CHECKED
Lois and Stafford had arrived at that stage of friendship when
conversation becomes unnecessary. They walked side by side through the
Colonel's carefully tended garden and were scarcely conscious that
they had dropped into a thoughtful silence. Yet, as though in
obedience to some unspoken agreement, their footsteps found their way
to the ruined bungalow and there paused.
As a look can be more powerfully descriptive than a word, so these
shot-riddled walls had their own eloquence. Each shot-hole, each
jagged splinter and torn hinge had its own history and added its
pathetic detail to the whole picture of that disastrous night when the
vengeance of Behar Singh had burst like a hurricane over the
defenseless land.
After a moment's hesitation Stafford stepped forward and, pushing
aside the heavy festoons of creeper which barred the doorway, passed
through into the gloomy interior.
"I should like to see the place from the inside," he explained to
Lois, who, with an uncontrollable shudder, had followed him. "One can
imagine better then how it all happened."
"I think of it all--often," she answered in a hushed voice, "and every
time I seem to see things differently. My poor mother!"
"You never knew her?" he asked.
"No, I was too young--scarcely more than a year old. Yet her loss
seems to have overshadowed my whole life."
"Was she like you?"
"Yes, I believe so. She was dark--not so dark as I am--but she was
stately and beautiful. So she has always been described to me, and so
I always seem to see her."
Stafford turned and looked about him.
"It must be almost as it was then," he said wonderingly, pointing to
the rusty truckle-bed in the corner. "And there is the broken
over-turned chair! It might have been yesterday."
She nodded.
"So my guardian found it," she said. "It had been my father's bungalow
and he never allowed it to be touched. When I came of age I gave it to
him. It seemed to belong to him, somehow. They say that it nearly
broke his heart when he found that he had come too late to save my
father. My father was his dearest, almost his only friend."
"Were they killed at once?" Stafford asked with hesitating curiosity.
"I have never known the rights of the case. It has always been a
painful subject for me--with you I don't mind."
It was the faintest allusion to a bond between them which both
silently recognized, and Lois turned away to hide the signal of
happiness which had risen to her cheeks.
"No one knows," she answered. "The bodies were never found. It was
part of Behar Singh's cruelty to hide the real fate of his victims.
For a long time people used to hope and hope that in some dungeon or
prison they would find their friends, but they never did. One can only
pray that the end was a mercifully quick one."
"And Behar Singh died in the jungle?"
"So the natives said. No one really knows," she replied.
"I wish he hadn't," Stafford said, his good-natured face darkening.
"It seems unfair that he should have caused our people to suffer so
much and we have never had the chance to pay back. Whatever made the
Government give his son the power, goodness only knows."
"The present Rajah was a baby then," she said in a tone of gentle
remonstrance. "It would have been hard to have punished him for the
sins of his father."
Nothing appeals to a man more than a woman's undiplomatic tenderness
for the whole world. Stafford looked down at Lois with a smile.
"You dear, good-hearted little girl!" he said. "And yet, blood is
blood, you know. Somehow, one can't get over it. In spite of his good
looks, it always seems to me as though I could see his father's
treachery in Nehal Singh's eyes. It made me sick to think that I was
enjoying his hospitality--it makes me feel worse that we have to
accept the club-house at his hands. Travers behaved pretty badly,
according to my ideas."
"It was mostly Miss Cary's doing," Lois objected. She liked Travers,
and was inclined to take up the cudgels on his behalf.
Stafford's eyes twinkled. On his side he had the rooted and not
unfounded masculine notion that all women are jealous of one another.
"Miss Cary is young and inexperienced and probably did not realize
what she was doing," he retorted. "From what she told me, she takes
the whole matter as a big joke, and now that the fat is in the fire
it's no use enlightening her."
Lois made no immediate answer, though she may have had her doubts on
the subject of Beatrice Cary's inexperience.
"The poor Rajah!" she said, after a pause, as Stafford walked
curiously about the room. "I could not help being sorry for him. He
seemed so eager and enthusiastic and anxious to please us, and we were
so cold and ungrateful. Tell me, does it really make so much
difference?"
