The Lamp in the Desert - Ethel May Dell (ebooks online reader .TXT) 📗

impulsively, and took the hands into his own. "I say, ought I to be in here? Aren't you supposed to be resting?"
She smiled at him wanly. "I believe I am. Major Ralston left a soothing draught, but I wouldn't take it, in case--" she broke off. "Peter is on guard as well as _Ayah_, and he has promised to call me if--if--" Again she stopped. "I don't think _Ayah_ is much good," she resumed. "She was nearly frightened out of her senses last night. She seems to think there is something--supernatural about it. But Peter--Peter is a tower of strength. I trust him implicitly."
"Yes, he's a good chap," said Tommy. "I'm glad you've got him anyway. I wish I could be more of a help to you."
She leaned forward and kissed him. "You are very dear to me, Tommy. I don't know what I should do without you and Bernard."
"Where is the worthy padre?" asked Tommy.
"He may be working in his room. He is certainly not far away. He never is nowadays."
"I'll go and find him," said Tommy. "But look here, dear! Have that draught of Ralston's and lie down! Just to please me!"
She began to refuse, but Tommy could be very persuasive when he chose, and he chose on this occasion. Finally, with reluctance she yielded, since, as he pointed out, she needed all the strength she could muster.
He tucked her up with motherly care, feeling that he had accomplished something worth doing, and then, seeing that exhaustion would do the rest, he left her and went softly forth in search of Bernard.
The latter, however, was not in the bungalow, and since it was growing late Tommy had a hurried bath and dressed for parade. He was bolting a hasty _tiffin_ in the dining-room when a quiet step on the verandah warned him of Bernard's approach, and in a moment or two the big man entered, a pipe in his mouth and a book under his arm.
"Hullo, Tommy!" he said with his genial smile. "So you haven't been murdered this time. I congratulate you."
"Thanks!" said Tommy.
"I congratulate myself also," said Bernard, patting his shoulder by way of greeting. "If it weren't against my principles, I should have been very worried about you, my lad. For I couldn't get away to look for you."
"Of course not," said Tommy. "And I was safe enough. I've been over to Khanmulla. Everard made me spend the night, and we rode back this morning."
"Everard! He isn't here?" Bernard looked round sharply.
"No," said Tommy bluntly. "But he ought to be. He went back again. He is wanted for that trial business. I say, things are pretty rotten here, aren't they? Is the little kid past hope?"
"I am afraid so." Bernard spoke very gravely. His kindly face was more sombre than Tommy had ever seen it.
"But can nothing be done?" the boy urged. "It'll break Stella's heart to lose him."
Bernard shook his head. "Nothing whatever I am afraid. Major Ralston has suspected trouble for some time, it seems. We might of course get a specialist's opinion at Calcutta, but the baby is utterly unfit for a journey of any kind, and it is doubtful if any doctor would come all this way--especially with things as they are."
"What do you mean?" said Tommy.
Bernard looked at him. "The place is a hotbed of discontent--if not anarchy. Surely you know that!"
Tommy shrugged his shoulders. "That's nothing new. It's what we're here for."
"Yes. And matters are getting worse. I hear that the result of this trial will probably mean the Rajah's enforced abdication. And if that happens there is practically bound to be a rising."
Tommy laughed. "That's been the situation as long as I've been out. We're giving him enough rope, and I hope he'll hang, though I'm afraid he won't. The rising will probably be a sort of Chinese cracker affair--a fizz, a few bangs, and a splutter-out. No honour and glory for any one!"
"I hope you are right," said Bernard.
"And I hope I'm wrong," said Tommy lightly. "I like a run for my money."
"You forget the women," said Bernard abruptly.
Tommy opened his eyes. "No, I don't. They'll be all right. They'll have to clear out to Bhulwana a little earlier than usual. They'll be safe enough there. You can go and look after 'em, sir. They'll like that."
"Thank you, Tommy." Bernard smiled in spite of himself. "It's kind of you to put it so tactfully. Now tell me what you think of Everard. Is he really ill?"
"No; worried to death, that's all. He's talking of sending in his papers. Did you know?"
"I suspected he would," Bernard spoke thoughtfully.
"He mustn't do it!" said Tommy with vehemence. "He's worth all the rest of the Mess put together. You mustn't let him."
Bernard lifted his brows. "I let him!" he said. "Do you think he is going to do what I tell him?"
"I know you have influence--considerable influence--with him," Tommy said. "You ought to use it, sir. You really ought. It's up to you and no one else."
He spoke insistently. Bernard looked at him attentively.
"You've changed your tune somewhat, haven't you, Tommy?" he said.
"Yes," said Tommy bluntly. "I have. I've been a damn' fool if you want to know--the biggest, damnedest fool on the face of creation. And I've been and told him so."
"For no particular reason?" Bernard's blue eyes grew keener in their regard. He looked at Tommy with more interest than he had ever before bestowed upon him.
Tommy's face was red, but he replied without embarrassment. "Certainly. I've come to my senses, that's all. I've come to realize--what I really knew all along--that he's a white man, white all through, however black he chooses to be painted. And I'm ashamed that I ever doubted him."
"He hasn't told you anything?" questioned Bernard, still closely surveying the flushed countenance.
"No!" said Tommy, and his voice rang on a note of indignant pride. "Why the devil should he tell me anything? I'm his friend. Thank the gods, I can trust him without."
Bernard held out his hand suddenly. The interest had turned to something warmer. He looked at the boy with genuine admiration. "I take off my hat to you, Tommy," he said. "Everard is a deuced lucky man."
"What?" said Tommy, and turned deep crimson. "Oh, rot, sir! That's rot!" He gripped the extended hand with warmth notwithstanding. "It's all the other way round. I can't tell you what he's been to me. Why, I--I'd die for him, if I had the chance."
"Yes," Bernard said with simplicity. "I'm sure you would, boy. And it's just that I like about you. You're just the sort of friend he needs--the sort of friend God sends along to hold up the lamp when the night is dark. There! You want to be off. I won't keep you. But you're a white man yourself, Tommy, and I shan't forget it."
"Oh, rats--rats--rats!" said Tommy rudely, and escaped through the window at headlong speed.


