Colonel Crayfield stood silent, motionless, until all sound of Philip
Flint's exit had ceased. When, with a dazed effort, Stella looked up at
her husband, his face reminded her dimly of some monster depicted on a
Chinese screen. She held her breath, half expecting him to kill her
there and then. Instead, to her amazement, he merely spoke to her as he
might have spoken to an unruly child caught in some act of mischief,
ordered her to her room, watched her grimly as she rose in dumb
obedience.
Passing through the hall, she encountered Philip's old servant; he
looked harassed, bewildered, as he salaamed. "It is the Sahib's order,"
he said in querulous resentment, "that his belongings be taken back to
the Rest House at once! Even but now hath he departed there himself, and
on foot! Yacoub-dog also." Clearly the old man expected some
explanation. What could she say? Only that she supposed the Sahib's
orders must be obeyed. She left him standing puzzled, indignant, in the
doorway of the bedroom his master had occupied.
For days afterwards Stella felt, as it were, "put into the corner" by
Robert. This attitude on his part, humiliating to her though it was,
came as a partial relief; it gave her time to revive in a sense from the
shock she had suffered. The interval of disgrace, despite its ignominy,
rested her nerves, and helped her to face Robert's forgiveness, which,
when it pleased him to extend it, was far more unbearable than his
displeasure. She dared make no further appeal for permission to join
Mrs. Cuthell; she knew well enough, if she did so, what Robert would
say: that she was not to be trusted! Her very pride gave her strength to
conceal, often to overcome, her physical distress during the unhealthy,
wearisome months that followed before the cold season set in.
The monsoon weakened, failed; the heat was diabolical, mosquitoes were a
torment, the days and nights seemed endless, and there was always Sher
Singh, watchful, malignant. Champa had begged leave to resign from the
Memsahib's service once the disturbance caused by the episode of the
pearls had subsided in the compound; she did so with crocodile tears and
feeble excuses. The truth was, that having been frightened out of her
senses, she felt unable to recover her pretentious position in the
Rassih establishment. So Champa departed without great loss of dignity,
and her place was taken by a humble person whose name her new mistress
did not even trouble to inquire, since the word "Ayah" seemed to be the
beginning and the end of her obtuse personality.
Stella's spirit supported her, but nothing could deaden the heartache;
there was nothing to relieve the burden of her time, nothing to ease the
struggle to control her ever-growing abhorrence of Robert and his
demands on her outward docility.
All that winter they toured in tents. The scarcity, though not so
severe in the Rassih division as in other adjacent areas, meant much
extra work for the Commissioner, and occasionally Stella would be left
in the camp for two or three days while Robert and his satellites went
off on side inspections by rail. At such times Robert would commandeer
some lady, whose husband happened to be on duty with him, to keep Mrs.
Crayfield company. Stella would have preferred to be alone; it seemed to
her that she had lost the capacity for making friends; but at least
Robert was absent, at least she was freed from the strain of his
presence, and for that she gave thanks while enduring the companionship
of an unwelcome visitor who she knew was an unconscious watchdog.
Only these little periods of peace, the tonic of the cold-weather
climate, the frequent change of locality kept her going; but when they
returned to Rassih her vitality sank, the effort to keep up appearances
became harder, and she felt that the fight could not continue much
longer. Constant attacks of low fever laid hold of her, and Robert was
annoyed because she could not eat, could not sleep, because, he
declared, she would make no attempt to exert herself, because the
medicines prescribed by Dr. Antonio did her no good.
Gradually his impatience changed to indifference. He ceased to scold and
advise, or to insist on her company; paid little attention to her. She
knew he was bored with her sickliness, her altered appearance. She only
prayed that he might send her home.
Relief came from quite an unexpected quarter. The English mail arrived
one evening while Robert was out riding: the usual consignment of papers
for him--he seldom received anything else beyond business
communications--a letter for Stella from Aunt Augusta, and one with an
Indian postmark; the handwriting on this envelope stirred her memory,
but she laid it aside till she had read Aunt Augusta's letter. The
little chronicles from The Chestnuts were precious to her now. She read
greedily of small happenings, how old Betty had been so troubled with
rheumatism that further help was needed from the village; how grandmamma
had dropped her handkerchief in church last Sunday, and little Isaac
Orchard, the blacksmith's son, had picked it up and run after them, and
grandmamma had given him a penny. (Stella could see her bestowing the
reward with the air of a potentate; doubtless they had talked of the
incident all through luncheon.) The potatoes were disappointing: so many
of them were diseased this year. Canon and Mrs. Grass had been to tea;
poor Mrs. Grass's health did not improve, but she had been none the
worse for the outing. Aunt Ellen had embroidered such a _very_ pretty
cushion cover as a birthday present for grandmamma, and so on. The
letter concluded with the usual messages from all at The Chestnuts to
dear Stella and Robert, and the hope that they were both keeping fairly
well.
Stella then opened the other envelope. Maud Matthews! What a surprise!
Only once had Maud written since her arrival in India as a bride, and
Stella had long since assumed that she had dropped out of Maud's
thoughts. The letter was like a refreshing little breeze to its dejected
recipient:
"MY DEAR STELLA,--
"I know I'm a pigandadevil (that's Dick's word) not to have written
all this time, but unless I make myself answer a letter the moment
it comes I somehow get so that I simply can't answer it at all.
Anyway, _you'll_ have to answer _this_, because I want to know if I
can break my journey up country at Rassih with you and your good
man. Don't you hate that expression? In most cases I'm sure 'bad
man' would be nearer the mark. I've got a baby--such a grand excuse
for going to the hills! And I've taken a small house at Surima, a
long journey from here, but it's such a jolly place, and no one
bothers what you do. My old Dick will be as right as rain by
himself, and he'll come up on leave later on. Rassih isn't much out
of my way, and I must stop somewhere to take breath. It would be
such fun to meet again and have a talk and a laugh. Are you going
away for the hot weather, or are you one of those saintly wives who
never desert their husbands? Have you got a baby? If not, don't;
they are a scourge, though I admit mine might be worse now he's
here, and I refrain from infanticide because he does me such
credit. He's not a bit like Dick. Now may we come? Send me a wire,
because we must start in a few days, and, anyway, wiring is easier
than writing a letter!
"Ever yours,
"MAUD MATTHEWS."
Stella dropped the letter in her lap, and sighed with mingled hope and
foreboding. Would Robert consent to her friend's visit? What a blessed
break it would make in the monotony of her days. Her courage rose. She
decided to send the telegram now, before Robert's return. He could
hardly insist that she should cancel it, once it had gone; whereas, if
she waited to ask his permission he might raise objections, though what
reason could he advance for refusing to receive Mrs. Matthews and her
baby for a few days on their way to the hills?
Hastily she wrote out a telegram, called a peon, and dispatched him with
it to the post office. Mercifully, Sher Singh was not lurking about,
else the message would certainly have been withheld until his master's
return; such was her bondage to the servant who ruled!
Nervously she told her husband, when he came back, what she had done,
handed him Maud's letter, her heart beating fast.
"What a flibbertigibbet!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "I suppose we
must put up with the infliction, as you say you have wired already."
"I thought you wouldn't mind," said Stella apologetically. "She's an old
friend of mine, and I should like to see her again."
"Very well then, let her come. Perhaps it will be an incentive to you to
pull yourself together and behave a little less like a wet rag!"
Maud arrived with mountains of luggage, the baby, and a retinue of
servants, and from that moment the house seemed transformed. Robert
succumbed reluctantly to the gay company of his guest, who took it for
granted that he was overjoyed to receive her; she chattered and chaffed
and looked charming--such a contrast to her frail hostess!
It was not until the morning after her arrival, when Robert was safely
at work, that Maud started a confidential conversation with Stella, who
hitherto had avoided a tête-à-tête. She shrank from any admission of her
unhappiness and ill-health; but Maud, with all her fortunate lot in
life, had spotted at once that something was wrong, and by degrees she
succeeded in worming the truth from the unwilling Stella, who proved as
wax in her ruthless hands. Very soon she knew all concerning the
unsuitable marriage, the trouble with Sher Singh, the affair with Philip
Flint and the incident of the pearls, Stella's pitiful condition of body
and mind. The two sat talking in low voices throughout the morning,
while it pleased "young Richard," as his mother called him, to sleep
soundly.
"Something must be done," pronounced Maud; "you'll snuff out if you go
on like this!"
"I shouldn't care," said Stella hopelessly.
"Nonsense! What you want is a good rousing change away from this beastly
house and every one in it. That bearer alone would give me the creeps if
I stayed here much longer. Once you were away from it all you'd get over
this business with Philip Flint. I should have forgotten Dick if I
hadn't married him. Now I'll tell you what: I mean to make up to your
old Robert-the-devil and canoodle him into letting you come to Surima
with me."
Stella gave an incredulous laugh. "You don't know him. He will never
let me go!"
"I know _men_ pretty well, my dear, and after all he is a man, as well
as a brute--very often the same thing, but not always. You can pretend
to be jealous, if you like; it might help matters on!"
"I can't pretend any more about anything!" Stella had small hope that
Maud would succeed in her project; if she did it would be little short
of a miracle.
"Very well, then; lie low and leave it all to me. Here he comes, my lord
the elephant. How the time has flown without him."
She turned to greet Robert as he came into the room. "Well, here you are
at last, just in time to save us from dying of dullness. Have you been
working very hard? If so, how do you manage to look as if you had just
come out of a band-box? You ought to be made to give up the secret!"
Robert regarded her with amused indulgence. "How do you manage to talk
such nonsense and look so fetching?" he retorted.
"Do I look fetching?" She rose and shook her skirts. "Oh! I've lost my
shoe!" She hopped, and held forth a slim little foot in an open-work
stocking. "There it is, under that chair."
With a grunt, Robert stooped and retrieved the shoe. "What an
absurdity!" he exclaimed, balancing it on the palm of his hand.
She clutched his arm to steady herself. "Don't make my shoe look silly!
I daren't put my foot down; I might tread on a pin or something and get
'mortification-set-in' or whatever it is."
He pushed her into a chair. "Now then, 'hold up' and be shod." He
pressed her ankle with his finger and thumb. "Quite clean: no splint,
not a wind-gall!" He took his time fitting on the truant shoe.
Stella observed the scene with excited wonder. Robert was flirting! She
could hardly credit her senses. His small eyes twinkled wickedly. Maud
looked like a mischievous sprite. Was it possible that by this means
Maud might really succeed in her object? As long as she did succeed
Stella did not care what means she employed.
