The Great Amulet Read online

  CHAPTER III.

  "Flower o' the clove, All the Latin I construe is 'Amo, I love'!" --Browning.

  Quita drew rein and sat motionless for several seconds, lookingstraight before her.

  "I wonder . . . I wonder very much," she mused, "exactly what one mayinfer from all that. Either he has superb self-control, or I have beenwiped off the slate altogether. Most probably the latter."

  Then she moved forward slowly, in a state of mind so complicated that,for all her skill in self-analysis, she could not unravel her ownsensations. She only knew that she felt jarred through and through,and in a mood to give way to her most dare-devil impulses. But happilyfor her, no egregious piece of folly was ready to hand at the moment.

  Her appearance in India was itself the outcome of an impulse generatedby the arrival of two cheques, whose united figures took away herbreath; and confirmed by the fact that Michael's relations with theinevitable woman of the moment threatened serious complications--forthe woman. For Michael himself serious complications seemed out of allquestion. Frank Pagan though he was, he lacked, in a peculiar degree,the needful leavening of common clay. Love, as he knew it, was notinevitably based on passion. It was his imagination rather than hisheart that took fire, and only under the influence of a dominantemotion did he appear to be capable of the highest achievement.Briefly, he was in love with Love, with that elixir of the heart thatstirs the pulses, and quickens inspiration. The object loved stoodsecond. But, so long as the enchantment held, so long as no newimpression caught and whirled him in another direction, he honestlybelieved her to be supreme.

  Hence complications, many and embarrassing, which went far to interpretQuita's inconsequent flittings from one continental town to another.For, although the younger by eighteen months, she was many years olderin thought and character than her irresponsible brother; and in allmatters of moment she took, and was expected to take, the lead.

  The key to a perplexing character may often be found in theidiosyncrasies of its nearest and dearest; and this reversal of thenatural order of things explained much in Quita that appeared_difficile_ and contradictory; explained also her instant gravitationto Lenox, in whom she divined a supply of moral force, and themasculine spirit of protection, both strangely undeveloped in thebrother she so devoutly loved. And if at times the uncongenial task ofconscience-keeper, and general financier, coupled with complexities,arising from her own false position, had proved something of a strainupon her, Michael had never yet discovered the fact. She understoodand shared enough of his Pagan spirit to accept his emotional aids toself-expression at their true value. Do what he might, she could notfind it in her heart to be angry with him for long. He carried hisfine crop of failings with a cheerfulness and assurance so engaging,that it seemed almost ungracious to be aware of them.

  But there were moments when the woman in her rebelled, even toremonstrance, with small result; and when, at length, the arrival oftwo cheques coincided with Michael's announcement that a certainenamoured Countess obviously expected him to free her from the tyrannyof an unloved husband, Quita had laughingly suggested India as aninviting means of escape from entanglements present and to come.

  Half a night of meditation had sufficed to set her on the rock ofdecision. There were possibilities about India not to be named, evento her own heart. There were also empty spaces where white women wouldbe scarce, and where Michael must learn to work without the spur of afictitious stimulant.

  Before the week was out, behold them ploughing through theMediterranean, leaving the misguided Countess to pacify a suspicioushusband. A summer in Kashmir, and a winter in a deserted Himalayanstation, had confirmed Quita in the wisdom of their flight; and now herown unnamed possibility had been sprung upon her so suddenly, sostrangely, that it took away her breath, and left her as yet neitherglad nor sorry, but profoundly disturbed.

  Arrived at her own turning, she relieved her feelings a little bygetting Yorick at a canter up the twisted scrap of a path that climbedto a wooden doll's house, christened by a poetical Hindu landlord, the"Crow's Nest." Perched on an impossible-looking slope of gravel andgranite, eight thousand feet above the Punjab, it seemed only to besaved from falling headlong by an eight-foot ledge of earth, whichQuita spoke of proudly as her "garden," and which actually boasted twostrips of border aglow with early summer flowers. Here she found her_sais_ squatting on his heels; and springing from the saddle, dismissedYorick without his customary lump of sugar.

