Belle's paradise did not last long. In less than three weeks the hot
winds came to shrivel the bursting buds and turn even the promise of
blossom into a sign of death. The sunshine took a deeper yellow glow,
the blue faded from the sky, an impalpable dust began to settle on all
things. Down in the sand stretches below the house the net-work of the
river grew finer day by day, and the mudbanks left by shrinking
streams assumed airs of perpetuity by clothing themselves with green
herbs, as if the time of floods were not nigh to swallow them up once
more. All else, far and near, seemed fainting in a great thirst,
longing for the crisis which was to bring them life.
But Belle, though the floods had not yet come, felt one calm still
morning as if the waters had gone over her head, and she had no power
to resist the current which swept her from her feet. It was a trivial
thing which roused the feeling; only a word or two in one of Philip's
letters which she held in her hand as she stood beside her husband's
writing-table.
"I quite admit it, my dear girl," he was saying calmly. "Marsden has
written to me on that subject several times, and I have replied as I
thought fit. It is quite possible I may have given him the impression
I was willing, or even that I was going, to do more than has really
been done. What then?"
"Only this," she replied hotly; "that you have degraded him in the
eyes of these people. He promised inquiry and--"
"He had no business to promise anything. He referred it to me, and he
has no right to complain of my decision."
"He does not complain! When has he ever complained?" she interrupted,
trying hard to keep the passion from her voice. "You can read what he
says, if you like. He thinks,--I do not ask how--that you have done
your best."
"Exactly! I _have_ done my best for the business."
"He did not mean that. Oh, John, the shame of it will kill me! To take
everything from a man, even his honour and good name--"
"You don't appear to be so much concerned about mine. But I promised
to pay Philip back his money in two years, and I mean to do it. Be
reasonable, my dear child. Some one must take the responsibility; some
one must take the odium which is unfortunately inseparable from
success. Why should you complain because I take it cheerfully?"
Belle crushed the letter closer in vexed despair. "I can never make
you understand! Do you not see it is a question of right and wrong?
You have taken his money and are using it as he would hate to have it
used. You have,--I do not say deceived him--but kept the truth from
him; and even if you succeed, what will you be doing but giving him
money gained as he would have scorned to gain it?"
Her husband laughed a very ugly laugh, and for the first time his face
showed some emotion. "I always knew you thought Marsden perfect, but I
wasn't aware of your estimate of my comparative virtue. I cannot say
I'm flattered by it."
"I can't help it," she said, almost with a sob. "I can't see things in
the light you see them."
"That is a mutual disability, so for heaven's sake let us agree to
differ. The thing is done. Even if I wished to do so, the sluice could
not be built now. The river is due in three weeks, or sooner, and any
interference with the dam at present must mean disaster to all
concerned. I tell you this because I want you to understand that now,
at any rate, my hands are tied."
"Perhaps,--I mean, no doubt; but he must be told, and--and given his
choice. It is not right--"
"Tell him, my dear, if' it pleases you to do so; though I think it is
a pity, for in two months' time, if all this fuss doesn't play the
devil with my plans, the difficulties will be over. By the way, what
do you propose to tell him? That I have behaved like a scoundrel?"
"You have no right to say such things, John!" she cried indignantly.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well! That I have behaved as he would have
scorned to behave? &c., &c. It seems to me about the same thing in
different words."
The flush which rose to her face told how hard she was hit. That was
the mischief of it all!--that fatal comparison between these two men,
against which she had struggled in vain. Why should she have compared
them? Why, even now, should she not let things be and trust to John's
superior wisdom? For he was wise in such matters, and, heaven knows!
gave himself up wholly to insure success. How could she tell Philip?
What was she to tell him? Yet he must know; even for John's sake he
ought to know what was being done in his name. "I will ask him to come
here," she said with an effort, "then he can see for himself."
John Raby looked up quickly. "Very well, do so. Only remember this: I
disclaim all responsibility for what may happen, and I tell you fairly
I mean to have my own way. You know perfectly well that I consider
quarrelling mere waste of time; but if the position becomes awkward,
that will be your doing, not mine."
"I will tell him to come," repeated Belle slowly.
"Then that's settled. Perhaps it may be best, after all," he added,
his face losing its last trace of vexation. "Indeed I thought of
asking him before; but the fact is the last time he was here you
showed your uneasiness so distinctly that I hesitated."