They went in to breakfast. Maud sparkled and bantered, and talked
tactfully of food, praised the curry and the cutlets, exchanged
reminiscences with her host concerning the cooking at various
restaurants in London, besought Colonel Crayfield to take her for a ride
that evening, and, to Stella's secret entertainment, Robert agreed at
once, though she knew he had arranged to play tennis. For her part she
had planned a drive alone with Maud; instead, she found herself placed
in charge of "young Richard." Later on she and the baby, with his ayah,
watched the pair ride away, Maud mounted on the grey stud-bred that by
now had become a sober and tractable member of the stable.
"Gee-gee!" quoth the ayah importantly to the bundle in her arms; and
young Richard, aged eight or nine months, leapt and squealed with
delight. He was a handsome, good-tempered child; to Stella he appeared
singularly intelligent, and she felt almost happy that afternoon
wandering about the garden with him and his attendants, the ayah
garrulous and consequential, swinging her voluminous skirts, a staid
bearer carrying a white umbrella and a rattle.... Yet Stella did not
envy Maud her motherhood, no thrill of maternal longing possessed her as
she took the child in her arms to show him the birds and the squirrels;
she was only thankful there was no "young Robert" to bind her more
closely to the man she had come to loathe.... She wondered how Maud was
progressing with her subtle scheme, wondered with a gleam of hope if,
after all, Robert might not be glad rather than otherwise to get rid of
her, glad to take advantage of Maud's persuasions while pretending to
grant his engaging guest the favour she asked of him. Had Maud already
broached the subject during their ride...?
Could she have known it, Maud was making headway, craftily, with Robert
while Stella was amusing young Richard.
"Isn't it funny?" said Mrs. Matthews as she and Colonel Crayfield walked
their horses along the canal bank after a brisk canter. "I feel as if I
had known you for years! I think Stella is very much to be envied."
"Do you?" He grinned complacently. "Tell me why you think so."
Maud sighed. "It must be so nice to have a husband one can lean on, who
doesn't expect his wife to do all the planning and thinking. Now with me
and Dick _I_ have to take all the responsibility about everything. I
daresay I seem very frivolous and feather-headed, but I flatter myself I
have my share of common sense. It was dreadful having to decide about
leaving Dick for the hot weather. Of course, I was torn in two--duty,
you know, and all that--but there was the child to be considered as well
as my own health. I am sure if you thought Stella ought to go to the
hills, instead of saying, like Dick, 'do as you think best,' you would
settle it off-hand, not leave the decision to her. Wouldn't you?"
"Stella has no common sense," he said evasively, frowning.
Mrs. Matthews gazed thoughtfully ahead. "I know what you mean. Some
people take a long time to grow up. Of course Stella is awfully good and
sweet, but as a companion for a man of the world----"
He glanced at her in quick suspicion, and she divined that he was
questioning how much, if anything, Stella had confided to her.
"I can't quite make her out," Maud continued confidentially. "She seems
to me so listless, not interested in anything. I tried my utmost to get
her to talk this morning, but it was no use. What is the matter with
her, Colonel Crayfield?"
"She's not well, and she will make no sort of effort to rouse herself."
He paused, then added violently: "She's just a little fool!"
"Well, when you think of her upbringing what can you expect? But it
seems rather hard on you! I wonder if I could help in any way----"
"What could you do? If a man of my age is weak enough to marry a child,
he must put up with the consequences."
"Perhaps if she could have a change; is there no one you could send her
to?"
"Only a woman who wouldn't know how to look after her. She'd very soon
get into mischief."
"Oh! surely Stella would never do that!"
His silence was significant. For the moment Mrs. Matthews accepted it.
She appeared plunged in reflection. Presently she said: "Couldn't you
get leave yourself and take her away?"
"Just now it's quite impossible."
"I understand. Later on do you think you could manage it?"
"Perhaps. But I've no use for hill stations."
"Rotten places," said Maud. "I know I shall be bored to death at
Surima."
"Not likely," scoffed Robert. "_You!_"
Mrs. Matthews felt she had perhaps made a false step. "Oh! I've no doubt
I shall have a good time after a fashion. I always make the most of
circumstances, and luckily I have a head if I haven't much heart! I can
take care of myself anywhere. Look here," she went on boldly, "would you
think of entrusting Stella to me? I should like a companion, and there's
plenty of room in the house I have taken. Directly you can get leave you
could join us for a bit, and that would be ripping!"
He hesitated, gnawed his lip, said grumpily: "It's rather a tall order!"
"Why? It would do Stella all the good in the world. I'm certain she'd
come back a different creature. You'd never repent it. What could be
worse for you than the silly state she has got into?"
"That's true," he admitted; and she played on his vanity and his
self-commiseration until he had promised to think over her proposal.
Maud returned from the ride in the sure and certain hope that she had
triumphed.
PART II
CHAPTER I
A weak monsoon, following on scarcity already serious; consequent
failure of autumn and spring crops; and famine, dread word, echoed over
the half of India.
Now the hot weather had set in unusually, as it were, malevolently
early. Areas none too fertile at the best of times reverted to parched
deserts, wells and river-beds dried, canals shrank, strained to the
limit of inadequate supply. People and beasts were dying of disease and
starvation, and officials, both European and Indian, fought one of
Nature's remedies for over-population with every ounce of human energy.
Philip Flint sat in his office-tent weary, over-taxed, writing with a
sort of dogged persistence. His papers were powdered with dust, the ink
evaporated, thickened in the pot; his eyes smarted and his bones ached.
For months he had been touring through stricken districts, his camp a
kind of flying column, inspecting and organising relief works, famine
camps, poor-houses, hospitals. Out at dawn, often not home till dusk, he
would have to sit up half the night to wrestle with reports and returns,
accounts and statistics; so sparing neither body nor brain on behalf of
the miserable multitude that crawled and craved, hunger-smitten,
homeless, his heart sore with the sight of skeleton children, exhausted
mothers, piteous old people....
Early yesterday he had arrived at a remote point far from town or
railway, where earthworks had lately been started for the relief of an
area comprising numerous scattered villages, never prosperous, now on
the verge of absolute ruin. Transport was the chief difficulty; it must
be some time before the light railway that was being laid from the
nearest junction could be completed. Cartage and bullocks were scarce,
and though a certain stock of food and necessaries were already to hand,
there were many to be fed, clothed, accommodated, and the numbers
increased day and night. The hospital sheds, in charge of a native
doctor, were filling rapidly; further medical help would be needed.
Flint had been thankful to hear from his senior subordinate that
recently a Zenana Mission lady had arrived with a fair supply of
comforts. He was familiar with the invaluable work of such women; it was
beyond all praise. As yet he had not had the time to visit the little
encampment pointed out to him on the far side of the works; all day he
had been too busy superintending transport, checking stores of grain,
considering applications for financial assistance, while it was his
duty, as well, to detect and guard against imposition, to sift demands,
even to appear callous, that the ready cunning of those who sought to
benefit by help intended for their suffering brethren might be
frustrated. Only this afternoon he had been nearly outdone by an old
fellow who presented himself among a gang of emaciated villagers
clamouring that he had no plough-bullocks, no seed, nothing--that he and
his descendants were ruined.... At first Flint had listened with
sympathy until something in the demeanour of the bystanders aroused his
suspicions; a few of the less distressed members of the crowd were
covertly smiling as though in amused admiration of the patriarch's
powers of persuasion, and a little adroit inquiry disclosed the fact
that the supplicant was none other than the moneylender of the village
whence they had all come.
In contrast with this example of rascality a man of low caste in obvious
need had stoutly refused assistance other than in the form of a loan
from the Government to be repaid with reasonable interest when times
should improve. So it had gone on from the first--patience and pride,
heroic endurance, a fine sense of fair play, in company with avarice,
fraud, evil intention. Ignorance, stupidity, superstition had to be
reckoned with as well, allowed for; the problems were endless, for,
while the people must be tended and fed, money could not be wasted or
misapplied.
At last Flint laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair to relax
muscles and mind. Had he been called upon to define his condition, he
would have summed it up simply in the one word "cooked." He lit a
cigarette and allowed his thoughts liberty, it was seldom he permitted
them to dwell upon the past, but to-night he was too tired for
self-discipline. On leaving Rassih he had volunteered for famine work as
a desperate antidote to his sickness of heart and spirit; this in face
of the knowledge that the decision had probably cost him a chance of
important advancement, but the future for him had been shorn of
attraction, and the sight of wretchedness and want, his passionate pity
for the helpless, the strain and the stress of the work had, he knew,
preserved him from despair as no official promotion could have preserved
him at the time.
All the same Stella had never been far from his memory, and to-night she
seemed to him painfully near. Again he went over that last scene in the
Commissioner's house, saw Crayfield standing grim and contemptuous in
the big drawing-room, Stella weeping and helpless, himself worsted,
ashamed, without honest claim to defence. "_Slink, you young hound!_"
The sentence forced itself backwards and forwards through his brain,
hitting his pride each time like a shameful blow.... In his weak
selfishness what misery he had brought upon himself and the woman he
loved, would never cease to love. Where was she now? What was she doing?
He pictured her at the piano accompanying the self-satisfied vocal
performance of her husband! He visioned the light on her hair, the
delicate outline of her neck, and he writhed as the memory tortured his
heart. What devilish fate had taken him to Rassih! Yet he had a feeling
that in any case he and Stella must ultimately have met, and that some
day, somehow, they must meet again. The refrain of a cheaply sentimental
little ballad he had heard her sing came back to him: "Some day, some
day, some day, I shall meet you"--he could almost hear the clear,
chorister-like voice.... Of a certainty the day would come, and then? He
smiled with a sweet bitterness as he recalled her faith in his work, in
his usefulness to India; she had said: "Without men like you the wheel
would not go round." Well, he was doing his best in his own way to act
up to her trust; and for her sake he would stick to the wheel, humbly,
unswervingly, though the zest and the savour of ambition had gone, wiped
out by unlawful love....
A cold muzzle crept into his hand that hung listless at his side--Jacob,
diffident, sensitive, asking attention; Jacob had loved her too, with
all his tender dog-heart. On that terrible evening Jacob had sat
shivering on the edge of her skirt, conscious of trouble, until he
followed his miserable master from the room.
Suddenly he became aware that someone was speaking; he looked up to see
an apologetic peon standing at his elbow.
"Sahib, there is a memsahib without."
For one wild second he fancied it might be Stella, his mind was so full
of her. Had she fled to him, sure of his love and protection, willing to
give herself into his care? He felt as though aroused from a distressing
dream, perhaps to find that all the pain and the longing had passed----
"A memsahib is without," repeated the peon resentfully. "She will not
depart, though this slave hath told her that the sahib is busy."
Flint rose mechanically, his reason flouting the fancy that Stella could
be "the memsahib without." A tall figure was framed in the doorway of
the tent.
"Yes?" he said with tentative politeness.
"I won't keep you long." The voice was brisk and high. "I've come from
the Zenana Mission camp, where I'm helping Miss Abigail on behalf of the
Charitable Relief Fund Committee."
