CHAPTER XX

“God is in all men, but all men are not in God: that is the reason why they suffer.”

IT was hot, with that intense silken quiver in the air which turns the atmosphere into a living creature.

That “certain twilight” moment was already beginning to “cut the glory from the gray,” and across the Indian garden strolled two figures scarcely conscious of the breathless life, so interested were they in each other. Gladys Travers, in a well-fitting gown, a cloud of something soft that sunk into a shower of lovely curves, led the way through the trees to a seat.

“I call it a summer-house,” she said. “It sounds so English!”

“Ah!” Jack Hurstly answered half wistfully, “you’ve already begun to hunger for home. We all have it, you know, and try to call the most un-English things by familiar names, just to trick ourselves into thinking—Heaven knows what—that it isn’t quite so far away, I suppose.”

“It seems hardly possible that we have been here two months,” sighed Gladys. “And it _was_ so strange to find you here!”

Strange, indeed, Gladys! after the care-succeeding stratagem and innocent purposeful planning that took you and your good-natured cousin so straight across India to the station (not so frequently a resort for English travellers), simply because there this broad-shouldered young Englishman lived and rode and shot and spoke bitterly of life.

“It was most lucky for me,” he answered honestly; “and I shall miss you awfully when you go.”

“You are very fond of Mary, aren’t you?” she said looking at the ground.

“Yes, Miss Travers.” Gladys smiled.

“You’re rather stupid, you know,” she said.

“I think it’s you who are rather unkind,” he answered. “And what are you going to do with Jim?” Gladys frowned; the conversation at that moment was more interesting without Jim.

“_Do_ with him!” she began indignantly, and then suddenly she laughed and turned dancing eyes upon her companion. “Do you know,” she cried, “I haven’t the faintest _idea_ what to do with him! What should you think?”

“He’s a very nice fellow, Miss Gladys.”

“Then shall I marry him?” Captain Hurstly drew a long breath; it was rather like playing with fire. The sun sunk speedily in the west, and now in a glowing rose veil plunged behind the hills. Gladys looked up at him from under her long eyelashes. There was something a little wistful in her glance.

“Do you _want_ me to marry him, please?” she asked. Jack looked from the sky to her face; it had caught the glow of the sunset.

“I don’t want you to marry anybody,” he said simply.

“Ah!” said Gladys, and there was a silence—dangerous, electric, full of unspoken things.

“You knew Muriel?” he said abruptly at last.

“She was a dear friend of mine,” Gladys replied softly.

“_Was!_ Isn’t she now, then?” he questioned. She blushed and looked away. “Won’t you tell me?” he asked gently.

“I thought she was unjust—very unjust to you!” Gladys murmured. “It hurt me that she should misunderstand any one.”

“You’re very generous,” he replied gravely. “But how do you know, Miss Gladys, that she did misjudge me? Perhaps she was right to have nothing to do with such a poor sort of chap.”

Gladys sprang to her feet, her eyes flashed, and she shook a little, her voice was low and intense, and Jack, who rose to his feet also and stood opposite to her, was drawn into the circle of her emotions.

“No! Captain Hurstly. She was wrong—utterly wrong!” the girl cried. “What are we sheltered, protected darlings, brought up with closed eyes and within walls, to know of the world and man’s temptations? How dare we judge who have no standards of comparison? And if we love”—her voice grew so tender it was like music—“and if we love it is for man’s redemption, not for the satisfaction of our own, thin, misty ideals! And it should be the crown of our life to raise the man we love from lower things, and trust in his love to leave them for ever far behind!” She moved nervously back to the seat, and turned that she might still half face him. “I don’t know what I’ve been saying,” she said breathlessly. “I am afraid it must sound very silly and foolish to you, and rather—rather uncalled for; but it has always seemed to me that women like Muriel, who think God’s tools not good enough for them, do a terrible amount of harm.” Jack took a step forward and looked down at her.

“If there were more women like you,” he said huskily, “there would be fewer men—like me, Miss Gladys.” Gladys smiled a little. It was difficult for her to be serious for long.

“Then,” she said, “it’s certainly a good thing that I’m unique.” . . .

“My dear child! you know perfectly well that this is the most unhealthy time to be out in. Go in at once and dress for dinner! Really, Jack, I should have thought you would have known better!”—Mary Huntly shook her head at him reproachfully. Gladys lifting her eyes up to Jack, with a mixture of amusement and regret, turned gracefully and passed into the house. Mary Huntly, for all her sage advice, stayed out in the fast deepening darkness.

They walked for a little in silence towards the gate. Mary turned over in her mind what she should say to him. It was hard—extremely hard—and, worse, it looked disagreeable. She was used to doing difficult things, but as a rule they had delightful effects. She very much doubted as a woman of the world whether what she had to say would have any effect, but as a woman a little beyond the world she knew she ought to say it.

“My dear boy!” she said as they reached the gate, “that girl doesn’t ring true.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Huntly?” Jack asked sternly. “Are you talking of—Miss Gladys?” He made that fatal half instant’s pause before her name that marks a lover.

“You have made one mistake already in falling in love with a woman too good for you,” she answered quietly, “don’t make the worse one of falling in love with a woman—not good enough! Good-night! I think you had better not come in after dinner this evening.”

Jack would have stayed and insisted on further explanations, for he was perplexed and angry—there’s nothing that makes a straightforward man so angry as perplexity—but Jim Musgrave who was going to dine with them came up, and in a mixture of greetings and farewells he had to go, but as he went he said very distinctly:—

“Mrs. Huntly, may I come in to-morrow?” Mrs. Huntly saw in a flash it had been no use.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “What a lot of moths you have in this climate of yours. Good-night!”

The gorgeous moon, the thin low whisper of the tropic night, the rustling, murmuring life, which rose from the earth to the low sky above, seemed something of a new birth to Jack as free from the fetters of an old love he paused on the brink of a new, and because it was new imagined there would be no fetters.