Once more the colour rose to his wife's face as she turned away. Was
everything from beginning to end her fault, she wondered, as she sent
off a telegram asking Philip to come, if he could get leave. She chose
a telegram more because it relieved her from the necessity of giving
her reasons than from any desire to save time, and so accelerate the
explanations she dreaded. Yet when, late in the evening of the next
day, John, coming from the factory, told her with a certain elation in
his voice, that the river was on the rise, she clasped her hands
nervously and wished Philip had wings.
All the next day she found herself going to the verandah whence she
could see the sandy flats, and wondering if those distant streaks of
water were indeed creeping nearer.
"The barometer's falling fast, so I'm afraid your philanthropy comes a
little too late, Belle," said John when he came in to lunch; "but
personally I'm glad the floods will be early. I don't mind confessing
to a little anxiety as to whether the dam will work, and it will be a
relief to see you looking less worried. I think every one is too much
on the strain just now, even Afzul. He was only saved from throwing up
his place this morning by the news that Philip was coming to-morrow;
so you see your plan has done some good already."
The night closed dark and hazy, and Belle's last look from the
verandah showed her nothing but dim distances stretching away to a
lighter horizon. She could not sleep, yet she would not make any stir,
so she lay awake wondering what forces were at work among the shadows,
and what the dawn would bring forth.
"John, John!" she cried, touching his shoulder to rouse him when the
first glimmer of light came to reveal the labour of the night. "The
floods are out right up to the high bank!"
He was on his feet in an instant. "By George! I _am_ in luck!" he
cried. "It will take them all by surprise. Tell them to bring tea,
Belle; I must be off to the dam at once. And don't expect me back till
lunch; Marsden will excuse me, and besides," he gave a little light
laugh, "it will give you leisure to get over your confession. It's
awfully nice to have some one to be penitent in your place. It saves a
lot of bother. Don't you remember Florac's reply to Pendennis about
his mother's tears. 'You must have made her weep a good deal,' says
Pen 'Mais enormément, mon cher!'"
A few minutes later he had left her with a kindly good-bye, and a
recommendation to take things easy as he did. As she walked up and
down the verandah waiting for Philip's arrival, she asked herself more
than once whether it would not be wiser to follow John's advice. Now
that the last chance of remedy was over for the present, why should
she give herself the pain of acknowledging that she condemned her
husband's action? Drifting this way and that in the current of
thought, as many another thing swept from its moorings was drifting in
the floods beneath her eyes, she had reached no certain conclusion
when the even tread of the horse, which they had sent to meet Philip,
brought her back to action with a strange dread of herself. He was
beside her in an instant and though she had worded her telegram so as
to avoid anxiety, it was clearly evident in his face.
"Well, what is it?" he said, still holding her outstretched hand of
welcome, and looking into her face curiously.
"Nothing," she answered hurriedly; "nothing in the least important.
Only--I wanted to see you. Come in; you must be tired, that beast has
such rough paces; I would have sent Suleimân, but he is lame. Come in,
tea is ready."
So she ran on, and Philip, who, to say sooth, had been on tenter-hooks
ever since the receipt of her summons, had to fall into her mood, not
without a certain sense of injury. But the pleasure of being within
touch of her hand and sight of her face was irresistible, so that the
following hours seemed to take him back to the most perfect memory of
his whole life, to that evening at Saudaghur which he and she had
spent together in thoughtless, unreasoning content. Perhaps this
memory cast its glamour over Belle likewise; certain it is that
something beat down and overwhelmed all thought and care. John, coming
in almost late for lunch, found them laughing over the last week's
"Punch" which Philip had brought with him; and taking his cue quickly,
if with some contemptuous surprise, dropped his serious air and became
the genial host. Never was there a gayer or more light-hearted trio;
but outside the house the clear promise of the morning had dulled to a
yellow haze, and every now and again a swirl of dust swept past,
making the yellow deeper.
"In for the first _andi_[8] of the season," said John Raby standing by
the window. "The natives say it is a sign of a healthy year to have a
dust-storm early. More good luck, you see, Belle! There is nothing
like keeping a calm sough, and trusting to Providence. Doesn't it make
you feel 'heavenly calm,' Marsden, to be here in this jolly room and
know that outside, in all that dust and pother, the elements are
working together for your good?"
Philip laughed. "I feel very well content, thank you. The comfort of
contrast always appeals to my selfish nature."
