It has been obvious, I hope, that Lewis Ancram was temperamentally equal
to adjusting himself to a situation. His philosophy was really
characteristic of him; and none the less so because it had a pessimistic
and artistic tinge, and he wore it in a Persian motto inside a crest
ring on his little finger. It can hardly be said that he adjusted
himself to his engagement and his future, when it became apparent to him
that the one could not be broken or the other changed, with
cheerfulness—for cheerfulness was too commonplace a mental condition to
have characterised Mr. Ancram under the happiest circumstances. Neither
can it be denied, however, that he did it with a good deal of dignity
and some tact. He permitted himself to lose the abstraction that had
been overcoming him so habitually in Rhoda’s society, and he said more
of those clever things to her which had been temporarily obscured by the
cloud on his spirits. They saw one another rather oftener than usual in
the fortnight following the evening on which Mr. Ancram thought he could
suggest a course for their mutual benefit to Miss Daye and her daintily
authoritative manner with him convinced him that his chains were riveted
very firmly. At times he told himself that she had, after all,
affectionate potentialities, though he met the problem of evolving them
with a shrug. He disposed himself to accept all the ameliorations of the
situation that were available, all the consolations he could find. One
of the subtlest and therefore most appreciable of these was the
necessity, which his earlier confidence involved, of telling Judith
Church in a few suitably hesitating and well-chosen words that things
were irrevocable. Judith kept silence for a moment, and then, with a
gravely impersonal smile, she said, “I hope—and think—you may be happier
than you expect,” in a manner which made further discussion of the
matter impossible. It cannot be doubted, however, that she was able to
convey to him an under-current of her sympathy without embarrassment.
Otherwise he would hardly have found himself so dependent on the odd
half-hours during which they talked of Henley’s verses and Swan’s
pictures and the possibility of barricading oneself against the moral
effect of India. Ancram often gave her to understand, in one delicate
way or another, that if there were a few more women like her in the
country it could be done.
The opinion seemed to be general, though perhaps nobody else formulated
it exactly in those terms. People went about assuring each other that
Mrs. Church was the most charming social success, asserting this as if
they recognised that it was somewhat unusual to confer such a decoration
upon a lady whose husband had as yet none whatever. People said she was
a really fascinating woman in a manner which at once condoned and
suggested her undistinguished antecedents—an art which practice has made
perfect in the bureaucratic circles of India. They even went so far as
to add that the atmosphere of Belvedere had entirely changed since the
beginning of the officiating period—which was preposterous, for nothing
could change the social atmosphere of any court of Calcutta short of the
reconstruction of the Indian Empire. The total of this meant that Mrs.
Church had a good memory, much considerateness, an agreeable
disposition, and pretty clothes. Her virtues, certainly her virtues as I
know them, would hardly be revealed in the fierce light which beats upon
the wife of an acting Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal from November until
April, though a shadow of one of them might have been detected in the
way she behaved to the Dayes. Ancram thought her divine in this, but she
was only an honest woman with a temptation and a scruple. Her dignity
made it difficult; she was obliged to think out delicate little ways of
offering them her friendship in the scanty half hours she had to herself
after dinner, while the unending scratch of her husband’s pen came
through the portière that hung across the doorway into his
dressing-room. What she could do without consulting them she did; though
it is not likely that Colonel Daye will ever attribute the remarkable
smoothness of his official path at this time to anything but the spirit
of appreciation in which he at last found Government disposed to regard
his services. The rest was not so easy, because she had to count with
Rhoda. On this point her mother was in the habit of invoking Rhoda’s
better nature, with regrettable futility. Mrs. Daye said that for her
part she accepted an invitation in the spirit in which it was given, and
it is to be feared that no lady in Mrs. Church’s “official position”
would be compelled to make overtures twice to Mrs. Daye, who told other
ladies, in confidence, that she had the best reason to believe Mrs.
Church a noble-minded woman—a beautiful soul. It distressed her that she
was not able to say this to Rhoda also, to be frank with Rhoda, to
discuss the situation and perhaps to hint to the dear child that her
non-responsiveness to Mrs. Church’s very kind attitude looked “the least
bit in the world like the little green monster, you know, dearest one.”
It was not, Mrs. Daye acknowledged, that Rhoda actively resisted Mrs.
