"I can't think why there was no letter for me!" lamented Marian Cowper.

"Perhaps it will come by a special runner to-morrow," suggested Honour.
"Papa would send it on, I am sure."

"But it ought to have come to-day. Charley has never missed his proper day before."

"Perhaps he was too busy to write."

"Too busy! As if he would let anything keep him from writing to me!"

"I didn't mean that he would not wish to write, but that he might not be able," explained Honour with care.

"Of course. You needn't apologize for Charley to me, thank you. If he doesn't write it's because he can't, and any one else would understand how I feel about it—especially when it is getting so near the time for him to come back." Marian's nerves were evidently on edge, as she moved restlessly about the room, and shot out her sentences at her sister like darts. "I wish you wouldn't sit there so quietly. You don't sympathize a bit. If Charley doesn't come up here next month as he promised, I don't know what I shall do. At any rate, if anything happens it will be his fault."

"Oh, Marian, how can you be so unfair?" cried Honour, with her usual earnestness. "You know poor Charles will come if he possibly can. And how dreadful to say it would be his fault if anything went wrong!"

"I didn't say 'if anything went wrong'; I said 'if anything happened,'" corrected Marian pettishly. "And I don't know why you should say 'poor Charles.' He would be perfectly happy if he was here with me, and so should I. He understands things—oh, I do want him so!"

"Oh, don't cry," entreated Honour in alarm. "Dear Marian, you will only do yourself harm, you know, and you were so anxious he should find you well and cheerful. Just finish your letter to him, and then let us sit out on the verandah a little before going to bed. The Antonys' guests will be leaving, and you know how pretty the torches look among the hills."

"How can I finish my letter when I don't know whether there is anything in his to answer?" complained Marian. "Well, I will leave it unsealed, and put in an extra sheet if necessary. I'll come out in a minute. I'm sorry I am so cross, Honour. After all it isn't your fault that you are not Charley."

"Of course not," said Honour indignantly, and there was more than a suggestion of what was known, in those days of distended skirts, as "flouncing" in the quick rustle with which she left the room. Somehow Marian and she seemed perpetually to rub one another the wrong way, and every one thought it was her fault, because Marian was always so bright and pleasant in public. Marian received plenty of sympathy and wanted more, but Honour felt that a little would be very pleasant to herself. Yet why should her thoughts in this connection be suddenly discovered to have flown to Gerrard? "He understands," she said to herself, and blushed hotly in the darkness to remember that these were the very words Marian had used of her husband. Giving herself a little shake, as though to get rid of the momentary foolishness, she bent her thoughts sternly to the subject of Sir Edmund and Lady Antony's dinner-party. Ladies in the hills whose husbands were on service did not accept invitations in those benighted days, and Honour had naturally remained with her sister. Their bungalow stood a little higher than the Resident's Lodge, and the effect of the torches by which all the guests were lighted along the hill-paths was very pretty from their verandah.

"Marian," she called out, "the people are beginning to leave. Some one is coming up our path."

"Oh, it is only the new people—a judge or something and his wife—who have taken Hilltop Hall. But I shall have finished before they pass the gate. I should like to see what they are like."

But long before the usual procession—a gentleman on a pony, a lady in a jampan, and torchbearers and servants ad libitum—which Honour was expecting could have reached the gate, it was opened and two people came up the steep path to the bungalow. By the light of the torch carried before them by a servant, Honour recognised Lady Antony, with a burnouse thrown over her evening dress, and her husband. Her heart stood still, for such a visit could only mean bad news. Sir Edmund and his wife were fond of dropping in informally on their young neighbours, but to leave their guests, at an important entertainment in their own house—this was unheard of. Honour ran to the top of the steps to meet them.

"Oh, what is it?" she cried, lowering her voice so that it should not reach Marian. "Is it papa?"

"Sir Arthur is well. I have a letter from him," said Sir Edmund.
"Your mother is also in good health."