"Indeed!" murmured Philip, inwardly apprehensive. The Charitable Relief
Fund Committee sometimes added heavily to his work and responsibilities,
admirable though its purpose, welcome though its help.
"Yes, I've been hoping all day to get hold of you, but you were always
somewhere else."
"Please come in." He glanced around dubiously, for the interior of the
tent seemed hardly fit for the reception of a lady; files and papers
heaped on the table, on the chairs, even on the floor; dust, cigarette
ends, everywhere; camp equipage, boxes, books and boots, in a hopeless
jumble.
"I'm afraid it's all very untidy," he added as he cleared a seat.
The brisk, high voice responded: "What _does_ it matter! Who can hope to
be tidy in these horrible circumstances. I feel very untidy myself."
She did not look it, whatever she felt. Here was no typical Zenana
Mission female, but a long-limbed, well-built girl, garbed in a neat
holland frock, brown shoes, wash-leather gloves, and an obviously
English felt hat, bound with a blue puggaree, that proclaimed itself
"Indispensable for travel in the East." All very plain and serviceable,
but to an experienced eye undoubtedly expensive.
To Flint's astonishment she took off her hat, carelessly, as any man
might have done, and dropped it beside her chair. He saw that her hair
was cropped short, a thick mop of curling, fox-coloured hair; that her
eyes, clear and shining, were grey (and truculent), that her freckled
irregular nose and rather large mouth had a certain charm. He felt
faintly scandalised when she proceeded to help herself calmly to a
cigarette from his box, lighting it with an accustomed air. Smoking
among ladies was not general in India at that period. Seated, she
crossed her legs, showing slim ankles and neatly-turned calves in brown
stockings.
"Well," she began, "I thought someone ought to come and tell you that a
lot of people have bolted from the relief works."
"Yes, I know----"
"And you don't care, I suppose," she interrupted.
He stared at her, puzzled; why this unprovoked attack? "We shall get
them back. Perhaps you don't realise the reason----"
Again she broke in: "It's because you officials inspire no trust!"
What on earth was the matter with the girl--was she a lunatic?
"I'm afraid superstition is more to blame," he told her patiently. "Some
mischief-maker among them has probably started the report that they are
all to be murdered in order to extract oil from their bodies for
medicinal purposes."
"What nonsense!"
He wondered if she meant the report, or his explanation.
"Of course it's nonsense. But that kind of thing will happen, even
nowadays. Superstition dies hard in India. Coolies often bolt wholesale
when some important work has to be started, because in old times, before
our occupation of the country, a human victim was nearly always buried
beneath the foundations of any big building as a sop to the gods!"
He could see she did not believe him. His anger rose. "How long have you
been out here?" he inquired.
"Quite long enough to discover how little the people are considered. I
think the Government ought to be hanged. Not a penny will you spend--on
this famine, for example--without exacting the uttermost farthing in
return. You make these wretched creatures work for a mere pittance, you
force them into poor-houses when you know it lowers their self-respect,
and many of them die because they would rather die than accept relief in
the way you administer it!" She paused, breathless.
"And how do you propose it should be administered--indiscriminately, and
no questions asked? That would be rather hard on the taxpayers, and bad
for the people themselves. I think even the Charitable Relief Fund
Committee would hardly work on those lines."
She ignored his argument. "It's appalling," she went on heatedly, "to
find how badly private charity is needed. I came out a few weeks ago to
see what I could do to help, and I'm horrified. Where would all these
unfortunate people be without the Charitable Relief Fund!"
"If it comes to that," he retorted, "where would they be without all the
Government machinery that is kept ready to be set going directly
scarcity becomes serious--the means of transport, the linking up with
unaffected Provinces, the loans for seed and cattle. Good Heavens, you
can have no conception of the work."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with a peremptory
gesture, and continued quickly: "Private charity is of the utmost value
in a calamity of this kind, and we are only too thankful for it,
especially in remote regions, but personal sacrifice and hard work isn't
entirely confined to the non-official. The help would be simply a drop
in the ocean if the way hadn't been prepared. Try to be just, Miss----"
He waited interrogatively.
"Baker--Dorothy Baker"--she waved her cigarette. "You may have heard of
my father, Lord Redgate?"
So here was the solution of the girl's extraordinary antagonism. She was
the daughter of a new-made nobleman whose apparent object in life, to
judge by his speeches, was to disparage British administration in India,
to discount the long years of effort and experience, to undermine
confidence in honest rule. No doubt such an undertaking engendered a
nice sense of superiority and importance that blinded its owner to the
truth, if his eyes were not shut deliberately. This obtrusive young
woman was clearly imbued with her parent's particular form of conceit.
He would not trouble to wrangle with her further.
"Oh! yes," he said indifferently; "we have all heard of your father. Did
he object to your coming out here alone?"
"Object? Of course not. He believes in the freedom of the individual.
And if he had objected I should be here all the same. I always do as I
please."
"And it pleased you to come out and do famine work. How kind of you!"
She shot him a glance of contemptuous suspicion. He understood all that
the glance implied; as a British official in India he was an enemy of
the people, a bureaucrat, battening on the revenue wrung from a
poverty-stricken land, one of the guilty gang that kept Indians from the
possession of their country. Yet she seemed in no hurry to quit the
presence of such a tyrant and oppressor; evidently she found his chair
comfortable, was enjoying his cigarettes, and perhaps she was not
altogether averse to a little change of companionship? It was
conceivable that the privilege of constant intercourse with her Zenana
colleague might have become a bit of a strain. For himself her young
presence, despite her antagonism, was in a measure welcome after his fit
of depression. Physically she was an attractive creature, and her naïve
self-importance, her impulsive opinions, suited her vigorous
personality. Jacob, the little traitor, was already making advances to
the visitor. She snapped her finger and thumb in response.
"I like dogs," she said, as though it were a form of weakness that
redounded to her credit. "And they always love me!"
"And horses?"
"Oh! yes, rather! I wanted to buy a pony, but Miss Abigail seemed to
think it would not be quite in keeping with the work we are doing, and
that the money had better be spent in some other direction. We get
about in a bullock shigram, not a very comfortable or rapid mode of
progression, but comfort and convenience don't count, of course.
Personally, I'm not sure that we oughtn't to walk everywhere."
"It would perhaps be a waste of energy and time," suggested Philip.
"But think of the example! You, I suppose, ride or drive everywhere?"
"I couldn't get through my work if I didn't; it would entail endless
delay in the administration of relief. I'm practically single-handed in
this circle. For example, to-morrow morning I have to cover, roughly
speaking, about fifteen miles before breakfast. How would you like to
come with me? Have you a saddle--I could mount you."
Obviously the offer tempted her. "Yes, I brought out my saddle. Perhaps
it wouldn't be a bad thing----"
"It would give you a further opportunity of condemning our iniquitous
methods," said Philip meekly.
She let the thrust pass. "All right; what time do you start?"
"About six. Is that too early for you?"
"Don't talk rot! Send the gee to our camp, and I'll be ready."
"Good! Now can I offer you any refreshment--will you have a cup of tea
or coffee, or," he ventured, in view of the cigarettes, "a peg?"
"Nothing, thank you." She rose a little reluctantly. "Now I must get
back----"
"Have you a lantern?" he inquired, for the sudden Indian dusk had
descended.
She looked out of the tent. "No, I never thought of it, but I can find
my way all right."
"I'll come with you----"
She protested. He paid no attention; and presently they were stumbling
along side by side in the wake of a peon who marched ahead swinging a
hurricane lantern, and banging a staff on the ground to scare possible
snakes that at this season, waking from their winter sleep, were apt to
lie curled in the warm dust, a danger to pedestrians.
"Are you married?" she asked him suddenly.
"No, I am a lone being, and I think it is just as well."
"Why?"
"If I had a wife and children it would only mean separation sooner or
later. Children must be sent home after a certain age, not only on
account of health and education but because the moral atmosphere is bad
for them, and to my mind the children should be considered before the
husband."
"How do you mean--the moral atmosphere?" she asked argumentatively. "I
have always understood that natives were excellent with children, kind
and patient and faithful."
"They are all that, bless them!" he said, "but their ideas of discipline
are not quite the same as our own. To tell lies is merely a matter of
self-protection, and, all wrong as it may seem, they knuckle under to
English children, let them have their own way, and encourage them
indirectly to be arrogant and self-indulgent, taking a sort of pride in
their faults! At least that is what my married friends tell me."
"Then the parents are to blame!" declared Miss Baker severely, "for
leaving their children to the care of servants while they amuse
themselves flirting and dancing and playing games! You don't accuse this
Mr. Kipling everybody talks about of writing what is not true, I
conclude?"
"Have you never read a preface to one of his books in which he
particularly warns his readers not to judge of the dirt of a room by the
sweepings in a corner? Parents in India are much the same as parents in
England, and parents in England haven't to contend with exile and
climate and long separations"--he paused, feeling he was wasting his
breath, and was ashamed of a spiteful little sense of satisfaction when
at that moment she tripped and clung to him to save herself a fall.
"Now, if I hadn't been with you"--he could not help reminding her.
"I should have come a cropper, and probably been none the worse," she
replied ungratefully. "What were we saying? Oh! about parents in India.
Why do you go into the Indian services at all then? You know what to
expect!"
"Why do we go into the army and the navy--the worst paid professions on
earth? It's an instinct, thank goodness, and with it goes the love of
justice and fair play towards the weak and unprotected. It's the keynote
of our power all the world over."
"Oh! you are hopeless!" cried Miss Baker. "I call it love of conquest,
and position, and power!"
"Call it what you like, don't you shut your eyes to the results--anyway,
out here."
"The results! Poverty and famine, and a refusal to allow the people to
govern themselves, refusal to mix with them socially----"
"Wait a moment," he interrupted, angry with himself because he could not
keep silence. "Which in your opinion should govern--the Hindus or the
Mohammedans?"
"Of course the Hindus. India is _their_ country."
"The Mohammedans would have something to say to that; or, rather, it
would be deeds not words. And how about other nations who would all like
to exploit India? We could hardly be expected to keep up an army and a
navy to prevent them from doing so if we had no stake in the country."
"Go on," she urged sarcastically. "I am listening."
"When India is in a position to protect herself from internal quarrels
and foreign invasion it will be time enough for us to clear out; and as
far as social questions go I can assure you they are not at all anxious
to mix with us. Their customs and traditions are all opposed to ours....
But it would take weeks to give you even the most superficial idea of
the difficulties, and at the end I suppose you wouldn't believe me."
"Oh! I've heard it all over and over again from hide-bound old generals
and retired civilians at home, the same time-worn arguments that really
mean nothing. However, I am quite ready to believe that you, personally,
are well disposed towards the people, and that you do your best for them
in spite of the trammels of red tape!"
