The Great Amulet

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And to wait sitting was beyond him. Steady pacing in the cramped space
available helped to deaden thought and promote warmth,--for by now his
soaked shirt-sleeves clung to his arms.

He kept it up doggedly till approaching footsteps brought his damp vigil
to an end; and Colonel Mayhew stepped on to the ledge.

"Alive?" he asked, glancing at the prostrate figure, and Desmond nodded.

"Can't get him round, though. Concussion, I'm afraid. A nasty wound on
his head, and one arm fractured. But for that strip of undergrowth, he
would have been done for. Hope to God that lazy beggar Garth hurried up
after O'Malley. We won't wait here, though.--Come on, _coolie-log_."
[Transcriber's note: The "o" in "_log_" is the Unicode "o-macron",
U+014D.]

Colonel Mayhew going forward to lend a hand, glanced over the precipitous
drop on his right, and turned hastily away again. That which had been
Shaitan was visible below; and it was not pleasant to look at.

"Lenox'll be cut up about that," he muttered as they lifted him
cautiously on to the reeking strip of blanket.

It was a dreary journey up that corkscrew footpath, inch-deep in running
water, that led to the ordinary levels of life. Desmond kept his post by
Lenox's head and shoulders, sheltering him still with the discarded coat,
and clinging to the track's edge with supple, stockinged feet. But there
was no preventing jars and jolts arising from broken ground, and the
difficulty of carrying a litter at an almost impossible angle. Half-way
up they caught sight of Dr O'Malley,--a Pickwickian figure of a man,
booted and spurred,--skipping, stumbling, and slithering towards them in
a fashion ludicrous enough to bring a flicker of mirth into Desmond's
eyes.

They drew up when, at length, he bore down upon them with a rush of
expletives by way of sympathy: for he was good-hearted and a ready man of
his tongue, if not a brilliant unit of his profession. His rapid
examination of Lenox ended in praise of Desmond's amateur bit of surgery,
and a confirmation of his verdict--concussion of the brain.

"An' there's no telling yet, of course, if it's slight or serious. But
begad be must have had a nasty tumble. Devilish lucky to get off with
his life,--that's a fact. What's the nearest bungalow we can get him
into? 'Tis a good eight miles to the hospital; and the sooner he's out
of this d--d watering-can business the better chance for him."

Desmond turned to Colonel Mayhew.

"How about the Forest bungalow, sir? Only a couple of miles on, isn't
it? Brodie must be there now; and he's the right sort, if he is a bit of
an anchorite."

"Why, of course. The very thing. He's something of an experimentalist
too. Keeps up a small pharmacy in one of his outhouses. He'll make room
for Lenox like a shot."

"And for me too, I hope. I'm game to sleep anywhere. But I won't leave
Lenox till he's fit to go into Dalhousie."

Colonel Mayhew nodded approval; and the dismal procession set out again;
O'Malley enlivening its progress with highly-coloured reminiscences of
_khud_ accidents he had known, and with incidental attempts at jocularity
that fizzled out like damp fireworks. It was all meant kindly enough.
But Desmond was thinking of both man and wife as he had seen them greet
one another that morning; and an atmosphere of pseudo-hilarity jarred his
nerves like a discord in music. For the man possessed that mingling of
fortitude and delicacy of feeling, which stands revealed in the lives of
so many famous fighters, and may well be termed the hall-mark of heroism.

In due time they came upon the two women, still sitting--drenched and
patient--on their bank of soaked fir-needles; and Desmond hurried forward
to get in a word or two with Quita unobserved. At sight of
him--coatless, mud-bespattered, with torn clothes, and blood-stained face
and hands--Honor could not repress a small sound of dismay. But Quita
saw in his eyes the one thing she wanted; and may surely be forgiven if
she paid small heed to his plight. Her face fell at the details of the
damage done.

"Mayn't I just have a sight of him as he passes us?" she pleaded.

"Better not," he answered kindly, "You have an artist's brain, remember;
and I want you to sleep a little to-night. Trust me to do every mortal
thing I can for him. Honor will see you home, and I'll send a runner in
with news this evening. We'll pull him through between us,--never fear."

She tried to speak her thanks; but failing, put out a hand impulsively to
speak for her; and his enfolding grasp made her feel less lonely, less
desperate than she had felt since the awful moment when her husband
vanished into space. The fact that he was in Desmond's hands seemed a
guarantee that all would go well with him. There was no logic in the
conclusion; and she knew it. But logic has little to do with conviction:
and many who came to know Desmond fell into this same trick of depending
on him to win through the thing to which he set his band. Yet his
optimism had no affinity with the cheap school of philosophy, that nurses
a pleasant mind without reference to disconcerting facts. It was the
outcome of that supreme faith in an Ultimate Best, working undismayed
through failure and pain, which lies at the root of all human
achievement: and it was, in consequence, singularly infectious and
convincing.

Quita's impressionable spirit readily caught a reflection from its rays:
and hope revived sent a glow through all her chilled body.

"Take a stiff whisky toddy the minute you get in," he commanded, while
lifting her into the saddle. "And try to remember that over-anxiety
won't mend matters. It will only exhaust your strength. I'll come in
and see you whenever I can. Ride on at once," he added hastily, for the
stretcher, with its pitiful burden, was close upon them. "We'll catch
you up."

