope you are so too.'

Somewhat ostentatiously she flattened out a letter on the table, but carefully kept her hands thereon, as if in fear that it might be snatched away by Maude; and impelled by an impressible but hideous emotion of curiosity the latter drew near, and the woman with a slender forefinger traced out the lines she wished her to read—lines that seemed to seal the fate of Maude, whose dull eyes wandered over them like one in a dreadful dream—for the letter, if a forgery, was certainly to all appearance in the handwriting of Jack Elliot, and some of its peculiarities in the formation of capitals and certain other letters seemed to her too terribly familiar and indisputable.

They seemed to sear the girl's brain—the words she read—but summoning all her self-control, and seeming scarcely to breathe, she permitted as yet no expression of sorrow, of passion, or emotion of any kind to escape her.

'DEAREST LITTLE WIFE,

'I write you, Maggie, as I promised, as I cannot see you before leaving for Egypt, and fear the sorrow of such another parting as our last may kill me, for you know that all the love of my heart is yours, though I have been entrapped into a marriage with Maude Lindsay—a mad entanglement, for which I ask your forgiveness and pity, that you may not bring me to punishment and shame. I will buy your silence at any price; let me have back the marriage certificate and all letters, and I herewith enclose a blank cheque for you to fill up at your pleasure. This I do, dear little one, for the sake of our old——'

Here Maude reeled, for the room seemed to revolve round her.

'There!' said this odious woman exultingly, as she hastened to refold the letter and replace it in her breast, 'will you deny it longer?'

The speaker showed neither the certificate nor the blank cheque; but poor Maude had seen enough. She fainted, and when she recovered her obnoxious visitor was gone—gone, but had left a dreadful sting behind.

Had her presence and her story been all a dream? No! There was the chair in which she had been seated; there was the little Chippendale table on which she had spread the terrible letter that told of Jack's perfidy; and there on the floor, just where she had thrown or thrust them, lay the scattered books—his presents in the past time.

She cast herself on the sofa—she could neither think nor weep; her heart beat painfully—every pulsation was a pang! What was she to do—whither turn for advice before madness came upon her?

'Well, my old duck, Maggie, you have earned your money fairly, by all accounts—and my wonderful caligraphy was quite a success!' said Hawkey Sharpe, exploding with laughter, when he heard the narration of his 'fair' compatriot or conspirator, as he handed her a twenty-pound note, and drove with her townward in the cab with which he had awaited the termination of her visit at the Grange Loan. 'By Jove! a pleasant home-coming that fellow will have! "All men are brothers," says the minister of Earlshaugh; Cains and Abels, say I.'

'I don't care about him or what he may suffer—you men are all alike, a bad, false, cruel lot,' replied the woman; 'but, with all her airs and graces, her haughtiness and her touch-me-not manner, I am sorry for what that poor girl may be—nay, must be—enduring now.'

'The devil you are! all things are fair in love and war—and this is war!' said Hawkey, still continuing his bursts of malignant laughter; 'would she care for what you might endure?'

'I am sure she would—her face and her voice were so sweet and gentle.'

'For all that she would draw aside her skirt if it touched yours, as though there was a taint in the contact.'

The woman made no reply, but glared at him with defiant malevolence in her bold black eyes, and now seemed shocked at the very act which, a few minutes before, had given her much malignant satisfaction.

But we have not heard the last of Mr. Hawkey Sharpe's skill in caligraphy.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE RESULT.

Sense returned to the unhappy creature ere her servants discovered her or knew that the mysterious visitor had departed.

'It cannot be! It cannot have happened—it is too dreadful—too cruel!' she repeated to herself again and again; but could she doubt the tenor of the letter she had seen and read—the letter in her husband's own handwriting? 'Oh, Heaven!' she murmured; 'our days together have been so blithesome and so happy, even when their brightest hours were clouded by a separation to come; but Oh, not such a separation as this! What have I done that God deems me so unworthy—that I am tortured, punished thus?'

'There is scarcely in the whole sad world,' it is said, 'and in the woeful scale of mental suffering, aught sadder than the helpless struggle of a poor human heart against a crushing load of misery, strengthening itself in its despair, taking courage from the extremity of its wretchedness in the frenzied whispers of reassurance.'

