PART I

Chapter I

The red, lantern-like glow of the Indian hot-weather sunset sank sullenly over the flat landscape; a smell of hot dust, and the heavy perfume of mango blossom thickened the atmosphere; it was as though Nature paused, breathless, resentful, awaiting darkness....

A man and a girl rode at walking pace, side by side, along the broad, white road—the age-old Grand Trunk Road fashioned by conquerors, preserved and extended by yet other conquerors, main artery of the great continent, ever beating with life and movement; still the chief means of transport for representatives of every creed and caste and race, despite the rapid rivalry of railways. And the railway being yet remote from this particular region, a never-ending procession filed steadily along between the avenue of mighty trees, planted with precision at equal distances.

The two English riders passed low bullock-carts packed with families bound for religious fairs; scantily clothed pedestrians tramping doggedly, silently, their goods slung over their shoulders; hooded vehicles with swaying scarlet curtains from behind which peeped dark, almond shaped eyes; staggering, over-burdened ponies; elephants laden with sugar-cane; groups of people camped at the wayside to cook an evening meal. All enveloped in a veil of dust that cobwebbed the trees, rose and fell and spread, smoke-like, stifling, relentless, in the heavy evening heat.

It was not exactly the time and place for a proposal of marriage, as Pat Everest, Executive Engineer, Roads and Buildings Department, recognized ruefully. He had enticed Miss Wylde out for this ride, mounting her on his best pony, solely for the purpose of asking her to be his wife; and so far he had let slip one opportunity after another through sheer dread that she would refuse him. Finally he had meant to speak out when they halted before the temple and tank he had escorted her across country to view; the words had been actually on his lips when the old priest of the temple had suddenly appeared on the steps and started chanting and shouting at the top of his voice ... and Miss Wylde had been so obviously fascinated by the scene, the little white temple, the broken, rose-coloured flight of steps, the dark background of trees, all mirrored in the smooth water of the tank, and the ancient-Egyptian-like figure in a salmon-coloured robe with shaven head and lean, high-caste features, flinging forth his hymn of evening praise. The moment was impossible.

Then, as they had turned their horses’ heads homewards, panic assailed him; if he spoke now and she were offended, annoyed, how could they ride back with such an awkward mental barrier between them!

Meantime, à propos of the old Brahmin priest of the temple, they drifted into talk of Indian religions, and he confided to her his interest in the history of Buddhism; his ambition to get his services lent to the Archeological Department of the Government of India, particularly to the section concerned with the survey and exploration of Buddhist remains.

“There’s a big mound in the far corner of this district,” he told her, “with the usual humps and ruins and rubbish, and buried stuff all round about it. I’m pretty certain it must date from the earliest days of Buddhism. I’d give anything to have the opening of that mound!”

“And what would you be likely to find in it?” she inquired; she knew nothing of the subject, but his enthusiasm roused her curiosity.

“The relic chamber, of course. Think of the excitement—coming on to a small brick-built vault, and then caskets, one within the other, till at last the real relic case, maybe of crystal or gold, containing something—”

“Yes—what?”

“Perhaps a tiny bit of charred bone, or a few fragments of pottery—or———”

“How disappointing!” she interrupted.

He laughed. “What?—If there was reason to suppose that the bone had once been a bit of the Great Lord Buddha himself, and the scraps of pottery part of his begging-bowl? Shame!”

“I see,” she said, but doubtfully. “Then why don’t they open this old mound of yours?”

“Partly, I suppose, for want of funds; money is needed for so many other purposes that produce revenue and benefit the people. And then the land on which it stands belongs to an old Burmese woman who may have been obstructive—I don’t know.”

“An old Burmese woman! Why is she living there at all?”

“Oh! I believe it was just one of those curious little Anglo-Indian histories that date from pre-mutiny days. I know very little about it, and my work doesn’t take me in that direction, no roads or bridges or buildings to look after thereabouts. But not long ago I made a pilgrimage on my own account to have a look at the remains. I didn’t include the old lady in my inspection, though I’m told she’s a fine old survival herself, in an excellent state of preservation!”

She smiled; the slow, sweet smile that was one of her many attractions for the man who rode at her side. To some men she might have appeared too self-composed, almost too mature for her years, but to Everest she was the perfection of womanhood. Once he had heard Mrs. Bowyer, the magistrate’s wife, say of her: “I believe Leila Wylde must have been born grown up!” He had astonished the lady by exclaiming defensively: “She looks as if, all her life, she had been taking care of other people.”

Now, as she smiled at him, he thought he had never seen anything to compare with the quiet charm of her expression, the sweetness of her soft blue eyes.

She said: “I feel very ignorant, and as if I had wasted my time out here—two years!—done nothing but play tennis and learn to ride. You know my stepfather has to retire next month and we are going home for good. Sometimes I wish we weren’t.”

Here was his chance! He held his breath, gazing at her. Why on earth had he been preaching priggishly of Buddhist buildings all this time, when quite another matter filled his mind and heart? They were within sight of the station and very shortly there would be an end of all privacy, bound as they were for the Club... The Club would be full of people; and to-morrow he had to go into camp to meet a superior officer, who was due to inspect a half-built bridge, far off in the district; he might have to be away for days.

He swallowed a mouthful of dust, coughed, edged his horse nearer to that of his companion, and flushing to the roots of his red-brown hair, he blurted out hoarsely:

“I must tell you! I can’t help it!”

“Tell me what?” she said without suspicion, yet obviously surprised at his agitation.

He felt so clumsy, so futile. How could he hope that she might care in the least for such a commonplace individual as himself, one who, in addition, had so little to offer, no private income, nothing much in the way of official position;—naught but a sincere devotion, a few thousand rupees of hard savings, and a not unclean past. Were there not countless other fellows in India who could offer her as much, and a great deal more in the way of social and official advantages.

“Haven’t you seen—haven’t you guessed?” he blundered on. “I love you—that’s all!”

“Oh!” she gasped distressfully.

Now that he had begun he could not stop himself.

“When I was transferred here to Khari last cold weather, I never thought, I mean I had never met any girl that I—I had never loved anyone before I met you. And I’ve been out of the station so much, I suppose you couldn’t have been expected to look on me as anything more than a passing acquaintance—and now you’re going home next month—if only you weren’t!”

“But I didn’t guess,” she pleaded in gentle self-defence. “I hadn’t seen. Believe me, it never entered my head.”

“I know, I know. I’ve been such an ass! But you needn’t go, if only”—he brought out the final words with a jerk—“if only you would marry me!”

There!—it was said. He had asked her point blank, and he trembled for her answer. Yet, when it came, it was no more than he had anticipated.

“Is it quite impossible?” he supplicated, gazing ahead, not daring to look at her.

What a useless question! Of course it was impossible. She said so again, kindly, regretfully, yet with unmistakable decision; and they rode on in silence, for Everest a silence of despair, for Leila Wylde a silence of painful surprise. She had seen so little of the man; how could she possibly have divined his feelings towards herself when, until now, he had never, to her perception, betrayed them? She had regarded him merely as a “good sort,” a capital tennis partner, an excellent rider, but not a very lively companion, indeed rather awkward, not to say taciturn, shy. That he should have asked her to be his wife filled her with amazement. Surely it could be no more than a passing infatuation, due to the fact that she was the only girl in the station and he the only bachelor. Perhaps it was more or less natural in the circumstances that she should have attracted him for the time being.

But the whole thing was very upsetting; she wished so much that it had not happened. Could she have prevented, guarded against it? Was it, in any way, her fault?

When they reached the low thatched building, glorified as the station club, he helped her to dismount, and for a space held her hand, looked into her eyes. For the first time she recognized the sincerity of his character and his physical advantages; the firmly knit figure, broad shoulders, the healthily tanned skin and steady chestnut coloured eyes. A sound type of English man! And suddenly she felt honoured by his homage, regretful that until now she should have so lightly regarded him. Why had he behaved so unobtrusively, with such reserve, leaving her in ignorance of his intentions until now. She had not “seen”; she had not “known”; and who was to blame?

To her dismay tears rose to her eyes.

“Do try to understand,” she said with an effort, “—to forgive me.”

“I do understand, and there is nothing to forgive. Now good-bye. I will send your saddle over to-night. To-morrow morning I am off into camp. I shan’t come back until—until you are gone. There’s nothing more to be said.”

Leila felt confusedly that there was more to be said, if she could only command her voice sufficiently to say it: she wanted to tell him she hoped they might meet again in the future, that she would like to hear from him sometimes; to give him her home address so that perhaps when next he took furlough . . . little empty trivialities though they would sound! But as she strove for self composure to utter them, he dropped her hand, remounted and rode away, leading the pony he had lent her. Previously she had arranged to drive home with her stepfather.

Now she turned towards the veranda steps, saddened, dispirited, yet in a measure relieved by the knowledge that she was not to see this unexpected suitor again before her departure for England. Had there been time, had she thought of such a thing before, was it possible that she might have grown to care for him? Again she might not; she knew next to nothing about him. As she paused at the foot of the veranda steps the fact struck her as rather strange that at twenty-three years of age she should never have been in love!—though indeed until she sailed for India two years ago with her stepfather, she had encountered few marriageable men. Coming out on board ship a colonel had proposed to her, quite a personable widower, who had said, naïvely, how certain he felt that she would make him happy. (No!)

At Khari every one was married, with the exception of Mr. Everest and herself. Was it so strange, after all, that she should never have been in love? At any rate, she assured herself, she had no yearnings in that direction, marriage to her was no particular goal; it was just as well that Mr. Everest should have taken her refusal so sensibly, as so altogether final, since, of course, she had meant it to be final.

Quickly she ran up the steps and entered the building.

Chapter II

Hari Club, supported by the scant and fluctuating English community of a small and isolated civil station, could hardly have been described as a brilliant pleasure resort. The premises comprised a rough compound boasting a couple of mud tennis courts, a low deep-veranda-ed bungalow with no more than a couple of rooms, the thatched roof whereof harboured snakes, bats, owls, vermin innumerable. It was an aged, shabby little building; sufficient funds had never been forthcoming for enlargement or improvements, all surplus from subscriptions being absorbed by the frequent and imperative need for repairs.

But at least the club provided a meeting-place for the usual complement of officials and their women-folk; and at the close of this burning May day the whole station had collected beneath the stained and sagging ceiling cloths in order to pass an interval of time before returning to a meal inevitably untempting at this season of the year, to be followed by a night of unrelievable heat. One or two of the limited assemblage had turned into the club after rides or drives along dusty tracks when work was over; the more energetic had played tennis on the hardened mud courts, until the swift Indian dusk had descended, putting an end to the games.

Now the male portion had congregated about the decrepit billiard-table in the first room, while in the second the women sat talking, and turning over last mail’s papers laid out on a long, narrow table, under a punkah that swayed reluctantly.

Leila Wylde avoided the feminine gathering, that looked like a meagre committee meeting with Mrs. Bowyer, the magistrate’s wife (who, quite unintentionally, ruled the social life of the station), seated as “chair” at the head of the table. The girl waved a comprehensive greeting and made for the low book-cases that wainscoted the walls. As usual a discussion was in progress on the all-important topic of housekeeping, and she intended to escape it for this evening, though she had learnt that in a remote Indian station, with supplies an endless difficulty, it was indeed an important question. Did it not closely concern the health and well-being of the men who were doing their duty and their willing best for the country?

Delving among the books, the conversation at the table reached her ears, and she listened, alternately amused and pitying.

“A cobra got into our quail-pit last night and killed all the birds! Our cook says he can’t get any more in the bazaar, and in this heat my husband will eat quail when I can’t get him to eat anything else.”

“Our man is very good at getting them. Shall I tell him to try for you?”

The offer, as Leila knew, was prompted by that readiness, so prevalent in the East, to help a fellow-exile.

“Oh! that would be kind! Sometimes I feel in despair about meals—nothing will keep, and the ice supply is so uncertain. But what can one expect with the railway station fifty miles off? It’s a wonder we ever get anything at all. I ordered a load of English potatoes from the hills ages ago, but if it ever arrives probably they will all be rotten.”

A more cheerful voice with a strong Scottish accent asserted that country potatoes were “attanyrate” not so bad if you cooked them this way: and the speaker recited a recipe in which the native vegetable seemed to be lost amid the multitude of other ingredients. She finished up with extraneous remarks concerning “chickuns,” laying hens, and guinea-fowl; upon which someone said sadly that guinea-fowls always flew up trees and made such a noise that no husband could be expected to tolerate them when he was at work.

At this juncture Mrs. Bowyer planted her fore-finger on a paragraph in a ladies’ weekly periodical. “Talking of cookery,” she said, and silence at once ensued. “Listen to this. I ask you, as sane women, how anyone in ordinary circumstances at home, much less out here, could hope to achieve such a dish. ‘Cocks’ combs, mushrooms, chickens’ livers, a slice of pâté de foie gras: the whole to be blended with well-made béchamel sauce, and served in a case of the best puff paste!’” She paused dramatically. “And if you’ll believe me, the column in which this recipe is included is headed ‘Simple and Economical Cookery.’ Bah! It makes me sick!”

“It would, if you ate it, of course,” said the lady who had ordered English potatoes. “But how delicious it sounds! Oh, how I long for fried soles, and really grilled chops! That’s what I should order for our first dinner when we get home, only we always have to go straight to my husband’s people, who give us curried beef cut in little squares with rice sticking together all round it, and we have to eat it with a knife and fork. Then because we don’t yell with joy they say Indian people are so tiresome about their food!”

“What we can’t stand when we get home,” contributed another complainer, “is that the bath water is never hot enough, not what we call hot. And then the early tea! if they let you have it at all—a tiny teapot and teacups. And they expect you to go out with them directly after luncheon.”

The cheerful Scottish voice rose again. “But don’t ye think when we arrive home we’re all forgetting the drawbacks we made the best of out hee-re, and recollect only the comforts which, affter all, are necessities, though maybe they would be considered luxuries at home?”

“Very likely,” said Mrs. Bowyer. “And perhaps it’s a clever ruse on the part of Providence, since if the drawbacks and trials of Indian existence were too vividly remembered and related, no one would ever come out here. I know when I mention India to women at home who know nothing of the country they generally declare they should hate the insects and the snakes and wild beasts and feel afraid of the servants. And I always find myself sticking up for India, making no mention of the everlasting trials, or how diabolical a place like this can be in the hot weather. How do you account for it? It’s either political cunning on the part of Providence or else in our bones we really love India and the people who pretend they hate us.”

She turned towards the figure by the book-cases, and called out: “What do you think, Leila? You must have heard all this feast of reason and flow of soul.”

The girl looked round, then advanced a few steps, a pleasing picture in the mellow lamplight, white habited, straight and slender; she had removed her hat, and her fair hair shone.

“I’ll write and tell you when I get home,” she said pleasantly, “but I expect I shall find myself, like you, sticking up for India. Honestly, I should like to think I might come back some day, but I don’t see the smallest prospect of it.”

“What?” rose an incredulous chorus from the group at the table: and the poor lady whose quails had been destroyed by a cobra sang a determined solo.

“Fancy, after two years in this awful little place, wanting to come back! It isn’t as if you’d been living in a big station, or had seen anything of the best side of Indian life!”

“Anyway I’ve been very happy here. You’ve all been so kind and nice to me. I shall be really sorry to go, though I want to see the family at home.”

“But haven’t you missed pictures and theatres and concerts and all that kind of thing?”

“I can’t say I’ve thought of it—the life has been so different—interesting in other ways. The only thing I miss much is something new to read. I am trying for the hundredth time to find something in the book-cases that possibly I mayn’t have read before.”

“Then you may try!”

Leila smiled a friendly acknowledgment and returned to her quest. Hitherto she had only discovered bound volumes of “Punch,” “Chambers’s Journal,” the “Illustrated London News,” all of ancient date; together with a sprinkling of classical fiction, among which were first editions that would have been of value, but that fish insects and white ants had partially devoured them and they all smelt evilly of dust and decay when opened. Being fairly well read, she was familiar with the fiction, and now she groped again diligently in the hope of finding something that might prove of fresh interest.

Quite unexpectedly she came across a stoutly bound volume that appeared to have been neglected by the book lovers of the insect world; only the margins of its pages had been nibbled, and the binding was intact. She had not observed it before, but lately, she knew, the club attendant had been seized with an unnatural impulse to turn out the shelves, which would account for its resurrection. Probably it had been reposing for years behind the bulkily bound periodicals. The book was entitled: “The Life and Teaching of Gautama Buddha.”

Thrilled with the coincidence, she dipped into it and quickly became absorbed, deaf to the chatter round the newspaper table, to the click of billiard-balls and the sound of masculine voices in the next room.

*  *  *

The next room was thick with cheroot smoke, the heat oppressive; and Colonel Livesay, civil surgeon of the station, stepfather to Leila Wylde, perspired grievously as he leaned over the faded green cloth to make his stroke. He was a stout, bald-headed being with a bristling grey moustache, artless, kind-hearted, the soul of integrity, painstaking in his profession, but alas! no tactician, no scientist, else the approaching end of his service would hardly have found him in medical charge of an unimportant station, passed over, unrewarded by any final plum of office, even in those days when officials were often left for long periods at their posts, unharried by frequent transfers.

Bad luck, he considered, had ever pursued him; it did so even now, preventing him from making the stroke that he did not doubt would have won him the game, for at the critical moment the club bearer appeared at his elbow, handing him a folded piece of coarse country-made paper. Consequently he foozled his shot; and while his opponent settled down to a long break he examined the document with resigned resentment. Then he bade the bearer tell the messenger who had brought it that he would “come to-morrow morning”; and beneath his breath he said “Damn!”

“Who is at the point of death now?” inquired Bowyer the magistrate facetiously. “At any rate we are all here this evening, though the whole boiling of us may be gone to-morrow.”

“It’s the Bibi Jâsan,” said Colonel Livesay sulkily. “She doesn’t say she’s ill, though I suppose she must be. She asks me to go out and see her as soon as I can. It’s a good twenty miles drive to Jasâni Estate,” he grumbled, replacing his cue in the stand, “and I must be off to post out a couple of ponies on the road.”

“Comfort yourself, old chap,” said the magistrate blithely. “The crone’s as rich as a bunia, and it means a fat fee. You’ve attended her before, haven’t you?”

“Not since I came out to finish my service.”

“Didn’t she tip you well enough last time?”

But Colonel Livesay was looking for his hat and did not reply.

“Now I,” continued the magistrate aggrievedly, “had to go out there in the middle of last hot weather, and could claim nothing for it. Whereas you doctor-sahibs can take fees from natives without being bowled over on a charge of bribery and corruption. I had to witness her will, and a queer document it was! but Shahamat Ali, the native pleader, had got it down all correct, according to her wishes, and the will is ‘to be kept in charge of the magistrate of the district, whoever he may be, so I’ve got it now, and if you kill her you’ll have to come and tell me!”

“I expect she’s only suffering from a surfeit of rich curry,” said the Civil Surgeon, “she’s too old a female to die just yet! Now where’s that girl of mine?—we must be getting back.”

He bustled into the ladies’ room, and startled his stepdaughter by laying a fat hand on her shoulder.

“Come along now, Leila,” he fussed, with kindly impatience, as though she had been keeping him waiting. “No time for more reading. I’ve got to start at cock-crow to see a patient a long way off, and the ponies must be sent on ahead.”

“One moment, dear,” she protested. “I want to take this book back with me and I must enter it in the loan book.”

“Nonsense! Nobody ever checks the library catalogue—if there is one. A lot of rubbish. Come along, now, come along.”

He hurried her off. The women at the table accorded her an amused smile and sympathetic farewell. They all knew the dear old doctor-sahib’s fidgeting little ways. And as the pair left the club, the talk turned on the dear old doctor-sahib’s stepdaughter. Such a nice, sensible girl, she would be much missed when she went home next month; of course it had been an excellent arrangement for Colonel Livesay that she should have come out to India with him for the last two years of his service, and comparatively a nice change for the girl herself; they all knew about the delicate mother and the two young stepsisters living quietly in a London suburb.

Some one said: “She isn’t exactly pretty, but there’s something about her: she looks such good style, so well bred.”

“So she is, I believe,” answered Mrs. Bowyer, as one possessed of inner information; and she went on to explain that her sister-in-law had lately settled at Ealwood, where she had met and made friends with Mrs. Livesay.

“My sister-in-law asked me in her letter last mail if I had come across Colonel Livesay and Miss Wylde at Khari! Aren’t people too stupid about India; they will ask you if you have met someone, say at Bombay, when they know you are stationed at Peshawar! And just as idiotically my sister-in-law asks me if I know people who are actually in our own station!”

She paused, enjoying the interest of her audience, then continued: “She says the ‘on dit’ at Ealwood about Mrs. Livesay is that her first husband was the younger son of a very old family, that he was something of a rascal and left his widow and child with next to nothing, and that somehow or other the widow met our old Livesay man and married him, much to the disgust of the Wylde family, who would have no more to say to her.”

Various opinions were expressed.

“What brutes the Wylde people must have been! Who could blame the unfortunate widow—and probably Colonel Livesay was quite good-looking when he was young and thin.”

“Those old families are often so snobbish; it was very hard luck on poor Leila.”

And so on.

Mrs. Bowyer shrugged her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “there it is. I can tell you no more.”

She rose, and in consequence a general movement of departure ensued. Husbands were retrieved from the billiard-room, and soon the dreary little club was given over to darkness and silence, save for the scrambling and squeaking of the dwellers in the roof.

Chapter III

Meantime Colonel Livesay and his stepdaughter were driving rapidly towards the bungalow that had been their home for the past two years.

“Who is it you have to go and see, Dad, to-morrow morning?” Leila inquired.

“An old Burmese woman,” he grunted; he hardly liked to admit that the anticipation of a substantial fee was more than partly the reason that urged him to respond to the summons: he was not bound ofiicially to respond to it. But the establishment at Ealwood had not conduced to savings, and shortly he would be in receipt of a pension that to his mind could only be described as “better than nothing.”

“An old Burmese woman?” echoed Leila for the second time that evening. “How odd! Mr. Everest was tell ing me about one to-day who owns property out in the district. It must be the same, I suppose?”

“Of course. There aren’t two of them.”

“But do you know her, have you seen her?”

“I attended her once or twice before I went home last time. She hasn’t sent for me since we came out, and from her message now there doesn’t seem to be much the matter with her. But I’d better go. Besides,” he added, rather shamefacedly, “you know, my dear, that grist is more than welcome to our mill, and the old lady stumps up handsomely for medical attendance. So she ought,” he contended, “living all that way out.”

“I wish you would tell me about her. Mr. Everest said there was a history?”

“There’s nothing much to tell. They say that Heaven knows how many years ago she married a British officer in Burmah of the name of Jason, and came with him when the regiment was moved to India; that he died on the march up-country and she buried him on the spot, and took possession of a deserted bungalow. Why a bungalow should have been there at all I don’t know, some planter people may have built it, and left it. Anyway, there she has been ever since.”

“Oh! Dad, couldn’t I go with you to-morrow?”

“No, no—certainly not, what are you thinking of? You’d get sunstroke driving back in the heat of the day, and there’s nothing to see. The Bibi Jâsan, as the natives call her, is no beauty, the house is filthy, and there’s no landscape, only miles of crops and a lot of ugly humps and ruins, perhaps Buddhist remains.”

Leila fingered the book in her lap. “They are Buddhist remains,” she asserted thoughtfully, “very important remains. Mr. Everest said so. I’d like to see them.”

With clumsy diplomacy Colonel Livesay changed the subject, ignoring her last remarks.

“The English mail goes out to-morrow,” he said in a loud, cheerful voice. “I got my letter done this morning. What about yours?”

Leila sat silent, vanquished. Never, since her arrival in India, had she omitted to send lengthy letters every week to her mother and stepsisters at home; thus giving pleasure to the loved ones at Ealwood, and at the same time relieving her stepfather’s mind, for though he seldom failed to send an affectionate scribble to his wife each mail, he had little time, and, man-like, no inclination for letter-writing. She had remembered of old her mother’s plaints over the briefness of his letters from India, and she well knew how these “diaries” of hers were welcomed. Therefore it was her custom to cover pages with descriptions of her own and “Dad’s” daily doings, however trivial, making a point of writing separately to her mother, and to each of the two girls.

This week, owing perhaps to the heat which weakened her energies, she had neglected her mail, and, as her stepfather rather pointedly reminded her, to-morrow was mail day. For this reason alone she must have stayed at home, even had he been willing to take her with him on his coming expedition.

But, at least, she reflected, if the letters were begun to-night and finished next day in time for the outgoing mail, she would have long hours to herself in which to study the book that lay in her lap.

That night Colonel Livesay went to bed earlier than usual, and despite the heat and the insects that beat suicidally against the punkah-proof lamp, dropping with loud taps on to her writing-paper, Leila wrote and wrote till the lamp burned low; and only when the flame threatened to go out altogether did she rise with a feeling of relief. There was but one more letter to be written, the one to her younger stepsister; and that need only contain anecdotes of the dogs and the monkey, the kind of news for which, she knew, Hilda, aged fifteen, thirsted each week.

Though she never grudged the time, and often the fatigue of writing these budgets, the fact that only two or three more mails need be posted before she and her stepfather sailed for England caused Leila an involuntary sense of deliverance.

It was midnight before she got to bed; nevertheless she was up next morning with the dawn to superintend her stepfather’s “little breakfast,” and to watch him drive off in the bamboo trap with a well-filled tiffin-basket beneath the seat. At that hour the air held a faint freshness that was reviving, and she took advantage of it to get through the bulk of her domestic duties; she saw the goats and the fowls fed, made a round of inspection, including the garden and the cookhouse. The stables were excluded, for one pony had been led out last night to Jasâni Estate, another had followed it half-way; the third was between the shafts of the bamboo cart.

The sun was well up by the time she had finished, and it was the hour when doors and windows must be closed against the heat and the rising west wind; when screens of sweet-scented grass roots must be damped and placed in the most favourable positions that the fierce blast might blow through them, cooling the atmosphere within the bungalow, though merely cooling it to a degree that in England would have been condemned as only just bearable. Then, beneath a punkah, tugged by a nearly naked individual seated on an upturned packing-case in the veranda, Leila wrote her letter to Hilda and dispatched a peon to the post ofice with her completed mail.

Drying the palms of her hands and her forehead with her handkerchief, she threw herself into a low bamboo chair to rest for awhile before reading the book she had borrowed from the club.

The hypnotizing sway of the punkah, the scent of the wet “khus-khus” grass roots, the heavy stillness of the house, though soothing to her bodily senses, seemed to liberate the little gnawing regret she had lately kept prisoner at the back of her mind, regarding it as a species of disloyalty towards her people in England—regret that so soon she must leave India! Fight it how she would, it drove her to visualize almost with repulsion the suburban villa, with its pretentious white balcony and two lower bow-windows; an iron gate that refused to shut unless banged; a patch of grass on either side of a short gravel path; the single laburnum tree in one corner, only golden and green for a brief space, for the rest of the year a twiggy skeleton. And at the back of the house a strip of garden where Hilda kept rabbits, and Maimie, the elder girl, slaved diligently that the pebble-edged borders might make some sort of show at all seasons—expended sedulous care on the rose trees, took a pride in the decoration of a shed she called “the summer-house.” Simple, good children they were, as Leila reminded herself hastily, adoring their parents and their stepsister, innocent of envy towards those of their school-fellows whose circumstances were superior to their own, finding pleasure in every trifle, in such pitifully small excitements.

Her thoughts strayed back to the first clear recollections of her own childhood; a great hall, a crowd of daintily dressed children dancing around a tall Christmas tree burdened with costly toys; a park, endless gardens; again, the dignity and gloom of a great house in a town. But there were other remembrances too, unpleasant, alarming, though shadowy, in which figured two old people and a tall man, all angry, quarrelling; the tall man, she knew, was her father, and he used to make her mother cry! Then suddenly he was there no longer; someone who wore a white apron had said he was dead, “and a good job, too.” An unhappy period followed; she and her mother had seemed to be in disgrace with the two old people. How long that period lasted Leila could not have told, but she had a distant vision of a furtive “packing up” and a secret departure, “not telling anybody.” Then a house at the seaside, where they had meals with a lot of other people at a long table; there were heaps of china ornaments in every room, very attractive, only she was not allowed to touch them. Later, a kind and amusing gentleman had appeared, who took her and her mother to concerts on the pier, to tea-shops and performances. This delightful friend turned miraculously into “a new father,” and they had all gone to live somewhere else; until, to her grief and consternation, mother and the new father went away to India, leaving her in the charge of a strange lady whom she was bidden to call Auntie.

Several other children whose fathers and mothers were in India lived in the same house, and they too called the lady Auntie.

After a very long time mother and dad came home, bringing with them a couple of fascinating baby girls—her sisters, as Leila was informed—to her joy. A heartless farewell on her part to the weeping auntie, and the whole family went to a place called Ealwood, where they lived in a house with a white balcony. Leila attended a day school, and all was happiness, except that poor mother was often ill, until the day came when dad had to go back to India, and, on account of her health, mother could not go with him; the doctors had said she must never go to India again. It had been terrible, the parting, the tears. . . And from that moment Leila felt older. She became a power in the little establishment, saving her mother exertion, looking after Maimie and Hilda in the intervals of her school hours, until rather prematurely her education was considered finished; she was “grown up.”

So the time had passed peacefully, uneventfully. Dad came and went, until he had only two years to “put in” before his compulsory retirement.

Meantime, Mrs. Livesay had grown stronger, more fit to cope with domestic affairs and such small difficulties as presented themselves, though her health still remained indifferent. It had been at her wish that Leila went out with her stepfather to India at the end of his final leave home; she had said she would feel so much happier if he had someone to look after him, and that dear Leila deserved the change—she had always been so good and unselfish.

Leila had gone to India reluctantly, and now that the two years were practically over she felt, guiltily, that she was equally, if not a great deal more, reluctant to return.

Seated in the half-darkened room, the silence only broken by the swish of the punkah, the occasional splashing of water over the fragrant grass screens, doubt and self reproach continued to torment her. Could she ever settle down again with placid contentment in the cramped little villa—could she ever feel quite the same, dearly as she loved her mother and the girls, and the kind, good-hearted man who was her stepfather? Yet, there was no alternative. She knew her own family history on the father’s side, all about his extravagance, his ill conduct to her mother during his lifetime, and how his people had apparently seized on the excuse of her mother’s flight and re-marriage to sever all connexion with his widow and child. On her mother’s side there had been singularly few relations; they had come of a middle-class stock, and the last of them, an old widowed aunt, had died a few years back, bequeathing a small legacy to Leila, which at least was sufficient to pay for her clothes and personal expenses, though she could not have lived on the income. No, there was no alternative.

“No,” she repeated half-aloud, as if to emphasize the truth, “there is no alternative.”

At the same moment, suddenly, against her will, she visioned a man’s sun-tanned face, with firm chin, honest chestnut-brown eyes; and resentfully she realized that in some unaccountable fashion Everest’s proposal had tended to quicken her distaste for the future, had spurred her discontent into an activity that would be hard to quell.

With an impatient determination to distract her thoughts, she picked up the book and opened it.

Chapter IV

The “doctor-sahib” climbed ponderously from his bamboo cart, puffed, lifted his hat, and wiped his bald forehead; a twenty-mile drive over rough, unmetalled roads on an Indian hot-weather day was no trifle to a man of his years and stout build.

The veranda of the bungalow was deserted save for the presence of a parrot in an iron dome-shaped cage; the bird screamed rude words in Hindustani at the visitor, who stood for a few moments at the foot of the steps, stretching his stiff limbs and regarding the unattractive outlook. First a low mud wall that bounded the dusty sweep in front of the building. Beyond, a stretch of rough land, barren but for clusters of thorn bushes, strewn with broken brickwork and chunks of masonry: this led on to a confused huddle of shapeless hillocks round about the base of a stupendous pile—a crumbling erection, scored and defaced with time, overgrown with coarse grass, tufted with weak trees, a melancholy landmark for miles around.

The bungalow itself was a big rambling dwelling, flanked by numerous outhouses and ramshackle shelters crowded together, the whole resembling an unkempt village in miniature; and from it rose the chatter of native voices, yapping of dogs, bleating of goats, the cackle of fowls. The interior of the bungalow was hardly less peaceful; Colonel Livesay became aware of shrill expostulations, above which rose the sound of an angry, cracked voice. Evidently a row royal was in progress, and the civil surgeon questioned if his presence were needed at all. The Bibi Jâsan could have little the matter with her if she had the strength to scold with such vigour.

He bade his syce take the trap to the stables, and mounted the steps; as he did so an old native, clad in crumpled white muslin, with a shabby red puggaree, appeared round the corner of the veranda. Colonel Livesay remembered him, Gunga, the Bibi’s head servant—“ruler of the household.”

“Your Highness, salaam!” quavered the old man in respectful greeting.

“Salaam, Gunga-ji,” was the equally courteous re sponse. “What of the Bibi Jâsan’s health?”

“Her health?” with a shrug of bony shoulders. “Her health be good enough. Listen.” He paused, a twinkle in his eye, as the rasping voice rose again above the tumult within. “But by reason of a dream of ill-omen her desire is to have speech with thine honour. The Wise Man of the village hath declared it to be a portent of her death. And why not?—since she is old, very old. I also am old, but do I not remember when I myself was but so high how the Bibi was a grown woman, and how——”

Exasperated, Colonel Livesay cut short the threatened reminiscences with an impatient exclamation. It was a little too much that he should have been dragged all this distance in the heat and the dust just because an old woman had been afflicted with nightmare. Well, she should pay for her lack of consideration. He strode quickly across the veranda, while Gunga held aside a cane blind that hung in the nearest open doorway.

“The Bibi is angered,” remarked the old servant with a chuckle, “because a duster is missing.”

At first, by contrast with the blinding white glare out side, the room he entered appeared almost pitch dark to Colonel Livesay. Faint shafts of light slanting from ventilators set high in the lofty walls scarcely penetrated the thick atmosphere, which smelt of camphor, musk, garlic, tobacco, the indescribable odour that seems inseparable from Oriental habitations. Sparrows were bickering on the ledge that ran close beneath the ceiling, dropping scraps of lime and rubbish. As the “sahib” entered, the hubbub ceased abruptly and a cluster of figures at the farther end of the room parted with haste, disclosing a divan, heaped with cushions, upon which was enthroned the Bibi Jâsan.

She was an enormously fat old woman; a little biretta like cap concealed her bald scalp, and she was wrapped in a dark coloured shawl. She resembled a venerable monk save that a long cheroot was stuck behind each of her ears. In her youth she might have been comely, as the black eyes that still glittered, and the line of the toothless mouth and jaw gave evidence. Even now it was a face that denoted remarkable force of character.

With an air of command she dismissed the crowd of retainers, and they melted away, reluctantly, through the curtains of the numerous doorways that broke the monotony of the vast wall space. Only a vacant-faced youth remained, who was fanning his mistress with a large hand punkah, and a girl of about fourteen years of age, clad in a blue garment with a length of rose-coloured silk bound about her thighs, the ends falling straight below her knees. She slid behind the divan as the doctor-sahib approached and stood gazing at him with large, long-lashed eyes.

The old lady made a polite movement, albeit half-hearted, as though to rise, graciously accepted Colonel Livesay’s gesture of protest against any such effort on her part, and the two salaamed, then solemnly shook hands.

“Bring a chair!” shouted the Bibi into space. Immediately there came a returning rush of footsteps, and a clumsy cane-seated arm-chair of English make was produced and planted in front of the divan.

“Now go!” glaring ferociously at her attendants. “Do not dare to listen behind the purdahs, but make haste to find the duster that hath been stolen.”

And as the little crowd again retreated, murmuring denials of the accusation, the Bibi addressed herself with a sigh to her visitor.

“My troubles are great,” she complained, “day and night am I surrounded by liars and rascals. That duster was a good one, strong and whole; once did I possess a dozen, now only two remain, and one of the two has been stolen. All their pay shall be stopped until it is found. Always the same, robbery, lies . . . However, the end of my time in this life draws near, and for this reason did I ask thee to come, Doctor Sahib Bahadur.”

“But you are not ill,” said Colonel Livesay, regarding her with reproachful attention.

“True. But who can live for ever? and a few nights back did I dream—”

“Oh! a dream,” he interrupted. “What matter a dream? Do not be foolish, Jasâni-lady. To send for me in sickness were wise, but I do not drive for miles, particularly at this season of the year, because of dreams!”

“I ask pardon; but it was no ordinary dream, and the Wise Man from the village is of opinion that it should not be disregarded. Never yet have I known him to be wrong in his foretellings, and there is a matter I wish to have arranged, in order that when I die I may die in peace.”

Upon this the girl, lurking behind the divan, set up a tearful lament.

“Peace, child, be silent!” reprimanded the Bibi. “Else go forth and aid in the search for the duster.”

At the same time she held out her hand and the girl climbed on to the divan to nestle beside the old woman and stifle her sobs.

“Therefore “(as though there had been no interruption) “did I ask thee to come, Doctor-ji, having faith in thy word, knowing I should do well to place a certain matter concerning my affairs in thy hands.”

“But I understand”—Colonel Livesay spoke in some alarm, having no desire to be mixed up in the conduct of the Bibi’s affairs—“that the Magistrate-sahib and Shahamat Ali—”

She held up a puffy, snuff-coloured hand to arrest his speech.

“The Magistrate-Sahib and Shahamat Ali are not, like thyself, going to England so shortly,” she said, with a cunning look.

Livesay made no reply; he was wondering how the old lady had obtained such accurate news of his pending retirement. To his relief she suddenly changed her tone.

“Shame overcomes me!” she exclaimed, slapping her forehead, “that refreshment should not have been forth coming! What is that wretch Gunga about that he hath not seen to it; the old fellow grows careless and inattentive.”

But, as though in refutation of this denouncement, Gunga now appeared, thrusting aside one of the quilted curtains with a tray on which was set a bottle of brandy, soda-water, a tumbler, and a box of cheroots. Another servant followed bearing a tin of mixed biscuits and a pile of freshly made native sweetmeats. Perforce Colonel Livesay accepted a drink, though he helped himself sparingly—(doubting the quality of the spirit)—nibbled the plainest biscuit he could select from the tin; the while his hostess partook of the sweetmeats, to keep him in company. She explained to him that the brandy and the biscuits and the soda-water had long been in her store room; she feared they might not be of the first excellence, but at any rate the cheroots were to be recommended . . . they had come straight from Burmah!—and she proceeded to light one. Had he ever been in Burmah? No?—that was a loss to anyone, of whatever nationality!

“Never,” she went on confidentially, “would I have left my own country but for the great love I bore for my dear man, and his kind love for me. We made marriage in Burmah according to his faith; and soon after came the order for the regiment to move to India; we marched and marched, many falling by the way, but my dear one kept his health till we reached this spot, and then he died of the pestilence that ever pursued us.” She half closed her eyes. “Maybe,” she continued sadly, “the Lord Buddha decreed it; had I not forsaken my faith and my country!—for here within sight of one of the great memorials to his Blessed Memory was my love taken from me. Wherefore did I stay, in this dwelling that was empty, unwanted, to be bought for a mere trifle, and raised a tomb over my dear one’s body, yonder in the mango grove”—she waved her hand towards the back of the house—“and there, when I die, shall I rest beside him. . . .”

What with the lack of air, the heat, and the sound of the sing-song old voice repeating a story he knew already, Colonel Livesay began to feel drowsy; unless he made an effort to stop the droning recital he might fall asleep. In order to rouse himself he shifted his position in the uncomfortable chair, watched for an opportunity to interrupt as she maundered on, lost in the past.

“Yes, here did I stay with a few faithful followers and one dear companion of mine own blood, who for love of me had also forsaken our country; but she is long ago dead—the grandmother of this little Anatta.” The old woman glanced down fondly at the girl crouched by her side. “I bought land, sending for my money from Burmah, much land.” All at once her voice changed, dreaminess vanished; again she was alert, vigorous. “Much land with good soil, crops, many villages; all prospered, and for many years now have I amassed wealth. Wealth!” she repeated loudly.

Colonel Livesay nodded sympathetically, and as the Bibi began fumbling among her cushions he wondered what was to come next. Presently she produced a bundle of papers wrapped in a wax cloth cover, put on a pair of large horn spectacles, coughed and spat, preparatory to business.

“Here,” she said, “is a copy of my—what you sahib-folk call ‘veel’—tes-ta-ment.”

“Yes—a will?” He lit another cheroot, helped himself to another small portion of the brandy, for after all it was not too poisonous, and resigned himself to listen, with newly awakened interest.

“Shahamat Ali, the pleader at Khari, whom I trust, though lawyers are more often rascals than otherwise, hath made, according to my instructions, this veel. Bowyer-sahib, Magistrate, whom also I trust because he is reported to be just, as an Englishman should he, hath seen and appended his name to it. In his keeping is the first writing, and should he leave Khari before my death he will give it into the charge of the next Magistrate-sahib. Shahamat Ali has also a copy. But the favour that I desire to ask of thee, Doctor-ji, is not written down in this veel directly as concerns thyself, though I have arranged that a good price be paid for the service.”

Her bright, oblique eyes shot him a stray glance, which Livesay ignored, gazing over her head.

“And what is this service?” he inquired indifferently.

“It is this. As I have said, I am a rich woman and for many years, owing to the rents of my villages and the sale of my crops, have I put by many rupees. The money is well protected in the big English bank at Calcutta, and it is my desire, as I have stated in my veel, to bequeath it, together with Jasâni Estate, to one of my husband’s own people—his nearest male relation who may be living at this day. If none can be found within a year after my death, all is to go to the head priest of the temple in the place where I was born, for the benefit of the poor, other than sufficient to provide for this little one, Anatta, who is of Burmese descent. Clarke-sahib the planter and his wife—who dwell by the river but a few miles distant, will take charge of this child and see that she marries suitably, for she will not be poor.”

“But what,” asked Colonel Livesay, mystified, “do you wish me to do?” He would be here all day if the old lady did not come to the point more quickly.

She took a long pull at her cheroot. “My desire,” she said slowly, “to bequeath my riches to my husband’s kinsman, should one be living, can only be accomplished with the aid of a sahib who is soon to be crossing ‘the black water,’ one who can seek out the family, one whom more over I trust; like thyself.”

“But I——” began Livesay, aghast.

The old lady ignored the implied protest. “Is it not truth that mine honoured and respected friend the Doctor-Colonel-Sahib will very soon be journeying to England, there to remain?” she asked suavely.

“It is truth,” he agreed, “but how could I discover your husband’s people, even were I willing to undertake such a quest? England is a large place,” he argued helplessly, “and Jason is not, as far as my knowledge lies, a name of importance. The difficulties might be endless.”

He saw himself involved in a most tiresome and perhaps unpleasant business should he consent to the Bibi’s extraordinary demand; at the same time he felt touched by her confidence, her anxiety for his help; also her desire to benefit some relation of her English husband appealed to him. Never, in the course of his simple, well-intentioned existence had he withheld from his fellow creatures, whether English or Indian, such assistance as lay in his power. Now, if he refused the Bibi’s request, would he not be acting unkindly towards her, perhaps unfairly towards some being who might be thankful to inherit her wealth? And as for himself, in view of her plain hint, what about perhaps earning a welcome reward for some effort on her behalf? He recognized the Bibi’s strong wish for more or less immediate action in the matter, as well as the faint possibility of benefit to himself and his family; but the whole business appeared to him so intangible, so in the air, that he hesitated to take part in it.

Perturbed by his silent hesitation, she thrust the will into his hands. “See for thyself,” she entreated him. “See! Whoever shall find my lord’s kinsman within a year of my death will receive the sum of five thousand rupees.”

He glanced over the document. Yes, it was as she had stated.

“You understand?” she asked anxiously.

“I understand,” he said, handing her back the paper, “and in any case I thank you, Jasâni lady, for your kind trust in me, but as it is so unlikely—”

She burst into tears, bitter tears, drawing her fingers backwards and forwards across her eyes.

“What is to do!” she wailed. “Whom else can I turn to? I know of none else going to England so soon. It is my soul’s desire. Shortly shall I be dead, as my dream has revealed to me. Only thou of all the sahibs at Khari art going now to the land where dwell my lord’s people. I would send a letter to Shahamat Ali and to the magistrate sahib charging them to insert thy name, so that all should be right according to law.”

Still he hesitated.

“-Ai—ai! my heart breaks!” She wept loudly, and Anatta, the child, cuddled half asleep against her, raised her head and joined in the lamentation.

Colonel Livesay deliberated; once having given his promise, he would feel bound to embark on this wild goose chase. Well, what matter? if it came to nothing he would be no worse off; if (wild improbability) he should succeed, the reward would be extremely useful. Meantime the Bibi’s mind would be eased, strange mixture as it was of sound business capacity, guileless superstition, and sentiment.

Watching him closely, her fat face lighted up. “It is agreed?” she cried triumphantly. “My wish is granted?”