She obeyed with a childlike docility that touched him to the heart, and
he turned quickly to his wife.

"Come on, you dear, drenched woman. You've no business to be here at
all; and we mustn't keep 'em waiting."

"But Theo, . . . your feet!" she murmured distressfully. "Are they quite
cut to bits?"

"No--not quite." He glanced whimsically down at his dishevelled figure.
"Lord, what a scarecrow I must be! Aren't you half-ashamed of owning me?"

"Well--naturally!" she answered, beaming upon him as she set her foot in
the hollow of his hand. "I shall see something of you,--shan't I?"

"Trust me for that. See all you can of her too. She's as plucky as they
make 'em: but she may need it all and more, before we're through with
this, poor little soul."

He mounted, and rode with them as far as the woodsheds, where the men
branched off to the Forest bungalow, leaving the two women to ride on
alone: and, in obedience to Desmond's parting injunction, they kept up a
steady canter most of the way.

CHAPTER XV.

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

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

The Banksia rose that climbed over the verandah of the Crow's Nest had
shed its first crop of blossoms. The border below was strewn with
bright petals of storm-scattered flowers; while above the dank pines
dripped and drooped beneath the dead weight of universal moisture. The
far-off glory of the mountains was blotted out, as though it had never
been; and the doll's house, with its subsidiary group of native huts,
had the aspect of a dwelling in Cloudland. From within came the plash
of water falling drop by drop, suggesting a vision of zinc tubs, pails,
and basins, set here, there, and everywhere, to check the too complete
invasion of the saturated outer world.

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

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

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

"HONOR M. DESMOND."

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

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

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

The thought so unsteadied her, that she clenched her hands, and jerked
herself together. Having more of Diana than of Venus in her
composition, the intensity of her love--since avowal had levelled all
barriers--was a constant surprise to her; and now she was even a little
ashamed of her natural longing for the touch of hands and lips, that
she had at times been disposed to scorn. None the less, she hoped,
unblushingly, that she would be allowed to have him to herself for an
hour, or so; hoped also--nay, confidently expected--that she would end
in overruling this stern purpose of his, that irritated her, even while
it compelled her admiration.

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

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

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

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

While she stood thus, trying to see into the darkness that shrouds the
coming day, even the coming hour, from inquisitive eyes, the drifting
vapour all about her paled from grey to white, from white to a gossamer
film; and finally uprose from the valley, like a spotless scroll rolled
backward by an unseen Hand, giving gradually to view a multitude of
mountains, newly washed; mountains that glowed with richest tints of
purple and amethyst and rose, in the level light of afternoon. And
Quita, being in a fanciful mood, saw in this "good gigantic smile" of
the rain-soaked earth a happy omen; an assurance that so would the
mists rise from her own life, and the sunlight prevail. A sudden
recollection of the buffalo "_Mela_" set her smiling.

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

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

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

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

The little room, robbed of the picture that had been its chief ornament
for many weeks, looked empty, desolate; and with a restless sigh she
went over to her easel. This also was empty. Her study of a hill
girl,--begun half jestingly, as a contrast to Michael's flower of
Western Maidenhood,--had so grown and beautified under her hands, that
it had been voted worthy of a Home Exhibition; and its case now stood
against the wall, awaiting mail day. Three or four unfinished pictures
leaned against the easel. Quita looked through them, aimlessly, in
search of a congenial subject. But they were chiefly landscape
studies; and in her present mood Nature seemed a little tame, and
bloodless. Her heart cried out for something human, and she wished
that Michael would come back.

Then, like a ray of light, came the required inspiration, satisfying at
once the counter-claims of Art and Love. She sought out a fresh
canvas, set it on the easel, and plunged, forthwith, into a rough
head-and-shoulder study of her husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His relief was obvious.

"Naturally, my dear lady. For I _am_ in love with her. How could a
man, and an artist, be anything else? But marriage--no----" He shook
his head decisively. "That is another pair of sleeves. Women are
adorable. But they are terrible monopolists; and, frankly, I have no
talent for the domesticities. As a lover, I am well enough. But as a
husband--believe me, in six months I should drive a woman distracted!
Ask Quita. She knows. If I have given Miss Mayhew cause to regret her
kindness to me, I am inconsolable; though, in any case, I can never
regret the privilege of having known, and--loved her."

Throughout this ingenious jumble of egoism and gallantry, his listener
had been freezing visibly. On the last word she compressed her mouth
to a mere line, and stabbed the unrepentant sinner with her eyes; since
it was unhappily impossible to stab him with a hat-pin, which she would
infinitely have preferred.

"I have never in my _life_ heard any man express such improper ideas
upon a serious subject," she remarked with icy emphasis. "And I am
_quite_ thankful that your peculiar views prevent you from wishing to
marry my daughter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In passing through the hall he was aware of a slim white figure coming
down the broad staircase; and without an instant's hesitation he stood
still. In spite of "the little she-dragon in there," he would see her
yet. For the knowledge that he had lost her increased her value
tenfold.

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