X.At midnight Trevelyan stumbled blindly into the railway carriage, without a backward glance at Stewart, who had insisted on taking the long, dark drive to the station to see him off. Once in the darkness Trevelyan had put his hand heavily on Stewart's knee, and leaned back and stared into the blackness ahead. All that Stewart had ever been to him—all that they had ever been to each other, swept across him.Out there with the plague and Mackenzie, his eyes would ache for a sight of Stewart's strong, kind face, but Stewart would not know. Out there, in the shadow of death, he would remember Stewart, and his heart would cry out passionately for him, but Stewart would not know. And he would think of Cary—how he would think of her—of her and Stewart. He would think of them together.If he might only tell Stewart what this parting meant—that it was longer than he dreamed—and that he was not merely seeing him off to Argyll.But what right had he to speak? Stewart could not change his decision now; nor his uncle, nor his aunt, nor his father, were he home, nor all London, nor—Cary. They would grieve when the letters came to them, but they would be spared the pain of parting. It was better so.It was toward the evening of the next day when he reached home, and after he had finished his dinner he went into the big library, walked over to his desk and unlocked it."Now for it," he said briefly, and he sat down and began sorting papers, preparatory to going over them the next day with Mactier and his barrister, Mr. Granger, whom he had wired to come from Edinburgh and meet him at home the next morning.He worked far into the night, and the next day it was the same. Literally he set his house in order. Granger returned to Edinburgh on the evening train, and Mactier received his instructions—in silence, shifting his old cap between his fingers, but not looking up to meet Trevelyan's eyes.Then Trevelyan had dinner. After the meal was over he tried to rest but he could not, and he went out into the hall and began to walk up and down—swiftly. There was no other sound in all the house but his rapid walking. Solitude enveloped him and the home of his people. Once he stopped and looked at the armor on the wall; once he opened the front door and stood on the steps staring into the night. The Pleiades were brighter and further off he remembered, thinking afterwards, than he had ever seen them; but the rest—the stretch of winding drive and lawn and trees lay wrapped in profound shadow and appeared unreal; only the Pleiades and the beating of the surf against the crags, seemed the things that existed.The night air was cold and he went in and back to the library, and put another log upon the flickering blaze, and as the wood caught fire warmed his hands with the heat. After awhile he lighted his candle and went upstairs.The next morning he said good-bye to the tenantry; in the afternoon he packed his grip and the few things needed for the coming journey. In the evening he wrote half a dozen letters—brief notes telling his father and his aunt and uncle of his intended return to India. They were all worded much the same. The old spirit of restlessness was on him. He wanted excitement. He was running out to India for a time to watch Mackenzie fight the cholera. They were not to worry. He expected to have a great time of it. His note to John was even briefer, but it was more serious in tone."DEAR OLD JOHNNY:—" it ran:"Good-bye. I'm off for India again. You see I can't keep away from it. I suppose it's on the order of a man wanting to return to the scene of his murder."I'm a lucky dog, and of course I expect to return, but the plague isn't always considerate of persons, and there's the hundredth chance. I expect to come back and live at home myself. Still Granger has the will. If I don't you're to have the old place. You'll come to it sometimes—hey; and have an eye on Mactier?"I guess you were about right about my quitting the Service. I wasn't fit."After all, if I hadn't turned coward and lost my grip on myself, you'd have been with the Highlanders at the Dargai Hill, and Cary—"Well, that don't excuse me. I don't mean it as an excuse. I've never been worth a shilling or made anything of my life, but I've thought a lot of you—always."Good-bye,"ROB."And then Trevelyan drew forth a clean sheet of paper and stared hard at it. What was there to say to Cary!He dipped his pen in the ink."My Love," he wrote, and then stopped short, and stared at the words. Then he crumpled the sheet fiercely in his fingers and flung it into the fire."My dear Cary," he wrote, trying again, and then he laid down his pen and laughed harshly. The black letters stared back at him like small demons, grinning derisively.The third time he started without a heading."I've written to the rest," it began, "and they will tell you of my plans. To you, however, I want to say something more. Now, that I am writing, there seems little to say to you, and yet, I'm human enough—if you will, coward enough still—to have you, at least, know that I have not been altogether candid with the others. I understand the danger. It is because of the danger that I am going. There's no glory in it, and I don't want any fuss, but there are our men in want—it's something for the Service. You understand—don't you?"I was afraid of making you sad that night on the beach if I told you, and I selfishly, too, wanted you to myself, as you always were, and untouched by worry. I shall think of that walk with you, and the moonlight on your face, and the music—! After all, Johnny's the only fellow fit for you. You don't mind my saying so—do you?"The sea was quiet that night—as quiet as you were, and my heart was the only tempestuous thing on the beach; and your face, oh, Cary,—your face!"There's no telling, of course, but I've a queer notion I'm not coming back—ever any more, as we used to say as children; but the sea will go on beating against the crags here—home on the Scottish coast, and perhaps by and by you'll be able to understand the song?"I love you, but I don't love you as I did. It's the Service, first, somehow. Am I building up the broken pieces, do you suppose? It's a job—isn't it?"But my heart is breaking over this letter!"There! I don't want to make you sad. There's nothing to be sad over. The tangle is just getting unsnarled; and you know there's an end to every thread—"There's a big empty space on the wall of the gallery here. If you wouldletJohnny hang your picture there! If you'd give him the right! And the sword—would you mind keeping my sword?"It's getting late. I make an early start to-morrow. I enclose Mackenzie's letter. I got it less than a week ago."I shall never forget you. I think that is all."ROBERT TREVELYAN."XI.After Trevelyan left, the household in Aberdeen settled back again into its usual state of placidity.The second day after his departure was threatening, and Cameron and Maggie killed time by pretending to play billiards. Malcolm Stewart had driven into the village in the morning to be gone all day; his wife was busy writing to Kenneth, her youngest son, who was tramping it through Normandy with a couple of old classmates. Cary was curled up in the window seat in the library, absently watching McGuire, the gardener, rake the path."Is the book so absorbing?"Cary turned suddenly and met Stewart's laughing eyes."Why, I didn't know you were there!""So it seems. I've been sitting here for the last quarter of an hour watching you—read!"Cary flushed."It's a stupid old story, anyway," she complained, tossing the book to him. "What have you been doing?""Offered to help Tom and Maggie with billiards, but they were so deuced ungrateful I left.""You were a wise man," said Cary, and she laughed. Then she began to drum on the window. "If you could do anything you liked what would you do, just at this minute?"Stewart twirled the book he held indifferently. "I'd kiss you," he thought, but aloud he said meekly, "I'll watch you, please ma'am.""Nonsense!" answered Cary, turning her head uneasily and looking out of the window at McGuire again.She stifled a yawn."It's a lazy day, isn't it?""You're sure it's the day?""Of course! What a suggestion. Is it near lunch time?"Stewart nodded."How about a walk afterwards," he said. "It's clearing and the sun's coming out. We might go to the Point and watch it set," he added quickly, seeing her waver.Cary clapped her hands."Truly? You really mean it; you'll take me to the Point at last?""You'll go then?""Of course I'll go! I'll get on a short skirt this minute. See me run!"She jumped down from the window seat like a delighted child.Stewart caught at her hand as she passed and detained her."I haven't the right to ask," he said quickly, looking up into her face with his grave Scotch eyes, "but were you thinking of Robert when I spoke to you?""Yes," said Cary, not