THE OUTCOME
Guy Greaves and Trixie Coventry drove through the gateless entrance to
the colonel's compound, that was sentinelled by whitewashed pillars
built of mud, and drew up sharply at the foot of the veranda steps.
Standing at the top of the steps they perceived a tall figure, familiar
even in the ghostly light of a dying noon. At first Trixie suspected
that her imagination must have deceived her; the next moment she
realised that in truth it was her husband. Why had George returned so
much sooner than he had intended? How long had he been waiting here for
her to come back? She gave a little involuntary cry of consternation,
and called to him tremulously:
"George, is that you? You are back? When did you get back?"
There was something unusual about the manner in which he descended the
steps without giving an answer. She thought he was shaking with anger.
When he spoke his voice sounded odd, almost as though he were drunk.
"I got back," he said slowly, picking his words with care, "not so
very--not such a long time ago. The servants said you were out--you had
gone out to dinner--with Mrs.--with Mrs. Roy----."
Trixie stood up in the dog-cart. George had put out his hand to help her
down; his face looked haggard and drawn, his eyes were sunk deep in his
head. As she alighted he steadied her trembling form, and glanced up at
the young man sitting, dumb with surprise and alarm, in the trap.
"Thank you for bringing my wife home, Greaves," said Coventry, with
laborious courtesy. "See you to-morrow, perhaps. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir," came a respectful and relieved response; and without
looking back Guy Greaves drove rapidly out of the compound.
Husband and wife stood alone on the steps of their veranda. For a space
neither of them uttered a word. Trixie's heart beat painfully; she
waited for George to speak, almost choking with apprehension. Was he
dreadfully angry? What was he going to say? Wild visions of futile
explanations and excuses, followed by disgrace, despair, even perhaps
divorce, crowded her mind and rendered her weak and helpless. She
yearned to throw herself into his arms, to feel his lips on hers, to
weep out her love and her contrition on his breast. He stood there
beside her, handsome, tall, to her adorable. Had she lost him through
her foolishness, her lack of will? She dared not speak; a little sob was
all the sound she made. Then suddenly she became conscious that George
was swaying slightly as he stood. He began to say something, still in
that odd, unnatural voice, but now the words were without coherence.
"George, are you ill?" she asked in quick concern, a concern that ousted
all other distress for the moment.
He put up his hand to his head which was burning and throbbing with
fever, and tried to control his wandering senses. He wanted to speak and
tell Trixie not to be frightened. He was vaguely aware that she feared
his reproaches, his anger; on her arrival her face and her voice had
betrayed it, and she had trembled, poor child, as he helped her out of
the dog-cart. He wanted to ask her easily, gently, where she had been,
what had happened, with natural intonation, to make her believe that
whatever she told him, of course he should quite understand. Instead he
knew he was saying something entirely different, and he found himself
powerless to prevent it. Trixie looked dim, indistinct, and her voice
sounded far away, at the other end of the compound.
She was asking, alarmed and bewildered: "What do you mean? Dearest, what
is the matter?"
He groped for her hand as though he were blind. "I was trying to tell
you," he said thickly, "that I--that I"--he made a desperate endeavour
to hold to his purpose, but failed--"I wanted to tell you about the
woman in the bazaar." Then he reeled; and his wife, exerting all her
strength, half supported, half dragged him to a chair.
* * * * *
A fortnight went by, and at sunset one evening Trixie Coventry came out
of the bungalow to stroll with lagging feet about the garden. She looked
white and weary, yet relief was in her eyes for suspense was over,
George was gaining strength. His illness had been sharp, a vicious form
of fever contracted in the jungle and encouraged by the journey, as well
as by all that had followed on the night of his return. For days and
nights after his collapse in the veranda he had either raved and tossed,
or lain exhausted and inert scarcely conscious of existence. Fortunately
a good nurse had been available, and, as is usual in India, people had
been immeasurably kind and helpful. Yet the strain had been severe for
Trixie, the watching, the anxiety, the long hot nights, the dread until
the doctor could, with truth, assure her that her husband would not die;
and underneath it all lay the harrowing uncertainty of what George had
been about to say to her when delirium had intervened. Nothing in his
wanderings had given her the smallest clue. As frequently happens when
sickness causes derangement, the subject nearest his mind had seemingly
fled. He babbled of trifles, of things that had never occurred, and
complained with fractious persistence that a tortoise-shell cat with no
eyes would sit on his bed.
Now that was all over, and the terrible weakness that followed had been
fought with uninterrupted success, till now he was able to sit propped
up in a chair, though looking perhaps, as he said himself, "like a
famine-relief-wallah--nothing but eyes and bones." Yet, so far, he had
uttered no word to set Trixie's mind at rest on the subject that haunted
her thoughts and leavened her joy in his convalescence. His manner, at
least, was the same as of old towards her, lover-like, and in addition
so grateful for all her care; but she was conscious that sometimes when
she was moving about the room, his eyes were fixed on her with an
expression she could not define to herself, a mixture of patient
interrogation, and--was it doubt? Often during the last two days, now
that he was able to talk without subsequent loss of strength, she had
resolved to make herself speak, and explain; but always something had
stopped her, either her courage had failed, or the nurse had come in, or
he had said something commonplace just at the moment which seemed to
render that moment unsuitable for a confession.
Then this morning, just as she thought she had nerved herself up to the
point, he had suddenly asked her to write to Guy Greaves.
