Maud soon lost sight of her troubled spirits in Felicia's society. Her doubts about her happiness in married life were forgotten in the midst of pleasures which pleased Sutton no less than herself. Her devotion to Felicia was a sentiment which her husband thoroughly understood and cordially approved.

'I used to be finely jealous of her, Jem, I can tell you, in old days,'

Maud would say to him, 'and to think you liked her twenty times better than some one else; and indeed I am not sure that I am not jealous now; only I am so much in love with her myself that I do not feel it.'

'Jealous!' Sutton would plead. 'Felicia is like a sister to me. It was she, I believe, who first hit out the brilliant idea of our being married.'

'Was it?' said Maud blushing. 'I fancied that happy thought had been my own. Well, Jem, if you never flirt with any one but her I will forgive you, because in my opinion she is an angel.'

The pleasant visit ended. Sutton had to go off to his camp, a tiny hill station some three thousand feet above the sea, and therefore, as its enemies declared, combining all the drawbacks of hill and plain. Here they were to stay till June, when Sutton was to have his leave and to take his bride up to Elysium for the rest of the summer. Even this prospect had not enabled Maud to bear the parting from her friend with equanimity. 'I wish--I wish,' she had said, wistfully, with the tears in her eyes--'what do I wish? If only, dear Felicia, I could never go away from you!' Felicia bade her farewell with an aching heart, and some dark misgivings. They were not to meet at Elysium, for this year she had determined to establish her children in their little mountain abode at the 'Gully' and to divide her time between them and her husband till he could come up and join them. Then they had resolved to take a little march into the interior, where Felicia might get some new sketches and enlarge her stock of ferns; while Vernon might have a few days'

shooting, unhara.s.sed by a pursuing train of official cares and correspondence.

The Hill Camp proved a fearful place; worse, far worse, than anything on the march. It was only to be endured till June, happily, but still it looked terrific. The long lines of huts; the horrible little abodes which were honoured by the t.i.tle of Officers' Quarters; the gaunt, hideous, treeless hills; the valleys blazing and withered, the dry, blistering scene uncheered by a single streamlet; the dusty plateau, where the soldiers were eternally marching, galloping, cannonading--all the outer world seemed dull, parched, repulsive. There was no other lady in the camp but one, the surgeon's wife, large and dark and hot, and, as Maud felt, horribly realising one's ideas of an ogress. This lady used to come and see her, and sit gossiping and questioning and telling long stories, and shaking a great bird of paradise feather in her head, till she made Maud's life a burthen to her. Then, after about three of these visitations, which Maud imagined that she had endured with angelic sweetness, the lady, for some inscrutable cause, took offence, and when next they met out of doors flung up her head, brandished the bird of paradise feather in the most menacing and defiant manner, and had evidently proclaimed a social war of an altogether implacable order.

'O Jem! what _have_ I done?' said Maud with a shudder, as she pa.s.sed.

'Something unforgivable evidently,' said Sutton; 'we must make peace at once, because Surgeon Crummins could poison us all, if he pleased, next time we happen to be poorly and to fall into his hands. Let us have them to dinner.'

So the irascible lady and the surgeon had to be asked to dinner; and dull and stiff and wearisome the dinner proved, and Maud's heart sank within her at the thought that these were to be her companions, and this the sort of life upon which she was embarked. She loved her husband, but what a price her love had cost her!

Flashes of brightness, however, break in upon the dreariest lot, and one cheering feature of this period was the arrival of a most interesting box from England, containing a highly important supplement to Maud's original _trousseau_. To take an array of pretty garments for a march of two months in the jungle had been out of the question, so that Felicia had determined that all Maud's dresses for the coming summer should not arrive till the time approached when they would be of use. In May, accordingly, there came two splendid cases, whose appearance announced the importance of their contents. Jem professed himself quite as excited as Maud and set to work at once with chisel and hammer to disinter the treasures. There is something very delightful in such unpackings--far from home--the very air within seems English; the silver-paper has a charming familiar look; each package as it comes out and is revealed excites a pleasing pang of excitement. And then these boxes were mines of treasures. There were lovely ball-dresses, lying fresh, unruffled, ethereal as when they left the artist's hand; and a new habit, which made Maud feel how shabby hers had grown in her long tour; and a most charming morning dress, looped up into all sorts of fantastic costumes, which her prophetic soul told her would look very effective on the lawn at Government House; and there were hats and bonnets and flowers for the hair, culled surely by some fairy hand; and amongst the other treasures was a fine pearl necklace, which old Mrs. Sutton had guarded for many a year for this especial end, and had at last had reset, and now sent, with all sorts of fond wishes and blessings, to her dear son's bride.

