"If she gets well, Carson—if she gets well, we can no longer ignore the power of mystic India. But it is no place for an English woman. I've always said that."
Carson had his own thoughts, so he merely nodded, scarcely hearing what Rawlins had said. He sat rigidly erect in a bamboo chair on the veranda, while the captain went up to his sister, taking the stairs three at a leap.
He was down in a few moments, his eyes shining in the lamplight, as he stood at the screen-door.
"Carson—she is sleeping—like a child. And there is color creeping into her lips and cheeks again. Go away, now, Carson, like a good fellow. I'm not being rude, but I've got to be alone a while—to think this out."
Carson was the sort that would understand that. He rose, held out his hand. "Don't try to explain, Captain Rawlins; I think I get you. And—if you feel fit tomorrow, come over to the Metropole for lunch."
"Yes, thanks—about one, then, tomorrow," answered the other, and sat down in a big chair, almost forgetting Carson.
Carson went toward his hotel in the silence of the Indian night, and there was in him an exultant thankfulness that Marie Pilotte in her health and beauty would live to be young again. Yes, he would see her again. She wouldn't pass out of his life this time.
But arrived at the hotel, he found a cablegram, and so, with his regrets for the captain left at the desk, Carson was well on his way to Calcutta by noon the next day.
After Calcutta, it was London, but through the months Carson did not forget Made Pilotte.
In a London season, less than two years
after the death of Durah, two men
trained glasses on a box at a certain
theater.
"Who is the beauty who just came into the left box over there?" asked one.
His companion answered, "The woman in silver? Oh, don't you know? She's Marie Pilotte, the singer. But I have heard that she is recently married—to an American newspaper correspondent."
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue—
Could you but find it—to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; and
They change and perish all—but He remains;
A moment guess'd—then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
