“Now you’ve got your choice, my friend. This engagement has to be broken
off; and the Mannerings don’t want to be too hard on you. Was it broken
through D. T. or epileptic fits? Sorry I can’t offer you a better
exchange unless you’d prefer hereditary insanity. Say the word and I’ll
tell ‘em it’s fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the Ladies’
Mile. Come! I’ll give you five minutes to think over it.”
During those five minutes I believe that I explored thoroughly the
lowest circles of the Inferno which it is permitted man to tread on
earth. And at the same time I myself was watching myself faltering
through the dark labyrinths of doubt, misery, and utter despair.
I wondered, as Heatherlegh in his chair might have wondered, which
dreadful alternative I should adopt. Presently I heard myself answering
in a voice that I hardly recognized,--
“They’re confoundedly particular about morality in these parts. Give ‘em
fits, Heatherlegh, and my love. Now let me sleep a bit longer.”
Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (half crazed, devil-driven
I) that tossed in my bed, tracing step by step the history of the past
month.
“But I am in Simla,” I kept repeating to myself. “I, Jack Pansay, am in
Simla and there are no ghosts here. It’s unreasonable of that woman to
pretend there are. Why couldn’t Agnes have left me alone? I never did
her any harm. It might just as well have been me as Agnes. Only I’d
never have come hack on purpose to kill _her_. Why can’t I be left
alone--left alone and happy?”
It was high noon when I first awoke: and the sun was low in the sky
before I slept--slept as the tortured criminal sleeps on his rack, too
worn to feel further pain.
Next day I could not leave my bed. Heatherlegh told me in the morning
that he had received an answer from Mr. Mannering, and that, thanks to
his (Heatherlegh’s) friendly offices, the story of my affliction had
traveled through the length and breadth of Simla, where I was on all
sides much pitied.
“And that’s rather more than you deserve,” he concluded, pleasantly,
“though the Lord knows you’ve been going through a pretty severe mill.
Never mind; we’ll cure you yet, you perverse phenomenon.”
I declined firmly to be cured. “You’ve been much too good to me already,
old man,” said I; “but I don’t think I need trouble you further.”
In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh could do would lighten the
burden that had been laid upon me.
With that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, impotent rebellion
against the unreasonableness of it all. There were scores of men no
better than I whose punishments had at least been reserved for another
world; and I felt that it was bitterly, cruelly unfair that I alone
should have been singled out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in
time give place to another where it seemed that the ‘rickshaw and I were
the only realities in a world of shadows; that Kitty was a ghost; that
Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the other men and women I knew were all
ghosts; and the great, grey hills themselves but vain shadows devised
to torture me. From mood to mood I tossed backward and forward for
seven weary days; my body growing daily stronger and stronger, until the
bedroom looking-glass told me that I had returned to everyday life, and
was as other men once more. Curiously enough my face showed no signs
of the struggle I had gone through. It was pale indeed, but as
expression-less and commonplace as ever. I had expected some permanent
alteration--visible evidence of the disease that was eating me away. I
found nothing.
On the 15th of May, I left Heatherlegh’s house at eleven o’clock in the
morning; and the instinct of the bachelor drove me to the Club. There I
found that every man knew my story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in
clumsy fashion, abnormally kind and attentive. Nevertheless I recognized
that for the rest of my natural life I should be among but not of my
fellows; and I envied very bitterly indeed the laughing coolies on
the Mall below. I lunched at the Club, and at four o’clock wandered
aimlessly down the Mall in the vague hope of meeting Kitty. Close to
the Band-stand the black and white liveries joined me; and I heard Mrs.
Wessington’s old appeal at my side. I had been expecting this ever since
I came out; and was only surprised at her delay. The phantom ‘rickshaw
and I went side by side along the Chota Simla road in silence. Close to
the bazar, Kitty and a man on horseback overtook and passed us. For any
sign she gave I might have been a dog in the road. She did not even pay
me the compliment of quickening her pace; though the rainy afternoon had
served for an excuse.
So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly Light-o’-Love, crept
round Jakko in couples. The road was streaming with water; the pines
dripped like roof-pipes on the rocks below, and the air was full of
fine, driving rain. Two or three times I found myself saying to myself
almost aloud: “I’m Jack Pansay on leave at Simla--_at Simla_! Everyday,
ordinary Simla. I mustn’t forget that--I mustn’t forget that.” Then I
would try to recollect some of the gossip I had heard at the Club: the
prices of So-and-So’s horses--anything, in fact, that related to
the workaday Anglo-Indian world I knew so well. I even repeated the
multiplication-table rapidly to myself, to make quite sure that I was
not taking leave of my senses. It gave me much comfort; and must have
prevented my hearing Mrs. Wessington for a time.
Once more I wearily climbed the Convent slope and entered the level
road. Here Kitty and the man started off at a canter, and I was left
alone with Mrs. Wessington. “Agnes,” said I, “will you put back your
hood and tell me what it all means?” The hood dropped noiselessly, and
I was face to face with my dead and buried mistress. She was wearing
the dress in which I had last seen her alive; carried the same tiny
handkerchief in her right hand; and the same cardcase in her left. (A
woman eight months dead with a cardcase!) I had to pin myself down to
the multiplication-table, and to set both hands on the stone parapet of
the road, to assure myself that that at least was real.
“Agnes,” I repeated, “for pity’s sake tell me what it all means.” Mrs.
Wessington leaned forward, with that odd, quick turn of the head I used
to know so well, and spoke.
If my story had not already so madly overleaped the bounds of all human
belief I should apologize to you now. As I know that no one--no, not
even Kitty, for whom it is written as some sort of justification of
my conduct--will believe me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and
I walked with her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning below the
Commander-in-Chief’s house as I might walk by the side of any living
woman’s ‘rickshaw, deep in conversation. The second and most tormenting
of my moods of sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and like the
Prince in Tennyson’s poem, “I seemed to move amid a world of ghosts.”
There had been a garden-party at the Commander-in-Chief’s, and we two
joined the crowd of homeward-bound folk. As I saw them then it seemed
that _they_ were the shadows--impalpable, fantastic shadows--that
divided for Mrs. Wessington’s ‘rickshaw to pass through. What we said
during the course of that weird interview I cannot--indeed, I dare
not--tell. Heatherlegh’s comment would have been a short laugh and a
remark that I had been “mashing a brain-eye-and-stomach chimera.” It was
a ghastly and yet in some indefinable way a marvelously dear experience.
Could it be possible, I wondered, that I was in this life to woo a
second time the woman I had killed by my own neglect and cruelty?