"Come in and sit down, Mrs. Tudor. Mrs. Raleigh isn't at home. But she can't be long now. I have been waiting nearly half an hour."
Phil Turner hoisted himself out of the easiest chair in the Raleighs' drawing-room as he uttered the words, and advanced with a friendly smile to greet the newcomer.
"Oh, isn't she in?" said Audrey. "I am afraid I took her for granted at the door."
"We all do," he assured her. "It is what she likes best. Do you know, I haven't seen you for nearly a fortnight? I called, you know, twice; but you were out."
Audrey laughed inconsequently.
"Why don't you treat me as you treat Mrs. Raleigh?" she said. "Come in and wait, next time."
Phil smiled as he handed her to the chair he had just vacated.
"The major isn't so kind to subalterns," he said. "He would certainly think, if he didn't say it, that it was like my cheek."
Audrey frowned over this.
"I don't see what he has to do with it," she declared finally. "But it doesn't signify. How is your arm?"
"Practically convalescent, thanks! There's nothing like first aid, you know. I say, Mrs. Tudor, you weren't any the worse? It didn't hurt you?"
He looked down at her with anxiety in his frank eyes, and Audrey was conscious suddenly that he was no longer a mere casual acquaintance. Perhaps she had been vaguely aware of it before, but the actual realisation of it had not been in her mind till that moment.
She laughed lightly.
"Of course not," she said. "How could it? Don't be so ridiculous, Phil."
His face cleared.
"That's right," he said heartily. "Don't mind me. But I couldn't help wondering. And I thought it was so decent of you to come round and look me up on that first morning."
Audrey's smile faded.
"I am glad you thought it was decent, anyhow," she said, with a touch of bitterness. "No one else did."
"Oh, rot, Mrs. Tudor!"
Phil spoke hastily. He was frowning, as his custom was when embarrassed.
She looked up at him and nodded emphatically.
"Yes, it was—just that," she said, an odd little note of passion in her voice. "I never thought of these things before, but it seems that here no one thinks of anything else."
"Don't take any notice of it," said Phil. "It isn't worth it."
"I can't help myself," said Audrey. "You see—I'm married!"
"So is Mrs. Raleigh." Phil spoke with suddenheat. "But she doesn't care."
"No, I know. But her husband is such an old dear. Everything she does is right in his eyes."
It was skating on thin ice, and Phil at least realised it. He made an abrupt effort to pull up.
"Yes, I'm awfully fond of Major Raleigh," he said. "By the way, he's an immense admirer of yours. Your promptitude the other night quite won his heart. He complimented your husband upon it."
"Did he? What did Eustace say?"
There was more than curiosity in Audrey's voice.
"I don't know."
Phil's eyes suddenly avoided hers. He spoke in a dogged, half-surly tone.
Audrey sat and looked at him for a moment. Then lightly she rose and stood before him.
"Tell me, please!" she said imperiously.
He made a sharp gesture of remonstrance.
"Sorry," he said, after a moment, as she waited inexorably. "I can't!"
"Oh, but you can!" she returned. "You're not to say you won't to me."
He looked down at her.
"I am sorry!" he said less brusquely. "But it can't be done. It isn't worth a tussle, I assure you, nor is it worth the possible annoyance it might cause you if you had your way. Look here, can't we talk of something else?"
She laid her hand impulsively on his arm.
"Tell me, Phil!" she said.
He drew back abruptly.
"You put me in a beastly position, Mrs. Tudor," he said. "I hate repeating things. It isn't fair to corner me like this."
"Don't be absurd!" said Audrey. Her face was flushed and determined. She was bent upon having her own way in this, at least. "I shall begin to hate you in a minute."
But Phil could be determined, too.
"Can't help it," he said; but there was genuine regret in his voice. "You'll have to, I'm afraid."
He was scarcely prepared for the effect of his words. She flung away from him in tempestuous anger and turned as if to leave the room. But before she reached the door some other impulse apparently overtook her. She stopped abruptly with her back to Phil, and stood for what seemed to him interminable seconds, fumbling with her handkerchief.
Then, before he had fully realised the approaching catastrophe, her self-control suddenly deserted her. She sank into a chair with her hands over her face and began to cry.
