THE LIE
Rafella took rather unfair advantage of George's repentance, undoubtedly
half-hearted though it was. She asked him, as she forgave him, if he
would not try to be generous, and allow her to invite Mr. Kennard to
dinner, only to show that he realised the unreasonableness of his
attitude? And with her golden head on his shoulder, and her soft lips
close to his own, Coventry consented.
As might have been expected the experiment was not a success. Even
before dinner was over Rafella perceived her mistake. She had hoped so
much from the evening--hoped that her husband and Mr. Kennard would make
friends, that in future all would be pleasant and smooth.
Instead of which George broke his promise, and behaved like a bear. He
was a man who could not conceal his aversions, and seldom attempted to
do so; and the mere sight of Mr. Kennard at his table, sleek and urbane,
and indifferent to his dislike, incensed him and rendered him glum and
ungracious. He talked, when he talked at all, only to Mrs. Greaves, who,
with her husband and Mr. Munro, made up the party of six. Mrs. Greaves
saw with foreboding the look in George Coventry's eyes as he watched his
wife and Mr. Kennard conversing with intimate ease, and she felt as if
they were eating their dinner with an explosive beneath the table. How
she wished Rafella were not such a self-confident fool! Since the day on
which she had met the pair riding together Rafella had carefully avoided
being alone with her; she hoped when they repaired to the drawing-room
that she might have a chance of introducing a word of advice, but
whether by intention or otherwise the _tête-à-tête_ was evaded; coffee
was served in the dining-room, and later they all left the table
together.
Mrs. Coventry preserved a semblance of good spirits during the
uncomfortable hour that followed. She warbled a few English ballads
while her husband scowled in a corner and Mr. Kennard turned over the
songs for his hostess. He alone of the company appeared quite unaffected
by the strain in the atmosphere.
Mrs. Greaves rose early to go, and Mr. Munro escaped simultaneously. As
they drove out of the compound, Mrs. Greaves said to her husband:
"What an appalling evening! I can't think how Rafella persuaded her
husband to let her invite that odious man. Evidently he did it under
protest. I only hope he didn't look back into the drawing-room when he
was seeing us off."
Mrs. Greaves, looking back, had observed Mr. Kennard bending over
Rafella at the piano, obviously uttering words that caused her to lower
her head in self-conscious confusion.
"I'm certain," Mrs. Greaves added, "he was taking the opportunity when
our backs were turned of saying something he shouldn't."
"Well, it's no business of ours," said Captain Greaves, with masculine
unconcern. "Kennard's a rascal, and the woman's an ass, as I've always
told you; and if Coventry can't manage his wife it's his own fault.
Anyway, you can do nothing to stop it, so you'd better not interfere."
"But I shall interfere," said his wife. "I can't see Rafella wrecking
her happiness, and not say a word."
Captain Greaves only shrugged his shoulders and urged the pony along.
What Mr. Kennard had been saying to Rafella, when her husband had left
the room, was this:
"I'm afraid I did wrong to come. I hope it won't mean a bad time for you
afterwards?"
"I--I hoped it would have been all right," Rafella faltered, gazing down
at the keys of the piano.
He sighed. "Give a dog a bad name," he quoted despairingly. "In future I
suppose I'd better keep away. It would be wiser for your sake. I'd do
anything to save you bother and prevent misunderstandings. I should be
the only one to suffer, and I dare say I deserve it."
"Oh, I am so sorry! I can't tell you how sorry and ashamed I feel." Her
eyes were full of tears as she raised them to his for a moment.
"You know you've only to tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it,
Rafella."
"Hush!" she said tremulously. "If you talk like that, I shall be obliged
to tell you to keep away."
"Would you miss me--would you mind if you never saw me again?" Before
she could answer, he raised his voice. "And so you see there was nothing
else to be done," he said cheerfully, for Coventry had re-entered the
room.
Mr. Kennard accepted a drink offered with curtness by his host, and then
he went back to his bungalow.
Rafella tidied her music in offended silence. She felt very angry with
George. He had behaved so rudely and spoilt the evening, and she meant
him to feel her displeasure. George also was silent, provokingly silent;
he smoked a cigarette and drank a whisky and soda, and did not appear to
be conscious of her annoyance. At last she threw down a volume of songs
with a bang on the piano, and burst into tears. To her astonished
resentment George took no notice. It was the first time since their
marriage that her tears had not melted his heart. In a passion of
mortification she rushed from the room. With her usual self-righteous
consideration she never exacted her ayah's attendance the last thing at
night, so there was no need to check her distress in her bedroom. Still
crying she quickly undressed and got into bed, and then she lay waiting
for George to come in and say he was sorry, to own himself in the wrong.
