The night which had proved so restless to Philip Marsden had been for
Belle, strangely enough, one of profound repose. Never, since as a
child she fell asleep with the fresh cool caress of her pillow, had
she felt less inclination to be wakeful, less desire for thought. The
measureless content which comes so seldom, save in a pleasant dream,
held her, body and soul. To feel it was enough. Yet as she woke to the
sound of her husband's early return, she woke also to a full
consciousness of the change Philip's resurrection from the dead must
bring into their lives. A hasty remorse at her own brief happiness
made her slip on a morning-gown and go into her husband's office-room.
The wonder whether he knew, or whether the post which always went to
him direct while he was in camp in order to save time, had failed to
find him, made her cheek pale. She scarcely knew which would be worst;
to meet him crushed by the news, or to have to kill his easy content
with bitter tidings.
She found him already engaged with the tea and toast which the servant
had brought in on his arrival, and her heart sank; face to face with
it, anything seemed better than the task of telling.
"Hullo! Belle, little woman! is that you up so early? But it must
have been deuced startling for you to have Marsden walking in like
Lazarus--"
"Then you have heard?" she interrupted with quite a sigh of relief.
"Of course I've heard. One always does hear that sort of thing. But
the fool of a _peon_[5] took the letters to the village I'd just left,
so it was too late to send you word. And then I had to finish some
work. It's a queer go, isn't it? Poor old Marsden! Somehow it makes me
laugh."
Belle sat down helplessly in the low chair by her husband, feeling
utterly lost. Was she never to be able even to guess at his moods? She
had imagined that this would be the most bitter of blows, and he found
it provocative of laughter. "I'm so glad you take it that way, John,"
she began, "I was afraid--"
"Afraid of what? By the way, he is here, I suppose. You haven't sent
him elsewhere, or done anything foolish, I hope?"
"Why should I send him away? I don't understand--"
"Oh, nothing! Only,--you see, when you have got to keep on the right
side of a man it is as well not to be too particular. I suppose you
have been talking about the money. What did he say?"
A slow colour crept into Belle's face. "Not much,--at least,--I don't
think we talked about it at all. There were so many other things."
John Raby whistled a tune; then he smiled. "Upon my soul, you are
sometimes quite incomprehensible, Belle; but perhaps it is as well.
You might have put your foot in it somehow; and as it is absolutely
necessary that the legacy should remain in the business, we must be
careful. If we play our cards decently this ridiculous resurrection
won't make much difference. You see, Marsden is a gentleman. He
wouldn't ruin anybody, least of all a woman he-- Hullo! what's the
matter now?"
Her hand gripped his arm almost painfully. "Don't, John, don't! For
pity's sake, don't!"
"Phew! you needn't pinch me black and blue, my dear, for hinting at
the truth. You know what Marsden did to save you once. Why shouldn't
he do something to save you now? There is no use mincing matters when
one is in a corner like this. I mean to have the use of that money,
and if we play our cards fairly we shall get it. I mean to have it,
and you're bound to help; for, though I don't wish to reproach you,
Belle, you must see that you are mainly responsible for the position."
"I!"
"Yes, you. If it hadn't been for your squeamishness I should still
have been a civilian and able to go back on my tracks. Then again, but
for having to quarrel with Shunker for his impudence, I should only
have been at half-risks; he would have had to sink or swim with me,
and that would have ensured his advancing more capital. The fact is
that luck has been against me all through."
"What is it you want me to do?" she asked faintly. "How can I help?"
"Oh, if you ask in that tragedy-tone it's no use answering. I want you
to be sensible, that is all. There really is nothing to make a fuss
about. I'll ensure him a fair interest. And his coming back doesn't
alter our position; we have been living on his money for the last
year."
"But we thought he was dead--that it was ours. Oh, John, there is a
difference! Don't you see he is tied;--that he has no choice, as it
were?"
"If you mean that Marsden is a gentleman and sees that the predicament
is none of our making, then I agree."
She knelt down beside him, looking into his face with passionate
entreaty in hers. "John!" she said, "I can't make you understand, but
if you love me,--ever so little--don't, don't beg of--of this man.
