Barlow was up early next morning, wakened by that universal alarm clock
of India, the grey-necked, small-bodied city crow whose tribe is called
the Seven Sisters--noisy, impudent, clamorous, sharp-eyed thieves that
throng the compounds like sparrows, that hop in through the open window
and steal a slice of toast from beside the cup of tea at the bedside.
He mounted the waiting Cabuli pony and rode to the Residency. He had
much to talk over with Hodson in the light of all that had transpired
in the last two days, and, also, he had a hope that Elizabeth would be
possessed of an after-the-storm calm, would greet him, and somehow give
him a moral sustaining against his lapse in heart loyalty. Mentally he
didn't label his feeling toward Elizabeth love. Toward her it had been
largely a matter of drifting, undoubted giving in to suasion, more of
association than what was said. She had class; she was intellectual;
there was no doubt about her wit--it was like a well-cut diamond,
sparkling, brilliant--no warmth. When Barlow reflected, jogging along
on the Cabuli, that he probably did not love Elizabeth, picturing the
passion as typified by Romeo and Juliet as instance, he suddenly asked
himself: "By Jove! and does anybody except the pater love Elizabeth?"
He was doubtful if anybody did. All the servants held her in esteem,
for she was just, and not niggardly; but hers was certainly not a
disposition to cause spontaneous affection. Perhaps the word admirable
epitomised Elizabeth all round. But he felt that he needed a sort of
Christian Science sustaining, as it were, in this sensuous
drifting--something to make his slipping appear more obnoxious.
As he rode up to the verandah of the Residency he saw Elizabeth cutting
flowers, probably to decorate the breakfast table. That was like
Elizabeth; instead of leaving it to the _mahli_ (gardener), with the
butler to festoon the table, she was doing it herself. It was an
occupation akin to water-colour painting or lace work, just the sort of
thing to find Elizabeth at--typical.
Barlow was possessed of a hopeful fancy that perhaps she had not ridden
expecting that he would call on the Resident; but as always with the
Resident's daughter he could deduct nothing from her manner. She
nodded pleasantly, looking up, a gloved hand full of roses; and, as he
slipped from the saddle, relinquishing the horse to the _syce_, she
fell in beside him as far as the verandah, where they stood talking
desultory stuff; the morning sun on the pink and white oleanders, the
curious snake-like mottling of the croton leaves, and the song of a
_dhyal_ that, high in a tamarind, was bubbling liquid notes of joy.
"The Indian robin red-breast makes one homesick," Elizabeth said.
"Home--", but the girl put a quick hand on his arm checking him; the
action was absolutely like Elizabeth, imperious. A small, long-tailed,
brown-breasted bird had darted across the compound to a mango tree from
where he warbled a love song as sweet and rich toned as the evensong of
a nightingale.
The _dhyal_, as if feeling defeat in the sweeter carol of his rival,
hushed.
"The _shama_," Elizabeth said; "when I hear him I close my eyes and
picture the downs and oaked hills of England, and fancy I'm listening
to the nightingale or the lark."
Barlow turned involuntarily to look into the girl's face; it was an
inquisitive look, a wondering look; gentle sentiment coming from
Elizabeth was rather a reversal of form.
Also there was immediately a reversal of bird form, a shatterment of
sentiment, a rasping maddening note from somewhere in the dome of a
pipal tree. A Koel bird, as if in derision of the feathered songsters,
sent forth his shrill plaintive, "Koe-e-el, Koe-e-el, Ko-e-e-el!"
"Ah-a-a!" Barlow exclaimed in disgust--"that's India; the fever-bird,
the koel, harbinger of the hot-spell, of burning sun and stifling dust,
and throbbing head."
He cursed the koel, for the gentle mood had slipped from Elizabeth. He
had hoped that she would have spoken of yesterday, give him a shamed
solace for the hurt she had given him. Of course Hodson would have
told her all about the Gulab. But while that, the service, was
sufficient for the Resident, Elizabeth would consider the fact that
Barlow knew Bootea well enough to have this service rendered; it would
touch her caste--also her exacting nature.
Something like this was floating through his mind as he groped mentally
for an explanation of Elizabeth's attitude, the effect of which was
neutral; nothing to draw him toward her in a way of moral sustaining,
but also, nothing to antagonise him.
She must know that he was leaving on a dangerous mission; but she did
not bring it up. Perhaps with her usual diffident reserve she felt
that it was his province to speak of that.
At any rate she called to a hovering bearer telling him to give his
master Captain Barlow's salaams. Then with the flowers she passed into
the bungalow. She had quite a proppy, military stride, bred of much
riding.