Now, Phil was young, and no woman had ever thus abandoned herself to tears in his presence before. The sight sent a sharp shock through him that was almost like a dart of physical pain. It paralysed him for an instant; but the next he strode forward, convention flung to the winds, desirous only to comfort. He reached her and bent over her, one hand upon her shaking shoulder.
"I say, Mrs. Tudor, don't—don't!" he urged. "What is the matter? You're not crying because I wouldn't do as you asked me? You couldn't care all that for such a trifle?"
His voice was husky with agitation. He felt guiltily that it was all his fault, and he could have kicked himself for his clumsiness.
She did not answer him, nor did her sobs grow less. It was the pent-up misery of weeks to which she was giving vent, and, having yielded, it was no easy matter to check herself again.
Phil became desperate and knelt down by her side, almost as distressed as she.
"I say," he pleaded—"I say, Audrey, don't cry! Tell me what is wrong. Let me help you. Give me a chance, anyhow. I—I'd do anything in the world, you know. Only tell me."
He drew one of her hands away from her face and held it between his own. She did not resist him. Her need of a comforter just then was very great. Her head was bowed almost against his shoulder and it did not occur to either of them that they were transgressing the most elementary laws of conventionality.
"You can't help me," she sobbed at last. "No one can. I'm just lonely and miserable and homesick. I hate this place and everyone in it except—except you—and a few others. I wish I were back in England. I wish I'd never left it. I wish—I wish—I'd never married."
Her voice came muffled and piteous. It was the cry of a desolate child.And all the deep chivalry in Phil's soul quivered and thrilled in response. Before he knew it, tender, consoling words had sprung to his lips.
"Don't cry, dear; don't cry!" he said. "You'll feel better about it presently. We all go through it, and it's beastly, I know, I know. But it won't last. Nothing does in this chancy world. So what's the good of fretting?"
She could not tell him. Her trouble was too immense at that moment to bear discussion. But he comforted her. She liked the feel of his hand upon her shoulder; the firm, friendly grasp of his fingers about her own.
"I sometimes think I can't go on," she whispered through her tears. "It's like being in prison, and I want to run away. Only I can't—I can't. I've got to bear it all my life."
A slight sound from the open window followed this confidence, and Phil looked up sharply. Audrey had not heard it, and she did not notice his movement.
Her head was still bent; and over it Phil, glaring like a tiger, met the quiet, critical eyes of the girl's husband.
He rose to his feet the next instant, but he did not utter a word.
As for Tudor, he stood quite motionless, quite inscrutable, for the space of seconds, looking gravely in upon them. Then, to Phil's unspeakable amazement, he turned deliberately and walked away. There was thick matting on Mrs. Raleigh's veranda, and his receding footsteps made no sound.
"There!" said Audrey, a few seconds later, "I've been a perfect idiot, I know; but I'm better now. Tell me, do I look as if I had been crying?"
She raised her pretty, woebegone face to his and smiled very faintly.
There was something unmistakably grim about Phil at that moment, and she wondered why.
"Of course you do," he said bluntly.
Audrey got up and peered at herself uneasily in a mirror.
"It doesn't show much," she said, after a careful inspection. "And, anyhow"—turning round to him—"I don't know what you have to be cross about. It—it was all your fault!"
Phil groaned and held his peace. She would know soon enough, he reflected.
Audrey drew nearer to him.
"Tell me what he said to Major Raleigh, Phil," she said rathertremulously.
He shrugged his shoulders and yielded.
"He only said that he wished your discretion equalled your promptitude in emergencies," he said.
"Oh," said Audrey. "Was that all? Well, I think you might have told me before."
Phil laughed grudgingly. The situation was abominable, but her utter childishness palliated it. How was Tudor going to treat the matter? he wondered. What if he—
A sudden thought flashed across Phil's brain, and his face grew set. Of course it had been his fault, since she said so. It remained therefore for him to extricate her, if he could. He turned to her.
"Look here, Mrs. Tudor," he said, in a judicious, elder-brotherly tone, "I think it's a mistake, don't you know, to let yourself get depressed over—well, little things. I know what it is to feel down on your luck. But luck turns, you know, and—and—he's a good sort—a bit stiff and difficult to get on with, but still—a good sort. You won't think me rude if I leave you now? I didn't expect Mrs. Raleigh to be so long, and I'm afraid I can't wait any longer. I've got to dress for mess."
