up country in india spring is a period of conflicting impressions. the sharp--sometimes almost too sharp--bite of the cold season has yielded to a warm and languorous atmosphere, perfumed powerfully with mango blossom; dew still beads the grass at dawn; english flowers luxuriate, impelled to rarer bloom and fragrance. there comes a sense of ease and peace, and scented calm, that would be blissful but for the lurking knowledge that the sun is only just withholding the full fierceness of his power--giving "quarter," as it were--till preparations are complete to resist the trials of the true hot weather. fans and punkahs must be fixed and hung, mosquito curtains washed and mended, screens of sweet kus-kus root made ready for the doorways, supplies of captive quail and teal laid in to tempt the jaded palate, when all day long the hot west wind would scorch and shrivel everything outside the darkened houses, and the temperature might stand as high at midnight as at noon.

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at patalpur the winter gaieties were over, and the bustle of departure to the hills had just begun. a feeling of temporary leisure pervaded the english quarter of the station, and trixie coventry could enjoy the pleasant interval the more because the drawbacks of the coming months were yet unknown to her. india was perfect. how she loved the sun, the space, the colour, the friendliness, and the novelty of her surroundings! since her arrival she had revelled in a whirl of popularity; no one's party was complete without pretty mrs. coventry; her beauty, her high spirits, and the fact of her youth, contrasted with her position as a colonel's wife, made her exceptionally interesting. one or two "croakers" prophesied that it would surely turn her head, but the majority could not pay her too much attention.

colonel coventry bore it all with a fairly tolerant spirit. his work had been heavy, his leisure filled with unavoidable engagements that he recognised were multiplied tenfold because of his wife's perfections. he attended dinners, dances, at homes, but all the while he was covertly impatient for the lull to come, when he and trixie might be more alone together, when she would settle down, of course, to months of domestic routine. with a certain relief he had observed that, so far, trixie had given little time to the

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renewal of her boy-and-girl friendship with guy greaves, who seemed to have no special footing in her favour; and, indeed, colonel coventry found nothing to complain of in his wife's attitude towards any of her numerous admirers. she was indiscriminately gracious to them all, riding with one and the other, dancing with each in turn, laughing, chaffing, accepting their notes and offerings and adoration with a gay indifference that was unquestionably beyond criticism or gossip.

but now that his duties were slackening, now that he had more leisure to devote to his young wife, colonel coventry began to notice that he seldom had first claim on her companionship. she was so frequently engaged for rides, and for sets of tennis that she declared had "been made up ages ago, and could not possibly be chucked." and gradually guy greaves seemed to be more often her partner, and to be under promise to escort her on so many riding expeditions. to colonel coventry the young man now appeared to haunt the veranda, to be always either calling for mrs. coventry, or to have "just brought her back" from something. inevitably, dissatisfaction began to creep into the husband's heart. he was not exactly jealous--that, he told himself, would be absurd. trixie was so frank and open, and so clearly unconscious that she was doing anything to which

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anyone could take exception. greaves was a mere boy, and, moreover, one of his own subalterns; and these facts deterred george coventry from voicing his disapproval quite so soon as otherwise he might have done.

this evening he stood in the veranda of his bungalow waiting for trixie to come home. some regimental complication had called him away unexpectedly after luncheon, and he had forgotten to inquire before he started as to her plans for the afternoon. therefore he had hurried back, intending to suggest a ride, but the bearer informed him she had already gone out with "grivsahib." they had driven away in the sahib's dog-cart half an hour ago. coventry, in his annoyance, imagined that the man's eyes held a veiled insolence, and the little rasp of irritation that had worried him of late increased now to definite displeasure with his wife. he went off to play racquets violently; then, calm and more controlled, he had returned, rather late, only to find that trixie had not yet come back. his anger rose again, but when he had changed for dinner fear also beset him lest some harm had come to her, and it urged him out to the veranda.

darkness, that in the east drops like a curtain, shrouded the compound; fireflies were sparkling in the trees, there was a smell of hot dust and tired