CHAPTER III
TESSA'S MOTHER

"It really isn't my fault," said Netta fretfully. "I don't see why you should lecture me about it, Mary. I can't help being attractive."
"My dear," said Mrs. Ralston patiently, "that was not my point. I am only urging you to show a little discretion. You do not want to be an object of scandal, I am sure. The finger of suspicion has been pointed at the Rajah a good many times lately, and I do think that for Tessa's sake, if not for your own, you ought to put a check upon your intimacy with him.
"Bother Tessa!" said Netta. "I don't see that I owe her anything."
Mrs. Ralston sighed a little, but she persevered. "The child is at an age when she needs the most careful training. Surely you want her to respect you!"
Netta laughed. "I really don't care a straw what she does. Tessa doesn't interest me. I wanted a boy, you know. I never had any use for girls. Besides, she gets on my nerves at every turn. We shall never be kindred spirits."
"Poor little Tessa!" said Mrs. Ralston gently. "She has such a loving heart."
"She doesn't love me," said Tessa's mother without regret. "I suppose you'll say that's my fault too. Everything always is, isn't it?"
"I think--in fact I am sure--that love begets love," said Mrs. Ralston. "Perhaps when you and she get to England together, you will become more to each other."
"Out of sheer _ennui_?" suggested Netta. "Oh, don't let's talk of England--I hate the thought of it. I'm sure I was created for the East. Hence the sympathy that exists between the Rajah and myself. You know, Mary, you really are absurdly prejudiced against him. Richard was the same. He never had any cause to be jealous. They simply didn't come into the same category."
Mrs. Ralston looked at her with wonder in her eyes. "You seem to forget," she said, "that Richard's murderer is being tried, and that this man is very strongly suspected of being an abettor if not the actual instigator of the crime."
Netta flicked the ash from her cigarette with a gesture of impatience. "I only wish you would let me forget these unpleasant things," she said. "Why don't you go and preach a sermon to the beautiful Stella Monck on the same text? Ralph Dacre's death was quite as much of a mystery. And the kindly gossips are every bit as busy with Captain Monck's reputation as with His Excellency's. But I suppose her devotion to that wretched little imbecile baby of hers renders her immune!"
She spoke with intentional malice, but she scarcely expected to strike home. Mary was not, in her estimation, over-endowed with brains, and she never seemed to mind a barbed thrust or two. But on this occasion Mrs. Ralston upset her calculations.
She arose in genuine wrath. "Netta!" she said. "I think you are the most heartless, callous woman I have ever met!"
And with that she went straight from the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Good gracious!" commented Netta. "Mary in a tantrum! What an exciting spectacle!"
She stretched her slim body like a cat as she lay with the warm sunshine pouring over her, and presently she laughed.
"How funny! How very funny! Netta, my dear, they'll be calling you wicked next."
She pursed her lips over the adjective as if she rather enjoyed it, then stretched herself again luxuriously, with sensuous enjoyment. She had riden with the Rajah in the early morning, and was pleasantly tired.
The sudden approach of Tessa, scampering along the verandah in the wake of Scooter, sent a quick frown to her face, which deepened swiftly as Scooter, dodging nimbly, ran into the room and went to earth behind a bamboo screen.
Tessa sprang in after him, but pulled up sharply at sight of her mother. The frown upon Netta's face was instantly reflected upon her own. She stood expectant of rebuke.
"What a noisy child you are!" said Netta. "Are you never quiet, I wonder? And why did you let that horrid little beast come in here? You know I detest him."
"He isn't horrid!" said Tessa, instantly on the defensive. "And I couldn't help him coming in. I didn't know you were here, but it isn't your bungalow anyway, and Aunt Mary doesn't mind him."
"Oh, go away!" said Netta with irritation. "You get more insufferable every day. Take the little brute with you and shut him up--or drown him!"
Tessa came forward with an insolent shrug. There was more than a spice of defiance in her bearing.
"I don't suppose I can catch him," she said. "But I'll try."
The chase of the elusive Scooter that followed would have been