"Goodness!" said Audrey, with a glance at the clock. "Does it take you two hours? No, don't scowl! I'm only joking, so you needn't be cross. Good-bye, then! Thank you for being kind to me."
Her hand lay in his for a moment. She was smiling at him rather sadly,notwithstanding her half-bantering words.
Phil paused a second.
"I'm confoundedly sorry!" he said impulsively. "Don't cry any more."
She shook her head and withdrew her hand.
"Who says I've been crying?" she said lightly. "Go away, and don't be silly!"
He took her at her word and departed.
At the gate of the compound he met Mrs. Raleigh, but he refused to turn back with her.
"I really must go; I've got an engagement," he said. "But Mrs. Tudor is waiting for you. Keep her as long as you can. I believe she's a bit down—homesick, you know." And he hurried away, breaking into a run as soon as he reached the road.
He went straight to the Tudor's bungalow without giving himself time to flinch from the interview that he had made up his mind he must have.
The majorsahibwas in, thekhitmutgartold him and Phil scribbled an urgent message on his card and sent it to him. Two minutes later he was shown into his superior officer's presence, and he realised that he stood committed to the gravest task he had ever undertaken.
Major Tudor was sitting unoccupied before the writing-table in his smoking-room, but he rose as Phil entered. His face was composed as usual.
"Well, Mr. Turner?" he said, as Phil came heavily forward.
Phil, more nervous than he had ever been before, halted in front of him.
"I came to speak to you, sir," he said with an effort, "to—to explain—"
Tudor was standing with his back to the light. He made no attempt to help him out of his difficulties.
Phil came to an abrupt pause; then, as if some inner force had suddenlycome to his assistance, he straightened himself and tackled the matter afresh.
"I came to tell you, sir," he said, meeting Tudor's eyes squarely, "that I have nothing to be ashamed of. In case"—he paused momentarily—"you should misunderstand what you saw half an hour ago, I thought it better to speak at once."
"Very prudent," said Tudor. "But—it is quite unnecessary. I do not misunderstand."
He spoke deliberately and coldly. But Phil clenched his hands. The words cut him like a whip.
"You refuse to believe me?" he said.
Tudor did not answer.
"I must trouble you for an answer," Phil said, forcing himself to speak quietly.
"As you please," said Tudor, in the same cold tone. "I have a question to put first. Had I not chanced to see what took place, would you have sought this interview?"
The blood rose in a hot wave to Phil's head, but he did not wince or hesitate.
"Of course I shouldn't," he said.
Tudor made a curt gesture as of dismissal.
"Out of your own mouth—" he said, and turned contemptuously away.
Phil stood quite still for the space of ten seconds, then the young blood in him suddenly mounted to fever pitch. He strode up to his major, and seized him fiercely by the shoulder.
"I won't bear this from any man," he said between his teeth. "I am as honourable as you are! If you say—or insinuate—otherwise, I—by Heaven—I'll kill you!"
The passionate words ceased, and there followed a silence more terrible than any speech. Tudor stood absolutely motionless, facing the young subaltern who towered over him, without a sign of either anger or dismay.
Then at last, very slowly and quietly, he spoke:
"You have made a mistake. Take your hand away."
Phil's hand dropped to his side. He was white to the lips. Yet he would not relinquish his purpose at a word.
"It hasn't been for my own sake," he said, his voice still shaking with the anger he could not subdue.
Tudor made no response. He stood with his eyes fixed steadily upon Phil's agitated face. And, as if compelled by that searching gaze, Phil reiterated the assertion.
"If I had only had myself to consider," he said, "I shouldn'thave—stooped—to offer an explanation."
"Let me remind you," Tudor said quietly, "that I have not asked for one."
"You prefer to misunderstand?" said Phil quickly.
"I prefer to take my own view," amended Tudor. "If you are wise—you will be satisfied to leave it so."
It was final, and, though far from satisfied, Phil felt the futility of further discussion. He turned to the door.
"Very well, sir," he said briefly, and went out, holding his head high.
As for Tudor, he sat down again before his writing-table with an unmoved countenance, and after a short interval took up his correspondence. There was no anger in his eyes.