"Then who is it?" demanded Honour fearfully. "Is it either of my brothers? Oh, not—not Charles?"

"Hush! let me break it to her," said Lady Antony, as Marian's pretty sparkling face, the eyes wide with astonishment, appeared at the window. "Dear Marian," she took the girl's arm and led her back into the room, "I have something to say to you."

"What was it—cholera?" Honour was asking with dry lips of Sir Edmund as they stood on the verandah.

"No, unfortunately." Honour's eyes met his in perplexity. "It was murder. This morning I received news that Captain Cowper and Mr Nisbet had been wounded in a street-tumult at Agpur, but that Cowper's injuries were so slight he did not wish his wife alarmed about them. To-night your father sends a runner to say that the poor fellows were pursued and murdered outside the city."

"How dreadful!" was all Honour could say.

"Dreadful indeed," said Sir Edmund gloomily. "I have no doubt that Sher Singh will be able to clear himself of any complicity in the crime, but I fear he must have shown culpable weakness. And weakness is difficult to distinguish from wickedness at a time when men's passions are excited, as they are bound to be by this news."

"But what does it signify about Sher Singh? It is poor Charles we have to think of, and poor, poor Marian!" cried Honour indignantly. Sir Edmund's eyes looked beyond her.

"Pardon me; we have the whole question of the treatment of native states, the whole principle of justice to the native, to think of. Eyes blinded by the natural, though unholy, desire for revenge are little fitted to see clearly. There is grave reason to fear that even now hasty steps have been taken, which may compromise our future action. I understand that young Charteris crossed the frontier, or was about to cross it, on the news of the outbreak. My brother reports that he has ordered him to return immediately, but it is almost impossible that the harm has not been done."

"What harm?" demanded Honour. "Mr Charteris hoped to save poor Charles, of course. Then, when he knew he was too late for that, he would try to rescue his body."

Sir Edmund looked at her with a kind of despair for her feminine obtuseness. "That is quite out of the question," he said, "and Charteris knows it. If he went on, it would be——"

"You don't mean that Marian will never know where her husband is buried—never be able to visit his grave?"

"It is highly probable. My dear young lady, what can it signify where our vile bodies lie? They are in God's keeping, whether cast out on the face of the ground or laid in a churchyard at home."

"Oh, don't!" Honour could have shaken Sir Edmund. "Can't you see? Oh, please don't say anything of that kind to Marian, as if she had not enough to bear already."

"I do not think I introduced the subject——"

"I must see how poor Marian is," interrupted Honour, and left him hastily. She had a momentary vision of her sister sobbing in Lady Antony's arms, but a warning hand upraised forbade her to enter the room, and she returned unwillingly to Sir Edmund, who had forgotten all about the difference of opinion in the hurry of his thoughts.

"I shall go down to-morrow night," he said, as though speaking to himself. "I cannot be sure of James when it is a question of keeping these young fellows in order. Charteris must return at once, of course, and one can only hope that he may not have done irreparable harm."

"What harm could he do, with only a few men, against Sher Singh's whole army?" demanded Honour.

"The harm of making it appear that the case has been prejudged. Sher Singh may have been innocent of all but cowardice, but to send an army against him without inquiry will force him in self-defence to throw himself into the arms of the war-party. He must be approached without show of force, and his life guaranteed to him if he will consent to submit his conduct to an impartial court of inquiry—such as the Durbar here."

"You think only of Sher Singh!" cried Honour hotly. "I think of poor
Charley murdered, without a finger raised to save him. I want Sher
Singh punished—do you hear?" with a stamp of her foot—"and I hope Mr
Charteris will do it, and not care what orders you send him!"

Sir Edmund had been looking at her as though she were a pigmy viewed from a mountain-top, so she told herself indignantly, but now his eyes flashed, and a tinge of colour crept into his sallow, haggard face. "If, as I understand, you have some influence with Mr Charteris, I would advise you, for his sake, not to make him acquainted with your views, Miss Cinnamond," he said coldly. "The natural warmth of a young man's constitution is sufficiently powerful to lead him astray, without being raised to fever-heat by the uninstructed interference of sentimental females."

