Mrs. Boynton had behaved very much as Lewis Gordon had anticipated on
hearing of George Keene's sudden death from cholera. She had wept
honest tears over the dear lad, even while she could not help feeling
happier than she had done for months; happier because of the flood
which had come and gone, sweeping away with it all her difficulties,
all her troubles. Yet it brought her one unavailing regret that she
should so unnecessarily have put the bitter pain of hearing her
confession into those last days, and that he should have gone down to
his death not thinking ill of her exactly--the dear lad would never
have done that--but hurt, disappointed, unhappy. She would have liked
him to have seen a certain letter which lay in a drawer of her
writing-table. A letter addressed, sealed, stamped, ready for sending,
which she had only kept back one day. Only one; yet, but for that lucky
chance it might have fallen into Dan's hands while George was ill and
brought needless pain into another kind heart; for there was, thank
heaven! no more need for humiliation and confession and promises of
restitution. She had torn open the letter in order to read it again,
and had been quite satisfied with its straightforward avowal of
responsibility and firm intention, should difficulties arise, of taking
the whole blame on herself. Then she had put it away again as a
perpetual witness to her repentance and amendment. And surely these
virtues had a right to forgiveness? One person, she knew, would do more
than forgive if he knew all, and this conviction joined to the sense of
loss which his prolonged absence from her environment always produced
in Gwen Boynton made her think very tenderly of Dan, who wrote her such
kind, sympathetic letters from Hodinuggur about the dear lad. He was
not jealous, and full of evil imaginings like Lewis, whose temper had
certainly not been improved by his visit to the plains. Though she did
not consciously feel the need of something stronger than the cousinly
affection she had for him, there is no doubt that the shock of her own
lapses from strict honesty, joined to that of George Keene's sudden
death, had made her disinclined for final decision; so the fact that
Dan would, from pressure of work, be unable to get leave that year, and
Lewis, from the same cause, was not likely to be urgent in love-making,
suited her capitally. She would have time to recover her tone. To this
end she proceeded, with a curious strength of purpose, to dismiss the
nightmare of the past from her mind. It was over. What had been, had
been. She would 'reach out to the things which were before'; no! not
reach out! She would not again be premature; she would let fate and
luck have their say to the full.
One small fact showed her state of mind exactly. She dismissed her
ayah, giving her as a parting present most of the articles which
Manohar Lal had forced her into buying from him. The woman sulked, yet
held her tongue, no doubt knowing through her patron, the jeweller,
that so far as he was concerned the mem was safe; besides, when all was
said and done, the bucksheesh was sufficient; under no circumstances
could more have been expected. So, on the whole, life went quite
smoothly in the pretty little drawing-room where poor young George had
sat with his head on the table dazed and stunned by his bitter pain.
Over the way, however, in Colonel Tweedie's house, things were
different. Lewis Gordon, up to the ears in endless calculations, yet
found time to notice that grief suited Rose very ill. And grief,
forsooth, for a boy who had not cared a pin for her, who had run into
debt, and gambled and lost his head completely over another woman; who,
if the truth were known, had shot himself because--to take the most
charitable view of the matter--he had not the pluck to bear
disappointment. Naturally a young fellow felt being fooled--more or
less--by a woman, because certain instincts were the strongest a
man had--as a man. But one expected something more--or less--in a
gentleman. And there was Miss Tweedie, who depended for attractiveness
on the _beaute du diable_, looking pale and worn, over a mere
sentimentalism; for she herself would be the first to deny that she had
been what he, Lewis, would call 'in love' with George. Finally, though
he, knowing to the full Gwen's responsibility for the boy's suicide,
had every right, if he chose, to be hard on his cousin, why should this
girl, who knew nothing, stand aloof and show her disapproval so
plainly?
'You don't understand girls,' said Gwen easily, in reply to some hints
of his to this effect. 'Dear Rose can't help huffing me at present. I
should feel the same, I'm sure, towards any one who had, to my mind,
stood between me and my dear dead.'
