Mrs. Boynton was physically incapable of being constant to anything
disagreeable, even to her own thoughts. The love of ease which came
uppermost in her made it impossible; so, as she sat waiting for George
Keene on the following evening, she had forgotten the vague remorses
and regrets which had assailed her the night before. All she chose to
remember was the fact that both George and Dan would be away from
Hodinuggur _if anything happened_. What more could any one ask from one
in her position? She made a pretty picture in the pretty room. A wood
fire blazed on the hearth, a scent of English flowers filled the air.
Everything, from the books on the table to the graceful figure in white
satin and pearls on the wicker chair, told a tale of delicacy and
refinement, of what it is the fashion nowadays to call culture. On the
mantelpiece, among a Noah's Ark of china beasts, and supported by a
placid brass Buddha, George Keene's sketch of the dust-storm, the
_kikar_-tree, and the rat-hole, struck a dissonant note in the general
harmony; but Gwen's ears were too much attuned to content for her to
notice it. Briefly, she was full of solid relief; not only because
escape from a tight corner seemed assured, but that such relief had
come in the nick of time. For Lewis Gordon had been over to tea, saying
things which made it imperative that something definite should be
settled about Dan's promotion and prospects. Saying, for instance, that
he was growing sick of doing orderly duty at the Tweedies, house, and
wanted one of his own. That she needed a firm hand to prevent her
wasting her pension on _pari mutuels_, and beneath these jesting
complaints she had seen real discontent and a determination for change
in the future. And was he not right? Her whole mind gave its assent to
his wisdom. What an unspeakable relief it would be to find herself back
in a straight path; not only for her own sake, but for the sake of
others--of those two especially whom she had implicated all
unwittingly. But for them she would have defied the plotters; but for
them she would never have stooped to flatter Dalel Beg, and take shawls
and ornaments at nominal prices from Manohar Lal; to do any of those
things, in short, with which their covert hints had forced her to rivet
the chain which bound her to deceit. At least so she told herself, but
then she was a proficient in the art of playing the thimble trick on
her own mind, and, as often as not, was really incapable of saying
where the motive power of her own actions lay. So, as she sat in the
wicker chair waiting for George Keene, she felt quite virtuous over the
sacrifice of her own honourable instincts on the shrine of friendship.
Even if _anything did happen_, all real blame would lie with Colonel
Tweedie for allowing both George and Dan to be absent; but what was
blame to the head of a Department? It slipped from him like water from
a duck's back. And then, in regard to the water itself? Even Lewis
allowed that the poor people might just as well have it as not----'
'Keene sahib _salaam deta_,' said the servant, interrupting her
soliloquy of smooth things. She rose with outstretched hand and kindly
smile.
'Punctual as ever. We shall be in time for number two----' then she
paused abruptly in careless surprise. George, who had been told off as
escort during the three-mile _dandy_ ride to the Town Hall, was still
in his light morning suit. Smart enough in his new shirts and ties, and
with a carnation in his buttonhole, but still scarcely in the costume
for a bachelors' ball. 'What is the matter? Aren't you coming?' she
asked quickly as he stood silent yet disturbed, for the sight of her
always had the nature of an electric shock upon him.
'To see you so far, of course. To the ball? I'm afraid not. You see I
have to start to-night.'
'Start? Where?
'For Hodinuggur; where else?' He spoke lightly, but his face
contradicted his tone. When is it a light matter to leave Paradise?
'Nonsense!' broke in Gwen sharply, startled out of all save negation.
'You must not go.'
'Must, I'm afraid,' he echoed, and his voice was a trifle unsteady.
'You see,' he went on more confidently, 'I ought never to have taken
that offer of extra leave. I knew it at the time, but I thought Dan
would stop, and the temptation---- However, I'm off now.'
'Now?' she echoed in her turn, still lost in her surprise.
'To-night I mean. Of course I have no chance of a tonga, so I must go
by dhooli. It is a bore, but it can't be helped.'