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blossoms in the warm, still air that seemed to hold no sound. he waited, anxious, angry, on the steps, listening intently for the roll of wheels and the beat of a pony's hoofs on the hard road. once or twice he thought he heard the sounds he expected, but they died away without coming nearer, if they had really been audible at all; and then, as he waited and listened, there rose sharply, cruelly, in his mind the memory of another night in india, many years ago, when, from another bungalow, in another station, he had heard the rattle of a dog-cart driving swiftly into the adjoining compound. he became conscious of the scent of violets. in desperate resentment he moved forward to try and free himself from this spell of hideous recollection, and as he moved his foot struck against a flower-pot. he realised then that it was a pot of violets, and viciously he kicked it over the plinth of the veranda, and heard it smash to pieces as it fell.

the next moment trixie and young greaves drove in at the compound gate, laughing, and trixie called out as the trap drew up before the steps: "did you think we were lost, george?" she sprang lightly to the ground before he could descend to help her. "we are late, but we've had a lovely time. won't you come in, guy, and have a drink?"

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"not to-night, thanks." then the boyish voice was raised in respectful apology: "so sorry, sir, but we couldn't help it. mrs. coventry will explain."

trixie stood by her husband's side as the dog-cart turned to leave the compound, and she called after the retreating vehicle: "don't forget the first time there's a moon!" and an answering shout came back: "all right! good-night!"

she laid her hand on coventry's arm. "you haven't been fidgeting, have you, george?"

there was no answer. he stood rigid, unresponsive.

"what's the matter? are you cross?"

"i thought something must have happened to you," he said stiffly.

"why, what could have happened? i was quite safe with guy."

"mr. greaves," he corrected.

she laughed. "what nonsense! i've always called him guy. why should i begin 'mister-ing' him now? come along in; i'm so hungry." she chattered on happily. "we went on the river and rowed for miles. it was simply lovely. we saw crocodiles, and a funeral pyre on the bank, with the relations all standing round and the smoke curling up. and then we landed and got into a grove full of tombstones. guy said he believed it

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was an old mohammedan burying-ground. so funny, with hindu corpses being burnt just below it. what a mixed-up place india seems to be!"

"what made you so late?" he asked, following her into the drawing-room, that was bright and pretty with lamplight and wedding presents and chintz-covered chairs, though it felt a little close and airless.

"poof!" said trixie. "how hot it is in the house! do let us have dinner out of doors."

"we should be smothered with insects," he objected. "we can't dine outside without lamps when there's no moon."

"directly there's a moon," said trixie, "i'm going to ride out with guy to that wood and sit on a tombstone and look at the river. and then we will tango--tango in and out among the trees."

she danced a few steps, singing, down the middle of the room. she looked so gay, so full of life and health, so pretty in her white silk blouse cut open at the neck, and her short drill skirt, and a panama hat slouched over her forehead, that coventry's anger melted to a sad regret. he had never felt quite sure of her, never certain that she cared for him; indeed, deep in his heart he knew that trixie was yet ignorant of love; and he was tortured with the half-acknowledged dread

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that out of some thoughtless flirtation with another man there might arise a primal passion that would wreck his life again and hers. to-night the memory of rafella, and the dreadful moment of their parting, was so uncannily insistent that he felt as though he stood on the brink of another crisis--one that would be infinitely worse for him. he loved trixie as he had never loved his former wife--a mature, strong love that held far less of self, combining almost a paternal feeling with the deep devotion of a husband. and now it was poisoned with a helpless, jealous sense of danger that he could not combat. it came between him and his desire to behave wisely, warily, with tact towards her. his innate horror of gossip and scandal, his latent distrust of her friendship with young greaves, added to the lingering influence of his alarm that some accident had befallen her to keep her out so late, held him harping on the question that she had not answered.

"you haven't told me why you were so late," he said.

