It was band-night in the public gardens; mail night also; a combination
of dancing and picture papers, ensuring a large attendance in the big
hall, which had been built, gravely, as a memorial to some departed
statesman. But now English girls hurried through its dim corridors to
the ladies' dressing-room, intent on changing tennis shoes for dancing
slippers. English women took possession of the comfortable nooks
between the pillars where there was room for two. English boys lounged
about the vestibule, finishing their cigars and waiting for the band to
strike up. English men drifted to billiards and whist, or to their own
special corner in the reading-room.
A weird-looking place even at noon was the big hall set round with
paste and paper mementoes of the semi-historic festivals held beneath
its high arched roof; with shields from the Prince of Wales' ball,
flags from the Imperial installation, trophies from the welcome given
to our soldiers after an arduous campaign. But seen now by the few
lamps lit at one end it looked positively ghostly, as if it must be
haunted by a thousand memories of dead men, and women, and children who
had flitted across the kaleidoscope of Rajpore society. Up in the
gallery the native band, after playing 'God save the Queen' to the
Aryan brother outside, was tuning up for dance music. And by-and-bye a
couple would come waltzing out of the shadows into the bright
reflections of the polished floor, and waltz back again. Then three or
four couples, perhaps ten or a dozen; not more. Viewed from the other
end, where the non-dancers sat in darkness, the scene looked like a dim
reflection of something going on in another world.
And outside, under the rising moon, the builders of the hall trooped
home to the packed highways and byways of the native city, full, no
doubt, of that silent, evergreen wonder at the strange customs of the
ruling race which is an integral part of native life; that ruling race
which, with all its eccentricities, rules better than even the fabled
Vicramiditya himself!
In the far corner of the inner reading-room a girl stood looking at the
new number of the _Scientific American_, keeping a stern watch the
while on the present possessor of the _Saturday Review_. A tennis bat
lay on the table beside her, and her workmanlike flannels and tan
shoes showed what her occupation had been. For the rest, a well-made,
well-balanced girl, looking as if she walked well, rode well, danced
well, and took an honest pride in doing so. Her face was chiefly
remarkable for a pair of beautifully arched eyebrows, and her best
point was undoubtedly the poise of her head with its closely plaited
coif of hair.
A sort of snore followed by a thud, told that people were passing in
and out through the swing-doors of the outer room. Here, however, as
befitted the abode of more serious literature, all was peaceful; almost
empty in fact, and its only other female occupant was a medical lady
deep in the _Lancet_.
'Oh Gordon!' called a voice from the outer room, 'have you seen my
daughter?'
'Miss Tweedie is here, sir,' replied the young man addressed. 'She has
been for the last five minutes trying to make up her mind whether to go
and dance, or brain Dr. Greenfell for keeping the _Saturday_ so long.'
'Really, Mr. Gordon!' cried Rose Tweedie aghast. 'No indeed not--Dr.
Greenfell! I didn't really--I mean I was of course, but I don't
now--Oh, it's awfully good of you.' Then as the apologetic little
doctor moved away, pausing to say a few words to a tall grey-haired man
who was entering, she turned aggressively to the offender: 'Why did you
say that, Mr. Gordon?'
'Why, Miss Tweedie? Because you insisted yesterday that women preferred
the truth, even when it was rude. And it was true. I suppose, as your
father wants you, I have no hope of this dance; and I'm engaged for all
the others.'
Rose Tweedie's eyebrows went up. 'How lucky for you--I mean, of course,
how unlucky for me.' Then she added in more conciliatory tones, 'I'm
not dancing to-night; these shoes won't do.' She thrust out her shapely
foot with the careless freedom of a child.
'I can see no fault,' he replied artificially, putting up his
eye-glass, 'they appear to me quite perfect.'
'Your knowledge of women doesn't apparently extend to their
understandings,' she retorted quickly, her voice, as usual when she was
irritated, showing a trace of Scotch accent. 'Oh father! if you want me
to come home, I'm ready.'
Colonel Tweedie hesitated. A single glance at him suggested that the
late Mrs. Tweedie must have been a women of strong individuality, or
else that Rose had reverted to some ancestral type.
