THE ROAD CLEAR
The English colony heard of the Rajah's project with mingled feelings
of amusement and anxiety. As Colonel Carmichael expressed it, it would
have been safer to have stirred up a hornet's nest than to attempt any
vital reform in the native quarters; and he was firmly convinced that
the inhabitants of the Bazaar would cling to their dirt and squalor
with the same tenacity with which they clung to their religion. When
the first batch of native workers, under the direction of a European
overseer, set out on the task of constructing new and sanitary
quarters half a mile outside Marut, he announced that it was no more
than the calm before the storm, and kept a weather eye open for
trouble. But, in spite of these gloomy prognostications, the work
proceeded calmly and steadily on its way. The new dwellings were well
constructed, broad, clean thoroughfares taking the place of the
narrow, dirty passages which had run like an unwholesome labyrinth
through the old Bazaar. Water in abundance was laid on from the river.
Natives of superior caste, who had proved their capacity for order,
were put in charge of the different blocks and made responsible for
their condition. Of more value than all this was the energy and
willingness with which the people entered into the project. More
workers offered themselves than were required, and could only be
comforted with the assurance that very soon a new enterprise would be
set on foot in which they, too, would find occupation.
A month after the first stone had been laid, Stafford paid a visit of
inspection in company with the Rajah and Travers. On his way back he
passed the Carys' bungalow, and seeing Beatrice on the verandah, he
had ridden up, as he said, to make his salaams. Very little persuasion
tempted him into the cool, shady drawing-room. He knew that Lois would
be up at the club, and, _faute de mieux_, Beatrice's company was
something to be appreciated after a hot and exhausting afternoon. For
a rather curious friendship had sprung up between these two. They had
nothing in common. His stiffly honest and orthodox character was oil
to the water of her outspoken indifference to the usual codes and
morals of ordinary society. And yet he liked her, and, strangely
enough, he never found that her supercilious criticisms and daring
opinions jarred on him. Perhaps it was his honesty which recognized
the honesty in her, just as, on the reverse side, the sanctimonious
Philistinisms of Maud Berry left him glowing with irritation because
his instincts told him that they were not even sincere.
On this particular afternoon he was more than usually glad to have a
few minutes' quiet chat with Beatrice. That which he had seen and
heard on his four hours' ride had stirred to life a sudden doubt in
himself and in his hitherto firmly rooted principles, and, like a
great many men, he felt that he could only regain a clear outlook by
an exchange of ideas with some second person.
"You know my standpoint pretty well by now," he said, as, seated in a
comfortable lounge chair, he watched Beatrice busy over some patterns
which she had just received from London. "It isn't your standpoint, of
course, and no doubt you would be fully in your right to say, 'I told
you so,' when I confess that I am beginning to waver."
"I never say, 'I told you so,'" she returned, smiling. "That is the
war-cry of those accustomed to few triumphs."
"Not that by wavering I mean that I am coming round to your opinions,"
he went on. "On the contrary, nothing on this earth will shake my
theory that a mingling of races is an impossibility. They must and
will, with few exceptions, remain separate to all eternity, and one or
the other must have the upper hand if there is to be any law or order.
No, it's not that. It's my self-satisfaction that is beginning to
waver."
"You must be more explicit," Beatrice observed.
"I mean, men like myself--in fact, most Englishmen--are pretty well
convinced, even when they have the rare tact of keeping it to
themselves, that they are the salt of the earth. They may be, as a
whole, but there are exceptions all round, which we are inclined to
overlook because of the foregone conclusion. It has struck me lately
that there are some of us--well, not up to the mark."
"Has this revelation come to you by force of contrast?" she asked.
"Haven't you been out with the Rajah?"
He looked at her with the pleasure of a man who has been saved the
bother of going into explanatory details.
"Yes, I have," he admitted, "and you are not far wrong when you talk
about the force of contrast. You know what I thought of the Rajah.
There are any amount of good-looking native princes with nice surface
manners--that sort of thing wouldn't impress me. But this man has more
than good looks and manners. He is a born leader. You should have seen
him this afternoon. There wasn't a thing he overlooked or forgot.