He came back to her side. Something in her voice had touched him and
stirred to life a warmth of feeling which was more than that of
friendship.
"What makes so much difference?" he asked, smiling down at her small
troubled face. "What are you worrying yourself about now?"
"Oh, it has always troubled me," she answered with the impetuosity
which characterized her. "I have often worried about it. I mean," she
added, as he laughed at her incoherence, "all that race distinction.
Does it really mean so much? Will it never be bridged over?"
"Never," he said. "It can't be. It is a justified distinction and to
my mind those who ignore it are to be despised."
He had answered her question with only a part seriousness, his whole
interest concentrated on the charm of her personality. But for once
her gravity resisted the suppressed merriment in his eyes.
"Are the natives, then, so contemptible?" she asked.
"Not exactly contemptible, but inferior. They have not our culture,
and whatsoever they borrow from us is only skin-deep. Beneath the
varnish they are their elemental selves--lazy, cruel, treacherous and
unscrupulous. No, no. Each race must keep to itself. Our strength in
India depends on our exclusiveness--upon keeping ourselves apart and
above as superior beings. So long as they recognize we _are_ superior,
so long will they obey us."
"It is superiority, then, which prevents every one except professors
from taking any interest in the natives?"
"Possibly," he returned, not quite so much at his ease. "One feels a
natural repugnance, you know."
"You would never have anything to do with them?"
"Not if I could help it."
She sighed and turned away as though his gaze troubled her.
"I don't know why--it makes me sad to hear you talk like that," she
said. "It seems so terribly hard."
"It _is_ hard," he affirmed, following her out of the curious, heavy
atmosphere into the evening sunshine. "There are a great many things
in life which, as far as we know, are inevitable, so that there is no
use in worrying or thinking about them." Her more serious mood had
conquered his good spirits, and for a moment he stood at her side
looking at the disused bungalow with eyes as thoughtful as her own.
"Isn't it strange?" he went on. "Our parents came together from
different ends of the earth, doomed to die in the same spot and in the
same hour, and we children, far away in England, knowing nothing of
each other, have drifted back to the fatal place to find each other
there and to--"
"Yes," she said as he hesitated, "it is strange. I could almost think
that this bungalow had some mysterious influence over our lives."
He smiled in half confirmation of her fancy.
"It may be. But come! We have had enough gloom for one evening. Let me
gather some flowers for you before we go back."
She assented, and they followed the winding paths, stopping here and
there to cut down some of the most tempting of Mrs. Carmichael's
tenderly loved blossoms and always turning aside when they came in
sight of the Colonel's verandah. No word of tenderness had ever passed
between them, and yet they were happy to be together. It was as though
a bond united them which had grown up, silent and unseen, from the
first hour they had met, and in a quiet, peaceful way they knew that
it existed and that they loved each other.
From the verandah where she was sewing by the fading light Mrs.
Carmichael could watch their appearing and disappearing figures amidst
the trees with the satisfaction of a confirmed match-maker. She, too,
knew of this bond, and though she was a trifle impatient with the
slowness of the development, she was content to bide her time.
"I don't usually pay any attention to Station gossip," she said to her
husband, who was trying to read the newly arrived English paper, "but
for once in a way I believe there is something in it. According to my
experience, they should be engaged in less than a fortnight."
Colonel Carmichael started.
"Who? Lois and Stafford?"
"Yes, of course. Who else? Everybody looks upon it as practically
settled. Why do you look like that? You ought to be pleased. You said
yourself that you were very fond of Stafford--"
Carmichael made a quick gesture as though to stop the threatening
torrent of expostulation. He had turned crimson and his whole manner
was marked by an unusual uneasiness.
"Of course, I am fond of Stafford," he began. "I only meant--"
He was saved the trouble of explaining what he did mean by a sudden
exclamation from his wife, who had let her work fall to the ground
with a start of alarm.
"Good gracious, Mr. Travers!" she cried in her sharp way. "What a
fright you gave me! I thought you were a horrible thug or something
come to murder us all. There, how do you do!" She gave him her hand.
"Will you have a cup of tea? We have just had ours, but if you would,
I am quite ready to keep you company. Tea, as you know, is a weakness
of mine. That is why my nerves are so bad."