Audrey saw no more of Phil Turner for some days. She did not enjoy much of her husband's society, either. He appeared to be too busy to think of her, and she in consequence spent most of her time with Mrs. Raleigh. But Phil, who had been one of the latter's most constant visitors, did not show himself there.
It did not occur to Audrey that he absented himself on her account, and she was disappointed not to meet him. Next perhaps to the surgeon's wife, she had begun to regard him as her greatest friend. Certainly the tie of obligation that bound them together was one that seemed to warrant an intimate friendship. Moreover, Phil had been exceptionally kind to her in distress, kinder far than Eustace had ever been.
She was growing away from her husband very rapidly, and she knew it, mourned over it even in softer moments; but she felt powerless to remedy the evil. It seemed so obvious to her that he did not care.
So she spent more and more of her hours away from the bungalow that had been made so dainty for her presence, and Eustace never seemed to notice that she was absent from his side.
He accompanied her always when she went out in the evening, but he no longer intruded his guardianship upon her, and deep in her inmost heart this thing hurt his young wife as nothing had ever hurt her before. She had her own way in all matters, but it gave her no pleasure; and the feeling that, though he might not approve of what she did, he would never remonstrate, grew and festered within her till she sometimes marvelled that he did not read her misery in her eyes.
She met Phil Turner again at length at a regimental dance. As usual her card was quickly filled, but she reserved a waltz for him, and after a while he came across and asked her for one.
"You were very nearly too late," she told him. "Why didn't you come before?"
He looked awkward for a moment. Then—
"I was busy," he said rather shortly. "I'm one of the stewards."
He scrawled his initials across her card and left her again. Audrey concluded in her girlish way that something had made him cross, and dismissed him from her mind.
When at length he came to claim her she was hot and tired and suggested sitting out.
He frowned at the idea, but, upon Audrey waxing imperious, he yielded. They sat out together, but not in the cool dark of the veranda as she had anticipated, but in the full glare of the ballroom amidst all the hubbub of the dancers.
Audrey was annoyed, and showed it.
"I am sure we might find a seat on the veranda," she said.
But Phil was obstinate.
"I assure you, Mrs. Tudor," he said, "I looked in there just now, and every seat was occupied."
"I don't believe you are telling the truth," she returned.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Thank you!" he said briefly.
Something in the curt reply caught her attention, and she gave him a quick glance. He was looking remarkably handsome in his red and gold uniform with the scarlet cummerbund across his shirt. Vexed as she was with him, Audrey could not help admitting it to herself. His brown, resolute face attracted her irresistibly.
She allowed a considerable pause to ensue before she went to the inevitable attack. Somehow, notwithstanding his surliness, she had not the faintest desire to quarrel with him.
"You're very grumpy to-night," she remarked at length in her cheery young voice. "What's the matter?"
He started and looked intensely uncomfortable.
"Nothing—of course!" he said.
"Why of course? I wonder. With me it's the other way round. I am never cross without a reason."
Audrey was still cheery.
He smiled faintly.
"I congratulate you," he said.
Audrey smiled also. Fully exposed as was their position, there was no one near enough to overhear.
"Well, don't be cross any more, Phil," she said persuasively. "Cheer up, and come to tiffin with me to-morrow. Will you? I shall be quite alone."
Phil's smile departed instantly. He glanced at her for a second, and then fixed his eyes steadily upon the ground between his feet.
"You're awfully good!" he said at last. "But—thanks very much—I can't."
"Can't?" echoed Audrey, with genuine disappointment. "Oh, I'm sure that's nonsense! Why can't you? You're not on duty?"
"No," he said, speaking slowly, "I'm not on duty; but—fact is, I'm going up to the Hills shooting for a few days and—I shall be busy, packing guns and things. Besides—"
"Oh, do stop!" she broke in, with sudden impatience. "I know you are only making up as you go along. It's very horrid of you, besides being contemptible. Why can't you say at once that you are not coming because you don't want to come?"
Her quick pride had taken fire at sound of his deliberate excuse; and, as was its wont upon provocation, her anger flamed high at a moment's notice.
Phil did not look at her. His expression was decidedly uneasy, but there was a certain grimness about him that did not seem to indicate the probability of any excessive show of docility in face of a browbeating.