He refrained from an amused expression of gratitude. After all, the
girl was actuated by benevolent intention, however befogged, and she was
enduring discomforts, almost hardship, in her self-imposed philanthropy,
as he realised when they arrived at the Zenana Mission encampment. What
wretched little tents, badly pitched, ill-lighted, with a clamouring
throng of distressful humanity pressing up to the very flaps. From the
tent in the centre came the sound of singing; a familiar hymn tune.
"There now!" exclaimed Miss Baker in vexation. "I'm late for evening
prayers. I'm an atheist myself, but I try to fit in with my chief's
customs."
"I hope for her sake that you spare her argument on the subject of
religion at least!" said Flint with a magnanimous laugh, as he held her
hand in farewell. "We shall meet again to-morrow morning."
He watched her disappear into the principal tent, and turned his steps
back to his camp, his feelings ajar. Why would these good folk from home
interfere in what they knew nothing about. What mischief they made, all
unwittingly for the most part, adding to the difficulties already so
great for those who were working under conditions but dimly understood
even by the faction who trusted their own countrymen, and did not regard
the English official as a thief and a bully and a time server....
In spite of Miss Baker's tiresome attitude, he looked forward to seeing
her the following morning. She was a stimulating companion and engaging
in her way with her boyish figure, her eager grey eyes, her expressive,
irregular features.... In time, if they met often enough, they might
become friends--an armed friendship, perhaps, but none the less
interesting for that.... What would Stella have thought of her, Stella
with her passionate perception of the work that England had done in the
past, was doing in the present, would continue to do as long as she was
permitted, with honest endeavour, for India. He was conscious of a
revival of his old ambitions as he plodded over the uneven track, and
far into the night he sat writing, reading, spurred, refreshed as well,
by the unexpected diversion of Miss Baker's visit and her violent
opinions.
CHAPTER II
Miss Baker could ride; not a doubt about that, thought Philip. She sat
squarely in her saddle, hands down, right shoulder well back; her habit
skirt was very short, she wore a stiff white shirt and collar, and a
linen coat. The whole effect was neat and smart and pleasing. How she
chattered as they rode over the bare, dusty plain! Some of her theories
rather startled her cavalier; for example, she considered it immoral of
people to have large families unless they could afford to educate the
children highly--this with reference to some friends of Miss Abigail's
who had spent the previous day in the Zenana Mission camp on their way
to the nearest station, a missionary with his spouse and offspring.
"Did you tell them so?" asked Flint with amused curiosity.
"Yes, of course I did; and I asked them how they were going to provide
for three boys and two girls in the future."
"What did they say?"
"They said the Lord would provide, and that the mission granted an extra
allowance for each child!"
"Then you can hardly blame them, I suppose."
"I think that clergymen, and doctors, and schoolmasters ought all to be
celibates. They should be able to give their whole attention to their
work unhampered by domestic affairs."
"That is expecting a good deal, surely?"
"I don't see it. Marriage isn't everything. Now if I were a man I should
never marry."
"And not being a man?"
"Oh, I dare say I shall marry some day, but my husband would have to
share my views on all the important questions of the day, and believe
absolutely in the equality of the sexes. At present I hate men."
"Oh, dear!"
"Yes, that is partly why I came out to India, to escape"--she checked
herself as though she had been on the brink of a confidence, then
added--"to escape worrying attentions."
"Then it was not entirely devotion to the downtrodden masses of this
miserable country?" he asked slyly.
She flushed and said with lofty evasion: "I felt India needed me, I
wanted to _help_ India. I don't mean to stay out here permanently, of
course; only till I have collected enough information and proof to open
the eyes of the electors at home. I shall write a book. I think I shall
call it 'What I saw in India.'"
"Why not 'The Evil English in the East,'" he suggested amiably. "An
alliterative title is always arresting. The one you have thought of
might be regarded as almost too uncommon?"
She laughed as though unable to help herself. At least, it seemed she
had some saving sense of humour.
"How silly you are! You don't take life seriously at all!"
"Perhaps not;" he spoke carelessly, but he felt he could have shaken
Miss Baker--conceited, self-satisfied monkey!--puffed up with her
superficial views, untouched as she was by trouble or experience, so
ready to blame and condemn where she did not understand. Of what avail
to argue with her, why should he bother about what she thought, if she
ever really thought at all! Help India, indeed! Who was she to help or
even hinder the great machinery of Eastern administration, and as to her
independence of sex--some day she would learn that she was but flying in
the face of nature, and he hoped she would suffer for it.
"We must get on," he said; and as they put their horses into a gallop he
found himself admiring the way in which she handled the mount he had
lent her, a high-spirited young chestnut, unaccustomed to a side-saddle,
yet aware that liberties could not be taken with his present rider;
Flint noted the strong turn of her wrist, the firmness of her long, slim
foot in the stirrup, the poise of her straight young figure. It crossed
his mind, but for her wild ideas what a wife she would make for a man
whose life was all action; ready for emergencies and discomforts,
willing to rough it, daring, unafraid. She ought to marry a colonial, go
with him to Canada, Australia, his equal in physical endurance, and
disregard of convention, yet mastered by his manhood, the mother of a
string of strong children whether they could be educated highly or not!
An unworthy temptation assailed him; as they arrived at an outstanding
relief camp he helped her from her saddle with a bold tenderness that
held an element of revenge, held her hand a little longer than was
strictly necessary, looked into her fine grey eyes, of purpose intently.
He could not tell if she recognised the unspoken signal; if she did she
ignored it, and presently they were deep in the object of their
expedition, tramping over hot, hard ground, watching the slow movements
of the ragged crowd--women and children breaking up dry clumps of soil,
carrying it on their heads in baskets; men and boys digging, scraping.
It was like an ants' nest without the energy and diligence of those
insects, for the workers were weak and apathetic, only looking forward,
as was natural, to the distribution of food and money that was to
follow.
Flint was on the look out for bullying among the overseers, for petty
pilfering on the part of the distributors of supplies; he listened
patiently to complaints, investigated grievances, and entirely forgot
Miss Baker except when she asked questions or got in his way. She
followed him for the most part silently, unobtrusively, and the morning
was well advanced before it suddenly struck him that his companion must
be feeling the need of refreshment. They were a long way from
headquarters, far from any place of accommodation; the sun was
overpowering; he noted that she looked tired and hot, he himself felt
fagged. His inspection was not yet completed. Never mind, he could
return this evening and finish it at the price of a little extra
pressure and exertion.
He took out his watch. "Look here," he said penitently, "you must be
pretty well done. Let us get back as quick as we can and have a good
breakfast in my camp."
She hesitated; if he could have seen into her mind she was thinking of
the kind of meal she might expect on her return to Miss Abigail's tents
(boiled rice and pulse, and perhaps a stew that had seen service
already). She was despising herself because the temptation was strong to
accept the invitation, and not altogether on account of the better fare.
"Wouldn't it be proper for you to breakfast with me alone?" he asked
provocatively.
"I wasn't thinking of that!" she exclaimed with scorn, and added, not
quite honestly: "I was only wondering if Miss Abigail would be keeping
breakfast waiting for me----" She knew perfectly well that Miss Abigail
would not.
"She knows you are with me, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes----"
"Then why worry? Come along."
On their way back she asked him: "You do this kind of thing every day?"
"Certainly. It's my job."
"But you are paid for it," she remarked vindictively.
"One must live, though perhaps in my case you don't see the necessity.
Anyway I get no extra pay, so it's not for pure love of gain!"
"How do you mean? Weren't you ordered to do the work?"
"As it happens, no. I volunteered."
"Then where would you have been if you hadn't?"
"At Simla perhaps, or somewhere away from the famine area in my own
province."
"Then you don't belong to this part?"
"No, I've been lent."
"At your own request?"
"Haven't I just said so?"
For a space she was silent. Then she said grudgingly: "After all, it's
nothing so very wonderful!"
"I quite agree. I lay no claim to doing anything wonderful. Now _you_,
on the other hand, have left a comfortable home and quite a different
kind of life at, I am sure, an enormous sacrifice, to come out and _help
India_!"
She winced obviously, and he enjoyed her discomfiture; yet his
conscience smote him, for he queried inwardly if he would have been here
at all but for the fateful happenings at Rassih! At the same time he did
not intend to enlighten Miss Baker on that point. For the sake of other
Englishmen who had given their services in this terrible affliction
without reserve, better let her believe that he had been actuated solely
by a stern sense of duty. The result of his work was the same, he had
foregone advancement, was out of the running, over-working himself
without hope of reward in the future. If he were not on the spot someone
else would be; the whole thing was general, not individual. England was
doing her duty by India comprehensively, he was but a fly on the wheel,
and he neither desired nor expected special recognition. But he felt
entitled to exact just approbation, on these grounds, from this
arrogant girl who, in her way, represented a certain section of public
opinion at home.
Save for a few desultory remarks on the scenery she said little more as
they urged their horses onward, but he noted a new diffidence in her
attitude; she was less aggressive, a little softer, and despite his
contempt for her outlook on Indian affairs he could not forbear to take
advantage of her weakening. He talked seriously, earnestly, of the
problems and peoples of the country, set forth their helpless dependence
on disinterested rule, defended British enterprise; and to his
satisfaction she listened. Through it all he watched her clever,
expressive face; how she showed her feelings!--an undisciplined nature.
One moment he saw hesitation, doubt of her own judgment; the next
incredulity, impatience of his arguments; again a little light of
enthusiasm in her eyes, albeit reluctant, as he spoke of the long line
of heroes who had made India what she was--prosperous, peaceful, secure,
in so far as such a vast and complex country could be secure, unless
danger was fostered from within.... She had a good heart if her brain
was ill-trained, falsely developed; he wondered what her childhood had
been like, how she had been brought up, and later, as they were seated
at breakfast in his tent, he asked her if she had ever been at school.
"Oh, yes, the ordinary thing, a rotten place at Brighton--all music and
French and dancing. You see, we are very rich people! My father is a big
manufacturer, he began life with the proverbial half-crown in his
pocket. We are not blue-blooded at all, I can assure you! My mother was
the daughter of a small artisan. To the day of her death, a few years
ago, she hated late dinner, and was afraid of the servants. I firmly
believe she died, poor dear, because she had to live in an atmosphere
that was too much for her. She couldn't stand the strain when my father
bought a place in the country and a house in London, and she was obliged
to entertain and meet people she had never been accustomed to. She was a
victim to the intermediate stage. In time, of course, all the big places
will be in the hands of go-ahead men like the pater who have made their
own fortunes, and the idle rich will disappear."
"What about the descendants of the go-ahead men?" put in Philip. "Have
you any brothers?"
"Yes, two----"
"And are they working for their livings?"
"Well," she moved uneasily, "one is in the Guards and the other is still
at Oxford----"
"And you were sent to an expensive school for young ladies at Brighton?