Sutton insisted on Maud's trying everything on; and Maud, nothing loth, obeyed.

'Let us send across for Mrs. Crummins,' suggested her husband, 'if this will not appease her she is a fury.'

Accordingly Maud wrote a little note in great excitement:--'Dear Mrs.

Crummins, _would_ you like to see my new dresses, which have just arrived?' Mrs. Crummins _would_ like it, of all things, and came across in about two minutes, under a big umbrella, bird of paradise and all, and was quite as much pleased as Maud, and plunged with her at once into mysteries of detail in which Sutton's male mind was incapable of sympathising. She heaved great sighs of wonder, delight, and satisfaction as each new treasure came to light, and ended by losing her heart and kissing Maud quite affectionately in her enthusiasm. 'Indeed they are very pretty, and so are you, my dear, and, as the surgeon says, quite a refreshing sight for weary eyes.'

So Maud, who was ever ready for a proclamation of amity, signed peace at once, and before the week was out she and her new friend were on terms of the utmost confidence, and had arranged the bird of paradise in the very latest fashion, as shown in Maud's own hats, so that it really looked lovely.

The result, however, of all this was, that Maud antic.i.p.ated Elysium with greater glee than ever. A pearl necklace, a beautiful satin dress, a Paris fan with lovely Watteau ladies gliding all about it--well, it was something to go from day to day and look at these treasures, but the moment for fruition had not arrived. They would have been quite thrown away on Sutton's troopers and mule-men, amid the horses and the dust.

Maud's grey habit, plaid dress and broad pith hat, was the only costume that would not have been ridiculous for the camp. No, the hour for real enjoyment had not arrived, and patience, as Maud had frequently occasion to observe, is a virtue easy to preach but hard to practise, when the present is dull and the expected future a blaze of pleasure.

Then other things had occurred to intensify her antic.i.p.ation of enjoyment at Elysium and her wish to go there. Mrs. Vereker had written her a letter which set her heart beating. 'The Governor-General and I,'

that excellent lady wrote, 'have both arrived, and so the Season may be said to have begun. Our friends of the Twentieth are here in force and are going to do wonders in the way of entertainment: everybody says it is to be _dazzling_. General Beau is here, as adoring as ever. The truth is, my rose bonnet is rather adorable, so, at least, _mes amis_ inform me. By the way, that naughty Mr. Desvoeux goes on as absurdly as ever about "some one," and declares quite seriously that he is broken-hearted.'

'Silly fellow!' said Maud, and yet it rather pleased her.

'Can you dance a minuet?' the letter went on. 'We are all having lessons. There is to be one at Government House. General Beau's shrugs and shakes over it are delicious. Everybody declares that I do it to perfection--but everybody won't say so when "somebody" arrives and carries all before her. So you see, my dear, I make hay while the sun shines, and am not a bit jealous; but come and eclipse me as soon as you please, for I, too, rather love you.'

Two hot, dusty, weary months had still to pa.s.s. Over that dull interval Maud's imagination travelled, each day with lighter steps, to a paradise of excitement and delight.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

TEMPTATION.

We fell out, my wife and I, And kiss'd again with tears.

Such being the state of things at Elysium, and such the state of Maud's feelings at the camp, imagine her dismay when Sutton came into the room one morning, with a letter in his hand and a very vexed expression on his face, and said: 'Is not this a bore, Maud? Here is a letter from the Chief telling me to go and inspect and report on all the suspected villages at once and say what force we want. So we cannot go to Elysium after all.'

'Not go to Elysium!' cried Maud, flushing red and the tears gathering to her eyes before she had time to check them. It seemed to her, poor child, the very climax of disappointment.

Her husband kissed her kindly. 'I did not know, dear,' he said, 'that you would care about it so much. I am such an old salamander myself that I forget that other people don't enjoy being grilled as much as I do.

But what can be done? These scoundrels--bad luck to them--must be reported on, and I must get the report finished before my autumn march begins.'