  On the steps of the trellised verandah she paused, nerving herself torecount her astonishing adventure in the right tone of voice, andinstinctively her brain noted every detail of the view outspread beforeher. The golden stillness of morning rested on hill and valley like abenediction. Green cornfields, white watercourses, granitepromontories, and black patches of forest--all were bathed in warmthand light without languor. The breath of the snows was still ice-cool,and exhilarating as wine; its freshness penetrated and enhanced by thefaint sweet scent of Banksia roses, that clothed the rickety woodworkin a fairy garment of green and ivory-white. Each least sound wascrystal clear in the rarefied air; the quarrelling of two sparrows, thehigh-pitched chatter from the compound behind the cottages, thecrooning of ring-doves among the pines. Butterflies, like detachedflowers, fluttered in and out. A faint breeze stirred the roses, sothat an occasional creamy petal fell circling to the ground.

  But for the first time Quita Maurice felt out of tune with it all. Adisturbing element had thrust itself into her life, deranging itsperspective, altering its values. She felt badly in need of commonhuman sympathy, and the exalted calm of these high latitudes irritatedrather than soothed her.

  With an impatient sigh she turned to enter the house.

  The glass doors of the centre room stood open, a characteristic room,half drawing-room, half studio; furnished mainly with two large easels,painting-stools, and cane chairs, yet bearing in every detail the stampof Quita's iridescent personality. A pianette, a violin, a litter ofmusic, and back numbers of the 'Art Journal' occupied one corner. Arevolving bookcase showed an inviting array of books. Her own canvaswas hidden by draperies of dull gold silk, and beside it, on a carvedstool, sprays of Banksia roses and honeysuckle soared plumelike from avase of beaten bronze.

  Before the second easel Michael stood, with his back towards her, brushand palette in hand, head critically tilted, his velveteen coat sagginga little from rounded shoulders. Absorbed in his picture, he was quiteunconscious of her presence. This irritated her also to anunjustifiable extent. Her vanity had suffered recent shock, and anunreasoning longing possessed her to be cared for, to be supremelyneeded.

  "_Michel_!" she cried imperatively from her post in thedoorway,--Michael objected strongly to the harsher pronunciation of hisname; and the two seldom spoke English when alone. "Is it necessary tofire a salute before you will deign to be aware that one has come back?"

  At that he turned quickly about, and treated her to a burlesque bow ofapology.

  "_Mais non, cherie_ . . . a thousand pardons! But it is no fault ofmine that you have the footfall of a bird!"

  She laughed in spite of herself.

  "Keep those sort of speeches for Miss Mayhew. She may possibly believethem. It would be all the same if I had the footfall of an elephant!Nothing short of siege-guns would distract your mind from that picture.It has bewitched you."

  "_Eh bien_! When it is complete it will be a masterpiece," he assuredher loftily.

  "No doubt! But, in the meanwhile, it may interest you to know thatexcept for a genuine miracle, I should not be here at all."

  "_Mon Dieu_! But what happened? Tell me."

  Flinging aside palette and brushes, he caught her hands in his, and itcost her an effort to preserve her lightness of tone.

  "Nothing blood-curdling, since you see me without bruise or scratch.Only Yorick and I got tangled up with a herd of buffaloes on the KajiarRoad. In his fright, the little fool slipped half over the khud, andif a kn
ight-errant had not fallen from heaven, in the nick of time, weshould both be lying somewhere in the valley by now, 'spoiling a patchof Indian corn'!"

  Maurice frowned. "Don't be gruesome, Quita."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to be. I was only quoting that uncannily cleverKipling boy at Lahore. Yorick and I were slithering over, just likethe loathly Tertium Quid on the Mushobra Road; and there is plenty ofIndian corn in the valley! I thought of it, all in a flash, and itwasn't enlivening, I assure you."

  "That is enough," Maurice protested hastily. Tragedy oppressed him tothe verge of annoyance. "But tell me--who was the knight-errant, thatI may at least shake hands with him."

  The blood tingled in Quita's cheeks, and she went quickly forward intothe room.

  "I doubt if you will want to do that when you know his name," she said."It was--Captain Lenox."

  "_Nom de Dieu_! That fellow!" Michael flung out his hands with adramatic gesture of despair. "What is he doing here, _par exemple_,instead of poking about among his glaciers? _Now_ I suppose he willnot rest till he has taken you from me again."

