It is dangerous, however, to play with emotions that are never to be allowed an active influence. They have a trick of growing by leaps and bounds, and before the will has time to realize that an enemy is at its gates, to fling their whole force against the citadel and overwhelm the dazed defenses. How near Archibald Travers came that morning to yielding to himself he never knew. Lois' happy, thankful face hovered constantly before his eyes. He felt very tender toward her. He felt that he should like to be able to think of her in the keeping of a good man—like Stafford—who, if pig-headed and bigoted, was yet calculated to stick to a woman and make her happy. Looking straight at himself and his past, Travers could not be sure that he would stick to any one. Also there was the Rajah, optimistic, and trusting, so much so that it left an unpleasant taste in the mouth to fool him.
But above all else, there was Lois. Lois recurred to him constantly, overshadowing every other consideration. He thought of her in all her aspects: Lois, the enterprising, the energetic, plucky, daredevil comrade; Lois, the ever-ready, untiring, uncomplaining partner in the hunt, on the tennis-court, in the ball-room; Lois, the woman, with her gentle charm, her tenderness, her frankness, her truth. He bit his lip, turning away from the sunshine with knitted brows and fierce eyes. No, it is no light matter to trifle with the heart, even if it is only one's own. Nor is it wise for a man, set on a cool, calculating task of self-advancement, to call up waters from his hidden wells of tenderness, or to allow a nature strangely susceptible (as even the worst natures are) to the appeal of the good and beautiful to have full play, if only for a brief hour. Another five minutes undisturbed in that splendid hall, with God's divine world before him and the highest, purest art of man about him, and Travers might never have waited to meet Nehal Singh. He might have gone thence, and taken his schemes and plans and ambitions to another sphere of activity. Five minutes! One second is enough to change a dozen destinies. A straw divides an act of heroism from an act of cowardice.
Archibald Travers turned. He had heard no sound and yet he was certain that he was no longer alone, that some one stood behind him and was watching him. For a minute he remained motionless; the bright sunlight had dazzled him and he could only see the shadows in which the back of the chamber was enveloped. Yet the consciousness of another presence continued, and when suddenly a shadow freed itself from the rest and came toward him, he started less with surprise than with a reasonless, nameless alarm. It was a woman's figure which came down toward the golden patch of light in which he stood. He could not see her face for it was completely shrouded in a long oriental veil, but the bowed shoulders, the slow, unsteady step indicated an advanced age or an overpowering physical weakness. She came on without hesitation, passing so close to Travers that she brushed his arm, and reached the hangings before the window. There she paused. Travers passed his hand quickly before his eyes. Her movements had been so quiet, so blindly indifferent to his presence that he could not for the moment free himself from the fancy that he was in the power of an hallucination. Then she lifted her hand, drawing the curtain back, and he uttered an involuntary, half-smothered exclamation. The hand was thin, claw-like, white as though no drop of blood flowed beneath the lifeless skin, and on the fourth finger he saw a plain band of gold.
"Who are you?" Travers demanded. The question had left his lips almost without his knowledge. She turned and looked at him, and in spite of the veil he felt the full intensity of a gaze which seemed to be seeking his very soul. How long they stood there watching each other in breathless silence Travers did not know. Nor did he know why this strange, powerless figure filled him with a sickening repulsion and held him paralyzed so that he could only wait in passive, motionless expectation. Suddenly the hand sank to her side and he shook himself as though he had been awakened from a nightmare.
"Who are you?" he repeated firmly.
"You are not the one I seek," she answered. "Why do you keep me from him? He is mine—my very own. Where is he? I am always seeking for him—but he is like the shadows—he vanishes—with the sunshine. In my dreams I see him—" Her voice, thin and low-pitched, died into silence. She seemed to have shrunk together; she swayed as though she would have fallen, and Travers took an involuntary step toward her.
"You speak English—perfect English," he said. "Who are you? Whom do you seek? Perhaps I can help you—?" His words electrified her. She caught his arm in a grip of iron and drew close to him so that her hot, quickly drawn breath fanned his cheek.
"Help me?" she whispered. "Who can help me? Don't you know that I am dead?"
Travers shuddered; he tried to free himself from the clutch of the white, bloodless hand, but she clung to him desperately, despairingly, while her voice rose in an agonized crescendo.
"Don't you know that I am dead?"