The phrase seemed to bolster up his manliness, and he smiled at her.
Such a pleasant-faced boy! so clean, so wholesome, so full of promise
for the future. A pang shot through Gwen's heart at the sight of him
and roused quick opposition to unlucky chance.
'But why? It isn't as if you were keeping him--I mean Mr. Fitzgerald.
We settled all that; he goes back to Rajpore all the same.'
'So Gordon told me this afternoon. That is why I must return--the place
can't be left alone, of course.' As he stood leaning against the
mantelpiece his eye caught his own sketch, and he took it up half
mechanically. 'To think I shall be back in that hole the day after
to-morrow,' he said with a short laugh. He felt very sore, yet
determined to face his pain in dignified fashion. 'Meanwhile,' he
added, 'you must not be late. Is that your cloak?'
The futility of being tactful, even for your most familiar friends, was
being borne in upon Gwen Boynton with the remembrance of her own
certainty that Dan Fitzgerald's return to Rajpore must be necessary to
the lad's acceptance of the leave. And here he was declaring it to be
the stumbling-block! The thought sapped the very foundation of her
general security, and made the results which this change in his plans
might produce in hers strike her confusedly. She set aside the wrap he
held out, with quite a tremulous hand.
'You are very foolish. Nobody wants you to go. Even Dan----'
'Perhaps,' he interrupted, feeling set up, as it were, by her evident
regret. 'But, if anything were to go wrong, you know, I should never
forgive myself.'
The words were to a certain extent quite meaningless to him; he did not
even seriously contemplate the possibility they suggested and yet they
roused her fears, her regrets.
'But if anything were to go wrong,' she answered, forgetting caution in
her eagerness, 'it would be better you should be away. Surely you must
see that it would be better for you both to be away--if--if _anything
should happen_.'
He smiled indulgently. 'But nothing can happen if I am there. And it
means such a lot to Dan. I think I told you that he is engaged to a
girl----'
'Yes! yes! I know; I know. But, as I said, if I were the girl----' She
broke off hurriedly, then began again. 'George, what has that to do
with the question? Nothing will happen, of course, and then you will
have lost your pleasure for nothing. Don't go! It is foolish. It is
unkind--when we all want you to stay--when I want you--I do indeed--you
will stay, won't you, George?--just to please me.'
To do her justice, she seldom stooped to use her own personal charm as
she did then, wilfully; but the case was urgent--the boy must not go.
George stared at her incredulously for a moment. 'Don't,' he said in a
low voice; 'please don't.'
'But it is true, George,' she went on, laying her hand on his arm. 'I
do want you to stay; I do indeed.'
His hand met hers suddenly, almost unconsciously, to fall away from it
again in a gesture of quick renunciation.
'No! no!' he began in the same low tones, 'it isn't true--how can it be
true?' Then his whole nature seemed to cast reserve aside, and his
voice rose passionately. 'Why should you care? I have never thought you
could--never--I swear to you never! How could I? Do you not see it is
only what you are to me, not what I am to you? What does that matter?
But for the other--for what you have been, and are, and will be all my
life?--Ah! that is different--Yet you know that! well enough--you must
know--for I can't tell it--not even to you.'
And there, English boy as he was, she saw him on his knee stooping to
kiss the hem of her garment. It was cut in the latest fashion, full
round the edge, and bordered by pearls of great size. They might have
been of great price also--the Hodinuggur pearls, for instance--and
George been none the wiser. He saw nothing but a blaze of light through
the open gates of heaven showing him a woman, transfigured, glorified?
And she? There was nothing before her eyes save a boy at her feet--a
very ordinary boy, whose every-day admiration she had accepted
carelessly; yet it was she who, covering her face with her hands,
shrank back as if blinded.
'Don t,' she cried in sharp accents of pain. 'You don't know--I--I
don't like it.'