Travers bowed, smiling. He was rather paler than usual and the hand
which held a large bouquet of freshly cut flowers trembled as though
the shock his sudden appearance had caused Mrs. Carmichael had
recoiled on himself.
"Thank you--no," he said. "As a matter of fact, I came to bring these
for Miss Caruthers, but as she is not here I should be very grateful
if I might have a few words with you alone. I have something of
importance, which it would be perhaps better to tell you first."
"Certainly," the Colonel said, clearing his throat and settling
himself farther back in his chair. "There is no time like the
present."
Travers looked at him in troubled surprise. The elder man's tone and
attitude were those of some one confronted with a not unexpected but
unpleasant crisis.
"It concerns your ward, Colonel Carmichael," Travers said, taking the
chair offered him. "I think you must have known long ago that I cared
very dearly for her. I have come now to ask her to be my wife."
He spoke quickly and abruptly, as though to hide a powerful emotion,
and there was an instant's uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Carmichael's
head was bent over her work. She did not dislike Travers, but this
unexpected proposal upset all her plans and though it flattered her
pride in Lois, she felt disturbed and thrown out of her course.
"I think you have made a mistake, Mr. Travers," she said at last, as
her husband remained obstinately silent. "I have every reason to
believe that Lois' heart is given elsewhere. However, we have no right
to interfere--Lois must decide for herself. She is her own mistress.
What do you say, George, dear?"
The Colonel shifted his position. Evidently he was at a loss to
express himself, and his brow remained clouded.
"If it is Lois' wish, I shall put no obstacle in the way of her
happiness," he said slowly.
"Have you any personal objection, Colonel?"
"I? O, dear, no!" was the hurried answer.
There was a second silence, in which Mrs. Carmichael and Travers
exchanged baffled glances. The Colonel seemed in some unaccountable
way to have lost his nerve and, as though he felt and feared the
questioning gaze of his wife, he leaned forward so that his face was
hidden.
"Personally I have no objection at all," he repeated, as if seeking to
gain time. "Like my wife, I had other ideas on the subject, but that
has nothing to do with it. At the same time, I feel it--eh--my duty
to--eh--tell you before you go further--for your sake, and--eh--every
one's sake--certain details concerning Lois which I have not thought
necessary to give to the world in general. You understand--I consider
it my duty--only fair to yourself and Lois."
"I quite understand," Travers said. He seemed in no way surprised, and
his expression was that of a man waiting for the explanation to a
problem which had long puzzled him.
"Really, George!" expostulated Mrs. Carmichael, not without
indignation, "one would think you were about to disinter the most
horrible family skeleton. You are not to be alarmed, Mr. Travers. It
is all a little mysterious, perhaps, but nothing to make _such_ a fuss
about."
The Colonel looked up under the sting of her reproach and tried to
smile.
"I dare say my wife is right," he said. "I am rather foolish about the
matter--possibly because it is all linked together with a very painful
period of my life. Mr. Travers, my dearest friend, Steven Caruthers,
had _no_ children. The baby girl whom by his will he intrusted to my
care was not his child, nor have I ever been able to discover whose
child she really was. His will spoke of her as his adopted daughter,
who was to bear his name and in fault of any other heir to inherit
both his own and his wife's large fortune. More I can not tell you,
for I myself do not know more."
He laid an almost timid emphasis on the word "know," as though
somewhere at the back of his mind there lurked a suspicion which he
dared neither deny nor express openly, and, in spite of his attempt at
cheerfulness, his features were still disturbed and gloomy.
"You know one thing more, which you haven't mentioned," Mrs.
Carmichael said, "and that is that Lois is of good family on both
sides. Steven Caruthers told you so."
"Yes, that's true--I forgot," the Colonel assented. "He assured me
that on both sides she was of good, even high birth, and that he had
adopted her partly because he had no children of his own and partly
because of a debt of gratitude which he owed her father. It does not
seem to me that it makes much difference."
"It makes all the difference in the world, George," retorted Mrs.
Carmichael, who for some reason or another was considerably put out.