Every detail was at his fingers' ends, and he has a fire, an energy,
an idealistic belief in himself and in the whole world which fairly
sweeps you off your feet. It did me. I believe it did the Colonel, and
I know it did the natives. The dust wasn't low enough for them. And it
wasn't face worship, either. It came straight from the heart; I could
see that they were ready to die for him on the spot, at his mere
word."
"What a power!" Beatrice murmured. She had stopped turning over the
patterns and was leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed
thoughtfully in front of her.
"Yes, it is a power," he echoed emphatically, "and I wish to goodness
we had more men like him on our side. We English take things too
lightly--most of us. And in India it is not safe to take things
lightly."
He saw that she was about to make some observation, but at that moment
Mrs. Cary entered. She had evidently been out in the garden, for she
had a bunch of freshly cut flowers in her hand and a girlish muslin
hat shaded the fat cheeks flushed with the unusual exertion.
"Ah, there you are, Captain Stafford!" she said, extending her
disengaged hand. "Mr. Travers said he was sure you had dropped in, and
wouldn't believe it when I told him that I had heard and seen nothing
of you. There, come in, Mr. Travers. It's all right."
She smiled at Stafford with a playful significance that seemed to
indicate an unspoken comprehension of the situation, but Stafford did
not smile back. Like a great many worthy and honest people, he was not
gifted with a sense of humor, and the ridiculous, especially if it
took a human form, was his abomination. Consequently he disliked Mrs.
Cary, though not for the reason which made her unpopular in other
quarters.
Travers followed almost immediately on her invitation, like Stafford,
bearing the marks of a hard day's work on his unusually pale face.
"I expect Stafford has told you what a time we've been having," he
said, in response to Beatrice's greeting. "It's no joke to have
aroused an energy like the Rajah's, and I can see myself worked to a
shadow. Please forgive my get-up, Miss Cary, but this isn't an
official call. I only wanted to fetch Stafford."
"I'm afraid you can't," Mrs. Cary put in. "We have engaged the poor
exhausted man to tea, and you are strictly forbidden to worry him with
your tiresome business. You can stop, too, if you promise not to
bother."
Travers, who had as a rule an equally amiable smile for every one,
remained unexpectedly serious.
"I am awfully sorry," he said, hesitating. "Perhaps it would do
another time."
"What is it about?" Stafford asked. "Will it take long?"
"As far as I am concerned, only a few minutes."
There was a significance in the tone of Travers' answer which passed
unnoticed. Stafford rose lazily to his feet.
"Perhaps you'll give us the run of your garden for just so long, Mrs.
Cary?" he said. "I'm not going to let Travers cheat me out of my
promised cup of tea. Come on, my dear fellow. I'm ready for the
worst."
The two men went down the verandah steps, and Mrs. Cary and her
daughter remained alone. Beatrice returned at once to her
contemplation of the fashion-plates, her attitude enforcing silence
upon the elder woman, who stood by the round polished table nervously
arranging the flowers. Evidently she had something to say, but for
once had not the courage to say it. At last, with one of those
determined gestures with which irresolute people strive to stiffen
their wavering wills, she pushed the flowers on one side, and came and
sat directly opposite Beatrice.
"Have you got a few minutes to spare?" she asked.
Beatrice looked up, and put the papers aside.
"As many as you like."
Mrs. Cary's eyes sank beneath the direct gaze, and she began to play
with the rings that adorned her fat fingers.
"I'm afraid you'll be angry," she said. "If it wasn't for my duty as a
mother, I should let you go your own way--as it is, I must just risk
it."
"There is no risk," Beatrice returned gravely. "Where duty is
concerned, I am all consideration."
"It's about your intimacy with His Highness," Mrs. Cary went on. "I
can't help thinking it has gone too far."
"In what way?"
"You ride out with him every morning."
"You said nothing a month ago--when I went out for the first time."
"It was the first time. And I didn't know people would talk."
"Do they talk?"
"Yes. Mrs. Berry told me only this afternoon that she thought it most
_infra dig_. She told me as a friend--"
Beatrice laughed.
"Mrs. Berry as a friend is a new departure."
"Never mind. There was something in what she said. She told me it
spoiled your chances--with others."