“It is agreed,” he said, yielding, yet with reluctance.

“Ah!” she drew a long sigh of relief. “Now in peace shall I join my dear lord to await our next incarnation together on earth! See, Anatta, are we not happy again? Say thanks to this good Sahib in his own tongue.”

The girl looked shyly at the sahib and smiled—a pretty little creature, fairy-like, perfect in form, with a bright colour in her nut-brown cheeks, intelligence in her big dark eyes.

“Tank—you,” she said slowly and distinctly.

“Wah!” exclaimed the Bibi with pride. “Is she not clever? She goes frequently to visit Clarke mem-sahib, with whom later she will dwell. Of her kindness Clarke mem-sahib teaches the child. Already can she read and write a little English.”

Emboldened by this praise, Anatta snatched a handful of sweetmeats from the tray and began stuffing them into her mouth.

“Villain!” said the Bibi, making no attempt to stop her. However accomplished, Anatta seemed to be well spoiled in her own home.

Then the child suddenly held out the rest of the sweetmeats in her hands to the vacant-faced punkah boy, who grinned with embarrassment and delight.

“Nay,” said the Bibi in dignified accents, “keep the sweetmeats for Maru until his duties be over.” But she looked to Colonel Livesay for appreciation of her darling’s unselfish intention.

“‘All beings desire happiness,’” she quoted to Anatta, “‘Therefore to all extend benevolence,’ but at the right time.”

“Then extend your benevolence to me, Jasâni-lady,” said Livesay lightly, “and permit me to depart, for the way back to Khari is long, and the roads are rough.”

Smiling salutations were exchanged, farewells. Nothing further was said on either side regarding the English man’s promise to the old Burmese woman. Gratitude on her part, faithful intention on his, was understood between them. She bent over his hand with a muttered blessing, then shouted for Gunga, who already stood at the door, holding aside the cane blind that the sahib might pass forth; and there was an end to this curious, and, as it came about, fateful and far-reaching interview.

Soon Colonel Livesay, in his bamboo cart, was bumping along the vile track that led him away from Jasâni Estate: until he came to a large and isolated peepul tree, and in its shade enjoyed the contents of the tiffin basket packed for him that morning by his stepdaughter. He only remembered afterwards that he had charged the Bibi no fee for his visit!

The old lady, however, had not forgotten. Next day a sum reached him by hand—a sum far in excess of what he would have demanded himself, together with a letter penned by her own hand, partly in English, partly in the vernacular, conveying her gratitude, concluding with a reminder of his promise and an assurance that not until his name had been duly included in her last instructions would she feel free to depart from this world in peace.

Reading this pathetic little missive, the Civil Surgeon smiled; there was no reason, he considered, why the Bibi Jâsan should not continue to exist for some years to come. But he had not reckoned with the force of Oriental superstition; the dream of ill-omen and the Wise Man of the village had done their work; and on the eve of Colonel Livesay’s departure for England with his stepdaughter, the Bibi Jâsan went forth to join her “dear lord.”

Chapter V

Leila Wylde glanced about the dining-room of No. 26 Borrodaile Road, Ealwood, with a feeling of unfightable depression as the family sat down to the midday Sunday meal.

A joint of roast beef (surrounded by squares of Yorkshire pudding) faced Colonel Livesay at one end of the table; at the other his wife was confronted with two covered vegetable dishes. An ill-favoured parlourmaid, whose unapt surname was Joy, waited with an air of hostility. She had given notice the moment she was told Colonel Livesay and Miss Wylde were expected from India, her excuse being that in her “last place but three” she had lived with “people from India,” and had no intention of doing so again. They gave too much trouble, rang the bell when they needn’t, forgot to put out lights, left taps running, besides throwing their clothes about, and so on. No assurance on the part of Mrs. Livesay that her husband and daughter were not “Indian people” of that sort, no bribe of higher wages, would induce her to stay. And when the previous afternoon the “Indian people” had arrived, and demanded hot baths, which for some unaccountable reason delayed the kitchen tea, she made no concealment of her triumphant disapproval, remarking loudly on the landing: “There—what did I say!”

Now, during her absence from the dining-room in quest of the apple tart that was to follow the Sunday joint, Mrs. Livesay bemoaned the unfeeling behaviour of Joy. “I’ve been abasing myself at registry offices ever since she gave me notice, but without success. And to-morrow she is going! She told Elizabeth she liked me well enough, but wasn’t going to look after anyone accustomed to black slaves, especially as she had found another situation on double the wages.”

(A statement, by the way, that Elizabeth the cook who, for reasons of her own, “stood by” Mrs. Livesay, had delicately pronounced to be “a ontruth.”)

“Never mind, my dear,” said James Livesay blithely. “Here we are, all together again for good. Nothing else matters. I’ll clean the boots and the knives, and Leila and the children can dust and sweep until we capture someone else. At any rate we seem to have a cook, and quite a good one, too.”

“Yes,” admitted his wife, “Elizabeth has her points, but I’m sure she only stays because of Tomkins, the cat. She’s so fond of him. I live in terror that he may get run over or eat poison or come to a bad end somehow, though he certainly deserves it, for he steals so frightfully. At least Elizabeth says he does!”

“Then for Heaven’s sake believe her.”

Colonel Livesay was so unaffectedly delighted to find himself at home once more that domestic grievances seemed to him of small account. But Leila thought regretfully of the white-clad, soft-stepping servants in India, of their usually faultless service and obedience; also of the space and loftiness of the bungalows. The little dining-room reeked of roast beef and “greens,” was overpoweringly close despite open windows and sun blinds. She felt she would have given anything for a punkah and the cool perfume of wet khus-khus. The Scottish lady, on that well-remembered evening in the Khari club, must have been right in her theory that once in England the trials of Indian life were forgotten, and that only memories of the alleviations remained!

She sat silent as her stepsisters consumed large helpings of food with healthy appetites. Maimie was growing into an extremely pretty girl, very like what her mother must have been at that age, crinkly brown hair, recently “put up,” limpid hazel eyes, and rose leaf skin. Hilda, yet unfledged, with a sharp little face and quick darting movements, rather self-assertive, inclined to pertness. Both chattered of their separate interests. Maimie was full of a charity bazaar at which she was to be one of the sellers, attired as a French peasant; she gravely reproached her mother, who declared, if she came to the sale at all, she should bring a large parcel with her in order to guard against persecution and expenditure. Hilda was excited over the prospect of acting in a “piece” that was to be the chief feature of the break-up party at the day school she attended. Such fun!—she was to take the comic part, an old gentleman! And she demanded money of her father with which to purchase a wig and spectacles, also the loan of a pair of his trousers and his dressing-gown . . . Dad laughed and said he would see.

The heavymeal was over, they trooped into the drawing room, which, being flanked by a small greenhouse, seemed hotter, if possible, to Leila than the dining-room; and soon Maimie and Hilda betook themselves to the back garden and basket chairs under “the tree” to read magazines.

“Now then,” began Mrs. Livesay, “let us talk over this interesting business about Jasâni Estate! I have said nothing to the children since you told me about it, James; and you haven’t either, have you, Leila?”

“Of course not,” said Leila, “why should I?” She felt as if she had hardly spoken a word to anyone since her arrival. “But I should think it was all a sort of mare’s nest.”

“But why?” Mrs. Livesay leaned forward argumentatively in her chair. “It seems perfectly simple. We have only to do our best to find the old creature’s heir, and if we find him, I am sure four or five hundred pounds would be a godsend!”

Leila, regarding her mother, thought how handsome she looked, her delicate face flushed with eagerness, her plentiful brown hair hardly touched with grey. She must have been such a beautiful girl!—and Leila wished she herself had resembled her mother more than her renegade father. Had she realized it, she was not like her father; she might have been the original of a portrait, a famous portrait, of her great-grandmother on her father’s side—the same long neck and low brow, with the soft yet fearless blue eyes, and firmly cut features, the colourless, transparent complexion.

And Mrs. Livesay, on her side, unconscious of her daughter’s silent admiration, suddenly remembered this picture with a little contraction of her heart. How long ago lay those days when the portrait of Leila’s ancestress used to meet her gaze at the head of a great staircase. Not that she regretted those days on her own account, but she sometimes felt sorry that Leila should have been excluded from a world that was hers by right of birth.

Neither of the two was aware at the moment that each was thinking of the other; and Mrs. Livesay broke the little silence by repeating her query.

“But why?”

“I rather agree with Leila myself,” confessed Colonel Livesay, who desired nothing so much as peace, now that he had bidden a final farewell to India and all things Indian, “though sooner or later I suppose we shall have to do something, according to my promise.”

“There must be some male member of the Jason family still living somewhere,” contended Mrs. Livesay.

“Perhaps,” said her husband drowsily, “but there’s plenty of time. We needn’t bother just yet.”

“—if you will only set your mind to it, James.”

“Plenty of time,” he repeated, closing his eyes. He was inclined to slumber after the Sunday dinner, combined with the treat of a bottle of English beer.

Mrs. Livesay glanced at her daughter, laid a finger on her lips, rose stealthily from her chair. “Come upstairs with me,” she whispered; and tip-toed from the room, followed by Leila.

Her bedroom presented an example of the species of environment that clings to past glories. More often than not human beings, especially women, who have, so to speak, “known better days,” contrive to uphold a certain atmosphere approaching to luxury, in their personal surroundings, at comparatively little cost. The dressing-table, though draped only with cheap pink and white muslin, was set at exactly the right angle and sported an opulent air—ivory-backed brushes, an important pin-cushion bristling with brooches, silver trifles in profusion (somewhat dulled with neglect). The bed spread was a fine old piece of Afghan embroidery picked up years ago for a song in India. A comfortable couch, a couple of deep arm-chairs and a writing-bureau, together with a round table for books and a work basket, all helped to form an enticing refuge. It was a room, as Mrs. Livesay was wont, rather ambiguously, to describe it, “that one could be ill in.”

She stretched herself on the cushioned couch, her arms behind her head, while Leila sank listlessly into one of the easy chairs.

“Now, darling, tell me. Is there anything solid in this affair Dad has got himself mixed up with? If it’s really worth while, we must tackle it at once; you know how dilatory Dad can be when he likes.”

“As far as the old lady’s will is concerned I believe it’s all right. The only vague part, it seems to me, is her having selected Dad to find the heir instead of putting some lawyer on to it. But if he can’t, practically everything goes to a priest in Burmah for the benefit of the poor.”

“And if he does find the heir it will benefit the poor too—like my accounts!” said Mrs. Livesay with a laugh. She never made any secret of her custom, when “out” in her accounts, of entering the sum to “a poor person.”

“What shall we do?” she continued. “Shall we advertise?”

“We can but try,” said Leila doubtfully.

“Well, then let us try. Give me a pencil and a piece of paper from the bureau.”

Supplied with writing materials, Mrs. Livesay composed an advertisement, which she read aloud with much satisfaction.

“‘If a family of the name of Jason, whose relation married a Burmese lady and died in India a long time ago, would communicate with Colonel Livesay, late Indian Medical Service, 26 Borrodaile Road, Ealwood, S.W., one of them may hear of something to his advantage.’ What do you think of that, Leila? ‘One of them’ and ‘his’ protects us from being attacked by a swarm of females.”

Her mother’s admiration for her own composition was so disarming that Leila refrained from criticism. She merely suggested a little alteration, also that in place of Dad’s name and address initials and “Box So-and-so” should be substituted; or else that it might be wiser to put the matter into the hands of a solicitor.

“Oh! no,” argued her mother against this last proposal, “that would be too dull for words. It will be so amusing if men turn up in crowds—though I don’t know who is to answer the bell. I’m sure Elizabeth wouldn’t. We might hire a Boy Scout? And just think of the expense of a lawyer, perhaps all for nothing. It would be quite easy to sort out the claimants ourselves. There can’t be more than one family of the name of Jason whose great-uncle, or whatever relation he was, married a Burmese woman and took her to a place in India where he died; I suppose it was cholera. No impostor would have a chance. Of course Dad dislikes the whole business now, but he’ll be delighted to get the money.”

“If he ever does,” murmured Leila.

“And when we do get hold of the man,” went on Mrs. Livesay, ignoring her daughter’s pessimism, “you had better marry him, darling, and then we could all come out and spend a winter with you in India. It would be so nice for the girls.”

“That is looking rather far ahead,” said Leila with a smile.

The whole thing was absurd, she reflected. She felt little interest in the undertaking that had been foisted on to her stepfather by the Bibi Jâsan; yet now that her mother was so set on immediate action, partly for the excitement it afforded her, partly in view of the possible reward, there was nothing for it but to give what help she could without further debate.

“We’ll send the advertisement to-night,” chirruped Mrs. Livesay, “that is, if we can find the place in the paper where they tell you where to address such communications and how much it costs. I wish you’d go and look for to-day’s paper, dearest, though probably Elizabeth has burnt it.”

“But to-day is Sunday,” Leila reminded her mother.

“Of course, so it is. It’s always Sunday when you want to do anything. Well, get hold of the paper to-morrow morning before Dad begins to read it, and then rush out and buy a postal order.”

According to Mrs. Livesay’s instructions Leila intercepted “The Times” the following morning, discovered the necessary paragraph, calculated the cost of the advertisement, and had posted the document by the time Colonel Livesay had begun to complain crossly that the paper shop’s lazy habits were a disgrace to the Empire—where was “The Times”?

“Yes, they are lazy,” said his wife, putting the paper into his hands. “An American friend of mine who took the next house for a few months used to have endless rows with them, and one day she said to the man: ‘Oh! of course we all know that you’re own brother to the King of England, but I’m going to have my papers sent in before breakfast.’”

“And did she get them?” inquired Colonel Livesay absently, unfolding the paper.

“Of course not. He said that if he was own brother to the King of England, he could get up when he liked.”

Monday had not begun very well, and the day was further disturbed by the departure of Joy, who drove off in a cab with much display of pride and independence, so “upsetting” Elizabeth that the dinner that night was deplorable; the soup tasteless and cold, the potato pie untempting, and the custard pudding that accompanied the remains of the apple tart might have been “own brother” to a slab of Gruyère cheese—all holes.

Mrs. Livesay did not mind; she said cheerfully that she was never hungry and was positive she could go with out food altogether, if necessary. At the same time she apologized for the non-appearance of a savoury she had ordered—herring roes on toast. According to Elizabeth, Tomkins had stolen the roes.

“Why do you believe the woman, my dear?” Colonel Livesay protested irritably; whereat Maimie and Hilda laughed, which annoyed him still further, especially as they were all obliged to wait on themselves in order to save the single-handed Elizabeth trouble.

The next two or three days were a nightmare of discomfort, unrelieved by answers to the advertisement, which duly appeared and was read aloud over and over again to the family by Mrs. Livesay.

“We ought to have had it repeated every day for a week,” she said, mortified by the lack of response. “Everybody doesn’t read the Agony Column regularly, though to me it’s the most interesting part of the paper.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” adjured her husband testily, “there’s plenty of time.”

By now he had either forgotten or repented his good resolutions concerning boots and knives. At any rate he found his boots cleaned after a fashion, for Elizabeth was one of those domestics who will perform such offices for the man of the family while the female members may go neglected. As for the knives, he made no comment on stains and spots; and he betook himself to London each day, where he lunched at his club.

Maimie helped her stepsister with the housework as far as her time, which was chiefly absorbed by prepar ations for the bazaar, would permit; Hilda was still at school all day, for the holidays, though imminent, had not yet begun, and she spent her spare hours privately rehearsing her part in the coming play, attired in a pair of her father’s trousers and his dressing-gown, plus the wig and spectacles she had persecuted him to pay for.

Mrs. Livesay could not tear herself away from the front windows; any figure that approached along the road she felt sure would stop at No. 26 and ask to see Colonel Livesay with reference to an advertisement. Her disappointment was acute as each passed, with perhaps just a glance at the handsome, middle-aged woman gazing from the casements. She could settle to nothing, while Leila swept and dusted, cleaned the silver, rubbed up the brass. As to the marketing, Mrs. Livesay said that if she went out Leila must stay at home and vice versa, in case anyone called. Maimie, if at home, would be sure to make some muddle, and Elizabeth might not answer the door unless she happened to be “dressed.” The two girls, now let into the secret, took little or no interest in it; to them it was not half so important as bazaars and theatricals.

Then, of course, on the only afternoon when Leila had managed to entice her mother forth that they might visit some old friends together, a stranger did call; and the door was opened to him by Hilda in her famous “get up.”

“I really hadn’t time to change,” explained the child, not in the least agitated by her mother’s vexation, “and I’m sure he had nothing to do with the advertisement. I asked him if his name was Jonas, but he couldn’t speak for laughing and just went away. I saw him go into a house farther down the road, so I expect he had only mistaken the number.”

But nothing would convince Mrs. Livesay that the caller had not come in answer to the advertisement. She wept with annoyance.

“And what possessed you,” she wailed to the unrepentant Hilda, “to ask him if his name was Jonas. It’s not in the least like Jason!”

“Quite near enough, Mummy. If he had been Jason he would have corrected me. His amusement when he saw me was a very good sign. I expect I shall bring the house down. Of course he wouldn’t have gone away if his name had been Jonas—I mean Jason.”

“Of course he thought you were mad, and that the advertisement had come from a home for lunatics! Go upstairs at once and take off those ridiculous things.”

As Hilda obeyed her mother, stumbling up the stairs, clutching at the trousers, Mrs. Livesay turned to Leila: “Really, I feel quite ill,” she said, her hand to her side. “We shall have to advertise all over again, and put in something to explain about this afternoon.”

Leila made up her mind. This state of affairs could not be tolerated any longer. She herself felt worn out; she pitied her stepfather, who was practically driven from his home; feared a nervous breakdown for her mother, delicate and excitable as she was. Having dosed the poor lady with brandy, forced her to lie down, and persuaded her that the caller was no Jason, she laid down the law.

“We really must set ourselves to find another servant,” she said firmly. “It’s no wonder Dad goes to the club all day if he isn’t as comfortable as he might be at home. Of course, sooner or later, he will do his best to find the old woman’s heir, he won’t fail her, having promised, if he can help it. But if I were you, dearest, I should let him alone about it now till after the holidays.”

“I do so want him to get the money,” whimpered Mrs. Livesay.

“Naturally, so do I. But it’s no use making yourself ill over it.”

“No, that’s true. What a comfort you are, Leila. I should like to go to Maimie’s bazaar and see Hilda act, and if I’m ill I shouldn’t be able to do either. Besides, there are lots of old friends I ought to take Dad to see, and I can’t, if he won’t stay at home. Will you go and hunt for a slave for Elizabeth, or somebody, to-morrow morning? I always have bad luck over servants. I know I demoralize them; perhaps I’m not strict enough; they either do no work at all, or give notice at a critical moment like that horrid Joy . . . and you know as well as I do that even Elizabeth would desert me if I didn’t shut my eyes about Tomkins. And, to tell you the truth, I’m sure I’m not nearly so strong as I was before you went out to India.”

With a sinking at her heart Leila felt, too, that this was the truth, though she uttered reassurances; and next morning, having persuaded her mother to sit in the garden instead of watching from the front windows, she set off in search of some being who might be willing to help ease the domestic difficulties.

The result was that a strong, well-mannered girl was installed whom Colonel Livesay christened “the cooly,” since she appeared to regard Elizabeth as her mistress, which perhaps was just as well; at any rate all went smoothly; boots and knives shone, the husband and wife went out happily together to tea parties, and Leila, who contrived to establish a reputation for “not caring to go out much,” found herself at liberty to haunt an excellent free library where she discovered several books on the subject of Buddhism.

The subject had laid hold of her imagination; she went so far as to make acquaintance with a hungry looking spinster, encountered at the library, who proclaimed herself a member of “The Buddhist Community,” who persuaded Miss Wylde to attend a lecture in her company and finally to become a member of the said Community, not that Leila found the lecture particularly enlightening, but the membership gave her a right to borrow books from a collection that, though chiefly appertaining to the religious and sentimental aspect of the question, contained works of the description she was seeking; works on Buddhist archaeology, explorations, discoveries, inscriptions, that proved, historically, the power of the Great Teacher, whose precepts and example were so curiously akin to Christianity.

One fact that she gleaned excited her interest to burning point; she read that Strabo, the Greek historian, had recorded having seen a number of ships ready to sail from a Red Sea port—ready to sail for India—the date coinciding with the disappearance of Christ from Biblical history; while seventeen years later He had reappeared in the Holy Land to preach a doctrine that was strange and new. Was it possible that He had spent those lost years in India, to return to His own country, having absorbed the best that lay in the teaching of Gautama Buddha, so to give it forth to the world in a purer and higher form? Who could say?

Chapter VI

It was well into Hilda’s summer holidays before Leila and the Livesays started for a seaside resort that was not ultra-fashionable, nor so far from London as to render travelling expenses too terrific an item for such a comparatively large party.

The delay in getting off, Mrs. Livesay said, was due to there being “so much to do.” Elizabeth claimed her holiday, and Tomkins was to go with her as a paying guest; “the cooly “could not be left alone in the house, and must be dispatched to her home for the time being. Therefore a reliable caretaker had to be sought. The plate must be counted and conveyed to the Bank, treasures locked up, dust sheets and newspapers spread everywhere; all might have been arranged and accomplished much sooner by Leila had she been given a free hand, but that her mother, being far from well, became peevishly obstructive, and persisted in directing, and incidentally delaying, matters herself.

Truth to tell, Mrs. Livesay did not want to go away, neither did her husband, neither did Leila; but all three felt it would be inhuman to deprive the two girls of a pleasure they anticipated so keenly at this time of year. Maimie and Hilda “adored” beaches and bathing, the open-air “shows,” the general atmosphere of amusement; and as their parents and stepsister agreed in private, both girls were looking rather washed out and needed sea air.

So in time they all arrived at the private hotel (née boarding-house) at Littlepool-on-Sea that Mrs. Livesay had frequented for the past few years. The Proprietors approved of these visitors as confirming the character of the establishment, which catered, professedly, for “refined families only”; and good rooms were allotted to “Colonel and Mrs. Livesay and party” on suitable terms.

Mrs. Livesay went out every day in a Bath chair, her husband stepping dutifully beside it; but after a while he complained that no human being could gauge the pace of a Bath-chair man. They seemed, he said, either to crawl or to race, and even when they appeared to crawl it was difficult to keep level with them; moreover, when a halt became necessary in mercy to “the man,” the latter would sit beside him on the bench and converse upon the weather and the scenery, combined with heart-rending laments concerning the bad times that had befallen the profession.

One of Colonel Livesay’s few peculiarities, shared perhaps by a good proportion of his sex hailing from India, was a horror of what might be termed the “expectant brigade” in England. He would go yards out of his way, or cross streets quite unnecessarily, in order to evade the attentions of organ-grinders, crossing-sweepers, vendors of matches and boot laces, etc. It was not that he grudged the coppers he invariably produced when he was caught, but he shrank from expectant or grateful salutations which, being a polite person by nature, he felt bound to acknowledge. And he would do so by emitting a curious sound, something between a cough and a grunt, which when Leila was with him convulsed her with suppressed laughter. Then he would hurry on, as though guilty of some culpable action. It was this weakness that caused him to abhor Bath-chair men; and, when he could contrive to do so, he left it to his wife to pay fares and tips, keeping her well supplied with cash for the purpose. Thus it came about that gradually Colonel Livesay shirked attendance on his wife with her chair-man of the day, making plausible excuses that only Leila, with secret amusement, saw through. She took his place with compassionate understanding, agreeing that a long walk with an energetic fellow visitor at the Private Hotel was far better for him than parading up and down the front; that it was “so nice” for him to watch the County cricket matches with an old Indian friend he had encountered, who was also a member of the best Bowling Club, and conveniently anxious for company—most of his friends among the residents having fled inland to escape the holiday crowd.

Then sometimes Mrs. Livesay elected to go on the pier (which her husband abominated); such heaps of funny people to look at, and the spectacle afforded by the Mixed Bathing Club was so amusing!—though of course she would not permit Maimie and Hilda to join it. They must be content to bathe circumspectly from a machine on the shore.

---

On a particularly hot morning Leila followed her mother’s Bath chair on to the pier, progressing between rows of knitters and readers and idlers, till they discovered a spot where they could anchor in comparative shade, and hear the band that brayed valiantly in the Concert Hall. Close beside them was also located a Bath chair occupied by a lady whose appearance was so striking that Leila found it difficult not to stare at her. She was attended by two men, one presumably her husband from the manner in which he addressed her, the second man was either a relation or a very familiar friend.

Leila, in the intervals of answering her mother’s remarks, and retrieving her crochet work and books, both of which seemed to prefer the boards of the pier to her lap, observed the trio with interest. They did not look quite the sort of people to have chosen Littlepool-on-Sea for change of air (though, for the matter of that, hoped Leila, neither did she nor her mother!). From their conversation they were evidently not residents. Perhaps the lovely lady had been ill, and had sought the nearest procurable sea breezes; her appearance was hardly that of an invalid, but judicious “make up” might convey a false impression of health. Leila could not decide whether the exquisite complexion, the dark lashes and eyebrows, and the shining hair, were absolutely natural or not; but at any rate there could be no illusion about the eyes, which were exceptionally large and brilliant and of an uncommon colour, a mixture of green and brown.

When presently “the husband” rose and strolled off to witness the performances of a professional lady diver who, in addition to other remarkable feats, was expected to undress in the water, the bright, peculiar eyes glanced at the man who remained by her side with an expression that could not be mistaken for anything save fervid relief. The look was returned but with scarcely a like fervour; indeed Leila thought she detected a touch of self-conscious protest in the man’s demeanour, as though fearing observation from their neighbours. At the same time he moved his folding-chair nearer to his companion, lazily fondled the little yellow dog that lay on her knee—whose coat matched the shade of its mistress’s hair—bending his head over the small animal, as he and the lady whispered together.

The man was a well-set-up individual, somewhere about thirty years of age; he reminded Leila of a pictorial advertisement, with his clean-cut features, small dark moustache, and correct clothing—a type that had always struck her as savouring of idleness, careless indifference to the convenience of others, with a smack of self-conscious conceit; in other respects no doubt a gentleman, with a certain code of behaviour, unaddicted to actual vice, agreeable, attractive, not wholly contemptible!

As she composed this estimate of his character (why she was so engaged she could not have told, except that she was bored with the pier and the heat, and slightly, per haps, with her mother) the man suddenly looked up and caught her gaze fixed on him.

Leila flushed with annoyance, hastily paid attention to Mrs. Livesay, who needed no attention, for she was half asleep. But even though she had removed her gaze so swiftly, she was conscious of the smile on the man’s face, humorous, provocative; he knew as well as she did that she had been observing him closely!

Ardently Leila wished for the husband’s return—indeed she felt inclined to rise and mingle with the crowd about the barrier overlooking the professional swimmer’s performance. But at this juncture Mrs. Livesay woke up, once more dropped her crochet, and the little white ball went skimming beneath the man’s chair. Instantly alert, he jumped up and dived for the ball, handing it back, not to Leila, who held out her hand, but to Mrs. Livesay, who received it with an amiable smile.

“Oh! thank you so much!” she said. “I am afraid I am a nuisance to my neighbours.”

“Anything but—!” he exclaimed, raising his hat and disclosing a smooth dark head; then he looked at Leila expectantly, so that she felt forced to accord him a stiff little bow of acknowledgment.

The lady in the other Bath chair now leaned forward and spoke to Mrs. Livesay.

“The heat is awful, isn’t it? And what a place, and what people! Have you ever been here before?”

“Yes, often,” was the calm reply; Mrs. Livesay was never pretentious.

“Indeed? I suppose the air suits you? The doctor ordered me here; he declared there was no air like it for nerves, though I believe some people complain that it’s too strong for them. All the same, I detest the place. It’s so vulgar.”

“What is ‘strong air’?” interrupted the man.

None of the three ladies could explain.

“There’s hardly a soul one can speak to, continued the detractor of Littlepool-on-Sea; and was playfully reproached by her friend.

“Oh! come now, Lady Acwell!” he said—” and after all I’ve done for you!”

Mrs. Livesay assumed a distant expression (she rather shrank from familiarity with strangers) as Lady Acwell retorted: “What a fool you are, Noddy!” and turned again to Mrs. Livesay.

“You remind me so much of someone I know,” she remarked in charming apology. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so?”

“Of course not. I am always being told I am like somebody else!” And Mrs. Livesay began to roll up her crochet-work and look for her book as though in preparation for departure.

“Oh! you’re not going yet?” protested Lady Acwell gushingly. “Here is Langton, my husband, coming back from that silly diving-show. Mayn’t I introduce him?”

She had noted the nice-looking girl who was possibly the other woman’s companion; if so, and she could contrive to fraternize with the pair, Langton might attach himself to the girl; young and well-favoured female dependents always attracted him—he considered them fair game. That would be very convenient for herself and Noddy.

Mrs. Livesay, a little dismayed, submitted to the introduction, there was no help for it without discourteous behaviour; and after all, she reflected, there could be no harm in a sort of pier acquaintanceship with these people, though she did not much care for the look of them: they were too palpably opulent, too free and easy for her taste. She yielded her name and Leila’s, as Sir Langton Acwell was presented to them.

He was a big man, a good deal older than his wife, coarsely handsome, rather flashily dressed, and looked, so Mrs. Livesay decided, as if he betted and drank. But when he sat down beside her and began to talk she was agreeably surprised. His manner and conversation were perfectly correct, and he spoke with becoming concern of his wife’s recent illness.

“She doesn’t take enough care of herself,” he said confidentially, “always on the go in London, and knows far too many people. They take it out of her, and she’s too kind-hearted to snub anyone. This sort of a place is just what she wants for a bit, no going out at night, no theatres and supper parties and race meetings—all that, you know! But she misses her women pals. Our friend Stanford has been kind enough to come down with us to help cheer her up, but it’s not quite the same thing, eh?—and if you and your young lady would take pity on her sometimes—” He paused suggestively.

Mrs. Livesay, somewhat touched by this appeal, said civilly: “We often come on the pier in the mornings.”

“Then we shall look out for you. This particular spot is just the right place. You’re sheltered from too much sun and not deafened by the band inside. How anyone can sit inside that stokehole this weather beats me—yet there it is, chock full!” ‘

“I hope your wife is recovering satisfactorily?” inquired Mrs. Livesay.

“Oh! she’ll be all right if she does what the doctors tell her. ‘Rest before meals’—‘rest after meals,’ they might all be parrots, which reminds me that it’s time she went back to the hotel to rest before luncheon. Rose hates the very word rest.”

He looked round and whistled to attract his wife’s attention, pointing with his stick towards the shore. “Time’s up,” he shouted; and presently, after cordial “au revoirs” the little procession started, Lady Acwell’s Bath-chair man pulling his burden along with bent head and rounded shoulders, Sir Langton by her side, their friend following.

As the friend passed Leila’s seat he looked over his shoulder with a lingering glance that was clearly intended to convey regret at the compulsory parting. Leila ignored the little pantomime, glanced at her watch, and remarked to her mother that there was no need to move yet. “We don’t want to overtake those people,” she said; and made up her mind to manoeuvre that they did not visit the pier next morning.

“The woman seems very pushing,” was Mrs. Livesay’s verdict, “and her husband looks horrid. I suppose he is a knight, or something of that sort, but I must say he is nicer than he looks. The other man is quite different. I should say he belongs to a different caste altogether.”

“Let’s avoid them,” suggested Leila. “I didn’t like any of them.”

“Well, if they want to talk to us on the pier it won’t matter, and at any rate they are a change from all those dull people at our hotel.”

Leila said no more, but next morning as it happened she awoke with a blinding headache, due perhaps, she thought sardonically, to “strong air”; and as nothing would induce Maimie and Hilda to forego bathing, Colonel Livesay, with a good-enough grace, set out beside his wife’s conveyance.

At luncheon time they returned to find Leila limp and exhausted, but free from pain. The pair were full of the new acquaintances; Lady Acwell had kept seats for them, and was extremely disappointed not to see Miss Wylde—had sent her sympathy over the headache. Colonel Livesay had found Lady Acwell very agreeable, not to say captivating, and the husband, he opined, was not at all a bad sort of fellow, though he did contrive to look rather a bounder. Mrs. Livesay was now veering round to James’s opinion; anything that found favour in his sight found favour in hers; and certainly they were entirely agreed concerning the Acwells’ friend, Mr. Stanford—he was the best of the three.

There was a good deal more to report; Sir Langton, it appeared, was a partner in a big brewing business, and not so long ago had been knighted. He had confided to Mrs. Livesay that the title had cost him a pretty penny, but that he had gone in for it because he wanted his wife to be “my lady”; she “looked it,” and as so many of her friends had titles it seemed hard on her not to have one. Then Lady Acwell had told Colonel Livesay that she felt so dull here, had seen no one until yesterday with whom she felt she could be on speaking terms, that his wife and Miss Wylde were so charming, and she hoped this was not to be the end of their friendship, since the Livesays’ home was so near London. .

As for Mr. Stanford, it seemed he lived in rooms near his club and was much interested to learn that Colonel Livesay and his stepdaughter had but lately returned from India.

“He sent you a message,” Leila was informed, “to say he would so much like to hear your impressions of India. We are all going to meet on the front after tea, and he hoped you would be well enough to join us.”

“Then he may hope,” said Leila crossly, “for I am not going out to-day.”

All the same, she wanted to go out, the hotel was so stuffy, smelt of cooking, and was so crammed with old ladies and their faded daughters whose lives had been sacrificed to their widowed mothers. But she was not going to meet again that insolent creature whose name was Stanford, before she could possibly help it. Now that Dad had cottoned to the Acwells perhaps walks and cricket and bowls might not prove so compelling to him, in spite of Bath-chair men, and she might find herself more free to go her own way.

During the next few days her hopes materialized. The Acwells and the Livesays became inseparable; in the mornings on the pier, in the afternoons on the esplanade, while Leila bathed with the girls, took them to kinemas, and went for strolls by herself in unfashionable regions. Consequently Colonel Livesay’s old Indian friend grew restive, wrote ‘chits’ of invitation couched in reproachful language. The lonely hotel visitor took offence, missing his pedestrian companion, and proceeded to cut “the Colonel,” who remained unaware of the punishment, neither did he catch muttered remarks relating to changeable people and the airs of the military.

The Indian friend, however, was of a more forgiving disposition; he turned up one morning, just as breakfast was over, and told Colonel Livesay that if he really wanted to miss the great cricket match of the season he need not accompany him to-day, and he chaffed Mrs. Livesay for tying her husband to her apron strings, otherwise to her Bath chair.

“You had better let him pull it,” he concluded, with an undercurrent of spite. “Much cheaper. But just for this once, dear lady, I think you might let him off. The County is playing the Australians, and it’ll be a match no one calling himself a man ought to miss, especially if he is given the chance of witnessing it from the Members’ Pavilion.”

The gentleman swelled with indignation at the very idea that such a favour could possibly be flouted.

“Oh! do go, darling,” Mrs. Livesay urged her husband, “you know I shan’t mind one bit; have I ever minded anything that would interest you? And Leila will come with me this morning, won’t you, Leila? We can explain to the Acwells—”

There was no need for this wifely persuasion. Colonel Livesay expressed his desire to see the match, and the matter was settled.

“I’ve been rather occupied lately with some friends down from London,” he explained, in excuse for his truancy; and if the explanation held a measure of untruth, it served to pacify the Indian friend, who said: “Quite all right, quite all right. I was only wondering what had become of you.”

Later, Leila started, reluctantly, for the pier with her mother, who noted her disinclination.

“Didn’t you want to come, Leila?” she asked of her daughter plaintively.

“I like to come with you, of course, dearest, but I can’t say I look forward to joining the Acwells.”

“But, my dear, they are perfectly harmless people, and really improve on acquaintance. I think Lady Acwell might be kind to Maimie and take her out a little in London next season. Girls in the suburbs have no chance.”

Leila recognized with a pang that her mother had grown to regard her as almost a contemporary; she visioned herself in the future as one of the innumerable gang of elderly daughters whose whole attention was claimed by a more or less helpless mother; and for the moment she rebelled at the prospect. Then, remorsefully, she stifled what seemed to her an unworthy feeling.

“Yes, I know,” she said hastily, “I know exactly what you mean. I don’t mind Sir Langton and Lady Acwell so much—after all, I’ve only seen them once—but I took such a dislike to that friend of theirs, Mr. Stanford.”

Mrs. Livesay opened her eyes wide. “You are an extraordinary girl! Why, I should have thought he was just the kind of man to have attracted you—really a ‘sahib,’ as we used to say in India, besides which—” She hesitated.

“Yes, Mother?”

“You see, I am sure he belongs to the sort of people I used to know in the past—in my old life. He has even mentioned names. But of course,” she added, in hasty apology, “I haven’t said a word, he hasn’t an idea. And I don’t want to hear anything about them.”

“Then why—?” began Leila.

“It was only,” her mother interrupted, “that I thought perhaps—Well, I had better say it straight out. I thought you and he might take a fancy to one another. You belong to that world by birth, Leila, and I always feel I shut you out of it.”

“Nonsense; you didn’t!” maintained Leila stoutly, “it was they who pushed us out of it, and I don’t want to get back any more than you do, darling!”

Despite her vigorous speech tears rose to the girl’s eyes, though not on her own account. Poor mother! Even now she looked back with a sense of ostracism, however little she might deplore the breach with her first husband’s people, whatever compensation she had found in her second marriage: and she would rejoice to see her daughter drawn back into that aristocratic fold!

“I don’t mean for one moment—” quavered Mrs. Livesay: but Leila interposed, though she had no notion of what her mother “did not mean for one moment”; only did she feel bent on putting an end to the discus sion.

“Of course you don’t,” she said cheerfully, “I quite understand; but you must get rid of the idea once and for all, that I could ever think in that way of this Stanford man. At first sight I disliked him; and if you want to know, that is the real reason why I have avoided the Acwells. Perhaps you didn’t notice that I have been ayoiding them purposely? Anyway, here we are at the pier.”

Chapter VII

Of course the Acwells were already in possession of the chosen spot; it seemed to be miraculously reserved for them. But Mr. Stanford was strolling about, gazing through binoculars at vessels in the distance.

“Noddy!” called Lady Acwell possessively, “come here!”

He turned, lowering the glasses, and raising his hat as he saw Mrs. Livesay and her daughter approaching; and he took care, as Leila divined intuitively, to stand with his back to Lady Acwell while shaking hands with herself. To her annoyance his eyes expressed a good deal more than the words he uttered.

“At long last, Miss Wylde! Where have you been all this time? and what have you done with the Colonel?”

Mrs. Livesay, catching the last question, said: “He has gone to watch the cricket.” And she directed her chair to be drawn up between that of Lady Acwell and the seat occupied by Sir Langton.

Leila settled herself next to Sir Langton, perceiving with relief that the seat next her own was already “engaged”; a stick and a newspaper lay across it. But next moment Mr. Stanford removed these objects.

“Mine!” he announced, smiling triumphantly. “Did you think they weren’t?”

“I didn’t think about it at all,” was Leila’s frigid and untruthful reply.

Then, just making sure that the rest of the party were deep in conversation, he crossed his legs, tilted his hat over his eyes and began in a low voice:

“I’ve been looking for you every morning and every evening, you don’t know what disappointment I have endured.”

“Please stop!” said Leila, between her teeth.

“Rather!” he rejoined with a wicked pretence of misunderstanding. “Now tell me the truth—was it because of me that you kept away?”

“Of course not,” lied Leila angrily.

“Oh! then you don’t mind meeting me?”

“Why should I?”

“I’ll tell you—shall I?”

No answer.

“All right. Silence gives consent. But you know as well as I do—h’m?”

She turned her back to him; he leaned towards her and whispered: “A word of four letters, at first sight!”

Leila touched Sir Langton’s shoulder and invited him to come and see the bathing; he rose, delighted, and Stanford calmly took her seat, guarding his own again with the newspaper and the stick.

Lady Acwell watched the pair go off together with mixed feelings. Miss Wylde, as she now knew, was no “companion,” and Langton seldom amused himself with girls who were in their own class of life, or with other men’s wives; neither distraction would she have tolerated; as a rule Langton’s little “affairs” were only a matter of time and money, not worth her notice. But this Miss Wylde was a remarkably attractive young woman. At any rate she should not be permitted to flirt with Noddy!

She beckoned him to the other side of her chair, and, as Mrs. Livesay had begun to doze, they were practically alone.

“Why did you go and sit by that girl?” she asked him petulantly.

“I didn’t She came and sat down by my chair.”

“Do you like her?”

“I don’t dislike her.” He wondered if, with a woman’s sharp instinct in such matters, Rose Acwell smelt a rat; if so, he must conceal the rat, at least for the present. He continued: “Why are you bothering about the girl? She isn’t anything much to look at—not like you.”

“There’s something uncommon about her: but I can’t say I admire her style and I’m glad you don’t, either, Noddy—but if you did, I could trust you, couldn’t I?”

“Not if you liked some other fellow better than me, and I know there are plenty of them hoping to take my place when you get back to London.” He infused jealousy into his tone.

She laid her hand for a moment on his, reassuringly. “Don’t be a silly boy. Have you no confidence in me?”

“Not too much. Who am I to compete with the great ones of the world, who tumble over each other for a word from you.”

“You are the man I care for,” she said softly, lowering her voice.

“Look out!” he whispered. “The old lady’s waking up and here comes your husband and the girl who looks to you so uncommon. I’m going to talk to her for a bit, she’s so ill-mannered I long to give her a lesson. Do you mind?”

“Not a bit!” She smiled at him trustfully. “And I wish you joy of her conversation.”

But the “lesson” did not come off. Leila, on her return, invented some plausible excuse (which did not deceive Stanford) and prepared her mother for immediate departure. Mrs. Livesay was too sleepy to rebel successfully, but as they began to move off, Stanford, who meanwhile had been scribbling stealthily in his pocket book, tore out and crumpled up the piece of paper, bent down as though to pick up something and pursued the retreating Bath chair.

“You dropped this, Miss Wylde,” he said loudly, slipping the note into her hand.

Taken aback, her fingers closed on it, and not untll they reached the pier gate did she dare to examine it; to her fury she deciphered a few impassioned words Nervously she tore the scrap of paper into shreds and put them into the pocket of her sports coat. What a devil the man was!

Chapter VIII

Three days later, to her profound relief, Leila was told that the Acwells and their satellite were returning to London next morning. Meantime she had dodged them with success, behaving ruthlessly towards her stepfather; she paid no attention to his hints regarding the cricket ground, trumped up one excuse after another for her own defection, at the same time impressing upon him that her mother ought not to go out unaccompanied. Suppose she should faint, or any thing happened!—until poor Colonel Livesay felt a brute for having suggested that his wife might quite well go out alone, and gave up the struggle.

But when, to-day, Mrs. Livesay expressed an offended hope that Leila would at least join them all on the esplanade that evening to bid their new friends farewell, she decided to confide to her mother the true reason of her apparently perverse conduct. She did so while Mrs. Livesay was resting in her bedroom after luncheon.

Hardly knowing how to begin, she first lingered about the room, then at last said abruptly:

“You must have thought me very tiresome about the Acwells!”

“What did you say, dear?” came a drowsy response from the bed.

Leila repeated her remark more distinctly, and with a spice of irritation.

This roused Mrs. Livesay. “Well,” she said, “you certainly have seemed rather unreasonable, but I suppose as you dislike Mr. Stanford so much, for no cause that I can see—”

“Can’t you guess why I dislike him?”

“Is it because I said—”

“Not because of anything you said, Mother. It began before that. The man tried to start a flirtation on the first day of our meeting, and on the last he wrote me an impudent note. He pushed it into my hand!”

Mrs. Livesay raised her head. “Good gracious, Leila! I never suspected anything of the kind. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Leila flushed; she felt she could not explain that in the first instance Mr. Stanford had caught her gazing at him, so that perhaps, though unwittingly, she had been in a measure to blame for his behaviour.

“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” she replied evasively, “but you must see now why I don’t want to meet him again.”

“What did you do with the note?” Mrs. Livesay inquired with lively curiosity.

“I tore it up, of course!” Then suddenly she remembered that the scraps of paper must be still in the pocket of the sports coat she had been wearing that day—which, as it happened, she had not worn since.

“What did he say in the note?” persisted Mrs. Livesay.

“Oh! I can’t remember—a lot of insolent nonsense. And he’s Lady Acwell’s lover; anyone can see that!”

“Leila! How can you—what a shocking idea! You must be mistaken. I have never noticed—they are all such friends!”

“Well, whether I am mistaken or not, I don’t intend to see that man again. You must help me to get out of going with you this evening. Say you wanted me to take Maimie and Hilda to something, say anything you like.”

Mrs. Livesay brightened; she was rather an adept at fibs.

“But your father will think it so odd!”

“Never mind; you know he’ll accept anything you tell him, and I don’t want this tiresome business to go farther than between you and me. After to-morrow there will be no more bother. I shall be able to go out with you at all times. This evening I can’t, and I won’t. I can depend on you, can’t I, dearest?”