looking at him. "I've been thinking of him all day."Stewart let her hand drop suddenly, but Cary made no movement to be gone."I—I can't just tell you why," she said, pressing her hand tightly over the one Stewart had held, and keeping her eyes fixed on a bust of Burns, "but I feel—somehow, and I suppose it's foolish—we—we won't see him again for a long time."Stewart leaned forward, looking up again at her."I haven't the right," he said, "and you needn't answer me, but—isit Robert, Cary?"A long shaft of breaking sunlight came through the window and touched her shoulders and her hair. The quiet of the room was absolute. She still pressed the hand he had held with the other."It isn't Robert," she said, and her voice was lower than its wont, and she did not meet Stewart's eyes, "I—" and then she ran swiftly from the room.She would not meet his eyes all during lunch, and she insisted on devoting herself to Cameron, much to Maggie's inward amusement."There's something in the air," Maggie confided to Cameron after lunch; "I just feel it pricking—like pins. It's something to do with John and Cary. Now whatdoyou suppose it is?"She laughed, meeting Cameron's eyes."Whatdoyou suppose it is!" he repeated banteringly. "I'msureI don't know!""Johnny's taking her to the Point this afternoon!"Cameron sighed heavily."Well, that means 'good-bye' to Johnny!"Maggie wheeled around suddenly on him."What a way to talk!"Cameron pulled her to him gently by the shoulders, until he could look down into her face."Perhaps—that is—will you go with me to the Point to-morrow, Maggie?" he asked."Is it not too late in the year to try the Point?" asked John's mother anxiously, as he and Cary started out. "The days are shorter now, and then there is the tide, and the danger of a mist, you know!"Stewart studied the skies critically."It seems straight enough, but, of course, if you're going to worry, Little Madre—""Oh, of course not. I'm just foolish. Go along with you both," and she pushed them gently away from her with a laugh."We won't stay long on the Point," Stewart said when they were well on their way. "It would be a nasty thing to be caught in a mist out there."Cary pushed a small stone along with the toe of her walking boot, and was silent. Indeed she scarcely spoke all during the walk to the Point.If hehadbeen at the Dargai Hill, she kept thinking, if—he—had!She followed Stewart out to the extreme end of the peninsula, and she stood quietly listening as he pointed out to her, how in high tide the waters met across the narrow neck and isolated it from the mainland. Sometimes, he told her, the waters swept across the island so left, and he showed her where they had come up and left their mark upon the trunks of the trees.And then the spell of her silence fell upon him and they stood quiet and motionless, looking out to sea.They waited so, for the sun to sink slowly behind the distant line of the horizon, and they watched the big white clouds change and clothe themselves in the pink and purple of the coming sunset, like air nymphs getting ready for a ball. The quietness of the day's death was on them. Once or twice they spoke."It reminds me of the Point, at home," said Cary once.He smiled."I knew it would," he answered.She sat down on a big rock at the end of the Point and looked up at the changing clouds. He walked a little way down to the water's edge and then he came back slowly.The vision of the Highlanders and the Dargai heights, that had haunted him since Trevelyan had gone, faded. There seemed to be nothing in the world that mattered except her sitting there on the big gray stone, with the water lapping at her feet, and the glow of the sunset on her face.He watched her as she looked toward the sinking sun, and after it had disappeared he stole up behind her and stooped over her, calling her by name, softly, as though afraid the sea and pines would hear.She looked up, and then her eyes went back quickly to the afterglow.The incoming tide lapped softly against the rocks on the shore, and drew nearer. The pink and purple of the clouds changed to a delicate gray, that deepened as the moments passed; and from the sea there stole landward a thin white vapor, as exquisite as a bride's veil, but growing thicker and thicker as it came nearer.Stewart, following the direction of her eyes, straightened himself suddenly with the alertness that comes with the consciousness of danger."It's the mist," he said, briefly. "Come."He took her hand and held it, and when she would have drawn it away, he tightened his hold."You need my help," he said sharply. "We've got to get out of this just as quick as we can!"The white vapor, grown thicker, crept up behind them, and Stewart changed their rapid pace into a run, but the mist caught up with them, and by and by surrounded them and hid the sea behind them and on either side, and the narrow neck in front. He urged her on over the two miles that lay between them and the mainland.After awhile he felt her hold on his arm relax."I—can't—go—so fast," she panted. "I—I—" and her voice trailed off and was lost in the heaviness of the mist.He stopped and began to talk rapidly, and he rubbed her cold hands as he spoke."You must," he said sternly. "We can't stop here. Don't you know the sea may cover the peninsula, and that the tide is coming in, and is cutting off the neck?"She nodded."I'll try again, oh, I will try!"She staggered on—blindly, clinging to him. He could feel the cold, tense pressure of her fingers, and it thrilled him. She could feel the strong touch of his hand, and it reassured her. Neither could see the face of the other.And still the tide crept in on either side of the narrow peninsula. It was the only thing he was conscious of—except her presence and her danger.If he could lead her from out of this mist! If he could save her! If he could reach the neck in time! His heart burnt within him, and cried out in passionate protest that he seemed so powerless—he who loved her so!He drew her hand closer and he bent over her for a moment, his face near to her own. They could see each other's faces so,—faintly."Dear," he whispered, and his heart was in his voice.She clung to his hands, trembling.If he would only tell her that he loved her, the waters might sweep over the narrow neck before they two reached it! But he did not speak again.The land tapered off, leading to the neck, and he felt the ground grow moist beneath his feet. He went forward, keeping her at arm's length, but afraid to let go her hand, lest he should lose her in the mist. He put down his foot and he could feel the water creeping up around his boot and filling it."The tide is covering the neck," he said briefly, stooping down and unfastening his boots, after which he stood upright, breathing deeply, to gather all his strength. Then he came closer to her and stooped and raised her in his arms and rose again, pressing forward.She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and struggling, tried to push herself free."Are you afraid of me?" he asked."Afraid of you!" and she laughed, but the laugh was swallowed up in the mist."Then you must let me carry you across.""What do you think I am?" she asked fiercely. "Let you carry me with that wound in your back! I am as strong as you!"She struggled again to free herself."Oh, no, you're not," he cried gladly, "and you'll be safer so!""What do I care for safety when your life is in danger? We'll face it together. Let me down and you—you—I'll let you lead me through—" her voice broke in a sob.The silence of the years was broken by her sob. He let her slip down, holding her closely still, and then he drew her face to his, and kissed her."I love you," he whispered, "I love you," and he laid his cheek against her own, cold with the damp of the mist, and then he drew her nearer to the waters. "Come on, dear," he said brokenly.They could feel the tide creeping around their feet, and it came up almost to the woman's knees. Still she clung, struggling, panting, to his hand, as he led her into the deeper waters. Once she brought his hand that was leading her up to her face, and he felt her lips upon it."I love you," she said clearly, and the words pierced the mist, reaching him."Come on, dear," he said again, and still brokenly, leading her to where the tide ran swiftest.The waters were up to her waist, and she was chilled and benumbed, and her clothes dragged on her, and she was weary with the weariness of death, but she did not know it. She still clung to his hand. And then as the waters grew deeper:"Will it hurt?" she asked, and when he did not answer her, "There! I am not afraid."Her voice was stronger than he had ever heard it, and sweeter; but the strength and the sweetness of it, were like crushing weights upon his heart and brain. She could speak so—when the waters were growing deeper! Moisture not of the mist or the sea sprang to his face and bathed it. And then the agony her words had caused—lifted. She did love him then; loved him with a deathless courage. Let the waters cover them, and the mist draw the folds of its mantle over the level sea!Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head, breathing quickly."The ground's higher," he cried. "We've reached it—the mainland!"She did not call back to him, but she placed her free hand over his that held hers, and he could feel the added pressure of thanksgiving.Little by little they could feel the waters receding. Now they were down to his knees again; now they were at his feet—conquered.He drew her into his arms and he called her by name. She did not answer."Aren't you going to speak to me?" he asked, bending over her.She stroked the shoulder of his coat slowly with her cold, wet hand."I—I—what must I say?""What I have been waiting all these years to hear—what you said a little while ago—that you love me," he answered, looking into her face.She bent her head and laid her cheek against her hand on his shoulder."I do," she said. "I love you—" her voice broke.He waited."I love you," she repeated, clinging to him. "I have loved you for months. I have been foolish for you! I have been frightened to have you out of my sight; to have you do anything when I was not along for fear you would get hurt in some way! I've imagined all kinds of things that could happen to you—I am so foolish—I love—"The words came up to him, choked, and he had to lean closer over her to hear.She faltered, lifting her face from her hands."Yes?""I dreamed last night you were at the Dargai Hill—that you were killed, and I awoke sobbing in the darkness. I am—so foolish. I knew it wasn't true—" she turned her face away and wiped her eyes."And you love me—like that?" he asked slowly.Behind them the tide crept in, covering portions of the peninsula and all of the narrow neck. Around them the mist lay heavy."But you were not frightened a little while ago and you were in danger then."She shook her head."No; I was with you—we were together," she answered him simply.He stroked her damp hair, unconscious alike of the tide and the mist, drinking in her words thirstily."Then it isn't Robert!" he said more to himself than to her."No," she said again. "I think it has been you always—and I didn't know it. I think I have been waiting for you always. Robert showed me that it was you!"He was silent, waiting for her to go on."If it hadn't been for your danger when you were ill from the wound, I mightn't have ever known. And if you'd been at the Dargai Hill—" she stopped and stretched out her arms, and put them around his neck, and looked into his eyes. "Oh! I couldn't have borne that! I'm selfish, but I couldn't have spared you even for the Service!"The vision of the desolate years he had planned and thought of—the years devoid of service—and the memory of the useless uniforms, hidden away, and the sabres, useless too, crossed on the wall at home, faded, and he laid the dead memories at her feet."This compensates—" he broke off, kissing her in silence.After awhile he drew her arm through his and started to walk slowly."You must get home and get on dry clothes," he said.And he helped her up the steep embankment and into the road that led home.The tide reached its flood and turned. The sea's low song came to them muffled by distance, and was lost in the darkness behind them. The heavy mist lifted slowly, and through the rifts, one by one, the stars appeared, peeping down at them like little children peeping from the coverings of their cribs; and by and by the moon stole from behind a cloud and moved slowly between the twinkling stars, as a nurse steals from behind a shadowy curtain and moves softly from bed to bed, to see if the children sleep.He led her in silence through the great wrought-iron gates and up the drive, toward the lighted house, looking down into her uplifted face with his grave eyes.And he kept looking at her all during dinner. Once she looked across at him—and smiled.Later she complained of being tired, and she rose to go to bed. Stewart lighted her candle and waited for her at the foot of the stairs, after the fine old custom of his people. Not even Malcolm Stewart, as the elder host, ever thought of lighting Cary's candle.Stewart handed it to her as she came up to the great stairway and stopped. To-night he did not offer to shake hands.She took the candle and then slipped by him quickly. He called her back."Aren't you going to say 'good-night' to me?" he asked, a smile creeping around his mouth."Why—yes. Good-night."He leaned over her and kissed her."Good-night," he said, and his voice was suddenly grave. "I hope your dreams will be sweet."She sighed—a sigh of happiness, and she looked down at the burning taper in her hand."Then they will have to be of you."She did not speak for a moment; afterwards she lifted her eyes from the burning taper and looked into his."I love you," she said again, and she repeated the words over and over as a master plays over and over a bar of sweetest music, and she put out her hand and pressed her fingers against his cheek. They rested there—closely—for a minute. "I love you so!"Then she gathered up her long silk skirts and began slowly to mount the stairs, the taper lifted carefully before her. She did not look back, but he could see her face, even in the shadow of the grim armor, by its light. And on her white face there rested a perfect peace. Once a draught caught the flickering taper and nearly extinguished it. She stopped and, dropping her long skirts that fell back upon the oaken stairs with a silken rustle, she shielded the taper with her hand. So would she shield the light of her pure life and her wifehood from the world's breath, he thought.He stood leaning against the bannister, watching her until she vanished, and he stood there after the soft silken rustle of her skirts and her faint footfall were lost, staring at the last turn in the stairs.And in western Scotland, Trevelyan sat, his head bowed upon the letter he had just finished to Cary.XII.It was spring before Trevelyan could push forward into the lowland section, and on to the interior and Mackenzie. The reports of a threatened cholera scare had reached down as far as Patna. There were Britons coming every day from farther inland to Patna, grateful enough for the privilege of having passed the government line of precaution, and being allowed to stay there; but a British subject, who was neither ordered there by command of the War or Colonial Offices, was another matter, and Trevelyan was regarded with a blank curiosity by those who knew his proposed destination.There were a good many technicalities and difficulties to be surmounted, too, in the question of getting inward as far as the precaution lines, that would have discouraged anyone less determined than Trevelyan. It had seemed simple enough—to get there—after the journey had once been begun, but the actual reaching Mackenzie was another matter.The delay, under which he fretted inexpressibly, only brought more serious accounts of the spread of the disease. A score of natives had sickened and died—traced directly to the foulness of the water used—and later there were contradictory reports as to the appearance of the scourge within the barracks. The waiting days became a torture to Trevelyan, and it was not until he had scaled the wall of obstacles, and was well on the other side, pressing onward to Mackenzie, that the torture lifted. The fear—half formed and never acknowledged—of possibly not getting to Mackenzie, fell from him as mile after mile took him further from Patna and nearer to the garrison, and once or twice he laughed a little as he kept picturing to himself Mackenzie's surprise at this personal answering of his letter.There were other pictures that would force themselves on him at this time, but he fought them from him with a strength grown with much usage. There were pictures of Cary's face—white with the whiteness of the moon upon it and sweeter than the fairest flower—there were pictures of home and old Mactier, mourning for him, and visions of the sea beating against the high, gray crags. It seemed to him he could hear and see it even then, inland as he was, until he would force himself back to present things and the desolate waste land through which he was journeying; the stricken section to which he was going; the cholera and Mackenzie. And he would hold his wandering thoughts sternly in check, as years ago he had held in check the stallion he had conquered and was wont to ride. And so the day would pass in a desperate struggle against self, or his desire to press onward to Mackenzie.It had needed all his powers of eloquence; all his strategy; all the hard discipline of repression taught by the Woolwich years, to get him so far