"I shall certainly not attempt to influence Mr Charteris, but I hope to hear that he has acted as I would wish him without that," Honour managed to say before the lump in her throat prevented her speaking. With her head held very high, she walked away to the end of the verandah, and finding a seat in the shadow of the creepers, hid herself there and wept silently—for Charley Cowper lying unburied outside the walls of Agpur, for Marian, bereaved of love and hope at nineteen, for the child that its father would never see, and a little for Honour Cinnamond, who had intended to do such great things, and was such a failure all round. Sir Edmund forgot her existence, as she knew he would, and walked up and down the verandah with bent head and hands clasped behind his back. Sometimes he trod firmly and even whistled in a meditative way, and then he would pull himself up suddenly and creep backwards and forwards in silence, remembering the task in which his wife was engaged. It was long before Lady Antony came out, with swollen eyes, and called softly to Honour before taking her husband's offered arm.

"I have persuaded your sister to go to bed, and it would be kinder not to disturb her again to-night. Her good old ayah is with her, and I hope she may get some rest."

"But I must go to her!" protested Honour. "She would think it so unkind."

"Better not, dear, I think. In fact, I may say she begged not to be disturbed. I did not tell her, lest something should happen to prevent it, but you will be glad to hear that the runner had orders to lay a double dÂk for the Lady Memsahib at all the stations as he came, so I hope we shall see your dear mother here some time to-morrow."

The news was inexpressibly welcome, but Honour bade good-night to Lady Antony with distinct resentment. As though Marian would not choose to have her own sister beside her at this time of desolation instead of a servant! For a moment she thought of taking things into her own hands, and bidding the ayah go to bed while she would watch, but peeping into Marian's room she saw her lying exhausted on the bed, a tired sob breaking from her at intervals, while the old Goanese woman rubbed her mistress's feet gently, crooning a soft unintelligible song. She could not be banished, certainly, but at least Honour might share the watch, and presently she made her appearance armed with pillows and a coverlet, intending to lie down on the sofa in her sister's room. Old Anna looked at her warningly as she entered, but Marian heard the rustling of the bedclothes and glanced up sharply.

"Please go to bed properly in your own room, Honour. I want nobody but
Nanna."

"I will only lie down here, in case you call. I won't say a word," said Honour, unmoved by the glitter in her sister's eyes, from which the film of weariness had vanished. Marian raised herself on her elbow.

"I will send Nanna if I want you. Please go." As Honour still hesitated, her voice rose higher. "Go, go! I don't want you here. You never appreciated my dear Charley."

"Go, missy, go!" entreated the old woman. "Missus not know what she done say." But Honour was too deeply hurt.

"Oh, Marian, how can you say such a thing? Why, if I had not liked him for himself, I should have loved him because he was so fond of you, dear fellow!"

"You said to mamma that he was so very ordinary. I heard you through the chiks," persisted Marian, holding her with accusing eyes.

"I didn't mean you to hear. How could I tell you were there? And I learned to know him better afterwards—how good and kind he was." Honour defended herself desperately.

"It was not my hearing you, but your saying it, that mattered. I could laugh at it at the time, knowing what he really was, but now—I can't bear to have you in the room with me, to-night, at any rate, when you misjudged him so."

"Oh, Marian, how can you be so unkind? If I was in trouble, I would not keep you away."

"You would not be in this kind of trouble. You couldn't be. It isn't in you." Marian hurled her shafts deliberately. "You don't understand what it is to care for any one as I care for Charley, and I believe you never will. You can let two men go on making love to you at once for more than a year, because you can't make up your mind which of them you like best."

"Is that my fault? I don't like either of them in that way."

