Perhaps her husband was right in saying Belle did not understand
business. At any rate she had little to do with it in the uneventful
months which followed. It was a dry, hot year bringing no respite of
rain to the long weary hours. It brought plenty of work, however, to
John Raby, who was up with the dawn, and never seemed to tire or flag
in his unceasing pursuit of success. In good sooth, as Belle confessed
to herself, Philip could have found no better custodian for his money;
and this knowledge was a great consolation,--how great she scarcely
realised until something came to disturb it.
She was writing to Philip Marsden one day when John entered the room.
She rose hastily, even though she felt vexed with herself for doing
so. Why should she not write? As a matter of fact she spent a
considerable portion of her time over these letters. Sometimes she
would resolutely put pen and paper away, and set to work to sew every
possible button on John's under-garments, or perform some other
virtuous domestic duty, only to find when all was done that leisure
still stared her in the face. For the leisure of a long hot-weather
day in an outstation may be compared to that of a solitary cell. Their
nearest neighbours were twenty miles away, and Belle's experiment of
having her youngest and most good-natured step-sister on a visit had
ended in disastrous failure. The girl had cried for three days
consecutively out of sheer low spirits. It was all very well, she said
plaintively, when one was married and got something by it; but what
was the use of being miserable before there was any necessity for it,
and when one couldn't even scold the servants to amuse one's self? By
and by, when Charlie Allsop got his step, she would no doubt have to
put up with jungle life for a time; but now her dearest Belle must
excuse her. Maud had written _such_ a description of the dress she was
going to wear at the Masonic ball; and really, now that Mabel was
married to her widower, and Charlie's schooling paid for by John, they
got on splendidly in the little house. Why shouldn't Belle go back to
Missouri with her, and take rooms at Scott's Hotel? They would have
such fun! But, though her husband gave her full leave to do as she
liked, Belle shook her head over this tempting offer. She felt that
she could not afford to neglect the tithes of mint and cummin, the
jots and tittles of the law; she must at any rate make offering of
what she had to give. So she stayed at home, and blushed violently
when she rose from her desk.
"Writing to Marsden?" said John carelessly. "I thought you might be,
and I wanted you just to give him a hint or two about the business. It
would come naturally from you and save surprise. The fact is, there
has been a lot of unforeseen expense; then the firm in Calcutta to
which I sent my first batch of stuff has failed. Altogether I sha'n't
be able to spare any interest on the money this year."
"No interest?" Belle could only echo his words stupidly, for the very
idea of such a contingency had never entered her head, and the fact
seemed to bring back all the old sickening dislike to the situation.
"Well!" He looked at her with the expression of distasteful patience
which always came to his face when awaiting a remonstrance. But none
followed. She was so absorbed in the fresh shame, to her, of this
failure, that she could think of nothing else.
"Of course it is a pity," he went on, somewhat mollified by her
silence, "but Marsden isn't a fool. He knows one has generally to wait
for a return; indeed I consider it lucky we have not to borrow. I wish
you wouldn't look so tragic over it, Belle. We are not ruined; far
from it. Only for the present we have to live on our capital."
Belle's face brightened. "Could we not pay the interest out of
capital, too, John?"
Her husband burst out laughing as he threw himself into an easy chair.
"Upon my soul, for utter incapacity to understand even the morals of
business, commend me to a really good woman! Interest out of capital!
We are not a swindling company, Belle!"
"We might pay it out of your own savings, John," she urged, knowing
how hopeless it would be to argue.
"Transference from one budget-head to another, and consequent cooking
of accounts! No, my dear; I left that system of book-keeping behind me
when I quitted Government service. Marsden must go without his
interest for the present; he has very good pay, and the loss is quite
temporary. In any circumstances the returns would have been
unfavourable for this year, owing to the drought. Why, even with the
aid of the dam I have scarcely had enough water for a quarter of the
acreage I intend to have next season."
His voice tailed off into indifference as his attention became
concentrated in a paper he had taken up, and there was an end of the
matter so far as he was concerned.