Surely we have taken enough! You have some money of your own,--indeed
I would rather starve! It would kill me if you took advantage of,--of
his kindness." Then, seeing the hopelessness of rousing sympathy in
him, she buried her face against the arm of his chair with a sob of
pain.
"I'll tell you what I do know, Belle," he answered kindly enough. "It
was a confounded shame of Marsden to upset your nerves by popping up
like a Jack-in-the-box. You're not a bit strong yet. Go and lie down
till breakfast-time, and leave me to settle it. Why, you little goose,
you don't think I'm going down on my knees to beg of any man! I am
only, very wisely, going to take advantage of the natural strength of
the position. It isn't as if you had ever cared a button for him, you
know."
Something like a flash of lightning shot down from heaven on poor
Belle, shrivelling up all her strength. She crept away to her room,
and there, with flaming cheeks, paced up and down wondering why the
sky didn't fall on the house and kill every one; every one but Philip.
The memory of the night before had come back to fill her with shame
and doubt, and yet with a great certainty. When had she felt so happy,
so content? When had she talked to John, straight out from her very
heart, as she had talked to Philip? What must he have thought? That
she had been seeking to please him; as John called it, trying to play
her cards well? No! he would not think such things; and yet the
alternative was even less honourable to her. What had possessed her?
She, John's wife, who had tried,--who had always tried so hard to be
content! How had this inconceivable thing come about? Preposterous!
Absurd; it had not come about; it could not, should not, must not be.
Yet, after all, what was the use in denying it? Philip stood far above
John in her Pantheon. She had known that for months. But then it was
allowable to canonise the dead. Why had he come back? Above all, why
had he brought his saintship with him? So the circle of passionate
resentment at fate, and still more passionate contempt for herself,
went round and round, bringing no conclusion. She would have liked to
throw herself on her bed and cry her eyes out; but, trivial yet
insuperable barrier to this relief, it was too near breakfast-time for
tears, since no one must guess at her trouble.
So she appeared at the appointed time, and asked Philip if he had
slept well, and if he would take tea or coffee; and no one knew that
she was wondering half the time why the sky didn't fall down and crush
her for noticing that Philip saw she was pale, that Philip handed her
the butter, and Philip looked to her always for an opinion. What right
had he to do all this when her husband did not? Poor Belle; she had
dreamed dreams only to find herself, as she thought, in the most
despicable position in which a woman can possibly find herself. She
never paused to ask if the verdict of society in its more virtuous
moods was trustworthy, and that a woman who discovers some other man
to be nearer the sun than her husband, must necessarily call her
marriage a failure, and so forfeit some measure of her self-respect.
Her righteous ignorance simply made her feel, as she looked at the
well-laid table, that here were all the elements of a _mariage à
trois_; an idea hateful to her, and from which, according to what she
had been taught, the only escape was flight. Yet how could there be
flight if John would not give up the money? And then the thought that
the table laid for two last night had been ever so much more pleasant,
came to reduce her reasoning powers to pulp. She listened to the
story of poor Dick's will,--that will which had led to the present
puzzle,--feeling that the half-excuse it gave to John's avarice, was
but another rivet in the chain which bound her life to Philip's; for
with his kind face before her eyes, and his kind voice in her ears, it
was useless denying the tie between them. That was the worst of it;
she knew perfectly well that, as he sat there calmly talking to her
husband, silence was no protection to her feelings. He knew them, just
as she knew of a certainty what his were; not by any occult power, not
by any mysterious affinity, but by the clear-eyed reason which affirms
that, given certain conditions and certain ideals, the result is also
certain. And yet, while she acknowledged her confidence in him,
something, she knew not what, rebelled against his sympathy; it was an
interference, an offence.
"It is a pity you did not take the will," she said coldly. "It would
have saved us all a great deal of annoyance." The patience in his
reply made her still more angry. She positively preferred her
husband's frown, as he suggested with a very different tone in his
voice, that if Major Marsden had finished breakfast he should come and
talk over details in the office.
"But I should like your wife--" began Philip.
"John is much better at business than I am," interrupted Belle. "I
don't take much interest in that sort of thing, and,--I would rather
not, thank you."