He was on his feet again in an instant, blushing, confused. 'I--I beg
your pardon,' he stammered. 'I don't know what induced me to--to behave
like--like a fool.'
In sober truth he did not, being all unused to self-analysis, and far
too young to understand his own instinctive recoil from the cheap
cajolery which had caused his outburst. But she was older; she
understood. He would not let her stoop, and yet--ah, God! how low she
had stooped already! So the emotion she had wantonly provoked in him
caught her and swept her from her feet.
'Oh, George!' she cried, coming a step nearer and thrusting her hands
into his as if to hold him fast and make him listen. 'It was a mistake!
I meant no harm--no harm to any one--least of all to you.'
'No harm!' he echoed blankly. 'What harm have you done?'
She looked at him, realising her own imprudence, yet for all that not
sufficiently mistress of herself for caution. A worse woman than she
might have kept silence; but she could not. The shame, the dread of
betraying the lad who trusted her so utterly forced her on.
'Don't ask, George!' she pleaded. 'I can't tell you--indeed there is
nothing to tell. Only you must not go down to Hodinuggur now. Believe
me, it is better you should not. I can give you no reason, but it is
so. Don't go, George, for my sake.
'For your sake,' he echoed, still more blankly. 'Why? I don't
understand--Mrs. Boynton, I----' He paused; his hand went up in a
fierce gesture, and came down in still fiercer clasp on the
mantelpiece. His eyes left her face, shifting their startled,
incredulous gaze to his own grim jest leaning against the brass Buddha.
'Unless--unless----'
There was a dead silence.
'If there is anything to tell,' he said at last, 'tell it me for God's
sake; it would be better--than this. Why am I to stay?--for your sake.'
Tell! How could she tell the horrible truth; and yet if he knew all he
might be able to help. Then the need of support, the craving for
sympathy, which at all times make it hard for a woman in trouble to
keep her own counsel, fought against the evasion suggested by caution.
'Oh, George! I meant no harm--I did not, indeed.' The weak appeal for
mercy, which presages so many a miserable confession, struck cold to
the lad's heart. He walked over to the table and flung himself into a
chair, hiding his face in his clasped hands.
'You had better tell me everything,' he said in a muffled voice. 'Then
I shall know what to do--don't be afraid--it--it won't make any
difference.'
Once more his words roused her self-scorn and made her forget herself
for a time. 'But it must make a difference, I want it to make a
difference,' she cried hotly, crossing to the table in her turn, and
seating herself opposite him. 'Yes! I will tell you. It is the only
thing to be done now.'
She was never a woman given to sobs and tears, and even through the
shame of it all, there was a relief in telling the tale.
'Yes! yes!' he said once, interrupting that ever recurring plea of her
own innocence of evil intent, 'of course you meant no harm. So you took
the jewels and sold them to Manohar Lal for six thousand rupees.'
The fact, recounted in his hard, hurt voice, seemed to strike her in
its true light for the first time, and she looked up wildly from the
resting-place her head had found upon her bare crossed arms.
'Did 11, she asked, pushing the curls from her forehead. 'Yes, I
suppose I did. It seems incredible now. Oh, George, what shall I do?
what shall I do?'
It did seem incredible, and yet his fears as to what she might yet have
to tell him, proved his credence of what he had already heard.
'You had better go on,' he answered dully. 'I can't say what is to be
done till I have heard all.'
The sound of his own voice shocked him. Was it possible that he was
sitting calmly listening to such a story from her lips and asking her
to go on? The curse of the commonplace seemed to settle upon him,
depriving him even of his right to passionate emotion.
'Is that all?' he asked wearily, when she had told him of everything
save the empty _dandy_ waiting outside the dressmaker's shop. His
question came more from the desire to help her along should there be
more to tell than from curiosity or fear. Since, from the very
beginning, he had been vexedly conscious of his own relief in
remembering that she had returned his watch and chain before she had
even reached home.