"I don't say it," he said doggedly at length, "because, besides being rude, it wouldn't be strictly true."
"I shouldn't have thought you would have had any scruples of that sort," rejoined Audrey, hitting her hardest because he had managed to hurt her. "They haven't been very apparent to-night."
Phil made no protest, but he was frowning heavily.
She leant slightly towards him, speaking behind her fan.
"Be honest just for a second," she said, "if you can, and tell me; are you tired of calling yourself a friend of mine? Are you trying to get out of it? Because, if you are, it's quite the easiest thing in the world to do so. But once done—"
She paused. Phil was looking at her at last, and there was something in his eyes that startled her. A sudden pity rushed over her heart. She felt as she had felt once long ago in England when a dog—an old friend of hers—had been injured. He had looked at her with just such eyes as those that were fixed upon her now. Their dumb pleading had been almost more than she could bear.
Involuntarily she laid her hand on his arm, music and dancers all forgotten in that moment of swift emotion.
"Phil," she whispered tremulously, "what is it? What is it?"
He did not answer her by a single word. He simply rose to his feet, as if by her action she had suggested it, and whirled her in among the dancers.
He kept her going to the very last chord, she too full of wonder and uncertainty to protest; and then he led her straight through the room towhere Mrs. Raleigh stood, surrounded by the usual crowd of subalterns, muttered an excuse, and left her there.
It was nearly a week later that Audrey, riding home alone in a rickshaw from a polo-match, was overtaken by young Gerald Devereux, a subaltern, who was tearing along on foot as if on some urgent errand. Recognising her, he reduced his speed and dropped into a jog-trot by her side.
"You haven't heard, of course?" he jerked out breathlessly. "Beastly bad news! Those hill tribes—always up to some devilry! Poor old Phil—infernal luck!"
"What?" exclaimed Audrey. "What has happened to him? Tell me, quick, quick!"
She turned as white as paper, and Devereux cursed himself for a clumsy fool.
"It may not be the worst," he gasped back. "Dash it! I'm so winded! We hope, you know, we hope—but it's usually a knife and good-bye with these ruffians. Still, there's a chance—just a chance."
"But you haven't told me what has happened yet," cried Audrey, in a fever of impatience.
He answered her, still running by her side "The Waris have got him;rushed his camp at night and bagged everything. The coolies were in the know, no doubt. Only hisshikarigot away. He has just come in wounded with the news. I'm on my way to tell the Chief, though I don't see what good he can do."
"You mean you think he is murdered?" gasped Audrey, through white lips.
He nodded.
"Afraid so, poor beggar! Well, so long, Mrs. Tudor! We must hope for the best as long as we can."
He put his hand to his cap, and ran on, while Audrey, with a set, white face, was borne to her bungalow.
Her husband was sitting on the veranda. He rose as she alighted and gave her his hand up the short flight of steps to his side.
"You are rather late," he said in his grave way. "I am afraid you will have to hurry."
They were dining out that night, but Audrey had forgotten it. She stared at him as if dazed.
"What is it?" he asked. "Nothing wrong?"
She gasped hysterically.
"Oh, Eustace, an awful thing—an awful thing!" she cried. "Mr. Devereux has just told me—"
Her voice broke, and her lips formed soundless words. She groped vaguely for support with one hand.
Tudor put his arm round her and led her, tottering, indoors.
"All right; tell me presently," he said quietly. "Sit down and keep still for a little."
He put her into an arm-chair and left her there. In a few seconds he returned with some brandy and water, which he held to her lips in silence. Then, setting down the glass, he began to rub her nerveless hands.
Audrey submitted passively at first to his ministrations, but presently as her strength returned she sat up.
"You haven't heard?" she asked him shakily.
"I have heard nothing," he answered. "Can you tell me now?"
"Yes—yes!" She paused a moment to steady her voice. Then—"It's Phil!" she faltered. "He has been taken prisoner—murdered perhaps—by those dreadful hill men! Oh Eustace"—lifting her face appealingly—"do you think they would kill him? Do you? Do you?"
But Tudor said nothing. He made no attempt to comfort her, and she turned from him in bitter disappointment. His lack of sympathy at such a moment was almost more than she could bear.
"How did Devereux know?" he asked, after a pause.
She shook her head.