In a few generations, I suppose, you will be ousted from your big place
in your turn!"
"But we know how to take care of our money. It won't be squandered in
racing and cards and dissolute living."
"How do you know? Doesn't it depend on the individual? There are plenty
of pedigree landlords who are models of stewardship and right thinking,
doing their duty by the country and their responsibilities, just as
there are self-made men who are selfish and hard and tyrannical. It
isn't entirely a question of birth and heredity. I am of opinion that if
a man with an inherited position and property is false to his trust he
should be deprived of it by law, but when he does his best he should be
protected from attacks that are prompted more often by jealousy than by
concern for the poor. What do the majority of self-made men go for, once
they are 'made'? Titles and 'places.' Isn't it true?"
The girl crumbled the toast on her plate with restless fingers.
"Everything is all wrong," she burst out presently. "My father won't see
that we ought to keep only just enough for ourselves and share the rest
with the people who have helped him to make his money. Why should we
have an estate in the country and a sort of palace in London, while our
workmen are living in slums! It's abominable. I admit we are as bad in
our way as the families that can trace their descent for hundreds of
years and look upon their lands and their tenants as just mediums of
supply for their luxuries and amusements. It will always be the same, I
suppose!"
"It has been the same since the beginning of the world," said Flint,
"each man for himself. It's human nature. Have some more coffee?"
"Yes, please. It's delicious. Miss Abigail seems to think it's wrong to
have decent food. Why she and her kind aren't all dead from poisoning I
can't imagine."
"The survival of the fittest, perhaps."
"Their hearts and their souls are bound up in the work, and their
stomachs don't seem to matter. I feel I am horribly material and
greedy. Perhaps I haven't a soul or a heart, only a stomach!"
"In that case you wouldn't be out here," he suggested for her comfort,
"giving your time and your money in a good cause."
"I don't want to take credit for that. I am beginning to see that I may
have come out with a mistaken motive, not so much to do my little bit
over the famine as to find fault with what seemed to me an autocratic
mode of government. If all Indian officials were like you----"
"Like me!" Philip gave a bitter little laugh. "I may also have had my
motive in doing famine work apart from the welfare of the people. We are
all actuated by motives, principally selfish and private."
She finished her coffee. "Anyway," she said, rising, "I am glad we have
met, though you have upset my ideas and made me feel horrid when I
thought I was such an angel of mercy and reform! I am afraid I am very
conceited, but it is so nice to feel superior and generous!"
He saw tears in her eyes, and he took her outstretched hand in true
comradeship, ashamed of his attempt that morning to play upon her
natural instincts. "Don't bother about motives," he said in friendly
understanding, "go on with your blessed work. We are all doing what we
can for the people of this great old country, and believe me they aren't
insensible to our efforts. They know in their hearts. Some day they will
stand by us and give all they can in recognition of what we have done in
the past for them. The test is bound to come, and whoever gets the
credit doesn't matter. The result will be our reward. The only fear is
that all the drudgery and the sacrifice may be undone, go for nothing,
wrecked by a clique composed of self-seekers, encouraged by those who
have quite other ends to gain."
They left the tent together. He helped her into her saddle, and watched
her ride off attended by the syce who would bring back the chestnut; the
Honourable Dorothy Baker--born of the people, reared as an aristocrat,
who had set out to patronise those among whom such an anomaly was
impossible, unthinkable! How invaluable might be the zeal of her kind
rightly inspired and directed in the cause of India, could they only
divest themselves of the very arrogance they were so anxious to impute
to the men who were guarding the safety of the brightest jewel in the
crown of England....
For the next few hours Flint buried himself in papers. The heat and the
dust and the flies were distracting; he found it hard to fix his mind on
his work, and his thoughts wandered perversely. He remembered he had not
yet written his weekly letter to his mother; it had been so difficult to
write naturally after the upheaval at Rassih, he had felt such a
hypocrite--allowing his parents to infer that in volunteering for famine
work he had been prompted solely by a sense of duty; yet to tell them
the truth was beyond him. He pictured the old people in their
comfortable South Kensington home; his father always busy over local
charities and municipal boards and councils. Major-General Sir Philip
Flint had not shed his energy and public spirit with his retirement from
Indian service. Dear old chap!--white haired, courtly, ever ready to
listen when people came to him with grievances, real or imaginary; and
the mater, with her large circle of old Indian friends, her bazaars, and
her tea parties, and the never ending stream of visitors she was always
so ready to "put up," people just arrived from India, old friends
settled in the country who were intent on a week's shopping; hospitality
was in her bones. She would have loved to harbour grandchildren. Philip
knew how she regretted that his sister was not the wife of an Indian
civilian, or an Indian Army man, though her marriage to a prominent
specialist in Harley Street had been highly satisfactory, as Lady Flint
admitted; of course, she would say, it was a comfort to feel that Grace
was so well provided for, but Grace lived in such a different world from
their own--a world composed of public people, people connected with the
stage, and literature, and art, politics, the law; no dull old Generals,
or members of the Indian Council, and so on for Grace! and there were no
babies to come and spend the day with Granny, to be taken to the
seaside, to be fussed over and spoiled.... Her great hope now, as she
told him in her letters, was that Philip would marry some dear girl
whose family, like his own, had served the Indian Government for
generations, so that they would all understand each other and carry on
the old traditions comfortably, friends in every sense. Grace's friends
and in-laws were a sort of nervous terror to poor Lady Flint. What
would be her feelings, questioned her son as he sat dreaming of his
mother in his tent, so far away from her, could she know the truth,
could she realise that her hopes of such a daughter-in-law would never
be fulfilled so long as Stella Crayfield claimed his heart; and that
would be for always--till he died....
The pen dropped from his fingers, he leaned back in his chair, drowsy,
inert. Jacob was snoring in a corner; from without came the ceaseless
murmur of the concourse awaiting his decisions, and on his table lay
such piles of papers still to be examined. From sheer weariness he fell
asleep and dreamed of Stella, of their hopeless love, and mingled with
it all was the memory of Dorothy Baker, vigorous, purposeful, arresting.
He seemed to be standing between the two girls at the base of a long
flight of steps; they were urging him upward, but he felt tired,
slack-limbed, heavy-hearted; he wanted to rest. The steps were so steep,
high as a pyramid of Egypt; he could not see the top, it was lost in a
haze of luminous light. "Go on, go on," they were saying; they were
holding each other's hands, as it seemed to him conspiring to urge him
forward. "Go on; they have all gone up in their turn--look! some are
already at the top, some have died on the way, some have lost
everything, but never mind--go on, go on...."
And he struggled, lifting his feet to the steps that were rough and
burning, to find himself in the midst of a ghostly pageant. Near him was
a little old man with dim tragic eyes, dressed in a blue coat and knee
breeches. Where had he seen him before? There was a world of sorrow, of
bitter disappointment in the small, bowed figure, so pathetic, yet
breathing a spirit of wisdom and untiring tenacity. "Who are you, little
old man, tell me who you are?" Philip heard himself asking. And faintly,
as though borne on the hot west wind, came the whisper of a name--was it
Warren Hastings? A wrinkled yellow hand was raised, pointing upward....
A few more steps; now he was pushing through a motley host all strangely
garbed. Some of them held up a Cross and a Book, some displayed tokens
of trade; there were women with empty arms, weeping for the husbands and
the children they had lost, yet glorying in the sacrifice; and a band of
people, half English half Indian, who had given their lives in the cause
of their great two parents. They were lining the ladder, the stiff,
steep ladder.... Someone stepped out from the crowd and laid an
encouraging hand on his arm: "Go on, my boy, fight! There is nothing
like fighting!" and to his horror Philip saw that the speaker's throat
was cut, that he held in his hand a little penknife and a pen, just a
quill pen.... Who was it? Who was it had ended his life in a moment of
mad impulse, the fine brain snapping with the strain and the fervour of
work and responsibility? Ah, now he remembered; it was Clive, great
Clive! so noble, so strong in his influence and judgment, in his making
of Indian history. Always a fighter, even from his schoolboy days....
What a pitiful end to a brave career! and yet what matter when the task
had been accomplished, victories won; at least he had but sought peace
and repose in his own way and at his own time. The hand that held the
fatal little knife was also waving him upward, pointing to the top....
With him were others, ghosts from the past, whispering names, magical
names, that lived not only in the memories of those of their own race
and colour but in the hearts of the people they had served and fought
for, and saved; also great fighters with dusky faces and flashing eyes,
faithful supporters, fearless and fierce, without whose allegiance all
the strife and the sacrifice might have been useless; one in spirit with
their leaders, East and West bound together by one high aim--that of
justice and right.... "Don't fail us," they chorused. "Keep going, give
of your best as we did before you!" And they waved their swords and
their scimitars, and the Cross, driving him upward, till at the summit
he saw a speck of light that, as he climbed, grew in brilliance, took
shape, and formed itself into letters of fire: "_Star of India_."
He cried: "What can I do? I am only one of a crowd, a fly on the wheel!"
The sound of his own voice wakened him; he stood up, still dazed,
haunted by the fantastic dream. Jacob was snoring in the corner; hoarse
voices murmured outside; a swirl of hot dust and wind shook the tent.
Mechanically Flint sorted his papers, put on his hat, and went forth
into the hot stillness of the evening.
CHAPTER III
As was only to be expected, Miss Baker had brought a photographic outfit
with her to the Zenana Mission camp. Flint came across her next evening
endeavouring to snap a little bevy of "famine wallahs," new arrivals,
squatting with their cooking vessels till their turn for attention
should come. There seemed to be no extreme cases among them, and though
all were obviously weary, in need of food, none were too exhausted to
exhibit lively alarm at sight of the Feringhee woman who waved her hands
and pointed her black box at them. They hid their faces, turned their
backs, jabbered expostulations, finally rose and scattered like so many
frightened fowls, leaving their utensils behind them.
Philip halted, just for a moment. He was in a hurry, on his way to take
over a large consignment of incoming supplies.
"Illustrations for a book, I suppose?" he said, smiling at her annoyance
with the fleeing little crowd; of course she was ignorant of the belief
among the rustic population that when a picture is taken a portion of
the spirit goes with it, causing calamity. "Take photographs when
they're not looking," he advised.
She turned the camera on to him. "Let me take you. At any rate you can
stand still, I imagine. I must take something. I don't know how many
plates I haven't wasted over these people. What on earth is the matter
with them?"
"I can't stop to explain or to stand still at present. A lot of stuff is
arriving and I must go and receive it."
"Come and have tea with us to-morrow, and I'll take you then. Miss
Abigail told me to ask you, if you came along. She's over there."
Miss Baker indicated a temporary enclosure in the near distance, where
he could see a short, substantial figure trundling about amidst a
gathering of women and children.
