LITMIR.BIZ

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freedom from the fret of personal desire. Of such was Paul Wyndham, and in his accepted rôle of onlooker he fell to pondering upon the new element in his own immediate drama.

      If only Desmond had chosen for his helpmate such a girl as Miss Meredith, how different might have been the regiment's feelings in regard to the unwelcome fact of his marriage. Yet Wyndham was aware of an instant recoil from the idea, aware that he personally preferred matters as they stood. With which conclusion he spurred his horse to a canter, as though he could thus outrun the quickened current of thought and feeling which this unlooked-for meeting had set stirring in his brain.

      Meantime Honor Meredith had fallen in with another member of her newly-adopted family: – a big, raw-boned Irishwoman, who wore her curling reddish hair cropped short, answered to the name of "Frank," and dressed chronically in a serviceable skirt and covert coat, and a man's shikarri helmet. When riding, the skirt was replaced by that of a country-made habit; and in the simplest evening gown this large-featured, large-hearted woman stood a martyr confessed. For ten years she had been the only woman in a regiment of sworn bachelors; had nursed her "brother officers" whenever need arose; had shared their interests, their hardships, their amusements; till, – in the symbolism of the India she loved, – they and the regiment had become "her father and her mother, her people and her God."

      At sight of Honor she hurried her grey country-bred across the road, and held out a square, loosely-gloved hand.

      "It's bound to be Miss Meredith!" she exclaimed, in a pronounced brogue, with a flash of white even teeth – her sole claim to beauty. "It's very welcome you are to Kohat and to the regiment. I'm Frank Olliver, … Captain Olliver's wife. I'll turn now and ride back a bit of the way with you. Then we can talk as we go. 'Tis the worst of bad luck about your brother. When'll he be leaving?"

      "In four or five days. He moves across into our bungalow this morning. It was splendid of Captain Desmond to think of it."

      "Ah, Theo's just made that way!" Then, noting a glimmer of surprise in Honor's face, her wide smile shone out once more. "Is it shocked you are because I speak of him so? Well, … truth is, I'm a privileged person since I pulled him through typhoid seven years ago, when by rights he should have died. I'm a rare hand, anyway, at dropping the formalities with them that suit me taste. Though, by the same token, I've taken no liberties with little Mrs Desmond yet. It's queer. We don't seem to get much further with her; though we'd be glad enough to do it for Theo's sake. You mustn't mind straight speech from me, Miss Meredith. Sure I must have been born with the whole truth in me mouth, for as fast as I open me lips a bit of it slips out. I'll be finding she's your half-sister, or first cousin, or some such thing!"

      Honor laughed outright. It would clearly be impossible to take amiss anything that this woman might choose to say. The kindliness of her soul shone through her plain face, like sunlight through a window-pane.

      "Her mother is a distant connection of ours," the girl admitted frankly. "And we were brought up for a time like sisters. It must have been rather a startling change for her from a country town at home to a Border station; and she is very young still, and very devoted to her husband."

      "She is that, … after a queer fashion of her own. But Theo's bound to make his mark on the Frontier, like his father before him; and you know the proverb, 'He travels the fastest who travels alone.' Tis hardly meself, though, that should be upholding such a saying as that!"

      "No, indeed! No woman ought to uphold it. And, after all," Honor added, with a very becoming touch of seriousness, "there may be better things for a man than to travel fast. He may learn more by travelling slowly, don't you think? And I should imagine that fast or slow, Captain Desmond is bound to arrive in the end – Now I must turn in here, and see if John is awake. I'll come and see you when he is gone. I can spare no time for any one else till then!"

      Frank Olliver beamed in unqualified approbation.

      "You're just a brick, Miss Meredith," she declared with ready Irish warmth. "An' 'twas a fine wind indeed that carried you up to Kohat."

      Honor found her hand enclosed in a grasp as strong as a man's; and three minutes later Mrs Olliver – whose seat on a horse was as ungainly as her hand on its mouth was perfect – had become a mere speck on the wide sunlit road.

      Honor entered the hall of her new home pondering many things. She laid aside her sun helmet, and in obedience to the promptings of her interested soul turned her steps toward the drawing-room.

      The door was ajar, and passing between the looped gold and white phulkaris, she came to a standstill; for the room was not empty.

      Captain Desmond, in undress uniform, sat at the piano with his back towards her. His white helmet lay, spike downward, on the carpet; and an Aberdeen terrier – ears rigidly erect, head tilted at a critical angle – sat close beside it, watching his master with intent eyes, in which all the wisdom and sorrow of the ages seemed writ.

      While the girl hesitated on the threshold, Desmond struck a succession of soft chords in a minor key; and she stood spellbound, determined to hear more. Music was no mere accomplishment to her, but a simple necessity of life; and this man possessed that rare gift of touch, which no master in the world can impart, because it is a produce neither of hand nor brain, but of the player's individual soul. Desmond's fingers were unpractised, but he gave every note its true value; and he played slowly, as though composing each chord as it came, or building it up from memory. It was almost as if he were thinking aloud; and Honor had just decided that she really had no business to be overhearing his thoughts, when an apprehensive "woof" from the Aberdeen brought them suddenly to an end.

      Desmond swung round upon the music-stool, and at sight of her sprang up hastily, a dull flush showing through his tan.

      "Amar Singh told me you were out," he said, as they shook hands.

      "So I was. I only came in this minute. Won't you let me hear a little more, please?"

      He shook his head with good-humoured decision.

      "I never play to any one … except Rob, who, being a Scots Covenanter, disapproves on principle."

      "I call that selfish. It's such a rare treat to hear a man play well. I was delighted when you began. I thought pianos were unheard of up here."

      "Well, … they are hardly a legitimate item in a Frontier officer's equipment! This one was … my mother's," he laid a hand on the instrument, as though it had been the shoulder of a friend. "The fellows sat upon me, I assure you, when I brought it out. Told me it was worse than a wife. But I've carried my point, … wife and all. And now, perhaps you will reward me, – if I haven't been too ungracious to deserve it?"

      He whisked away his solitary photo, and opened the piano.

      "How do you know I play?" she asked, smiling. She liked his impetuosity of movement and speech.

      "I don't know. I guessed it last night. You carry it in your head?"

      "Yes; most of it."

      "Real music? The big chaps?"

      "Very little else, I'm afraid."

      "No need to put it that way here, Miss Meredith. A sonata, please. The Pathetic."

      She sat down to the piano with a little quickening of the breath and let her fingers rest a moment on the keyboard. Then – sudden, crisp, and vigorous came the crash of the opening chord.

      Honor Meredith's playing was of a piece with her own nature – vivid, wholesome, impassioned. Her supple fingers drew the heart out of each wire. Yet she did not find it necessary to sway her body to and fro; but sat square and upright, her head a little lifted, as though evolving the music from her soul.

      Desmond listened motionless to the opening bars; then, with a long breath of satisfaction, moved away, and fell to pacing the room.

      The Scots Covenanter, scenting the joyful possibility of escape, trotted hopefully to heel: but, being a dog of discernment, speedily detected the fraud, and retired to the hearth-rug in disgust. Thence he scrutinised his master's irrational method of taking exercise, unfeigned contempt in every line of him, from nose-tip to tail.

      The sonata ended, Honor let her hands fall into her lap,

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