SEEING AND BELIEVING.
When Ferrers rode into Alibad next week, to spend his Christmas
there, his excitement had died down. He had not received the
additional evidence against Major Keeling which the Mirza had promised
him, and he understood that he must be content to wait for it. But he
had schooled himself into quietness since that eventful night by dint
of dwelling chiefly on the ridiculous side of what he had seen, and
found the recollection rather amusing than otherwise. He felt that he
could meet the delinquent without any inconvenient display of wrath,
and was prepared to enjoy to the full such Christmas festivities as
the resources of the station might provide. He wondered, with
something very like mirth, on what sort of footing he would find
himself with Penelope this time. Hitherto it had seemed as if he could
not remain in the same mind about her for two days together. But
surely it must be her fault, if she could not keep him faithful. No
doubt if he found her looking well and bright, more especially if the
other men seemed inclined to pay court to her, his suspended affection
would revive; but if she looked pale, and was too dull for any one to
care to talk to her, it was not likely he would wish to seek her out.
If she was no longer interesting, how could he possibly be interested
in her, and was he to blame that this was the case?
Thoughts of this kind were vaguely forming themselves in his mind as
he rode, when a cloud of dust in front announced the approach of
another horseman, and presently resolved itself into Colin, his face
wearing a determined expression which told that, as his Covenanting
forefathers would have said, something was “laid upon his mind.”
Ferrers wondered what was the matter, but Colin said nothing until he
had turned his horse and they were riding side by side. Then he
inquired with startling suddenness--
“Are you still in the same mind about Penelope as when we last talked
about her?”
“Why, Colin, have you come out to ask me my intentions?” asked
Ferrers, much amused.
“I’m not joking. If you feel as you did when you sent her that message
by me, I think the time is come to announce it openly. Do you feel
inclined to speak to her yourself on the subject?”
Ferrers shrugged his shoulders, and yielded, in his usual fashion, to
the influence of the moment. “I should be delighted, but how is it to
be managed? Lady Haigh watches over her like a dragon when I am
there.”
“I will undertake Lady Haigh if you will seize your opportunity.
Penelope is unhappy in her present anomalous position, I am certain.
She distinctly gave me the impression that she had thought you unkind
and neglectful. Of course I defended you as best I could, but you
should have been there to speak for yourself.”
“But I thought it was Penelope’s own wish that I should keep my
distance?”
“So I thought,” was the troubled answer; “but now I think it might
have been better if you had not held aloof quite so much. I may have
mistaken her--I was so anxious to bring you together again that I
would have agreed to almost any terms.” Ferrers laughed involuntarily,
but Colin’s forehead was puckered with anxiety. “Perhaps you should
have refused to take her at her word----”
“Or at your word,” suggested Ferrers.
“Well, perhaps if you had been more eager, refused to be kept at a
distance in this way, she might have liked it better. Women seem to
find some moral support in an engagement, somehow----”
“What a young Solon you are, Colin! Well, give me a lead at the right
moment, and I’ll play up to it. So poor little Pen is miserable, is
she?”
“She is not happy, and she won’t talk about you. She must think you
have treated her badly--don’t you agree with me? I daresay she has the
idea that I might have helped her more. I hope it will be all right
now, and that I am not wrong in----”
“Oh, look here, Colin, don’t trot out that conscience of yours,” said
Ferrers, with rough good-nature. “We’re going to put things right, at
any rate, and you can’t quarrel with what you’ve done yourself,” and
Colin consented to leave the subject. He was honestly anxious to do
what was best for his sister, with an unconscious mental reservation
in favour of what he thought was best; and the barrier which the last
few months had raised between Penelope and himself was a real grief to
him. Penelope had learnt to carry her burden alone. Colin could not
understand why it should be a burden at all, and she could not confide
in Lady Haigh without seeming to accuse Colin. Her sole comfort
hitherto had been that Ferrers made no attempt to enforce what she
regarded as his threats in the message sent by Colin, and she looked
forward to Christmas-week with absolute dread. She hoped desperately
that he might still hold aloof; but this hope was destined to be
shattered as soon as he reached Alibad.