So the two men whom fate had always placed in such strange antagonism
to each other sat amicably arranging the business, while Belle
wandered about from one occupation to another, angry with herself for
knowing which of the two had her interest most at heart.
"It's all settled, Belle!" cried her husband gaily, as they came in to
lunch. "Marsden's a trump! but we knew that before, didn't we? You'll
never regret it though, Philip, for it is twenty per cent, and no
mistake. I say, Belle! we must have a bottle of champagne to drink to
the new firm, Marsden, Raby, and Co."
He hurried off for the wine, leaving Belle and the Major alone.
Marsden, Raby, and Co.! Horrible, detestable! Nor was the position
bettered by Philip's remark that there was no other way out of it at
present. Dick's will might turn up, if, as was not unlikely, some one
had buried the poor lad; there was no doubt that some one had looked
after his effects in the shanties. At all events her husband had
arranged to pay back the money, by instalments, so soon as possible.
All this only made her reply stiffly, that she was sure John would do
his utmost to lessen the risk.
"I shall leave it in his hands, at any rate," said Philip, who despite
his pity and sympathy was human. "I shan't trouble you much with
interference. By the way, when does the train leave tonight? I shall
have to be going on my way."
"What's that?" cried John, returning with the champagne. "Going away?
Nonsense! You must see the new house, your new house for the time
being. And then there is the new dam; you must see that as member of
the firm, mustn't he, Belle?"
Her silence roused Philip's old temper. "Yes, I suppose I ought to see
it all. Afzul is leaving tonight, as he has business somewhere or
other, but I will stop till to-morrow. We might ride over in the
morning to the house, if you have a horse at my disposal?"
"They are all at your disposal," said Belle quickly. "Major Marsden
can ride Suleimân, John. I shall not want him."
They dined in the garden again that evening, but it was a different
affair, and the perception that it was so added to Belle's wild
rebellion at the position in which she found, or fancied she found,
herself. When they stood out under the stars again saying good-night,
Belle's hand lay in Philip's for an instant while John filled himself
a tumbler from the tray in the verandah. Somehow the tragedy of her
face proved too much for the humour of the man, who knew himself
guiltless of all save a great tenderness. "I am not going to bite my
poor Belle!" he said with a smile half of amusement, half of
annoyance. "You needn't call in the aid of the policeman, I assure
you."
She looked at him angrily, but as she turned away there were tears in
her eyes.
He sat on the edge of his bed once more, pondering over the events of
the day, but this time there was no doubt in his mind at all. He cared
more for Belle's peace than for anything else in the world. He would
go away for a while; but he would not give her up; he would prove to
her that there was no need for that.
To his surprise she was waiting in the verandah when he came out of
his room at daybreak next morning. She looked business-like and
self-reliant, as all women do in their riding-habits, and she was
fastening a rose at her collar.
"John's not quite ready," she remarked easily; "but he said we had
better go on and he would catch us up. I want to see about the garden.
The roses here are mine, and as some of them are quite pretty,--this
one for instance--won't you take it? you can't have seen many roses
lately--I intend moving them. By the bye, I've sent out breakfast, so
as your train doesn't leave till midnight we can have a jolly day."
Philip, fastening the rose in his buttonhole, wondered if the best
parlour with all the covers off was not worse than calls on the
policeman. Both seemed to him equally unnecessary, but then he had all
the advantage in position. He could show his friendship in an
unmistakable way, while poor Belle had only the far harder task of
receiving benefits.
"You don't remember Suleimân, my Arab at Faizapore?" she said as they
cantered off. "You are riding him now,--oh, don't apologise, the pony
does well enough for me; John gave me such a delightful surprise in
buying him back after we were married."
"Got him dirt cheap from a woman who was afraid to ride him," remarked
John coming up behind cheerfully; and Belle was divided between
vexation and pleasure at this depreciation of his own merits.
"I should think you rode pretty straight as a rule," said Philip,
looking at her full in the face. "Many women make the mistake of
jagging at a beast's mouth perpetually. If you can trust him, it's far
better to leave him alone; don't you think so?"
