“But what can the fellow do? There’s no open war. He can only keep the peace—and keep his eyes open. They’re a nice set—all the lot of ’em. I dare be bound Kamal-ud-din’s the only one that wouldn’t sell the rest to the General for the promise of the turban, and that’s because he don’t care about it. So long as he has Umarganj to retire to, and a caravan to plunder now and then, he’s happy.”
“He seemed precious full of fight, I noticed. What’s that new decoration he sports so conspicuously? They can hardly have got back that Luck—what was it called?—which was stolen years ago.”
“I’m afraid they have—and I’m afraid it’s my fault.” Richard told the story of the Seal of Solomon, and Colonel Bayard laughed.
“Well, I don’t suppose it will make much difference, though they may think it will. Mrs Ambrose is the only sufferer so far, it seems to me.”
“I was going to ask you if you would get me something in the way of jewellery in Bombay—to give her. Fact is, I’m in a precious awkward position. I think I told you she had spent a lot of money in paying the debts of that brother of hers—the General’s A.D.C.? Well, if you’ll believe me, the fellow’s begun to pay it back!”
“You couldn’t well sound more disgusted if he had begun borrowing afresh! But I see your difficulty. You feel bound to lay it out on something for her personal use? By all means—I quite agree with you. Give me some idea what you want, and I shall be honoured with the commission.” He glanced across approvingly at the younger man. He had not looked for such delicacy of feeling from Richard Ambrose, who might have been expected to welcome the return of the money too eagerly to think of the circumstances, and he stretched out a hand and laid it kindly on his shoulder. “You feel you ought not to have brought your wife to Khemistan? But cheer up, my dear fellow! Her health and spirits have stood it amazingly so far. If only my own dear wife—— But I shall soon be with her at home now, so I must not repine. You ain’t afraid of Sahar for Mrs Ambrose? Don’t let them frighten her by calling it ‘the Graveyard.’ It’s not that it’s unhealthy, simply that the desert round is packed with graves—a burial-place for thousands of years, I dare say.”
“She ain’t frightened—not she! Haven’t you observed that ladies never are frightened or miserable about the things they ought to be—that you expect them to be? They go through ’em as cool as a cucumber. And then some ridiculous little thing, that no man in his senses would ever think of again, they go and break their hearts about!”
“Indeed I had not noticed. I fear I have always taken it for granted Mrs Bayard would be alarmed, and she has indulged me by letting me think so. Very kind of her, ’pon my word! But I trust the other half of your observation ain’t true. I should be sorry to think I had made my wife unhappy—however innocently.”
His tone was so anxious and grieved that Richard administered comfort hastily. “Oh, don’t be afraid. If you ever did such a thing, Mrs Bayard would know it was unintentional, trust her! I wish Mrs Ambrose enjoyed that consolation.”
“Tell her so—and she will,” suggested Colonel Bayard.