"Great is the wisdom of the Captain Sahib, understanding the deceitfulness of man's heart. Bishan Singh's tongue is as a horse without bit or bridle. If head and hand carry him as far, he will do well."

"True talk," Desmond answered, smiling. Then with the incurable diffidence of the Englishman when he is moved to do a gracious action, he held out his parcel. "See here, Rajinder Singh. This is a small matter enough for your acceptance. A token merely that--I do not forget."

"_Hazur!_"

The eagerness of a child transfigured the man's weatherbeaten face, and his fingers plucked unsteadily at the string.

Desmond took out a knife and slit it without a word.

For a long moment Rajinder Singh gazed upon the miracle before him in silent wonder. To the unsophisticated native--and there are happily many left in India--a photograph remains an abiding miracle; a fact to be accepted and reverenced without explanation, like the inconsistencies of the G.o.ds.

"In very truth, it is the Captain Sahib himself!" he muttered with the air of one who makes an amazing discovery. Then, grasping his possession in both hands, he held it out at arm's length, examining every detail with loving care; glancing from the counterfeit to the original as if to satisfy himself that the artist had omitted nothing; for Desmond was wearing the undress uniform of the picture.

"_Bahut, bahut salaam_,[22] Sahib!" he broke out in a tremulous fervour of grat.i.tude. "It is your Honour's self, as I said, lacking only speech. Feature for feature--cord for cord. All things are faithfully set down. Behold, even these marks upon the scabbard,--the very scar upon your Honour's hand! Now, indeed, hath G.o.d favoured me beyond deserving; for my Captain Sahib abideth under this my roof until I die."

[22] Many, many thanks.

Rising unsteadily, in defiance of Desmond's mute protest, he removed the cherished looking-gla.s.s, hung the photo in its place, and, drawing himself up to his full six-feet-two of height, gravely saluted it.

"_Salaam, hamara_,[23] Captain Sahib Bahadur!"

[23] Salaam, my Captain Sahib.

Then he turned to find Desmond, who had risen also, watching him intently, his full heart in his eyes.

"I thought it would give you pleasure," he said, in a tone of restrained feeling, "but I had no knowledge that it would please you as much as that. I am very glad I thought of it. But now," he added more briskly, "enough of talk. There waiteth more work to be done than a man can accomplish before dark. Get you back to bed, Ressaldar Sahib, and stay there until I order otherwise."

Once outside, he sprang to the saddle, and set off at a canter through the withering, stupefying sunlight towards Captain Olliver's bungalow.

CHAPTER XI.

YOU DON'T KNOW DESMOND.

"Suffer with men, and like a man be strong."--MYERS.

Frank Olliver, looking remarkably fresh and cool in a holland gown of severe simplicity, greeted him from the verandah with a flour-covered hand. At the sound of hoofs, her ready brain had sprung to the right conclusion, and she hurried out to save him the necessity of dismounting. She had learned to know the value of minutes to a hard-worked man.

"Geoff told me," she said, a rare seriousness veiling the laughter of her eyes. "It's cruel bad news, but you mustn't dream of being anxious yet awhile, Theo, man. I'll be round by half-past eleven sharp; stay till you two are through with your work; rest this afternoon and come on again at seven, till morning. You'll just take one clear night in bed before I let you go shares in _that_ part o' the work. You can trust him to me, can't you, though I _am_ a mad Irishwoman? I'll promise not to be waking up the patient to take his sleeping draught, or any such cleverness!"

Her nonsense dispelled Desmond's gravity. "I can trust you as far as that, I think!" he answered with a laugh; "but I won't have you knocking yourself up again over this. The lad's my subaltern, and it's my business. You shall take to-night, though, if you've a mind to, and my best thanks into the bargain. G.o.d alone knows where we should all be without you."

"Just precisely where you are at present, no doubt!" But the softened tone betrayed her appreciation of his honest praise. "It's just a bad habit you've got into, that's the truth, and I've not the heart to break you of it either. But 'tis no time now for playing ball with compliments. I'm busy over a cake. My cook has a pain, an' swears 'tis cholera. An' what with dosing him, an' trying to convince him he's a fool, and seeing after Geoff's tiffin, I'll be melted to one tear-drop presently; but the good man'll have to dine at Mess to-night."

Desmond gathered up his reins, and she waved to him as he rode away.

Punctually at the half-hour she entered the sick-room--cool, practised, business-like, and took over her case as composedly as any trained nurse. For in those early days nursing was as persistent a feature of the hot weather as the punkah itself, and her skill had been acquired in a hard school.