Lewis shifted irritably in his chair, and wished to goodness she would
talk sense.
'Sense! Why, you yourself are always blaming me in your heart because
that poor boy thought me the most perfect woman in the world! You know
you are! As if it was my fault. As if I ever encouraged such an idea in
any one, or set up for being perfection.'
It was true enough. She never posed as anything but a woman _pur et
simple_. That was one of her charms in his eyes, and the injustice of
cavilling at what he really liked made him say more gently--
'I don't suppose you could help it, dear; and perhaps Miss Tweedie
can't either. I don't pretend to understand women--have enough to do in
trying to understand the atrocious English men put into their reports.
But I wish you could come over sometimes as you used to do. The girl
oughtn't to be allowed to eat nothing and grow so disagreeably thin.'
Gwen gave an odd laugh. 'Well, I'll invite myself to luncheon
to-morrow. It is bad for the girl--and so useless, into the bargain.'
The common-sense of the last remark lingered in Lewis Gordon's mind
comfortably as he went home. In more ways than one it was quite useless
to dwell on George Keene's unfortunate death. No doubt Rose, if she
knew all, would judge Gwen very harshly, and not only Gwen, but those
who, knowing what they did, went on as if nothing had happened; but
Rose Tweedie, the fates be praised, was not his judge.
And yet when he passed the window of her room on his way to his own,
she was in sober truth sitting in judgment on the figure she saw for a
second between the draped curtains. He had been over as usual to Mrs.
Boynton's--to the woman who had been the last to see George Keene, and
who would say so little of that interview; the woman who no doubt was
to blame if, as her father said, George had run into debt, and gambled,
and lost his head. Lewis must know all this, perhaps more, yet he went
on approvingly. By and by he would marry this woman--for they were
engaged, of course, even now. Was not that enough to make any one
unhappy who cared for him as she cared? Rose leant forward over the
book her eyes were studying, and tried hard to bend her mind also to
its consideration.
Despite these thoughts she received Mrs. Boynton on the next day
without a sign of disapproval; for Rose, like most unmarried girls at
the head of a house, was intensely proud of her position. In society,
if she did not care to speak to Gwen, she would not speak; if she did
not care to have her in the house she would not ask her; but if she
came, as she did now, uninvited, she was nothing more nor less than a
guest to be treated as a guest should be treated. Perhaps Lewis Gordon
had an inkling as to the cause of her graciousness, but Colonel Tweedie
saw nothing but a renewal of those amenities the loss of which he had
helplessly deplored during the past fortnight. It had put him out
terribly, and left him completely puzzled as to its cause. Certainly
not to any change in his mind, for the coolness had checked a steadily
growing conviction that he would not only like, but that he also ought,
to ask Mrs. Boynton to marry him. Rose was too much alone; she brooded,
as the former had kindly pointed out, over life, and fancied herself in
love with subordinates. She was too sensible for that sort of thing to
be real, but the constant companionship of a woman of the world was a
necessity to a young girl. It is surprising how many second marriages
are inspired by sensible considerations; still more surprising why such
prudence should then be thought virtuous, moral, blameless, yet be
deemed _anathema maranatha_ in first marriages. There are some things
which, as Dundreary said, 'no fellow can find out,' and one is the
curious ethical code which has quite obscured the real issues of
marriage, and made it possible for quick-witted husbands and wives to
quarrel desperately with each other about things that have nothing to
do with the tie between them. Colonel Tweedie, however, treated his
secondary reasons with the greatest respect, and beamed pompously round
the luncheon table as he announced his infinite regret that the duties
of his responsible position made it necessary for him to leave such
pleasant company sooner than he would otherwise have done. Mrs.
Boynton, however, would readily understand that Councils of State were
paramount to the public servant. Whereupon Gwen, after her fashion,
took the edge off his anguish by saying that she also had to be at home
early, seeing she had promised to interview some dreadful Madrassee
creature who had been recommended to her as an ayah.