"He said something about ashikari. He was going to tell the colonel; but he didn't think it would be any use. He said—he said—"
She broke off, quivering with agitation. Her husband took the glass from the table again and made her drink a little. She tried to refuse, but he insisted.
"You have had a shock. It will do you good," he said, in his level, unmoved voice.
And Audrey yielded to the mastery she had scarcely felt of late.
The spirit helped to steady her, and at length she rose.
"I am going to my room, Eustace," she said, not looking at him. "I—can't go out to-night. Perhaps you will make my excuses."
He did not answer her, and she threw him a swift glance. He was standing stiff and upright. His face was stern and composed; it might have been a stone mask.
"What excuse am I to make?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. The question was utterly unexpected.
"Why, the truth—of course," she said. "Say that I have been upset by the news, that—that—I hadn't the heart—I couldn't—Eustace,"—appealing suddenly, a tremor of indignation in her voice—"you don't seem to realise that he is one of my greatest friends. Don't you understand?"
"Yes," he said—"yes, I understand!"
And she marvelled at the coldness—the deadly, concentrated coldness—of his voice.
"All the same," he went on, "I think you must make an effort to accompany me to the Bentleys' to-night. It might be thought unusual if I went alone."
She stared at him in sudden, amazed anger.
"Eustace!" she exclaimed. "How can you be so cruel, so cold-blooded, so—so heartless? How can you expect such a thing of me—to sit at table and hear them all talking about it, and his chances discussed? Icouldn't—I couldn't!"
He did not press the point. Perhaps he realised that her nerves in their present condition would prove wholly unequal to such a strain.
"Very well," he said quietly at length. "I will send a note to excuse us both."
"I don't see why you should stay at home," Audrey said, turning to the door. "I would far rather be alone."
He did not explain his motive, and she went out of his presence with a sensation of relief. She had never fully realised before how wide the gulf between them had become.
She remained shut up in her room all the evening, eating nothing, face to face with the horror of young Devereux's brief words. It was the first time within her memory that death had approached her sheltered life, and she was shocked and frightened, as a child is frightened by the terrors of the dark.
Very late that night she crept into bed, dismissing herayah, and lay there shivering and forlorn, thinking, thinking, of the cruel faces and flashing knives that Phil had awaked to see. She dozed at last in her misery, only to wake again with a shriek of nightmare terror, and start up sobbing hysterically.
"Why, Audrey!" a quiet voice said, and she woke fully, to find her husband standing by her bed.
She turned to him impulsively, hiding her face against him, clinging tohim with straining arms. She could not utter a word, for an anguish of weeping overtook her. And he was silent also, bending over her, his hand upon her head.
Gradually the paroxysm passed and she grew quieter; but she still clung closely to him, and at length with difficulty she began to speak.
"Oh, Eustace, it's all so horrible! I can't help seeing it. I'm sure he's dead, or, if he isn't, it's almost worse. And I was so—unkind to him the last time we were together. I thought he was cross, but I know now he was only miserable; and I never dreamt I was never going to see him again, or I wouldn't have been so—so horrid!"
Haltingly, pathetically, the poor little confession was gasped out through quivering sobs and the face of the man who listened was no longer a stony mask; it was alight and tender with a compassion too great for utterance.
He bent a little lower over her, pressing her head closer to his heart; and she heard its beating, slow and strong and regular, through all the turmoil of her distress.
"Poor child!" he said. "Poor child!"
It was all the comfort he had to offer, but it was more to her than any other words he had ever spoken. It voiced a sympathy which till that moment had been wholly lacking—a sympathy that she desired more than anything else on earth.
"Don't go away, Eustace!" she begged presently. "It—it's so dreadful all alone."
"Try to sleep, dear," he said gently.
"Yes, but I dream, I dream," she whispered piteously.
He laid her very tenderly back on the pillow, and sat down beside her.
"You won't dream while I am here," he said.
She clasped his hand closely in both her own and begged him tremulously to kiss her. By the dim light of her night-lamp she could scarcely see his face; but as her lips met his a great peace stole over her. She felt as if he had stretched out his hands to her across the great, dividing gulf that had opened between them and drawn her to his side.
About a quarter of an hour later Eustace Tudor rose noiselessly and stood looking down at his young wife's sleeping face. It was placid as an infant's, and her breathing was soft and regular. He knew that, undisturbed, she would sleep so for hours.