Colin brought him up immediately to pay his respects to Lady Haigh,
who still held her court in the fort, for at the very beginning of the
rains one of the newly built houses had subsided by slow degrees into
its original mud, and Major Keeling would not allow the ladies to move
until the others had been tested and strengthened. Lady Haigh’s policy
was unchanged, it was evident. She kept the conversation general, and
made it clear that she would remain on guard over Penelope until
Ferrers was safely off the premises. But Colin had come prepared to
throw himself heroically into the breach.
“I think Captain Ferrers and my sister have something to say to each
other,” he said, and offered his arm to Lady Haigh with formal
courtesy. “Perhaps you would not mind showing me the view from the
ramparts again?”
No one was more astonished than Lady Haigh herself at her compliance
with the invitation; but, as she said later, when she was politely
handed out of her own drawing-room, what could she do but go? The one
glimpse she had of Penelope reassured her. The girl’s colour had
risen, and it was evident she resented her brother’s action, and was
not inclined to accept his ruling tamely. For the moment Ferrers was
the more embarrassed of the two. He fidgeted from one chair to
another, and then took up a book on the table near Penelope and played
with it, not noticing the start with which she half rose to rescue it
from his hands. It was a battered copy of Scott’s Poems, the pages
everywhere decorated with underlining and marginal notes.
“Why, I believe you have got hold of the Chief’s beloved Scott!” he
cried. “He might have found a respectable copy to lend you.”
“I should not have cared for that,” she replied. “It is his notes that
interest me.”
“Oh, you find the Chief an object of interest?” Ferrers looked up
sharply. “Do you see much of him?”
“He comes in fairly often.” Penelope’s tone was curiously repressed.
“I think he likes to talk to--us.”
“And what may you and he find to talk about?”
“The province, chiefly. Sometimes the battles he has been in.”
Ferrers laughed forbearingly. There was little need to fear a rival in
a man who could see a girl constantly for six months, and still talk
to her on military and civil themes at the end of the time. “And you
find that enlivening?” he asked. “Well, there’s no harm in it, but I
wouldn’t advise you to become too confidential with him. He’s not the
man you think him.”
“I did not know I had asked your advice on the subject,” said Penelope
coldly.
“Oh, didn’t you? but you see I have a right to give it; and I tell you
plainly I don’t wish you to make an intimate friend of Keeling.”
“Even supposing that you had such a right, I should never think of
bowing to it unless I knew your reasons.”
“Do you really wish me to give them? I thought you might prefer to go
on believing in your friend.”
“I wish to hear the worst you can say of him, and I shall go on
believing in him just the same.”
“Will you? I think not. What would you say if I told you I had seen
him, a week ago last night, playing _imam_ at a _pir_’s tomb out near
the Akrab--reciting prayers, writing charms, pretending to work
miracles, and all the rest of it?”
“A week ago last night?” said Penelope faintly. Then she pulled
herself together. “I should say you had been mistaken.”
“Mistaken? Am I not to believe the witness of my own eyes?”
“I would not believe the witness of my own eyes in such a case.”
Ferrers wondered at the decision with which she spoke, not knowing
what was in her mind. On the night he mentioned, she had remembered,
while lying awake, that she had left the book she was reading--one of
Sir Dugald’s--on the ramparts. Fearing it would be spoilt by the dew,
she roused her ayah and told her to go and fetch it, but the woman
whimpered that she was afraid--there were always ghosts in these old
forts--and hung back even when Penelope said she would come too. They
reached the rampart safely, however, the clear starlight making a lamp
unnecessary, and rescued the book. As they turned to descend the steps
again, the pad of a horse’s feet upon the sand reached their ears, and
looking over the parapet, they saw Major Keeling ride past on Miani.
There was no possibility of mistake, and Penelope had never dreamt of
imagining that the rider in undress uniform and curtained forage-cap
could be any one but the Commandant. He was bound on one of his
restless wanderings over the desert, and her heart sent forth a silent
entreaty to him to be prudent. But now, as she said, she was willing
to disbelieve the evidence of her own eyes if it gave support to this
story of Ferrers’.
“I suppose you think I am a liar?” he demanded resentfully.
“I think you have either made a mistake or been deceived. Do you
believe it yourself? What are you going to do.”
Ferrers was nonplussed. He had disobeyed the Mirza’s injunction, and
spoken without waiting for the further evidence promised him. He might
have put himself into a very awkward position if Penelope should tell
any one of what he had said, and he decided to temporise.