"Thanks, I'd like to come. I ought to have paid my respects before now."
He cantered off, leaving Miss Baker preparing to photograph the
abandoned pots and pans.
When the time came for him to fulfil the engagement for the following
afternoon he was surprised to realise how eagerly he had looked forward
to it. Work and anxiety had slackened a little with the arrival of fresh
supplies, and he felt almost light-hearted as he bathed and got into
clean flannels; for the first time since he had left Rassih he caught
himself singing in his bath. He walked the good half-mile that lay
between his own encampment and that of the Zenana Mission lady, Jacob at
his heels, well groomed like his master; they were a good-looking
English pair.
Miss Baker was outside the living tent photographing Laban, the native
Bible teacher, who posed in mingled pride and uneasiness--proud to be
taken in his black alpaca coat and pork-pie cap, a shiny-bound Testament
in one hand, a bulging umbrella in the other; uneasy because deep down
in his mind, for all his enlightenment, there lurked the same fear that
had brought about the flight of the famine wallahs.
"One minute," Miss Baker called out to the approaching visitor; a click,
and she raised her head triumphantly. "Thank you, Mr. Laban. That ought
to be very good. You shall have some copies to send to your home, and
I'll put your picture in my book."
"Mr. Laban" salaamed, and withdrew hurriedly. Then it was Flint's turn.
He submitted while Miss Baker took him seated, standing, with Jacob,
without Jacob; she fetched a larger camera from her own tent, and talked
of head-and-shoulders, profile, full, and three-quarter face portraits.
She commanded him to take off his hat.
"But I shall get sunstroke, and you would have to nurse me," he
quibbled, rather bored with the performance, though Miss Baker's
engrossment amused him, and she was a pleasant vision in her blue linen
frock, a bright flush on her cheeks, her ruddy hair curling about her
neck and ears and forehead beneath what might have been a boy's straw
hat.
"Oh! Miss Abigail would do that!" she assured him. "I hate nursing. I
know nothing about it. Come into the shade of the trees behind the
tents."
The little camp was pitched close to a couple of mango trees, probably
the sole survivors of a once flourishing grove, but as the space
surrounding their trunks had been appropriated by the servants as an
open-air kitchen, shared by the shigram bullocks, a goat and her kids, a
collection of fowls, and a few sprawling children, Flint hesitated,
compromised.
"Why not the big peepul tree further back?" he suggested.
The tree in question stood solitary and majestic between the camp and
the adjacent village, a landmark in the wide flatness, mightier, far
more ancient than the mango trees. No doubt it had once shaded a temple
long since ruined and decayed.
"But it's such a way off," objected Miss Baker. "We'd better have tea
first. The light will be better afterwards, too."
Miss Abigail settled the question for the moment. She emerged from the
living tent, a stout, ungainly body, grey-haired, middle-aged, browned
by exposure and innumerable hot weathers. But there was character in the
blunt, homely features, courage in the small light eyes; a woman to be
trusted and esteemed in spite of her unfortunate appearance. Philip
liked her instinctively. She reminded him of a cottage loaf, rather
overbaked, all knobs and crusty protuberances, spreading and wholesome.
Miss Baker introduced them with a proprietary air that included them
both, and they entered the tent where tea was laid carelessly on an
unsteady camp table. The spout of the teapot was broken, the plates were
all chips and cracks, there was a pat of Danish butter, goat's milk,
some slabs of thick toast, and a tin of jam roughly opened with some
blunt implement.
He glanced at Miss Baker, saw her nose wrinkle ever so slightly, as
though in suppressed distaste. Was she contrasting the spectacle with
afternoon tea in "the sort of palace" in London, and "the place in the
country"?
Nevertheless, it was a cheerful little meal. They laughed and talked.
Flint described to Miss Abigail the scene he had witnessed the previous
evening when the "famine wallahs" had refused to be photographed. He
explained the reason to Miss Baker, who said it was, of course, the
fault of the Government that such silly ideas should still be general.
The people should have been educated out of them by this time.
"What about the freedom of the individual?" he inquired. "Why should
they be photographed if they dislike it, for whatever reason?"
"That's a smack at me, I suppose," said Miss Baker huffily.
"Not a very hard smack, any way." He looked at her with a friendly
smile, and, mollified, she smiled back at him. It turned out that Miss
Abigail knew the Beards at Rassih, though she had seen nothing of them
for years. She asked many questions about them and their work, few of
which Flint was able to answer, indeed he could hardly remember what the
Beards were like. They talked "shop," discussed the works, and the
shelters, and the hospital, agreed how lucky it was that the well in the
village was holding out satisfactorily so far; Miss Abigail was certain
she had seen a small cloud in the distance that morning, and was
confident that if they all prayed hard enough rain would fall within a
reasonable time. Flint said politely that he hoped so indeed; Miss Baker
tried not to look scornful.
Between them they emptied the teapot and finished the toast; and Miss
Baker observed that if Mr. Flint insisted on being photographed under
the peepul tree they had better be up and doing. Miss Abigail was
persuaded to accompany them, though she openly grudged the time, and
they plodded through the dust of the rough road that led past the camp,
and the great tree, on to the village beyond.
"I hate peepul trees," said Miss Abigail, with an odd little shudder;
"the leaves never seem to be still, even when there is hardly a breath
of wind to stir them. Look at them, hark at them now!"
The flat spade-shaped leaves trembled in the sultry evening heat; the
faint, continuous rustle sounded like whispering voices. No wonder
Philip reflected that spirits were believed by the people to dwell in
the branches. Miss Abigail glanced disgustedly at the rough, time-worn
stones scattered about its roots; some bore traces of carving,
unmistakable figures of idols, others showed sacred symbols, defaced,
indistinct, all remnants of a former shrine or temple. Bits of rag had
been hung by some passing worshipper to the lower twigs of the tree; it
looked, as Miss Baker remarked, as though someone had flown through the
branches, leaving scraps of their clothing behind them.
"The rags are hung there as a protection against evil spirits," said
Flint; "all the superstitions connected with the peepul tree would fill
a good-sized volume. Look at that bit of thread wound round the trunk;
somebody has lately been propitiating the tree by walking round it and
winding the thread as they went. The peepul is the home of the Hindu
Trinity, as well as of mischievous devils!"
"There's a nasty atmosphere of idolatry that doesn't suit me at all,"
proclaimed Miss Abigail. "It's high time a Christian was buried here to
counteract all the wickedness this horrid old tree must have witnessed
in its time!" She smiled at her own little pleasantry.
Philip laughed. "And then the grave would become a sort of shrine in its
turn, and the people would make offerings to it, and hang more rags than
ever in the branches above it!"
Miss Baker turned to Miss Abigail. "But you wouldn't like to be buried
here, would you?" she inquired, aghast.
"I don't care where I am buried when my time comes, but here for choice
if I thought it would do any good." Miss Abigail dived into a capacious
pocket, pulled out a pair of folding scissors, and calmly proceeded to
cut the thread that encircled the tree trunk. "There! That's my protest
against the devil and all his bad works."
To the embarrassment of her companions she then knelt down on the roots
and in a loud voice said a vigorous prayer. What a curious contrast she
presented to her surroundings--an almost grotesque figure in an attitude
of supplication with her dust-coloured gown flowing about her, and an
unlovely sun hat on the back of her head. Jacob sniffed at the soles of
her boots that protruded from beneath her skirts. The prayer finished,
she rose without a trace of self-consciousness, brushed the dust from
her knees, and requested Miss Baker to make haste over the photography
as her help would soon be needed in the camp with the evening work.
Then she stumped off towards the tents.
"Did you ever!" exclaimed Miss Baker, looking after the retreating
figure. "Now I suppose something awful will happen to us all. I feel
quite nervous. Hark at the leaves. There really might be something
moving about in the branches!"
"Shall we hang up a piece of rag?" suggested Philip chaffingly.
Half in earnest, she took out her handkerchief, a white wisp with a
pretty coloured border.
"It's a pity to tear that," said Philip.
"A sacrifice!" she replied; and before he could stop her she had torn it
in two. "Now, you hang up one bit and I'll hang up the other. What would
Miss Abigail say! For goodness' sake don't tell her."
Laughing, they hitched the bits of cambric to the twigs above their
heads, and Miss Baker picked up her camera.
"Now, then, take off your hat, and let's hope the spirits won't spoil my
pictures."
CHAPTER IV
Three days later cholera broke out on the relief works.
During the afternoon a woman had arrived with a dead, monkey-like infant
in her arms and a dilapidated little family clinging to her skirts, only
herself to curl up and die in the heartbreaking fashion common to the
stricken native, haplessly, silently, without struggle or protest.
Before dawn the demon let loose among a weakened multitude had begun to
pick off victims, here in a triangle, there in a semicircle, again in a
neat zigzag, as if with mathematical malice and caprice....
Flint, roused at daybreak by the fatal news, worked for hours in
conjunction with the medical officer, dosing, segregating, attending to
the removal of the dead, striving to stem the panic that might drive the
people to scatter over the countryside, spreading the disease. Then,
after a hasty breakfast, he rode off to Miss Abigail's camp with the
intention of urging Miss Baker to seek some other field of activity in
view of the present danger. He encountered Laban, the Bible teacher,
nervous and voluble, outside the principal tent, and was informed by him
that the two ladies had gone forth the previous morning to visit a small
outpost in connection with the Mission some few miles distant, having
arranged to remain there for the night. They had not yet returned.
"This is a very bad sickness!" added Laban. "How shall we all escape
with our lives--and my grandmother dying in Cawnpur, calling, and
calling for my presence!"
"Meantime," suggested Philip, left cold in regard to the grandmother,
"hadn't you better go and help with the children whose parents are dying
or dead? There's a good supply of tinned milk, and it's got to be served
out quickly."
The teacher's flabby brown face paled to a sickly hue. He swallowed
hard, and his lips moved. Philip fancied he caught the word
"photograph." Probably the wretched Laban, unable to divest himself of
the fear that a portion of his spirit had already gone from him with the
taking of his picture, felt he was doomed unless he could flee to his
home.
"Look here, old chap," went on Flint, prompted by sympathetic
understanding, "aren't you a soldier of Christ, ready to fight for your
own people?"
He asked the question with a certain grim amusement at his own recourse
to missionary diction; but presently the amusement turned to respectful
admiration as Laban shivered, hesitated, then, without further ado or
explanation, marched off in the direction of the camp.
Inwardly Flint salaamed to the shambling figure of this "soldier of
Christ." He said to himself: "By Jove, that's a feather in the
missionary cap!"
He had turned his horse's head, when the sight of a little cloud of dust
in the distance caused him to halt, and out of the dust-cloud appeared a
hooded bullock cart, crawling, bumping over the rough ground at a
snail's pace. He waited, wondering how the energetic Miss Baker could
bear with such leisurely travel, since patience was hardly one of her
gifts. The bullocks must have taken hours covering the distance. When at
last the vehicle pulled up at the camp a flushed and fuming young person
scrambled from beneath the hood.
