CHAPTER VIII. HARRY HARDWICKE TAKES THE GATE NEATLY.
In the few days succeeding Hugh Johnstone’s still unsuspected departure, the dull fires of a growing jealousy burned and smouldered in Captain Harry Hardwicke’s agitated heart. The old nabob had neatly slipped away in the night, on a special engine, and the Captain heard all the growing tattle of Delhi, as to the social activity at the marble house. The open hospitable board of General Willoughby rang with the very wildest rumors. Alan Hawke seemed to be the “Prince Charming” of the hidden festivities.
Hardwicke, on the eve of his Majority, now darkly moped in his rooms, undecided to apply for a long home leave, unwilling to leave Delhi, and even afraid to ask his general for any positive favor as to a future station. Club and mess bandied the freest tattle as to old Hugh Johnstone’s lovely “importation.” Men eyed the prosperous Major Alan Hawke on his rising pathway with a growing envy. There was a smart coterie who now firmly believed that the Major’s only “secret business” was to marry the Rose of Delhi, and then, departing on an extended honeymoon, leave the “Diamond Nabob,” as the ci-devant Hugh Fraser was called, free to proclaim Madame Berthe Louison, queen of the marble house, and sharer of his expected dignity, the crown of his life, the long-coveted Baronetcy. When old Major Verner growled:
“That’s the scheme, Hardwicke! My Lady of France makes the condition that the young heiress shall be settled first. Gad! What a lucky dog Hawke is!” Then, Harry Hardwicke suddenly discovered that he loved the moonlight beauty of his dreams—the fair veiled Rose of Delhi. Hawke rose up as a darkly menacing cloud on his future.
His morning rides were now but keen inspections of the Commissioner’s garden, and, lingering on the Chandnee Chouk, he knew, by experiments, conducted with a beating heart, just where Justine Delande was wont to wander in the lonely labyrinth, with her lovely young charge. A low double gate, a break in the high stone wall, often gave him glimpses of the two women in their morning rambles and, with a softened feeling, born of her own secret passion for Hawke, Justine Delande watched a fluttering handkerchief often answer Captain Hardwicke’s morning salute.
“Tell me, Justine,” said Nadine, the morning after Hugh Johnstone had stolen away, “Why does my father not ask Major Hardwicke to visit us? He is to be promoted for his superb gallantry, he is so brave—so noble! He certainly has as many claims to honor as this—this Major Hawke—whom my father has made his confidant. I don’t know why, but I don’t like that man!”
“What do you know of Major Hardwicke, as you call him?” cried Justine in wonder at Miss Nadine’s growing interest.
“Ah!” the agitated girl cried with blushing cheeks, “Mrs. Willoughby told me how he dragged his wounded friend out of a storm of Afghan balls, and gave her back the child of her heart. It was General Willoughby who got him his Victoria Cross. And, she says that he is a hero, he is so gentle and manly—so gifted—a man destined to be a commanding general yet.” The guilty Swiss woman dared not raise her eyes to watch the fleeting blushes on Nadine’s cheeks.
“It is time, high time we leave India,” she mused, and then, the thought of separation from Alan Hawke chilled her blood. “Let us go in,” she said. “The grass is damp yet.” Captain Hardwicke’s argus eyes, love inspired, were now daily fixed on the marble house. He scoured Delhi and amassed a pyramid of detached fragmentary gossip in all his alarm, but one star of hope cheered him. Though Major Hawke was known as the only cavalier of Madame Louison, save the old nabob, now supposed to be ill at home; though Hawke drove out for a week with the lovely countess—to the great surprise of the local society, the handsome renegade had never once been seen in public with Miss Nadine Johnstone. Stranger still, the star-eyed Madame Berthe Louison had never accompanied the young heiress in the regular afternoon parade en voiture. “There’s a mystery here,” mused the lover. “Old Hugh and the Major appear daily with the Frenchwoman, but Nadine Johnstone has never been seen alone with anyone save her father, or this Swiss duenna. Hawke is making slow progress there, if any.” Meeting old Simpson, the nabob’s butler, Captain Hardwicke tipped him with a five-pound note. The old retired soldier grinned and opened his confidence.
“The Major! Bless your stars!” gabbled Simpson, “She’s a straightaway angel, and not for the likes of him! Major Hawke has a dark spot or two in his record—away back!” grumbled Simpson, “No, Captain! Major Hawke has never set eyes on her for a single moment, but the one night of that dinner. By the way, it is the only one we ever gave!” The butler swelled up proudly.