The query, however, roused in her a sudden fierce resentment against
her own humiliation. Every syllable of that story, now that it was
told, seemed an outrage on that love of smooth things which was her
chief characteristic, and a sort of vague wonder at her own confidence
made her answer swiftly.
'That is all I know. Is it not enough?' After all, it was true; what
more was there to tell save the barest possibilities?
Her reply left George face to face with action, yet he sat on silent,
unable even to speak. At last he rose, and crossing to where she leant
face downwards over the table, stood beside her with quivering lips. 'I
am sorry,' he began, then stopped before the fatuity of his own words.
'Do you think I am not sorry too?' she broke in recklessly, raising
herself to look him full in the eyes. 'I wish I were dead--if that
would help; but it won't. Something must be done; and done at once.
George! Why should you go down? To stay is so simple, and it will hurt
no one--believe me, it is best--best for us all.'
She was back to the position she had taken up before her appeal to his
passion had recoiled upon herself, but he could not follow her so far,
and he gave a bitter laugh.
'For you and for me, no doubt. But for Dan? Remember what the possible
loss of promotion means to him. Besides, I have promised. No! I must go
down, that much is certain.'
'And after?'
For the life of him he could not tell. He seemed unable to think of any
course of action save the palpably proper one of going straight to the
Chief and telling him of the plot laid against the sluice-gate. His
instinct for this remaining clear and well defined amid all the
confusion. As he stood silent, almost sullen, she laid her hand
quickly on his arm. 'You will not be rash, George--for my sake you will
not----'
'Whatever I do will be for your sake,' he said unsteadily.
'And you must not be angry with me. Indeed and indeed, I meant no harm
at first, and afterwards I was so frightened; so afraid for you all.
Oh, don't be angry with me, George.'
He set her hand aside with a hopeless gesture, and turned away to hide
the tears in his eyes. She did not understand, and a great dumbness was
upon him. He could say nothing. After all, what was there to say? She
had done this thing, meaning no harm, and he must save her, and
himself, and Dan from the consequences, somehow. He took out his watch
mechanically and looked at the time. Barely ten o'clock! So it was
possible to destroy heaven and earth in half an hour!
'It is time you were going,' he said, in quite a commonplace tone. 'I
can see you so far. You had better go. Gordon--and the others--might
wonder.'
It was the first time he had ever hinted at the supposition that some
definite tie existed between her and her cousin; this, and his cynical
acceptance of the fact that in the tragedy of life action must be
swayed by the desire of the spectators as much as by the emotions of
the actors themselves, brought home to Gwen her crime against the boy's
youth, and for the first time she broke into a sob.
'Oh, George! why did I do it? why did I do it?'
Why, indeed? A pitiable thing, surely, to stand silent without an
answer. Pitiable also for the woman, forced by considerations into
self-control. Into bathing her face, possibly powdering it, certainly
re-arranging the pretty artful curls, and so setting off through the
dark night to the Town Hall, as if nothing had happened. For what loss
of liberty is comparable to that entailed on the possessor of a fringe
which will come out of curl, even with the damp of tears?
The first clouds of the coming monsoon were drawn over the heads of the
hills like an executioner's cap, and George, riding the hired pony
behind the _dandy_, felt as if he were following the funeral of a faith
condemned to death. A dreary little procession this, despite its goal,
as it wound its way between the dark chasm of the valleys on the one
side and the dark shadow of the hills on the other. And then, like some
enchanted palace set between earth and sky, that pile upon the ridge
sending long beams of light and fitful snatches of dance-music across
the ravines came into view; so familiar, yet so strange. So were the
twinkling lamps, the crowd of _rickshaws_ and _dandies_ blocking up the
angles and arches, the red carpet in the porch, the red streak of baize
climbing up the white stairs.
He kept that pearl-edged hem of her garment from the dust till she
reached them.
'Have you settled what you are going to do?' she asked in a low voice,
as he held out his hand to say good-bye. He shook his head.