'Not, not exactly, my dear. I only--wanted to--er--speak to you.'
'Good-bye, Miss Tweedie,' said Lewis Gordon, taking the hint. 'Oh! by
the way, sir, if your daughter will remember I'm a personal assistant,
and excuse shop for an instant--Fitzgerald came back to-day from
Hodinuggur.'
Rose Tweedie's face lit up. 'Did he say how Mr. Keene liked it?' she
asked eagerly.
'I'm afraid not; but he can scarcely be expected to like the desert
after--Rajpore. I shouldn't--under the circumstances. That is all, sir;
except that he reports everything satisfactory, so far.'
The Colonel gave a little cough; it was his way of starting the
official machine inside the social one. 'I hope--for Mr. Fitzgerald's
sake it--it--er--may remain so. The past scandals have been a
disgrace--er--to the Department.
'Not to him, though,' broke in Rose hotly. 'I think he is quite one of
the nicest people I ever met.'
'And what is more, the ablest man we have in our service,' added Lewis
Gordon heartily. The girl's face softened at his tone. If he would only
speak like that always, instead of simpering and scraping!
'Well, father, what is it?' she asked when he had gone. The other
readers had drifted away, and the medical lady looked as if even the
last trump would not rouse her from the post-mortem she was perusing,
so to all intents and purposes they were alone. Colonel Tweedie gave
another little cough; it was an unusual occurrence in private matters,
and she repeated her question with quickened interest.
'I want you, my dear, to go and speak to--to Mrs. Boynton. I've--I've
asked her to come into camp with us this time.'
'Why?'
Pages full of words would fail to give a better idea of Rose Tweedie's
mental outlook than this simple interrogation. Briefly, she must have a
reason, good, bad, or indifferent, for everything. Her father, being
her father and knowing this, had several ready.
'Dacre's wife isn't strong enough to face the sand, and you must have a
chaperon--I mean another lady--you never need a chaperon of course, my
dear--but if anything happened--besides, we shall be very busy, and it
will be lonely--I thought it better than leaving you at home--it isn't
as if she were quite an outsider--she is Gordon's cousin, and he is my
personal----'
'The widow of a cousin, you mean,' she interrupted with emphasis. 'A
cousin he scarcely knew; and he never even saw _her_ till he returned
from furlough last year.'
'Didn't he, my dear?' said the Colonel feebly. 'Still, they are
relations. Call each other by their Christian names, and----'
This time a laugh interrupted him; rather a hard laugh for a girl.
'What a number of cousins the Rajpore ladies must have!' she began.
'Not Mrs. Boynton, Rose; not Mrs. Boynton,' protested the Colonel with
spirit.
'No, I admit it. She is perfectly lady-like. I don't really dislike her
a bit.'
'Dislike! my dear Rose! who could dislike so--so----'
'I admit it again, father. She is charming. I catch myself watching
her, just as if I were in love with her like all the nice men are.'
'Really, my dear Rose----'
'Well, dear, why not? She is perfectly sweet. Then she has such tact.
Do you know she never allows an ungentlemanly man to fall in love with
her? I often wonder how she manages it. It's awfully clever of her.'
Rose, standing by the fire, shifted a log with her foot and the sparks
flew upwards. 'Of course I would rather have had a girl; but I suppose
it wouldn't have done. There! don't worry, dear! Go off to your whist.
I'll settle it all.'
'My dear girl----'
She told him calmly that there was no need for gratitude, and Colonel
James Tweedie, R.E., head of a great Department, slunk away abashed to
the card-room. Rose was very fond of her father, though she understood
him perfectly--after the manner of modern children; accepting him
reasonably, with all his weaknesses, as the parent Providence had
assigned to her. And why, if she would have him, should he not marry
Mrs. Boynton? The mother, who had died when Rose was born, had been
well remembered; the Colonel was still middle-aged, and when his
daughter married might have long years of solitude before him. Would it
be fair for her to object? It was another of Rose Tweedie's
characteristics that this question came uppermost in her dealings with
both friends and foes. No! it would not be fair; there was no reason
against it. None.
