Another point in her favour was that she would take him more or less by surprise, for she had carefully arranged that the letter which we have seen him receive, should only reach him a few days before her own arrival. But when she arrived, only to learn that the border war had blazed forth in the very neighbourhood of Mazaran itself, and that the man she had come to find was missing, her wrath and chagrin knew no bounds. The first she was forced to conceal, the second she passed off in concern and anxiety on behalf of her fiancé’s peril. Attempts on all sides were made to reassure her. The missing official would have thrown himself on the protection of someone or other of the chiefs who had not joined in the jihad—Sarbaland Khan, for instance, who would certainly remain loyal—and to whose interest it would be to ensure the safety of so high a representative of the Sirkar. But if she allowed herself to be reassured on that point, there was a new and wholly unlooked-for aspect of the situation, which in her heart of hearts was fraught with possibilities. With the missing man was the Tarletons’ girl guest. Only to think how they would be thrown together, and that day after day, in their wanderings and possible dangers! What was the girl like? She set herself to find out.
It happened that the Tarletons had no portrait of Hilda Clive, but on the subject of the latter’s attractions Cynthia was in a great measure reassured. When, apparently in pursuance of a natural interest in the missing girl, she inquired on the point, the answer was never more enthusiastic than “Oh, so-so,” with a sort of covert implication that she was not in it with the inquirer herself. For Hilda had made no impression upon the male side of the station, to whom she conveyed an idea of coldness and reserve even when not, as Haslam put it, one of uncanniness. So Cynthia was reassured, and managed to get through time fairly contentedly; and while ever manifesting a becoming degree of anxiety on behalf of her fiancé—as she gave him out to be—on the whole the station regarded her as a decided acquisition. And then Hilda Clive had reappeared, alone.
Among the first to visit her was naturally Cynthia, and the consequent reassurance as to Raynier’s temporary safety hardly rejoiced her so much as the first glance at his fellow refugee. Why, the girl was downright plain—if not hideous, she decided. She had green eyes, to begin with; large and well-lashed certainly, but—green; green and uncanny, like a cat’s. Then, she was white and haggard looking. As for her dress, Cynthia could not judge, for Hilda had only agreed to see her under protest and had appeared in a tea-gown; for she was suffering from lassitude and nervous reaction, following upon physical hardship and the immense mental strain she had undergone. Small wonder indeed if she were not looking her best. Wherefore, Cynthia decided that here was no possibility of rivalry, and having so decided she set to work to make the best of the situation.
Mazaran was practically in a state of siege, yet a matter of twenty-four hours sufficed to accustom its social side to that state of things; and, if it was unsafe to venture beyond the lines, the social side aforesaid took care to amuse itself to the best of its ability within them. And here Cynthia Daintree was in great request. She was a novelty, she was stylish and well dressed, and well looking. She kept up a certain modicum of carefully regulated concern for her missing fiancé, but she allowed herself to be drawn, albeit under protest into all that went on. The general consensus of opinion was—especially among the garrison—that the missing Raynier was a deuced lucky fellow, but why the mischief had he kept his engagement so dark?
Not quite all, however, were so minded. Haslam, the Forest Officer, for instance, was not so sure on the point; possibly, because Cynthia had not thought it worth while laying herself out to captivate him, possibly not. Anyway, he remarked at the Tarletons’ one day,—
“I wonder if Raynier will weep for joy when he gets back or not?”
“Why, what do you mean, Mr Haslam?” said his hostess.
“Nothing. Only that I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”
“Sour grapes, Mr Haslam,” laughed Mrs Tarleton, not meaning it, for she happened to be one of those who did not take the new arrival at her own valuation.
Haslam chuckled.