'Why did you send old Fuzli away?' asked Rose suddenly. They had risen
as they were speaking, and she had been standing by the window
listening with a certain weariness in her face to her father's ornate
regrets.
'The old reason, "_I do not like thee, Dr. Fell_,"' laughed Gwen. 'I
suppose it is very illogical--therefore, as Lewis would say, very
womanly'--but I can't help disliking my world by instinct.'
'That is monstrously unkind,' broke in the Colonel, eager as a boy over
the opportunity, 'when your world can't help doing the reverse.' There
is something very satisfactory apparently in a compliment to the person
who makes it, and the Colonel felt and looked quite lighthearted over
his.
'When you have got rid of us all, Miss Tweedie,' said Lewis Gordon in a
low tone which yet covered Gwen's little laugh, 'you should go out and
have a jolly ride. I'm not using Bronzewing--she frets at waiting--so
she is at your service, if you care----' he paused in quick surprise--
Such a very little thing upsets a woman's balance at times; and
Bronzewing had been the one subject over which she and Lewis had never
quarrelled since the day of his accident. It was foolish, but the look
on her face made him turn hastily from the window to his cousin, and
catch at the first thing likely to give the girl time to recover
herself.
'I believe your ayah's coming here, Gwen; at least I see one of those
little covered dhoolies descending from your house, and if there are to
be _purda-nishin_ women about, sir, it is time we men were going.'
'Don't be ridiculous, Lewis. It is somebody going to pay a visit to the
khansaman's wife. The ayah wouldn't be _purdah_, and she wouldn't dare
to come here; and if she did, I am not going to make a zenana out of
Colonel Tweedie's drawing-room.'
'But you could go into Rose's sitting-room, of course,' protested the
Colonel; 'couldn't she, dear?'
'But indeed, good people,' began Gwen, laughing, 'it can't----'
Just then a servant, entering stolidly, announced a woman waiting to
see Mem Boynton sahib.
'I told you so,' cried Lewis joyfully, 'and, as a matter of fact, we
ought to be off, sir. It will take us a good twenty minutes to the
Secretariat.'
'Show the woman into the Miss Sahib's office,' cried the Colonel
fussily. 'Rose, my dear----'
But the girl had taken the opportunity of escaping through the open
French window.
'Please don't mind,' said Mrs. Boynton. 'I know my way about this
house--at any rate I ought to, seeing how hospitable and good you have
been always. Good-bye. I hope your interview will prove more pleasant
than mine is likely to be.'
Their ponies were waiting, and she stayed to see them start and give a
parting nod as they rounded the last visible turn of the path leading
to the Mall. Gwen always added these pleasant friendly touches to the
bareness and business of life. They came to her by instinct, and she
herself felt cold and cheerless without them.
Then, very well satisfied with herself, she crossed the long matted
passage which ran from end to end of the house, separating the portion
Colonel Tweedie reserved for his own use from that occupied by the
office. Here, beside her father's private room, was Rose's little
study, and beyond that again Lewis Gordon's quarters and the big glazed
verandah where the clerks sat designing. It was quite a small room,
and, as Mrs. Boynton entered it, seemed to her over full of perfume,
possibly from the vase full of wild turk's-cap lilies on the table. The
window was shut too, and Gwen as she made her way to the most
comfortable chair, with scarcely a glance at the white-robed figure
standing in the shadow of the curtains, gave a quick yet languid order
to set the glazed doors wide open.
'They are best shut if the Huzoor does not mind. I have that to say
which requires caution.'