'I'll settle it somehow, you needn't be afraid.'
'I am not afraid. But, if the worst comes to the worst, I will not let
others suffer for my fault. So be careful--for my sake.'
'Whatever I do will be for your sake--you know that.'
He stood watching her go up the stairs; up and up, until the last trail
of that hem disappeared amid the coloured lamps and flowers. That was
the end of it all!--of all save Hodinuggur and the desire to kill
somebody. First of all, however, there must be safety for her; and that
might be secured by money. During that three miles' ride his thoughts
had been busy over possibilities, and one of them made him turn the
hired pony's nose towards Manohar Lal's shop instead of homewards.
There was no power in India like the power of rupees, he thought; and
they--with the Club still open and half a dozen young fellows as
reckless as oneself ready to back the chance of one living to pay just
debts--were not difficult to borrow for a month or two. Especially when
there was something--not much--but still a few hundred pounds or so to
come when the dear old governor---- George choked down a sob in a curse
at the hired pony for stumbling over the ill-paved alley.
The dawn had broken when the patient beast pulled up for the last time
by the verandah of Colonel Tweedie's house. A drowsy servant dozed
against the long coffin-like dhooli, the bearers crouched outside,
nodding in a circle round a solitary hookah.
'The Huzoor having lost chance of the mail, may perhaps delay till
eve,' suggested the half-roused torch-bearer, mechanically corking up
his useless bottle of oil at the sight of the growing glow in the east.
George, his face flushed yet haggard, stood for an instant looking over
the pine woods to where, had the light been stronger, he might have
seen the angle of a little house among the trees. After all, why should
he not stop now, if only to see her gratitude? Twelve hours, delay was
not much, especially when she was safe. Why need that be his last sight
of her going up the stairs with the pearls----pearls!--
An hour afterwards, when the sun tipped over the lower hills to make
the morning glories, festooned from rock to rock, open their eyes, they
opened them upon the coffin-like dhooli going rapidly down hill to the
accompaniment of shuffles and grunts, and recurring protestations that
the sahib was '_do mun puccka_.'[4] If the heaviness of heart could
have been measured, George might have weighed a ton.
Even at the best of times the descent from the cool hills to the hot
plains is never easy, and in this case paradise lay behind, purgatory
in front.
'I am so sorry Mr. Keene has gone,' said Rose Tweedie at breakfast. 'I
shall miss him dreadfully.' Lewis Gordon's eyebrows went up
superciliously.
'No doubt; but he was right to go, in more ways than one.'
Colonel Tweedie, busy over a virtuous plate of porridge and milk which
in some mysterious way he regarded as a sign of youth, gave his
preliminary cough.
'I scarcely agree with you, Gordon. In my opinion there is--er--a
savour--of--of insubordination; or, not to speak so strongly--a--a want
of respect, in this sudden departure. Of course, the zeal and the--the
desire to do his duty--are pleasing, very pleasing in so young a man.
At the same time, a little more confidence in--er--the judgment of----'
'Mr. Gordon wasn't thinking of that, father,' interrupted the girl,
with her grey eyes showing some scorn for both her companions; 'he
meant to imply that George--Mr. Keene--was better away from Simla.'
'Your perspicacity does you credit, Miss Tweedie; I did mean it. He has
been going rather fast, and will be none the worse of saving up some
more rupees at Hodinuggur.'
'If he had the money to spend, I don't see why he shouldn't spend it in
having a good time,' she retorted quickly. 'He won't ask you to pay the
bills, will he?'
'Hope not, I'm sure; but the bearer brought quite a little pile of them
to me this morning by mistake.'
Rose bit her lip. 'Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell your man to
put them back into Mr. Keene's room. I'll forward them when I write.
Are you coming with me to the Grahams, this afternoon, father?'
But Colonel Tweedie was not to be diverted from the
Head-of-the-Department frown he had been preparing.