She could hear him moving about in his dressing-room. Several times she
was tempted to call him, but pride held her dumb, so convinced did she
feel that he owed her amends for his conduct, that the first advances
should come from him. But she waited in vain. George remained in his
room; and Rafella, exhausted with tears and emotion, finally fell
asleep.
When she awoke in the morning, later than usual, she was told that the
sahib had gone forth at daybreak to shoot, and had left her a message to
say that he should not return till the evening. Often when George had
arranged to take a day's shooting, he slept in his dressing-room so that
he should not disturb Rafella by rising at dawn, and it was rather a
relief to feel that the present occasion would give rise to no comment
among the servants. She remembered that to-night he was dining at mess,
and she determined rancorously that she would not be in to receive him
when he came home to dress.
Before she was out of her room a note and a book and a posy of violets
came from Mr. Kennard. She replied to the note with a smile of bitter
complacency curving her lips.
* * * * *
That evening Mrs. Greaves turned over the pages of a fashion paper in a
corner of the club. It was previous to the days when "going to the club"
had ceased to be a popular proceeding; it was not yet considered more
civilised to go home with a few particular friends for the interval
before dinner. The ladies' room was filled with groups of people
refreshing themselves with tea after healthy exercise afoot or on
horseback, or on the river, and the lofty building resounded with voices
and laughter. The hot weather was within measurable distance, but the
days were still pleasant, and the general exodus to the hills had not
begun. The tennis courts in the public gardens were crowded every
evening, the bandstand well surrounded, the Mall lively with riders and
drivers; and the last ball of the season had yet to take place.
Mrs. Greaves had played four sets of tennis, and now she was waiting for
her husband to join her from the polo ground.
Two women seated themselves at a tea-table just in front of her, and
though she was absorbed in making up her mind whether to send home for
one of the seductive blouses sketched on the advertisement page of the
paper, she heard, unavoidably, scraps of their talk. First they
discussed the ball that the bachelors of the station were giving next
night in return for hospitality extended to them throughout the cold
weather by the married members of the community. It was, they believed,
to be an exceptionally brilliant affair; the supper was to include
pomfrets from Bombay, and confections from Peliti's--the Buszard of
India. From this they went on to the subject of their gowns for the
ball.
Then one of them said: "Look! There's Mrs. Coventry, and, needless to
say, Mr. Kennard."
The other looked up sharply; so did Mrs. Greaves, and this was the
conversation that reached her unwilling ears.
"Did you ever see such a change in anyone? You weren't here when she
came out as a bride? No, of course, I remember, you were at home. I
assure you she looked like a Salvation Army lass, or a charity school
girl, her hair dragged back in a knob like a door-handle, and _hideous_
clothes. She would hardly speak to a man, and was horrified at
everything and everybody. And now behold her, with a fringe, and dressed
as well as anyone in the place, and, of all men, the irresistible Mr.
Kennard in attendance. The boys' brigade appears to have been disbanded
in his favour. He likes the field to himself."
"What will be the end of it, do you think?"
The other shrugged her shoulders. "What has been the end of all his
affairs with women? Scandal and unpleasantness for them, and certainly,
in one instance at least, disgrace and divorce, while he has gone scot
free. He was notorious before he came here from the Punjaub, and yet he
goes on as if nothing had happened. Some people run after him because
he's a rich barrister and can entertain, and gives himself airs. Look at
that little idiot over there, hanging on his every word. Her husband
would be furious. I dare say he'll be here in a minute, and then we
shall see."
Mrs. Greaves left her seat. She intended that these "tattle-snakes," as
she dubbed all scandalmongers, should suffer disappointment. If she
could help it there should be no thrilling little scene for them to
witness with malevolent enjoyment. Deliberately she made her way across
the room towards the couple under observation.
Mr. Kennard rose at once and gave her his chair, drawing another one
forward for himself. He looked very handsome, very self-contained; even
Mrs. Greaves was grudgingly conscious of his attraction, much as she
distrusted and disliked him.
"Rafella," she began in plausible entreaty, "could you possibly give me
a lift home? My old man has evidently forgotten that he was to pick me
up on his way back from polo, and we've people coming to dinner. I shall
hardly have time to make the salad and put out the dessert!"
