The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan

by Bertram Mitford

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  INTROSPECT.

  "You're late, child. Had a long ride?" said Colonel Jermyn, who wasalready at breakfast when Vivien entered.

  "Not very. The mountain paths here are so rough, you have to keepalmost entirely to a walk. And I met Mr Campian, so we stopped andchatted a little."

  "Did you? Where?"

  "Somewhere on the side of the mountain. I don't know the localitieshere yet," replied Vivien, with perfect ease. She had been about tosay, "at the markhor cave," but remembering Campian's hint, refrained."He had been out after markhor, with that nice-looking old forester ofMr Upward's, and was on his way back."

  "Did he get any shots?"

  "One, and missed it. He was quite unconcerned about it though, anddidn't go out of his way to invent half a hundred excuses for havingmissed it."

  "Ha, ha!" laughed the colonel. "So many of these young fellows--and oldones too--are always full of reasons of that kind. A stone slipped fromunder their foot, or the _shikari_ sneezed, or something. There issomething I rather like about that man. Who is he? Do you knowanything about him?"

  This was shooting the bolt home with a vengeance. But Vivien'sself-possession was equal to the strain.

  "Isn't there a family of that name in Brackenshire?" she askedcarelessly.

  "I believe there is. Yes, very likely. I thought we might ask him tocome and stay a week or so when he has done with the Upwards, or evenbefore. What do you think about it, Vivien?"

  "Wouldn't he find it desperately slow here, Uncle Edward?" she said, asserenely as before.

  "Perhaps; I don't know. If he did, he could always take himself offagain. And now, if you'll excuse me, dear, I'll do likewise, for thatconfounded Levy sowar will be here directly for the _dak_, and I've gota whole pile of letters to write. It's mail day, too."

  Left to herself, Vivien moved about the room arranging here, dusting alittle there. No flowers were obtainable in this arid region of rocks,save a few wild ones, but even of these she had made the best; and whatwith little touches of feminine tastefulness in the arrangement of therooms, the old forest bungalow, rough and racketty, and hardly betterthan a mere rest-house, stood quite transformed. Then, passing into herown room, she shut the door, and sat down to think.

  Far away from wild, craggy Baluchistan her thoughts went back. A chancecall, a chance introduction in a room full of people. A few minutes ofordinary conversation as between strangers who met for the first time,and--she had learned the mystery of life when life is young--though notalways then--had gazed within the golden gates of love; had trodden theflower-springing sod of that radiant and mystic realm; and not onlythat, but she had known, with a wondrous magnetic instinct, that in thesame moment of time another had learned that mystery too. Then she hadbegun to live; then she had begun to realise what life could contain.

  Other scenes rose before her as she sat here thinking--a vision of thePark corner, in all the joyous glow and brilliancy of the London seasonat its height--with one ever at her side--one who there in the midst ofall the varied types of beauty, and style and attractiveness of thekingdom collected together, never--as she used to tell him halfplayfully, but all proudly--never had eyes for any but herself. Ah, itwas something to be loved like that; and yet this was not the perfervidenthusiasm, the red-hot glow of youthful adoration, but the love of oneconsiderably past that illusive stage; whose experiences had beenmultifold, and frequently bitter. Again, she saw the green glories ofthe Cliveden woods, mirrored in the broad placid surface, as she and oneother floated down that loveliest of lovely reaches in the fire-path ofthe westering sunlight, alone together, the murmur of their voices andthe dipped wing of the hovering swallow blending with the lazy splash ofthe sculls. Again, in the opera box, while the most splendid stagingperhaps that "Faust" had ever been put on with, held the entranced anddensely packed multitude in the lowered light, _she_ dwelt in a paradiseall her own, for had she not the presence, even the contact of that one?Many and many a scene came before her now. Ah, that year! It had beenindeed a year of love. And in every such scene, in every suchrecollection he had been ever the same. Never a moment of time that hecould spare but had been spent with her--indeed not a few also that hecould not--and throughout it all how perfectly free and happy together,how thoroughly at home with each other they had been.