So she walked off calmly to the big hall, waiting to see Gwen Boynton's
graceful figure--paired with some worthy partner, of course--come
swaying out into the ring of light. But she was disappointed; for the
very simple reason that the lady she sought was sitting with Lewis
Gordon in the most comfortable corner in the whole building.
'Miss Tweedie!' said an eager voice behind her, as she stood
instinctively marking the rhythm of the dance with one foot. 'Have you
seen Mrs. Boynton? I can't find her anywhere.'
She turned gladly. It was Dan Fitzgerald, representing, as he always
did, humanity at its handsomest. 'So you're back! No, Mr. Fitzgerald.
She is not dancing, anyhow; but as those are the last bars, that is
cold comfort. What a pity! when you came down to the hall on purpose.'
He flushed up like a girl; and she pointed to the gardenia in his
button-hole.
'You don't go in for decoration except on state occasions,' she
continued, 'and then you weren't at tennis. I always keep a look-out
for you there; that back-handed return of yours from the line beats me.
I've been trying it with the _chuprassie_ bowling at me, but it didn't
come off somehow. You must teach me when we are in camp.'
'Of course I will,' replied Dan cheerfully. Lewis Gordon would have
simpered and said, 'Delighted, I'm sure.' The remembrance vexed Rose by
its very appearance; as if it mattered what Gwen Boynton's cousin said
or did. And the vexation accounted for the phrasing of her next words.
'Mr. Keene sent me a message, didn't he? No! How stupid of him! It was
about his _Nature_. I was to have it, and he was to let me know what he
wanted me to do with it.'
Dan's face, which had showed perplexity, cleared. 'Ah, it's the
magazine you're meaning. Sure you puzzled me entirely, for it is not
nature you want, Miss Tweedie, though, 'tis true, one can't have too
much of a good thing.'
It was a distinct compliment, or meant to be one, but Rose listened to
it gaily, and five minutes after, despite her shoes, was whirling in
and out of the shadows, full of the keen enjoyment which dancing brings
to some people.
Lewis Gordon, lounging lazily in his dark corner, noticed her with a
certain irritated surprise. It was a more inconsequent, therefore a
more womanly action than he expected in a girl who annoyed him by
refusing to take either of the two places he assigned to women folk in
his Kosmos. There were those of whom wives and mothers could be made
discreetly, safely; and those who would be utterly spoilt by the
commonplace process. He turned to his cousin feeling no such difficulty
in regard to her classification. Yet in the dim light nothing could be
seen save the outline of a small head, a huge fur boa, and long curves
ending in a bronzed slipper catching the light beyond the shadow in
which they sat.
'Shall we not dance?' he asked. 'It is the best waltz of the three.
Then I could bring you some coffee and we could rest--on our laurels.'
'No, thanks. I was engaged to Mr. Fitzgerald for the last, and I must
give him time to cool down.' The voice was sweet, refined, careless.
'I believe you are afraid of Fitzgerald.'
There was a touch of hauteur in the sweetness now.
'It is the second time this evening you have hinted at that, Lewis. I
suppose--being a sort of relation--you know something of that boy and
girl entanglement before I married your cousin. Is it so?'
Her unexpected and unusual frankness took him aback into faint excuse.
'There is nothing to apologise about, I assure you,' she went on,
regaining her carelessness. 'You may as well know the facts. I was
engaged to Mr. Fitzgerald. We were both babies, and my people
disapproved. Then your cousin proposed, and good sense came to us; for
we were not suited to each other. _Du reste_, Mr. Fitzgerald and I are
still friends, and he is the best dancer in Rajpore.'
There was a pause, before he said quietly, 'Why not be quite frank,
Gwen, and say he is in love with you still? Surely that is palpable.'
'Perhaps. But I prefer to leave such questions alone, even with my
cousin. Especially since that cousin has done me the honour of telling
me many times that he is devoted to me himself.'
He smiled at her deft evasion.
'What is the use of any one being devoted to you, Gwen, if you are
going to marry Colonel Tweedie?' he replied half jestingly.
'I did not know I was going to marry him; but I am certainly going to
look after Miss Rose Tweedie in camp--if she will have me. Do you think
I shall want a new riding-habit, Mr. Gordon?'
