vows, and passionate utterance, sorrow in the present, but hope in the future, and then the interview sternly broken in upon with angry words.
“Now, Markham, come and be introduced.”
“Thank you, some other time.”
“But I’ve asked her, and she says she will be very happy to make your acquaintance.”
Markham was forced to acquiesce.
There was a circle of admirers around the queen of the ball.
“Who’s that native?” exclaimed Markham to his companion. “I’d fell a man to the ground who stared at a woman like that.”
“Bless you that’s the Rajah of , he’s the best fellow in the world—gives such jolly hunting parties; quite a marvel in the way of civilisation; reads all sorts of poetry; knows Tom Moore by heart.”
“But his cursed stare?”
“Pooh! it’s the way these chaps have. Nobody’s speaking to her now. Come along.”
“Mr. Markham—Mrs. Vincent.”
He stood before her perfectly self-possessed, but she was evidently taken by surprise; his name must have escaped her when the introduction was requested.
“This is unexpected,—an old friend!” she exclaimed. Then in a whisper, “an old friend, Mr. Markham, notwithstanding the past—Colonel, an old friend from England!” and she introduced Markham to her husband.
“Mr. Markham!” said the Colonel. “I have much honour—the engineer of the Line?”
“The same, sir.”
The Colonel dabbled in speculation; the Colonel was delighted to make Markham’s acquaintance; his poor house was at Markham’s service while he remained at the station. The Colonel drew Markham out of the circle to have some special conversation on railway topics; the circle closed again to listen to Mrs. Vincent’s brilliant sallies and repartee, but she had become silent and pensive.
When she had heard of Markham last, Markham had gone to Canada. Why in the countless chances of life should he and she meet at this time in India? Why should the error of her life have been thus brought vividly before her? Was this a monition to repentance? Yet why repentance at this particular season?—repentance timing itself with the newest valse from England and the whirl of the dancers. How the heaviness and depression of the mind darkens passing events! The vague rumours of that dreadful affair at Meerut—was that merely an isolated occurrence arising out of special circumstances? The Colonel said so,—the Colonel and all the officers were fully confident in the devotion and loyalty of the regiment, she had believed them implicitly; but now her mind was filled with terrible doubt. What if these natives should prove utterly false? Why she and all around her were treading on smouldering fire. She must speak to the Colonel; where was he? She raised her eyes, the circle which had been round her gradually dispersed, all, save one, that Rajah of . She was perfectly accustomed to that repulsive mystery of expression which marks the oriental type; but when his eyes chanced to meet hers, there was something so terribly repulsive in the gaze that she trembled and turned pale, in another moment deep crimson mantled her countenance; she left her seat and hurried to the Colonel who was still standing talking to Markham. Placing her arm in his, she whispered:
“Let us go home now.”
“It’s early yet, my love.”
The Colonel was deep in the share-market, and anxious for further conversation with Markham.
“But I don’t feel quite well, pray come. Good night, Mr. Markham, we shall meet again soon.”
“Certainly,” said the Colonel, “Mr. Markham has promised to dine with us to-morrow.”
Markham bowed . . . . . .
“To-morrow!”
As it will be at the end of the world, so it was at many of those stations in India. The sun rose on the ordered strength of human system, and behold! all that men trusted in and clung to, shrunk in a moment from their grasp.
They did meet again very soon, Mrs. Vincent and Markham,—a speedy transition from the amenities of society to grim strife for life and death—dragged from her own home; but he had rescued her, driven her—clinging desperately to him—through a hundred dangers.
Whither now? Bewildered by unknown roads, beneath a burning sun and fiery gusts of parching wind, the hard-held rein growing looser and looser in the hand. Still she kept urging him to hurry on—on, from a fear worse than death that possessed her soul.
But the brave horse, wounded and worn out, fell at last.
This flight from the land of Death, so terribly real, yet growing more and more into the semblance of a frightful dream—the clogged effort to escape, and the sense of an irresistible doom creeping slowly onwards.
There was a native hut near the road. It appeared tenantless. He half carried her—half dragged her to it. The place was quite bare, save some rough planking at one end which formed a rude couch. It afforded shelter from the sun, not from the heat, still it gave them breathing-time.
Oh that fearful heat! though she had lived three years in India, she never before felt its full force untempered by the appliances of man.
Neither spoke for awhile. Profound silence reigned around them—silence more awful than the din and clamour from which they had fled. Inaction, more terrible than the sharp struggle that had saved them from death. Inaction, which allowed the mind to realise silence—as it were Heaven hushed for a last confession and prayer.
The chances were terribly against escape. Markham saw that clearly, and yet even to surprise, he had never in his life known his mind more perfectly composed and capable of exact thought. He was constitutionally brave, and his mental powers were never fully developed until he