"You don't want Mr. Travers to think that Lois was picked up in the
street, do you?"
"Of course not," her husband agreed, "but then--" He broke off, and
all three relapsed into an awkward silence. Travers was the first to
speak. He had been looking out over the garden and had seen Lois'
white dress flash through the bushes.
"For my part," he began quietly, "I can not see that what you have
told me can have an influence on the matter. I love Lois. That is the
chief thing--or rather the chief thing is whether or not she can learn
to love me. Whether she is the child of a sweep or a prince, it makes
no difference to my feelings toward her."
Mrs. Carmichael held out her hand.
"Well, whatever happens, you are a man before you are a prig," she
said, "and that is something to be thankful for in these degenerate
days. Why, there is the child herself! Come here, my dear."
Lois came running up the verandah steps with Stafford close behind
her. Her eyes were full of laughter and sunshine, and in her hand she
held a mass of roses which Stafford had gathered during their ramble.
"Good-evening, Mr. Travers," she exclaimed with pleased surprise, as
he rose to greet her. "I did not expect to find you here. How grave
you all look! And what lovely flowers!"
Travers considered his bouquet with a rueful smile.
"I brought them from my garden, Miss Caruthers," he said. "They
were meant for to-night's festivity. But it seems they have come
too late--you are already well supplied."
"Flowers never come too late and one can never have too many of them!"
Lois answered gratefully. "Please bring them in here and I will put
them in water."
She led the way into the drawing-room and he followed her eagerly.
Whether it was the sight of her charm and youth, or the warm greeting
which he had read in her eyes, or the satisfied calm on Stafford's
face, Travers himself could not have told, but in that moment he lost
his usual self-possession. He was white and shaken like a man who sees
himself thrust suddenly to the brink of a chasm and knows that he must
cross or fall.
"Miss Caruthers!" he said.
She turned quickly from the flowers which she was arranging in a bowl.
The smile of pleasure which still lingered about her lips died away as
she saw his face.
"Miss Caruthers," he repeated earnestly, "it is perhaps neither wise
nor right of me to speak now, but there are moments when anything--even
the worst--is better than uncertainty, when a man can bear no more.
Forgive me--I am not eloquent and what I have to tell can be
encompassed in one word. I love you, Lois. I think you must know it,
though you can not know how great my love is. Is there any hope for
me?"
She drew her hand gently but firmly from his half-unconscious clasp.
"I am sorry--no," she said.
"Lois--I can't give up hope. Is there some one else?"
She lifted her troubled eyes to his face. He saw in their depths a
curious doubt and uncertainty.
"I do not know," she said almost to herself. "I only know that you are
not the man."
The blow had calmed him. Like a good general who has suffered a
temporary check, he gathered his forces together and prepared an
orderly retreat.
"I will not trouble you," he said gently. "I feel now that I did wrong
to disturb your peace--God knows I would never willingly cause you an
instant's sorrow--but a man who loves as I do must feed himself with
hope, however wild and unreasonable. Now I know, and whatever
happens--I hope you will be happy--I pray you will be happy. Yes,
though I am not given to uttering prayers, I pray, so dear to me is
the future which lies before you."
"I am very grateful," she said with bowed head. Something in his
broken, disjointed sentences brought the tears to her eyes and made
her voice unsteady. She knew he was suffering--she knew why, and her
heart went out to him in friendship and womanly pity.
"You need not be grateful," he answered. "It is I who have to be
grateful. In spite of it all, you do not know what good you have
brought into my life nor how you have unconsciously helped me. I shall
never be able to help you as you have helped me--and yet--will you
promise me something?"
"Anything in my power," she said faintly.
"It is not much--only this. If the time should ever come when you are
in trouble, if you should ever be in need of a true and devoted
friend, will you turn to me? Will you let me try to pay my debt of
gratitude to you?"
She lifted her head and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. Every
good woman sympathizes with those whose suffering she has
inadvertently caused, and in that moment Lois would have done anything
to alleviate Travers' pain.
"If it should ever be necessary, I will turn to you," she said gently.
"I promise you."
"Thank you!" he said, and, taking her out-stretched hand, raised it
reverently to his lips.