"Hark to that, Belle! I'll never believe in Philip's saintship again,"
cried her husband triumphantly. "Well, I must be off; there was the
tiniest crumble in the dam, and I must get my bandits to work on it
before dark. By the way, Marsden, Afzul said he was coming to see you
this afternoon. If so, sit on him. The beggar has been half mutinous
of late. Faugh! what an atmosphere; but I dare say it will be better
outside."
"How well he is looking," said Philip, as he watched the figure
disappearing through the haze. "I wish I could see you do more credit
to the 'heavenly calm.'" He made the remark lightly enough, thinking
only of his first glance at her when he arrived; a glance which had
prompted his swift inquiry as to what was the matter. But he was
startled out of all save surprise by the look on her face as she
turned towards him from the window.
"Heavenly calm!" she echoed almost wildly. "Yes, for you and for me,
and for him; but for the others? You asked me, and I said nothing was
the matter. It was a lie, everything is the matter! Outside there, in
the dust,--" as she spoke the hand she had laid on his arm in her
vehemence tightened to a clutch, her eyes fixed themselves on
something. "John!" she cried. "He is coming back, running! Oh, what is
it? what is it?"
Almost before he could grasp her meaning the door burst open, and John
Raby was back in the room, calm for all his excitement. "Quick,
Marsden, quick! get your revolver,--the fools are at the dam! There's
treachery, and not a moment to lose! Quick, man, quick!"
"Treachery! What? How? I don't understand--Belle, what is the matter?"
For she had thrown herself between him and her husband, and stood with
one hand on his breast as if to push him back. "He shall not go; he
does not understand!" she cried passionately. "I tell you he shall not
go until I have told him all. He does not know, he does not
understand; it is not fair--Philip!--"
"--Don't heed her, Marsden; it's all fancy, and there is no time for
words. I tell you they are at the dam,--the fools!" cried John, his
self-control seeming to give way at the very thought of danger to the
work of his hands. "Belle, let him go! I command you,--I entreat--"
But she stood firm, every fibre of her nature tense in this final
conflict, a conflict not so much between the two men, as between her
instincts and her beliefs. And yet, the sense of personal injury so
long repressed made her words reckless. "You have taken everything
from him--everything that makes life worth living--even his love. And
because of that he has given up everything without a word; and now you
ask his honour, his life, in a bad cause; but you shall not have it!
Philip! if you love me,--if you love your own good name,--stay where
you are. It is I who command it!"
With an oath John Raby dashed past her to the office, but ere Philip
had time to do more than unclasp, as gently as he could, the arms she
had flung about his neck, her husband was back again, revolver in
hand, his clear face blurred by anger; sheer, animal anger.
"Belle!" he cried, beside himself with uncontrolled passion, "don't
add this folly to your other foolishness. Think! I am your husband; so
choose between us. Choose between us I say, or by God--"
She interrupted him in tones so bitter that no escape remained from
their finality. "Choose? Yes! I have chosen at last--at last! Philip
shall not suffer."
His answer came swiftly! "Then stay with your lover; I might have
known I was a fool to trust a woman."
Ere the echo of his voice died away he was out in the storm again,
leaving those two in a silence worse than the words just spoken. He
had disengaged her arms, but her hands had tightened themselves on
his, and so they stood face to face, looking into each other's eyes.
But in his lay a pity and tenderness before which hers failed and
fell.
"You must not go," she whispered, low and fast. "I have not told you,
and I ought to have told you. He had no right to use your name, to be
so hard; and they may kill you. I have a right to tell you,--surely I
have a right to so much?"
Her warm clasp held him unresisting, yet in his heart of hearts he was
not thinking of her, only of some expedient which should avoid the
last resource of brute force; for with all his tenderness his pride
was in arms. "Have I not given you enough, Belle?" he said hoarsely.
"Will you not even leave me my courage?"
With a sob she flung his hands from her as if they bit and stung.
"Go!" she cried. "You are unjust, ungenerous; but go!"
He did not wait. Torn as he was by love and compassion for the woman
he was leaving so forsaken and abased, he could not pause in the
mad hurry which seized him, even for a word of comfort; time, if he
was to retrieve his self-respect and hers, was too precious. Another
instant and he was searching frantically for his revolver among his
half-unpacked things, and feeling a certain fierce joy in anticipation
of the struggle to come. A quick snatch, a breathless relief, and he
looked up to find Afzul Khân standing by the only door of exit from
the room. "Afzul!" he cried, "why are you here? Why are you not at
your post when there is danger afoot? Follow me at once!"