Thus did Maude continue to whisper to herself: 'It cannot be—it cannot be!'

She passed her hot hand several times across her throbbing forehead; her brain was too confused—too unable yet to grapple with this disillusion, the miserable situation, and with all the new and sudden horrors of her false and now degraded position in the world—in society, and in life!

She had heard stories; she had vague ideas of the temptations to which young men—young officers more than all—are subjected; and Jack might have been the victim of some hour of weakness, or evil, or treachery.

Holding by the bannisters, she ascended to her bedroom—their room, as it was but one short hour ago—and there on every hand were souvenirs of Jack which had once seemed so strange amid the appurtenances of her toilet; the slippers she had worked for him were under the dressing-table; his razors and brushes lay thereon; his pipes littered the mantelpiece; and his portmanteaux and helmet-case, ready for Egypt, stood in a corner.

Novels Maude had read, plays she had seen, stories she had heard of, in which concealed marriages and other horrors had been amply detailed; and in the heart of one of these episodes she now found herself, as they crowded on her memory with bewildering force and pain.

She strove to think, to gather her thoughts, in vain. Jack could not be so vile, and yet there was that letter—that horrible letter!

'If this woman is his wife—what then am I? Oh, horror and misery—horror and misery!' thought Maude, covering her face with her tremulous hands, while the hot tears gushed between her slender fingers.

Was all this happening to her or to some one else? She almost doubted her own identity—the evidence of her senses. A moment or two she lingered at a window wistfully looking over the landscape, which she had often viewed from thence with Jack's arm round her, and her head on his shoulder, watching dreamily the light of the setting sun falling redly on the long wavy slope of the lovely Pentlands, or the nearer hills of Braid, so green and pastoral, the scene of Johnnie of Braidislee's doleful hunting in the ancient time, and where in a lone and wooded hollow lies the dreary Hermitage beside the Burn, haunted, it is said, in the present day by the unquiet spirit of the beautiful Countess of Stair, the victim of a double and repudiated marriage, and whose wrongs were of the days when George IV. was king; and now as Maude looked, the farewell rays of the sun were fading out on the summit of bluff Blackford, the haunt of Scott's boyhood, and then the sober hues of twilight followed. Of the hill he wrote:

'Blackford! on whose uncultured breast
A truant boy I sought the nest,
Or listed as I lay at rest;
    While rose on breezes thin
The murmur of the city crowd:
And from his steeple jangling loud
St. Giles's mingling din.'

'All is over and ended—God help me!' wailed the girl many times as she wrung her white and slender hands, and yet prepared nervously and quickly to take measures that were stern and determined. There seemed to be a strange loneliness in the sunset landscape as she turned from it, and thought how beautiful, yet cruel and terrible, the world of life can be, and choking sobs rose in her throat.

Should she await Jack's return—face him out and demand an explanation? No, a thousand times no; there seemed degradation in receiving one. Her resolution was taken; she would leave now and for ever, and now with the coming night a long journey to London was to be faced—to London, where she would quickly be lost to all the world that knew her once.

Jack would not be home (home!) for hours yet, but no time was to be lost, and action of any kind was grateful to her tortured spirit.

She quickly dressed herself for travelling; reckoned over what was in her purse, and what was in her desk, and for more than an hour sat writing—writing endless and incoherent letters of farewell and upbraiding—letters which she tore in minute fragments by the score, as none of them seemed suitable to the awful occasion. At last she feverishly ended one; placed it in an envelope, addressed it—oh how tremulously!—and placed it on the toilet table, where he was sure to find it when she would be far away.

'I now know all—all about "Maggie!"' ran the letter. ('Who the devil is Maggie?' thought the terrified and bewildered Jack when he did come, to peruse it.)

'You cannot forget that I once loved you—that I love you still, when—oh, my God!—I have no right to do so, nor can you forget the misery that obliges me to take this step and leave you. Oh, Jack! Jack!

'God forgive you, but you have broken my heart!