Those round, suave tones, with almost the nightingale thrill in them
belonged to no ayah, surely! Gwen looked round hastily. That was no
ayah's figure either, tall, supple, unabashed. Instinctively the
Englishwoman stood up and confronted her visitor, more curious than
alarmed. Even to that ignorance of native life which is so typical of
the mem-sahib--an ignorance not altogether to be deprecated--the
woman's trade was unmistakable. That was writ large in the trimness and
cleanliness, the spotless white, the chaplets of flowers, the scent of
musk and ambergris filling the room; all the more reason for surprise
at her presence there. Yet, even so, curiosity outweighed indignation
and resentment in Gwen's cold questioning.
'Who are you? What do you want?'
The answer came quick, so quickly that it left the hearer with that
breathless sense of pained relief that the worst is over, which comes
with the clean sharp cut of a surgeon's knife.
'I am Chandni of Delhi. I want the Hodinuggur pearls which the Huzoor
took out of the Ayodhya pot.'
There was no mincing of the matter here; none of that beating about the
bush which, as a rule, Gwen loved. Yet the directness did not displease
her; it seemed to rouse in her a novel combativeness, taking form in
similar effrontery and cool assertion.
'I don't know what you are talking about,' she said indifferently, 'and
I don't want you. Go!'
Her Hindustani, though limited, was of the imperative order and suited
the occasion; yet it evoked one of Chandni's shrill mocking laughs.
'The mem sahiba mistakes. She is not as I am, a daughter of the
bazaars, and if it comes to words Chandni hath two to her one. So I
come quietly to ask reasonably for my rights; not to dispute after the
manner of my kind. There is no need to tell the mem sahiba the story.
She remembers it perfectly. She knows it all as well as I. But this she
does not know: The pearls are mine, and I will have them back, or their
price in revenge.'
'I think you are mad!' cried Gwen more hastily. 'Go! go instantly, or I
will call the servants.'
'That were not wise! Lo! I know all about the papers of safety, which
Manohar Lal gave in exchange for the little sahib's rupees. But the
pearls went not once, but twice.'
'Twice!' The involuntary echo had a surprise in it which angered the
courtesan.
'Yes, twice! The mem knows that as well as I do. The Ayodhya pot----'
'Was stolen from me in the palace,' put in Gwen; 'you stole it, I dare
say.'
Again Chandni laughed. 'If I did, what then? The mem got it again and
sent it back through the post for more pearls. But we did not send it
thus; we sent it by the little sahib, who gave it to the mem, and she
sent the key in return. The papers are about the first pearls. These
are the second, and there is no safety paper about them.'
'It is not true!--it is a lie--he never took them--he never gave them
to me,' cried Gwen, her courage, oddly enough, failing before what was
to her an absolutely novel and unfounded accusation. 'I will not
listen! Go! or I will call.'
Chandni took a step nearer, lowering her voice. 'What! wouldst let the
truth be known; when thou canst conceal it--for ever! Give me the
pearls and no one shall know--no one shall cast dirt on the mem, and on
the little sahib--no one shall know how he took the bribes for you--no
one shall know thou didst beguile him as men are beguiled.'
'I--I did not--it is a lie, I----' faltered Gwen, falling back till
Chandni's hand closed like a vice on her wrist.
'Wah! What use to deny it to me? Do I not know the trick? A word, a
look, no more. What! do men send bullets through their hearts as Keene
sahib did for no cause? Ari, sister! we know better.'
The jeering comradeship was too much for caution even though the story
of poor George's death passed by her as a wanton lie. Gwen, struggling
madly, gave one scream after another for help, and, breaking from her
persecutor, turned to fly. At the same moment Rose, who had been into
her father's study for a book, burst through the door and stood
bewildered at the scene.
'Send her away! She tells lies--lies about me and George--lies about
everything. Oh! have her sent away, Rose. Please send her away.'
The girl, clasping the hands with which Gwen clung to her, turned on
the intruder angrily, and an indescribable hardness and contempt came
to her face, as she took in the meaning of the figure and its dress.
'How dare you come here? Go this instant! Put on your veil, hide
yourself, and go! Impertinent! Shameless!'
