The Native Born | Page 8

for diplomatic
reasons had remained neutral, exchanged grins. "You see," Travers said,
turning with deferential politeness to the Colonel, "the day is against
you."
"The Old Guard dies, but never surrenders!" quoted the Colonel
good-humoredly.
"The next question is, on whose shoulders shall the task of beguilement
fall?" Travers went on, glancing at Stafford. "I suppose you, O, wise
young judge--?"
"It is out of the question," Stafford answered at once. "I consider I have
done enough damage already."
"What about your serpent's tongue, Travers?" suggested Webb. "When
I think of the follies you have tempted me to commit, I feel that you
should be unanimously elected."
Travers bowed his acknowledgments with mock gravity.

"Since there are no other candidates, I accept the onerous task," he said,
"but I can not go about it single-handed. The serpent's tongue may be
mine, but I lack, I fear, the grace and personal charm necessary for
complete conquest. I need the help of Circe, herself." His bright,
bird-like eye passed over the laughing group, resting on Lois an instant
with an expression of woebegone regret. Beatrice Cary was the next in
line, and his search went no farther than her flushed, eager face. "Ah!"
he exclaimed, "I have found the enchantress herself! Miss----" He
hesitated, for an instant unaccountably shaken out of his debonair
self-possession. Webb sprang to the rescue with a formal introduction,
and Travers proceeded, if not entirely with his old equanimity. "I beg
your pardon, Miss Cary," he apologized. "Your face is, strangely
enough, so familiar to me that I took you for an old
acquaintance--perhaps, indeed, you are, if in our modern days Circe
finds it necessary to travel incognito."
Beatrice joined in the general amusement, her unusually large and
beautiful eyes bright with elation.
"May I claim your assistance?" Travers went on. "Instinct tells me that
we shall be irresistible."
"Willingly," Beatrice responded, "though I can not imagine how I can
help you."
"Leave that to me," he said, offering her his arm. "My plans are
Napoleonic in their depth and magnitude. If you will allow me to
unfold them to you before the dancing begins--?"
She smiled her assent, and walked at his side toward the Colonel's
bungalow. On their way they passed Mrs. Cary, who, strangely enough,
did not respond to the half-triumphant glance which her daughter cast
at her. She turned hastily aside.
"Mr. Travers is no doubt--" she began, in a confidential undertone; but
her companion, Mrs. Carmichael, had taken the opportunity and
vanished.

The light-hearted, superficial discussion, with its scarcely felt
undercurrent of tragic reminiscence, had lasted through the swift sunset,
and already dusk was beginning to throw its long shadows over the
gaily dressed figures that streamed up toward the bungalow.
On the outskirts of the garden lights were springing up in quick
succession, thanks to the industry of Mrs. Carmichael, who hurried
from one Chinese lantern to the other, breathless but determined. The
task was doubtless an ignominious one for an Anglo-Indian lady of
position, but Mrs. Carmichael, who acted as a sort of counterbalance to
her husband's extravagant hospitality, cared not at all. England,
half-pay and all its attendant horrors, loomed in the near future, and
economy had to be practised somehow.
Of the late group only Lois and John Stafford remained. They had not
spoken, but, as though obeying a mutual understanding, both remained
quietly waiting till they were alone.
"Shall we walk about a little?" he asked at last. "I missed our morning
ride so much. It has put my whole day out of joint, and I want
something to put it straight again. Do you mind, or would you rather
dance? I see they have begun."
"No," she said. "I would rather be quiet for a few minutes. Somehow I
have lost the taste for that sort of thing to-night."
"I also," he responded.
They walked silently side by side along the well-kept path, each
immersed in his own thoughts and soothed by the knowledge that their
friendship had reached a height where silence is permitted--becomes
even the purest form of expression. At the bottom of the compound
they reached a large, low-built building, evidently once a
dwelling-place, overgrown with wild plants and half in ruins, whose
dim outlines stood out against the darkening background of trees and
sky. The door stood open, and must indeed have stood open for many
years, for the broken hinges were rusty and seemed to be clinging to the
torn woodwork only by the strength of undisturbed custom.

Stafford came to a halt.
"That is where--" he began, and then abruptly left his sentence
unfinished.
"Yes," she said, "it is here. I don't think, as long as we live in India, that
my guardian will ever have it touched. He calls it the Memorial.