  Why, then, had such a state of things been allowed to come to a close?Heavens! It is a rare--well nigh unique--one, in all conscience. Hadhe deceived her--disappointed her? Not any. But there had comestalking along that goggle-eyed, sheet-and-turnip bogey hight Duty--thatJuggernaut which has crushed far more lives than it has ever fortified,and now, in her retrospect, Vivien Wymer realised, not for the firsttime, and no less bitterly, that this is just what it had done for hers.For at the period to which her thoughts went back, she owned a mother--and a selfish one, as mothers now and again are, all cant to thecontrary notwithstanding--and this devoted parent could not do withouther daughter, although she had another. Here was the jagged rockbeneath the surface of their unruffled sea, and upon it their freight ofhappiness had been wrecked and cast away.

  At the time Vivien had thought herself passing strong, and theconsciousness of this had done much to buoy her up amid such anexperience of agony and heartbreak that even now she hardly cares tolook back to. That had been five years ago. She was young then, andnow that she is nearer thirty than twenty she is able to realise thatshe acted insanely; is able to realise that the love which that one hadlavished upon her was worth more than that of all the kindred in theworld ten times over, let alone such a consideration as an imaginaryduty towards a thoroughly selfish and exacting woman, merely because thelatter happened to be her nearest relation. She has come to realise theabsolute truth of his words, and the realisation brings with it nosolace, for, like most other experiences worth gaining, it has come toolate. Her mother has been dead for three years past, and her youngersister, now married, is not eager to see too much of her; and to Duty,as represented by these, Vivien has sacrificed her life.

  But he--will he not relent and return? Can he live without her? Well,five years have passed since they parted, and he has kept to theiragreement. She knows his nature--unswerving, vindictive--indeed thevery contrast afforded between this and the completeness of his love forherself had not a little to do with drawing her to him. His wordsduring that awful parting had been few, and their raging bitterness tosome degree suppressed, and that he should come second to anything oranybody, was what he never could and never would forgive.

  Would he relent? Never. She went back to their chance meeting in themarkhor cave but a few hours ago, recalled every word of theirconversation. The very tone of his voice had never swerved. Her ear,quick to detect any change, had detected none--not even by the smallestinflection. His manner had been kind, friendly, full of a certainmodicum of regard--but that was all. Had he not often told her that alost illusion was gone for ever? Never could it be set up again. Hislove was dead, and she had killed it.

  But--was it? Surely not. It was only sleeping, deeply perhaps, butwould re-awaken. She would re-awaken it. It was impossible that such alove as theirs had been could die in either of them as long as lifeshould last. Then a blank misgiving seized her. They had not met forfive years. Then she was twenty-three. What changes had theintervening period effected in her?

  She gazed into her mirror long and steadily. Yes, she was growing old--old and plain, decidedly, she told herself with an aching bitterness ofheart. The soft sprightliness of five years earlier was no longer inher face. It had gone. Alone with herself she need not dissimulate.In those days the bright and sunny spirits of rejoicing youth hadradiated from her eyes; now, though her eyes were as lustrous andbrilliant as ever, their glance was a tired one, reflecting but thesadness of a lonely and disappointed woman. Undoubtedly the change hadstruck him, and with startling force. No; his love would neverre-awaken now. Why should it? In the day of her power s
he had let itgo; now her power had departed.

  Then another thought came to her. That blue-eyed girl staying with theUpwards--she was wondrously pretty. Vivien had seen her once inShalalai. The two would be thrown together day after day, and all daylong--had been so thrown together. They had even shared a common peril.And she had youth on her side. What sort of tone would his voice havetaken while talking to her, Vivien wondered, again recalling the perfectcomposure of his conversation but an hour or two ago in the cave. Noreference--not even a veiled one--to the past; no remark upon theunexpectedness of their first meeting. True, he had seemed a trifledisconcerted on the occasion of that meeting; but that was onlynatural--and momentary. Yes, Nesta Cheriton was wonderfully pretty andtaking. Thus she tortured herself.