on his journey, and he had thought with a certain grim satisfaction that all the Woolwich years were paying back their debt to him, at last.It was early in the morning when he reached the small inland Station. His presence caused a good deal of comment among the troopers he passed on his way to Mackenzie and the improvised hospital that had been erected a long distance from the barracks. The whole thing was strange; the new faces that he met; the awful sense of a growing horror that brooded like a bird of prey over the Station with its handful of men—placed out here by order of government officials far away and safe enough in London—struggling against the threatened devastation to the ranks.He found Mackenzie in the small ill-constructed apothecary shop and he stood still a minute, studying his friend's haggard face and heavy eyes, before the surgeon was aware of his presence. Mackenzie was weighing morphia, and three times Trevelyan saw his hand shake and spill the white powder before he was able to divide it in correct proportions."Mackenzie," he said evenly, not wishing to startle him.The surgeon turned sharply and looked at him. Then he leaned against the table, his back to it, his hands gripping its edge. He leaned forward a little, frowning. He had had a hard night of it, but—"Mackenzie—it's I—Trevelyan. Don't you remember me?"Trevelyan went forward.Mackenzie's long, lean fingers suddenly relaxed their grip on the edge, and he sat back against the table."Good heavens!" he said, slowly.Trevelyan went up and slapped him on the shoulder."I got your letter and it just stirred up my fighting blood. I packed my grip—and, presto! here I am."Mackenzie was silent."Come; haven't you anything to say to a chap who has been traveling thousands of miles to get here? Aren't you glad to see me?""Glad to see you?" Mackenzie lifted his haggard eyes from the floor to Trevelyan's face, "Glad to see you—in this pest house? You're the maddest fool God ever made!"Trevelyan drew down the corners of his mouth."Perhaps I am," he said, "but I've come; and I've come to stay."Mackenzie laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and Trevelyan could feel the pressure of the long thin fingers through his coat."You are not going to stay one hour," he said, in a low voice, "not—one—hour; do you hear? There're new cases breaking out every day; it's going to play the devil! If you're thinking of suicide, go back to London and blow your brains out, or throw yourself into the Thames—that's more romantic, still. There's nothing romantic about dying of cholera. It isn't a pretty way to die!" Mackenzie laughed, harshly.Trevelyan put his hand up to his shoulder and forced away Mackenzie's grip."I'm not hunting suicide or death either," he said briefly, "and I'm not mad. I know perfectly why I'm here—and what I'm here for, and I'm going to stay." He paused a moment and then went on hurriedly, forcing back the tension in his voice. "Do you think I've been traveling and squandering money for weeks, and 'pulling strings' to get here, and being delayed at Patna, to be turned back now like a whipped boy turned out of school?""But you don't know what it's like—""I guess I'll find out quick enough. Look at you—ready to drop, and then refusing help!"Mackenzie put his hand up wearily to his forehead and pressed it there tightly. The lines cut by lack of sleep on his haggard face relaxed a little."It's nothing. I'll be all right when I've gotten some sleep. You're not needed. There's Clarke, and the orderlies—" he broke off."Yes?"Mackenzie bit his cheek and brought down his hand heavily on the table."I don't need you. Will you go?""No."Mackenzie turned and went back to the morphia scales. Something in the work he was doing and the way he was doing it struck Trevelyan."Where's the apothecary?" he asked briefly.Mackenzie balanced the scales carefully."Sick," he said."Where's Clarke?"Mackenzie added a fraction of morphia to the scales."Sick," he said."And the helpers—the orderlies?"Mackenzie put down the scales, suddenly, and stared at them."Half sick," he said.XIII.The long days crept slowly by at the Station and through the infected district. as horses driven by Death, mercilessly, tired by their task, and yet urged on continually to break through the breastwork of care and precaution raised by Mackenzie and Trevelyan, so that the course of their charioteer might sweep onward to the outlying districts and turn the scourge, local as yet, into a devastating epidemic."Anything to keep the barracks clear of it," Trevelyan had thought and said, and Mackenzie, grown silent with the effort of the fight, nodded without speaking, forcing away from him the remembrance of the epidemic he himself had been through, and the stories once told him by his father, who had helped beat back the scourge on the Ganges in '63.Each hour was freighted with unspeakable horrors, and Trevelyan learned to know the course of the disease almost as well as Mackenzie himself. He knew the first symptoms; he knew with an instinct that rarely failed, just the cases that were liable to pull through, and those that were liable not to; he could foretell the signs of thecollapse, when the face would become cold and gray, the finger tips and lips and nose livid; the eyes deeply sunk and bloodshot with the dark rings beneath; the breath without any sensible warmth when caught on the hand; the scarcely audible beating of the heart;—the apathy that was itself a death.The haunting shadow of his crime was driven back and back by the absorbing matter of the hour, and even Cary's face—moon-kissed—seemed indistinct and far away, as he went about his tasks. It seemed developed on a plate, hidden in the dark room—the innermost recesses of his soul—to be produced and worshipped now and then when courage weakened and the heart languished and grew sick.He would recall it, at night sometimes, when he had flung himself down for a few hours of rest, and he would press his fingers over his eyes as though to hide from sight the memories of the day's horrors and the day's deaths, and the face would come to him then, and his soul would look upon it as on some dream of heaven.And then the memory of her face would fade, and he would let it slip away from him, as though knowing it had no place here—midst the cholera scourge, and he would fall off to sleep and sleep exhaustedly.The days held but one purpose, but one thought—his service to the men, and he sometimes wondered how even the service of the hour had a power to hold him, stronger than the memory of her face.In those days, when each morning saw another man added to the inmates of the hospital, it was all reality—grim, terrible and as strong as the death he fought; and he and Death kept on the fight, and even when Death won, his triumph seemed petty and incomplete because of this man's courage, which he could neither break nor bend.It was when Death had seemingly withdrawn his presence a little way that Mackenzie, one morning motioned to Trevelyan to come outside to the entrance of the hospital. He spoke to the point—a necessity taught him long ago when he had first joined the army and helped fight the Asiatic scourge for the men."Five cases have broken out ten miles in-country. You know what that means—a general mowing down and spread of the disease unless it is strangled right away! I can't leave the men here, or go any distance from the barracks for fear—"Trevelyan looked at him squarely and nodded."Of course not, and you want me to go?""Clarke isn't fit yet, and I couldn't let him go anyway. Could you go?""Sure.""And take charge of things? I'll send you some helpers, and perhaps run over for an afternoon later to see how you're getting on.""All right. When am I to start?""Could you go to-day—now?"Trevelyan brought his hand up to his forehead suddenly in the old salute, a shadow of a smile in his eyes."Yes, sir."Mackenzie looked away and stood silent a moment."It hardly seems as though I could spare you," and then quickly, "You understand about the calomel and how to use it?""Yes.""And Trevelyan—"Trevelyan stopped suddenly as he was walking away, and turned."Well?""And just when the morphia's needed, and when it's judicious to give the opium, calomel and white sugar—and about the salt injections in the veins?""Yes.""And Trevelyan—"Trevelyan wheeled around, stopping short again. Mackenzie was still looking away."Well?""And, for God's sake, be careful!"
X.
At midnight Trevelyan stumbled blindly into the railway carriage, without a backward glance at Stewart, who had insisted on taking the long, dark drive to the station to see him off. Once in the darkness Trevelyan had put his hand heavily on Stewart's knee, and leaned back and stared into the blackness ahead. All that Stewart had ever been to him—all that they had ever been to each other, swept across him.
