It got on Grace Arbuthnot's nerves at last--the methodical calm of it all, the smiles that were so cheerfully sympathetic or so wistfully impatient, the studious speech, the still more studious silence. Until at last, when the end was near, and Dr. Sullivan's finger, travelling over a chart, pointed out a level after a series of peaks and passes, she could not help seeking relief in the remark that 'some one was out of the wood!'
A contented smile came to the face she was leaving, but a look showed on the one she was approaching which struck her like a blow, which she felt she could never forget, so full was it of something akin to anger in its hopeless, helpless blame.
'He is in the thick of it, poor chap,' said the doctor in a low voice; 'only came in yesterday.'
And Grace's eyes, dim with tears, could scarcely see the jagged notches rising higher and higher in the fresh unfingered chart that was being shown her.
'Can nothing be done?' she asked abruptly, when the doctor was driving her over to the mess in his dogcart. The others were walking, and he had just pointed out the temporary hospital they had had to open.
He shook his head. 'God knows! Sometimes I think I could, with a free hand. We do what we can, as it is, but what can you expect when the men get sitting about the bazaars, and eating and drinking filth. There is only one way out of it now, Lady Arbuthnot, as I hope you'll tell Sir George. Get 'em away into the desert, not to be tempted of the devil, but to--what shall we say?--to--to get back the sinews of war!' he finished, proud of his quotation.
It was apt enough to recur more than once to Grace Arbuthnot's mind as she watched the sports; once, especially, when a tug-of-war began, and a team of boys, big enough, but soft-looking, stood up against the Artillery.
'They haven't a chance against us!' said Nevill Lloyd, with pardonable pride. 'To begin with, we are accustomed to handle ropes; and then!--of course, if the Highlanders had been here still, there'd have been a fight, but these new fellows haven't the sinew--as yet.'
They pulled pluckily, though, for all they were worth, encouraged thereat, amongst other supporters, by a number of big upstanding sepoys from the native lines. They were in mufti, which, however, was no disguise to their martial swagger and palpable pride of strength.
'Don't pull, brotherlings!' they advised; 'put the weight on the rope and stand steady. So! Oh, 'tis God's will! He has not given the weight yet. It will come, brothers! Meanwhile it is fate, not defeat.'