But, sir, you would have done likewise. Live under the burning sun of India for
four years, struggle against impossibilities and hope against hope, and then have
a pair of great hazel eyes look lovingly into yours and a pair of red lips turned up
to yours,—and tell me if you would not have closed your eyes to the future, and
accepted this precious gift as though it were sent from above?”
The pale, shrunken face of the speaker glowed, and his faded eyes lit up with the
light of love.
“We were happy for a time, and the little gal was born, but the bumper crop did
not come. Then, sir, I sold farm tools and my horse, and sent the wife to a hill
station for her health. I kept the little gal. I stayed to work, as none of my natives
ever worked. It was a gay station to which she went. You know the rest,—she
never came back. That ended the struggle. I would have shot myself but for the
little one. I took her and we wandered here and there, doing odd jobs for a few
months at a time. I drifted down to Singapore, hoping to better myself, but, sir, I
am about used up. It’s hard—hard.”
He buried his head in his long, thin fingers, and sat perfectly still.
There was a sound outside above the roar of the wind and the rain. At first faint
and intermittent, it grew louder, and continuous, and came close. There was no
mistaking it,—the march of booted men.
“What’s that?” asked my companion, with a start.
“Tommy Atkins,” I replied, “the clang of the ammunition boot as big as life.”
His face grew ashy white, and he looked furtively around the room.
“What’s the matter?” I exclaimed, but as I asked, I knew.
I opened the bath-room door and shoved him in.
“Go in there” I said, “and compose some more fairy tales.”
He was scarcely out of sight when the front door was thrown open, and a
corporal’s guard, wet yet happy, marched into the room.