The Tigress. Warner Anne
husband?" he hazarded.
"Good Heavens! No! Poor Darling! He doesn't deserve the life I lead him. I'm charitable enough to wish him a better fate."
"What happened to your match then?"
"Now you are asking riddles," she said. "That question has never been satisfactorily answered."
"You mean you don't wish to tell me, I suppose."
"I'd give anything in the world if I could. He was reported dead eight years ago, but – "
"He isn't?"
"He wasn't then."
"How do you know?"
"He was heard from after."
"Then he's alive still – you know that much?"
"No," she replied languorously. "I don't know that much. He may have died since, don't you see?"
"Let me find out for you," he proposed abruptly. "I'll – "
"You're very kind, but you'd have your trouble for your pains. He doesn't want to be found, wherever he is, dead or alive, and I'll back him against the world when it comes to having his own way."
She shivered slightly and drew the filmy scarf closer over her bare shoulders. "Besides," she added, "when the message was sent he was starting for 'the world's end,' and 'the world's end' is a big place to find a man. The needle and the hayrick are child's play to it."
"I'm terribly interested," said young Andrews. "I am really. I didn't believe you'd admit any chap was your match. Do you mind telling me what he was like?"
"He was more than my match," she confessed. "He was something else, and that is why no other man ever will be able to please me after his newness has worn off."
"As mine has?"
"As yours has."
"Gad! But you're frank, Nina."
"I know it. It's my one admirable quality. I'm tired of you, Gerald. I always get tired in the same place."
"The same place?" he repeated, puzzled.
"When they're not satisfied with a day and want to make it forever. The mere thought of forever wearies me. I feel like killing a man when he so much as hints at it."
"You haven't killed your husband," he reminded her.
"Ah, but how I have been tempted!" she laughed. "Some day I may."
"I know something of what a beast Darling is," he ventured. "I've heard it at the club. They say – "
"Don't!" she begged. "I won't listen. It may all be true, but I'd rather not hear it. I'm sorry for him. I'd only kill him to put him out of his misery – to put us both out of our misery."
"Of course you don't mean that. You shouldn't say it."
She didn't contradict him, and for a little there was silence between them. His thoughts reverted to the man who was her match – and more.
"And the other man?" he queried. "You said he was something else. What else?"
"My mate," she said simply. And again the silence fell.
Presently her laugh rang out, clear and bell-like, startling her companion from gloomy reverie. It jarred awfully. It was like dance music at a funeral.
"I can fancy what else you've heard at the club," she began, the opal lights in her eyes suddenly blazing. "They say I'm an angel, don't they?"
"They wouldn't dare say anything else in my presence."
"To be sure" – bitterly – "that's condemnation enough in itself. Before you they pronounced me a good and virtuous wife, I suppose. And behind your back – Good Heavens, what must they not say behind your back!"
"You are good and virtuous," he defended with boyish loyalty.
"Of course I am," she agreed. "I've driven one man to drink by marrying him, and more than I can count by not. I'm an angel, truly. But it's so hard to tell just what to do. I am my brother's keeper, and yet I go through life adding each year to the army of the besotted."
It was not at all the trend that young Andrews had foreseen in bringing Nina Darling to this shadowy corner of the terrace. Every fresh lead made the situation more uncomfortable. He had been brimming over with passion and sentiment, and here they had strayed away into a field rife with some of life's hardest facts.
"Promise me," she begged, "that you won't desert the civil service for the army – this army, my army!"
"God knows what I shall do, Nina!" he flung back desperately. "I banked everything on you. I didn't think you'd fail me."
"I've failed every one that ever came into my life," was her candid rejoinder. "Every time I crave and take a little passing pleasure some one suffers, and I haven't a drop of vicious blood in my veins. I believe I was cursed in my cradle."
He started to protest, but she shook her golden head dispiritedly. The blues – rare visitors – had settled down upon her.
"If I had only met you first!" he cried. "If you had married me I would have saved you."
"Don't!" she supplicated. "Please, please don't! I hate the word – marriage. Who was it said: 'Love is a soufflé that marriage changes to a bread-and-butter pudding?' I've seen it borne out scores of times. Soggy, indigestible stuff, without spice or flavor."
The melody of the dance music which all along had seeped to them in harmonic murmur from the distant ballroom was now hushed.
In the distance, at the opposite end of the terrace, figures – single and grouped – moved in silhouette across the glare from the lighted windows. Along the garden paths there passed at intervals sentinel Ghurkas from the viceroy's guard of honor.
Young Andrews's thoughts were long, long thoughts. He was sorry for the woman, but he was still more sorry for himself. He had turned a little away from her. His head was bowed, and his gaze was lowered to the pavement at his feet.
Nina had risen before he was conscious of her movement. Then belatedly he sprang up.
"It is late," she said. "The Ramsays are probably looking everywhere for me. I mustn't keep them waiting."
But he scarcely heeded. He stepped very close to her and gripped her by either arm.
"Tell me," he begged, low-voiced, earnest, "is there nothing in your heart for me?"
"Oh, yes!" she answered quite casually. "Sympathy – oh, ever so much sympathy!"
"And there can never be anything else?"
"There never can be anything else – except – "
She paused, and his hopes fluttered.
"Except – " he repeated.
"Gratitude. I am grateful. I was so afraid you were going to weep. And you didn't."
CHAPTER II
A Psychological Contretemps
Young Andrews was a sensitive soul, but he was not unmanly. He fought off the tears as long as he was conscious, but his pillow was wet in the morning.
His station was "on the Bombay side," as they say in India. To be exact, it was at Junnar. And he started down the next day, after sending Nina a bouquet of Annandale's loveliest roses. But when he alighted from the little branch railway line at Umballa, he halted.
The cantonment here was the home of the Darlings. But it was also the home of Dinghal, a deputy commissioner, who was a friend of young Andrews. So young Andrews lingered, and the deputy commissioner made him welcome.
Hitherto he had regarded Dinghal as rather a bore. And in this he was thoroughly justified. But since his two months at Simla the deputy commissioner had acquired for him a distinct interest.
Dinghal knew the Darlings intimately, and his passion for gathering and disseminating minor gossip, which had once been a fault, became now, in the changed tastes of his visitor, an enviable virtue, especially as the visitor found it the easiest