"No, but you like knowing that they think of you, and care for you, and watch for the least crumb of kindness you are willing to throw them. When you thought poor Charteris was dead, you luxuriated in misery with that very foolish young Gerrard, who ought to have given you the choice of taking him or leaving him there and then, and when Charteris came back, you snubbed him. And if Gerrard should be killed now, in trying to save my dear Charley, I suppose you and Charteris would mingle your tears over him. No, Charteris has more sense. He won't let himself be treated——"

Honour's eyes were bright. "Oh, do you mean that Mr Gerrard is helping
Mr Charteris? Sir Edmund did not mention him."

"They are co-operating, Lady Antony told me—making forced marches in the hot weather, to avenge Charley if they can't save him. But you don't care—or if you do, it's only because you like to think you can be an inspiration to them without giving anything in return. You don't want to marry either of them, but you won't break with them so long as they are willing to dangle about you."

"I don't want to marry either of them, it is true, but if they are willing to be my friends still, why should I break with them, as you call it?"

"Because each of them thinks that you will be willing to marry him one day, and you know it. You are rather proud of their constancy, and your own firmness in not yielding to either of them. But it is not a thing to be proud of; it is a thing to be ashamed of and sorry for. You could make far more of either of those men by coming down from your pedestal and marrying him in an ordinary everyday way than by standing up above him and giving him good advice. I know you have some delusion that it is better and higher to be as you are, but I tell you that I had rather have married my Charley and known him as he really was and—yes, and even lost him—than stood on high and given good advice to a whole army. Oh, Charley, my dear kind Charley—and I behaved so badly to you when you went away! I never kissed you!"

A fresh paroxysm of tears succeeded the angry words, and Honour yielded to the ayah's whispered entreaties, and left the room. Grief and resentment combined to give her a very disturbed night, and when Lady Cinnamond arrived, tired and travel-stained, about mid-day, after an unbroken journey from Ranjitgarh, she was shocked at her daughter's appearance. But there was no time to think of Honour, for Marian, hearing her mother's voice, had tottered to her door.

"Oh, dear mamma, I have wanted you so much! You understand, you know all about it."

Not until the evening did Honour see her mother again, and then Lady
Cinnamond crept out on tiptoe into the verandah.

"Honour, love, I have been so longing to speak to you, but I could not leave poor Marian until she fell asleep. I am very anxious about papa. He has never been alone in the hot weather before, and he is so terribly imprudent."

"You would like me to go down and take care of him? I shall be delighted, mamma. I find I must be thankful if any one will let me even stay near them."

"Dear little one, you must not think——"

"I do not think, mamma; I know. I know that Marian has begged you to send me away, and said she shall go mad if she sees me about. She said almost as much as that to me last night. I suppose I deserve it somehow, but I really don't see how."

"Onora, dear child, you must not misjudge poor Marian. She has had a fearful blow, and is hardly responsible for what she says. You know that I would never send you away from me. But I see that I must stay here with her for the present, and it makes me so unhappy to leave dear papa——"

"And you do know how I long to be of use to any one, don't you, mamma? I wanted to comfort Marian, but she would not let me. Oh, mamma, she said such cruel, unjust things. And is it my fault if I can't—if I can't——?"

"No, my love, certainly not. And if you have been—well, not very wise, in what you have done and said, no one who knew you could possibly credit you with any but the best motives. And you will take care of papa, and see that he does not go out in the sun unnecessarily? I feel that it is very cruel to send you down to Ranjitgarh again in the heat, my precious one."

"What does it signify, mamma? I am sure Marian would be rather pleased if I died. No, I ought not to have said that. I am really glad to have some idea what the hot weather is—even though I shall be in a cool house, with every comfort. They have nothing of that sort, have they—marching in the heat to punish Charley's murderers?"

"Who—those two young men? Oh, my dear child, is it always to be they, and not he?"

"I don't know; how can I tell? Oh, mamma, they are both so good, and they do everything together, and I think it is so splendid of them both to have risked everything like this. If only they were both my brothers!"

