The Lamp in the Desert | Page 5

belief hurt her even
more deeply, in a subtle, incomprehensible fashion, than any slights
inflicted by her own sex. Possibly Tommy's warm enthusiasm for the
man had made her more sensitive regarding his good opinion. And
possibly she was over ready to read condemnation in his grave eyes.
But--whatever the reason--she would have given much to have had him
on her side. Somehow it mattered to her, and mattered vitally.
But Monck had never joined her retinue of courtiers. He was never
other than courteous to her, but he did not seek her out. Perhaps he had
better things to do. Aloof, impenetrable, cold, he passed her by, and she
would have been even more amazed than Tommy had she heard him
describe her as beautiful, so convinced was she that he saw in her no
charm.
It had been a disheartening struggle, this hewing for herself a way
along the rocky paths of prejudice, and many had been the thorns under
her feet. Though she kept a brave heart and never faltered, she had tired
inevitably of the perpetual effort it entailed. Three weeks after her
arrival, when the annual exodus of the ladies of the regiment to the
Hills was drawing near, she became engaged to Ralph Dacre, the
handsomest and most irresponsible man in the mess.
With him at least her power to attract was paramount. He was blindly,
almost fulsomely, in love. Her beauty went to his head from the outset;
it fired his blood. He worshipped her hotly, and pursued her untiringly,
caring little whether she returned his devotion so long as he ultimately
took possession. And when finally, half-disdainfully, she yielded to his

insistence, his one all-mastering thought became to clinch the bargain
before she could repent of it. It was a mad and headlong passion that
drove him--not for the first time in his life; and the subtle pride of her
and the soft reserve made her all the more desirable in his eyes.
He had won her; he did not stop to ask himself how. The women said
that the luck was all on her side. The men forebore to express an
opinion. Dacre had attained his captaincy, but he was not regarded with
great respect by any one. His fellow-officers shrugged their shoulders
over him, and the commanding officer, Colonel Mansfield, had been
heard to call him "the craziest madman it had ever been his fate to
meet." No one, except Tommy, actively disliked him, and he had no
grounds for so doing, as Monck had pointed out. Monck, who till then
had occupied the same bungalow, declared he had nothing against him,
and he was surely in a position to form a very shrewd opinion. For
Monck was neither fool nor madman, and there was very little that
escaped his silent observation.
He was acting as best man at the morrow's ceremony, the function
having been almost thrust upon him by Dacre who, oddly enough,
shared something of Tommy's veneration for his very reticent
brother-officer. There was scant friendship between them. Each had
been accustomed to go his own way wholly independent of the other.
They were no more than casual acquaintances, and they were content to
remain such. But undoubtedly Dacre entertained a certain respect for
Monck and observed a wariness of behaviour in his presence that he
never troubled to assume for any other man. He was careful in his
dealings with him, being at all times not wholly certain of his ground.
Other men felt the same uncertainty in connection with Monck.
None--save Tommy--was sure what manner of man he was. Tommy
alone took him for granted with whole-hearted admiration, and at his
earnest wish it had been arranged between them that Monck should
take up his abode with him when the forthcoming marriage had
deprived each of a companion. Tommy was delighted with the idea,
and he had a gratifying suspicion that Monck himself was inclined to
be pleased with it also.

The Green Bungalow had become considerably more homelike since
Stella's arrival, and Tommy meant to keep it so. He was sure that
Monck and he would have the same tastes.
And so on that eve of his sister's wedding, the thought of their coming
companionship was the sole redeeming feature of the whole affair, and
he turned in his impulsive fashion to say so just as they reached the
verandah steps.
But the words did not leave his lips, for the red glow flung from the
lamp had found Monck's upturned face, and something--something
about it--checked all speech for the moment. He was looking straight
up at the lighted window and the face of a beautiful woman who gazed
forth into the night. And his eyes were no longer cold and unresponsive,
but burning, ardent, intensely