Out there with the plague and Mackenzie, his eyes would ache for a sight of Stewart's strong, kind face, but Stewart would not know. Out there, in the shadow of death, he would remember Stewart, and his heart would cry out passionately for him, but Stewart would not know. And he would think of Cary—how he would think of her—of her and Stewart. He would think of them together.
If he might only tell Stewart what this parting meant—that it was longer than he dreamed—and that he was not merely seeing him off to Argyll.
But what right had he to speak? Stewart could not change his decision now; nor his uncle, nor his aunt, nor his father, were he home, nor all London, nor—Cary. They would grieve when the letters came to them, but they would be spared the pain of parting. It was better so.
It was toward the evening of the next day when he reached home, and after he had finished his dinner he went into the big library, walked over to his desk and unlocked it.
"Now for it," he said briefly, and he sat down and began sorting papers, preparatory to going over them the next day with Mactier and his barrister, Mr. Granger, whom he had wired to come from Edinburgh and meet him at home the next morning.
He worked far into the night, and the next day it was the same. Literally he set his house in order. Granger returned to Edinburgh on the evening train, and Mactier received his instructions—in silence, shifting his old cap between his fingers, but not looking up to meet Trevelyan's eyes.
Then Trevelyan had dinner. After the meal was over he tried to rest but he could not, and he went out into the hall and began to walk up and down—swiftly. There was no other sound in all the house but his rapid walking. Solitude enveloped him and the home of his people. Once he stopped and looked at the armor on the wall; once he opened the front door and stood on the steps staring into the night. The Pleiades were brighter and further off he remembered, thinking afterwards, than he had ever seen them; but the rest—the stretch of winding drive and lawn and trees lay wrapped in profound shadow and appeared unreal; only the Pleiades and the beating of the surf against the crags, seemed the things that existed.
The night air was cold and he went in and back to the library, and put another log upon the flickering blaze, and as the wood caught fire warmed his hands with the heat. After awhile he lighted his candle and went upstairs.
The next morning he said good-bye to the tenantry; in the afternoon he packed his grip and the few things needed for the coming journey. In the evening he wrote half a dozen letters—brief notes telling his father and his aunt and uncle of his intended return to India. They were all worded much the same. The old spirit of restlessness was on him. He wanted excitement. He was running out to India for a time to watch Mackenzie fight the cholera. They were not to worry. He expected to have a great time of it. His note to John was even briefer, but it was more serious in tone.
"DEAR OLD JOHNNY:—" it ran:
"Good-bye. I'm off for India again. You see I can't keep away from it. I suppose it's on the order of a man wanting to return to the scene of his murder.
"I'm a lucky dog, and of course I expect to return, but the plague isn't always considerate of persons, and there's the hundredth chance. I expect to come back and live at home myself. Still Granger has the will. If I don't you're to have the old place. You'll come to it sometimes—hey; and have an eye on Mactier?
"I guess you were about right about my quitting the Service. I wasn't fit.
"After all, if I hadn't turned coward and lost my grip on myself, you'd have been with the Highlanders at the Dargai Hill, and Cary—
"Well, that don't excuse me. I don't mean it as an excuse. I've never been worth a shilling or made anything of my life, but I've thought a lot of you—always.
"Good-bye,
"ROB."
And then Trevelyan drew forth a clean sheet of paper and stared hard at it. What was there to say to Cary!
He dipped his pen in the ink.
"My Love," he wrote, and then stopped short, and stared at the words. Then he crumpled the sheet fiercely in his fingers and flung it into the fire.
"My dear Cary," he wrote, trying again, and then he laid down his pen and laughed harshly. The black letters stared back at him like small demons, grinning derisively.
The third time he started without a heading.
"I've written to the rest," it began, "and they will tell you of my plans. To you, however, I want to say something more. Now, that I am writing, there seems little to say to you, and yet, I'm human enough—if you will, coward enough still—to have you, at least, know that I have not been altogether candid with the others. I understand the danger. It is because of the danger that I am going. There's no glory in it, and I don't want any fuss, but there are our men in want—it's something for the Service. You understand—don't you?
"I was afraid of making you sad that night on the beach if I told you, and I selfishly, too, wanted you to myself, as you always were, and untouched by worry. I shall think of that walk with you, and the moonlight on your face, and the music—! After all, Johnny's the only fellow fit for you. You don't mind my saying so—do you?
"The sea was quiet that night—as quiet as you were, and my heart was the only tempestuous thing on the beach; and your face, oh, Cary,—your face!
"There's no telling, of course, but I've a queer notion I'm not coming back—ever any more, as we used to say as children; but the sea will go on beating against the crags here—home on the Scottish coast, and perhaps by and by you'll be able to understand the song?
"I love you, but I don't love you as I did. It's the Service, first, somehow. Am I building up the broken pieces, do you suppose? It's a job—isn't it?
"But my heart is breaking over this letter!
"There! I don't want to make you sad. There's nothing to be sad over. The tangle is just getting unsnarled; and you know there's an end to every thread—
"There's a big empty space on the wall of the gallery here. If you wouldletJohnny hang your picture there! If you'd give him the right! And the sword—would you mind keeping my sword?
"It's getting late. I make an early start to-morrow. I enclose Mackenzie's letter. I got it less than a week ago.
"I shall never forget you. I think that is all.
"ROBERT TREVELYAN."
XI.
After Trevelyan left, the household in Aberdeen settled back again into its usual state of placidity.
The second day after his departure was threatening, and Cameron and Maggie killed time by pretending to play billiards. Malcolm Stewart had driven into the village in the morning to be gone all day; his wife was busy writing to Kenneth, her youngest son, who was tramping it through Normandy with a couple of old classmates. Cary was curled up in the window seat in the library, absently watching McGuire, the gardener, rake the path.
"Is the book so absorbing?"
Cary turned suddenly and met Stewart's laughing eyes.
"Why, I didn't know you were there!"
"So it seems. I've been sitting here for the last quarter of an hour watching you—read!"
Cary flushed.
"It's a stupid old story, anyway," she complained, tossing the book to him. "What have you been doing?"
"Offered to help Tom and Maggie with billiards, but they were so deuced ungrateful I left."
"You were a wise man," said Cary, and she laughed. Then she began to drum on the window. "If you could do anything you liked what would you do, just at this minute?"
Stewart twirled the book he held indifferently. "I'd kiss you," he thought, but aloud he said meekly, "I'll watch you, please ma'am."
"Nonsense!" answered Cary, turning her head uneasily and looking out of the window at McGuire again.
She stifled a yawn.
"It's a lazy day, isn't it?"
"You're sure it's the day?"
"Of course! What a suggestion. Is it near lunch time?"
Stewart nodded.
"How about a walk afterwards," he said. "It's clearing and the sun's coming out. We might go to the Point and watch it set," he added quickly, seeing her waver.
Cary clapped her hands.
"Truly? You really mean it; you'll take me to the Point at last?"
"You'll go then?"
"Of course I'll go! I'll get on a short skirt this minute. See me run!"
She jumped down from the window seat like a delighted child.
Stewart caught at her hand as she passed and detained her.
"I haven't the right to ask," he said quickly, looking up into her face with his grave Scotch eyes, "but were you thinking of Robert when I spoke to you?"
"Yes," said Cary, not looking at him. "I've been thinking of him all day."
Stewart let her hand drop suddenly, but Cary made no movement to be gone.