'When you read this, Jack, I shall be gone—gone to London or elsewhere—to where you shall never be able to follow or to trace me in my hiding place.

'The horrors of a public scandal must be avoided; but how, and however cautious our mode of action?'

'I shall never see you more—never from this evening; never again hope for a renewal of happiness; and yet with all your perfidy, Jack, your memory will always be most precious to me, and I only fear I shall always love you too well!'

Much more in the same incoherent style followed.

Time was short; she moved about noiselessly. She drew sharply off her bracelet and brooch, which were gifts of Jack's; she did more; she drew off her wedding ring with its keeper, her engagement ring also, and placed them in another envelope; she put a few necessary garments and toilet appurtenances into a travelling-bag, stole from the house, found a cab, and ordered the man to drive her at once to the railway station for London.

It was night, now, and the silent suburbs had been left behind, and the cab, swift and well-horsed, and all unlike a London 'crawler,' bowled through the busy streets that were flooded with light.

She was off—the die was cast! Nothing occurred to hinder or delay her, nor did she wish for any such thing at that time.

It was not too late to return; but why should she return—and to whom?—'Maggie's' husband? and she set her little teeth firmly and defiantly, as she was driven along the platform of the Waverley Station, with the city lights towering high in the air above her, and where the train that was to bear her away was all in readiness for starting.

A new but unnatural kind of life seemed opening up to her, and under her thick Shetland veil her hot tears welled freely. Until she was quite alone now, she knew not what a feature Jack had been in her life, what an influence his presence had upon her; and now their days of earnest and peaceful love were over, and his whispers of endearment would fall upon her ear no more. Withal, she had a stunned feeling, and she began to accept her present position as if it was the result of something that had happened long, long ago, with a kind of desperate resignation and grim indifference as to what her own future might bring forth.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

'INFIRM OF PURPOSE!'

The night, one of the last of autumn, was very cold. She had secured a compartment to herself, fortunately; but there was no kind hand to adjust her rugs, to see that the foot-warmer was hot, to provide her with amusing periodicals, or attend to her little comforts in any way. She did not miss them, but she missed Jack.

All her actions were mechanical, and it was not until she was fairly away in the last train for the South, and had emerged from the Gallon Tunnel, leaving Edinburgh with all its lights and lofty mansions behind, that she quite knew she was—vague and desperate of purpose—on her way to London.

As the hours dragged slowly on—so slowly in strange contrast to the lightning-like speed of the clanking train that bore her away—she thought, would she ever forget that dreadful and hopeless night journey—in itself a nightmare—fleeing from all she loved, or had loved her, with no future to realise? Would she ever forget that dreadful, mocking woman, with her painted cheeks and cunning black eyes—her letter and her visit, every incident and detail of which seemed photographed in her heart and on her brain?

Mentally she conned over and thought—till her head grew weary—of the letter she was to write Roland on the subject, and how this new distress must pain and shock him.

On, on went the train; the stars shone bright in the moonless sky; the smoke of the engine streamed far behind, and strange splashes of weird light were cast on hedges, fields, and trees, on bank cuttings and other features on either side of the way.

Now she had a glimpse of Dunbar, with its square church tower of red sandstone; now it was Colbrands-path, with all its wild woods and ravines; anon it was the German Sea, near Fast Castle, rolling its free waves in white foam against steep and frowning precipices; and a myriad lights gleaming on the broad river far down below announced the bordering Tweed at Berwick, and Scotland was left behind.

She lowered the windows from time to time, for her temples felt hot and feverish. She seemed to have nothing left her now but light and air, and just then the former was absent and the latter choking; and to her tortured soul life had but lately seemed so beautiful.

'How proud I was of his love! oh happy, happy days that can return no more!' were her ever recurrent thoughts.

Yet such love as he had professed for her had been but a disgrace and a sham! With all her affection, earnest and true, when she reflected how far he must have gone, and so daringly, out of his way to deceive her, and to throw dust in the eyes of her and her brother Roland, she felt one moment inclined to hate and scorn him, and the next her heart died within her at such a state of matters; and, with all her shattered trust, love came back again—but love for what—for whom?

