"Is that my fault? I don't like either of them in that way."
"No, but you like knowing that they think of you, and care for you, and watch for the least crumb of kindness you are willing to throw them. When you thought poor Charteris was dead, you luxuriated in misery with that very foolish young Gerrard, who ought to have given you the choice of taking him or leaving him there and then, and when Charteris came back, you snubbed him. And if Gerrard should be killed now, in trying to save my dear Charley, I suppose you and Charteris would mingle your tears over him. No, Charteris has more sense. He won't let himself be treated——"
Honour's eyes were bright. "Oh, do you mean that Mr Gerrard is helping
Mr Charteris? Sir Edmund did not mention him."
"They are co-operating, Lady Antony told me—making forced marches in the hot weather, to avenge Charley if they can't save him. But you don't care—or if you do, it's only because you like to think you can be an inspiration to them without giving anything in return. You don't want to marry either of them, but you won't break with them so long as they are willing to dangle about you."
"I don't want to marry either of them, it is true, but if they are willing to be my friends still, why should I break with them, as you call it?"
"Because each of them thinks that you will be willing to marry him one day, and you know it. You are rather proud of their constancy, and your own firmness in not yielding to either of them. But it is not a thing to be proud of; it is a thing to be ashamed of and sorry for. You could make far more of either of those men by coming down from your pedestal and marrying him in an ordinary everyday way than by standing up above him and giving him good advice. I know you have some delusion that it is better and higher to be as you are, but I tell you that I had rather have married my Charley and known him as he really was and—yes, and even lost him—than stood on high and given good advice to a whole army. Oh, Charley, my dear kind Charley—and I behaved so badly to you when you went away! I never kissed you!"
A fresh paroxysm of tears succeeded the angry words, and Honour yielded to the ayah's whispered entreaties, and left the room. Grief and resentment combined to give her a very disturbed night, and when Lady Cinnamond arrived, tired and travel-stained, about mid-day, after an unbroken journey from Ranjitgarh, she was shocked at her daughter's appearance. But there was no time to think of Honour, for Marian, hearing her mother's voice, had tottered to her door.
"Oh, dear mamma, I have wanted you so much! You understand, you know all about it."
Not until the evening did Honour see her mother again, and then Lady
Cinnamond crept out on tiptoe into the verandah.
"Honour, love, I have been so longing to speak to you, but I could not leave poor Marian until she fell asleep. I am very anxious about papa. He has never been alone in the hot weather before, and he is so terribly imprudent."