The veranda of which Miss Anderson’s little sitting-room claimed its
section hung over the road, and it seemed to her that she heard the
sound of Mrs. Innes’s arrival about ten minutes after breakfast.
On the contrary, she had spent two whole hours contemplating, with very
fixed attention, first the domestic circumstances of Colonel Horace
Innes and their possible development, and then, with a pang of
profoundest acknowledgment, the moral qualities which he would bring to
bear upon them. She was further from knowing what course she personally
intended to pursue than ever, when she heard the wheels roll up
underneath; and she had worked herself into a state of sufficient
detachment from the whole problem to reflect upon the absurdity of a
bigamist rattling forth to discuss her probable ruin in the fanciful
gaiety of a rickshaw. The circumstances had its value though; it
lightened all responsibility for the lady concerned. As Madeline
heard her jump out and give pronounced orders for the securing of an
accompanying dachshund, it did not seem to matter so particularly what
became of Violet Prendergast.
Mrs. Innes’s footsteps came briskly along the veranda. Madeline noted
that there was no lagging. ‘Number seven,’ she said aloud; as she passed
other doors, ‘Number eight--number nine! Ah! there you are.’ The
door was open. ‘I wouldn’t let them bring up my card for fear of some
mistake. How do you do? Now please don’t get up--you look so comfortable
with your book. What is it? Oh, yes, of course, THAT. People were
talking about it a good deal when I left London, but I haven’t read it.
Is it good?’
‘I like it,’ said Madeline. She half rose as Mrs. Innes entered; but as
the lady did not seem to miss the ceremony of greeting, she was glad to
sink back in her chair.
‘And how do you like Simla? Charming in many ways, isn’t it? A little
too flippant, I always say--rather TOO much champagne and silliness. But
awfully bracing.’
‘The Snows are magnificent,’ Madeline said, ‘when you can see them. And
there’s a lot of good work done here.’
‘Aren’t they divine? I did nothing, absolutely nothing, my first season
but paint them. And the shops--they’re not bad, are they, for the size
of the place? Though today, upon my soul, there doesn’t seem to be a
yard of white spotted veiling among them.’
‘That is annoying,’ said Madeline, ‘if you want spotted veiling.’
‘Isn’t it? Well’--Mrs. Innes take a deep breath--‘you DIDN’T tell him
last night?’
‘N--no,’ said Madeline, with deliberation.
‘I WAS grateful. I knew I could rely upon you not to. It would have been
too cruel when we have only just been reunited--dear Horace would have
had to sleep in the--’
‘Pray--’
‘Well, Horace is the soul of honour. Is your ayah in there?’ Mrs. Innes
nodded towards the bedroom door. ‘You can not imagine what long ears she
has.’
‘I have no ayah. There is only Brookes;’ and as that excellent woman
passed through the room with a towel over her arm, Madeline said, ‘You
can go now, Brookes, and see about that alpaca. Take the rickshaw; it
looks very threatening.’
‘Maid! You ARE a swell! There are only four genuine maids in Simla that
I know of--the rest are really nurse-girls. What a comfort she must be!
THE luxury of all others that I long for; but alas! army pay, you know.
I did once bring a dear thing out with me from Nice--you should have
seen Horace’s face.’
‘I couldn’t very well go about quite alone; it would be uncomfortable.’
‘Except that you Americans are so perfectly independent.’
‘On the contrary. If I could order about a servant the way an
Englishwoman does--’
‘Say you are not going to tell him! I’ve got such a lot of other calls
to make,’ exclaimed Mrs. Innes. ‘Dear Lady Bloomfield won’t understand
it if I don’t call today, especially after the baby. What people in
that position want with more babies I can not comprehend. Of course you
haven’t noticed it, but a baby is such a shock to Simla.’
‘Don’t let me keep you,’ Madeline said, rising.
‘But you haven’t promised. Do promise, Miss Anderson. You gain nothing
by telling him, except your revenge; and I should think by this time
you would have forgiven me for taking Frederick away from you. He didn’t
turn out so well! You can’t still bear me malice over that convict in
Sing Sing.’
‘For his sake, poor fellow, I might.’
‘Coming along I said to myself, “She CAN score off me badly, but surely
she doesn’t want to so much as all that.” Besides, I really only took
your leavings, you know. You threw poor Fred Prendergast over.’
‘I am not prepared to discuss that,’ Madeline said, at no pains to
smooth the curve out of her lip.
‘Then I thought, “Perhaps--you never can tell with people--she will
think it her DUTY to make a fuss.”’
‘That is a possible point of view.’
‘I know. You think I’m an imposter on society and I ought to be exposed,
and I suppose you could shut every door in Simla against me if you
liked. But you are a friend of my husband’s, Miss Anderson. You would
not turn his whole married life into a scandal and ruin his career?’
‘Ruin his career?’
‘Of course. Government is awfully particular. It mayn’t be his fault
in the least, but no man is likely to get any big position with a cloud
over his domestic affairs. Horace would resign, naturally.’