Then came other thoughts.

Why had she been so precipitate? What if the whole apparent catastrophe was some dire but explainable mistake? Why had she not consulted Hester, who was so clever, so gentle, and loving, and her old uncle, Sir Harry? But he was old and sorely ailing now.

Infirm of purpose, she began to fear that she had been perhaps too rash, and starting up, as if she would leave the carriage, she began to think—to think already—that to undo all she had done, she would give her right hand.

Her left—it bore no wedding-ring now. She looked at her watch—midnight; long ere this Jack must have known that she had discovered all!

Morning drew on, and in its colder, purer air and atmosphere her thoughts seemed to become clearer, and as the train glided on through the flat and monotonous scenery of England she began to consider the possibility that she might have been deceived—that she had been too swift in avenging her wrongs, or supposed wrongs—and this impression grew with the growing brightness of the reddening dawn, and with that impulsiveness which was characteristic of her, an hour even before the dawn came, she resolved that she would return—she would face the calamity out; she would cast herself upon her friends—not on the world; but how to stop the train, which flew on and on, inexorably on past station after station, every one of which seemed almost dark and deserted.

The steam was let off suddenly; the speed of the train grew slower and slower; it stopped at last in an open and sequestered place, on an embankment overlooking a great stretch of darkened, dimly seen, and flat country, half shrouded, as usual, in haze and mist.

Heads in travelling caps and strange gear were thrust from every window; inquiries were made anxiously and angrily; but no answer was accorded; the officials seemed all to have become very deaf and intensely sullen, while no passenger could alight, as every door was securely locked, to their alarm and indignation.

There was evidently an accident or a breakdown—a block on the line somewhere, no one knew precisely what. Signals were worked and lights flashed to avert destruction from the front or rear, and when the rush of a coming train was heard, 'the boldest held his breath for a time,' till it swept past—an express—on another line of rails.

If she were killed—smashed up horribly like people she had often read of in railways accidents, would Jack be sorry for her? There was a kind of revengeful pleasure in the thought, the conviction that he would be, even while she dropped a few natural tears over her own untimely demise.

The excitement grew apace. The next train might not be on the other line, and the mental agony of the travellers lasted for more than an hour—an hour of terror and misery, and of the wildest impatience to Maude, who in the tumult of her spirits would have welcomed the crash, the destruction, and, so far as she was personally concerned, the death by a collision, to end everything.

At last the steam was got up again, and slowly the train glided into the brilliant station at York just as dawn was reddening the square towers of its glorious minster, and the pale girl sprang out on the platform to find that the train for Edinburgh had passed nearly two hours before, and that she would have to wait—to wait for hours with what patience she could muster.

Great was the evil and distress Hawkey Sharpe, in a spirit of useless revenge, had wrought her.

How slow the returning train was—oh, how slow! It seemed to stop everywhere, and to be no sooner off than it stopped again. Stations hitherto unnoticed had apparently sprung up like mushrooms in the night, and the platforms were crowded with people perpetually getting in or going out.

How long ago it seemed since last night—since that fatal visit, and since she left her pretty home, if home it was.

Even then, in the dire confusion and muddle of her thoughts, they lingered lovingly on the apparently remote memory of the happiest period of her young life—the day when Jack Elliot first said he loved her, and she had the joy of believing him to be entirely her own, to go hand-in-hand with through the long years that were to come—and now—now!

Looking forward to ample explanations from him, perhaps an entire reconciliation with him if these explanations were complete—or she knew not what—how the revolving wheels of the train seemed to lag! Then she would close her tear-inflamed eyes and strive not to think at all.

Already the Lion mountain of Arthur Seat, and the Gallon with its Grecian columns, were rising into sight, and she would soon be at her destination.

To save appearances even before her servants—a somewhat useless consideration then—as even without the usual sharpness of their class they must now be aware of the fact that something unpleasant was on the tapis, and that their mistress had, unexplainedly, been absent from her own home for a whole night and longer; as the train approached the capital, Maude smoothed her sunny-brown hair, adjusted her laces, and bathed her pale face with eau-de-cologne. Oh, how grimy the process made her handkerchief after the dust of her long and double journey!