Church’s interest; she simply appeared to be unaware of it, and sat on a
chair beside that sweet woman in the Belvedere drawing-room with the
effect of being a hundred miles away. Mrs. Daye sometimes asked herself
apprehensively how soon Mrs. Church would grow tired of coaxing Rhoda,
how long their present beatitudes might be expected to last. It was with
this consideration in mind that she went to her daughter’s room the day
after the Maharajah of Pattore’s garden-party, which was Thursday. The
windows of that apartment were wide open, letting in great squares of
vivid sunlight, and their muslin curtains bellied inward with the
pleasant north wind. It brought gusts of sound from the life outside—the
high plaintive cheeling of the kites, the interminable cawing of the
crows, the swish of the palm fronds, the scolding of the mynas; and all
this life and light and clamour seemed to centre in and circle about the
yellow-haired girl who sat, half-dressed, on the edge of the bed writing
a letter. She laid it aside face downward, at her mother’s knock, and
that amiable lady found her daughter seated before the looking-glass
with a crumpled little brown ayah brushing her hair.
Mrs. Daye cried out at the glare, at the noise. “It’s like living in one
of those fretwork marble summer-houses at Delhi where the kings of
what-you-may-call-it dynasty kept their wives!” she declared, with her
hands pressed on her eyes and a thumb in each ear; and when the shutters
were closed and the room reduced to some degree of tranquillity, broken
by glowing points where the green slats came short of the sash, she
demanded eau-de-cologne and sank into a chair. “I’ve come for ‘Cruelle
Enigme,’ Rhoda,” Mrs. Daye announced.
“No, you haven’t, mummie. And besides, you can’t have it—it isn’t a nice
book for you to read.”
“Can’t I?” Mrs. Daye asked plaintively. “Well, dear, I suppose I must
take your opinion—you know how much my wretched nerves will stand. From
all I hear I certainly can’t be too thankful to you for protecting me
from Zola.”
“Ayah,” Rhoda commanded in the ayah’s tongue, “give me the yellow book
on the little table—the yellow one, owl’s daughter! Here’s one you can
have, mother,” she said, turning over a few of the leaves with a touch
that was a caress—“‘Robert Helmont’—you haven’t read that.”
Mrs. Daye glanced at it without enthusiasm.
“It’s about a war, isn’t it? I’m not fond of books about wars as a rule,
they’re so ‘bluggy,’” and the lady made a little face; “but of course—oh
yes, Daudet, I know he would be charming even if he _was_ bluggy. Rhoda,
don’t make any engagement for Sunday afternoon. I’ve accepted an
invitation from Belvedere for a river-party.”
The face in the looking-glass showed the least contraction between the
eyebrows. The ayah saw it, and brushed even more gently than before.
Mrs. Daye was watching for it, and hurried on. “I gather from Mrs.
Church’s extremely kind note—she writes herself, and not the
aide-de-camp—that it is a little _fête_ she is making especially, in a
manner, for you and Mr. Ancram, dear—in celebration, as it were. She has
asked only people we know very well indeed; it is really almost a family
affair. _Very_ sweet of her I call it, though of course Lewis Ancram is
an old friend of—of the Lieutenant-Governor’s.”
The contraction between the girl’s brows deepened seriously, gave place
to a considering air, and for a moment she looked straight into her own
eyes in the glass and said nothing. They rewarded her presently with a
bubble of mischievous intelligence, which almost broke into a smile.
Mrs. Daye continued to the effect that nothing did one so much good as a
little jaunt on the river—it seemed to blow the malaria out of one’s
system—for her part she would give up anything for it. But Rhoda had no
other engagement?
“Oh dear no!” Miss Daye replied. “There is nothing in the world to
interfere!”
“Then you will go, dearest one?”
“I shall be delighted.”
“My darling child, you _have_ relieved my mind! I was so afraid that
some silly little fad—I know how much you dislike the glare of the
river——” then, forgetfully, “I will write at once and accept for us
all.” Mrs. Daye implanted a kiss upon her daughter’s forehead, with a
sense that she was picturesquely acknowledging dutiful obedience, and
rustled out. “Robert Helmont” remained on the floor beside her chair,
and an indefinitely pleasant freshness was diffused where she had been.
As Rhoda twisted her hair a little uncontrollable smile came to her lips
and stayed there. “Ayah, worthy one,” she said, “give me the letter from
the bed”; and having read what she had written she slowly tore it into
very small pieces. “After all,” she reflected, “that would be a stupid
way.”