There was no answering laugh now. 'The Huzoor speaks truth,' replied
the courtesan quietly. 'I have no business here. I came but to see the
mem, bethinking me she might listen better in the house of those who
were friends to the little sahib----'
But Gwen's immediate terror had passed, leaving her face to face with
future fears.
'Don't listen, Rose!' she interrupted in English. 'You should never
listen to what women of that sort say about any one. She frightened me
at first with her lies, but the wisest plan is to send her away. I'll
call a servant.'
Chandni, listening to the quick whisper, smiled.
'The mem sahiba wants silence,' she said, nodding her head; but silence
is ever unsafe unless tongues are tied. And mine will wag if not here,
elsewhere, unless I get the Ayodhya pot.'
Rose gave a quick exclamation, but Gwen's hand was on her arm, her
voice full of passionate entreaty.
'Don't, Rose! don't speak to her. I can tell you all. It is all lies;
some rigmarole declaring that after the pot had been stolen at
Hodinuggur it was sent back to me here at Simla, and that I returned it
again. There isn't a word of truth in it; I never----'
But the girl set aside her detaining hand with an impatient gesture,
and crossed to where Chandni stood watching them.
'You have made a mistake,' came the clear unfaltering voice. 'The
Ayodhya pot was not sent to the mem sahiba, it was sent to me; and it
was I who returned it. What then?'
The frank admission brought a curiously similar expression to those two
listening faces; it seemed to leave both, abashed, uncertain, so that
Rose had to repeat her clear question before it gained reply.
'What then?' echoed the courtesan at last, somewhat sulkily. 'How can I
tell if this be so; and if it be so, how can I tell what came? Only
this I do know: the pot went to Keene sahib the day he left. He gave it
to some one. Let that some one answer. I care not who 'tis, so I have
my pearls that were hidden in the pot.'
'Pearls! There were no pearls in it when it came to me,' cried Rose
quickly; then remembering the jagged edge of clay she had noticed
inside, she turned to Gwen: 'Did you notice anything like a false
bottom when you had it before?'
The face into which she looked paled. 'You don't understand!' said Gwen
petulantly; 'the woman says that these pearls were put there after it
was stolen, so how could I notice anything when I tell you I never saw,
never heard of it again? I told the woman so just now. I will tell her
again before you! then I must, I will have her sent away, she has no
business here.'
But Chandni's recklessness had grown. 'I care not who has them. See!
there are three of us here in this room who have handled the pot. Let
her who hath it and its hoard speak truth, and save the little sahib.
For he had it, sure enough; of that there is proof.'
'Three of us!' repeated Rose absently, as if struck by a thought. Then
obeying a sudden impulse, she went over to a portfolio standing in one
corner of the room. 'You mistake,' she continued, her eyes full on the
courtesan. 'There are not three, but four of us. Look! Keene sahib
painted that.'
Chandni fell back, averting her face from the portrait of Azizan, which
Rose placed against an easel on the table.
'The evil eye! the evil eye! God save us from the witch,' she muttered,
thrusting out her right hand in that two-fingered gesture which is used
against a baleful glance in both East and West. But Gwen pressing
closer looked at the picture with a dawning light of relieved
comprehension in her face.
'Did he paint that--how pretty it is! And it explains--it
explains--a--a great deal. He gave her the pot, I suppose--Well! it is
a pity, but one ought not to be----'
'Ought not to be what?' interrupted Rose fiercely, with a fine scorn in
her face, scarcely less concealed than the contempt with which she
turned to the other woman.
'You both seem to know or understand this picture better than I do,'
she said superbly. 'Perhaps you can tell me whom it represents?'
'My dear Rose,' expostulated Gwen, aside; 'don't for pity's sake ask
that creature. What would your father say if he knew? You may mix
yourself up----'
'Whose picture is it, I ask?' repeated Rose, unheeding. Then in the
silence of Chandni's smile, and Gwen's frown, she turned passionately
to the portrait itself. 'Why don't you speak and shame them? You look
as if you could tell the truth, and if he made you so, it was true!'