The afternoon of the day was well advanced when Maude, still paler, weary, unslept, and unrefreshed, faint from want of food and the wear and tear of her own terrible thoughts, arrived once more at the pretty villa Jack's love had temporarily provided for her.

The blinds were all closed as if death were in its walls, and her heart died within her.

She rushed up to her room; it might just be the case that Jack might not have returned, and she might still find the packet she had addressed to him and her incoherent letter of farewell.

Is she in time? Yes—a letter is there—a packet on her toilet-table; she is in time—and makes a snatch of it. It is addressed not to her but to Hester Maule at Merlwood; so Jack had been there and was gone, as were also his portmanteaux, his sword, and helmet-case.

In wild and vague search she moved swiftly from room to room.

'Jack—Jack!' she called in a low voice that sounded strangely resonant in the silent rooms; but there was no answer, nor did any sound evince that he was in her vicinity. A chill crept over her, and she strove in vain to shake it off as her wondering servants gathered round her, and from them she soon learned all.

Their master had returned late last night—had got her letter, and, after a time, had driven away to catch the first early train for London—on his way to Egypt, he simply said. Egypt! His train must have passed her somewhere on the line. Where was she to seek him—where telegraph to him? Who was to advise her now?

He had made up a packet of her letters, her rings, and other little mementos she had left, with a brief and certainly incoherent note to Hester Maule; addressed it with a tremulous hand and carefully sealed it with his familiar signet, bearing the baton or on a bend engrailed of the Elliots of Braidielee; and then, throwing himself into a cab, had driven away with no other trace than his farewell words given to the startled domestics.

Apart from the humiliation of uselessly attempting to explain matters to them, it was somewhat gratifying to Maude to learn that after his return 'the poor master' had been for a time quite quiet, as if stunned; then that he had been like 'a tearing lunatic'; had telegraphed to Merlwood, to Braidielee, and even to Earlshaugh for tidings of her, but in vain; and in the latter instance, fully informing Hawkey Sharpe that the train the latter had laid was ending in an explosion; and then that 'the master' had set off by daybreak.

He was not at his club in Queen Street.

Could he have taken London en route to Southampton, in the wild, vague hope of tracing her?

Eventually she was made aware that he had written to his own agents, and to Mr. M'Wadsett, to endeavour to elucidate the mystery which hung over the actions of Maude, the author of the forged letter, and to look after her during his probably prolonged absence in Egypt.

Thus, in rage and bewilderment, grief and anxiety, had Jack Elliot taken his departure, never doubting that they were both the victims of some nefarious plot, which he had not then time to unravel.

He was indignant, too, that Maude should so cruelly mistake and doubt him. He started for Egypt some twenty-four hours sooner than he need have done, and hence came fresh complications.

'Oh, what new and unexpected worry is this, Maude?' exclaimed Hester Maule, when a few hours later the girl threw herself speechless and in a passion of tears into her arms.

And now, or eventually, three lives they were interested in beyond all others (if Malcolm Skene survived), would be involved in the terrible risks of the war in the Soudan.

CHAPTER XLIX.

CHRISTMAS DAY IN CAMP AT KORTI.

The last days of December saw Roland Lindsay with his regiment—the 1st Battalion of the South Staffordshire—of old, the 38th—a corps of the days of Queen Anne—the corps of the gallant old Luke Lillingston, who led the troops in Wilmot's West Indian Expedition of 1695—toiling in the boats up the great river of Egypt against strong currents by Kodokal, and within sight of the ruins of old Dongola—ruins of red brick covering miles—by Debbeh, where the currents were stronger still, and awnings could not be used, though the heat was 120 degrees, and the men became giddy and distracted by the white glare and the hot simmering atmosphere, with lassitude and thirst, and where it was so terrible at times, to emerge from the shadow of some impending rock, once more to plod and pull the heavy oar under the fierce and fiery sun. Though occasionally spreading the big sails like wings on each side of the boats, they would have a pleasant hour's run in the evening ere darkness or a rapid barred their upward way.