"I—I can't just tell you why," she said, pressing her hand tightly over the one Stewart had held, and keeping her eyes fixed on a bust of Burns, "but I feel—somehow, and I suppose it's foolish—we—we won't see him again for a long time."
Stewart leaned forward, looking up again at her.
"I haven't the right," he said, "and you needn't answer me, but—isit Robert, Cary?"
A long shaft of breaking sunlight came through the window and touched her shoulders and her hair. The quiet of the room was absolute. She still pressed the hand he had held with the other.
"It isn't Robert," she said, and her voice was lower than its wont, and she did not meet Stewart's eyes, "I—" and then she ran swiftly from the room.
She would not meet his eyes all during lunch, and she insisted on devoting herself to Cameron, much to Maggie's inward amusement.
"There's something in the air," Maggie confided to Cameron after lunch; "I just feel it pricking—like pins. It's something to do with John and Cary. Now whatdoyou suppose it is?"
She laughed, meeting Cameron's eyes.
"Whatdoyou suppose it is!" he repeated banteringly. "I'msureI don't know!"
"Johnny's taking her to the Point this afternoon!"
Cameron sighed heavily.
"Well, that means 'good-bye' to Johnny!"
Maggie wheeled around suddenly on him.
"What a way to talk!"
Cameron pulled her to him gently by the shoulders, until he could look down into her face.
"Perhaps—that is—will you go with me to the Point to-morrow, Maggie?" he asked.
"Is it not too late in the year to try the Point?" asked John's mother anxiously, as he and Cary started out. "The days are shorter now, and then there is the tide, and the danger of a mist, you know!"
Stewart studied the skies critically.
"It seems straight enough, but, of course, if you're going to worry, Little Madre—"
"Oh, of course not. I'm just foolish. Go along with you both," and she pushed them gently away from her with a laugh.
"We won't stay long on the Point," Stewart said when they were well on their way. "It would be a nasty thing to be caught in a mist out there."
Cary pushed a small stone along with the toe of her walking boot, and was silent. Indeed she scarcely spoke all during the walk to the Point.
If hehadbeen at the Dargai Hill, she kept thinking, if—he—had!
She followed Stewart out to the extreme end of the peninsula, and she stood quietly listening as he pointed out to her, how in high tide the waters met across the narrow neck and isolated it from the mainland. Sometimes, he told her, the waters swept across the island so left, and he showed her where they had come up and left their mark upon the trunks of the trees.
And then the spell of her silence fell upon him and they stood quiet and motionless, looking out to sea.
They waited so, for the sun to sink slowly behind the distant line of the horizon, and they watched the big white clouds change and clothe themselves in the pink and purple of the coming sunset, like air nymphs getting ready for a ball. The quietness of the day's death was on them. Once or twice they spoke.
"It reminds me of the Point, at home," said Cary once.
He smiled.
"I knew it would," he answered.
She sat down on a big rock at the end of the Point and looked up at the changing clouds. He walked a little way down to the water's edge and then he came back slowly.
The vision of the Highlanders and the Dargai heights, that had haunted him since Trevelyan had gone, faded. There seemed to be nothing in the world that mattered except her sitting there on the big gray stone, with the water lapping at her feet, and the glow of the sunset on her face.
He watched her as she looked toward the sinking sun, and after it had disappeared he stole up behind her and stooped over her, calling her by name, softly, as though afraid the sea and pines would hear.
She looked up, and then her eyes went back quickly to the afterglow.
The incoming tide lapped softly against the rocks on the shore, and drew nearer. The pink and purple of the clouds changed to a delicate gray, that deepened as the moments passed; and from the sea there stole landward a thin white vapor, as exquisite as a bride's veil, but growing thicker and thicker as it came nearer.
Stewart, following the direction of her eyes, straightened himself suddenly with the alertness that comes with the consciousness of danger.
"It's the mist," he said, briefly. "Come."
He took her hand and held it, and when she would have drawn it away, he tightened his hold.
"You need my help," he said sharply. "We've got to get out of this just as quick as we can!"
The white vapor, grown thicker, crept up behind them, and Stewart changed their rapid pace into a run, but the mist caught up with them, and by and by surrounded them and hid the sea behind them and on either side, and the narrow neck in front. He urged her on over the two miles that lay between them and the mainland.
After awhile he felt her hold on his arm relax.
"I—can't—go—so fast," she panted. "I—I—" and her voice trailed off and was lost in the heaviness of the mist.
He stopped and began to talk rapidly, and he rubbed her cold hands as he spoke.
"You must," he said sternly. "We can't stop here. Don't you know the sea may cover the peninsula, and that the tide is coming in, and is cutting off the neck?"
She nodded.
"I'll try again, oh, I will try!"
She staggered on—blindly, clinging to him. He could feel the cold, tense pressure of her fingers, and it thrilled him. She could feel the strong touch of his hand, and it reassured her. Neither could see the face of the other.
And still the tide crept in on either side of the narrow peninsula. It was the only thing he was conscious of—except her presence and her danger.
If he could lead her from out of this mist! If he could save her! If he could reach the neck in time! His heart burnt within him, and cried out in passionate protest that he seemed so powerless—he who loved her so!
He drew her hand closer and he bent over her for a moment, his face near to her own. They could see each other's faces so,—faintly.
"Dear," he whispered, and his heart was in his voice.
She clung to his hands, trembling.
If he would only tell her that he loved her, the waters might sweep over the narrow neck before they two reached it! But he did not speak again.
The land tapered off, leading to the neck, and he felt the ground grow moist beneath his feet. He went forward, keeping her at arm's length, but afraid to let go her hand, lest he should lose her in the mist. He put down his foot and he could feel the water creeping up around his boot and filling it.
"The tide is covering the neck," he said briefly, stooping down and unfastening his boots, after which he stood upright, breathing deeply, to gather all his strength. Then he came closer to her and stooped and raised her in his arms and rose again, pressing forward.
She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and struggling, tried to push herself free.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.
"Afraid of you!" and she laughed, but the laugh was swallowed up in the mist.
"Then you must let me carry you across."
"What do you think I am?" she asked fiercely. "Let you carry me with that wound in your back! I am as strong as you!"
She struggled again to free herself.
"Oh, no, you're not," he cried gladly, "and you'll be safer so!"
"What do I care for safety when your life is in danger? We'll face it together. Let me down and you—you—I'll let you lead me through—" her voice broke in a sob.
The silence of the years was broken by her sob. He let her slip down, holding her closely still, and then he drew her face to his, and kissed her.
"I love you," he whispered, "I love you," and he laid his cheek against her own, cold with the damp of the mist, and then he drew her nearer to the waters. "Come on, dear," he said brokenly.
They could feel the tide creeping around their feet, and it came up almost to the woman's knees. Still she clung, struggling, panting, to his hand, as he led her into the deeper waters. Once she brought his hand that was leading her up to her face, and he felt her lips upon it.
"I love you," she said clearly, and the words pierced the mist, reaching him.
"Come on, dear," he said again, and still brokenly, leading her to where the tide ran swiftest.
The waters were up to her waist, and she was chilled and benumbed, and her clothes dragged on her, and she was weary with the weariness of death, but she did not know it. She still clung to his hand. And then as the waters grew deeper:
"Will it hurt?" she asked, and when he did not answer her, "There! I am not afraid."