  The frank selfishness of the man's first thought was so characteristicthat Quita smiled. But her smile had an edge to it.

  "Set your mind at rest on that point," she said. "He is no moreanxious to claim--his property, than I am to be claimed."

  "Curse him! Did he dare to tell you so?"

  Quita lifted her head; a spark of anger flashed in her eyes.

  "You seem to forget that he is a gentleman, and--my husband." Then,recovering herself, she added more gently, "There are ways and ways oftelling things, _mon cher_, and since I have relieved your anxiety, weneed not mention him again. The subject is distasteful to me. Now, Iwant to see how you have got on with the masterpiece!"

  She went to the easel; and Maurice, following, stood at her elbowanticipating the sweet savour of praise. For the picture was a notablebit of work, daringly simple in colouring and design, yet arresting,convincing, alive.

  It represented a young girl, with the promise of womanhood on hergravely sweet lips, and in the depths of her eyes, half-sitting uponthe crossed rails of the verandah. An ivory-white dress of Indian silkfell in shimmering folds to her feet. A dawn of clear amber made atender background to the dull gold of her hair. Trailing sprays of therose that ran riot over the house drooped towards her; and a pinebranch, striking in abruptly, made an effective splash of shadow in anatmosphere palpitating with the promise of fuller light. The onlyintense bit of colour in the picture was the violet blue of ElsieMayhew's eyes--eyes that looked into you and through you to somedream-world unsullied by the disconcerting realities of life, whichseemed only awaiting the given moment to rush in and dispel the dream.For, as the sky gave promise of fuller light, so did the girl's spiritseem hovering on the verge of fuller knowledge.

  Such at least was Quita's thought, as she stood silently appraising herbrother's work; and it brought a contraction to her throat, a stingingsensation to her eyeballs.

  "I congratulate you, Michel," said she softly. "You have never doneanything to equal that. It is more than a portrait. It is aninterpretation, or will be, when it is complete. Her hopeless little'Button Quail' of a mother won't understand it in the least, butColonel Mayhew will. I wonder if you know yourself how much you haveput into it?"

  "I know that I have put some superlative workmanship into it," heanswered, looking upon the creation of his hand and brains withcritical grey-green eyes, curiously out of keeping with an ill-formedand unrestrained mouth.

  "Indeed you have. The thing is full of atmosphere, and your fleshtints are worthy of Perugino. You mean to give it to her?"

  "_Cela va sans dire_. She wants it as a present for her father."

  "Why not hang it first, at Home?"

  "Afterwards, perhaps. If she permits."

  "It is a big gift, Michel. It would fetch a high price; and we needmoney."

  Michael shrugged his shoulders with all an artist's scorn of "thecommon drudge."

  "Since when have you turned commercialist, _petite soeur_? If it is aquestion of starving, I can always paint another. I do not sell thisone, _voila tout_. If it were only mine, I would have five lines ofSwinburne under it for title. They express her to perfection. Listen--

  'Her flower-soft lips were meek and passionate, For love upon them like a shadow sat, Patient, a foreseen vision of sweet things, A dream with eyes fast shut and plumeless wings, That know not what man's love or life shall be.'"

  On the last line his voice deepened to an impassioned tone that broughtan anxious crease to Quita's forehead.

  "I wonder which you are most in love with," she said on a forced noteof lightness. "The girl herself, or your picture of her? Do you evertreat her to such rhapsodies in the flesh? They must be a littleembarrassing for a child of twenty!"

  "Your 'child of twenty' is already very much a woman, and I have theright to say to her what I please."

  "Not altogether, _mon ami_--unless----"

  But Michael dismissed criticism as serenely as he dismissedconsequences. The episode of the Countess was as though it had neverbeen.

  "I have no concern with 'unless.' Such uncomfortable words are wipedout of my vocabulary. They affect me like a false note in music."

  Quita laughed. "No one knows that better than I do! But speakingsimply as a woman, I know also that the man who opens our eyes to thepassionate side of things involves himself in a big moralresponsibility. And even _you_ cannot shelve the moralitiesaltogether."

  "_Dela depend_. If the moralities hamper one's art, the shelf is thebest place for them in my opinion."