Mrs. Coventry hesitated perceptibly. She looked at Mr. Kennard, who did
not return her glance. His face was blandly impassive.
"Are you waiting for your husband?" inquired Mrs. Greaves. "If so,
perhaps Mr. Kennard would drive me home." She hoped with fervour that
her own husband would not arrive inconveniently, before she could
complete her manoeuvre.
Mrs. Greaves, remembering that Mr. Kennard's bungalow was next door to
that of the Coventrys, felt more than ever determined to lure Rafella
away, and to take the opportunity of speaking her mind. She, of course,
could not know that Mrs. Coventry had intended to remain at the club
till her husband must have started for the mess. She was only aware that
Rafella was reluctant to leave.
"Oh, then," she said cheerfully, "that's all right. Would you mind if we
started at once?" She turned to Mr. Kennard. "If my husband should turn
up after all, would you tell him I've gone? It will serve him right for
being so late."
Presently the two women were driving swiftly along the broad road that
led from the club to the native cavalry lines. Mrs. Greaves kept up a
desultory flow of small talk until they arrived at the steps of the
veranda. Then she said urgently: "Rafella, I want you to come in for a
moment."
"But you'll be busy."
"No, I shan't. Look here, Rafella, we haven't anybody dining with us,
and Jim hadn't forgotten to call for me. He's probably at the club now,
and when he finds I've gone home, he'll stay and play billiards, or
something, for a bit. I perjured myself on your account, and I want you
to come in and hear why I did it."
Unwillingly, and with an air of offended mystification, Mrs. Coventry
complied.
"What on earth do you mean?" she inquired once they were inside the
comfortable drawing-room. "How could you tell me such dreadful
untruths?"
She stood, looking disturbed and suspicious, in the yellow lamplight,
while Mrs. Greaves shook up the fat cushions on the sofa and pushed her
gently in among them. Then she explained. She repeated part of the
conversation she had overheard at the club, she expressed her own
opinion of Mr. Kennard, and she told Mrs. Coventry in plain words that
she was making a fool of herself.
Flushed and indignant, Rafella sprang up from the nest of cushions.
"It's intolerable!" she cried. "I won't listen. You are every bit as bad
as those two poisonous women you overheard talking. Your mind must be as
evil as theirs. I tell you there is no harm in my friendship with Mr.
Kennard; he has been awfully kind to me, sending me flowers and lending
me books, and I hope I have been of some help to him; he is grateful,
that is all."
"His gratitude will be mistaken by other people for something not quite
so harmless," warned Mrs. Greaves; and Rafella did feel a little
disturbed in her conscience as she remembered the tone of his voice and
his use of her Christian name on the previous night. But she assured
herself George was to blame, indirectly, for that; Mr. Kennard had
forgotten himself at the moment only because he felt so indignant with
George for his conduct towards her. It was simply an outburst of
chivalrous sympathy, though, of course, she would never permit it to
happen again.
Marion Greaves was still talking. "As long as you only played about with
a lot of nice, harmless boys, I knew you were safe enough; but the
moment this man began to single you out----"
"I have never 'played about,' as you vulgarly put it," interrupted
Rafella furiously. "The boys are just like brothers to me. They miss
their women relations at home, and I can give them advice, and listen to
their troubles, and often help them very much. They know I don't want
them to make love to me, and that I wouldn't allow such a thing!"
"If you were old and plain, they wouldn't ask for your help and advice.
But that is beside the point. We are talking now about Mr. Kennard."
"And I tell you again there is no harm in our friendship, and as long as
my conscience is clear the friendship will continue."
"You know your husband hates him," said Mrs. Greaves bluntly, "so your
conscience can't be completely clear."
The flush died away from Rafella's cheeks; she twisted her fingers
together, and her voice shook as she answered defiantly: "He should be
the last person to misjudge me, or to put a wrong construction on my
friendships."
Mrs. Greaves wished to goodness the girl would break down and cry, then
she might be more easy to manage. But there she stood, pale and
pig-headed, so _silly_, and the other woman longed to shake her. Of
course the little fool was flattered by the man's attentions, fatally
attracted by his arts and wiles, and with a husband like Coventry, who
had always been hard on the frailties of women, intolerant even of
harmless flirtation, there was bound to be serious trouble sooner or
later. What was to be done!
