The Lamp in the Desert, Ethel May Dell [the gingerbread man read aloud .TXT] 📗

drug which in its effects was worse than the fever pure and simple. But there is one point which only you can make clear. How was it you came to seek me out that night?"
His grasp upon her hand was reassuring though she felt the quiver of physical weakness in its hold. It was the grasp of a friend, and her embarrassment began to fall away from her.
"I came," she said, "because I had been startled. I had no idea you were anywhere near. I was really investigating the verandah because of--of something I had seen, when the light from this window attracted me. I thought possibly someone had broken in."
"Will you tell me what startled you?" Monck said.
She looked at him. "It was a man--an old native beggar. I only saw him for a moment. I was in Tommy's room, and he came and looked in at me. You--you must have seen him too. You were talking very excitedly about him. You threatened to shoot him."
"Was that how you came to deprive me of my revolver?" questioned Monck.
She coloured again vividly. "No, I thought you were going to shoot yourself. I will give it back to you presently."
"When you consider that I can be safely trusted with it?" he suggested, with his brief smile. "But tell me some more about this mysterious old beggar of yours! What was he like?"
She hesitated momentarily. "I only had a very fleeting glimpse of him. I can't tell you what he was really like. But--he reminded me of someone I never want to think of or suffer myself to think of again if I can help it."
"Who?" said Monck.
His voice was quiet, but it held insistence. She felt as if his eyes pierced her, compelling her reply.
"A horrible old native--a positive nightmare of a man--whom I shall always regard as in some way the cause of my husband's death."
In the pause that followed her words, Monck's hand left hers. He lay still looking at her, but with that steely intentness that told her nothing. She could not have said whether he were vitally interested in the matter or not when he spoke again.
"You think that he was murdered then?"
A sharp shudder went through her. "I am very nearly convinced of it," she said. "But I shall never know for certain now."
"And you imagine that the murderer can have followed you here?" he pursued.
"No! Oh no!" Hastily she made answer. "It is ridiculous of course. He would never be such a fool as to do that. It was only my imagination. I saw the figure at the window and was reminded of him."
"Are you sure the figure at the window was not imagination too?" said Monck. "Forgive my asking! Such things have happened."
"Oh, I know," Stella said. "It is a question I have been asking myself ever since. But, you know--" she smiled faintly--"I had no fever that night. Besides, I fancy you saw him too."
His smile met hers. "I saw many things that night as they were not. And you also were overwrought and very tired. Perhaps you had had an exciting supper!"
She saw that he meant to turn the subject away from her husband's death, and a little thrill of gratitude went through her. He had seen how reluctant she was to speak of it. She followed his lead with relief.
"Perhaps--perhaps," she said. "We will say so anyhow. And now, do you know, I think you had better have your tea and rest. You have done a lot of talking, and you will be getting feverish again if I let you go on. I will send Peter in with it."
He raised one eyebrow with a wry expression. "Must it be Peter?" he said.
She relented. "I will bring it myself if you will promise not to talk."
"Ah!" he said. "And if I promise that--will you promise me one thing too?"
She paused. "What is that?"
His eyes met hers, direct but baffling. "Not. to run away from me," he said.
The quick blood mounted again in her face. She stood silent.
He lifted an urgent hand. "Stella, in heaven's name, don't be afraid of me!"
She laid her hand again in his. She could not do otherwise. She wanted to beg him to say nothing further, to let her go in peace. But no words would come. She stood before him mute.
And--perhaps he knew what was in her mind--Monck was silent also after that single earnest appeal of his. He held her hand for a few seconds, and then very quietly let it go. She knew by his action that he would respect her wish for the time at least and say no more.