'I am sorry to hear it. To say the least, it is bad taste to--to----'
'Leave I.O.U's instead of P.P.C.'s,' remarked Lewis flippantly. 'But
really, sir, I don't see how he could help it, after all. He had to go
in such a hurry.'
'I deny the necessity,' continued the Colonel pompously. 'I fail to see
any just cause for setting his opinion against that of--of his elders
and superiors.'
'Unless he had private reasons of his own,' suggested his daughter.
'My dear Rose, a public servant can have no private reasons.'
There was an epigrammatic flavour about the remark which, to the
Colonel's ears, completely covered its absolute want of sense. He felt
vaguely that he had said something clever, and that it might be as well
to let it close the subject, which he did by answering the previous
question as to whether he would go to the Grahams'. Certainly, if it
did not rain; but the barometer was falling fast, and a telegram had
come to the office that morning to say the monsoon had broken with
unusual violence at Abu. It might be expected north at any moment. On
which the two men fell to talking about dams and escapes, inundations,
cuts, and such like things, while Rose sat silent, indignant with
Lewis, yet disturbed at the confirmation his hints gave of her own
fears. George had been reckless, there could be no doubt of that. Had
not one of her partners last night told her that he had left George
playing poker at the Club but half an hour before? George who had
declared he had not time to put in an appearance at the ball!
When breakfast was over she went into the lad's empty room for the
bills, and took the opportunity of giving a housewifely glance round to
see if nothing had been left behind or taken away in the hurry. The
former, certainly, for there was the bottom drawer quite full;--old
shirts and ties, a rather battered pot-hat, and beneath the whole a
picture.
She stood looking at it blankly. What a very odd coincidence! The girl
of her dream! The girl with the quaint dress and the Ayodhya pot
clasped to her breast. Why had George brought it up to Simla and never
showed it to any one? Why, when the pot was stolen, had he said nothing
about the girl? though, on the other hand, she herself had kept silence
about her dream. She puzzled over it for some time; at last, finding
certainty on but one point--namely, that for some reason or another
George had wished to keep the picture secret--she took it away to her
own room. For she was of those who regard unspoken wishes on the part
of a friend to be quite as binding as any they may express.
Just about the same time Gwen Boynton, still in her bed, was looking at
something else George had left behind him, but this had only been an
envelope carefully addressed to her. It contained two pieces of paper
signed by Manohar Lal. One was a receipt for a diamond necklace, on
which Rs. 6000 had been lent. The other, of later date, giving a
quittance in full for the same sum plus interest.
How simple! Why had she never thought of such a plan before? But where
could she have raised the money necessary to buy freedom? Besides--she
buried her face among the pillows in vain desire to shut out the
conviction which rushed in on her, as she recognised that if the
plotters had gained what they wanted from the empty _dandy_ outside the
dressmaker's house, they would naturally be quite ready to deal with
George and take money for a security they were already pledged to give.
Which, in fact, they would have given, since the canons regulating
bribery in India are strict in regard to value returned for value
received. Every penny, therefore, of the money George must have paid
for these papers, was so much clear unexpected gain to Manohar Lal _if
the plotters had already attained their object_.
Still she was safe, and even if anything happened nobody could blame
George. Now she had had time to consider the whole bearings of the
matter she told herself such blame was impossible; while as for
Dan----! If he would only leave Government service and make money, she
was ready to marry him to-morrow! She had woven a conscience-proof
garment for herself out of the old hair-splitting arguments long before
George's dhooli had reached the level plain. When it did, the clouds
had banked themselves against the higher hills, shutting out the boy's
farewell glance. As he climbed into the country gig in which forty
miles of dusty road had to be covered, the barometer was falling fast,
and the driver remarked cheerfully, that when the rain came, the
cholera would increase. It had been bad at the third stage that day,
and one of the coolies belonging to the Government bullock train had
died on the road about five miles farther on. The sahib might perhaps
still see the body lying there.