Mrs. Greaves struggled to keep her temper. "Well, my dear," she urged
gently, "all I can say is that you'd better be careful. Mr. Kennard's
friendships with other men's wives have never yet been regarded as
blameless! And I ask you--is it worth the risk of a row with your
husband? Wouldn't it be wiser to quarrel with Mr. Kennard than with the
man you must live with for the rest of your life?"
Even Rafella could hardly deny the plain common sense of this pleading.
She evaded the question, repeated that she had done nothing unworthy,
and said that if George could not trust her----
"Oh, good heavens!" Mrs. Greaves broke in wearily. "Of course George
trusts you. But he can't bear you to be talked about, and you ought to
consider his feelings. Anyone can see you are making him jealous. Those
women in the club this evening were thirsting for him to come in and
find you sitting alone with Mr. Kennard."
"India is a wicked place!" cried Rafella; "full of gossips and
scandalmongers and evil-minded people. Why can't they leave one alone?"
"My good girl, India is no worse than any other part of the globe that
is inhabited by human beings," argued Mrs. Greaves; "but out here we are
all necessarily thrown a great deal together, and women of our class
associate with men much more than is usual or possible for us to do at
home. If we are sensible it does us and the men no manner of harm,
rather the reverse. If we are fools it may turn our heads, and then, of
course, the men will amuse themselves accordingly."
"My head is not turned," said Rafella, like a child; and with an effort
Mrs. Greaves forbore to contradict her. It was clear that nothing
further could be said at present without endangering their friendship,
which for Rafella's sake was not to be desired.
"Well, don't let us argue about it any more. We'll drop the subject. And
do stay and dine with us, as your husband is out to-night and you're
alone."
"No, thank you," refused Rafella with stiff politeness; and she went to
the door.
Persuasion failed to move her, and with a kindly, regretful "good-night"
Mrs. Greaves watched her climb into her trap and drive away. She had an
uneasy suspicion that Rafella's determined refusal was due not so much
to her outraged feelings as to either the hope, or the certainty, that
Mr. Kennard would come over to see her during the evening.
Rafella wept when she got home. She felt like a persecuted Christian,
and she could not touch her solitary meal. It was true that her
conscience was clear of wrongdoing and of any attempt to deceive. The
differences between herself and her husband regarding her innocent
"friendship" had, of course, been very distressing, but George was to
blame; he was entirely in the wrong. She considered that instead of
being cross and disagreeable, George ought to encourage her to exercise
her influence for good, especially with a man like Mr. Kennard, if all
that was said of him was true--which she did not believe. George's
hostility towards Mr. Kennard had aroused all the obstinacy in her
nature. Her self-esteem was wounded. It was positively insulting of
George to question her conduct. She might as well suspect him of
gambling because he played cards, or of drinking because he was not a
teetotaller. Whatever George, or Mrs. Greaves, or anyone else might say,
she was not going to treat Mr. Kennard as though he were a scoundrel,
nor to behave as if she had done wrong herself. Why should she forgo the
pleasure of his society, and why should she deprive him of her sympathy
and her friendship, which she knew was of comfort and help to him,
merely because a few spiteful people chose to see evil where no evil
existed?
After pretending to eat her dinner, she lay on the sofa and tried to
read one of the books Mr. Kennard had lent her. It was called
"Degeneration," and she found it very difficult to follow; still, he had
told her that she ought to take an interest in every phase of human
nature, and she plodded through the first few pages. She soon found that
she could not fix her attention. As a matter of fact, the subject of the
book was beyond her simple understanding; and, in addition, she was
listening, subconsciously, for footsteps in the veranda.
At last she rose and wandered out into the garden, feeling very lonely,
very much aggrieved. Self-pity overwhelmed her. Looking back upon the
period that had passed since her arrival as a bride in India, so eager,
so happy, so filled with faith in the future, it all seemed to her like
a long and exhausting dream; and now she was conscious of nothing but
doubt, disillusion, and righteous indignation.
And, indeed, the whole machinery of Rafella's mental outlook was
deranged and dislocated. Her perceptions had been weakened by the effort
to adjust her mind to unaccustomed circumstances, and she mistook her
own failure to resist deterioration for a sort of jealous plot on the
part of other people to undermine her judgment and her purity of
purpose.