Pens, ink and paper had lost their attraction for Belle that day, and
for many days after; indeed, it was not until the knowledge that her
long silence would cause anxiety, that she faced the task of finishing
her letter to Major Marsden. The very certainty that he would care
little for the absence of the promised dividend, and be quite ready to
accept her husband's views on the matter, made it seem all the more
hard for her; and though she determined to leave the proper person to
tell the unwelcome news, she found herself hampered on all sides by
her own knowledge. Even remarks on the dryness of the weather savoured
of an attempt at excuse, and for the first time she felt glad to write
her signature at the bottom of the page. When it was done she leant
her head over her crossed arms in a sudden rush of weariness, and
thought how different it would have been if she could have met Philip
on equal terms; if they could have told each other the truth in all
things. Theoretically it was all very well to say that the money had
nothing to do with the position, but practically she could not get rid
of the conviction that she and John were preying on a man's sense of
honour, or, worse, on his affections. It was no use telling herself
she was despicable in having such thoughts; that, setting love aside,
friendship itself excluded the question of give or take. As a matter
of fact Philip did give her all he had, and he took,--what did he not
take? She cowered before that, the worst question of all. She could
not escape from the haunting sense of wrong which seemed to sap the
strength of her self-respect; and back through all her heart-burnings
came the one foolish fancy that if she could only have met Philip with
the money, or even a decent five per cent, interest on it, in her
hand, she could have looked into his face with clear unshadowed eyes.
And now! How was she to meet him when there was not even a dividend?
Philip meanwhile was undergoing no qualms; on the contrary, he was
having a very good time. To begin with he was in command of the
regiment and drawing, as John Raby said, excellent pay. Furthermore he
was enjoying, as was inevitable, the return to health and life after
eighteen months of death to all pleasure. Lastly, his conscience was
absolutely at rest in regard to Belle. He would have been more, or
less, than human had he not been aware that he had behaved as well as
a man could, in very trying circumstances. In fact he was a little
complacent over what had been, so far, a very simple and easy solution
of a problem which other people held to be insoluble. He sent Belle
the last new books, and wrote her kind brotherly letters, and thought
of her as the best friend he had, and always with the same underlying
consciousness of pure virtue. He forgot, however, that poor Belle
stood in a very different position; one in which calm peace was
well-nigh impossible. So as her letters became less frequent and less
frank, he began to puzzle somewhat captiously over the cause. Finally
he hinted at an explanation, and receiving nothing but jesting
replies, he took ten days' leave and went down to Saudaghur,
ostensibly to settle the half yearly accounts; for both John and he
found a sort of solemn refuge from the truth in the observance, so far
as was possible, of strict business relations.
It gave him quite a shock to find how much change his few months'
absence had wrought. The bare deserted house where Belle had nursed
him back to life, and where he and she had spent so many days
forgetful of the work-a-day world, content in a kindly constant
companionship, was now a luxurious house hedged about by
conventionalities. The drawing-room, where his sofa had reigned
supreme, was full of _bric-à-brac_ tables and heaven knows what
obstacles, through which a man had to thread his way like a performing
ape. Belle herself, despite her kind face and soft voice, was no
longer the caretaker full of sympathy. She was his hostess, his
friend, but also another man's wife; a fact of which she took care to
remind him by saying she was glad he had come in time to celebrate the
anniversary of her wedding-day on the morrow. Despite his theories
Philip did not like the change. It vexed him, too, that she should
look pale and worried when he had really done all, all that an honest
man could do, to smooth her path. Had he not even kept away for five
whole months? So he was decidedly out of humour when, coming from a
long spell of business with John in the office, he found her alone for
the first time. She was standing by the fireplace in the drawing-room,
and he made his way towards her intent on words. But she forestalled
him. "Well! he has told you about it, I suppose,--that there is no
dividend?" she said defiantly; and as she spoke she crushed the
withered roses she had been removing from a vase and flung them on to
the smouldering embers.
He looked at her in surprise. "I scarcely expected one. Oh, Belle!" he
continued hotly, "is it that? Did you think, could you think I would
care?"
She gave a little hard laugh. "How stupid you are! Of course you don't
mind. Can't you see it is that,--which hurts? Can't you understand it
is that,--your kindness,--which must hurt,--always?"
The dead leaves had caught fire and flamed up, throwing a glare of
light on both their faces. It seemed to light up their hearts also.
