The Safety Curten - Ethel May Dell (reading books for 5 year olds txt) 📗

too late," she told him. "Why didn't you come before?"
He looked awkward for a moment. Then--
"I was busy," he said rather shortly. "I'm one of the stewards."
He scrawled his initials across her card and left her again. Audrey concluded in her girlish way that something had made him cross, and dismissed him from her mind.
When at length he came to claim her she was hot and tired and suggested sitting out.
He frowned at the idea, but, upon Audrey waxing imperious, he yielded. They sat out together, but not in the cool dark of the veranda as she had anticipated, but in the full glare of the ballroom amidst all the hubbub of the dancers.
Audrey was annoyed, and showed it.
"I am sure we might find a seat on the veranda," she said.
But Phil was obstinate.
"I assure you, Mrs. Tudor," he said, "I looked in there just now, and every seat was occupied."
"I don't believe you are telling the truth," she returned.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Thank you!" he said briefly.
Something in the curt reply caught her attention, and she gave him a quick glance. He was looking remarkably handsome in his red and gold uniform with the scarlet cummerbund across his shirt. Vexed as she was with him, Audrey could not help admitting it to herself. His brown, resolute face attracted her irresistibly.
She allowed a considerable pause to ensue before she went to the inevitable attack. Somehow, notwithstanding his surliness, she had not the faintest desire to quarrel with him.
"You're very grumpy to-night," she remarked at length in her cheery young voice. "What's the matter?"
He started and looked intensely uncomfortable.
"Nothing--of course!" he said.
"Why of course? I wonder. With me it's the other way round. I am never cross without a reason."
Audrey was still cheery.
He smiled faintly.
"I congratulate you," he said.
Audrey smiled also. Fully exposed as was their position, there was no one near enough to overhear.
"Well, don't be cross any more, Phil," she said persuasively. "Cheer up, and come to tiffin with me to-morrow. Will you? I shall be quite alone."
Phil's smile departed instantly. He glanced at her for a second, and then fixed his eyes steadily upon the ground between his feet.
"You're awfully good!" he said at last. "But--thanks very much--I can't."
"Can't?" echoed Audrey, with genuine disappointment. "Oh, I'm sure that's nonsense! Why can't you? You're not on duty?"
"No," he said, speaking slowly, "I'm not on duty; but--fact is, I'm going up to the Hills shooting for a few days and--I shall be busy, packing guns and things. Besides--"
"Oh, do stop!" she broke in, with sudden impatience. "I know you are only making up as you go along. It's very horrid of you, besides being contemptible. Why can't you say at once that you are not coming because you don't want to come?"
Her quick pride had taken fire at sound of his deliberate excuse; and, as was its wont upon provocation, her anger flamed high at a moment's notice.
Phil did not look at her. His expression was decidedly uneasy, but there was a certain grimness about him that did not seem to indicate the probability of any excessive show of docility in face of a browbeating.
"I don't say it," he said doggedly at length, "because, besides being rude, it wouldn't be strictly true."
"I shouldn't have thought you would have had any scruples of that sort," rejoined Audrey, hitting her hardest because he had managed to hurt her. "They haven't been very apparent to-night."
Phil made no protest, but he was frowning heavily.
She leant slightly towards him, speaking behind her fan.
"Be honest just for a second," she said, "if you can, and tell me; are you tired of calling yourself a friend of mine? Are you trying to get out of it? Because, if you are, it's quite the easiest thing in the world to do so. But once done--"
She paused. Phil was looking at her at last, and there was something in his eyes that startled her. A sudden pity rushed over her heart. She felt as she had felt once long ago in England when a dog--an old friend of hers--had been injured. He had looked at her with just such eyes as those that were fixed upon her now. Their dumb pleading had been almost more than she could bear.
Involuntarily she laid her hand on his arm, music and dancers all forgotten in that moment of swift emotion.
"Phil," she whispered tremulously, "what is it? What is it?"
He did not answer her by a single word. He simply rose to his feet, as if by her action she had suggested it, and whirled her in among the dancers.
He kept her going to the very last chord, she too full of wonder and uncertainty to protest; and then he led her straight through the room to where Mrs. Raleigh stood, surrounded by the usual crowd of subalterns, muttered an excuse, and left her there.