  His sister did not answer at once. Michael's confession of faith wasnot a matter to be lightly dismissed; for the simple reason that helived up to it in so far as human inconsistency will allow any man tolive up to his faith, however ignoble.

  "I sometimes wonder whether one's art really does gain by that form offreedom," she said thoughtfully, "or only--one's consuming egotism."

  But the suggestion was rank heresy, and Michael would have none of it.

  "Really, Quita, you are as enlivening as a Lenten service! Upon mysoul, I'd sooner you turned vegetarian than developed a conscience!But believe me, I am devoted to Miss Mayhew. She is enchanting. Awild rose, half-open, with the dew still on her petals.Metaphorically, I am at her feet. Does that satisfy you, _ma belle_?"

  "It might, if I had not heard a good deal of it before. You arechronically devoted to one or other of us, my beloved Pagan! That'sthe root of the difficulty."

  In atonement for directness of speech, she laid hands upon hisshoulders, and smiled very tenderly into his face.

  "I am chronically devoted to you, _coeur de mon coeur_," he declared inall sincerity. "That is the only form of it I have yet known."

  His reward was a butterfly kiss between the eyebrows.

  "Out of your own mouth you stand condemned! It is quite charming forme; and for the rest--one accepts the unavoidable! But in soberprosaic truth, Michel, Elsie Mayhew is a great deal too good for you;and that nice Engineer boy, Mr Malcolm, is desperately in earnest abouther, I have seen his whole heart in his eyes when he looks at her----"

  "_Mais, ma chere_, what a serious derangement of his organism!" Michaelbroke in with irreverent laughter. "When all's said, the heart is apractical machine--even the heart of a lover, and a little of it musthave been left below for pumping purposes!"

  She stamped her foot in helpless irritation.

  "Michel, how exasperating you are! Can't you see that I am in earnest?"

  "Like my incomparable rival?" he queried unabashed. "Poor devil! Iwish him no harm. Is it my fault, after all, if the lady prefers a manwho is not cut out on a pattern, and filed for reference at the WarOffice? He is immaculate, _ce cher Malcolm_, from his parting to thetoes of his boots. And, _ma foi_, he is clean--like all thatredoubtable army of British officers--aggressively clean, inside andout, which one cannot always say wi
th truth! But he has no finesse, no_savoir faire_ where women are concerned. If he is in earnest let himtry weapons more compelling than his _beaux yeux_. A man was not givenlips and a pair of hands for eating and fighting merely; and if hecannot turn them to good account, he deserves the fate that willassuredly be his."

  Quita's sigh, as she turned impatiently away, may have arisen from apassing thought of that other, who had also been remiss in putting lipsand hands to their legitimate use, and had reaped disaster accordingly.She took off her helmet, as if suddenly aware of its weight, and tossedit into a chair.

  "Is Miss Mayhew giving you another sitting after our sunrise picnic, onDynkund, to-morrow?" she asked in a changed voice.

  "Yes, and I intend that she shall stay on for tiffin also."

  "Then I will persuade Major Garth to follow suit, so that we may be a_parti carre_. And now, as it's more than half-past breakfast-time, wemight begin to think about sitting down! I believe Major Garth isriding up this morning with some books I lent him, and I must getforward a little with my picture before he comes."

  "His office hours seem to have become a negligible quantity lately,"Maurice remarked casually, his eyes on Elsie's face.

  "Yes, I told him so a few days ago, apparently without much effect.Major Garth is one of those men who combine a maximum of pleasure and aminimum of work with the capacity for securing good appointments, whichis quite an achievement--of its kind. I suppose I must gently pointout to him that now the station is waking up it would be well toconsider the proprieties a little more than we have done so far; or the'Button Quail' will be forbidding Elsie the house. She is volublydisapproving already, denounces him as a 'dangerous man' . . .delectable adjective! But the cackle of Quails is nothing to me. Solong as the man behaves himself, and amuses me, I shall continue to seejust as much of him as I think fit."

  Major Garth, it may be mentioned in passing, had lately secured thecoveted post of Station Staff Officer. He also had spent the wintermonths in Dalhousie; and he could by no means be reckoned among the menwho fail with women through undue fastidiousness in regard to ways andmeans.