Quicksands by B.M. Croker — Read

As I leant against the gate, with my head resting upon my arms, I felt bowed to the earth with abject misery and quaking fear. It was as if an impenetrable black cloud had suddenly descended on my life, and blotted out every gleam of hope and happiness. From this sort of hideous nightmare I was aroused not only by the ducks but also by a bugle call; the early-rising world of India would soon be afoot, and I wrenched myself back into the present actual moment and turned towards the bungalow, which faced a by-road. No one had noticed me so far, beyond a few passing market coolies and the _tannyketch_, whose affair it was to provide for the poultry.

As soon as I had entered my room I removed the revolver from its temporary hiding-place, and buried it in a large tub of hydrangeas that stood outside my door; then I threw off my dressing-gown and scrambled into bed. I usually rose early, and too soon Mary ayah would appear, bringing me tea and toast. Already I heard her anklets jingling, and feigned sleep. I endeavoured to make the pretence real, as a strenuous day and a dreadful ordeal lay before me, but I found it impossible to rest. My head seemed to throb and burn; I imagined I could feel it thumping on the pillow, and no wonder! My brain was racked in torture, striving to find some clear, straight road out of our difficulties -- for Ronnie's difficulties were mine. I lay thinking hard for nearly an hour, and then rose and felt considerably refreshed after my bath and breakfast. Ronnie had sent me a little note to say, "I expect to be on the ranges till four o'clock. _He_ will be here about three."