He found the rest of the little garrison even more subdued than usual.

The death of one of their number had naturally cast a general gloom; and when he had made a pretence of despatching his supper Anstice easily persuaded Mrs. Wood to take a few hours' rest by the side of her little girl, who was now, fortunately, well on the way to recovery from her sudden illness.

The incapable Rosa was also dismissed to seek what slumber was possible; and then the four men took up their positions as before--Mr. Wood and Garnett keeping watch from the window of the room in which Cheniston had died, while Anstice and Ha.s.san stationed themselves at the second window; Iris leaning against the wall, very pale, but apparently quite composed, on a pile of rugs which Anstice had arranged for her well out of range of a possible stray shot.

She had promised him to try to rest; but as the hours of the short night wore away and the critical moment of dawn approached, he knew that although she sat in silence with closed eyes she did not sleep; and again he wondered, vainly, insistently, what had pa.s.sed between husband and wife before Death cut short their mutual life.

He felt he would have given much to know what reason Iris had to be thankful that she and her husband had been alone in the hour of his death; and although he had no intention of pursuing the subject he could not quite stifle his curiosity as to her meaning.

But Sir Richard Wayne's daughter was the soul of loyalty; and although a day was to come in which she and Anstice had few secrets from one another, he was destined never to know that Bruce Cheniston had died with Hilda Ryder's name upon his lips.

And so the short night pa.s.sed; and with the dawn the long-expected attack came at last.

CHAPTER VI

"Dr. Anstice"--Iris' voice was very low--"shall I disturb you if I come and sit beside you for a little while? I--I feel rather--lonely--sitting over there."

Anstice had turned round sharply as she began to speak and his heart yearned over her pitifully as he noted the pallor of her cheeks, the forlorn look in her grey eyes.

"Of course you won't disturb me." He dared not speak so emphatically as he wished. "I shall be only too glad if you will come and sit here"--he arranged the pile of rugs by him as he spoke--"only, if danger arises, you will keep out of harm's way, won't you?"

"Yes." She said no more for a moment; but her a.s.sent satisfied him, and he turned back to the window with a sudden feeling of joy at her proximity which would not be repressed.

Presently he heard her low voice once more.

"Dr. Anstice, when you told me your story--long ago--why didn't you tell me the name of the man to whom that poor girl was engaged? Didn't you want me to know she was to have married--Bruce?" Her voice sank on the last word.

For an instant Anstice kept silence, uncertain how to answer her. Then, seeing she was waiting for his reply, he made an effort and spoke.

"Mrs. Cheniston, to be honest, I don't know why I did not tell you.

But"--he seized the opportunity for a question on his own account--"will you tell me how you know, now? Did--did your husband tell you?"

"No." Her eyes met his frankly and he knew she was speaking the truth.

"I learned the fact for certain by accident three days ago, when Bruce was delirious. Of course I had wondered--sometimes"--said Iris honestly--"but I never liked to ask. And after all it made no difference."

"No." He sighed. "It made no difference. But I am glad you know--now."

Again a silence fell between them; and then a sudden impulse drove Anstice into speech.

"Mrs. Cheniston," he said, very quietly, "may I tell you something else--something I have long wanted you to know?"

Startled, she a.s.sented; and he continued slowly.

"You remember that night--the night before your wedding day"--he saw her wince, and went on more quickly--"the night, I mean, when Cherry Carstairs set herself on fire and you came for me to my house----"

"Yes." Her eyes were sad. "I remember. I don't think I shall ever be able to forget that night."

"Ah, don't say that!" His voice was eager. "Mrs. Cheniston, don't, please, believe I gave in without a struggle. I didn't. G.o.d knows I fought the horrible thing--for your sake, because you had been good enough, kind enough--to ask me to give up trying that way out. I did try. Oh, I know you can hardly believe me--you who saw me in the very hour of my failure--but it's true. Although I gave in at the last, beaten by the twin enemies of bodily pain and mental suffering----"

"You were--in pain--that day?"

"Yes. I had endured torture--oh, I don't want to excuse myself, but please understand I was really ill, really suffering, and morphia, as you know, does bring a blessed relief. And I was wretched, too--it seemed to me that life was over for me that day----"

He stopped short, biting his lips at his self-betrayal; but Iris' grey eyes did not turn away from his face.

"And so, thinking I could endure no more agony of body and mind, I had recourse to the one relief I knew; but before G.o.d, if I had known that you would be a witness to my failure----"

"Dr. Anstice"--the gentleness in her voice fell like balm upon his sore spirit--"please don't say any more. We are only human, you and I; and one failure does not minimize a long-continued success."

"You mean----"

"I mean that I know--I can't tell you how, but I _do_ know it--you have never again tried that way out of your troubles. I think," said Iris, "you have found the _real_ way out--at last."

Her words perplexed, even while they relieved him; and he sought the meaning of them.

"The _real_ way, Mrs. Cheniston? I wonder what you mean by that?"

"I mean," she said very softly, "you must have found the way out of your own troubles by the very act of pointing out the way to others. You have brought Chloe Carstairs back to life--oh, I know it was through you that the mystery was cleared up at last--and that alone must make you feel that whatever mistake you may once have made you have atoned for it a hundredfold. And"--for an instant Iris' voice shook--"what are you doing now but atoning for that mistake--if further atonement were necessary?"

"You mean----"

"I mean that you are here, waiting for the Bedouins to attack us at any moment, waiting to fight for us women, ready, if need be, to die on our behalf." The words fell very softly on the quiet air. "And though I pray that G.o.d will send us help so that no life may be sacrificed I know"--Iris' eyes shone, and her voice rang suddenly like a clarion call--"I know that I--that we are safer with you than with any other man in the world...."

Carried away by her trust in him Anstice turned to her impulsively.

"Mrs. Cheniston, I can't thank you enough for those words. G.o.d knows I would willingly, gladly die to shield you from any harm; and if help should not come in time, and I should lose my life, well, please believe two things--firstly, that since that dreadful night I have never--failed--in that way again; and secondly, that to die in your service"--so much he might surely say in this poignant hour--"would be a death which any man might envy me."

She did not reply in words; but her eyes answered for her and for a moment there was silence between them. Then, as though half afraid he might have angered her by his last impetuous speech, Anstice spoke abruptly in another tone.

"Odd, isn't it, how an action carried through in a moment may have such tremendous consequences? I mean if I had stayed my hand long ago in that Indian hut you and I would not be here now, faced with this rather--difficult--situation. It makes one realize that one should never act too hastily--without looking all round the subject, so to speak."

"Yes. And yet--sometimes--if one stopped to think of the consequences one would be afraid to act, and let the vital moment slip," she said rather dreamily. "Of course there is always the afterwards----"

"Do you know of what that reminds me?" He spoke quickly. "Once, long ago when I was a student, I picked up a book of old plays at a bookstall in the Charing Cross Road. And in one of the plays I came across this sentence: 'The deed itself may be the work of a moment; but there is always the long, long _afterwards_ with which to reckon.'"

His voice died away; but she said nothing, though her eyes betokened her interest; and presently he resumed.

"Well, that sentence has haunted me pretty frequently of late--it has run through the years like the saying of some avenging angel. I have known what the reckoning with the _afterwards_ may be--sometimes, indeed, I have feared that reckoning will never be paid."

"Dr. Anstice," she said quietly, "you are wrong. The reckoning _is_ paid; the atonement _is_ made; and I am quite sure that the future--for you--will be rid for ever of the haunting shadow of the past. And"--her cheeks blanched suddenly as a clamour arose in the courtyard outside--"I think the future is beginning--with trouble and danger--now."