‘Or take long leave,’ Mrs. Innes added to herself, but she did not give
Madeline this alternative. A line or two of nervous irritation marked
themselves about her eyes, and her colour had faded. Her hat was less
becoming than it had been, and she had pulled a button off her glove.
‘Besides,’ she went on quickly, ‘it isn’t as if you could do any good,
you know. The harm was done once for all when I let him think he’d
married me. I thought then--well, I had to take it or leave it--and
every week I expected to hear of Frederick’s death. Then I meant to tell
Horace myself, and have the ceremony over again. He couldn’t refuse.
And all these years it’s been like living on a volcano, in the fear of
meeting New York people. Out here there never are any, but in England I
dye my hair, and alter my complexion.’
‘Why did you change your mind,’ Madeline asked, ‘about telling Colonel
Innes?’
‘I haven’t! Why should I change my mind? For my own protection, I mean
to get things put straight instantly--when the time comes.’
‘When the time comes,’ Madeline repeated; and her eyes, as she fixed
them on Mrs. Innes, were suddenly so lightened with a new idea that she
dropped the lids over them as she waited for the answer.
‘When poor Frederick does pass away,’ Mrs. Innes said, with an air of
observing the proprieties. ‘When they put him in prison it was a matter
of months, the doctors said. That was one reason why I went abroad. I
couldn’t bear to stay there and see him dying by inches, poor fellow.’
‘Couldn’t you?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. And the idea of the hard labour made me SICK. But
it seems to have improved his health, and now--there is no telling! I
sometimes believe he will live out his sentence. Should you think that
possible in the case of a man with half a lung?’
‘I have no knowledge of pulmonary disease,’ Madeline said. She forced
the words from her lips and carefully looked away, taking this second
key to the situation mechanically, and for a moment groping with it.
‘What arrangement did you make to be informed about--about him?’ she
asked, and instantly regretted having gone so perilously near provoking
a direct question.
‘I subscribe to the “New York World”. I used to see lots of things in
it--about the shock the news of my death gave him--’
A flash of hysterical amusement shot into Mrs. Innes’s eyes, and she
questioned Madeline’s face to see whether it responded to her humour.
Then she put her own features straight behind her handkerchief and went
on.
‘And about his failing health, and then about his being so much better.
But nothing now for ages.’
‘Did the “World” tell you,’ asked Miss Anderson, with sudden interest,
‘that Mr. Prendergast came into a considerable fortune before--about two
years ago?’
Mrs. Innes’s face turned suddenly blank. ‘How much?’ she exclaimed.
‘About five hundred thousand dollars, I believe. Left him by a cousin.
Then you didn’t know?’
‘That must have been Gordon Prendergast--the engineer!’ Mrs. Innes said,
with excitement. ‘Fancy that! Leaving money to a relation in Sing Sing!
Hadn’t altered his will, I suppose. Who could possibly,’ and her face
fell visibly, ‘have foreseen such a thing?’
‘No one, I think,’ said Madeline, through a little edged smile. ‘On that
point you will hardly be criticized.’
Mrs. Innes, with clasped hands, was sunk in thought. She raised her eyes
with a conviction in them which she evidently felt to be pathetic.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘there is something in what the padres say
about our reaping the reward of our misdeeds in this world--some of us,
anyway. If I had stayed in New York--’
‘Yes?’ said Madeline. ‘I shall wake up presently,’ she reflected, ‘and
find that I have been dreaming melodrama.’ But that was a fantastic
underscoring of her experience. She knew very well she was making it.
Mrs. Innes, again wrapped in astonished contemplation, did not reply.
Then she jumped to her feet with a gesture that cast fortunes back into
the lap of fate.
‘One thing is certain,’ she said; ‘I can’t do anything NOW, can I?’
Madeline laid hold of silence and made armour with it. At all events,
she must have time to think.
‘I decline to advise you,’ she said, and she spoke with a barely
perceptive movement of her lips only. The rest of her face was stone.
‘How unkind and unforgiving you are! Must people would think the loss of
a hundred thousand pounds about punishment enough for what I have done.
You don’t seem to see it. But on top of that you won’t refuse to promise
not to tell Horace?’
‘I will not bind myself in any way whatever.’
‘Not even when you know that the moment I hear of the--death I intend
to--to--’
‘Make an honest man of him? Not even when I know that.’
‘Do you want me to go down on my knees to you?’
Madeline glanced at the flowered fabric involved and said, ‘I wouldn’t,
I think.’
‘And this is to hang over me the whole season? I shall enjoy
nothing--absolutely NOTHING.’ The blue eyes were suddenly eclipsed
by angry tears, which the advent of a servant with cards checked as
suddenly.
‘Goodbye, then, dear,’ cried Mrs. Innes, as if in response to the
advancing rustle of skirts in the veranda. ‘So glad to have found you
at home. Dear me, has Trilby made her way up--and I gave such particular
orders! Oh, you NAUGHTY dog!’