CHAPTER IX
DREADFUL NEWS

It was nearly a week later that Audrey, riding home alone in a rickshaw from a polo-match, was overtaken by young Gerald Devereux, a subaltern, who was tearing along on foot as if on some urgent errand. Recognising her, he reduced his speed and dropped into a jog-trot by her side.
"You haven't heard, of course?" he jerked out breathlessly. "Beastly bad news! Those hill tribes--always up to some devilry! Poor old Phil--infernal luck!"
"What?" exclaimed Audrey. "What has happened to him? Tell me, quick, quick!"
She turned as white as paper, and Devereux cursed himself for a clumsy fool.
"It may not be the worst," he gasped back. "Dash it! I'm so winded! We hope, you know, we hope--but it's usually a knife and good-bye with these ruffians. Still, there's a chance--just a chance."
"But you haven't told me what has happened yet," cried Audrey, in a fever of impatience.
He answered her, still running by her side "The Waris have got him; rushed his camp at night and bagged everything. The coolies were in the know, no doubt. Only his _shikari_ got away. He has just come in wounded with the news. I'm on my way to tell the Chief, though I don't see what good he can do."
"You mean you think he is murdered?" gasped Audrey, through white lips.
He nodded.
"Afraid so, poor beggar! Well, so long, Mrs. Tudor! We must hope for the best as long as we can."
He put his hand to his cap, and ran on, while Audrey, with a set, white face, was borne to her bungalow.
Her husband was sitting on the veranda. He rose as she alighted and gave her his hand up the short flight of steps to his side.
"You are rather late," he said in his grave way. "I am afraid you will have to hurry."
They were dining out that night, but Audrey had forgotten it. She stared at him as if dazed.
"What is it?" he asked. "Nothing wrong?"
She gasped hysterically.
"Oh, Eustace, an awful thing--an awful thing!" she cried. "Mr. Devereux has just told me--"
Her voice broke, and her lips formed soundless words. She groped vaguely for support with one hand.
Tudor put his arm round her and led her, tottering, indoors.
"All right; tell me presently," he said quietly. "Sit down and keep still for a little."
He put her into an arm-chair and left her there. In a few seconds he returned with some brandy and water, which he held to her lips in silence. Then, setting down the glass, he began to rub her nerveless hands.
Audrey submitted passively at first to his ministrations, but presently as her strength returned she sat up.
"You haven't heard?" she asked him shakily.
"I have heard nothing," he answered. "Can you tell me now?"
"Yes--yes!" She paused a moment to steady her voice. Then--"It's Phil!" she faltered. "He has been taken prisoner--murdered perhaps--by those dreadful hill men! Oh Eustace"--lifting her face appealingly--"do you think they would kill him? Do you? Do you?"
But Tudor said nothing. He made no attempt to comfort her, and she turned from him in bitter disappointment. His lack of sympathy at such a moment was almost more than she could bear.
"How did Devereux know?" he asked, after a pause.
She shook her head.
"He said something about a _shikari_. He was going to tell the colonel; but he didn't think it would be any use. He said--he said--"
She broke off, quivering with agitation. Her husband took the glass from the table again and made her drink a little. She tried to refuse, but he insisted.
"You have had a shock. It will do you good," he said, in his level, unmoved voice.
And Audrey yielded to the mastery she had scarcely felt of late.
The spirit helped to steady her, and at length she rose.
"I am going to my room, Eustace," she said, not looking at him. "I--can't go out to-night. Perhaps you will make my excuses."
He did not answer her, and she threw him a swift glance. He was standing stiff and upright. His face was stern and composed; it might have been a stone mask.
"What excuse am I to make?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. The question was utterly unexpected.
"Why, the truth--of course," she said. "Say that I have been upset by the news, that--that--I hadn't the heart--I couldn't--Eustace,"--appealing suddenly, a tremor of indignation in her voice--"you don't seem to realise that he is one of my greatest friends. Don't you understand?"
"Yes," he said--"yes, I understand!"
And she marvelled at the coldness--the deadly, concentrated coldness--of his voice.
"All the same," he went on, "I think you must make an effort to accompany me to the Bentleys' to-night. It might be thought unusual if I went alone."
She stared at him in sudden, amazed anger.
"Eustace!" she exclaimed. "How can you be so cruel, so cold-blooded, so--so heartless? How can you expect such a thing of me--to sit at table and hear them all talking about it, and his chances discussed? I couldn't--I couldn't!"
He did not press the point. Perhaps he realised that her nerves in their present condition would prove wholly unequal to such a strain.
"Very well," he said quietly at length. "I will send a note to excuse us both."
"I don't see why you should stay at home," Audrey said, turning to the door. "I would far rather be alone."
He did not explain his motive, and she went out of his presence with a sensation of relief. She had never fully realised before how wide the gulf between them had become.
She remained shut up in her room all the evening, eating nothing, face to face with the horror of young Devereux's brief words. It was the first time within her memory that death had approached her sheltered life, and she was shocked and frightened, as a child is frightened by the terrors of the dark.
Very late that night she crept into bed, dismissing her _ayah_, and lay there shivering and forlorn, thinking, thinking, of the cruel faces and flashing knives that Phil had awaked to see. She dozed at last in her misery, only to wake again with a shriek of nightmare terror, and start up sobbing hysterically.
"Why, Audrey!" a quiet voice said, and she woke fully, to find her husband standing by her bed.
She turned to him impulsively, hiding her face against him, clinging to him with straining arms. She could not utter a word, for an anguish of weeping overtook her. And he was silent also, bending over her, his hand upon her head.
Gradually the paroxysm passed and she grew quieter; but she still clung closely to him, and at length with difficulty she began to