*VIII.*
Trevelyan had been gone a year. His orders for Indian service had been anine days’ wonder to London.
"Of course he will get his uncle to work him back on a home regiment ordo something on the strength of his father’s gallant action at Inkermanand his wound." Tom Cameron had said. "Of course he won’t go."
"Of course not," London had said.
"I’ll be hanged if I’ll go," Trevelyan had exploded to Stewart, and hespent most of his time between his father’s chambers and his uncle’shouse, relieved by frantic calls to every influential man he knew. Butthe powers that could have worked in his behalf, remained passive, andfor the first time his father and uncle refused to help him. Trevelyanwondered wildly what suddenly possessed them all, and what had become ofhis own persuasiveness.
"Jove! I should think you would be pleased," his father had said,purposely avoiding his eyes. "As a little chap you were eternallywanting to grow up and get into active service. Here you have only beenvegetating in barrack life and now that you have the chance to win yourspurs—"
"Damn the spurs," Trevelyan had said.
"Sorry, but I can’t help you," his uncle had answered when he had madehis sixth and last desperate appeal to him. "I’ve seen the Secretary.He says the commander of the regiment wants just such a fellow—one ofthe Engineers. You can’t expect to remould the entire military force ofthe United Kingdom, my boy, when you have just about finished servingyour sub-lieutenancy."
"John’s an Engineer and has seen Indian service too," Trevelyan hadsuggested moodily, and the elder Stewart had remained silent.
Trevelyan continued to fight passionately against the orders until thehour of sailing.
Cary went down with the family to see the transport off, and whenTrevelyan caught his last glimpse of her she was standing out distinctlyfrom the background of the faint fog that had arisen, with Stewart ather side.
He turned his face away sharply and gripped at the ship’s rail. Then asudden pressure came against his throat and breast as though thestrength was being crushed from him. He swallowed hard.
For once, Fate had conquered Trevelyan.
* * * * *
He wrote to Cary just one time that year—on the voyage out—a letter thata man does not often write more than once in his life. In it were thepassion and the love; the strength and weakness of his nature. On onepage he stripped his heart for her, that she might know its faults, andfairly judge. On the next, he tried to vindicate his failings.
"I would be as clay in your hands," he wrote toward the close, "Youcould do with me what you would. I love you more than it is generallygiven to a man to love—more than an English officer should. I woulddesert for you, for I love you more than England and more than myhonor—" and then there came a blot upon the page, that half covered thelast word. The letter ended as a child’s struggle ends—brokenly: and heasked her in a few disjointed sentences to be his wife.
Weeks later when the letter was delivered, Cary was out with John. Onher return she sat far into the night to answer it, that her reply mightgo back to him by the next Indian mail.
"Your love frightens me," she said in part, "and I cannot bind myselfthrough time and distance. If I loved you as I should—and as I _could_love a man—I would say ’yes’—as it is, I must say ’no.’ It lies withyou if my answer ever changes. I do not demand love that would provedisloyal to an officer’s vow of courage in the service. I do not wantsuch love. I am an army woman, and army women, all the world over, haveone code of allegiance—which is absolute. You cheapen me when yousuggest I would be satisfied with anything less. As for moulding you—aman moulds himself into the perfect and complete, or he breaks the claywith his own hands. When I marry it shall be a man whose nature isstronger than my own. It is the way of women."
And Trevelyan had been gone a year.