“Of course you can depend on me, though generally it’s the other way round, isn’t it? I depending on you in any difficulty! I often wonder how I got on without you for those two years.”

The girl kissed her mother fondly, rearranged the pillows, drew down the blinds, and left the room, comforted.

---

That evening, in collusion with Mrs. Livesay, Leila waited till she had seen the Bath chair with its occupant, and her stepfather beside it, start for the rendezvous on the esplanade. Luckily Maimie and Hilda had been invited to tea by a school friend they had encountered unexpectedly on the beach; and she was free to go where she pleased.

With a book under her arm—a book on Buddhist history that she had brought with her from home, she made for the pier, knowing it to be a safe refuge at this hour, and strolled to the extreme end, where she could look straight out to sea and enjoy the cool breeze.

There she seated herself; but instead of the mental peace she had hoped for, depression assailed her. She felt disinclined to read, unable to control thoughts that filled her with doubts of the future and a disturbing regret for the past two years in India—India! with its freedom and space and strange fascination. Had she been foolish to refuse Pat Everest? Marriage without love on both sides had hitherto seemed to her unthin able, but now she wondered. Had she accepted him, she might have been at Khari with a home and a husband of her own, and he would have taken her to see the crumbling Buddhist remains at Jasâni—it was curious how the longing to see them had remained with her. Supposing Mr. Everest should drop from the skies and propose to her again at this moment, would she say “Yes” or “No”? With an effort she tried to stem these absurd reflections, but she could not conceal from herself that her mind was thoroughly out of gear. How she hated this tiresome “holiday,” and how she dreaded the return to Borrodaile Road; Maimie with her feeble accomplishments, Hilda with her rabbits and school gossip; her mother and stepfather happy in their own small way together, and she herself a sort of buffer for the lot of them!

Yet, there lay her life and her duty, and her affections; it was base of her to cavil, as she was doing, at the home where they all loved and needed her. She wished she had never gone to India, the experience had unsettled her, given her fresh ideas, a new outlook, raised a demon of discontent that would not be suppressed.

“Run to earth!” exclaimed a voice behind her; and she looked round, startled, to behold Mr. Stanford, jubilant, triumphant, showing his even white teeth in a smile that awakened her wrath.

“Why have you come here?” she demanded, and instantly repented having spoken at all. She should have preserved a cold silence, risen, and walked away from him.

“To see you, of course!” he answered, and calmly took a seat beside her. “Now, look here, Miss Wylde— I watched you go out, followed you here, because I want to apologize. I can’t go back to London to-morrow, knowing you’re in a rage with me.”

“I’m afraid you will have to,” said Leila stiflly; yet she recognized, to her mortification, that his surprising presence was a sort of antidote to her previous depression and discomfiting thoughts. There was an undeniable element of excitement in finding herself alone with this unsnubbable person.

“Well, just for this evening then, won’t you make friends? I promise not to say anything to annoy you. Then, perhaps, when I have gone, you may think a little more kindly of me. By the way,” he added, breaking his promise at once, “did you read my note?”

Leila gasped. The shreds of the note were in her pocket at this moment. She had intended to throw them into the sea.

“Of course,” he went on, “I know I oughtn’t to have written it. But you wouldn’t let me talk to you, and I got riled—though I meant what I wrote all the same.”

Leila felt a sudden longing to ask him how he had escaped from the Acwells!—such a question was of course taboo; but to her dismay he answered it as though reading her thoughts.

“Perhaps you wonder how I got away?” He leaned sideways that he might look into her face, regarding her with quizzical attention. “Let me see—I had a headache, or some important shopping to do, or was it that I wanted above all things to bathe? I can’t remember what excuse I made; I don’t keep such a stock of them as you do.”

Leila controlled her inclination to laugh. The creature was incorrigible. What was to be done? If she rose and walked haughtily away, he would only follow her. And now he settled himself more comfortably, producing a handsome cigarette-case that, could she have known it, was a birthday gift from Lady Acwell.

They were virtually by themselves. Few people were about on the nose of the pier; it was a Wednesday, and no crowd of week-enders disturbed the peace. With the coming sunset the breeze had died down, and the sea was a vast glitter of blue-white; the sky, flushed with soft, changing little clouds, was a marvel of blending colours; pigeons, whose plumage shone purple and green and warm grey, peeked about fearlessly around them. Enchantment was in the air; and weakly Leila succumbed to it. The man at her side, polished, well groomed, exuding vitality, became less objectionable, she felt a captive to his human presence, combined with nature’s beauty before her eyes, and on an impulse she turned to him frankly.

“I don’t understand you,” she said desperately. “What is your object in pursuing me like this? You are in love with Lady Acwell, can you deny it? And yet you are ready to flirt with anyone else who comes along.”

“I was more or less in love with her, I don’t attempt to deny it. But it wasn’t, isn’t, the right kind of love, and though it may sound to you beastly, I’m sick to death of the whole business. I can’t help it. I’m simply telling you the truth. The instant I saw you I said to myself, ‘ There is my fate!’”

“Don’t be so ridiculous!” scolded Leila, “I am not what you call your fate, and most certainly you are not mine.”

“Then you are engaged to some other damned fellow!” he exclaimed.

At first she felt tempted to say that she was; but his very boldness, his shameless plain speaking, urged her to veracity.

“I am not engaged,” she told him; “I am not even in love with anyone. But that makes no difference.”

“Sorry to contradict, but it makes all the difference. If you would be my friend I might hope for something better than friendship one of these days.”

“No, you mightn’t,” said Leila irately. “If I ever marry at all it will be a man I can respect and look up to, as well as love.”

“Then you can’t know much about love, my child!” he declared, mockery in his tone. “I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve been in love without a trace of respect, as you call it; there doesn’t come a chance in every man’s life, or in every woman’s either, of combining respect with love, and most of us have to do without the respect.”

“Then I shall await my chance,” replied Leila, “or not marry at all. Your chance doesn’t interest me in the east.”

“Doesn’t it, honestly?—not if you knew I was tangled up in a rotten affair, and that only you could pull me out of it?”

“What nonsense! No doubt there are plenty of girls who would be ready to ‘pull you out of it,’ and swallow the ‘rotten affair,’” scoffed Leila, “but I am not one of them, if you really imagine I might be!”

“But, listen—Suppose I were an immaculate being—”

“I can’t suppose anything of the kind,” she snapped. “I wish you would go. I want to be alone.”

“How cruel you are! You must know that it’s very good for me to be with you—like finding myself in a cool, sweet garden after being shut up in a hothouse full of tropical plants! That’s rather well put, eh? Do let me stay: be unselfish, and kind. I want to tell you about myself. I am extremely unhappy.”

“Then it must be your own fault. I have no sympathy with your unhappiness.”

Her inclemency had no effect; nothing appeared to discourage him.

“To begin with, I’m an orphan.” He sighed theatri cally, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps if my mother had lived instead of dying when I was born—”

“Probably it was just as well for her that she did. You might have broken her heart.”

“What a horrid thing to say! But, seriously, I’m fed up with the sort of life I’m leading. When my father died, about ten years ago, I came into a good deal more money than I had ever expected, and it was the ruin of me. I’ve spent the best part of it, and I hang about among a rich crowd, dancing and eating and drinking and gambling, and making love to other fellows’ wives. So far I’ve escaped the divorce court, but now I confess I’m in an infernal hole.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” exclaimed Leila, aghast at this confession.

“So I am; haven’t I said as much? But that doesn’t improve the present situation. I’ve gone too far with Rose Acwell, and she’d bolt with me to-morrow, if I gave her half a chance.”

“But surely,” said Leila, interested in spite of her distaste for the whole sordid story; “she wouldn’t want to bolt, as you express it, with a man who has no money?”

“Oh! she’s got heaps of her own. That’s the worst of it. And when a woman like that falls in love—” he moved uneasily. “Sometimes,” he added, “I’m half inclined to think it might be the best way out.”

The unmistakable despair in his tone roused Leila’s pity, which fought with her contempt. The man was a victim to his own weakness, he was his own worst enemy. She gave him credit for certain good qualities and no lack of will if he chose to exert it; but he had deliberately elected to sacrifice the better side of his nature to the worst that was in him, and now—could he ever pull up? She could not but believe that he was ashamed of his present mode of existence, and whether or no his declared infatuation for herself was genuine, she felt a strong desire to aid him. If her friendship would do so, she might bring herself to extend it to him; but in the circumstances she could not see what use it would be.

After a pause, he said: “You see, I’m in such a fix. I can’t get away from her. She insisted on my coming to this hole with her and Acwell—who really is fond of her, though he plays about sometimes with a certain class of female. She makes the most of that grievance! The one thing he never does, though, is to meddle with his friends’ wives. He’s a much better sort than I am in his way. He doesn’t mind her having a crowd of followers, rather likes it, he thinks it does him credit in some weird fashion, he’s so proud of her; but if he thought she was really gone on any one of them, there’d be the devil to pay! It’s a devilish situation altogether.”

Leila considered for a moment. “Why don’t you go abroad?” she suggested, “to Africa, or Canada, or somewhere, and get something to do?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I might, but it requires capital, and I’ve got precious little left. The income doesn’t do much more than cover my diggings and my valet, cabs and clothes and so on. Food hardly counts,” he laughed bitterly. “I can lunch out and dine out every day of my life, and pay visits to country places, because I’m useful, I suppose, as a man!”

“But how about down here?” inquired Leila, knowing that the trio were staying at the most expensive hotel in the place.

“Oh! Acwell pays my bill. I’ve fallen pretty low, haven’t I?”

“Indeed you have. I don’t know what to make of you at all!”

“I don’t know what to make of myself. If I went out of the country I might lose what money I’ve got, and I don’t fancy beating carpets in New York, or begging in the streets of Johannesberg. When I saw you that first day on the pier, I thought: ‘If only that ripping girl would take pity on me, I could chuck the whole silly show and settle down somewhere, keep pigs and poultry, or breed dogs, and be happy ‘. Of course there’d be a hideous row with Rose Acwell, but if I was really going to be married I think she’d know it was hopeless.”

“Well, I’m very sorry, but I can’t take pity on you to that extent,” said Leila grimly. “You’d better try and find somebody else.”

“But I never meet any nice sort of girls, and if I did, they wouldn’t be you. At least, will you be my friend, let me see you sometimes? If you will, I swear I’ll think of your advice to clear out of England, and in the end, if you urged me enough, I expect I should go—even if you wouldn’t come with me. Otherwise I know I shall go on as I am doing till the crash comes.”

The ring of hopelessness in his voice touched her heart. Yet she hesitated. She believed him to be in earnest—for the time being; but she doubted if any influence she might gain over him would be likely to last. The notion of plunging into such a friendship that sooner or later might land her in some awkward situation alarmed her.

She resorted to a time-honoured refuge: “I will write to you,” she said guardedly, “after I have thought it all over.”

“Will you? do you promise?” He extracted a card from a recess in the cigarette case. “Here’s my address. I shall live for your letter.”

In silence she accepted the card. His demeanour conveyed that he took her silence for consent, that he regarded the matter as settled, and obviously his spirits rose. With confident familiarity he picked up the book from her lap and opened it.

“What on earth is all this about?” he asked, turning over the pages.

“About a man ‘who went forth,’” she quoted gravely, “‘to seek the way of escape from palaces, riches, and the delights of the world, striving so to conquer the flesh that it might become the servant of the spirit.’”

“Do you mean Christ?” His voice was subdued; was she about to preach at him? Well, he would stand even that from her.

“No; this man lived five hundred years before Christ. Have you never heard of Buddha?”

“Now I come to think of it, I have. My father had a little crystal image he used to call The Buddha—a god of some sort. I don’t know what became of it; he sold most of his possessions before he died.”

Again he turned over the pages of the book, examining the illustrations. “A lot of old carvings and graven images,” he commented. “There—that’s like the one I remember.”

He pointed to a picture reproduced from a photograph of a figure carved in stone—the Teacher, seated with hands and feet crossed, in the attitude of contemplation, the face calm, passionless, remote, as of one everlastingly freed from earthly considerations.

“Why do you read about this person?” he inquired, with a species of respectful curiosity.

“The history of his life and teaching interests me so much,” said Leila dreamily. “There is such a strange resemblance in it to Christianity, as if it was a sort of forerunner.”

He continued to gaze at the illustration. “At any rate he looks as if somehow he had found peace. I envy him!”

Leila put out her hand to take the book from him, but he held on to it.

“Lend it to me, won’t you?” he pleaded. “I’d like to get interested in anything that interests you.”

Leila wavered. She suspected him of trapping her into excuses for meetings and correspondence, yet should he happen to be bitten by the subject, he might benefit by the study. She knew that many people who never opened a Bible readily became enthralled with the history of other religions, and at least here was a record of example, self-sacrifice, precept and practice that could not fail to kindle his imagination—if he had any at all—and perhaps give him to think? The book was her own property, she had bought it, and though unwilling to part with it, she did not feel altogether justified in withholding it from him.

“Very well,” she said, “you can take it, but only on condition that you promise to read every word of it.”

“I promise you faithfully.”

“Are your promises worth anything?” She could not help betraying her general distrust of him.

“You can set me an examination paper on it if you like—but give me, say, a fortnight. Do, for goodness’ sake, try to believe in me as far as you can.” He turned to the fly-leaf. “Here is your name, in your own hand writing?”

“Yes.”

“Then how could I fail to read any book with your name in it, written by yourself?”

“I don’t want you to read it simply for such a reason,” protested Leila.

“All right, don’t worry. I’ll read it because you wish me to read it. Isn’t that enough?”

“I suppose it will have to be.”

He still re-examined her signature on the fly-leaf. “What pretty writing! I ache to see it on an envelope addressed to me. Don’t you know the feeling before you open a letter, whether you recognize the writing or not, that it’s from someone you like or dislike?”

“I can’t say I do. I’ve never thought about it——per haps I’ve never had a letter from anyone I dislike.”

“When you get one from me I wonder how you will feel. You have seen my handwriting—though it was only a scribble.”

Leila put her hand in her coat pocket. “The scribble is here,” she said, producing a palmful of torn paper, “and I want you to throw it into the sea as a pledge that you won’t take advantage of our—our friendship, if it ever develops.”

He grabbed the bits of paper from her, his eyes alight.

“You had kept them!” he cried.

“Only by accident. Now, do as I tell you; throw them into the sea.”

He rose, reluctantly submissive, walked to the railing, and opened his hand. Most of the scraps fluttered down over the water, to the excitement of a party of gulls, who swooped after them; but a few bits floated back on to the boards of the pier, and the pigeons, disgusted to find that they were not portions of cake or biscuit, waddled away to seek something more delectable. Stanford gathered up the white atoms.

“I shall keep these,” he said, returning to Leila’s side. “They are mine, so you can’t object; but if I ever send them back to you, it will mean that I’ve gone under!”

“If you go under it will be your own fault, not mine.” She looked at her watch and rose. “I must go back; the farewells on the esplanade must be over by this time. I hope you will be able to explain your absence satisfactorily.” ‘

“I don’t care either way! But do give me your address before we go.”

“You can ask Lady Acwell for it,” said Leila maliciously. “My people are sure to have given it to her.”

Nevertheless she gave him the address, and he wrote it on the fly-leaf of the book below her signature. Then they dawdled to the pier exit.

“You had better go on ahead,” he advised. “I’ll wait till you are out of sight. You can rely on me to account for my doings, and you have only to say you’ve been sitting on the pier with—a book!”

Taking her hand, he looked yearningly at her. “Good bye, my good angel,” he murmured, “remember I depend on your friendship. Don’t, for mercy’s sake, turn me down and forget me!”

Leila returned to the private hotel a prey to misgivings. That she had behaved unwisely she knew well enough; but the man’s appeal for her pity and help had been irresistible, and since she had not altogether withheld her sympathy, and had practically promised him her friendship, she would feel a traitor if she failed him—provided he had meant all he said. She could only await what the future might bring forth, though she doubted if it would produce aught save disappointment, and probably some awkward predicament as well.

Chapter IX

A smell of furniture polish pervaded the house in Borrodaile Road, dust sheets had disappeared, ornaments were released and restored to their places; everything shone; all was in order, and Leila surveyed her surroundings with satisfaction. She had volunteered to return three days ahead of the family, and the offer was thankfully accepted by Mrs. Livesay, whose health had so benefited by the sea air that it would be a pity, she said, to risk a relapse over all the bother of “getting straight.”

The servants, revived by their holiday, had worked graciously under Miss Wylde’s directions, and Tomkins looked well, though decidedly thinner.

“You should have see’d him, Miss, when we come back,” said Elizabeth, “he went up and down stairs and into every nook and corner, sniffing and talking. He missed the fambly, that’s what he did, the clever lamb! But I’m ashamed to tell you, Miss, that he took the rest of your fish after dinner last night, though I got him some scraps from the butcher a-purpose, and he eat ’em into the bargain. That’s why there wasn’t no fish cakes for your breakfast this morning, as you may have noticed, Miss? Upon my word, his appetite is that awful!”

Elizabeth paused, regarding Miss Wylde with wary attention, and she was obviously relieved when Leila remarked that Tomkins might really be a cormorant rather than a cat.

All the same, Leila’s thoughts were not concerned with Tomkins and his false witness; the absence of fish cakes for breakfast had escaped her notice. What had absorbed her mind as she sat at the table was a letter from Noel Stanford. She knew his handwriting well enough by now, for she had received a couple of letters from him before her return to Ealwood. The first she had replied to shortly, his own was too fervid to please her; the second had transgressed still further; therefore she had left it unanswered. Now here was a third, an agitated outcry; was she annoyed with him—why had she not written? Perhaps his second letter had missed her—he was sending this to her home address, and if he did not hear from her he should run down to Ealwood in search of her. But, better still, if she was at home, would she send him a wire agreeing to meet him in London next day, twelve o’clock at Hyde Park Corner, and they could lunch somewhere together. He was free, or at any rate could cancel any engagements, and a “certain lady” would be out of town, spending the day with some friends in the country. He wanted his friend’s advice so badly, had so much to say; he should go mad if he didn’t hear from her, didn’t see her; besides, he had finished the book, and if she would meet him, he would bring it, though at present he couldn’t think about Buddha or anything or anyone else but herself.

His persistance, as well as his incoherence, was annoy ing to Leila, but at least this absurd letter showed a path etic reliance on her good will, and rather than he should present himself at the house, as he threatened, perhaps to clash with the Livesays’ return next evening, she decided to meet him next day as he suggested; she could easily be back before the family arrived, and a stop must be put to these wild letters.

She sent the telegram, bitterly regretting the results of her visit to the pier on that fatal afternoon. Yet, when next morning the omnibus in which she was seated drew up at the spot appointed for their meeting, her heart softened as she beheld him standing on the pavement with a look of feverish anticipation on his attractive face. His appearance suggested a well-bred, well turned out man of the world, who might be counted on to possess a clear conscience—to be leading a responsible life; instead of that, on his own confession was he not a waster, a deceiver of women, too idle to work, self-indulgent, undependable. What had induced her to encourage him at all? She worked herself into a fit of exasperation as a sort of antidote to her weaker feelings on seeing him standing there, so eager, so anxious for her arrival, and she descended from the humble vehicle with astern demeanour.

Instantly he rushed forward, regardless of the crowd of passengers battling to leave and to board the omnibus, almost dragged her out of it amidst angry remarks and remonstrances.

“At last!”he cried, guiding her to a comparatively empty space at the back of the pavement. “At last!” he repeated, with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been in an agony, waiting here, thinking perhaps you weren’t coming after all.”

She glanced up at the clock. “But I’m not late,” she protested.

“I’ve been here since half-past eleven. And now,” he added, ruefully, “you’re not a bit glad to see me.”

“I thought it better to come,” was her lukewarm response.

“Anyway, I’m thankful for that much. But I did think you’d have smiled, or—or something!”

His voice was so charged with disappointment that Leila felt she could not maintain her attitude of severity. She threw him a crumb of comfort.

“Well, of course I shouldn’t have come if I hadn’t wanted to see you.”

Somewhat mollified, he suggested that they should sit in the Park until luncheon time. “We won’t go near the crowd; I should meet a lot of devils I know who’d be only too poisonously pleased to tell Rose they’d seen me. She thinks I’m at Ranelagh, playing golf for the day.”

How like him!—thought Leila, as they strolled to an unfashionable quarter; she felt divided between a certain appreciation of his candour towards herself and condemnation of his treachery towards Lady Acwell. He chattered ceaselessly, defending his position, blaming Rose Acwell, impressing upon his unresponsive companion his delight in her presence until they arrived at a couple of isolated seats beneath a tree.

“Now,” said Leila, once they were settled, “tell me why you want my advice in such a huny.”

“Things are going from bad to worse,” he stated, vaguely.

“How could they be worse?” she inquired.

“Rose is more hot on our bolting than ever. I simply don’t know what to do. This time last year I would have done it like a shot, but then she wasn’t so keen—it was only a flirtation on her part. Now it’s quite different.’ ‘

Leila preserved an unsympathetic silence.

“Oh! don’t rub it in by saying nothing!” he implored. “I never thought I should find myself in such a hole. There were plenty of others before Rose, but they played the game; none of them were out for a scandal. As you know, Rose is such a deuced pretty creature, and when I first met her lots of other fellows were hanging about. Then most of them cooled off when they found I was first favourite, and when she showed she liked me better than all the rest of them and couldn’t do enough for me You can understand—”

“No, I can’t understand,” Leila interrupted, with some impatience. “And I don’t see how I can help you. There seems to me nothing new in the situation since we met last.”

“But I’ve told you—it’s a thousand times worse! ”

“Then take my advice, and clear out of the country. You must have any amount of friends who could help you to get something to do abroad.”

“All very well, but you don’t realize the sort of set I’m in. They’ll ask one to dinner and lunches and dances and bridge and all the rest of it, but only laugh if they were asked for any serious help. They aren’t friends at all in the true meaning of the word.”

“Have you no relations you could appeal to?”

“None, as far as I know; my mother’s family seemed to have dwindled down to herself and an old cousin, who left me his money on condition that at my father’s death I took his name. He was a fairly rich old bachelor and I believe was in love with my mother before she married my father. He paid for my education at Harrow and Oxford, but I didn’t know it; perhaps if I had I might have played up out of gratitude at the time. He left my father the income from his money, and I only found out the truth when I came into the capital at my father’s death. I never saw the old chap except when I was quite a kid.”

“Then what was your father’s name?” asked Leila, little suspecting the thunderbolt that was to fall.

“Jason—” And turning to look at her he was startled by the expression on her face. “Why, what’s the mat ter?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” she said, hastily controlling her astonishment. Could it be possible that he was the heir to Jasâni Estate?

“Jason,” she repeated abstractedly.

“Yes, nothing much of a name; neither is Stanford, if it comes to that. The old man had made his fortune by his own exertions, and was very proud of the fact, though it wasn’t anything huge. Anyway, I’ve got through the best part of it, and I suppose if he knew he’d turn in his grave.”

“But your father’s people?” probed Leila.

“Nothing doing there. He was an only son, like myself. There was a daughter, but she died as a child, so I’m the last of the family. The Jasons came of an old Indian lot, but the last one connected with India was a great uncle, and he left his bones out there goodness knows how long ago.”

Partial conviction held Leila silent. Possibly it was not the right Jason family at all. But supposing Noel Stanford was the man her stepfather had been commissioned to find, what would become of his inheritance?

‘Would he sell it, think no more about it, spend the money as he had spent his other old relative’s fortune? There was nothing to be gained at present by imparting to him the little history of a Jason whose Burmese widow had charged Colonel Livesay with the task of finding her husband’s nearest male living representative, in order that the said representative might inherit her cherished estate.

She inquired carelessly: “Do you happen to have any old letters or papers connected with the great-uncle who died in India?”

“I don’t know. There are a lot of old documents in a despatch box, that I think belonged to my grandfather, but I’ve never bothered to go through them. Why do you ask?”

“Anything about that period in India interests me.”

“Oh! I thought you were only keen on ruins and remains, hundreds and thousands of years old! By the way, here is your book,” he produced it from his pocket, “I’ve taken great care of it. Don’t let me forget to give it to you before you start back.”

“What did you think of it?”

“To tell the truth, as I always do to you, as you may have noticed, I thought Buddha was a bit of an ass to chuck away all that makes life worth living; and it seems to me that he behaved very selfishly towards his wife and his own people!”

Leila could not help laughing. What an anomaly— Noel Stanford, the personification of egotism, accusing the Buddha of selfishness!

“Why do you laugh?” he went on, aggrieved.

“You of all people—” she began.

“Oh! of course you think it’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I’m selfish, I’m an ass, I’m everything that’s bad,” he burst out with resentment, “but I’m hanged, if I was married and loved my wife, if I’d go off and leave her like that. Charity begins at home,” he concluded sententiously.

Leila sighed; he really was hopeless. “I thought you might have admired his self-sacrifice, and all the good he did in his lifetime for humanity—good that has lasted so long after his death.”

“How do you know it’s all true?” he argued.

“It has been proved by inscriptions and writings, though no doubt a lot of myth has been mixed up with it all.”

She spoke absently, for her mind was absorbed with the question was he or was he not the right Jason? The first thing to do was to get hold of that box of letters, or induce him to go through them that he might give her some knowledge of their contents.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, quick to note her abstraction. “I can’t go wandering about in rags, with only a stick and a begging bowl, telling people they are sinners—now can I?”

Such a spectacle moved Leila to mirth. “Don’t be silly. But if I tell you of any other books on the subject, will you promise to read them?”

“I’ll read anything to please you,” he agreed dolefully.

Here was her chance. “Buddha bores you, I can see,” she said with calculated sympathy. “I won’t bother you about him any further. At any rate you have read this book and you know something about him, quite enough for the present. But I’m going to make you read something else, not about Buddha at all.”

“All right, anything you like.”

“Would you go through those family letters in the despatch box?”

His face fell. “It would be such a job—pages, written apparently with a pin, and crossed and re-crossed. I just looked at them once, but shyed off.”

“They might be valuable.”

“You mean I might be able to sell them to some writing chap for—what is it they call it—copy?” he asked eagerly.

“Perhaps. But apart from that, all kinds of queer secrets have come to light from old family letters, and, as I told you, I am interested in the John Company period as well as in much more ancient Indian history. If you don’t feel like going through them yourself would you lend the box to me? I could tell you in a moment if the letters were worth anything as memoirs.”

“What a question to ask! As if I wouldn’t lend you or give you anything I possessed in the world.”

“Then you really mean that I may examine the letters?”

“Really you may,” he said, with mock patronage. “Shall I send you the box, or bring it to you? I’d prefer to bring it, unless you would come up again and fetch it. Anything to see you.”

Leila considered. “Couldn’t we call for it at your rooms after luncheon?” she suggested.

“And would you come up and see my lair, or would you be scandalized at the idea? I’ve got quite nice little quarters, and the man who looks after me is the soul of discretion.”

She swallowed her disgust at the implication. But if he sent the box the whole family might see it and ask questions that would be difiicult to answer.

“I don’t see that your man’s discretion need be exercised in my case,” she said huffily.

“No, no, of course not,” he agreed with haste, conscious of the many times that such discretion had been welcome. “I only said it just because—you know—you see—” In some confusion he looked at his watch. “It’s time for luncheon. Where shall we go?” He named various fashionable restaurants.

“Wouldn’t you run the chance of meeting poisonous acquaintances at any of those places?” she queried, sarcasm in her voice.

“That’s true,” he said, crestfallen. “But I know of a capital little place not far off where we should—” he checked himself—“where we could get a first-rate luncheon.”

“Let’s go there, then,’ and she rose. “We haven’t too much time. I must be back at Ealwood before the family arrives. I expect them this afternoon.”

Within a few minutes they were seated in a taxi which deposited them at a modest entrance in a side street off Piccadilly. Leila observed that the manager seemed well acquainted with her escort. They were speedily allotted a table for two in a sequestered corner, and the menu presented to them fulfilled its promise. The cooking was beyond criticism, and Stanford’s only grievance was that his guest refused anything but aerated water to drink. Firmly she vetoed a bottle of champagne, and when her host grumbled that if she drank “nothing” he must do likewise, she paid no attention. All the same he ordered a double whisky for himself.

They lunched cheerily, contentedly, enjoying the French dishes (though could Leila have seen the bill she would have felt horrified) talking more as acquaintances than friends—of theatres, topics of the day, society scandals as revealed by the newspapers, of which Stanford had a good deal more to impart, betraying inner knowledge. And the meal over, they walked to his rooms, located near by.

Leila hardened her conscience as they ascended in the lift. What would she have said, had she heard of any other girl outraging conventions as she was now doing herself! Quite possibly Stanford might misunderstand her; she was giving him every reason to do so. But get hold of that despatch-box she must and would, whatever the cost.

She need not have felt apprehensive, as she very soon realized. Stanford behaved with the utmost propriety; he drew forward a deep leather arm-chair for her in his comfortable sitting-room, and without any attempt at delay proceeded to rummage in a cupboard. She waited, observing the numerous invitation cards stuck into the frame of the mirror over the mantelpiece, and staring her in the face was a large silver-framed photograph of Lady Acwell, with “Rose” scrawled across one corner.

The despatch-box, when produced, proved to be a shabby object, covered with what once had been bright scarlet leather, stamped with faded gold initials, N. W. J.

“Here it is!” He banged it down on a table. “But it’s heavy. You can’t carry it back with you.”

“Why not? I’ll take a taxi to Victoria, and our house is no distance from the station.”

Leila yearned to have the box in her own keeping, to hide it in her bedroom, until she could examine the contents undisturbed. Unless she started within the next few minutes she would run the risk of reaching home at the same time, or even after the Livesays’ arrival.

She glanced apprehensively at the silver clock on the mantelpiece. “I must go. Is there a key to the box?”

“Yes, here it is—in the lock. Lucky! or you’d have to break it open—not that the box matters, but the bother for you. Must you go so soon?” he added grudgingly. “Anyway, I’ll see you off at the station.”

Which he did, despite her expostulations, paying the cab, buying her a first-class ticket, lingering at the door of her compartment until the train began to move.

“Remember,” were his last words, “I am going to do my damnedst to get out of this mess. How, I haven’t a notion. But if I do, I shall owe it to you!”

Instinctively she touched the box at her side; perhaps within it lay the means of his salvation, if he would but take advantage of it in the right spirit. As the train left the station she put her head out of the window, but quickly withdrew it, for he had not moved, and deliberately he kissed his hand to her.

It was of no use to think ill of him, or to hope that mere good counsels might prevail without some solid inducement. If he proved to be the Jason they were seeking, he would have his opportunity; if not, she had little doubt that he would remain a slave to his weaknesses, and probably end by “bolting” with Sir Langton Acwell’s wife for the sake of her money. What a prospect!

She arrived home in good time. The house was silent, peaceful, and having hidden the despatch-box in her wardrobe, she saw to the preparation of tea, and awaited the coming of the family.

Chapter X

For the rest of the evening Leila was occupied with the business of unpacking. Maimie shirked her share, rushing off at once to consult friends as to the dates of drawing and music classes. Hilda devoted herself to the rabbits, suspecting the caretaker of having neglected them. Mrs. Livesay went to bed, exhausted with the journey, and her husband strolled about the garden, smoking his pipe, accompanied by Tomkins.

Dinner was a successful meal. Elizabeth had taken extra pains with the cooking, and a tempting tray was sent up to Mrs. Livesay’s bedside. Colonel Livesay made no secret of his relief at finding himself once more at home; Maimie and Hilda chattered happily of their various plans and interests; there seemed every prospect of comfort and peace for the present.

But it was close upon midnight before the house was quiet, every one in bed and asleep, with the exception of Leila, who sat in her room, the door locked, poring over some yellow, brittle old papers. Dawn was breaking before she replaced them in the shabby despatch-box, and got into bed, convinced once for all that Noel Stanford was actually heir to the Jasâni Estate. Among other proofs she had found a letter written by the Bibi’s English husband to his only brother, Noel Stanford’s grandfather, on the eve of his departure from Burmah with his regiment, his wife, and her fellow countrywoman, the faithful friend who had gone forth with her into exile. That clinched the matter, as far as Leila could see.

Therefore, next morning, having waited till the two girls were out of the house, and the orders given for the day, so that there was little fear of disturbance, she carried the box downstairs, and called her mother and stepfather into the drawing-room.

“I’ve got something extraordinary to tell you,” she began, unlocking the box.

Mrs. Livesay turned pale. “Oh! anything dreadful?” she cried, her hand on her heart.

“Nothing dreadful. Keep calm, both of you, but I believe I have discovered the Jason man!”

“Good Lord!”spluttered Colonel Livesay.

Mrs. Livesay gazed at her daughter incredulously, eyes and mouth wide open.

“It sounds unbelievable, I know,” Leila went on, rather nervously; it would be awkward having to explain how she had come by the proofs! “It’s Mr. Stanford, the Acwells’ friend.”

They both stared at her, dumbfounded.

“But,” gasped Mrs. Livesay, “how can his name be Jason when it’s Stanford?”

“He had to change his name when his father died, and he came into some money from a cousin on his mother’s side. There doesn’t seem any doubt that he’s the great nephew of the Bibi Jâsan’s husband.”

The excitement caused by her statement preserved Leila for the moment from discomfiting inquiries, but of course they were bound to come.

“Look at those letters, Dad,” pointing to the open despatch-box. “Read that one, on the top—”

Colonel Livesay seized the letter. “I suppose,” he said, as he unfolded it, “the fellow came here during the last day or two, bringing his proofs? Funny he shouldn’t have spotted the advertisement sooner. Evidently he knew nothing about it when we met him at Littlepool.”

“The advertisement!” echoed Mrs. Livesay triumphantly; but as Leila flushed, she formed a shrewd guess that her husband’s supposition was incorrect. What had been going on? Was it that Mr. Stanford had followed up his attentions to Leila? If so, the clever girl had made good use of them. Perhaps, after all, she was not so averse to the man as she had tried to make out. Mrs. Livesay looked meaningly at her daughter, and made signs behind her husband’s back, with the object of conveying her readiness, if necessary, to support Leila in allowing Colonel Livesay’s assumption to stand.

“Some one must have told him about the advertisement when he got back to London,” she said in the unnatural, slightly raised voice of a well-meaning deceiver.

Leila was in the act of frowning and shaking her head at her mother when Colonel Livesay looked up, and with astonishing quickness Mrs. Livesay accounted for her daughter’s grimaces.

“All right, Leila, I didn’t mean to disturb him,” and she added, apologetically to her husband: “I won’t speak again, dear, till you’ve finished reading the letter.”

“I have finished it,” he said, quite unconscious of this pantomime. “There seems no doubt—that is, if Stanford’s name really was Jason, and if all he has told Leila is true.”

“He could hardly have stolen the box of letters,” put in Mrs. Livesay, “and he certainly did not give me the impression of being an impostor.”

The thought of the reward filled her with joy, and visions returned to her of Leila settled at Jasâni as Mrs. Stanford, or Mrs. Jason, and of their perhaps all going out to stay with her—at least, the two girls might go, and have such a good time! Needless to say, she had not the faintest notion of what Jasâni Estate was like, nor of how remote was the spot from a station, gay or otherwise.

“You say it was Stanford himself who brought the box?” Colonel Livesay inquired.

There was a pause. Then Leila said quietly: “He didn’t bring it, Dad. I brought it down from London myself yesterday.”

“My dear girl, what on earth do you mean? Do, for Heaven’s sake, explain.”

“Well, you remember the Acwells’ last evening at Littlepool?”

‘‘ Yes, I do, and that for some reason or other Stanford wasn’t with them.” He looked at her with dawning suspicion. “You don’t mean to say he was with you?”

“Exactly—on the pier. I went there to read and be quiet, and he followed me, to apologize, he said, for having annoyed me.”

“Annoyed you? But you had hardly seen him!”

“Never mind; all that has got nothing to do with his being the man we were looking for.”

“Don’t worry her about that part of it, James,” interposed Mrs. Livesay, hastily.

He rubbed his bald head, perplexed. “Well, go on, then, Leila. Tell me how you got the box—how you found out who he was.”

Her explanation was sufficient to cover the important points; she had accepted Mr. Stanford’s apology, he had confided to her that he was in a difficulty, and had asked for her friendship. Unwillingly she had accorded it to him, and yesterday she had gone up to lunch with him in London; in course of conversation her suspicions had been aroused—he had mentioned a box of old letters, and, no matter how, she had extracted the loan of it from him.

“You were always so clever, Leila darling,” murmured Mrs. Livesay, doubtful as to how much Leila wished, or did not wish, to conceal in the matter.

But the explanation had been sufficient for Colonel Livesay; his mind was now occupied with the question as to what must be done concerning the man’s right to Jasâni Estate.

“It will be no end of a business,” he said, rather ruefully. “Does he know he’s the man we’re after?”

“He knows nothing about it, so far,” Leila assured her stepfather.

“Then he must be told, and we shall have to get hold of some dependable lawyer to see the thing through. You’d better write and say I’ll go up and see him?”

“Oughtn’t you to write yourself? The whole thing is in your hands now.”

“How would it do if I wrote, “suggested Mrs. Livesay airily,” just inviting him here to tea, and saying nothing of the wonderful surprise we have in store for him.”

She was all agog that he should come to the house; such a good opportunity for Leila to see more of him at once; and perhaps, if Leila would have nothing to say to him matrimonially, he might take a fancy to Maimie, who was so much younger and prettier than her step sister.

“No,” decided Colonel Livesay, bestirring himself. “I will write to the fellow and ask him to make an appointment to meet me in town—at my club.”

“And not tell him why?”

“Not till I see him,” decided her husband, forthwith seating himself at the writing table. “Now why,” he grumbled fractiously, “are the pens in this house so atrocious? They might have come straight from a post office.”

It was the one item Leila had overlooked in her house preparations; pen-nibs had not been remembered. She left her stepfather scratching irately on a sheet of note paper as though with a tin-tack; her mother seated smil ing, complacent, in an easy chair, building air-castles; and escaped to her room, there to compose a private letter to Noel Stanford informing him that papers of importance had been discovered in the despatch-box that in consequence her stepfather was anxious to see him, and from her heart she hoped he would take the way out of his difficulties that in due course might be presented to him.

Chapter XI

When Colonel Livesay returned from his interview in London with Noel Stanford, he was instantly bombarded with questions from his wife, Maimie and Hilda. There had been no object in concealing the present developments from the two girls; indeed it would have been impossible to do so, since Mrs. Livesay could talk of nothing else, though with laudable effort, according to a promise extracted from her by Leila, she had refrained from divulging the part their half sister had played in the business. All they knew was that “Jonas,” as they persisted in calling him, had at last been discovered through some papers that had come into their father’s possession; and their lack of interest in Jonas had changed to excited curiosity. To think that they had seen him, spoken to him, without knowing who he was! The whole thing was too thrilling—like a novel!

Now only Leila kept silent, listening for her stepfather’s replies to the voluble queries; and, as she anticipated, his answers were not sufficiently expansive to satisfy his clamouring audience.

“Oh! James, how tiresome you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Livesay. “You tell us nothing we really want to know. So like a man!”

“I have told you. I can only repeat that we met at my club as arranged, and went through the papers. There doesn’t seem any doubt about the fellow’s claim to the Bibi’s property.”

“But wasn’t he awfully surprised and delighted? What did he say about it?”

“Do begin from the beginning. Did you get to the club first or was he waiting for you?”

“He kept me waiting,” said Colonel Livesay, affrontedly; a statement that caused Leila no surprise, and evoked no sympathy from the others, who continued their catechism unabated.

“Will he go straight out to India, do you think, or what?”

“I imagine he will please himself about that. I didn’t ask him.”

“I suppose,” from Mrs. Livesay, “he isn’t married by any chance, or engaged?”

“That I didn’t ask him either.”

“Well, does he like the idea of leaving England?”

“I don’t know,” grunted Colonel Livesay restively; and the climax came when Hilda inquired how Jonas was dressed.

“For mercy’s sake,” shouted her father, “don’t pester me with any more silly questions He’s coming down here to-morrow afternoon, so you can all set on him for yourselves.”

“I hope you asked him to tea?” said Mrs. Livesay, unmoved by his irritation.

“No, he asked himself.”

“How nice of him! Elizabeth must make fresh cakes, and order some cream.”

She hurried off to give directions in the kitchen; and Maimie and Hilda, realizing that to worry Dad any further would be useless, also disappeared. Leila was left alone with her stepfather, who “poof-ed “with relief, and lighted a cigar.

“Don’t go, Leila,” he said, having recovered his temper; it was seldom that he lost it. “I want to ask you one or two questions.”

Leila stepped forward; all this time she had been lurking in the background.

“I expected you would,” she replied serenely.

“Now, tell me. Can you see that fellow living at Jasâni and looking after the place?”

“Candidly I can’t. But I hope he may try.”

“Why do you hope so? He’d much better sell the property straight off; he’d only make a mess of everything, even if he went out and stopped there for a bit. Of course he’d never remain there altogether. I told him it was miles from everywhere and that for some time he’d have to depend on a manager. Also that he’d have to learn the language and put up with no end of discomfort. He’s not that sort, my dear. Work and comparative hardships wouldn’t suit that gentleman at all!”

Then he reverted to his question—why did Leila hope Stanford would go out to Jasâni? Was it because she wanted him out of the way for some reason of her own?

“No, not that kind of reason,” she said, half-laughing. “I admit he thinks he’s in love with me. I suppose you must have guessed it, or else he said something? But it’s only that I’m rather sorry for him. He’s in a pickle, entirely of his own making, and it seems to me that Jasâni is his best chance of getting out of it. I believe there is some good left in him, much as he has done his best to destroy it, and it’s just possible if he went out there he might take to the life and become more of a man than he is now. He likes riding and shooting, and even if he didn’t stay there, he’d be out of mischief for a time, and perhaps come back all the better for it.”

“Really, Leila, the way you talk, you might be his mother, or his maiden aunt!”

“I’m thankful I am neither. But what I feel is that we can’t let him chuck away this chance for want of a little persuasion and influence. If he won’t take it, we can’t blame ourselves.”

“Then you would like me to put my oar in on the side of his going?”

She nodded.

“All right. I’ll do my best, but I can’t paint Jasâni in glowing colours!”

“I wish I had seen the place,’ she said, thinking of that Indian morning when she had watched her stepfather drive off in the bamboo cart to visit the old lady of Jasâni Estate.

Colonel Livesay smiled. “Apparently you could go and see it with him, if you chose.”

“It’s the last thing I should choose,” responded Leila in a huff.

“No, no—of course I was only chafiing,” he apologized; “but what a pity he isn’t a steady-going, dependable sort of fellow you could have taken to.”

In her heart the girl agreed with him; but she only said lightly: “It’s quite clear you want to get rid of me!”—kissed her stepfather on the top of his bald head, and went out of the room.

She dreaded Stanford’s visit, knowing as she did the aspiration that still lurked within the mind of her mother, who doubtless would encourage him to come to the house whenever he pleased. There would be no peace until he was either on his way to India, or had made up his mind to remain at home. In the latter event, she would feel justified in refusing to see him again. But had she been altogether honest in her declaration to her step father that she had no selfish reason of her own for wishing him “out of the way”?

---

Stanford arrived a little before tea-time the following afternoon, and at first he was closeted with Colonel Livesay in the diminutive “third sitting-room” at the back of the house. Then, as Hilda flippantly put it, “the band began to play.”

Mrs. Livesay, Leila and the two girls were gathered in the drawing-room, together with Tomkins, who smelt excitement in the air as well as cream on the tea-table. The guest entered, debonair, agreeable, well turned out, entirely at his ease as usual.

“Here you are!” was Mrs. Livesay’s cordial greeting. “So glad to see you. Come and sit down. Tell me, how do you like your tea, strong or weak? and sugar? Who would have thought of our meeting again under such interesting circumstances! And how are the Acwells?”

“The Acwells are flourishing,” he replied calmly, “they sent you their love.” Which was untrue, as neither of the Acwells was aware that Mr. Stanford was spending the afternoon with the Livesays. “As you say,” he went on, “who would have imagined—” and he made a gesture, significant of his feelings.

“And what are you going to do?” Mrs. Livesay inquired; whereupon her husband shot Leila a glance of secret amusement which meant: “Questions again, and this time, thank goodness, I am not the victim.”

“Well, I haven’t had time yet to make up my mind,” said the victim.

“Don’t you want to go to India?” put in Maimie shyly. “I should think it would be lovely.”

“But rather dull going alone, wouldn’t you say?” He turned with charming attention to Maimie, gazing into her pretty brown eyes till she blushed; and Leila felt she could have slapped him, not, of course, from any jealous motive, but because the rascal could not resist a flirtation, however mild. It would never do for poor little Maimie to lose her heart to this unscrupulous philanderer. She came to her stepsister’s aid with a question of her own which she trusted might divert his attention.