Her voice was stronger than he had ever heard it, and sweeter; but the strength and the sweetness of it, were like crushing weights upon his heart and brain. She could speak so—when the waters were growing deeper! Moisture not of the mist or the sea sprang to his face and bathed it. And then the agony her words had caused—lifted. She did love him then; loved him with a deathless courage. Let the waters cover them, and the mist draw the folds of its mantle over the level sea!
Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head, breathing quickly.
"The ground's higher," he cried. "We've reached it—the mainland!"
She did not call back to him, but she placed her free hand over his that held hers, and he could feel the added pressure of thanksgiving.
Little by little they could feel the waters receding. Now they were down to his knees again; now they were at his feet—conquered.
He drew her into his arms and he called her by name. She did not answer.
"Aren't you going to speak to me?" he asked, bending over her.
She stroked the shoulder of his coat slowly with her cold, wet hand.
"I—I—what must I say?"
"What I have been waiting all these years to hear—what you said a little while ago—that you love me," he answered, looking into her face.
She bent her head and laid her cheek against her hand on his shoulder.
"I do," she said. "I love you—" her voice broke.
He waited.
"I love you," she repeated, clinging to him. "I have loved you for months. I have been foolish for you! I have been frightened to have you out of my sight; to have you do anything when I was not along for fear you would get hurt in some way! I've imagined all kinds of things that could happen to you—I am so foolish—I love—"
The words came up to him, choked, and he had to lean closer over her to hear.
She faltered, lifting her face from her hands.
"Yes?"
"I dreamed last night you were at the Dargai Hill—that you were killed, and I awoke sobbing in the darkness. I am—so foolish. I knew it wasn't true—" she turned her face away and wiped her eyes.
"And you love me—like that?" he asked slowly.
Behind them the tide crept in, covering portions of the peninsula and all of the narrow neck. Around them the mist lay heavy.
"But you were not frightened a little while ago and you were in danger then."
She shook her head.
"No; I was with you—we were together," she answered him simply.
He stroked her damp hair, unconscious alike of the tide and the mist, drinking in her words thirstily.
"Then it isn't Robert!" he said more to himself than to her.
"No," she said again. "I think it has been you always—and I didn't know it. I think I have been waiting for you always. Robert showed me that it was you!"
He was silent, waiting for her to go on.
"If it hadn't been for your danger when you were ill from the wound, I mightn't have ever known. And if you'd been at the Dargai Hill—" she stopped and stretched out her arms, and put them around his neck, and looked into his eyes. "Oh! I couldn't have borne that! I'm selfish, but I couldn't have spared you even for the Service!"
The vision of the desolate years he had planned and thought of—the years devoid of service—and the memory of the useless uniforms, hidden away, and the sabres, useless too, crossed on the wall at home, faded, and he laid the dead memories at her feet.
"This compensates—" he broke off, kissing her in silence.
After awhile he drew her arm through his and started to walk slowly.
"You must get home and get on dry clothes," he said.
And he helped her up the steep embankment and into the road that led home.
The tide reached its flood and turned. The sea's low song came to them muffled by distance, and was lost in the darkness behind them. The heavy mist lifted slowly, and through the rifts, one by one, the stars appeared, peeping down at them like little children peeping from the coverings of their cribs; and by and by the moon stole from behind a cloud and moved slowly between the twinkling stars, as a nurse steals from behind a shadowy curtain and moves softly from bed to bed, to see if the children sleep.
He led her in silence through the great wrought-iron gates and up the drive, toward the lighted house, looking down into her uplifted face with his grave eyes.
And he kept looking at her all during dinner. Once she looked across at him—and smiled.
Later she complained of being tired, and she rose to go to bed. Stewart lighted her candle and waited for her at the foot of the stairs, after the fine old custom of his people. Not even Malcolm Stewart, as the elder host, ever thought of lighting Cary's candle.
Stewart handed it to her as she came up to the great stairway and stopped. To-night he did not offer to shake hands.
She took the candle and then slipped by him quickly. He called her back.
"Aren't you going to say 'good-night' to me?" he asked, a smile creeping around his mouth.
"Why—yes. Good-night."
He leaned over her and kissed her.
"Good-night," he said, and his voice was suddenly grave. "I hope your dreams will be sweet."
She sighed—a sigh of happiness, and she looked down at the burning taper in her hand.
"Then they will have to be of you."
She did not speak for a moment; afterwards she lifted her eyes from the burning taper and looked into his.
"I love you," she said again, and she repeated the words over and over as a master plays over and over a bar of sweetest music, and she put out her hand and pressed her fingers against his cheek. They rested there—closely—for a minute. "I love you so!"
Then she gathered up her long silk skirts and began slowly to mount the stairs, the taper lifted carefully before her. She did not look back, but he could see her face, even in the shadow of the grim armor, by its light. And on her white face there rested a perfect peace. Once a draught caught the flickering taper and nearly extinguished it. She stopped and, dropping her long skirts that fell back upon the oaken stairs with a silken rustle, she shielded the taper with her hand. So would she shield the light of her pure life and her wifehood from the world's breath, he thought.
He stood leaning against the bannister, watching her until she vanished, and he stood there after the soft silken rustle of her skirts and her faint footfall were lost, staring at the last turn in the stairs.
And in western Scotland, Trevelyan sat, his head bowed upon the letter he had just finished to Cary.
XII.
It was spring before Trevelyan could push forward into the lowland section, and on to the interior and Mackenzie. The reports of a threatened cholera scare had reached down as far as Patna. There were Britons coming every day from farther inland to Patna, grateful enough for the privilege of having passed the government line of precaution, and being allowed to stay there; but a British subject, who was neither ordered there by command of the War or Colonial Offices, was another matter, and Trevelyan was regarded with a blank curiosity by those who knew his proposed destination.
There were a good many technicalities and difficulties to be surmounted, too, in the question of getting inward as far as the precaution lines, that would have discouraged anyone less determined than Trevelyan. It had seemed simple enough—to get there—after the journey had once been begun, but the actual reaching Mackenzie was another matter.
The delay, under which he fretted inexpressibly, only brought more serious accounts of the spread of the disease. A score of natives had sickened and died—traced directly to the foulness of the water used—and later there were contradictory reports as to the appearance of the scourge within the barracks. The waiting days became a torture to Trevelyan, and it was not until he had scaled the wall of obstacles, and was well on the other side, pressing onward to Mackenzie, that the torture lifted. The fear—half formed and never acknowledged—of possibly not getting to Mackenzie, fell from him as mile after mile took him further from Patna and nearer to the garrison, and once or twice he laughed a little as he kept picturing to himself Mackenzie's surprise at this personal answering of his letter.
There were other pictures that would force themselves on him at this time, but he fought them from him with a strength grown with much usage. There were pictures of Cary's face—white with the whiteness of the moon upon it and sweeter than the fairest flower—there were pictures of home and old Mactier, mourning for him, and visions of the sea beating against the high, gray crags. It seemed to him he could hear and see it even then, inland as he was, until he would force himself back to present things and the desolate waste land through which he was journeying; the stricken section to which he was going; the cholera and Mackenzie. And he would hold his wandering thoughts sternly in check, as years ago he had held in check the stallion he had conquered and was wont to ride. And so the day would pass in a desperate struggle against self, or his desire to press onward to Mackenzie.
It had needed all his powers of eloquence; all his strategy; all the hard discipline of repression taught by the Woolwich years, to get him so far on his journey, and he had thought with a certain grim satisfaction that all the Woolwich years were paying back their debt to him, at last.
