The Great Amulet | Page 7

That which he had unduly scorned, he now unduly
exalted. Only Time and the woman could lead him into the Middle
Way, which is the way of truth. For beneath the surface hardness of the
Scot lurked the fire, the imaginative force, the proud sensitiveness of
the Celt: a heritage from his Cornish mother, whose untimely death had
left her two younger sons in the hands of a bachelor uncle, of red-hot

Calvinistic views. Their father--a man of an altogether different
stamp--had met his boys on rare occasions, and ardently desired to
know more of them: but an Afghan knife had ended his career before
he could find leisure to complete their acquaintance. The history of
Anglo-India is one long chronicle of such minor tragedies.
Thus fire-eating Jock Lenox had exercised iron rule over his charges,
unhampered by parental interference: had reared them in an
unquestioning fear of God, and an unquestioning distrust of more than
half His creatures; had impressed upon them, in season and out of
season, that woman was the one fatal element in a man's life, the author
of nine-tenths of its tragedy, complexity, and crime.
Yet "one touch of Nature" had annulled, in three months, the work of
twenty years. So much for education!
For a while Lenox stood motionless where his wife had left him, as
though life itself were suspended until her return: for despite the glory
of autumn sunshine, of leaping flames upon the hearth, the room,
robbed of her presence, seemed colourless, dead.
Then, as the minutes passed and she did not reappear, restlessness took
possession of him; sure sign that he was very deeply moved. He
crossed to the open window, but even the colossal calm of the
mountains failed to quell the tumult of passion in his veins. Her last
words left him anxious. There could be no peace till he had interpreted
them to his full satisfaction; and the power of interpreting a woman's
words could not be reckoned among his attributes.
Suddenly it occurred to him that he had pocketed two unopened
envelopes before starting for church. He drew them out; rather because
he needed some definite occupation, than because he felt curious as to
their contents. Men of his type are rarely overburdened with
correspondents.
The first was a business letter. He read it with scant attention, and
returned it to his breast-pocket. The second envelope bore the
handwriting of his senior subaltern, now in England on short leave. The

two men were close friends; but Eldred's last letter had been written
four months ago; and the envelope in his hand contained Richardson's
tardy response. He broke the seal with a smile at thought of his
subaltern's astonishment when he should learn the truth. The letter was
longer than usual; and in glancing through it hurriedly, the name Miss
Maurice caught his eye. "Great Scott!" he muttered aloud; then, with
quickened interest, began upon the second page, ignoring the opening.
"Wonder if you have run across the Maurices in Zermatt," wrote Max
Richardson, with no faintest prevision of the circumstances in which
the thoughtless lines would be read by his friend. "Artists both of them,
brother and sister; and a rather remarkable couple, I'm told. She seems
to have made a hit at the Academy; and the cousins I'm staying with are
very keen about her. I happened to mention that I was writing to a chap
in Zermatt, and they begged me to ask if you had heard or seen
anything of this Miss Maurice. There's a bit of a romance about her;
that's what has pricked their interest. Seems she was engaged to Sir
Roger Bennet this season. A swell in the Art patron line. Lost his heart
at first sight. But evidently on closer acquaintance found her rather a
handful, and too much of a Bohemian to suit his British taste! At all
events there was a flare-up over something about three months ago, and
Sir Roger backed out, politely but definitely. It seems that Miss
Maurice was a good deal cut up. Went off to Zermatt with her brother.
And now rumour has it that she is engaged, if not married, to some
other chap out there, I suppose by way of a gentle intimation to Sir
Roger that he hasn't broken her heart. My cousins are eaten up with
curiosity to know if it's true. Women appear to be capable of that sort
of thing. But it strikes a mere man as playing rather low down on a
luckless devil who has done her no harm: and I don't envy him his
hasty bargain, or the repenting at leisure that's bound to follow. Lord,
what fools we men are! And how easily we lose our heads over a
woman! All except you--the Great