And so he did not dare to kiss her. He only bowed his head till his lips touched the coverlet beneath which she lay; and then stealthily, silently, he crept away.
Heavens, how the night crawled! Phil Turner, bound hand and foot, andcruelly cramped in every limb, hitched himself to a sitting posture and began to calculate how long he probably had to live.
There was no moon, but the starlight entered his prison—it was no more than a mud hut, but had it been built of stone walls many feet thick his chance would scarcely have been lessened. It was merely a question of time, he knew, and he marvelled that his fate had been delayed so long.
To use his comrade's descriptive language, he had expected "a knife and good-bye" full twenty hours before. But neither had been his portion. He had been made a prisoner before he was fully awake, and hustled away to the native fort before sunrise. He had been givenchupattiesto eat and spring water to drink, and, though painfully stiff from his bonds, he was unwounded.
It had been a daring capture, he reflected; but what were they keeping him for? Not for the sake of hospitality—of that he was grimly certain. There had been no pretence at any friendly feeling on the part of his captors. They had glared hatred at him from the outset, and Phil was firmly convinced, without any undue pessimism, that they had not the smallest intention of sparing his life.
But why they postponed the final deed was a problem, that he found himself quite unable to solve. It had worried him perpetually for twenty hours, and, combined with the misery of his bonds, made sleep an impossibility.
Sleep! The very thought of it was horrible to him. It had never struck him before as a criminal waste of the precious hours of life, for Phil was young, and he had not done with mortal existence. There were in it deeps he had not sounded, heights he had never scaled. He was not prepared to forego these at the will of a parcel of murderous ruffianswho chanced to object to the white man's rule. He had friends, too—friends he could not afford to lose—friends who could not afford to lose him.
Doubtless his murder would be avenged in due course; but—He grimaced wrily to himself in the darkness, and tried once more to ease his cramped limbs.
From outside came the murmur of voices. He could just see the shoulder of one of his guards at the entrance and the steel glint of a rifle-barrel. He gazed at the latter hungrily. Oh, for just a sporting chance—to be free even in the midst of his enemies with that in his hand!
A shadow fell across the entrance, and he saw the rifle no more. He saw the two Wari sentinels salaaming profoundly, and he began to wonder who the newcomer might be—a personage of some importance apparently.
There followed an interval of some minutes, during which Phil began to chafe with feverish impatience. Then at last the shadow became substance, moving into his line of vision, and a man, wrapped in a long, native garment and wearing achuddahthat concealed the greater part of his face, glided into the hut on noiseless, sandalled feet.
He held a naked knife in his hand, and Phil's heart began to thud unpleasantly. It taxed all a man's self-control to face death in cold blood, trussed hand and foot and helpless as an infant. But he gripped himself hard, and faced the weapon without flinching. It would not do to let these murderous ruffians see a white man afraid.
"Hullo!" he said contemptuously. "Come to put the finishing touch, I suppose? You'll hang for it, you infernal, treacherous brute; but that's a detail you border thieves don't seem to mind."
It eased the tension to hurl verbal defiance at his murderer, and there was just the chance that the fellow might understand a little English. But when his visitor stooped over him and deliberately cut his bonds, he was astounded into silence.
He waited dumfounded, and a muscular hand gripped his shoulder, holding him motionless.
"You'll be all right," a quiet voice said, "if you don't make a confounded fool of yourself."
Phil gave a great start, and the hand that gripped him tightened. Through the gloom he made out the outline of a grim, bearded face.
"Control yourself!" the quiet voice ordered. "Do you think I've done this for nothing? We are alone—it may be for five minutes, it may be for less. Get out of your things—sharp, and let me have them."
"Great Jupiter—Tudor!" gasped Phil.
"Yes—Tudor!" came the curt response. "Don't stop to jaw. Do as I tell you."
He took his hand from Phil's shoulder and stood up, backing into the shadows.
Phil stood up, too, straightening himself with an effort. The suddenness of this thing had thrown him momentarily off his balance.
"Quick!" commanded Tudor in a fierce whisper. "Take off your clothes. There isn't a second to lose."
But Phil stood uncertain.
"What's the game, Major?" he asked.
Tudor's hand gripped him again and violently.