"John, race me to the next _kikar_ tree. It's our last chance, for we
shall be among the corn soon. Come!"
Major Marsden, overtaking them at regulation pace, owned that Belle
did ride very straight indeed. Perhaps she was right after all, and
the position was untenable. He felt a little disheartened and weary,
only his pride remained firm, telling him that he had a perfect right
to settle the point as he chose. Surely he might at least rectify his
own mistakes. The sun climbed up and up, and even in the cooler,
greener river-land beat down fiercely on the stubble where here and
there the oxen circled round on the threshing-floors and clouds of
chaff, glittering like gold in the light, showed the winnower was at
work. John was in his element, pointing out this field promised to
indigo, and that village where a vat was to be built.
"It is getting a little hot for Mrs. Raby to be out," remarked Philip,
though he was quite aware it would be an offence.
"By George, it is late! Look, Belle! there's the house beyond those
trees on the promontory. It is three miles round, but if you cut
across, so, by the sand, it's only one and a half. Marsden and I will
go the other way. I have to see a village first, and then we can look
at the new dam."
"It is over yonder, I suppose?" said Philip pointing to a likely bend
in the river bank.
"Just so."
"Then I will see Mrs. Raby across the cut, and join you there."
"But I can manage quite well by myself," protested Belle.
"I have no interest in villages, Mrs. Raby; and,--excuse me--before we
start your pony's girths require tightening." He slipped from his
horse and was at her side before she could reply.
"Then I'm off," cried John with a faint shrug of his shoulders. "I'll
meet you at the corner, Marsden, in twenty minutes."
"Steady, lad, steady!" murmured the Major with his head under the flap
of the saddle, as Suleimân figeted to join his stable-companion. Belle
standing, tapping her boot with her whip, moved forward. "Give me the
reins. I don't see why you should do everything."
Philip came up from the girths smiling, and began on the curb.
"What a fidget you are! I'm glad John isn't like that."
"Curbs and girths mean more than you suppose. There! now you can go
neck-and-crop at everything, and I won't say you nay. Steady, lad,
steady! One, two, three--are you all right?"
"Thank you, I think I have the proper number of hands and feet, and so
far as I know my head is on my shoulders," replied Belle tartly.
They dipped down a bit from the fields to a sluggish stream edging the
higher land, and then scampered across the muddy flats towards the
promontory which lay right at the other side of the bend.
"Pull up please!" cried Philip. "That strip looks _quick_."
"Nonsense! John comes this way every week; it's all right." Belle gave
her pony a cut, making it forge ahead; but it was no match for
Suleimân who, unaccustomed to the spur, bounded past her.
"Pull up, please; don't be foolish, pull up!" Philip shouted, hearing
the ominous cloop of his horse's feet. Another dig of the spur, a
leap, a flounder, and Suleimân was over the creek. Not so Belle's
pony; slower, heavier, it was hopelessly bogged in a second, and
floundering about, sank deeper and deeper.
"Throw yourself off!" cried Philip; "as far as you can,--arms flat!
So,--quite still, please. There is no danger. I can get at you easily,
and it is not deep." A minute after his hand closed on her wrist as
she lay sinking slowly despite her stillness; for the pony, relieved
of her weight, was plunging like a mad thing and churning up the sand
and water to slush. "I must get a purchase first; these sands hold
like birdlime;" he said after an ineffectual attempt. "Don't be
frightened if I let go for a moment." Then with one hand through
Suleimân's stirrup he knelt once more on the extreme edge of the firm
ground and got a grip of Belle again. "Now then,--all together!" More
all together than he desired, for Suleimân, alarmed at the strain,
backed violently, reared, and finally broke away, leaving Philip prone
on his back in the dirt. "I hope I didn't hurt you," he said,
struggling up, rather blindly, to aid Belle's final flounder to safe
ground.
"Not much," she replied with a nervous laugh as she shook the
curiously dry sand from her habit. "My wrist will be a bit black and
blue, that's all. Why, Philip, what's the matter? Philip!"
He had doubled up limply, horribly, as if he had been shot, and lay in
a heap at her feet.