'I really cannot help you on that question, Mrs. Boynton.'
She leant towards him, so that he could see the laugh pass from her
pretty eyes. 'Don't be foolish, Lewis. You have been too good and kind
to me for that. You, who know my affairs as well as I know them myself,
must see that I have scarcely any choice between marrying again, and
going home to live with my mother-in-law, or starving in some horrid
poky lodging. How I should hate either! I can't live without money,
Lewis. I don't spend much--but it goes somehow. Then my pension as a
civilian's widow is but genteel poverty. Clothes are so expensive to
begin with; yet even your best friends don't care for you unless you
are well dressed.'
The real regret in her tone made him quote a trite saying about beauty
unadorned.
'Rubbish!' she interrupted, sinking into her cushions again. 'Beauty is
like the blue teapot; you must live up to it. I must marry some one who
can afford a well-dressed wife. I must indeed, in common honesty to my
future creditors. Personally I should prefer it to the mother-in-law.
Besides, if I went home I should never see you again, Lewis. I should
not like that--would you?'
If the words in themselves were a direct challenge, they came from the
shadow where she sat, so daintily, so airily, that half a dozen replies
were possible without trenching on sober affirmation or denial. Yet her
hearer hesitated. There must always be a time when a man settles
whether or no he shall ask a certain woman to be his wife, and this was
not the first time the idea of marrying his cousin had occurred to
Lewis Gordon. He was not the head of a Department, but he was in a fair
way to become one in the future. He had money of his own, and she liked
him in a way. As for her? she was perfection as a companion. As a
wife?----
'My dear Gwen! I should hate it,' he said fervently, being certain of
so much. But when he had said the words, they sounded too little, or
too much, so he took refuge in jest again. '_Faute de mieux_ I should
prefer the family party; that is to say, if you could induce your
future stepdaughter, Miss Rose, to bear with my presence.'
The light on the bronze slipper shifted, showing an impatient movement
of the pretty foot.
'Impossible, I should say,' came the voice, airy as ever; 'but as you
seem to be imitating the barber's fifth brother to-night, why not
settle that she should marry? Girls do, sometimes, especially in
India.'
As she spoke a couple swooped out into the almost empty circle of
polished floor. The waltz, nearing its end, gave them a swinging
measure, and those two were dancers indeed. One could not choose but
look, until, as the last chord crashed, they stopped as if petrified,
to smile at each other, before hurrying away. Lewis Gordon watched
them, his hands on his knees, a cynical smile on his face.
'By all means!' he said languidly. 'Suppose we say Dan Fitzgerald, and
so get rid of our two _betes-noir_ at once.'
Mrs. Boynton started from her cushions and gathered her boa together.
'What nonsense we are talking! Stupid nonsense into the bargain--which
is intolerable. I am ashamed of myself. Come! let us have some coffee
and forget our folly.'
Her companion rose to accompany her with a shrug of his shoulders. I
beg your pardon, even though I fail to see the enormity of my offence.
Fitzgerald, if he were once settled----'
She interrupted him with a gay laugh. 'So you aspire to the barber's
office in other ways; would like to _ranger_ your friends. When I am
duly installed as chaperon I must consult you on matrimonial questions;
but not till then, if you please, Lewis. Ah! there is Mrs. Dacre, I
haven't seen her for an age; not since I went to Meerut.'
He took his dismissal placidly, as men do in a society where they
cannot claim the undivided attention of at least one woman. Besides,
Gwen Boynton's chief charm lay in the impossibility of forgetting
that--provided she did not wish to do something else--she would be
quite as gracious to the person who cut into your place as she had been
to you. Furthermore that he was sure to hold as good a hand, and know
the game as well as you did; for Mrs. Boynton, as Rose Tweedie had
remarked, admitted no inferior players to her table. Seen now in the
full light of the coffee-room she showed slight and graceful in the
soft grey draperies which she wore as half mourning for the late Mr.