CHAPTER VIII
THE TRUCE

Tommy was in a bad temper with everyone--a most unusual state of affairs. The weather was improving every day; the rains were nearly over. He was practically well again, too well to be sent to Bhulwana on sick leave, as Ralston brutally told him; but it was not this fact that had upset his internal equilibrium. He did not want sick leave, and bluntly said so.
"Then what the devil do you want?" said Ralston, equally blunt and ready to resent irritation from one who in his opinion was too highly favoured of the gods to have any reasonable grounds for complaint.
Tommy growled an inarticulate reply. It was not his intention to confide in Ralston whatever his grievance. But Ralston, not to be frustrated, carried the matter to Monck, then on the high road to recovery.
"What in thunder is the matter with the young ass?" he demanded. "He gets more lantern-jawed and obstreperous every day."
"Leave him to me!" said Monck. "Discharge him as cured! I'll manage him."
"But that's just what he isn't," grumbled Ralston. "He ought to be well. So far as I can make out, he is well. But he goes about looking like a sick fly and stinging before you touch him."
"Leave him to me!" Monck said again.
That afternoon as he and Tommy lounged together on the verandah after the lazy fashion of convalescents, he turned to the boy in his abrupt fashion.
"Look here, Tommy!" he said. "What are you making yourself so conspicuously unpleasant for? It's time you pulled up."
Tommy turned crimson. "I?" he stammered. "Who says so? Stella?"
There was the suspicion of a smile about Monck's grim mouth as he made reply. "No; not Stella, though she well might. I've heard you being beastly rude to her more than once. What's the matter with you? Want a kicking, eh?"
Tommy hunched himself in his wicker chair with his chin on his chest. "No, want to kick," he said in a savage undertone.
Monck laughed briefly. He was standing against a pillar of the verandah. He turned and sat down unexpectedly on the arm of Tommy's chair. "Who do you want to kick?" he said.
Tommy glanced at him and was silent.
"Significant!" commented Monck. He put his hand with very unwonted kindness upon the lad's shoulder. "What do you want to kick me for, Tommy?" he asked.
Tommy shrugged the shoulder under his hand. "If you don't know, I can't tell you," he said gruffly.
Monck's fingers closed with quiet persistence. "Yes, you can. Out with it!" he said.
But Tommy remained doggedly silent.
Several seconds passed. Then very suddenly Monck raised his hand and smote him hard on the back.
"Damn!" said Tommy, straightening involuntarily.
"That's better," said Monck. "That'll do you good. Don't curl up again! You're getting disgracefully round-shouldered. Like to have a bout with the gloves?"
There was not a shade of ill-feeling in his voice. Tommy turned round upon him with a smile as involuntary as his exclamation had been.
"What a brute you are, Monck! You have such a beastly trick of putting a fellow in the wrong."
"You are in the wrong," asserted Monck. "I want to get you out of it if I can. What's the grievance? What have I done?"
Tommy hesitated for a moment, then finally reached up and gripped the hand upon his shoulder. "Monck! I say, Monck!" he said boyishly. "I feel such a cur to say it. But--but--" he broke off abruptly. "I'm damned if I can say it!" he decided dejectedly.
Monck's fingers suddenly twisted and closed upon his. "What a funny little ass you are, Tommy!" he said.
Tommy brightened a little. "It's infernally difficult--taking you to task," he explained blushing a still fierier red. "You'll never speak to me again after this."
Monck laughed. "Yes, I shall. I shall respect you for it. Get on with it, man! What's the trouble?"
With immense effort Tommy made reply. "Well, it's pretty beastly to have to ask any fellow what his intentions are with regard to his sister, but you pretty nearly told me yours."
"Then what more do you want?" questioned Monck.
Tommy made a gesture of helplessness. "Damn it, man! Don't you know she is making plans to go Home?"
"Well?" said Monck.
Tommy faced round. "I say, like a good chap,--you've practically forced this, you know--you're not going to--to let her go?"
Monck's eyes looked back straight and hard. He did not speak for a moment; then, "You want to know my intentions, Tommy," he said. "You shall. Your sister and I are observing a truce for the present, but it won't last for ever. I am making plans for a move myself. I am going to live at the Club."
"Is that going to help?" demanded Tommy bluntly.
Monck looked sardonic. "We mustn't offend the angels, you know, Tommy," he said.
Tommy made a sound expressive of gross irreverence. "Oh, that's it, is it? Now we know where we are. I've been feeling pretty rotten about it, I can tell you."
"You always were an ass, weren't you?" said Monck, getting up.
Tommy got up too, giving himself an impatient shake. He pushed an apologetic hand through Monck's arm. "I can't expect ever to get even with a swell like you," he said humbly,
Monck looked at him. Something in the boy's devotion seemed to move him, for his eyes were very kindly though his laugh was ironic. "You'll have an almighty awakening one of these days, my son," he said. "By the way, if we are going to be brothers, you had better call me by my Christian name."
"By Jove, I will," said Tommy eagerly. "And if there is anything I can do, old chap--anything under the sun--"
"I'll let you know," said Monck.
So, like the lifting of a thunder cloud, Tommy's very unwonted fit of temper merged into a mood of great benignity and Ralston complained no more.
Monck took up his abode at the Club before the brief winter season brought the angels flitting back from Bhulwana to combine pleasure with duty at Kurrumpore.
Stella accepted his departure without comment, missing him when gone after a fashion which she would have admitted to none. She did not wholly understand his attitude, but Tommy's serenity of demeanour made her somewhat suspicious; for Tommy was transparent as the day.
Mrs. Ralston's return made her life considerably easier. They took up their friendship exactly where they had left it and found it wholly satisfactory. When Lady Harriet Mansfield made her stately appearance, Stella's position was assured. No one looked askance at her any longer. Even Mrs. Burton's criticism was limited to a strictly secret smile.
Netta Ermsted was the last to leave Bhulwana. She returned nervous and fretful, accompanied by Tessa whose joy over rejoining her friends was as patent as her mother's discontent. Tessa had a great deal to say in disparagement of the Rajah of Markestan, and said it so often and with such emphasis that at last Captain Ermsted's patience gave