"I suppose I should have been too proud with two such sons added to those I have. One of them as a son-in-law would quite satisfy me, if it satisfied you, dearest. But that seems too much to hope for," said Lady Cinnamond despairingly.

But when Honour reached Ranjitgarh, under the escort of Sir Edmund Antony—who fell ill again the day after his arrival, and was promptly ordered back to the hills by his doctors—she found that the general opinion of Charteris's and Gerrard's conduct reflected his verdict rather than hers. Charteris was the head and front of the offending, for Gerrard's self-suppression in placing himself under his orders had had the unlooked-for effect of concentrating attention, and blame, on the man nominally responsible. Charteris had precipitated matters by his hasty action, he was driving Sher Singh to revolt, he would set all Granthistan in a blaze, and incidentally be wiped out himself—in which case he would richly deserve his fate. The confused rumours which came through of the skirmishes preceding the battle near Kardi created an atmosphere highly unfavourable to a cool consideration of his reports when they arrived. The rumours spoke of defeat, retreat, heavy loss—the reports of positions maintained and a steady pressure on the foe, and as such a measure of success, attained by unauthorised and unprecedented means, was in itself most improbable, the rumours received far greater credit. The action of Lieutenant Charteris became a public scandal, focussing Anglo-Indian attention on Granthistan to a highly undesirable extent. The newly arrived Governor-General, Lord Blairgowrie, who possessed two supreme qualifications for his high office in a total ignorance of things Indian and a splendid self-confidence, wrote several of his well-known incisive letters to the Antony brothers, reflecting upon the discipline of their subordinates. Unkindest cut of all, old Sir Henry Lennox grasped joyfully at the chance of avenging a few of the wrongs he and his Khemistan administration had suffered at the hands of Granthistan, and—with the readiness to submit official matters to public arbitrament which so curiously distinguished the men of his day—addressed to the press a series of communications reflecting with equal severity on Charteris's moral character and his military capacity.

A copy of the Bombay paper in which these letters appeared was sent to Sir Arthur Cinnamond by a friend who thought he ought to know what was being said, and it fell into Honour's hands. Sir Arthur, dozing over a cheroot in the hottest part of the day, was rudely awakened by the apparition of the tragic figure of his daughter, holding out the offending journal.

"Papa, have you read this? Do you see what they say?"

"Eh, what, my dear?" Sir Arthur groped for his glasses, and settled them on his nose. "Oh, that nonsense of Lennox's, I see—most improper interference; like his—er—er—usual impudence to meddle in our affairs."

"But the things he says about Mr Charteris, papa—that he ought to be court-martialled!"

"Well, my dear, you need not be frightened. Old Harry Lennox ain't commanding in Granthistan."

"But it's just as bad if he only deserved to be court-martialled, and we know he doesn't. As if Mr Gerrard would ever have joined him if he had been merely trying to bring himself into notoriety at the expense of disobeying orders!"

"There's no doubt that he moved without orders, my dear girl. And if you ask me, I have a shrewd idea that he was in no hurry to open his orders when they reached him, lest they should direct him to retire. Ought to be broke, the young scamp! But hang me if I wouldn't have done the same in his place!"

"Oh, papa, I am so glad you feel like that! You are writing to him? Do you know, I was going to ask you to let me put in a note, that he might see there was one person on his side."

"Oho, you sly little puss!" cried Sir Arthur, highly amused. Honour looked offended, and her father shifted his ground rapidly. "No, no, Honour, I couldn't think of it—without consulting your mother, at any rate. But I tell you what I will do—add a postscript that my family send their kind regards to him and Gerrard. Mustn't leave poor Gerrard quite out in the cold, but I think they'll understand that—eh?"

"There is nothing to understand," said Honour, departing with dignity.

"So it's Charteris!" said Sir Arthur to himself. "Somehow I had an idea it was the other. I'm almost sorry. He will take it hard, poor chap!"