  But while she could do that alone and with her own thoughts, Vivienwould rather have died than have allowed any glimmering of their gist tobe so much as suspected by any living soul, let alone the object ofthem. She forgot to wonder at her own self-possession on the occasionof that first meeting; and indeed on that of the subsequent one. It hadproved even more complete than his own, and she forgot to speculate asto whether he might not be taking his cue from her and playing up to herlead. That is the worst of introspection of the vehement kind, it isabsolutely blinding as regards the attitude towards the object whichinspires it.

  Then, by a curious twist in her meditations, pride sprang into arms. Ifone man could so completely dismiss her from his heart and memory, therewere others who could not. She unlocked a drawer of her writing-tableand took out a letter. Spreading it open before her, she glancedthrough it. It was from one who was the owner of a fine old countryplace and a good many thousands a year, and contained a passionateappeal to her to reconsider her former refusals. This letter she hadintended to answer last week. But now?

  She read it through again. Why should she continue to throw away life,grieving over what was past and done with; what was inevitable; what wasdead and buried? It was more sensible to take life as it is, and makethe best of things. She would accept the man. There was no reason whyshe should not, and every reason why she should.

  She drew a sheet of paper to her, but before she had got further thanthe address, a new thought struck her. What if she had so replied bylast mail--that is to say, the day before this other had been sounexpectedly thrown back into her life? Nay, worse. What if she had soreplied to a like appeal from the same quarter nearly a year ago? Thatdecided her. She wrote her reply--and it was in the negative, veryunequivocally so--stamped and directed it, and threw it aside.

  Then she did a strange--and in view of her former meditations--anutterly inconsequent thing. She took another sheet of paper and wrote:

  "We were to be strangers to each other. Had we not better remain so?You will understand my meaning fully within the next few days. Ofcourse I have no right to try and influence your movements, so mustleave it to your own judgment to order them in what seems to me the onlyrational and sensible way.

  "Vivien."

  This she put into an envelope, which she sealed, but did not stamp.Then she directed it to "Howard Campian, Esquire, Chirria Bach."

  No; she could not bear it. To be under the same roof with him for days,possibly weeks at a time, and keep up the _role_ of strangers to eachother, would be too great a strain. Now, when he should receive heruncle's invitation he would know what to do. On the face of such anintimation there was but one course open to him. A rap came at thedoor, and her uncle's voice:

  "Got any letters to send, Viv? The Levy sowar is here."

  "Only one," she answered, opening the door, and handing him the onebearing the English address. "The other I want to go in the oppositedirection. The man can take it this evening when he passes here withthe Upwards' _dak_."

  "All right." And in a moment more the clatter of the horse's hoofs diedaway down the path, and the swarthy Baluchi, in his Khaki uniform,jogged indifferently upon his way, as though he were not the bearer ofthat which by a turn or freak of thought had just escaped being anagency for entailing solemn consequences upon one or more lives.

  "By George! this hill air seems to suit you, child," cried the jollycolonel, gazing upon his niece with undisguised admiration. "I can'tmake out what all these young fellows--young fools, I call them--areabout. Eh?"

  "Have I not got a dear old uncle, who talks shocking nonsense onprivileged occasions?" returned Vivien, slipping her hand within hisarm. "Why, I am getting as old as the hills, and am `going off'perceptibly every hour. Do I not own a looking-glass?"

  "A looking-glass? Pooh! it's a lying one then. We'll pitch it over the_khud_, and send Der' Ali down to the bazaar for one that is moretruthful. But, then--I am forgetting. This isn't Baghnagar, andthere's no bazaar."

  "No, there isn't, and a good thing too, if it is going to conduce tosuch scandalous waste," retorted Vivien brightly.

  "I believe it's not fair, eh? It seems hard lines on you, child,shutting you up here, with no one to talk to but a prosy old fellow likeme, eh?"

  "Now, Uncle Edward, it is you who will have to go over that _khud_instead of my poor, unoffending, candid looking-glass, if you persist intalking such a prodigious quantity of nonsense."

  That evening the Levy sowar arrived in due course, with Colonel Jermyn'spost, and clattered off, bearing that of Upward. But the letteraddressed to Howard Campian, at Chirria Bach, still lay upon Vivien'swriting-table.