The very vehemence of her own fanciful appeal imposed on her, and she
paused as if waiting a reply. It came with a laugh from Chandni.
'She was another of the little sahib's friends. The miss saith true.
There are three of them here. Which will give back the pearls and save
him?'
'Save him from what?' cried Rose, disregarding Gwen's appeals for her
to leave the mad woman to the servants. 'What has Keene sahib done that
you can dare to threaten?'
The girl's bitter contempt roused all Chandni's savageness. After all
she was the mistress, and this girl, despite her courage, in her power
too; and what is more she should learn it.
'From what? from the shame which comes to the sahib-logue when their
pretence of honesty is found out--from the shame of having friends--the
shame of taking jewels for those friends--the shame of being untrue to
salt--Ask the mem how 'tis done, she knows--the shame of sending the
key of the sluice-gate so that the water----'
Her voice had risen with each sentence; now it ended in a gasp and a
gurgle.
'Open the door, please,' said Rose to Mrs. Boynton, who gasped also in
the intense surprise of the girl's swift action. 'Don't struggle,
fool!' she went on in the same hard tone, only the dead whiteness of
her face and a catch as she drew breath telling of the wild passion
surging in her veins. 'I won't choke you if you hold your tongue.'
Once before Chandni had felt a girl's grip on her throat; a hot,
straining grip. This was neither. It was the grip of a strong healthy
hand made vigorous by constant use. Those fierce fights over bat and
ball with the dead lad had had their share in the sheer muscle of her
defence of him, before which Chandni's large softness gave way, leaving
her not even a slandering tongue.
'Put the veil over her face, please! I won't even have it known who
dared to come here!' continued the girl, forcing the woman backwards
step by step till they reached the door. Then she pushed her from it
magnificently. 'Now go! and tell what lies you like elsewhere.'
But her face changed as she turned when the door was closed and bolted
to Gwen Boynton.
'Is it true? For God's sake tell me if there is a word of truth in it,
and I will find the money.'
Gwen dissolved into helpless tears at once; tears at once of vague
remorse, and a very real sense of injustice. 'True! oh, Rose, how can
you ask? Of course it isn't true. I wouldn't have done it for the
world. Indeed and indeed I never saw the Ayodhya pot again, and I don't
believe George did. He was the soul of honour, and so good--so good to
me. It is all wicked, wicked lies, unless, indeed, that girl--but
there, I daresay she was bad like that horrid creature. Perhaps they
stole the pot between them and are now trying to blackmail us.'
'Stole the pot!' repeated Rose slowly, for the first time remembering
her dream on the night of the storm at Hodinuggur. 'Yes! that is
possible, and yet----.' She looked at Azizan's picture, and then back
at Gwen, who was dabbing her eyes with a soft pocket-handkerchief. 'You
are sure?' she began again.
'Of course I am quite sure,' retorted Gwen, whose remorse had vanished
in grievance at this impudent attempt to amend and enlarge the text of
a past incident. 'I never saw or heard of the pot again. I may be weak,
I may have done things for which I am sorry in the past, but whatever
you may think, my conscience is clear. And as for the sluice? Dan
opened it by order; besides, there was the flood. It is all an attempt
to blackmail me, and I won't be blackmailed. I have done nothing they
can take hold of, nothing--nothing.'
Rose gave a sigh, almost of dissatisfaction. If it really was a case of
blackmailing, payment would be but a temporary relief. Perhaps, as she
had also suggested, the girl in the picture was in league with Chandni.
She did not look that sort either. Nor did she look as if---- Rose
glanced from the pure oval of the cheek and the fine long curves of the
mouth to Mrs. Boynton's tear-stained face and frowned.
'Some one has the pearls,' she said, 'and George's memory must be
saved--somehow.'