"I dare say she told you that it is very immoral for me to ride out
with Captain Stafford?"
Mrs. Cary threw up her head.
"I don't take any notice of that sort of thing. That is only her
cattishness, because she wants Stafford for Maud."
"You don't mind about Captain Stafford, then?"
"Goodness, no! Why should I? A man wants to know a girl before--well,
before he asks her. I don't see anything in that. But this business
with the Rajah is quite different. Of course, I know you are only
amusing yourself, but still it lowers your value to be seen so much
with a colored man."
"Why should you mind? Surely you can see for yourself that Captain
Stafford is to all intents and purposes engaged to Lois?"
"Rubbish! She thinks so, but it's a lukewarm business which could
easily be brought to nothing--if you tried. And besides, I don't want
you talked about. We have been talked about quite enough."
"Why should people talk?" exclaimed Beatrice, with a sudden change in
tone. "What harm do I do? What do they suppose goes on between us?"
Mrs. Cary shrugged her shoulders.
"I'm sure I don't know," she said indifferently.
Beatrice sat back in her chair, for a moment silent. A faint smile
moved the corners of her fine mouth.
"I fancy our conversation, if they heard it, would startle the
unbearable Marut scandal-mongers," she said. "What do you say to a
Bible-class on horseback?"
Mrs. Cary's small round eyes opened wide.
"A Bible-class?" she repeated suspiciously.
Beatrice nodded.
"Yes. I have been teaching him the rudiments of Christianity. It seems
you must have neglected my education in that respect, for I have had
to burn a good deal of midnight oil to keep pace with the demand upon
my knowledge. I tell him it as a story, and he reads it himself
afterward. We are halfway through St. John. What are you laughing at?"
The tone of intense irritation pulled Mrs. Cary up short in the midst
of a loud fit of laughter.
"I'm sorry, my dear," she apologized, "but you really must admit it's
rather funny."
"What is rather funny?"
"Oh, well, you, you know. Fancy you as a missionary! I must tell Mrs.
Berry. It will amuse her, and--"
She stopped again, as though she had inadvertently trodden on the tail
of a scorpion. She had seen Beatrice angry, but not as now. There was
something not unlike desperation in the eyes that were suddenly turned
on her.
"You won't tell Mrs. Berry, mother. You will never breathe a word to a
single soul of what I have told you. It was very absurd of me to say
anything--I don't know what made me. I might have known that you would
not understand--but sometimes I forget that 'mother' is not a synonym
for everything."
Mrs. Cary smarted under what she felt to be an unjust and uncalled-for
attack.
"I don't see what I have done now," she protested indignantly. "What
is there to understand that I haven't understood, pray?"
Her daughter got up as though she could no longer bear to remain
still, and began to walk restlessly about the room.
"Never mind," she said. "That doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is
that I will not have the Rajah made a butt for the Station's
witticisms. You can say what you like about me--I don't care in the
least--but you will leave him alone."
"Dear me, what are you so annoyed about?" Mrs. Cary inquired, with
irritating solicitude. "How was I to know you were seriously
contemplating the Rajah's conversion? I'm sure it's very nice of you.
Child, don't pull all those roses to pieces!"
Beatrice dropped the flowers impatiently.
"It's more likely that he will convert me," she muttered, but the
remark fell on unheeding ears.
"I wish you would let me tell Mrs. Berry about it," Mrs. Cary went on.
"It might make quite a nice impression, and stop her saying
disagreeable things. Of course, if your intimacy with His Highness was
due to your desire to bring him to a nice Christian state, it would be
quite excusable. I might even ask Mr. Berry for some of those tracts
he is always distributing among the natives."
It was Beatrice's turn to laugh. Her laugh had a disagreeable ring.
"For the Rajah? I wonder how he would reconcile them with all I have
been telling him about love, and pity, and tolerance? Besides, my dear
mother, diplomatist as you are, don't you see that it wouldn't have
the least effect? Do you think the most kindly thinking person in this
Station would believe for an instant that _I_ would ever convert
anyone? Of course I should be seen through at once. They would
say--and perfectly correctly, too--that I was just fooling the Rajah
for my own purposes."
"What are your purposes?" Mrs. Cary demanded.