The Boy had been installed, for greater comfort, in Desmond's own bed; and he greeted her with a faint smile of recognition.

"Poor, dear old fellow," she murmured tenderly, pushing the damp hair from his brow; "wait only till the ice comes, an' we'll pull you round finely, never fear."

His lids fell under her soothing touch, and sprinkling her fingers with lavender water she pa.s.sed them across and across his forehead; a look in her eyes the while that none save her "brother officers" had ever seen there; a look such as her children might have seen, had she been so blest.

Among acquaintances Mrs Olliver pa.s.sed for a masculine woman, boisterous and good-humoured, though somewhat lacking in the lesser proprieties and affectations which pa.s.sed for delicacy of feeling. But with all her angularity and mannish ways, she was a fine mother wasted: and in her heart she knew it. There are too many such among us. A mystery of pain and unfulfilled hope which there seems no justifying, save that at times the world is the gainer by their individual loss; and Frank Olliver, being denied the blessedness of children, mothered all the men of her regiment, the formidable Colonel not excepted.

Having charmed her patient into a light sleep, she made a noiseless tour of the room, smiling at the revelation of Paul Wyndham's hand in the exquisite neatness wherewith all things had been set in order. A towel pinned to the punkah frill brought the faint relief of moving air nearer to Denvil's face. In the hasty manner of its pinning Theo's workmanship stood revealed, and the smile deepened in her eyes. She knew each least characteristic of these her grown children; knew, and loved them, with a strong unspoken love.

Her next move brought her to the thermometer. It registered 95. A long while after sundown the mercury might drop three degrees, certainly not more. She cast an anxious glance at the sleeper, and her quick eye caught the lagging of the punkah, broken by fitful jerks, which denotes that the coolie--squatting on his heels in the verandah--is pulling the inexorable rope in his dreams.

Opening the outer door and letting in a blast as from the mouth of h.e.l.l, she reasoned with that much-enduring human machine in a forcible Irish whisper, that set the towel flapping and billowing like a flag in a wind. The room was none the cooler for his exertions, but in such intensity of heat mere movement of the air serves to prevent suffocation.

Mrs Olliver sat down beside her patient and her mind reverted to her own domestic calamity. She wondered with a simple practical wonderment, devoid of fear, whether or no she had a case of cholera in her compound. To-morrow it would be well to ascertain the truth; and in the meantime she dismissed the matter from her mind.

Before tiffin was over at the station Mess, Wyndham made his appearance, and with a friendly nod of welcome took the reins out of her hands. But by seven o'clock she was back at her post; and one look at Harry's flushed face and unseeing eyes convinced her that the next twelve hours would make a high demand upon her energies, and her resolute hopefulness of heart.

Desmond came in before Mess. His eyes were grave and anxious, and for many minutes he stood looking down upon the boy in silence; the slim uprightness of his figure emphasised by the close-fitting white uniform, with its wide splash of scarlet at the waist. Then he crossed to the table and studied the chart, that strange hieroglyph, like a negative print of forked lightning, so full of dread meaning to those who can read it aright. The latest entry was 106.

"You saw Mackay?" he asked, under his breath.

"I did."

"You're in for a hard night of it. I'd better stay up and help."

"I'll not have you at any price," she answered bluntly.

He frowned. But the fact that he did not insist spoke volumes to her understanding heart.

"Swear you'll send Amar Singh to wake me if it seems necessary."

"I will--no fear."

"He'll sit handy, just outside, all night and help you in any possible way. He's a jewel at times like this. I'll look in again when I get home."

"Come back early," she commanded with a sudden smile, "and have a solid night of sleep. It's plain your needing it badly."

"Thanks. I believe I am. I'll make a fresh start afterwards and take my fair share of the work. Jove! It's a furnace of a night. There goes the trumpet; I'll be back before long."

His words were truer than he knew.

Shortly after nine o'clock, while Mrs Olliver was persuading her semi-delirious patient to swallow two tablespoonfuls of chicken-broth, quick footsteps and the clink of spurs made her sit suddenly upright, with a listening look in her eyes. She knew the country of her service well enough to be prepared for anything at any hour of the day or night--and she was barely surprised when, two minutes later, Desmond stood before her in his forage cap, his sword buckled on over his mess-jacket and held high to prevent it from clanking.

"What is it?" she asked in a hurried whisper. "A beacon fire alight?"

He nodded, and pa.s.sed a handkerchief across his forehead, for he had come at lightning speed.