“I suppose at least you will go out and see your property before you make up your mind whether to keep it or sell it?”

It was the first time she had spoken to him, beyond how-d’ye-do greetings, since his arrival; and her voice was so cold, so formal, that he gave her a swift look of reproachful surprise.

“That is your advice, Miss Wylde?” he said with equal chilliness. “It coincides with Colonel Livesay’s. He has been talking to me like a Dutch uncle! Perhaps you both think that all my friends would be only too glad if I made myself scarce!”

“Oh, no!” protested Mrs. Livesay, shocked at such an idea.

At this moment, to Leila’s relief, the subject was changed, unexpectedly, by Tomkins, who sprang without warning on to the knees of the guest, rubbing a sleek black head against his waistcoat, purring, kneading, and dribbling.

“Tomkins!” scolded Mrs. Livesay, “what behaviour! Get down at once! Push him off, Mr. Stanford, he’s such a rude cat.”

Maimie and Hilda made a united rush to dislodge Tomkins, who resisted stoutly, spitting and swearing, and Mr. Stanford defended him; declared he loved cats and patted Tomkins heavily on the thigh, drew his hand firmly along the muscular tail; and when Tomkins rolled over on his back, pretending to bite and scratch, Stanford kept his hand still, thus displaying his knowledge of the tribe.

“What I call hard cats,” he said, smiling, “have so much more character than fluffy ones, who are often as senseless as Pekinese dogs. Have you ever noticed that when you hold a cat’s tail he pulls—not you?”

This led to an animated discussion between the two girls and Mr. Stanford concerning dogs and cats, while Tomkins sat up, glaring defiance—(traitor that he was)—at his own belongings.

“And do you care for rabbits?” Hilda inquired eagerly. “I don’t mean to eat. I’ve got four! great big ones, white, with pink eyes.”

“I should like to see them,” proclaimed the guest with tact, “won’t you show them to me?”

“You must see my garden too,” chimed in Maimie, who was determined that her horticultural achievements should not be eclipsed by her sister’s “stupid rabbits.”

With the result that they all rose from the tea-table; and a procession started, led by the two girls, and followed sedulously by Tomkins, his tail in the air—which was just as well for the sake of the cream-jug. They traversed the narrow passage floored with black and white linoleum, and passed through a door embellished with coloured glass panels; ignored the space, screened by trellis-work, devoted to domestic requirements—a dustbin, a collection of empty bottles, tins and boxes, household cloths drooping and drying on a slack string, the kitchen window from which two capped heads observed the party with furtive interest. Thence on to the strip of lawn, broken by rose beds that held lingering blooms, and borders that still displayed a fair exhibition of a number of herbaceous plants. It was yet early, as Maimie explained, for the Chrysanthemums, of which she hoped later to have a fine show.

Throughout the inspection of rabbits and plants Stanford made subtle efforts to obtain speech with Leila, unheard by the rest of the company. She was conscious of his attempts, but gave him no help, avoiding his proximity, until just at the last, when with decency he could hardly prolong his visit, he contrived to manoeuvre her into the ramshackle shed, called by courtesy the summer-house, at the end of the garden. Mrs. Livesay had gone to fetch a wrap from the house, her husband had followed her; Maimie and Hilda were engaged in an argument over the position of rabbit hutches which threatened to interfere with some gardening scheme, and for a space the pair were alone.

“This is awful!”said Stanford. “When can I hope to get a talk with you?”

“Is it necessary? You know what I think.” Leila would have left the shelter, but that he restrained her, laying his hand on her arm.

“For Heaven’s sake listen to me,” he pleaded. “I will do whatever you wish, go to the ends of the earth, if only you will give me the smallest grain of hope. I tell you I love you, I love you with all my heart and soul!” ‘

She clasped her hands in despair. “If only you were different! You have no self-respect, you think of nothing but yourself.”

He seized on her words. “But I could be different. I could make you proud of me; I’d slave in the desert, anywhere, give up everything, I swear it, if you’d put me on trial. I ask nothing else.”

His face was white, his voice shook. There was no sort of pretence about his feeling.

“But it wouldn’t be fair!” cried Leila, distressed beyond measure. “I don’t love you; how can I give you any hope? Aren’t you man enough to take this opportunity of freeing yourself from bad influences without any bribe?”

“No,” he admitted simply. “It’s no use my pretending to you that I am.”

“How selfish you are!” Tears of vexation rose to her eyes.

“I don’t see that I am so selfish. All I want is that if I go to this infernal place, instead of selling it, and can prove that I have some grit in me, I have your permission to ask you to marry me. Is it unreasonable?” He paused in dumb supplication.

Leila felt desperate, torn between her genuine desire to help him along the right road and her conviction that never could she regard him in the light of a possible husband. Surely she would be doing wrong if she permitted him to leave England buoyed up with an empty hope, that might be regarded by him as tantamount to an engagement?

There they stood, both of them miserable, looking out over the commonplace little garden, that in another month or so would be dank and drear with the winter season. And in India, thought Leila, the sun would be shining, the roses a-bloom, the cold weather a-sparkle, exhilarating. How gladly would she go with him were he a man she could trust and love!

“After all,” he said self-defensively, “I am not quite such a beast as you make me feel. I don’t drink—or rather I never get drunk; and I don’t gamble to any serious extent. I like sport, when I can get it. It’s true I’ve never done any work to speak of, but I’m quite willing to set to and do my best, if you’d back me up with the promise I want. I’m not altogether disliked by my fellow-creatures, and animals always take to me—look at Tomkins—which I believe is considered a good sign.”

Leila clicked her tongue contemptuously. What next would he bring forward as a proof of his merits?

“And that pretty little girl,” he went on, indicating Maimie, who was flitting about the garden. “I bet you, if I saw enough of her, she wouldn’t need much persuasion to come with me to India—or to stay at home with me, if it comes to that!”

Leila regarded him with horrified suspicion. Could he mean this as a threat that if she failed to give him the promise he demanded, he would trifle with Maimie’s affections? She could hardly believe him capable of such malevolence; yet her heart sank. And just then Maimie came dancing across the lawn towards them, a fairy-like vision with her bare, curly head, and bright complexion, her red lips parted in a self-conscious little smile as she halted before the summer-house.

“You look like a wild rose!” Stanford told her. “Would you die if I picked you and put you in my button hole?”

Maimie simpered and blushed. “Do you want a rose for your buttonhole?” she said archly. “Shall I pick you one?”—waving her hand towards the late roses left in the garden.

“Of course I want one, if you’ll give it me. I’ll come and choose.”

He stepped on to the grass, and the two made a round of the rose trees, talking and laughing. He took some time making his choice; when they returned to where Leila still stood in front of the summer-house, a yellow bloom was in his coat, and raising the lapel, he bent his head to sniff at it, drew a long breath and said: “How sweet!” with a sidelong look at the fluttering Maimie.

Then he declared, regretfully, that he must be going; and the three walked back to the house, Maimie keeping close to his side. She was too young, too unsophisticated, to preserve her dignity, and she stuck to him till farewells had been said all round; not only that, but she flung on a garden hat, which she took from the rack in the hall, and accompanied him to the little front gate. Leila trembled lest she should even offer to walk with him to the station! But if such an idea was in Maimie’s mind she lacked the courage to utter it, and apparently Stanford had no thought of inviting her company, for he shook hands with her again, shut the gate, and strode off, turning once or twice to wave his stick to the slim young figure that stood looking after him until he was out of sight.

Leila went up to her bedroom, burning with anger. What a shame it was! The poor child was half in love already. Dared she warn Maimie? To do so might only make matters worse; but at least she would speak seriously to her mother, entreat her, for Maimie’s sake, not to encourage the man’s visits.

All that evening she had to listen while Mrs. Livesay and the girls sang Mr. Stanford’s praises. Hilda said it was simply wonderful what a lot he knew about rabbits; she wished to goodness he would not go to India but take the house next door, which was to let, and give her daily advice. She had never been told before that rabbits ought to have water to drink—how heartless the poor darlings must have thought her all this time! Anyway, he had promised to bring her a book about rabbits when next he came.

“Personally I think him delightful,” Mrs. Livesay kept repeating. “I always did at Littlepool.” And each time she said it she looked at Leila as though anxious to impress her opinion on her eldest daughter, who sat provokingly silent.

Maimie could not resist talking about the rose she had fastened into Mr. Stanford’s buttonhole, smirking affectedly as she did so. “It was the last William Allan bud. I’m so glad it was there; and he said”—she paused pensively—“he said ‘How sweet!’”

“James, dear,” Mrs. Livesay addressed her husband loudly, for he was drowsing over an evening paper. “How long will it be before Mr. Stanford has to start for India?”

“Can’t say.” He looked at the clock. “Now, if you’ve all done talking about him, it’s time to go to bed.”

Leila, as she bade her mother good night, whispered to her:

“Come to my room for a few minutes before you undress?”

Mrs. Livesay nodded, in hopeful acquiescence. She felt sure Leila was about to confess that her unreasonable antipathy for Mr. Stanford had transformed itself into appreciation, if nothing warmer. She hustled the younger girls off to the bedroom they shared, then followed Leila upstairs, leaving Colonel Livesay, according to custom, to put out the lights and “lock up.”

“Well, dear—what is it?” She spoke under her breath, closing the door softly behind her; she adored secrets, though it was rarely that she could keep one.

The furtive movements, the lowered voice, rasped Leila’s nerves. She had small doubt of what was in her mother’s mind.

“Do sit down and remember nobody can hear what we say, unless we shout.” Her usual remorse followed swiftly on her impatience, and she added in self-excuse: “I’m all on edge to-night. I’m worried about that man and Maimie.”

Mrs. Livesay almost started from the chair she had taken. “Oh! darling—surely you are not jealous? He did seem to pay her a little attention, but of course it meant nothing.”

“Certainly I am not jealous. I am thinking only of Maimie. I hate the idea that he may make the child unhappy.”

“But why on earth should he? I quite thought you were going to tell me you had changed your mind about him yourself.”

“Well, I haven’t,” said Leila emphatically.

“Then why should you mind if he has taken to our dear little Maimie? It would be quite a nice marriage for her, and you are the last person I should have thought of as a dog-in-the-manger! I really don’t know what has come over you, Leila. You are often so unlike your self nowadays. I’m afraid India must have—” She broke off, in search of the words she wanted; Mrs. Live say’s vocabulary was not large; and having failed to find them, she concluded lamely—“must have disagreed with you somehow.”

“I tell you,” said Leila, ignoring all this, “he will only flirt with her if you let him come here—if you give him the run of the house. He can’t help it; it’s his besetting sin. And Maimie would never understand until it was too late.” She turned and faced her mother. “I know what he is!”

“You are prejudiced against him. I don’t believe there is anything in your suspicion about him and Lady Acwell. You must have picked up these horrid ideas in India.”

“Ideas are no more horrid in India than anywhere else,” retorted Leila, “but that is neither here nor there. Mr. Stanford would marry me to-morrow if I were willing to accept him.”

“Then I think you are very foolish not to be willing; and selfish as well. You don’t want to give your sister a chance either way. If you had accepted him she could have gone out to India to stay with you later on and have met plenty of nice men. Here,” she said sweepingly, “there are no men at all, and never will be. As you say you don’t want to marry him yourself, I can’t see why you should grudge him to Maimie. It will end by your all being old maids!” Mrs. Livesay produced her handkerchief and wept.

Leila’s face hardened. She knew she had failed to influence her mother; she feared that if once Stanford divined her apprehensions for Maimie’s peace of mind and heart, he would take full advantage of such a lever; and clearly her mother would make no effort to check the flirtation, rather would she encourage it, blinding her self to his motive. She spoke out vigorously to this effect, but like all weak natures, Mrs. Livesay was obstinate, incredulous, impossible to persuade or convince.

Then, with sudden and angry determination, Leila made up her mind. She would give Noel Stanford the promise he desired of her. She did not doubt that his infatuation at present was sufficiently strong, if he got his own way, to enable her to make the condition she intended to impose on him—that he would get off to India just as soon as it was humanly possible for him to do so. At the very least she would then have done all in her power to start him in life afresh, and Maimie would quickly forget him.

She patted her mother’s heaving shoulder. “Don’t cry, dear,” she said, trying to feel sympathetic, “you’ll only make yourself ill.”

“You are so unkind,” sobbed Mrs. Livesay, “so hard. I don’t know what to do.”

“Suppose you trust me to make everything right?”

Mrs. Livesay looked up, drying her eyes. “How?” she inquired, like a child whose attention has been distracted from some trivial upset by the bribe of a sweet or a toy.

“I’ll tell you when it’s done. Now do go to bed, and don’t worry any more. I’m sorry I bothered you.” And as Mrs. Livesay left the room, puzzled and only partially comforted, Leila added to herself: “When I might have known it would be useless!”

Afterwards, for some minutes, she stood in deep reflection before she began to undress. It was impossible to pretend that she did not shrink from the course she had decided upon; yet she had no thought of going back on it. After all, what did it matter? She might as well attempt to do some good in the world, and if Noel Stanford even tried to play fair she would have that much to her credit. At the same time she realized with a sense of dismay that should he stand the test, prove his mettle for her sake, she must feel more or less bound in honour to marry him!—All that, however, lay far in the future, was too doubtful to be seriously considered at this juncture. She had little anticipation that he would come through the ordeal successfully, or even that his declared devotion to herself would last long enough to strengthen his will to do so. Then again, supposing he stuck to his side of the bargain? Well, it would mean that a miracle had happened, that a very changed character would hold him to his promise!— And perhaps?

The odd little nostalgia for India that at times assailed her crept back into her heart with almost painful intensity. In a valiant effort to shake it off she took up a book and flung herself into an easy-chair. But it was not, as she imagined, the novel she had brought up with her from the drawing-room; it was the book she had lent Noel Stanford on the pier at Littlepool. Was it an omen of the future, did it mean that for some mysterious reason her life was fated to be linked with Buddhist history? As though under a spell, she found herself tracing the curious connexion. First her ride with Pat Everest on that hot-weather evening in India; the interest he had awakened in her mind concerning the great teacher and the dead memorials to his life and work. Then the finding of the book in the club at Khari on that selfsame evening—the book that had enlightened her, fired her imagination, driven her to seek further knowledge of the subject. In addition her stepfather’s link with the Bibi Jâsan and her own surprising part in the discovery of the man who was legal owner of a property on which stood ruins dedicated to the mighty creed and example that had influenced half the world, until a mightier and purer faith had come after it.

Was it her fate that she should go to this spot—that, do what she would, nothing could prevent it?—if so, why— why?

PART II

Chapter I

It was Christmas Day; and at the back of the bungalow a crowd of Indian visitors had assembled that they might pay their respects to the new owner of Jasâni Estate.

The more well-to-do neighbours, landlords themselves, had arrived on prancing, high-crested stallions, piebald or white, mostly wall-eyed, with manes and tails dyed according to taste. Mercifully the number of these circus-like creatures was small, for, tethered in the mango grove, they neighed and raged unceasingly at each other. Petty farmers and tenants came on undersized ponies that looked spiritless, half-starved, yet occasionally they too squealed and stamped in imitation of their superiors. The air rang with equine bad language.

The villagers squatted in groups, a mass of brown blankets and bare limbs, recognizing as a matter of course that their turn for reception must come last. Was it not custom? Indeed, every one must wait for the departure of the local rajah, who had just driven up to the front of the bungalow in an antiquated conveyance of strange and uncertain shape; it might once have been a victoria, or a barouche, or a landau, but at present it appeared to be a combination of all three, the result, no doubt, of frequent restorations in the past.

The rajah himself was an old man who lived in a tumbledown fort, composed of mud and bricks, some miles distant from Jasâni. He was of very high caste, and as poor as he was proud. Never before had he condescended to visit Jasâni, for the reason that, until six months ago, his landed neighbour had been a woman. Circumstances having altered, and his curiosity being strong, he now felt justified in lowering himself to call on the Bibi’s successor who, though not a Government representative, and therefore of no account, was at least a white man, if not actually a “sahib.” Therefore he had sent notice the previous evening of his intention, fixing a time, and here he was—purposely a couple of hours late.

Noel Stanford, prompted by his manager, Mr. Norman Serrano (an energetic person with a porridge-coloured, pock-marked countenance), acquitted himself as well as could be expected in view of his short experience of the country. He received the disdainful old gentleman with becoming courtesy, touched the rupees held out to him on a cloth by one of the rajah’s attendants, and invited His Royal Highness into the dwelling-room, where the visitor seated himself gingerly on the edge of a chair, two of his suite standing behind him, prepared to join in the conversation. To Mr. Serrano’s relief his employer remembered the right mode of address when inquiring in his halting Hindustani after the rajah’s health, and having replied to a like question concerning his own, there followed a silence. Mr. Serrano came to the rescue.

“The sahib wishes to know,” he said, addressing the rajah deferentially, “if the condition of your highness’s crops be satisfactory?”

The old man turned his head slightly; and one of the turbaned figures behind him replied. It was beneath the dignity of “His Highness” to converse as an equal with a kerani (Eurasian). Swallowing the insult, Mr. Serrano interpreted the reply to Stanford, who signified his pleasure at hearing that never before had crops been so promising, and that immense wealth, as usual, would accrue to the owner.

Another silence.

“Ask him,” said Stanford desperately to his factotum, “if he would like anything to eat or drink.”

Mr. Serrano shook his head and frowned, substituting some other question, which the rajah’s attendant repeated to his master, who nodded, as Stanford thought, sullenly, but it was merely an exhibition of pride.

Silence again.

A happy thought struck the embarrassed host. “Say I hope soon to be able to converse with him in his own language—that I shall work hard with that object!”

This speech, having been translated, the old man made a fairly polite gesture, and shuffled his feet, that were encased in white cotton socks.

“Now tell him he can go,” whispered Serrano. “It is right manners,” he added, as Stanford hesitated. “Say ‘Ab ruksat.’”

“Ab ruksat,” repeated Stanford, and rose; though it seemed to him a very rude proceeding, and as the visitor rose too he held out his hand. For a moment the rajah regarded the outstretched hand of the Englishman; then he took it limply, and dropped it at once. Every one salaamed and repaired to the veranda, where lay a row of embroidered Indian shoes; these were quickly slipped on, and in a few seconds with a clatter the carriage drove off, raising a cloud of dust. It had hardly gone a quarter of a mile when it stopped; one of the occupants alighted and appeared to be searching for something under the seat.

“What can have happened!” exclaimed Stanford. “Have they broken down?” He had a dismal vision of their all returning for assistance.

Mr. Serrano picked up a pair of field-glasses that lay on the veranda table. “No breakdown,” he said with a laugh, “only washing his hands.”

“Washing his hands!” repeated Stanford incredulously.

“Yes—because of touching yours.”

“Good heavens! What harm could that do him?”

Mr. Serrano shrugged his shoulders. “Some of these people are like that. Ignorant, old-fashioned. It is caste.”

“Well, he shan’t come into my house again, nor will I go into his!” declared Stanford indignantly; and he added, with a groan: “Shall I ever understand this country!”

He now felt inclined to refuse audience to the crowd of other callers who were straggling round the side of the house—to depute Serrano to receive them; but it was too late. Moreover, he was already acquainted with the gentlemen who had arrived on the neighing steeds; genial individuals, who had no prejudice against him or his manager, and were obviously pleased to be accommodated with chairs in the veranda while their presents were deposited on the steps—round, open baskets, filled with fruit and vegetables, cones of sugar, and tight little bouquets of flowers. They talked and gesticulated, grinned and paid compliments, and accepted their dismissals with graceful salaams.

Then Stanford went out to acknowledge the attentions of the humble, and in accordance with his manager’s directions baksheesh was liberally distributed among them. It was some time before the concourse cleared off, well satisfied with their reception and the acceptance of their various offerings, for, to the native mind, the refusal of a gift means disgrace, while its acceptance in some mysterious fashion is supposed to bring benefit to the giver.

Stanford’s servants were allowed to annex the eatables; and Mr. Serrano was not above selecting one or two of the well-filled baskets for his own use. He occupied a wing of the big bungalow with his staff of domestics, apart from the quarters Stanford had reserved for himself, and the two were by way of sharing an “office” in which Serrano kept the estate accounts and initiated his employer into the management of the property.

“That’s over!” said Stanford with relief, as the compound settled down. “Many thanks for all your help, Serrano. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”

“For next Christmas you will know,” encouraged Mr. Serrano. It was understood between them that directly Mr. Stanford felt himself capable of undertaking his own affairs, Mr. Serrano was to be free to go off and espouse a prosperous widow who owned property in a hill station.

They parted, Serrano to have his midday meal of curry and rice, the odour of which already pervaded the atmosphere, Stanford to throw himself exhausted into a long veranda chair, while he awaited his own breakfast.

“Next Christmas!”—What would have happened by then? His thoughts strayed back over the last three months; the time had passed so swiftly that it seemed but yesterday he had arrived at Khari and stayed with the Bowyers—kind people—until all was in order for him to take up his residence at Jasâni. Owing to the Bibi’s forethought and Shahamat Ali’s exertions, joined to those of the magistrate on his behalf, the business had soon been completed. He had bought three good horses, a trap, and a fair amount of furniture from a homeward-bound ofiicial, and on the whole he had hitherto rather enjoyed his exile; it was not half as bad as he had anticipated. There was plenty of small-game shooting within easy reach, quail, partridge, hares; most evenings he strolled out with his gun. And not too far off was a string of swampy lakes covered with duck and teal, snipe also, in abundance along their edges. A few miles beyond that again lay dense jungle, which harboured big game. The morning rides with Serrano, inspecting crops and villages, making plans for the reclamation of waste ground, were to his liking; and he had acquired a mixed pack of dogs, so that the coursing of jackals and foxes could be combined with business.

Serrano was a bad shot and an indifferent rider, but he regarded himself as a sportsman, and was ready enough to career, in moderation, over the plains in the wake of Stanford and the dogs, though he sometimes fell off; and when they went out with their guns he was careful always to fire when his companion did so, with the object of claiming half the bag.

Serrano amused Stanford; also Serrano was an excellent man of business and a willing teacher. Though he had never been out of the country and was not without a strain of dark blood, he came of a good stock and was inordinately proud of his British descent. He knew a vast deal about native customs and habits, and had made a special study of folk-lore; so that often in the evenings, when Stanford invited his company, he would pour forth a stream of strange facts and stories, awakening the other’s interest in ghosts and godlings and weird superstitions. One of these days Mr. Serrano intended to publish the results of his investigations, but not until after his marriage with his wealthy widow, when, as he said naïvely, he would have money and leisure to devote to his hobby.

As yet Stanford had hardly had time to feel lonely. Every week there was the English mail, brought out by runners from Khari. Before leaving England he had arranged for a plentiful supply of papers, magazines, and novels, and—there was always the letter from Leila! How he looked forward to those letters! She never missed a mail, and though she merely wrote in friendly fashion, were not the letters a proof that she meant to abide by her promise? He wrote to her daily, posting the budget each week—filled pages (he who had always hated letter-writing) with descriptions of his work and his recreations; he drew thumbnail sketches on the margins of the old munshi he had engaged at great expense to teach him to read and write the language, of the dogs, the servants, Serrano out shooting, or chasing his pony after a spill. And he did not forget her interest in the Buddhist ruins and remains that were ever before his eyes.—“Though I hate them,” he had written once in a fit of depression, “I try, for your sake, not to wish that the earth would open and swallow them up. They are a blot on the landscape; one beastly great mound that looks as if it had been there since the Creation and meant to remain till the Day of Judgment, and all round about it a lot of hillocks and bits of walls, and almost up to the front of the bungalow the ground is strewn with fragments of brick and stone. The other day I picked up rather a good bit of carving, a group of figures, and I’m sending it to you. Serrano says it ought to be in the British Museum. You and Serrano would love each other! He’s always poking about among the ruins and rubbish, and at the end of last rains, before I came out, he found a lot of beads, crystal and cornelian, and all kinds of stones, according to him the remains of Buddhist rosaries. I wanted to buy them from him, for you, but the devil wouldn’t part, and I hardly liked to remind him that, as a matter of fact, they belonged to me! Perhaps I shall find some myself some day, but it’s no use hunting till the rains have washed them from the soil. I got some books up from Calcutta about Buddhist ruins, but I confess I find it difficult to pin myself down to them. If you were at my elbow to egg me on, it would be different. Serrano reads them, and he says he wonders the archaeological people haven’t attacked this place long ago. He believes they once tried, but that the old lady wouldn’t have it at any price. There are signs of some attempt at repairs having been made on the big mound, perhaps by the Bibi’s own orders, but there is no record, and nobody knows anything about it. If I should ever be approached by the Department, I shall feel inclined to hold them off till I know—you can guess what I mean! Wouldn’t you like to be here to see the mound opened, and the relic case, and all the rest of it?—even if you had to put up with my company?”

He had told her also of his nearest European neighbours, planter people of the name of Clarke; but they lived a deuce of a way off, by the river, and there was no road between Jasâni and their indigo concern. Serrano had dragged him to call on them, but they were away at the time on a holiday, and so far he had only seen Mr. Clarke, who had returned his call, unaccompanied by his wife, in a hooded sort of tonga, drawn by bullocks. The gentleman had not proved interesting, a middle aged, rough sort of beggar, who hadn’t a word to say for himself. It was a tedious visit—probably on both sides! According to Serrano, Clarke had come out from England as a boy, and had never since left the country, going as an assistant on miserable pay from one factory to another, until, twenty years ago, he had scraped up enough money to buy his present concern cheap, and had worked it up profitably. His wife had been the daughter of a missionary; and her father, who had gone dotty, now lived with them. Rather hard luck on Clarke!

Chapter II

Stanford felt idle that day; the morning’s turmoil had been enervating, and his breakfast over, he snoozed in the veranda until the compound began to stir after the midday rest, and he was disturbed by his old schoolmaster, the white-bearded munshi, who presented himself, armed with pen-box and papers, prepared for the lesson. He stood at his pupil’s side, coughing gently to attract attention.

“Big Day!” murmured Stanford, in sleepy rebellion. “No work!” and waved him away.

“Sahib! Sahib!” exclaimed the patriarch reproachfully; but he shuffled off, not ill-pleased to return to his hookah and the pickings that had fallen to his share from the baskets of “Big Day” offerings.

Once the old fellow had disappeared, Stanford roused himself lazily, strolled into “the office” to see what Serrano was about, but Serrano was not there, and loud snores from the adjoining part of the building betrayed the manager’s occupation. He put on his hat and wandered out, inhaling the crisp, sun-drenched air that dispersed his drowsiness. The sky was sapphire blue; no hint yet of the rain due at about this season, and anxiously awaited by Serrano on account of the winter crops. A light, dusty haze lay over the landscape, softening even the objectionable mound and its barren surroundings; and to the right stretched a vista of pale green and yellow fields, unbroken by hedges, but patched here and there with the darker shade of the lentil crops, or the huddled huts of a village. How quiet, not to say stagnant, it all was! The monotony, the silence, suddenly made Stanford feel restless, and he walked on round the side of the bungalow towards the mango grove, passing the back premises.

Two fox-terriers were being groomed by the dog-boy in front of the servants’ quarters; they broke away from their valet and rushed yelping to their master. Buster and Brown were the aristocrats of the little pack, and by reason of their superior birth held themselves aloof from their hunting companions in private life, would have no social truck with such a pariah crew who went out with the dog-boy on leads for exercise, except when they were required for purposes of sport; whereas Buster and Brown were their master’s close friends, slept in his room, and accompanied him everywhere.

Leaping and barking at his side, they had spent their effusive greeting by the time Stanford entered the mango grove, and their attention was diverted by the little grey squirrels that whisked tantalizingly up the great trunks of the trees. Hither and thither dashed the two dogs, breaking the solemn silence of the grove with their yaps, disturbing families of flying foxes that hung, black and revolting, like rotten fruit, from the branches. The creatures squeaked as they flapped to further resting places.

Stanford halted. The gloom was oppressive; he wondered who had planted those mighty trees that must be centuries old—recalled some of Serrano’s stories about tree worship; and his imagination peopled the grove with hideous beings, bent on secret rites and observances, perhaps human sacrifice. He felt that anything might have happened in such an atmosphere!

And this was the spot where his great-aunt by marriage had buried her English husband, where she herself now lay by his side. There was the tomb—a stone canopy, raised on a low platform, the shape of an umbrella, symbol of the Buddhist faith. Serrano had said that when the great mound was in its glory it must have been topped with a golden umbrella; how ridiculous!

Involuntarily he made his way to the tomb, that showed white in the semi-darkness among the tree-trunks, and stood before it. There was no inscription, nothing to denote who lay there beneath the dome. Stanford felt that if anything had been written, it should have been: “In their death they were not divided.” The story of their love was buried with them; it must have been a great love, a great and tender love, that had led to such a marriage—for the man to take to wife a woman of the East in face of all difficulties, differences, and prejudices on both sides, for the woman to leave home and country, adventuring forth into strange surroundings, with but little hope of seeing her own people again. And then to establish herself on the spot where her man had died, that when her time came she might be laid beside him! Perhaps the ruined memorials of her faith, whose glories had so long passed away, had comforted her during the years of her patient exile? Why had those two people of opposite colour and custom and code of existence fallen in love with each other? Love was a mystery, a thing that came to one without rhyme or reason, not to be explained or understood. For example, why did he love Leila? Not entirely because she was so good and unselfish and true, not entirely because she was so attractive physically; he had loved her at first sight, knowing nothing about her, and he had seen countless other women who surpassed her in charms. It was just fate, the real thing, she was the one woman in the world for him; and to win her he meant to stick to Jasâni, do his best by the place, serve his time with patience, and prove himself worthy of her. Seldom had he thought of his wasted years since his arrival at Jasâni; it was the future that mattered, though now and then little regretful recollections had stolen upon him, and for a moment or two he had thirsted for streets and theatres and gay crowds; but only for moments, and, ashamed, he had brushed the hankerings aside as though they were poisonous insects.

Yet now, without warning, like an evil spirit of the grove, the face of Rose Acwell came before him—her face as he had seen it when breaking the news to her that he meant to leave England. That had been a terrible interview; he shivered at the remembrance of her tears, her pleadings, her reproaches; all the same, he had felt no remorse, she was just as much to blame as he was for all that had happened. The scene slid through his mind; at least he had been honest with her up to a point—said he was sick and tired and ashamed of the life he was leading, and returned all the presents she had given him. She had opened the packet and flung the contents on the floor—he could see them now, lying on the priceless French carpet of her boudoir; the cigarette-case, the pearl pin, the heavy gold ring with her name engraved inside it. In her rage she had looked more beautiful, more beguiling than ever, but she had said the most hateful things, the more hateful because they were true.

How thankful he was that he had been careful to keep secret the true reason of his desertion—his love for Leila Wylde; else if Rose had thrown mud at the name of his beloved, he might have felt tempted to strangle the words in her slim white throat. Poor Rose! In a way it was hard luck on her; but he had small doubt that by now she had consoled herself, installed some other fellow in his place. She could never live without a lover! He wondered what she had done with the cigarette-case, etc.—given them to the other fellow most likely! Two letters had followed him to India, but he had destroyed them unopened; he rather wished now that he had read them.

He was standing so still that a large lizard shot boldly up on to the platform of the tomb and lay motionless. The sight of the yellow body, speckled and bloated, with the snake-like head and tail, and beady black eyes that seemed to regard him with sinister understanding, checked the trend of Stanford’s thoughts. What on earth had come over him that his mind should be attacked by such memories?—this horrible old wood, and the tomb, the atmosphere of age and decay, the melancholy dimness, must have affected him banefully; he would clear out of it.

As he moved, whistled for the dogs, the lizard slipped out of sight through a crack in the masonry; that crack ought to be seen to, stopped up, and if the reptile was buried alive in the process so much the better. Perhaps it was the old Bibi reincarnated, a punishment for having married a Christian! He grinned at the fantastic notion as he left the grove, the dogs at his heels grunting complaints over the iniquities of squirrels and their lightning activity, which had baffled Messrs. Buster and Brown so completely.

At least the rift in the tomb of his ancestors afforded Stanford a definite excuse for disturbing Serrano; but he found his manager in no mood for discussing anything, neither was Serrano to be tempted out of doors on foot or on horseback. He reminded Mr. Stanford with querulous politeness that this was a holiday, and hinted that he wished to take advantage of it in attending to his own affairs, which meant reading and correcting his notes on folk-lore, and writing to his fiancée. Privately Mr. Serrano considered it a pity that Mr. Stanford was not more studiously inclined; Mr. Stanford was always for action, never happy unless taking exercise.

“I feel at a loose end to-day, somehow,” grumbled Stanford, fidgeting about the sparsely furnished room. The only ornament on the mantelpiece was a gilt-framed photograph of a stout lady in evening dress, displaying a vast amount of jewellery—necklaces, bangles, brooches in abundance—the portrait of Serrano’s rich widow, as Stanford knew. Often had he been treated to a description of the lady’s attractions, both physical and financial. He almost envied Serrano, not of course his possession of this particular lady’s affections, but his sure prospect of marriage to the woman he wanted, while he himself had not the certainty of winning the girl he loved.

“You’re a lucky dog, Serrano!” he said with a wistful sigh.

“Oh! yess, luckee; and she is luckee too!”

At times Mr. Serrano was not so careful of his accent; and when that happened it was a signal of irritation or excitement. “If you have not’ing to do,” he added loftily, shuffling his papers, “why not ride and call at Clarkes’?”

“Anything to get rid of me, eh?” Stanford laughed good-temperedly and looked at his watch. “Well, it’s not a bad idea. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Oh! no offence meant,” protested Mr. Serrano apologetically.

“Of course not, and none taken,” replied Stanford, feeling as if he had said “Granted” to “I beg your pardon”; and using the same trite mode of speech, he added: “Expect me when you see me,” nodded, waved his hand and left the room.

He felt sorely in need of human intercourse this afternoon, and though the little he had seen of his planter folk neighbours had not interested or attracted him, they were at least English-speaking, and no doubt would welcome his Christmas visit. He ordered one of his horses to be saddled, changed into riding kit, and rode out of the compound.

Chapter III

The Clarkes’ bungalow stood within sight of the river and its shelving banks: a home-like dwelling-place, fronted by a well-kept garden ablaze with flowers, and backed by an extensive orchard of fruit trees. The veranda, full seven feet deep, was bordered with pots in which flourished violets, mignonette, stocks, and other familiar English annuals; kerosene oil tins, painted grass green, overflowed with hydrangea and nasturtium; wire baskets, sprouting ferns, hung from the beams of the thatched roof. Perfume and peace filled the air, a peace that, as Stanford rode up, was rudely disturbed; a monkey chained to a pole that was topped by a little shelter, sprang to the ground, gibbering, prancing on all-fours, at sight of Buster and Brown who, but for their master’s stern warning, would have flown to the attack. Their self-restraint, however, did not extend to silence, and they barked piercingly: the noise they made was copied by a myna bird in a cage hung on the outside wall, and a parrot from somewhere within the veranda set up a raucous screech. Then an old liver-coloured spaniel waddled down the steps, smiling and shaking his ears as though in good-natured protest at the hubbub; and even Buster and Brown were shamed into respectful behaviour by his age and good manners. They wagged their stumpy tails, walked round him with how-d’ye-do growls, scratching up the dust with their hind legs. The monkey, now forgotten, shinned up the pole to chatter abuse from his “gazebo,” and throw down bits of fruit peel and stones with insulting intention. No servant was to be seen, and Stanford proceeded to shout the orthodox announcement of his arrival, incumbent on callers in India, the while feeling in his pocket for visiting-cards.

A split-cane blind was pushed aside, and a tall, thin Englishwoman emerged; she had a pale, tired face and faded, scanty hair; something—the climate, trouble, ill health?—had washed the light from her large grey eyes and the colour from her skin; yet it was a sweet face despite its weariness. Mrs. Clarke, of course. Stanford raised his hat, dismounted, and introduced himself.

“Oh! Mr. Stanford!”she said in kindly welcome. “Send your horse round to the stable. Why, you have no syce!” She looked about in surprise at the absence of a groom on foot.

“I’ll take him round myself,” said Stanford, throwing the reins over his horse’s head; but at that moment a native came running round the side of the house, hastily binding on a turban, and to him Stanford relinquished his mount.

“Do you mind my dogs?” he asked his hostess, wishing he had left Buster and Brown at home; he felt he could hardly answer for their conduct, what with the monkey, and the myna, and the parrot.

“Not in the least. Nelson”—indicating the spaniel— “won’t fight, and Alfred”—looking up at the monkey— “can take care of himself. I love animals.” She held out her hand, and the two fox-terriers ran to her, recognizing the truth of her statement. So that was all right! “My husband will be here directly,” she went on, patting the two hard little heads. “Would you care to come round the garden before we have tea? By the way, I suppose I ought to wish you a Merry Christmas!”

“And I suppose I ought to say ‘The same to you!’ But it’s difficult to realize Christmas out here. I wonder what it’s doing at home—snowing perhaps!”

He felt, as they moved towards the garden, that he should like to make a friend of this gentle creature who was so unlike what he had imagined she would be; somehow he had pictured a stout, commonplace person, perhaps a bit “dark.” She was immeasurably superior to her husband—what could have induced her to marry such a dull, uncouth being? As a girl she must have been quite pretty. It was evident that she loved flowers as well as animals, judging by her interest in the garden; and she filled him with a sudden desire to make a like garden of his own at Jasâni. He had never thought of such a plan before; it might prove an antidote to the desolation of his surroundings, to the depressing view of those abominable Buddhist ruins, the melancholy of the mango grove. Perhaps he could persuade her to come over sometimes, and help him with her advice and experience.

“What a contrast this is to my own beastly place!” he said wistfully, intent on enlisting her sympathy. “Of course you have seen it?”

“Oh, yes. I knew the old Bibi quite well. She was rather a wonderful character. The last time I went to Jasâni was just after her death, to fetch the little girl she left in my charge—and the parrot!” she added with a smile.

“What little girl?” began Stanford; yet as he uttered the question he remembered that Mr. Bowyer and Shahamat Ali had told him something about a protegée of his “great-aunt’s” for whom the old lady had made provision; he had paid little attention at the time.

“Her name is Anatta, she is a dear little creature,” went on Mrs. Clarke, “the grandchild of a woman compatriot the Bibi brought with her from Burmah. Who were her grandfather and parents we don’t exactly know, but she is alone in the world. I promised the Bibi to look after her, and to bring her up as far as possible in the Buddhist faith.” She paused. “Perhaps that sounds odd to you, if you know that my father was a missionary?”

“It doesn’t seem to me odd that you should carry out the old lady’s wishes. From all I have read and been told by a—a great friend of mine at home, Christianity and Buddhism appear to be extraordinarily alike.”

“In many ways they are, but not in the chief essential. Buddhism is a religion of fear. Certainly it teaches self-sacrifice, charity, humility, clean living, everything that Christianity teaches, but all from dread of being born again in some lower form. Take my advice and don’t study it from a religious point of view; it is fascinating and interesting historically, if you keep to that side of it, but for a lonely human being I have reason to look upon it as a spiritual danger. It may become an evil obsession to anyone not born and reared in the faith. ”

Stanford stared at her. There was sorrow in her voice, and her face was troubled. “I hardly understand—” he said tentatively. “Personally I can’t say the subject interests or attracts me from any point of view; and as for those horrible ruins in front of my house, I detest them. They’re an eyesore. Nothing would induce me to stop at Jasâni but for one reason. . . .”

He waited, hoping she would encourage him to reveal the reason; he felt a longing to tell her about Leila; but to his disappointment she gave him no opening, only shook her head apprehensively.

“Yes, the ruins,” she said. “I hate them too. Mind you don’t let them get hold of you, poison your mind and your brain!”

“They are not likely to do that!—unless it’s with aversion and boredom,” he assured her.

“Buddhism isn’t meant for Western people. It served its purpose at the time, was a forerunner of something far higher and better, preparing ‘the way,’ perhaps. But for anyone to become a pervert to it—” She shuddered. “It made my father insane; can you wonder that I look upon it with horror?”

“How sad!” murmured Stanford uncomfortably. “Has he been like that long?”

“I came out from England twenty years ago to join him in his work. I was full of enthusiasm, longing to help; and I found him buried in Sanskrit and Pali writings, translating from morning till night, neglecting his mission work, thinking of nothing but how he could get nearer to Buddhist doctrine. He had shut himself up, keeping barely alive on rice and vegetables, and was regarded as mad by his colleagues, who were kindness itself to me and to him. But of course it came to his being relieved of his charge; he wouldn’t let me take him to England, and to desert him was out of the question. Here he has a home, and every comfort we can give him. He teaches little Anatta; the two are devoted to each other. The old Bibi Jâsan knew what she was about when she appointed me as the child’s guardian!”

So that was the explanation, reflected Stanford. The unfortunate woman had married the planter in order to give her tiresome parent a home. What a curious history; and how much he would have to relate in his next letter to Leila. He would tell her, too, that Mrs. Clarke had warned him against the study of Buddhism! That would be an additional excuse for his lack of interest in the ruins, and in the books he could not force himself to read.

“Here is my husband,” said his companion.

Mr. Clarke was approaching from the orchard, a clumsy, thick-set figure, his head buried in a sun hat; and after formal greetings the trio moved towards the bungalow, where tea had been laid in the veranda. They seated themselves at the table; and Mrs. Clarke filled a large cup and piled a plate with bread and butter, which a servant carried off on a tray—fodder, no doubt, as Stanford guessed, for the aged student of Sanskrit and Pali, who, he felt thankful, was not forthcoming. But where was the ward, the little girl of Burmese descent? He was agog to see her, hoped she would appear, as he enjoyed scones and cream, and a wonderful Christmas cake, expressing his appreciation of these delicacies.

“My wife,” said Mr. Clarke, “made everything herself!”—and Stanford noted the covert pride in the man’s voice. Good old Clarke! for all his roughness he was apparently devoted to and proud of his spouse; rather hard luck on him, though, that he should be obliged to harbour a mad father-in-law!

One of the cane blinds was dashed aside, and a slim, vivid little figure stepped into view, hesitated at sight of the stranger, would have run back but that Mrs. Clarke bade Anatta, in English, come forward; and with shy reluctance the girl obeyed, making a rush for her adopted mother’s side. She was dressed curiously, in a mixture of native and European fashion; her rose-coloured frock reached to her ankles, and was bound about her hips with a sash; English shoes and stockings; and her silky black hair was cropped short to her neck. A red rose was stuck behind each ear, matching the glow in her cheeks and in her delicately cut mouth. Indeed, the little face itself was like an amber-pink rose from which shone the dark, long-lashed eyes, slightly tilted at the corners, sole sign of her Mongolian blood. Stanford gazed at her, entranced with her beauty, and that his admiration was not lost on the young minx he quickly divined. She glanced at him sideways, and her lips parted in an engaging little smile as she extended a brown-tinted hand in obedience to Mrs. Clarke’s prompting.

“Grandpa having his tea?” Mrs. Clarke passed her arm fondly about the dainty figure.

“Yeth,” lisped the girl. “Grandpa good. Anatta good too, always.”

Mrs. Clarke raised her eyebrows and smiled; by which Stanford inferred that Anatta was not invariably “good.” Was it likely, with that fetching, mischievous face! He did not envy the Clarkes their responsibility; surely there would be trouble sooner or later. With pleasure he watched Anatta help herself to a cake, dig her white teeth into it, feed Buster and Brown and old Nelson who crowded about her; she laughed gleefully as the two terriers leapt for the tit-bits she held aloft. But presently there followed a different scene; Mrs. Clarke had poured some milk into a cup, but Anatta would not drink it. She ran round the table, shaking her head and looking over her shoulder in impish defiance.

“Now then,” put in Mr. Clarke savagely, “stop it!”

There was an ugly gleam in the man’s eyes; and Stan ford perceived in a flash that he was jealous of this alien inhabitant of his house—to whom his wife gave such care and attention; threateningly he made as if to rise.

“Leave her alone, dear,” said Mrs. Clarke; “she will be sorry soon enough. Don’t pay any attention.”

Mr. Clarke muttered, sat down again. His wife turned to Stanford with some ordinary remark, and the two conversed artificially for the space of a few moments in mutual understanding that Anatta’s behaviour should be ignored. Stanford enjoyed the game, suppressing his amusement as Anatta backed slowly and provocatively along the veranda, expecting to be recalled, and ready to give in. She halted beneath the parrot’s cage, looked up at the bird and chanted:

> “Pret-ty Pol-1y,
> Pret-ty de-ah,
> All de vay from
> Kashmir. . . .”