But the Pathan's answer was to close the door and stand with his arm
thrown across it, bolt-wise. Then he looked at the Major boldly, yet
respectfully. "I'm here, _Huzoor_, because I have grown tired of
helping a tyrant. The _sahib_ should be tired of it too and take his
reward. That is what I came to make known to the Presence."
"Let me pass, fool!" shouted Philip, struggling to get at the door.
But Afzul was his match in strength, and, even as he resisted, found
time for words. "Listen, _Huzoor!_ If it is the money, let it go. I
have here in my pocket something that will put more money into the
_mem's_ hand. So you can have her and the money too."
"Are you mad? Let me pass, I say, or it will be the worse for you!"
"For you, _Huzoor_. There is danger; the men mean fight, but if Raby
_sahib_ has none to back him, he will choose prudence. He wrought the
evil--I will not stir, _sahib_, till you have listened--he wrought the
evil, let him bear the loss. You--"
Philip gave one glance round for other means of escape; then
the breathless hurry of the last few moments left his voice and
manner. "Stand back, Afzul," he said quietly, "or I'll fire.
One,--two,--three!--"
An instant's pause, and the hand on the trigger wavered. Something,
the memory of those days and nights in the smoky cave, perhaps, came
between Philip and the wrist he aimed at, for the ball struck the door
below it, splintering the wood. But that waver, slight though it was,
caught the Pathan's quick eye. He threw up his arm with a laugh of
malicious triumph. "We are quits, _Huzoor!_ We have both been fools
before the other's bravery; that is the end, the end at last!"
The meaning of his words, even the words themselves, were lost on
Philip, who was already down the verandah steps, his head, as he ran,
bent low to save himself from being blinded by the swirl of dust which
now swept past continuously. Afzul scowled after the retreating
figure. "Fool!" he muttered between his teeth. "But I have done with
him now--done with everything save this accursed letter. I wish I had
sent it to the _mem_ at first. It belongs to her, and she is the best
of the bunch."
So muttering he made his way to the verandah, and raising the bamboo
screen looked into the drawing-room. Belle, crushed to a dull
endurance by the consciousness of her own impotence to aid; nay more,
with the very desire to help killed by the awful knowledge that both
those men had flung her aside as something beneath their manhood, had
thrown herself face downward on the sofa, where she lay with clenched
hands, striving to regain some power of thought or action; yet in the
very effort driving herself to greater helplessness by her wild
insistence that time was passing, that she must decide, must do
something.
"_Huzoor!_"
She started to her feet, and found Afzul beside her with outstretched
hand. The sight, by rousing a physical fear, brought back the courage
which never failed her at such times. "Well?" she asked boldly.
"I am not come to hurt you, _Huzoor_, but to give you this. It belongs
to you."
She put out her hand mechanically, and took a small package done up,
native fashion, in a bit of old brocade.
"Mine! what is it?" she asked in a dull tone.
"It is Dick _sahib's_ will. He died fighting like the brave one he
was; but they were all brave, those three,--Dick _sahib_, and Marsden
_sahib_, and Raby _sahib_. They die fighting,--curse them!"
They die fighting? With the first cry she had given, Belle broke from
him, and, still clutching the packet, followed in the footsteps of
those two; and as she ran, beaten back by the wind, and half-blinded
by the sand, she scarcely thought of their safety, only that she might
get there in time. Only in time, dear God! only in time to show them
that she was brave also.
The lurid yellow of the dust-storm had darkened or lightened
everything to the same dull tint; the sand beneath her feet, the sky
above, the swaying trees between, each and all seemed like shadows
thrown upon a screen, and her own flying figure the only reality in an
empty world of dreams. Not a sound save the broad rush of the wind,
not a sight save the dim dust hazed paths bordered by shrivelled
flowers. Then, beyond the garden, the long curve of the dam, the
deeper sinking into dun-coloured soil of those frantic feet; and,
running with her as she ran, the swirls and dimples of the yellow
river angry for all its silence.
If only she might be in time! There, in the centre of the curve, like
a swarm of bees, shifting, crowding, pressing,--was that John's fair
head in the centre? If the wind were only the other way, she might
have heard; but now, even if they were crying for help, she would not
hear!--
Suddenly her stumbling flight ceased in a stumbling pause. Was that
the wind? She threw up her hands without a cry, and stood as if turned
to stone. It seemed to her as if the seconds beat themselves in on her
brain--one--two--three--four--five--not more than that; then a low
dull roar ending in silence; silence and peace, for she lay huddled up
in a heap upon the ground as if struck by lightning.