"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Miss Baker, shaking the dust from her
clothes and stretching her cramped limbs. "Hullo, Mr. Flint!" Her face
brightened at sight of him. "What do you want?"
"Good morning, had a nice drive?" He smiled at the grimace that was her
answer, and dismounted.
"I want to speak to Miss Abigail." It had occurred to him that Miss
Abigail's powers of persuasion might prove more effective than his own
in the matter of counselling change of air for Miss Baker, the girl
being more or less under her authority. Truth to tell, he rather shrank,
with masculine cowardice, from a task that he anticipated would involve
something of a scene.
"Here she is, then--what's left of her after that awful journey!" There
was plenty of Miss Abigail left; the stout, square figure clambered
backwards from the cart, and he took comfort from the fat, kindly face
and brave little eyes. He drew her aside.
"Bad news," he said; "we've got cholera in the works!"
"Ah! so it has come! I don't know which I have been dreading most, that
or smallpox. Well, we must all turn to and do our best."
"But what about Miss Baker? She oughtn't to be allowed to stay----"
"Why not? She has put her hand to the plough, and surely you don't
expect her to turn back?"
He felt annoyed, disconcerted. "It's all right for us," he deprecated,
"but Miss Baker should go."
"Well then, you had better tell her to do so. Frankly I shan't be sorry
if she takes your advice. Amateurs are more bother than they are worth
in my line of work. But _I_ can't urge her to bolt!"
"Don't you feel responsible for her safety? A girl out here alone----"
"She came of her own free will, as far as I know, and was handed over to
me by the Charitable Relief Fund Committee. I didn't ask for her. But
now she's here I consider she should take the rough with the smooth like
the rest of us. I will leave you to settle the question."
With a nod and an exasperating smile of unsympathetic comprehension Miss
Abigail stumped off to her tent.
Miss Baker approached. "What has happened?" she asked. "You look
peevish. Don't cry!"
"I've been telling Miss Abigail she ought to send you away at once."
"And are you so miserable because she has refused or consented? Why
should I be sent away? What have I done?"
"Cholera has started among the people," he told her bluntly, "and you
must pack up and be off, unless you want to add to our anxieties!"
Could he believe his eyes? Instead of the torrent of lofty expostulation
he had expected, and hoped successfully to combat, the girl simply
showed him the tip of her tongue. "There!" she added defiantly after
this vulgar exhibition.
"Do, for Heaven's sake, listen to reason----" he began, irately.
"Don't waste time," she interrupted. "I know what you want me to hear,
but I can't wait for your words of wisdom. I must make haste to pack and
run away as fast as I can!"
She darted towards Miss Abigail's tent, throwing him a glance of
derisive revolt over her shoulder. He was helpless. Anyway he had but
done what seemed to him his duty, and he had been given no chance of
emphasising the fact that in leaving the camp she would be sparing him
and Miss Abigail additional responsibility.... Yet he doubted if any
argument under the sun would prevail with her now. To remain and risk
death would, of course, enhance the feeling of superiority and
benevolence that on her own admission she found so pleasant!
He rode back to the works determined to put her out of his mind. He had
more to think of, he told himself, than a tiresome, pig-headed girl; but
later in the day, when he caught sight of her with Miss Abigail and the
Bible-teacher herding a flock of women and children into a new-made
enclosure, his conscience murmured reproaches. At least Dorothy Baker's
pluck was undeniable, even though it might be the pluck of ignorance and
self-will....
That was a dreadful night. At times the hot, still air rang with the
weeping and wailing of mourners, piteous cries that rose and fell; the
silences that intervened seemed even worse--while the fight with death
went on. Now and then it appeared as if the fatal scourge had been
checked in its merciless progress; then again, as though leaping the
barriers, it would break out in some quarter hitherto free. Luckily
remedies held out, and more were expected in answer to urgent telegrams.
By dawn further medical help had arrived, and as the sun rose, fierce
and cruel, Flint felt justified in snatching a rest. He was roused from
heavy sleep by a message, a message scribbled in obvious haste and
agitation by Miss Baker from the Mission camp.
"Please come quickly; it's Miss Abigail."
An ominous summons! Fearing its import, he obeyed it without delay,
ordered a horse to be saddled, threw on his clothes, and rode rapidly.
Arrived, he found, within a sagging little sleeping tent, Miss Baker
seated beside a narrow camp-bed on which, as he perceived at first
glance, lay a dying woman. The once round, tanned face of the lady
missionary was wet and grey, so strangely altered; the sturdy form was
twisted and shrunken. A horrible odour pervaded the atmosphere, mingled
with the smell of drugs and straw and canvas. At the foot of the bed a
dishevelled ayah crouched terrified, weeping. On the rough, uneven
drugget was scattered a confusion of clothes, a couple of tin basins, a
shabby Bible, a notebook. The solitary camp table was covered with
bottles and coarse crockery.
Dorothy Baker turned to Philip Flint; she was pale, trembling a little,
yet wonderfully self-controlled.
"It was so sudden!" she faltered, biting her white lips. "This morning
she was quite well, full of energy and plans. We had come back for some
breakfast, and she was taken ill. Laban fetched the doctor. He stayed as
long as he could, and she got better. He said he thought she would pull
through. I did everything he told me. But now, see! I have sent for him
again----"
Flint laid his finger on a cold wrist. Clearly it was a case of sudden
collapse, beyond hope; even as he felt the faint, racing pulse it grew
feebler, fluttered spasmodically.... He heard the girl's voice in his
ear, a choking whisper: "Is she going? Is it the end?"
He nodded, and the whisper went on: "Just before you came she spoke. She
said she _knew_, and she wanted to be buried under the tree, under the
peepul tree...."
He nodded again. She poured something into a glass and held it out to
him. "Try," she urged, "perhaps she could take it."
To please her he tried, though he knew it was useless. What a pitiful
death scene--the cramped, untidy little tent, the coarse bedclothes, the
scanty furniture; the only ornament, if so it could be called, a text
printed in large black letters on a piece of cardboard, hung to a nail
on the yellow tent-pole: "Thy Rod and Thy Staff They Comfort Me."
Yet Philip felt it was all ennobled by the sound faith, the unswerving
purpose of the strong, simple soul whose work on earth was over. For a
few moments there was silence; even the stifled, convulsive sobbing of
the ayah crouched at the foot of the bed had ceased; the woman hid her
face in her wrapper. Then, presently, with a long-drawn sigh, a gallant
spirit passed to rest. For Ann Abigail, ardent Christian, brave worker
in the cause of alien souls and bodies, no more weary hot weathers, no
more disappointment, discomfort, sacrifice. And as Philip gazed down on
the blunt features that already were almost beautiful in their repose he
found himself picturing Miss Abigail heading a band of helpless,
bewildered ghosts, leading them from the camp and the works to regions
where suffering, fear and want were unknown....
He remembered Dorothy Baker, and looked round. She was still standing
close beside him, silent, her eyes fixed on the dead face; now she
swayed, put her hand to her throat: "I have never--I have never seen
anyone die----" Then, aware of his concern for her, she added
reassuringly, "I'm all right, I'm not going to faint."
"Come into the other tent; where's your hat?"
She did not seem to know. He looked about, found his own, and held it
umbrella-wise over her head as he guided her quickly through the
burning, midday glare to the living tent that was hardly bigger than the
one they had left. She made no resistance, sat down at his bidding, and
drank the brandy he gave her from his flask. Then he stood watching her
anxiously as the colour came slowly back to her lips and cheeks. His
mind was working swiftly. Somehow he must get the girl away; she had had
a severe shock, her vitality was lowered, he dreaded the
consequences....
Footsteps and voices outside drew him to the door of the tent, and for
the next few hours he and the doctor were busy over such arrangements as
were possible for the funeral. The work finished, Flint sent off a
messenger mounted on a camel to the railway junction with a couple of
telegrams. One was to the headquarters of the Mission in the nearest
station, the other was to the wife of the Magistrate, whom he happened
to know slightly. He had evolved a plan for the benefit of Miss Baker,
and he only trusted she would fall in with it. All the time she had
remained in her tent, effaced herself, for which he was grateful to her;
perhaps she would be equally sensible when he told her what he had
done....
By sundown a rough coffin was ready, composed of packing-cases, a grave
had been dug beneath the big peepul tree, and a melancholy little
procession started, headed by the bullock shigram that bore Miss Abigail
on her final journey. Flint had fetched Miss Baker at the last moment,
he had promised her he would do so, and they walked together behind the
shigram. Laban, crying bitterly, the native doctor, one or two
subordinates followed, and the dead woman's servants; behind them again
came a straggling crowd of people from the works and the camp.
Flint read the burial service. Dorothy Baker stood by his side; now and
then she shivered despite the heavy heat of the evening; he saw her
glance furtively at the scraps of her handkerchief that hung conspicuous
from the branches above their heads. He knew she must be picturing, as
he was, the scene of but a few evenings back, when Miss Abigail had
knelt praying among the roots of the tree.... The air was thick and
sultry, perhaps Miss Abigail was right, perhaps rain was not so far
off.... The setting sun threw a red glow over the land, already the
fireflies danced in the branches, the leaves whispered and rustled; two
or three bats flew from the foliage, skimming over the open grave and
the heap of sulphur-coloured soil at the side.... Now the last words had
been read, now the coffin, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into the
shallow trench, the dry earth was shovelled over it by the scavenger
coolies of the village, and the gathering, all but Philip Flint and the
English girl and Laban, departed. At a sign from Flint the coolies
collected some of the stones that lay about and piled them upon the
grave.
"Oh! she would hate that!" cried the girl impulsively. "The idols, the
carvings----"
"There must be some protection," Flint told her reluctantly; "you see,
jackals and other animals----"
"I understand." She turned away, gazing sadly over the misty, red plain.
"And we have to leave her here by herself! Oh! I can't bear it--India is
horrible, horrible!"
For the first time she broke down, leaned, weeping, against the trunk
of the tree that, maybe, had seen other human sacrifices offered at its
foot. Flint waited for a moment; then he went to her, took her hand
gently, protectively.
"Don't grieve too much," he said. "She is all right. She would have
asked nothing better than to give her life for her work. We are not
leaving _her_ here, remember!"
"I wish I could think"--she paused, flung out her hands passionately. "I
can't believe anything; I always wondered how she could. And here am I
alive and useless, and she has gone. It seems so unfair!"
"I expect she was very tired," said Flint simply, "and is glad to rest.
Come back to the camp; Laban will see that it is all finished properly,
and I want to talk to you."