Boynton--a perfectly unexceptional man who, on the verge of retirement,
had lost all the savings of a long bachelorhood in one unfortunate
venture, and had died of the disappointment. Beyond a perfectly lovely
mouth and the faultless curves of chin and throat, there was nothing
remarkable in her face; nothing at least to account for her remarkable
charm. That, however, was indubitable; even Lewis Gordon, sipping his
coffee outside the circle which gathered round her quickly, kept his
eyes upon her. So he noticed hers turn more than once to Dan
Fitzgerald, who stood at the table waiting to replace Rose Tweedie's
tumbler of lemonade. 'She is afraid of him,' he thought. 'I wonder why?
Perhaps she hasn't got over her fancy either; that is the only thing I
can think of likely to create a difficulty.' Then he went off to
button-hole another Secretary about business, and forgot even Gwen
Boynton.
Yet, if half an hour afterwards he had by chance wandered into that
portion of the gardens devoted to zoology he would have seen something
to confirm his suggestion. For the two figures leaning over the iron
rail surrounding the ornamental water were those of Mrs. Boynton and
Dan Fitzgerald. The moon shone on the water; the clumps of bamboo and
plantains on the central island showed softly dark; masses of feathery
tamarisk trees and the sweeping curves of a sandhill or two beyond the
garden shut out the world. Otherwise it was not a suitable spot for
sentimental interviews, by reason of the ducks and geese, whose sleepy
gabblings and quackings were apt to come in unsympathetic chorus to
lovers' talk, while the adjutants, standing in pairs side by side,
their heads under their wings, were over-suggestive of Darby and Joan.
The conversation between these two, however, was sufficiently sensible
to stand the test of their surroundings.
'It is really absurd,' she said in (for her) quite a querulous voice.
'I accept a pleasant invitation to make myself useful to the Tweedies,
who have always been most kind to me,--and my cousin. And why every one
should jump to the conclusion that I am going to marry a man who is
almost old enough to be my father I cannot imagine. Really the world is
too idiotic.'
'You don't lump me in as the world, do you, Gwen?' he answered in a
lower tone. 'Surely you make a difference--surely there's some excuse
for me, dear? I haven't seen you for six weeks, Gwen; you've been away,
remember. And I hurried so for that promised dance, which you forgot.
Yes; we'll say you forgot it. Then every one is talking of your going
into camp with the Tweedies, wondering at your giving up the pleasures,
the society, hinting at some reason----'
'If you can't trust me, Dan, that is an end of everything,' she
interrupted sharply. 'No, don't!--please, don't! One never knows who
mayn't come this way. Do let us be reasonable, Dan. We are not boy and
girl now, to squabble and make it up again. You tell me always that I
love you--have always loved you--will never love any one else; and
perhaps you are right. Isn't that confidence enough for you?' She tried
her utmost to keep an even tone, but something made the unwilling smile
on her lips tremulous.
'It is, dear, and it isn't,' he said, his face showing soft and kindly
in the moonlight. 'If I were only as sure of the rest of you as I am
that you love me! But it was so, Gwen, in the old days; yet you threw
me over. I knew it then, and it made me go to the devil--more or less.
For if I had had the pluck to say, "You sha'n't," you would have been
happier. I spoilt your life as well as my own by my cowardice. And I'm
as bad as ever now, Gwen,--afraid to make you poor. Why don't I speak
up, Gwen, instead of giving in to the worst part of you?--instead of
waiting for promotion and making you more extravagant by paying the
bills?'
'You needn't have reminded me of that!' she cried hotly; 'I'm not
likely to forget it.'
He stared at her for an instant in sheer downright incredulity. Then he
laid his hand on hers sharply, and with the touch something that was
neither dislike nor fear, yet which seemed to alarm her, came to her
face.
'Don't say that, Gwen! you don't--you can't mean it. For you know it is
all yours--that I'd starve to give you a pleasure. Ah, Gwen! if you
would only marry me to-morrow you'd never regret it. Why shouldn't you,
dear? There's no fear; look how I've got on since you gave me the hope
two years ago when I came to you in your trouble. If I had only had the
pluck then to marry you straight away----'
'But it was impossible,' she broke in quickly, as if to lure him from
the point. 'What would people have said? It was so soon.'
'What do I care? But now there is no reason--no reason at all. I'll get
my promotion all right. Keene is there at Hodinuggur, so nothing can go
wrong again. Gwen, why shouldn't you marry me to-morrow?'