Barlow gazed after Elizabeth ruefully, wishing she had thrown him a
life belt. However, it did not matter; it was up to him to act in a
sane manner, men of the Service were taught to rely on themselves. And
in Barlow was the something of breeding that held him to the true
thing, to the pole; the breeding might be compared to the elusive thing
in the magnetic needle. It did not matter, he would probably marry
Elizabeth--it seemed the proper thing to do. Devilish few of the chaps
he knew babbled much about love and being batty over a girl--that is,
the girls they married.
Then the bearer brought Hodson's salaams to the Captain.
And Hodson was a Civil Servant in excelsis. He took to bed with him
his Form D and Form C--even the "D. O.", the Demi Official business,
and worried over it when he should have slept or read himself to sleep.
Duty to him was a more exacting god than the black Kali to the
Brahmins; it had dried up his blood--atrophied his nerves of enjoyment.
And now he was depressed though he strove to greet Barlow cheerily.
"It's a devilish shindy, this killing of our two chaps," he burst forth
with; "I've pondered over it, I've worried over it; the only solace in
the thing is, that the arm of the law is long."
"I think you've got it, sir," Barlow encouraged. "When we've smashed
Sindhia--and we will--we'll demand these murderers, hang a few of them,
and send the rest to the Andamans."
"Yes, it has simply got to wait; to stir up things now would only let
the Peshwa know what you are going to do--we'd show him our hand. And
I don't mind telling you, Captain, that he is an absolute traitor; and
I believe that it's that damn Nana Sahib who's influencing him."
"There's no doubt about it, sir."
"No, there is not!" the Resident declared gloomily. "The two dead
_sowars_ must be considered as sacrifice, just as though they had
fallen in battle; it's for the good of the Raj. If I get hauled over
the coals for this I don't give a damn. I've pondered over it, almost
prayed over it, and it's the only way. There's talk of a big loot of
jewellery by these decoits, and the killing of the merchant and his
men, but I've got nothing to do with that. The one wonderful thing is,
that we saved the papers. That little native woman that brought them
to you must be rewarded later. By the way, Barlow, I took the liberty
of explaining all that to Elizabeth, and I think she's pretty badly cut
up over the way she acted. But you understand, don't you, Captain? I
believe that if it had been my case I'd have, well, I'd have known that
it was because the girl cared. Elizabeth is undemonstrative--too much
so, in fact; but I fancy--well, never mind: it's so long ago that I
took notice of these things that I find I'm trying to speak in an
unknown tongue."
The little man rose and bustled about, pulling out drawers from the
cabinet and shoving them back again, venting little asthmatic coughs of
sheer nervousness. Then coming up to Barlow he held out his hand
saying: "My dear boy, God be with you; but don't take chances--will
you?"
At that instant Elizabeth appeared at the doorway: "Captain Barlow will
have breakfast with us, won't he, father--it's all ready, and Boodha
says he has a chop-and-kidney curry that is a dream?"
"Jupiter!" Hodson exclaimed; "fancy I'm getting India head; was sending
Barlow off without a word about breakfast. Of course he'll
stay--thanks, Elizabeth."
The tired drawn parchment face of the Resident became revivified, it
was the face of a happy boy; the grey eyes blued to youth. Inwardly he
murmured: "Elizabeth is wonderful! I knew it; good girl!"
It was a curious breakfast--mentally. Elizabeth was the Elizabeth of
the verandah. Perhaps it was the passionate beating of the pillow the
day before, when she had realised for the first time what Barlow meant
to her, that now cast her into defence; encased her in an armour of
protection; caused her to assume a casualness. She would give worlds
to not have said what she had said the day before, but the Captain must
know that she had been roused by a knowledge of his intimacy with the
Gulab. Just what had occurred did not matter--not in the least; it was
his place to explain it. That was Elizabeth's way--it was her manner
of thought; a subservience of impulse to propriety, to class. In the
light of her feeling when she had lain, wet-eyed, beating the pillow,
she knew that if he had put his arms about her and said just even
stupid words--"I'm sorry, Beth, you know I love you"--she would have
capitulated, perhaps even in the capitulation have said a Bethism: "It
doesn't matter--we'll never mention it again."
But Barlow, very much of a boy, couldn't feel this elusive thing, and
rode away after breakfast from the bungalow muttering: "By gad!
Elizabeth should have said something over roasting me. Fancy she
doesn't care a hang. Anyway--I'll give her credit for that--she
doesn't hunt with the hounds and run with the hare. If it's the
prospect of sharing a title with me, a rotter would have eaten the
leek. Yes, Elizabeth is class."