Then, on the redly-illuminated waters of the mighty and mysterious river, the white sails of the squadron would show up pleasantly in the twilight, after the landscape had been ablaze with that rich profusion of colour only to be seen where dark rocky hills, yellow desert sand, and patches of verdant vegetation border, as they do on the upper reaches of the Nile.

Then, when darkness came, the boats would close in with the shore, where they were moored to a bank, and the sails were lowered and stowed on board; while under the feathery palms, or date trees, fires were lighted, the frugal ration of bully-beef, onions, and potatoes was cooked and eaten amid the jollity and lightness of heart which are ever a characteristic of our soldiers, and then the poor fellows would coil themselves up to sleep and prepare for the coming toil of the morrow.

On the 22nd of December the camp at Korti was reached at 9.30 in the evening, after a hard struggle amid a labyrinth of sand banks. Roland found the camp to be prettily situated on the edge of the river, and surrounded by mimosa trees, and there the advanced guard of the expedition, detailed to relieve Gordon and raise the siege of the doomed city, was now assembling fast.

It was a spot never trod by Britons before. There the caravans from Egypt to Sennar quit the Nile and proceed across the Bayuda Desert, the route from Dongola being easy for travelling, and the land on both banks of the river rich and fertile.

At Korti, where now every hour or so our bugles were blown, there stood in the days of Thothemus III. a great temple dedicated to Isis, whose tears for the loss of Osiris caused the regular inundations of the Nile.

Under some wide spreading trees the tents of the Camel Corps were pitched along the western bank of the latter; and the whole scene there was most picturesque. The leafy shade tempered the fierce heat of the sun, and, after their long toil in the boats and over the burning sands and glittering rocks, our soldiers were charmed for a time with the place; but some wrath was excited when it was discovered that a correspondence between a French journalist in the camp of the Mahdi before Khartoum, and a clique in Cairo, supplied the former with the fullest information of Lord Wolseley's proceedings, with hints as to the best means of baffling them.

Though the enemy were at some distance, every precaution was taken against a surprise by night. Cavalry vedettes were posted out beyond the camp by day, and strong outlying pickets, with chains of advanced sentries by night; but, as Christmas Day drew near, considerable anxiety was felt in the camp at Korti at the total cessation of all news from blockaded Khartoum, which was two hundred and sixty miles distant by the desert, and by river where the former touched the latter at Gubat or Abu Kru.

The total strength of the advanced force at Korti, after the departure of Roland's regiment, was under two thousand five hundred men, with six screw guns, two thousand two hundred camels and horses, two pinnaces, and sixty-four whale boats, while the 19th Hussars, when the advance began, had orders to ride by the western bank of the Nile and act as scouts to the Khartoum relief column.

By this time there was not a single sound garment in the latter—the result of fifty days' river work from Sarras. The mud-stained helmets were battered out of all shape; the tunics and trousers were patched with cloth of every kind and hue; officers and men had beards of many days' growth, and the skin of their faces was peeled off in strange and uncouth patches, the result of incessant exposure to the fierce sun by day and the chill dews by night.

Christmas morning, 1884, was ushered in by a church parade, and by prayer, when the whole force—slender though it was—was present, under the feathery palms, by the banks of the Nile, that river of mystery, which has its rise in a land unknown; and at night the soldiers gathered round two great camp-fires and made merry, singing songs, and doubtless thinking of those who were far away at home.

It was on this occasion that the South Staffordshire, under the gallant Eyre, raised three hearty cheers, when, from the rear, a telegram was brought, sent all the way from their second battalion in England, wishing 'all ranks a happy Christmas and a brilliant campaign.'

And happy and jolly all certainly were, though they were now in the region of bully-beef, for they fared on hard biscuits and coffee in the morning, with bully-beef for tiffin, and bully-beef for dinner.