But with the perversity of its kind the parrot remained silent, beyond grinding its beak unsympathetically; and Anatta looked crestfallen. Even the dogs had deserted her, preferring the tea-table; nobody took any notice of poor Anatta; and the fascinating visitor whose friendliness had tempted her to “show off,” did not appear to care whether she stayed or went away. Anatta began to cry ostentatiously; but still nobody paid any attention to her. Then, furious and miserable, she made a rush forward, and flung herself upon Stanford, hiding her face on his shoulder, shaking with sobs. “Anatta!” cried Mrs. Clarke, aghast. Mr. Clarke spat out a few words of disgust, rose and left the veranda. Touched and amused, Stanford tightened his hold on the slim little body, got up and placed the rebel gently on her guardian’s knees; he felt virtuous and strong-minded, though he recognized that he could hardly have acted otherwise in the circumstances. “Thank you, Mr. Stanford,” said Mrs. Clarke gravely. “I must apologize for Anatta.” She allowed her heaving, sobbing charge to cling to her for a space, until the child calmed and lay still in her arms. Tenderly she stroked the sleek hair from which the roses had fallen, bent her head and whispered. Anatta whispered back, and in a few moments was standing, humble, yet comforted, by her adopted mother’s side. If anything she looked to Stanford more bewitching than ever in her repentant mood, tears on her lashes and cheeks, her lips trembling. “Now say ‘sorry,’ Anatta,” urged Mrs. Clarke firmly. “S-sorree!” gasped Anatta; and then obediently she gulped down the milk, wiped her mouth with the edge of the table-cloth, and smiled sweetly at Stanford. While seated on the motherly lap she had looked no more than a child; now, standing before him, happy, feeling herself restored to favour, Stanford realized, with something of a shock, that according to Eastern notions she would be regarded as mature, as of marriageable age. How old was she?—hardly more than fifteen, and already she was full of sex impulse; her little display of rebellion had, he felt instinctively, only been the outcome of a feminine desire to attract male attention. While holding her in his arms her heart had throbbed wildly, and not solely with the emotion of a naughty child! Was it quite wise of Mrs. Clarke to treat her as she would have treated an English girl of the same age? What could she know of the perils of sex, having married a man like Clarke in order that she might give a home to her father? She could hardly be expected to recognize and understand the girl’s warm Eastern tendencies; she now even looked on with complacence when Anatta picked up her roses from the floor and presented him with the least battered of the two blossoms, clapping her hands and twirling about, delighted, as he placed it in his button hole. As he did so he remembered the garden at Borrodaile Road, and Maimie Livesay. It was the selfsame instinct that had led the pretty English girl to give him a flower; and, making allowance for hemisphere, the two maidens were alike in so far that they were both budding women, driven innocently by the same inclinations. Leila had known, as Mrs. Clarke would never know, the danger of setting light to raw material! Had she not warned him, begged him to “let Maimie alone!” and he had needed no warning, no begging, once he had felt sure that she believed in his love for her—his goddess, his angel!—had put him, so to speak, on probation. What would she say now? He knew very well! Her advice, both for his own sake and that of this enchanting little savage, would be to “keep clear.” His conscience echoed the words; but it meant cutting himself off from the friendship of his unsuspicious hostess, who though unworldly, restricted in mind and body, could afford him refreshment in his isolation as being someone of his own nationality to whom he could have talked at intervals. The idea of claiming her help and encouragement over his gardening scheme must be abandoned. He felt dejected, yet self-appraising; would he not be making further sacrifice for Leila, though he could hardly acquaint her with it; and such creditable conduct would be shorn of half its glory without her knowledge and appreciation. In addition, how could he appear ungrateful, indifferent towards good, kind Mrs. Clarke, who at this very moment began to make plans for further meetings; while that little devil Anatta hovered about, playing with the dogs, answering the parrot that shouted conversation on finding his silence ignored. “You must come over to us whenever you like, Mr. Stanford; and I shall be only too glad to assist you about your garden.” “Assist”—the word gave the keynote to the dear lady’s conventional mind. She would “assist” him with his garden, and at the same time unwittingly “assist” him to temptation and a difficult position; for if she came to Jasâni, of a surety Anatta would come with her. Anatta was listening with impish attention, and mentally he wriggled. Why should he not be strong enough to face the fascination of Anatta’s flirtatious attitude? After all, what did it matter if the little wretch tried her seductions on him? He had only to ignore them. Surely no serious consequences could be involved or anticipated—such an apprehension was absurd. Thus bolstered with specious arguments, swayed this way and that, Stanford found himself inviting Mrs. Clarke to fix a day for a visit to Jasâni. She complied with alacrity, betraying her pleasurable anticipation of an outing, mingled with a genuine desire to alleviate her guest’s loneliness. “Very well, then; shall we say this day week?” she suggested. “Mr. Clarke may not be able to come too, but if he can’t I am sure you will excuse him.” “Of course,” agreed Stanford; willingly would he excuse Mr. Clarke’s absence! “And if I bring Anatta?” There it was!—just as he had anticipated. “By all means bring Anatta,” he concurred cordially. What else could he say? Baffled, he rose to make his farewells. With polite protestations Mrs. Clarke sent for his horse, and when it came Anatta fussed round the animal, offering it cake spread out flat on her little hand. Stanford’s mare sniffed at the offering, laid back her ears, and struck a hind heel on the ground; the food contained butter— anathema to horses. “Take care!” called Stanford, alarmed lest the beast should nip Anatta’s hand. The child backed, looking up at him with charming attention to his warning; and she yielded the piece of cake to him, that he might throw it away, to be gobbled up by Buster. “Bad horse?” she said. “Bad horse,” he agreed, smiling as he prepared to mount. “Wait one moment,” called Mrs. Clarke from the veranda, “here is my father!” Turning back Stanford beheld a quaint figure emerging from the bungalow—a bent figure, wrapped in a dull yellow dressing-gown; the colour of the garment matched the skin of its wearer, and the thin hooked nose, sunken eyes, and claw-like hands reminded him of a bird’s skeleton—a gigantic bird’s skeleton enveloped in a dressing-gown! Anatta ran to her “grandpa,” laid hold of his arm and drew him forward. What a contrast! the blooming, radiant little figure, full of life and joy, and this dried-up,corpse-like being. It seemed hardly possible that the old man could move and speak, yet he did move with a certain dignity, and when he spoke his voice was mellow and deep. Stanford felt as though he were being presented to the mummy of some royal Pharaoh come to life again on earth. “So you are the new owner of Jasâni?” said this strange old fellow, regarding the visitor with solemn attention; and as Stanford admitted his ownership, he failed to recognize insanity in the steady gaze that seemed to glow with some light concentrated within the skull-like head. “Guard your possession well,” admonished Grandpa; “remember that it is in the nature of things that we must be separated from all that is nearest and dearest to us. . . .” Stanford started; was it possible that this convert to Buddhism could read his thoughts, his heart, his soul? He felt uncomfortable, as though confronted with something beyond his understanding. “I assure you I am doing my best,” he said feebly. “That is well. Persevere, be vigilant, and in time you too may be freed from the trammels of illusion and ignorance. Work without ceasing to obtain release. Each man is his own helper; there is none other to help him!” Stanford stood stupidly silent, impressed with the substance of the words, astonished by their strange application to his own circumstances. For the moment he felt uplifted, as if imbued with some supernatural strength imparted from a master mind. It was as if he were under a spell; and suddenly the vision of the Buddhist ruins that were his property rose before him—no longer hideous, repulsive, but a symbol of a mighty rebellion against self-indulgence and sin. Anatta broke the spell, little pagan that she was. “Grandpa, see!” she cried in her broken English, “here are the sahib’s dogs. They love me, and the sahib loves me too. Ma-ma and I will help the sahib to make a garden at Jasâni.” “A garden at Jasâni,” repeated Grandpa dreamily. With an effort Stanford shook himself free from the old man’s extraordinary domination; he tried to feel English, independent of influences that were inexplicable; defiant, though what he wished to defy he could not specify to himself. The whole atmosphere was charged with something uncanny, something that was beyond his grasp. Meantime the setting sun shed a peaceful radiance over the Clarkes’ domain; little Anatta beamed on him seductively from the old skeleton-bird, mummy-man’s side; and all he could do was to make his good-byes, supported by Mrs. Clarke’s friendly projects for their future meetings. ## Chapter IV In carping mood Stanford rode home, further irritated and depressed by the chill mist rising as the sun sank, the melancholy cries of the water-fowl from the swamps which he passed on his way, the unbroken monotony of the land. Now and then his mare stumbled in the gathering dusk, and he cursed the rough ground that prevented swift progress. The dogs, tired with the distance and the excitement of the outing, trotted soberly at the mare’s heels. Looking back on the afternoon, it seemed to Stanford like a dream—such a strange collection of people, living, for all the alleviations of a comfortable establishment and delightful garden, in an atmosphere of gloom; Clarke, with his suppressed grievances, jealous, morose; Mrs. Clarke spiritless, wearily patient; the old ex-missionary absorbed in the mysteries of an ancient religion to the point of insanity. Was it actual insanity? Stanford puzzled over the question; supposing the old fellow had been, say, a Buddhist priest and had immersed himself in the study of Christian writings to the exclusion of all other considerations, would he have been deemed insane by his co-religionists and relations? The problem was too perplexing, Stanford decided, for any ordinary wits to tackle, and he banished it from his mind, passing on to a more pleasing subject for reflection—Anatta; though in truth it was she, tiresome little sprite, who had disturbed and upset him! He tried not to think about her either, though he told himself impatiently he was making a mountain out of a molehill . . . mountain, mound. He suddenly became aware that he was skirting the mound and the ruins. What was it Mrs. Clarke had said? “Don’t let them poison your mind and your brain.” How on earth could they do any such thing. Yet, involuntarily, he took refuge in the preposterous notion that the mound was in some undefinable fashion to blame for his self-distrust—that if it weren’t for its everlasting, immutable presence, Jasâni would content and suffice him until he could go home with a clear conscience and claim the fulfilment of Leila’s promise.. The great grass-covered erection loomed up through the evening mist, sinister, provoking; and with a vindictive laugh he thought what a pity it was that he hadn’t the faith that would remove it and cast it into the sea. At last, thank goodness, here was the bungalow, lighted up, human movement about it; a syce waiting to take the mare to the stables, a hum of voices in the background. A drink and a bath and a decent dinner would set him right, clear away these absurd ideas; he would invite Serrano to join him at dinner and share a bottle of champagne—it being Christmas night; there was Serrano, standing in the veranda, awaiting his arrival. “One more ‘Big Day’ caller has been,” announced the manager excitedly—“come a long way from his village to make salaams.” “A prince or a peasant, a priest or a beggar?” inquired Stanford without interest, ascending the veranda steps. “In this land of contradictions there seems no telling the difference between any of them.” “It was the Bibi’s old servant, Gunga by name. He lived here from boyhood, he was saying, with the old lady. He told me all sorts!” Serrano rubbed his hands and chuckled; evidently he had been enjoying himself, gossiping, gleaming accounts of the habits and customs prevalent at Jasâni during the service of “Gunga by name” with the Bibi. “And he has gone, I suppose?” said Standford indifferently, throwing his hat on the table and stretching his arms. “No, not gone. The journey had fatigued him, and after talking the poor old fellow took faint. I have seen to his comfort in the servants’ quarters, told your khansamah to give tea and quinine.” “Of course, quite right.” And Stanford thought no more about it until he and Serrano were seated at dinner together, when word was brought to them that the visitor seemed to be very ill, “perhaps going to die!” “Oh! my, my!”exclaimed Serrano, springing to his feet; he ran from the bungalow, out into the compound, making for the row of shelters that harboured the servants. Stanford followed more leisurely. He found Serrano kneeling beside a low string bedstead in one of the cell-like compartments. On the bed lay a shrunken form, motionless, unconscious. Serrano was shouting questions in Hindustani in the dying man’s ear, behaving unaccountably, while a group of servants stood by in silent unhelpful interest. “Serrano!” Stanford felt shocked and astonished at such behaviour. “For heaven’s sake let the poor old chap alone. Can’t you see it’s the end?” He told someone to fetch brandy from the dining room, though he perceived that it was useless, and as Serrano rose from his knees, somewhat abashed, the toothless jaw fell, and life left the wizened body on the bed. Serrano wrung his hands. “Now we shall never know!” he cried despairingly. “Never know what? Do be quiet, and come back to the house. We can’t do any good here.” The dismal little scene revolted Stanford; the narrow chamber, windowless, with a beaten mud floor and white washed walls, containing only the string bedstead, and a few cooking-pots in one corner, lighted by a smoking wick that floated in an earthenware saucer filled with coco-nut oil; the crowd of inquisitive people gazing at the dead old body that looked hardly larger than that of a monkey. Serrano was almost weeping as he accompanied his employer across the compound, but not, as far as Stanford could gather, from any emotion save baffled curiosity. “Gunga knew!” he wailed. “I am *conwinced* he knew! And he would have told perhaps, if he hadn’t gone and died just now!” Serrano babbled on, unaffected by Stanford’s lack of response, as the two sat down to finish the interrupted meal, bemoaning the old man’s death, which he appeared to regard as a personal grievance. “He told me he remembered when he was a boy how once the Bibi had gathered hundreds of coolies to dig and tunnel at the mound for weeks, doing repairing, and then one day something was brought to her, some kind of box; there was great mystery!” Serrano’s eyes almost bolted from his head as he retailed this communication. “Perhaps something to do with the relic! What else? In past ages earthquakes shaking these old mounds, wrecking all inside but not out. But what happened to the thing that was found?—where is it? I ask you *that!*” He rapped his hand on the table, and swallowed a glass of champagne. “She may have put it back,” suggested Stanford. “Why worry about it?” “But don’t you see? Gunga might have known what she did with it, where it is put. And now how can we tell?” “What does it signify?” said Stanford. Serrano writhed in his chair. “Signify? Signify? My word, man!” he cried, forgetting his manners. “You must be out of your senses!” “It seems to me that you have taken leave of yours,” replied Stanford crossly. “If the Bibi got anything out of the mound it was hers to do as she pleased with, and no business of anyone else’s. The estate is your business, Serrano, let me remind you, not the mound or the ruins, or anything to do with them.” “Sir!” said Serrano, rising; but what with his excitement and the effects of the champagne he found some difficulty in keeping his balance. “Sir,” he repeated, holding on to the table and the back of his chair, “you insult me!” Stanford repressed an inclination to laugh; Serrano looked absurd, swaying to and fro, mouthing, enraged, striving to preserve his dignity—silly ass. What a fuss about nothing! “You’d better go to bed,” he advised his irate manager. “Go to bed? I tell you I will go altogether! To-morrow packing, shaking dust off this Jasâni!” For a moment he hesitated, as though doubtful if he had expressed himself accurately; then stalked unsteadily from the room. Stanford made no attempt to follow or pacify him. Doubtless by to-morrow Serrano would have recovered his temper—have forgotten his threat to leave Jasâni. If not, well, he supposed he could rub along somehow “on his own”; but again that infernal mound would have done him a bad turn, cost him a valuable assistant and adviser. He left the table and strolled without purpose into his bedroom, a vast apartment that smelt of matting and whitewash, dimly illumined by a couple of wall lamps. On the dressing-table stood a framed photograph of Leila Wylde; he took it up, gazing at it, remembering how he had pestered her to give it to him—if only she were here, in the flesh, to comfort and encourage him! Would she ever be here?—would the dream ever come true? She was so far away; the future seemed a blank. Did she realize the hardness of the task she had set him? Only a few months of his probation had passed, and the worst was still to be faced—the hot weather; yet, already, here he was feeling wretched, heavy hearted, unutterably lonely, sick to death of Jasâni. As he replaced the photograph his hand brushed something on the dressing-table—little Anatta’s faded rose that he had taken from his buttonhole when changing for dinner; and helplessly he vizualized the flower in its first freshness, peeping from the sleek, dark shock of hair above the child’s ear. Dismayed, he snatched up the dead rose, crushing it in his palm; to leave it there, before Leila’s picture, would seem little short of sacrilege; and he hastened from the room, into the front veranda, with the intention of flinging it over the edge of the plinth. But, arrived at the head of the steps, he paused, the poor little bloom in his hand, arrested by the scene that lay before him. The night mist had melted, and moonlight irradiated the landscape, whitening the coarse grass that covered the mound, sharpening the outlines of the thin, witch-like trees sprouting feebly from the summit. The cold resplendence, the unearthly calm, filled him with an unaccountable sense of foreboding: he fought the sensation—what was there to fear? The future? He had only to hold on, to strive, and to conquer. Conquer what? Nothing but his own rotten tendencies. Only a fool would think twice about Mrs. Clarke’s silly superstition concerning the mound and, according to her, its uncanny influence; that was all rubbish. At the same time he wished he had never seen Mrs. Clarke, wished he could invent some plausible excuse to cancel her visit arranged for that day week; she would worry him about the mound . . . and assuredly Anatta would come with her! He went to bed without having written up his letter to Leila; he shrank from recording his feelings to her, though he had so much else to describe. To-morrow everything might seem different; it had been such a disturbing, unsatisfactory day, unhinging—from the rajah’s visit, and all the Christmas hullabaloo, to his call on the Clarkes; and then the death of old Gunga and Serrano’s outrageous behaviour. Sleep would refresh him, restore him to a more comfortable frame of mind. But sleep held off perversely. Buster and Brown snored in their baskets like a couple of demons, and twice during the night a pack of jackals swept past the bungalow yelling blue murder as they hunted, causing the dogs to rush forth barking into the compound. It was near dawn before he fell into a doze, only to dream confusedly of a mysterious little box that grew larger and larger until it assumed the shape of a coffin; and when he raised the lid, expecting to see an old dead native, Anatta was lying there covered with roses—she looked up at him, laughing. Consequently, when he awoke he felt languid, out of temper; and the fact that clouds had gathered during the night, filming the sky, giving the impression of an eclipse, did not conduce to good spirits, though it occurred to Stanford that Serrano, at any rate, would welcome the clouds as harbingers of the much needed rain. He drank his early tea in the veranda, and awaited Serrano’s usual appearance at this hour that plans might be made for the day. If Serrano had forgotten their little dispute of the previous evening, he would ignore it; no doubt the champagne was to blame for the manager’s childish conduct, and he himself had perhaps made a mistake in reminding Serrano of his place at a wrong moment, though all that nonsense about the relic had been intensely aggravating. He was prepared to greet Serrano as if nothing had happened. The clouds would provide a suitable prelude to the conversation. Still Serrano did not appear, and presently Stanford became conscious that his bearer was fidgeting in the background, clearing his throat artificially, signs, as he had learned by this time, that some tiresome communication was imminent; it was the Oriental equivalent to an English domestic’s: “May I speak to you, sir?” “What is it?” he asked resignedly. The man salaamed, advanced, fumbled in his waist belt, and produced a note, which he placed on a brass salver and handed to his master. “Serrano sahib has gone,” he announced; and he backed, as though in apprehension that the sahib’s wrath might be vented on himself as the bearer of bad tidings. “Gone?” echoed Stanford, not particularly disturbed. He expected to hear that Serrano had ridden off on some urgent business connected with the prospective rainfall. “Where has he gone?” “God knows!” said the man piously, folding his hands. Without further question Stanford opened the note and read a stilted composition that filled him with angry astonishment. The gist of it was that Mr. Serrano felt it impossible to work any longer for anyone so completely indifferent to antiquarian knowledge and research as the owner of Jasâni Estate; to remain “bound hand and foot, grudged investigation,” was more than he could “stomach”; therefore he preferred freedom, independent financially, as he was—thanks to his betrothed. He had “made decision,” and by the time the note was delivered he would be well on his way to the railway station, via Khari; a cart would follow him with his belongings. Stanford swore aloud. Now what was to be done!—ungrateful devil! And he really had been awfully decent to Serrano, much too decent, making a companion of him, listening to his yarns, allowing him to steal beads and carvings which no doubt were packed with his “belongings” in the cart that was to follow him—one of the Estate carts, of course. A Spanish proverb recurred to Stanford’s mind; “Caress your dog and he will spoil your garment.” Imagine the creature going off like this, without notice, without handing over the accounts and papers, leaving his employer in the lurch; and all because of some bee in his bonnet about a box! It was a bit too much. Stanford fumed and fretted, walked up and down the veranda, finally went into the office and stood looking helplessly at the stacks of books and papers. All appeared to be in order, Serrano must have sat up half the night—the documents that lay piled on the tables and shelves had been nothing like so neatly arranged last time he saw them; when was that?—only yesterday! He felt as if weeks had gone by, instead of less than twenty four hours. Now a peon came in to say that a cultivator wished to present a petition concerning the ownership of a field over which he was engaged in a dispute with some neighbour. Stanford felt unequal to such an interview unaided, and he sent for the *munshi*. A lengthy and wearisome argument followed, tangled up with side issues connected with goats, and damage done by wild pig; until at last the petitioner volunteered to fetch the offending neighbour who, he affirmed, was not only to blame for the quarrel over the boundary, but for the evil behaviour of the goats and the wild pig as well; it was the neighbour’s business to keep the goats in order, and also to scare the wild pig. “But why, if it isn’t his field?” inquired Stanford, bewildered. The *munshi* assumed a superior air, stroked his beard, and proceeded to put questions to the agitated villager that seemingly had nothing to do with fields or boundaries, goats or wild pig, while Stanford sat silent. In time, some sort of truth was arrived at. Apparently the whole affair went back to a feud started in the past by a grandmother-in-law (on whose side it was not clear) and the result was the present deadlock. The *munshi* then suggested that it might be as well if the sahib felt disposed to visit the field in question? The sahib did not feel so disposed. “Let them fight it out between themselves,” he said captiously. “That might mean murder!” The *munshi* shook his head ominously; “police inquiry, trouble, disturbance in that village. It is a big village.” “In that case I suppose I must go. But you will have to come with me, to translate.” The old man looked perturbed. “How going—I am not horseman!” he objected. “We will drive,” said Stanford shortly. “Tell this fellow to go back at once, and say that I am coming out this afternoon.” The villager departed, salaaming hopefully; and later in the day Stanford started in his trap, the old *munshi* seated beside him clinging to the rail, protesting, as they bumped over the rough track; the pony was fresh and inclined to leaps and bounds. By the time they arrived at the village the old gentleman was reduced to a condition of nervous exhaustion. A crowd of chattering people turned out to meet them, men, women and children, headed by the two antagonists, who led the way to the field under dispute. The entire population of the village was in attendance; work had been abandoned; the occasion was one that demanded a holiday. Arrived at the spot, Stanford helped the *munshi* from the trap, whereupon the old man collapsed, gasping, on the ground, declaring that he was on the point of death. This distracted attention from the business in hand, and even the two enemies almost made friends in their common interest over the patriarch’s sufferings. Some one brought water in an earthenware vessel, and after much sympathy and persuasion the *munshi* revived, consented to seat himself on a cushion extracted from the trap and placed for his convenience at the edge of the field. The inquiry then started; Stanford followed both sides of the case with the help of the *munshi’s* translations, for the village patois was beyond his understanding, only to find himself completely puzzled by conflicting evidence, and the general confusion. Witnesses contradicted each other and themselves; one or two threatened fights had to be quelled; bamboo staves bound with brass were brandished; abuse flowed freely; children ran about playing and screaming. It was pandemonium. Deafened and exasperated, Stanford commanded silence, and rather to his surprise he was obeyed; an expectant hush fell on the turbulent company. “Who is the head of this village?” he inquired. A lean person, clad in a puggaree and a loin cloth, with a henna-dyed beard, emerged from the crowd and salaamed. “What is the value of this field?” “Your Highness, it is of no value,” said the headman, “it does not belong to this slave.” Stanford called up the two claimants, and invited each to place a value on the land. Neither of them would speak, each fearing to be under-bid by the other. “Very well, I will value the field,” announced Stanford; and he named a sum so large that it evoked a murmur of amazement from the assemblage. “Moreover,” continued Stanford, racking his brains to recall the correct words, “I buy the field, and the money shall be divided between the two who lay claim to it.” A shout of acclamation arose, in which the two enemies joined. The bamboo staves were rapped on the ground, and cries of “Wah! Wah! Victory to Jasâni-sahib Bahadur!” rent the air. Even the *munshi*, invigorated by the general excitement, scrambled to his feet and delivered a little speech, to which no one paid attention. Feeling himself a sort of Solomon, Stanford acknowledged the salutations, and with the whole crowd at his heels returned to where his trap awaited him; the cushion was replaced, the *munshi* was hoisted up beside him amid good-natured derision, and the pair drove off in triumph. “A wise judgment,” said the *munshi*, “but costly!” “Never mind,” returned Stanford, “peace is worth much.” “Also safety,” quavered his companion, as the pony leapt a hillock and the trap rose in the air. “Hai-ai! Bapri-bap! my liver turns to water!”—he slipped from the seat on to the floor of the trap, clinging to the splash board, and remained there for the rest of the perilous journey, muttering at intervals that his third wife’s mother being sick unto death at Cawnpore, it might be necessary for him to take leave, unless the sahib engaged a new manager forthwith. By the close of the day Stanford had realized that a new manager was an absolute necessity, else not only would the estate suffer but he himself might be driven demented. On his return to the bungalow he found a group of villagers collected in the compound, each with a grievance, or a demand for some decision relating to crops, water, rent. The *munshi* was useless; he said he had fever, and retired resolutely to his lair, the servants in response to requests for advice merely chanted: “It is as the sahib pleases.” In desperation he gave ‘back sheesh’ to the villagers, bidding them come back at the end of a week or ten days. Even as he changed his clothes for dinner he was further importuned. What was to be done with the corpse of old Gunga?—the sahib had given no orders. “Put it in a cart and send it to his village at once,” ordered the sahib. In consequence his dinner was delayed, the whole staff turning attention to arrangements connected with the removal of‘the body; and every dish arrived ruined at the table. Standford made up his mind. There was nothing for it but to set forth next morning for Khari; to see Bowyer, and Shahamat Ali, and rely on them to help him out of this infernal fix. Accordingly he gave directions for ponies to be posted on the road; and following this decision came a sense of relief. How long he might have to remain at Khari he could not tell; meantime the estate must look after itself; but here at least was good reason for postponing Mrs. Clarke’s visit, divided though he was between disappointment, and a feeling that some intangible danger might thus be delayed; possibly averted altogether. ## Chapter V The hospitable Bowyers insisted, when Stanford called on them, shortly after his arrival in the station, that he should immediately transfer his belongings from the Khari rest-house to their bungalow. Mrs. Bowyer upbraided him for daring to imagine that he would be permitted to find shelter elsewhere; she only regretted that, since relations were with them for Christmas week, she could not allot him one of the best bedrooms. Truth to tell she felt guilty because she had forgotten to invite the lonely owner of Jasâni to join their Christmas party; and having dispatched him to make arrangements for his move, she invaded her husband’s sanctum in order to lay the blame on him. “George, why on earth didn’t you remind me of that poor fellow, all alone, out at Jasâni? He must think us positively inhuman.” The magistrate looked up and said amiably: “We must make up for it by pressing him to stay as long as he can. Perhaps,” he added, with a sly smile, “he will fall in love with the fat Freda?” This red herring proved successful, luring Mrs. Bowyer’s attention into the pleasant path of match-making. “That’s not a bad idea!” she exclaimed. “Freda might do worse. Jasâni is a valuable property, isn’t it? and the man is a sahib.” Then she pounced on the ink-pot and set it straight, gathered up scraps of torn manuscript from the table and cast them into the waste-paper basket, dusted a film of grit from the surface of a file with her handkerchief. “How you can work in such a mess!”she scolded. During these operations Bowyer leaned back in his chair, patiently submissive, but he revenged himself by remarking: “On the other hand, isn’t it just possible that Stanford might do better?” He disapproved of his niece by marriage, considered the girl selfish and conceited, and was sincerely sorry for her parents. “Oh! you are always so hard on poor Freda,” complained his wife, “if we had girls of our own you would understand her better.” “It has been said that God sends sons and daughters, and the devil sends nephews and nieces, but if all girls are like Freda thank heaven we haven’t any daughters. It makes my blood boil to see how she bullies her mother, and I should rejoice if she married a man who would beat her. Go into the drawing-room now, and you will be regaled with the spectacle of your sister Mary darning her girl’s stockings!” Mrs. Bowyer sighed. “Anyway it’s no business of ours, so you needn’t work yourself into a rage about it. And for goodness’ sake don’t crab Freda to Mr. Stanford.” “Am I likely in the circumstances to do any such thing!”he protested. “No, no, of course not. But do remember that I’ve quite enough to worry me, what with this dinner party to-night, and the cook in such a bad temper, without being harried by you over Freda’s shortcomings. Go and point out to Mary yourself what a weak fool she is to darn her girl’s stockings!” “Presently I will,” he said. “Meantime I must get on with this report.” “In other words, I am a nuisance?” She patted his head in fond apology. The pair understood one another; and as Mrs. Bowyer left the office room she reflected that perhaps it was just as well that she and dear old George had no offspring to cause them doubt and anxiety, possibly to create dissension between them. The domestic problem was one of the curses of Anglo-Indian existence, seeing that the woman must make her choice between separation from her husband or her children—leave her man to fend for himself in exile, else arrange that other people reared her sons and daughters. It was a terrible toll that the Empire exacted from her servants! For example here was Freda—educated apart from her parents at considerable expense, with the result that the girl had joined them as a species of alien, and to her they were little more than machines provided by Providence for her benefit. Freda had once confided to her aunt that on leaving England she had parted from no one she really loved; and awaiting her in India were strangers, albeit her father and mother, nervous in their attitude towards her, regarding her, she suspected, as an intruder on their companionship and peace. Faults individually, no doubt, there were on both sides, but the initial blame of the unhappy situation could only be laid on circumstances that were beyond control. What a relief it would be to Mary and Edward, not to speak of the family in general, if Freda could be married off satisfactorily! So far no eligible suitor had presented himself, but now Mrs. Bowyer saw a possible chance in Mr. Stanford; and when her niece returned from tennis at the club that evening she prepared the way. “Now, Freda, you’ve got to help me look after a nice man who lives out in the wilds all alone. He has come into the station to consult your uncle on business, and I am feeling a pig because we forgot to ask him to join us at Christmas. He will take you in to dinner to-night, and I rely on you to amuse him and cheer him up.” Freda’s narrow green eyes brightened between their thick light lashes. She was an over-plump girl, blonde to the verge of albinism, yet not without comeliness—a milk-white skin, naturally curling hair, quite a pretty mouth, when she remembered to shut it. What a thousand pities, as the indulgent aunt could not but admit, strictly to herself, that Freda should be handicapped with a selfish and slothful temperament, and that her appetite should be abnormal. However, it was consolatory to note that Freda’s good points showed to the best advantage that night when the house party assembled in the drawing-room, awaiting the arrival of the whole station: and that she and Mr. Stanford appeared to foregather at once. The two were already in friendly conversation as the company sat down to the dinner table. Mr. Everest, the only other bachelor present, was on Freda’s other side, but it was obvious that he had small chance against Mr. Stanford’s superior attractions, for the young lady turned her well-covered white shoulders to him deliberately. As for Stanford, of course he played up to Miss Platt’s advances; no one knew better than he how to respond when’ a well-favoured female showed symptoms of a desire to flirt. They chaffed and laughed, asked each other silly questions, indulged in personalities, abused India, and got on famously together. Stanford was conscious of a sense of surprise that he should be enjoying himself so keenly as he looked about, noting the oil lamp in the middle of the table shrouded in an obviously home made shade, the cheap decorations, the faded finery of the ladies, and the old-fashioned cut of the men’s clothes; he could not help contrasting it all with the entertainments to which he had been accustomed in England such a comparatively short time ago. It all seemed so primitive, so shabby, so pretentious; and yet, how delightful it was to find himself once more in any sort of human society. He thought of Jasâni with renewed hatred; in a day or two he must go back again to face weary solitude and distasteful drudgery. “Do you like living alone?” inquired Miss Platt, handing him a dish of fried almonds and cramming some of the crisp nuts into her mouth. “Who does?” he answered ruefully. “Then why do you do it?” “Needs must when the devil drives!” Good Heavens!—what was he saying!—when it was *Leila* who had condemned him to such solitude for the time being. He burned with shame, and welcomed an interruption to the conversation; it came from Mr. Everest, who leaned forward pertinaciously, and asked him if he had ever been approached by the Indian Archaeological Department with reference to the Buddhist remains on his property. “So far, no,” he said. “Is there any idea of it?” “I believe it is contemplated. My services are to be transferred to the department, and if any decision is arrived at, and you are willing to allow the excavations, it is on the cards that I might be put in charge of the work. It is what I should like.” “Well, if it comes off,” responded Stanford civilly, “remember that I shall expect you to put up with me. When would they want to begin operations?” “Not until after next rains; somewhere about October. Have you ever examined the mound?” “No; I hate the thing!” Stanford replied shortly. “What are you talking about?” put in Miss Platt, impatient with Mr. Everest for barging, as she mentally termed it, into her conversation with Mr. Stanford. “There are certain ruins on my property that are of historical interest,” he explained to her; and added with sudden irritation: “they spoil the view and are the bane of my existence.” Then the two men looked at each other, suddenly aware of a mutual and indefinable hostility, and for the moment, as far as they were concerned, Miss Platt might not have been present; she had no part in the discordant pause. Feeling herself neglected, she proclaimed in a loud voice: “I should like to see these wonderful ruins. Why don’t you invite me to spend a day at your place, Mr. Stanford?” “It’s twenty miles off,” he replied, “and the road, if it can be called a road, is atrocious.” She pouted. “I want to go. It would be such fun; don’t you like the idea? Perhaps you’ve got a secret wife and family concealed there!” “Alas! I am not married!” “Well, that’s a misfortune easily remedied,” she said archly. “It isn’t every one who would care to share my banishment at Jasâni.” “Is it so awful? I feel curiouser, and curiouser. Do persuade my aunt to let us plan a picnic visit. I am sure Mr. Everest would like to come too and see the place where he is to dig, or whatever the Archaeological people want him to do, and between us all we could raise plenty of ponies to get us out and back in no time. Wouldn’t you like to inspect the ruins unofficially, Mr. Everest?” “I *have* inspected them—on my own account,” said Everest, ungraciously; at the same time he hoped Miss Platt might get her own way, provided this Philistine Jasâni-fellow included him in the invitation. He hankered for another view of the mound; the autumn was far off, and there was no certainty that he would be put in charge of the excavations, or even that excavations would be undertaken on this particular spot. “Naturally I am more than willing, if you are,” agreed Stanford, addressing Miss Platt; he reflected that if Mrs. Bowyer should by any miracle consent to indulge her niece in this whim it would be an excellent opportunity to comprise Mrs. Clarke’s visit for the same day. Miss Platt would be a sort of protection against the wiles of that little witch Anatta! “But you must support my application to headquarters—otherwise your aunt.” “We will go to her hand-in-hand after dinner,” decided Freda brightly, “and beg for the treat on our bended knees.” “Right! Meantime you have finished the almonds. Let me persuade you to start on these chocolates.” He pushed a little silver dish towards her. She needed no persuasion; very soon that dish was as empty as the one that had contained the almonds. “I foresee that I shall have to wire somewhere for a supply of sweetmeats if you are to honour me with a visit,” he said, amazed at the rapidity with which she disposed of the chocolates. “They are beastly expensive, you know!” “Never mind. I am so rich that I don’t know what to do with my money!” “Really? Really and truly?” He gazed into her sleepy green eyes. “Even if I weren’t, of course I should spend my last pice on chocolates for you!” She blushed, simpered, and felt more resolved than ever to succeed in her project, whatever the opposition—and she was prepared for opposition from her elders, as also was Stanford. Therefore both were agreeably surprised when, later in the evening, after Freda had sung popular ballads in a well-trained contralto voice, accompanying herself on the piano, and somebody else had played waltzes, Mrs. Bowyer listened amiably to the pair as together they presented their petition. “Darling auntie, we want you to say Yes to a great plan,” began Freda seductively. “Mr. Stanford has suggested that we should all spend a day with him at his place. Couldn’t it—couldn’t it be managed?” “But, my dears!” Mrs. Bowyer regarded the couple with mingled astonishment and hope. This was quite unexpected; but clearly the two were taken with each other, and it would never do to discourage the budding affair. “We must see,” she said cautiously. “I can’t possibly say offhand.” “Of course not,” interposed Stanford, “but I need hardly say what delight it would give me if you could manage to come out to Jasâni, and bring Miss Platt—bring everybody!” “Well, don’t count on it too much—” “But we shall, we shall!” purred Freda, “so you can’t disappoint us, dear angel-aunt. Mr. Everest is aching to re-examine the ruins, and I am aching to see Mr. Stanford’s home, and Mr. Stanford is aching to entertain us all. We shall die of internal pains if you and Uncle George are hard hearted and refuse.” Mrs. Bowyer smilingly waved the pair away, and they retreated to a corner of the drawing-room to continue their flirtation on a sofa screened by a big palm, confident of success for their plan; and though Mrs. Bowyer did not look forward to the expedition she made up her mind that it could be arranged, and when Mrs. Bowyer made up her mind it was seldom that her decisions were thwarted. Miss Platt and Mr. Stanford rode together the following morning; and after breakfast a conclave was held consisting of the magistrate, Shahamat Ali, and the owner of Jasâni which resulted in the selection of an intelligent babu, who would be capable of filling Serrano’s post for the time being, with the added advantage to Stanford of paying a smaller salary and no obligation to treat the new assistant in any degree as an equal. The ease with which the difficulty had been disposed of raised Stanford’s spirits, and rendered him all the more anxious to entertain his kind hostess and her party; he found pleasure in planning to give them a lavish welcome, and when Mrs. Bowyer’s consent was finally wrung from her he and Freda amused themselves by sending telegrams to the nearest big station in anticipation of the great event. Tins of pâté de foie gras, asparagus, salmon and so forth were ordered: boxes of chocolates, bottled fruits, liqueurs—enough for an army of guests regardless of expense. Freda was almost beside herself with importance; was it not entirely on her account that Mr. Stanford was going to all this expense and trouble!—never before had she been the object of so much attention; and greatly to Stanford’s amusement she assumed possessive, imperious airs towards him, ordered him about, was alternately petulant and patronizing, and altogether, as Mr. Bowyer complained to his wife, made an exhibition of herself. “If she wants to marry him she’s going the wrong way to work,” he said, having agreed reluctantly to the whole of his stable being commandeered for the date on which the expedition to Jasâni was to take place, though he firmly declined to be one of the party. “It’s my belief that the fellow doesn’t mean anything.” “Then why,” argued Mrs. Bowyer, “is he so keen on her seeing Jasâni? and look how he allows her to tyrannize over him! I am sure you are wrong, George; just because you don’t like Freda yourself you can’t imagine any other man finding her attractive.” “No, I can’t. And I think Stanford is merely amusing himself. He has no more intention of proposing to her than has Everest.” “Oh, Everest! Everest is wrapped up in this antiquarian mania of his. That kind of man has no use for girls.” “Not for girls like Freda! and neither has Stanford in his own way. He just wants to have a little excitement, to spend his money in getting you all out to Jasâni as a sort of ‘tamasha’ for himself, if you are silly enough to agree to such a mad escapade. Do it if you like, but don’t blame me if it pours with rain or you get knocked up, or if nothing comes of it.” “I shan’t get knocked up, why should I? and if it rains we shan’t go. And if nothing comes of it there is no harm done.” “Except possibly to Freda’s feelings, if she has any. However, have your own way. I understand that Stanford goes off ahead to-morrow, and that you and Freda and Mary and Edward and Everest start at cock crow three days later to spend a long day with him. I wish you joy of the whole business.” “George, you are simply horrid!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowyer, almost in tears. Remorsefully he comforted her. “There! don’t distress yourself, dear heart. I haven’t the least objection to your doing as you like about it: I only think you are letting yourself in for a fatiguing day, without any prospect of ultimate reward as far as Freda and Stanford are concerned.” “We can but see.” “Exactly. Go ahead then, and see.” Accordingly arrangements proceeded on both sides: and finally Stanford went off, after a sentimental parting with Freda, who actually left her bed early that she might superintend his departure. ## Chapter VI On the day fixed for the Khari party to visit Jasâni Estate the sky was faintly blue, the air crisp and still. During Christmas week no rain had fallen, and now the clouds had cleared away—bad, no doubt, for the crops, but, as Stanford reflected light heartedly, good for the success of the junketing. Mrs. Clarke and Anatta were the first arrivals; they drove up in the bullock tonga, Anatta in front with the driver, Mrs. Clarke at the back almost concealed by a crate containing the loan of crockery and glass Stanford had begged of her, and a mass of flowers (her own benevolent thought) for the decoration of his dwelling. Anatta scarcely waited for the vehicle to come to a standstill; she leapt to the ground in a fever of excitement at sight of her old home, and her new friend; an odd little object, for with the best intentions, and Anatta’s entire approval, Mrs. Clarke had garbed the child from head to foot in English style. A voluminous frock of some blue and white checked material warred with her natural grace, clumsied her appearance, and perched on her head was a disfiguring straw hat over-weighted with loops of blue ribbon, a band of elastic with a knot in it beneath her chin. One-button cotton gloves and an antiquated parasol completed this unfortunate turn-out; yet, as Stanford gazed at Anatta in mingled pity and amusement, he recognized that not even the hideous apparel could override the attraction of her charming little face and dainty form. She might have been masquerading, for fun, in borrowed garments. Mrs. Clarke’s simple pride in her protégée was pathetic; she smiled fatuously as Anatta rushed to shake hands with their host, tripping over the parasol which she dropped at his feet, then shrilly demanded leave to go over the house, and without waiting for the permission disappeared through the nearest doorway. “Doesn’t she look sweet?” said the fond foster mother. “Poor child, she couldn’t sleep last night, she was so excited at the prospect of seeing Jasâni again, and you. She has worked so hard at her English lessons ever since your visit to us; do tell her you think she has improved, if you get a chance. It would be such an encouragement to her.” She turned her attention to the crockery and glass, and the flowers. “I’ve brought all I thought you might want,” she went on, “and I’ll arrange the flowers for you at once. I know we are rather late, but the bullocks behaved so badly.” “How kind you are,” murmured Stanford, and ushered his benefactress into the bungalow. They forgot Anatta as they set to work with the aid of the servants, until peals of laughter echoed from a back veranda, causing Mrs. Clarke to look up anxiously from her preparations. “Anatta is merry-making with the natives!” she exclaimed. “She knows that is forbidden.” “Oh! let her alone,” said Stanford with a spice of impatience. “What does it matter?—she’s just a child, and very likely she’s only playing with the dogs.” Anatta could not be allowed to delay the arrangements, for at any moment now the Khari contingent might arrive. Reluctantly Mrs. Clarke forbore to call Anatta to order, recognizing the need for haste. “In some ways,” she said doubtfully, “she is only a child, but in others it’s very difficult to know exactly how to manage her. At times she is so disobedient and headstrong.” “Well, you seem to manage her all right,” encouraged Stanford, indifferent to Anatta’s iniquities. “Listen! There they are! We are only just in time.” The last touches had been given to the table as the sound of wheels and voices arose in front of the house. “Come and help me receive them.” As he and Mrs. Clarke hastened to the veranda the Platt trio and Mrs. Bowyer were already descending from a carriage, and Mr. Everest was dismounting from a pony behind it; all very dusty, but garrulous and jubilant over the rapidity with which the journey had been accomplished. No, none of them were the least bit tired; it had been quite an interesting drive, not to speak of delightful anticipations. They crowded up the steps and were introduced to Mrs. Clarke, who stood ready to escort the ladies to the room prepared for their use. Freda Platt glanced at her with suspicion and surprise, puzzled by her presence. Who was this mysterious, faded-looking female acting hostess for Mr. Stanford? She was further taken back when Anatta suddenly appeared and, overwhelmed with shyness, clung to the skirts of the “faded-looking female.” “Who on earth are they?” she whispered to Stanford, adding with a titter: “Your wife and daughter?” He controlled his annoyance, whispered back: “I’ll tell you about them later,” and herded his guests into the bungalow, Freda glued to his side, till Mrs. Clarke had conducted the ladies to the bedroom where they might remove their veils and the dust of the journey. Stanford took Everest to his own room. “Here you are,” he said, acting the genial host, though his unaccountable aversion to the engineer obtruded itself strongly. “Make yourself at home.” “Who is that?” asked. Everest abruptly, pausing in front of the dressing-table. He was pointing to Leila’s photograph. “A friend of mine,” replied Stanford, a hint of truculence in his voice. “But—but it is Miss Wylde!” “Yes, Miss Wylde. Do you know her?” “She was at Khari with her stepfather.” “Colonel Livesay, a capital old fellow.” Stanford endeavoured to speak naturally. “I daresay you have heard that he had a hand more or less in my inheriting this place.” For a space the two stood rigid, each conscious of tension. “Miss Wylde is very interested in Buddhist remains,” said Stanford at random, feeling impelled to break the uncomfortable little silence. “Indeed?” returned Everest, tortured with the sight of the likeness and the remembrance of his last ride with Leila Wylde: “‘I wonder,” he added, “what started her interest—” “She’s equally keen on other periods of Indian history.” Stanford now repented having mentioned Leila’s craze for Buddhist lore; he scented satisfaction on the part of Everest on learning that he and Miss Wylde shared the same interest, felt suspicious and resentful. This fellow had known Leila long before he himself had ever seen her, and obviously he had been, and was still, in love with her; that was quite evident from the way in which he gazed at the photograph—hardly able to tear his eyes from it! Why had Leila never mentioned Everest, knowing that in all probability the two of them would meet in India? He hankered to discover how far the friendship had gone, but jealous pride forbade further talk about Leila; be could only find a certain malicious consolation in reflecting that the sight of the photograph on another man’s table must be gall to Everest if he cherished fond feelings towards the original. Good manners obliged him to withdraw after seeing that his guest had all he wanted, but he hated leaving Everest alone with the likeness; supposing he had the cheek to kiss it! The mental disturbance poisoned his pleasure in the gathering, haunted him as he did the honours when they were all collected in the big sitting-room. And Anatta’s behaviour added to his vexation; she forsook Mrs. Clarke’s protection, attached herself to him, and became perversely tiresome, slipping her hand into his, plaguing him like some spoilt animal confident of his indulgence, all the time shooting malevolent glances at Miss Platt, who talked to him over Anatta’s head, ignoring her presence. Alive to his embarrassment, Mrs. Clarke recalled Anatta, who at first feigned deafness, whereupon Mrs. Clarke rose and Anatta edged all the closer to Stanford. Freda laughed; Anatta burst into tears, and eventually was led sobbing from the room by Mrs. Clarke amid an awkward silence. Consideration for their host’s feelings prompted the Platt parents, Mrs. Bowyer, and Everest to start an artificial conversation among themselves, and Freda took the opportunity to murmur in his ear: “Now then, do tell me—who on earth is this dismal person and her horrid little girl?” “Mrs. Clarke and her husband are my nearest European neighbours,” he explained stiflly, “and Anatta is their ward; she was, so to speak, ‘left’ to them by my great uncle’s Burmese widow, who was no relation to the child but very fond of her.” “Child!”sniffed Freda. “She’s more like a grown-up monkey! You’d better be careful or you may find yourself with a live Burmese wife, in addition to a dead Burmese great-aunt!” “How witty you are!” retaliated Stanford, with a sarcastic laugh. Her green eyes gleamed disagreeably. “Come now, don’t be nasty,” he pleaded, altering his tone. “You began it!” “Then, if I did, I will end it—with a peace offering.” He got up, crossed the room, and returned with a large, be-ribboned box of sweets which he placed in her lap. The contents would stop her mouth for the present; he felt she had intended to force a tiff, no doubt with the object of furthering their intimacy by a tender reconciliation to follow. Boredom with her foolish manoeuvres assailed him. Everything seemed to be going wrong; the long day had only just begun, and already there was discord in the air—that queer sense of enmity between Everest and himself, the silly squabble with Freda, antagonism between Freda and Anatta; and if gentle Mrs. Clarke could cast looks of dislike at anyone, she had come near to casting them at Miss Platt! Also poor little Anatta was unhappy, in disgrace, and he had not raised a finger to rescue her from public humiliation. Meantime he watched Freda selecting sweets from the box and putting them one after another into her mouth. Buster and Brown, attracted by the sound of crunching, came and sat begging before her, scratched at her skirts, emitted short, supplicatory barks; surreptitiously she kicked them away, and their master bade them go and lie down; they stalked off, deeply disgusted, to search for Mrs. Clarke and claim her sympathy, were at her heels when she came back—without Anatta. Stanford looked at her, raising his eyebrows in mute question; she smiled reassurance, and turned to answer Mrs. Bowyer who had expressed a hope that “the dear little girl was all right?” “Oh! yes, thank you, there is nothing the matter but just over-excitement. I must apologize for my ward’s naughtiness, but you see this was her home before she came to us, and it is her first visit since the old Bibi’s death.” “Of course, one can quite understand,” said Mrs. Bowyer, all affable sympathy. “How changed the whole place must look. Do tell us what this room, for example, was like in the old days?” Here Stanford muttered something about seeing if tiffin was ready, and under cover of Mrs. Clarke’s attempt at description to a politely interested audience, and Freda’s engrossment with the box of sweets, he left the room in quest of Anatta. He found her in the spare bedroom, sitting sulky and forlorn on a chair, resentful of her punishment—that she was to remain there until summoned. She had kicked off her shoes, and her hair was in woeful disorder; the ugly hat lay on the floor, and to Stanford’s dismay dust cloaks and veils also lay about on the floor. Anatta must have swept them all off the bed in a fit of rage! “Anatta!” he cried “what have you been doing?” And he began to pick up the ill-used raiment, only too relieved to find that apparently Anatta had done no actual damage. She whimpered, wriggled off the chair, and ran to him, her hands outstretched. What could he do but pass his arm about her, comfort her, tell her to be good and no one would be angry. As he felt her slim body pressed against him, shaken with sobs, he battled with a violent desire to kiss her—and won; he put her from him gently, encouraged her with laughing admonitions, declared (white lie) that he had been sent by Mrs. Clarke to fetch her and forgive her. But it was not so easy to placate Anatta. “*You* hate *me*,” she asserted miserably, stooping to search for her shoes. Stanford paid no heed to this accusation; he retrieved the little country-made shoes, and put them on her feet. “Hate *me*,” she repeated, in a high, disconsolate voice, “and love that talking, talking, fat yellow Miss!” Then, as he did not reply, she added vindictively: “Hate ‘=Miss, hate Miss, *hate Miss!”* “Now, don’t be naughty again, Anatta,” warned Stanford; but he felt that he almost hated “Miss” himself, as he pictured Freda devouring sweets, intent all the time, as he knew, on capturing him as a husband. Was he never to be free from female assailment until he could go to Leila with a clean sheet all round—work accomplished, proved perseverance, and immaculate living; everything she would demand of him? Freda hardly counted, her advances left him cold, though certainly he had flirted with her—harmlessly. But Anatta was another matter, he felt shaken, alarmed, by the strength of the temptation he had succeeded in routing—this time! Could he trust himself, should it ever occur again? Well, he must take care that it did not occur again; that was all. He drove Anatta back into the sitting-room, after she had smoothed her hair and dried her eyes, and mercifully at the same moment his head servant proclaimed pompously that tiffin was on the table. The feast passed off without any discomfiting incident; Stanford had arranged the seating with an eye to general harmony, placing Anatta between Mrs. Clarke and Mrs. Bowyer, confident that the latter kind lady would soon put her palpitating little neighbour at ease, and in no time Anatta was chattering to her happily, half in English half in Hindustani. It was evident that the previous repast of sweets had not impaired Freda’s appetite, and perhaps owing to the excellence of the present meal she made herself agreeable to Mr. Everest, who sat beside her. They all ate and talked and laughed with enjoyment; even Mrs. Clarke became almost animated as she conversed with Freda’s father on the subject of gardens in India, for luckily Mr. Platt was also an ardent horticulturist. An amicable, well fed company rose from the table, prepared for the next item on the programme—the inspection of the ruins and the mound. The Clarke tonga was at the disposal of those who had no inclination to walk. Freda regarded the rough distance with doubt, but when it came to the point she elected, with an air of self-sacrifice, to accompany the men on foot seeing that there was hardly room in the tonga for both herself and Anatta, in addition to the three elder ladies; and her desire to prevent Anatta from walking with Mr. Stanford overcame her reluctance to exert herself. Anatta, with like jealous motive, clamoured to be allowed to walk too, but Mrs. Clarke decided otherwise, feeling distrustful of her charge’s behaviour away from her direct supervision. Personally, Mrs. Clarke would have preferred to remain where she was, either at peace in the bungalow, or strolling in the compound to consider how best some sort of flower garden could be contrived; but in the circumstances this was of course impossible. She resigned herself, and silenced Anatta, who fortunately had fallen so in love with Mrs. Bowyer that she was partially consoled by the prospect of sitting beside her in the tonga, even perhaps on her lap; all the same she watched the pedestrians start, Buster and Brown leaping and barking around them, with envious eyes—was not the fat yellow Miss walking with Jasâni-sahib, a little apart from the others, talking, talking, as usual! She wished the hateful Miss would fall down and hurt herself on the stones. And once they were all gathered at the foot of the mound she defied her guardian’s efforts to keep her from Stanford’s side, held on to his hand, plied him with questions, purposely diverting his attention from Freda, who resented his lenience towards his tormentor; why couldn’t he snub the little pest, send her back to the shelter of her melancholy old godmother’s petticoats! ## Chapter VII They stood about aimlessly. Mr. Platt pretended to play golf, swinging his walking-stick, club-wise, to the delirious delight of Buster and Brown, who tore after the bits of brick he “drove” in various directions. Mrs. Platt and Mrs. Bowyer were trying not to look bored; Freda prodded the ground moodily with the point of her parasol, and even Anatta ceased her chatter. Mrs. Clarke turned her back on the ruins with an air of patient resentment, and Stanford felt inclined to do the same, for it seemed to him that the great stupa exuded some sort of paralysing influence that was affecting the lot of them—with the exception, perhaps, of Everest. Everest was strolling apart, taking notes in a pocket-book, glancing from the shattered and dismantled base of the mound to its tree-crowned summit. A weak breeze stirred the coarse, dry grasses, raised little puffs of dust; over their heads a kite hung almost motionless in mid-air, as though suspended from the sky by a string, and it screamed dismally. Carrion crows hopped around with venturesome curiosity, evil-looking birds, lovers of death and decay. It was all so desolate, so drear, that renewed loathing of the spot gripped Stanford; and when Freda broke the spell he blessed her in his heart. “Mr. Everest!” she shouted, a ring of desperation in her summons. “Do come and tell us what you know about this hideous old hump.” Everest looked up from the pages of his pocket-book, closed it, and approached with some reluctance; at once they all moved towards him as if driven by a vague sense of relief. His hat was under his arm, and the mellow afternoon sunshine burnished the close cap of his chest nut-coloured hair; morosely Stanford noted the man’s direct, self-reliant bearing, the force of character in every line of the rough-cut, capable face, and involuntarily he thought of Leila. Leila had known the fellow. How well had she known him? how much had she liked him? An unwelcome notion rasped his mind that could she have been here she might have drawn comparisons between himself and Everest—and not to his own advantage! “Now then, Mr. Showman, begin!” commanded Freda. “We are all thirsting for knowledge.” “But I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” said Everest, evidently not appreciating the position in which Freda had placed him, “only that, judging by a well known rule, I should say the low ratio of height to the diameter of the stupa points to great antiquity. Probably excavations would yield valuable results, because the Sakyas, Buddha’s people, lived in these parts, and naturally they would have obtained a share of the Master’s remains at the time of the cremation, so it’s more than likely that they were the builders of this shrine and the monastery adjoining it.” He turned his gaze again to the massive erection, and continued, forgetful of his audience: “There must have been at least one procession path, and possibly it was protected by a rail—” “And who processed?” inquired Freda flippantly. “The Buddhist monks, of course,” put in her father. “Why ‘of course’?” argued Freda. “There might have been nuns. Did they encourage nuns in those days, Mr. Everest?” She received no answer; Everest had retreated, and was viewing what looked like a rift in the side of the mound, blocked with debris, overgrown with rank vegetation. “I should think,” he said slowly, “that repairs had been attempted at some comparatively recent date—” Suddenly Stanford remembered the death of old Gunga, and Serrano’s agitation over some communication imparted to him by the Bibi’s ex-servant in connexion with past work on the mound; but he found a spiteful satisfaction in holding his tongue on the subject. What a sell for Everest should he some day be placed in official charge of excavations at Jasâni only to find the relic chamber empty! While occupied with these ignoble reflections he became aware that Anatta was pulling at his sleeve, standing on tiptoe, in an endeavour to whisper in his ear. “Well, what is it?” he said, bending his head to the vivid little upturned face, welcoming any excuse to ignore what be dubbed as “Everest’s priggish lecture.” “By me—with me,” breathed Anatta laboriously in English, “a bokkus.” “A bokkus?” echoed Stanford, puzzled till he recognized the Indian corruption of the word: of course the child meant a box. Anatta looked about her nervously. “Yes, bokkus of Bibi.” Then she added, obviously in a panic: “You not telling—not telling. One day Anatta give back.” He saw that she had turned pale, was trembling, and it occurred to him that possibly the “bokkus” might be the treasure mentioned by Gunga to Serrano as having been in the Bibi’s possession—some object that had been unearthed from the mound. But if so, how had Anatta acquired it, and why was she frightened? He gave her hand a reassuring little squeeze, said hurriedly in Hindustani: “Do not fear!” She sighed tremulously, a sigh of confidence and relief, and made a bolt for Mrs. Clarke’s side. There she remained while they wandered among the ruins, effacing herself, silent unless spoken to, well-behaved. Instinctively Stanford felt that she was trying to please him; every now and then he caught her brilliant eyes fixed on him with a pathetic expression that moved him strangely, stirred his pity, made him long to see her once more gay and mischievous, even naughty. The day must have been such a disappointment to her, poor little thing, almost from the beginning; and now the beastly mound had helped further to damp her spirits, recalling some memory that teased her conscience, probably magnifying some trivial peccadillo into a crime. He paid small heed to Freda’s ridiculous affectation of interest in the ruins, as waving her hand she declaimed: “One can just fancy what it must all have looked like in its heyday, such years and donkeys’ ears ago—with the monks and nuns processing, protected by a rail; and to think that in the middle of this—what d’you call it? a word like *stupid*—all kinds of interesting things may be poked away. I should feel awfully proud of having it on my property if I were you, Mr. Stanford!” Then, affronted at his lack of response, she flounced ahead with the object of joining Everest, and all in a moment Anatta’s revengeful wish came to pass. “The fat yellow miss” caught one of her high-heeled shoes on a loose fragment of masonry, made a wild effort to recover her balance, and fell down. It was anything but a graceful subsidence, and Anatta’s shrill peal of laughter shocked the alarmed spectators. Freda remained a huddled heap on the ground as every one rushed to the rescue, except ing Anatta, who stood where she was, not attempting to conceal her glee. Stanford was the first to reach Freda’s side. “I hope you’re not hurt?” he cried, full of concern, partly on Freda’s account, chiefly on his own. What an awful business supposing the girl’s leg were broken, and she had to stay for weeks at Jasâni: even a bad sprain would be equally inconvenient! The fault of the ruins again! He tried to help her to rise, observing with relief that she had not changed colour. “Oh! my ankle,” she moaned, clinging to him; and his heart sank. Now her parents stooped over her. “See if you can stand, darling,” urged her mother. Freda struggled feebly, and fell back into Stanford’s arms, indicating her left foot. “Oh, how it hurts!” she whimpered. “We’d better take off her shoe and carry her to the tonga,” suggested Stanford. “No, no,” she protested, with the expression of a martyr, “I think with help I might manage to walk to the tonga.” Stanford hoisted her up,—what a weight she was!—and with her hand on his shoulder, his arm about her waist, Mr. Platt supporting her on the other side, they prepared to start in the direction of where the tonga awaited them, the rest of the group standing by dejectedly, making futile suggestions. The first few steps had hardly been accomplished when a scream from Anatta startled them all. “See—see!” she shrieked, pointing to the ground beneath their feet. “A snake, a snake!” At the moment Stanford fancied he heard a rustle in the grass; but in any case the unlucky Freda was put to shame, for, abandoning her supporters, she took to her heels and ran—ran surely though clumsily, without trace of a limp; obviously if her ankle had sustained any injury it must have been negligible. Stanford grinned to himself as they all overtook her, Anatta well to the fore, and Freda climbed gasping into the tonga, followed by her mother and her aunt and Mrs. Clarke, who dragged Anatta with her, placing the child on the footboard of the vehicle, which started for the bungalow amid an uncomfortable silence on the part of the men. “Nerves, of course,” Freda’s father said subsequently, in vague apology. “Of course,” agreed Stanford; “the fall was a shock for Miss Platt to begin with, but it was lucky that child saw the snake!” To himself he added: “Lucky in more senses than one!” “There aren’t many snakes about at this time of year,” put in Everest dryly; and they tramped on. “Good sport in these parts, I suppose?” remarked Mr. Platt to Stanford. “Very fair,” he replied; and the three exchanged reminiscences anent small game shooting, tactily ignoring the recent scene until they arrived at the bungalow. There they found Freda stretched on a sofa, the centre of attention, in an artificial atmosphere which Stanford well understood, though in his position as host he could do no less than enter into the spirit of it. With outward concern, and inward relief, he learned that though on examination the ankle had proved painful to the touch, so far there was no swelling. He said courteously to Mrs. Platt: “The spare room is at your disposal, and we can raise another bed, if you think it advisable for your daughter to stay here till the poor foot is better?” “That is exceedingly kind of you, Mr. Stanford—but I don’t know—” She turned in helpless appeal to her sister, and inquired what *she* thought. Mrs. Bowyer *thought* that if Freda remained at Jasâni it would be a God-given opportunity for the furtherance of an understanding between her niece and Mr. Stanford; but in view of the recent exposure of Freda’s malingering (doubtless with the same object) she could scarcely advise aught but a speedy return to the station. “On the whole,” she began; and as she hesitated Mrs. Clarke intervened, alive to the general dilemma, perhaps feeling a vicarious culpability in view of the part Anatta had played in bringing it about. “I should say,” she advised quietly, “that the sooner Miss Platt sees a doctor the better.” This opinion was hailed with a chorus of approval; only Freda sighed pitifully and asserted that she dreaded the jolting. Of course none of them had the temerity, nor the cruelty, to remind her that she had run to the tonga over rough ground without apparent inconvenience; but in the short silence that followed all were so conscious of the remembrance that it became almost articulate, and even Freda succumbed to its influence. “I suppose,” she said, with an air of heroism, “that I was able to escape from the snake owing to the power of mind over body—sort of Christian Science? I saw the snake, didn’t you, Mr. Stanford?” “Anatta saw it, and I thought I heard something rustle in the grass,” evaded Stanford chivalrously. “Well, on the same principle, if I make up my mind, perhaps I could stand the journey?” “It’s marvellous what we can do when we make up our minds,” remarked Everest; and if sarcasm was at the root of this utterance, there was no hint of it in his tone. “We might even make up our minds to have some tea before we start?” he added jocosely, with a surreptitious wink at his host. Stanford laughed. “What do you take me for?” he rejoined, in friendly chaff. “Do you suspect me of grudging you your tea?” His relief that he was not to be saddled with Miss Platt and her mother rendered him cordially disposed even towards Everest. He summoned a servant, and when a spread was set out that raised Freda’s spirits and dispelled awkwardness all round, he felt it safe to make much of the young lady on the sofa. He praised her fortitude, waited on her assiduously, plying her with sandwiches and cakes, produced another box of sweets which he declared he had reserved for her return journey (the truth being that he had hitherto overlooked it among his store of supplies). A great bustle of departure ensued; much was made of Freda’s inability to walk, and Stanford carried her to the carriage that now stood at the front entrance. He expressed desperate anxiety for information as to how she had stood the journey, and what the Khari doctor thought of her ankle; he had caused a board to be placed in the carriage that she might keep up her foot, and rained what cushions he possessed, together with pillows, into the vehicle, adjuring Mrs. Bowyer not to think for a moment of returning them. Mr. Platt climbed on to the box, thus leaving more room in the carriage for his daughter; and off they went, waving, calling last thanks, while Everest mounted his pony and cantered after them, smothered in a cloud of dust. Stanford stood on the steps until the carriage had disappeared and the dust had subsided; then he turned to join Mrs. Clarke and Anatta, who awaited him in the veranda. A heavenly calm lay over the bungalow, the silence was acute, yet blessed; even the mound seemed to smile amiably in the wide light of the setting sun. He looked at Anatta; she had discarded the hideous hat, the starch had come out of the unsuitable frock that now clung to her limbs; her beautiful, impish little face was aglow with triumph; Stanford felt that had she dared she would have cried “Victory!” in her own tongue. “Well,” he said, addressing Mrs. Clarke, a world of meaning in his voice. She smiled faintly in understanding. “It has all gone off very well except—just except for the unfortunate accident.” “It might have been more unfortunate, mightn’t it?” he suggested, slyly. “Supposing Anatta hadn’t spotted the snake?” “Snake!” echoed Anatta, and she twirled her arms, shooting out the tip of a red tongue, thrusting her head forward in imitation of a serpent’s movements. Stanford caught her by the wrist. “Anatta, did you see a snake?” he asked her sternly. She wrenched her wrist free from his grasp, laughed in his face. “Big, very big snake!” she chanted exultantly, and danced away along the veranda. Mrs. Clarke shook her head. “It’s no use,” she said hopelessly, “better leave it alone. I don’t think she saw any snake.” “Neither do I,” agreed Stanford. “But what does it matter?” They fell to superintending the packing of Mrs. Clarke’s loans, unmindful of Anatta, who meantime was running wild in the compound. It was only when the tonga was ready, the crate of crockery secured in the back seat, Mrs. Clarke possessed of Anatta’s hat and parasol and her own belongings, that Stanford set out to retrieve the little truant. He found her in the mango grove, standing beside the tomb of her benefactress; she looked up as he approached, then fled behind one of the mighty trees, concealing herself. “Anatta,” he called, “come along, the tonga is ready.” She peeped round the tree. “No angry?” she asked. “No angry,” he assured her, and held out his hand. Again she disappeared; he waited; then cautiously she emerged while he still extended his hand as though luring some wild animal, and with a little shriek of playful excitement she darted towards him. Together they crossed the compound, conversing on such subjects as the fowls, and the goats, of Buster and Brown who escorted them pompously. Stanford felt tempted to ask questions about “the bokkus,” but he forbore, fearing the consequences; neither did he make further allusion to the snake; but as he packed Anatta with her guardian into the tonga, the little rogue leaned towards him from her seat beside the driver, her eyes adance with mischief, and whispered: “No see no snake!” For a space, after the tonga had departed, he stood still, conscious of an unbounded relief that all disturbance was over—that once more he was alone. Could he ever have believed that he would find himself actually glad to be alone! How much he had looked forward to this day, and now to think he should be so thankful it was over! The mistake lay in having invited Mrs. Clarke and Anatta for the occasion; as he should have foreseen, Anatta had proved the fly in the ointment—spoilt the whole show. Yet he could not but feel a certain resentful amusement as he reviewed the little terror’s unpardonable behaviour from beginning to end; and there was no denying that her make-believe of seeing a snake at the critical moment, mischievous prank though it was, had preserved him from a highly inconvenient situation. Had Freda succeeded in remaining at Jasâni under pretext of a sprained ankle, he might have been awkwardly placed. On the whole he owed thanks to Anatta’s devilment! ## Chapter VIII Then, as he viewed the battered, shapeless tower, with its surrounding rubble heaps, all rising from a sea of broken bricks, he searched his mind for some rational explanation of the abhorrence he shared with Mrs. Clarke for the Buddhist ruins. For his part he could only admit that he had taken a hatred to these reminders of an ancient faith for no intelligible reason; whereas Mrs. Clarke could claim definite grounds for her repugnance. To put it colloquially, she owed them a grudge, for had not Buddhism robbed her, indirectly, of her high purpose in life, with the result that, apart from the radical difference of its dogmas to Christianity, she had come to regard the whole creed as savouring of evil, investing it with some sinister power born of her own unfortunate experience and fostered by a brooding imagination. He could understand poor Mrs. Clarke’s detestation of these decayed memorials of a religion that had blighted her hopes, driven her, so to speak, into a corner; but why *he* should be filled with such animosity whenever he looked at or thought of the harmless though certainly unsightly relics of a dead past, it was beyond him to fathom. Mere unsightliness would hardly seem sufficient excuse! His will rebelled against the dim tyranny; there must be some antidote; perhaps if he were to make a real effort to study the books he had bought to please Leila, and so far had never forced himself to read, they might possibly help him to conquer the absurd antipathy that he felt was becoming a sort of obsession. As he re-entered the bungalow he glanced at the clock; there wanted some three hours to dinner-time. Should he go out with his gun and the dogs, or should he attack the volumes piled on a stone shelf let into the wall of the dwelling-room? A sudden recollection of Everest’s friendship with Leila, quite as much as the desire to overcome his aversion to the ruins, decided him to choose study rather than sport; he was reluctantly conscious of an almost childish longing to “get even” in some way with Everest. He wanted, when writing to Leila, to display some fair knowledge of Buddhist doctrine and history; to insinuate that he was becoming just as keen as Everest on the subject. Petulantly he dislodged some of the books, threw them on the floor within reach of his hand beside a low comfortable chair in which he settled himself to read. Buster and Brown, puzzled by such unusual behaviour on the part of their master, just when there was time for a good walk before nightfall, fidgeted around him, ran backwards and forwards from his chair to the open doors, whined protests, until he shouted at them; when with stealth they repaired to his bedroom and against all orders curled themselves up on his bed. In the peaceful silence that followed their exit Stanford opened one book after another, dipping into the pages. All began, more or less, with the same familiar tale; how, some five-and-twenty centuries ago, a young Indian prince had renounced riches and domestic felicity, impelled forth by a passion of pity for the sufferings of his fellow-creatures, in a desperate search for some spiritual means of liberating mankind from the trammels of misery and sin; a striving after truth, moral strength, peace, and the way of salvation. Stanford knew that much already, and was tired of the story; but he lingered over the words of one writer who had set out to draw attention to the extraordinary resemblance between the circumstances recorded as having preceded and followed the birth of both the Buddha and the Christ—Maya and Mary, the heaven-selected mothers of a heaven-born child; the star in the east, the song of the angels, the visit of the sages to the holy infant; all the attendant signs and wonders. Then the strange similarity of the sayings, the miracles, the parables accredited to the two great thinkers. “I am the Eye of the World,” said Buddha. “I am the Light of the World,” said Christ. There seemed no denying that many of the chronicles were fundamentally alike; there they were, though in different forms: the sower, the grain of mustard seed, the woman at the well, the prodigal son, the marriage feast, the man born blind. The author contended fiercely that Buddha alone had discovered the root of all evil, and the only cure—Individual Effort; so relieving mankind from the terrors of death long before Christ was ever thought of. He reminded his readers that at the time of Christ’s coming the doctrine of a being sent down from heaven for the deliverance of the human race was already centuries old farther east; and he asserted that Christianity was but a plagiarism of the Buddhist faith. Stanford passed on to yet another theory—that Buddhism was a creed that, while fraught with charity and love, was essentially agnostic, knowing no God; that Buddha’s object had been to fight the oppression of Brahminism and Caste, and the Nature deities of his time compared with whom even man was more moral; and that though he had striven, with what temporary success all the world now knew, to combat this earthly tyranny, preaching brotherhood, self-sacrifice, humility of heart, he had made the mistake of placing reliance on the human will rather than on aid from Above. Therefore Buddhism had ultimately been driven from the land that had seen its birth and its glory; Brahminism had triumphed in the end. A third work dealt with the prophetic nature of Buddhism. claiming that it was a divinely intended forerunner of the true Enlightenment to follow, reaching its final and full development in Christianity. Among other items of evidence quoted in support of this argument was an account of the discovery in a stupa of images exemplifying the seven incarnations of a long line of Teachers, the seventh image representing the Gautama Buddha of history: while there was yet an eighth little statue, quite different from the rest, fashioned in lighter coloured metal, and portrayed with long hair—surely the Buddha, otherwise the Christ, to come? Stanford threw down this last book; sighed wearily. The whole question was very confusing; and after all, what did it signify whether people believed in Christianity, Buddhism, Mohammedanism, or any other religion, as long as they behaved themselves decently. He knew he hadn’t tried to behave himself, beyond observing certain outward conventionalities, until he met Leila; but no one could accuse him of having done anything really reprehensible since she had come into his life; and surely his acceptance of his present mode of existence could be counted as a species of self-sacrifice, even though he had followed it for her sake, and not from any spiritual motive? At the same time he felt vaguely disquieted, as if something were wanting. He asked himself—what did he believe? He had never thought about it till now; and, damn it all, why should he worry?—he only wanted to feel worthy of Leila; and if he did nothing to make her ashamed of him, wasn’t he as good as any saint in history or fiction, none of whom, he wouldn’t mind betting, had been exposed to such temptations as he, in his time, had experienced! In an access of mental exasperation he leaned over the side of his chair and shuffled the books till he found one that was concerned solely with the archaeological side of the subject; and he plunged with relief into reports of surveys, plans, measurements, diameters, the sinking of shafts, identification of localities, translations of inscriptions that to the lay mind conveyed little or nothing. He examined drawings and photographs of broken statues, carved pillars, groups of stone figures, all more or less defaced and imperfect. The long lists and descriptions of articles found in the relic chambers of various stupas proved more interesting—urns and vases and coffers containing treasures; pearls of many sizes, drilled beads, impressions in gold-leaf of elephants, lions, birds, the Swastika (oldest emblem of eternity); little gold stars and flowers, precious stones exquisitely cut. Among the men of those days there must have been highly trained lapidaries! And this was the kind of thing, reflected Stanford, that enthralled Everest and Leila! None of it enthralled *him*; yet he read on attentively, and after dinner that night he composed a passage in his letter to Leila that he flattered himself could hardly have been beaten by Everest as far as interest in Buddhist remains was concerned— adding, with truth, that lately he had been reading quite a lot on the subject, and (without truth) that now he could quite understand its fascination. “You will remember,” he went on, “my mentioning in my letter from Khari a fellow called Everest who is also keen on Buddhist questions, but I hadn’t tumbled to the fact, until he came out here to-day with Mrs. Bowyer and the Platt lot, that he knew *you*. What is your feeling towards him? He seems a very good sort. He hopes to be sent here by Government next autumn to excavate the mound, and in that case of course I should put him up. Then he gave her an entertaining account of the day’s events, with certain omissions—latencies which would indeed have been difficult to transcribe; impossible to hint at the cause of Anatta’s behaviour, and Freda’s pretence of a sprained ankle!—equally impossible to touch upon his own feelings towards Everest, and the strained situation in the bedroom when Everest had recognized her photograph; all the subtle undercurrents that had swirled beneath the surface of actual facts. He could only chronicle incidents; the success of the tiffin, Miss Platt’s accident which mercifully had proved slight; Mrs. Clarke’s kindness in helping him to entertain his guests; little Anatta’s delight in revisiting her old home, and how truly dreadful the poor child had looked in her European get-up! It was a false summary, as Stanford knew in his heart; and he felt a traitor to the woman he loved as he folded it up and directed the envelope. If only he could *see* her, *tell* her things! Panic assailed him that their intimacy was waning, that subconsciously they were drifting further apart. He did not know her thoughts, she never touched in her letters on the future; and of late he himself had almost ceased to do so. That she was genuinely interested in his work, in his welfare, his daily life, he did not doubt, bless her! But would her interest ever deepen into anything warmer—did she dread or look forward to the time when he should again hold her hand, gaze into her eyes, asking for the answer to the question she had promised he might put to her? He felt a devouring desire to rush home, then and there, that he might know for certain; and restlessly he wandered about the great room. Little bits of silver paper lay on the floor where Freda had scattered them from the box of sweets; at least he and Freda had something in common—a love of pleasure and idleness, a weakness for the present, as long as the present sufficed! And what about Anatta, whose beauty and little pagan spirit stirred his worst senses! Could he ever rise to the moral heights that Leila had set him to scale? Was it worth the “individual effort” when in the end she might turn him down—and small blame to her if she did! Scraps of quotations from the books he had read that evening flickered through his mind: “The extinction of self is salvation.” “Life is an error, a dream, a delusion; see things as they are and you will be comforted.” “Happy is he who has ceased to live for pleasure.” Seeing things as they were certainly was no comfort to him at present! and what happiness could he gain by self-sacrifice, renunciation of pleasure, if practised merely for a chimerical reward after death? Leila alone could open the door to happiness for him; *she* dominated the purpose of his life! He reflected, cynically, that no doubt he was “a man born blind,” since he could not perceive that self-sacrifice was worth anything unless reward was to be obtained on this earth! He caught himself looking back on the pleasures he had “renounced,” and felt a martyr as he reviewed them; yet if he should ever win his reward—Leila as his willing mate—no sacrifice, no misery would have been too hard. Then he fell to wondering what he should do if, when the time came for her decision, she felt she could not marry him. Go back to Jasâni, to loneliness, to Buddhist ruins? Never! The sale of Jasâni would fetch a large sum of money, enough for a riotous ride to the Devil! Fevered, distressed by this tumult of thought, he went out into the veranda, feeling the need for fresh air; the room seemed to have become close, though the wood fire had died down—he had forgotten to replenish it; and the stillness within and without pressed on his nerves. He looked into impenetrable darkness; thank goodness he could not distinguish the mound. There was some change in the atmosphere, the darkness was not altogether that of the night, no stars were visible; but as an odour of moisture met his nostrils he realized that clouds covered the sky, must have massed silently, indomitably, since sunset. Rain was coming! He ran down the steps, inhaling the damp air; held up his face, welcoming the first few irregular drops that fell on to it—waiting for more. And when presently they dropped thick and fast, hitting the ground sharply, steadily, answered by a grateful fragrance from the dry soil, he found himself rejoicing —rejoicing for the safety of the crops, the food for the people on his land; and as perforce he withdrew from the strong, life-giving downpour, he felt curiously elated and consoled. It was as if Nature had come to his aid, washing away his doubts and sad thoughts, filling his mind with hope and encouragement. He and Babu Narain Singh would have much to discuss and decide to-morrow, for here was no temporary shower; this time the clouds meant business, meant to render the whole district drunk with water. What a mercy that all anxiety for the spring harvest should be over. Leila —Leila would be glad too! That night proved a sort of mental tonic to Stanford, revived his drooping spirits, cast out the devils of depression, partially relieved him in some mysterious manner of his insensate distaste for the ruins and the mound; a calm seemed to settle on his spirit, and he went about his work with renewed vigour and interest. He made no attempt to arrive at the cause of the change; he was only too thankful to find himself engrossed with accounts and returns, inspections, experiments; indulgences towards deserving tenants, arbitration between quarrelsome neighbours, the thousand and one matters that needed his attention now that Serrano’s rather arbitrary management was removed. Narain Singh, the babu, was a painstaking person, but disinclined for responsibility; and as Stanford progressed with his knowledge of the language and the local patois, he found himself able to rely with greater confidence on his own judgment. The old *munshi* became positively cock-a-whoop, for his pupil was actually learning to write in the vernacular, and he made no further allusion to sick relatives or domestic anxieties at Cawnpore now that his company on dangerous expeditions in the dog-cart was not likely to be demanded. The winter rains had been satisfactory, neither too much nor too little; days and weeks passed peacefully for Stanford, swiftly as well, owing in part to the regularity of his occupations. He lived in the present, in his work and his pastimes—the morning rides of inspections, the hours spent over reports and accounts with Narain Singh, the lessons with the *munshi*, the shooting in the evenings. Later came the necessity for a run into Khari on business; but he found he had little desire to stay there beyond a couple of days, during which he played tennis at the club, and dined with the Bowyers, heard that Freda Platt was engaged to be married to an elderly magnate of the Civil Service, much to the delight of her family, and apparently to her own. “The dear child writes most happily about it all,” Mrs. Bowyer informed him, relieved to observe that the great news did not seem to depress poor Mr. Stanford as she had feared it might; for she had never quite divested her mind of the delusion that Mr. Stanford had been “smitten” with Freda. The magistrate threw a glance of amused understanding at their guest’s cheerful countenance. “It would be rather remarkable if she didn’t,” he said. “As a Commissioner’s wife Freda will have plenty of money to spend on her pet indulgences, and can be as lazy as she pleases. From all accounts her future husband is also a gourmand; let us hope it will be a case of the survival of the fattest.” “Oh! George!” groaned his wife. Stanford heard also that Mr. Everest was getting on well in his new sphere of work; that he was going on three months’ leave when the rains broke, to return refreshed for the autumn campaign of Buddhist excavations wherever he might be sent to undertake them. This last piece of intelligence did disturb Stanford; the Bowyers both wondered why he should look so glum when it was imparted to him, though he expressed interest, and added that he hoped Everest might succeed in inducing the authorities to sanction a start with Jasâni. He was seized with apprehension that Everest might contrive to see Leila while at home, and he conjured up visions of intimate talks between the two, the revival of a friendship which Leila, in her answer to his letter ask ing her opinion of Everest, would seem to have admitted. “I liked him very much,” she had written, “and I hope some day I shall see him again.” He returned to Jasâni once more a prey to vague jealousy of Everest; it broke into his contentment, drove him to call on the Clarkes without giving them warning, only to find that Mrs. Clarke and Anatta were absent on a short visit to the nearest Mission station. Mr. Clarke barely concealed a spiteful satisfaction at the disappointment of his guest; and over innumerable whiskies-and-sodas, served in the veranda, he took the opportunity to complain of his misfortune in being forced to provide shelter, not only for a crazy father-in-law, but for an alien pest in addition. “My wife has quite enough to do looking after the house and the garden and the servants, not to mention myself, without a couple of torments into the bargain. I put up with the old man because she wouldn’t marry me until I promised to do so. I never thought he would live all these years. If you could see him at his jiggery-pokery, twirling his praying-wheel, counting his beads, muttering gibberish, eating off the floor! I wish he was dead. He’s got the best room in the house, and thank goodness he mostly keeps to it; but when it comes to a semi-Burmese little devil as.well—” He spread out his thick hands and humped his shoulders in a spasm of disgust. “I am nowhere and nothing,” he continued bitterly. “I work to give the whole lot of them all they want, and what do *I* get out of it?” The “pegs” he drank one after the other appeared to depress rather than liven him. “I am sure,” said Stanford awkwardly, “that your wife appreciates all your efforts, and your kindness.” But Mr. Clarke only looked gloomily out over the blazing garden, then up at the tawny sky that with the approach of the hot weather had taken on a dust-red hue, sombre, prophetic of the merciless heat that was at hand. The sun was sinking; a smell of mango-blossom permeated the atmosphere; warm and bitter scents floated into the veranda of the deeply thatched bungalow, the stillness of the evening was intense. Presently, as though he had not heard Stanford’s stiff little speech, he said: “The most infernal time of the year is upon us. *You* don’t know yet what it can be like!—how the heat drives one mad, how one longs for grey skies and green fields. I can’t count the years since I left England, and I don’t suppose I shall ever see England again. . . .” The man’s voice was so dull and dreary, just a thinking aloud, that Stanford sat silent; the words called for no reply. It was only when Clarke suddenly burst into a vicious half-tipsy diatribe against women that he rose, telling himself that he could stick it no longer. “Well, I must be going,” he interrupted, holding out his hand. “Please give my salaams to the mem-sahib when she comes back, and say how sorry I am to have missed her.” “And what about the little bit of sweet-meat?” inquired Clarke, with a leer that drove Stanford down the steps to where his horse and syce awaited him in the shade of a tree; he was thankful he had left Buster and Brown at home in spite of their heartrending appeals—they might have delayed his departure. He did not even look back at the intolerable creature whose coarse laugh followed him as he rode off at a gallop; yet he could not help feeling a measure of compassion for Clarke! ## Chapter IX For the next fortnight or so Stanford resigned himself to a turmoil of preparations exacted by his domestic staff against the coming of the hot weather. Every one, from his head servant downwards, attacked him over one thing or another in this connexion; but since it was all for his ultimate comfort he could hardly complain. Punkahs, it seemed, must be provided for every room, the Bibi having been content with less civilized arrangements; “khus-khus” grass screens had to be made ready to fit the doorways before the west wind should begin to blow in dead earnest, and extra earthenware vessels were required to hold the water for damping the screens; he was urged to order stout cane blinds to keep the sun off the verandas; told that new gratings were a necessity for the bath-water outlets, to prevent snakes from crawling through to cool themselves in the bathrooms. The bearer purchased what appeared to be miles of coarse calico and a bale of some scarlet material for the making of punkah frills, and two bent-backed “tailors” arrived, wearing horn spectacles, who created a distracting clatter with their sewing machines. Untidy looking individuals with scaffolding invaded the bungalow, that hooks for the suspension of punkah frames might be affixed to the ceilings; and a concourse of coolies collected daily in the compound, aspirants for service as punkah-pullers. Even Babu Narain Singh pursued him with price lists and advertisements, descanting upon the advantages of thermantidotes and ice machines. Evidently the “hot weather” was an expensive season! But tiresome as it all was while it lasted, Stanford was more than thankful for the various alleviations once the heat really set in. He never could have imagined such heat; and he marvelled how dwellers in the country lived through it year after year, particularly women and children. Mrs. Clarke, for example—she had told him she never went to the hills; and Mrs. Bowyer always “stayed down” with her husband. Anatta, too, had survived it from her birth, but then Anatta was an Eastern. Leila had experienced two hot weathers, and she had not complained when speaking to him of her time in India. Then why should he, with every device at his command to mitigate discomfort, having sound health and strength, find the circumstances so intolerable? He chafed at the long hours spent perforce within doors, still more at the stifling nights during which he often lay awake listening to the howls of the jackals hunting across the plains, the monotonous murmur of voices in the compound—(did native servants, other than punkah coolies, never sleep save between twelve and two o’clock in the daytime?) If the punkah ceased swaying even for five minutes he was tortured by mosquitoes, and there was nothing for it but to get up and shout remonstrances at a drowsy figure perched outside on an inverted packing-case. Always he felt a brute as the half-naked coolie sprang guiltily to attention, jerking the rope with apologetic violence. At dawn he would rise, unrefreshed; and if he slept in the afternoon, a habit that to his English ideas seemed unnatural, he awoke weary, his pulses a-throb, his mouth dry, an ache in his bones. But above all he found the loneliness most trying; for weeks now he had uttered no word in his own tongue except to himself, and at last in desperation he sent a note to Mrs. Clarke asking her if she couldn’t manage to come over and spent part of a day with him. What matter, he thought, if she brought Anatta—anything was better than this unbroken solitude. Mrs. Clarke came, and partly to his relief, partly to his disappointment, she did not bring Anatta. “My husband,” she told him, “has had to go down country on business and won’t be back till to-morrow. Anatta is all right with my father, though of course she wanted to come, poor little soul!” He inferred that she would not have left Anatta had Clarke been at home!—felt also that she had understood his appeal for company and had recognized that Anatta might have disturbed rather than have conduced to the pleasure of their intercourse. Probably Mrs. Clarke had welcomed this opportunity for a little relaxation on her own account during Clarke’s absence, with every intention at the same time of doing himself a good turn. She had arrived soon after sunrise. They sat talking in the veranda, over a tea-tray. Doves cooed from the roof, and Stanford wondered why the familiar sound should of a sudden recall to his mind that afternoon when he had sat talking with another companion in a very different environment—with Leila Wylde, on the nose of the pier at Littlepool-on-Sea! Then he remembered the pigeons, and how they had strutted and cooed over the boards, pecking at scraps of torn paper. He had those scraps still, locked away. He visioned the glow of the birds’ plumage in the sunlight, heard the echo of his own voice telling Leila that if he ever sent back to her the remnants of his audacious love letter, it would mean that he had lost heart, had “gone under.” Well, so far it hadn’t come to that! And now he released the memory of that hour when he had laid the foundation of an understanding with the girl he loved; not only that, he began at the beginning and confided the whole story to Mrs. Clarke. “Now you know,” he concluded, “why I am at Jasâni!” Encouraged by his listener’s attention he went further, confessing his senseless, yet unsuppressible jealousy of Everest, merely because friendship had existed between Everest and Leila; and how he dreaded that the two might meet at home. “But if they do meet,” said Mrs. Clarke, “what are you afraid of?” “She might fall in love with him—he is just the kind of fellow she ought to marry, and I know he’s in love with her. Oh! no doubt I’m an ass to talk like this, but the whole position is so uncertain. She’s bound to me by no promise, beyond her permission to ask her some day if she will be my wife; it was all I could expect of her, considering—considering everything.” Mrs. Clarke pondered. “You would wish her to be happy, since you care for her so much?” she suggested. “Of course I wish her to be happy,” he argued, “but I want her to be happy with *me!* What is the use of my slaving away in this God-forgotten spot if she marries some other man in the end?” “My feeling is,” said Mrs. Clarke slowly, “that Miss Wylde had no business to send you out here to an uncongenial existence with such slender incentive.” At once he was up in arms. “Leila knew what she was doing,” he declared defensively, “Leila knew nothing else would give me the chance to pull round and make good. It’s up to me to show her she was right. If I can’t, if I fail, it will be my own fault, and I should never attempt to see her again.” “In what way could you fail?” Involuntarily he thought of Anatta, but he thrust the thought from his mind; that was a danger he could not possibly explain to Mrs. Clarke, and it was altogether so vague, so much in the background, that he felt justified in regarding it as not there. He spoke rapidly, nervously, of his distaste for the work and the banishment, his lack of confidence in his own strength of will to continue it—conscious all the time that he was making out a weak case; while Mrs. Clarke sat silent, looking away at the ruins. Impatience of her passivity seized him. Why couldn’t she give him some encouragement, declare she felt certain all would come right, assert her belief that Leila must care for him else why should she write to him every week, why should it matter to her what he did or what hap pened to him; that of a surety, if he came up to her expectations, she would wish to be his wife? If only Mrs. Clarke would back him up in all he wanted to believe, what comfort she would convey to his sore heart! Yet there she sat, the picture of dejection, staring out at the hideous mound, not in the least alive to all he wanted her so badly to say! “Do tell me what you thought of Everest,” he demanded abruptly. She turned to him vacantly, as though wrenching her gaze with reluctance from the ruins; and he felt that she had not heard what he said, had caught only the sound of his voice. He was struck with a hopeless conviction that the unhappy woman had small space to spare in her heart for his troubles, overcrowded as it was with her own. He remembered the odious interview he had endured with her husband but a few weeks back, and the natural generosity that lay beneath his selfish instincts rose to the surface, quelling his desire to force her interest in his own affairs. Instead of repeating his question he substituted some query concerning their scheme for a flower garden at Jasâni; at least he would do his best to render her time with him pleasant and happy, and he threw himself into a discussion on the subject, with the result that Mrs. Clarke brightened, became a different being, and together they made a tour of the compound, exchanging views as to soil, and facilities for irrigation. Then, wandering into the mango grove, they stood beside the tomb of the Bibi and her English husband, and Mrs. Clarke began to talk of Anatta. She dwelt upon the responsibility she had incurred by promising the Bibi protection for the child in the event of the old lady’s death; hinted at the difficulties caused by her husband’s jealous resentment at the attention she felt bound to give Anatta. “I feel now that perhaps I had forgotten his goodness in giving a home to my poor father—it was all so long ago. Perhaps I had no right to expect him to give shelter to Anatta as well. It was thoughtless of me, selfish, but I do so love young things, plants and animals and children! If anything were to happen to me—” Her pause implied that she did not know what would happen to Anatta. Neither did Stanford, and he had no suggestion to put forward. “Why should anything happen to you?” he said with forced levity. He thought it more likely that something would happen to Clarke if he continued to imbibe unlimited pegs! She sighed, obviously overburdened with some premonition of disaster, and her mood infected Stanford with a nameless depression, quite outside his own cause for discontentment. He repented having asked Mrs. Clarke to pay him a visit, felt he would be glad to see her go; and he guided her back to the bungalow for a rest in the spare room, providing her with a book, till the midday heat should be over, only too anxious for the moment of her departure. As he saw her off, late in the hot evening, he was conscious of relief; she had done him no good, only revived his fear that somehow, in the future, Anatta would prove a problem to be faced; he cursed the moment when he had set eyes on Anatta! ## Chapter X Before very long chance favoured Stanford with a distraction from the nursing of his grievances; one that he could welcome with a comfortable conscience. On an evening when he was feeling more than usually out of tune with his surroundings, a party consisting of three sportsmen appeared with tents and camp paraphernalia, en route for the forest in quest of big game. They had come from a far-away cantonment, marching across country after leaving the railway, and begged permission to halt in the compound for the night. Joyfully he invited them to dine with him, to make every use of his bungalow. Two were officers on leave from their regiments, the third a “globe trotter” recently from England, athirst for adventure, eager to bag any and every kind of wild beast; yet he brought with him a whiff of London life that roused Stanford’s memories, and he revelled in reminiscences of restaurants, theatres, the discovery of mutual acquaintances, as the four of them sat in pleasant companionship far into the night. At the suggestion of his guests Stanford agreed readily to join the expedition; no reason why he shouldn’t. Narain Singh could attend to business for the time being. And in high spirits he set out with them next morning just as the burning sun climbed into the hard blue heavens. The long, dusty ride led eventually to dense groves that sloped down to the river bed, gaps affording glimpses of shingly patches; monkeys whooped and sprang among the interlacing branches of the huge trees; pea-fowl screamed and flapped in heavy flights, and a little old man, who looked as if he might have been dug out of a prehistoric grave in a perfect state of preservation, presented himself timidly at the camp to impart “tiger news.” That night an orange-coloured full moon converted the jungle into a veritable fairyland, and Stanford, perched in the fork of a tree overlooking a drinking pool, waited, waited breathless, for the coming of a great beast to slake its thirst after having gorged its fill on the carcase of its latest prey, perhaps a deer, perhaps a buffalo, possibly a human victim! He felt that never afterwards would he lose the impression of that thrilling period of suspense. The hot night air was charged with strange movement, stealthy sound; insects tapped on his face and his hands; sweat trickled from his forehead, ran down his body. Then his pores seemed to close, to dry up, as a long, shadowy form crept from the undergrowth to the edge of the pool, and a slow lap-lap smote on his hearing. He pressed the trigger of his rifle; simultaneously three other shots rang out from neighbouring trees, followed by a shattering roar of rage and pain as a big tiger rolled over and over, and at last lay motionless on a strip of sand—a magnificent beast, gloriously striped, in its full prime. No one could say whose bullet had actually killed the tiger. What matter? Between them they had bagged him, and by general consent the skin was assigned to the sportsman from England. Each member of the little party could count confidently on claiming at least one skin in his turn, for it seemed that the locality swarmed with tigers; a gorgeous time lay ahead! No longer did Stanford curse the heat and all its trials. Let the sun scorch, let the hot dry dust sear his throat and his nostrils, let the fierce west wind blow all day long as from a furnace. In the jungle were compensations! But it was not until the time came when he had bidden farewell to the three men who had been his companions during this incomparable interlude, not until he had seen them off at dawn from Jasâni on their return journey, that he realized to the full how intensely he had enjoyed the brief space of excitement; all the pleasurable gratifications of the hunting instincts in man, the indescribable elemental influences of the jungle, the vistas of silent, unbroken forest; all the encounters with dangerous creatures, from the lord of the jungle himself to the boa constrictor swaying with forked tongue and flat, evil head from a tree; the sly panther lying along a branch ready to spring; the wild dog, red-coated, cunning, with its unspeakable method of blinding its foe, a weapon from which even the tiger was well known to shrink; the fierce boar with his little red eyes and sharp, gleaming tusks. Once more alone, the mental tonic of the galvanizing experiences kept depression at bay for a time. Then came reaction. Again he felt inert, unable to take interest in his work, and a vicious little attack of malaria lowered his vitality. The heat increased with the approach of the monsoon, the west wind ceased to blow, and wet screens were useless. His skin became covered with “prickly heat”; and there was no one to talk to except Narain Singh and the old *munshi*, nothing to look for save the English mail, and he found himself writing to Leila more briefly since he had nothing particular to chronicle, and pride forbade more than passing allusions to the misery of his situation. Now monstrous purple clouds began to gather on the horizon, to disperse, to mass again, filling the atmosphere with a heavy moisture that was enervating, depleted his energy. And all the time the mound met his gaze, mocking, merciless in its age-old decay: hatred of its presence, the miserable little trees sprouting from its summit, the tough grass that covered its sides, returned with renewed vigour, and weakly he surrendered to the indeterminate spell; went about his work dejected, submissive. Narain Singh, observing his employer’s depression, did his best in quaint babu-English to administer encouragement; said that the interval before the rains should break was “ordeal to humans both man and beast no doubt,” but that once the rain came there would be “too much relief.” The ordeal, however, did not appear to affect Narain Singh, nor to incommode the rest of the “humans” connected with the establishment, other than its chief. The daily routine continued with monotonous regularity; meals were well cooked and well served, though often Stanford left them untouched; the Estate flourished, tenants seemed content: each day passed much like another. Only Buster and Brown showed symptoms of sharing their master’s sufferings. They lay about listlessly, permitted squirrels and crows to invade the veranda and insult them: did not even attempt to keep the vulgar members of the pack in order when from a sense of duty Stanford conducted them all forth for exercise combined with sport in the early mornings. Neither jackals nor foxes, nor the impudence of inferior colleagues could raise their spirits. And then, injury to insult, Buster got stung by a scorpion. It happened one stifling night when a mongoose had found its way into Stanford’s bedroom to scuttle chit chittering along the edge of the matting. This was too much, and the dogs sprang from their baskets to evict the feathery, pink-nosed intruder, chasing it into the back veranda. Then came yelps of agony that drew Stanford in haste from his bed, lantern in hand, to find Buster crumpled up on the top of the steps—to see a black, crab like object, with forked tail spitefully erect, skate out of sight among the flower-pots. He roused the compound, demanding remedies, but the servants seemed to know of no cure beyond exasperating charms and spells, and Buster’s plight appeared to be hopeless until Narain Singh arrived on the scene, clad in a loin cloth, a long lock of hair depending from his turban-less scalp, and advised a poultice of ipecacuanha. “All same,” he remarked with discouraging concern, “a scorpion will cause death of child, therefore, how much less a canine!” However, the said drug produced from the sahib’s medicine chest, brought almost instant relief to the sufferer. Buster’s piercing cries gradually gave way to little plaints of self-pity, and before long he was lying comforted though still trembling, at the foot of his master’s bed, while the puzzled and unhappy Brown could only be calmed by permission to share the coveted privilege. Thus peace was restored, and when the last of the sympathetic audience had departed, Stanford picked up his lantern and went to get himself a drink of soda-water before attempting to settle down for the rest of the night. He had hardly entered the dining-room when he thought he caught a faint sound proceeding from the front of the bungalow. Was it his fancy? He waited. A slight breeze arose, whispered past; a door banged, the heat thickened. Again he felt sure he had heard something quite apart from the sudden rustle of wind, nothing to do with the recent commotion caused by poor Buster’s calamity. Again he listened, his senses acute in the murk of the night that was heavy with Nature’s intention. Perhaps a dust storm was brewing? Then, driven by the conviction that the sound was beside such conclusions, he traversed the silent spaces of the great house, pausing, harkening— There it was, a quavering, piteous cry, unmistakably human, and he hastened to the front of the building. Holding the lantern aloft, he made out two figures, half sitting, half lying exhausted on the steps. At that moment the wind rose again, this time with violence, swirling about the walls, whipping the cane blinds, fluttering the sparse garments of the pair who lay practically at his feet, both helpless, fainting, clinging to each other and to the rough steps. Anatta! Anatta, and Mrs. Clarke’s crazy old father! “Anatta!” he cried, dismayed. And as she whimpered piteously in answer, he set down the lantern, dragged her into shelter, returned to help the old man, who groaned and muttered, to his feet; and then they were all smothered in a thick cloud of dust that beat in upon them, while a terrific clap of thunder shook the earth, and the lantern went out. The next few minutes were a nightmare to Stanford; the darkness, the wind and the dust, the unaccountable presence of the old man and the girl, his own feeling of impotence as the drugget rose from the floor of the ver anda like a wave in the wind, and he heard crash after crash within the house, ornaments, furniture overturning. He shouted, but his voice was drowned in the tumult, and only close to his ear came the sound of Anatta weep ing. He groped towards the sound, stumbled against the chair in which he had placed her, found her little hands, held them tight, felt her head pressed to his shoulder. So they remained, scarcely able to breathe for the wind and the dust, till suddenly, as if at a word of com mand, the storm ceased. The strange silence was stupefying, unnatural, and for a space none of them moved; then down came the rain in a solid sheet, smiting the earth with a force that was astounding, and servants came running through the bungalow, bearing lights, calling to each other. “Why did you not come sooner?” scolded Stanford; during the one or two other dust storms he had experienced the whole of his domestic staff had bustled about, shutting doors, taking precautions. But they paid small heed to his angry reproaches, being consumed with amazement at the sight of the sahib’s unexpected companions. “Now then!” he commanded, “bring brandy, bring hot milk, food, light all the lamps.” The men fled to do his bidding, and Stanford turned his whole attention to his two wretched guests, helped them into the sitting-room that looked as if it had been subjected to an earthquake, established Anatta on the sofa, and the old man in a comfortable chair. He made no attempt to question either of them, allowed them to rest where he put them, their eyes closed, till he had dosed them both with brandy. The old man attempted protest, but was too weak to make definite resistance; Anatta. gulped down the liquid obediently, and was the first to recover, and amid choking sobs she endeavoured to tell Stanford why she and “Grandpa” had come to Jasâni. “Dead!” she kept repeating, “Dead!” “Who is dead?” inquired Stanford patiently, his heart heavy with foreboding; he felt he knew already, and bit by bit, to his grief, he gathered from Anatta that Mrs. Clarke had died in her sleep the night before last, that Clarke had been raving drunk from the time of the tragic discovery, so terrorizing his father-in-law and his dead wife’s little ward that the pair had set forth secretly early that morning, on foot, for Jasâni, had lost their way, had been wandering, walking, ever since. “Grandpa want to go to the mound,” stammered Anatta hysterically, in a mixture of English and Hindustani. “Anatta say no; go to Jasâni-sahib, what else? What good the mound—foolish talk! Oh! Jasâni-sahib, let us stay by thee. This is a terrible calamity!” As indeed it was!—not only for Anatta and her “grandpa,” but for himself, as Stanford recognized ruefully. What was he to do with the helpless pair! He remembered poor Mrs. Clarke’s words: “If anything were to happen to me—” and her subsequent pause, implying that she did not know what would happen to Anatta. It struck him now that she had not taken the fate of her father into consideration when contemplating the possibility of her death. He looked across at the huddled up form of the old man in the shabby yellow dressing gown, rough sandals on his outstretched feet. The bald skull gleamed in the lamplight; it was a fine head, impressive in its classical outline and bony ascetic features. Of a sudden, as though affected unconsciously by Stanford’s attentive gaze, he began to babble deliriously in a thin, cracked voice, staring into space. “The four noble truths! Pity me not, pity rather those who are burdened with the cares of riches. Oh! misguided hearts. But the Blessed One, the Blessed One, the Master, the Saviour! . . . This body born in corruption . . . Seek deliverance, sever all ties. Many births—the middle path—right effort—sacrifice!” The skeleton hands waved to and fro feebly, and Stanford hastened to him, tried to feed him; but it was a difficult business, for continually the poor old creature pushed aside the spoon, spilling the nourishment, never ceased babbling, until, with a sigh, his chin dropped, and he was silent. Stanford laid his hand on the thin wrist, felt the fluttering pulse. Anatta scrambled from the couch; for the moment her youth and vitality had conquered fatigue. She leaned against Stanford, being still uncertain on her feet, as she looked down on the unconscious form. “Dead,” she cried, her voice shrill with excitement, “dead like my Ma-ma, better for him, better for my Ma-ma, better for me. Now I stay always, always, with Jasâni sahib.” “He is not dead,” said Stanford, appalled at her callousness; then, before he had a chance to interfere, she had made a dart at the pocket of the yellow dressing gown and extracted a small package, which she held to her breast defensively, staring at Stanford with wild, defiant eyes. He elbowed her off; resumed his attempts to revive the old man. Anatta sank to the ground, where he left her, regardless of her strange behaviour, and called a servant to summon Narain Singh. Ever afterwards he felt grateful to Narain Singh for proving himself a pillar of strength; his help was of the most practical nature. Poor old “Grandpa” was put to bed in the Babu’s quarters; the cook’s wife was commandeered to look after Anatta in the spare room, and Stanford found himself free to take breath and review the perplexing situation. Now the temperature had dropped many degrees with the violent downpour which had given way to a steady fall; from without rose the frogs’ chorus, regular, triumphant, insistent; within, every insect seemed to emerge and join in the general pzean of welcome to the rain. While welcoming also, on his part, release from the overpowering heat, Stanford felt exhausted mentally and physically. An iced peg and a cigar failed to refresh him, and he sat benumbed in body and mind. He could not conceive how he was to grapple with the situation that had arisen. To send the pair back to Clarke’s factory was unthinkable; to give them shelter indefinitely was equally impossible. His heart failed him as he thought of Anatta making her home once more at Jasâni. Was ever fellow more hopelessly placed, more battered by Fate, than himself? It was beyond him at present to evolve any solution for the predicament, and he fell into an uneasy slumber, dreaming of Buddhist monks perambulating in an endless procession around a platform, clad in yellow robes, their bald pates illumined by some unearthly light, chanting in high, cracked voices: “The Blessed One! The Blessed One! The healer, the Saviour. Sever all ties, seek deliverance from this body born in corruption. Deliverance! Right effort! Sacrifice!” *** At dawn rain was still falling heavily; dripping figures, hooded in brown blankets, moved disconsolately about the compound. Indoors the atmosphere was thick and moist, tainted already with an odour of mildew. To Stanford his very clothes seemed damp and sticky as he dressed himself, feeling weary and down-hearted. It was some relief when Narain Singh reported that the old man was sleeping quietly after a restless night, and the cook’s wife, her face modestly hidden by her wrapper, sidled to the door of Anatta’s room to murmur, with an air of importance, that all was well with her charge. He caught a glimpse of the little figure curled up on the bed deep in slumber, and withdrew reassured. By the time he had breakfasted there came a pause in the downpour, the sun was pressing through the spongy muffle of cloud, and nothing need hinder his intention of riding over to Clarke’s factory; Narain Singh and the servants could be trusted to tend the exhausted pair of refugees. Once started he felt he might have been riding in a vast forcing-house beneath a thick glass roof; hot vapour rose from the earth to mingle with hot vapour from above—it was all one swelter, breathless, oppressive, saturating. A death-like stillness lay over the Clarke domain; mist swathed the indigo vats, the orchard, the garden. His calls were unanswered as he approached the bungalow and dismounted, tethering his horse to a tree; then he halted at the foot of the veranda steps, for on them, stiff and lifeless, he beheld the body of old Nelson the spaniel. The dog’s head was battered to a pulp. He went on up the steps, saw the parrot’s cage overturned on the floor; the bird lay beside it—strangled. The myna’s cage still hung on the wall, but it was empty, and the wicker door swung wide open. He looked back over his shoulder at the monkey’s habitation; that also was empty, and the chain with an unfastened collar at the end of it dangled from the pole. Lifting a cane blind he entered the sitting room, fearful as to what he might discover, but all was in order and in each room it was the same, nothing out of place; even the beds had been made. But the silence was ghastly, unnerving. What had Clarke done with his wife’s body? Where had he betaken himself? Puzzled and apprehensive, Stanford passed through the building, made his way to the outhouses, shouting his loudest; not a sound was forthcoming save the echo of his own voice. only in the stables he found the pair of tonga bullocks chewing chopped straw. A thorough search of the whole place revealed nothing enlightening and he could but conclude that the entire staff, every servant, every coolie, had fled panic-stricken to their homes. Such wholesale desertion, he knew, was not unusual among the serving class in India when influenced by fear, or resentment, perhaps a desire for revenge, even some trifling misunderstanding; in this case he had not a doubt that terror had driven every native from the premises. He wandered further, beyond the compound, to the edge of the cliff that overlooked the river, now swollen, eddying, swirling, rising rapidly, stained a dull yellow. Up stream the rain must have begun much earlier than at Jasâni. The deep, swift waters swept along, bearing islands of rubbish that twisted and writhed, helpless in the grip of the mighty current; entangled in brushwood, gyrating grotesquely, were carcasses of cattle, the legs standing up stiffly like stakes. Surely nothing living could survive, nothing dead could be recovered, once consigned to the turbulent, tempestuous flood. He stood, looking down at it all, nauseated by the grim suspicion that crept into his mind. Did the river hold the secret of Clarke’s disappearance? Had the wretched creature, maddened with sorrow and drink, cast himself and his wife’s corpse into the rushing, seething waters? Well—speculation was futile; with a sigh he turned back, his mind in confusion; as in a dream he traversed the bare space that lay between the cliff and the cultivated area, passed through the compound, instinctively avoiding the bungalow, pursued by a sense of horror. And to increase the tragic desolation a black mass of cloud had rolled up, darkening the sky, like a fierce army determined to defeat the struggling sunshine; another downpour was imminent. He shrank from the idea of taking shelter within the dwelling or outhouses, hastened to mount his horse and galloped off, racing the clouds; just possibly he might get home without a drenching. Furiously he rode over the heavy, squelching ground until, looking back, he realized that he had escaped the deluge he saw descending upon the tract of country he had left behind him, and in mercy to his mount he drew rein, rode on slowly, gave his mind over to consideration of the difficulties he must deal with . . . First, freakishly enough, he thought of the tonga bullocks, helpless, with but a scanty supply of fodder, no one to feed or water the poor beasts; he must send someone to bring them over to Jasâni; then a petulant resentment assailed him—why should he be forced to harbour animals and human beings that had no positive claim on him! Bullocks, an old lunatic, above all the girl Anatta; what in the name of Heaven was he to do with Anatta, heartless little pagan that she was, caring nothing for the loss of the kind, good woman who had mothered her, ready rather than other wise to welcome the death of the old man she called her Grandpa, so long as she herself could remain at Jasâni! Impossible to contemplate the prospect of Anatta’s com pany for an indefinite period; Anatta making herself at home, accepting him as her guardian, following him about, sharing his meals, all the time distracting him with her chatter, her laughter, her undeniable captivations. It was too much to expect of any ordinary man. Suddenly he remembered the little Mission colony that Mrs. Clarke had been wont to visit, taking Anatta with her; might they not consent to receive Anatta as a species of paying guest until the child’s future could be arranged for, legally, under the terms of the Bibi’s will? But he could not at the moment recollect if the Mission quarters lay on this side of the river; if situated on the opposite bank communication might be out of the question until the rains were over. Failing the missionaries, he must convey Anatta to Khari, hand her over to the guardianship of the magistrate and Shahamat Ali, but he felt averse from this course at the present juncture, it would seem cruel to transfer her all at once into the keeping of strangers; she knew the Mission people, and for the time should be happy in their care. As for the old man—let him remain at Jasâni, and welcome, in peace and comfort, likewise the tonga bullocks; but Anatta was quite another matter, the longer she was at Jasâni, the more difficult it would become to get rid of her. ## Chapter XI For the best part of forty-eight hours Anatta merely slept and fed like some starved and footsore animal. Then she began to flit about the bungalow, quietly, furtively, as though anxious to escape attention. Her behaviour surprised Stanford: instead of seeking his company she seemed to avoid it, barely responding to his fatherly advances. A place was always ready for her at his table, but so far she had elected to share the old man’s meals, which were served in a side veranda adjoining Narain Singh’s quarters. This unexpected state of affairs continued for the space of two or three days, during which rain pelted from the heavens without intermission, and prisoner as perforce Stanford was in the house, Anatta’s self-effacement came to him as an undeniable relief. He let her be, reflecting that no doubt she was suffering from shock—that sooner or later she would recover her spirits; he tried not to hope it might be later than sooner. The sight of her wan little face, when he caught occasional glimpses of it, touched his heart, though beyond careful consideration for her comfort, and kindly smiles when she played a sort of dejected bo-peep from behind curtains and round doorways he dared not go. Mingled with his pity was an uncomfortable apprehension that Miss Anatta might be but biding her time—awaiting the moment when all fear of banishment from Jasâni should be over. With good-natured reluctance Narain Singh looked after the old gentleman, whose memory seemed to have gone altogether, though his bodily condition improved. He took nourishment readily, even ate poultry and meat without protest, knowing no difference now between one form of diet and another. All day he sat fingering the rosary of carved beads that hung around his neck, staring into space, muttering unintelligibly: and for hours Anatta would squat silent and idle on a drugget at his feet. Something must be done. Stanford consulted Narain Singh, who jumped at the project of application to the Mission as a step towards ridding Jasâni of at least one of the unwelcome pair of guests. The Mission station, he was sure, lay on this side of the river though a long way off,—it might take two or even three days to get an answer; he added eagerly: “By all report, speaking as padre, it is best home for lost dogs—sheep—how do they say? Rain soon be stopping, message going without delay.” Stanford looked outwards; he and the babu were holding their consultation in the office at an early hour; yes, at last there seemed signs of a coming pause in the deluge, as if the clouds were about to draw breath. Even as he sat down to compose his appeal to the Mission folk the rain was falling less thickly, and by the time he had finished writing, it had well nigh ceased. Once the letter was started on its way in the charge, to all appearances, of nothing but a brown blanket and a pair of stout naked legs, Stanford turned his mind to further precautions; he must be ready with an alternative plan should the missionaries be unwilling or unable to receive Anatta. In any case it was time the Magistrate and Shahamat Ali were informed of what had happened; and he rather welcomed the excuse for a run into Khari. He felt stagnant; mildewed as his books and his boots; in need of some distraction. If ponies were posted out at once on the road he could be with the Bowyers by dinner-time, take advantage of their standing invitation to put up with them whenever he chose without giving notice beforehand. Purposely he slipped out for a stroll when his arrangements were completed: he had no wish to encounter Anatta before his departure, feeling as he did in the depths of his heart a sort of traitor towards her. He dreaded quite as much as he desired the critical moment when she must be told that he could keep her no longer at Jasâni. What a scene there would be! Making a wide detour of the bungalow, he visited the stables and the pack of dogs that greeted him uproariously. Instinctively he looked back towards the bungalow and beheld Buster and Brown on their way to the side veranda where Anatta and “Grandpa” would just at this hour be having breakfast; the greedy little couple disappeared, and presently a peal of childish laughter floated out on the damp air. So Anatta was recovering her spirits! He wondered ruefully how much higher they would have risen by the time he got back from Khari: the happier she became the more cruel he must feel in turning her out. For a while he wandered, passing through the mango grove that except for the heavy drip from the trees was dankly silent as a cavern, noted that the white dome of the tomb was stained with mouldy slime—it must be cleaned, re-whitewashed once the rains were over. And when would that be! not for many weary weeks. Emerging from the damp hot gloom he found himself walking in the direction of the mound, to his fancy the towering shapeless mass seemed to have swollen like a monstrous sponge, a rotting sponge, full of foul water! With that his thoughts turned resentfully to an item of news in Leila’s last letter—Mr. Everest was at Ealwood on a visit to friends (what convenient friends!) he had called, but unfortunately no one had been at home: however, they expected him to tea that afternoon, and next mail she would write all about it. Confound the fellow; who wanted to hear anything about Everest! Then it occurred to him that this week’s mail was just about due; he might pick it up at the Khari post office, at any rate leave orders that his letters and papers should be delivered at the Magistrate’s bungalow instead of going on to Jasâni as usual by the runners he employed. Something to look forward to, though he hoped Leila would not have filled her letter entirely with the history of Everest’s visit! The day passed slowly. He busied himself in the office, attempted a siesta, prowled about listening nervously for the sound of Anatta’s voice, until as he was on the point of starting for Khari, his bearer appeared with a complaint that the “babba” (so the servants designated Anatta, scorning to use the prefix Miss—was she not more or less one of themselves?) was causing trouble by reason of her desire to enter a locked go-down situated in an unoccupied quarter of the bungalow. “But is there anything in this go-down?” inquired the sahib. Naught of consequence, he was informed; naught but one or two old camel trunks, doubtless the property of the Bibi, now of course the property of the sahib. The man flourished a rusty key, obviously jealous of interference with his master’s possessions, however valueless, and demanded instructions which should free him from responsibility in the matter. “Let her do as she pleases,” was the sahib’s careless decision, accepted by the bearer with a grunt of disgust. *** Dusk had fallen by the time he arrived on the outskirts of Khari, and traversed a patch of squalid bazaar that terminated with the little mud-and-brick built post office, where he halted. A polite Bengali postmaster came out, clad in a black alpaca coat, drill trousers and an embroidered pork-pie cap, to explain that the English mail had so far not been delivered, floods had caused delay, but please God it would come to hand next morning when instructions *re* Jasâni post surely should obtain all attention. Disappointed, also fatigued with the slow difficult journey, he drove on to the Magistrate’s bungalow, soon to feel heartened, refreshed in body and mind by the welcome he received. What solace to be with such friends!—how he enjoyed the good meal in their com pany, how comforting was their sympathy, their concern, when he told them of the tragic affair at the Clarkes’ factory and his own quandary in the matter of Anatta and the old ex-missionary, even though he could not bring himself to confess the main reason of his desire to be quit of the girl. Late into the night the three sat talking. Mr. Bowyer was all for carting Anatta into Khari at once; Shahamat Ali’s wife, he said, was an educated woman who conducted her establishment on more or less English lines, her two daughters were at a college in Calcutta, the one son studying for the Bar in London. Anatta would be safe with the Shahamat Alis, and a profitable ward, until a suitable husband could be found for her, and being so to speak an heiress there should be no difficulty about that! Mrs. Bowyer, on the other hand, was in favour of Mr. Stanford's idea that, provided Mrs. Clarke’s old friends came to the rescue, Anatta should be placed, at least for the time being, with them. She divined and shared her guest’s soft-hearted reluctance to hand the girl over to strangers forthwith. “Better still,” she argued, “if the missionaries could be induced to keep her altogether, and train her as a teacher or something useful?—A less cold-blooded plan, my dear George, than buying her a husband with her little fortune.” “That’s a matter of opinion,” was the unashamed retort. “She must go somewhere,” said Stanford desperately, “*I* can’t look after her.” “Of course you can’t. It’s out of the question,” Mrs Bowyer eyed him covertly, suspicions awakening in her mind. “At any rate,” she went on with reassuring intention, “we can but try and come to some arrangement with the Shahamat Alis pending an answer from the Mission people.” “That’s just what I want,” said Stanford gratefully. “Bother the Bibi,” grumbled Mr. Bowyer, “I wish to Heaven she hadn’t saddled me with her affairs. And now I shall have to start an inquiry into the unfortunate Mrs. Clarke’s death and the disappearance of her body, let alone what has become of that beggar Clarke.” “If you want my unasked opinion,” protested his wife reproachfully, “it seems to me that poor Mr. Stanford is the chief person to be pitied, not you. *Think* of that helpless tiresome pair arriving on his doorstep, and his dreadful discoveries at the Clarkes’ place, and now that little monkey in his bungalow. I shall never forget the way she behaved that time we all went out to Jasâni! I am sure—” “Bow-wow,” interrupted her husband, unmoved by this impassioned speech, and he winked openly at Stanford. “*I’m* sure it’s high time we were all in our baskets. What about a drink?” ## Chapter XII Stifling morning, no rain, yet sunless; the sky overspread with thick threatening clouds. Even the frogs and the crickets in the soaked garden seemed to croak and to shrill with less vigour than usual. Mrs. Bowyer, seated under the punkah in the big drawing-room, found it an effort to follow the droning recital of her cook’s monthly account; actually she permitted overcharges to pass unchallenged, lacking energy to do battle, also her attention kept straying in the direction of Mr. Stanford’s affairs. Without protest she handed the sum total to the astonished cook, who immediately scurried from the room, partly jubilant, partly apprehensive that the mem-sahib might be contemplating his dismissal from her service. Once free of the man’s presence she sat idle, awaiting the return of her husband and their guest from the interview with Shahamat Ali. Supposing the interview, for which the two men had set out more than an hour ago, should prove fruitless, supposing the missionaries failed to “play up?” She knew well enough that the owner of Jasâni Estate, gregarious by nature, was desolate, dissatisfied, out of his element in the life he was leading, and her suspicion deepened that he had become nervous, distrustful of his own feelings towards Anatta. Recalling the girl’s physical attractions, together with the attachment she had evinced for their host on the day of that memorable expedition to Jasâni, Mrs. Bowyer felt positive that something a little warmer than Christian charity lay beneath his concern for Anatta’s well being, coupled with his anxiety to get her out of his house! Unless Anatta’s removal were speedily accomplished it was even conceivable that he might for some motive, chivalrous or otherwise, take it into his head to marry her. Rather than that, the good lady decided, she would herself assume temporary charge of the dangerous young person. These reflections were interrupted by the arrival of the post. Ah!—the English mail! With that measure of joy, known only on such an occasion to exiles, Mrs. Bowyer hastily emptied the bag, somewhat surprised at the unusual number of papers it contained until she discovered that most of them were addressed to Mr. Stanford, though for him there was but one letter. This she placed with the rolls of papers on a separate table, and settled herself to enjoy her own budget, soon to be disturbed by the sound of approaching voices and footsteps. Here they were, George and Mr. Stanford; now she must turn her whole attention to their account of the interview with Shahamat Ali. “Well, it’s all right,” announced Mr. Bowyer, “as far as the Shahamat Alis are concerned. They’ll take the girl, made no sort of bones about it. I tell Stanford he’d far better send for her on the nail, and get her settled before he goes back to Jasâni. Narain Singh could bring her along.” “I can’t very well do that,” said Stanford, and looked helplessly at his hostess as though for support, “I feel I ought to go back and wait for the answer from the Mission. I think it must come to-morrow or next day at latest; and you see, with your permission, I’d *rather* Anatta went to friends to start with.” “Yes, yes,” interposed Mrs. Bowyer, “didn’t we settle all that last night! I quite understand your point of view, Mr. Stanford, and now listen—failing the missionaries the child could come here until she had got to know the Shahamat Alis and to feel at home with them. You remember how the poor little soul took to me the day we spent with you.” Stanford could hardly find adequate words to express his relief and gratitude. “That—that would be awfully—most awfully kind,” he stammered. “Good Lord!” exclaimed the Magistrate aghast at the possibility of such an infliction. “Now George, don’t be tiresome,” admonished his wife. “See! here is the English mail. Come along and let’s read our letters in your office room; then Mr. Stanford can look at his *dâk* in peace.” She pointed to the pile she had placed on the table, gathered up their own mail and with it enticed Mr. Bowyer from the room. “Like a dog,” she laughed over her shoulder from the doorway, “after biscuits!” Left to himself Stanford pounced eagerly on the one letter that topped the papers. Then his face fell; it was not from Leila, there was nothing from Leila. How had she come to miss the mail! But he recognized the handwriting on the envelope, it was that of Mrs. Livesay, who had once or twice written to him since he left England. Aggrieved and apprehensive he opened the letter to read with concern that a mild attack of influenza had laid Leila low. “There is a nasty kind of ’flu going about. Lots of people here are down with it. I only hope I shall escape, for I feel sure I should never have the strength to fight against it. The doctor came this morning and he quite agreed with me that I had better keep away from Leila, though she is not very bad, only her head aches too much to write a letter and she sent down a message asking me to let you know. I believe it is mail day, so you must forgive a hurried scratch. Hilda will post it presently. I hope she won’t forget, but she forgot a most important letter to the Army and Navy Stores the other day, and Elizabeth was so cross because the things didn’t come that I am sure she would have given notice only that Tomkins was ill. He got a fish bone stuck in his throat, but Elizabeth pulled it out with my glove stretchers. We often talk about the fancy Tomkins took to you, in fact we have talked a lot about you this last week with Mr. Everest, who is on a visit to people we know here. I can’t imagine what his friends must think, for he is always deserting them to come over to us. A little bit awkward? But he is such a dear fellow. Of course that must have been how Leila caught influenza, going with him to a theatre in town quite against my advice, everybody knows that theatres and churches are hot beds of microbes, they simply roost in such places, but young people never will take advice and then their unfortunate elders suffer! We have all been so interested in hearing from Mr. Everest about your wonderful property and the old ruins, he and Leila talk so cleverly about all that sort of history, the two are great friends, I suppose because he is a friend of yours, but really as I tell Leila I should almost think—if it wasn’t that I know about *somebody else* . . .! And that reminds me, *between ourselves* dear Maimie has formed a friendship which I have every hope will develop into something warmer, he is a charming young curate with ample means of his own, so unlike a curate—I mean in that way. Of course he is pursued by all the girls here except Maimie, and he seems to prefer her above all the rest. As for Hilda, she still thinks of nothing but rabbits and theatricals, but she is young yet. Well, now I must bring this dull letter to an end or it may miss the mail, that is if it really is mail day, but there is no one about at this moment to ask.” The effect of “this dull letter” on Stanford’s over-strained nerves was disastrous. To him it seemed strong confirmation of his fears; naturally Everest had made excellent use of this opportunity to win Leila’s love, even if in the past he had not already half-won it. The only bar to her happiness was the promise she had made to himself. His fretted imagination carried him so far as to question if Leila, feeling miserable, had not taken advantage of her indisposition to shirk writing to him? Possibly Mrs. Livesay, guessing the truth, had penned her idiotic letter as a feeler, a hint. The more such thoughts tortured him the more despairingly did he feel convinced that the promise he had wrung from Leila must be cancelled; he did not doubt that she would consider herself bound by that promise, unless indeed he allowed her, by some means or other, to believe that he had broken his. Slowly his memory turned to the little scraps of paper he had picked up and pocketed on the Littlepool pier, he had only to post them to her without a word of explanation and she would understand that their compact was at an end, that she was free to marry Everest. Wretched old Grandpa’s ravings recurred to his mind with irritating persistence—“Deliverance, right effort, sacrifice”—and afterwards? He did not know, he could think no further ahead. Meantime he must get back to Jasâni and dispose of Anatta. Mrs. Bowyer, noting his gloomy abstraction as later they all sat down to the midday breakfast, conjectured that either the mail had brought him bad news which he was unwilling to disclose, or else that he was depressed at the prospect of returning so soon to Jasâni. In either case it might enliven him to remain with her and George for at least another twenty-four hours; and she did her utmost to persuade him. Look at the sky!—for a certainty he would be caught in the rain, arrive drenched, and get fever; surely this Anatta business would keep for another day, it was not so imperative as all that! To-night some nice people were coming to dine—horrid of him to rush away, and so on. All to no purpose. Mr. Stanford was grateful, polite, but firm. Go he must, he declared, for various reasons; and with a vague sense of doubt and uneasiness Mrs. Bowyer saw him drive off. “I wish now,” she said ruefully to her husband, “I had backed you up in your idea of sending for Anatta and dropping the missionary plan. On the whole, perhaps you were right.” “What an admission!” he remarked with dry humour. “Salaam, mem-sahib!” “He seems so dreadfully in the dumps,” she went on, ignoring this thrust. “Something upset him this morning, it may have been his English letter; he was cheerful enough before the mail came, and he knows now that he can get rid of that Anatta-thing satisfactorily—” Mr. Bowyer grinned. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to!” “George!” “Well, anyway, if I’m not mistaken, the poor devil is in for a frightful ducking, and he can’t blame anyone but himself.” This prophecy proved correct. Before Stanford had accomplished less than half of his return journey, down came the rain—sheets of water; except for the plight of his men and his Ponies he did not care, his mental unrest was such that physical discomfort went for nothing. Yet by the time he arrived at Jasâni, long after dark, wet to the skin, he could not but appreciate a hot bath, dry clothes and a dinner that (one of the wonders of the East) had not suffered from being kept waiting. So far no answer had come from the Mission, and rather relieved than otherwise to be spared immediate consideration of plans for Anatta, he stretched himself in a long chair, consoled in body though still woebegone in mind. How dreary was the great, sparsely furnished room; what a merciless noise the rain made; he found little solace in the affectionate companionship of Buster and Brown, who sat on either side of his chair, enchanted to have him back. If only they could talk! He felt so solitary, without hope for the future, without energy to face the present; like a poor sick child bereft of comfort and refuge; visions of Leila racked his soul. A stealthy movement somewhere in the room caused him to stir and look round. Standing a few yards from his chair he beheld Anatta, not as he had last seen her, a wistful waif, rousing his pity, dragging at his heart strings, but a gaily bedecked little being, her face flushed with excitement and self-pride. Clusters of artificial red flowers were stuck behind her ears, she wore a sleeveless blue jacket, blue petticoat, a flame-coloured silk sash wound about her slim body, and her small bare feet were thrust into a pair of gold embroidered slippers. She laughed gleefully at sight of his astonishment, threw back her head, tossing her sleek short hair; then she twirled slowly about, bending from her hips with supple grace, until she was close to him, her eyes aflash with delight, her mouth pursed mischievously, like a round sweetmeat, pink dyed. “Pretty?” she cooed, touching lightly the flowers in her hair, the rows of green glass bangles that reached from her wrist to her elbows, sliding her finger-tips adown the soft silken garments. For the moment Stanford could hardly believe he was awake, that he was not gazing in a dream at some brightly coloured Eastern picture: he wrenched his mind back to reality, controlled his intoxicated fancy, and rose to his feet. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “very pretty! Where did you find all these things?” “Go-down!” she informed him triumphantly, “in *kajawars*” (camel-trunks). “Anatta remember, bearer very *kuffa* (angry). Sahib *kuffa?*” She looked up at him, winsomely confident that such a query was superfluous. *“Kuffa!”* he replied, shaking his head with mock severity. She put her hands before her face, feigning alarm, peeped at him from between her fingers. “I die for fear of being beaten!” She wailed theatrically in Hindustani, backing away; then dropped her hands, burst out laughing, danced a few steps this way and that, came back to him. “Anatta pretty,” she announced, “always wearing like this, plenty more in Bibi’s *kajawars*, and much sweet smell—” Picking up one end of the flame-coloured sash she sniffed at it ecstatically and held it to Stanford’s nose. He recoiled; the musky scent nauseated the while it attracted him balefully—yet he could not bring himself to send Anatta from the room. She was company; the sight of the little creature tricked out in the finery she had unearthed from the go-down, relics of the Bibi’s reign at Jasâni, gave him pleasure; her wiles and her prattle counteracted his depression, kept at bay sad thoughts lurking in the background of his mind ready to take possession once he should be alone again. He was conscious of a little prick of disappointment that she made no comment on his absence: probably she had been too blissfully occupied in ransacking the camel trunks to miss him. Anatta was an egoist; be doubted if she ever thought of much else but herself. He returned to his chair, and watched her as she teased Buster and Brown, who submitted as though she were a kitten or a puppy they were not permitted to shake, until in mercy to their outraged feelings he bade her leave them alone; whereupon she plumped down on the floor at his side, crossing her feet native fashion, and offered to tell him a story. Amused, he gave ear to a lengthy and involved narrative related in a quaint mingling of English and Hindustani. It was something about a Prince and a Princess, a wicked old woman, a baby, and a cow; he gathered that after various hair-raising adventures the cow had been the means of rescuing the Prince from the evil intentions of the witch, by allowing him to hang on to its tail while the cow scaled a high wall, on the other side of which the Princess awaited him, and they were married. “And what happened to the baby? Who did the baby belong to?” inquired Stanford. Anatta considered for a few moments. “It belonged to the Princess, but it wept and made too much noise, so she put it in a basket and left it by the side of the water, all among long grass.” Apparently some Hindu fairy tale had become entangled in Anatta’s memory with the Biblical history of Moses in the bulrushes, imparted to her no doubt by Mrs. Clarke. “It was a very bad baby, she went on, inventing where she failed to recollect, “and for this reason the witch turned it into a frog!” She stifled a yawn, wriggled nearer to Stanford’s chair that she might lean against it, and demanded a story from the sahib. “I don’t know any stories, and you are tired; you must go to bed.” He made as if to rise, but she resisted vigorously, laid her hands on his chest, pressing him back into the chair, and began a further instalment of the wild romance. Weakly he yielded, and listened drowsily as she piled on the agony, conducting the ill-fated frog-baby from one misfortune to another, until the sound of her voice grew faint to his hearing, and presently he heard it no longer; he had fallen asleep. When he awoke, stiff-limbed, hardly certain at first where he was, the punkah had stopped, mosquitoes screamed about his head, Buster and Brown were snoring loudly, as also was the punkah-puller outside in the veranda. And Anatta—where was she? He looked at the clock, it was long past midnight. Anatta must have crept off to bed finding that even her wonderful story had failed to keep him awake, and also feeling sleepy herself had preferred her bed to an uncomfortable position at his side. At least, he reflected, she might have roused him; but such thoughtfulness was not to be expected of Anatta, and on this occasion perhaps it was just as well: the musky perfume still lingered about him, seemed to cling to his clothes, to his chair, to have remained in his nostrils. On the floor lay the pair of gold slippers, kicked off, abandoned. He left the little shoes where they lay, woke the dogs, who followed him to his bedroom, tails limp, heads down, half asleep—like their master. Rain still fell heavily: was still falling when he rose late next morning after the deep, merciful slumber of exhaustion. ## Chapter XIII All that morning the bungalow echoed with Anatta’s chatter and laughter. At the midday meal she appeared dressed in somewhat more sober spoils from the camel-trunks than those of the previous evening; and at first, bent impishly on provoking correction, she led Stanford to believe that she meant to eat with her fingers. Then having turned on him with every symptom of indignation that he should imagine her capable of such bad manners, she received his apology with the kind of glee engendered in children by the “take in” of an elder over some time-worn deception. Later she presented him with an empty egg-shell, upside down in its cup, and shrieked joyously, clapping her hands, when he gravely cracked it, appearing overwhelmed with amazement at the result. What with her engaging companionship, the stimulus of her high spirits, Stanford enjoyed his tiffin, felt almost enabled to banish contemplation of the future, at least until the answer from the Mission should arrive. No sign of it, as the hours wore on: either the messenger must have lost one or other, perhaps both, of the letters, and was afraid to present himself, or more likely he was sheltering in some half-way village until the downpour slackened. Moral cowardice caused Stanford to dread the man’s arrival; and as an antidote to his suspense he devoted his energies to amusing Anatta. Together they played games, looked at pictures in the accumulated numbers of magazines and illustrated papers, put Buster and Brown through their tricks; and when, weary of these entertainments, Anatta proposed a visit to the go-down, he assented readily. The *kuffa* bearer, resentfully disclaiming all responsibility, had allowed her to retain the key of the go-down, and producing it from the folds of her sash she proceeded to unlock the door with a farcical display of importance. Possessively she waved her hand towards a litter of objects, past hoardings of the Bibi, now strewn all over the floor by the impious hands of Anatta. Mixed up with rich raiment and rolls of pure silk were exquisitely embroidered little bags; pictures painted on squares of talc; necklaces of amber, crystal, cornelian, agate; long narrow scent bottles sealed and patterned with coloured wax and gold leaf; caskets encrusted with garnets, turquoise, and small pearls; sandalwood fans, carved ivories, and jade amulets. “All mine, for me!” piped Anatta with a cunning look in which was mingled a modicum of misdoubt. Stanford hesitated. Three days ago, had he known that these curios lay beneath his roof, most assuredly would he have reserved the pick of them for Leila! All his indecision, his unrest of spirit returned with painful intensity as he stood regarding the medley of treasures spread at his feet. In less than a week another mail must arrive, and whatever Leila might write, if she wrote at all, he felt convinced he should be equal to reading the truth between the lines. Supposing, after all, she cared nothing for Everest? His heart leapt at the thought; sank again with the knowledge that, Everest or no Everest, her love had never been his. All he held was her promise that under certain conditions he might ask for it, endeavour to win it. And the skulking jealous fear, lured into the open by Mrs. Livesay’s letter, stuck like a rasping burr in the forefront of his mind. He became aware that Anatta was busily rolling up various articles in a length of thick silk; additions, he suspected, to a fine store already removed to her room. “Do not take away anything more at present,” he said quietly, “and I will keep the key of the go-down.” Anatta rose from her knees, astonished, defiant. “No, no!” she cried, and stamped her foot. “My key, my things, my clothes, all mine!” Determinedly she stooped and stuffed what more she could into the already over-full bundle. “The things are not yours, Anatta; only what I give you. Be a good girl and do as you are told.” For answer she set up a scream of rage, darted past him, clutching the bundle. He made no move to follow her; what a selfish, disobedient little creature she was! A real *nut-cut*, to use the Hindustani term for a knavelet. Yet, as he stayed on in the go-down confronted with camel-trunks and chaos, he felt he had perhaps behaved ungenerously, unjustly towards the *nut-cut*. Of course she had expected to take possession of the Bibi’s little hoard; apparently the old lady had left no directions as to the disposal of her belongings in the go-down. Might it not have been her intention that Anatta should have them? There was nothing of any great value, as far as he could judge. Anyway, what did it matter? Let the poor child be happy for the moment—she would be unhappy enough when she understood that she must leave Jasâni! The things were more hers than his—let her keep them. Hastily he threw back into the camel-trunks all that was scattered on the floor. Pah! how everything smelt of camphor and musk, sandalwood powder, attar of roses; one of the long narrow scent bottles was broken. No wonder the white ants had refrained from attacking the trunks and all they had contained; the overpowering perfume must have been too much even for such destructive insects! . . . Rubbing his hands with his handkerchief he stepped from the stifling little chamber: the key was still in the door, Anatta in her frenzy had left it there. He turned the key, and took it away with him. Goodness—how it still rained!—and soon it would be dark. In the sitting-room he found the bearer lighting the lamps: mosquitoes trumpeted their tiny sharp notes from every corner; lizards and black insects dotted the walls. Stanford shivered; he wished he had stayed on with the Bowyers, hoped he was not in for a “go” of fever, as Mrs. Bowyer had predicted would happen if he got drenched in the rain. Certainly his head and limbs had begun to ache ominously. “Anatta! Anatta!” he called loudly. Buster and Brown barked officiously in reply; there was no other response. The bearer, having dealt with the last of the lamps, offered to go in search of “the babba”;—maybe, he said, she was in her bedroom, maybe with the old man, maybe engaged elsewhere in some mischief. Had not Babu Narain Singh forbidden her to enter his office or his quarters, because yesterday, previous to the sahib’s return, she had angered the Babu-ji by disturbing his papers and examining his possessions? There was no end to the bother she created in the household; even had she ventured to slap the cook’s wife, who now refused to go near her. Was she always to remain in the bungalow? The tone in which the bearer delivered this inquiry clearly implied that if Anatta remained at Jasâni he, for one, should seek service elsewhere. “Find her,” commanded Stanford curtly, “and give her this key with my salaams.” Muttering something under his breath, the bearer took the key and went off on the errand. A few minutes later he returned. “The babba,” he reported, had gone to bed, had shouted this information to him as he stood outside her door; also had she called out that he was to throw the key down the well in the compound. Was there ever such a *nut-cut?* “No matter,” said the sahib. “Leave the key here; put it on the table.” Anatta’s behaviour half-angered, half-amused him. By the morning no doubt she would have recovered her temper; meanwhile, as she had rejected his olive branch in the shape of the key, he would send her no further conciliatory message, even though he felt to blame for her initial tantrum. But what an unfortunate prelude to her departure, the arrangements for which must be seen to at latest within the next day or two! He passed a miserable evening; could not face up to his dinner, felt so chilly that he ordered a wood fire to be lighted, and crouched over it without getting warmer. A new novel failed to capture his interest; he tried to compose a letter to Leila, but only tore up one attempt after another. All the time he was listening, expecting Anatta to dash into the room, repentant, ready to make friends. Every sound, however slight, raised his hopes; until guiltily conscious that he longed for her presence, that he had been thinking far more of her than of Leila or of his own disconsolation, he betook himself to his bedroom. Now he felt hot, his pulses were throbbing: he opened his medicine chest, and hesitated between quinine tablets and some powders warranted to induce sleep without ill effects; finally he decided on the quinine, for there was no mistaking the ache of malaria in his bones. That night he was awakened from a feverish, dream-tortured sleep; someone was touching his face, his hands, intent on arousing him. It crossed his semi-consciousness that whoever it was must be known to the dogs, else would they have sprung barking from their baskets. The punkah was not moving; all was silence save for the steady pattering of the rain and a hoarse, affrighted whisper in his ear. “Ai!—sahib. Jasâni-sahib, awake. Ai! Ai!” He raised his head, startled, confused; and by the dim light of the hurricane lantern, kept burning all night on the floor of his room, he saw Anatta. She was bending over his bed, evidently distraught with terror, and her arms went round his neck, clung there tightly as if for protection against some deadly danger. “I fear, I fear—I die of fear!” she moaned. His first hope, as his senses cleared, was that the punkah coolie outside was asleep, unaware of this embarrassing visitation; and freeing himself with some difficulty from Anatta’s crab-like embrace, he got out of bed: instantly she was at his feet, clasping his ankles, shuddering, weeping— He drew her up, pushed her into a chair, and went hurriedly to look through one of the cane blinds. The punkah rope lay slack, no human being was visible. Thankful, for once, that the coolie had deserted his post, Stanford lit a wall lamp and went back to elicit from Anatta the cause of her fear. She was hunched in the chair, her face colourless as the odd little garment she wore, wrapper rather than nightdress. Her eyes looked like those of a frightened hare, wide-open, protruding; her teeth chattered. He took her hands, holding them firmly. “What is the matter?” he asked soothingly. “What has frightened you?” “The Bibi!” she gasped, looking over her shoulder, “the Bibi!” “But listen, the Bibi is dead; what do you mean?” “She did come—the Bibi. She did come to me in my room! I cry out—the punkah-wallah ran away, he also saw her come. She came by way of this your veranda, and has not *your* punkah-wallah run away?” He chafed the cold little hands, spoke comforting words. “You had a bad dream, Anatta. That was all.” “No dream, no dream!” she cried. “It was the Bibi from her grave in the mango-wood, all angry, angry, telling ‘Thief—give back, give back’!” “Give back what? The things in the go-down? They are all for you. Nonsense! Of course you were dreaming.” She shook her head despairingly. “Not go-down things, another thing. It is her order that I put it back, put it back in the mound.” Again she shrank and shuddered, was so obviously frozen with terror that Stanford dragged the thin quilted mattress of the country from his bed, and wrapped it about her. Then, vowing that he would not be absent for more than two seconds, he prevailed upon her to let him fetch brandy from the dining-room; but when he returned, glass and bottle in hand, he found her half fainting. Eventually revived by sips of the spirit and water, she faltered out in mangled language a queer little confession. She had stolen something from beneath the Bibi’s pillow as the old woman lay sick . . . only because she had wanted to know what it was the Bibi guarded with such care; never had she been permitted to see it. Then, when she discovered it to be nothing but a little box, or pot, with a broken lid, she had run to put it back, but the room had filled with people all wailing and mourning, and there came no chance to replace it unseen. She has been too much afraid to tell anyone—excepting old Gunga; and old Gunga, being naught but a Hindu, had laughed and said the box had come from the mound many years past, and was worth less; besides which the Bibi did not want it now she was dead. But thenceforth, for very shame, she had concealed the little box, first among her clothes until Clarke-mem fetched her from Jasâni, and afterwards, in case her Ma-ma should ask questions and scold her, in Grandpa’s room behind some books he never read—Bibles, and Christian writings. At times, not often, she had remembered it, as on the day when all the sahib-people and the fat yellow miss came out for the tomasha at Jasâni; and then she would feel wretched, a thief, and wish she could put it back in the mound, push it into a hole, never see it or think about it again. When she and Grandpa had run away from Clarke-sahib, who was mad, she had snatched the package from its hiding-place, and dropped it into the pocket of Grandpa’s robe. And now the Bibi had come back, so terrible, so angry; had put the parcel in her hand—the Bibi had known where it was!—and bidden her place it back in the mound; now, at once, without delay! Anatta wept piteously as she came to the end of her avowal. “Where is the box?” questioned Stanford, with a recollection of Anatta’s allusion to some “bokkus” on the day of the “tamasha” as she called it, while they all stood by the mound; also of her having plucked some object from the pocket of Grandpa’s dressing-gown the night the pair of them had arrived at the house. Poor child! No doubt this return to her old surroundings had the more revived her guilty recollection of the foolish act of curiosity; pressing on her mind, and thus leading to a painfully vivid dream. Still sobbing she slid from the chair and began to grope among the bed-clothes, finally extracting from the now untidy heap a small package, wrapped in wax-cloth which she tore off, and handed him what looked like a deep saucer with a damaged lid. From the cold feel of it, and its dull green colour, Stanford thought it must be jade. Useless to assure her that there was no need to worry; equally useless to repeat that she had been dreaming; she simply reiterated “not dream, not dream!” and maintained that something terrible would happen to her were the “bokkus” not restored to the mound without delay. “But we can’t walk such a distance at this time of night and in all the rain,” he argued. “You must wait till the morning, and then we will put the thing back.” At last she agreed, sullenly, weakly. “Very well. Wait till morning.” “That’s right, that’s a good girl,” he said encouragingly. “Now I will go and stay in your room for the rest of the night, and Buster and Brown will take care of you here. There is nothing to fear. I will leave the lamp burning.” He would have moved towards the door but that Anatta was upon him at once. “You stay, you stay, you stay!”she shrieked. “Not leaving—Bibi will come!” She raised such a clamour that he fully expected the whole compound would come rushing to the bungalow. But the absence of movement outside was extraordinary, unless the rain muffled all sounds. Why had not the two coolies returned? What had become of the night watchman Whose business it was, whatever the weather, to perambulate the premises at intervals, coughing loudly and thumping his brass-bound bamboo on the ground to scare away possible marauders. Anatta’s violence checked these speculations: she fought and screamed, behaved like a maniac, and he realized that it was impossible to leave her. Then, when she lay limp in his arms, reduced to utter exhaustion, he placed her on his bed where she moaned and writhed, feebly, still entreating him not to leave her. He thought of the sleep-inducing powders in his medicine chest and mixed a couple of them in water: to his relief she swallowed the concoction submissively. Then, with her hand in his, he sat waiting and watching beside her, while gradually she grew still, and her eyelids drooped. He was surprised to find that he was insensible to the heat and to the onslaught of mosquitoes; did not miss the punkah; and as to the threatened attack of fever, he could only conclude that the big dose of quinine he had taken overnight had defeated it. But though his body felt numb, his mind seemed abnormally active; and he could not control the thoughts that circled and danced and jostled each other. Against his will he memorized Mrs. Clarke’s abhorrence of the ruins, and the mound in particular: then Serrano’s theory as to possible destruction within the mound by earthquake, no one could say how long ago—a theory that might account for the discovery of the little bowl at the time of the Bibi’s attempt to repair the age-old memorial of her faith. Perhaps the bowl had once held some precious relic of that brute Buddha, who was at the bottom of all the mischief. If it hadn’t been for Buddha that awful mound would never have been raised: old Grandpa wouldn’t have gone crazy: Anatta couldn’t have stolen the bowl; and he felt angrily convinced that somehow, but for the devil, otherwise Buddha and all his works, Leila would not have fallen in love with Everest. Then a strange thing happened. All at once he was floating in the air, looking down on himself awatch beside the sleeping girl. The curious experience quite interested him, until slowly a change came about; his floating self melted away, dissolved, and his solid self still sat beside the bed holding Anatta’s hand. But now he felt different, as if possessed of some unclean spirit. He was looking intently, sinfully, at Anatta; the sight of her lying there, asleep on his bed, breathing softly, her mouth so perfect, so rosy, slightly open, inflamed his senses. All trace of fear had left her tempting little face. The long dark lashes lay on her cheeks now flushed with colour: her soft hair was spread out on his pillow. He bent forward and laid his lips to the delicate young neck. She stirred, smiled happily as though conscious of pleasure. Slept on. Unhinged, fighting the demon within him, he drew his hand from her now relaxed clasp, rose and paced the long room: either he must send Anatta away in the morning, or keep her altogether for himself. The thought of Leila, far from aiding him, only increased his temptation; savagely he reminded himself that she would welcome release from her promise: and as for him he would welcome an end to all struggle. With a revulsion of feeling he wandered to the dressing table, took up and looked long at Leila’s photograph; replaced it face downwards with a sigh of despair. Never again could he look at it and know he had been true to his love for her. Even now, could she know it, she was free; and without much “sacrifice, right effort,” on his part! Instinctively he put his hand to his forehead, then realized dimly why he had done so. His head ached violently, his pulses were racing—perhaps all this time he had been dreaming, delirious with fever? As if for answer Anatta turned, threw out her arms; he went back to the bedside. At all costs he must get away from the sight of her. He had no doubt that the sleeping draught would keep her quiet till the morning. He saw the wretched little bowl lying at the foot of the bed: and a wild impulse assailed him to take it forth and fling it at the mound, to fling away with it all scruples, all claims of conscience. Recklessly, like a man drunk or insane, he threw on some clothes, picked up the lantern, and put the bowl with its cracked lid in his pocket. Without another glance at the sleeping form on the bed, he passed swiftly through the bungalow and out into the heavy rain. The rain mattered nothing; he hardly felt the rough ground beneath his slipper-clad feet. Just vaguely he noted the faint light that betokened the coming dawn of another day; by it he beheld the misty blur of the mound ahead of him. Somebody laughed: could it have been himself? How quickly he was walking, perhaps he was floating again, would rise in the air and look down, watching his own progress over the bricks and carved stones! He began to think of Rose Acwell, of heaps of pretty women he had known and pretended to love: none of them were so pretty as Anatta: but he had never “pretended” to love Leila: she was the only woman he *really had* loved, and did love. What had happened to the mound? Peering forward through the thick veil of rain, he thought the mound looked different: surely it was less high, and what had become of the tuft of trees that topped it? Aha!—the mound he so hated, was crumbling, splitting apart; that was it, and serve the beastly thing right, he would do nothing to save it! What a row the stones made, washing down in a stream, no—streams of water. Urged, obsessed with delirium, and a mad sense of rapture, he dashed forward, scrambling, slipping, a dozen times recovering his foothold. Huge chunks of masonry crashed about him. It was fine! “Take that!” he yelled in a frenzy of senseless revenge. “Take that—and that!” With all the strength he had left in him he flung the jade bowl and its lid at the mound. Then he fell. ## Chapter XIV When Noel Stanford came to his senses, he found himself in a large bedroom, peaceful and cool, lit by sunshine mellowed and softened by green cane blinds: and with the sunshine came floating the scent of flowers. He was conscious of pain at the back of his neck. Where was he? Listlessly his gaze wandered about the room: the walls were coloured a restful shade of grey: there was a good deal of furniture, large teak-wood cupboards, brass-handled chests of drawers: the dressing-table had a green cover with a strip of some white material upon it, lace-edged. Then he saw a woman seated at a writing-bureau. He made an effort to speak, but words would not leave his lips, only queer sounds. The figure at the table rose quietly and came towards him; her face seemed familiar but he could not recollect her name until she laid a cool hand on his forehead, looked down at him, smiling. He did not feel sure if he said coherently: “You are Mrs. Bowyer!” but he must have done so because she answered cheerfully: “Yes, really Mrs. Bowyer! and you must drink some of this good soup. Then you can go to sleep again.” He drank slowly, a nectar-like draught, her arm supporting his head. But he felt strangely tired when he had finished it; and he dared not go to sleep—dared not return to those endless wanderings, among ruins, miles and miles of ruins; then climbing sharp-pointed hills, diving into dark valleys, groping through damp dim woods; always, always searching for the mound, yet, whenever he caught sight of it, fleeing in terror, leaping across open graves in which lay rotting corpses that called to him, mocking Anatta’s voice: “You are dreaming! You are dreaming! It is naught but a bad dream!” No; he would not go to sleep again only to be tortured by such dreams. Despite his resolve he slept: this time dreamlessly, reposefully, and moreover for some hours, scarcely moving. In consequence that evening Mrs. Bowyer and the Civil Surgeon sang a triumphal duet in praise of their victory over Death. It had been a grim battle, but now there was no reason to fear that their patient would die. “He’ll have to go home,” said the doctor, “directly he’s fit to travel down country. That leg of his will require certain treatment that isn’t easy to get out here, but better not tell him that yet. Don’t tell him anything until he begins to ask questions.” It was not very long before Stanford began to ask questions: meantime he slept tranquilly, ate and drank what was given him, lay silent, languorous, gaining strength, his mind resting as well as his patched-up body. But though recovery soon restored the power of thought and remembrance, with it returned doubt and depression, despair. *** “Mayn’t I talk?” he asked fractiously one afternoon on waking from a long midday sleep; he knew well enough he might talk if he felt inclined; it was but the claim of the convalescent to some petty grievance that did not exist. Welcoming the sign, Mrs. Bowyer put aside her needle work and moved a basket chair close to his bed: she shook up his pillows, straightened the bed-clothes, sat down. “I never saw anyone get so untidy in bed!” she chaffed, adding: “Of course you may talk, though I must confess I can’t stand great talkers!” Ashamed of his fretfulness, he put out his hand and laid it affectionately on her knee. “How good you have been to me—but if I talk about *that* I shall *cry!*” “The subject is forbidden, I may tell you, once and for all: but the doctor says you can talk about anything else you like.” “Please,” he began nervously, “tell me what happened—I can’t exactly remember what happened after—after I went out in the rain—” “Well, after you went out in the rain, which seems to be a weakness of yours—don’t you remember how I warned you when you insisted on going back to Jasâni?” “I do,” he interposed, “and you will be pleased to hear you were right; I got caught in a deluge that must have been a near relation to the flood, and had fever afterwards—next night. But please go on—” “The fever explains everything—you must have gone out ‘without sense’ as the natives describe delirium, and made straight for the mound. Perhaps your idea was to knock it down, as I know you object to it so much, but instead it knocked *you* down with stones and rubbish loosened by the rain—” “But I thought—somehow I thought the mound had crumpled up! Are you sure it’s still standing?” She laughed. “It certainly was when Narain Singh found you in the morning, almost dead. It was wonderful how he managed to pack you like a mummy into a country cart and bring you here still alive. Of course the Clarkes’ tonga would have been useless, but the bullocks were a godsend. It was a mercy you had them brought over to Jasâni, for they’re a good breed and travel well—did the whole distance without any trouble. I think bullocks have much more endurance than horses.” “Very likely. I don’t know or care anything about bullocks. Was I—have I been very bad?” “Pretty had, my dear. You lay here unconscious for nearly a week!” Stanford said nothing. “Now what’s the matter?” she asked lightly, observing his troubled expression. “Are you angry because we wouldn’t let you go to Heaven?” “I’m sorry I lived,” he said. “That’s not a nice thing to say when Major Hope (such an excellent name for a doctor) took all that trouble to help me keep you alive! Oh! sorry!—I’ve touched on the forbidden subject—” “You *know* I’m grateful for the trouble. I shall always remember it. But you don’t understand, and I can’t tell you; it would have been much better for me if I’d snuffed out.” “*Couldn’t* you tell me?” she asked gravely, gently. He shook his head, avoiding her kind eyes—and she pressed him no further. “Well there’s one bit of good news I’ve been keeping up my sleeve. Just after Narain Singh had started off with you for Khari the head padre of the Mission turned up at Jasâni and took away Anatta! Wasn’t it a mercy?” “Took Anatta away!” he repeated breathlessly. “How do you know?” “The padre wrote to George—of course the servants at Jasâni told him about your accident and how Narain Singh had taken you to Khari—to us. I can remember all he said without bothering to hunt for the letter among George’s papers. It was a very padre kind of letter, just that he had found the child asleep, and when they woke her and told her you had gone away ill, she took it quite calmly, and went back with him to the Mission in good spirits. The only trouble she gave was over a lot of things in some go-down which she insisted on taking with her, but the bearer assured him you had given them to her, so he hoped it was all right. But she *would* take so much luggage, camel trunks and so forth, that there was no room in the ‘conveyance’ as the padre called it, for the old man. But Narain Singh who came over a few days ago to inquire for you and leave messages about the Estate, said he had taken the old man over to the Mission shortly afterwards, in the Clarkes’ tonga—” She broke off expecting him to express his relief and pleasure; but with what she took for the perversity of an invalid he merely grunted, and said he wanted to see Narain Singh; would she send for Narain Singh? and when she had readily agreed to do so, he inquired if the rains were over. “It looks like it,” she told him, indulging his curious mood, “it hasn’t rained since the day you were brought here: sometimes they do stop quite suddenly, if they have now it’s none too soon for all the damage that has been done this year.” “That’s why I want to talk to Narain Singh,” he said irritably—“and as soon as I can I must get back to Jasâni.” “Major Hope thinks you should have a trip home first—you would like that—” “I am not going home.” “Well, you must talk it over with the doctor. Now I think you have talked enough. Would you like to have the English mails that have come for you?” “No, thank you,” he said with absurd and exaggerated politeness. She left the room, secretly amused by his infantile behaviour, yet with an uneasy sensation that something more serious lay beneath his pettishness than could be accounted for by convalescence. His silence, after his first exclamation of astonishment, and then his apparent lack of interest in Anatta’s peaceful and convenient removal, when it was exactly what he had planned and desired himself, perturbed her. And *why* had he no wish to see his English letters?—he was no longer so ill as to be indifferent to everything and everybody—with the exception of Narain Singh! She repeated most of the conversation to the doctor that evening, said she thought the time had come when Mr. Stanford should be told why it was necessary for him to go home: “There is no reason that I know of, why he shouldn’t want to go—he’s quite well enough off: in fact, between ourselves I think it would be much the best thing for him, even if it were *not* necessary. I believe he has something on his mind: he won’t confide in me, perhaps you may be able to get it out of him.” But Major Hope was no more successful than Mrs. Bowyer. He returned from his patient’s bedside looking vexed. “I can’t understand it! Why should he prefer Jasâni with the prospect of partial disablement for life, to going home for a cure! Perhaps later on he may listen to reason, but he won’t do it now. He says all he wants is to see Babu Something-or-other who brought him in here: and I was to be sure and ask you to write and say he wanted a black tin dispatch box from his bedroom, he’s got the key on his watch-chain. Well, we must hope that this gentleman’s visit may have a reviving effect, for our friend has a bad fit on him at present of ‘no wish to live’!” *** Narain Singh and the black japanned box arrived at a convenient hour, when the invalid had been made ready for the day. He wept when Stanford, holding out a friendly hand, said: “Salaam! Babu-ji! But for you, I shouldn’t be here! I’ve heard all about it, and what you did for me. Don’t upset yourself, old fellow: I’m getting on splendidly. Put the box on the floor, and sit down. How goes the Estate?” Narain Singh seated himself gingerly in Mrs. Bowyer’s basket chair that creaked a loud objection to his weight; he wiped his eyes with an immense coloured handkerchief, and began a long rigmarole concerning crops, tenants and accounts. “And now,” said Stanford taking advantage of a pause in the pompously delivered report, to which in reality he had hardly listened, “what about Anatta—what happened when the padre took her away? I know that you, and what was I, had left Jasâni before he arrived, but of course the servants told you all about it.” The Babu’s prominent eyes, that always reminded Stanford of brandy balls floating in lemon juice, positively danced with satisfaction. “Very good job, sir! That girl having too much cheek. I tell you, she taking opportunity of your absence to go sleeping in your room—” Hastily Stanford intervened. “I had a bad go of fever on me, you see, and I went out not knowing what I was doing. I suppose something had frightened her.” “Oah, yes!—making excuse with silly talk about ghost—the Bibi! ha! ha! But luckee too, because she afraid staying in bungalow. Quite glad going, never minding that much,” touching the tip of his little finger with his thumb nail, “when told you were gone away ill, only wanting all things from that go-down:—Padre saying No; but bearer say ‘Let her take, it is the sahib’s will.’ That padre very good man, he bring the poor coolie who took letter, in his cart all the way back, a sort of cart with a cover, not same as Clarke’s tonga. Rain had cleared by evening when he taking away Anatta.” “And Mrs. Bowyer tells me the Mission people were willing to have the old man, and that you took him there yourself a few days later?—very kind of you.” Narain Singh grinned, by which Stanford divined that it was an act of kindness to Narain Singh rather than to Grandpa! “Did you see Anatta? Was she all right?” “My word, yes, arl right! No kicking rows, no tempers; doing sewing, learning to put colour on words—large words out of holy book”—he paused, searching his memory—“what the padre-memsahib call *Tex*. So now,” he concluded cheerfully, rubbing his hands, “will there be yet once more again peace at Jasâni!” “Let us hope so,” said Stanford formally. “Now please open the box—here is the key, and give me an envelope—a blue linen envelope with no address on it, but some bits of paper inside. I can’t sit up yet to look for it myself.” “No need, sir, no need. I will find.” It was found, and placed on the bedside table. Then the box was re-locked and put into one of the cupboards. Narain Singh was about to inflict himself again on the basket chair, when Mrs. Bowyer appeared—with medicine and a decree that it was time for a rest. Stanford swallowed his dose, bade his visitor farewell with a becoming show of reluctance and gratitude, and was vastly relieved when Mrs. Bowyer tactfully accompanied Narain Singh from the room. He felt a yearning for solitude, that he might marshal his thoughts, get his mind into order. To think of it! To think that Anatta, whom he had imagined adored him with all her selfish little heart, should have gone off with the missionary so readily, without the smallest regret, leaving no word, no message for himself! How often had he pictured her anguish, dreaded for her the moment of her departure. Again how desperate had been the temptation to take her into his own keeping; and but for the mound he would have done it. *But for the mound*—how strange! Well, that leap in the dark was averted: but it meant no alteration in his position towards Leila. With an aching, angry heart he endeavoured to formulate plans for his future. The very moment he was fit for the journey he would return to Jasâni, in spite of the doctor’s advice. And once he had arranged with the Magistrate and Shahamat Ali for the sale of the Estate, he would leave India, wander where he listed, avoiding England, making for the gayest cities in Europe. But first, as soon as possible, there was something he must do—he must address and send off the blue envelope to Leila—the very fact that previously she had not heard from him for two or three mails would aid her understanding of the message. Then it struck him with annoyance that he might have got Narain Singh to hold the envelope so that he could manage to address it; pens and ink were on the writing-table, and the Babu could have registered and posted it on his way past the Khari post office. But now he felt too weary for any exertion: his brain buzzed, the pain at the back of his neck threatened to return. He must wait and get Mrs. Bowyer to help him, easy enough to say it was something he possessed of Miss Wylde’s that he wished to return to her, and if this surprised the dear soul what matter! He knew she would ask no inquisitive questions—bless her! ## Chapter XV “I am dying of curiosity!” said Mrs. Bowyer. She broke this piece of news to her husband some ten days following the visit of Narain Singh. The pair were comfortably secluded in the office room, and the English mail, not long since delivered, lay on the table. As usual there were papers and periodicals, for “Noel Stanford, Esq.”—and only one letter. “Make haste, then,” Mr. Bowyer entreated his wife, “and tell me why—before you expire!” “I feel a sneak, but I can’t help it. I’m positive the handwriting on the envelopes of these letters that come for Mr. Stanford is Leila Wylde’s!—further than that, the postmarks are all Ealwood! Once or twice wrote Leila to me, soon after she and old Livesay got home, but naturally I tore up the letters, or I declare I should be mean enough to compare the handwritings. Can there be anything between them? Yet, somehow I thought—” She paused, unwilling to admit what she had thought. “But do Stanford and Leila Wylde know each other?” inquired the Magistrate. “Of course they do, you old silly. Wasn’t it Colonel Livesay who traced the Bibi’s heir? and a nice little reward he got for doing so!” “It doesn’t follow that the Bibi’s heir ever met Livesay’s stepdaughter.” “Anyway they *did* meet. He told me so when he was staying with us before he took possession of Jasâni; but now I come to think of it he never mentioned her to me again, and I forgot all about the acquaintanceship— until just lately. There was no particular reason why I should think of it before. And what do you say to this—only a day or two after Narain Singh brought that ugly tin box over here, Mr. Stanford said he had something belonging to Miss Wylde that he wanted posted to her, registered! Of course I offered to pack it up and address it for him, but it turned out to be only a blue envelope that had been lying on his table ever since Narain Singh’s visit. Of course it came out of the box: that was why he wanted the box! And he said he must address it himself. It was agony to me not to ask questions!” “Then do you imagine they are, or were, engaged?” “No, I don’t. If they had been engaged he would have told me. Every man I meet tells me at once if he is engaged.” “Why? As a measure of self-protection?” “Do be serious now, and listen: here’s another queer thing. He won’t look at his letters, says ‘No, thank you,’ in an offended sort of voice when I offer to bring them to him, so I’ve had to put them away in a drawer—I think there was something that worried him in that letter he got when he was here last, he was so depressed after he had read it: don’t you recollect? At that time of course I didn’t notice the handwriting on the envelope; but now I expect that letter was also from Leila. And she’s writing to him regularly, while he won’t read her letters, and doesn’t write, even though now he’s quite able to!” “How do you know that the letters are from Leila Wylde! Probably they are all from some chorus girl who lives at Ealwood and supports her widowed mother; and he’s sick of her. That would account for his reluctance to go home?” “George, you do have such horrid ideas! But what about the blue envelope I posted for him addressed to Leila?” George shook his head—“I never could guess riddles!” he said mournfully. “It worries me so dreadfully to see the poor creature,” went on Mrs. Bowyer, “he just sits and broods, doing nothing, not even reading the papers.” “Where is he doing nothing at this moment?” “In the garden veranda. I suppose in another week we shall have to let him go. He’s practically well, except for his lameness.” “And then perchance, my dear, you will allow yourself a rest. You want it badly.” “I intend to allow myself a rest this afternoon by going to see Mrs. Hope and her new baby. You can keep an eye on Mr. Stanford until you go to the club for your everlasting billiards; though he really wants very little looking after. I will pick you up at the club. Just see before you start that he’s got all he wants, and that his stick is handy; he can’t move without it. Major Hope is simply furious with him because he won’t promise to go home and get the leg properly seen to.” Late that afternoon when Mrs. Bowyer had gone forth to indulge her curious idea of “a rest,” and her husband had obeyed her with regard to the occupant of the garden veranda before starting for the club, a conveyance known as a “ticca-gharry,” otherwise the cab of the country, rattled up to the front of the house. Stanford felt thankful he was well out of sight of any callers; but, rather to his alarm, the ticca-gharry did not at once drive away. There was some talk, the words of which he could not at that distance distinguish. Then the vehicle clattered off and he caught the sound of footsteps approaching through the house. Annoyed because it seemed that some importunate visitor must have forced his way past the peons on duty, he seized his stick, intending to take refuge in his bedroom. Too late; someone stepped out of the drawing-room into the veranda, and he found himself face to face with Everest: Everest, who said pleasantly, but a little awkwardly; “Hullo, Stanford! Don’t move, please, for any sake. The servants told me where to find you. So sorry to hear you’ve been in the wars! Hope you’re getting on well?” Utterly dumbfounded Stanford sank back in his chair, muttered some response to this greeting and with envious eyes looked on as the other seated himself. How healthy, how strong, how well set up the fellow looked, straight from England of course; and from Leila! Everest talked rapidly; explained that he had come straight up country with the mails to Khari where he wanted to retrieve some belongings before going North to his destination: he was at the Rest House, had arrived there at dawn: he hoped he might have caught the Bowyers before they went out: presently he would walk down to the club and see them there. “Hope you don’t mind my looking in on you? The servants said you’d been able to sit up for some days.” Stanford detected nervousness in Everest’s manner: and what wonder, he thought bitterly, when the man was probably under the impression that the weak, wretched human being who confronted him was the one obstacle to his happiness! Incensed against himself and against his companion, Stanford sat silent, not attempting to make conversation, until Everest became uncomfortably silent also. The two avoided each other’s eyes. Then haltingly, with heightened colour, Everest said: “If I hadn’t found you here I should have stayed a day extra and gone out to Jasâni to see you—” “Ah!” The exclamation, fraught with antagonism, was not followed up with helpful remarks or questions. No doubt whatever existed in Stanford’s mind that Everest meant to make an appeal to him for Leila’s freedom; and vengefully he decided to watch him writhe like an insect on a pin, to let him suffer, vouchsafing him no hope. Let him wait until Leila wrote to tell him herself that she was free; or perhaps she would telegraph when the blue envelope with its mute message arrived! Of another thing he was certain;—that Everest held no permission from Leila to tender this appeal. When she made a promise she kept it. Now Everest was speaking again, looking furtively at him, ill at ease. “You know, of course, that I saw Miss Wylde while I was at home? In fact I saw her the day I left London. She came to see me off. She asked me, if possible, to see you—” “That I can hardly believe,” said Stanford insolently. An angry light shot into Everest’s reddish brown eyes, he half rose from his seat, his face aflame. “Oh, sit down! sit down!” said Stanford waving his hand with cold contempt. “I know perfectly well what you want to say, but as it can’t be a pleasant speech to make I prefer to hear it.” Obviously controlling his temper, Everest sat down again. One could not fight a sick man with either fists or tongue—and though he was sorely tempted to leave the veranda without another word, he felt he was not justified in doing so. “I don’t see how you can possibly know what I want to say—unless Leila has told you—” “Leila?” repeated Stanford with a disagreeable smile. “Well, Miss Wylde then,” he bit his lip, vexed with himself for the slip: pulled himself together and went on. “Has she ever told you that I asked her to marry me when she and I were at Khari together?” “That would hardly have been like her, would it? Especially as she appears to have refused your offer. I wonder you dare ask me such a question!” “I dare to ask you another such question. Has she told you that I asked her again just before I left England?” “I guessed as much, but she hasn’t told me”—he paused and added. “So far as I know.” “What the devil do you mean?” cried Everest. “Only that I haven’t opened her last few letters.” “Good Heavens, why not? Were you too ill—you’re not too ill now—” “I didn’t *wish* to open them,” said Stanford calmly. “Well, go on, I suppose she refused you again?” “Are you mad—or a devil?” spluttered Everest. “I’ll answer that question when you’ve answered mine. She refused you, of course?” “Yes, she did.” He looked away sadly over the luxuriant garden. “Because of me?” “Because of you—” “And you say she asked you to see me that you might beg me to set her free?” Everest drew in his breath, banged his fist on the table. “You blackguard!” he said furiously. “And I thought you had made yourself worthy of her!” With a shock, as he looked at the angry honest countenance before him, the conviction reached Stanford’s mind that he had wronged this man, that there was some extraordinary misunderstanding between them. A sick sense of shame and bewilderment rendered him speechless—a mist clouded his eyes, all his rancour had left him, he felt weak, helpless, undone, as Everest stormed at him. Silently he listened, slowly he understood. “She wanted me to see you and I wanted to see you— about Jasâni. Of course it’s all in those letters you didn’t open because you didn’t *wish* to open them—you brute! I happen to have come into a good deal of money and I asked her if she thought you’d sell Jasâni to me, and if she’d mind if you did. She said she’d be glad—she said she knew you hated the place, and only stuck on there for her sake. She told me of her promise to you, and that—that—” his voice shook as he got out the words. “She *hoped* you’d come home. And now you sit there— Good God! if you were fit and well I’d kill you—” He got up, turned to leave the veranda, but halted reluctantly as Stanford held out a trembling detaining hand. “Don’t go, Everest, in pity don’t go,” he said hoarsely. “Let me explain—” “How can you ‘explain’ after all you’ve said!” “I thought, I believed, she loved you—” “Well, she doesn’t, worse luck. What made you think so?” “It’s been bothering me for ages—and then I had a letter from Mrs. Livesay that seemed to me conclusive, just before I had that smash up—” “But why didn’t you open Leila’s letters? What a fool you’ve been!” Everest was relenting: it was impossible now not to sympathize with his stricken unhappy rival—however much he envied him. “You’d better wire to her that you’ve seen me and that when we’ve done our deal over Jasâni, you are going home.” “I can’t,” Stanford said miserably, “there was something else. You were perfectly right in what you said just now. I’m not good enough for her.” “Of course you aren’t; no fellow is!” Everest looked at him thoughtfully; probably this was only another absurd bee in his bonnet such as the one they had just cleared out. Poor chap! The solitary existence at Jasâni, the perpetual sight of the Buddhist remains he so detested, had got on his nerves to begin with; and his accident, for there was no doubt he had somehow been badly injured, might well account for any rotten idea. He laid his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Tell me,” he said gently; and then to his dismay Stanford broke down. He waited patiently, rather helpless, wondering what he ought to do, but the sudden yielding to weakness and despair was soon over, and Stanford held up his head. “What an ass you must think me!”he said with a short laugh of shamed apology. “It’s awfully good of you, but if I ever tell anyone, it must be Leila.” “Then take my humble advice and tell her. I bet you she’d understand. Anyway, give her the chance!” “If you want to catch the Bowyers at the club,” said Stanford evasively, “you’d better be starting.” Everest took the hint in good part. He knew. Stanford wished to be alone that he might think; and as he left the house in the gathering dusk he only trusted that Leila’s lover would do the right thing—go home, make a clean breast of the whole matter, whatever it was, and let her judge for herself. Of course the Bowyers brought Mr. Everest back with them to dinner, wanted to put him up, and when he refused on the score of being anxious to leave Khari next morning, were only appeased by his promise to stay with them should he be returning later on to transact some business. What that business might be, he felt it was too soon to divulge. The owner of Jasâni had not yet agreed to sell him the property! But as they all drove back to the bungalow, he told his friends of his unexpected good fortune, thanks to a miserly uncle who had concealed the fact of his wealth, amassed no one knew how, until death disclosed the secret. “Bully for you!” said Mrs. Bowyer much interested; “but why on earth didn’t you retire?” “I’m going to. But you know my hobby—Indian archaeology—Buddhist remains in particular—and until I’m tired of it I mean to spend most of my substance out here digging and delving.” “Then I wish to goodness you’d persuade Mr. Stanford to sell you that horrible place of his and make him go home. It’s nearly killed him as it is—” she related all she knew of Stanford’s mishap—how owing to a severe attack of fever he had wandered out in the night and got caught in an avalanche of rubbish from the mound, and so forth. “I’m glad you insisted on seeing him this afternoon. How did you think he was looking?” “Not up to much, but then I suppose he has been pretty bad.” “Indeed he has, poor dear. And he’s so gloomy I can’t bear to think of his going back to that lonely life, but he seems bent on it. Such dreadful things happen in those out-of-the-way spots—” And she told him of the Clarke tragedy. He asked what had become of Mrs. Clarke’s little ward. “Oh! thank goodness some missionaries are looking after her for the present; I hope altogether. Mr. Stanford had no end of bother about her. Look here, he stays up for dinner now, do ask him to sell you that place, then we might get him to go home. Major Hope says if he doesn’t, he may be lame for life.” “I’ll write to him—later. To tell you the truth it’s the very place I want to get at, but I’d rather not discuss it with him now.” “Very well; perhaps it might only make him more obstinate. But I mean to have another big try to get him to consent to go home.” “And I hope you’ll succeed,” said Everest, “not only for his sake but for mine as well. I want Jasâni, and if he once gets away from the place I’m quite certain he’ll never come back.” *** Mrs. Bowyer noticed a change in Stanford during the next two or three days, a change that gave her encouragement. He was still silent, thoughtful, but not so dejected. He even asked with a certain diffidence for the letters he had hitherto refused to read. She gave them to him with a matter-of-fact air, while inwardly consumed with curiosity, and left him alone with them in the veranda. One glance at his face, when she returned an hour later, told her that now was her time for the “big try.” She made no reference to the little packet he held in his hand; just settled herself down with her needlework, a brisk, kind-hearted woman who was ever ready to do her best for her fellow creatures; and she had strong hopes that she was not to be defeated in this her final attempt to do her best for the fellow creature at her side. She began cautiously, keeping her eyes on her needle work. “And have you *quite* made up your mind to go back to the desert instead of obeying Major Hope’s orders, not to speak of mine?” He made no answer; and she looked up, prepared for argument. His face, wasted by sickness and pain, was flushed, there was a pathetic little smile on his lips. “Is it all right?” she asked, with a meaning glance at the letters in his hand. “I’m—I’m not sure. Don’t ask me about it. If it should be all right—I’ll let you know—one of the first— I’ll cable!” “Then you are going home!” she cried, highly excited. He nodded. “And you’ll stay here with us till you go?” “If I shan’t be a nuisance—yes, thank you.” “Oh! my dear, as if you hadn’t been such a nuisance already that we couldn’t bear a little more of it!” she laughed affectionately. He bent forward, took her hand and kissed it. She patted his head. Presently he said abruptly: “I want to send a telegram to England.” She called the immemorial Indian summons “Quai hai!” bade the servant who appeared bring telegraph forms, that he would find in the Magistrate’s office table drawer. “You’ll probable make mistakes and have to write it out several times,” she said handing him the forms. “No, I shan’t. I know exactly what I’m going to say.” For a few moments he wrote carefully. Then he handed her the piece of paper. “Would you care to read it?” Eagerly she took it from his hand. The address was > MISS WYLDE, 26 Borrodaile Road, Ealwood, London, SW. England and it ran: > *“Been ill coming home please do not open blue envelope till I arrive.”* “Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowyer in triumph, betraying herself—” I was sure those letters were from Leila!” “But please,” he besought her, “don’t be sure about anything else, because I’m not sure myself. I shan’t know till I get home and have seen her, I can on1y—hope.” “So can I!” said Mrs. Bowyer; and she sent off a peon to the post ofiice with the telegram. ## EPILOGUE *Extract from a letter written by Mrs. Bowyer from India, to Noel Stanford in England.* “I got your cable, as you know because I cabled back, which George said was very extravagant of me, but I snubbed him at once, and he didn’t dare say another word. And now here is your letter and Leila’s!—how happy they make me, you dear things! I only wish we could be at your wedding, but we are sending you a very nice present to console you for our absence. We are more than delighted to hear that you have sold Jasâni to Mr. Everest. Now he will be in the Seventh Heaven, burrowing in the mound and the ruins. What a strange taste! But it takes the place with him of matrimony. Men of that sort don’t want wives—they are too much engrossed in their scientific interests. I have just heard from him that he is coming to stay with us soon, preliminary to taking over his new possession; and he is keeping on that good fat Babu Narain Singh, who was so devoted to you, besides all your servants. Anatta, you will be thankful to hear, seems to have settled down with the missionaries. George and Shahamat Ali have made satisfactory arrangements for her financially and the poor old man has departed this life, which even the mission people can’t pretend to regret, for I gather from the head padre’s letters that they found him a bit of a trial. Anatta has sent me a marvellous specimen of her latest accomplishment, a very fair attempt at a sampler worked in cottons all the colours of the rainbow, and in the middle of it ‘How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour.’ So evidently Anatta regards *herself* as the busy bee and did not consider it necessary to add more! She is in kind good hands, and will be kept out of mischief. “It is splendid that your leg is improving so well under the treatment and that you hope you won’t have to hobble with a stick to the altar! I was interested to hear that Buster and Brown enjoyed the voyage and that they refrain from fighting with Tomkins. Who is Tomkins? You don’t explain. But of course details can hardly be expected from people in love!”