'It cannot be helped, I suppose,' said Maud, in a tone of despair, and retreating gloomily to her bedroom; for the tears kept coming fast, and the news seemed worse and worse each time she realised its import afresh. No Elysium! No holiday--no change--no charming b.a.l.l.s--no beautiful dresses--no pleasant rides--none of the nice scenes on which her fancy had dwelt, the prospect of which had cheered her through the long, dull spring--no bright companions, full of mirth and flattery and devotion to herself! Alas! alas! Maud felt that her trouble was too great to bear.

Sutton followed her presently, in a great state of perturbation at her display of disappointment.

'Come, Maud,' he said kindly, 'cheer up. You shall go and see Felicia if you like.'

But, alas! Maud's tears had got the mastery of her. A long-pent-up stream of melancholy had burst and nothing could stop it. She was inconsolable; the disappointment, in itself a great one, had found her not too well prepared to bear it. She wept, and would not, or could not, be comforted.

Sutton was completely disconcerted: to see her in trouble, and not be able to relieve it, wishing for anything that he could not give, grieving in this sort of hopeless fashion about what was to him scarcely more than an annoyance, was a new experience, and one which he was unprepared to meet. The fact was, though he did not know it, that Maud had got her head full of nonsense about Elysium. Distance lent enchantment to the view, especially when the view was taken from the dusty, stupid camp. Mrs. Vereker's foolish letter sounded bright and alluring: Desvoeux's merry talk and romantic protestations, how full of amus.e.m.e.nt, interest, excitement it all seemed! How unbearably dull in contrast the life about her! Sutton often absent, often tired and silent; sometimes sad; never, Maud told herself, anything like amusing.

Yes, it was too vexatious for all the heroism she could bring to bear upon it: her philosophy broke down.

'I know it is a hard life here,' said her husband, in vain attempts at consolation; 'it is hot and dull for you. I like it, but then I am used to it. But what can I do? If only Felicia were at Elysium you might go up to her.'

'There is Mrs. Vereker,' said Maud, suggestively.

'Mrs. Vereker!' exclaimed Sutton, in consternation; 'you surely'----

'She wrote very kindly the other day,' Maud said, cutting short her husband's protestation, 'and asked me to stay with her in her cottage.'

'But, Maud, you would not really like to go to her, would you?'

'I should not like to go,' Maud said, 'if you disapproved.'

'And I,' answered Sutton, suddenly nettled, 'would not have you stay unless you liked. How shall we decide?'

'You must decide,' said his wife, too much excited and too anxious to know well what she was about.

'Very well,' said Sutton, kindly, but with a sad tone that haunted Maud in aftertimes, 'I will decide. You shall go.'

Maud knew the tone in which he spoke as well as spoken words. She knew the look when he was hurt; she had watched it before. It told her now that she had never wounded him so deeply as to-day. Her heart smote her.

He had hardly gone before she longed to repent and stay; and yet she could not make up her mind to the sacrifice which it would cost her. She had been reckoning so upon it that it seemed like the blotting out of all the brightness of her life. The prospect of the dreary, lonely summer, was too grievous. So her heart went swaying to and fro: she grew more and more unhappy. Sutton was doubly kind and tender to her, and his look smote her to the heart. At last her good angel carried the day.

'Jem,' she said, 'I want to change my mind, please. I was mad just now and do not know what possessed me. I do not want to go to Elysium or anywhere, if you cannot go with me. I am frightened at the idea of it, even at this distance. I am sure I should be wretched. You must forgive me, and forget my foolish tears.'

These two had perhaps never loved each other quite so much as at this moment, nor Maud been ever quite so lovable. She was in her sweetest mood; she wore a bright, serene air which spoke of an unworthy temptation overcome, a higher happiness attained, a victory over her weaker, baser self. Already, as happens in such cases, it seemed to her incredible that she could have wished for the lower pleasure which had so nearly won her. As for Sutton, the world was suddenly re-illumined to him; the gloomy, terrible, agonising eclipse had pa.s.sed: all was sunshine and joy. His face showed what he was feeling. He drew Maud to him and kissed her with a serious, fervent air, as if it were an act of worship; he held her as if it were impossible to him ever to let her go.

Maud knew that his iron frame was shaken with vehement emotion; she saw a kind of rapture in his eyes, and read in them that she was well-beloved.

'Dear Maud,' he said, 'I should be wretched, the most miserable wretch alive, if ever any shade of doubt or coldness came between us two. You hold my life, dear, in your hand: my heart is wholly yours and has no other life. If ever your love to me waned it would be death to me.'

And Maud, as she looked and listened, knew that it would.