She paced the patch of drive that showed ghostly and grey in the
starlight. Through the thin screen of oleander trees that, with a low
mud barrier, divided the Coventrys' compound from the compound of their
neighbour Mr. Kennard, she could see the lights of his bungalow. She
thought of him with tenderness as one who, like herself, was a victim of
the little-minded. The voluptuous warmth and peace of the night soothed
her over-excited nerves.... She wished that Mr. Kennard would come over
and talk to her. She had felt so confident that he would come, if only
for just a few minutes, knowing that she was alone. A little breeze
caressed her face in soft, warm waves; as she paused beneath the trees
they seemed to lean towards her in the darkness with whispers of support
and consolation. The furtive noises of the Indian night did not alarm
her--a rustle in the undergrowth, the sudden flapping of a flying fox,
the flitter of a bat, the distant squealing of some helpless little
creature in the agonies of capture by a foe. She went on, as in a dream,
until she reached the gateless entrance of the compound, where she
paused, standing in the loose white dust that still retained the heat of
the day. An ekka passed, with jingling bells, along the road outside,
then a creaking cart close-packed with pilgrims on their journey to some
sacred shrine, chanting sleepily a song of prayer and praise.
Silent-footed travellers, enshrouded in their cotton sheets, slipped by
and disappeared like wraiths.
"Mrs. Coventry--is that you?"
Involuntarily she started, though she knew she did not feel surprised.
Kennard had come out of his gate, and was standing at her side; she had
not heard his footsteps in the dust. His figure, in the starlight,
looked black and indistinct, save for his white shirt-front and the
burning end of his cigar. It suddenly struck Rafella that, since she had
known Mr. Kennard, the odour of strong cigars was no longer repugnant to
her--she who had always detested the smell of tobacco, who had never
grown really accustomed to George's innumerable cigarettes! Vaguely she
wondered why this should be, as he stood talking--talking, she noticed,
as superficially as if they had been in a room full of listening
people--about the warmth of the night and the approaching hot weather,
and how difficult it was to settle down to a book or anything else in a
stuffy bungalow after dinner, with mosquitoes biting one's ankles, etc.
Rafella appreciated the delicacy of his attitude; she thought it
exceedingly nice of him not to attempt to take any advantage of the
situation. And yet if George were to see them together now, he would
straightway assume that Mr. Kennard was making love to her, and that she
was allowing him to do so!
The thought of her husband gave her a feeling of uneasiness. She did not
know how long it was since she had left the house; it might have been
equally hours or minutes ago as far as she was concerned; George might
return any moment and discover her here by the road in the darkness with
Mr. Kennard, and of course he would never believe----
She said: "I think I had better go back." Yet still she lingered,
captive to the magic of the night, and the heavy scent of blossoms
mingling with the fumes of his cheroot; held, also, by the lurement of
his presence, and a novel sense of high adventure.
"You know you ought not to come out at night without a lantern," he told
her. "It's just the time of year when snakes begin to lie about in the
dust and are still half-torpid from the winter."
"Then why did _you_ come out without a lantern?" she asked, picking up
her skirts a little anxiously.
At first he did not answer. Then he said: "Perhaps I'd better not
explain." He paused. "After all," he added, "I don't see why I shouldn't
tell you. The truth is I just felt I _must_ come and stand at your gate,
and I forgot all about lanterns and snakes."
"Why couldn't you have come over, lantern and all, after dinner for a
chat?"
She would not recognise his meaning, thrilled though she was by his
homage.
"I knew you were alone. Would it have been wise?"
"Well, perhaps not," she agreed, "and it's also not wise for us to stay
talking here in the dark with snakes all over the place; I must go in.
Good-night, Mr. Kennard."
He held her hand. "You'll keep me some dances to-morrow night, won't
you? I'm one of your hosts, remember. Promise you won't disappoint me?"
"Of course not," she promised him gently, withdrawing her hand.
He hesitated. "I think I'll just see you as far as the steps of the
veranda. I should feel more comfortable. I can go back by the gap in the
boundary--where it's broken, you know."
She knew. He had often come over that way in the daytime.
They strolled to the veranda steps in silence; then again they said
"Good-night," and Kennard vanished swiftly in the darkness.
"Won't you borrow one of our lanterns?" she called after him,
remembering with horror the danger of snakes.
There came no answer, for at that moment Rafella's husband drove in at
the gate.
"Were you calling to someone?" he inquired, with surly suspicion, as he
joined her in the veranda.
For the first time in her life Rafella told a deliberate lie. "No," she
said, her heart fluttering painfully with fear and shame. "I had only
just come out to listen for the trap."