As the evening of Christmas Day closed in, Roland, with a cigarette in his mouth, reclined on the grass under a mimosa bush, watching the picturesque groups of tanned and tattered soldiers that hovered round the two great watch-fires, which cast weird patches of light on the feathery palms, the glittering piles of arms, the few white tents occupied by Lord Wolseley's staff and officers of rank; on the long rows of picketed camels; on the distant figures of the advanced sentinels seen darkly against the sky of pale green and orange that showed where the sun had set beyond Gebel Magaya in the Bayuda Desert; on the quaint boats and barges moored in the Nile; and on the broad flow of that majestic river, reddened as it was by the flames, to which the active hands and sharp bill-hooks of the soldiers added fuel every moment; while the high spirits of the troops—seldom wont to flag—were irrepressible then in the great hope of getting on—getting on and reaching Khartoum—to shake hands with Gordon ere it might be—too late!

In three days the South Staffordshire were to start and take the lead in that eventful expedition, and led by jovial Dick Mostyn, Wilton, and other kindred spirits; already the soldiers were chorusing a song with which they meant to bend their oars; and more than once, as they sang, they turned to where their favourite officer, Roland Lindsay, lay looking on, for he was one of those men who are by nature and habit born to be the leader of others, and possessing that kind of magnetic influence which inspires confidence.

Roland had plenty of spirit, bodily vigour, and perseverance; but when a halt came, and with it a brief term of rest, he could not help indulging in occasional regretful thoughts, haunting memories, and wishes that were hopeless. He had, as Annot anticipated, got over his rudely-dispelled passion for her, true love it could not have been, he flattered himself now, and he was fully justified in dismissing her from his mind; and in that matter he was disturbed by the fact no more 'than a nightmare disturbs the occupations of the dreamer, as he goes about his business on the following day in the full light of heaven, and with his brain clear of the idle fantasies of the darkness.'

But now he could not help thinking of Hester Maule, especially as he had seen her last, when she stood at the door of Merlwood, and murmured good-bye, her hand in his, her dark blue eyes dimmed with gathering tears—the tears that he knew would fall when he was gone—her graceful head drooping towards him, and how he now, as then, longed to whisper in her little white ear the words he scarcely knew how to utter, and which were withheld through very shame of himself.

Earlshaugh he deemed, of course, now gone from his family for ever; well, it was only one more case of the now daily sinking out of sight, the decay or destruction of good old Scottish families, while mushrooms came up to take their place in the land, though seldom in history.

Roland had and still loved Hester, and in his heart believed in her as an embodiment of all that is good and pure in womanhood; but rather unwisely had allowed the fact to be guessed at by her, thinking that she understood him, and that his declaration might be made at any time; and, as we have shown, he was quite upon the point thereof, when Annot Drummond came with her wiles and smiles to prove the evil genius of them both.

In connection with Annot's name he almost let his scornful lips form a malediction now—that name once linked with the dearest and fondest terms his fancy could frame. Yet he could not even now class all women under her category, and believe that beauty was given them for the sole purpose of winning men's hearts without losing their own. But his reflections at times on his own folly were fiery and bitter for all that; and as a sedative he enjoyed to the utmost extent the daily excitement of active service now in that remarkable land, the Soudan.

Christmas-night in the camp at Korti was indeed a merry one, and although under the eyes of Lord Wolseley and his staff, the soldiers were in no way repressed in their jollity and fun—for a little of the latter goes a long way in the army—and, all unlike the Northern Yule to which they were accustomed, it was without snow or icicles, holly-berries, mistletoe, and plum-pudding; but those who lingered round these watch-fires on the arid sand of the Soudan had many a kindly and tender thought of the bright family circles, the loved faces, and household scenes of those who were dear to them, and were so far, far away beyond the drear Bayuda Desert, and beyond the seas, in many a pretty English village, where the Christmas carols were being sung while the chimes rang joyously in the old ivied steeple, in memory of the star that shone over Bethlehem—the herald of peace and goodwill to men.

Ere that festival came again more than one battle had to be fought—Khartoum would be lost or won—Gordon saved or abandoned and betrayed—and many a young heart that was full of joy and hope would be as cold as inexorable death could make it; but no thought of these things marred the merry night our soldiers spent as they turned into the bivouac at Korti—for though called a camp, it was scarcely a complete one.

Dick Mostyn had procured some wine from an enterprising Greek sutler; and this he shared freely with Lindsay and others while it lasted.