Perhaps she had not meant to say so much; yet now that she had said it
she stood gracefully upright, looking him in the eyes, reckless, ready
for anything. The sight of her brought home to Philip what he had
forgotten before; that in this problem of his he had not to do with
one factor but with two, and one of them a woman. Not a passionate one
it is true, but a woman to whom sentiment and emotion were more than
reason; a woman whose very innocence left her confused and helpless,
uncertain of her own foothold, and unable to draw the hard-and-fast
line between good and evil without which she felt lost in a wilderness
of wrong. The recognition startled him, but at the same time aroused
his combativeness.
"I confess I don't see why it should," he said rather coldly. "Surely
I have a perfect right to set,--other things before money, and it is
wrong--"
"Shall I give you a copy-book so that you may write the sentiment down
for future reference, Philip?" she interrupted swiftly. "Copy-book
maxims about right and wrong are so useful when one has lost the way,
aren't they? For myself I am tired of them,--dead tired,--dead tired
of everything." And once again with a gesture of utter weariness she
leant against the mantelpiece, her head upon her crossed arms.
His hands clenched as if to hold something tighter; something that
seemed slipping from him. "I am sorry," he said huskily. "Is it my
fault?"
She flamed round upon him. "Yea! it is your fault! All your fault! Why
did you ever leave me that money?"
The truth, and the unfairness of her words, bit deep. "It was 'Why did
you come back to take it away?' when we first met," he retorted in
rising anger. "I told you then I had a right to live if _I_ chose. I
tell you now I will take the money back if _you_ choose. I will do it
to-day if you like. It is only lent, I can give notice."
"What difference will it make now?" she went on recklessly. "Will it
undo the mischief? Your legacy did it all. It made John--" She broke
off suddenly, a look of terror came to her eyes, and she turned away.
"Well! I am waiting to hear. It made John--?"
"Nothing," she said in a low voice. "What is the good? It is all
past."
"But I have a right to know; I will know. Belle, what wrong did my
legacy do you? What wrong of which I know nothing? Let me see your
face--I must see it--" He bent over her, almost rough in his
impatience at the fine filmy threads of overwrought feeling which,
seeming so petty to a man, yet have the knack of tying him hand and
foot. What did she mean? Though they had never talked of such things,
the fact that her legacy had decided John's choice could be no
novelty, even to her. A woman who had money must always know it would
enhance her other charms. Then suddenly a hitherto unappreciated fact
recurred to him--if this was her wedding-day, she must have been
married very soon--the memory of a marble summer-house in a peach
garden, with his will on the table and John standing by, flashed upon
him, making the passionate blood leap up in resentment. "Belle!" he
cried imperiously, "did he--did you know? Have you known--?" He
paused, his anger yielding to pain. Had she known this incredible
baseness all these weary months, those months during which he had been
priding himself on his own forbearance? And she had said nothing! Yet
she was right; for if once this thing were made clear between them
what barrier would remain? Why should they guard the honour of a man
who had himself betrayed it? In the silence which ensued it was lucky
for them both that the room was full of memories of her kind touch,
soothing his restless pain; so the desire to give something back in
kind came uppermost.
"Is there nothing I can do?" he said at last, moving aside and
standing square and steady. "Nothing I can say or do to make it easier
for you?"
"If you could forget--"
He shook his head. "I will go away if you like, though I don't see why
I should."
"Then it would only be giving up one thing more to please me," she
answered with a little sad smile. "Why should you give up anything,
when I can give--nothing! Ah, Philip, Philip! If you had only taken
poor Dick's will and were free to go,--if you chose."
He frowned moodily. "I should not choose, so it would make no
difference; except that you think there would be one. I cannot see it.
As for the will, I'm afraid it is hopeless; but if you like I can take
leave and try. Afzul might come with me."
"If I like!" she echoed in despair. "If I like! It always comes back
to that."
The slow tears overflowing her tired eyes cut him to the quick, though
in sober truth he thought them needless. "It must,--seeing that I love
you. Why should you shrink from the truth, Belle? Great Heavens! what
have you or I done that we should be ashamed of ourselves?"
"Don't let's speak of it, Philip," she cried in a sort of terror. "It
is all my fault, I know; but I cannot help it. It is no use saying I
am wrong; everything is wrong from beginning to end."