"Philip! What is it?"
As she slipped her arm beneath him to raise his head, something warm
and wet trickled over it,--blood!
"The wound," he murmured. "My handkerchief,--anything,--I am sorry."
Then the pain died out of his face and his head felt heavy on her arm.
The wound! She sought for it by the aid of that ghastly trickle only
to find, when she tore the coverings away, that it was no trickle, but
an intermittent gushing. That must be stopped somehow,--her
handkerchief, his handkerchief, her own little white hands. It had all
passed so quickly that it seemed but a minute since he had cried "Pull
up," and there she was with his head on her knee, face downwards, and
the warm blood soaking over her. People make long stories afterwards
of such scenes; but as a matter of fact they derive all their horror
from their awful swiftness.
Belle, bareheaded in the sunlight, was full of one frantic desire to
see the face hidden away in her habit. Was he dead? Was that the
reason why the blood oozed slower and slower? She craned over his
close-cropped hair only to see the outline of his cheek. "Philip,
Philip!" she whispered in his ear; but there was no answer. Was it
five minutes, was it ten, was it an hour since she had sat there with
her hands?--? Ah, ghastly, ghastly! She could not look at them; and
yet for no temptation in the world would she have moved a finger, lest
he was not dead and she,--oh, blessed thought!--was staving death
aside.
A shout behind, and her husband tearing down at a mad gallop, alarmed
at the return of the riderless horse. "Good God! Belle! what has
happened?"
"Look, and tell me if he is dead," she said. "Quick! I want to
know,--I want to know!"
He was not dead, and yet the bleeding had stopped. Then they must get
him home; get him somewhere as best they could. A string bed was
brought from the nearest village, with relays of willing yet placid
bearers; Belle walked beside it, in Philip's helmet, for her own hat
had been lost in the quicksand, keeping her hand on the rough bandages
while John raced ahead to set the doors open. It was dreary crossing
the threshold of the new house, with the jostling, shuffling footsteps
of those who carry something that is death's or will be death's. But
there was a light in Belle's eyes, and even her husband, accustomed as
he was to her even nerves, wondered at her calm decision. Since they
must procure a doctor as quickly as possible, the best plan would be
for John to ride across country to a station where the afternoon mail
stopped. To return to Saudaghur and a mere hospital assistant would be
needless delay. She did not mind, she said, being left alone; and
meanwhile they must send for a supply of necessaries since it was
evident that Philip could not be moved, at any rate for a day or two.
So Belle sat in the big empty room, which by and by was to be hers,
and watched alone by the unconscious man, feeling that it was her turn
now. It was a vigil not to be forgotten. And once as she raised his
head on her arm in order to moisten his lips with the stimulant which
alone seemed to keep life in him, he stirred slightly, his eyes opened
for a second, and a faint murmur reached her ear, "No need for a
policeman."
A smile, pathetic in its absolute self-surrender, came to her face as
she stooped and kissed him with the passion of protection and
possession which a mother has for her helpless child; and that is a
love which casts out fear. As she crouched once more beside the coarse
pallet where he lay, for the room was destitute of all furniture save
the string woven bed, Belle Raby, for the first time in her life,
faced facts undistorted by her own ideals, and judged things as they
were, not as they ought to be. She loved this man; but what was that
love? Was it a thing to be spoken of with bated breath just because
the object happened to be a person whom, all things consenting, one
might have married? Her nature was healthy and unselfish; her
knowledge of the "devastating passion" which is said to devour
humanity was derived entirely from a pious but unreasoning belief in
what she was told. It is not the fashion nowadays to say so, but that
is really the position in which a vast majority of women find
themselves in regard to many social problems. And so, in that dreary,
shadowy room, with the man she loved dependent on her care for his
sole chance of life, Belle Raby asked herself wherein lay the sin or
shame of such a love as hers, and found no answer.
And yet, when her husband returned with the doctor, he brought back
with him also the old familiar sense that something, she knew not
what, was wrong. The old resentment, born of the old beliefs, at the
odious position in which she found herself. But now she tried to set
these thoughts aside as unworthy, unworthy of her own self, above all
unworthy of Philip.