They started. It was now almost dark, and he set himself as they went to
tell her what he had arranged--that she should take Miss Abigail's
personal belongings back to the Mission headquarters.
"The things are all ready," he confessed. "I told the ayah to pack them.
There were very few, just a writing-case and a little locked box and
some papers and notebooks; one or two photographs, her Bible and Prayer
Book. The camp things can all follow later. Of course the clothes she
was wearing, and the bed and so on, have had to be burnt, that was
necessary; the Mission people will understand."
At first she said nothing. He went on hurriedly: "I can drive you to
the junction; there's a train----"
"You want me to go?" she asked below her breath, "to go now, to-night?"
His heart sank. Did she mean to refuse? "It's only right. She would have
wished you to go, you know she would."
"But do you wish it?" She bent towards him, trying to see his face in
the gathering dusk.
"Only because I know I ought to send you away."
Silence again for a space. "I telegraphed to the Magistrate's wife as
well. She is a kind woman, she will take you in if you would prefer it
to the Mission House, I am sure."
There was a pathetic little catch in her voice as she answered drearily:
"Yes, I suppose I must go. Oh, how everything has altered, just in a few
hours!"
"That's India."
"I feel so horribly alone."
"It will be different when you get into the station. I wish I could go
with you all the way, but I must stick here till this epidemic is over
and things are working properly. Then I go on to another district, where
I hear matters are pretty bad. Goodness knows when all the trouble will
end."
"I wonder if we shall ever meet again?"
"I hope so. You'll write, won't you, and let me know your plans?"
"Yes, of course. And--shall I go on writing?"
"Would you? I should like it. Sometimes I feel 'horribly alone' too."
"You aren't happy."
"No; I am more alone than you are." They had reached the camp. His trap,
which he had ordered beforehand to meet them, was waiting.
"Just pack what you will want for the next day or two," he advised. "I
will see that everything else is sent after you at once. You must come
and have some dinner with me, and then we'll start for the junction.
It's a long drive. The train goes about midnight."
She obeyed him with a touching docility. For the rest of that curious
evening she might have been a child, leaning on his judgment, listening
to his directions, trusting him utterly. He knew she ate the food that
was set before her because he urged her to do so, accepted his brandy
flask and the escort of his old bearer for the journey, got into the
trap without a word when the moment came for their departure. Jacob
leapt at the wheels in an agony of apprehension that he was to be left
behind.
"Can't he come too?" she asked; and the panting, whimpering Jacob was
hoisted on to her lap. The moon was rising as they set off, a swollen
red moon whose light irradiated the veil of dust that hung over the
spreading, irregular earthworks, the lines of sheds, the outlying groups
of tents. Here and there a few spidery thorn trees showed black and
scanty--it was as if a fire had swept the locality and was still
smouldering. A hum of voices, the thin wailing of women and children,
rose and hung in the hot mist....
The trap rocked over the uneven ground, now sinking into soft powdery
soil, now jerking against clods of earth, hard as iron. They left the
works and the camps behind them, and headed for the grand trunk road
marked by an avenue of great trees in the distance; passed through a
village that was silent, deserted; most of the inhabitants had sought
refuge on the relief works. On the outskirts they encountered an
ash-smeared figure, practically naked, with long, matted hair and
upraised arms, who called after them--cursings or blessings, what matter
which!
The comparatively smooth surface of the grand trunk road came as a
blessed relief, and they spun along swiftly, between the rows of giant
trees, avoiding sleepy carts that crawled in the middle of the highway,
passing silent, plodding little bands of foot travellers. Neither of
them felt inclined for conversation; the hot, still air through which
they clove, the rhythmical beat of the pony's hoofs, lulled their
senses; even Jacob had long since ceased to fidget and demand
attention.... As in a dream they arrived at the junction that with its
satellites of ugly square buildings appeared to have been dropped
without purpose on to a barren plain, and found themselves in the midst
of a clamouring throng of humanity; every caste seemed to be
represented, from the shaven, high-featured Brahmin priest to the
humblest, uncleanest outsider. A proof, so often quoted by the
inexperienced observer, of the power of progress! Yet, while the
"twice-born" would journey cheek by jowl with the pariah, making use of
the railway for his own convenience, in reality it brought them no
nearer to bridging the gulf. A few oblations, ceremonial ablutions, a
liberal religious offering, and the high-caste traveller would feel
cleansed, soul and body, from the evil effect of such contamination....
The interior of the station was suffocating. Philip shouldered a way for
his companion through the crowd to a waiting-room reserved for
"Europeans only," where they found a family of Eurasians already
installed, bundles innumerable, a pack of fretful children, a litter of
domestic belongings spread over the floor.
Philip backed hastily from the entrance. "This won't do," he said. "We
must try the refreshment-room."
It was scarcely more inviting, but at least they had the place to
themselves, save for a couple of slovenly-looking servants who were
flicking crumbs and dead flies from the table laid with dirty
appointments. A dingy punkah began to wave jerkily, moving the
ill-smelling air. Nauseated, weary, miserable because she was about to
part from the only man who had ever appealed to her heart as well as to
her mind, Dorothy Baker sat staring at the pretentious electroplated
epergne set in the middle of the table, coloured tissue paper ruffled
about its base.
How sordid it all was! She dared not look at Philip Flint for fear she
should lose her self-control; the lump in her throat was almost
strangling....
To Philip her silence, her depression, merely indicated that she was
pitifully tired, worn out with the trying events of the day, and no
wonder, poor girl! He felt helpless, at his wits' end to know what more
he could do for her.
"It won't be long now," he said in hopeful desperation, looking at his
watch. "The train ought to be here in a few moments."
"In a few moments," she echoed mechanically.
Then, from outside, came the clangour of metal striking a suspended
length of rail, the Indian equivalent of the station bell, announcing
the train's arrival.
"Here she is!" Philip rose, half relieved, half reluctant. They plunged
into the yelling throng on the platform. Flint's old bearer spread the
Miss-sahib's bedding on an empty seat in the ladies' compartment that
had only one other occupant, a mummy-like form, fast asleep.
"Now you're all right." Philip looked into the carriage. "You'd better
get in and settle yourself for the night."
She held out her hand. "Please don't wait," she said formally, avoiding
his gaze. "Good-byes are so horrid, and they say it's unlucky to see the
last of a traveller!"
"Unlucky for me to see the last of you. I shall miss you."
"Oh, no, you won't," she said sharply. "Good-bye, and very many thanks
for all your kindness."
She got into the train. Through the window he saw her busying herself
with her bag. She did not even look up as the train passed out of the
station. Chilled and puzzled he turned away. What an odd girl! Her
curious behaviour, her grey eyes and freckled eager face filled his
thoughts as he drove back to his camp in the hot moonlight.
CHAPTER V
Slowly, monotonously for Philip the months dragged on, unmarked by any
special events of a personal character. At intervals he heard from Miss
Baker. First she reported her safe arrival at the Mission headquarters,
having considered it "only right" to go there rather than take advantage
of the more comfortable hospitality offered by the Magistrate and his
wife. But apparently this meritorious attitude was not fully understood
or appreciated by her hardworking hosts, for Miss Baker complained that
though the Mission people were always desperately busy themselves they
made no real use of the services she was so ready to render; one of them
had actually advocated her joining the Station Club that she might
obtain some distraction! The next letter came from the Magistrate's
bungalow, where Miss Baker was being nursed over an attack, her first
attack, of malarial fever; at the Mission House, it seemed, no one had
time to look after a white patient! The Magistrate's wife had most
opportunely come to the rescue.... As soon as a passage could be secured
Miss Baker intended to go home. On the whole, she confessed, she felt
that her visit to India had not been quite the success she had
anticipated. Wherever she went she seemed only to get in the way--and
she had meant to be so useful! English people in India wasted their
energies over things that did not greatly matter, and in consequence
had no time for more vital questions. Later on, perhaps, she might come
back, and with better results; in any case she had gathered ample
material for her book, which she would begin on the voyage.... She wrote
to Philip from board ship, and again from her father's house in Mayfair.
The letters still contained criticisms aimed at British administration
in India, but through them all there ran a pathetic little undercurrent
of self-distrust that reached Philip's sympathy; and her never-failing
remembrance of their brief companionship touched him--always her love to
Jacob, and how was the chestnut pony, and the old bearer, and did he
recollect this, that, and the other? Also when was he coming home? A few
mails later (great excitement) she had met Lady Lane-Johnson, his
sister, at a big literary gathering, quite by accident; they had begun
to talk about India, and then of course had discovered, etc., etc.
These letters, though Philip sometimes felt it an effort to answer them,
were welcome during the dreary routine of duty, as inspection followed
inspection, journey upon journey, by road or by rail, from one
famine-smitten area to another. The battle with death and want continued
through the long, hot days and nights, until, as though with belated
compassion, nature at last stepped in, and a strong monsoon swept up
from the coast, allaying epidemics, washing away disease and dirt,
reviving energy and hope; and if the work was still as strenuous in its
way, it was at least work that was spurred by relief and thankfulness in
place of dread and despair.
With the cessation of the rains Flint felt free to take a
breathing-space. His leave granted for September, he sought a popular
station, that, not being the headquarters of a Provincial Government,
was in a measure exempt from official etiquette and certain irksome
observances that prevailed in the more important health resorts. Surima,
its dwellings perched like a flock of white birds on the slopes of the
high hills, was notorious for its gaiety and its gregarious gatherings.
Here assembled merchants from the great ports, lonely ladies whose
health and spirits suffered from the heat and the dullness of the
plains, subalterns intent on "a good time," holiday-makers of every
service and calling, and an abundance of pretty girls....
Philip selected Surima for his leave because he felt it might be
possible to lose his identity for the time being in such a motley crowd.
He need make no calls; Government House with a visitors' book and
commands to social functions was non-existent. His presence would not be
noted. He intended to loaf, to spend long hours in the life-giving air
on the hill-sides, perhaps do a little shooting--jungle fowl, a bear or
two, possibly a leopard. He would have ease and leisure in which to make
up his mind whether to sink back to the level of humdrum district
administration until his first pension was due and he could leave India
altogether, or set himself to regain his position in the front ranks of
competitors for high office. He realised that he was overworked, that
his mental outlook was hardly to be trusted at present, deranged as it
had been by the distressing affair at Rassih. Given time and rest he
might manage, in a measure, to make a fresh start and to put the past
behind him....
To his disgust the Club chambers at Surima were full, and he was forced
to find temporary quarters in a fashionable hotel that occupied a
central position. It was close on the dinner hour when he arrived, and
as he changed into evening clothes he found it difficult to realise that
for a full month he would be master of his time, able to follow his own
inclinations. With a sense of personal freedom he strolled into the
dining-room only to be confronted by a scene that, at first glance, made
him query--was he, by any chance, in a lunatic asylum instead of a
hotel?