Part 42 (1/2)
”I do not see an animal I know and care for bitten to death every day, and that poor little dog was so attached to me. I wish I had given him the extra biscuit he begged for this morning. I told him he was greedy, and hid it away.”
She goes sadly into the house and dresses for dinner in a dainty robe of white muslin cut low at the neck, for Quinton's benefit.
The sudden necessity for looking beautiful, and making herself pleasant and fascinating, comes over her like a nightmare. Her throat is parched. Her temples burn.
The gown is soft and clinging, the effect fairylike and picturesque.
Quinton never sees her in this simple garb without an exclamation of approval.
She creeps behind him in the verandah, twining her bare arms round his neck.
He looks at her admiringly, as he would at a picture which gladdens the eye for a moment.
”How late it is,” she whispers, kneeling beside him. ”Cook is frantic, for all our dinner is spoiled, we were out a long while.”
Quamina, who only talks a smattering of English, rushes into the verandah, wringing her hands. Her black lips tremble, her eyes start from her head.
”Oh! Sahib, Sahib!” she cries, ”the big black devil that tracks the Sahib, he rode up the hill, _there_!” pointing with outstretched fingers.
Quinton starts to his feet.
”Where?” he asks, looking out but seeing nothing. ”What do you mean?”
But Quamina continues to shake and cry, moaning ”The devil, he has come for the Sahib!”
CHAPTER XX.
LIFE IS Th.o.r.n.y, AND YOUTH IS VAIN.
When Quamina can be quieted and her fears calmed, the truth is gradually drawn from her. She has seen a man in a black mask prowling on his hands and knees in the bushes round the house. She leant out of her window and screamed, whereupon he sprang on to a horse, and galloped up the hill like a madman.
Quamina cannot be persuaded it is not the devil himself haunting their domain, and is petrified with terror for the rest of the evening.
”I should feel inclined to put the masked man down to Quamina's vivid imagination,” declares Eleanor, ”if you had not personally encountered him, Carol. He is like a sort of 'troll,' one of Ibsen's 'helpers and servers.'”
Quinton has given Eleanor ”The Master Builder” to read, himself being a believer in the strange theory of will power. He is much upset by Quamina's story, bewildered at the mystery shrouding this evil demon.
His life is becoming a purgatory on earth; he goes in daily dread of some fresh disaster. He says little to Eleanor, but she notices he does not sit out in the verandah, preferring the shelter of four walls, as if in mortal fear of something.
”Does he picture a phantom shooting in the dark?” she wonders.
She offers to sing, but he silences her with a petulant movement and gruff word. He is not in the mood for music. The loaded revolver he always keeps in his room is brought down and laid beside him as he smokes and reads.
Eleanor is grieved to see him so unhinged. It is a pitiable thing when a man loses his pluck, and the woman must play the part of consoler and encourager.
The following morning, to her surprise, Quinton seems no less frightened than on the previous night. He refuses to go out, and sits in moody silence or paces the room--both equally trying to the patient Eleanor. At last the idea seizes her that, if she shows daring and goes out alone, leaving him to brood in solitude, it may spur Quinton to rouse himself and cast off his apprehensions. Surely he will not be outdone by a woman!
”I am going for a stroll,” she announces calmly.
”Oh! Are you?”
His lips twitch nervously. He does not volunteer to accompany her.