Beatrice raised her eyebrows.
"You knew them a month ago."
"Oh, yes; then it was for Mr. Travers' sake. But now--"
"Now things are the same as they were then. I--I can't leave off what
I have begun."
She had gone over to the piano and, opening it, sat down and began to
play a few disjointed bars. Mrs. Cary, who watched the lovely face
with what is sometimes called a mother's pride, and which is sometimes
no more than the satisfaction of a merchant with salable goods, saw
something which made her sit bolt upright in her comfortable chair. A
tear rolled down the smooth cheek turned toward her--a single tear,
which splashed on the white hand resting on the keys. That was all,
but it was enough. With a jingle of gold bracelets and a rustle of
silk, Mrs. Cary struggled to her feet and came and stood by her
daughter, her heavy hand clasping her by the shoulder.
"Beaty!" she said stupidly. "Are you--crying?"
Beatrice turned on the music-stool and looked her mother calmly in the
face. There was not a trace of emotion in the clear, steady eyes.
"I--crying?" she said. "What should have made you think that? Have you
ever seen me cry?"
"No, never. I couldn't understand. You are all right?"
"Perfectly all right, thank you. Hadn't you better see about the tea?"
Mrs. Cary heaved a sigh of relief and satisfaction.
"Of course. How thoughtful you can be, my dear! The gentlemen may be
back any moment."
She sailed heavily across the room, on her way passing the glass doors
which opened on to the verandah.
"Why!" she exclaimed, stopping short, "if that isn't Captain Stafford
mounting his horse! Look, Beaty! And he hasn't even come to say
good-by."
Beatrice turned indifferently.
"I expect he has some important business--" she began, and then, as
her eyes fell on the man outside swinging himself up into the saddle,
she stopped and rose abruptly to her feet. "I have never seen anyone
look like that before!" she said, under her breath. "He looks--awful."
Mrs. Cary nodded.
"As though he had seen a ghost," she supplemented unsteadily. "What
can have happened?"
The horse's head was jerked around to the compound gates. Amidst a
clatter of hoofs and in a cloud of dust Stafford galloped out of
sight, not once turning to glance in their direction. The two women
stood and stared at each other, even Beatrice for the moment shaken
out of her usual self-control by what she had seen. They had no time
to make any further observations, for almost immediately Travers came
up the steps, his sun-helmet in his hand. Whatever had happened, he at
least seemed unmoved. The exceptional pallor of his face had given
place to the old healthy glow.
"I have come to drink Stafford's share of the tea as well as my own,"
he said cheerily. "You see, Mrs. Cary, in spite of your strict
injunctions, I have sent the poor fellow flying off on a fresh
business matter. He asked me to excuse him, as he was in a great
hurry."
"So it seems!" Mrs. Cary observed, rather tartly. "He might at least
have stayed to say good-by."
"Oh, well, you know what an impulsive creature he is," Travers
apologized. "Besides, I believe he means to drop in later on. Please
don't punish me, Mrs. Cary, for his delinquencies."
The suggestion that Stafford might resume his interrupted visit later
mollified Mrs. Cary at once.
"No, you shan't suffer," she assured him, with fat motherliness. "I
will go and tell the servants about tea at once."
The minute she was out of the room Travers came over to Beatrice's
side. A slight change had taken place in his expression. It reminded
her involuntarily of that night in the dog-cart when for an instant
his passions had forced him to drop the mask.
"You and I have every reason to congratulate each other," he said, in
a low voice. "We can now go ahead and win. The road is clear for us
both."
"What do you mean--what have you done?"
"Nothing," he answered, as Mrs. Cary reentered. "You will know in a
day or two. And then--well, the game will be in our hands, Miss Cary."
Mrs. Cary, who had caught the last remark, looked quickly and
suspiciously from one to the other.
"What's that you are talking about?" she demanded. "What game is in
your hands, Beaty?"
Travers smiled frankly.
"Miss Cary and I are working out a bridge problem," he explained. "We
have just discovered a solution to a difficulty. That's all."
His smile deepened as he glanced across at Beatrice, but there was no
response on her grave face. She half turned away from him, and for the
first time he thought that the climate was telling on her. She looked
white and harassed.