Captain Desmond, V.C.. Diver Maud

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      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, and sat very still. She had lost all thought of her companion in the joy of interpretation; but Desmond's voice at her side recalled her to reality.

      "Thank you," he said. "I haven't heard it played like that … for five years. If you can do much of this sort of thing you'll find me insatiable. We're bound to be good friends at this rate, and I see no reason why we should not comply with Ladybird's request to us. Do you, … Honor?"

      She started and flushed at the sound of her name; then turned her clear eyes full upon him, the shadow of a smile lifting the rebellious corners of her mouth.

      "No reason at all, … in good time, Captain Desmond."

      He returned her look with an equal deliberation.

      "Is that a hint to me to keep my distance?"

      "No. Only to … 'go slow,' if you'll forgive the expressive slang. It's so much wiser in the long-run."

      "Is it? Bad luck for me. I've never managed it yet, and I doubt if I ever shall. The men of my squadron call me Bijli-wallah Sahib,7 and I didn't earn the name by going slow, … Miss Meredith. If I have been overbold, your music was to blame. But Ladybird seemed to wish it; and, believe me, I did not mean it to seem like impertinence. Why, there she is herself, bless her; and we're neither of us ready for breakfast!"

      CHAPTER IV.

      ESPECIALLY WOMEN

      "We are fearfully and wonderfully made – especially women."

– Thackeray.

      The afternoon sunlight flung lengthening shadows across the cavalry Lines, where men and native officers alike were housed in mud-plastered huts, innocent of windows; and where life was beginning to stir anew after the noontide tranquillity of the East.

      The eighty horses of each troop stood, picketed with ample lengths of head and heel rope, between the lines of huts occupied by their sowars; while at the permanently open doorways squatted the men themselves, – Sikhs, Punjabi-Mahomedans, Pathans, each troop composed entirely of one or the other, – smoking, gambling, or putting final touches to their toilet in the broad light of day. The native officers alone aspired to a certain degree of privacy. Their huts were detached a little space from those that guarded the horses; and flimsy walls of grass matting, set around them, imparted a suggestion of dignity and aloofness from the common herd.

      The hut of Jemadar Alla Dad Khan, of the Pathan troop of Desmond's squadron, boasted just such a matting wall, with a gateless gateway, even as in the bungalows of Sahibs; and withinsides all was very particularly set in order. There was an air of festivity in the open courtyard, on either side of which lay two smoke-grimed rooms, that made up the entire house.

      For this was a red-letter day in the eyes of the Jemadar, and of Fatma Bibi, his wife, who had spent a full hour in adorning her plump person, and emphasising its charms according to the peculiar methods of the East. That done, she came forth into the sunlight, attired as becomes a Mahomedan woman who is expecting a visit of ceremony. Above her mysteriously draped trousers she wore a sleeveless coat, adorned with crescent-shaped pockets and a narrow gold braid. A sari8 of gold-flecked muslin was draped over her head and shoulders, and beneath it her heavily oiled hair made a wide triangle of her forehead. The scarlet of betel-nut was upon her lips; the duskiness of kol shadowed her lashes. Ornaments of glass and silver encircled her neck and arms, and were lavishly festooned around her delicate ears.

      Her entire bearing exhaled satisfied vanity like a perfume, as she sat at ease upon a bare charpoy9 watching her husband's preparations for the expected guests.

      He was arrayed in full-dress uniform, even to the two cherished medals on his chest; and his appearance sorted strangely with the peaceful nature of his occupation.

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