“Of course I should never think of saying anything about it. As you
say, it’s a case in which one can’t take seeing as believing. You
won’t say anything about it, of course?”
“Is it likely?” demanded Penelope indignantly. Ferrers surveyed her
with growing interest, and became suddenly sorry for himself.
“You flare up if any one says a word against the Chief, and yet you
believed a whole string of accusations against me, simply on Lady
Haigh’s word,” he said.
“I thought you acknowledged they were true? At any rate, you did not
value my opinion of you sufficiently to take a single step to justify
yourself.”
“What was the good? You were prejudiced against me. If you had cared
for me enough to give me a chance, it would have been different, but I
saw you didn’t, so I set you free.”
“And bound me again the next morning.”
“I had seen you by that time, and I couldn’t let you go. But what sort
of life have you led me since--keeping me at arm’s-length all these
months? Surely you might have been a little kinder----” Ferrers
stopped abruptly, for there was something like scorn in Penelope’s
eyes. “The fact is, you don’t care a scrap for me,” he broke out
angrily.
“Why should I?” asked Penelope.
For the moment he was too much astonished to answer, and she spoke
again, quietly, but with an under-current of indignation which drove
her charges home. “Why should I care for you, when you have never
shown the slightest consideration for me? Have you ever thought what a
position I should have been in, but for Lady Haigh’s kindness, when I
landed at Bab-us-Sahel? No, I know it was not your fault that the
letters miscarried; but you know you had no wish to see me when you
heard I had arrived. You were glad--glad--to be rid of the bond, and
so was I. And then you got Colin on your side--why, I don’t know--and
made him persuade me to renew my promise, because it would be a help
and comfort to you, and you could work better if you saw me now and
then. You have never been near me if you could possibly help it, and
for all the help and comfort I have been to you I might as well have
been at home. You may say I don’t care for you if you like, but I know
very well that you don’t care for me.”
“But I do!” cried Ferrers involuntarily. “On my honour, Pen, I never
knew what there was in you before. You are the girl for me. I always
felt you could keep me straight, but it never struck me till now how
sharply you could pull a fellow up.”
“You seem not to understand that I don’t want the task. I wish you to
give me back my promise.”
“I won’t, then. Come, Pen, we shall have a week together now, and I’ll
show you I do care for you. Let’s forget all that’s gone by, and begin
again. I have fallen in love with you this moment--yes, by Jove! I
have”--he spoke with pleased surprise--“and we’ll be as happy as the
day is long.”
“You don’t seem to see----” began Penelope, in a scared tone.
“Oh well, if you are going to bear malice----” he spoke huffily. “I
hadn’t thought it of you. Why shouldn’t you let bygones be bygones, as
I do? Of course I haven’t been exactly what you might call attentive,
but I’m going to begin fresh, as I said, and you needn’t think I’m
going to let you go. My uncle will get me a post in Lower Khemistan,
in a nice lively station, with plenty going on; and I’ll cut the
Mirza, and you shall have a jolly big bungalow, and horses and
carriages, and get your dresses out from home. When shall we be
married?”
Penelope’s eyes gathered a look almost of terror as she listened in
mingled perplexity and alarm. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said,
forcing her lips to utter the words.
“Then you must want to marry some one else. Who is it?”
For a moment she hesitated. Could she, did she dare, confess to him
the secret which she had only lately acknowledged even to
herself--that she had given her heart unasked to the keen-eyed swarthy
man who never talked to her of anything but war and work? To some men
it would have been possible to confide even this, but she felt,
rightly or wrongly, that with Ferrers it was not possible. She could
never feel sure that he would not in time to come fling her sorrowful
confession in her face, and use it to taunt her. She answered him with
desperate hopelessness, and, as she told herself, with perfect truth.
She had never had any thought of marrying Major Keeling. It would be
enough for her if their present friendship continued to the end of
their lives, or so she believed.
“There is no one,” she said. “Can’t you understand that--that----”
“That you don’t want to marry me?” cried Ferrers, laughing, his
good-humour quite restored. “No, Pen, I can’t. You’re feeling a little
sore now, because you think I’ve neglected you, but you shan’t
complain of that in future. I shall make furious love to you all this
week, and before I go back to that wretched hole we’ll announce the
engagement.”