"oh, george, how you do bother! i don't know, except that i suppose we forgot the time, and then, driving home through the bazaar, we got into a sort of block--a native procession, a wedding, or a festival of some kind. there was a tremendous crowd and such a noise--tom-toms

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and horns and torches. we were delayed, i should think, for quite ten minutes, drawn up at the side of the street while it passed. guy got so impatient, and wanted to barge through the middle of it, but, of course, i wouldn't let him. we should have knocked down dozens of people. and, besides, i was awfully interested and amused. i didn't want to go on. it never struck me that you might be anxious."

she ran into her room to dress for dinner, and he could hear her singing softly as she moved about. he resolved to say no more about her staying out so late to-night alone with young greaves. if it happened again he would put down his foot once and for all. meanwhile, he would drop a hint to the boy that his behaviour towards mrs. coventry should be rather more circumspect; and as to the moonlight expedition that trixie seemed to contemplate, it would be time enough to deal with that if she talked of such a senseless prank again. probably she would forget all about it.

he made every effort during dinner to be amiable and entertaining, to avoid any subject that might lead to disagreement, and trixie responded in her happiest mood. afterwards they sat outside in the veranda, lazing in their long cane chairs, talking little, quietly content, until suddenly,

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from the warm darkness of the compound, there came a harsh and piercing cry that rose to an excruciating pitch, then, note by note, sank back once more to silence.

"oh! what was that?" she asked, startled.

but it was nothing more alarming than the trial song of india's cuckoo, the bird that is no harbinger of hope and life and all the joys of spring, as is his western cousin, but the token of a time of stress and strain and trial only to be realised by those who have endured it.

"a brain-fever bird," he told her. "if i can see the beggar to-morrow i'll shoot him."

they listened as the sound rose and fell again, this time farther off.

"india rather frightens me," said trixie, "and yet i get fits of fascination that make me feel as if the country had bewitched me. it all seems so old and so cruel, and yet so alluring. i felt the spell of it this evening on the river, and still more strongly when we were waiting in the bazaar for the procession to pass. that big city, full of people we really know nothing about, with all sorts of weird things happening in it that we never hear of. i think the bazaar is quite wonderful, but guy greaves said the smell of it was all that affected him, and his one idea was to get out of it."

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"the young fool had no business to take you through the bazaar at all!" said coventry, with suppressed irritation.

disapproval invariably spurred trixie to truculence. "it was the shortest way," she retorted with spirit, "and we were late as it was. how were we to know that we should be delayed by a procession?"

coventry did not reply. he had no desire to embark on further argument with trixie.

"i suppose," she went on idly, "there are no end of extraordinary stories buried away all over india. do you think it is true that lots of white women were carried off in the mutiny and were never seen again, or only heard of by accident?"

"i don't know," he said, with curt reluctance to discuss such a subject. "one hears all sorts of things."

one thing had been mentioned in his hearing only this afternoon, on the racquet court, that had filled him with disgust and horror--a whisper, a rumour, that a woman, an englishwoman, was living in a certain quarter of the bazaar. the thought sickened him. pah! it was atrocious, if true. it recurred to him unpleasantly, increasing his annoyance that his wife should have been exposed to the gaze of a crowd of excited natives

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in company with a man who was not her husband. in his opinion, the less englishwomen were observed of orientals the better. his determination strengthened that in future trixie should have no escort but himself.

he found it easy to carry out his intention for the time being. young greaves was laid low with an attack of malaria, and afterwards he took a month's leave to join a rich globe-trotting relative on a little tour through native states. trixie seemed quite content to ride with her husband and to have him for her partner on the tennis court. he rode extremely well and looked his best on horseback, and there were few couples who could hope to beat the coventrys at tennis when they played together. just then a small and select tournament was in progress, and trixie held high hopes that she and george would win it. she coveted the prize--a handsome silver chain bag for the lady; and she meant to annex the cigarette-case as well that was to reward the victorious male partner. and george weakly promised she should have it if they won, though he disapproved entirely of women smoking, and hated to see trixie with a cigarette between her red lips. all the same, it was a spectacle that had to be endured, for nothing he could say had yet persuaded trixie to eschew the habit. dances were in abeyance for the next

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few months, but there were little friendly dinners, and it was altogether a pleasant and congenial period, though daily the heat grew and brain-fever birds multiplied in the compounds, and people went out later in the afternoons and earlier in the mornings.