And though he fretted and fumed, argued and appealed, nothing he could
say sufficed to re-assure her. Rightly or wrongly she could not view
the situation as he viewed it. She was galled and chafed on every
side; nor could he fail to see during the next four days that his
presence only brought her additional misery. She seemed unable to take
anything naturally, and she shrank equally from seeming to avoid being
alone with him, or from being alone. Yet, with true womanly
inconsequence, she shrank most of all when he told her that he had
made up his mind to go, and not to return until she sent for him. They
were walking up and down the new dam, which curved across a bend in
the sandy reach, waiting for her husband who with Afzul and his gang
of bandits was busy seeing to a strengthening of the side nearest the
river. A red sun was setting over the jagged purple shadow of the
Suleiman Hills, and flaring on the still pools of water below the
embankment.
"I am driving you away," she said despondently. "You cannot even look
after your own business because of me."
Then his patience gave way. "Damn the business!" he cried heartily,
and walked along beside her kicking the little clods from his path
before turning to her apologetically. "I beg your pardon, Belle, but
it is a little trying. Let us hope the business will be successfully
dammed, and then, according to John, I shall get my money back in two
years. So cheer up; freedom is beneath your feet!"
Just below them, measuring up earthwork, stood John Raby and Afzul
Khân. As they passed the latter looked up, _salaaming_ with broad
grins. "I wonder if he will take her away soon," was his thought. "I
wish he would; then I could get rid of the paper and be off home by
summer with Raby _sahib's_ rupees in my pocket. What is he waiting
for? She likes him, and Raby _sahib_ would be quite content with the
money."
John looked up too, and nodded. "Don't wait for me, good people. I
have to go over to the further end. You needn't keep tea for me,
Belle, I prefer a whiskey-peg. Ta, ta!"
And as they moved off, their figures showing dark against the red sky,
he looked after them, saying to himself that the Major could not
complain. One way and another he got his money's worth.
"Your husband works too hard, Belle," said Philip. "You should
persuade him to take it easier."
"He is so anxious to make it a success," she replied quickly.
"So are we all," retorted Philip cynically. "We ought to manage it
between us, somehow."
As they passed the coolies' huts a big strapping woman with her face
hidden in her veil came out and _salaamed_.
"Who is that?" asked Philip at once. The last few days had brought him
a curious dissatisfaction with Belle's surroundings. Despite the
luxurious home she seemed out of keeping with Afzul and his bandits,
the tag-rag and bobtail of squalid coolies swarming about the place,
and the stolid indifference of the peasants beyond the factory.
"A _protégée_ of John's. He got her out of trouble somewhere. He says
he has the biggest lot of miscreants on the frontier on his works.
They don't look much, I must allow; but this woman seems to like me.
She has such a jolly baby. I had to doctor it last week. How's Nuttu
to-day, Kirpo?"
The woman, grinning, opened her veil and displayed a sleeping child.
"Isn't he pretty, Philip?" said Belle softly. "And see, they have
pierced his nose and ears like a girl's."
"For luck, I suppose. May God spare him to manhood," prefaced Philip
piously, in native fashion before he asked the mother if it were not
so.
She shook her head. "No, Protector of the poor! All my boys are
healthy. He is called Nuttu, so that as he thrives some one else of
the same name may dwindle and pine. That is why." She hugged the baby
to her with an odd smile.
"She could not have meant that there was really another child whose
death she desired," said Belle as they went on.
"I would not answer for it if I were you. They are a queer people. By
Jove! How that woman does hate some one; I'm glad it isn't you,
Belle!"
And Kirpo looking after them was saying in her turn that they were
very queer people. If he was her lover why did the _mem_ look so
unhappy? The _sahib logue_ did not cut off their wives' noses, or put
them in prison; so what did it matter?
Truly those two were compassed about by a strange cloud of witnesses
as they strolled homewards. Perhaps the civilised world would have
judged them as harshly. But no tribunal, human or divine, could have
judged Belle more harshly than she did herself; and herein lay all the
trouble. She could not accept facts and make the best of them.
John Raby coming in later found the two reading solemnly, one on
either side of the fire, and told them they were horribly unsociable.
"I couldn't get away before," he said. "Afzul wanted a day's leave and
I had to measure up before he started."
"Has he gone already? I'm sorry," remarked Philip. "I wished to see
him before I leave tomorrow."
"To-morrow!" John Raby looked from one to another. "Have you been
quarrelling?"
And poor Belle, with the necessity for derisive denial before her,
felt more than ever that she was on the broad path leading to
destruction.
"I am sorry I have to go," said Philip with perfect truth; "but I
really am of no use here."