It was early in the morning when he reached the small inland Station. His presence caused a good deal of comment among the troopers he passed on his way to Mackenzie and the improvised hospital that had been erected a long distance from the barracks. The whole thing was strange; the new faces that he met; the awful sense of a growing horror that brooded like a bird of prey over the Station with its handful of men—placed out here by order of government officials far away and safe enough in London—struggling against the threatened devastation to the ranks.
He found Mackenzie in the small ill-constructed apothecary shop and he stood still a minute, studying his friend's haggard face and heavy eyes, before the surgeon was aware of his presence. Mackenzie was weighing morphia, and three times Trevelyan saw his hand shake and spill the white powder before he was able to divide it in correct proportions.
"Mackenzie," he said evenly, not wishing to startle him.
The surgeon turned sharply and looked at him. Then he leaned against the table, his back to it, his hands gripping its edge. He leaned forward a little, frowning. He had had a hard night of it, but—
"Mackenzie—it's I—Trevelyan. Don't you remember me?"
Trevelyan went forward.
Mackenzie's long, lean fingers suddenly relaxed their grip on the edge, and he sat back against the table.
"Good heavens!" he said, slowly.
Trevelyan went up and slapped him on the shoulder.
"I got your letter and it just stirred up my fighting blood. I packed my grip—and, presto! here I am."
Mackenzie was silent.
"Come; haven't you anything to say to a chap who has been traveling thousands of miles to get here? Aren't you glad to see me?"
"Glad to see you?" Mackenzie lifted his haggard eyes from the floor to Trevelyan's face, "Glad to see you—in this pest house? You're the maddest fool God ever made!"
Trevelyan drew down the corners of his mouth.
"Perhaps I am," he said, "but I've come; and I've come to stay."
Mackenzie laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and Trevelyan could feel the pressure of the long thin fingers through his coat.
"You are not going to stay one hour," he said, in a low voice, "not—one—hour; do you hear? There're new cases breaking out every day; it's going to play the devil! If you're thinking of suicide, go back to London and blow your brains out, or throw yourself into the Thames—that's more romantic, still. There's nothing romantic about dying of cholera. It isn't a pretty way to die!" Mackenzie laughed, harshly.
Trevelyan put his hand up to his shoulder and forced away Mackenzie's grip.
"I'm not hunting suicide or death either," he said briefly, "and I'm not mad. I know perfectly why I'm here—and what I'm here for, and I'm going to stay." He paused a moment and then went on hurriedly, forcing back the tension in his voice. "Do you think I've been traveling and squandering money for weeks, and 'pulling strings' to get here, and being delayed at Patna, to be turned back now like a whipped boy turned out of school?"
"But you don't know what it's like—"
"I guess I'll find out quick enough. Look at you—ready to drop, and then refusing help!"
Mackenzie put his hand up wearily to his forehead and pressed it there tightly. The lines cut by lack of sleep on his haggard face relaxed a little.
"It's nothing. I'll be all right when I've gotten some sleep. You're not needed. There's Clarke, and the orderlies—" he broke off.
"Yes?"
Mackenzie bit his cheek and brought down his hand heavily on the table.
"I don't need you. Will you go?"
"No."
Mackenzie turned and went back to the morphia scales. Something in the work he was doing and the way he was doing it struck Trevelyan.
"Where's the apothecary?" he asked briefly.
Mackenzie balanced the scales carefully.
"Sick," he said.
"Where's Clarke?"
Mackenzie added a fraction of morphia to the scales.
"Sick," he said.
"And the helpers—the orderlies?"
Mackenzie put down the scales, suddenly, and stared at them.
"Half sick," he said.
XIII.
The long days crept slowly by at the Station and through the infected district. as horses driven by Death, mercilessly, tired by their task, and yet urged on continually to break through the breastwork of care and precaution raised by Mackenzie and Trevelyan, so that the course of their charioteer might sweep onward to the outlying districts and turn the scourge, local as yet, into a devastating epidemic.
"Anything to keep the barracks clear of it," Trevelyan had thought and said, and Mackenzie, grown silent with the effort of the fight, nodded without speaking, forcing away from him the remembrance of the epidemic he himself had been through, and the stories once told him by his father, who had helped beat back the scourge on the Ganges in '63.
Each hour was freighted with unspeakable horrors, and Trevelyan learned to know the course of the disease almost as well as Mackenzie himself. He knew the first symptoms; he knew with an instinct that rarely failed, just the cases that were liable to pull through, and those that were liable not to; he could foretell the signs of thecollapse, when the face would become cold and gray, the finger tips and lips and nose livid; the eyes deeply sunk and bloodshot with the dark rings beneath; the breath without any sensible warmth when caught on the hand; the scarcely audible beating of the heart;—the apathy that was itself a death.
The haunting shadow of his crime was driven back and back by the absorbing matter of the hour, and even Cary's face—moon-kissed—seemed indistinct and far away, as he went about his tasks. It seemed developed on a plate, hidden in the dark room—the innermost recesses of his soul—to be produced and worshipped now and then when courage weakened and the heart languished and grew sick.
He would recall it, at night sometimes, when he had flung himself down for a few hours of rest, and he would press his fingers over his eyes as though to hide from sight the memories of the day's horrors and the day's deaths, and the face would come to him then, and his soul would look upon it as on some dream of heaven.
And then the memory of her face would fade, and he would let it slip away from him, as though knowing it had no place here—midst the cholera scourge, and he would fall off to sleep and sleep exhaustedly.
The days held but one purpose, but one thought—his service to the men, and he sometimes wondered how even the service of the hour had a power to hold him, stronger than the memory of her face.
In those days, when each morning saw another man added to the inmates of the hospital, it was all reality—grim, terrible and as strong as the death he fought; and he and Death kept on the fight, and even when Death won, his triumph seemed petty and incomplete because of this man's courage, which he could neither break nor bend.
It was when Death had seemingly withdrawn his presence a little way that Mackenzie, one morning motioned to Trevelyan to come outside to the entrance of the hospital. He spoke to the point—a necessity taught him long ago when he had first joined the army and helped fight the Asiatic scourge for the men.
"Five cases have broken out ten miles in-country. You know what that means—a general mowing down and spread of the disease unless it is strangled right away! I can't leave the men here, or go any distance from the barracks for fear—"
Trevelyan looked at him squarely and nodded.
"Of course not, and you want me to go?"
"Clarke isn't fit yet, and I couldn't let him go anyway. Could you go?"
"Sure."
"And take charge of things? I'll send you some helpers, and perhaps run over for an afternoon later to see how you're getting on."
"All right. When am I to start?"
"Could you go to-day—now?"
Trevelyan brought his hand up to his forehead suddenly in the old salute, a shadow of a smile in his eyes.
"Yes, sir."
Mackenzie looked away and stood silent a moment.
"It hardly seems as though I could spare you," and then quickly, "You understand about the calomel and how to use it?"
"Yes."
"And Trevelyan—"
Trevelyan stopped suddenly as he was walking away, and turned.
"Well?"
"And just when the morphia's needed, and when it's judicious to give the opium, calomel and white sugar—and about the salt injections in the veins?"
"Yes."
"And Trevelyan—"
Trevelyan wheeled around, stopping short again. Mackenzie was still looking away.
"Well?"
"And, for God's sake, be careful!"