He was so gay, so well satisfied with himself, so utterly incapable of
understanding what she felt, that Penelope’s heart sank. She made a
final effort. “Please listen to me,” she faltered. “I ask you
definitely to release me from my promise.”
“And I definitely refuse to do anything of the kind. There! is honour
satisfied now? You’ve made a brave fight--enough to please even Lady
Haigh, I should think--but it’s no good. The fortress has surrendered.
I’ll allow you the honours of war, but you mustn’t think you are going
to escape scot-free. Come!”
She allowed him passively to kiss her, and then sat down again at the
table, utterly exhausted. “Please go away now,” she said. “I will tell
Lady Haigh of--what you wish, and no doubt she will arrange for you to
come here when you like. I will try--to be a good wife to you.”
“You’d better!” said Ferrers gaily, as he departed. He was conscious
of a new and wholly unaccustomed glow of feeling--a highly creditable
feeling, too. He was actually in love, and with the very person who
would make him the best and most suitable wife he could choose. He had
not the slightest faith in the seriousness of Penelope’s resistance,
and felt genuinely proud of having overcome what he regarded as her
grudge against him. If she had only shown herself capable of
indignation and resentment earlier, he would have fallen in love with
her long ago. As it was, she might make their engagement as lively as
she pleased, and then settle down into an adoring fondness like
Colin’s, which would suit him admirably. Meeting Colin, he told him
the good news, adding that they had decided not to announce the
engagement for a week, as Penelope was still rather sore about their
past misunderstandings, and Colin hurried back to the fort, to find
Penelope with her head bowed on her arms on the table.
“Why, Pen!” he said in astonishment, “I hoped I should find you so
happy.”
Penelope raised her head, and looked at him despairingly. “Oh, Colin!”
was all she said. It seemed incredible to her that, after the long
years in which they had been all in all to each other, he could be as
blind as Ferrers to her real feelings.
“But, Pen, is it right to imagine slights in this way? I know he may
have seemed cold, but he thought it his duty to hold aloof. And he has
worked so hard and so steadily at Shah Nawaz, looking forward to the
time when he might speak to you again. I am sure the thought of you
has helped him; I know it. And now you turn against him, when he needs
your help as much as ever.”
“I can’t help any one, I am too weak,” moaned Penelope. “I want some
one strong, who can help me.”
“A strong man would not need your help,” said Colin, in the slightly
didactic tone with which he was wont, all unconsciously, to chill his
sister’s feelings. Her heart protested wildly. She could help the
strong man of whom she was thinking, she knew, but the opportunity was
denied her. “George does need you,” Colin went on, “and will you
refuse to help him because he has wounded your self-love?”
“You don’t understand. We should never be happy.”
“One must not think too much of happiness in this world--only of what
one can do for others.”
“I know that, but still---- Colin, do you mean to tell me that if you
were married you wouldn’t want your wife to be happy?”
“That is different,” said Colin, flushing. “If she was not, I should
fear it was my fault; but what has George done that you should not be
happy with him? He is a splendid fellow--his good temper and rough
kindness often make me ashamed of myself. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I suppose not, if he thought about it,” said Penelope doubtfully.
“But oh, Colin, he doesn’t know when he hurts. You think only of him,
and he thinks only of himself, and no one thinks of me--except Elma.
I wish I had listened to her all along!”
“If you are determined to be so uncharitable,” said Colin gravely,
“you had better break your promise, and send Ferrers about his
business. I could not advise you to do such a thing, but I quite allow
that my conscience is not a law for yours. I see no prospect of
happiness for you, certainly, while you are in your present frame of
mind. I think you have met with too much attention since you came to
India, Pen, and it has warped your judgment. But, as I said, don’t let
my opinion influence you.”
He stood before her in his unbending rectitude, rigid and sorrowful,
and Penelope gave way. She could not add alienation from Colin to her
other troubles, and how could she tell him that in addition to her
personal distaste for Ferrers there was against him the insuperable
bar that he was the wrong man?
“I can’t but be influenced by your opinion, Colin,” she said. “And I
never meant to say all this. Don’t let us refer to it again, please; I
shall not break my promise.”