'To-morrow!' she echoed faintly; yet for the life of her unable to
repress that tremulous smile.
'Yes. Ah! my darling, you don't know what the uncertainty means to a
man like I am. You don't know--you don't understand. If I only had you
to myself, I would not fear anything. And you wouldn't, either, if I
had the chance of teaching you what it means to a woman to have some
one between her and the world--some one to hold her fast--some one----'
She shrank now from his increasing emotion.
'Don't! oh, don't! you frighten me. And don't be hurt or angry, dear.
I've promised to marry you sometime--I have indeed. Oh, Dan, how
foolish you are!'
She laid her delicately gloved hand on his arm, as he leant over the
railings, trying to hide the bitter pain her look had given him; but he
only shook his head.
'You can't make me different from what I am,' she went on almost
pettishly; 'you can't, indeed.'
'I could, if I had the chance. That is all I ask.'
'And you will have it some day, Dan. Perhaps you are right, and I
should be happy. Only, what is the use of talking about it just now? We
have settled so many times that nothing can be done until your
promotion comes. That will be next year, won't it? if nothing goes
wrong at Hodinuggur. Oh, Dan, do cheer up. I have to go out to dinner,
and it is getting late; but I'll drop you at the Club, if you like. I
didn't mean to hurt your feelings; you know that; but you are so
impetuous. Dan, do come! the geese are making such a noise, I can
scarcely hear myself speak.'
It was true. Something had disturbed the peace of the pond, for a
confused gabbling and quacking filled the air. Dan tried to fight
against it for a minute, then with an inward curse gave up the
struggle. As they walked back to the carriage Gwen felt grateful to the
birds. They had saved the Capitol, for a very little more of Dan's hurt
feelings might have made her promise anything. It was her way when
brought face to face with pain. To make up for what he had suffered she
was very gracious to him as they strolled along the winding walks set
with English flowers, and the barred cages where big yellow tiger's
eyes gleamed out of the shadows; gleamed quite harmlessly of course.
But when she returned that evening to the rooms in the hotel which she
occupied during the winter months her mood had changed; for Lewis
Gordon had been at the dinner. She went over to her writing-table, took
out a bundle of receipted bills and looked at it with a distaste seldom
displayed towards such a possession. How foolish, how wrong, how unfair
to poor Dan it had been to let him pay; and what a dreadful tie to her,
for of course if he did not get his promotion she could not possibly
marry him and then the obligation would be unbearable. Gwen, brooding
over the situation by the fire, felt aggrieved. She was one of those
women who, paradoxical as it may seem, gain the power of exciting
passion by their own absolute lack of comprehension as to its first
principles. To say she had no heart would have been an unkind calumny.
She was really very fond of Dan; more fond of him when he was absent
perhaps than when he was present, but she had not the remotest
conception of what his love meant to him. So as she sat thinking of him
in her seamless dress--Gwen's evening dresses always had a seamless
look, and the lace about her fair shoulders always seemed pinned on
with cunning little diamond brooches glittering and sparkling--she told
herself that it all depended on promotion, and that, in its turn,
depended largely on a boy whom she had never seen, who had gone to live
in the desert with the sole purpose of forcing her to keep her promise.
A queer tie indeed between that branded bungalow set in the sand, and
her refined little sitting-room.
And at that moment George, pondering over a cigar in the verandah
before turning in, was meditating, not upon the mysterious mound of
Hodinuggur, with the light in the Diwan's tower challenging the feeble
flicker in the potter's house, but on something far more mysterious
than either--his dinner. That dinner of six courses, compounded out of
the desert fowl in various stages of existence, to which his factotum,
a man whose imaginative faculty outran his creative power, had given
such topsy-turvy yet familiar names. Wherefore? Why was it deemed
necessary to feed a sahib on salt-fish concocted out of chicken and
anchovy sauce, and then to give dignified support to the fraud by
handing round the conventional egg-sauce? George gave up the puzzle and
went to bed depressed by the consideration that if Hodinuggur was
strange and unkenned to him, he was quite as strange and unkenned to
it.