"You fool!" he whispered savagely. "Don't stand gaping there! Can't you see it's a matter of life and death? Do you want to be killed?"
"No, but—"
Phil broke off. Tudor in that frame of mind was a stranger to him, but he was none the less one who must be obeyed. Mechanically almost he yielded to the man's insistence and began to strip off his clothes.
Tudor helped him with an energy that neither fumed nor faltered. Muteobedience was all he required. But when he dropped the garment he wore from his own shoulders, Phil paused to protest.
"I am not going to wear that!" he said. "What about you?"
"I can look after myself," Tudor answered curtly. "Get into it—quick! There is no time for arguing. You're going to wear these, too."
He pulled the ragged, black beard from his face and thechuddahfrom his head.
But Phil's eyes were opened, and he resisted.
"Heavens above, sir!" he said. "Do you think I'm going to do a thing like that?"
"You must!" Tudor answered.
He spoke quietly, but there was deadly determination behind his quietude. They faced one another in the gloom, and suddenly there ran between them a passion of feeling that blazed unseen like the hidden current in an electric wire.
For a few seconds it burnt fiercely, silently; then Tudor laid a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"You must," he said again. "The choice does not rest with you. It is made already. It only remains for you to yield—whatever it may cost you—as I am doing."
Phil started as if he had struck him.
"You are wrong, sir," he exclaimed. "On my oath, you are wrong. You don't understand. You never have understood. I—I—"
Tudor silenced him summarily with a hand upon his lips.
"I know, I know!" he said. "There is no time for this. Leave it and go. If it is any comfort to you to know it, I think no evil of you. I realise that what has happened had to happen, was in a sense inevitable, and I blame myself alone. Listen to me. This disguise will take you through all right if you keep your mouth shut. You are a priest, remember, preaching the Jehad, only I've done all the preaching necessary. You have simply to walk straight through them, down the hill till you come to the pass, and then along the river-bed till you strike the road to the Frontier. It's six miles away, but you will do it before sunrise. No, don't speak! I haven't finished yet. You are going to do this not for your own sake or for mine. You think you are going to refuse, but you are not. As for me, your going or staying could make no difference. I have come with a certain object in view, but I shall remain, whether I gain that object or not. That I swear to you most solemnly."
He turned away with the words and began to loosen his sandals. Phil watched him dumbly. He was face to face with a difficulty of such monstrous proportions that he was utterly nonplussed. From the distance came the sound of voices.
"You had better go," observed Tudor, in steady tones. "The guards are coming back. It will hasten matters for both of us if we are discovered like this."
"Sir!" Phil burst out suddenly. "I—can't!"
Tudor wheeled swiftly. It was almost as if he had been waiting for that desperate appeal. He caught up the native garment and flung it over Phil's shoulders. He dragged the beard down over his face and securedthechuddahabout his head. He did it all with incredible rapidity and a strength that would not be gainsaid.
Then, holding Phil fast in a merciless, irresistible grasp, he spoke:
"If you attempt to disobey me now, I'll kill myself with my own hands."
There was no mistaking the resolution of his voice, and it wrought the end of the battle—an end inevitable. Phil realised it and accepted it with a groan. He did not utter another word of protest. He was conquered, humiliated, powerless. Only when at last he was ready to depart he stood up and faced Tudor, as he had faced him on the day that the latter had refused to give him a hearing.
"I've given in to you," he said; "but it's to save your life, if possible, and for no other reason. You can think what you like of me, but not—of her! Because, before Heaven, I believe this will break her heart."
He would have said more, but Tudor cut him short.
"Go!" he said. "Go! I know what I am doing—better than you think!"
And Phil turned in silence and went out into the world-wide starlight.
The sun was already high when Audrey awoke. She started up, refreshed in body and mind. Her first thought was of her husband. No doubt he had gone out long before. He always rose early, even when off duty.
Then she remembered Phil, and her face contracted as all the trouble of the night before rushed back upon her. Was he still living? she wondered.
She stretched out her hand to ring for herayah. But as she did so her eyes fell upon a table by her side and she caught sight of an envelope lying there. She picked it up.
It was addressed to herself in her husband's handwriting, and, with a sharp sense of anxiety, she tore it open. The note it contained was characteristically brief: