. CUNNINGHAM
 
 DUSTYPORE.
 
 SBadantijnc 
 
 BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE 
 
 A TALE OF 
 MODERN ANGLO-INDIAN SOCIETY 
 
 H. S. CUNNINGHAM 
 
 AUTHOR OF "WHEAT AND TARES," "LATE LAURELS," ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1877 
 [All rights reserved]
 
 tack 
 
 R. H. W. 
 
 You promised me once that, if ever the ' Chronicles of 
 Dustypore ' shaped themselves into being, they might 
 be dedicated to you. While writing them my thoughts 
 have often turned to happy hours passed in your 
 society, and pleasant scenes witnessed beneath your 
 roof. If the story has profited thereby, and Felicia 
 has borrowed whatever charms she may possess 
 from those remembered scenes and hours, forgive 
 me, and let me lay the portrait, with all its imper- 
 fections, at your feet. 
 
 H. S. C.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. ' PAGE 
 
 I. THE SANDY TEACTS I 
 
 II. MAUD 10 
 
 III. WAR AT THE SALT BOARD 22 
 
 IV. FELICIA 29 
 
 v. ' SUTTON'S FLYERS ' 38 
 
 VI. ' A COMPETITION WALLAH ' 46 
 
 VII. THE RUMBLE CHUNDER GRANT . . . . 58 
 
 VIII. GOLDEN DAYS 64 
 
 IX. THE FIRST BALL -72 
 
 X. THE WOES OF A CHAPERON 83 
 
 XL FRIENDS IN COUNCIL 92 
 
 XII. A CHAPTER OF DISCLOSURES . . . . Io8 
 
 XIII. DESVCEUX MAKES THE RUNNING . . -US 
 
 XIV. TO THE HILLS ! 126 
 
 XV. A DISTRICT OFFICER .141 
 
 XVI. ELYSIUM . . . . . . . .147 
 
 XVII. A BATTLE ROYAL 156 
 
 XVIII. GAUDIA IN EXCELSIS 163 
 
 XIX. A BRUSH ON THE FRONTIER . . . .175 
 k XX. A LAST RIDE 184
 
 VI 11 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PACK 
 
 xxi. MAUD'S SECRET 192 
 
 XXII. LOVE IS BEGUN 2OI 
 
 XXHL A STRAY SHOT 208 
 
 XXIV. THE GULLY . . .* . . . . 22O 
 
 XXV. AN INVALID 235 
 
 XXVI. DESVCEUX IN DESPAIR 243 
 
 XXVII. CHRISTMAS AT DUSTYPORE . . . .256 
 
 XX VIIL MORNING CLOUDS 264 
 
 XXIX. THE HILL CAMP 273 
 
 XXX. TEMPTATION . . . % . . . .281 
 
 XXXL BOLDERO ON GUARD 287 
 
 XXXIL A GRASS WIDOW 298 
 
 XXXHI. FACILIS DESCENSUS AVERNI . . . . 305 
 
 XXXIV. BAD TIMES IN THE PLAINS . . . . 3H 
 
 XXXV. AN ELYSIAN PICNIC 32O 
 
 XXXVI. A KISS 330 
 
 XXXVIL ILL NEWS FLY APACE 348 
 
 XXXVTIL FLIGHT 359 
 
 xxxix. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN .... 366 
 
 L'ENVOI 373
 
 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 1 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SANDY TRACTS. 
 
 He seems like one whose footsteps halt, 
 Tolling in immeasurable sand ; 
 And o'er a weary, sultry land, 
 Far beneath a blazing vault, 
 Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, 
 ) The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 
 
 ANY one who knows or cares anything about India 
 that is, say, one Englishman in a hundred 
 thousand is familiar with the train of events 
 which resulted in the conquest of the Sandy Tracts, 
 the incorporation of that unattractive region in the 
 British Indian Empire, and the establishment of 
 an Agency at Dustypore. The ninety-nine thou- 
 sand nine hundred and ninety-nine, who neither 
 know nor wish to know, would not be grateful 
 
 1 For the sake of readers who might mispronounce the name of the 
 famous station Das-tiptir if the official spelling were retained, the 
 name is spelt phonetically. 
 
 A
 
 2 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 for ail account of battles fought at places of which 
 they never heard, of victories gained by generals 
 whose fame is already forgotten, or of negotiations 
 which nobody but the negotiators understood at 
 the time, and which a few years have effectually 
 relegated to the oblivion that awaits all that is at 
 once dull, profitless, and unintelligible. 
 
 Suffice it to say that the generally admired air 
 of ' Rule Britannia,' which has been performed on 
 so many occasions for the benefit of admiring 
 audiences in different parts of the Indian conti- 
 nent, was once again piped and drummed and 
 cannonaded into the ears of a prostrate population. 
 The resistless l red line,' historical on a hundred 
 battle-fields, once again stood firm against the 
 onset of despairing fanaticism, and once again in 
 its advance moved forward the boundaries of the 
 conquering race. The solid tramp of British 
 soldiers' feet sounded the death-knell of a rule 
 whose hour of doom had struck, and one more little 
 tyranny its cup of crime, perfidy, and folly full 
 was blotted for ever from the page of the 
 world's story. The sun set into a horizon lurid 
 with the dust of a flying rabble, and the victorious 
 cavalry, as it returned, covered with sweat and dirt, 
 from the pursuit, found all the fighting done, an 
 English guard on duty at the city gates, a troop of 
 English artillery drawn up in front of the principal
 
 THE SANDY TRACTS. 3 
 
 mosque, and a couple of English sentinels plodding 
 up and down with all the stolidity of true Britons 
 in front of the Officers' Quarters. The Sandy 
 Tracts were ours. 
 
 The next morning at sunrise the British flag 
 was flying on the Fort of Dustypore, and a British 
 General and his staif were busy with maps, orders, 
 and despatches in quarters from which the ladies 
 of a royal seraglio had fled in post-haste the after- 
 noon before. Thenceforward everything went on 
 like clockwork. Before the week was out order, 
 such as had not been dreamed of for many a long 
 year, prevailed in every nook and corner of the 
 captured city. One morning an elderly gentleman, 
 in plain clothes, attended by two or three uni- 
 formed lads and a tiny cavalry escort, rode in, and 
 a roar of cannon from the Fort announced that 
 the ' Agent ' had arrived. Then set in the full 
 tide of civil administration. Courts began to sit, 
 pickpockets and brawlers were tried ; sanitary re- 
 gulations were issued ; returns were called for, ap- 
 pointments were made. The l Dustypore Gazette,' 
 in its first issue, announced with the greatest calm- 
 ness, and in the curt language appropriate to an 
 everyday occurrence, the annexation of the Sandy 
 Tracts ; and a gun fired from the Fort every 
 morning, as near as might be to mid-day, an- 
 nounced to the good people of Dustypore that, by
 
 4 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 order of Queen Victoria, it was twelve o'clock, and 
 twelve o'clock in a British cantonment. 
 
 The new addition to Her Majesty's possessions 
 resembled the Miltonic hell in one particular at 
 any rate in being a region of fierce extremes. 
 On winter mornings a biting wind, fresh from its 
 icy home in the distant snow-clad range, cut one 
 to the core ; and people clustered, with chattering 
 teeth and blue fingers, round blazing hearths, 
 where great logs worthy of an English Christmas 
 tempered the cruel atmosphere to a genial glow. 
 When the l Rains ' came it poured a little deluge. 
 During the eight months of summer the state of 
 things resembled that prevailing in the interior of 
 a well-constructed and well-supplied Arnott's stove. 
 Then it was that the Sandy Tracts were seen in 
 the complete development of their resources and 
 in the fullest glory. Vast plains, a dead level 
 but for an occasional clump of palms or the dome 
 of some despoiled and crumbling tomb, stretched 
 away on every side, and ended in a hazy quivering 
 horizon that spoke of infinite heat. Over these 
 ranged herds of cattle and goats, browsing on no 
 one could see what, or bewildered buffaloes would 
 lie, -panting and contented, in some muddy pool, 
 with little but horns, eyes, and nostrils exposed 
 above the surface. Little ill-begotten stunted 
 plants worked hard to live and grow and to weather
 
 THE SANDY TRACTS. 5 
 
 the roaring fierce winds. The crows sat gasping, 
 open-beaked, as if protesting against having been 
 born into so sulphurous an existence. Here and 
 there a well, with its huge lumbering wheel and 
 patient bullocks, went creaking and groaning night 
 and day, as if earth grudged the tiny rivulet, com- 
 ing so toilfully from her dry breast, and gave it up 
 with sighs of pain. The sky was cloudless, pitiless, 
 brazen. The sun rose into it without a single fleck 
 of vapour to mitigate its fierceness, and pierced, 
 like a red-hot sword, the rash mortal who dared, 
 unprotected, to meet its ray. All day it shone and 
 glistened and blazed, until the very earth seemed 
 to crack with heat, and the mere thought of it was 
 pain. l ./Egypt,' to use the poet's phrase, ' ached 
 in the sun's eye.' The natives tied their heads up 
 in bags, covered their mouths, and carried their 
 clothes between the sun and themselves. Europeans 
 entrenched themselves behind barriers of moistened 
 grass, lay outstretched under monster fans and 
 consoled themselves with what cool drinks their 
 means allowed, and with the conviction, which 
 seemed to spring perennial in each sufferer's breast, 
 that the present was by far the hottest summer 
 ever known. 
 
 Dew there was none. You stepped from your 
 door in the morning into a bed of sand, which no 
 amount of watering could reduce to the proper
 
 6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 solidity of a garden-path. As you came in at 
 night you shook off the dust that had gathered on 
 you in your evening stroll. Miles away the gallop- 
 ing horseman might be tracked by the little cloud 
 that he stirred up as he went. The weary cattle 
 trudged homeward from their day's work in a sand- 
 storm of their own manufacture. There was sand 
 in the air one breathed, in the food one tried to 
 eat, in the water that pretended to assuage one's 
 thirst: sand in heaven and sand on earth and a 
 great deal of sand in the heads of many of the 
 officials. 
 
 This getting of sand into the head, and getting 
 it in in a degree compatible neither with health, 
 comfort, or efficiency, was a recognised malady in 
 the Sandy Tracts. It cost the Government a great 
 deal of money and the services of many a useful 
 brain. Officers, when they felt themselves becom- 
 ing unendurably sandy and their ideas proportion- 
 ately confused, used to take furlough, and go home 
 and try to get washed clear again at Malvern or 
 Wiesbaden : and there was a famous physician in 
 Mayfair, renowned for his skill in ridding the 
 heads of those poor gentlemen of the unwelcome 
 deposit, who made a reputation and a fortune by, 
 so to speak, dredging them. 
 
 There was one official head, however, at Dusty- 
 pore in which no particle of sand was to be found,
 
 THE SANDY TEACTS. 7 
 
 and that was Mr. Strutt's. It was for this reason, 
 probably, amongst others, that he was made Chief 
 Secretary to the Salt Board, a post which, at the 
 time when this history commences, was one of the 
 most important, responsible, and lucrative in the 
 entire service. For the Salt Board, as will hereafter 
 be seen, was an institution whose dignity and powers 
 had grown and grown until they almost overtopped 
 those of the Agency itself. If the Salt Board was 
 the embodiment of what was dignified and powerful 
 in Dustypore, Mr. Strutt had concentrated in his 
 own person the functions and attributes of the Board. 
 He was prompt, indefatigable, self-satisfied, and, 
 what his superiors valued him for especially, lucky. 
 A long career had taught him and the world that 
 those who attacked him came off second-best. His 
 answers were unanswerable, his reports effective, his 
 explanations convincing. His nervous hand it was 
 that depicted the early triumphs of the Dustypore 
 Administration and in sonorous periods set forth the 
 glories of the British rule the roads, the canals, 
 the hospitals and schools the suppression of crime, 
 the decreased mortality, the general passion of the 
 inhabitants for female education. His figures were 
 constantly quoted by people who wished to talk 
 about India to English audiences, and his very name 
 was a pillar of strength to the champions of the 
 English rule. Even his enemies were constrained
 
 8 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOEE. 
 
 to admit that he possessed the art of ' putting it ' to 
 a degree of fearful and wonderful perfection. 
 
 The maxim, f like master like man,' was as far 
 as possible from being verified in the case of Mr. 
 Strutt and his superiors. Of these Mr. Forthering- 
 ham, the Chairman, was lymphatic in temperament, 
 inordinately vain, and the victim of an inveterate 
 habit of enunciating platitudes. Cockshaw, who 
 came next, was off-hand, superficial, and positive, 
 with the positiveness of a man who hates delibera- 
 tion and despises every form of uncertainty. Blunt, 
 the third member, was a non-civilian, and had been 
 brought out from England on account of his practi- 
 cal acquaintance with salt-mines, and of his having 
 been a secretary in the Board of Trade. He was 
 business-like, straightforward, and unconciliating ; 
 generally thought differently from his colleagues, 
 and had the roughest possible manner of saying 
 what he thought. 
 
 Such a trio had sometimes, as may well be ima- 
 gined, no little trouble in preserving toward the 
 outer world the aspect of serene, benevolent, and 
 consistent infallibility, the maintenance of which 
 Fotheringham regarded as the first of duties. 
 Cockshaw did not in the least mind a row, so long 
 as he was not kept too long at office for the purpose 
 of making it. Blunt would have stayed at office till 
 midnight, arguing doggedly, sooner than abandon
 
 THE SAXDY TRACTS. 9 
 
 his point. Happily Fotheringham had a great sense 
 of propriety, concealed the dissensions of his 
 colleagues from the public eye, and preserved the 
 Board's dignity from ignominious collapse. 
 
 Under Strutt came a hierarchy of less important 
 subordinates, who paved the long descent, so to 
 speak, from the official altitudes in which the Salt 
 Board had its being to the vulgar public who con- 
 sumed the salt. Chief of these was Vernon, with 
 whom the reader will speedily become better ac- 
 quainted. Under him, again, came Mr. Whisp, the 
 Assistant-Secretary, a young gentleman whose task 
 it was to draw up minutes of the Board's proceedings, 
 to draft its circulars and to collect the statistics 
 out of which Strutt concocted his reports. He had 
 thus, it will be seen, an opportunity of acquiring 
 much useful information and a highly ornamental 
 style, and Whisp was generally regarded in the 
 service as a rising man.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MAUD. 
 
 Nature said, ' A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown : 
 f This child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own.' 
 
 WHEN Yernon was appointed Under- Secretary to 
 the Salt Board, he no doubt imagined that it was 
 in connection with that august body that he would 
 be known to fame and (as Strutt would grandilo- 
 quently have put it) leave his mark on his epoch. 
 He was destined, however, as the reader of these 
 pages will presently perceive, to become remarkable 
 on the less unusual ground of relationship to an 
 extremely pretty girl. His cousin Maud, of whom 
 years before, in a rash moment of benevolence, he 
 had consented to become guardian and trustee, had 
 been suddenly thrown upon his hands. She was 
 no longer a remote anxiety which could be disposed 
 of by cheques, letters to governesses, and instruc- 
 tions to solicitors, but an immediate, living reality,
 
 MAUD. I I . 
 
 with a highly effective pair of eyes, good looks 
 as to which women might cavil, but every man 
 would he a firm believer the mauuer of an eager 
 child, and a joyousness which Vernon was obliged 
 to admit was at once deliciously infectious to the 
 world at large, and a very agreeable alterative to 
 the state of mind produced by Indian summers, salt 
 statistics, letters polished by Whisp or common- 
 places enunciated by Fotheringham. "With the 
 timidity of indolence he shuddered to think of 
 the social entanglements and disturbances which 
 so new an element in his household was calculated 
 to produce. 
 
 Maud, on the other hand, had come out to India 
 with a very low opinion of herself and of her claims 
 upon the good-will of society. At Miss Good- 
 enough's establishment for young ladies, where 
 her education had been completed, her short- 
 comings had been impressed upon her in a manner 
 wholesome, perhaps, and necessary, but decidedly 
 depressing. She had been haunted by the awful 
 consciousness that she was a ' Tomboy.' Her general 
 demeanour, her mode of expressing herself, her 
 ignorance of many things with which no one ought 
 to be unfamiliar, had been the object of the most 
 unflattering comment. The elder Miss Goodenough 
 between whom and Maud there existed a real 
 though somewhat fitful attachment used to have
 
 12 CHKONICLES OF DUSTTPORE. 
 
 lier into a solemn little chamber and administer 
 the most awful lectures on her sins of commission 
 and omission, and the disgrace and suffering which 
 they would justly entail. These interviews were 
 generally tearful and tender ; for Miss Goodenough, 
 to whom Maud had been consigned as a child on 
 her first arrival from India, loved her with a sort 
 of rapture which made itself felt amid all the vehe- 
 ment fault-finding which Maud's delinquencies 
 necessitated. Maud had always regarded the old 
 lady in something of a maternal light, and never 
 could be brought to abandon the familiar abbrevia- 
 tion of ' Goody,' by which she had been allowed, as 
 a child, to address her instructress. She accepted 
 her instructress's sentences accordingly with un- 
 questioning faith and submission. The two used 
 to weep together over Maud's shortcomings. She 
 looked upon Miss Goodenough as a friend whose 
 heart it was her unlucky fate to lacerate. Miss 
 Goodenough regarded Maud as a creature whose 
 alarming impulses and irregularities justified the 
 darkest forebodings as to her future, and succeeded 
 in infecting her pupil with some of her own appre- 
 hensions. Some judgment must, so both agreed, 
 sooner or later overtake one whose shoulders seemed 
 guided by a hidden law to unequal altitudes, whose 
 toes defied every endeavour to keep them pointed 
 in the conventional direction, and whose impetuous
 
 MAUD. 1 3 
 
 behaviour was constantly producing a scandal of 
 more or less gravity. 
 
 * Dearest child,' Miss Goodenough would say, 
 with an air of profound commiseration, 'if you 
 could see how you look, with one shoulder up to 
 your ears and the other near to what should be 
 your waist ! ' 
 
 This taunt particularly grieved Maud, for she felt 
 bitterly that her form was unromantically plump, 
 and not at all of the refined tenuity of several, of 
 her companions. 
 
 ' My shoulders ! ' she would exclaim, with the 
 tears in her eyes ; ' I wish they were both at Jericho. 
 I am sure I am made wrong, dearest Goody, indeed 
 I am.' 
 
 1 Then, my dear,' Miss Goodenough would say, 
 not encouragingly, l we should try all the more to 
 remedy natural defects ; at any rate, you might 
 know your Bible. Now, dear Maud, your ignorance 
 is, you know, simply shocking/ 
 
 1 Yes I know,' said Maud, l but I can't help it. 
 Those horrid kings of Israel and Judah ! They 
 made Israel to sin, they make me to sin, indeed 
 they do. Jehoshaphat, Jehoiakim, Jonadab, Jehu 
 all wicked all beginning with J how can any 
 one remember them ? ' 
 
 ' Then, my dear,' her inexorable monitress would 
 reply, ' you can never know what every well-edu-
 
 14 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 cated young lady, what every mere school-child, is 
 acquainted with. How can you be fit to go into 
 the world?' 
 
 ( I wish,' said Maud, passionately, in despair at 
 the difficulties of existence, ( that when the tribes 
 got lost they had taken their histories with them, 
 and lost them too. Darling Goody, let me learn 
 texts, hymns, all the Sermon on the Mount, as 
 much poetry as you please, only not those dreadful 
 Chronicles ! ' Maud used on these occasions to 
 throw her arms round Goody's neck in an out- 
 break of affectionate repentance, in a way that the 
 elder lady, who was absurdly impressionable, found 
 it difficult to resist. 
 
 But Miss Goodenough's kindness made Maud's 
 conscience all the less at ease. Calmness, self- 
 restraint, composure, a well-stocked mind, and 
 sensible judgment were, Miss Goodenough told 
 her, the great excellencies of character to be aimed 
 at. Maud looked into herself, and felt, with agonies 
 of self-reproach, that in every particular she fell 
 miserably short ; that she was the very reverse of 
 calm ; the least thing roused her into passion, or 
 sent her spinning from the summit of serene high 
 spirits to the lowest depths of despair ; as for self- 
 restraint, Maud felt she was just as capable of it 
 as of flying to the moon. 
 
 From time to time she made violent efforts to
 
 MAUD. I 5 
 
 be diligent, and set to work with sudden zeal 
 upon books which her instructress assured her were 
 most interesting and improving. These attempts, 
 for the most part, collapsed in grievous failure. 
 Improvement, Maud felt ruefully, there might be, 
 though unbeknown to herself; interest, she was 
 certain, there was none. On the other hand, a 
 chance novel, which had somehow or other passed 
 scatheless through the rigid blockade which Miss 
 Goodenough established around her young ladies, 
 had filled her with a sort of ecstacy of excitement ; 
 and no amount of poetry no such amount, at any 
 rate, as came within the narrow limits of her 
 mistress's literary horizon seemed capable of 
 fatiguing or even of satisfying her. Displaying 
 the most complete inaptitude for every other form 
 of diligence, she was ready enough to learn any 
 amount that any one liked to give her. She even 
 signalised her zeal by the spasmodic transcription 
 of her favourite passages into a precious volume 
 marked with a solemn * Private,' protected from 
 profane eyes by a golden padlock and destined by 
 its proprietress to be the depository of all her intel- 
 lectual treasures. 
 
 Miss Goodenough, however, though admitting 
 perforce the merits of the great masters of English 
 song, regarded the claims of poetry as generally 
 subordinate to those of history, geography, arith-
 
 I 6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 metic, and various other branches of useful and 
 ornamental learning, and treated Maud's passion 
 for Sir Walter Scott as but another alarming 
 symptom of an excitable disposition and ill-regu- 
 lated mind. 
 
 A crisis came at last. It happened at church, 
 where Miss Goodenough's young ladies used to sit 
 just under the gallery, while the boys of ' The 
 Crescent House Academy ' performed their devotions 
 overhead. One fatal Sunday in February, just as 
 the Service was over, and the two Misses Good- 
 enough had already turned their backs to lead the 
 way out, and the young ladies were preparing to 
 follow, a little missive came fluttering down and 
 fell almost into Maud's hands ; at any rate, she 
 slipped it into her Prayer-book ; and all would have 
 gone well but for that horrid Mademoiselle de Vert, 
 who, turning sharply round, detected the occurrence, 
 and the moment Maud was outside the church 
 demanded her Prayer-book. 
 
 Maud turned fiery red in an instant, and sur- 
 rendered her book. 
 
 < And the note,' said Mademoiselle de Vert. 
 
 1 What note ? ' said Maud. But alas ! her tell- 
 tale cheeks rendered the question useless, and made 
 all evasion impossible. Maud was speedily driven 
 to open resistance. 
 
 1 No, thank you,' she said, with an air that told
 
 MAUD. 1 7 
 
 Mademoiselle de Vert that further attempts at 
 coercion would be labour thrown away ; ' it was not 
 intended for you; it was a valentine.' 
 
 After this appalling disclosure there was, of 
 course, when they got home, an explanation to be 
 had with Miss Goodenough, who professed herself, 
 and probably really was, terrified at so new a phase 
 of human depravity. 
 
 Maud was presently in floods of tears, and was 
 obliged to confess that she and the offending culprit 
 had on more than one occasion let each other's eyes 
 meet, had in fact exchanged looks, and even smiles ; 
 so that, perhaps, she was the real occasion for this 
 unhallowed act of temerity. 
 
 ' Forgive me, forgive me ! ' she cried ; ( it was 
 nothing wrong ; it was only a heart with an arrow 
 and a Cupid ! ' 
 
 ' A Cupid I ' cried Miss Goodenough, in horror at 
 each new revelation, * and some writing too, I 
 suppose ? ' 
 
 1 Yes,' said Maud, whose pleasure in the valentine 
 was rapidly surmounting the disgrace into which it 
 had got her ; ' really pretty verses. Here it is ! ' 
 And thereupon she produced the offending billet, 
 and proceeded to read with effusion : 
 
 I would thou wcrt a summer rose, 
 
 And I a bird to hover o'er thee ; 
 And from the dawn to evening's close 
 
 To warble only, I adore thee ! '
 
 I 8 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 Stop ! ' cried Miss Goodenough, with great de- 
 cision, and white with indignation ; ' do you know 
 what you are reading ? Do you know that that 
 vulgar rubbish is the sort of odious impertinence 
 that shop-boys send to their sweethearts, but 
 which it is an insult to let a lady even see, and 
 which, transmitted in a church, is little less than 
 sacrilege ? ' 
 
 So saying, Miss Goodenough took the offending 
 letter and consigned it to the flames, and poor 
 Maud stood ruefully by, watching the conflagration 
 of the silver Cupid, mourning over Miss Good- 
 enough's hard-heartedness, and consoling herself 
 with the reflection that at any rate she remembered 
 the verses. 
 
 ' I must write to your aunt Felicia to remove you. 
 What an example for other girls ! ' 
 
 1 Well,' said Maud resignedly, and blushing iu 
 anticipation at the thought of such an exposure ; 
 * do not, at any rate, tell her about the valentine. 
 Dear Goody, did you never have one sent to you 
 when you were my age ? ' 
 
 Miss Goodeuough quite declined to gratify this 
 audacious inquiry, and made up her mind that it 
 was high time for Maud to be under more masterful 
 guidance than her own. The result was that in the 
 following November Maud was a passenger on the 
 P. & 0. steamship ' Cockatrice,' from Southampton
 
 MAUD. 1 9 
 
 to Calcutta, where her cousin Vernon was to meet 
 her and escort her to her new home in Dustypore. 
 
 She had been, it must be acknowledged, to a 
 certain degree reassured by the experience of her 
 voyage. She found that the kings of Israel and 
 Judah did not occupy a prominent place in general 
 conversation ; that a precise acquaintance with the 
 queens of England was not expected of her ; and 
 that nobody resented the impetuosity of her move- 
 ments or her want of self-restraint. On the con- 
 trary, several of her fellow-voyagers had evinced 
 the liveliest sympathy and interest in her, and had 
 devoted themselves successfully to keeping her 
 amused. Maud, in fact, had gone down to her 
 cabin on more occasions than one during the 
 voyage and shed some tears at the approaching 
 separation from friends, whom even those few 
 weeks of chance companionship had carried close 
 to her heart. It had been in truth a happy time. 
 The captain, to whose special care she was com- 
 mitted, had watched over her with a more than 
 paternal interest. The doctor insisted on her 
 having champagne. The purser set all his occult 
 influences at work to increase her comfort. The 
 stewards conspired to spoil her. Maud felt that 
 nothing she could do would at all adequately ex- 
 press her feelings to all these good people who had 
 ministered to her wants and tried, with so much
 
 2O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 success, to please her. There are people, no doubt, 
 to whom a voyage to India is the height of bore- 
 dom ; but there are other happier natures to whom 
 it presents a continuous series of excitements, 
 interests, and joys. Maud, at any rate, enjoyed it 
 with a sort of rapture, and trembled to think how 
 faintly Miss Goodenough's admonitions even now 
 began to fall upon her conscience's ear. 
 
 Then there had been some very charming fellow- 
 passengers on board, with whom she had formed 
 the warmest friendship. There was a certain Mr. 
 Mowbray, for instance a comely, curly-headed, 
 beardless boy, on his way to join his regiment 
 whom she found extremely interesting, and who 
 lost no time in becoming confidential. It was 
 very pleasant to sit on deck through long lazy 
 mornings and play besique with Mr. Mowbray ; 
 and pleasant too, when the day was done, to sit 
 with him in the moonlight and watch the Southern 
 Cross slowly wheeling up and the waves all ablaze 
 with phosphoric splendour, and to talk about home 
 and Mr. Mowbray 's sisters, and the stations to 
 which each of them were bound, never, probably, 
 to meet again. There was something mysterious 
 about it, Maud felt, and impressive, and very, very 
 charming. 
 
 And then, on some evenings, the stewardess 
 wo^uld declare that Maud looked pale, or had a
 
 MAUD. 2 1 
 
 headache, and that she should have a little dinner 
 on deck ; * Just a bit of chicken, miss,' this 
 benevolent being would say, ' and a slice of ham, 
 and the doctor will give you a glass of champagne. 
 The cabin is a deal too hot for you.' And then, by 
 some happy fatality, Mr. Mowbray would also have 
 a headache that very afternoon, and nothing but 
 dining on deck would do for him ; and so there 
 would be a very pleasant little repast going on 
 over the heads of the hot, noisy crowd who were 
 gobbling up their food below ; and the two invalids 
 would forget their maladies, fancied or real, in the 
 innocent excitement of a congenial tete-a-tete. On 
 the whole, Maud had arrived at Dustypore with the 
 conviction that existence, though beset with almost 
 innumerable difficulties and dangers, was replete 
 with enjoyments, which made it, despite every 
 drawback, most thoroughly well worth while to 
 be alive.
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 WAR AT THE SALT BOARD. 
 
 Hos motus animorum atque hsec certamina tanta 
 
 THE Salt Board had excessively respectable tradi- 
 tions. Its commencement dated far back in Indian 
 history, long before the conquest of the Sandy 
 Tracts, and its prestige had been maintained by a 
 series of officials all of whom had been in the habit 
 of speaking of one another with the utmost respect. 
 The ' illustrious Jones,' ' the great administrator 
 Brown,' the * sagacious and statesmanlike Robin- 
 sou,' all threw the lustre of their abilities over the 
 institution, and were appealed to with unhesitating 
 faith by their successors in the department. When 
 one member referred to another he spoke of himself 
 as t sitting at his feet,' or as ' formed in his school,' 
 or as ' guided by his principles,' in language that 
 was perhaps a little unnecessarily grandiloquent, 
 but which had, at any rate, the effect of investing 
 the Board with a sort of moral grandeur with the
 
 WAK AT THE SALT BOAKD. 23 
 
 uninitiated. Even the mistakes of the Board 
 acquired a sort of dignity and were not to be 
 spoken of in an off-hand or irreverential manner. 
 They might seem mistakes, but it was not prudent 
 to be too sure that they were so. Many other 
 decisions of the Board had been cavilled at by rash 
 critics, and time had shown their wisdom. The 
 Board, moreover, had a certain grand, misty way 
 of its own of talking, which made its proceedings 
 somewhat hard to criticise. Indeed, all outside 
 criticism was resented as an impertinence, and 
 those rash critics who had the temerity to attempt 
 it were put down with the contemptuous decisive- 
 ness appropriate to ill-judged advisers. There was 
 a regular conventional way of crushing them : first 
 it was contended that, being outsiders, they could 
 not, in the nature of things, understand the 
 matter ; as if there was a sort of inner and spiri- 
 tual sense, by which the affairs of the Salt Board 
 must be apprehended. Then there were stereotyped 
 phrases, which really meant nothing, but which 
 were understood and accepted in the Sandy Tracts 
 as implying that the Board considered the subject 
 disposed of and did not want further discussion. 
 Arguments which could not be otherwise met were 
 smothered in an array of big names, or parried by 
 pathetic references to the zeal of the Salt officials
 
 24 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 and the conscientious manner in which they worked 
 in the sun. Whatever line was adopted, it was the 
 invariable tradition that Government should express 
 its concurrence, and so the whole thing ended com- 
 fortably to all parties concerned. All this was 
 naturally regarded as being highly satisfactory. 
 But the maintenance of this agreeable equilibrium 
 depended on the persons concerned being tempered 
 of the right metal, imbued with the right spirit, 
 and what Strutt used to call ' loyal.' The intru- 
 sion of an alien spirit could not fail to produce 
 deplorable disturbance, disquiet and the dissipation 
 of all sorts of agreeable illusions. And this was 
 what happened when Blunt who was an outsider, 
 the hardest, roughest, most matter-of-fact of com- 
 mercial Englishmen was appointed to the Board. 
 Blunt violated every tradition in the most ruthless 
 fashion, was unimpressed by all the solemnities 
 which awed conventional beholders, and had the 
 most inconvenient way of asking what things 
 meant, and (as he used to say with a sort of 
 horrid glee) l of picking out the heart of a thing.' 
 Now, the Board did not at all relish having its 
 heart picked out in this unceremonious fashion, 
 and resented it with a sort of passionate dislike. 
 Fotheringham felt that he had indeed fallen on 
 very evil times, and that the pleasant days of peace
 
 WAR AT THE SALT BOARD. 25 
 
 were numbered. Cockshaw, when he found that 
 Blunt would neither smoke nor play whist, gave 
 him up as a bore. The very clerks in the office 
 became agitated and depressed. When Blunt 
 pulled out his spectacles and produced his papers, 
 and went ruthlessly into figures, looking rigid and 
 tough, and implacable and indefatigable, both 
 Fotheringham and Cockshaw knew that their 
 places were not worth having and that they must 
 look for comfortable quarters elsewhere. Fother- 
 ingham counted the months to the time when his 
 pension would be due. Cockshaw, who was a man 
 of action, applied forthwith for the Chief Commis- 
 sionership of the Carraway Islands, which was just 
 then in the market. 
 
 Blunt had not been many weeks at Dustypore 
 before he showed to demonstration at the Board 
 that the accounts were kept on an entirely wrong 
 footing, and that a vast sum of money, five or six 
 lakhs, was not traceable. 
 
 t It is the floating balance,' said Fotheringham, 
 with an air of quiet assurance, arising from his 
 having given the same reply frequently before, and 
 always found it answer. 
 
 ' Perhaps you will trace it, then,' said Blunt, 
 pushing the papers across to Fotheringham in the 
 most unfeeling way. '/cannot.'
 
 26 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ' We had better send for.Strufct,' said Cockshaw, 
 who knew nothing about the accounts himself, aud 
 had a nervous distrust of Fotheringham's explana- 
 tions. Thereupon Strutt appeared, radiant and 
 self-satisfied, and cleared up everything with the 
 easy air of a man who is and who feels himself 
 thoroughly master of the situation. 
 
 1 No,' he said, in reply to Fotheringham's in- 
 quiry, not in the floating balance, but in Suspense 
 Account A : here it is, you see : one item, 2 lakhs 
 85,000 rs. 15 annas 3 pie.' 
 
 1 Of course,' said Fotheringham, ignoring his 
 blunder with an air of placid dignity, ' there, you 
 see, it is ! ' 
 
 ' Well,' said Blunt, insatiable of explanation, 
 1 but you said it was in the floating balance ; and 
 pray where are the other items, aud what is Sus- 
 pense Account A, and how many other Suspense 
 Accounts have you? Pray go on, Mr. Strutt.' 
 
 So Mr. Strutt had to go on, and then it was sad 
 to see the brightness fade out of his face, and his 
 pleasant swagger disappear, and his answers get 
 wilder and wilder as Blunt led him from figure to 
 figure, puzzled him by putting things in all sorts 
 of new lights, and finally took him completely out 
 of his depth. 
 
 This was not the sort of treatment to which
 
 WAR AT THE SALT BOARD. 2/ 
 
 Strutt had been accustomed, or for which he was 
 constitutionally fitted. At last, in despair, he sent 
 down for Yernon and the Head Accountant, and 
 these two brought up a pile of ledgers, and traced 
 the missing sums from one account into another in 
 a manner which baffled all Fotheringham's attempts 
 to follow them, and proved at last to their own 
 satisfaction that all was right. 
 
 Still the horrible Blunt was only half con- 
 vinced. 
 
 ' All may be right,' he said, l and I will take 
 your words that it is so. But the figures do not 
 prove it; nor do they prove anything except that 
 the system of accounts is deplorable. Any amount 
 of fraud might be perpetrated under them. I can't 
 understand them : Strutt does not understand 
 them : not one of you gentlemen understands them. 
 This may suit you ; but, as for me, I hate what I 
 cannot understand.' 
 
 So no doubt did Fotheringham, and this was one 
 reason why he so cordially hated Blunt. 
 
 Another thing about Blunt that irritated his col- 
 leagues was his way of coughing a loud, harsh, 
 strident cough whenever he was vexed. 
 
 ' His coughs are quite like oaths,' Fotheringham 
 said with a shudder ; and it must be confessed that 
 Blunt could throw an expression that sounded hor-
 
 28 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ribly like l damn it ' into his mode of clearing his 
 throat ; and that when Fotheringham was arguing 
 with him he cleared his throat oftener and more 
 vigorously than can have been necessary.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FELICIA. 
 
 The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
 Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
 A love still burning upward, giving light 
 To read those laws ; an accent very low 
 In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
 
 Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
 Eight to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, 
 
 Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
 Through all the outworks of suspicious pride. 
 
 THE new home in which Maud found herself mignt 
 well have contented a more fastidious critic than 
 she was at all inclined to be. The Veruons were 
 delightful hosts. Maud had established thoroughly 
 comfortable relations with her cousin during the 
 long journey to Dustypore ; and though he was too 
 indolent or perhaps too much absorbed in work for 
 anything but a sort of passive politeness, still this 
 was, upon the whole, satisfactory and reassuring, 
 and Maud felt very much at her ease with him. 
 Mrs. Vernon, the ' Cousin Felicia,' whom Maud now 
 realised in flesh and blood for the first time, inspired 
 her with a stronger, keener feeling of admiration than
 
 3O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 any she had known before. She was beautiful, as 
 Maud had often heard ; but beauty alone would not 
 account for the thrill of pleasure which something 
 in Felicia's first greeting gave her. The charm lay 
 in an unstudied, unconscious cordiality of manner 
 that fascinated the new-comer with its sincerity and 
 grace. Felicia coruscated with cheerfulness, cour- 
 age, mirth. She was bright, and infected those 
 about her with brightness. Transplanted from the 
 quiet luxury of an English country-house to the 
 rough experiences of Indian life, she bore through 
 them all an air of calmness, joyousness, refinement, 
 which the troubles of life seemed incapable of dis- 
 turbing. When, years before, just fresh from the 
 schoolroom and with all the dazzling possibilities 
 of a London season before her, she had admitted 
 her attachment to Vernon and her unalterable 
 desire to go with him to India, her father's face 
 had looked darker than she had ever seen it before, 
 and a family chorus of indignation had proclaimed 
 the unwisdom of the choice. The rector's son and 
 the squire's daughter, however, had played about 
 together as boy and girl, and long years of inti- 
 macy had cemented a friendship too strong to be 
 shattered by such feeble blows as worldliness or 
 prudence could inflict upon it. Vernon had nothing 
 but the slender portion which a country clergyman 
 might be expected to leave his children at his
 
 FELICIA. 3 I 
 
 death nothing, that is, except a long list of 
 school and college honours and a successful can- 
 didature for the Indian Civil Service. Felicia, as 
 her deploring aunts murmured -amongst themselves, 
 ' was a girl who might have married any one; ' and 
 her parents, without incurring the charge of a vul- 
 gar ambition, might naturally complain of a match 
 which gave them so little and cost them the pang 
 of so complete a separation. Felicia, at any rate, 
 had never repented of her choice ; she was greatly 
 in love with her husband, and had the pleasant 
 consciousness that his taste fastidious, critical, 
 and not a little sarcastic found in her nothing 
 that was not absolute perfection. India had deve- 
 loped in her a self-reliance and fortitude which 
 never could have been born in the safe tranquillity 
 of her home. The hot winds of Dustypore had not 
 quite robbed her cheeks of their English bloom ; 
 but there were lines of suffering, anxiety, and 
 fatigue which, when her face was at rest, let out 
 the secret that her habitual brightness was not as 
 effortless as it seemed. 
 
 The fact was that life, with all its enjoyments, 
 had been to her full of pangs, of which, even at 
 a safe distance, she could scarcely trust herself to 
 think. The separation from her home was a grief 
 that long usage made none the easier to bear. On 
 the contrary, there was a sort of aching want which
 
 32 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 was never appeased, and which the merest trifle 
 a letter a message a word was sufficient to 
 light up into something like anguish. Felicia 
 never achieved the art of reading her home letters 
 with decent composure, and used to carry them, 
 with a sort of nervous uneasiness, to her own room, 
 to be dealt with in solitude. Then four children, 
 all with an air of Indian fragility, and whose over- 
 refined looks their mother would thankfully have 
 bartered for a little vigour and robustness, had cost 
 her many a heartache. On the horizon of all her 
 married life there loomed the dreadful certainty of 
 a day when another series of separations would 
 begin, and the choice would lie between the com- 
 panionship of her husband in India, or the care of 
 her children at home. 
 
 From this horrid thought it was natural for such 
 a temperament as Felicia's to seek refuge in merri- 
 ment, which, if sometimes a little strained, was 
 never wholly unnatural. Excitement was a plea- 
 sant cure for gloomy thought, and it was to Felicia 
 never hard to find. Every sort of society amused 
 her, and those who saw her only in public would 
 have pronounced her a being to whom melancholy 
 was inconceivable. Her husband, however, could 
 have told that Felicia was often sad. There were 
 afternoons, too, when she was quite alone, when 
 she would order the carriage and drive away by an
 
 FELICIA. 33 
 
 unfrequented road to the dreary, lonely Station 
 Cemetery, and weep passionate tears over a grave 
 where years before she and her husband had come 
 one morning together and left a precious little 
 wasted form, and Felicia had felt that happiness 
 was over for her, and that life could never be the 
 same again. Nor was it, for there are some griefs 
 which travel with us to our journey's end. 
 
 Charmed as Maud had been with her newly- 
 found relation, she was conscious of the stiffness 
 of a perfectly unaccustomed life, and thought wist- 
 fully of the pleasures of the voyage and even of 
 her French and geography with Miss Goodenough. 
 Felicia, with all her kindness, just a little alarmed 
 her ; she was so brilliant, so dignified, and quite 
 unconsciously, so much of a fine lady. Vernon 
 was buried in his books or away at office, and 
 very seldom available for the purposes of conversa- 
 tion. The days, despite the excitement of novelty, 
 dragged heavily, and Maud began to think that if 
 every day was to be as long as these, and there 
 were three hundred and sixty-five of them in the 
 year, and fifty years, perhaps, in a life-time, how 
 terrific an affair existence was ! 
 
 Before, however, she had been a week at Dusty- 
 pore the ice began to melt. Felicia came in one 
 morning from a long busy time with nurses, chil- 
 dren, servants and housekeeping, established herself
 
 34 CHRONICLES OP DUSTYPORE. 
 
 in an easy-chair, close to Maud, and was evidently 
 bent upon a chat. Maud found herself presently, 
 she knew not how, pouring out all her most sacred 
 secrets, and giving her heart away in a most reckless 
 fashion, to a companion whom, so far as time went, 
 she still regarded as almost a stranger. Such a 
 confession she had never made, even to Miss Good- 
 enough, nor felt inclined to make it. Now, how- 
 ever, it seemed to come easily and as a matter of 
 course. Felicia was sympathetic and greatly in- 
 terested. Even the episode of the valentine was 
 not forgotten. 
 
 1 There,' Maud cried, with a slightly nervous 
 dread of telling something either improper or ridi- 
 culous ; f that was my very last schoolgirl scrape. 
 Was it very bad ? ' 
 
 ( Very bad ! ' cried Felicia, with a laugh, the 
 joyousness of which was entirely reassuring ; l it 
 was that naughty boy who got you into trouble. 
 Fortunately there are no galleries in our church 
 here, and no boys, so there is nothing to fear.' 
 
 That evening Felicia was singing an old familiar 
 favourite air, as she was fond of doing, half in the 
 dark, and unconscious of a listener. Vernon was 
 deep in his papers in the adjoining room. Maud, at 
 the other end of the piano, where she had been 
 turning over the leaves of some music, stood with 
 her hand still resting on the page, gazing at the
 
 FELICIA. - 3 5 
 
 singer and wrapt in attention. Something, she 
 knew not what, nor stopped to ask the time, the 
 place, the song or the tone of Felicia's voice 
 touched her as with a sudden gust of feeling. 
 When the song was over Maud walked across, flung 
 her arms round her companion and kissed her with 
 a sort of rapture. 
 
 Felicia, looking up, surprised, saw that the 
 other's eyes were full of tears. 
 
 f That is pretty, is it not?' she said, taking 
 Maud's hand kindly in her own. 
 
 * Sing it once more,' Maud petitioned. And so, 
 while Vernon, unconscious of the flow of sentiment 
 so close about him, was still absorbed in the vicissi- 
 tudes of Orissa, Felicia's performance was encored, 
 and two sympathetic natures had found each other 
 out and worked into unison. 
 
 Afterwards, when Maud had departed, Felicia, 
 with characteristic impulsiveness, broke out into 
 vehement panegyric : 
 
 'Come, George,' she said, 'don't be stupid, please, 
 and uninterested ; don't you think she is quite 
 charming ? ' 
 
 ' Felicia,' said her husband, f you are for ever 
 falling in love with some one or other, and now 
 you have lost your heart to Maud. No, I don't 
 think her charming ; but I dare say a great many 
 other people will. She will be the plague of our
 
 36 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 lives, you will see. I wish we bad left her at Miss 
 Goodenough's.' 
 
 ' Of course everybody will fall in love with her,' 
 cried Felicia, quite undaunted by her husband's 
 gloomy forebodings ; ' and I will tell you what, 
 George she will do delightfully for Jem.' 
 
 1 Jem ! ' exclaimed her husband, with a tone of 
 horror. ' Felicia, you are match-making already 
 and Jem too, poor fellow ! ' 
 
 Now, Jem Button was Vernon's oldest friend, 
 and Felicia's kinsman, faithful servant and ally. 
 Years before, the two men had boated and cricketed 
 together at Eton, and spent pleasant weeks at 
 each other's homes ; and when they met in India, 
 each seemed to waken up the other to a host of 
 affectionate recollections about their golden youth. 
 Sutton, in fact, was still a thorough schoolboy, 
 and as delighted with finding his old chum as if he 
 had just come back from the holidays. He had 
 contrived to get as much marching, fighting, and 
 adventuring into his ten years' service as a man 
 could wish ; had led several border forays with 
 daring and success ; had received several desperate 
 wounds, of which a great scar across the forehead 
 was the most conspicuous ; had established a repu- 
 tation as a rider and a swordsman, and had received 
 from his Sovereign the brilliant distinction of the 
 Victoria Cross, which, along with a great many
 
 FELICIA. 37 
 
 other honourable badges, covered the wide expanse 
 of his chest on state occasions. 
 
 Despite his fighting proclivities, Sutton had the 
 softest possible pair of blue eyes, his hair was still 
 as bright a brown as when he was a curly-headed 
 boy at his mother's side ; nor did the copious growth 
 of his moustache quite conceal a smile that was 
 sweetness and honesty itself. Felicia's two little 
 girls regarded him as their especial property and 
 made the tenderest avowals of devotion to him. 
 Sutton treated them, as all their sex, with a kind- 
 ness that was chivalrously polite, and which they 
 were already women enough to appreciate. 
 
 Lastly, among other accomplishments, which 
 rendered him especially welcome at the Vernons' 
 house, he possessed a tuneful tenor voice, and sang 
 Moore's Melodies with a pathos which was more 
 than artistic. On the whole, it is easy to under- 
 stand how natural it seemed to Felicia that two 
 such charming people as Sutton and Maud should 
 be destined by Heaven for each other, and that 
 hers should be the hand to lead them to their 
 happy fate.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ( BUTTON'S FLYERS.' 
 
 Consider this he had been bred i' the wars 
 Since he could draw a sword. 
 
 1 SUTTON'S FLYERS ' were well known in the Sandy 
 Tracts as the best irregular cavalry in that part 
 of the country. Formed originally in the Mutiny, 
 when spirits of an especial hardihood and enter- 
 prise gathered instinctively around congenial 
 leaders, they had retained ever since the prestige 
 then acquired and a standard of chivalry which 
 turned every man in the regiment into something 
 of a hero. Many a stalwart lad, bred in the wild 
 uplands of the Province, had felt his blood stirred 
 within him at the fame of exploits which appealed 
 directly to instincts on which the pacific British 
 rule had for years put an unwelcome pressure. 
 Around the fire of many an evening meal, in many 
 a gossiping bazaar, in many a group at village 
 well or ferry, the fame of the ' Flyers ' was re- 
 counted, and ' Sutton Sahib ' became a household 
 word by which military enthusiasm could be speedily
 
 1 BUTTON'S FLYERS.' 39 
 
 kindled to a blaze. With the lightest possible equi- 
 page, wiry country-bred horses, and a profound dis- 
 regard for all baggage arrangements, Button had 
 effected some marches which earned him the credit 
 of being supernaturally ubiquitous. Again and 
 again had Mutineer detachments, revelling in 
 fancied security, found that the dreaded horsemen, 
 whom they fancied a hundred miles away and 
 marching in an opposite direction, had heard of 
 their whereabouts and were close upon their track. 
 Then the suddenness of the attack, the known 
 prowess of the leader, the half- superstitious rever- 
 ence which his 'followers paid him, invested the 
 troop with a tradition of invincibility, and had 
 secured them, on more than one occasion, a bril- 
 liant success against odds which less fervent 
 temperaments than Sutton's might have felt it 
 wrong to encounter, and which certainly made 
 success seem almost a miracle. To his own men 
 Sutton was hardly less than a god, and there were 
 few of them on whom he could not safely depend 
 to gallop with him to their doom. 
 
 More than one of his officers had saved his li-fe 
 in hand-to-hand fight by reckless exposure of their 
 own ; and his adjutant had dragged him, stunned, 
 crushed and bleeding, from under a fallen horse, 
 and carried him through a storm of bullets to a 
 place of safety. All of them, on the other hand,
 
 4O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYFORE. 
 
 had experienced on a hundred occasions the benefit 
 of his imperturbable calmness, his inspiring con- 
 fidence and unshaken will. Once Sutton had 
 gratified their pride and perhaps, too, his own 
 by a display of prowess which, if somewhat theatri- 
 cal, was nevertheless extremely effective. A fight 
 was on hand, and the regiment was just going into 
 action, when a Mohammedan trooper, famed as a 
 swordsman on all the country-side, had ridden out 
 from the enemy's lines, bawled out a defiance of 
 the English rule, couched in the filthiest and most 
 opprobrious te-rms, and dared Sutton to come out 
 and fight, and let him throw his carcase to the 
 dogs. There are moments when instinct becomes 
 our safest, and indeed our only, guide. Sutton, 
 for once in his life, felt a gust of downright fury : 
 he gave the order to halt and sheathe swords, took 
 his challenger at his word, rode out in front of his 
 force and had a fair hand-to-hand duel with the 
 hostile champion. The confronted troops looked on 
 in breathless anxiety, while the fate of either com- 
 batant depended on a turn of the sword, and each 
 fought as knowing that one or other was to die. 
 Suttoii at last saw his opportunity for a stroke 
 which won him the honours of the day. It cost 
 him a sabre-cut across his forehead, which to some 
 eyes might have marred his beauty for ever; but 
 the foul-mouthed Mussulman lay dead on the field,
 
 SUTTON S FLYERS. 4! 
 
 smitten through the heart, and Sutton rode back 
 among his shouting followers the acknowledged 
 first swordsman of the day. 
 
 Such a man stood in no need of Felicia's pane- 
 gyrics to seem very impressive in the eyes of a girl 
 like Maud. Despite his gentleness of manner and 
 the sort of domestic footing on which everybody 
 at the Yernons', down to the baby, evidently placed 
 him, she felt a little awed. She was inclined to 
 be romantic; but it was rather alarming to have 
 a large, living, incarnate romance sitting next her 
 at luncheon, cutting slices of mutton, and asking 
 her, with a curiosity that seemed necessarily con- 
 descending, about all the details of the voyage. 
 There seemed something incongruous and painfully 
 below the mark in having to tell him that they 
 had acted ' Woodcock's Little Game,' and had 
 played ' Bon Jour, Philippe,' on board ; and Maud, 
 when the revelation became necessary, made it with 
 a blush. After luncheon, however, Sutton and the 
 little girls had a game of { Post,' and Maud begun 
 to console herself with the reassuring conviction 
 that, after all, he was but a man, and a very 
 pleasant one. 
 
 After he had gone, Felicia, who was the most 
 indiscreet of match-makers, began one of her ex- 
 travagant eulogiums. ' Like him ! ' she cried, in 
 reply to Maud's inquiry ; * like is not the word. He
 
 42 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYl'ORE. 
 
 is the best, noblest, bravest, aiid most chivalrous 
 of beings.' 
 
 ' Not the handsomest ! ' interrupted Maud, 
 tempted by Felicia's enthusiasm into feeling per- 
 versely indifferent. 
 
 1 Yes, and the handsomest too,' Felicia said ; 
 * tall, strong, with beautiful features, and ,eyes as 
 soft and tender as a woman's ; indeed a great deal 
 softer than most women's.' 
 
 * Then,' objected Maud, * why has lie never '- 
 
 ' Because,' answered her companion, indignantly 
 anticipating the objection, ' there is no one half- 
 a-quarter good enough for him.' 
 
 1 Well,' said the other, by this time quite in a 
 rebellious mood, '-all I can say is, that I don't 
 think him in the least good-looking. I don't like 
 that great scar across his forehead.' 
 
 ' Don't you ? ' cried Felicia ; and then she told 
 her how the scar had come there, and Maud could 
 no longer pretend not to be interested. 
 
 The next day Sutton came with them for a drive, 
 and Maud, who had by this time shaken off her 
 fears, began to find him decidedly interesting. 
 There was something extremely romantic in having 
 a soldier, whose reputation was already almost 
 historical, the hero of a dozen brilliant episodes, 
 coming tame about the house, only too happy to 
 do her biddin or Felicia's, and apparently per-
 
 BUTTON S FLYERS. 43 
 
 fectly contented with their society. Felicia was in 
 the highest spirits, for she found her pet project 
 shaping itself with pleasant facility into a fair 
 prospect of realisation ; and when Felicia was in 
 high spirits they infected all about her. 
 
 Button, innocently unconscious of the cause of 
 her satisfaction, but realising only that she wanted 
 Maud amused and befriended, lent himself with a 
 ready zeal to further her wishes and let no leisure 
 afternoon go by without suggesting some new 
 scheme of pleasure. Maud's quick, impulsive, 
 highly-strung temperament, her moods of joyous- 
 ness or depression, hardly less transient than the 
 shadows that flit across the fields in April, her 
 keen appreciation of beauty and pathos, made her, 
 child as she was in most of her thoughts and ways, 
 an interesting companion to him. Her eagerness 
 in enjoyment was a luxury to see ; and Sutton, a 
 good observer, knew before long, almost better 
 than herself, what things she most enjoyed. In- 
 stead of the reluctant and unsympathetic permission 
 which her late instructress had accorded to her 
 poetical tastes, Sutton and Felicia completely 
 understood what she felt, treated her taste on each 
 occasion with a flattering consideration, and led 
 her continually to i fresh woods and pastures new,' 
 where vistas of loveliness, fairer far than any she 
 had yet discovered, seemed to break upon her.
 
 44 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOKE. 
 
 Vernon's library, his one extravagance, was all 
 that the most fastidious scholar could desire ; any 
 choice edition of a favourite poet was on his table 
 almost before his English friends had got it. A 
 beautiful book, like a beautiful woman, deserves 
 the best attire that art can give it, and Maud felt 
 a thrill of satisfaction at all the finery of gilt and 
 Kussian leather in which she could now behold her 
 well-beloved poems arrayed. Sutton told her, with 
 a decisiveness which carried conviction, what things 
 she would like and what she might neglect ; and 
 she soon followed his directions with unquestioning 
 faith. He used to come and read to them some- 
 times, in a sweet, impressive manner, Maud felt ; 
 and the passage, as -he had read it, lived on in her 
 thoughts with the precise shade of feeling which 
 his voice had given it. 
 
 One happy week was consecrated to the l Idylls 
 of the King,' and this had been so especially 
 delightful as to make a little epoch in her exist- 
 ence so rich was the picture so great a revela- 
 tion of beauty such depths of sorrow such agonies 
 of repentance such calm, quiet, ethereal scenes of 
 loveliness. 
 
 More than once Sutton, in reading, had looked 
 up suddenly and found her eyes bent full upon 
 him, and swimming with tears ; and Maud had 
 stooped over her work, the sudden scarlet dyeing
 
 BUTTON S FLYERS. 45 
 
 her cheek, yet almost too much moved to care 
 about detection. 
 
 How true, how real, how living it all seemed ! 
 Did it, in truth, belong to the far-off, misty, fabu- 
 lous kingdom over which the mystic Arthur ruled, 
 or was she herself Elaine, and Lancelot sitting 
 close before her, and all the harrowing story 
 playing itself out in her own little troubled world ? 
 Anyhow, it struck a chord which vibrated pleasur- 
 ably, yet with a half-painful vehemence, through 
 her mind and filled it with harmonies and discords 
 unheard before. Certainly, she confessed to herself, 
 there was a something about Sutton that touched 
 one to the heart.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 * A COMPETITION- WALLAH.' 
 
 Ainsi doit 6tre 
 Un petit-maitre ; 
 Leger, amusant, 
 Vif, complaisant, 
 Plaisant, 
 Railleur aimable, 
 Traitre adorable ; 
 C'est rhomme du jour, 
 Fait pour 1'amour. 
 
 ONE of the stupid things that people do in India is 
 to select the two hottest hours of the day for call- 
 ing on each other. How such an idiotic idea first 
 found its way into existence, by what strange fate 
 it became part of the social law of Anglo-Indians, 
 and how it is that no one has yet been found with 
 courage or strength enough to break down a custom 
 so detrimental to the health and comfort of man- 
 kind, are among the numerous mysteries which the 
 historian of India must be content to leave unsolved. 
 Like Chinese ladies' feet, the high heels on which 
 fashionable Europe at present does penance, suttee 
 of Hindu widows, and infanticide among the 
 Rajpoot nobles, it is merely a curious instance that
 
 A COMPETITION- WALLAH. 47 
 
 there is nothing so foolish and so disagreeable that 
 human beings will not do or endure if it only 
 becomes the fashion. 
 
 At any rate, the ladies and gentlemen of Dusty- 
 pore were resolved not to be a whit less fashionable 
 and uncomfortable than their neighbours, and reli- 
 giously exchanged visits from twelve to two. 
 
 Maud's arrival was the signal for a burst of 
 callers, and a goodly stream of soldiers and 
 civilians arrived day by day to pay their homage 
 to the newly-arrived beauty and her chaperon. 
 Felicia's house was always popular, and all that 
 was pleasantest and best in Dustypo-re assembled 
 at her parties. Young London dandies fresh from 
 home, and exploring the Sandy Tracts under the 
 impression of having left the Ultima Thule of civili- 
 sation far behind them, were sometimes startled to 
 find her drawing-room as full of taste, luxury, and 
 refinement as if they had suddenly been transported 
 to Eaton Square. 
 
 What is the nameless grace that some women 
 have the art of putting into chairs and tables, 
 which turns them from mere bits of upholstery 
 into something hardly short of poetry? How is it 
 that in some rooms there breathes a subtle charm, 
 an aroma of delicacy and culture, a propriety in 
 the behaviour of the sofas and ottomans to one 
 another, a pleasant negligence apparent through
 
 48 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 the general order, a courageous simplicity amid 
 elaborated comfort, which, in the absence of the 
 mistress, tells the expectant visitor that he is 
 about to meet a thoroughbred lady ? 
 
 Some such fascination, at any rate, there lingered 
 about the cool, carefully-shaded room in which 
 Felicia received her guests. It was by no means 
 smart, and not especially tidy, for it was often 
 invaded and occupied by a victorious horde from 
 the nursery, and bore many a sign of the common- 
 place routine of daily life. But to Felicia's friends 
 it was an enchanted abode, where a certain refuge 
 might be found from whatever disagreeable things 
 or people prevailed outside, and where Felicia, who, 
 whatever she might feel, always looked calm and 
 radiant and cool, presided as the genius loci, to 
 forbid the possibility of profane intrusion. 
 
 One thing that made it picturesque was that at 
 all times and seasons it abounded in flowers. 
 Felicia was an enthusiastic gardener, and her 
 loving skill and care could save many a tender 
 plant which would, in a less experienced hand, 
 have withered and sunk under the burning heat 
 and dust that prevailed everywhere but in the 
 confines of Felicia's kingdom. Her garden gave 
 her a more home-like feeling than any other Indian 
 experience. It refreshed her to go out early in the 
 morning, while the children were yet asleep, and
 
 A COMPETITION-WALLAH. 49 
 
 the sun's rays had barely surmounted the tall rows 
 of plantains that marked the garden's boundary, 
 and guarded her treasures from the sultry air. It 
 soothed her to superintend ferns and roses, cuttings 
 from some Himalayan shrub, or precious little seed- 
 lings from England. By dint of infinite care she 
 had created a patch of turf, which, if not quite as 
 green, fresh and dewy as the lawn at home, was at 
 any rate a rest to eyes weary with dazzling wastes 
 and the bright blazing air. There Felicia had a 
 shady corner, where pots and sticks and garden- 
 tools attested the progress of many a new gardening 
 experiment, and where the water forced up from 
 the well at the garden's end went rippling by with 
 a pleasant sound, cooling and softening all the air 
 around. Oftentimes, as she lingered here, her 
 fancies would wander to the pleasant Manor House, 
 where her taste for flowers had been acquired in 
 her father's company, and she would be again fern- 
 hunting with him through some cool mossy wood- 
 land, or roaming through a paradise of bluebells, 
 with the well-loved beeches towering overhead, 
 while the sweet summer evening died slowly 
 away. 
 
 Early amongst the visitors Mr. Desvoaux was 
 announced, and Felicia, when she saw his card, 
 told Maud that she would be sure now to be very 
 much amused.
 
 SO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORB. 
 
 * He is the most brilliant of all the young civi- 
 lians,' she said, ' and is to do great things. But he 
 talks great nonsense and abuses everybody. So do 
 not be astonished at anything you hear.' 
 
 1 And is he nice ? ' inquired Maud. 
 Felicia made a little face, not altogether of ap- 
 proval : 
 
 * Well,' she said, 'he is more curious than nice ;' 
 and then Desvreux made his appearance, and while 
 he was exchanging preliminary commonplaces with 
 Felicia, Maud had an opportunity of observing the 
 visitor's exterior claims, which were not inconsider- 
 able, to the regard of womankind. 
 
 He was certainly, Maud felt at once, extremely 
 handsome and, apparently, extremely anxious to be 
 thought so. The general effect which he produced 
 was that of a poetical dandy. He was dressed with 
 a sort of effeminate finery, with here and there a 
 careless touch which redeemed it all from utter 
 fopdom. He was far too profusely set about with 
 pretty things, lockets and rings and costly knick- 
 knacks ; on the other hand his handkerchief was 
 tied with a more than Byronic negligence. The 
 flower in his button-hole was exquisite, but it was 
 stuck in with a carelessness which, if studied, was 
 none the less artistic. On the whole he was over- 
 dressed ; but he walked into the room with the air 
 of a man who had forgotten all about it, and who
 
 A COMPETITION-WALLAH. 5 I 
 
 had no eyes or thoughts for anything but his present 
 company. 
 
 Maud soon began to think him very entertaining, 
 but, as Felicia had said, l curious.' He was full 
 of fun, extravagant, joyous, unconventional ; he had 
 turned, after the first few sentences, straight upon 
 Maud and pointedly invited her into the conversa- 
 tion ; and she soon felt her spirits rising. 
 
 t I saw you this morning,' he said, ' in the dis- 
 tance, riding with Button. I should have asked to 
 be allowed to join you, but that I was too shy, and 
 Sutton would have hated me for spoiling his tcte-d- 
 tete.' 
 
 ' Three is an odious number, is it not, Mr. Des- 
 vo3ux?' said Felicia, 'and should be expunged from 
 the arithmetic books. Why was it ever invented ? ' 
 
 1 In order, I suppose/ said Desvceux, ' that we 
 three might meet this morning, and that there might 
 be three Graces and three witches in Macbeth, and 
 three members of the Salt Board. Three is evi- 
 dently a necessity ; but when I am of the trio, and 
 two of us are men, I confess I don't like it. It is 
 so nice to have one's lady all to one's self. But, Miss 
 Veruon, you are alarmed, I know, and naturally ; 
 you think that I am going to ask, what I suppose 
 fifty people have been asking you all the week, 
 whether you enjoyed the voyage to India, and how 
 you like the looks of Dustypore. But I will be
 
 52 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 considerate, and spare you. Enjoyed the voyage, in- 
 deed 1 What a horrid mockery the question seems!' 
 
 * But I did enjoy it/ cried Maud ; ( so you see 
 that you might have asked me after all. It was 
 very exciting.' 
 
 1 Yes, all the excitement of wondering every day 
 what new mysteries of horror the ship's cooks will 
 devise for dinner ; whether the sinews of Sunday's 
 turkey can rival those of Saturday's goose ; the 
 excitement of going to bed in the dark and tread- 
 ing on a black-beetle ; the excitement of shaving in 
 a gale of wind and cutting one's nose off, as I very 
 nearly did ; the excitement of the young ladies who 
 are expecting their lovers at Bombay, and of the 
 young ladies who will not wait till Bombay but 
 manufacture their lovers out of hand. It is too 
 thrilling ! ' 
 
 1 Well,' said Maud, ' we had theatricals and read- 
 ings and dances, and a gentleman who played the 
 most lovely variations on the violin, and I enjoyed 
 it all immensely ! ' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Desvceux, as if suddenly convinced, 
 ( then perhaps you are even capable of liking Dusty- 
 pore ! ' 
 
 1 Poor Mr. Desvceux I ' said Felicia ; ' how sorry 
 you must be to have finished your march, and be 
 back again at stupid Dustypore I ' 
 
 1 No place is stupid where Mrs. Vernon is,' said
 
 A COMPETITION- WALLAH. 53" 
 
 Desvoeux, gallantly ; ' or rather no place would be, 
 if she were not so often " not at home." 
 
 1 That must be/ Felicia said, ( because you call 
 on mail-days, when I am busy with my home des- 
 patches.' 
 
 The real truth was that Felicia considered Des- 
 voeux in need of frequent setting down, and closed 
 her door inhospitably against him, whenever he 
 showed the least inclination to be intimate. 
 
 1 Well,' said Desvoeux, ' the days that you are 
 busy with your despatches and when I have written 
 the Agent's, I do not .find it lively, I admit. Come, 
 Mrs. Vernon, the Fotheringhams, for instance 
 does not the very thought of them leave a sort of 
 damp upon your mind? It makes one shudder.' 
 Then Desvoeux passed on to the other officials, upon 
 whom he poured the most vehement contempt. 
 
 The Salt Board, he told Maud, always from time 
 immemorial consisted of the three greatest fogies in 
 the Service ; that was the traditionary rule ; it was 
 only when you were half-idiotic that you could do 
 the work properly. As for Mr. Fotheringham, he 
 was a lucky fellow ; his idiocy had developed early 
 and strong. 
 
 'That is why Mrs. Vernou detests him so.' 
 
 ' I don't detest him at all/ said Felicia ; ' but I 
 think him rather dull.' 
 
 1 Yes/ said Desvceux, with fervour ; f as Dr.
 
 54 CHRONICLES OF DTJSTYPORE. 
 
 Johnson said of some one, he was, no doubt, dull 
 naturally, but he must have taken a great deal of 
 pains to become as dull as he is now. Now, Miss 
 Vernou, would you like to see what the Board is 
 like ? First, you must know that I am the Agent's 
 private secretary, and part of my business is to 
 knock his and their heads together and try to get 
 a spark out. That is how I come to know about 
 them. First I will show you how Vernon puts on 
 his air of Under- Secretary and looks at me with a 
 sort of serious, bored, official air, as if he were a 
 bishop and thought I was going to say something 
 impertinent.' 
 
 f As I dare say you generally are,' said Felicia, 
 quite prepared to do battle for her husband. 
 
 1 Well,' said Desvoeux, ( this is how he sits and 
 looks gravity and fatigue personified.' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried Maud, clapping her hands with plea- 
 sure ; 1 1 can exactly fancy him.' 
 
 * Then,' continued Desvoeux, who was really a 
 good mimic and warming rapidly into the work, 
 1 in comes the Board. First Fotheringham, conde- 
 scending and serene and wishing us all " Good- 
 morning," as if he were the Pope dispensing a 
 blessing. You know his way like this ? Then 
 here is Cockshaw, looking sagacious, but really 
 pondering over his last night's rubber, and wishing 
 the Board were finished.'
 
 A COMPETITION- WALL AH. 55 
 
 Felicia was forced to burst out laughing at the 
 imitation. 
 
 'And now,' cried Maud, 'give us Mr. Blunt.' 
 
 Desvoaux put on Blunt's square awkward manner 
 and coughed an imprecatory cough. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' he said, l your figures are wrong, 
 your arguments false and your conclusions childish. 
 I don't want to be offensive or personal, and I 
 have the highest possible opinion of your service ; 
 but you must allow me to observe that you are all 
 a pack of fools ! ' 
 
 * Capital,' cried Maud ; l and what do you do all 
 the time, Mr. Desvoaux ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, Yernon and I sit still and wink at each 
 other and hope for the time when we shall have 
 become idiotic enough to be on the Board our- 
 selves. We are of the new r^gime^ and are sup- 
 posed to have wits, and we have a great deal of 
 intelligence to get over. But you know how the 
 old ones were chosen. All the stupidest sons of 
 the stupidest families in England for several gene- 
 rations, like the pedigree-wheat, you know, on 
 the principle of selection ; none but the blockheads 
 of course would have anything to do with India.' 
 
 * Don't abuse the bridge that carries you over,' 
 Felicia said : t No treason to India it has many 
 advantages.' 
 
 * Innumerable,' cried Desvoaux : * first, a decent
 
 56 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOEE. 
 
 excuse for separation between husbands and wives 
 who happen to be uncongenial no other society 
 has anything to compare with it. You quarrel, 
 you know ' 
 
 1 No, we don't,' said Felicia, l thank you. Speak 
 for yourself.' 
 
 ' Well, I quarrel with Mrs. Desvceux, we'll say - 
 though, by the way, I could not quarrel even with 
 my wife but suppose a quarrel, and we become 
 mutually insupportable : there is no trouble, no 
 scandal, no inconvenience. Mrs. Desvceux's health 
 lias long required change of air ; I secure a berth 
 for her on the P. & Q., escort her with the utmost 
 politeness to Bombay, have a most affectionate 
 parting, remit once a quarter, write once a fort- 
 night what can be more perfect ? ' 
 
 ' But suppose/ said Maud, ( for the sake of argu- 
 ment, that you don't quarrel and don't want to 
 separate ? ' 
 
 * Or suppose,' said Felicia, who knew that the 
 conversation was taking just 'the turn she hated, 
 < that we try our duet, Mr. Desvceux ? You know 
 that you are a difficult person to catch.' 
 
 * That is one of your unjust speeches,' said 
 Desvceux, dropping his voice as they approached 
 the piano and becoming suddenly serious : ' You 
 know that I come quite as often as I think I have 
 a chance of being welcome.'
 
 A COMPETITION-WALLAH. 57 
 
 Felicia ignored the remark and began playing 
 the accompaniment with the utmost unconcern. 
 The fact was that Desvoeux, though not quite such 
 a Don Juan as he liked to be thought, had a large 
 amount of affection to dispose of, and had given 
 Felicia to understand upon twenty occasions that 
 he would like to begin a flirtation with her if he 
 dared.
 
 CHAPTER YIT. 
 
 THE RUMBLE CHUNDER GRANT. 
 Monstrum horrendum informe ingens 
 
 THERE were many things which a man was ex- 
 pected to know about in official circles at Dusty- 
 pore, and first and foremost was the l Rumble 
 Chunder Grant.' Not to know this argued one's 
 self not only unknown but ignorant of the first prin- 
 ciples of society and the common basis on which 
 thought and conversation proceeded. It was like 
 not having read Mr. Trollope's novels or know- 
 ing nothing about the Tichborne Trial or being in 
 any other way out of tune with the times. One of 
 the things that gave the old civilians such a sense 
 of immeasurable superiority over all outsiders and 
 new-comers was the consciousness that with them 
 rested this priceless secret, this mystery of mys- 
 teries. 
 
 One inconvenient consequence, however, of every-
 
 THE BUMBLE CHUNDER GRANT. 59 
 
 body being expected to know was, that everybody 
 took for granted that everybody else did know, 
 and that those who did not know veiled their ig- 
 norance under a decent mask of familiarity and 
 by talking about it in a vague, shadowy sort of 
 phraseology which conveniently concealed any little 
 inaccuracies. It had to do with salt, moreover, 
 and it was at the Salt Board that the unsearchable 
 depths of the subject were best appreciated and 
 this vagueness of language was most in vogue. 
 
 The facts were something of this sort. When 
 the English took the country we found particular 
 families and villages in Rumble Chunder in en- 
 joyment of various rights in connection with salt ; 
 some had little monopolies ; others might manu- 
 facture for themselves at a quit rent, others might 
 quarry for themselves at particular times and places, 
 and so forth. 
 
 The Gazette, which announced the annexation 
 of the province, had declared in tones of splendid 
 generosity that the British Government, though 
 inexorable to its foes, would temper justice with 
 mercy so far as to respect existing rights of pro- 
 perty and would protect the loyal proprietor in the 
 enjoyment of his own. The sonorous phrases of a 
 rhetorical Viceroy had entailed on his successors 
 a never-ending series of disputes, and had saddled
 
 6O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 tlie Empire with an obligation which was all the 
 more burthensome for being undefined. Ever since 
 that unlucky Gazette, officials had been hard at 
 work to find out what it was that the Governor- 
 General had promised to do and how much it 
 would cost to do it. One diligent civilian after 
 another went down to Rumble Chunder and made 
 out a list of people who were or who pretended to 
 be, entitled to interests in salt. Then these lists 
 had been submitted and discussed, and minuted 
 upon, and objected to, and returned for further in- 
 vestigation, and one set of officers had given place 
 to another, and the chance of clearing up the 
 matter had grown fainter every day. Meanwhile 
 the Bumble Chunder people had gone their ways, 
 exercising what rights they could, and happy ia 
 the possession of an interminable controversy. In 
 course of time most of the original documents got 
 destroyed in the Mutiny, or eaten by white ants, 
 and a fresh element of uncertainty was introduced 
 by the question of the authenticity of all existing 
 copies. Then there had come a new Secretary of 
 State at home, whose views as to the grantees 
 were diametrically opposed to all his predecessors, 
 and who sent peremptory orders to carry out the 
 new policy with the least possible delay. Thus 
 the subject had gradually got itself into a sort of
 
 THE RUMBLE CHUNDER GRANT. 6 I 
 
 hopeless tangle, for which Desvceux used to say 
 that the only effectual remedy would be the end of 
 the world. No one knew exactly what his rights 
 were, and every one was afraid of endangering his 
 position by too rigid an inquiry or too bold an 
 assertion. 
 
 One peculiarity of this, as of most Indian con- 
 troversies, was the unnatural bitterness of spirit 
 to which it gave rise. The most amiable officials 
 turned to gall and wormwood at its very mention, 
 and abused each other over it with the vehemence 
 of vexed theologians. 
 
 Whether vain attempts to understand it had 
 engendered an artificial spitefulness, or whether 
 discussion, like beer-drinking, is a luxury too 
 strong for natures enfeebled by an Eastern climate, 
 sure enough it was that, directly this wretched 
 question came to the fore, good-nature, moderation 
 and politeness were forgotten, and the antagonists 
 made up for the confusion of their ideas by the 
 violence of the language in which they expressed 
 them. 
 
 The last phase of the story was that some of the 
 descendants of the original grantees, thinking the 
 plum was now about ripe for picking, took up the 
 question in a wily, patient, vexatious sort of way, 
 and produced a tremendous lawsuit. Then a Mem-
 
 62 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOHE. 
 
 ber of Parliament, whose ideas, by some sudden 
 process (on which his banker's book would probably 
 have thrown some light), had been suddenly turned 
 Indiawards, made the most telling speech in the 
 House, depicting in vivid colours the wrongs of the 
 Rumble Chunder people and the satanic ruthlessness 
 of British rule. Then pamphlets began to appear, 
 which showed to demonstration that all the Viceroys 
 had been either liars or thieves, except a few who 
 had been both, and asked how long this Rumble 
 Chuuder swindle was to last. The whole subject, 
 in fact, began to be ventilated. Now, ventilation, 
 though a good thing in its time and place, is bad 
 for such veteran institutions as the Salt Board, or 
 controversies as delicate as the Rumble Chunder 
 Grant. Every new ray of daylight let in disclosed 
 an ugly flaw, and the fresh air nearly brought the 
 tottering edifice about the. ears of its inhabitants. 
 It needed, as Fotheringham ruefully felt, but the 
 rude, trenchant, uncompromising spirit of a man 
 like Blunt to produce an imbroglio which could 
 neither be endured, concealed, or disposed of in 
 any of the usual methods known to Indian official- 
 dom; and Blunt was known to be hard at work at 
 the statistics, and already to have assumed an atti- 
 tude of obtrusive hostility. Fotheringham could only 
 fortify himself with the reflection that the Provi-
 
 THE RUMBLE CHUNDER GRANT. 63 
 
 dence which had seen him through a long series of 
 official scrapes would probably not desert him at 
 this last stage of his career. He wished, never- 
 theless, that he had forestalled Cockshaw in his 
 application for the Carraways.
 
 64 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 lovely earth ! O lovely sky ! 
 
 1 was in love with nature, I ; 
 And nature was in love with me ; 
 O lovely life when I was free ! 
 
 FELICIA had been surprised, and not altogether 
 pleased, at the unnecessary cordiality with which 
 Maud had hade their visitor farewell. There was 
 an excitement, an animation, an eagerness in her 
 manner which Felicia had not before perceived, and 
 which she felt at once might be difficult to manage. 
 Desvceux was exactly the person whom she did not 
 want Maud to like, and the very possibility of her 
 liking him brought out in Felicia's mind a latent 
 hostility of which, under an exterior of politeness 
 and even familiarity, she was always dimly con- 
 scious. She did not mind talking to him herself; 
 she was even amused by him ; but then it was 
 always with a kind of protest ; she knew exactly 
 how far she meant to go and felt no temptation to 
 go any further. But the notion of him in any
 
 GOLDEN DAYS. 65 
 
 other capacity but that of a remote member of 
 society, whose function it was to say and do absurd 
 things in an amusing way, was strange and alto- 
 gether distasteful. Anything like intimacy was 
 not to be thought of for an instant ; the merest 
 approach to close contact would bring out some 
 discord, the jar of which, by a sort of instinctive 
 anticipation, Felicia seemed to feel already. So 
 long as he moved in quite another plane and be- 
 longed to a different world, his eccentricities might 
 be smiled at for their comicality without the appli- 
 cation of any rigid canon of taste or morals. But 
 a person who was at once irreligious and over- 
 dressed, who constantly had to be ' put down ' for 
 fear he should become offensive, and who was a 
 stranger to all the little Masonic signals by which 
 ladies and gentlemen can find each other out 
 the very idea of his presuming to cross the pale, 
 and to form any other tie than those of the most 
 indifferent acquaintance, filled Felicia with the 
 strongest repugnance. It was provoking, there- 
 fore, that he seemed to take Maud's fancy and im- 
 press her more than any other of the many men with 
 whom she was now becoming acquainted. It was 
 more than provoking that she should let her impres- 
 sions come so lightly to the surface, and be read in 
 signs which Desvceux's experienced eye would, Felicia 
 knew, have not the least trouble in interpreting.
 
 66 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Suppose but this was one of the disagreeable 
 suppositions which Felicia's mind put aside at once 
 as too monstrous to be entertained suppose he 
 should come to stand in the way of the rightful, 
 proper, destined lover? She thrust away the notion 
 as absurd. All the same, it made her uncomfort- 
 able, and no doubt justified her to herself in push- 
 ing forward Button's interests with more eagerness 
 than she might otherwise have thought it right to 
 employ about another person's concerns. When 
 one feels a thing to be the thing that ought to hap- 
 pen, and sees it in danger of being frustrated by 
 some thoroughly objectionable interference, it is 
 but natural to do something more than merely 
 wish for a fortunate result. Felicia, at any rate, 
 could boast of no such passivity; and, if praising 
 Sutton would have married him, Felicia's wishes 
 on the subject would have been speedily resilised. 
 
 The course of love, however, rarely flows exactly 
 in the channels which other people fashion for it, 
 and Maud's inclinations required, her cousin felt, 
 the most judicious handling. There could be no 
 harm, however, in allowing Sutton's visits to go on 
 with their accustomed frequency ; and since Maud 
 must forthwith learn to ride and Sutton volunteered 
 to come in the mornings to teach her, no one could 
 blame Felicia if, in the intervals of instruction, the 
 pupil and teacher should become unconsciously pro-
 
 GOLDEN DAYS. 6/ 
 
 ficient iu any other art besides tliat of equitation. 
 Maud used to come in from these rides with such a 
 bright glow on her cheek and in such rapturous 
 spirits, that her cousin might well feel reassured. 
 
 Sutton had found for her the most perfect pony, 
 whose silky coat, lean well-chiselled head and gene- 
 rally aristocratic bearing, pronounced it the inheri- 
 tor of Arab blood. Maud speedily discovered that 
 riding was the most enjoyable of all human occupa- 
 tions. Down by the river's side, or following long 
 woodland paths, where the busy British rule had 
 planted many an acre with the forests of the future, 
 or out across the wide plains of corn stretching for 
 miles, broken only by clumps of palms or villages 
 nestling each in a little grove under the wing of 
 some ancestral peepul-tree, the moon still shining 
 overhead and the sun just above the horizon, still 
 shrouded in the mists of morning how fresh, how 
 picturesque, how exhilarating everything looked! 
 How pleasant, too, to go through all these pretty 
 scenes with a companion who seemed somehow to 
 know her tastes and wishes, and to have no 
 thought but how to please her ! Sutton, though in 
 public a man of few words and unsatisfactorily 
 taciturn on the subject of his own exploits, had, 
 Maud presently discovered, plenty to tell her when 
 they were alone. The power of observation which 
 made him so nice a judge of character extended
 
 68 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 itself to all the scene about him and revealed a 
 hundred touches of interest or beauty which, to 
 coarser or less careful vision, would have lain 
 obscure. Maud felt that she had never known how 
 beautiful Nature was till Sutton told her. 
 
 ' There,' he would say, I brought you round this 
 wood that we might not miss that pretty bend of 
 the river, with Humayoun's Tomb and the palms 
 beyond. See what a beautiful blue background the 
 sky makes to the red dome and that nice old bit of 
 crumbling wall. The bright Indian atmospheres 
 have their own beauty, have they not ? And see 
 that little wreath of smoke hanging over the village. 
 This is my pet morning landscape.' 
 
 * And those peach-groves,' cried Maud, ' all 
 ablaze with blossom, and those delicious shady 
 mulberries and the great stretch of green beyond. 
 It is quite enchanting : a sort of dream of peace.' 
 
 1 "We had a fine gallop across here once,' Sutton 
 said, 'when first we took the Sandy Tracts.' And 
 then Maud learnt that they were riding over a 
 battle-field, and that for a long summer's afternoon 
 men had fought and fallen all along the path where 
 now they stood, and that a battery of artillery had 
 been posted at the very corner of the village to 
 which her guide had brought her. * I remember 
 when they knocked that hole in the old wall yonder 
 and how all the fellows behind it took to their
 
 GOLDEN DAYS. 69 
 
 heels. Then, afterwards we stormed the Tomb and 
 had to finish our fighting by moonlight.' 
 
 1 Was that when you got your Victoria Cross ? ' 
 asked Maud, who was possessed by a spirit of in- 
 satiable curiosity about Sutton's badges, which he 
 was slow to gratify. 
 
 ' Oh no,' said Button, laughing: ' I got nothing 
 then but a bullet through my 'shoulder and a knock 
 on the head from a musket-stock which very nearly 
 ended my soldiering then and there. Look now 
 how quickly the scene changes as the sun gets up' 
 half its beauty is gone already ! Let us have a 
 good canter over this soft ground and get home 
 before it grows too hot.' 
 
 Maud, who had never thought of a battle except 
 as one of the afflicting details that had to be 
 remembered at an historical class, and if possible to 
 be hooked on to its proper site and date, felt a 
 delicious thrill in actually realising with her own 
 eyes the place where one of the troublesome events 
 took place, and in talking to a person who had 
 actually taken part in it. ' And what became of 
 the bullet in your shoulder ? ' she asked. 
 
 1 It was a very troublesome bullet,' said Sutton, 
 1 and a great deal harder to dislodge than the 
 people from the Tomb. But I was unlucky when I 
 was a lad and never came out of action without a 
 souvenir of some sort or other.'
 
 7O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 When Maud got home she asked Felicia about 
 this storming of the Tomb, and learnt that Button's 
 account was not as truthful as it might have been. 
 He and half-a-dozen others had, Felicia told her, 
 volunteered for the storming-party, had made a 
 rush for the walls through a shower of bullets ; and 
 Sutton and two companions, getting separated from 
 the others, had been left for some seconds to hold 
 their own as best they could against the angry, 
 frightened mob within. No one, perhaps scarcely 
 Sutton himself, knew exactly what had happened. 
 The rest of the party, however, when they made 
 their way in, found him standing at bay over a 
 dead comrade's body, and his antagonists too com- 
 pletely taken aback at his audacity to venture, at 
 any odds, within reach of his sword. In the scuffle 
 which ensued Sutton received the wounds of which 
 Maud had been informed ; but his exploits on that 
 day were for ever after quoted by his followers as a 
 proof that there is nothing which a man may not 
 do, if only he have pluck and will enough to do it. 
 
 Maud felt all this very impressive and Sutton's 
 society more and more delightful. Her enjoyment 
 of it, however by this time by no means small 
 began to be seriously qualified by an anxiety, 
 increasingly present to her mind, as to her fitness 
 for the dignified companionship thus thrust upon 
 her. She felt passionately anxious to please Sutton,
 
 GOLDEN DATS. 7 I 
 
 and more and more distrustful of her power to do 
 BO. He was good, noble, chivalrous, everything 
 that Felicia had said, and how hopelessly above 
 herself! What must he think of one who was, as 
 Miss Goodenough had often told her, a mere con- 
 geries of defects ? True, he never seemed shocked 
 or annoyed at anything she said, and professed to 
 like the rides as much as she did ; but might not 
 this be from mere good-nature, or the charm of 
 novelty, or the wish to oblige Felicia, or any 
 transitory or accidental cause? Terrifying thought, 
 if some day he should find her wanting, and banish 
 her from his regards ! Meanwhile, happy, happy 
 mornings, and sweet, bright world, in which such 
 pleasure can be found, even if haunted by a doubt 
 as to whether it is really ours or not !
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FIRST BALL. 
 II est aimable, car on se sent toujours en danger avec lui. 
 
 BEFORE Maud had been many weeks with the 
 Vernons there was a Garrison Ball, and at this it 
 was fated that she should make her first public 
 appearance in Dustypore society. That night was 
 certainly the most eventful and exciting one that 
 she had ever passed. To wake and find one's self 
 famous is no doubt an agreeable sensation ; but to 
 put on for the first time in one's life a lovely ball- 
 dress, bright, cloudlike, ambrosial to be suddenly 
 elevated to a pinnacle to receive the homage of 
 mankind to exercise a pleasant little capricious 
 tyranny in the selection of partners to be seized 
 upon by one anxious adorer after another, all 
 striving to please, each with a little flattering tale 
 of his own to read in a hundred eyes that one is 
 very pretty to find at last a partner who, from 
 some mysterious reason, is not like other partners, 
 but just perfection to know that one's views about
 
 THE FIRST BALL. 73 
 
 him are entirely reciprocated it was, as Maud, on 
 going to bed, acknowledged to herself with a sigh, 
 which was half fatigue and half the utterance of an 
 over-excited temperament, too much enjoyment for 
 a single human soul to carry ! 
 
 In the first place, Sutton, all ablaze with medals, 
 tall, majestic, impressive, and as Maud had come 
 to think with Felicia, undeniably handsome, had 
 begged her in the morning to keep several dances 
 for him. The prospect of this among other things 
 had put her in a flutter. She would have preferred 
 some of the ensigns. It seemed a sort of alarming 
 familiarity. Could such a being valse and bend, 
 as ordinary mortals do, to the commonplace move- 
 ments of a mere quadrille ? It was one thing to 
 go spinning round with another school-girl, under 
 the superintendence of Madame Millville, to the 
 accompaniment of her husband's violin : but to be 
 taken possession of by a being like Sutton to 
 have to write his name down for two valses and a 
 set of Lancers to know that in five minutes one 
 will be whirling about under his guidance the idea 
 was delightful, but not without a touch of awe ! 
 Sutton, however, quieted these alarms by dancing 
 in a rather ponderous and old-fashioned manner, 
 and finally tearing her dress with his spur. Maud 
 had accordingly to be carried off, in order that the 
 damage might be repaired ; and her mind some-
 
 74 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 what lightened by the sense of responsibility dis- 
 charged and the ice satisfactorily broken looked 
 forward to the rest of the evening with unmiugled 
 pleasure. While her torn dress was being set to 
 rights she scanned her card, saw Sutton's name 
 duly registered for his promised dances, and made 
 up her mind, as she compared him with the rest, 
 that there was no one in the room she liked one- 
 half as well. 
 
 But then she had not danced with Desvoeux ; 
 and Desvoaux was now waiting at the door and 
 imploring her not to curtail the rapture of a valse, 
 the first notes of which had already sounded. Des- 
 vceux's dancing, Maud speedily acknowledged to 
 herself, bore about the same relation to Sutton's 
 that her Arab pony's canter did to the imposing 
 movements of the latter gentleman's first charger. 
 His tongue, too, seemed as nimble as his feet. He 
 was in the highest possible spirits, and the careless, 
 joyous extravagance of his talk struck a sympa- 
 thetic chord in his companion's nature. 
 
 * There! ' he cried, as the last notes of the music 
 died away and he brought his companion to a 
 standstill at a comfortable sofa, t Such a valse as 
 that is a joy for ever a thing to dream of, is it 
 not ? Some ladies, you know, Miss Vernon, dance 
 in epic poems, some in the sternest prose Carlyle, 
 for instance some in sweet-flowing, undulating,
 
 THE FIRST BALL. 75 
 
 rippling lyrics : Yours is (what shall I say ?) an 
 ode of Shelley's or a song from Tennyson, a smile 
 from Paradise ! Where can you have learnt it ? ' 
 
 ' Monsieur Millville taught us all at my school,' 
 said Maud, prosaically mindful of the many battles 
 she had had in former days with that gentleman : 
 ' a horrid little wizened Frenchman, with a fiddle. 
 We all hated him. He was always going on at me 
 about my toes.' 
 
 ' Your toes ! ' cried Desvceux, with effusion : ( He 
 wanted to adore them, as I do sweet points where 
 all the concentrated poetry of your being gathers. 
 Put out that fairy little satin shoe and let me 
 adore them too ! ' 
 
 i No, thank you ! ' cried Maud, greatly taken 
 aback at so unexpected a request, gathering her 
 feet instinctively beneath her ; l it's not the 
 fashion ! ' 
 
 ' You will not ? ' Desvceux said, with a tone of 
 sincere disappointment. l Is not that unkind ? 
 Suppose it was the fashion to cover up your hands 
 in tulle and satin and never to show them ? ' 
 
 * Then,' Maud said, laughing, ' you would not be 
 able to adore them either ; as it is, you see, you 
 may worship them as much as you please ! ' 
 
 ' I have been worshipping them all the evening. 
 They are lovely a little pair of sprites.' 
 
 ' Stop ! ' cried Maud, ' and let me see. My shoes
 
 ?6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 are fairies, and my dancing a poem, and my fingers 
 sprites ! How very poetical ! And, pray, is this the 
 sort of way that people always talk at balls ? ' 
 
 ' Not most people,' said Desvceux, unabashed, 
 'because they are geese and talk in grooves about 
 the weather and the last appointment and the 
 freshest bit of stale gossip ; but it is the way I 
 talk, because I only say what I feel and am per- 
 fectly natural.' 
 
 1 Natural ! ' said Maud, in a tone of some sur- 
 prise, for her companion's romantic extravagance 
 seemed to her to be the very climax of unreality. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Desvceux, coolly, l and that is one 
 reason why all women like me ; partly it is for my 
 good looks, of course, and partly for my dancing, 
 but mostly because I am natural and tell the truth 
 to them.' 
 
 ' And partly, I suppose,' said Maud, who began 
 to think her companion was in great need of setting 
 down, ' because you are so modest ?' 
 
 1 As to that, I am just as modest as my neighbours, 
 only I speak out. One knows when one is good- 
 looking, does one not? and why pretend to be a 
 simpleton ? You know, for instance, how very, very 
 pretty you are looking to-night ! ' 
 
 1 We were talking about you, if you please,' 
 said Maud, blushing scarlet, and conscious of a 
 truth of which her mirror had informed her.
 
 THE FIRST BALL. 77 
 
 1 Agreeable topic/ said the other gaily ; ' let 
 us return to it by all means ! Well, now, I pique 
 myself on being natural. When I am bored I 
 yawn or go away ; when I dislike people I show 
 my teeth and snarl ; and when I lose my heart I 
 don't suffer in silence, but inform the fair purloiner 
 of that valuable organ of the theft without hesi- 
 tation. That is honest, at any rate. For instance, 
 I pressed your hand to-night, when you came in 
 first, to tell you how delighted I was that you were 
 come to be the belle of the party. You did not 
 mind it, you know ! .' 
 
 * I thought you very impertinent,' said Maud, 
 laughing in spite of herself; ' and so I think you 
 now, and very conceited into the bargain. Will 
 you take me to have some tea, please ? ' 
 
 t With all my heart,' said the other ; * but we 
 can go on with our talk. How nice it is that we 
 are such friends, is it not ? ' 
 
 1 I did not know that we were friends,' said 
 Maud, ' and I have not even made up my mind if 
 I like you.' 
 
 * Hypocrite ! ' answered her companion ; ' you 
 know you took a great fancy to me the first 
 morning I came to call on you, and Mrs. Vernon 
 scolded you for it after my departure.' 
 
 1 It is not true,' said Maud, with a stammer 
 and a blush, for Desvceux's shot was, unfortu-
 
 78 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 nately, near the mark ; ' and anyhow, first im- 
 pressions are generally wrong.' 
 
 1 Wrong ! ' cried the other, ( never, never ! 
 always infallible. Mrs. Vernon abused me directly 
 I was gone. She always does ; it is her one fault, 
 that prevents her from being absolute perfection. 
 She does not like me, and is always putting me 
 down. It is a great shame, because she has been 
 till now the one lady in India whom I really admire. 
 But let us establish ourselves on this nice ottoman, 
 and I will show you some of our celebrities. Look 
 at that handsome couple talking so mysteriously 
 on the sofa : that is General Beau and Mrs. 
 Vereker, and they are talking about nothing more 
 mysterious than the weather ; but it is the Gene- 
 ral's fancy to look mysterious. Do you see how 
 he is shrugging his shoulders ? Well, to that shrug 
 he owes everything in life. Whatever happens, 
 he either shrugs his shoulders, or arches his eye- 
 brows, or says " Ah ! " Beyond these utterances 
 he never goes ; but he knows exactly when to do 
 each, and does it so judiciously that he has become 
 a great man. He is great at nothing, however, 
 but flirtation ; and Mrs. Vereker is just now the 
 reigning deity.' 
 
 1 No wonder,' cried Maud. ' How lovely she is ! 
 such beautiful violet eyes ! ' 
 
 t Yes,' said the other, with a most pathetic air,
 
 THE FIRST BALL. 79 
 
 1 most dangerous eyes they are, I assure you. You 
 don't feel it, not being a man, but they go through, 
 and through me. She always has a numerous 
 following, especially of boys, and has broken a host 
 of hearts, which is all the more unfair, as she does 
 not happen to possess one of her own.' 
 
 ' She must have a heart, with those eyes and 
 such a smile,' objected Maud. 
 
 1 Not the least atom, I assure you,' said the 
 other. ' Nature, in lavishing every other grace 
 and charm upon her, made this single omission, 
 much, no doubt, to the lady's own peace of mind. 
 It is all right in the present instance, because 
 Beau does not happen to have any heart either.' 
 
 * I don't believe you in the least,' said Maud, 
 1 and I shall get my cousin to take me to call upon 
 her.' 
 
 1 You are fascinated, you see, already,' said 
 Desvceux, l though you are a woman. You will 
 find her a perfect Circe. Her drawing-room is an 
 enchanted cell hung round with votive offerings 
 from former victims. She lives on the gifts of 
 worshippers, and will accept everything, from a 
 sealskin jacket to a pair of gloves. I used to be 
 an adorer once, but I could not afford it. Now 
 I will introduce you.' Thereupon he presented 
 Maud in due form.
 
 8O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 General Beau arched his handsome brow, and 
 said, ( Ah! how dy'e do, Miss Vernon?' in his 
 inscrutable way ; and Mrs. Vereker, who, as a 
 reigning beauty, felt an especial interest in one 
 who seemed likely to endanger her ascendency, 
 was bent on being polite. She gave Maud the 
 sweetest of smiles, scolded Desvoeux with the 
 prettiest little pout for not having been to see her 
 for an age ; and, if she felt jealous, was deter- 
 mined, at any rate, not to show it. She observed, 
 however, with the eye of a connoisseur, how 
 Maud's hair was done, and took a mental note 
 of a little mystery of lace and feathers, just then 
 the fashionable head-dress, which she thought 
 would be immensely becoming to herself. She 
 pressed Maud affectionately to come some day to 
 lunch and inwardly resolved to spoil the pretty 
 ingdnue of her novelty. 
 
 Mrs. Vereker was a type of character which 
 Indian life brings into especial prominence and 
 develops into fuller perfection than is to be found 
 in less artificial communities. Herself the child of 
 Indian parents, whom she had scarcely ever seen, 
 with the slenderest possible stock of home associa- 
 tions, accustomed from the outset to have to look 
 out for herself, she had come to India while still 
 almost a child, and in a few months, long before
 
 THE FIRST BALL. 8 I 
 
 thought or feeling had approached maturity, had 
 found herself the belle of a Station, and presently 
 a bride. Then circumstances separated her fre- 
 quently from her husband, and she learnt to bear 
 separation heroically. The sweet incense of flattery 
 was for ever rising about her, and she learnt to 
 love it better every day. Any number of men 
 were for ever ready to throw themselves at her feet 
 and proclaim her adorable, and she came to feel it 
 right that they should do so. She found that she 
 could conjure with her eyes and mouth and exercise 
 a little despotism by simply using them as Nature 
 told her. The coldness of her heart enabled her 
 to venture with impunity into dangers where an 
 ardent temperament could scarcely but have gone 
 astray : she, however, was content so long as she 
 lived in a stream of flattery and half-a-dozen men 
 declared themselves heartbroken about her; strict 
 people called her a flirt, but friends and foes alike 
 declared her innocence itself. 
 
 Beau was devoting himself to her partly because 
 her good looks gave him a slight sense of gratifica- 
 tion, partly because he considered it the proper 
 thing to be seen on confidential terms with the 
 handsomest woman in the room, partly to have the 
 pleasure of holding his own against the younger 
 
 men. 
 
 F
 
 82 CHRONICLES OF DTJSTYPORE. 
 
 Desvceux, delighted with his new-found treasure, 
 was only too happy to leave a quondam rival in 
 possession of the field, and to have a decent excuse 
 for abandoning a shrine at which it was no longer 
 convenient to worship.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE WOES OF A CHAPERON. 
 
 The time is out of joint O cursed spite, 
 That ever I was born to set it right ! 
 
 FELICIA came home from the ball in far less high 
 spirits than her protdgde. Things had not gone as 
 she wished, nor had Maud behaved at all in the 
 manner which Felicia had pictured to herself as 
 natural and appropriate to a young lady making 
 her debut in polite society. Instead of displaying 
 an interesting timidity and clinging to her chaperon 
 for guidance and protection, Maud had taken wing 
 boldly at once, as in a congenial atmosphere, had 
 been far too excited to be in the least degree shy 
 and had lent herself with indiscreet facility to a 
 very pronounced flirtation. Felicia began to realise 
 how hard it is to make the people about one be 
 what one wants them to be, and how full of disap- 
 pointment is the task of managing mankind, even 
 though the fraction operated upon be no larger 
 than a wayward school-girl's heart. Maud, whose 
 rapidly-increasing devotion to Sutton had for days
 
 84 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 past been a theme of secret congratulation in 
 Felicia's thoughts, had been behaving all the even- 
 ing just in the way which Sutton would, she knew, 
 most dislike, and showing the most transparent 
 liking for the person of whom, of all others, he 
 especially disapproved. Sutton, too, Felicia consi- 
 dered, was not comporting himself at all as she 
 would have had him : he lavished every possible 
 kindness on Maud, but then it was less for Maud's 
 sake than her own; he would have done, she 
 felt an annoying conviction, exactly the same for 
 either of her little girls ; and though he agreed 
 with her in thinking Maud decidedly picturesque, 
 and in being amused and interested in the fresh, 
 eager, childlike impulsiveness of her character, his 
 thoughts about her, alas ! appeared to go no 
 further. 
 
 * Why that profound sigh, Felicia ?' her husband 
 asked, when Maud had gone away to bed, leaving 
 the two together for the first time during the even- 
 ing. ' Does it mean that some one has been boring 
 you or what ? ' 
 
 'It means,' said Felicia, l that I am very cross 
 and that Mr. Desvoeux is a very odious person.' 
 
 * And Maud a very silly one, n'est-ce pas ? Did 
 not I tell you what a deal of trouble our good- 
 nature in having her out would be sure to give us ? 
 Never let us do a good-natured act again ! I tell
 
 THE WOES OF A CHAPERON. 85 
 
 you Maud is already a finished coquette and, I 
 believe, would be quite prepared to flirt with me.' 
 
 1 1 am sure I wish she would,' said Felicia in 
 a despairing tone. l Do you know, George, I do 
 not like these balls at all ? ' 
 
 1 Come, come, Felicia, how many valses did you 
 dance to-night ? ' her husband asked incredulously, 
 for Felicia was an enthusiastic Terpsichorean. 
 
 ' That has nothing to do with it,' she said. f All 
 the people should be nice, and so many people are 
 not nice at all. It is too close quarters. There are 
 some men whose very politeness one resents.' 
 
 1 Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it,' said her 
 husband, ( for instance ? ' 
 
 1 For instance, General Beau,' said Felicia. 
 1 He looks up in the pauses of his devotions to Mrs. 
 Vereker and turns his eyes upon one as if to say, 
 " Poor victim ! your turn will be the next." 
 
 ' I saw you playing " Lady Disdain " to him 
 with great success to-night,' her husband answered. 
 And indeed it must be confessed that Beau's ad- 
 vances to Felicia, with whom he was always anxious 
 to stand well, were received by that lady with a 
 slightly contemptuous dignity, very unlike her usual 
 joyous cordiality. 
 
 i Yes/ said Felicia ; l General Beau's compliments 
 are more than I can stand. But, George, what can I 
 do with Maud ? Is not Mr. Desvoeux insufferable ? '
 
 86 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 Well,' said her husband, l if a man's ambition 
 is to be thought a mauvais sujet, and to dress like 
 a shopboy endimanckd, it does not hurt us.' 
 
 1 But it may hurt Maud,' said Felicia, l if, indeed, 
 it has not hurt her already. Oh dear, how I wish 
 she was safely married ! ' 
 
 From the above conversation it may be inferred 
 that the responsibilities of her new charge were 
 beginning to weigh upon Felicia's spirits. Button 
 too slow, and Desvceux too prompt, and Maud's 
 fickle fancies inclining now this way, now that 
 what benevolent custodian of other people's hap- 
 piness had ever more harassing task upon her 
 hands ? 
 
 It is probable, however, that had Felicia's insight 
 or experience been greater, the position of affairs 
 would have seemed less fraught with anxiety. 
 Maud's liking for Desvceux was a sentiment of the 
 lightest possible texture ; its very lightness was, 
 perhaps, its charm. With him she was completely 
 at her ease and experienced the high spirits which 
 being at one's ease engenders. She was certain of 
 pleasing him, but careless whether she did so or 
 not. His extravagant protestations amused her 
 and were flattering in a pleasant sort of way, and 
 his high spirits made him an excellent companion ; 
 but nothing about him touched her with the keen 
 deep interest that every word or look of Button's
 
 THE WOES OF A CHAPEKOF. 8/ 
 
 inspired, or with the same strong anxiety to retain 
 his friendship. Desvoaux might come and go, and 
 Maud would have treated either event with the same 
 indifference ; but if Sutton should ever begin to 
 neglect her, she was already conscious of a sort of 
 pang which the very idea inflicted. 
 
 Upon the whole it is probable that Felicia's 
 apprehensions were groundless. Not the less, how- 
 ever, did she feel disconcerted and aggrieved when 
 the very next morning after the ball Desvceux 
 made his appearance, in the highest possible spirits, 
 evidently on the best terms with Maud and politely 
 ignoring all Felicia's attempts to put him down. 
 He was, as it seemed to her, in his very most 
 objectionable mood, and she felt glad that, at any 
 rate, her husband was at home and that she was 
 not left to do battle by herself. She resolved to 
 be as unconciliatory as possible. As for Maud it 
 never occurred to her to conceal the pleasure which 
 Desvceux's arrival gave her, and she soon let out 
 the secret that his visit had been prearranged. 
 
 ' I did not think that you really would come, 
 Mr. Desvoeux ; it is so nice of you, because we are 
 both of us far too tired to do anything but be idle, 
 and you can amuse us. ' 
 
 1 You forget, Maud,' said Vernon, l that Desvceux 
 may be too tired to be amusing.'
 
 88 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 And I/ said Felicia, with a slight shade of 
 contempt in her tones, l am too tired even to be 
 amused. I feel that Mr. Desvoeux's witticisms 
 would only fatigue me. I intend to give up 
 balls.' 
 
 ( Then,' said Desvceux, with an air of admiring 
 deference which Felicia felt especially irritating, 
 1 balls will have to give up me. I should not think 
 it in the least worth while to be a steward and to 
 do all the horrid things one has to do polish the 
 floor and audit the accounts and dance official 
 quadrilles with Mrs. Blunt if our chief patroness 
 chose to patronise no more. A ball without Mrs. 
 Vernon would be a May morning without the 
 sunshine.' 
 
 6 Or a moonlight night without the moon,' said 
 Felicia: 'Allow me to help you to a simile.' 
 
 1 You see he is tired,' said Veruon, l poor fellow, 
 and for the first time in his life in need of a pretty 
 phrase.' 
 
 1 Not at all,' said Desvceux, with imperturbable 
 goodnature ; ' I am constantly at a loss, like the 
 rest of the world, for words to tell Mrs. Vernon 
 how much we all admire her. It is only fair that 
 the person who inspires the sentiment should assist 
 us to express it.' 
 
 1 But,' cried Maud, ' you are forgetting poor me.
 
 THE WOES OF A CHAPERON. 89 
 
 Who is to take care of me, if you please, in the 
 balls of the future ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Felicia,' said Vernon, l you cannot abdicate 
 just yet, I fear. As for me, I feel already far too 
 old.' 
 
 * Then/ cried Desvoeux, l you must look at 
 General Beau and learn that youth is eternal. 
 How nice it is to see him adoring Mrs. Vereker, 
 and to remember that we, too, may be adored some 
 thirty years to come ! ' 
 
 { Beau's manner is very compromising," said 
 Vernon ; f it is a curious trick. His first object, 
 when he likes a lady, is to endanger her reputa- 
 tion.' 
 
 * Yes/ answered Desvreux, ' he leads her with a 
 serious air to a sofa or hides himself with her in a 
 balcony ; looks gravely into her eyes and says, 
 " How hot it has been this afternoon ! " or some- 
 thing equally interesting ; and all the world thinks 
 that he is asking her to elope at least.' 
 
 1 His manners appear to me to be insufferable/ 
 Felicia said, in her loftiest style; 'just the sort of 
 familiarity that breeds contempt.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! ' said Desvoeux, who knew perfectly 
 that Felicia's observations were half-intended for 
 himself, 'it is all his enthusiasm. He is as proud 
 of every fresh flirtation as if it were a new expe-
 
 9O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 rience like a young hen that has just laid its first 
 egg. He always seems to me to be chuckling and 
 crowing to the universe, " Behold ! heaven and 
 earth! I have hatched another scandal." Now/ 
 he added, ( Miss Vernon, if ever you and I had a 
 flirtation we should not wish all the world to 
 "assist," as the French people say, should we? 
 People might suspect our devotion, and guess and 
 gossip; but there would not be this revolting 
 matter-of-fact publicity ; and we should be for ever 
 putting people off the scent : I should still look 
 into the Misses Blunt's eyes, still dance a state 
 quadrille with their mamma, still talk to Mrs. 
 Vereker about the stars, still feel the poetry of 
 Miss Fotheringham's new Paris dresses : you 
 would continue to fascinate mankind at large ; 
 only we two between ourselves should know how 
 mutually broken-hearted we had become.' 
 
 1 That is a contingency,' Felicia said, in a 
 manner which Desvceux understood as a command 
 to abandon the topic, which, happily, there is no 
 need to discuss.' The conversation turned to some- 
 thing else ; but Felicia made up her mind more 
 than ever that their visitor was a very impertinent 
 fellow, and more than ever resolved to guard Maud's 
 heart from every form of attack which he could 
 bring to bear against it. No protection could, she
 
 THE WOES OF A CHAPERON. 9 I 
 
 felt, be half so satisfactory as the counter-attraction 
 of a lover who would be everything that DesvOeux 
 was not, and whom all the world acknowledged to 
 be alike sans peur and sans reproche.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 
 
 After short silence then, 
 And summons sent, the great debate began. 
 
 A BODY constituted of as discordant elements as 
 the three members of the Salt Board was not likely 
 to remain very long at peace with itself; and for 
 weeks past, Blunt's increasing truculence of deport- 
 ment had warned his colleagues of an approaching 
 outbreak. 
 
 Since his successful raid upon the Board's 
 accounts this gentleman had made the lives of 
 Fotheringham and Cockshaw a burden to them. 
 His insatiable curiosity plunged in the most ruth- 
 less manner into matters which the others knew 
 instinctively would not bear investigation. He pro- 
 posed reforms in an offhand manner which made 
 poor Fotheriugham's hair stand on end ; and the 
 very perusal of his memoranda was more than 
 Cockshaw's industry could achieve. He had a 
 sturdy cob on which he used to ride about in the 
 morningSj acquiring health and strength to be dis-
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 93 
 
 N 
 
 agreeable the entire day, and devising schemes of 
 revolution as he went. Poor Cockshaw's applica- 
 tion for the Carraways had been refused ; General 
 Beau had got the appointment and was actually in 
 course of a series of valedictory visits to various 
 ladies whom he believed broken-hearted at his 
 departure. Fotheringham grew greyer and sadder 
 day by day and prepared himself as best he might 
 to meet the blows of fate in an attitude of dignified 
 martyrdom. Matters at last reached a crisis in a 
 proposal of Blunt's, brought out in his usual un- 
 compromising fashion and thrust upon the Board, 
 as Fotheringham acknowledged with a shudder, 
 with a horrid point-blank directness which rendered 
 evasion and suppression (the only two modes of 
 dealing with questions which his experience had 
 taught him) alike impossible. In the first place 
 Blunt demonstrated by statistics that not enough 
 salt was produced at the Humble Chunder quarries 
 to enable the inhabitants to get enough to keep 
 them healthy. Nothing could be more convincing 
 than his figures : so many millions of people so 
 many thousands of tons of salt so much salt neces- 
 sary per annum for. each individual, and so forth. 
 Then Blunt went on to show that the classes of 
 diseases prevalent in the Sandy Tracts were pre- 
 cisely those which want of salt produces ; then he 
 demonstrated that there was wholesale smuggling.
 
 94 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 From all this it followed obviously that the great 
 thing wanted was to buy up existing interests, deve- 
 lop the quarries, improve the roads, and increase the 
 production. If this were done salt might be sold 
 at a rate which would bring it within the reach of 
 all classes, and yet the gains of Government would 
 be increased. This was Blunt's view. The oppo- 
 site party urged that to vary the salt-supply would 
 interfere with the laws of political economy, would 
 derange the natural interaction of supply and 
 demand (this was one of Fotheringham's favourite 
 phrases), would depress internal trade, paralyse 
 existing industries, cause all sorts of unlooked-for 
 results and not benefit the consumer a whit ; and 
 that, even if it would, ready money was not to be 
 had at any price. Blunt, however, was not to be 
 put off with generalities and claimed to record his 
 opinions, that his colleagues should record theirs, 
 and that the whole matter should be submitted to 
 the Agent. Cockshaw gave a suppressed groan, 
 lit a cheroot, and mentally resolved that nothing 
 should tempt him into writing a memorandum, or, 
 if possible, into allowing anybody else to do so. 
 ' For God's sake,' he said, ' don't let us begin 
 minuting upon it ; if the matter must go to Emp- 
 son, let us ask him to attend the Board, and have 
 it out once for all.' Now Mr. Ernpson was at this 
 time Agent at Dustypore. The custom was that
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 95 
 
 he came to the Board only on very solemn occa- 
 sions, and only when the division of opinion was 
 hopeless; then he sat as Chairman and his casting- 
 vote decided the fortunes of the day. 
 
 The next Board day, accordingly, Empson ap- 
 peared, and it soon became evident that Blunt 
 was to have his vote. 
 
 Fotheringham was calm, passive, and behaved 
 throughout with the air of a man who thought it 
 due to his colleagues to go patiently through with 
 the discussion, but whose mind was thoroughly 
 made up. The fight soon waxed vehement. 
 
 ; Look/ said Blunt, ( at the case of cotton in the 
 Kutchpurwanee District.' 
 
 i Really,' said Fotheringham, 1 1 fail to see the 
 analogy between cotton and salt.' This was one of 
 Fotheringham's stupid remarks, which exasperated 
 both Empson and Blunt and made them flash 
 looks of intelligence across the table at each 
 other. 
 
 * Then,' Blunt said with emphasis, ' I'll explain 
 the analogy. Cotton was twopence-halfpenny per 
 pound and hard to get at that. What did we do ? 
 We laid out ten lakhs in irrigation, another five 
 lakhs in roads, a vast deal more in introducing 
 European machinery and supervision ; raised the 
 whole sum by an average rate on cotton cultivation 
 and what is the result? Why, last year the out-
 
 96 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 come was more than double what it was before, and 
 the price a halfpenny a pound lower at least.' 
 
 1 And what does that prove ? ' asked Fothering- 
 ham, who never could be made to see anything that 
 he chose not to see ; ' As I said before, where 
 is the analogy ? ' Blunt gave a cough which meant 
 that he was uttering execrations internally, and 
 took a large pinch of snuff. Fotheringham looked 
 round with the satisfied air of a man who had given 
 a clencher to his argument, and whose opponents 
 could not with decency profess any longer to be 
 unconvinced. 
 
 ' I am against it,' said Cockshaw, t because I am 
 against everything. We are over-governing the 
 country. The one thing that India wants is to be 
 let alone. We should take a leaf out of the books 
 of our predecessors collect our revenue, as small 
 an one as possible, shun all changes like the devil 
 and let the people be.' 
 
 * That is out of the question,' said Empson, 
 whom thirty years of officialdom had still left an 
 enthusiast at heart ; * " Rest for India " is the 
 worst of all the false cries which beset and bewilder 
 us ; it means, for one thing, a famine every ten 
 years at least; and famines, you know, mean death 
 to them and insolvency to us.' 
 
 ' Of course,' said Fotheringham, sententiously, 
 with the grand air of -ZEolus soothing the discordant
 
 FKIENDS IN COUNCIL. 97 
 
 winds ; * when Cockshaw said he was against every- 
 thing, he did not mean any indifference to the 
 country. But we are running up terrible bills ; you 
 know, Empson, we got an awful snubbing from 
 home about our deficit last year.' 
 
 'Well, but now about the Salt,' put in Blunt, 
 whose task seemed to be to keep everybody to the 
 point in hand ; l this is no question of deficit. I 
 say it will pay, and the Government of India will 
 lend us the money fast enough if they can be made 
 to think so too.' 
 
 ' Well/ said Cockshaw, stubbornly lighting an- 
 other cheroot, and getting out his words between 
 rapid puffs of smoke, ' it won't pay, you'll see, and 
 Government will think as I do.' 
 
 1 Then,' replied Blunt, ' you will excuse me for 
 saying Government will think wrong, and you 
 will have helped them. Have you examined the 
 figures ? ' 
 
 1 Yes,' said Cockshaw, with provoking placidity, 
 1 and I think them, like all other statistics, com- 
 pletely fallacious. You have not been out here, 
 Blunt, as long as we have.' 
 
 ' No ; but the laws of arithmetic are the same, 
 whether I am here or not.' 
 
 1 Well,' observed Fotheringham, * I really do not 
 see forgive me, pray, for saying it but, as senior 
 member, I may perhaps be allowed the observation 
 
 a
 
 98 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 I really do not see how Blunt can pretend to 
 know anything about our Salt/ 
 
 ' There is one thing I know about it,' said Blunt 
 to Erapson as they drove home together from the 
 Board ; f whatever it is, it is not Attic ! ' 
 
 While thus the battle raged within, Desvoeux, 
 who had come with the Agent to the Board, took 
 an afternoon's holiday, and found himself, by one of 
 those lucky accidents with which Fortune favours 
 every flirtation, in Mrs. Vereker's drawing-room, 
 where Maud had just arrived to have luncheon and 
 to spend the afternoon. 
 
 Now Mrs. Vereker was a beauty, and, as a beauty 
 should, kept a little court of her own in Dustypore, 
 which in its own way was quite as distinct an 
 authority as the Salt Board or the Agency itself. 
 Her claims to sovereignty were considerable. She 
 had the figure of a sylph, hair golden and profuse 
 and real. She had lovely, liquid, purple eyes, into 
 which whoever was rash enough to look was lost 
 forthwith ; and a smile but as to this the position 
 of the present chronicler, as a married man and 
 the father of a family, renders it impossible for him 
 to describe it as it deserved. Suffice it to say that, 
 even in a faded photograph, it has occasioned the 
 partner of his bosom the acutest pangs, and it 
 would be bad taste and inexpedient to say more 
 than that gentlemen considered it bewitching, while
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 99 
 
 many married ladies condemned it as an unmeaning 
 simper of a very silly woman. 
 
 Mrs. Vereker affected to be greatly surprised at 
 Desvoeux's arrival, and even to hesitate about letting 
 him in ; but the slight constraint of her manner, 
 and the flush that tinged her cheek, suggested the 
 suspicion that the call was not altogether for- 
 tuitous. 
 
 ( How provoking,' she said, when Desvoeux made 
 his appearance, ' that you should just come this 
 morning to spoil our tete-a-tete! Don't you find, 
 Miss Vernon, that whatever one does in life, there 
 is invariably a man de trop ? ' 
 
 * No,' cried Desvoaux gaily ; l Providence has 
 kindly sent me to rescue you both from a dull 
 morning. Ladies have often told me that under 
 such circumstances it is quite a relief to have a man 
 come in to break the even flow of feminine gossip. 
 Come, now, Miss Vernon, were you not pleased to 
 see my carriage come up the drive ? ' 
 
 1 No, indeed,' said Maud ; ' nothing could be 
 more mal d propos. Mrs. Vereker was just going 
 to show me a lovely new Paris bonnet, and now, 
 you see, we must wait till you are gone 1 ' 
 
 1 Then, indeed, you would hate me,' answered 
 Desvceux ; ' but happily there is no necessity for 
 hat, as I happen to be a connoisseur in bonnets, 
 and Mrs. Vereker would not be quite happy in
 
 IOO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOKE. 
 
 wearing one till I had given my approval. She 
 will go away now, you will see, and put it on for 
 us to look at.' 
 
 ' Is not he conceited ? ' said Mrs. Vereker, raining 
 the influence of a bewitching smile upon her guests, 
 and summoning, as she could at pleasure, the most 
 ingenuous of blushes to her cheeks ; ' he thinks he 
 is quite a first-rate judge of everything. ' 
 
 ( Not of everything J said the other, l but of some 
 things Mrs. Vereker's good looks, for instance 
 yes, from long and admiring contemplation of the 
 subject ! It would be hard indeed if one could not 
 have an opinion about what has given one so much 
 pleasure, and, alas ! so much suffering ! ' 
 
 Desvoeux said this with the most sentimental air, 
 and Mrs. Yereker seemed to take it quite as a 
 matter of course. 
 
 1 Poor fellow ! ' she said ; ( well, perhaps I will 
 show you the bonnet after all, just to console you ; 
 am I not kind ? ' 
 
 1 You know,' said Desvoeux, l that you are dying 
 to put it on. Pray defer your and our delectation 
 no longer ! ' 
 
 f Rude and disagreeable person ! ' cried the other. 
 1 Suppose, Miss Yernon, we go off and look at it 
 by ourselves and have a good long chat, leaving 
 him alone here to cultivate politeness ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried Maud, 'let us. Here, Mr. Desvoeux,
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. IOI 
 
 is a very interesting report on something Educa- 
 tion no, Irrigation with nice tables and plenty 
 of figures. That will amuse you till we come 
 back.' 
 
 * At any rate, don't turn a poor fellow out into 
 such a hurricane as this,' said Desvoeux, going to 
 the window and looking into the garden, where by 
 this time a sand-storm was raging and all the 
 atmosphere thick and murky with great swirls of 
 dust. * I should spoil my complexion and my 
 gloves, and very likely be choked into the bargain.' 
 
 1 But it was just as bad when you came, and you 
 did not mind it.' 
 
 1 Hope irradiated the horizon,' cried Desvoeux ; 
 1 but it was horrible. I have a perfect horror of 
 sand like the people in {t Alice," you know 
 
 They wept like anything to see 
 
 Such quantities of sand. 
 " If this were only cleared away," 
 
 They said, " it would be grand." 
 " If seven maids with seven mops 
 
 Swept it for half a year, 
 Do you suppose," the Walrus said, 
 
 " That they could get it clear ? " 
 "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, 
 
 And shed a bitter tear. 
 
 And I shall shed a bitter tear if you send me 
 away. At any rate, let me stay to lunch, please, 
 and have my horses sent round to the stable.'
 
 IO2 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ' Shall we let him ? ' cried Mrs. Vereker teas- 
 ingly. 'Well, if you do, you will have nothing 
 but poached eggs and bottled beer. There is a 
 little pudding, but only just big enough for Miss 
 Vernon and me.' 
 
 1 1 will give him a bit of mine,' said Maud. l I 
 vote that we let him stay, if he promises not to be 
 impertinent. ' 
 
 t And I will show him my bonnet,' cried the 
 other, whose impatience to display her new finery 
 was rapidly making way. ' It is just as well to 
 see how things strike men, you know, and my caro 
 sposo, among his thousand virtues, happens to be 
 a perfect ignoramus on the point of dress. He 
 knows and cares nothing about all my loveliest 
 things. ' 
 
 * Except,' said Desvceux, l how much they cost. 
 "Well, there is a practical side which somebody 
 must know about, I suppose, and a husband is just 
 the person ; but it is highly inartistic.' 
 
 ' How did you know that I was here ? ' Maud 
 asked, when Mrs. Vereker had left the room. 
 f And why are you not at the Agency doing your 
 lessons ? ' 
 
 f Because we have an aviary of little birds at 
 the Agency,' answered Desvoeux, his manner in- 
 stantly becoming several shades quieter and more 
 affectionate, f and one of them came and sung ma
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 10$ 
 
 a tune this morning, and told me to go and take a 
 holiday and meet the person I like the best in the 
 world.' 
 
 * Now,' said Mrs. Vereker, gleefully re-entering 
 the room, with a cluster of lace and flowers artisti- 
 cally poised upon her shapely little head, ' is not 
 that a duck, and don't I look adorable ? ' 
 
 * Quite a work of art,' cried Desvoeux, with en- 
 thusiasm. f Siren ! why, already too dangerously 
 fair, why deck yourself with fresh allurements for 
 the fascination of a broken-hearted world ? I am 
 convinced Saint Simon Stylites would have come 
 down from his pillar on the spot if he could but 
 have seen it ! ' 
 
 1 And confessed himself a gone coon from a 
 moral point of view,' laughed Mrs. Vereker, de- 
 spoiling herself of the work of art in question. 
 f And now let us have some lunch ; and mind, Mr. 
 Desvoeux, you can only have a very little, because, 
 you see, we did not expect you.' 
 
 Afterwards, when it was time for Maud to go, 
 it was discovered that no carriage had arrived to 
 take her home. f What can I do ? ' she said, in 
 despair. ' Felicia will be waiting to take me to 
 the Camp. George, promised to send back his 
 office-carriage here the moment he got to the 
 Board.'
 
 104 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 Then,' said Desvoeux, "with great presence of 
 mind, ' he has obviously forgotten it, and I will 
 drive you home. Let me order my horses ; they 
 are quite steady.' 
 
 Maud looked at Mrs. Vereker she felt a burn- 
 ing wish to go, and needed but the faintest encour- 
 agement. Felicia would, she knew, be not well 
 pleased; but then it was Greorge's fault that she 
 was unprovided for, and it seemed hardly good- 
 natured to reject so easy an escape from the 
 embarrassment which his carelessness had pro- 
 duced. 
 
 ' I would come and sit in the back seat, to make 
 it proper/ cried Mrs. Vereker, f but that I am 
 afraid of the sun. I tell you what : I will drive, 
 and you can sit in the back seat, Mr. Desvoeux; 
 that will do capitally.' 
 
 ( Thank you,' said Desvoeux, with the most 
 melancholy attempt at politeness and his face 
 sinking to zero. 
 
 1 Indeed, that is impossible ! ' cried Maud. ' I 
 know you want to stay at home. I will go with 
 Mr. Desvoeux.' And go accordingly they did, and 
 on the way home Desvoeux became, as was but 
 natural, increasingly confidential. l This is my 
 carriage/ he explained, * for driving married ladies 
 in : you see there is a seat behind very far behind
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. IO5 
 
 and well railed off, to put the husbands in and 
 keep them in their proper place quite in the 
 background. It is so disagreeable when they lean 
 over and try to join in the conversation ; and 
 people never know when they are de tropS 
 
 i Ah, but,' said Maud, ( I don't like driving with 
 you alone. I hear you are a very terrible person. 
 People give you a very bad character.' 
 
 ' I know,' answered her companion ; { girls are 
 always jilting me and treating me horribly badly, 
 and then they say that it is all my fault. I dare 
 say they have been telling you about Miss Fother- 
 ingham's affair,. and making me out a monster; 
 but it was she that was alone to blame.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Maud, 1 1 heard that it made her 
 very ill, and she had to be sent to England, to be 
 kept out of a consumption.' 
 
 * This was how it was,' said Desvoeux ; l I 
 adored her quite adored her ; I thought her an 
 angel, and I think her one still, but with one 
 defect a sort of frantic jealousy, quite a mania. 
 Well, I had a friend it happened to be a lady 
 for whom I had all the feelings of a brother. We 
 had corresponded for years. I had sent her in- 
 numerable notes, letters, flowers, presents, you 
 know. I had a few things that she had given me 
 a note or two, a glove, a flower, a photograph,
 
 IO6 GHEONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 perhaps -just the sort of thing, you know, that 
 one sends ' 
 
 ' To one's brother,' put in Maud. l Yes ; I know 
 exactly.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Desvoeux, in the most injured tone, 
 1 and I used to lend her my ponies, and, when she 
 wanted me, to drive her. And what do you think 
 that Miss Fotheringham was cruel, wild enough to 
 ask? To give back all my little mementoes, to 
 write no more notes, have no more drives ; in fact, 
 discard my oldest, dearest friend ! I told her, of 
 course, that it was impossible, impossible ! ' Desvceux 
 cried, getting quite excited over his wrongs : ( " Cruel 
 girl," I said, " am I to seal my devotion to you 
 by an infidelity to the kindest, tenderest, sweetest 
 of beings ? " Thereupon Miss Fotheringham be- 
 came quite unreasonable, went into hysterics, sent 
 me back a most lovely locket which I had sent her 
 only that morning ; and Fotheringham pere wrote 
 me the most odious note, in his worst style, declar 
 ing that I was trifling ! Trifling, indeed ! and to 
 ask me to give up my ' 
 
 * Your sister ! ' cried Maud ; l it was hard in- 
 deed ! Well, here we are at home. Let me jump 
 down quick and go in and get my scolding.' 
 
 1 And I,' said Desvceux, * will go to the Agency 
 and get mine.'
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. IC>7 
 
 Stolen waters are sweet, however; and it is to 
 be feared that these two young people enjoyed their 
 tete-d-tete none the less for the consideration that 
 their elders would have prevented it if they had 
 had the chance.
 
 ( io8 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CHAPTER OF DISCLOSURES. 
 
 For his thoughts, 
 Would they were blank sooner than filled with me ! 
 
 MAUD did not exactly get a scolding, but Felicia 
 looked extremely grave. Maud's high spirits were 
 gone in an instant ; the excitement which had 
 enabled her to defy propriety hitherto deserted her 
 at the door ; the recklessness with which Desvreux 
 always infected her had driven away with him in 
 his mail-phaeton, and left her merely with the 
 disagreeable consciousness of having acted foolishly 
 and wrongly. Felicia knew exactly how matters 
 stood and scarcely said a word. Her silence how- 
 ever was, Maud felt, the bitterest reproach. 
 
 1 Scold me, scold me, dear,' she cried, the tears 
 starting to her eyes ; ' only don't look like that 
 and say nothing ! ' 
 
 ( Well,' said Felicia, ' first promise me never 
 again to drive alone with Mr. Desvceux.' 
 
 1 After all,' suggested Maud, l it is a mere matter 
 of appearances, and what do they signify ? '
 
 A CHAPTER OF DISCLOSURES. 
 
 ' Some matters of appearance,' said Felicia, < sig- 
 nify very much. Besides, this is something more 
 than that. It is bad enough for you to be seen 
 with him what I really care about is your being 
 with him at all.' 
 
 ' But,' said Maud, ' he is really very nice : he 
 amuses me so much ! ' 
 
 1 Yes,' answered the other, ( he amuses one, but 
 then it always hurts. His fun has a something, I 
 don't know what it is, but which is only just not 
 offensive ; and I don't trust him a bit.' 
 
 1 But,' Maud argued, ' he is great friends with 
 George, is he not ? ' 
 
 ' Not great friends,' said Felicia ; l they were at 
 college together, and have worked in the same office 
 for years, and are intimate like schoolboys, and 
 George never says an unkind word of any one ; but 
 I do not call them friends at all.' 
 
 ' No ? ' said Maud, quite unconvinced, and feeling 
 vexed at Felicia's evident dislike for her companion. 
 * Well, he's a great friend of mine, so don't abuse 
 him, please.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, child ! ' cried Felicia, in a fright. 
 1 You don't know him in the least, or you would 
 not say that. To begin with, he is not quite a 
 gentleman, you know.' 
 
 ' Not a gentleman I ' cried Maud, aghast, f he 
 seems to me a very fine one.'
 
 I I O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ' As fine as you please,' said Felicia, f but not a 
 thorough gentleman. Gentlemen never say things 
 that hurt you or offend your taste. Now with Mr. 
 Desvreux I feel for ever in a fright lest he should 
 say something I dislike ; and I know he thinks 
 things that I dislike.' 
 
 ' I think you are prejudiced, Felicia. What he 
 says seems to me all very nice.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is prejudice,' Felicia answered, l but 
 I think it all the same. I feel the difference with 
 other people ; Major Sutton, for instance.' 
 
 t He is your ideal, is he not ? ' cried Maud, blush- 
 ing and laughing, for somehow she was beginning 
 to feel that Felicia had designs upon her. 
 
 1 Yes,' Felicia said in her fervent way ; l he is 
 pure and true and chivalrous to the core : he seems 
 to me made of quite other stuff from men like Mr. 
 Desvreux. ' 
 
 ' He is all made of solid gold,' cried Maud, by 
 this time in a teasing mood, l and Mr. Desvceux is 
 plaster-of-Paris and putty and pinchbeck, and 
 everything that is horrid. But he is very amusing, 
 dearest Felicia, all the same, and very nice. I will 
 not drive with him any more, of course, if you do 
 not like it.' 
 
 Thereupon Maud, in a somewhat rebellious frame 
 of mind, was about to go and take her things off, 
 and was already half-way through the doorway
 
 A CHAPTER OF DISCLOSURES. I I I 
 
 when she turned round and saw Felicia's sweet, 
 serene, refined brow wearing a look of harassment 
 and annoyance, and a sudden pang of remorse struck 
 her that she should, in pure mischief, have been 
 wounding a tender heart and endangering a friend- 
 ship, compared with which she felt everything else 
 in the world was but a straw in the balance. She 
 rushed back and flung her arms round her com- 
 panion's neck. ' Dearest Felicia,' she said, ( you 
 know that I would fly to the moon rather than do 
 anything you did not like or make you love me the 
 tiniest atom less. I want to tell you something. 
 You think, I know, that I am falling in love with 
 Mr. Desvceux. Well, dear, I don't care for him 
 that ! ' 
 
 Thereupon Maud clapped two remarkably pretty 
 hands together in a manner highly expressive of 
 the most lighthearted indifference, and Felicia felt 
 that at any rate he might console herself with the 
 reflection that Maud was as yet quite heart-whole, 
 and that, so far as Desvceux was concerned, Sutton's 
 prospects were not endangered. The certainty, 
 however, that Desvceux had selected Maud for his 
 next flirtation, and that she felt no especial re- 
 pugnance to the selection, made Felicia doubly 
 anxious that her chosen hero should succeed, and 
 hex protege be put beyond the reach of danger as 
 soon as possible. But then Sutton proved pro-
 
 I I 2 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 vokingly unamenable to Felicia's kind designs 
 upon him. 
 
 His continued bachelorhood was a mystery of 
 which not even she possessed the key. It was not 
 insensibility, for every word, look, and gesture be- 
 spoke him more than ordinarily alive to all the 
 charms which sway mankind. It certainly was not 
 that either the wish or the power to please were 
 wanting ; nobody was more courteous at heart, or 
 more prompt to show it, or more universally 
 popular : nor could it be want of opportunity ; for, 
 though he had been all his life fighting, marching, 
 hurrying on busy missions from one wild outpost to 
 another, on guard for months together at some 
 dangerous spot where treachery or fanaticism ren- 
 dered an explosion imminent; yetthe busiest military 
 life has its intervals of quiet, and the love-making 
 of soldiers is proverbially expeditious. Was it, 
 then, some old romance, some far-off English 
 recollection, some face that had fascinated his boy- 
 hood, and forbade him, when a man, to thick any 
 other altogether lovely ? Could the locket, which 
 formed the single ornament where all else was of 
 Spartan simplicity, have told a tale of one of those 
 catastrophes where love and hope and happiness 
 get swamped in hopeless shipwreck ? Was it that, 
 absolutely unknown to both parties, his relations 
 to Felicia filled too large a place in his heart for any
 
 A CHAPTER OF DISCLOSURES. 113 
 
 other devotion to find room there ? Was it that a 
 widow sister who had been left with a tribe of 
 profitless boys upon her hands, and to whom a 
 remittance of Button's pay went every month, had 
 made him think of marriage as an unattainable 
 luxury ? 
 
 Sutton, at any rate, remained without a wife, 
 and showed no symptom of anxiety to find one. 
 To those venturesome friends who were sufficiently 
 familiar to rally him on the subject he replied, 
 cheerfully enough, that his regiment was his wife 
 and that such a turbulent existence as his would 
 make any other sort of spouse a most inconvenient 
 appendage. Ladies, experienced in the arts of 
 fascination, knew instinctively that he was un- 
 assailable, and even the most intrepid and success- 
 ful gave up the thoughts of conquest in despair. 
 To be a sort of privileged brother to Felicia to be 
 the children's especial patron and ally to sit chat- 
 ting with Vernon far into the night with all the 
 pleasant intimacy of family relationship, seemed to 
 be all the domestic pleasures of which he stood in 
 need. ' As well/ Felicia sighed, ' might some poor 
 maiden waste her love upon the cold front of a 
 marble Jove.' 
 
 Such was the man upon whom Felicia had 
 essayed her first attempt at match-making; and
 
 I 1 4 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 such the man, too, whom Maud, though she had 
 buried the secret deep in the recesses of her heart 
 far even out of her own sight had already begun 
 to love with all the passionate violence of a first 
 attachment.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 DESVCEUX MAKES THE RUNNING. 
 
 Free love, free field we love but while we may : 
 The woods are hushed, their music is no more ; 
 The leaf is dead, the yearning past away, 
 New leaf, new life the days of frost are o'er. 
 New life, new love, to suit the newer day : 
 New loves are sweet as those that went before, 
 Free love, free field we love but while we may. 
 
 FELICIA was beginning to find Maud a serious charge, 
 and to be weighed down in spirit by the responsi- 
 bility involved in her protection. It would have 
 been easy enough to tell her not to flirt; but it 
 was when Maud was unconscious and self-forgetful 
 that she fascinated the most ; and how warn her 
 against the exercise of attractions of which she 
 never thought and the existence of which would 
 have been a surprise to her ? When, on the lawn, 
 Maud's hat blew off and all her wealth of soft brown 
 hair tumbled about her shoulders in picturesque 
 disarray, and she stood, bright and eager and care- 
 less of the disaster, thinking only of the fortunes 
 of the game, but beautiful, as every creature who 
 came near her seemed to feel when she was
 
 I I 6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 merriest iii the midst of merry talk, and made some 
 sauc} r speech and then blushed scarlet at her own 
 audacity when her intensity of enjoyment in things 
 around her bespoke itself in every look and gesture 
 when the pleasure she gave seemed to infect her 
 being and she charmed others because she was her- 
 self in love with life, how warn her against all 
 this ? You might as well have preached to an 
 April shower ! 
 
 Desvceux, too, was not a lover likely to be easily 
 discouraged or to let the grass grow beneath his 
 feet. Both from temperament and policy he 
 pressed upon a position where advantages seemed 
 likely to be gained. Despite the very coolest 
 welcomes Felicia began to find him an inconveni- 
 ently frequent visitor. An avowed foe to croquet, 
 he appeared with provoking regularity at her 
 Thursday afternoons, when the Dustypore world 
 was collected to enjoy that innocent recreation on 
 the lawn, and somehow he always contrived to be 
 playing in Maud's game. Even at church he put 
 in an unexpected appearance, and sate through a 
 discourse of three-quarters of an hour with a patience 
 that was almost ostentatiously hypocritical. Then 
 he would come and be so bright, natural and 
 amusing, and such good company, that Felicia was 
 frequently not near as chilling to him as she wished 
 aiid as she felt that the occasion demanded. He
 
 DESVCEUX MAKES THE RUNNING. I I "J 
 
 was unlike anybody that Maud had ever met before. 
 He seemed to take for granted that all existing 
 institutions and customs were radically wrong and 
 that everybody knew it. ' Make love to married 
 women ? Of course ; why not what are pretty 
 married women for ? Hard upon the husbands ? 
 Not a bit ; all the unfairness was the other way : 
 the husbands have such tremendous advantages, 
 that it is quite disheartening to fight against such 
 odds : tradition and convention and the natural 
 feminine conservatism all in favour of the husbands ; 
 and then the Churchmen, as they always do, taking 
 their part too : it was so mean ! No, no ; if the 
 husbands cannot take care of themselves they de- 
 serve the worst that can befall them.' Or he 
 would say, l Go to church ! Thank you, if Miss 
 Vernon sings in the choir and will say " How d'ye 
 do ? " to me as she comes out, I will go and wel- 
 come ; but otherwise, ga nCembete^ as the French- 
 man said. I always was a fidget, Miss Vernon, 
 and feel the most burning, desire to chatter directly 
 any one tells me to hold my tongue ; and then I'm. 
 argumentative and hate all the speaking being on 
 one side ; and then and then, well, on the whole, 
 I rather agree with a friend of mine, who said that 
 he had only three reasons for not going to church 
 he disbelieved the history, disapproved the morality 
 and disliked the art.'
 
 I I 8 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Maud used to laugh at these speeches ; and 
 though she did not like them nor the man who 
 made them, and understood what Felicia meant by 
 saying that Desvceux's fun had about it something 
 which hurt one, it seemed quite natural to laugh at 
 them. She observed too, before long, that they were 
 seldom made when Felicia was by, and that Desvceux, 
 if in higher spirits at Mrs. Vereker's than at the 
 Vernons' house, was also several shades less cir- 
 cumspect in what he said, and divulged tastes and 
 opinions which were concealed before her cousin. 
 More than once, as Felicia came up Desvceux had 
 adroitly turned the conversation from some topic 
 which he knew she would dislike ; and Maud, who 
 was guilelessness itself, had betrayed by flushing 
 cheeks and embarrassed manner the fact of some- 
 thing having been concealed. 
 
 On the whole, Felicia had never found the world 
 harder to manage or the little empire of her draw- 
 ing-room less amenable to her sway. Her guests 
 somehow would not be what she wished. Desvoeux, 
 though behaving with marked deference to her 
 wishes and always sedulously polite, pleased her less 
 and less, Maud's innocence and impulsiveness, how- 
 ever attractive, frequently produced embarrassments 
 which it required all Felicia's tact to overcome. 
 Her husband, laconic and indolent, gave not the 
 slightest help. Another ground on which she dis-
 
 DESVCEUX MAKES THE RUNNING. I 1 9 
 
 tressed herself (very unnecessarily, could sh3 only 
 have known) was, that Sutton, among other per- 
 formers on Felicia's little stage, played not at all the 
 brilliant part which she had mentally assigned him. 
 The slightly contemptuous dislike for Desvceux 
 which Felicia had often heard him express, and in 
 which she greatly sympathised, though veiled under 
 a rigid courtesy, was yet incompatible with cor- 
 diality, or good cheer 5 and Desvceux, whose high 
 spirits nothing could put down, often appeared the 
 pleasanter companion of the two. Sutton, in fact, 
 had on more occasions than one come into collision, 
 with Desvceux in a manner which a less easy-going 
 and light-hearted man would have found it difficult 
 to forgive. Once, at mess, on a Guest-night, 
 Desvceux had rattled out some offensive nonsense 
 about women, and Sutton had got up and, pushing 
 his chair back unceremoniously, had marched silently 
 away to the billiard-room in a manner which in 
 him, the most chivalrous of hosts, implied a more 
 than ordinarily vehement condemnation. After- 
 wards Desvceux had been given to understand that, 
 if he came to the mess, he must not, in the Major's 
 presence at any rate, outrage good taste and good 
 morals by any such displays. Then, at another 
 time, there was a pretty young woman a ser- 
 geant's wife to whom Desvceux showed an inclina- 
 tion to be polite. Sutton had told Desvceux that it
 
 I2O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 must not be, in a quietly decisive way which he felt 
 there was no disputing, though there was something 
 in the other's authoritative air which was extremely 
 galling. He could not be impertinent to Sutton, 
 and he bore him no deep resentment ; but he 
 revenged himself by affecting to regard him as the 
 ordinary l plunger ' of the period necessary for 
 purposes of defence and a first-rate leader of native 
 cavalry, but socially dull, and a fair object for an 
 occasional irreverence. Sutton's tendency was to 
 be more silent than usual when Desvoeux was of 
 the party. Desvosux, on the other hand, would not 
 have let Sutton's or the prophet Jeremiah's pre- 
 sence act as a damper on spirits which were always 
 at boiling-point and a temperament which was for 
 ever effervescing into some more or less indiscreet 
 form of mirth. The result was that the one man 
 quite eclipsed the other and tossed the ball of talk 
 about with an ease and dexterity not always quite 
 respectful to his less agile senior. One night, for 
 instance, Maud, in a sudden freak of fancy, had set 
 her heart upon a round of story-telling. ' I shall 
 come last of course,' she said, { as I propose it, and 
 by that time it will be bedtime ; but, Major Sutton, 
 you must tell us something about some of your 
 battles, please, something very romantic and 
 exciting.' 
 
 Sutton was the victim of a morbid modesty as to
 
 DESVCEUX MAKES THE KUNNING. I 2 I 
 
 all his soldiering exploits and would far rather have 
 fought a battle than described it. ' Ah,' he said, 
 ' but our fighting out here is not at all romantic ; 
 it is mostly routine, you know, and not picturesque 
 or amusing.' 
 
 * Yes, but,' said Maud, ' tell us something that 
 is picturesque or amusing : a hairbreadth escape, or 
 a forlorn hope, or a mine. I love accounts of 
 mines. You dig and dig for weeks, you know, and 
 then you're countermined and hear the enemy dig- 
 ging near you ; and then you put the powder iu 
 and light the match, and run away, and then now 
 you go on ! ' 
 
 ' And then there is a smash, I suppose/ laughed 
 Sutton ; * but you know all about it better than I. 
 I'm not a gunner all my work is above-ground.' 
 
 1 Well, then,' cried Maud, with the eager air of a 
 child longing fora story, 'tell us something above 
 ground. How did you get your Victoria Cross, 
 now ? ' 
 
 Maud, however, was not destined to get a story 
 out of Sutton. 
 
 ' There was nothing romantic about that, at any 
 rate,' he said. ' It was at Mirabad. There was a 
 cannon down at the end of the lane which was 
 likely to be troublesome, and some of our fellows 
 went down with me and spiked it. That was 
 all I ' -
 
 122 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 Excuse me, Miss Vernon,' said Desvcenx ; 
 1 Sutton's modesty spoils an excellent story. Let 
 me tell it as it deserves.' And then he threw him- 
 self into a mock-tragical attitude. 
 
 ( Go on,' said Maud, eagerly. 
 
 1 The street- fighting at Mirabad/ said -Desvoeux, 
 with a declamatory air, ' was the fiercest of the 
 whole campaign ' 
 
 'What campaign?' asked Sutton. 
 
 1 The Mirabad campaign,' replied the other, with 
 great presence of mind, ' in eighteen hundred and 
 , I forget the year but never mind.' 
 
 1 Yes, never mind the year,' said Maud ; ( go 
 on.' 
 
 ' The enemy fought us inch by inch, and lane by 
 lane ; from every window poured a little volley '> 
 every house had to be stormed, hand-to-hand we 
 fought our way, and so on. You know the sort of 
 thing. Then, as we turned into the main street, 
 puff! a great blaze and a roar, and a dense cloud 
 of smoke, and smash came a cannon-ball into the 
 midst of us five or six men were knocked over 
 Tomkin's horse lost a tail, Brown had his nose put 
 out of joint, Smith was blown up to a second-storey 
 window something must be done. But I am 
 tiring you? ' 
 
 < No, no,' cried Maud, ' I like it go on.' 
 
 * Well, let me see. Oh yes, something must be
 
 DESVCEUX MAKES THE RUNNING. 123 
 
 done. To put spurs to my Arab's sides, to cut my 
 way down through the astonished mob, to leap the 
 barricade (it was only eight feet high, and armed 
 with a chevaux defrise), to sabre the six gunners 
 who were working the battery, was, I need hardly 
 say, the work of a moment. Then a crushing 
 blow from behind, and I remember nothing more, 
 till, a month later, I found myself, weak and 
 wounded, in bed ; and a lovely nun gave me some 
 gruel, and told me that Mirabad was ours! 
 "Where am I?" I exclaimed, for I felt so con- 
 fused, and the nun looked so angelic, that I fancied 
 I must have gone to heaven. My companion, how- 
 ever, soon brought me to earth by et ccetera et 
 c&tera et ccetera' 
 
 1 That is the sort of thing which happens in 
 " Charles O'Malley," ' said Sutton ; ' only Lever 
 would have put Tippoo Sahib or Tantia Topee on 
 the other side of the barricade, and I should have 
 had to cut his head off and slaughter all his body- 
 guard before I got out again.' 
 
 'And then,' said Maud, 'the nun would have 
 turned out to be some one.' 
 
 ' But,' said Desvoeux, ' how do you know that the 
 nun did not turn out to be some one, if only I had 
 chosen to fill up those et ceeteras ? ' 
 
 * Well,' said Sutton, who apparently had had
 
 124 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 enough of the joke l that part of the story I will 
 tell you myself. The nun was a male one my 
 good friend Boldero, who took me into his quarters, 
 looked after me for six weeks, till I got about 
 again, and was as good a nurse as any one could 
 wish for.' 
 
 ' I should have liked to be the nun,' Maud 
 cried, moved by a sudden impulse which brought 
 the words out as the thought flashed into her 
 mind, and turning crimson, as was her wont, 
 before they were out of her mouth. 
 
 1 That is very kind of you,' said Sutton, standing 
 up, and defending her, as Maud felt, from all eyes 
 but his own ; l and you would have been a very 
 charming nurse and cured me, I dare say, even 
 faster than Boldero. And now, Desvoeux, go and 
 sing us a song as ajinale to your story. 
 
 Maud knew perfectly well that this was a mere 
 diversion to save her from the confusion of a 
 thoughtless speech and turn Desvceux's attention 
 from her. It seemed quite natural and of a piece 
 with Button's watchful, sympathetic care to give 
 her all possible pleasure and to shield her from 
 every shade of annoyance. A thrill of gratitude 
 shot through her. There was a charm, a fascina- 
 tion, in protection so prompt, so delicate, so kind, 
 compared with which all other attractions seemed
 
 DESYGEUX MAKES THE RUNNING. 125 
 
 faint indeed. That evening Maud went to Led 
 with her heart in a tumult, and wept, she knew 
 not wherefore, far into the night only again and 
 again the tears streamed out the outcome, though 
 as yet she knew it n<ot, of that purest of all pure 
 fountains, an innocent first love.
 
 ( 126 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TO THE HILLS ! 
 
 . 
 
 However marred, and more than twice her years, 
 Scarred with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek, 
 And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes, 
 And loved him with that love which was her doom. 
 
 SUMMER was beginning to come on apace ; not 
 summer as English people know it, the genial 
 supplement to a cold and watery spring, with just 
 enough heat about it to thaw the chills of winter 
 out of one ; but summer in its fiercest and cruellest 
 aspect, breathing sulphurous blasts, glowing with 
 intolerable radiance, begirt with whirlwinds of 
 dust the unsparing despot of a sultry world. 
 The fields, but a few weeks ago one great ( wave- 
 less plain ' of ripening corn, had been stripped of 
 their finery, and were now lying brown and blis- 
 tering in the sun's eye. The dust lay deep on every 
 road and path and wayside shrub, and seized every 
 opportunity of getting itself whirled into minia- 
 ture siroccos. More than once Maud and Felicia 
 had been caught, not in a sweet May shower,
 
 TO THE HILLS. 
 
 stealing down amid bud and blossom and leaving 
 the world moist and fresh and fragrant behind it, 
 but in rough, turbulent clouds of rushing sand, 
 which shut out the sunshine and replaced the 
 bright blue atmosphere with the lurid glare of an 
 eclipse. Felicia's flowers had begun to droop, nor 
 could all her care rescue the fresh green of her 
 lawn from turning to a dingy brown. Already 
 prudent housekeepers were busy with preparations 
 against the evil day so near at hand. Verandahs 
 were guarded with folds of heavy matting, to 
 shut out the intolerable light that would have 
 forced a way through any ordinary barrier ; win- 
 dows were replaced by fragrant screens of cuscus- 
 grass, through which the hot air passing might 
 lose a portion of its sting; and one morning, when 
 Maud came out, she found a host of labourers 
 carrying a huge winnowing-machine to one side 
 of the house, the object of which was, Vernon in- 
 formed her, to manufacture air cool enough for 
 panting Britons to exist in. 
 
 Day by day some piece of attire was discarded 
 as too intolerably heavy for endurance. The morn- 
 ing ride became a thing of the past, and even a 
 drive at sunset too fatiguing to be quite enjoyable. 
 Mand felt that she had never not even when 
 Miss Goodenough had locked her up for a whole 
 summer afternoon, to learn her ' duty to her
 
 128 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 neighbour ' known what exhaustion really meant 
 till now. 
 
 The children were turning sadly white, and 
 Felicia began to be anxious for their departure to 
 the Hills. Maud would of course go with them, 
 and Vernon was to follow in a couple of months, 
 when he could get his leave. Much as she hated 
 leaving her husband, Felicia was on the whole ex- 
 tremely glad to go. The state of things at home 
 disturbed her. Maud's outspoken susceptibility, 
 Desvceux's impressionable and eager temperament, 
 Sutton's unconsciousness of what she wanted him 
 to do the combination was one from which it 
 was a relief in prospect to escape to the refuge of 
 a new and unfamiliar society. Felicia's buoyant 
 and hopeful nature saw in the promised change of 
 scene the almost certainty that somehow or other 
 matters would seem less unpromising when looked 
 at from the summits of Elysium. 
 
 For Elysium accordingly they started. Three 
 primitive vehicles, whose battered sides and gene- 
 rally faded appearance spoke eloquently of the dust, 
 heat and bustle in which their turbulent exist- 
 ence was for the most part engaged, were dragged 
 one afternoon, each by a pair of highly rebellious 
 ponies, with a vast deal of shouting, pushing, and 
 execrating, into a convenient position before the 
 hall-door, and their tops loaded forthwith with that
 
 TO THE HILLS. I 2 9 
 
 miscellaneous and profuse supply of baggage 
 which every move in India necessarily involves, 
 and which it is the especial glory of Indian ser- 
 vants to preserve in undiminished amplitude. 
 Suffice it to say, that it began with trunks and 
 cradles, went on with native nurses, and concluded 
 with a goat. Vernon sat in the verandah, smoking 
 a cheroot with stoical composure and interfering 
 only when some pyramid of boxes seemed to be 
 assuming proportions of perilous altitude. He was 
 to travel with them, establish them at Elysium, 
 and ride down sixty miles again by night a per- 
 formance of which no Dustyporean thought twice. 
 Maud, to whom one of the creaking fabrics was 
 assigned in company with the two little girls, 
 found that (the feat of clambering in and establish- 
 ing herself once safely accomplished) the journey 
 promised to be not altogether unluxurious. The 
 Vernons' servants were experienced and devoted, 
 and every detail of the journey was carefully fore- 
 seen. The interior of the carriage, well furnished 
 with mattresses and pillows, made an excellent bed ; 
 a little army of servants gathered round to proffer 
 aid and to give the Sahibs a passing salaam ; 
 friendly carriages kept rolling in to say l Good-bye.' 
 Sutton, who had been kept away on business, 
 galloped in at the last moment and seemed too 
 much occupied in saying farewell to Felicia to have
 
 I3O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 much time for other thoughts. ' Good-bye,' he said, 
 in the most cheery tone, as he came to Maud's 
 carriage, and ' Good-bye, Uncle Jem ! ' shouted the 
 little girls, waving their adieux as best they might 
 under the deep awning; and then, after a frantic 
 struggle for independent action on the part of the 
 ponies, they were fairly off and spinning along the 
 great, straight, high road which stretches in un- 
 swerving course through so many hundred miles of 
 English rule. 
 
 The little girls were in the greatest glee, and 
 busy in signalling Uncle Jem for as long as 
 possible. Maud, somehow, did not share their 
 mirth : for the first time Sutton had seemed un- 
 kind, or near enough unkind, to give her pain. 
 This ending of the pleasant time seemed to her an 
 event which friendship ought not quite to have 
 ignored. She looked back upon many happy 
 hours, the brightest of her life ; and the person 
 who had made them bright evidently did not share 
 her sentimental views about them in the least. 
 Partings, Maud's heart told her, must surely 
 be always sad; yet Sutton's voice had no tone 
 of sadness in it. * Stay stay a little ! ' she 
 could have cried with Imogen, 
 
 Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 
 Such parting were too petty
 
 TO THE HILLS. 131 
 
 True, they were to meet in a few weeks; but 
 yet but yet ! 
 
 * You've dot a big tear on yonr cheek,' said one 
 of her companions, with the merciless frankness of 
 childhood. 
 
 1 Have I ? ' said Maud. ' Then it must be the 
 dust that has gone into my eyes. How hot it is ! 
 Come, let us have some oranges ! ' 
 
 By this time evening was fast closing in, and 
 Maud's cheeks were soon safe from further observa- 
 tion. Before long her and her companions' eyes 
 were fast closed by that kindly hand which secures 
 to the most troubled of mankind the boon that 
 one-third, at any rate, of existence shall be spent 
 in peace. When they awoke the stars were shin- 
 ing bright, but the sky was already ruddy with the 
 coming dawn, and Maud could see the giant moun- 
 tain forms looming, cold and majestical, in the 
 grey air above them. They alighted at' a little 
 wayside inn, and found delicious cups of tea (the 
 Indians' invariable morning luxury) awaiting 
 them. Maud had sufficiently recovered her spirits 
 to make a bold inroad on the bread and butter. 
 
 A mist hung about the country round, and it 
 was a delightful, home-like sensation to shrink once 
 again, as the cold mountain blasts came swirling 
 down, throwing the wreaths of vapour here and 
 there, and recalling the delicious reminiscence of a
 
 132 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 November fog. In a few moments the horses were 
 ready, the children and nurses packed into palan- 
 quins, and the upward march began. 
 
 These morning expeditions in the mountains are 
 indescribably exhilarating. At every step you 
 breathe a fresher atmosphere and feel a new access 
 of life, vigour and enjoyment. Sweet little gushes 
 of pure cold air meet you at the turnings of the 
 road and bid you welcome. The vegetation around 
 is rich, profuse and long- forgotten charm 
 sparkling everywhere with dew. There has been a 
 thunderstorm in the night, and the mountain-sides 
 are streaming still : little cataracts come tumbling 
 clamorously beside your path ; below you a muddy 
 stream is foaming and brawling and collecting the 
 tribute of a hundred torrents to swell the great 
 flood that spreads away miles wide in the plain, 
 and glitters in the far horizon. As the path rises 
 you get a wider view, and presently the great cham- 
 paign lies below, flashing and blinking in the 
 morning's rays. Miles away overhead a tiny white 
 thread shows the road along which in an hour or 
 two you will be travelling, and a little speck at 
 the summit, the cottage where your mid-day rest 
 will be. Behind you lie heat, monotony, fatigue, 
 hot hours in sweltering courts, weary stragglings 
 through the prose of officialdom, the tiresome war- 
 fare against sun and dust ; around you and above,
 
 TO THE HILLS. I 3 3 
 
 it is all enchanted ground ; the air is full of plea- 
 sant sounds and sweet invisible influences ; the 
 genius of the woods breathes poetry about the 
 scene, the mountain nymphs are dancing on yonder 
 crest, and Puck and Oberon and Titania haunting 
 in each delicious nook. Well may the first English- 
 man, who toiled panting hitherwards from the reek- 
 ing realms below, have fancied himself halfway to 
 Paradise and have christened the crowning heights 
 Elysium. Maud, at any rate, leaving the rest of 
 the party behind, rode forward in an ecstasy of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 They spent the hot hours of the day in a sweet 
 resting-place. Years afterwards the calmness of 
 that pleasant day used to live in Maud's recollec- 
 tion ; and though many scenes of bustle and trouble 
 and fevered excitement had come between herself 
 and it, yet the very thought of it used to soothe 
 her. l I have you, dear,' she would say to Felicia, 
 * in my mind's picture-gallery, set in a dozen dif- 
 ferent frames scenes in which you played a part 
 and this is my favourite. I love you best of all in 
 this ; it cools and gladdens me to look at it/ 
 
 The scene, in fact, was a lovely one. On one 
 side rose a vast amphitheatre of granite, rugged, 
 solemn, precipitous ; downwards, along the face of 
 this, a careful eye might trace from point to point
 
 134 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 the little path up which the party were to make to- 
 morrow's march. This mountain ridge separated 
 them from the Elysian hills, and seemed to frown 
 at them like some giant bulwark reared to guard 
 the snowy solitudes beyond from human intrusion. 
 On the other hand, fold upon fold, one sweet out- 
 line melting into another here kissed by soft 
 wreaths of cloud, here glittering clear and hard in 
 the flood of light stretched all the minor ranges, 
 along which for fifty miles the traveller to the 
 Elysians prepares himself for the final sublimity 
 that lies beyond. In front, where the mountains 
 parted, lay sweltering in the horizon, and immeasur- 
 ably below them, the great Indian plain, spread 
 out as far as eye could follow it a dim, glisten- 
 ing, monotonous panorama varied only when occa- 
 sionally a great river, swollen with the melting 
 snows above, spread out for miles across the plain 
 and twinkled like an inland lake as the sun's rays 
 fell upon it and the whole suggested intolerable 
 heat. 
 
 The hillside around was covered thick with forest 
 growth of tropical luxuriance. On the heights 
 above, a clump of rhododendrons glowed with a 
 rosy glory; here, on a rugged precipice, a storm- 
 stricken deodar spread its vast flat branches as if 
 to brave the storm and the lightning strokes such 
 as had before now seamed its bark. The path
 
 TO THE HILLS. 135 
 
 below was overhung with a dense growth of bam- 
 boo, each stem a miracle of grace, and growing at 
 last to an inextricable jungle in the deep bosom of 
 the mountain gorge. Mountain creepers in fantas- 
 tic exuberance tossed wildly about the crag's side 
 or hung festooning the roadside with a gorgeous 
 natural tapestry. A hundred miles away the ever- 
 lasting snow-clad summits, which had stood out so 
 clear in the grey morning, when they first emerged 
 from their couch of clouds, were fading into faint- 
 ness as the bright daylight poured about them. 
 Just below the spot on which their camp was 
 pitched there was a little spring and a drinking- 
 place, and constant relays of cattle came tinkling 
 up the road and rested in the tall rocks' shadow 
 for a drink, while the weary drivers sat chatting on 
 the edge. Every now and then weird beings from 
 the Interior, whose wild attire and unkempt aspect 
 bespoke them as belonging to some aboriginal tribe, 
 were to be seen staggering along under huge logs 
 of timber felled in the great forests above and now 
 brought down to the confines of civilisation for 
 human use. It was a new page in Nature's grand 
 picture-book, and full of charm. Maud, who was 
 always very much alive to the outer world, was 
 greatly impressed. Her nerves were overwrought. 
 She took Felicia's hand and seemed to be in urgent 
 need of imparting her excited mood to some one.
 
 136 CHRONICLES OF DUST YPORE. 
 
 ' How beautiful this is ! ' she cried ; { how 
 solemn, how solitary ! Already all the world seems 
 to be something unsubstantial, and the mountains 
 the only reality.' 
 
 Felicia threw herself back upon the turf and 
 gave a great sigh of relief. 
 
 6 1 love these delicious gusts of air,' she said, 
 1 fresh and pure from the snow-tops.' 
 
 * Yes,' cried Maud ; ' how serene and grand they 
 look ! No wonder the Alpine tourists go crazy 
 about them and break their necks in clambering 
 about them, bewildered with pleasure : 
 
 ' " How faintly flushed, how phantom fair, 
 
 Was Monte Rosa hanging there ! 
 A thousand shadowy pencilled valleys 
 And snowy dells in a golden air ! " 
 
 * And here is a whole horizon of Monte Rosas ! 
 I should like to stop a month here and devote 
 myself to sketching.' 
 
 While they were chatting in the shade, a native 
 lad, who had been standing on a neighbouring 
 knoll, came running down to a picketed pony and 
 began hurriedly to prepare him for departure. 
 
 * What Sahib's horse ? ' Vernon asked with that 
 imperative inquisitiveness that the superior race 
 allows itself in India. 
 
 ' Boldero Sahib,' replied the breathless groom ; 
 and before many minutes more ' Boldero Sahib '
 
 TO THE HILLS. 137 
 
 himself began to be apparent on the opposite hill- 
 side. 
 
 1 The impetuous Boldero,' cried Vernon, l riding 
 abroad, redressing human wrongs, and doing his 
 best, as usual, to break his neck, as if there could 
 by any possibility be anything worth hurrying about 
 in the plains below. Now, Maud, you will see a 
 real philanthropist in flesh and blood.' 
 
 Presently the tiny distant object had shaped 
 itself into a man and horse, and in a quarter of an 
 hour more Boldero came clattering into the yard, 
 had slung himself out of the saddle in a moment, 
 and was already preparing to mount his new horse, 
 when he discovered the Vernons and was introduced 
 to Maud. 
 
 He seemed to have broken like a whirlwind into 
 the repose of the party. His servants were evi- 
 dently well experienced in their master's move- 
 ments ; the saddle had been speedily shifted and 
 the fresh horse was already ready for a start. Bol- 
 dero drank off a great beaker of cold water. Maud's 
 first impression was that he looked extremely hand- 
 some and extremely hot, and in better spirits and 
 a greater hurry than she had ever seen any one in 
 in her life. Veriion, after first greetings, had 
 speedily resumed his attitude of profound repose 
 and evidently had no intention of being infected 
 with bustle.
 
 138 CHRONICLES OF DTJSTYPORE. 
 
 * Come, Boldero,' he said, ' do, for goodness' 
 sake, send away your horse and wait here and have 
 some lunch, instead of flying off in such a mad- 
 man's hurry. India, which has already waited 
 several thousand years for your arrival to reform 
 her, can, no doubt, dispense with you for twenty 
 minutes more; and fortune does not send good 
 meetings every day.' 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Boldero,' said Felicia, ' and I have 
 just been making a salad, which 1 am delighted 
 you have arrived to admire ; and I daresay you 
 have half-a-dozen new ferns to show me.' 
 
 ' I am pledged to be at Dustypore to-morrow, and 
 ought to be ten miles further on my way by this 
 time,' said Boldero. f However, there is a glorious 
 moon all through the night, and this delightful 
 Doongla Gully seems set as a snare to beguile one 
 into loitering by the way. What a sweet little oasis 
 it is among all the gloom of the mountains ! ' 
 
 1 Now, Maud,' said Vernon, * I'll give you an 
 idea of what the virtuous civilian does. He rides 
 all night, he works all day.' 
 
 1 Or rather,' said Boldero, who had as much dis- 
 like as the rest of the army of good fellows to 
 being the topic of conversation, l by night he 
 dances, by day he plays at Badminton. My visit 
 to the Viceroy was nothing except for the solem- 
 nity of the affair.'
 
 TO THE HILLS. 139 
 
 t Well,' answered Vernon, ' and now you come 
 just in time to give my cousin a lesson in water- 
 colours. You must know, Maud, that Mr. Boldero 
 carried off the prize at Elysium for a mountain- 
 sketch last year. Now, Boldero, be good-natured 
 and tell her the mystery of your sunset skies, which, 
 though I deny their fidelity, are, I must admit, as 
 beautiful as the real ones.' 
 
 1 Will you ? ' said Maud, her eyes flashing out 
 and her colour coining at the mere thought of 
 what she especially desired. 
 
 1 Will I not?' Boldero said, with alacrity. 
 'What pleasauter afternoon's work could fortune 
 send one ? ' And thereupon Maud's sketch-book 
 was produced. 
 
 ' Did you ever see such a daub ? ' she cried. 
 ' It looks worse now it is dry than when I did it. 
 It is so provoking ! I feel the scenes I have 
 them all beautifully in my mind, and then come 
 those horrid, hard, blotchy heaps. Just look at 
 this odious mountain ! Alas I alas ! ' Maud went 
 on ruthlessly blotting out her morning's work, 
 which, to tell the truth, did not deserve immor- 
 tality. 
 
 ( You made it a little too blue,' said her tutor. 
 1 See, now ; I will tone it down for you in a 
 minute.' 
 
 * No, no,' cried Maud ; ' let us have something
 
 I4O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 fresh, that I have not desecrated by a caricature. 
 Here, this in front of us wilt be lovely.' 
 
 ' See,' said Boldero ; f we will have that nice bit 
 of dark shade with that ragged deodar, and that 
 jolly little cloud overhead.' 
 
 Maud's face glowed with pleasure, and her com- 
 panion's last thought of getting in time to Dusty- 
 pore disappeared. 
 
 Before the sketch was done the evening shadows 
 were already fast climbing up the mountain's side ; 
 the valley's short day was over ; cold masses of 
 vapour were gathering about the crags ; and the 
 moon, that was to light the traveller through his 
 night-long journey, was sailing, pale and ghost- 
 like, overhead. Boldero waved them a last fare- 
 well as he disappeared round the opposite hillside, 
 and seemed to Maud's excited imagination like 
 some knight-errant riding down into the gloom.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A DISTRICT OFFICER. 
 
 Their aches, hopes, 
 
 Their pangs of love, with other incident throes, 
 That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain 
 In life's uncertain voyage 
 
 BOLDERO was one of the Queen's good bargains. 
 His mind teemed with schemes for the regeneration 
 of mankind. Disappointment could not damp his 
 hopefulness, nor difficulty cool his zeal ; he was an 
 enthusiast for improvement and the firmest believer 
 in its possibility. Against stupidity, obstinacy, the 
 blunders of routine, official vis inertia, he waged a 
 warfare which, if not always discreet, was suffici- 
 ently vigorous to plague his opponents : l See,' cries 
 Mr. Browning's philanthropist, 
 
 I have drawn a pattern on my nail 
 
 And I will carve the world fresh after it 
 
 Boldero's nails were absolutely covered with new 
 patterns, and the little bit of the world on which 
 he was able to operate was continually being carved
 
 142 CHEONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 into some improved condition. Nature having 
 gifted him with courage, high spirit, resource, 
 inventiveness, enterprise, and precious gift ! 
 administrative effectiveness, and Fortune and the 
 Staff Corps having guided his steps from a frontier 
 regiment to a civilian appointment in the Sandy 
 Tracts, his importance was speedily appreciated. 
 Wherever he looked at the machinery about him he 
 saw things out of gear and working badly, and his 
 mind was forthwith haunted with devices to improve 
 them. He saw material, money, time wasted ; 
 wheel catching against wheel and producing all 
 sorts of bad results by the friction ; office coming 
 to dead-lock with office ; one blundering head 
 knocking against another ; wants to which, no one 
 attended ; wrongs which no one avenged ; suffer- 
 ings to which no hand brought relief. Some men 
 see such things and acquiesce in them as inevitable 
 or relieve themselves by cynical remarks on the 
 best of all possible worlds. Boldero felt it all as a 
 personal misfortune and was incapable of acquies- 
 cence. 
 
 Thus he was for ever discovering grievances, 
 which, when once discovered, no one could deny. 
 His reports to Government sent a little shudder 
 through the Chief Secretary's soul. The Salt Board 
 regarded him with especial disfavour. Cockshaw 
 cursed him for the long correspondence he involved.
 
 A DISTRICT OFFICER. 143 
 
 Fotheringham thought him dangerous, rash, Quix- 
 otic. Even Blunt accorded him but a scanty appro- 
 val, Blunt's view being always the rough, common- 
 place and unsentimental, and Boldero's projects 
 involving a constant temptation to expenditure. 
 But the Agent was a finer judge of character than 
 any of them, and his keen eye speedily detected 
 Boldero's rare merits and his fitness for responsible 
 employment. Boldero had more than justified the 
 Agent's hopes, and accordingly moved rapidly up 
 from one post to another. 
 
 He was now acting as chief magistrate of the 
 district next to Dustypore. Here his energetic 
 temperament had the fullest play. He built, he 
 planted, he drained. Sunrise found him ever in the 
 saddle. He drove his Municipal Committee wild 
 with projects of reform water-supply, vaccination, 
 canals, tanks, and public gardens. He fulminated 
 the most furious orders, plunged into all sorts of 
 controversies, was always waging war in some 
 quarter or other, and manufactured for himself even 
 a hotter world than Nature had provided ready- 
 made. He offended the doctors by invading the 
 hospitals and pointing out how the patients were 
 killed by defective arrangements ; the Chaplain, by 
 objecting to the ventilation of the church and the 
 length of the sermons; the Educational Department 
 by a savage tirade on the schools, and the General
 
 144 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 in command by a bold assault ou the drainage of 
 the barracks. Altogether a bustling, joyous, irre- 
 pressible sort of man, and, as the Agent knew, a 
 perfect treasure in a land where energy and enthu- 
 siasm are hard to keep at boiling heat, and where 
 to get a thing done, despite the piles of official 
 correspondence it gets buried under, is a result as 
 precious as it is difficult of achievement. 
 
 When he first came to India he had been for a 
 couple of years in Sutton's regiment, and at the 
 time of Sutton's illness the two had almost lived 
 together. The intimacy so formed had ripened into 
 a cordial friendship, and Boldero had thus become 
 a not unfrequent visitor at the Veruons' house, 
 where, though her husband pronounced him an en- 
 thusiastic bore, Felicia ever accorded him a kindly 
 welcome. 
 
 He had now, however, carried away with him 
 that which speedily cured him of enthusiasm, or, 
 rather, forbade him to feel enthusiastic about any- 
 thing but one. With his accustomed earnest pre- 
 cipitancy he had fallen deeply in love with Maud 
 the first moment he had seen her, and all his after- 
 noon had been spent in that paradise which springs 
 into sudden existence beneath a happy lover's feet. 
 Maud had been delighted with him for being so 
 handsome, so good-natured, and the latest comer. 
 And, then, was not he Sutton's friend, whose care
 
 A DISTRICT OFFICER. 145 
 
 and kindness had brought him from Death's door ? 
 Maud thought of this with a gush of interest and 
 rained the sweetest and most gracious smiles upon 
 him in consequence. Those bright looks pursued 
 him down the mountain's side, through the livelong 
 night, and next day into court and office and all 
 the hundred businesses of a busy official's day. So 
 bright were they, even in recollection, that all the 
 brightness seemed to have faded out of everything 
 else. The details of his District, lately so full of 
 interest, had become the dreariest routine. Im- 
 provements which, when last he thought of them, 
 seemed of vital importance, faded away into use- 
 lessness or impossibility. A great pile of papers 
 stood, ranged upon the study table, inviting disposal. 
 A week ago Boldero would have fallen upon them, 
 like a glutton on some favourite repast, and driven 
 through them with alacrity and enjoyment. Now 
 he had not the heart to touch them. A week ago 
 the plains, with all their drawbacks, were pleasanter 
 far, for a healthy man, than the indolent comforts 
 and dull frivolities of a Hill station. Now, alas ! 
 Elysium was the only place where life any life, 
 that is, which deserved the name was to be had. 
 
 Meanwhile, the object of his devotion was con- 
 scious only of having had a very pleasant afternoon 
 and added one more to an already ample list of 
 agreeable acquaintances. By the time she arrived
 
 146 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 at Elysium next, day, Boldero had faded into in- 
 distinctness, and his chance meeting with them 
 figured in Maud's thoughts only as one, and not 
 the most striking, incident of a journey which had 
 been to her full of things new, interesting and 
 picturesque.
 
 ( 147 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ELYSIUM. 
 
 For they lie beside their nectar, and their holts are hurled 
 
 Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled 
 
 Hound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world. 
 
 THE conquering races, who in one age or another 
 have owned the fair plains of Hindostan, have suc- 
 cessively made the discovery that there are portions 
 of the year when their magnificent possession had 
 best be contemplated from a respectful distance. 
 Some monarchs retired for the summer to the ex- 
 quisite Cashmir valleys : others to cool plateaux in 
 the far interior. The latest administrators of the 
 country have solved the problem by perching, 
 through the hot season, on the summits of a craggy 
 range, and by performing the functions of Govern- 
 ment at an altitude of 7000 feet above the sea. 
 
 The fact that the highest officials in the country, 
 having a large amount of hard work to do, should 
 prefer to do it in an invigorating mountain atmo- 
 sphere, rather than amid swamps, steam and fever in 
 the plains below, is not, of course, surprising. The
 
 148 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 only matter of regret is that the obvious advantages, 
 public and private, of an European climate for half 
 the year can, from the nature of things, be enjoyed 
 by so tiny a fraction of the official world. As it is, 
 the annual removal of the Government to its summer 
 quarters gives rise too often to a little outburst of 
 unreasonable, though not unnatural jealousy ; and 
 Indian journalists, who are necessarily closely pinned 
 to the plains, are never tired of inveighing against 
 the l Capua ' of the British rule. The truth is, 
 however, that if Hannibal's soldiers had worked half 
 as hard at Capua as English officials do at Elysium, 
 nothing but good could have resulted from their 
 sojourn in that agreeable resting-place. Of the holi- 
 day-makers it may safely be said that, in nine cases out 
 of ten, they have earned, by long months of mono- 
 tonous, laborious, and often solitary life, a good right 
 to all the refreshment of body and soul that a brief 
 interval of cool breezes, new faces, and an amusing 
 society can give them. The ' Jack ' of the Civil 
 Service is often a dull boy because the stern regime 
 of * all work and no play ' is too rigorously enforced 
 upon him. Let no one therefore grudge him his few 
 weeks of rest and merry-making, or mock at the 
 profuse homage with which the goddess Terpsichore 
 is adored by her modern votaries on the Himalayan 
 heights. 
 
 Elysium, indeed, enchants one on the first ap-
 
 .ELYSIUM. 149 
 
 preach. You clamber for weary miles up a long, 
 blazing ascent, where even the early morning sun 
 seems to sting and pierce. As the road turns, you ' 
 enter suddenly a sweet depth of shade formed by 
 thick growths of ilex and rhododendron, from the 
 breaks in which you look out at ease upon the blazing 
 day beyond. Dotted all about the road, above and 
 below, perched on every convenient rock or level 
 ridge of soil, or sometimes built up on a framework 
 of piles, are the homes of the Elysians ; not, alas ! 
 the ideals which the imagination would conceive of 
 the abodes of the blest, but seaside lodgings, of a 
 by no means first-rate order, with precipices, clouds 
 and rain, instead of sea. Presently the road fails at 
 a great chasm in the mountain-side, and the horses' 
 feet clatter over a frail-looking structure of planks 
 and scaffolding, which clings to the mountain's edge. 
 This is merely a landslip, an event too common 
 even to be observed. Each heavy rainfall, however, 
 washes an appreciable fraction of the Elysian sum- 
 mits to the depths below and leaves the craggy 
 sides barer and steeper than ever. Then, emerging 
 from the ilex grove, the traveller passes to a little 
 Mall, where the fashionable world assembles for 
 mutual edification, and the tide of life, business and 
 gaiety flows fast and strong. 
 
 There is something in the air of the place which 
 bespeaks the close neighbourhood of the Sovereign
 
 I5O CHRONICLES OF DDSTYPORE. 
 
 rule, the august climax of the official hierarchy. 
 Servants, brilliant in scarlet and gold, are hurrying 
 hither and thither. Here some Rajah, petty mon- 
 arch of the surrounding ranges or the fat plains 
 below, attended with his mimic court and tatterde- 
 malion cavalry, is marching in state to pay his 
 homage to the 'great Lord Sahib.' Here some 
 grand lady, whose gorgeous attire and liveried re- 
 tinue bespeak her sublime position, is constrained 
 to bate her greatness to the point of being carried 
 slung like the grapes of Eschol on a pole, and 
 borne on sturdy peasants' shoulders to pay a round 
 of the ceremonious visits which etiquette enjoins 
 upon her. Officers, secretaries, aides-de-camp come 
 bustling by on mountain-ponies, each busy on his 
 own behest. The energetic army of morning callers 
 are already in the field. A dozen palanquins, 
 gathered at Madame Fifini's, the Elysian ' Worth,' 
 announce the fact that as many ladies are hard at 
 work within, running up long-bills for their hus- 
 bands and equipping themselves for conquest at the 
 next Government House 'At home.' Smartly- fur- 
 nished shops glitter with all the latest finery of 
 Paris and London, and ladies go jogging along on 
 .their bearers' shoulders, gay enough for a London 
 garden-party in July. In the midst of all, the 
 solid basis on which so huge a structure of business, 
 pomp and pleasure is erected, clumps the British
 
 ELYSIUM. I 5 I 
 
 Private, brushed, buttoned and rigid, with a loud, 
 heavy tread, which contrasts strangely with the 
 noiselessly moving crowd around him and bespeaks 
 his conscious superiority to a race of beings whom, 
 with a lordly indifference to minute ethnological 
 distinctions, he designates collectively as ' Moors.' 
 
 Some servants were waiting at the entrance of 
 the place to conduct the Vernons to their home, and 
 before many minutes the travellers were standing 
 in the balcony, looking out on the steep slopes of 
 green foliage below them and the noble snow- 
 ranges which bounded the entire horizon. Maud 
 soon rushed off to explore the house ; and Felicia 
 made her way to the garden, to see how many of 
 last summer's plants the winter had spared to her. 
 Presently she came in, with dew-bedrenched sleeves 
 and gloves and an armful of sparkling roses, .gera- 
 niums and t heliotropes, and deposited them joyously 
 in a heap on the table. 
 
 1 There,' she cried, ' is my first fruit-offering. 
 Bury your face in .them, George, and do homage, 
 as I have been doing, to the Genius of the Hills ! 
 Come here, babies, and be crowned.' 
 
 Felicia knelt down and stuck the children's hair 
 full of flowers, till each looked as gaudy as a little 
 Queen of May. Her husband came and stood over 
 them and watched the scene. 
 
 ' Now,' he said, ' Felicia, you ought to be quite
 
 I$2 . CHKONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 happy you have your children and your flowers to 
 adore at once.' 
 
 * And my husband,' said Felicia, looking up at 
 him, with her sweet, radiant smile. ' And, oh 
 dear, how I wish you had not to go down again to- 
 night ! Do you know, George, I mind each sepa- 
 ration worse than the last ? Next summer we will 
 send the children straight to " The Gully," and we 
 will stay comfortably together.' 
 
 Maud came back in the highest spirits. ' Look 
 here,' she said, showing a handful of snow, and 
 fingers red and blue with unaccustomed cold l how 
 nice it is to feel it once again ! And what nectar 
 the air is ! And, George, actually, strawberries ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Vernon, ' and cream, and plenty of 
 both. Is it not enchanting ? ' 
 
 1 You shall have some flowers too, dear,' cried 
 Maud, who seldom missed an opportunity of petting 
 Felicia and letting her love run out in some pretty 
 act or speech. * See, this rose was made for me to 
 deck you with. Does she not look charming, 
 George ? ' 
 
 1 Hush ! ' said George ; ' we shall make her and 
 the little girls too as vain as possible. Now, as I 
 suppose nobody means to crown me, I vote that you 
 go and get ready for breakfast, and I will prepare 
 Maud a plate of strawberries-and-cream, by way of 
 beginning the feast.'
 
 ^ ELYSIUM. I 5 3 
 
 That morning lived ever afterwards in Maud's 
 thoughts as one of the times when the world looked 
 brightest to her. Everything was full of excitement, 
 interest and keen pleasure. If from time to time a 
 thought of Button set her heart beating, it was more 
 that she had learnt to worship him as an ideal of 
 all that was most charming in man than that his 
 absence cost her any serious regret. It had given 
 her a pang to part and to feel how little of a pang 
 it had given him. He had been almost uncon- 
 scious of her departure ; he had been certainly 
 quite, quite indifferent to it. Such insensibility 
 was a little speck on the otherwise spotless perfec- 
 tion ; but Maud's heart was too light for this to 
 weigh it down for long. A long, charming vista of 
 enjoyment was opening before her. Half-a-dozen 
 people, she knew, were awaiting her arrival with 
 impatience and thought Elysium not quite Elysium 
 till she was there. Before the morning was over 
 there would come, so her prophetic soul announced, 
 kind familiar faces, all the brighter for her pre- 
 sence, with all sorts of delightful projects, often 
 talked of beforehand, now to come into actual frui- 
 tion ; rides, picnics, dances, theatricals, and (thril- 
 ling thought!) a fancy ball, at which Maud had 
 already found herself twenty times whirling in 
 anticipated valses, each more enchanting than the 
 last. Who could contemplate such a prospect with
 
 154 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 equanimity ? or whose heart have room for gloomy 
 thoughts with so many bright dreams to crush 
 them out ? 
 
 Then presently there came a note from Mrs 
 Vereker, bidding her a cordial welcome and threat- 
 ening her high displeasure if Maud's first visit was 
 not to her. To Mrs. Vereker's accordingly they 
 went, and found her in a little cottage, romanti- 
 cally stuck into a cleft in the rocks, with a cataract 
 of honeysuckle tumbling all about a wooden porch, 
 and a view of the mountains which even her 
 adorers, burning to behold herself, were yet con- 
 strained to stop and look at. There was a little 
 court, with a wooden railing to guard the edge and 
 geraniums blazing all about it, where a succession 
 of enthusiasts' ponies waited while their owners did 
 homage within. Through that convenient cranny 
 in the foliage the deity, unseen, could spy the 
 approaching visitor and decide betimes whether she 
 would be ( at home ' or not. Now she was unques- 
 tionably at home and met them at the door with 
 merry greetings. She led them in and showed 
 them her drawing-room, the very home of innocence 
 and refined propriety. ' My husband does not wish 
 me to mope when he is away,' she said, with a 
 charming simple smile; and, to do her justice, in 
 this respect, at any rate, she obeyed his wishes. 
 If the loveliest, freshest bonnets, the daintiest
 
 ELYSIUM. 155 
 
 gloves, the most picturesque mountain costumes, 
 a succession of bewildering head-dresses, could 
 rescue a widowed soul from melancholy, Mrs. Vere- 
 ker had no right to gloom. Nor was hers the only 
 nature that was cheered, for all mankind conspired 
 to assure her that she was the most bewitching of 
 her sex. Turn where she would she found a host 
 of willing courtiers, who thought their assiduous 
 services well rewarded with a single smile. She 
 looked at the world through her beautiful purple 
 eyes, and saw it prostrate at her feet. 
 
 Even Felicia was captivated, despite her own 
 convictions ; and Vernon alone of the party de- 
 clared her a little ogling hypocrite, and pro- 
 nounced himself unable to understand how any 
 one could think her even pretty.
 
 ( 156 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A BATTLE ROYAL. 
 Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer 
 
 LEAVING the celestials to their business and plea- 
 sures in the upper regions, the Historic Muse must 
 now descend into the plains and record the wrath 
 of Blunt and the more than Homeric combats which, 
 stirred by Ate in her most malignant mood, that 
 irrepressible official waged against his luckless 
 compeers at the Board. The outbreak was horribly 
 inopportune. The weather was becoming disagree- 
 ably hot ; Cockshaw was looking up his rifles and 
 fishing-rods for a month's run into Cashmir; 
 Fotheringham was preparing to retire behind his 
 cuscus entrenchments and sestivate in placidity till 
 the moment arrived for going to the Hills. But 
 the black soul of Blunt was impervious to climatic 
 influences; his craving for information became more 
 insatiable, his contempt for Fotheringham's plati- 
 tudes and Strutt's tall writing less and less dis- 
 guised. The further Blunt looked into the Rumble
 
 A BATTLE ROYAL. I 5 / 
 
 Chunder affair the keener grew his sense of the 
 feeble, roundabout, inaccurate, unthorough way in 
 which it had been treated by every one who had 
 essayed to take it in hand. l The way to handle 
 nettles,' he said, roughly, ( is to take tight hold of 
 them and bear what stinging you get and have 
 done with it.' 
 
 Neither Fotheringham nor Cockshaw were in the 
 least disposed to handle official nettles or to admit 
 the force of Blunt's logic as applied to themselves. 
 
 * Some nettles,' Fotheringham said, with dignified 
 composure, ' will not bear handling at all. Many 
 of our Indian maladies you will find, Blunt, require 
 a course of treatment always unpopular with ardent 
 physicians, that, namely, of being left alone.' 
 
 'Ay,' said Cockshaw, blowing a great stream of 
 smoke from his mouth, as if he wished he could 
 treat Blunt and his schemes in like fashion ; l leave 
 well alone, Blunt. What the deuce is it you are 
 driving at ? ' 
 
 ' I'll tell you what I am driving at,' said Blunt, 
 1 I want to be out of the muddle in which we have 
 been going on all these years, just for want of a 
 little explicitness and courage.' 
 
 ' Excuse me,' said Fotheringham testily ; 1 1 am 
 not aware that the conquerors and administrators 
 of the Sandy Tracts have ever been accused of 
 deficiency in courage, at any rate.'
 
 158 CHRONICLES OF DUSTY PORE. 
 
 1 Of course not/ answered the other ; ' no one 
 supposes anything of the sort ; but what I mean is 
 that no one has faced the consequences of that con- 
 founded Proclamation of the Governor- General in 
 a plain, business-like way, and seen what it really 
 comes to.' 
 
 Now the Governor- General's Proclamation was 
 regarded in official circles at Dustypore with a sort 
 of traditional awe, as something almost sacred. 
 Fotheringham had often spoken of it as the Magua 
 Charta of the Sandy Tracts, and Strutt generally 
 quoted it in the peroration of his Annual Report. 
 Nothing, accordingly, could be less congenial to 
 his audience than Blunt's coarse, offhanded, dis- 
 respectful way of referring to it. Fotheringham's 
 whole nature rose in arms against the idea of this 
 rash, irreverential intruder handling with such 
 jaunty freedom and contempt the things which he 
 had all his life been accustomed to treat and to see 
 treated with profound respect. The moment had 
 now come when to put up with Blunt any longer 
 would, he thought, be simple weakness ; the cup of 
 Blunt's misdeeds at last was full ; and Forthering- 
 ham, his patience fairly at an end, pale and excited, 
 spoke, and spoke in wrath. 
 
 1 I must beg,' he said, in a tone of aggrieved 
 dignity which Blunt especially resented, ( to remind 
 our junior colleague that there are some things of
 
 A BATTLE EOYAL. I 59 
 
 which his inexperience of the country renders it im- 
 possible for him to be a competent judge, and of 
 which, when he knows them better, he will probably 
 think and speak with more respect. This Rumble 
 Chunder Grant is one of them. Cockshaw and I 
 have been at work at it for twenty years : we know 
 the places, the people, the language, the feeling it 
 excites, the dangers it may provoke. The Proclama- 
 tion, which Blunt is pleased to describe as " con- 
 founded," was, we know, a high-minded, well- 
 considered act of a great statesman and has been 
 the foundation stone of all peace, prosperity, and 
 civilisation in the province. It all seems clear to 
 you, my good sir, because forgive me for saying 
 it you do not see the intricacies of the matter, and 
 are incapable of appreciating its bearings. For my 
 
 part ' 
 
 1 Come, come, Fotheringham,' said Cockshaw, 
 who had been looking nervously at his watch and 
 knew that it wanted only seven minutes to the hour 
 at which his afternoon game of racquets should 
 begin, ( don't let us drift into a quarrel. As to 
 speaking rudely of the Proclamation, it is as bad as 
 the man who damned the North Pole, you know 
 no harm is done to any one by that. Blunt is not 
 so nervous about the matter as we are, because he 
 has not had such a deal of bother over it as we have 
 had. My idea is that we have gone into it of late
 
 l6o CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 quite as far as we can just now. Suppose we drop 
 it for the present and take it up again in the cold 
 weather ? ' 
 
 ' I object altogether,' Blunt said, in a dogged way, 
 which made Cockshaw give up his chance of racquets 
 that day as desperate. * That system of postpone- 
 ments is one of the objectionable practices which I 
 especially deprecate. Whenever any of us comes 
 across a thing which he does not fancy, or cannot 
 or will not understand, he puts it into his box and 
 burkes it, and no more is heard of it for a twelve- 
 month. I would sooner take the chance of going 
 wrong than the certainty of doing nothing/ 
 
 ( And I,' answered Cockshaw, lighting a new 
 cheroot with the remaining fraction of his old one, 
 1 would sooner take the risk of a little delay than the 
 certainty of going wrong, as you will do to a moral 
 certainty if you are in such a devil of a hurry.' 
 
 1 Please, Cockshaw,' said Fotheringham, to whom 
 his colleague's cheroots and bad language were a 
 chronic affliction, l do not lose your temper. For 
 my part, I was going to observe when you inter- 
 rupted me just now, I really do not know what it 
 is that Blunt imagines could be done.' 
 
 i This could be done,' Blunt said, ( we could bring 
 things to a head, and know exactly how we stand ; 
 ascertain the claims, the rights, and at what prices 
 we could buy the owners of them out.'
 
 A CATTLE EOYAL. 1 6 I 
 
 1 My good sir,' Fotheringham exclaimed, by this 
 time fairly in a passion, ' that is exactly what all 
 of us have been trying to do for the last ten years, 
 and you talk as if it could be done out of hand.' 
 
 * And so it could,' cried Blunt, l if any one would 
 only resolve to do it. I tell you what : let me have 
 Whisp and a few clerks and translators, and hold a 
 local commission, and I will go into the District 
 myself and knock my way through the matter some- 
 how or other.' 
 
 1 You will find it infernally hot,' said Cockshaw. 
 
 1 You will have a rising on the frontier,' said 
 Fotheringham, l mark my words, and come back 
 deeper in difficulties than ever.' 
 
 However, Blunt at last got his way and went 
 off trotting on his cob. Cockshaw escaped glee- 
 fully to the racquet-court, and Fotheringham sat 
 sadly at the Board-room, conscious of present 
 harassment and impending disaster. Both he and 
 Blunt used to carry away with them to their dom- 
 estic circles the traces of the conflicts in which they 
 had been engaged : both reached their homes in a 
 truly pitiable state of mind and body whenever this 
 hateful Rumble Chunder Grant affair was on hand : 
 both their ladies knew only too well the days when 
 it formed part of the programme. Blunt used to 
 stamp about and abuse the servants, emphasising 
 his language with various vehement British exple-
 
 I 62 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 tives, quaffing large goblets of brandy and soda- 
 water, as if to assuage an inward fury, and making 
 no secret of his opinion that Fotheringham was a 
 donkey. Fotheringham, on the other hand, retired 
 to his sofa, called for sal-volatile, had both the 
 Misses Fotheringham to bathe his temples with 
 toilet-vinegar, and breathed a hint that poor Blunt 
 was a terribly uncouth fellow, and that it was ex- 
 tremely disagreeable to have to do with people who, 
 not being gentlemen themselves, could not under- 
 stand what gentlemen felt. Mrs. Fotheringham 
 thought so too, and began, on her part, not to love 
 Mrs. Blunt.
 
 ( 163 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 GAUDIA IN EXCELSIS. 
 
 Quis non malarum quas Amor curaa liabet 
 Haec inter obliviscitur ? 
 
 / 
 
 BEFORE many weeks had passed Sutton and Des- 
 voeux came up to Elysium for their holidays, and 
 Maud's cup of pleasure began to overflow. Boldero 
 moreover, to the great surprise of every one, disco- 
 vered that the plains were telling seriously on his 
 constitution, and, despite the lamentations of his 
 Commissioner, who was at his wits' end to find a 
 satisfactory substitute, insisted on carrying out the 
 doctor's recommendation to try a change of air. 
 
 ' I am sorry you are ill,' the Commissioner said, 
 1 and overworked, but what on earth am I to do 
 without you ? No one understands anything about 
 our arterial drainage scheme but you ; and who is 
 to open the new cattle fair? And then there is that 
 lakh of saplings we had determined to plant out in 
 the rains my dear fellow, don't go till October, at 
 any rate/
 
 164 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 But Boldero was inexorable : the arterial drain- 
 age of the Sandy Tracts, new cattle fairs, and even 
 the delicious prospect of planting out a hundred 
 thousand trees in a region where a tree was almost 
 as great a phenomenon as Dr. Johnson found it in 
 the Hebrides all seemed to him but as hollow 
 dreams, which fell meaningless on the ear, when 
 compared with the solid reality of a personal 
 romance. To go to Elysium, to see Maud again, 
 to hear her joyous laugh, to watch her eyes light 
 up with pleasure, and the colour coming and going 
 in her cheeks, as each new turn of feeling swayed 
 her this way or that; to hold her hand in his and 
 feel a subtle, electric influence flashing from her to 
 him and stirring every nerve and fibre of his being 
 into new existence ; and then to win this sweet 
 creature to himself with a tender avowal of devotion 
 and the sweet coercion of passionate attachment; 
 to bring her to irradiate a dreary, solitary life with 
 youth, beauty, freshness, everything that Boldero 
 now discovered that his own existence wanted ; this 
 was the dream which filled his waking and sleeping 
 thoughts, or, rather, this was the reality, and every- 
 thing else was dream-land, far off, unsubstantial, 
 unsatisfying. What, to a man in this mood, are 
 reclamation schemes and irrigation projects and all 
 the vexatious details involved in improving thank- 
 less people against their wills, educating those \vho
 
 GAUDIA IN EXCELSIS. I 65 
 
 do not want to be taught, and aiming at a chimeri- 
 cal Golden Age, which no one is sure can ever come, 
 and which, at any rate, we shall never see ? Bol- 
 dero confessed to himself that a morning's sketch- 
 ing on the mountain's side with Maud was, as far 
 as his interest about the matter went, worth more 
 than all the Golden Ages that poets have sung or 
 philanthropists devised. The utmost concession 
 that the Commissioner could get out of him was 
 that he would go only for a fortnight. And so to 
 Elysium he came among the rest. 
 
 There may be natures to whom, according to Sir 
 Cornewall Lewis's dictum, life would be tolerable 
 but for its enjoyments ; but the Elysians assuredly 
 are not of the number. They go about pleasure- 
 hunting with a vehemence the stronger and keener 
 for the long period of partial or total abstinence 
 from amusement which most of them have under- 
 gone. The soldier who has been for months march- 
 ing up and down a desert frontier, with no attain- 
 able form of excitement but the agreeable possibility 
 of having one's throat cut in the night or a bullet 
 cleverly lodged in one from behind a rock overhead 
 the engineer who has been for months out in camp 
 with little companionship but that of theodolites 
 and maps the forest superintendent who has spent 
 a twelvemonth among the deodars in some name- 
 less Himalayan gorge the civilian who has carried
 
 I 66 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 off his bride to a solitary existence in some far-off 
 Mofussil station, where the only European is per- 
 haps an excise officer or policeman people like 
 these acquire a keen relish for any change of scene 
 and rush into a holiday with the enthusiasm of 
 long-imprisoned schoolboys. Nothing damps their 
 ardour not even Himalayan rain, which effectually 
 damps everything else. There is a ball, for in- 
 stance, at the Club House ; it is raining cataracts 
 and has been doing so for twenty hours. The 
 mountain paths are knee-deep in mud, and swept 
 by many a turgid torrent rattling from above. 
 Great masses of thunder-cloud come looming up, 
 rumbling, crashing and blazing upon a sodden, 
 reeking world. The night is black as Tartarus, 
 save when the frequent flashes light it up with a 
 momentary glare. The road is steep, rough and 
 not too safe. Carriages, of course, there are none. 
 A false step might send you several thousand feet 
 down the precipice into the valley below. "Will all 
 this prevent Jones the Collector and Brown the 
 Policeman and Smith of the Irregular Cavalry 
 putting their respective ladies into palanquins, 
 mounting their ponies like men and finding their 
 way, through field and flood, to the scene of dissi- 
 pation ? Each will ensconce himself in a panoply 
 of indiarubber and require a great deal of peeling 
 before becoming presentable in a ballroom; but
 
 GAUDIA IN EXCELSIS. l6/ 
 
 each will get himself peeled, and dance till four 
 o'clock. The ladies will emerge from their palan- 
 quins as fresh and bright and ambrosial as lace 
 and tarlatan can make them. Mrs. Jones, if she 
 would only tell the truth, has already more than 
 half-filled up her card with engagements. Smith 
 and his wife have never been at a dance since the 
 night he proposed to her at the Woolwich ball, and 
 feel quite romantic at the prospect of a valse to- 
 gether. Mrs. Brown will meet half-a-dozen parti- 
 cular friends who are dying to see her, and whom 
 she is not averse to see. The night outside is Tar- 
 tarean, certainly, but within there is nothing but 
 light, music and mirth. The band crashes out and 
 drowns the patter of the rain above. The Viceroy, 
 towering like a Homeric chief among his peers, 
 mingles with the throng, and is valsing with 
 Felicia. Boldero has reached the seventh heaven 
 of his hopes, is actually in possession of Maud's 
 hand and has her heart beating close to his own. 
 Desvreux looks reproachfully at her over Mrs. Vere- 
 ker's shoulder as they go whirling by. A hundred 
 happy hearts are pulsating with excitement and 
 pleasure, drowning the cares of existence in such 
 transient oblivion as may be manufactured out of 
 fiddlers and champagne. 
 
 Is this the race which proclaims itself inadept 
 at amusements, and which, historians gravely assure
 
 I 68 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 us, loves to take its very pleasures sadly ? Are these 
 the melancholy beings whose gloom is supposed 
 to have acquired a still sadder tinge from the sad 
 routine of Eastern life ? Say, rather, a race with 
 healthy instincts and conscious energy and the ready 
 joyousness of youth fittest rulers of a world where 
 much hard work is to be done, where many things 
 tend to melancholy and all things to fatigue. 
 . Boldero, as he rode homewards (only three miles 
 out of his direct course) by the side of Maud's palan- 
 quin, through the pelting rain, admitted to himself 
 an almost unlimited capacity for happiness, of which 
 he had till now been unaware. 
 
 There were some balls, moreover, when it did 
 not rain ; when the music, streaming out into the 
 still atmosphere, could be heard miles away across 
 the gorge, and the moon, sailing in a cloudless sky, 
 flooded the mountain-sides with soft pure light. 
 Such a night was that on which the ' Happy 
 Bachelors * entertained their friends. Happy indeed I 
 for the fairest hands in Elysium had beeu busy 
 twining wreaths and arranging flowers; and ottomans 
 and sofas and mirrors had been brought from many 
 a despoiled drawing-room, in order that the Happy 
 Bachelors' abode should look as picturesque and 
 comfortable as hands could make it. Whole con- 
 servatories of lovely plants had been all the morning 
 marching up the craggy path on peasants' head?.
 
 GAUDIA IN EXCELSIS. 169 
 
 All Elysium was alert, for the Bachelors were men 
 of taste, ( well loved of many a noble dame ; ' and, 
 if not otherwise fitted for the Episcopate, at any 
 rate fulfilling the Apostolic requirement of being 
 given to hospitality. 
 
 To one person, however, that ball was a period 
 of the darkest disappointment. While the merri- 
 ment of the evening was raging to its height poor 
 Boldero's heart was growing colder and colder, and all 
 his pleasant schemes were rapidly melting into air. 
 The course of true love always runs delightfully 
 smooth when one person only is concerned and that 
 person's imagination directs it at his will ; but how 
 often rude contact with reality brings all our airy 
 castle-building to the ground ! Boldero, in his 
 dreams about Maud, had no doubt judged her charms 
 aright ; but he had omitted one important considera- 
 tion, namely, that he was not the only man in the 
 world, and that other people would be likely to 
 think about her much as he did himself. This 
 melancholy fact was now borne in upon him 
 with a cruel vehemence. Maud seemed to be 
 in the greatest request and to smile with dis- 
 tracting impartiality on all who came about her. 
 * Why did you not ask me sooner ? ' she said re- 
 proachfully when he came to claim a dance, l my 
 card has been full for ages. Stop you shall have 
 one of Mr. Desvceux's ; he does not matter and he
 
 I 7 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 has put down his name for several too many. Shall 
 it be the fifteenth ? ' Maud asked this in the most 
 artless way and seemingly without a suspicion that 
 Boldero could be otherwise than pleased. Alas ! 
 how far otherwise than pleased he felt ! The fif- 
 teenth ! and then only a sort of crumb of consolation 
 from Desvceux's over-ample banquet ! How cruel 
 for a man whose heart was beating high with hope, 
 and who had risen to that state of nervous excite- 
 ment when to propose would have been easier than 
 not ! The charmer had come and gone. The next 
 moment Boldero saw her hurrying off with a new 
 partner and laughing just the same joyous, child- 
 like laugh that had been ringing in his ears for 
 weeks. ' What could that idiotic young ensign have 
 said to make her laugh :? ' How could any one laugh 
 while Boldero found existence rapidly growing into 
 a Sahara around him? What business had Maud 
 to smile so affectionately on each new comer ? Then 
 what was this intimacy with Desvoeux which enabled 
 her to treat him so unceremoniously ? How came 
 he to be putting down his name for what dances he 
 pleased? Boldero moodily denounced the object 
 of his devotion as a flirt of the purest water and not 
 over-particular in her selection of admirers. As for 
 Desvoeux, could any really nice girl like such a fop 
 as that? Poor Boldero, in the amiable, sensible 
 condition of mind which jealousy provokes, plunged
 
 GAUDIA IN EXCELSIS. I / I 
 
 at once into despair, felt too acutely miserable 
 to dance, and resigned himself, a melancholy wall 
 flower, to the contemplation of enjoyment in which 
 fate forbade him to participate. 
 
 Presently Maud came back and put every de- 
 preciatory thought about herself to instant flight. 
 There had been some mistake about a quadrille, she 
 said, and her partner was not forthcoming, and so 
 she had taken flight at once. It was so dull dancing 
 with people one did not know; and would it not 
 be nice if it was the fashion to dance only with 
 one's friends ? t And now,' she said, ' do take me 
 outside to look at the moon.' Maud was evidently 
 bent on being kind and gracious ; and Boldero, 
 blushing to think what an idiot he had been making 
 of himself, took her out into the balcony, where the 
 Bachelors' industry had worked wonders with ferns 
 and flowers and sofas poetically suggestive of a 
 tete-d-tete and all that an artistic Bachelor's soul 
 dreams of as appropriate to balls. There lay the 
 still valley at their feet all its depths filled with 
 motionless white clouds, that glistened in the moon- 
 light like a silver lake. The twinkling fires of 
 the hamlets opposite were one by one dying out of 
 sight. The solemn pine-shade all around, wher- 
 ever the moonlight could not pierce, made the rest 
 of the picture seem ablaze with glory. Is there a 
 sweeter, softer radiance in the world than the moon-
 
 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYrORE. 
 
 light of the Himalayas? 'This is enchanting,' 
 Maud said, in great spirits ; l how I should like to 
 sketch it ! Why should we not have a moonlight 
 party ? And you will do my sketch for me, will 
 you not, Mr. Boldero? Let me get Mr. Desvoaux 
 to arrange it ; he is great at such things ; and we 
 can make him sing to us and play on his guitar, 
 which he does delightfully, while we are drawing 
 would it not be delicious? ' 
 
 Boldero, in his heart, doubted the deliciousuess 
 of any programme in which Desvoeux figured as a 
 performer. He had no time to reply, however, for 
 all too soon before, as it seemed, he and his com- 
 panion had well established themselves the quad- 
 rille had ended, and Maud's claimant for the next 
 dance came bustling up ; and Maud, who thought 
 moonlight all very well but would not have missed 
 a valse for the world, went gleefully away, smiling 
 her adorer a kind farewell that sent him sevenfold 
 deeper into love than ever. 
 
 No proposal, it was clear enough, was destined 
 to be made that night ; but would the scheme look 
 hopefuller to-morrow ? Boldero lay tossing through 
 the few hours which intervened before to-morrow, 
 already reddening the eastern horizon, came, and 
 could give himself no satisfactory reply. She liked 
 him, certainly; but with how many was this precious 
 privilege shared ? He was one of the ' friends ' with
 
 GAUDIA IN EXCELSIS. I 7 3 
 
 whom Maud liked to dance ; but the list was so 
 long, that all through a long evening he could 
 with difficulty get near her for a minute. She 
 would come with him for a moonlight picnic ; but 
 then Desvceux was to arrange it, Sutton, no doubt, 
 to preside, and half-a-dozen more attendant courtiers 
 to swell the little monarch's train. Boldero's manly 
 bosom heaved with sighs. His servant, inexperi- 
 enced in such symptoms, brought him, unbidden, a 
 large beaker of iced soda-water, as if the flames of 
 love could be extinguished by that innocent 
 beverage. 
 
 Maud had, in fact, been very much impressed 
 with Boldero, and, with the frankness of inexperi- 
 ence, had taken good care to let him know it. At 
 this period of her career novelty possessed a wondrous 
 charm and the last admirer had a strong recom- 
 mendation in being the last. Boldero forgot that 
 at Elysium this fortunate advantage was no longer 
 his. Still Maud smiled upon him, as she did on 
 almost every one who aspired to her smiles. It was 
 not so much fickleness as the keen pleasure of 
 success, the most natural and pleasantest, probably, 
 of all human successes, the proved capacity to 
 charm mankind. "What faint adumbration of love 
 had darkened the sunshine of her heart was all for 
 Sutton ; and even this was a sort of transient pang, 
 which the excitement of daily life made it easy to
 
 1/4 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYrORE. 
 
 forget. Knowing but faintly what love meant, 
 she mistook, as women often do, the thrill of 
 flattered vanity for solid feeling. Boldero had not 
 disguised his admiration, nor Maud the pleasure 
 which it gave her. Mutual satisfaction had been 
 the natural result. Poor Boldero, who was always 
 rushing at conclusions and unskilled in the tactics 
 of the feminine heart, thought himself at once the 
 happiest of men and gilded his horizon with a bright 
 aurora of matrimonial bliss. Maud meanwhile, by 
 a hundred half-unconscious arts, encouraged the 
 delusion and established the relation of friendly 
 intimacy. When he looked across the room her 
 bright eyes met his and spoke him the heartiest 
 recognition. She would look up wearily from some 
 uncongenial companion and find Boldero watching 
 her, and a glance would sign the pledge of mutual 
 understanding. ( Here is the song you liked,' she 
 had said only the evening before, ' and I like it too ;' 
 and then she had sung it, and each note had caught 
 a new charm in being intended especially for his ear. 
 So it was that Boldero had fallen into the too 
 common mistake of impetuous lovers : he thought, 
 poor mortal, that Maud had fallen violently in love 
 with him ; the truth being that she was merely 
 rather pleased at the symptoms of his being 
 violently in love with her, and accepted his homage 
 with a light heart, as hardly more than her due.
 
 ( 175 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A BRUSH ON THE FRONTIER. 
 
 Tell me not, love, I am unkind, 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 THE reign of peace and pleasure was not destined 
 to last through the summer undisturbed. Conflicts, 
 more serious than those which were agitating poor 
 Boldero's breast, broke in upon the tranquil season 
 and caused a hurried dispersion of many of the 
 holiday-makers. 
 
 For weeks past the news from the frontier had 
 not been reassuring. Blunt had gone off on his 
 mission to the Rumble Chunder District, dragging 
 the miserable Whisp, who could not ride and hated 
 leaving head-quarters, in his train. He had 
 mastered the whole matter, as he considered, 
 from first to last and was resolved to bring his 
 knowledge to bear with good effect upon the en- 
 tanglements which his predecessors' ignorance and 
 indistinctness had produced. He saw his way quite
 
 1?6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOEE. 
 
 clearly and was resolved to have it. Other people 
 had faltered aud hesitated ; but Blunt was resolved 
 to strike, and to strike hard, and to finish the matter 
 and have done with it once for all. He arrived, 
 accordingly, in no mood to be trifled with, as 
 Mahomed Khan, the first of the Zamindars who 
 had an interview with him, discovered in about two 
 minutes. Now, Mahomed Khan, a wily old gentle- 
 man, with a great turn for diplomacy, was deeply 
 interested in the Rumble Chunder question, and 
 had, at different times, interviewed a long succes- 
 sion of i Sahibs ' with reference to it. He had 
 invariably found them long-suffering, conciliatory, 
 anxious to learn and not difficult to puzzle. He 
 had talked to them at ease in his own language and 
 was accustomed to the elaborate courtesy due to the 
 leader of a powerful and not over-loyal clan. His 
 antecedents entitled him to respect. When Sutton 
 was getting his troop together in the Mutiny a 
 word from Mahomed Khan would have put the 
 whole district in a blaze and rendered it impossible 
 to recruit a man. The liking, however, which one 
 good soldier feels for another had carried the day. 
 The old fellow had ridden with fifty followers into 
 Sutton's camp, unstrapped his sword, and, placing 
 it in Sutton's hands, had sworn that he and his 
 would follow him wherever he pleased to lead them. 
 Well had the oath been kept ; when some months
 
 A BRUSH ON THE FRONTIER. 177 
 
 later the fighting closed, Mahomed Khan's name 
 was recorded as amongst the most deserving of Her 
 Majesty's lieges, and his well-timed loyalty had 
 resulted in a fine grant of fat acres, a conspicuous 
 seat in the Durbar, and, not least in the estimation 
 of men keenly sensitive to honour, a vast deal of 
 complimentary writing and talking on the part of 
 every British official with whom he had to deal. 
 All this flattery had, perhaps, turned the old 
 soldier's head, or, at any rate, had given him no 
 small idea of his importance to the British l Raj ' 
 and of his claims to the gratitude of British admini- 
 strators. His rights in the Salt matter had been 
 'left in convenient obscurity, and might, not with- 
 out reason, be considered as tacitly conceded by the 
 Power with whom he was on such affectionate 
 terms. 
 
 Thisj however, was not at all the light in which 
 Blunt saw the matter; he was annoyed at the 
 man's bluster, pomposity and pretence. He was 
 not in the least impressed by a well-worn packet 
 of letters which his visitor produced, in which suc- 
 cessive Generals and Commissioners had testified to 
 his deserts ; what he wanted was business, and this 
 was essentially unbusinesslike. If Sutton had written, 
 1 You have proved yourself a brave and loyal soldier, 
 and I will ever be your friend,' this was no reason 
 why Mahomed Khan should not pay his salt-dues 
 
 M
 
 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 like other folk, or should object to have his title- 
 deeds rigidly overhauled. ' If it was just, why had 
 Sir John Larrens Sahib never done it ? ' the old 
 man objected; but Blunt did not care what Sir 
 John Lawrence had done or had not done ; what 
 he wanted was his bond, and nothing else would 
 satisfy him. 
 
 This was Bluut's first nettle, and he was grasp- 
 ing it firmly, with no doubts as to the propriety of 
 the course. Then, at last, he got tired of the inter- 
 view, and fatal blunder for an Eastern diplomat 
 became abrupt and rude, and began to show his 
 hand. Thereupon Mahomed Khan began to show 
 his teeth and went away in a surly mood with the 
 news, which spread like wildfire among the clans- 
 men, that the Sirkar was going to rule them with a 
 heavy hand ; that all old rights were to be can- 
 celled ; a grievous land-tax to be imposed, and that 
 a terrible ' Sahib,' of fierce aspect, had arrived to 
 see this objectionable policy carried out. 
 
 Then Blunt found the investigation by no means 
 the simple matter he had hoped. Statements, 
 which looked so neat and clean when submitted 
 to the Board and neatly minuted on by Whisp, 
 assumed an aspect of hopeless inexplicability when 
 Blunt had them face to face ; and the more he 
 questioned the less he understood. He was armed 
 with powers to examine witnesses, but not a word
 
 A BRUSH ON THE FRONTIER. 1/9 
 
 of truth could be got out of any one. Fine old 
 countrymen, whose noble bearing, well-chiselled 
 features and long flowing beards would have made 
 a fortune in a Roman studio, came before him and 
 told him the most unblushing lies with a volubility 
 and earnestness that fairly staggered Blunt's bewil- 
 dered comprehension. 
 
 To say one thing to-day, the precise opposite to- 
 morrow, and to explain with easy grace that it was 
 a mistake, or that the evidence had been wrongly 
 taken down, seemed to every man whom Blunt 
 interrogated the correct and natural procedure for 
 a person who was being pressed for information, 
 which it was inconvenient to produce. Some men 
 remembered everything ; others professed the most 
 absolute obliviousness ; each contradicted all the 
 rest, except when Government interests were con- 
 cerned, and then all swore together like a band of 
 conspirators. To make confusion worse confounded, 
 the accounts were kept on a system which none of 
 the Salt Board people understood and which no 
 one else could be induced to explain. 
 
 Then, by some fatality, the white ants had al- 
 ways eaten the precise documents of which Blunt 
 stood in need, and the trembling officials produced 
 a tattered mass of dirt and rags and assured hini 
 that this was the record which he called for, or 
 rather all that could be found of its remains.
 
 ISO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Blunt became, day by day, more profoundly con- 
 vinced that all men all the Rumble Chnnder men, 
 at any rate were liars, and let his conviction 
 appear in short speeches and abrupt procedure. 
 The old Zamindars, outraged by discourtesy in the 
 presence of their retainers, came away from his 
 presence quivering with rage and ripe for the first 
 chance of mischief which offered. Blunt found the 
 nettle stinging him sorely, and, like a rough, 
 resolute man, grasped it with all the more unflinch- 
 ing hand. When at last he succeeded in making out 
 a case he dealt out the sternest justice, not, perhaps, 
 without a gratified viudictiveness against the people 
 who had so long baffled and annoyed him. One 
 Uzuf Ali, a large grantee, had been called upon to 
 verify his claims ; and this he proceeded to do with 
 the utmost alacrity. He and his forefathers, he 
 protested, had been in possession for centuries look 
 at the Revenue records, the files of the Courts, the 
 orders of Government. Here, too, was a Sunnud 
 from the Emperor Akbar confirming them in their 
 rights. Twenty witnesses, all disinterested, honour- 
 able, unimpeachable, the entire village indeed, would 
 attest the fact of continuous, open, rightful enjoy- 
 ment from a period as far as memory could go. So 
 the twenty witnesses did ; but then appeared a 
 gentleman, one Hosain Khan, on the other side, 
 .and blew the pretty story into the air. Uzuf Ali was
 
 A BRUSH ON THE FRONTIER. I 8 I 
 
 an audacious impostor, everybody in the country 
 knew that his father had come from Delhi not thirty 
 years ago ; he had no more right to an ounce of 
 salt than the ' Commissioner Sahib' himself; the 
 ground over which he claimed his rights was notori- 
 ously in the possession of another man : as for the 
 Sunnud of Akbar, it was an obvious forgery, as 
 the Commissioner .Sahib might see for himself by 
 merely looking. 
 
 Hosain Khan having had his innings, Uzuf Ali 
 returned to the wickets and began to make great 
 play. 'Ask Hosain Khan,' he said, 'if his uncle 
 did not carry off my sister and if some of our 
 people did not kill him for it ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' says Hosain Khan, ' you stabbed him 
 yourself, like a coward as you are, when he lay 
 asleep by his bullocks.' 
 
 ' And^if I did,' cries his opponent, ' did not your 
 father knock out my cousin's brains with a lathee l 
 and get sent over the Kala Panee 2 for his pains ? ' 
 
 The controversy waxed ardent; the combatants' 
 voices rose shrill and high ; they tossed their black 
 locks and waved their arms, and poured out long 
 streams of passionate family history, long-cherished 
 feuds deep, never-to-be-forgotten wrongs inter- 
 minable complications as to lands and wells, women 
 and bullocks ; and Blunt, who understood nothing 
 1 Club. 2 Blackwater, i.e., sea.
 
 I 82 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 but that they had travelled a long way from the 
 Rumble Chunder Grant, sat by in mute and wrath- 
 ful despair, and began to perceive that the adminis- 
 tration of justice to folks so excitable and unvera- 
 cious as these was no such easy matter as he had 
 once imagined. 
 
 Amid all the chaff, however, Blunt had, he 
 thought, got hold of one piece of solid fact : either 
 the Sunnud was a forgery or it was not ; and if a 
 forgery, then he resolved to make an example, pro- 
 secute Uzuf Ali for his fraud, and turn him sum- 
 marily out of his pretended rights. A forgery no 
 doubt it was, for the paper bore the British water- 
 mark, and you could see the places where the gun- 
 powder had been smeared in hopes of giving it an 
 antiquated look. And so the question was decided, 
 and the order made out, and poor Uzuf AH, in vain 
 protesting that it was a device of the enemy, left 
 the Commissioner's presence a ruined man. 
 
 Ruined men, however, are dangerous things at 
 all times, and especially with an excitable and 
 easily frightened people, who see in their neigh- 
 bours' fall only an anticipation of their own. The 
 Bazaar was presently in a tumult : angry clusters 
 of talkers gathered in circles round the grain-shops 
 or at the village well, or under the great banyan- 
 tree which spread a wide shade over one end of the 
 street, and discussed past grievances and future
 
 A BRUSH ON THE FRONTIER. 183 
 
 disaster. Meanwhile Blunt, not with so light a 
 heart or seeing his way as clearly as usual, had 
 moved his head-quarters a dozen miles away, and 
 begun a new series of investigations with a new set 
 of Hosaiu Khans and Uzuf Alis, and with precisely 
 similar success. 
 
 Before the month was over Fotheringam's words 
 had come true. The Eusuf Khayls, a turbulent 
 tribe of frontier freebooters, were up. A police 
 outpost had been attacked in force one night, and 
 its occupants had made a bad retreat, leaving two 
 of their number on the field. The marauders had 
 ridden through twenty miles of British territory, 
 burning villages, destroying crops, driving away 
 bullocks to their fastnesses in the hills. Blunt, as 
 he came, escorted by a strong detachment, into 
 Dustypore, met the Horse Artillery rattling out 
 towards the disturbed region ; and a telegram 
 despatched to Elysium informed Sutton that he 
 was to head a flying column into the enemies' coun- 
 try and that he must be with his regiment without 
 an instant's delay.
 
 ( 184 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A LAST RIDE. 
 
 He turned hia charger as he spoke 
 
 Upon the river-shore ; 
 He gave the bridle-reins a shake, 
 
 Said 'Adieu for evermore, 
 My love ! 
 
 And adieu for evermore ! ' 
 
 SUTTON, who was practising l La ci darem la mano ' 
 with Maud when the telegram arrived, glanced at 
 its contents without stopping the duet and slipped 
 it into his pocket before Maud had even seen it. 
 * Andiam, Andiam, Andiam^ she sang joyfully ; 
 'Andiam, Andiam, Andiam 11 pealed Sutton's pleasant 
 tenor tones ; * d*un innocente Amor ' sang the two 
 together ; so the performance came smoothly to its 
 close. 'And now,' Sutton said, ' I am afraid we 
 must stop our practice for this morning, as I have 
 to go to the Viceroy. I will come and see you on 
 my way back. I may have to go down to Dusty- 
 pore this afternoon.' 
 
 ( Down to Dustypore ! ' Maud cried, in a tone 
 that bespoke the pang of disappointment that shot
 
 A LAST HIDE. 185 
 
 into her heart, ' I thought that you were to stay 
 all the summer ? ' 
 
 ' And so did I,' said her companion ; l but un- 
 luckily some of my naughty boys on the Hills out 
 there have been getting into too good spirits, and 
 I must go and look after them. And now for his 
 Excellency.' 
 
 Before Sutton had been gone many minutes 
 Desvoeux came galloping up the pathway, and 
 found Maud still standing in the verandah, where 
 she had wished Sutton farewell, and where in truth 
 she had been standing in a brown study ever since 
 he went. Desvoeux was in the gloomiest spirits, 
 far too much concerned about himself to pay much 
 attention to Maud's troubled looks. f Have you 
 heard the dreadful, dreadful news ? ' he said. * All 
 our holidays are over for the year. There has been 
 an outbreak on the frontier. The troops are already 
 on the march. The Agent is closeted with the 
 Viceroy and goes down this afternoon, and of 
 course poor I have to go along with him. Sutton 
 is to command the expedition, and, I daresay, is off 
 already. Every soldier in the place will be ordered 
 down; and meanwhile what is to become of the 
 fancy-ball ? ' 
 
 * And the moonlight picnic ? ' cried Maud, sud- 
 denly conscious of the necessity of concealing a 
 feeling which she .would not for the world have
 
 I 86 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 had Desvceux suspect, namely, that Sutton's ab- 
 sence would be to her a calamity which would go 
 far to render balls and picnics alike a matter of 
 indifference. 
 
 ' Yes,' Desvceux said, with bitter vehemence ; 
 f life is sometimes too unendurably disagreeable, 
 and things go so provokingly as one does not want 
 them. And we were just having such a happy 
 time ! And then, I suppose, to make our farewell 
 the sadder, you have chosen this morning to look 
 your loveliest. As for me, the only bits of life I 
 care about any longer are those I spend with 
 you.' 
 
 ' And with Mrs Vereker,' cried Maud. * Come, 
 Mr. Desvceux, confess, now, have you not been there 
 just this minute saying the very same thing to her ? 
 I'll ask her this afternoon and we will compare 
 notes as to our adieux ! ' 
 
 ' Profane idea ! ' said Desvceux. ' But you are 
 always mocking. You know I care a great deal 
 more about you than you do about me.' 
 
 * Impossible/ cried Maud. * Did I not tell you 
 just now that I was broken-hearted about the pic- 
 nic? I meant to sit by the waterfall and make 
 you sing us " Spirito Gentil " in the moonlight. 
 It is a cruel disappointment.' 
 
 1 You are very unkind and very heartless,' said 
 Desvceux in no mood for banter.
 
 A LAST KIDE. I 87 
 
 ' Come, come,' said Maud, ' do not be cross ; we 
 will not quarrel just as we are parting.' 
 
 * Well, then, be serious.' 
 
 ' I am serious,' said the other ; ' and, seriously, 
 I am sorry that we are to lose you. Poor fellow ! ' 
 
 1 Give a poor fellow a present,' said Desvoeux, 
 beseechingly ; f that cherry riband that binds the 
 loveliest neck in the world.' 
 
 * No, I won't/ said Maud ; l it cost me two 
 rupees only the day before yesterday. There, 
 you may have this rose. Take it, take it, and 
 remember ' 
 
 * You are enough to drive a fellow mad,' said 
 Desvoeux. ' Who will be the lucky man to find 
 out where your heart is, and whether you have got 
 one?' 
 
 Then Desvoeux cantered off and Maud retired to 
 her bedroom, locked herself in, threw herself on a 
 couch and indulged in the unusual luxury of a 
 thoroughly good cry. Sutton, quite unconsciously, 
 had made great advances in the occupation of her 
 heart. He had been constantly with her and 
 Felicia; and the more Maud saw of other people, 
 the more convinced she became that he was the 
 paragon of men and with him the only chance of 
 happiness for her. And now he would come back 
 presently, Maud knew, and say a kind, feeling 
 farewell to Felicia and a word or two of politeness
 
 I 88 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 to her, and go away on his expedition and take all 
 the sunshine of existence with him, and never have 
 a suspicion of the aching heart he left behind and 
 of the treasure of devotion waiting for him if he 
 chose to have it. Surely there must be something 
 wrong in the constitution of a world where such 
 woes could come to pass. 
 
 So while Desvceux, in a sort of half-rage, was 
 hustling his pony down the hillside as if he really 
 did mean to break his neck once for all and have 
 done with a life in which Maud could not continually 
 figure, Maud herself was in affliction for quite another 
 cause ; and Sutton, his mind too full of warlike 
 schemes to think of love, was busy with a map 
 spread out on the Viceroy's table, pointing out 
 exactly the route through the Hills which the 
 expedition was to take. Suttou and the Viceroy 
 were the best of friends. They had ridden and 
 shot and slaughtered tigers and bears in each other's 
 company, and each knew and liked the other as a 
 daring, enthusiastic and thoroughgoing sportsman. 
 The Viceroy, himself no mean performer, had seen 
 Sutton dispose of a big boar, turned to bay, on 
 more than one occasion in a way which had filled 
 him with admiration and delight; and when, in rare 
 intervals of business, the Ruler of India allowed 
 himself a day's holiday for a walk through the forest 
 in search of bears or jungle pheasants, no more
 
 A LAST RIDE. I 89 
 
 favourite companion than Sutton ever*helped to fill 
 the bag. Each trusted the other thoroughly, and the 
 Viceroy now spoke of the expedition with a cheerful 
 confidence indicative of his conviction that it was 
 in the proper hands. The main plans had been 
 actually settled. The force was to be pushed on 
 as far into the Hills as was practicable. Two strong 
 mule-batteries were provided to keep the mountain- 
 sides clear of a hovering enemy. When they reached 
 the high table-land which lay beyond, a dash was to 
 be made at a village where one of the rebellious tribes 
 was known to be entrenched in force ; and when this 
 was seized and destroyed and the rebels for the time 
 dispersed, the little army was to be encamped for a 
 few weeks, by way of demonstration of military power 
 to the refractory mountaineers. ', Good-bye, Button/ 
 said the Viceroy, ' and good luck to you and speedy 
 return I ' And then, as he went out, kind ladies met 
 him in the hall and wished him a fresh farewell ; 
 and Sutton went away, in a glow of excitement and 
 pleasure, to make his preparations for the afternoon's 
 gallop, unconscious of all the sentiment in another 
 person's heart which his departure was stirring into 
 life. He would be gone a fortnight or three weeks, 
 and was, in truth, not sorry for an excuse for a return 
 to his dear soldiers after a month's idleness and 
 holiday-making. 
 
 When he came to the Vernons', an hour later,
 
 I9O CHRONICLES OF DU3TYPORE. 
 
 he found Maud's poiiy at the door, and herself 
 ready-equipped. 
 
 4 Would you like a companion for the first stage 
 of your journey?' Felicia said; 'if so, Maud will 
 ride with you, and the children and I will start later, 
 and meet her on the way home.' This was, in fact, 
 a kind device of Felicia's one of the rash things 
 which people do when they are completely per- 
 plexed, in a sort of wild hope that some good may 
 come of it, rather than with any precise design. 
 Felicia had come with distressing distinctness to 
 recognise the full gravity of the position and to 
 feel how dreadfully she had been to blame. She had 
 done all that one woman can to lead another to fall 
 in love, and she had succeeded only too well. Her 
 little scheme of happiness for her two friends was 
 marred by an impediment which she had altogether 
 overlooked. Sutton's obduracy had never occurred to 
 her as a serious impediment, yet now he seemed hope- 
 lessly unimpressible. Bitterly Felicia reproached 
 herself for all her part in the transaction ; but of 
 what use was self-reproach ? There was the terrible 
 result, beyond the reach alike of penitence or redress. 
 Maud's heart, Felicia knew instinctively, was lost 
 her very silence on the topic betrayed the conscious- 
 ness of something to conceal. There was a sort of 
 entreating air about her that seemed to cry for pity. 
 More than once Felicia had taken her to her arms
 
 A LAST RIDE. 
 
 and embraced her tenderly she could not have said 
 why, but yet she knew. Maud, with her joyousness 
 gone, and battling with a silent sorrow, seemed to her 
 to have a touch of pathos which roused all the latent 
 melancholy of Felicia's nature into activity. It was 
 one of those sad things in life before which her 
 fortitude completely failed. Ruefully did she vow, 
 now that vowing was of no use, that her first attempt 
 at match-making should be her last. At any rate 
 she sent the two riders off together on this last ride, 
 in the faint hope that something might occur to 
 bring the tardy wooer to a right frame of mind.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MAUD S SECRET. 
 
 -In the glance, 
 
 A moment's glance, of meeting eyes, 
 His heart stood still in sudden trance 
 
 He trembled with a sweet surprise ; 
 All in the waning light she stood, 
 The star of perfect womanhood. 
 
 That summer eve his heart was light, 
 "With lighter step he trod the ground, 
 
 And life was fairer in his sight, 
 And music was in every sound : 
 
 He bless'd the world where there could be 
 
 So beautiful a thing as she. 
 
 THE western horizon was all ablaze, and the sun's 
 rays came slanting through the gloom of the Rho- 
 dodendron Forest, as Sutton and his companion 
 rode down the mountain-side towards the plains. 
 
 Did Felicia's wishes and hopes breathe a subtle 
 influence around them, which drew their hearts 
 together and opened to each the destiny which 
 awaited it ? Did the sweet, serious look with which 
 she bade Sutton farewell speak to his eye, for years 
 accustomed to watch for her unspoken commands, 
 of something in which he had faired to please her,
 
 MAUD S SECRET. 193 
 
 to understand her desire, to do or to be exactly 
 what she wanted ? Was there some shade of reserve, 
 constraint, dissatisfaction in Felicia's manner that 
 aroused his attention and led him to explore his 
 companion with an anxious curiosity which usually 
 he was far from feeling ? Or was it something in 
 Maud, a causeless embarrassment, a scarcely con- 
 cealed trepidation, a manner at once sad and excited, 
 the flush that, as Desvceux had told her in the 
 morning, gave her cheek more than its accustomed 
 beauty, which, before they had been ten minutes on 
 the road, had sent such a flash of intelligence through 
 Button's being, which came upon him like an inspi- 
 ration, clear, cogent, indisputable, and only curious 
 in not having been understood before ? 
 
 Be that as it may, Sutton suddenly found himself 
 in an altogether different mood and in altogether 
 different company to that which he had figured to 
 himself for the first stage of his journey. Maud 
 had all at once become supremely interesting and 
 infinitely more beautiful than he had ever yet con- 
 ceived her. She was no longer the mere excitable, 
 romantic child, whose nascent feelings and ideas 
 might be watched with half-amused curiosity, but a 
 being whose brightness and innocence were allied 
 with the most exquisite pathos, and who was ready 
 to cast at the first worthy shrine all the wealth of 
 an impulsive, ardent, tender nature. As for Maud, 
 
 N
 
 194 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOEE. 
 
 she was too excited, too profoundly moved, too much 
 the prey of feelings of which she knew neither the 
 true measure nor the full force, to be able to analyse 
 her thoughts or to be completely mistress of herself. 
 
 Dissimulation was an art of which life had not 
 as yet taught her the necessity, or experience fami- 
 liarised the use. The unconscious hypocrisy with 
 which some natures from the very outset, perhaps all 
 natures later on in life, veil so much of themselves 
 from the outer world, had never occurred to her as 
 a possible or necessary means of self -protection in 
 an existence which till now had been too simple, 
 childish and innocent to call for concealment. She 
 fixed her clear, honest eyes on her interrogator, 
 whoever he was, be the question what it might, and 
 he knew that it was the truth, pure, simple and com- 
 plete, that she was telling. Each phase of feeling 
 wrote itself on her expression almost before Maud 
 herself had realised it, certainly long before she knew 
 enough about it to attempt to conceal it from the 
 world. The feeble attempts at deception, which the 
 accidents of life had from time to time forced upon 
 her, had proved such absolute failures as merely 
 to warn her of the uselessness of everything of the 
 kind, even if it had occurred to her to wish to deceive. 
 Her courtesy was the courtesy of sincerity, and she 
 had none other to offer. Those whom she disliked, 
 accordingly, pronounced her rude, and it was fortu-
 
 MAUD S SECRET. I 95 
 
 riate that they were very few iu number. Her 
 friends, on the contrary, and their name was 
 legion, read, and knew that they read, to the very 
 bottom of her heart. Now, for the first time in 
 her life, she was distinctly conscious of a secret 
 which it would be misery and humiliation to divulge, 
 but for the custody of which neither nature nor art 
 had supplied her with any effectual means. Silence 
 was the natural resource, but silence is sometimes 
 more eloquent than speech. Whether she spoke or 
 whether she held her peace, Maud felt a terrified 
 conviction that she would betray herself, should it 
 occur to Sutton to pay the least attention to her 
 state of mind. 
 
 1 There,' Sutton said, pointing to a range of hills 
 just visible in the faint horizon, 'there is the Black 
 Mountain, and there lies the pass where we shall be 
 marching in a day or two. It is such a grand, wild 
 place ! I have been along it so often, but have never 
 had leisure to paint it. This time, however, I hope 
 to get a sketch.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' Maud said, ' the sort of expeditions 
 these are, and what happens, and what kind of 
 danger you are all in.' 
 
 ' I will tell you,' said her companion. 'They 
 are hot, troublesome, inglorious promenades, over 
 country which lames a great many of our horses 
 and harasses our men. We burn some miserable
 
 196 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 huts, destroy a few acres of mountain crops and drive 
 off such cattle as the people have not had time to 
 drive away themselves, and, in fact, do all that 
 soldiering admits of in the absence of that most 
 important ingredient of a brilliant campaign, an 
 enemy : he, unluckily, is invariably over the hills 
 and far away some hours previous to our arrival.' 
 
 Maud felt this account to be on the whole re- 
 assuring : ( How soon,' she asked, ( will you come 
 back again ? ' 
 
 1 Before you have time to miss me,' said her com- 
 panion ; i it is an affair literally of days. Besides, 
 Elysium, you will find, is all the pleasauter for hav- 
 ing its crowd of soldiers somewhat thinned/ 
 
 ' It will not be the pleasanter to us,' said Maud, 
 1 for your being gone.' 
 
 Her tone took Button greatly by surprise. 
 
 ' You are having a happy time here, are you 
 not ? ' he asked. l It seems to me a pleasant sort 
 of life.' 
 
 1 Yes,' said Maud, emphatically, ' the pleasautest, 
 happiest I have ever known. All life has been bright 
 to me ; but there are things in it that hurt one, 
 for all that.' 
 
 t Yes ? ' said Sutton, with a kind inquiry in his 
 tones, for he had never thought of Maud but as the 
 pretty incarnation of enjoyment ; ' well, tell me the 
 things which hurt you.'
 
 MAUD S SECRET. 197 
 
 ' The things that have hurt me the most,' said 
 Maud with a sudden impulse of outspokenness, f are 
 partings. They grieve me, even though I know that 
 they are no real cause for grief. I minded leaving 
 school and my dear mistress more than I can tell, and 
 yet I longed to go. I minded leaving my friends on 
 board ship, and yet I had only known them a month. 
 I minded leaving you at Dustypore when we came 
 away, and now to-day I am sad because you are 
 leaving us.' 
 
 ' That makes me sad too,' said Sutton, grieved, 
 and yet not wholly grieved, at each new phase of 
 sentiment which the childish frankness of his com- 
 panion revealed to him ; ' but, you know, we soldiers 
 are for ever on the move, and nobody is surprised 
 or sad when we are ordered off. You love Felicia, 
 do you not ? ' 
 
 ( Yes,' said Maud, seriously ; ( I feel a sort of 
 worship for her. Who could be so sweet, noble and 
 pure without being adored ? But then she makes 
 me melancholy too sometimes, because she is so 
 melancholy herself; and, oh, how far above one ! 
 Could one ever hope to be half as good ? She fills 
 me with love, but love with a sort of despair about 
 it.' 
 
 Maud was highly wrought up and feeling 
 strongly and painfully about everything that formed 
 her life. She was full of thoughts that clamoured
 
 198 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 for expression ; and Button, she knew not why, 
 seemed the natural and proper recipient ; it was so 
 easy almost to confess to him, to trust him with 
 thoughts, hopes, pangs, which instinct said the 
 common eye must never see ; to claim from him a 
 sort of gentle, chivalrous protection which no one 
 but he knew how to give. 
 
 * Felicia,' Button said, l need fill no one wi'th 
 despair, rather with hopefulness and courage about 
 life. I 'have known her since she was a. child; we 
 two, in fact children of two sisters, whose mar- 
 riages had bound them closer in affection to each 
 other lived for years more as brother and sister 
 than anything else. I have watched her for years 
 gathering strength, calmness, and nobility from 
 going nobly and calmly through the troubles of the 
 world. She seems to me, in the midst of all that 
 is vulgar and base in the world around her, like 
 the Lady in Comus, impervious to everything that 
 could sully or degrade.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Maud, ' if one could only go through 
 life in that way but it is so horribly unattainable. 
 Everything is too difficult, and one is so shamefully 
 weak. I could never be calm or noble in a trouble, 
 like Felicia.' 
 
 'Wait till the troubles come,' said her companion 
 kindly ; f you will find how one rises to an emer- 
 gency. Felicia would not be what she is but for
 
 MAUD'S SECKET. 199 
 
 the trials she has borne. But see there is the 
 guard, and here, alas! our pleasant journey together 
 ends. I must travel on alone.' 
 
 A few hundred yards below stood Sutton's first 
 relay of horses, and here they were to part. A 
 trooper was waiting to escort Maud on her home- 
 ward journey till she rejoined Felicia and the 
 children. 
 
 ' This,' Sutton said, ' has been a charming ride, 
 though something of a sad one. I shall like to 
 remember it. See, you shall give me that sweet 
 rose you wear, and that shall be my badge in all 
 tournaments to come. In return I will give you 
 something to keep for me. This locket, you know, 
 holds my mother's hair. I never part with it ; but 
 I have often thought it a foolish risk to take it on 
 such wild expeditions as this. This time you shall 
 take care of it for me, if you will. 
 
 Sutton gave her the locket with the grave, 
 pathetic air which, to Maud's eye, threw a sort of 
 romance over his least important actions. He took 
 her hand and held it in his own, and it seemed as 
 though some sacred pledge were at the moment, 
 with no spoken words, given and received. 
 
 Maud never afterwards forgot that little scene 
 the kind, gentle eyes, the sorrowful furrowed brow, 
 the tender solemn voice ; in front the wide myste- 
 rious plains, stretching far below, all the horizon
 
 2OO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 still aglow with the expiring glory of the sunset ; 
 behind her a cold blue darkening world the gath- 
 ering vapours, no longer irradiated, settling in. 
 solid masses on the solemn mountain-tops. As 
 she came to a bend in the path she turned to wish 
 her companion a last farewell, for she knew that 
 he was watching her departure. Then she rode 
 homewards through the gloom, moved, agitated, 
 frightened, yet on the whole happier with a 
 deeper kind of happiness than she had ever known 
 before.
 
 ( 201 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 LOVE IS BEGUN. 
 
 Love is begun thus much is come to pass ; 
 The rest is easy. 
 
 SUTTON rode onward in a condition of happy be- 
 wilderment. He recalled the conversation, every 
 word Maud had spoken her look, her tone : and 
 as he did so the result of the whole seemed to take 
 a deeper hold upon his mind. An afternoon's ride 
 with a pretty girl what was there in it to a man 
 like Sutton, the experienced companion of so many 
 who had both the power and the will to charm? 
 What was there in this child to whom he had 
 shown the mere ordinary good-nature due to her 
 circumstances, that all of a sudden, he hardly 
 knew whether by her doing or his own, he should 
 find himself completely fascinated ? How was it, 
 too, that the first woman with whom he really felt 
 in love should be so different from the ideal which 
 all his life he had set before himself of what was 
 especially lovable ? In his childhood he had loved 
 Felicia with the spontaneous and unconcealed at- 
 tachment of a near relation. Then had followed
 
 2O2 CHKONICLES OF DUSTYPOKE. 
 
 years of school, long expeditions abroad, a life 
 which soon became adventurous, grave cares, 
 anxieties and interests at a time when most lads are 
 still trifling over their lessons. Button had not only 
 to push his own way in life, but to keep guard over 
 others less capable than himself, of whom he found 
 himself, while still a boy, constituted the natural 
 protector. His mother, suddenly left a widow, had 
 looked to him unhesitatingly for counsel, protection 
 and so Button's account book would have testified 
 supplies, which he was ill able to contribute. 
 Brothers had had to be set a-going, and kept a- 
 going, in that troublesome and anxious process of 
 making a livelihood in a world where no one is in 
 the least want of one's services. Then Fortune 
 and Valour had combined to push Sutton forward 
 as a soldier, and one or two adventures, brilliant 
 because they were not disastrous, made him a 
 reputation which secured him constant employment. 
 When, years later, he had met Felicia again, a 
 newly-arrived bride, in the Sandy Tracts, though he 
 felt towards her the same affection as ever, it had 
 not occurred to him to envy the man who was now 
 lawful possessor of that to which he might have 
 seemed, had circumstances allowed, a natural pre- 
 tender. He had remained the loyal friend of 
 both. None the less was Felicia the typical concep- 
 tion in his mind of what a woman ought to be.
 
 LOVE IS BEGUN. 2O3 
 
 Her grave, refined serenity ; her unstudied dignity 
 of form and gesture ; her mirthfulness flashing all 
 about a melancholy mood; her sorrows so acutely 
 felt, so bravely borne, so sedulously concealed ; the 
 prompt excitability that made the world full of 
 pleasures and interests to her, and her a moving 
 influence in the world ; the tenderness of sympathy 
 which, beginning in the little home centre, spread 
 in increasing circles to all who came within her 
 range of thought or action and enthroned her 
 mistress of a hundred hearts, made up the- type 
 which his imagination had adored. Now he was 
 startled to find himself kneeling at quite another 
 shrine, adoring quite another deity, and adoring it, 
 as he was constrained to confess to' himself, with a 
 sudden, vehement devotion, characteristic rather of 
 boyish enthusiasm than of the mature sobriety of 
 middle age. 
 
 Anyhow, as Suttou rode into the yard of the 
 little inn where dinner awaited him, he wished, for 
 the first time in his life, that the campaign was 
 well over and himself safe back again at the pacific 
 pursuits on which duty was just now sternly calling 
 him to turn his back. 
 
 Here he found the Agent and Desvoeux, who had 
 been busy all the afternoon with despatches and 
 were waiting now for the moonlight to allow them 
 to get forward on their journey.
 
 2O4 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Desvoeux, as was always the case in times of 
 difficulty, had risen to the occasion and fully justi- 
 fied the confidence of those who placed a seeming 
 fop in a responsible position. He had been work- 
 ing all day like a slave, and he was now dining 
 like an Epicurean, and in higher spirits than 
 Epicureans mostly are. The Agent, who kept him 
 in thorough order anol got an inordinate amount of 
 first-rate work out of him at times, rewarded him. 
 by a generous confidence and a liberty of speech 
 in private, which no other subordinate enjoyed. A 
 jaded, weary official, with an uncomfortably lively 
 scepticism as to the usefulness of himself and his 
 system to the world, forced into all sorts of new and 
 uncomfortable conditions, could not but be grateful 
 to an assistant whose spirits, like Desvoeux's, were 
 always in inverse ratio to the darkness of surround- 
 ing things, whose cynicism was always amusing, 
 and whose observations on the world around and 
 above him, if frequently somewhat impertinent, 
 were never without good sense and insight. 
 
 At present both Desvoeux and his master were 
 abusing Blunt over an excellent bottle of cham- 
 pagne. Button was soon installed at the banquet, 
 which presently began da capo on his account. 
 
 ' We shall have no moon till eleven,' said the 
 Agent; 'so Desvoeux and I are amusing ourselves 
 by inveighing against poor Blunt for the kettle of
 
 LOVE IS BEGUN. 2O5 
 
 fish he has set a-boiling down below; and which you 
 and your troopers, Button, must dispose of as best 
 you can. It is another instance of that bane of the 
 service zeal. Tallyrand was quite right to insist 
 on no one having any of it.' 
 
 1 Yes, sir,' said Desvceux ; { Enthusiasm, Expe- 
 rience and Principle may be said to be the three 
 rocks on which we get shipwrecked enthusiasm, 
 because it gives us affairs like this of Blunt's ; 
 experience ' 
 
 ' Experience and principle require no illustration,' 
 said the Agent, rilling up Sutton's glass and his 
 own. ' I feel how disastrous they are in my own 
 case. But, seriously, one of the difficulties in 
 dealing with a matter is that you always have to 
 rescue it from the clutches of some one who knows 
 too much by half about it, and who takes a host of 
 details for granted of which nobody but himself has 
 the faintest glimmer of understanding. You are 
 right, Desvceux, in naming experience as one of 
 your banes ; I qualify it by the addition of an 
 epithet inarticulate.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' cried Desvceux, gaily, t one takes that for 
 granted. If men possessed the art of making 
 themselves understood, there would be no difficulty 
 in governing at all.' 
 
 1 Yes,' said the Agent ; ( officials and their reports 
 remind one of cuttle-fish, beings capable of extrud-
 
 206 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ing an inky fluid for the purpose of concealing their 
 intentions. And now, Sutton, king of men, tell us 
 how soon you mean to lead the bold Acheans to 
 the fray.' 
 
 l As fast as I can march the hold Acheans up. 
 In three days at the furthest I hope to be well into 
 the enemy's country; the mule battery will, I 
 expect, do wonders in bringing about a loyal state 
 of mind, and I may rely on the mules and camels 
 for my commissariat ? ' 
 
 ' You may rely,' said the Agent ; ( I sent word 
 to Boldero yesterday.' And Sutton knew that on 
 that score, at any rate, he might feel secure. 
 
 1 Boldero,' cried Desvoeux, ' has no doubt by this 
 time impressed every donkey in the province and 
 has a cavalcade of camels awaiting us. The job 
 will, it is to be hoped, have driven Miss Vernon 
 out of his poor bleeding heart. Here is to her good 
 health.' 
 
 'And here's to Mrs Vereker's,' cried Sutton, who 
 felt an urgent need of an immediate change in the 
 conversation. 
 
 'Cruel, cruel Sutton,' cried Desvoaux, 'to suggest 
 the mournful thought. Let me see ; it is half-past 
 ten. I left at noon. I grieve to think that I have 
 been forgotten an entire afternoon. Mrs. Vereker's 
 recollections, I believe, never survive a repast. 
 Luncheon, no doubt, swept me from her thoughts.'
 
 LOVE IS BEGUN. 2O/ 
 
 ' Desvoeux,' said the Agent, l you are a very 
 unfeeling young man. I believe I am rather in 
 love with Mrs. Yereker myself.' 
 
 e Then, sir, I presume you will wish me to trans- 
 fer my attentions elsewhere ; but meanwhile let me 
 dream of the paradise I have quitted 
 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye 
 An angel guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet ' 
 
 * So that,' interposed the Agent, ( as you look at 
 her face, and not at her knees, you naturally see 
 more of the loves and graces than of the domestic 
 duty.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir,' cried Desvceux, ' she is all that a 
 wife and mother should be.' 
 
 'Very well,' said the Agent; ' then go and order 
 the horses and let us be off.'
 
 ( 208 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A STRAY SHOT. 
 
 A barren strand, 
 
 A petty fortress and a dubious hand 
 
 THE expedition, though in no way distinguishable 
 from twenty others, did not prove such a mere pro- 
 menade as Button had anticipated. The whole 
 country-side was in a nasty, excitable mood. The 
 news of Blunt's injudicious proceedings had spread 
 far and wide, and the prospect of endangered rights 
 turned the wavering scale with wild clans, whose 
 loyalty at the best of times was anything but proof 
 against a seeming danger or a fancied wrong. 
 
 Every landholder whose title Blunt had im- 
 pugned proved a centre of disaffection ; and even 
 where there was no reason for hostility the example 
 of unruliness was infectious. Many a stalwart 
 hillsman, coerced for years into uncongenial tran- 
 quillity, felt the old pulses throb within him, and 
 his heart beating high at the prospect of a fight ; 
 unearthed some primitive weapon sword or match-
 
 A STEAY SHOT. 2Op 
 
 lock or lance from its hiding-place beneath the 
 floor of his hut, mounted on a wiry pony and made 
 his way over the mountains to the scene of action. 
 Several more outrages, of which the District officers 
 knew the significance too well, had already been 
 reported. Everything predicted a storm, and a 
 pretty severe one. 
 
 Indian life is like a strange, dark sea, full of 
 invisible currents, strange tides, unsuspected and 
 unexplained influences. The waters, which look so 
 smooth and lifeless, may be stealing silently along 
 and hurrying the hapless vessel to its doom. Mag- 
 netic streams, inappreciable to the nicest scrutiny, 
 pour this way or that and disturb the most accurate 
 calculations. Storms gather and lower and burst 
 when all looks most serene; a little cloud rises in 
 the quarter where danger is least expected, and in 
 a few minutes the ship is tossing^ a crushed and 
 staggering wreck, in the midst of a tornado. 
 
 Just before the great outbreak of 1857 the ruler 
 of India had occasion to remark on the absolute 
 tranquillity of the Empire and on the peaceful pros- 
 pects of a reign which stood, as the facts proved, 
 on the very crisis of its fate, and whose annals 
 were presently to be written in characters of blood. 
 Men who live in such a world as this become sensi- 
 tive to its symptoms, and adepts at interpreting 
 
 them. The magistrates knew well enough they 
 
 o
 
 2IO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 could scarcely have said why that mischief was at 
 work. Police officers on remote stations wrote 
 uneasily and hinted at the advisability of reinforce- 
 ments. Strange, weird beings, whose unkempt 
 locks and half-crazy visages bespoke for them the 
 prestige of especial sanctity, thronged about the 
 bazaars, the wells, the spreading tree where tra- 
 vellers halted for rest and talk. A famous Fakir 
 went through the District haranguing excited audi- 
 ences on the kindred duties of piety and rebellion 
 against an impious ruler. Then the first drops of 
 the storm began to fall. One morning the collector 
 of a neighbouring town was sitting in his verandah; 
 in front a pair of saddled horses were being led up 
 and down; by his side was a tea-table, with letters, 
 business papers and the frugal repast which ushers 
 in the Indian official's day. At his feet two little 
 children sat at play. From inside a lady's voice 
 cried that she would be ready for a start in two 
 minutes. Presently an animated bundle of rags, 
 hair and dirt, came grovelling up with a petition. 
 The misery of the creature was its passport, and 
 the sentry who stood by, at a signal from the 
 officer, let it pass. Then came a whining, rambling, 
 unintelligible story of grievance ; and then, as the 
 listener's eye for a moment wandered from the 
 speaker, a sudden rush the flash of a concealed 
 dagger a groan a heavy fall, and the Englishman
 
 A STRAY SHOT. 2 I I 
 
 1-ay dead on the ground with a cruel Pa than knife- 
 wound through his heart. The assassin stood 
 fiercely at bay, exulting in his accomplished vow 
 to slay a ' Feringhee,' and trying his best to stab 
 the sentry who approached him. They cut him 
 down as he stood; and before noon that day rumour 
 had whispered in a hundred villages that Allah's 
 will had been done, and that the Jehad, or Sacred 
 War, was forthwith to commence. 
 
 To strike quickly, effectually, and with an air of 
 absolute confidence in the result, is in such cases 
 the safest policy. A symptom of hesitation, an 
 hour's delay, would ensure disaster. The spark, 
 which one moment might be stamped under foot, 
 the next would be a consuming fire, forbidding all 
 approach. 
 
 Sutton's business was, he well understood, to 
 teach these lawless spirits (which no conqueror 
 has ever yet succeeded in taming) a stern 
 lesson of obedience, and to teach it them quickly, 
 sharply, and in the mode most likely to impress 
 the popular imagination. If all went well the busi- 
 ness would be over in a week, and the refractory 
 clansmen our good friends and subjects till temper, 
 forgetfulness, or an official blunder produced another 
 outburst. If things went ill but this is a contin- 
 gency upon which the administrators of British 
 India cannot afford to calculate and which Sutton's
 
 2 I 2 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOUE. 
 
 temperament and good fortune alike had long 
 accustomed him to ignore. 
 
 When he rode into the camp he found every- 
 thing in readiness and everybody in the highest 
 spirits. Boldero had impressed a fine array of 
 camels and bullock-carts, and had organised a 
 commissariat train more than sufficient for the 
 wants of the expedition. The mule battery had 
 arrived in perfect order. The little knot of officers 
 who were to join the expedition gave a hearty wel- 
 come to a leader whose very presence seemed to 
 them the best guarantee of success. In a minute 
 the news spread through the camp that the ' Colonel 
 Sahib ' had arrived, and the men, whom he had led 
 so often to victory, glowed at the thought that 
 the well-loved and well-trusted leader was once 
 ngain in the midst of them and that something 
 stirring was certainly at hand. The little force 
 was to encamp that night at the bottom of the 
 pass along which for the next two days their route 
 would lie ; then they would come to a high level 
 table-land, where the enemy was (so the scouts 
 said) entrenched, and where the serious part of 
 the business might be expected to begin. 
 
 Occasions such as these were the parts of 
 Button's life in which hitherto he had felt him- 
 self most at home, and which he had, in fact, 
 enjoyed the most keenly. He had been very sue-
 
 A STKAY SHOT. 213 
 
 cessful, and had, he knew, been not undeserving 
 of success. This was the thing in life which he 
 could do pre-eminently well, and the doing it 
 gave him a thrill of pleasure, which lasted all 
 through the duller parts of his existence. Yet 
 now things seemed changed to him. He had 
 looked forward to this expedition with enthusiasm ; 
 it had taken in every way the shape which he 
 wished ; and now, when the hour was come, it 
 had brought no sense of pleasure with it. Sutton 
 was startled at his own lack of zeal. The lads 
 who were having their first apprenticeship in 
 actual soldiering, were, he felt, far more soldier- 
 like about it than he was. He could not sleep 
 that night, and strolled about the camp amid all 
 the old accustomed sights and sounds ; the long 
 array of human sleeping forms, each one motion- 
 less and corps-like ; the lines of tethered horses ; 
 the sentinels pacing stolidly up and down and 
 challenging the passer-by in the still, clear air ; 
 the bullocks encamped by their carts, serenely 
 chewing through the peaceful hours undisturbed 
 by the thought of pokes and shoves which awaited 
 them on the morrow. It was all very familiar, and 
 brought back many a like occasion of former years; 
 and yet there was, Sutton knew, a difference : the 
 world was no longer the same ; a new current of 
 thought and feeling had set in and disturbed all
 
 2 1 4 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 the old associations. His afternoon ride had meta- 
 morphosed his entire being. Maud's sweet im- 
 passioned air as she had wished him farewell ; 
 her serious, soft, pathetic tones ; her last look as 
 she turned to go, the sort of earnest rapture which 
 her eyes bespoke ; the unspoken pledge which had 
 been exchanged between them ; these were the 
 matters which preoccupied his thoughts and left 
 but scant room in them for the business which he 
 had in hand. He found himself, accordingly, 
 uninterested, unenthusiastic, and, for the first time 
 in his life, completely sceptical as to the useful- 
 ness of his employment. Every man, philosophers 
 tell us, is seized at some period of his career 
 with a misgiving as to whether his life-task is not 
 a delusion. Is it worth the long, painful endeavour, 
 the patient waiting, the resolute hopefulness which 
 a successful career demands ? Life seems, as it 
 did to the sailors of Ulysses, a wearisome, endless 
 affair, 
 
 For ever climbing up the climbing wave ; 
 
 Is it certain that the end for which we struggle 
 so earnestly is good for ourselves or for any one ? 
 Sutton had such a mood just now strong upon 
 him. He had been all his life soldiering ; a 
 hundred time-honoured phrases had declared it the 
 finest profession in the world ; but what did it come
 
 A STRAY SHOT. 2 I 5 
 
 to ? To be chasing a pack of lawless savages about 
 a country scarcely less savage than themselves, and 
 inflicting a chastisement which no one supposed 
 would be more than temporarily effectual. To 
 drill a handful of freebooters into something suffi- 
 ciently like discipline to render them effectual as 
 an instrument of destruction ; to march up a pass 
 and stamp out the first germs of civilised life by 
 burning a few wretched crops and crumbling 
 hovels ; to fire at an enemy always well out of 
 reach, and then march down again ; what was there 
 in all this to deserve the thought, the devotion, the 
 sacrifice of life itself, which men so freely gave in 
 its pursuit ? Had not. life something better worth 
 living for than this ? Were not the civilians right 
 who sneered at soldiering as a meet occupation for 
 brainless heads and hands for which, if not kept thus 
 wholesomely employed, Satan was sure to find some 
 less desirable occupation ? Thus it came to pass that 
 of. all the men who marched in the expedition its 
 leader was the one who was least in love with it. 
 
 Two days later Sutton had warmed into his work 
 and was in better spirits. The march had been de- 
 lightful. The splendid military road, which coiled 
 in and out among the folds of the mountain, robbed 
 the journey alike of anxiety and fatigue. Nothing 
 gives a pleasanter sense of power and triumph over 
 nature than these great engineering exploits. You
 
 2 I 6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 canter along a splendid road with easy gradients, a 
 scarcely perceptible ascent; there is a precipice above, 
 a precipice below, and no spot anywhere on which, 
 till the hand of science came to make it, a human 
 foot could rest. Every now and then a distant 
 vista reminds you that you are climbing some of 
 the wildest and steepest hill sides in the world. 
 The mountaineers may well cower and fly before 
 a foe who begins with so impressive an achieve- 
 ment, and who cuts his way resistless as fate' 
 itself across the rocky brow of barriers which it 
 seems half-mad, half-impious to try to scale. 
 
 The expedition, Sutton found, was in every way 
 complete. His own regiment was always ready to 
 march at twenty minutes' notice, and the General 
 at Dustypore seemed to have been equally well pre- 
 pared. The air, despite the hot sun, was fresh and 
 exhilarating ; the men were in the very mood for 
 brilliant service. Besides, a peasant who had just 
 been brought in from the district told them that, 
 ten miles across the plain which now stretched 
 away in gentle undulations before them, the enemy 
 was entrenched in strength and intended to show 
 fight. The village had been fortified, the man said, 
 with a wall of earth and stones, and the fighters 
 would be found behind it. 
 
 'Then, gentlemen,' cried Sutton, who was stand- 
 ing with a knot of officers at his tent door when
 
 A STKAY SHOT. 2 I 7 
 
 the news arrived, 1 1 propose that we attack them 
 to-night. If we let them have a day to do it in, 
 these scoundrels will give us the slip.' 
 
 In half an hour the whole force was on the 
 march. The day was delightfully fresh ; the moun- 
 tain-mists gathered overhead and formed a wel- 
 come shelter from the blazing sky. Button had his 
 troopers on either flank; then came the tiny battery, 
 looking more like playthings than the grim realities 
 the Armstrongs proved ; in the midst of a long 
 line of Native Infantry. The men marched with a 
 will and with the exciting consciousness that in the 
 afternoon there was to be a fight. At noon, when 
 there was a halt to rest the force, the outline of 
 the village wall might be clearly seen, and those 
 who had telescopes could make out an occasional 
 figure creeping stealthily about. There was a little 
 rising ground some half-mile from the village, and 
 here Button determined to establish his battery. 
 The tiny telescope-like tubes soon did their work, 
 and the main gate of the village fell inwards with 
 a crash ; the mud wall crumbled and fell wherever 
 it was touched, and a thick cloud of dust showed 
 where each ball had lodged. In ten minutes the 
 village was in flames, and Button's little army was 
 advancing on it at a run. Presently they got 
 within musket-shot, and bullet after bullet came 
 singing through the air. Button was riding, with
 
 2 I 8 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 a trumpeter on the right, half-a-dozen yards in 
 advance of his men ; the ground, though firm and 
 safe, grew rougher as they neared the village ; and 
 the troops' line was somewhat broken. By this 
 time they could make out the mud -wall which had 
 been thrown up in front of the village and measure 
 the paces between it and them. It was a mere 
 nothing, but the men were going at it faster than 
 they should. Two horses were struck and fell 
 heavily just as their riders were pulling them 
 together for the jump. Half-a-dozen 'more refused: 
 then came the usual scene of rearing, plunging, 
 and dismounted men. There was an instant's 
 check, but only an instant's, for Sutton and the 
 trumpeter were over, and the first dozen men who 
 followed them had knocked -the wall level with the 
 ground. Sutton had speedily disposed of two of 
 the hillsmen, who fired their pistols in his face and 
 made at him with their swords ; and had galloped 
 up to help the trumpeter, who was having a hard 
 time of it with a Sawar, mounted on a nimble little 
 horse and evidently a competent and practised 
 swordsman. The man turned on his noble anta- 
 gonist and made a cut which left a deep dent on 
 Button's sword-handle. The native had, however, 
 met with more than his match. The others got 
 over just in time to see Sutton cut him down, and 
 his horse gallop wildly off with an empty saddle.
 
 A STRAY SHOT. 2 1 9 
 
 The men gave a shout and galloped forward. Then 
 some one from a neighbouring window took a lucky 
 shot. Button was at the moment giving an oro^er 
 and pointing with his sword in the direction indi- 
 cated. His sword flew out of his hand, his arm 
 fell powerless, and his horse, rearing up, fell back 
 upon him. His native aide-de-camp dragged him 
 out from under the horse, which was lying shot 
 through the heart across him. Half-a-dozen men 
 carried him to the rear. Ten minutes later, when 
 the village had been cleared and the troop returned 
 from the pursuit, they found him lying in a crim- 
 son pool, insensible, with a broken arm and a 
 bullet-wound in his side, the red stream from which 
 the surgeon, kneeling beside him, was endeavouring 
 in vain to staunch.
 
 ( 22O 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE GULLY. 
 
 I know not if I know what true love is ; 
 But if I know, then if I love not him, 
 Metliinks there is none other I can love. 
 
 PERHAPS the thing which more than any other exas- 
 perated Fotheringham about this unlucky frontier 
 outbreak was the cool way in which Blunt took it. 
 He quite ignored all responsibility in the matter. 
 This was more than Fotheringham could forgive. 
 When he had to come post-haste back to Dusty- 
 pore, with his tail, so to speak, between his legs, 
 leaving the country in a blaze behind him, with an 
 escort of cavalry to protect him from the animosi- 
 ties which his proceedings had provoked, the least 
 that could be expected of him was to wear the peni- 
 tent air of a man who has had his own way and 
 come to grief. Blunt, however, was as unabashed 
 and uncompromising as before, and it had never, it 
 was evident, crossed his mind that he could be the 
 person to blame. The whole affair was gall and 
 wormwood to Fotheringham : it was improper, in- 
 congruous, and a shock to his perceptions of the
 
 THE GULLY. 221 
 
 eternal fitness of things. It never ought to have 
 happened never, so his fine instincts told him, 
 would have happened but for this rough, self- 
 confident, inexperienced outsider. It came too at 
 the most horrid time of year, just when almost 
 every one was at the hills and the few whose ill-luck 
 compelled them to remain in the plains were ex- 
 hausted with the summer and in need of repose. The 
 Misses Fotheringham and their mamma had been all 
 the summer at Elysium, and poor Fotheringham had 
 been meaning to join them for a few weeks' autum- 
 nal holiday ; and this was now out of the question. 
 This in itself was no small grievance. And then, 
 on public grounds, Fotheringham felt the outbreak 
 a sort of stain on himself and the institution which 
 he cared most about. The Salt Board might be to 
 others a mere abstraction, but he had worked at it 
 and in it till he had come to regard it with a sort 
 of fondness. Now Blunt's mismanagement exhi- 
 bited the Board in a perfectly false light, as political 
 incendiaries. The Rumble Chunder Grant was 
 made to figure as a stone of stumbling and rock of 
 political offence, instead of, as its advocates felt it 
 to be, a sort of moral buffer on which any little 
 unpleasantness which the wear and tear of govern- 
 ment engendered, was allowed to vent itself in 
 safety. Fotheringham had exactly foretold the result, 
 and felt, it must be supposed, that kind of melan-
 
 222 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 choly satisfaction which the most good-natured pro- 
 phets of evil cannot but experience when their pro- 
 phecies come true. He was too much of a gentle- 
 man to say to Blunt, ' There ! I told you so,' in so 
 many words; but this was what he felt ; and this 
 sort of inward triumph joined together with the 
 other and graver aspects of the affair to make him 
 treat Blunt in a manner, which, no doubt, the 
 latter gentleman, pachydermatous as he was, found 
 the reverse of soothing. 
 
 Cockshaw, too, in his idle way, was greatly put 
 out and not at all inclined to make himself pleasant. 
 He smoked more cheroots than ever was more im- 
 patient of discussion fidgeted worse when Fother- 
 inghani was settling down into nicely-rounded 
 periods and getting real relief from doing so, and 
 altogether did not behave as Fotheringham felt that 
 he ought at a trying time. 
 
 Of his two colleagues Cockshaw had come to 
 dislike Blunt by far the worst. Fotheringham, he 
 knew, was an ass ; but then he had known him as 
 such ever since they were at Haileybury together as 
 lads, and his being asinine seemed all right and 
 proper in the natural course of things. "With all his 
 feebleness he had a sort of chivalry about him, a pride 
 in his order, an enthusiasm about his work, a profes- 
 sional sympathy with his colleagues, which bound him 
 to his brother-civilians. Blunt was a stranger to all
 
 THE GULLY. 223 
 
 this and was known to talk about the Civil Service in 
 a way that made Cockshaw long to knock him down 
 and give him a thrashing, as he would have done to 
 a rude schoolfellow years ago. An article appeared 
 in the t Edinburgh Eeview ' about the Government 
 of India, which Cockshaw felt certain from its style 
 was Blunt's, and which spoke of the administrators 
 of the country with undisguised contempt. There 
 was a phrase about ' one dead level of mediocrity,' 
 which some angry Govern or- General had used, and 
 which the article quoted with an approval which 
 Cockshaw could neither forgive nor forget. The 
 Rumble Chunder Grant was quoted as a specimen 
 of the gigantic messes which ensue, when second 
 and third rate men have the management of first- 
 rate questions. The local Governments were de- 
 scribed as costly bureaux, with all the natural defects 
 of a bureau and some peculiar evils of their own to 
 boot now meddlesome and fussy, now indolent and 
 obstructive, frequently unprincipled and insubordi- 
 nate. The three separate War establishments were 
 disposed of with a sneer as the most expensive folly 
 in existence. The vile corruption which character- 
 ised the East India Company in its earlier days, the 
 scandalous exhibitions of public and private wicked- 
 ness which fired the righteous wrath of Burke, had, 
 the writer admitted, been rendered impossible by 
 the increased communication with home and the
 
 224 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 generally improved tone of English manners ; but 
 Indian Governments had long remained the home 
 of jobbery. The stringent remedy of the Competitive 
 System had been necessary to deal with the accumu- 
 lated dulness with which years of licensed favouritism 
 had crowded the ranks of the service. On the whole 
 it was not true, or anything like true, that India was 
 well administered. The wonder, however, was, con- 
 sidering the class of men to whom the job had been 
 entrusted, that it had ever got administered at all. 
 
 ' D his impudence ! ' exclaimed Cockshaw 
 
 with all the fervour of an indignation which had been 
 gaining strength through a dozen pages of unpalat- 
 able reading ; and the expression may be taken as 
 representing in a concise formula the view which 
 Cockshaw had come to take of his colleague's mental 
 attitude, and of the respect or consideration to which 
 he and his proposals were entitled. 
 
 The meetings of the board grew very stern and 
 stiff. Unluckily, too, at this very time the Board's 
 Annual Report had to be written, and the conflicting 
 views of the members as to the cause of the disaster 
 could scarcely fail to be brought prominently forward. 
 It was one of the occasions which Strutt had been 
 accustomed to treat historically, and which called, he 
 felt, for something grander than Whisp's businesslike 
 and unpretentious style. ' My good sir,' he would 
 say, ( I have no time to read history : I am making
 
 THE GULLY. 22$ 
 
 it.' In the good old days, when Strait had his own 
 way, he would have knocked the affair off in half-a- 
 dozen well-rounded, vague, magniloquent phrases ; 
 have left the connection of the Board with the whole 
 thing in obscurity ; have congratulated the Govern- 
 ment on the excellent behaviour of the troops ; ap- 
 plauded the accuracy and range of the Armstrong 
 battery, and paid Providence a handsome compliment 
 on the fortunate turn which events had taken. 
 
 But now Strutt felt a painful misgiving that this 
 sort of thing would not do. When he began the 
 paragraph ' The sun of the official year has set in 
 blood,' he saw Blunt's horrid cynical look, and knew 
 that he would never stand it. Any allusion to Provi- 
 dence and Strutt felt that one was quite essential to 
 anything like a proper peroration Blunt would, he 
 was sure, ruthlessly draw his pen through. Nor was 
 it only as to matters of taste and style that Strutt 
 felt embarrassed. Fotheringham would, he was 
 certain, deprecate any reference to a connection 
 between the outbreak and the Rumble Chunder 
 Grant. * Policy,' he would say, in a mysterious way, 
 * calls for reticence. We may be misconstrued, but 
 we cannot afford to show all the world our hand ; we 
 don't want the hillmen to imagine that we admit 
 them to have a grievance.' Blunt, on the other hand, 
 would be for having it all down in black and white 
 for describing the outbreak as the natural result of
 
 226 CHRONICLES OF DUSTrPORE. 
 
 indistinctness, cowardice and idleness. Altogether 
 Strutt felt that his lines had been cast in rough places, 
 and began to agree with Fotheringham that outsiders 
 like Blunt were a mistake. 
 
 While things stood thus, one of those events 
 occurred which form so constant a characteristic of 
 Indian life and add so formidable a contribution to 
 the difficulties of government. How is it possible to 
 have continuity of action, settled policy, completeness 
 of design, when existence is so shifting that no man 
 who begins a work is likely to see its close ? Pro- 
 motion or leave or the chances of health keep the 
 hierarchy of Indian officials for ever on the move. 
 One man goes home to Europe, and his departure 
 involves the change of a dozen others, each of whom 
 is waiting anxiously for an advance and is entitled to 
 step into his fellow's shoes. One of these vicissitudes 
 befell the Board, for poor Fotheringham fell violently 
 ill, and for some time seemed likely to create a per- 
 manent vacancy. A week's fever left him a skeleton, 
 but a live one, and his only chance of re-established 
 health was immediate flight for home. Accordingly, 
 in fewer hours than it takes an English lady days to 
 determine where she will spend her summer holiday, 
 the Fotheringham establishment had moved oiF the 
 scene. The fine barouche the Australian carriage- 
 horses the lovely Arabs on which the Miss Fother- 
 inghams took their morning exercise the pretty
 
 THE GULLY. 22/ 
 
 garden where their mamma received society to tea 
 and croquet the dining-room where ' the Senior 
 Member had regaled his friends the library where 
 he assailed his enemies the piano at which the 
 young ladies sang tremulous duets the arm-chair 
 in which Fotheringham had sate and thought or 
 seemed to think all became matters of the past. 
 A neat paper, copied out by the elder Miss Fother- 
 ingham and containing the scanty catalogue of an 
 Indian official's worldly belongings, was circulated 
 in the Station, each item at so many rupees for 
 those who liked to buy. Before the week was over 
 the house was stripped, the simple treasures were 
 scattered to a dozen new possessors, and the Fother- 
 inghams, as the Arab folds his tent and glides 
 silently away, had departed. The waters of the official 
 life rolled smoothly over them, and next day the 
 ' Dustypore Gazette ; announced with laconic severity 
 that Mr. Snaply had on such and such a morning- 
 taken over charge, as Member of the Salt Board, 
 from Mr. Fotheringham, during the absence of the 
 latter on sick leave, or pending further orders. 
 
 Now Snaply was known as the Grossest man in 
 the Service, and it cheered poor Fotheringham, who 
 was almost too ill and weak to care about anything, 
 to know that his locum tenens would not allow Blunt 
 to repose on a bed of roses if he could help it. 
 
 Felicia, meanwhile, had carried Maud off to the
 
 228 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 Gully,' a mountain retreat some twenty miles 
 away, where purer air and a less constrained life 
 were to be had than at Elysium. It was, in fact, 
 nothing more than one of a cluster of log-huts, built 
 years before, when a working party of soldiers had 
 been cutting one of the grand military roads that 
 traverse the mountains in these parts, and sold off- 
 hand, when the work was done, for what they 
 would fetch to the first comer. Felicia and her 
 husband had been encamped in the neighbourhood, 
 and had fallen in love with the wildness of the 
 place, the exquisitely pure air, the huge tower- 
 ing pines, which gave the scene a character of its 
 own, and, moreover, with the unfamiliar idea of 
 owning a part of the Himalayas in freehold. 
 
 For a few hundred rupees, accordingly, Vernon 
 had become possessor of the huts and some adjoin- 
 ing acres, and since then Felicia's embellishing 
 hand had worked wonders. Nature, as if in grati- 
 tude for unaccustomed devotion,, lent herself in a 
 lavish mood to beautify the little structure. A 
 profuse growth of creepers festooned the porch ; a 
 delicious piece of turf, bright, smooth and soft, 
 and broken only by one or two projecting crags, 
 stretched down the mountain -side in front ; inside 
 the rough deodar paling the beds were all ablaze 
 with English flowers that not even Felicia's tender- 
 ness could coax into healthiness in the plain below.
 
 THE GULLY. 22p 
 
 ' These are my invalids,' Felicia said, to whom this 
 spot was always full of charms : f I send them up 
 with the babies to breathe a little wholesome air. 
 Shut your eyes, Maud, and smell this cannot you 
 fancy yourself in a sweet English wood in June ? ' 
 
 There were other beauties, moreover, about the 
 place than those of an English summer. They 
 were hanging in a little picturesque nook of safety, 
 but all around them was sublime. Storms gathered 
 and crashed and spent their fury as if this was 
 their very home where they could play at ease. 
 An inky mass came lowering over the heights 
 above and shed itself in one angry deluge on the 
 mountain-side ; the thunder crashed in fierce echoes 
 from crag to crag, and all the heavens blazed from 
 end to end as the fearful fiery zig-zags came dart- 
 ing out of the gloom ; then the tempest would 
 pass away and nothing be heard but the distant 
 rumble and the hundred muddy torrents roaring 
 downwards. The great folds of mist came swirl- 
 ing up the precipice, wrapping everything for a few 
 moments in gloom ; then they would pass on, and 
 presently again the sky be serene and bright, and 
 the reeking mountains sun themselves gleefully in 
 the brightness and warmth that were everywhere 
 present. 
 
 1 It is beautiful,' Maud said, ' but too grand to 
 be quite pleasant ; it is rather awful. That black
 
 230 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 mountain opposite, with its army of skeleton 
 deodars, makes me shudder.' 
 
 Across the gorge the forest had been burnt 
 the first rude attempt by the mountaineers at re- 
 claiming the soil. For weeks together these blaz- 
 ing patches may be seen on the hillside, hidden in 
 a cloud of smoke by day, and at night lighting up 
 the landscape with a lurid, fitful glare. When, by 
 a change in the wind or sudden downpour, the 
 conflagration ceases, nothing remains but a gloomy 
 array of charred stumps, with here and there some 
 monstrous stem towering above, which the flames, 
 though they were able to kill, have not succeeded 
 in devouring. Then among the ruins of the forest 
 comes the primitive cultivator, with his tiny plough 
 and scrambling goat-like bullocks, and wrings a 
 scanty crop of oats or potatoes from each ridge and 
 cranny of the rocky steep; and so the reign of 
 agriculture has begun. The eifect, however, from 
 the picturesque point of view is weird and gloomy; 
 it was so, at any rate, in Maud's thoughts, for she 
 ever after associated it with the first piece of really 
 bad news that had ever come to her in the whole 
 of her sunshiny existence. A note arrived one 
 morning from Vernon at Dustypore, and Felicia 
 read it out before she was well aware of its im- 
 port. He was just starting, Vernon said, for the 
 head-quarters of the expedition. ' There has been
 
 THE GULLY. 23! 
 
 a fight, and the entrenched village has been carried 
 by a coup de main, and ' 
 
 1 And what ? ' said Maud, who felt herself turn- 
 ing deadly cold and her heart beating so that she 
 could scarcely speak, ' Go on, Felicia, please.' 
 
 1 " Sutton, I fear, has had a serious wound and 
 a fall from his horse. I am going out to look 
 after him. More news to-morrow." 
 
 Maud rose and fled, without a word, to her bed- 
 room, to deal with this agitating piece of news as 
 best she might. She did not feel sure enough of 
 her composure to trust herself to the chances of a 
 break-down even before Felicia. There was some- 
 thing in herself, she knew, that she did not wish 
 even Felicia's eye to read. To Felicia her husband's 
 letter spoke only of the fortunes of their common 
 friend ; to Maud it was, as a quick, agonising pang 
 told her, an affair of life or death. A serious 
 wound a fall from horseback terrible, vague 
 words that might mean anything that might 
 mean something that would eclipse all Maud's 
 existence in the gloom of a lifelong disaster. 
 She had thought over their last ride together 
 often ; but she knew now, and now only, to the 
 full what it had really been to her. She had 
 recalled his last acts and words they had been 
 sweet and tender words, such as would keep their 
 fragrance through a lifetime ; but, supposing that
 
 232 CHRONICLES OF DTJSTYPORE. 
 
 they were to be really last words, the long farewell 
 of a man who was going to his doom ! Maud sat 
 still, crushed and stunned at this first brush of 
 misfortune's passing wing : a dark shadow, black 
 and fateful as the storms which came raging up 
 the valley, seemed to be gathering across her life. 
 Life itself seemed to hang on a slender thread, the 
 tidings which to-morrow's messenger should bring 
 perhaps even now life was over for her. 
 
 Felicia did not leave her long in solitude ; she 
 came in presently, with her kind considerate air, 
 knowing and feeling all, as Maud instinctively 
 was aware, but speaking only just what should be 
 spoken, and guarded by a delicate tact (rare attri- 
 bute of only the most finely-moulded natures) from 
 the possibility of a word too much. 
 
 1 Courage,' she said ; ' I know the meaning of 
 George's letter too well to be frightened. To- 
 morrow, dear Maud, there will be good news for 
 both of us.' 
 
 Maud took her companion's hand in a helpless, 
 imploring way that went to Felicia's very heart; 
 but, if her life had depended on it, no spoken word 
 would come. 
 
 There are some things in life, some desperate 
 chances, some horrible possibilities of suffering, 
 which seem to strike one mute. Maud seemed 
 now to have come across some such crisis of exis-
 
 THE GULLY. 233 
 
 tence. She followed Felicia about ; they took the 
 children for a walk ; she went almost unconsciously 
 about the little routine of their home life ; all the 
 time she seemed to herself in a sort of dreadful 
 dream ; she turned faint and chill as the messengers 
 now and again came clambering up the gorge, each 
 with his fresh item of news from the world below, 
 some one of them, as she knew must be the case, 
 carrying with him the sentence of her fate. 
 
 ' It makes my blood run cold,' she told Felicia 
 afterwards, ' to see one of them coming, even now.' 
 
 Button's words of farewell to her were not, how- 
 ever, destined to be his last. The next day a good 
 friend at Government House sent them across the 
 Hills a copy of a telegram from head- quarters, 
 which showed that Sutton's life was at any rate in 
 no immediate danger. Then came a letter to 
 Felicia from her husband. He had been up to 
 head-quarters, he said, and stayed two days with 
 Sutton. He was a good deal knocked about ; there 
 was a bullet lodged in his side, which had been 
 troublesome, and he had been much bruised by his 
 horse rolling across him. But there was no danger; 
 in a week or two he would be able to move, and 
 meanwhile he was in splendid air, and well looked 
 after. 
 
 Then Maud went to her precious locket once 
 again, and wept over it tears of joy, gratitude and
 
 234 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 love. The mists had cleared away, the world was 
 irradiated with happiness and hope ; even the 
 blackened hillside opposite had caught a ray of sun- 
 shine and seemed to smile back at her. She felt a 
 very child again in the lightness of her heart ; and 
 Felicia, in a graver but not less happy mood, 
 breathed a deep prayer of fervent gratitude that 
 the calamity so near and terrible had passed 
 away, leaving this young bright life as bright as 
 ever.
 
 ( 2 35 ) 
 
 CHAPTEK XXV. 
 
 AN INVALID. 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me count the sums. 
 I love thee to the depth and breadth and height, 
 My soul can reach, .when feeling out of sight 
 For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace 
 
 WHEN, a month later, Sutton was carried into 
 Dustypore, he was, as any one would have felt, a fit 
 subject for romance, and Maud was just in the mood 
 to appreciate all that was romantic about him to 
 the full. She had been thinking about this event 
 and fancying it, and dreaming about it for weeks 
 past, poor child, till it had become for her the very 
 climax of existence. As the time for its realisation 
 drew near she had been haunted by nervous appre- 
 hensions as to whether she had not misinterpreted 
 Sutton's words of kindness at that last interview, 
 and whether the moment of disillusionment might 
 not be now arriving. Sutton, so a morbid mood 
 suggested, might have meant nothing ; or his 
 words, perhaps, proved only a passing tenderness,
 
 236 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 engendered by the special circumstances of the 
 hour : her fancy, perhaps, had dressed up a few 
 careless expressions into something serious. But 
 there came a truer voice which said that it was not 
 so ; that Sutton was not a man of careless words or 
 a transient mood, and that a pledge had been given, 
 though without actual spoken vow, which he assur- 
 edly would redeem on his return. On the whole 
 then, though not absolutely without a misgiving, 
 Maud was joyous and courageous, and her heart 
 was light within her. She, however, felt herself 
 becoming greatly embarrassed and excited as the 
 hour of Button's arrival drew near. The most 
 needless blushes came flushing into her cheeks; the 
 simplest things seemed difficult to answer. Felicia 
 knew, Maud was certain, pretty well how matters 
 stood ; knew at any rate that there was something 
 between her and Sutton : yet Maud had never sum- 
 moned up courage to inform her what it was, nor 
 had Felicia chosen to inquire. It was rather agitat- 
 ing, accordingly, that Felicia should now be about 
 to have an opportunity of judging for herself how 
 matters stood. 
 
 Then Sutton arrived, too suffering from his 
 wound to be moved except in a palanquin; and was 
 got, with a great deal of trouble and pain apparently, 
 to the sofa in Vernon's study, which was turned 
 into his sitting-room for the time being, and where
 
 AN INVALID. 237 
 
 the invalid was to spend the day. Here he lay, a 
 close prisoner, as feeble as a bad wound and a 
 month's fever could make him, and quite in a con- 
 dition for judicious nursing. A man in such a 
 plight wants company pleasant, gentle, noiseless, 
 unexciting, feminine if possible ; he wants to be 
 read to, and sung and played to ; he wants cooling 
 drinks, which, when mixed and administered by a 
 hand like Felicia's, are more than nectar; he wants 
 those delicious idle gossips, for which the healthy 
 busy side of life so seldom provides* either the 
 opportunity or the mood. If a man lack these, an 
 illness is a dreary affair ; if he has them, it may 
 bring him the pleasantest hours of his life. 
 
 All these pleasant conditions now attended the 
 fortunate Button's convalescence. Felicia welcomed 
 him with a joyful cordiality and devoted herself 
 with enthusiasm to the task of making his impri- 
 sonment as little wearisome as might be. Vernon 
 stole an hour from his office to read him the l Pall 
 Mall Gazette ; ' Maud found herself busy with the 
 rest, a willing attendant on the happy warrior in 
 his hour of weakness. Everybody made a great 
 deal of him. Felicia's little girls, coming with 
 much modesty and many blushes, brought him a 
 nosegay apiece and kissed his hand with a sort of 
 affectionate reverence. His face was wan and thin, 
 and marked with lines of suffering; but the sweet,
 
 238 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 kind smile was still the same, and the honest eyes 
 and finely-chiselled brow. On the whole Maud 
 found him handsomer and ten times more touching 
 than ever before. She knew, too, before they had 
 been a minute in each other's company that all was 
 well with her. The time of separation, uncertainty, 
 distress, was done : happiness, greater than she 
 had ever dreamed of, was already hers. Her foot 
 stood already on the crowning ridge of existence, 
 and all the horizon blazed with the golden clouds 
 of Hope and Joy. 
 
 One effect that Button always had upon her she 
 was especially conscious of just now : she had no 
 feeling of shyness with him, such as she felt with 
 all the world beside ; he stirred her being too pro- 
 foundly for any slighter feeling to find a place. 
 Shyness deals with the superficial, slighter outcom- 
 ings of life. Sutton seemed to transport her to 
 another world of thought and feeling : thoughts too 
 high and feelings too intense to heed the mode of 
 their expression. The consequence was, that it 
 seemed quite natural to Maud for her to be waiting 
 on him ; who had so good a right as she to that 
 pleasant duty ? 
 
 Then presently Felicia went away with the 
 children, and the two were again, for the first time, 
 alone together. 
 
 1 Come,' Sutton said, changing his manner in-
 
 AN INVALID. 239 
 
 stantly, l sit down by me and tell me all that has 
 happened since we parted on the mountain's side. 
 You missed me a little, I hope ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Maud, simply, looking at him with 
 fearless, trusting eyes ; ' your going was the end of 
 all our pleasure we went away to the Gully, and 
 then came your accident and some dreadful days of 
 anxiety. Since then everything has seemed a sort 
 of dream.' 
 
 ' It has seemed a dream to me sometimes,' said 
 Sutton, ( as I lay and wondered whether the hap- 
 piness I fancied for myself was real or fable. 
 Things befall one so suddenly in life, and strokes 
 of good or ill fortune take one so by surprise, that 
 one distrusts one's own belief about them, and 
 cannot fancy that the old life which went before 
 has been all transfigured. Now, however, that I 
 see you and hear you and have you about me, I 
 begin to feel it was not a dream after all.' 
 
 * It was no dream,' said Maud, in her serious 
 way ; ' here is your locket, which I have been keep- 
 ing for you since we parted.' 
 
 'No,' said the other, giving back the proffered 
 locket and keeping the hand which gave it in 
 captivity ; ' you shall keep it now, if you will, for 
 good and all ; that is, if you have a fancy for an 
 old soldier, wounded and battered as you see me. 
 Here I shall be or weeks, I suppose, a burden on
 
 240 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 the friends who are good-natured enough to be my 
 nurses. You will have to tend me, as Elaine did 
 Launcelot in his cave.' 
 
 ' I will,' Maud said, wrapped into a mood which 
 left her scarcely mistress of herself ; e my love is as 
 great as hers was. I have been living all these 
 weeks only that I might see you again. I must 
 have died if you had not come back, or come back 
 other than I hoped.' 
 
 The die was cast the words were spoken ; they 
 came out naturally, spontaneously, almost uncon- 
 sciously before Maud had time to know what she 
 was about, or to judge of the wisdom and propriety 
 of what she was saying. They were the truth ; 
 they were what she had been feeling and saying to 
 herself for weeks past : they were the true outcom- 
 ing of her honest heart ; and yet no sooner were 
 they spoken than Maud felt an awful conviction that 
 they had better have been left unsaid; they were 
 more, far more, than anything which had been said 
 on Button's part to her. Was it wrong, unwomanly, 
 indecorous, thus to have declared herself and torn 
 the veil from her feelings without waiting for a 
 lover's hand to remove it ? The thought rushed in 
 upon her with an agonizing distinctness ; the blood 
 came rushing to her cheeks and forehead ; her very 
 hand which Sutton was holding in his own, ema- 
 ciated and bloodless, was blushing too. She could
 
 AN INVALID. 241 
 
 say nothing, she could do nothing but stay, help- 
 less, having made her confession, and wait for 
 Sutton to rescue her. 
 
 As he lay there, holding her hand in his, clasp- 
 ing it with a firm, tender grasp, which seemed to 
 be expressive of all she wanted, Felicia came into 
 the room. Maud stood there, scarlet, and moved 
 not, nor did Suttou seem inclined that she 
 should. 
 
 ' Felicia,' he said, ' you are the good angel of us 
 both, and this moment would have been incomplete 
 without you. Maud has just consented to become 
 my wife.' 
 
 Felicia took Maud to her arms in a sort of 
 rapture of happiness ; her heart was too full for 
 speech. It was a delightful relief from the anxiety 
 and distress which had been weighing upon her all 
 the summer and which had of late grown into an 
 acute pang. She felt grateful to both parties, who 
 had at last brought about the result for which she 
 had wished so anxiously and of which she had 
 somehow begun to despair. 
 
 Maud, on her part, felt it natural that Sutton 
 should, at a trying emergency, have protected her 
 skilfully, considerately, efficiently from the embar- 
 rassment into which her outspokenness had be- 
 trayed her ; it was like himself to do so, and 
 typical of the sort of feeling of confidence with 
 
 Q
 
 242 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 which he always inspired her. There was a 
 delightful sense of safety and protection in being 
 with him. How should her heart not beat high 
 at the thought that this safety and protection would 
 evermore be hers !
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 DESVCEUX IN DESPAIR. 
 
 All through, love 
 
 Protested in a world of ways save one 
 Hinting at marriage 
 
 THE news of Maud's engagement was naturally a 
 congenial topic for gossip in Dustypore. The 
 romantic circumstances under which it had come 
 about lent themselves readily to the superaddition 
 of any details, necessary, in the teller's opinion, in 
 order to bring the story to the correct pitch of 
 embellishment. Everybody considered Maud a 
 lucky girl ; some cynics remarked that once again 
 Suttou had shown himself the most courageous of 
 mankind; and Mrs. Vereker said, sentimentally, 
 that she feared poor Desvoeux would this time be 
 really broken-hearted. There was some satire 
 lurking in the words ( this time,' because the 
 present occasion was by no means the first on 
 which the same sort of thing had occurred. Des- 
 vceux's was one of those inconveniently adjusted 
 temperaments to which no woman is completely
 
 244 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYrORE. 
 
 delightful till she has become unattainable. His 
 relations to the opposite sex did not as a general 
 rule appear to involve anything of a seriously 
 pathetic order; but no sooner was a girl engaged 
 to some one else than he awoke to the terrible 
 discovery that he was deeply in love with her 
 himself and deeply aggrieved by her betrothal to 
 another. He was known not to be a marrying 
 man ; he made no secret of his dislike of matrimony 
 as an institution ; still he greatly resented other 
 people's marriages. Whenever any ladies of his 
 acquaintance got married he used to send them the 
 most lovely bridal presents, with beautiful little 
 gilt-edged notes on the finest satin paper, politely 
 intimating that he was broken-hearted. Some- 
 times his feelings were too much for prose and his 
 melancholy would break out into epigrammatic 
 versicles ; sometimes the gift bore only an inscrip- 
 tion eloquent in its reticence ' Le don cTun triste 
 cdlibataire, or ( Avec un soupir." 1 The presents, 
 however, were so very pretty (for Desvreux's tastes 
 were of the extravagant order), that their fair 
 recipients, for the most part, were glad enough to 
 take them, sighs, poetry and all, without inquiring 
 too rigidly into the giver's actual frame of mind. 
 As most of the young ladies who had for some 
 years past been married at Dustypore had experi- 
 enced something of the sort, they probably com-
 
 DESV(EUX IN DESPAIR. 245 
 
 pared notes and reassured each other as to the 
 probability of a disease, from which Desvceux had 
 already more than once recovered, not proving fatal 
 on any subsequent occasion. 
 
 Maud's engagement, however, touched Desvoeux 
 
 more nearly than any previous blow of the same 
 
 description. Her joyous, childish beauty, the 
 
 readiness of her wit, the quickness of her replies, 
 
 the great fun which they always had whenever 
 
 Fortune was kind enough to throw them together, 
 
 Maud's unconcealed appreciation of himself, 
 
 despite the coquettish airs in which she now and 
 
 then indulged ; the ready frankness which invited 
 
 intimacy so pleasantly all had gone deep into 
 
 Desvceux's heart, and he had grown to feel a sort 
 
 of proprietorship in them, which it vexed him 
 
 terribly to feel suddenly at an end. He felt 
 
 certain that Maud liked him very much ; and 
 
 certain, doubly certain now, that he intensely 
 
 admired her. No one else, he felt bitterly, had 
 
 an equal right to do so. That Button, too, should 
 
 be the fortunate rival made defeat all the bitterer. 
 
 Button's good qualities were precisely those which 
 
 Desvoeux could least appreciate ; his military 
 
 prowess did not impress him in the least ; his 
 
 chivalry touched no corresponding chord ; his ideas 
 
 of duty seemed pedantic, his feelings about women 
 
 an anachronism.
 
 246 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 If there was one thing iii which it was especially 
 irritating that such a man should have carried the 
 day, it was in the ascendancy over women, which 
 Desvceux considered as his especial forte. He 
 piqued himself not a little on his knowledge of 
 the sex, his insight into their weaknesses, his 
 experienced tact in dealing with them to the best 
 account. He had established what he considered 
 a perfectly satisfactory footing with Maud, and 
 had spent no little time, trouble, and sentiment 
 in the process. It was a cruel humiliation to be 
 rudely displaced from this agreeable eminence by 
 a mere commonplace soldier, who had lived all his 
 life in a camp and talked about women like a 
 child. 
 
 Women are, Desvo3ux came bitterly to feel, 
 inscrutable, and the cleverest or stupidest of 
 mankind alike puppets in their hands when they 
 have a passion to gratify or a secret to conceal. 
 Anyhow, the news of Maud's engagement set his 
 heart a-beating and sent his spirits down to zero. 
 He was dining with the officers in the Fort when 
 the announcement was made. One of them had 
 been calling at the Vernons', and had heard the 
 interesting fact from Felicia's own lips. ' Honneur 
 aux braves ! ' cried Desvceux, with ostentatious 
 merriment, tossing off his glass ; l here's to their 
 very good healths.' He was an adept at conceal-
 
 DESVCEUX IN DESPAIR. 247 
 
 ing his feelings, but a near observer might have 
 seen that his hand trembled so that it was with 
 difficulty he could carry his glass to his lips, and 
 that, despite his jovial tones, he had turned deadly 
 pale. 
 
 ( I am glad she has come into the Army, at any 
 rate,' said some one. 
 
 * Of course/ said Desvoeux ; ' it is the old story. 
 " J'aime beaucoup les militaires." What chance 
 have we poor civilians when a red .jacket is in the 
 field ? ' 
 
 ' And what, pray,' said one of the guests, a 
 new arrival, l is the lady's name ? ' 
 
 Desvceux had risen from the table, and was 
 moving towards the billiard-room. l Her name,' 
 he said, stopping in the act of lighting a cigar, 
 ' is that of the rest of her sex frailty.' 
 
 1 Desvoeux is hard hit this time,' observed one 
 of a little knot who lingered behind the rest over 
 their wine ; ' he really loved her.' 
 
 1 Fiddlededee ! ' said another. i Desvceux love 
 her, indeed ! ' 
 
 * He will have to drop all that now/ observed a 
 third ; l Sutton would wring his neck for him or 
 pitch him out of the window, if he as much as 
 dared look at her ! ' 
 
 The fact, however, was that, conceal it as he 
 would, Desvoeux was hard hit. His usual expe-
 
 248 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 dient of buying a handsome wedding present and 
 writing the lady some poetry quite broke down. 
 Maud's bright eyes and glowing cheeks, her beauti- 
 ful upper lip now full of pretty scorn, now melt- 
 ing into a smile that was sweetness itself haunted 
 him in his dreams. He lit his pipe, he raged 
 about the room, he denounced the perfidy of 
 womankind, he read all the most horrible passages 
 in all the worst French novels in his possession, 
 he quoted all the fiercest cynicism of Chamfort 
 and Rochefoucauld in vain ; there was Maud, 
 enthroned unquestioned mistress of his heart, and 
 it was labour lost to endeavour to displace her. 
 
 In course of time Desvreux lashed himself into 
 a highly uncomfortable state of mind and became 
 perfectly convinced that Maud had treated him 
 most cruelly. Accordingly, when next they met, 
 his appearance was suggestive of a Byron ic gloom 
 of the very deepest dye ; his handkerchief was tied 
 with the negligence which spoke of shattered hopes, 
 and his general demeanour was that of a man for 
 whom the world was over. Maud was really in 
 consternation at her friend's metamorphosis and 
 felt herself growing inconveniently shy. She was 
 conscious of an instinctive apprehension that 
 Desvceux was going to bring about a scene. His 
 face of martyrdom was a study in the completeness 
 of its woe.
 
 DESVCEUX IN DESPAIR. 249 
 
 ' You expect me to wish you joy,' he said, ' and 
 so I do. May all bright things attend you wher- 
 ever you go, and wherever you are ! The news 
 of your engagement surprised and hurt me, of 
 course.' 
 
 ' Surprised and hurt you, Mr. Desvreux ! ' cried 
 Maud, with increased alarm, ' I can't think why it 
 should do that or why you should look so very 
 odd and untidy.' 
 
 ' Cannot you ? ' cried the other,* stalking ahout 
 the room and fanning the flame of his excitement ; 
 t I suppose not ; you women are all so heart- 
 less.' 
 
 * No, we are not,' said Maud ; l and if we were, 
 I do not see that you, of all people in the world, 
 have any right to complain. Come now, tell me 
 what is the matter. Has the Agent been scolding 
 you ? ' 
 
 1 The Agent ! ' cried Desvceux, in tones of the 
 profoundest disgust ; ' you little traitress, don't 
 you know as well as possible that there is only 
 one thing in the world that could really hurt me, 
 and that you have done it ? ' 
 
 ' I ! ' exclaimed Maud, in horror. ( I'm sure I 
 am very sorry. You must try and forget me.' 
 
 1 Try and fly to the moon ! ' said Desvoeux ; 1 1 
 shall remember you all my life, to my cost, as 
 the most bewitching little piece of mischief in
 
 25O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 existence. Why am I so unfortunate ? I wish to 
 goodness I had never seen you.' 
 
 ' I am sure,' said Maud, fervently, 1 1 wish to 
 goodness you never had, since it makes you so 
 unhappy. But remember, if you please, that I 
 had no idea of what you were feeling. You never 
 told me, you know.' 
 
 1 Who was to guess that Sutton would be so 
 abominably precipitate ? I thought he was safe 
 with his soldiers and out of harm's way. Besides, 
 I told you ! Why, you knew as well as possible that 
 I adored you. Don't you remember how I squeezed 
 your hand at the last Government House ball ? ' 
 
 < And don't you remember,' cried Maud, indig- 
 nantly, ' how I refused to dance a single round 
 dance with you all the evening in consequence, and 
 only gave you a Lancers to prevent your being 
 laughed at ? ' 
 
 1 I only wish you could feel my heart beating,' 
 said Desvceux, feeling that interesting organ, and 
 apparently horrified at its activity. 
 
 t That is because you will go stamping about the 
 room in that absurd way instead of sitting still and 
 talking quietly. Come now, Mr. Desvoaux, come 
 and sit down and wish me joy kindly and pleasantly, 
 or I never will speak to you again.' 
 
 ' Little tyrant ! ' said the other, doing as he was 
 bid as meekly as could be wished ; ' and to think
 
 DESVCEUX IN DESPAIR. 2 5 I 
 
 that you should be growing lovelier every day and 
 more charming, if possible, and all for Sutton ! 
 Speak to me, indeed ! Why, you will not dare 
 open your mouth for fear of a scandal. Sutton will 
 make you cut me, you will see, as an old 
 admirer.' 
 
 f Indeed,' said Maud, upon whom Desvceux's 
 flattery always told with some effect, l I have not 
 the slightest intention of giving up my old friends. 
 Why should I ? Only you will ncrt make love to 
 me, of course.' 
 
 ' Oh, of course not,' said the other, with a laugh. 
 'But tell me now, are you not a wee bit sorry for a 
 poor fellow who is breaking his heart about you ? ' 
 
 * Breaking his fiddlestick ! ' cried Maud, bursting 
 out laughing. l Why, Mr. Desvoeux, you don't, I 
 assure you, know what you say. It is very kind of 
 you to like me, and admire me, and so forth, and I 
 am very much obliged.' 
 
 * Don't, don't, for heaven's sake, talk like that,' 
 cried the other ; l it is not kind of me at all to be 
 over head and ears in love with you, but just my 
 misfortune. But, tell me : they teased you into it, 
 did they not ? ' 
 
 ' Teased me into it ! ' cried Maud, tossing her 
 head indignantly ; * how little you know ! ' 
 
 1 Yes,' said the other, positively, l it is obvious. 
 You are an orphan you have that sweet, interest-
 
 252 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ing, dependent look that orphans have ; and Mrs. 
 Yernon made it up ; set Button to flirt with you ; 
 everybody observed that much last summer ; and 
 then, no doubt, told you that you had been flirting 
 and were bound to accept him. Why didn't you 
 pluck up heart of grace and say " No " ? ' 
 
 1 Because I plucked up heart of grace to say 
 " Yes." Do you think that Colonel Sutton is a 
 sort of man who needs any one to help his wooing ? ' 
 
 'I do,' said Desvoeux, with provoking persistency, 
 1 and Mrs. Yernon gave him every assistance. I 
 only wish she would have done half as much 
 for me.' 
 
 'Well, then,' cried Maud in a passion, ( if you 
 must know, it was I that proposed to him not he 
 to me ; and I adore the tip of his little finger more 
 than all the other men and women in the world. 
 Now do you think they teased me into it ? ' 
 
 1 No ; but if you begin with so much enthusiasm 
 you will come to dislike him very much before long. 
 His little finger indeed ! And here am I left out in 
 the cold ! What am I to do ?' 
 
 'Write and consult Mrs. Yereker,' said Maud. 
 From which unfeeling remark it may be inferred 
 that she believed less in Desvoeux's broken-hearted- 
 ness than he was inclined to do himself. 
 
 ' Well/ said her companion, with a resigned air, 
 which Maud felt had a touch of reproachful dignity
 
 DESVCEDX IN DESPAIK. 253 
 
 in it, l laugh at me as you will. I love you, and 
 always shall/ 
 
 1 Nonsense! ' said Maud. l Here comes my cousin. 
 I have a great mind to tell her, and get her to 
 comfort you.' 
 
 The interview was over. Maud had stuck to her 
 programme, which was to treat Desvceux with an 
 airy indifference and his protestations with osten- 
 tatious disbelief. Nevertheless his words were not 
 without effect. Had she been less inexperienced 
 Maud would have known that she had allowed him 
 to leave off in a most dangerous position ; that of 
 an admirer whose homage was sufficiently congenial 
 to be allowed a hearing ; whom it was within her 
 power to have at any moment at her feet, and who, 
 whether rightly or wrongly, felt he had some show 
 of right to be aggrieved and disappointed at her 
 declared preference for another man. 
 
 There was another person, however, besides 
 Desvoeux to whom the news of Maud's engagement 
 gave a serious shock. 
 
 One of Sutton's first acts, after Maud and he had 
 mutually ascertained each other's views, was to 
 scribble a line to Boldero, announcing the joyful 
 event; and he had done so, too full of his own 
 happiness to pay much attention, even had he 
 known more than he did, to the view his friend 
 might take of it. All that he knew was that
 
 '254 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Boldero, like all the world, was a great admirer of 
 his future wife. This was but natural, and Button 
 without the least misgiving accepted the position. 
 * My dear old boy,' he wrote, ' you will, I know, be 
 pleased to hear a good piece of news of me, to make 
 up for my bad luck the other day. Come over as 
 soon as you can and wish me joy. Meanwhile, re- 
 member, of course, that you must be my grooms- 
 man.' 
 
 ' His groomsman ! ' Boldero sat, pale and speech- 
 less and stunned by the sudden overthrow of all his 
 hopes. The day-dream of his existence was ended 
 by this stern awakening. Life all that part of 
 life, at least, which is worth living was, he felt 
 bitterly, over for him. It was, to use Heine's 
 expressive figure, as if some one had climbed up a 
 celestial ladder, rolled up the bright blue sky and 
 taken down the sun. Only the dismal scaffolding, 
 the dust, the gloom remained. Maud, though she 
 had never quite encouraged him to hope, had never 
 bidden him despair, and figured, we may be certain, 
 the lovely chatelaine of all his castles in the air. 
 He found out now to his cost how full his thoughts 
 had been of her. And now it was all over. His 
 pleasant hope lay shattered on the ground. The 
 blow was hard to bear ; none the easier, perhaps, 
 that it was his dearest friend's hand that struck it. 
 
 Being, however, a man of pluck and determina-
 
 DESVCEUX IN DESPAIR. 255 
 
 tion, he sat down courageously, wrote a cheery note 
 of congratulation to the fortunate winner of the 
 prize a promised his services as groomsman or any- 
 thing else which Sutton wished, and then ordered his 
 horse and rode twenty miles to an outlying village, 
 where there was a troublesome boundary dispute to 
 be settled, which he had had in his eye for weeks 
 past as wanting a visit from the Collector.
 
 ( 256 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Truth is the strong thing. Let man's life be true 
 And love's the truth of mine time prove the rest ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS had arrived, and Christmas was a fes- 
 tival observed at Dustypore with all the emphasis 
 proper to men who had carried their Lares and 
 Penates beneath a foreign sky, and were treasuring 
 in alien regions the sacred fire of the paternal 
 hearth. 
 
 The weather was cold enough to realise all that 
 English tradition requires as ' seasonable ' in the 
 way of climate. For weeks past, great bullock- 
 carts, piled high with gnarled heaps of jungle- 
 wood, had been creaking along the - dusty tracks 
 from the outlying villages and supplying the 
 Station with materials for Christmas -fires of ap- 
 propriate magnificence. The air was deliciously 
 clear, crisp and invigorating : the searching wind 
 came with its breath frozen from the Elysian
 
 CHRISTMAS AT DUSTYPORE. 257 
 
 snows and left a hoary rime on all the country's 
 face. English habits began to resume their sway : 
 people were glad to forego the morning ride, and 
 came down to breakfast at half-past nine with red 
 noses and blue fingers and romantic reminiscence 
 of European life extremely bad colds in their 
 heads. 
 
 Dustypore surrendered itself to holiday-making. 
 The Salt Board suspended its sittings. The vehe- 
 ment Blunt, finding that no work was to be got 
 out of any one for love or money, started off into 
 the country with his rifle after black-buck and 
 jungle-partridges. The courts were closed for a 
 fortnight, and judges and collectors devoted them- 
 selves to sweeping off long arrears of morning calls. 
 Contingents of visitors from all the surrounding 
 out-stations came pouring in to share the festivi- 
 ties : every house was full and more than full ; 
 for, by the hospitable usages of India, when your 
 spare rooms are filled you order tents -to be pitched 
 in the garden, and enlarge your encampment as 
 each new guest arrives. An Indian house is, 
 therefore, viewed as to its capacities for hospitality, 
 extremely elastic, and just now every house in 
 Dustypore had its elasticity tested to the utter- 
 most. Felicia was renowned as a hostess; and 
 there were half-a-dozen friends whose winter holi- 
 day would have lost half its charm if spent any-
 
 258 CHRONICLES OP DUSTYPORE. 
 
 where but beneath her roof. There was a mixture 
 of joyousness and pathos in these Christmas 
 gatherings which suited her temperament exactly, 
 and showed her in her sweetest, most attractive 
 mood. Her guests invariably went away with 
 cheered spirits and lightened hearts and a little 
 store of remembered kindness to last them 
 through the dreary months to come. Nor was 
 Felicia alone in her good intentions. Everybody 
 set about keeping Christmas with heroic good- 
 nature. The Agent gave a ball in the state apart- 
 ments in the Fort. The Dustypore Hunt had a 
 home^meet and a lunch. The ' Tent Club ' or^an- 
 
 S3 
 
 ised a pig-sticking expedition for the keener 
 sportsmen. The volunteers had a gala-day, and 
 were formed into a hollow square and panegyrised 
 by the General of the Division on their loyalty and 
 discipline. Everybody attempted something for 
 the edification of everybody else. 
 
 The Vernons gave some private theatricals, and 
 Felicia and Maud made a great success as Portia 
 and Nerissa in the ( Merchant of Venice.' Des- 
 vceux, who was entrusted with the part of Shylock, 
 heroically shaved oif his moustache and transformed 
 himself into the most frightful of old Israelites, 
 with a hook-nose and beard of diabolical aspect. 
 The way in which he rolled his eyes when Gratiano 
 exclaimed ' Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip ! '
 
 CHRISTMAS AT DUSTYPORE. 259 
 
 had twice caused Maud to explode in irrepressible 
 laughter at rehearsals and very nearly caused a 
 break-down among the actors at the final perfor- 
 mance. Altogether it was very like home, and 
 very pleasant, as all the party felt. 
 
 These Indian festivities are, perhaps, none the 
 less festive, and certainly the more touching, for 
 the fact that at least half the holiday-makers have 
 a dark, sad corner in their hearts which has to be 
 hidden from the world's eye and' to be ignored in 
 the common intercourse of life. Separation is the 
 dark cloud which hangs over an Indian existence : 
 husbands and wives, mothers and children, forced 
 asunder, perhaps at the very time when union is 
 most delightful, and living (how maimed and sad a 
 life !) in the absence of all that is best-beloved. 
 They put a brave face upon it, but the heartache is 
 there all the same. What a strong pulse of love 
 and tenderness and sorrow goes throbbing week by 
 week across half the world from the wives and 
 children at home to the lonely exile, struggling 
 bravely with his fate in the far-off Indian station : 
 what dear, ill-spelt, round-hand, stupid letters, 
 which yet are wept over with such passionate 
 pleasure and treasured with such pious care ! 
 People have a cheap tariff for telegraphing back 
 to India their safe arrival in England, with a 
 rupee extra for saying that the traveller ' is better.'
 
 26O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 What a story it tells of anxious men in India toil- 
 ing over work, with their hearts far away with the 
 shattered, invalid lady or flickering child's life, 
 carried away to cool regions in hopes of saving it ! 
 
 Take, for instance, little Major Storks, who was 
 stage-manager for the Vernons' theatricals and 
 sang a comic song between the acts. He is a 
 grizzly, wizen, well-tanned, wiry little fellow, but 
 has, under that rough exterior, as brave and tender 
 a heart as ever beat. He is in charge of the 
 Rumble Chunder Canal and bestows on it all a 
 lover's assiduity : for it he thinks, he writes, he 
 plans, he labours early and late : he rides about in 
 the most demented fashion until the sun has dried 
 him up into a perfect mummy. He knows the 
 Canal's ways and manners how much water it 
 ought to pour per second ; how much it does 
 pour ; which of the bridges are infirm ; where the 
 silt is accumulating; where the water is being 
 wasted or stolen.' He drives his subordinates 
 frantic by a zeal in which they cannot participate 
 and a thoroughness which they cannot shirk. To 
 the world outside he seems the merest drudge. 
 To-day, however, he is in paradise. It is Christmas 
 morning and the mail has brought him a goodly 
 budget of letters, all redolent of home and tender 
 conjugal love, aud precious alleviation of exile 
 photographs of half-a-dozen little Storks. He sits
 
 CHRISTMAS AT DUSTYPORE. 26 I 
 
 now, with all his family before him, with tears of 
 joyful satisfaction in his eyes. What comely lads ! 
 what sweet, ingenuous little girls ! what dear, 
 familiar looks, the legacy of a youth that has 
 passed away, greeting him from every little por- 
 trait ! In a moment Storks' soul quits its shabby 
 tenement of clay and its hot surroundings, and is 
 away in England with wife and children the wife, 
 whose heart has ached for many a dreary year of 
 separation the children, who have been taught to 
 love him with a sort of romantic piety, all the 
 more for being far away the pleasant, cool, idle 
 life in England, which lies afar off, a sort of 
 Promised Land, if ever his long, rough task in 
 India can get itself performed. Then, in the ful- 
 ness of his heart, he will put on his shabby uniform 
 and order round his shabby dogcart, and go and 
 show his treasures to Felicia, who will, he knows, 
 have a quick sympathy for his pleasure and his 
 pain ; and when the two act "in a charade that 
 night, each will know that all is not as merry as it 
 seems, but that, under a stoical calmness, lie 
 thoughts and hopes and pangs which stir the very 
 depths of man's being, and which require all the 
 help that sympathy and kindliness can give. 
 
 The last and most interesting occasion of the 
 holidays was one in which Sutton and Maud played 
 a leading part. Sutton had a two months' Inspec-
 
 262 CHRONICLES OF DUSTY PORE. 
 
 tion march before him, and no better sort of honey- 
 moon could be desired. The country through which" 
 they were to go was wild but very picturesque. 
 Button's duties would never take him away for 
 more than a few hours ; and camp life is idyllic in 
 its freedom, unconstraint and tranquillity. Exist- 
 ence has something charming about it when each 
 morning's ride takes you through new scenes to a 
 new home, in which you live as comfortably for the 
 next twenty-four hours as if you had been there all 
 your life. Maud was in rapture at the prospect, 
 nor was her happiness lessened by the arrival of 
 the most perfect Arab to be found in Bombay her 
 husband's wedding gift to her on which her long 
 journey was to be performed. To Sutton these 
 weeks seemed the fitting threshold of the new and 
 brighter existence into which he was about to pass. 
 Each day Maud bound herself closer to his heart 
 by some sweet act or word, some unstudied outpour- 
 ing of devotion, childish in its simplicity and uncon- 
 sciousness, but womanly in its serious strength ; 
 some sympathetic note which vibrated harmoniously 
 to his inmost soul. ' To be with you, dear,' he 
 said, ' is like travelling through a lovely mountain 
 country, where each turn in the road opens up a 
 fresh delight : you charm me in some new fashion 
 every hour.' 
 
 To this sort of remark Maud had no need of any
 
 CHRISTMAS AT DUSTYPORE. 263 
 
 other reply than that easiest and most natural of all 
 to feminine lips, which dispenses with the necessity 
 of spoken words. Her kisses were, we may be cer- 
 tain, eloquent enough to Button's heart, irradiated 
 for the first time with a woman's love and beating 
 high with a courageous joyfulness and hope. 
 
 By the end of January Button was well enough 
 to be emancipated from the pleasant thraldom of an 
 invalid's sofa ; nor could his march be any longer 
 delayed. One afternoon, accordingly, the little 
 world of Dusty pore assembled to see the brave 
 soldier and the beautiful girl made man and wife. 
 Boldero came in from the District and performed his 
 part as groomsman with creditable stoicism. No 
 one Maud and Sutton least of all had the least 
 idea that he was assisting at the sacrifice of all his 
 hopes. 
 
 Desvceux preserved his tragic demeanour to the 
 last, presented Maud with a diamond pendant which 
 must have gone far into his quarter's income, and 
 refused obstinately to return thanks for the brides- 
 maids a task which was traditionally assigned 
 to him in Dustypore, and which, on all ordinary 
 occasions, he accepted with alacrity and performed 
 with success.
 
 264 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 MORNING CLOUDS. 
 The little rift within the lute 
 
 BUTTON brought back his bride in April, all the 
 better, as it appeared, in health and spirits for her 
 two months' expedition. The beautiful rose of her 
 cheeks had a tinge of brown which spoke only of 
 healthy exercise in the open air. Everybody pro- 
 nounced her prettier, brighter and more charming 
 than ever. She was in the highest spirits to be back, 
 and Sutton seemed pleased to bring her and to be 
 once more amongst old friends. 
 
 To all who saw them, except Felicia's observant 
 eye, they seemed everything which a newly-wedded 
 pair should wish to be. But Felicia felt less confid- 
 ent of their happiness. Whether Maud's letters had 
 unconsciously sounded a little note of distress, or 
 whether it was that she knew both their natures so 
 well and how they ought to harmonise, that the 
 least approach to discord caught her ear something,
 
 MORNING CLOUDS. 265 
 
 at any rate, made her aware of the existence of a 
 subtle disquietude between Maud and her husband. 
 The discovery, or rather the suspicion, filled her 
 with a distress which she attempted in vain to ignore. 
 She found herself joining languidly and insincerely 
 in 'the chorus of gratulation which the Dustypore 
 community set up over the happy couple. When 
 Mrs. Yereker came to call, rustling in the loveliest 
 of new dresses, and poured out a little stream of 
 gossiping remarks how pretty it was to see them 
 together, and what a charming lover Sutton made, 
 and was not Maud a picture of a girl-wife ? Felicia 
 responded with a coldness which puzzled her visitor 
 and which Felicia was conscious of trying in vain to 
 conceal. Something, her fine instinct told her, was 
 amiss. One alarming symptom was the obvious 
 relief which Maud found in her society, and the 
 profuse tenderness and affection which she displayed 
 whenever there was no one else to see. She lavished 
 on her a sort of unconscious fondness, for which 
 Felicia looked in vain in her behaviour to her 
 husband. With him her affection seemed con- 
 strained, conscious, too deferential to be natural 
 and happy. There was about Maud, when she and 
 Felicia were alone together, a joyous self-abandon- 
 ment to animal high spirits, which was for ever 
 flowing out into some pretty childish act of fun or 
 affection, but which vanished at the appearance of
 
 266 CHRONICLES OF DDSTYPOKE. 
 
 Sutton or any other onlooker. She became a girl 
 again she sang, she danced, she got into the wild- 
 est games with the children she let off her excite- 
 ment and mirth in a thousand natural acts. Then 
 Jem would come in, and it all seemed to die away. 
 When visitors arrived, and Felicia had presently 
 more on her hands than was at all to her taste, 
 Maud would seem to enjoy it and to get amused arid 
 interested ; then, as the door closed upon the 
 strangers, she would come and throw her arms round 
 Felicia and caress her, as if her one feeling about 
 the visit was that it had been an inconvenient re- 
 straint on love which was wanting every moment to 
 express itself in some outspoken fashion; 'Hove you 
 the best, the best of all,' she would say impetuously. 
 
 ' Of all women,' Felicia put in. 
 
 1 Of all women and of all men too, except Jem,' 
 Maud answered ; ( yes, and I believe I love you 
 better even than Jem ; anyhow, I love you.' 
 
 More than once, too, Felicia detected little 
 manoeuvres on Maud's part to walk or drive with 
 her and to quit her husband's society in order to 
 do so. Altogether Felicia felt frightened, anxious 
 and sad about her friends : and Vernon, who always 
 knew her melancholy moods and could generally 
 guess their cause, in vain endeavoured to console 
 her with the assurance that all was right and that 
 Button's had been a wise and happy choice.
 
 MORNING CLOUDS. 267 
 
 The truth was that the march had "not been 
 altogether a success. A great authority on such 
 matters has said that people often endanger the 
 permanent happiness of married life by putting too 
 severe a strain upon it at its outset. Now a two- 
 month's tte-d-tete is a serious strain. Life wants 
 something besides mere affection to make it run 
 smoothly : it wants the ease and comfort of famili- 
 arity, the freedom of tastes ascertained to be con- 
 genial, the pleasant usages of common action. The 
 first year of wedded life is, no doubt, a series of 
 experiments in getting on ; two wheels, however 
 nicely fitted, are likely to rub a little at some point 
 of contact or other. And then Paradise itself would 
 lose its charm if it were all the same ; and the days 
 on Maud's first journey had a distracting resem- 
 blance. Her eyes ached with the interminable 
 horizon of dust and sand, the scrubby brushwood, 
 the lonely crumbling tomb, the rare clumps of 
 palms, the scuffling, bellowing herds of cattle. 
 Sutton's cook, whom his master in his simple 
 tastes believed a prodigy of culinary skill, used .to 
 send up the same dishes with depressing monotony, 
 and, do what she would, Maud could not like them. 
 Then some marches were over terribly rough 
 ground, and her Arab made stumbles that took her 
 breath away, though she was ashamed to say so. 
 But it was not the little things which really
 
 268 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 mattered. Her husband's very nobility of nature 
 oppressed her. A hundred times she had felt how 
 good he was, how true, how really great, how 
 chivalrous in his devotion, how tenderly considerate, 
 and yet and yet something more unheroic would 
 perhaps have been sometimes a relief. When the 
 most ineffably stupid young officers rode across 
 from some neighbouring station and plunged with 
 cheerful volubility into the gossip of last season at 
 Elysium, there was, Maud felt, something welcome 
 in the humbler companion and the more trivial 
 theme. Then, too, the solitary days oppressed her. 
 Button had often outlying posts to visit and would 
 accomplish them by starting off three or four hours 
 before Maud was awake and making a detour, so as 
 to meet her at their new halting-place at breakfast. 
 On these mornings Maud had the company of an 
 escort of troopers, her greyhound Punch, and her 
 own thoughts, which were apt to get gloomy. 
 Even Punch, she fancied, thought it a bore, and 
 went along in a dejected fashion. Sometimes 
 Suttou's work could not be so quickly disposed of, 
 and he would be detained till the evening, and then 
 the solitary day seemed sad and interminably long. 
 More than once the tears had come unbidden to 
 her eyes. Did Sutton forget her? Never for an 
 instant, her heart told her clearly enough ; but he 
 did not perhaps sufficiently realise the wants and
 
 MORNING CLOl>DS. 269 
 
 wishes, the flickering, uncertain spirits, the way- 
 ward moods, the causeless melancholy of one who, 
 though invested with the dignities of womanhood, 
 was in character and powers in reality still a child. 
 
 Then, though Sutton was never in the slightest 
 degree imperative, and though her every spoken 
 wish was law, Maud was conscious sometimes of 
 being kept in better order than she liked and 
 being forced up to a standard which was incon- 
 veniently high. Her husband spoke little of his 
 tastes ; no word from him ever assumed the resem- 
 blance of a command ; yet Maud not unfrequently 
 felt that a secret pressure was constraining her to 
 something that was not exactly congenial ; she 
 knew with an almost distressing distinctness what 
 her husband liked and disliked, and the knowledge 
 was something of a burden. She was conscious 
 when she hurt him ; sometimes from mere wayward- 
 ness she chose to do it, but she hurt herself in the 
 process as much as him. She had given him her 
 heart and made him all her world, and was glad 
 to have done so. None the less there was some- 
 times an undefined pang about her self-devotion ; 
 she became restless, anxious, uncertain in her 
 moods, and the tears seemed to lie near the sur- 
 face and would spring to light, in unwary moments, 
 at trifles too slight to cause their flow. 
 
 Then on some matters her husband's tastes and
 
 2/O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 hers were by no means in harmony. On one occa- 
 sion Desvoeux had seized the opportunity of the 
 Agent's camp being in the neighbourhood and had 
 ridden across and travelled a couple of marches 
 with them. Maud had looked forward to seeing 
 him with pleasure and greeted his arrival with 
 marked animation. The visit turned out as 
 pleasant as she had expected ; but the pleasure 
 was marred by a secret conviction of her husband's 
 disapproval. Nothing could quench Desvceux's 
 light-heartedness or impede the easy flow of his 
 amusing small-talk. Suttou, however, did not 
 seem to find it amusing, and assumed, quite un- 
 consciously, a dignified air, which Maud felt to be 
 rather awful, though Desvceux was, as usual, im- 
 perturbable in his gaiety. His spirits, however, 
 were better, and she was more at her ease to be 
 infected by them when Sutton was not by. It 
 vexed her to the heart to know that it was so, 
 but so she knew it was. 
 
 The morning that Desvoeux went away was one 
 of Sutton's bnsy days, and Maud was alone when 
 their guest bade her farewell. * Good-bye,' she 
 said, with a sort of sigh ; ' how I wish you could 
 have stopped and ridden with me this morning ! 
 I shall be alone all day and feel that I am going 
 to have a fit of low spirits.' 
 
 ' And so am I,' said Desvoeux, ' a very bad fit
 
 MORNING CLOUDS. 2/1 
 
 indeed, which will last till next time we meet. 
 Good-bye.' 
 
 Hand saw him turning pale, as he used to do 
 when he got excited, and heard the eager tremble 
 in his voice. He held her hand for an instant as 
 if he could not bear to give it up, and looked at 
 her with a look that was earnest and reproachful 
 and, Maud felt, very, very sad. Then Desvceux 
 had left without another word,^ but how eloquent 
 may silence sometimes be ! 
 
 Was she smiling or crying, and did she really 
 want his company ; and was she neglected and 
 miserable ? Desvceux had galloped away with his 
 heart in a tumult from queries such as these, 
 cursing the cruel fate which obliged him to be at 
 his master's camp, full thirty miles away, with 
 endless boxes of despatches ready for disposal 
 before to-morrow morning. 
 
 Thus it was that Maud's early married life had 
 not been without its morning clouds and sorrows. 
 Then, as people do when they are unhappy, cast- 
 ing about for a cause of her unhappiness, she 
 began to reproach herself. The old doubts of her 
 fitness, her worthiness for her position, her power 
 to retain her husband's love, began to haunt her. 
 1 Ah me ! ' she sometimes felt inclined to cry,. ' I 
 fear that I am no true wife.' And yet she knew 
 that, not even if her inmost thoughts were read,
 
 2/2 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 could she bring any charge of doubtful love or 
 allegiance against herself. Button's men had, she 
 had often heard, begun to worship him when "his 
 exploits in the Mutiny had raised their enthusiasm 
 to its height. Maud felt that she could under- 
 stand the feeling ; in fact, she did worship him 
 with all her being. But then worship is not all 
 that is wanted for a happy married life. Maud, 
 at any rate, felt it delightful to be with Felicia 
 once again.
 
 273 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE HILL CAMP. 
 
 And hope to joy is little less in joy 
 Thau hope enjoyed 
 
 MAUD soon lost sight of her troubled spirits in 
 Felicia's society. Her doubts about her happiness 
 in married life were forgotten in the midst of plea- 
 sures which pleased Button no less than herself. 
 Her devotion to Felicia was a sentiment which her 
 husband thoroughly understood and cordially ap- 
 proved. 
 
 1 I used to be finely jealous of her, Jem, I can 
 tell you, in old days,' Maud would say to him, 
 * and to think you liked her twenty times better 
 than some one else ; and indeed I am not sure 
 that I am not jealous now ; only I am so much in 
 love with her myself that I do not feel it.' 
 
 1 Jealous ! ' Button would plead. * Felicia is like 
 a sister to me. It was she, I believe, who first hit 
 out the brilliant idea of our being married.' 
 
 1 Was it ? ' said Maud blushing. ' I fancied that 
 
 s
 
 2/4 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 happy thought had been my own. Well, Jem, if 
 you never flirt with any one but her I will forgive 
 you, because in my opinion she is an angel.' 
 
 The pleasant visit ended. Sutton had to go off 
 to his camp, a tiny hill station some three thousand 
 feet above the sea, and therefore, as its enemies 
 declared, combining all the drawbacks of hill 
 and plain. Here they were to stay till June, 
 when Sutton was to have his leave and to take 
 his bride up to Elysium far the rest of the summer. 
 Even this prospect had not enabled Maud to bear 
 the parting from her friend with equanimity. ' I 
 wish I wish,' she had said, wistfully, with the 
 tears in her eyes l what do I wish ? If only, 
 dear Felicia, I could never go away from you 1 ' 
 Felicia bade her farewell with an aching heart, 
 and some dark misgivings. They were not to meet 
 at Elysium, for this year she had determined to 
 establish her children in their little mountain 
 abode at the ' Gully ' and to divide her time 
 between them and her husband till he could come 
 up and join them. Then they had resolved to 
 take a little march into the interior, where Felicia 
 might get some new sketches and enlarge her stock 
 of ferns ; while Vernon might have a few days' 
 shooting, unharassed by a pursuing train of official 
 cares and correspondence. 
 
 The Hill Camp proved a fearful place ; worse,
 
 THE HILL CAMP. 2/5 
 
 far worse, than anything on the march. It was only 
 to be endured till June, happily, but still it looked 
 terrific. The long lines of huts ; the horrible 
 little abodes which were honoured by the title of 
 Officers' Quarters ; the gaunt, hideous, treeless 
 hills ; the valleys blazing and withered, the dry, 
 blistering scene uncheered by a single streamlet ; 
 the dusty plateau, where the soldiers were eternally 
 marching, galloping, cannonading all the outer 
 world seemed dull, parched, repulsive. There was 
 no other lady in the camp but one, the surgeon's 
 wife, large and dark and hot, and, as Maud felt, 
 horribly realising one's ideas of an ogress. This 
 lady used to come and see her, and sit gossiping 
 and questioning and telling long stories, and 
 shaking a great bird of paradise feather in her 
 head, till she made Maud's life a burthen to her. 
 Then, after about three of these visitations, which 
 Maud imagined that she had endured with angelic 
 sweetness, the lady, for some inscrutable cause, 
 took offence, and when next they met out of 
 doors flung up her head, brandished the bird of 
 paradise feather in the most menacing and defiant 
 manner, and had evidently proclaimed a social war 
 of an altogether implacable order. 
 
 * Jem ! what have I done ? ' said Maud with a 
 shudder, as she passed. 
 
 1 Something unforgivable evidently,' said Sutton ;
 
 2/6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ' we must make peace at once, because Surgeon 
 Crummins could poison us all, if he pleased, next 
 time we happen to be poorly and to fall into hia 
 hands. Let us have them to dinner.' 
 
 So the irascible lady and the surgeon had to be 
 asked to dinner ; and dull and stiff and wearisome 
 the dinner proved, and Maud's heart sank within 
 her at the thought that these were to be her com- 
 panions, and this the sort of life upon which she 
 was embarked. She loved her husband, but what 
 a price her love had cost her I 
 
 Flashes of brightness, however, break in upon 
 the dreariest lot, and one cheering feature of this 
 period was the arrival of a most interesting box 
 from England, containing a highly important 
 supplement to Maud's original trousseau. To take 
 an array of pretty garments for a march of two 
 months in the jungle had been out of the question, 
 so that Felicia had determined that all Maud's 
 dresses for the coming summer should not arrive 
 till the time approached when they would be of 
 use. In May, accordingly, there came two splendid 
 cases, whose appearance announced the importance 
 of their contents. Jem professed himself quite as 
 excited as Maud and set to work at once with 
 chisel and hammer to disinter the treasures. 
 There is something very delightful in such uupack- 
 ings far from home the very air within seems
 
 THE HILL CAMP. 
 
 English ; the silver-paper has a charming familiar 
 look ; each package as it comes out and is revealed 
 excites a pleasing pang of excitement. And then 
 these boxes were mines of treasures. There were 
 lovely ball-dresses, lying fresh, unruffled, ethereal 
 as when they left the artist's hand; and a new 
 habit, which made Maud feel how shabby hers 
 had grown in her long tour ; and a most charming 
 morning dress, looped up into all sorts of fantastic 
 costumes, which her prophetic soul told her would 
 look very effective on the lawn at Government 
 House ; and there were hats and bonnets and 
 flowers for the hair, culled surely by some fairy 
 hand ; and amongst the other treasures was a fine 
 pearl necklace, which old Mrs. Button had guarded 
 for many a year for this especial end, and had at 
 last had reset, and now sent, with all sorts of fond 
 wishes and blessings, to her dear son's bride. 
 
 Sutton insisted on Maud's trying everything on ; 
 and Maud, nothing loth, obeyed. 
 
 ' Let us send across for Mrs. Crummins,' sug- 
 gested her husband, ' if this will not appease her 
 she is a fury.' 
 
 Accordingly Maud wrote a little note in great 
 excitement : ' Dear Mrs. Crummins, nould you like 
 to see my new dresses, which have just arrived ? ' 
 Mrs. Crummins mould like it, of all things, and 
 came across in about two minutes, under a big urn-
 
 2/8 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 brella, bird of paradise and all, and was quite as 
 much pleased as Maud, and plunged with her at 
 once into mysteries of detail in which Button's 
 male mind was incapable of sympathising. She 
 heaved great sighs of wonder, delight, and satis- 
 faction as each new treasure came to light, and 
 ended by losing her heart and kissing Maud quite 
 affectionately in her enthusiasm. l Indeed they are 
 very pretty, and so are you, my dear, and, as the 
 surgeon says, quite a refreshing sight for weary 
 eyes.' 
 
 So Maud, who was ever ready for a proclamation 
 of amity, signed peace at once, and before the week 
 was out she and her new friend were on terms of 
 the utmost confidence, and had arranged the bird of 
 paradise in the very latest fashion, as shown in 
 Maud's own hats, so that it really looked lovely. 
 
 The result, however, of all this was, that Maud 
 anticipated Elysium with greater glee than ever. A 
 pearl necklace, a beautiful satin dress, a Paris fan 
 with lovely Watteau ladies gliding all about it well, 
 it was something to go from day to day and look at 
 these treasures, but the moment for fruition had 
 not arrived. They would have been quite thrown 
 away on Sutton's troopers and mule-men, amid the 
 horses and the dust. Maud's grey habit, plaid 
 dress and broad pith hat, was the only costume that 
 would not have been ridiculous for the camp. No,
 
 THE HILL CAMP. 2/9 
 
 the hour for real enjoyment had not arrived, and 
 patience, as Maud had frequently occasion to 
 observe, is a virtue easy to preach but hard to 
 practise, when the present is dull and the expected 
 future a blaze of pleasure. 
 
 Then other things had occurred to intensify her 
 anticipation of enjoyment at Elysium and her wish 
 to go there. Mrs. Vereker had written her a letter 
 which set her heart beating. ' The Governor- 
 General and I,' that excellent lady wrote, f have 
 both arrived, and so the Season may be said to 
 have begun. Our friends of the Twentieth are here 
 in force and are going to do wonders in the way of 
 entertainment : everybody says it is to be dazzling. 
 General Beau is here, as adoring as ever. The 
 truth is, my rose bonnet is rather adorable, so, at 
 least, mes amis inform me. By the way, that 
 naughty Mr. Desvceux goes on as absurdly as evei 
 about " some one," and declares quite seriously 
 that he is broken-hearted.' 
 
 .* Silly fellow!' said Maud, and yet it rather 
 pleased her. 
 
 1 Can you dance a minuet ? ' the letter went on. 
 ' We are all having lessons. There is to be one at 
 Government House. General Beau's shrugs and 
 shakes over it are delicious. Everybody declares 
 that I do it to perfection but everybody won't say 
 so when " somebody " arrives and carries all before
 
 2 SO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 her. So you see, my dear, I make hay while the 
 sun shines, and am not a bit jealous ; but come 
 and eclipse me as soon as you please, for I, too, 
 rather love you.' 
 
 Two hot, dusty, weary months had still to pass. 
 Over that dull interval Maud's imagination tra- 
 velled, each day with lighter steps, to a paradise 
 of excitement and delight.
 
 ( 281 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 "We fell out, my wife and I, 
 And kiss'd again with tears. 
 
 SUCH being the state of things at Elysium, and 
 such the state of Maud's feelings at the camp, 
 imagine her dismay when Sutton came into the 
 room one morning, with a letter in his hand and 
 a very vexed expression on his face, and said : ' Is 
 not this a bore, Maud ? Here is a letter from the 
 Chief telling me to go and inspect and report on all 
 the suspected villages at once and say what force 
 we want. So we cannot go to Elysium after all.' 
 
 ' Not go to Elysium ! ' cried Maud, flushing 
 red and the tears gathering to her eyes before she 
 had time to check them. It seemed to her, poor 
 child, the very climax of disappointment. 
 
 Her husband kissed her kindly. ' I did not 
 know, F dear,' he said, * that you would care about it 
 so much. I am such an old salamander myself 
 that I forget that other people don't enjoy being
 
 282 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 grilled as much as I do. But what can be done ? 
 These scoundrels bad luck to them must be re- 
 ported on, and I must get the report finished before 
 my autumn march begins.' 
 
 ' It cannot be helped, I suppose,' said Maud, in 
 a tone of despair, and retreating gloomily to her 
 bedroom ; for the tears kept coming fast, and the 
 news seemed worse and worse each time she realised 
 its import afresh. No Elysium ! No holiday no 
 change no charming balls no beautiful dresses 
 no pleasant rides none of the nice scenes on 
 which her fancy had dwelt, the prospect of which 
 had cheered her through the long, dull spring no 
 bright companions, full of mirth and flattery and 
 devotion to herself! Alas! alas! Maud felt that 
 her trouble was too great to bear. 
 
 Button followed her presently, in a great state 
 of perturbation at her display of disappointment. 
 
 1 Come, Maud,' he said kindly, ' cheer up. You 
 shall go and see Felicia if you like.' 
 
 But, alas ! Maud's tears had got the- mastery of 
 her. A long-pent-up stream of melancholy had 
 burst and nothing could stop it. She was incon- 
 solable ; the disappointment, in itself a great one, 
 had found her not too well prepared to bear it. 
 She wept, and would not, or could not, be com- 
 forted. 
 
 Sutton was completely disconcerted : to see her
 
 TEMPTATION. 283 
 
 in trouble, and not be able to relieve it, wishing 
 for anything that he could not give, grieving in 
 this sort of hopeless fashion about what was to 
 him scarcely more than an annoyance, was a new 
 experience, and one which he was unprepared to 
 meet. The fact was, though he did not know it, 
 that Maud had got her head full of nonsense about 
 Elysium. Distance lent enchantment to the view, 
 especially when the view was taken from the dusty, 
 stupid camp. Mrs. Vereker's "foolish letter sounded 
 bright and alluring: Desvceux's merry talk and 
 romantic protestations, how full of amusement, 
 interest, excitement it all seemed ! How unbear- 
 ably dull in contrast the life about her ! Suttou 
 often absent, often tired and silent ; sometimes 
 sad ; never, Maud told herself, anything like 
 amusing.' Yes, it was too vexatious for all the 
 heroism she could bring to bear upon it : her philo- 
 sophy broke down. 
 
 ' I know it is a hard life here,' said her husband, 
 in vain attempts at consolation ; ' it is hot and 
 dull for you. I like it, but then I am used to it. 
 But what can I do ? If only Felicia were at Ely- 
 sium you might go up to her.' 
 
 1 There is Mrs. Vereker,' said Maud, sugges- 
 tively. 
 
 * Mrs. Vereker ! ' exclaimed Sutton, in consterna- 
 tion ; ' you surely '
 
 284 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 She wrote very kindly the other day/ Maud 
 said, cutting short her husband's protestation, 
 1 and asked me to stay with her in her cottage.' 
 
 * But, Maud, you would not really like to go to 
 her, would you ? * 
 
 ' I should not like to go,' Maud said, f if you 
 disapproved.' 
 
 * And I,' answered Sutton, suddenly nettled, 
 ' would not have you stay unless you liked. How 
 shall we decide ? ' 
 
 * You must decide,' said his wife, too much ex- 
 cited and too anxious to know well what she was 
 about. 
 
 1 Very well,' said Sutton, kindly, but with a 
 sad tone that haunted Maud in aftertimes, 1 1 will 
 decide. You shall go.' 
 
 Maud knew the tone in which he spoke as well 
 as spoken words. She knew the look when he was 
 hurt ; she had watched it before. It told her now 
 that she had never wounded him so deeply as to- 
 day. Her heart smote her. He had hardly gone 
 before she longed to repent and stay; and yet she 
 could not make up her mind to the sacrifice which 
 it would cost her. She had been reckoning so 
 upon it that it seemed like the blotting out of all 
 the brightness of her life. The prospect of the 
 dreary, lonely summer, was too grievous. So her 
 heart went swaying to and fro : she grew more
 
 TEMPTATION. 285 
 
 and more unhappy. Sutton was doubly kind and 
 tender to her, and his look smote her to the heart. 
 At last her good angel carried the day. ' Jem/ she 
 said, * I want to change my mind, please. I was 
 mad just now and do not know what possessed me. 
 I do not want to go to Elysium or anywhere, if 
 you cannot go with me. I am frightened at the 
 idea of it, even at this distance. I am sure I 
 should be wretched. You must forgive me, and 
 forget my foolish tears.' 
 
 These two had perhaps never loved each other 
 quite so much as at this moment, nor Maud been 
 ever quite so lovable. She was in her sweetest 
 mood; she wore a bright, serene air which spoke 
 of an unworthy temptation overcome, a higher 
 happiness attained, a victory over her weaker, baser 
 self. Already, as happens in such cases, it seemed 
 to her incredible that she could have wished for 
 the lower pleasure which had so nearly won her. 
 As for Sutton, the world was suddenly re-illumined 
 to him ; the gloomy, terrible, agonising eclipse 
 had passed : all was sunshine and joy. His face 
 showed what he was feeling. He drew Maud to 
 him and kissed her with a serious, fervent air, as 
 if it were an act of worship ; he held her as if it 
 were impossible to him ever to let her go. Maud 
 knew that his iron frame was shaken with vehe- 
 ment emotion ; she saw a kind of rapture in
 
 286 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 his eyes, and read in them that she was well- 
 beloved. 
 
 ' Dear Maud,' he said, ' I should be wretched, the 
 most miserable wretch alive, if ever any shade of 
 doubt or coldness came between us two. You hold 
 my life, dear, in your hand : my heart is wholly 
 yours and has no other life. If ever your love to 
 me waned it would be death to me/ 
 
 And Maud, as she looked and listened, knew 
 that it would. 
 
 ' It can never wane, dear Jem,' she said, infected 
 with her husband's mood and clinging to him, as 
 was her wont, like a child that needs protection. 
 1 Every day you bind me closer to you ; only I fear 
 and ten times more after being such a goose as 
 I was just now that I am not half worthy of all 
 you are to me.'
 
 ( 28; ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 BOLDERO ON GUARD. 
 
 Oh ! never work 
 
 Like this was done for work's ignoble sake : 
 It must have finer aims to spur it on ! 
 
 THUS Maud and her husband were more than recon- 
 ciled. Maud packed up her dresses, with a few 
 natural sighs that so much sweetness should waste 
 itself unseen, and set about passing the summer 
 with heroical cheerfulness. Things took a turn for 
 the better. A few thunder-storms had come to cool 
 the world, and the early rains were covering the 
 barren mountains with verdure and bringing new 
 life to Maud's garden. Mrs. Crummins was giving 
 her lessons in water-colours, and altogether exist- 
 ence was less intolerable than she had believed 
 it possible that it should be. Perhaps the 
 momentary breach, followed so quickly by so 
 thorough a reconciliation, had engendered an 
 especial sweetness in her intercourse with her 
 husband. Be that as it may, Maud had resigned
 
 288 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Elysium and settled down courageously to her 
 home life, not, perhaps, without regret, but at any 
 rate, without discontent. 
 
 Before, however, their reconciliation had time to 
 take effect in any alteration of their plans, events 
 occurred which gave their thoughts a wholly new 
 direction and effectually settled for them what they 
 were to do. Occasional cases of cholera, seeds 
 sown by the scattered atoms of the great Fair the 
 year before, had been occurring in various districts 
 all through the winter, and at the first blush of 
 spring the disease showed symptoms of breaking 
 out in force. Week by week the ' Gazette ' chron- 
 icled a marked diminution in other forms of sick- 
 ness, an equally distinct increase in this. The 
 doctors had a busy time in making preparations, 
 and great were the cleansings, the whitewashings, 
 the emptyings, the fillings-up in many an immund 
 old town and ill-odoured village, where the king- 
 dom of Dirt had prevailed in unbroken tranquillity 
 for generations past. 
 
 Outside each city a cholera camp was formed, 
 with a view to the isolation of the sufferers. The 
 District officers were at work from morning to , 
 night. The natives took it all with that slightly 
 wondering acquiescence which is the normal attitude 
 of mind produced by the proceedings of the ' Sahib.' 
 It was the order of God that cholera should come ;
 
 BOLDEEO ON GUARD. 289 
 
 it was likewise the order of the t Sirkar ' * that 
 houses should be whitewashed, cesspools cleared 
 out, and chlorodyne administered gratis to all who 
 liked it. Both visitations were inscrutable, and to 
 be endured with philosophic calm. The English 
 Doctor, however, was, so ran the orthodox belief, a 
 dangerous fellow, and the old ' Hakim,' with his 
 traditional nostrums, no doubt the proper person to 
 be killed or cured by. The right thing therefore, 
 if one became ill, was carefully to conceal the fact, 
 have surreptitious interviews with the native phy- 
 sician, and, if die one must, be returned as having 
 died of some disease which would not involve a visit 
 from the { Inspector Sahib,' a conflagration of bed- 
 steads and clothes, a general effusion of whitewash 
 and consequent topsy-turveying of all the house- 
 hold. English doctors and native doctors, how- 
 ever, were of much the same avail, for King Cholera 
 has as yet defied science to read his deadly 
 mystery and learn the secret of his rule. All that 
 science can achieve is to narrow the limits of his 
 ravages. 
 
 May had scarcely begun when two cases occurred 
 in the Hill Camp, and Sutton, for the first time in 
 his life, knew what it was to be afraid. He had 
 given t hostages to Fortune/ and death and danger 
 for the first time looked really terrible when it was 
 
 * Government. 
 
 T
 
 29O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Maud who had to confront them. Fifty times Sutton 
 cursed his folly and selfishness in not having sent 
 her off earlier to the Hills, out of harm's way. 
 
 While he w,s harrassing himself with vain 
 regrets and self-reproaches and puzzling his brains 
 as to how the mistake might be even yet repaired, 
 Maud herself added a new item to his perplexities 
 by becoming decidedly unwell. She awoke uure- 
 freshed and wretched; declined the great treat of 
 the day, her morning ride ; came shivering and 
 appetiteless to breakfast and confessed to feeling 
 completely miserable. Her husband, the moment 
 that he felt her dry, burning hand, exclaimed 
 that she had got fever, gave her a welcome prescrip- 
 tion to go back at once to bed, and sent off for the 
 Doctor. 
 
 The reader of these pages, who knows the Sandy 
 Tracts, would think that I did them scarcely justice 
 if I omitted from the picture all reference to a 
 visitation which to many of them formed, too often, 
 a main feature of Indian existence. There is a 
 Fiend there, be it known, that comes, no one can 
 tell whence from earth or air, or marshy pool or 
 frosty sky or blazing sunny morning. However, 
 when he comes he speedily makes his arrival 
 known to the guests whom he favours with a visit. 
 He shakes them and racks them, and gets into their 
 heads and beats a kettledrum there, and sets a tribe
 
 BOLDERO ON GUARD. 29 I 
 
 of imps to dance a sort of infernal ballet all about 
 each quivering limb; he freezes them, so that the 
 poor shivering wretches bury themselves under 
 mountains of rags and blankets and go on shiver- 
 ing still; he parches them till they feel like Dives 
 in torture ; he turns their brains to mud, their 
 thoughts to chaos, their high spirits to the very 
 blackest gall. Most people, it is believed, when the 
 demon first possesses them, signalise his accession 
 by a hearty cry ; and well they" may, for among 
 the other cheering thoughts which suggest them- 
 selves at the moment, one is that every time you 
 have fever the likelier you are to have it yet again ; 
 and that your way to recovery lies through a remedy 
 which for bitterness and bewilderment is only not as 
 bad as the disease for which it is invoked quinine. 
 In the Sandy Tracts they serve it to you hot, out 
 of a black bottle, stopped with a twisted coil of paper, 
 and heated half to boiling by being carried through 
 the sun. It is at such a moment that existence 
 naturally wears a sombre look, and that the Indian 
 exile curses the ambition or the ill-luck that bore 
 him to such a fortune beneath an alien sky. 
 
 Maud, however, was so far fortunate that she 
 had the best and tenderest nurses that could be 
 wished. The surgeon, delighted with so interesting 
 a patient, was assiduous, considerate and suggestive. 
 Mrs. Crummins was more than a mother, and
 
 292 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Button suddenly discovered a perfect genius for the 
 science of an invalid's room. When Maud, after a 
 week or two, began to get strong again there was 
 no doubt in the little conclave that she ought to 
 go to the Hills. A great deal of illness was about 
 the cholera had become really serious the fierce 
 summer was coming quickly on in another fort- 
 night the journey would be almost impossible for 
 all but the strongest. So it was settled for her to 
 go ; and Sutton became very impatient and uneasy 
 till she was safely off. 
 
 Circumstances seemed to settle whither she should 
 go. There had come the kindest letter from Mrs. 
 Vereker, the moment she had heard of Maud's attack. 
 Indian people are,.it must be said for them, delight- 
 fully hospitable, and offer one bed and board for as 
 long as one likes, as a matter of course. l Let me 
 know the day,' Mrs. Vereker had written, ' and I 
 will send out my pony for the last stage in ; and I 
 shall take the children into my room, which they 
 will think great fun, and turn the nursery into a 
 bedroom for my pretty invalid. Come, dear Maud, 
 and I will promise you back your blooming cheeks 
 in a fortnight ! ' 
 
 Sutton was touched by the kindness of a person 
 to whom he had never been in the least polite ; and, 
 in far too great a fright to be particular, or allow 
 objections which would have suggested themselves
 
 BOLDERO ON GUARD. 293 
 
 at another time, lie lost no time in writing to Boldero 
 about the means of getting to Elysium (for, without 
 a little pressure in the matter of bullocks and camels 
 from the District officer, carriage in the Sandy Tracts 
 is hard to find) ; ~and Boldero had written to say 
 that happily he himself was going up on business, 
 and would put his camp at Mrs. Sutton's disposal. 
 
 Accordingly Maud went up to the Hills in the 
 utmost comfort, and with what would have struck 
 European eyes as somewhat unnecessary pomp. 
 The wild country in which they lived rendered an 
 escort of cavalry an almost necessary feature of any 
 but the shortest expedition, and she was quite ac- 
 customed to go out for her ride, in her husband's 
 absence, attended by a couple of wild Sawars, whose 
 rude attire, fierce aspect, drawn swords and scream- 
 ing, prancing horses, rendered them somewhat 
 incongrous companions for a young lady's morning 
 canter. It seemed, therefore, in no way strange for 
 their party to assume the aspect of a military ex- 
 pedition. Boldero, however, added all the civil 
 splendour at his command and called into requisition 
 all the resources of the District officer's establish- 
 ment to make Maud's journey luxurious. 
 
 All along their route there were signs of due 
 preparation for the * Deputy Commissioner Sahib's* 
 party. Whenever they came to a halting-place they 
 found a little encampment of tents already pitched,
 
 294 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 surrounded by a hpst of willing ministrants ; a meal 
 awaiting them, the tea-kettle simmering or cham- 
 pagne cooling, and all the little comforts that Indian 
 servants have so ready a knack of extemporising on 
 a march. Maud, though still weak, had sufficiently 
 recovered to enjoy it all extremely, and found her 
 companion very much to her taste, yet not altogether 
 as she would have him. He watched over her with 
 as anxious and tender a care as Sutton himself could 
 have done. Everything that could by any possi- 
 bility contribute to her comfort had evidently been 
 thought of with a sedulous attention. Their dinner 
 each evening was a little banquet of a very different 
 description from the rough-and-ready meal which 
 sufficed for Boldero's simple tastes on ordinary occa- 
 sions. Maud's every wish was watched. Twenty 
 miles from home she had said casually that she had 
 left her scent-bottle behind her, and thought no 
 more of it till it made its appearance next morning 
 at breakfast. Horsemen had been riding through 
 the night in order that she might not lack her eau 
 de Cologne. Sutton had insisted on sending with 
 her his own especial body-servant, who had been 
 with him ever since he was a lad, and was, Maud 
 knew, essential to the comfort of his existence. He 
 might, however, have spared himself the sacrifice, 
 for Boldero proved himself a brilliant organiser and 
 was full of resources. Maud simply rode from one
 
 BOLDEKO ON GUARD. 295 
 
 pleasant drawing-room to another. The journey 
 kept her in a glow of pleasure. ' How pretty it 
 is ! ' she cried, as they alighted after the first 
 morning's march and found the camp-fires alight, 
 the relays of ponies picketed, and a banquet ready 
 under a vast peepultree's shade ; ' how pretty it is, 
 and how good you are to me ! I am beginning to 
 feel like an Eastern queen on a royal progress.' 
 
 1 Pray rule us as you will,' said .Boldero gallantly ; 
 * you will find us loyal subjects. Meanwhile let 
 your Majesty's cup-bearer offer you some hock and 
 Seltzer-water, the best of beverages after a thirsty 
 ride.' 
 
 But, polite and kind and hospitable as Boldero 
 was, he was yet not quite as Maud would have liked 
 him to be. His mirth, formerly so ready and uncon 
 strained, had departed. He made no approach to 
 familiarity, scarcely to unconstraint. He was ready 
 to talk, if she began the conversation ; but he was 
 equally well pleased to ride for miles without a 
 word. His object seemed to be to make her journey 
 pleasant, but he gave no symptom that it pleased 
 himself. He never for a moment forgot that she 
 was the Colonel's lady and he the District officer 
 in attendance upon her. This reserve jarred some- 
 how with Maud's idea of what was interesting, 
 natural, romantic. Many nice men, most nice men, 
 she thought, were eager in rushing into friendship
 
 2Q6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTTPORE. 
 
 with her and required a little putting down. It 
 was provoking that Boldero showed no tendency to 
 stand in need of this gentle repression. She had 
 liked him especially last year and he had seemed 
 quite alive and responsive to the fact ; now it piqued 
 her that, beyond the assiduous politeness required 
 by his position as a host, he showed no symptom 
 of being fascinated ; in plain language he quite 
 declined to flirt, and yet she gave him every oppor- 
 tunity. This was provoking, since Maud herself 
 felt especially disposed to be gracious. 
 
 1 Now,' she said, after luncheon, when Boldero 
 showed symptoms of retreating, ' please do not go 
 away to smoke ; let us sit in this pleasant shade 
 you shall read me some poetry no if you like, 
 you shall smoke and I will read to you. See, now, 
 have my beloved Browning I am so fond of 
 this.' And Maud began to read, which she did 
 very nicely : 
 
 Constance, I know not how it is with men : 
 
 For women (I am a woman now like you) 
 
 There is no good of life but love but love ! 
 
 What else looks good is some shade flung from love ; 
 
 Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me, 
 
 Never you cheat yourself one instant ! Love, 
 
 Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest ! 
 
 'Will you have some more of this hock before it 
 is packed up ? ' said Boldero, in the most determined 
 manner.
 
 BOLDERO ON GUARD. 
 
 1 No, thank you,' said Maud, with a sigh of real 
 annoyance, ' I will not have any more hock before 
 it is packed up nor shall you have any more poetry. 
 And why, kind Fates, is it that I have so prosaic a 
 companion for my journey just when I happen to 
 feel poetical ? ' 
 
 ' It was because the prosy companion happened 
 to be going at the right moment/ Boldero said ; ' I 
 am afraid this sounds very unromantic too, but I 
 advise you to go into the tent and have a thorough 
 rest before we start again. And, by the way, I shall 
 be sending back to the camp : do you want to write a 
 line to Sutton ? ' 
 
 1 Of all things ! ' cried Maud. < And I shall tell 
 him how pleasant you have been about the poetry.' 
 
 Before their Elysian residence was ended Maud 
 discovered that it was Boldero's particular function 
 to recall her husband to her thoughts : sometimes 
 at moments when oblivion would have been pre- 
 ferable.
 
 ( 298 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A GKASS WIDOW. 
 
 Let's teach ourselves that honourable stop 
 Not to outsport discretion 
 
 MAUD found Mrs. Vereker's promises of hospitality 
 and enjoyment fully verified. The change from 
 the Camp was delightful ; the extra four thousand 
 feet of altitude made life a luxury. Energy, in 
 a hundred different forms, returned to her : some 
 new spring of life quickened her powers alike of 
 mind and body. Mere existence once again became 
 delightful ; the pleasant consciousness of health 
 and strength again put her in high spirits. The 
 dull routine in which she had been living of late 
 seemed in retrospect extremely dull. She missed 
 her husband and wrote him enthusiastic letters to 
 tell him so ; but a hundred fresh pleasures and 
 interests rushed in to fill the vacant space and to 
 deaden the feeling of regret. And then it had 
 been settled that as soon as the inspection was 
 finished Sutton should get leave to come up and
 
 A GRASS WIDOW. 299 
 
 write his report at Elysium, so that their separa- 
 tion promised to be a very short one. 
 
 Mrs. Yereker's cottage was the scene of a great 
 many quiet but enjoyable festivities. She had the 
 most charming little luncheon parties, over which 
 she presided with a modesty, liveliness, and grace 
 which her guests found irresistible. There was 
 not much to eat, but each one in his turn received 
 a smile and a glance from the purple eyes and 
 found his glass of sherry turning into nectar before 
 him. These happy guests were mostly military ; 
 and he must have been a severe critic indeed who 
 would have denied them the merit of faultless 
 attire, good looks and chivalrous dispositions. The 
 very atmosphere was infectious with flirtation. 
 Mrs. Yereker kept a little court of gentlemen, 
 each with his acknowledged position in the hier- 
 archy of adorers. Nor did she appear to question 
 that her guest would do the same. She took for 
 granted that Maud wo-uld accept Desvoeux's prof- 
 fered politeness ; she laughed a little gentle laugh 
 at her girlish scruples, and turned her sweet eyes 
 upon her in amused wonderment at such innocent 
 prudery. 
 
 ( My dear child,' she said, ( what are we poor 
 wives to do? Sit, with our hands crossed, singing 
 hymns and thinking of our cari sposi in the 
 Plains ? How would my good man be the better
 
 3OO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 if I went out moping for rides all alone, instead 
 of being attended by my cavalier? Besides, no 
 one ever would believe that one was alone, and 
 one would be gossiped about as much as ever. 
 And then did not your old Othello wish that 
 Boldero was here to look after you ? No, no, I 
 don't find " moping " among the other disagree- 
 able things we vowed to do when matrimony 
 marked us for its own. And then you must 
 know that three is quite an impossible number 
 at the Hills the paths are too narrow, happily 
 and three is an odious number, which ought to be 
 turned out of the arithmetic-books. So you must 
 start a flirtation not to interfere with mine. 
 Besides, Mr. Desveeux is too charming. I only 
 wish that he would flirt with me ! ' 
 
 So Maud found herself taken possession of by 
 Desvoeux, and assigned to him as a matter of course 
 in the set in which she was living. The worst of 
 it was that she found it rather pleasant. It was, 
 of course, convenient to have some one ready to 
 fetch and carry, who was always on the look-out 
 for one at parties and only too delighted at having 
 any command to obey. It was all above-board 
 and recognised as right. Every one knew that 
 there was not the least harm in it. The only 
 drawback was that Maud found it very difficult to 
 describe the state of things to Jem, and her letters
 
 A GRASS WIDOW. 3OI 
 
 grew shorter than was right. Mrs. Vereker was 
 too volatile, too frivolous, too much in love with 
 herself and the world around her, to allow of her 
 companion lapsing into a serious mood. She 
 spent hours over a succession x>f toilettes, each of 
 which was perfection ; hours more in designing 
 how such perfection should be achieved. High 
 spirits and fun pervaded her every thought, but! 
 dress was the matter about which Mrs. Vereker 
 was most nearly feeling serious. The two ladies 
 had a long discussion over the attire which would 
 do most justice to their charms at the Viceroy's 
 Fancy Ball. 
 
 ( I can't go as a Marquise,' said Mrs. Vereker, 
 ' because powder does not set my eyes oif well, and 
 paint spoils my complexion. I mean to be Night 
 holy, peaceful Night black tulle, you know, 
 with a crescent moon glittering on my forehead, 
 and little diamond stars twinkling, twinkling in 
 both my ears, which you know are loves. See, 
 now ! ' And Mrs. Vereker caught up a great piece 
 of muslin which was lying on the sofa, threw it over 
 her shoulders, turned her beautiful violet eyes to 
 the ceiling, and went sliding across the room with a 
 sweet, demure smile and graceful undulations. 
 
 ' See, now I ' she cried, ' don't you feel the 
 moonlight and the nightingales and the tinkling 
 folds, and how very sacred and peaceful it all is ?
 
 3<D2 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 I shall be furious if at least sixteen men don't 
 break their hearts about me. But, my dear, you 
 shall be a mvandiere and show your pretty ankles ; 
 or a Normandy flower-girl, with a high cap and 
 crimson petticoat. Or why not be Morning, and 
 dance in my quadrille ; a Rising Sun, with rays ? ' 
 
 1 Oh no, thank you,' Maud answered ; ' I intend 
 to have a quadrille of my own. I leave you the 
 sun, moon, and stars to yourself. Mr. Desvceux 
 is arranging one for me out of Sir Walter Scott 
 something historical and romantic.' 
 
 Then Desvceux would come (oftener than ever, 
 since this Historical Quadrille gave a new excuse 
 for frequent calls) and turn everything into ridi- 
 cule. ; As usual,' he told them, ( Mrs. Fothering- 
 ham has been trying to drive a bargain. The two 
 young ladies are to go as Mediaeval Princesses ; 
 and poor Giroflont, who had come all the way from 
 Calcutta to dress the ladies' hair for the Fancy 
 Ball, stipulated for his accustomed five rupees 
 a-head. Fotheringham mere stuck out for three. 
 Giroflont rejected the suggestion with scorn. 
 "Impossible, madame," he said, "ce sont des 
 coiffures historiques ! " So exit Mrs. Fothering- 
 ham in a fury.' 
 
 1 And the poor girls will have to go as milk- 
 maids,' said Mrs. Vereker. ' "What a shame ! 
 And what a mother ! '
 
 A GRASS WIDOW. 30$ 
 
 ' And what a father ! ' said Desvoeux. ' He has 
 just been to interview the Agent and has made us 
 both extremely ill. Such vapid dulness ! 
 
 He spoke of virtue not .the gods 
 More purely when they wish to charm 
 Eallas and Juno sitting by ; 
 And with a sweeping of the arm, 
 And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye 
 Devolved his rounded periods. ' 
 
 1 What a comfort you must find it, Mr. Desvoeux,' 
 said Mrs. Vereker, ' to fly for refuge to eyes that 
 are neither lack-lustre nor dead-blue ! Now I 
 come to think of it, though, I believe dead-blue is 
 just the shade of mine.' 
 
 t Yours ! ' said Desvoeux, in a tone of fervour 
 which spoke volumes. 
 
 ' These poor girls ! ' cried Maud, ' how shamefully 
 they are dressed ! Perfect Quakeresses ! ' 
 
 1 Quakeresses ! ' answered Desvoeux ; 'but Quaker- 
 esses are too charming, dear little tender doves, in 
 the softest silk and freshest muslin. I suffered 
 agonies once upon a time on account of one.' 
 
 ' Profane ! ' cried Mrs. Vereker ; * Quakers are 
 really a sort of monks and nuns, only that they 
 happen to have husbands and wives.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Desvoeux, ' monasticism without 
 its single recommendation I ' 
 
 * Rude man ! ' Mrs. Vereker cried ; l let us send 
 him away, Maud. I should like to know, sir,
 
 304 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 what would become of you without us married 
 women ? ' 
 
 ' What indeed ? ' cried Desvoeux ; f but, you 
 know, when the Pope offered Petrarch a dispensa- 
 tion to marry, he declined on the ground that he 
 could not write poetry to his wife.' 
 
 * That reminds me,' said Mrs. Vereker, l that I 
 must write some prose to my husband, and Mrs. 
 Button some to hers ; and the post goes in half- 
 an-hour. Mr. Desvoeux, you must really go.' 
 
 ' I obey,' said Desvoeux, with a sigh : * my exile 
 from paradise is cheered by the thought that I 
 am coming back at four to take Mrs. Sutton for 
 a ride.' 
 

 
 ( 305 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 FACILIS DESCENSUS AVERNI. 
 
 Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
 Which love around your haunts hath set. 
 
 THE pleasant weeks flew by, a round of enjoyments. 
 Maud found herself in great request. She and 
 Mrs. Vereker held quite a little levee every 
 morning. Day after day a never-failing stream 
 of visitors poured along the path to the modest but 
 picturesque residence where these two beauties 
 waited to charm mankind. The grass-plot in 
 front was worn quite bare by a succession of ponies, 
 who waited there while their owners were worship- 
 ping within. 
 
 No young officer who arrived for a holiday con- 
 sidered himself at all en regie till he had been to 
 pay his respects to this adorable couple. 
 
 Mrs. Vereker was none the less attractive, as 
 
 she knew very well, for being contrasted with 
 
 u
 
 306 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 another charming woman, whose charms were of 
 a different order. ' Blest pair of syrens ! ' Desvoeux 
 used to say in his impudent fashion ; * it is too 
 charming to have you both together a dangerous 
 conspiracy against the peace of mind of one-half 
 of the species.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' Mrs. Vereker would answer, turning her 
 violet eyes upon him, with a sweet reproachful 
 smile, which would have melted any heart but 
 Desvreux's ; ' and when one of the syrens is 
 young and lovely, and just arrived from the 
 Plains. There mere days, my dear Maud, when 
 Mr. Desvosux used to want to ride with me and 
 used to run my errands so nicely ! Alas ! alas ! 
 for masculine weathercocks I I am very jealous of 
 you, my dear, I'd have you to know, and shall 
 some day tear your pretty eyes out. You do too 
 much execution by half. Meanwhile, here is my 
 dear General Beau coming up the road.' 
 
 Maud shrugged her shoulders and arched her 
 pretty brow, and both Desvoeux and Mrs. Vereker 
 burst out laughing to see the General portrayed. 
 
 1 The General to the life ! ' cried Desvceux, 
 * " like a poet or a peer 
 
 With his arched eyebrow and Parnassian sneer. " ' 
 
 4 1 protest against the poet,' cried Mrs. Yereker,
 
 FACILIS DESCENSUS AVERNI. 307 
 
 laughing ; ' we always flirt in the very plainest 
 prose. As for his eyebrows, they are ador- 
 able.' 
 
 > 
 
 Then the General arrived/ as great a dandy as 
 ever Poole turned out, and was in the drawing-room 
 before Maud's gravity was at all re-established. 
 ' And what was the laugh about ? ' he inquired. 
 
 ' About a Parnassian sneer,' said Desvoeux with 
 great presence of mind ; * and where do you come 
 from, General ? ' 
 
 ' I have been calling at the Fotheringhams, 1 
 said the General ; ( my intimacy with Mrs. Fother- 
 ingham does not incline me to wish to be one of 
 her daughters.' 
 
 ' Poor girls ! ' said Mrs. Vereker, l we were com- 
 miserating them the other day, and saying how 
 cruelly their mother treats them.' 
 
 'Ah!' said the General, 'she does indeed; 
 actually makes the poor things do lessons all the 
 morning. A certain gentleman, a friend of mine, 
 I cannot tell you his name, went there the other 
 day with the most serious intentions towards the 
 little one, the one with yellow hair, and actually 
 found them hard at work at Mill's " Logic." ' 
 
 ' Two women were grinding at the mill,' said 
 Desvceux, ' and one was taken and the other left, 
 I suppose ? '
 
 308 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 4 1 am afraid,' said Mrs. Vereker, l that both 
 were left. But fancy a woman who was also a 
 logician ! For my part, I consider it a great privi- 
 lege to be as unreasonable as I choose.' 
 
 ' The arguments of beauty,' said the General, 
 1 are always irresistible ; but I am quite for female 
 education.' 
 
 ( And I,' said Mrs. Vereker, 'am dead against it. 
 We know quite as much as is good for us as it is. 
 What do you say, Maud ? ' 
 
 1 I have quite forgotten all I learnt at school 
 already,' said Maud. * General Beau, can you say 
 your Duty to your Neighbour ? ' 
 
 ( And your duty to your neighbour's wife ? ' put 
 in Desvceux. ' But I object to all education as 
 revolutionary part of this horrid radical epoch in 
 which we live.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Mrs. Vereker, 'one of the nice things 
 about India is its being a. military despotism. As 
 for Europe, the mobs have it all their own way.' 
 
 1 Horrid mobs ! ' said Desvceux, ( as if an un- 
 washed rabble was Nature's last achievement. 
 
 Her 'prentice hand she tried on lords, 
 And then she made the masses ! ' 
 
 * But you must teach them religion, you know,' 
 said the General, ' the Catechism, and so forth.'
 
 FACILIS DESCENSUS AVEKNI. 309 
 
 1 Of course/ said Maud ; their Duty to their 
 Neighbour, for instance.' 
 
 * I don't know,' said Mrs. Vereker ; ( they only 
 learn it all by rote. When I was last in England 
 our clergyman gave us this specimen of one of his 
 parishioners, to whom he had been detailing the 
 mysteries of faith : 
 
 i " Clergyman. And now, Sally, how do you 
 expect to be saved? " 
 
 ' "Sally. Dun'noa ; please, sir, tell I." 
 
 ' Well/ said Desvoeux, ' theology is a thing I 
 never could understand myself. Now I must be 
 off to my Agent.' 
 
 ' When shall we see you again ? ' said Maud. 
 
 ' Dun'noa/ said Desvoeux; 'please, ma'am, tell I. 
 What time shall I come and take you out this 
 afternoon ? ' 
 
 But the ladies had visitors more distinguished 
 even than the General, The Agent himself came 
 in one Sunday after church and asked to be allowed 
 to stay to lunch. Cards flowed in apace from 
 Government House, for the Master of the Cere- 
 monies there knew that no entertainment would 
 be complete where Maud was not. 
 
 There were little dances got up expressly in her 
 honour, for which her card of engagements was 
 filled for days before : at every point homage, the
 
 310 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 sweetest that woman's ears can listen to, awaited 
 her. A chorus of worshippers assured her she was 
 beautiful ; the incense was for ever burning on her 
 shrine, till the very air became drugged with flat- 
 tery. Yet Maud was not completely happy ; her 
 conscience was ill at ease. The scene around her 
 was pleasant; but, tried by certain standards, she 
 knew that it would fall short. She remembered, 
 with a sigh, the sort of way in which her cousin 
 Vernon would have turned up his nose at the 
 people among whom she was living, and she knew 
 that in many ways they deserved it. Felicia, she 
 knew, thought Mrs. Vereker utterly frivolous, fast 
 and slightly vulgar ; and she felt that Felicia was 
 right. Her husband, conscience reminded her, dis- 
 approved of and despised Desvceux : and was there 
 not something to disapprove and dislike about him? 
 Still Maud felt herself unable to resist the current 
 that was hurrying her along. The consequence was 
 that she had fallen out of harmony with those 
 stricter judges whose tastes just now it was con- 
 venient to forget. It gave her no pleasure to think 
 of them. $he fancied Jem in a silently reproach- 
 ful mood, Felicia daintily contemptuous, Vernoii 
 with an outspoken sneer. Her letters to her hus- 
 band, though they never contained the hundred- 
 thousandth part of one untruth, began to be less
 
 FAC1LIS DESCENSUS AVEKNI. 3 I I 
 
 faithful and complete transcripts of her life than of 
 old. Desvceux ought, in truth, to have occupied a 
 more prominent place. She. felt ashamed to tell 
 her husband, toiling hard in solitude and heat, of 
 the round of gaiety in which her life was passed. 
 On the other hand, her husband's letters gave her 
 no satisfaction. They were far from amusing; in- 
 deed, the life which he was leading was hardly sus- 
 ceptible, in livelier hands than his, of being ren- 
 dered amusing or picturesque. He missed her, of 
 course ; but then he would be with her again in a 
 few weeks, and Maud did not think it necessary to 
 be sentimental about it His pen was far from a 
 ready one, and this Report, Maud knew, would be 
 worse to him than a campaign. In his letters to 
 her his one idea would have been to conceal from 
 her anything that was disagreeable, and she might, 
 if she had chosen, have augured ill from his reti- 
 cence ; but life just now was too bright and excit- 
 ing for such inward monition to get a hearing. 
 Her companions had infected her with a passion 
 for pleasure, and duty had faded into indistinctness. 
 Then, too, her new position as & married lady and 
 as Button's bride was not without its charm. She 
 was a much grander lady now than she had been 
 the year before as Miss Vernon, and this access of 
 dignity was pleasurable. It involved, however,
 
 312. CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOKE. 
 
 being taken in to dinner by officials of an age, 
 dignity, and disposition which she found anything 
 but congenial to her own, though Desvoeux protested 
 that she was trying to establish a flirtation with 
 the Agent. Once at Government House she had 
 the honour of sitting next the Viceroy, an alarming 
 but yet delightful eminence. How kind he seemed, 
 how full of friendly talk, how eager to know about 
 her husband and his doings ! 
 
 1 How is your preux chevalier ? ' he said. l What 
 would become of everything, I wonder, in that 
 stormy corner that he keeps in such good order, 
 but for him? He is one of the people whom I 
 completely trust.' 
 
 Maud felt her cheek glowing with pleasure, yet 
 the pleasure was not without a sting. Everybody 
 conspired to speak of her husband as some one 
 beyond the usual flight in goodness, chivalry, 
 nobility of soul. Was she behaving as became the 
 wife of such a~ man ? Was she loving, honouring, 
 and obeying in the full spirit of her vow ? Was it 
 honourable or right that half-a-dozen foolish lads 
 should be competing for familiarity with her, and 
 a man like Desvoeux be her habitual companion ? 
 Ought her husband to hear such things of her ? 
 This was the little skeleton which Maud kept 
 locked up, along with many lovely dresses, in her
 
 FACILIS DESCENSUS AVERNI. 3 I 3 
 
 bedroom" closet this the little prick her conscience 
 gave her this the drop of bitter in the glittering, 
 ambrosial draught of pleasure. 
 
 She drank it all the same and found it too sweet 
 to put it from her lips.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 BAD TIMES IN THE PLAINS. 
 Where nature sickens, and -each air is death. 
 
 WHILE the fortunate Elysians were thus bravely 
 keeping up their own and one another's spirits by 
 a round of gaieties, the people in the Plains were 
 busy with a round of work of quite a different 
 description. Cholera having broken out, all leave 
 in the infected regiments had been cancelled, and 
 many a luckless officer had come back to his 
 cantonment, grumbling at a curtailed holiday and 
 the stern mandate which recalled him just as he 
 had reached the snow scenery of which he had 
 dreamed for months, or established himself in 
 some happy hunting-ground for a two months' 
 campaign against ibex or bison. Back they all 
 came, however, poor fellows, to take their equal 
 chance with rank and file against an enemy of 
 whom even the bravest men are not ashamed to 
 be afraid.
 
 BAD TIMES IN THE PLAINS. 3 I 5 
 
 The prevalence of illness and the precautions 
 ordered to prevent its increase entailed a deal of 
 extra labour, and kept all the officers busily 
 employed. The hospitals required constant visit- 
 ing, for the men were moody and disheartened, 
 and stood in need of all the encouragement that 
 their leaders could give them. Sutton, always 
 thinking of every one 1 but himself, had ordered two 
 of his ' boys ' away to an outpost forty miles off, 
 nominally to look after a turbulent Zamindar, really 
 to be out of harm's way. This threw all the more 
 work on his hands, and it was work that he felt 
 himself specially capable of doing with good effect. 
 His visits at the hospital were, he knew, eagerly 
 looked for, and a few kind words from the Colonel 
 Sahib often inspired cheerfulness and hope at a 
 moment when gloom and despondency were telling 
 with mortal effect on men's minds and bodies. His 
 regiment had already lost several men, and they 
 had died happy in the thought that the well-loved 
 leader was ever close at hand, and ever on the look- 
 out for something to alleviate their suffering. 
 Many a gaunt visage, with death already written 
 in each ghastly feature, lighted up with sudden 
 brightness as he came, and, when exhaustion had 
 gone too far for speech, smiled him a heartfelt 
 benediction of gratitude and love. The scene was, 
 indeed, one full of pathos, even to a less interested
 
 3 I 6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 looker-on than the Colonel. It was horrible to see 
 these sturdy, joyous, much-enduring, dare-devil 
 troopers lying so utterly prostrated, unnerved and 
 helpless. Death, it seemed, should have come to 
 them in the form of steel or bullet, the thrust of 
 lance, the crashing sword-cut or wild cavalry 
 charge ; not as a pestilence, creeping on them 
 unawares and slaying them in their beds. Sutton, 
 who had looked death in the face a hundred times 
 with perfect indifference, began to understand why 
 people feared it. After all some aspects of life 
 are, he felt, too delightful to leave without a sigh. 
 For the last few months he had been, for the first 
 time in his life, completely happy. A new era had 
 begun for him, new vistas of pleasure had opened 
 up. All that had gone before had been duty, 
 excitement, hard work ; not, indeed, without its 
 enjoyment, but, after all, something far from 
 happiness in the sense in which Sutton had now 
 begun to understand it. Fighting was all well 
 enough, and the hazardous ambition of a soldier's 
 career delightfully spirit-stirring ; but it was not 
 here that the real end of life was to be found. 
 Button's real end of life was now the little being 
 who was flirting away at the Hills, in happy forget- 
 fulness of all but the present moment. Sutton, 
 however, thought of her only as he had seen her, 
 tender, affectionate, devoted to himself. Since the
 
 BAD TIMES IN THE PLAINS. 3 I 7 
 
 half-quarrel about her departure for the Hills and 
 the reconciliation which followed it, his life with 
 her had heen one of perfect happiness. Maud had 
 been raised by her conquest over herself into a 
 sweeter, nobler mood, and was more than ever 
 mistress of her husband's heart. Her departure, 
 peremptorily insisted on by her husband, had none 
 the less cost them ' both a bitter pang ; though 
 Button promised that it should be for a few weeks 
 at the utmost, a promise which cheered Maud more 
 than it did himself, as she knew not, as he did, 
 how easily its fulfilment might be rendered impos- 
 sible. So Sutton went about his work in his own 
 determined, loyal fashion, but with his heart no 
 longer in it. His treasure was elsewhere and his 
 heart with it. The collection of materials for his 
 Report gave him a deal of trouble and involved 
 many weary rides. He had to see District officers, 
 Zamindars, police inspectors, heads of villages, 
 spies, and then to determine what the real neces- 
 sities of the case were and where the posts should 
 be fixed. Everything depended on his work being 
 well, wisely, and thoroughly done. The responsi- 
 bility weighed on him : the peace, safety, pros- 
 perity of a whole District was hanging on his 
 judgment. This is the kind of work which tries 
 conscientious and loyal men far more than physical 
 exertion. Then the cholera, which had shown
 
 3 I 8 CHEONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 symptoms of abatement, broke out all of a sudden 
 with more violence than ever, and it became appa- 
 rent that Suttou's regiment was thoroughly in- 
 fected. Then all real hopes of his getting up to 
 the Hills for the present, at any rate, had to be 
 abandoned ; but of this he said nothing to his 
 wife. It was of no use to distress her beforehand 
 with bad news, which she would be certain to learn 
 quite soon enough. 
 
 One evening, when Button had returned, 
 thoroughly tired with a long, hot expedition, the 
 orderly, whose task it was to bring him the returns 
 of the sick for the day, told him that in the list of 
 seizures for that afternoon was a Pathan boy, who 
 had been picked up years before by some of the 
 troopers in a suddenly deserted village, and who 
 had lived as a pet child of the regiment ever since. 
 Sutton had been kind to the lad, had defrayed 
 such small charges as his maintenance in the lines 
 involved, and had secured him the beginning of 
 an education in the regimental school. Sutton on 
 hearing the news went off at once to the hospital. 
 Already the disease had made fearful progress, and 
 he saw in a moment that the boy was in the most 
 critical condition. He bent over the exhausted, 
 helpless form, and said a few kind words of hope- 
 fulness and sympathy. The boy listened with 
 glistening eyes and lips quivering with agitation ;
 
 BAD TIMES IN THE PLAINS. 3 I 9 
 
 and as Sutton turned to go lie sprang up in bed, 
 forgetful of everything but the master-feeling 
 which overpowered him, and clasped his protector 
 round the neck with a single outburst of affection : 
 1 Ma-Bap,' ' My father and mother ! ' 
 
 Two hours later they came to say that the boy 
 was dead, and before the next morning Sutton 
 began to be aware that that last embrace had been 
 a deadly one, and that the dread malady had laid 
 its hand upon himself.
 
 ( 320 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 AN ELYSIAN PICNIC. 
 
 Nay, the world the world, 
 All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 
 To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue 
 To blaze its own interpretation ! 
 
 THREE gallant officers, who had been enjoying the 
 hospitality of Elysium for many weeks, were fired 
 one day with a noble resolve to show their gratitude 
 to the gentlemen and their devotion to the ladies 
 by whom they had been so pleasantly entertained. 
 It was an inspiration, everybody felt at once, and 
 all Elysium thrilled with conscious responsiveness 
 at the happy thought. There is a little valley near 
 Elysium, a mile or two from the mountain's sum- 
 mit, where a green, smooth sward invites the weary 
 climber to repose ; where venerable deodars, tower- 
 ing on the steep hill-side, stretch their limbs to 
 ward off the fierce afternoon sun ; where a head- 
 long stream comes bubbling down among the thick- 
 grown ferns and falls in a feathery cascade and dis- 
 appears in the gorge below ; where the Genius of
 
 AN ELYSIAN PICNIC. 3 2 I 
 
 the Mountains has, in fact, its chosen haunt. There 
 you may sit and watch the rose-tipped snowy, range 
 warming into fresh life and beauty as the sun goes 
 down, and fading into cold gloom as he disappears. 
 Here, in a hundred suggestive nooks, Nature has 
 hinted at a sylvan tete-a-tete, or spread a verdant 
 curtain of wild growth to festoon an al fresco 
 banquet ; and here it was that, the three inspired 
 officers resolved to give an entertainment that 
 should at once do justice to the warrath of their 
 feelings, the correctness of their tastes, and the 
 profuseness of their liberality. 
 
 It was to be a picnic the picnic of the season 
 the picnic of the world ; and if enchanting scenery, 
 a cloudless sky, enthusiastic hosts, a crowd of pretty 
 women, an army of devoted men, a community not 
 too blase* to be easily amused, nor yet so unused to 
 pleasure as not to know how to take it if all 
 these ingredients, backed with the music of a 
 lovely band crashing out among the rocks, cookery 
 over which, by gracious permission, the Viceroy's 
 own chef presided, and champagne, iced to perfec- 
 tion in Himalayan snows, could make a success, 
 then it would, as Maud expected, be indeed an era 
 in the lives of all concerned. 
 
 Mrs. Vereker, though perhaps less sanguine than 
 her more youthful companion, determined to have 
 a new dress for the occasion ; and a committee of 
 
 X
 
 322 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 adorers discussed the rival merits of half-a-dozen 
 projected costumes. Mrs. Vereker, however, treated 
 all their suggestions with contempt, and determined 
 in the depths of her own consciousness on some- 
 thing that should be a sweet surprise. 
 
 Maud, happily, had one of her English treasures 
 which was still unknown to the admiring public, 
 and which she felt at once would be the very thing. 
 
 For some days nothing but the picnic could be 
 talked of in Elysium ; what to wear at it, how to 
 get to it, how to return, were topics of the liveliest 
 interest to all. A hundred pleasant plans in con- 
 nection with it shaped themselves into being. 
 General Beau, who liked being beforehand with the 
 world, secured for himself the honour of escorting 
 Mrs. Vereker ; and Desvosux, as a matter of course, 
 established his claim to act as Maud's gentleinan- 
 in-waiting on the occasion. By this time her 
 spirits were very high and impatient of all that 
 seemed to check their flow. She was flirting with 
 Desvoeux, she knew, in the most open manner, yet 
 she resented any notice being taken of it. Boldero 
 had met her at a croquet party and been very dis- 
 agreeable. He confessed to having been two days 
 in Elysium, and could or would give no account of 
 why he had not been to call. ' How unkind and 
 unlike the old Mr Boldero whom we all liked so 
 much ! How you are changed ! '
 
 AN ELYSIAN PICNIC. 323 
 
 1 Yes,' Boldero said, flushing up quite red, so 
 that Maud knew that he meant more than met the 
 ear, ' and some one else is changed too and might 
 not care about her former friends.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' Maud said, disturbed at 
 Boldero's serious air ; ' how can I care about you, 
 if you won't come and see me ? Come now, and 
 take me across the lawn for an ice, and tell me 
 what it is that is the matter.* 
 
 1 I do not think I can tell you,' said Boldero, 
 greatly alarmed at finding himself committed to a 
 lecture ; ' you will not like it ; you want a 
 scolding.' 
 
 ( Well,' said Maud, * I like scoldings from my 
 friends, and I often deserve them, and often get 
 them, goodness knows. Give me one now ; only 
 you must be quick, please, because there is Mr. 
 Desvoeux signalling me, and_I have promised to go 
 for a ride with him.' 
 
 ' Don't,' said Boldero, with great alacrity ; * stay 
 and hear my lecture. -Let me go and say you 
 would rather not.' 
 
 ' Not for the world ! ' cried Maud ; f I am looking 
 forward to it immensely ; he would be broken- 
 hearted if I disappointed him, poor fellow. How 
 would you like it yourself? ' 
 
 ' Broken-hearted I ' said Boldero, with that pecu- 
 liar turn of contempt in his voice with which her
 
 324 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 husband and his friends always vexed Maud by 
 speaking of Desvoeux. 
 
 1 How disagreeable you are ! ' said Maud. ' Don't 
 you know he is my particular friend ? 
 
 1 Friend ! ' said Boldero ; ' he is the very worst 
 enemy you have, believe me. Forgive me, as your 
 husband's old friend, if I tell you the truth when, 
 it seems, no one else will. He is making you 
 talked of; and if you could only know how people 
 talk ! He knows it, and he likes it, and it is what 
 he is always doing.' 
 
 I And what you are always doing,' said Maud in 
 a passion, ' is coming and saying the most horrid 
 things in the most disagreeable way and joining 
 the horrid people who gossip about one. Do they 
 talk of me? Then why don't you make them 
 eat their words you, who used to be my 
 friend ? ' 
 
 I 1 am your friend,' said the other with a grave 
 persistence, l and Button's too. It is because I am 
 that I risk your displeasure by telling you that you 
 are doing wrong/ 
 
 'Doing wrong?' cried Maud, by this time quite 
 flushed with excitement and hardly mistress of her 
 words ; ' how dare you say so ? You know it is 
 false. I am alone, or you would not venture to 
 insult me.' 
 
 ' Come,' said Boldero, unmoved by the taunt, of
 
 AN ELYSIAN PICNIC. 325 
 
 which Maud herself felt the outrageous injustice, 
 ' be sensible, and let me take care of you this 
 evening : do me a kind act for once.' 
 
 * Thank you,' said Maud, the tears gleaming in 
 her eyes, l and hear such things as you have been 
 saying over again ? Take care of me, indeed ! 
 Please never speak to me again ! ' 
 
 She was gone, leaving her companion discom- 
 fited. In another instant Desvoeux was at her 
 side, and, as he lifted her to her pony, said some- 
 thing which made her laugh and blush. Boldero 
 would have liked to throttle him. 
 
 Maud's conscience, however, prevented her full 
 enjoyment of the ride. She knew as well as pos- 
 sible that Boldero was telling her truth : she was 
 doing wrong, she felt only too distinctly. Boldero 
 would have cut his fingers off to please her, and 
 she had chosen to misunderstand him. Still it 
 was too provoking to be lectured. When she got 
 home there was a letter from Dustypore, which told 
 her that Felicia too had heard of her proceedings 
 and was wanting to warn her. l You must not 
 forget, dear Maud,' the letter said, ' what a home 
 of gossip Elysium is, and how all that is young and 
 pretty and interesting is what gossip busies itself 
 most about. Some men, like Mr. Desvceux, for 
 instance, have only to look at one for the gossipers 
 to begin ; but I know you will be very judicious,
 
 326 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 even at the expense of being somewhat too parti- 
 cular. How I wish I were with you ! ' 
 
 ' They all want to tease me with their horrid 
 advice and hints,' Maud thought, in vexation of 
 heart ; i as for Mr. Boldero, he was too odious : I 
 can never, never forgive him.' 
 
 Then, as if all the world were in a conspiracy, 
 Mrs. Fotheringham, whom Maud met at a dinner- 
 party that night, pounced upon her as the ladies 
 were filing into the drawing-room and made her 
 come and sit down on a remote sofa. 
 
 Maud always believed, probably not without 
 justice, that Mrs. Fotheringham bore her a grudge 
 for being married before the two Miss Fotheriug- 
 hams. She was, accordingly, quite indisposed to 
 be lectured. 
 
 1 My dear,' Mrs. Fotheringham said, l an old 
 woman may sometimes give a young one a friendly 
 hint. You don't know the world as I do, with my 
 twenty years of India. Now, don't be angry with 
 me if I give you a bit of advice. Take care ! 
 Young wives whose husbands are in the Plains 
 cannot take too much.' 
 
 This seemed the last drop in the overflowing 
 cup of annoyance and humiliation. Maud felt ex- 
 cessively indignant. It was an impertinence surely 
 for Mrs. Fotheringham to venture to speak so. 
 
 1 And what am I to take care of ? ' she said ;
 
 AN ELTSIAN PICNIC. 327 
 
 and what right have you to speak to me in this 
 way?' 
 
 1 Take care of your companions, my dear. You 
 have chosen the mostr~dangerous, the worst you 
 could find Mr. Desvoeux.' 
 
 ' Stop, stop ! ' cried Maud, jumping up in a fury; 
 
 I he is my friend, my kind friend. Lwill not hear 
 him abused.' 
 
 1 You must be on your guard,' continued the 
 other, with exasperating pertinacity; ' he is very 
 unprincipled.' 
 
 ' I know he is very agreeable,' cried Maud ; 
 * unprincipled ! what do you mean by that? ' 
 
 ' I mean I mean,' said the other, ' that he is 
 dangerous just the sort of man to try to kiss you, 
 if you gave him the chance.' 
 
 ' Indeed ? ' cried Maud, by this time in far too 
 great a passion to be either courteous or discreet, 
 
 I 1 should think none the worse of him for that. 
 / believe they all mould! ' Having delivered this 
 parting shot, Maud hurried away in a great state 
 of agitation, and Mrs. Fotheringham shrugged her 
 shoulders in despair at so unseemly an outburst of 
 temper, so awful a view of human nature. 
 
 When they got home that night Maud told Mrs. 
 Vereker her troubles, and was relieved to find what 
 slight importance she attached to them. She burst 
 out laughing, and clapped her hands in delight at
 
 328 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOKE. 
 
 Maud's account of the encounter with Mrs. Fother- 
 ingham. ' But, my dear child, what induced you 
 to make such a foolish speech ? And as for Mr. 
 Boldero, he wanted you himself, don't you under- 
 stand ? Flirt a little with him to-morrow and see 
 how much he will want to lecture you then.' 
 
 1 But he won't flirt with me,' said Maud ; ' it is 
 very odd. Besides, I was in a passion, and told 
 him never to speak to me again. Poor fellow ! ' 
 
 1 You dear little goo-se ! ' Mrs. Vereker said, 
 kissing her, { sit down this instant and write and 
 tell him you are broken-hearted for being so rude, 
 and that he is to come to lunch and finish his 
 lecture to-morrow. You must not quarrel with all 
 the world at once.' 
 
 Of Felicia's letter Mrs. Vereker equally made 
 light. ' She means nothing, my dear, except what 
 I preach to you and practise myself, discretion and 
 moderation. So many dances in the evening, so 
 many rides in the week, so many lunches, so many 
 looks, so many smiles, and so forth. Besides, you 
 know, Mrs. Vernon is a prude, a born prude ; she 
 breathes a congenial atmosphere of proprieties 
 where I should be suffocated. She likes men to 
 be polite, and only polite ; I take them up where 
 politeness ends and something else begins. She 
 likes small-beer ; I happen to prefer champagne, 
 bright, sparkling and intoxicatingly delicious I
 
 AN ELYSIAN PICNIC. 329 
 
 Besides,' rattled on Mrs. Vereker, quite at ease 
 with a familiar topic, ' Mrs. Vernon is a flirt too, 
 in her prudish way. She flirts, s!he used to flirt 
 with your husband scandalously, I hope he behaves 
 better now. Mine is a monster, and makes me cry 
 my eyes out. But, I tell you what, my dear 
 Maud, there is great safety in numbers. Don't 
 speak to that saucy Desvceux for a fortnight, and 
 turn your pretty eyes on some one else, the first 
 you fancy. Would you like my General ? or 
 Parson Boldero ? Take him in hand, my dear, 
 and in a week we will make the horrid fellow flirt 
 just as much as his neighbours/ 
 
 ' He's a very bad hand at it at present,' said 
 Maud, with a laugh. 
 
 However, the result of the conference was that 
 Maud sat down and wrote a pretty little repentant 
 note : and the next day Boldero came with a beat- 
 ing heart and took the little scapegrace for a ride, 
 and scolded her very affectionately, much to his 
 own satisfaction, through a whole pleasant summer 
 afternoon.
 
 ( 330 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A KISS. 
 
 As she sped fast through sun and shade 
 The happy winds upon her played, 
 Blowing the ringlets from the braid ; 
 She looked so lovely as she swayed 
 The rein with dainty finger-tips. 
 
 A man had given all other bliss 
 And all his worldly worth for this : 
 To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
 Upon her perfect lips. 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Vereker suggested Desvoeux's tem- 
 porary deposition, she overlooked two obstacles 
 which proved fatal to the scheme's success : in the 
 first place, Maud did not quite wish to depose him; 
 in the next, Desvoeux had not the slightest inten- 
 tion of being deposed. Despite all hints to stay 
 away, he presented himself with provoking regu- 
 larity at Mrs. Vereker's cottage-porch, outstayed 
 later callers without the least compunction, and 
 evidently felt himself quite master of the situation. 
 At Maud's first symptom of neglect he was more 
 devoted, more assiduous, more amusing than ever.
 
 A KISS. 331 
 
 Both ladies were constrained in their ' hearts to 
 admit that his presence was a great enlivenment. 
 Maud, though she would not have admitted it to 
 herself, felt sometimes impatient for his arrival. 
 She had given Desvceux to understand that his 
 attentions were unwelcome, but she had not the 
 least wish that he should become inattentive. As 
 the French song says 
 
 Lorsque Ton dit, 'Ne m'aimez plus jamais,' 
 On prdtend bien qu'on obeira, mais 
 On compte un peu sur des revoltes. 
 
 So Maud, when she tried to keep Desvoeux at a 
 distance, probably only made it apparent how 
 much she liked him to be near; at any rate, the 
 attempt at a little quarrel had only the result of 
 making them better friends than before. Then 
 there was a sort of familiarity about him which 
 Maud was conscious of only half-disliking. Mrs. 
 Vereker declared she had not breathed a word ; but 
 something in his look, when he spoke of Mrs. 
 Fotheringham, convinced Maud that he had heard 
 of her unlucky speech to that lady. When she rode 
 with some one else she was sure to meet him, look- 
 ing the picture of dulness. She knew that if they 
 had been together they would be both having the 
 greatest fun. And then how flat and what a bore 
 her own companion seemed ! One day she did 
 actually go for a ride with General Beau. Mrs.
 
 332 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Vereker asked him afterwards how they had got 
 on, and the General arched his brow and said, 
 1 Ah ! ' in a manner which suggested that he had 
 not altogether liked it. Then, one day, in a pet, 
 Maud went out alone, saying, ' No one can find 
 fault with me for thisj, Alas ! alas ! she was saun- 
 tering along in the most disconsolate manner, 
 when, round a corner of the hill, who should come 
 sauntering along but Desvosux, also alone and dis- 
 consolate and in the direst need of a companion ! 
 Of course under such circumstances there was no- 
 thing to be done but for Desvceux to turn his 
 pony round and accompany her for the rest of the 
 expedition ; and then, no sooner had they done 
 this, than, as bad luck would have it, they came 
 upon all the people whom they particularly did 
 not wish to meet first the Fotheringhams, the 
 mamma and two young ladies in palanquins, a nice 
 young civilian escorting each ; Fotheringham pere 
 on his pony, bringing up the rear in order, as 
 Desvoeux said scornfully, to cut off retreat if the 
 young men's hearts failed them. 
 
 ( If that is courtship d la mode,"* he said, 
 1 Heaven preserve us ! Fancy four parental eyes 
 glaring at every act ! My love is a sensitive plant 
 and would shrink up at every look.' 
 
 Maud, however, felt that it was no joke, and was 
 very much provoked with Desvceux. She was in
 
 A KISS. 333 
 
 the act of turning back to join the Fothering- 
 hams. 
 
 * Don't, pray don't,' said Desvoeux ; l (qui s excuse 
 s accuse. Why don't the two young gentlemen 
 come and ask to be allowed to walk with us and 
 be taken care of ? If only we could afficher 
 
 " MET kY ACCIDENT, 
 UPON OUR HONOUR " 
 
 on our backs, and let all the world know how 
 innocent we really are ! ' 
 
 And next, before Maud had at all recovered her 
 equanimity, a turn in the road brought them face 
 to face with all the Goyernment House party 
 ladies and ponies and aides-de-camp in attendance, 
 and, last of all, the Viceroy himself, with a big 
 stick and wide-awake hat. f Ah ! how d'ye do, Mrs 
 Sutton ? ' he said, looking, Maud fancied, not near 
 so good-humoured as of old and taking no notice 
 of Desvoeux ; ' I hope you have good accounts of 
 your husband ? ' 
 
 'Yes, very good, thank you, Lord Clare,' Maud 
 said, blushing at a question which seemed to convey 
 a reproach to her guilty conscience, and at the 
 thought of how little her husband had been present 
 to her mind of late. Altogether, Maud's attempt 
 at a solitary ride turned out a thorough failure.
 
 334 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 Then came the picnic, and Maud, it must be con- 
 fessed, behaved like a little idiot. 
 
 1 The best way to treat gossip,' Desvoeux sug- 
 gested, ( is to ignore it and show the world that 
 you have nothing to be ashamed of.' By way of 
 enforcing his doctrine he proceeded to monopolise 
 her in the' most outrageous manner ; nor did she 
 refuse to be monopolised. When other people came 
 and tried to talk to her Desvoeux stood by and con- 
 trived to make them feel themselves de trop. He 
 put poor Boldero, who flattered himself that his 
 afternoon's sermon was to bear good fruit, utterly 
 to the rout ; insulted General Beau by some absurd 
 question about the Carraway Islands ; put all the 
 aides-de-camp to flight ; and, even when the Viceroy 
 came by and stopped to speak to Maud, seemed to 
 consider it a very great intrusion. 
 
 1 Really, Mr. Desvoeux,' Maud said, with a laugh, 
 * you give yourself all the airs of a jealous hus- 
 band.' 
 
 'I only wish,' said her companion, '}'ou had ever 
 given me the chance of being one. But don't these 
 people bore one ? I don't feel a bit inclined to-day 
 to be bored.' 
 
 ' No more do I/ said Maud, ' but I feel very cross 
 with you all the same. Let us go and sit by the 
 Fotheringhams.' 
 
 ' Please do not,' said Desvoeux ; l here is a de
 
 A KISS. 335 
 
 lightful nook, with a smooth stone for your table, 
 and the stream making too much noise for any one 
 to overhear us. It was evidently intended for you 
 
 and me.' 
 
 So all the world had the opportunity, at lunch, 
 of witnessing Desvoeux in the act of adoration ; and 
 Desvoeux, if he would let no one else have a chance 
 of talking, had, Maud felt, plenty to say himself, 
 It was indiscreet, but very pleasant. Even Mrs. 
 Vereker grew alarmed, and making an excuse to pass 
 close by them, came and whispered in Maud's ear a 
 solemn ' Don't ! * 
 
 1 Don't what ? ' said Maud in ill-affected wonder- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Don't be a goose,' said her companion ; ' Mr. 
 Desvoeux, would you be good-natured and go and 
 fetch me some ice-pudding, while I sit and talk to 
 Mrs. Sutton ? ' 
 
 1 With pleasure,' said Desvceux, smothering his 
 resentment as best he could ; ' but where am I to 
 sit when I come back ? ' 
 
 ' You need not come back for half-an-hour,' said 
 Mrs. Vereker quietly ; * go and talk with some one 
 else. I see I must keep you young people both in 
 order.' 
 
 Desvoeux went off in dudgeon, and Mrs. Vereker 
 lost no time in supplying his place. l Ah, Mr. 
 Boldero ! ' she said, f come and be amusing, please,
 
 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 and give us the latest news from Dusty- 
 pore.' 
 
 For once in his life Boldero thought Mrs. Vereker 
 very nice. 
 
 * Be amusing ! ' thought Maud ; l why does not 
 she ask him to fly to the moon at once ? Only Mr. 
 Desvceiix can be that.' 
 
 And so it proved. Even Mrs. Vereker could not 
 make conversation go. Boldero was stiff, uncordial 
 and ill at ease. Maud was vexed, and did not care 
 to conceal it. It was a relief when General Beau 
 appeared, and Maud, in a pet, asked him to take 
 her to the waterfall. 
 
 The General, who had been intending to perform 
 the pilgrimage with Mrs. Vereker, did not betray 
 that he was disconcerted, and professed his delight 
 at the suggestion. 
 
 ( But,' said Maud, l can we trust those two 
 naughty people together ? My dear Mrs. Vereker, 
 "Don't!"' 
 
 1 Is not she growing saucy ? ' Mrs. Vereker said 
 to Boldero ; c it is all your fault ; all you gentlemen 
 conspire to spoil her.' 
 
 ' No,' said Boldero, ( begging your pardon, it is all 
 your fault. You let one of us have it all his own 
 way. You encourage him to flirt, and encourage her 
 to encourage him. It is a shame, Mrs. Vereker ; 
 in another fortnight her reputation will be gone.'
 
 A KISS. 337 
 
 ' Fiddlededee ! ' cried Mrs. Vereker. * See what 
 jealousy will do ! You might as well accuse me of 
 flirting with you, and every one knowsfthat I am a 
 saint.' 
 
 ' A very pretty one and in a very pretty dress,' said 
 Boldero, whom Mrs. Vereker's violent eyes always 
 threw off his balance in about two minutes. 
 
 'No, thank you/ she said, tossing her shapely 
 head in pretty scorn, ' I don't want any flattery ; we 
 are too old friends. My dress is lovely, I am well 
 aware, and it has pleased God to make me not quite 
 a fright. But about Maud, now : don't you know 
 that all the gossip is simple envy ; some horrid 
 unkind old woman like Mrs. Fotheringham, with 
 about as much heart as one of these rocks, and 
 her two hoydens of girls ? But here comes Major 
 Fenton, who has, I consider, quite neglected me 
 to-day.' 
 
 Major Fenton was one of the hosts, and the most 
 eligible of the trio. 
 
 1 Impossible ! ' he said, melting under the sweet 
 smile from a stern, languid air which he wore to 
 all the world ; ' the duties of my day performed, its 
 pleasures are now, I hope, about to begin. Will you 
 come with me to the waterfall ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Vereker bent two soft orbs on Boldero with a 
 reproachful look, as if to say, l Why did you not ask 
 me sooner ? ' and went off in glee with the Major ; 
 
 Y
 
 338 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYrORE. 
 
 and Boldero, left in solitude to his own meditations, 
 mentally .voted this the dullest, flattest, and most 
 unsuccessful picnic at which it had ever been his 
 ill-luck to be a guest. 
 
 When Maud and General Beau arrived at the 
 waterfall, there, of course, was Desvoeux, trying to 
 encourage the Miss Fotheringhams to cross the 
 stream and so ascend to the finest point of view. 
 This was a little more than the Miss Fotheringhams' 
 nerves were equal to : the stream was full and foamed 
 and tossed itself into an angry crest ; the water 
 looked black and swift and treacherous. You had 
 to jump on to one boulder, then balance yourself 
 on three stepping-stones through the shallows, then 
 make one good spring to the rock opposite, and the 
 feat was done ! This, however, was just too much 
 for the Miss Fotheringhams, who had not been 
 trained in athletics and were not naturally what the 
 Irishmen call l leppers.' As they were hesitating and 
 refusing, Maud and the General came up, looking 
 very much bored. Maud had been finding her com- 
 panion almost intolerable, and would have jumped 
 anywhere to be free of him. There was nothing in 
 it : Desvoeux had been skipping across half-a-dozen 
 times. ' Look,' he said, ' a skip, two hops and a 
 jump, and there you are ! Do try. Don't you see?' 
 
 ' I see, exactly,' said Maud, gathering up her 
 petticoats and giving her parasol to General Beau.
 
 A KISS. 339 
 
 1 Stop ! it is not safe,' he cried ;' ' stop, I implore ; 
 the rocks are slippery, the water is deep. .1 implore, 
 I beseech, I command ! ' f" 
 
 But the General might as well have commanded 
 the stream to stop, for Maud was gone, and in about 
 two seconds was standing, flushed, beautiful and 
 triumphant, on the opposite side. 
 
 1 If you will not come with us,' said Desvoeux, 
 calling to the people on the other side, ( we must 
 go up to the Point without you. General Beau will, 
 I am sure, take care of the Miss Fotheringhams.' 
 
 ' A most wilful girl,' thought the General, * and 
 dull, but a fine jumper, and feet and ankles quite 
 perfection.' 
 
 Maud, when she got across the stream, had passed 
 a moral Rubicon ; she left propriety, prudence, and 
 prudishness on the other side with the General and 
 the Miss Fotheringhams. 
 
 Desvceux was in the greatest glee at the result 
 which had come about. * I wish the General had 
 tried and tumbled in,' he said,' and got a ducking.' 
 
 1 Oh,' cried Maud, ' what a dreadful man he is, 
 with his shrugs and his " Ahs ! " How lucky that 
 you came to save me ! ' 
 
 ' And you to save me,' said her companion ; ' I 
 was having a sad time of it with the Fotheringham 
 girls. What a thing it is to have a deliverer ! ' 
 
 1 But,' said Maud, f I think the younger one is
 
 34O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 looking very pretty. You know you used to love 
 her. What lovely hair ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the other. ( Hair 
 
 So young and yellow, crowning sanctity, 
 And claiming solitude : can hair be false ? ' 
 
 1 It can,' exclaimed Maud ; ' Mrs. Blunt showed 
 me two large coils, which had arrived from Douglas' 
 in her last box from Europe. When one has a 
 diamond tiara I suppose one must have hair to put 
 it in, coute qui coute.' 
 
 ' Mrs Blunt and her eternal tiara ! ' cried Des- 
 vceux; 'like the toad and adversity, ugly and vene- 
 mous, she wears a precious jewel in her head. But 
 is not this lovely? Look at the rainbow in the 
 foam and the deep green of the ferns beside it. 
 Was it not worth a jump? ' 
 
 1 Was not what worth a jump? ' said Maud, with 
 one of her pretty blushes. 
 
 f If only,' cried Desvceux, { there was somewhere 
 we could jump to, where I could have you all for 
 my very own ! But see, here is the Speaking 
 Rock ; call out something now and see how it will 
 answer you.' 
 
 ' Hoop ! ' cried Maud, and l Hoop ! ' answered the 
 steep crag opposite, and Maud, in a mood to be 
 pleased with everything, was quite delighted. 
 ' Hoop, hie ! ' she cried again, and all the hillside 
 seemed to echo to her joyful tones.
 
 A KISS. 341 
 
 * See/ cried Desvceux, 'you 'have waked the 
 Genius of the Mountain. If you called long enough 
 the riymphs would come and dance antt crown you 
 for a rural queen, the fairest that Arcadia ever 
 saw ! ' 
 
 t Now,' said Maud, quite breaihless with her 
 calls, f shout out something, Mr. Desvceux, and see 
 what the mountain ' nymphs will have to say to 
 yon.' 
 
 * No,' Desvceux said sentimentally, l the nymphs 
 would answer nothing : my voice is too rough to 
 please them. Besides I know by experience it is 
 my fate to call and call, and rocks and other things 
 just as hard will give me no response.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Maud, ' I think they answer quite 
 as much as is good for you.' 
 
 1 Our echoes/ cried Desvceux, turning suddenly 
 upon her and speaking with a vehemence that was 
 only half in play 
 
 1 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
 And grow for ever and for ever ' 
 
 < And ever and ever/ laughed Maud. ' Well, 
 now, it is high time that they stopped growing for 
 the present. Come, Mr. Desvceux, let us get back 
 before our dear friends have torn us quite to 
 pieces/ 
 
 Maud came back in great spirits arid made a
 
 342 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 public laugh at General Beau for his desertion of 
 her. 
 
 ' " The rocks are slippery, the water is deep ! " 
 she cried, taking him off to his face with great 
 success, ' " I implore, I entreat, I command"; but 
 I don't jump ! faithless, faithless General 
 Beau ! ' 
 
 The General was not in the least disconcerted. 
 * Ah ! ' he said, in his usual mysterious way ; and 
 everybody felt that he could have jumped if he had 
 chosen, but that he had some particular reason for 
 not choosing to do so. 
 
 Then the party reassembled for tea and they 
 played at games. Some one proposed ' What is 
 my thought like ? ' 
 
 'Delightful!' cried Maud. 'General Beau, 
 what is iny thought like, pray ? ' 
 
 'Like?' said the General, quite unprepared for 
 such sudden demands on his conversational powers, 
 ' it is like yourself, no doubt.' 
 
 'Enough, enough!' cried Maud. 'Now, then, 
 please say how wit, which is my word, and I are 
 like each other ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the General, as if to imply that he 
 mentally perceived the resemblance ; ' because, be- 
 cause ' 
 
 ' Because,' said Mrs Yereker, ' you are both to 
 " madness near allied."
 
 A KISS. 343 
 
 1 Or because,' said Desvoeux, cutting in with 
 great promptitude, ' " true wit is nature to advan- 
 tage dressed ; " and so, I am sure, is Mrs. Sutton.' 
 
 ( Very nice ! ' cried Maud, glowing with plea- 
 sure ; l now, General Beau, you must pay forfeit, 
 you know. I will give you a bad ojie for deserting 
 me so cruelly.' 
 
 ' Forfeits ! ' said Desvoeux, ' spare us, spare us 
 they are too fatiguing.' 
 
 ' Not a bit,' said Maud, ( you bow to what is 
 wisest, and kneel to what is prettiest, and kiss 
 what you love best.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' said Desvoeux, kissing his hand 
 sentimentally and blowing it into the air, ' there is 
 a kiss for what I love best, wherever it may be.' 
 
 ' Dear me,' said Mrs. Yereker, * what a touching 
 idea ! There goes my kiss.' 
 
 ' And,' cried Maud, laughing and kissing the 
 tips of her pretty fingers, ' there goes mine ! What 
 a state the air will be in ! But here comes Major 
 Fenton with a plate of plumcake, which is what I 
 love best ; so my kiss is for that ! ' 
 
 * Happy plumcake ! ' said the Major, gallantly, 
 1 to be loved, eaten and kissed by a mouth so fair.' 
 
 1 Give me a bit too, Fenton,' said Desvoeux ; ' I 
 must eat some for sympathy, though it is not what 
 I love best.' 
 
 Then the quiet valley shadows crept about them,
 
 344 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 and it grew sad and sombre ; and while they sat 
 and talked and laughed, the day was done and all 
 steps were turned towards home. 
 
 So Maud and Desvceux found themselves travel- 
 ling home together in the moonlight and falling 
 behind the crowd of riders, to enjoy, undisturbed, 
 the pleasure of a tete-d-tete. One of the great 
 dangers of the Hills is that the paths admit only 
 of two people riding abreast ; the terzo incommode 
 must ride behind, and might, so far as prudence is 
 concerned, just as well not be there at all. No 
 such inconvenient intruder, however, threatened 
 Desvo3ux's enjoyment of the present occasion or 
 aided the faltering monitions which Maud's half- 
 silenced conscience whispered to her. Her nerves 
 were overstrung, and the excessive loveliness of 
 the scene seemed only to add to her excitement. 
 Along the winding path which crept up the moun- 
 tain-side, and through the dark green forest-trees 
 towering sublimely over them and all ablaze in 
 moonlit patches with silver floods of light, their 
 journey took them. Far away, miles below, a hun- 
 dred tiny sparks showed where the villagers were 
 cooking the evening meal ; across the valley, on 
 the opposite side, a great streak of woodland was 
 blazing, scarcely seen by day, but now a ruddy 
 lurid glow in the white light that lit up all the 
 scene around. In the horizon was the great, cold,
 
 A KISS. 345 
 
 snowy range, standing out hard and clear in the 
 moonlight still, majestic, awful. How sweet, how 
 bright, how exhilarating to a heart so prompt for 
 enjoyment, senses so quickly impressible, nerves so 
 alive to every surrounding influence as Maud's ! 
 Again and again she burst into exclamations of 
 pleasure as each turn in the road brought them to 
 some new scene of enchantment. 
 
 1 Let us stop,' she cried, ' I must get off and sit 
 down here and enjoy this in peace.' 
 
 1 Let us walk a little,' said Desvceux, * and send 
 our ponies on to await us at the half-way point. 
 Are you too tired ? ' 
 
 1 I am not a bit tired,' Maud said, glowing with 
 pleasure ; t it is too lovely to think of it. This is 
 the best of all the day's pleasures.' 
 
 1 It is lovely/ said her companion, l but to me 
 its greatest charm is that I have you to myself.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Maud, who was accustomed to pull- 
 ing up Desvceux when he became inconveniently 
 sentimental, l we have had a delightful day and 
 great fun. I wish we had had the forfeits all the 
 same and made General Beau do something nice. 
 You stopped it all, Mr. Desvoeux, by being so idle. 
 Why did you blow your kiss into the air ? ' 
 
 * It was the only thing I could do with it,' said 
 Desvoeux, ' and see it has alighted on your 
 cheek ! '
 
 34-6 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 1 And that on your arm,' cried Maud, wielding 
 her whip with a sudden vehemence which made 
 Desvoeux feel that his kiss had been, at any rate, 
 well paid for ; ' when I want to be kissed I will 
 tell you ; but no robberies ! ' 
 
 ( You little spitfire ! ' said Desvoeux, rubbing his 
 shoulder with a comic air. 
 
 1 Well,' said Maud, suddenly repentant, and try- 
 ing her whip across her knee, * it does hurt, I con- 
 fess. I beg your pardon. You deserved it, how- 
 ever, and I was in a passion at the moment. Do 
 you forgive me ? ' 
 
 She gave him her hand that little, delicate, 
 exquisitely-fashioned piece of Nature's workman- 
 ship, which Desv-ceux had often vowed was the 
 most beautiful thing in India. Its very touch 
 electrified him. 
 
 1 Forgive you ? ' he said, with a sudden sadness 
 in his voice ; ' you hurt me once in good earnest, 
 and I forgave you that, and do forgive it, but it 
 hurts me still.' 
 
 Desvceux's voice trembled with feeling. Some- 
 thing in his look struck Maud with a sudden pang 
 of pity, sympathy, remorse. Was Desvceux then 
 really suffering, and his life darkened on account 
 of her ? A sudden rush of sentiment streamed 
 across her soul, carrying everything before it. A 
 passionate, irresistible impulse possessed her. She
 
 A KISS. 347 
 
 stooped towards him, bent her cheek, flushed with 
 excitement, to his, pressed to his the lips on which 
 Desvoeux's thoughts had dwelt a hundred times in 
 impassioned reverie, and kissed him with a long, 
 sweet, earnest caress, the sudden outburst of grati- 
 tude, tenderness, regret. 
 
 Desvoeux said not a word, but he still kept 
 possession of her hand, and the two stood looking 
 silently across the misty valley and the precipice 
 that fell away at their feet into solemn gloom 
 below. The tramp of a horse's feet was heard 
 behind them and Boldero came trotting innocently 
 up the path. 
 
 * We are walking home,' Maud said, l the night 
 is so delicious. You may get off and come with 
 us, if you please.' 
 
 Boldero, who would have jumped over the 
 mountain-side if Maud had bidden him, at once 
 dismounted. Desvoeux fell behind, and said not 
 one word during the rest of the homeward journey.
 
 ( 348- ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 ILL NEWS FLY APACE. 
 
 Never any more, while I live, 
 
 Need I hope to see his face as before. 
 
 reached her house over-tired, over-wrought, 
 and somewhat sad at heart. She had gone much 
 further than she meant, much further than her real 
 feelings prompted. Even as she yielded to the 
 sudden impulse she had repented, and while still 
 doing it begun to wish the deed undone. She had 
 been 'vexed and teased and excited till she scarce 
 knew what her actions meant. The man to whom 
 she had committed herself by so compromising an 
 indiscretion had no sooner reached the dangerous 
 eminence in her regard than he began to fall away 
 and make her doubly remorseful for the act. She 
 resented his ascendency over her, the force of the 
 liking with which he inspired her and the degree 
 to which he led her where he would. His lan- 
 guage, when he was not there to carry it off with
 
 ILL NEWS FLY APACE. 349 
 
 fun and daring, seemed unreal, exaggerated, 
 absurd. Even before they got home her taste bad 
 begun to turn against him. Boldero's almost 
 reverential care of her set her upon disparaging 
 the other's lawless, inconsiderate homage. The 
 very way in which he stayed behind was, she 
 knew, intended as a sulky protest against Boldero's 
 intrusion. A man who really cared about her 
 would, Maud felt, have acquiesced in what she 
 chose, what it was obviously right for her to 
 choose, without any such display of temper. Then 
 there had been something in Desvoeux's manner, 
 when he wished her good-night, which implied a 
 private understanding and set her heart beating 
 with indignation. A really fine nature would 
 have been doubly deferential, doubly courteous, 
 doubly watchful against seeming to take a liberty. 
 Desvceux's tone had something in it to Maud's ear, 
 which was familiar, easy, only just not disrespect- 
 ful. She had been defying public opinion for him 
 all day; she had at last, in a sudden impulse of 
 pity, put herself at his mercy j already she began 
 to doubt whether he was a man who would use his 
 advantage generously. Perhaps after all Felicia 
 had been right about him. 
 
 Then, when she got home, everything conspired 
 to try her nerves. In the first place, no letter had 
 come from her husband ; there had been no letter
 
 3 SO CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 for two days before, and this was a longer interval 
 than had ever yet occurred. She tried in vain not 
 to be frightened at the unaccustomed silence. 
 Mrs. Vereker laughed her anxieties to scorn, but 
 Maud knew better what such a long cessation 
 implied. Her conscience was too ill at ease not 
 to be apprehensive at the first occasion, however 
 trivial, for alarm. Either something had happened 
 or, dreadful possibility, her husband was displeased, 
 and too displeased to write. While she was taking 
 off her things and harassing herself with all sorts 
 of fancied troubles, Mrs. Vereker came in and com- 
 pleted her discomfiture. 
 
 ( Maud,' she said, and Maud thought her tones 
 sounded harsh and unsympathetic (how different 
 from Felicia's gentle lectures ! which always 
 thawed her heart at once), ' I have been commis- 
 sioned to give you a scolding and by whom, do 
 you suppose ? ' 
 
 1 1 really don't know, and don't care/ said Maud, 
 in a pet, f I have had enough the last few days to 
 last me for some time. Will it not keep till to- 
 morrow or the day after ? ' 
 
 1 No, it will not,' said Mrs. Vereker, who was 
 herself sincerely provoked at the notoriety which 
 Maud's indiscretion had attained ; f it is from the 
 Viceroy. I have something to say to you from 
 him. Now do you wish to hear ? '
 
 ILL NEWS FLY APACE. 351 
 
 ' No,' said Maud, l unless it is an appointment 
 for my husband.' 
 
 1 No, but it is about your husband, or about 
 things your husband would not like. He told me 
 to scold you thoroughly.' 
 
 ' Then/ said Maud, her heart Seating so that 
 she could scarcely speak, f he took a great liberty. 
 I know, however, that he did not.' 
 
 * Guilty conscience ! ' cried the other ; ' how 
 white you look ! Well, it is not exactly the truth, 
 but it is not far off it. He gave me a hint.' 
 
 ' He gave you a fiddlestick ! ' cried Maud in a 
 passion ; ' he meant to tell you not to flirt yourself.' 
 
 * Oh no ! Lord Clare and I understand each other 
 far too well for that. He said quite seriously, 
 " When is Colonel Sutton coming up ? Why don't 
 he come ? He ought to come ; write to him and 
 say so ; say so from me." Now, what do you 
 think that meant ? ' 
 
 Maud felt her colour gone and her heart beating 
 violently, and could venture on no reply. 
 
 ' You see,' said her monitress pitilessly, ' you 
 will be injudicious. I am always telling you. You 
 can't be content with fluttering round the candle, 
 but must needs go into the flame and singe your 
 wings, and then of course it hurts you. People 
 should know when to stop.' 
 
 * And/ cried Maud, in a thorough passion.
 
 352 'CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 * people should not throw stones who live in glass 
 houses. Why, Mrs. Yereker, if I am a flirt, I 
 should like to know who taught me ? ' 
 
 1 Now you are rude and cross. You should 
 never throw stones, whether you live in a glass 
 house or not. The best thing I can do is to leave 
 you to recover your temper." 
 
 Mrs. Yereker was gone and Maud's last friend 
 seemed lost to her. She had offended every one ; 
 or rather every one had done something to offend 
 her. She disliked them all. She flung herself 
 upon her bed and wept in very bitterness of heart. 
 She longed for a really friendly, loving hand to 
 take her and set her right ; she longed for her old 
 mistress to confess to j she thought of Felicia, 
 considerate, tender, sympathetic, and she seemed 
 like an angel compared with those amongst whom 
 she was living. If she could but have crept to her 
 embrace and breathed her troubles in her ear ! She 
 thought of her husband the pure and faithful 
 heart beating with no thought but for her, where 
 nothing coarse or unchivalrous could ever find a 
 place ; where she knew that she alone was en- 
 shrined ; of his perfect trust in her, his spotless 
 faith, his transparent honour. She looked at his 
 photograph standing on the table : how grave and 
 sad it looked ! She flung herself on the bed ; the 
 bitter tears of remorse and repentance began to
 
 ILL NEWS FLY APACE. 353 
 
 flow, and while they flowed for Maud was far 
 more exhausted than she knew she slept ; and 
 in her sleep of a few minutes passed into dream- 
 land ; not the happy, silly, aimless dreamland of 
 easy minds and tired frames, where Maud's nights 
 were chiefly spent ; but into a sad weird region, 
 where everything seemed horribly real and con- 
 nected and designed ' and to bear some frightful 
 relation to actual life that makes it part of our 
 being and haunts one's after-thoughts. She was 
 with her husband once again, and yet it was not 
 quite himself; an undefined something separated 
 him from her and all the past. She was riding by 
 him. How grieved and reproachful a mien he 
 wore, as of a man with a hidden sorrow cankering 
 his heart ! And then he fell, and Maud saw him 
 crushed and wounded and helpless as once before, 
 and agonised in some frightful entanglement with 
 his horse. She meanwhile was trying in vain to 
 help or to approach him, for a hidden hand re- 
 strained her, and Sutton himself, sad and stern, 
 was waving her away. And then came a fierce 
 struggle and blows and cries, and Maud found 
 herself waking with a scream and her servant 
 standing by her bed and saying that a t Sahib ' 
 had come and wanted to see her directly. 
 
 She knew what it meant and went with a beat- 
 ing heart into the drawing-room, as fresh from 
 
 z
 
 354 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPOEE. 
 
 the land of sorrow and readj for news of 
 disaster. 
 
 She found Boldero in the drawing-room, looking 
 ominously grave. 
 
 1 Well, Mr. Boldero,' Maud said, with an unsuc- 
 cessful attempt at gaiety and a dread of the answer 
 which she would receive, l why have you come back ? 
 Do you want me to give you some tea or to receive 
 some advice ? ' 
 
 1 Have you heard from Sutton to-day ? ' said the 
 other, not heeding her inquiry. 
 
 * No,' said Maud, turning sick at heart and 
 deadly white ; ' why do you ask ? Quick, quick ! ' 
 
 ' Because I have bad accounts of him from, 
 Dustypore. You must not be alarmed.' 
 
 ' But I am alarmed,' cried Maud, by this time in 
 thorough terror ; l don't you see that standing 
 there and giving hints is just the way to frighten 
 one ? I know quite well you have brought me 
 some bad news.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Boldero, 1 1 am sorry to say I have. 
 Your husband is ill.' 
 
 Maud started up and looked him straight in the 
 face, with a serious, eager look, that made Boldero, 
 even at that moment, think how lovely she was. 
 
 * Now,' she cried, ( tell me the truth. Have you 
 told me all?' 
 
 ' No, I have not. I can hardly bear to tell you ;
 
 ILL NEWS FLY APACE. 355 
 
 but you have sense and courage, and would rather 
 hear the truth. He is down with cholera? 
 
 The words went like a sword through Maud's 
 heart. A blank horror seized her. This, then, had 
 been the meaning of her dream. The blow came 
 crashing down upon her, and body and soul seemed 
 to reel before it. She sank like a crushed, terrified 
 child on the sofa, and, covering her face in her 
 hands, hid herself, speechless, motionless, as from 
 an ill that was too great to bear. 
 
 ' Let me send for Mrs. Vereker,' said Boldero. 
 
 * No ! ' cried Maud, starting up, ( pray do not. 
 Leave me for a minute or two. I shall be better 
 directly. Will you come back in a quarter of an 
 hour ? ' 
 
 ' I will do anything you bid me,' said Boldero 
 frightened at the task he had in hand and its pro- 
 bable results, and thinking that perhaps the best 
 thing he could do was to leave Maud to deal with 
 her sorrow alone. 
 
 So Boldero went out into the moonlight, and 
 strolled about the pathway, now so silent, where 
 so many joyous footsteps used to press, and Maud 
 was left to herself with her first great trouble. 
 
 It was significant of the real nature of her rela- 
 tions to Mrs. Vereker that she shrank especially 
 from seeking her now, in her time of sorrow, or 
 following her counsel. Mrs. Vereker was essen-
 
 356 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 tially a fine-weather friend. The task which Maud 
 had now in hand was something deeper and graver 
 than anything that the other's feelings reached. 
 What lay before her now to do, or to endure, was 
 something between her husband and herself, and 
 it would be profanity for a stranger to come into 
 that sacred region. Mrs. Vereker's advice would, 
 Maud knew instinctively, be all wrong. She her- 
 self felt already what she ought to do. She knelt 
 weeping on the sofa, and the thoughts of sorrow, 
 humiliation, remorse, came pouring thick upon her 
 troubled mind. To what a precipice's edge had not 
 her folly and madness brought her ! her fair fame 
 darkened, her husband's name dishonoured, her 
 vows of love and- honour how badly kept ! Oh, 
 how unutterably weak, faithless, heartless she had 
 been ! How ghastly all the afternoon's adventures, 
 the evening's folly, seemed ! how wicked, how base, 
 how altogether bad I She had felt the thought 
 stinging all the while, but other, stronger feelings 
 had helped her to ignore it and forget. Now there 
 was no other feeling, and it was overwhelming. 
 
 There was only one thing left to do, one good, 
 one hope left to fly to her husband's side, to pour 
 out the pent-up stream of confession, repentance, 
 and love, and, if only God would spare him, never, 
 never leave him again ! 
 
 "When Boldero came in again Maud was herself
 
 ILL NEWS FLY APACE. 357 
 
 again. ' I am better and stronger now/ she said ; 
 ' the news came upon me too suddenly, but now I 
 am calm. I have settled what I ought to do, and 
 you must help me. I shall go down to him at 
 once.' 
 
 * Indeed, you cannot do that/ Bdldero said, deci- 
 sively ; ' it would be excessively wrong.' 
 
 ' Indeed, indeed I will ! ' cried Maud ; ( I feel 
 that I ought and must. What is there to stop 
 me?' 
 
 ' It is out of the question,' said the other ; 'you 
 will be running into a great deal of danger un- 
 necessarily.' 
 
 1 I have no strength to talk about it/ said Maud, 
 1 but I must go or I shall die, and you must help 
 me. Do you mean me to stay quietly here, and 
 Jem dying by himself? My G-od, my God ! why 
 did I ever leave him ? ' 
 
 Here Maud threw herself on the sofa, and cried a 
 longer, sadder, more heartfelt cry than ever in her 
 life before. Boldero went again into the garden in 
 despair, for it was in vain, he saw, to try to soothe 
 her. 
 
 It ended, of course, in Boldero telegraphing for 
 two relays of horses to be sent out from the Camp, 
 and sending out two more as fast as possible, to get 
 as far as might be on the way for the forced march 
 of fifty miles which Maud and he were, it was
 
 358 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 settled, at once to undertake. She was to rest for 
 a few hours, start at three o'clock, get on as far as 
 they could in the cool, rest through the day, and 
 complete the remainder of the journey the following 
 night. They would be at the Camp, Boldero reck- 
 oned, by the morning of the day after to-morrow. 
 
 It required all his official resources to organise 
 such a journey, but a Collector on his march can 
 do anything; and Boldero, with whom Maud was 
 by a sudden reaction of sentiment rapidly being 
 promoted from heroine to saint, was determined 
 that her journey, so far as in him lay, should be as 
 comfortable as money and care could make it.
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVllI. 
 
 1 FLIGHT. 
 
 In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand, 
 and led them away from the City of Destruction. We see no white 
 winged angels now ; but yet men are led away from threatening 
 destruction : a hand is put into theirs, which leads them gently towards 
 a calm and bright land, so that they look no more backward. 
 
 MAUD effected a speedy reconciliation with Mrs. 
 Vereker, who had entrenched herself in her bedroom 
 with a French novel till such time as Maud should 
 have recovered her equanimity. Mrs. Vereker at 
 once forgot her grievance, listened with real concern 
 to Maud's alarming tidings, and lent herself with 
 great alacrity to assist in the preparations for a 
 hasty departure. Boldero had gone off and was to 
 get coolies * together as speedily as possible, so as 
 to be well on the way during the cool hours of the 
 early morning, before the heat of the day would 
 render travelling a work of distress. 
 
 By three o'clock, accordingly, a little army was 
 collected in front of Mrs. Vereker's door. The 
 urgent demands of the Collector and the subsequent 
 
 * Natiye porters.
 
 360 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 zeal of his subordinates had done wonders, and 
 some forty men had been assembled at an hour's 
 notice for the task of carrying down Maud, her 
 servant and her various belongings. 
 
 The moon had sunk and the torches glared fitfully 
 with dreadful smell and smoke. The figures looked 
 weird and strange and, to Maud's eye, horribly 
 numerous. The arrangement of each box involved 
 enormous discussion as to how the burden of carry- 
 ing it could best be shared. At last all was ready ; 
 Maud was established in a palanquin ; the carriers 
 kept time to the cadence of a wild refrain ; the 
 torch-bearers shuffled along in front, relays of coolies 
 came behind ; close at her side rode the faithful 
 Boldero, marshalling the little force, and ever on 
 the watch to shield her from any possible annoyance. 
 Maud appreciated his fidelity, and felt that she had 
 never liked him half well enough before. Her 
 conscience smote her for all her rude speeches, 
 slighting acts and unkind looks ; she determined 
 henceforth to be very kind indeed. Boldero, accord- 
 ingly, though in a great state of agitation and distress 
 about his friend's condition, found the journey not 
 quite without its charm. He had telegraphed to 
 the Camp for Button's two horses to be sent out, and 
 both of them were well accustomed to carry Maud 
 when occasion offered. A messenger was to be sent 
 up to each halting-place, so that Maud had not an
 
 FLIGHT. 361 
 
 hour longer to wait for news than was absolutely 
 necessary. It was a relief, hour by hour, to find 
 the distance growing less and the ^messages more 
 recent; still the tidings were very grievous. Button, 
 it was clear, was very ill. He had been thoroughly 
 knocked up beforehand, and agitated and distressed 
 about something, the doctors thought, and this no 
 doubt had helped the evil. This was a cruel stab 
 for Maud. For a few days, said the letter, it would 
 be rash to say what turn the case might take ; still 
 there was reason to be hopeful : he was a very 
 strong man, and very temperate, and these points, 
 of course, were greatly in his favour. The mor- 
 tality, however, had been terrible at the" Camp, and 
 the men were greatly disheartened. They were now 
 marching every day, in hopes of keeping clear of 
 their own infection. 
 
 An hour or two later the two travellers came to 
 a halt. Maud found some early tea awaiting her, 
 and joyfully exchanged the tiring captivity of the 
 palanquin for the horse which had been hurried on 
 for her use for this stage of the journey. 
 
 * I have been fast asleep,' she said, as Boldero 
 and she rode down the hillside together and watched 
 the faint glow in the east warming gradually into 
 day, ' and this is very refreshing. The darkness, 
 the crowd, the blazing torches, the confusion, the 
 babel of tongues we had last night seem like a
 
 362 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 horrid dream. I was never more thankful for the 
 light. I feel as if I were escaping ; and, Mr. 
 Boldero, you are my deliverer. I shall be grateful 
 to you all my life. You must have had so much 
 trouble and have done it all so kindly and like 
 yourself.' 
 
 1 Do not talk of that,' said the other ; ( what are 
 friends for but to serve us when we need them ? ' 
 
 ' And to forgive us when we wrong them ? ' said 
 Maud, whose conscience was goading her to confes- 
 sion ; ' I know I have behaved ill to you to you 
 and to everybody. Now I am going to try to do 
 better, if only I can get the chance if only God 
 in His goodness will grant me that.' 
 
 ' I am hopeful,' said Boldero, ' for both of you. 
 Sutton, I feel, has something greater yet to do. 
 We have often laughed and said that nothing can 
 kill him. You know in cholera it is as much mind 
 as body : courage, calmness, and determination are 
 half the battle.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Maud, with enthusiasm, faith, and 
 hopefulness glowing in her face, ' I am sure he will 
 do well. His body is his soul's servant, you cannot 
 fancy how completely ; it does its bidding as a 
 matter of course. I do not think it would even die 
 without his leave. Have you telegraphed to say 
 that I am coming ?' 
 
 ' Yes, but leaving it to the doctors to tell him
 
 FLIGHT. 363 
 
 when they think best ; or not at all, if they fear 
 the intelligence will excite him. Very likely they 
 will be afraid to do so.' 
 
 ' They will do wrong,' said Maud, who knew her 
 husband's temperament better even than Boldero ; 
 it will not agitate him, and it will*make him resolve 
 to live. He will live, I believe, if it is only in order 
 to forgive me.' 
 
 ' Do not say il to forgive," ' said the other, who, 
 in a generously enthusiastic mood, began to think 
 that Maud was pressing with undue severity against 
 herself; ' to tell you all that you have been to him 
 and all the sunshine you have brought into his life.' 
 
 ' All I have been ! ' cried Maud, with a vehement 
 remorse ; ' I could tell him that best. You could 
 tell him. I mean to tell him the first moment I 
 can and I am in an agony till I can do so. I have 
 been mad, Mr. Boldero, or in a dream, I think, and 
 you tried in vain to wake me. Now I am awake, and 
 know the truth. All the things and people we have 
 left behind are merely shadows, and I mistook them, 
 for realities ; only one thing in the world is real for 
 me : my love for my husband. Other people flatter 
 and excite and amuse one, and one is carried away 
 with all sorts of follies ; but my heart never moves 
 and never can. It is his and his only, and I never 
 knew it fully till last night. My life, I find, is 
 centred in his.'
 
 364 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 ' I pray God,' said Boldero devoutly, ' we may 
 find him better; and somehow I believe we shall.' 
 
 A level stretch of valley lay before them, and 
 allowed them to push sharply over the next five or 
 six miles. By ten o'clock they arrived at their halt- 
 ing-place, where Boldero proposed that they should 
 wait till the afternoon. Maud, however, was too 
 restless to halt. 
 
 1 Suppose,' she said, ' we push on another stage ? 
 The sun is not so very dreadful, after all.' 
 
 1 The next two stages are bad ones,' said Boldero. 
 * Don't you remember that long, troublesome valley 
 with the rocks on either side ? by twelve o'clock 
 they will be all red-hot.' 
 
 ( Well,' said Maud, < we will tie a wet towel over 
 my head. Will it do you any harm? or the horses?' 
 
 t Me ! ' cried Boldero, in a tone which at once 
 reassured his companion that no danger need be 
 apprehended so far as he was concerned ; ' as for my 
 horses, they can, of course, go as many stages as 
 you like.' 
 
 So they dressed and breakfasted and Maud de- 
 clared herself quite ready for an immediate start. 
 Boldero brought in a great plantain-leaf from the 
 garden of the little inn, and they tied this under 
 her wide pith hat ; then Maud armed herself with 
 an enormous umbrella, and ' Now,' she said, ' I am 
 prepared for anything.'
 
 FLIGHT. 365 
 
 By the end of the stage, however, her strength 
 was spent : she sank into the first chair that offered 
 itself, and acquiesced thankfully, like a tired child, 
 in Boldero's decision that they should not move 
 again till the day's fierce glare was past. There was 
 no need to hurry, for she was now*-within a night's 
 march of her husband, arid, by the morrow's morn- 
 ing: would have known aud seen the worst.
 
 ( 366 ) 
 
 CHAPTER. XXXIX. 
 
 THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN. 
 
 Thus 'twas granted me 
 
 To know he loved me to the depth and height 
 Of such large natures, ever competent 
 With grand horizons, by the land or sea, 
 " To.love's grand sunrise. Small spheres hold small fires, 
 But he loved largely. 
 
 MAUD was inexpressibly shocked at her husband's 
 appearance. Neither the telegrams nor the doctors' 
 notes nor Boldero's description had in the faintest 
 degree prepared her for what she saw. She had 
 heard of death, and even seen it, but in its gentle, 
 peaceful, unagonised aspect; she had seen illness, 
 but in its milder mood, as it visits the European 
 household : not the savage, destroying, desolating 
 demon-angel that waves a sword across the cholera- 
 stricken plain or city in the East. A sickness of a 
 few days, a few hours, shatters the sufferer's frame, 
 blurs out the familiar features, leaves the stalwart 
 man a quivering skeleton, deadens the sense and 
 clouds the strong mind with a deep, dreadful shadow 
 of oblivion.
 
 THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN. 367 
 
 And to this stage Sutton had come. Maud, de- 
 spite all entreaties and warnings, went straight to 
 her husband's side and let the full horror of the 
 scene take possession of her soul. It wrung her 
 very heart to see him the man whom, after all, 
 she loved with a passion which, i sometimes for- 
 gotten, was never extinct for an instant. She had 
 loved him at first ; she loved him now ten times 
 more than ever. She had wronged him, neglected 
 him, dishonoured him alas, how grievously ! her 
 one hope lay in confession, reconciliation, forgive- 
 ness : and he lay there, more dead than alive 
 speechless, motionless, except when some spasm of 
 suffering shook him and, so far as outward sign 
 showed, unconscious of her presence. Maud thanked 
 Heaven that she was on the spot to know and see 
 the worst, and yet it was almost more than she could 
 bear. Her load of anguish seemed too much for 
 one till now a stranger to sorrow. Again and again 
 some old trait in the haggard, suffering face, a moan 
 of pain, a gesture too slight from weakness to be 
 intelligible to any eye but hers, touched a fresh 
 chord in her heart, broke down her wavering forti- 
 tude, and sent her rushing to her room to shed in 
 solitude the tears of sorrow and remorse. Again 
 and again she washed away the useless tears, nerved 
 herself once more to maintain a courageous exterior, 
 and returned, with a fortitude which she felt gather
 
 368 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 strength within her, to the sad task of watching 
 and waiting for the crisis which a few hours more 
 must bring. 
 
 Let us leave that terrible passage of Maud's life, 
 with its trembling, agonising suspense, its heart- 
 felt vows and prayers, its remorseful tears, its 
 thrilling hopes, its mysterious communings with 
 another world. Let us drop a curtain over that 
 solemn season. Maud will emerge from it, we 
 may be sure, with a new-born fortitude, patience, 
 loftiness of soul; courage, the child of suffering; 
 calmness, the attribute of those who have been 
 close upon despair. 
 
 A fortnight later Sutton was lying in the draw- 
 ing-room, with no other malady than excessive 
 weakness, and with no other occupation than to 
 recruit his shattered powers. Maud was busied 
 with the composition of some appetising beverage, 
 which was, the doctor said, the only kind of medi- 
 cine of which he now stood in need, and which 
 could, in Maud's and her husband's opinion, be 
 properly concocted and administered by no hand 
 but hers. Then the invalid's pillows needed skil- 
 ful arrangement, for he was still at the stage when 
 mere lying still is an exertion which seems to tax 
 every limb and muscle in the aching frame. Maud 
 found an indescribable relief and pleasure in wait- 
 ing on her husband, and proved herself a nature-
 
 THE PRODIGAL'S RETCJRN. 369 
 
 taught adept in the kindly art of nursing. Every 
 act, though her husband knew it not, had, to 
 Maud's aching conscience, a sort /of penitential 
 devotion about it, and said a hundred things of love 
 and sorrow which as yet found no utterance in 
 spoken words. 
 
 * "What a model wife ! ' said Sutton, as he lay 
 watching her movements, in grateful admiration at 
 her skill and care on his behalf. 
 
 * Ah ! but,' said Maud, thankful for the oppor- 
 tunity of the confession she was longing to make, 
 ' I am not a model wife at all, but just everything 
 that a model ought not to be.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Jem gallantly, * I am for you, and 
 not for the model, whoever drew it.' 
 
 1 Jem,' she said, with sudden seriousness, ' I 
 want to tell you something, and be forgiven. I 
 meant to do so before, but you have been too 
 poorly. I am afraid it will hurt you. I have 
 been going on very stupidly at Elysium, and very 
 wrongly, and doing everything that you would 
 most have disliked, and that I dislike now oh ! 
 how bitterly ! ' 
 
 Sutton, to Maud's great relief, did not seem in 
 the least surprised or inclined to be serious about 
 the matter. He took her hand and held it with 
 the kindest caressing manner. 
 
 ' I have no doubt,' he said, * that Mrs. Vereker 
 
 2 A
 
 3/O CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 did all she could to get you into a scrape. It was 
 a shame of me to let you go to her.' 
 
 4 No,' said Maud, ' it was not her fault at all. 
 The truth is, I have been flirting with some one.' 
 
 1 Some one,' said Sutton, ' has been trying to 
 flirt with you, you mean, and no wonder. Some 
 one showed his good taste at any rate.' 
 
 'Yes, but,' said the penitent, 'I flirted with him. 
 I think I must have been crazy.' 
 
 ' You risked your life, dear, to come and be with 
 me. Why look further back than that? I cannot.' 
 
 ' But,' said Maud, her cheeks burning scarlet at 
 the awful confession which conscience compelled 
 her to make, * that is not all : I gave him a kiss.' 
 
 'Then,' said her husband, 'you gave him a great 
 deal more than he deserved, whoever he was. 
 Well, now, give me one, and let us say no more 
 about it.' 
 
 The blinding tears fell fast and hot as Maud 
 bent over her husband's haggard face and exchanged 
 the sweet pledge of reconciliation, confidence, and 
 love. There was something so generous, sparing 
 and delicately magnanimous in her husband's ready, 
 uninquiring forgiveness, and his refusal to know 
 more of a matter which it grieved and shamed 
 her to narrate. Maud knew that his was a tem- 
 perament which jealousy would torture like any 
 Othello's, and that his passion against an offender,
 
 THE PRODIGALS RETURN. 3/1 
 
 had it once forced its way to light, would have 
 been a sort of fury. She could perfectly realise to 
 herself her husband doing anything-r^the worst to 
 a man who, he thought, had in the slightest degree 
 wronged him. He was accustomed to stern deeds 
 and stern sights, and, as any man*- does who has a 
 hundred times seen death face to face and found 
 nothing to dread in it, held life the cheapest of all 
 his treasures. Maud had felt an awful misgiving 
 lest he should utter some dreadful, quiet threat at 
 the wrong-doer. As it was, her husband would 
 not even know his name and treated the whole 
 thing as a mere childish misadventure. It was 
 indeed an heroic kindness. Her whole nature went 
 out to him in thankfulness and love ; she bent 
 her head beside him and hid her face and wept in 
 the fulness of her heart. No wonder his soldiers 
 had learnt to worship him. No word more was 
 spoken, but Sutton had good cause to know that 
 the last touch of waywardness, the last fickle 
 mood, the forgetful moment, the girlish caprice, 
 were gone for ever the last spot in her heart that 
 had not been wholly his was carried at last. 1 1 am 
 thankful,' the surgeon said, 'that he is better: the 
 poor child is ten times more in love with him than 
 ever.' 
 
 Then the three friends had a very happy time. 
 It is so pleasant to be getting well; and nursiug,
 
 3/2 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 too, is a pleasant labour when the invalid is inter- 
 esting and considerate and well-beloved. Happy 
 the patient whose lot it is to pass from the dreary 
 land of sickness with such sweet companionship ! 
 Boldero, though the gravity of his loss kept pace 
 in his thoughts with each new-discovered charm in 
 Maud, got himself into an heroic mood, and derived 
 a satisfaction, less blackened with melancholy than 
 he would have conceived possible, from the sight of 
 his friend's felicity. At any rate he made himself 
 very pleasant was always available for whatever 
 was wanted of him submitted, it is probable, to a 
 little delightful tyranny from the woman he adored, 
 and went away at last leaving almost a little blank 
 behind him. 
 
 1 How kind and useful he has been ! ' Maud said, 
 as they watched his cavalcade winding along the 
 valley ; ' and how clever about your barley-water ! 
 Yes I certainly like him.' 
 
 ' Like him ! ' said Button. 1 1 should think so. 
 He is the best fellow in the world.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said his wife, ' all the same there is 
 something pleasant in a tete-a-tete; and I don't 
 like anybody taking care of you but me.'
 
 373 ) 
 
 L'ENVOI. - 
 
 Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love 
 Accompany your hearts ! 
 
 HOPE, which catches up the brush as it falls from 
 the narrator's hand, adds yet another scene, in the 
 faint, hazy, indistinct hues of a distant horizon, 
 to the picture at which we have been looking for 
 awhile. 
 
 We are on Aldershot Heath. Troops are march- 
 ing up from different directions ; orderlies are gal- 
 loping wildly on their behests ; words of command 
 ring noisily through the air ; great masses of red 
 come looming out of the dust as each regiment 
 tramps solidly along ; there is the roar of cannon 
 from the neighbouring hill ; the horse artillery goes 
 rattling by like a hurricane of horses and iron ; in 
 front is a long array of spectators, and in the midst 
 a blaze of uniforms and the carriage where a gra- 
 cious Sovereign sits to inspect and compliment the 
 heroes of the day the men who had served their 
 country well ; for there has been a successful ex- 
 pedition, led by an Indian General ; and the vic- 
 torious army, with its leader, bearing his honours
 
 374 CHRONICLES OF DUSTYPORE. 
 
 thick upon him, at its head, is marching past 
 amidst the shouts of a joyful and sympathetic 
 crowd. When Button, for it is he, has passed the 
 Royal carriage and made his salute, he turns his 
 horse and joins the staff who glitter round their 
 Sovereign. Kind words are spoken and a Royal 
 hand adds one more to his long list of decorations. 
 Presently he makes his way to a group of ladies 
 in a carriage near at hand. There is Felicia, with 
 a sweet, matronly air, her beautiful features none 
 the less fair for the lines that sorrow had left upon 
 them and some silvery threads among the waving 
 gold ; she sits serene and joyous in the presence of 
 two lovely girls, Sutton's playfellows of old, now, 
 as he tells them, when he wants to be very polite, 
 the very repetition of their mother. Vernon is in 
 England, at home for his last furlough, and beyond 
 lies, near enough now to be a source of pleasure, 
 not of pain, the prospect of a final settlement at 
 home. Beside Felicia sits Maud, blushing under 
 her husband's honours, but rejoicing that all the 
 world should recognise his claim to homage. As 
 he comes up the smile that she gives him tells us 
 that all is more than well between them. Suddenly 
 she jumps up with an exclamation, for she has 
 recognised a familiar face it is Boldero, who is 
 making his way to them through the crowd. He 
 brings a blushing lady on his arm, and he is blush-
 
 L'ENVOI. 375 
 
 ing too, and there are introductions and greetings 
 which, sound as if his old love- wound had been 
 healed by the only effectual remedyx 
 
 Meanwhile the long armed array is flowing 
 steadily past. Maud, who is quite the soldier's 
 wife, criticises and approves. At length the last 
 regiment has come and gone, the last band has 
 crashed out its music, the Royal carriage makes a 
 move, the staff gallops away, the crowd is pushing 
 and hurrahing and scattering itself over the wide 
 plain; the shades of evening are gathering over it; 
 the Indian friends drive off merrily for home ; the 
 scene fades fades and dies away. 
 
 Let us leave this party of happy people to them- 
 selves we must be their companions no longer. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 A- I II I II II 
 000137815 7
 
 ..imJuxWAumc*!*'*