"Tell him I want to see him," he said; "tell him to try and come over
this afternoon."
She had glanced at him nervously, swiftly; his voice told her nothing,
he might have been bidding her ask any one of his friends in the station
to pay him a visit. Also his head was bent, he was patting one of the
dogs, so his face was not visible. Therefore she wrote the note without
question or comment, and wondered how Guy would feel when he got it!
She avoided Guy when he arrived in the evening; and now, while he sat
with George, she was strolling about in the garden, uneasy and restless.
The lawn looked scorched and hard, despite generous watering that now
seemed hardly worth the labour and expense for the water only dried,
hissing, as it reached the earth, raising a little steamy vapour that
dispersed, leaving everything as hot and dry and arid as before. The
evening had brought neither coolness nor sweet scents, and it seemed
difficult to determine whether the heat came from the dull yellow sky,
or from the cracked earth beneath. Birds stupefied with the close
atmosphere held open their dry beaks as though gasping for breath,
shrubs and trees drooped thirstily.
Trixie noted it all with a sense of personal detachment from her
surroundings. The heat was intensely trying, but this being her first
hot weather she did not suffer so much as if she had lived longer in the
country. She was suffering more from the shock and the strain of
George's illness than from the actual heat, and also she awaited the
appearance of Guy Greaves from the house with an agitation that was
painful. Not that she feared any longer such exaggerated possibilities
as had tortured her imagination on the night of her river adventure with
Guy, when her mental perspective had been blurred by remorse and
vexation. She could almost have laughed, recalling the fear of disgrace
and divorce that had assailed her so wildly; what harassed her now was
the thought that her husband might never believe in or trust her again,
that his confidence in her might never be fully restored. And with this
apprehension was mingled a sense of resentment that George should have
sent for Guy to ask him about that tiresome night on the river before
she had told him herself. Perhaps he imagined she did not intend to tell
him at all, or perhaps he had planned to elicit the truth from Guy, so
that by no possibility could she deceive him! Well, if that were his
motive then nothing should make her explain; she would answer no
questions, and offer no single excuse. George could content himself with
whatever he had been able to get out of Guy; if he liked he might even
suspect her of waylaying Guy and concocting the plausible story of
accidental delay! The old defiant temper arose within her, obliterating
for the moment all her late repentance and her chastened mood.
She had worked herself into a state of unbearable tension by the time
she caught sight of Guy Greaves in the veranda. He came down the steps
looking absurdly young; there was something rather sheepish and ashamed
in his demeanour, like a schoolboy fresh from reproof concerning some
senseless prank. Trixie waited for him, feeling angry and contemptuous.
She would have liked to bid him tell her nothing of what had passed
between himself and George, but human nature could not be resisted.
"Well?" she said with ungracious reluctance, dispensing with formal
greeting.
"How do you mean? How did I think he was looking? It has knocked him
about a bit certainly. I got quite a shock at first when I saw him, but
he declares he feels splendid, and he talked no end. I hope it hasn't
tired him awfully."
"You know perfectly well what I mean. What did he say to you about that
night?" She hated herself for asking the question, and hated Guy also
for making her ask it.
"He said nothing at all about it."
"What?" cried Trixie, amazed and incredulous.
"Fact," said Guy, and nodded his head, regarding her gravely. "I tell
you I was in a blue funk when I got your note, and you told me nothing
as to how the land lay. You might at least have let me know that
everything was all serene. He never mentioned the subject, and, of
course, I wasn't going to begin."
Trixie's natural gumption failed her for once. In the moment of sudden
reaction, following on her suspense and emotion, the fact escaped her
that Guy was assuming she had put matters right--had explained the whole
thing to the colonel's complete satisfaction.
"But"--the words came from her lips involuntarily--"I felt certain he
had sent for you to ask you about it!"
"Good Lord! then you hadn't told him?" They gazed at each other in
mutual discomfiture. "And he said he wished I'd take you for a drive
because you'd been bottled up looking after him all this time and it
would do you good. By gad," he concluded, "he's a stunner, and to think
that we ever imagined----"
"How dare you say 'we'!" cried Trixie unfairly. "Didn't I tell you it
showed how little you knew him?"
"Well, you needn't rub it in," he protested; "and if it comes to
that----"
Trixie flushed, and her eyes filled with tears. "Yes, I know," she said
helplessly, "it's no use pretending----"
For a few moments they stood silent, so motionless that a grey squirrel
whisked across the grass between them and shot up the nearest tree
elated with his own daring. Daylight was fading rapidly, in a short time
it would be dark; the sultry heat of the evening seemed to grow more
oppressive. Insects were humming around them, and bats had begun to
swoop low over the lawn.
Guy Greaves broke the pause. "I suppose," he said indiscreetly, "it's
too late now for a drive."
"_A drive!_" echoed Trixie, with scorn. "I'm going in now to tell George
what I think of myself--and him."
"And what about me?" asked the boy, a forlorn sort of humour pervading
his tone.
"You don't count," Trixie told him with heartless candour. "Nobody in
the world counts with me except George."
She moved towards the bungalow, a slender white form in the dusk. Guy
watched her go up the steps; then he gave a little wistful sigh and
summoned his trap.
George was still in his chair when Trixie entered the room. At the far
end she could see his head and shoulders silhouetted against the
opposite open door. The lamps had not yet been lighted, and a powerful
electric fan kept the air in motion, creating a semblance of coolness.
Was he asleep? She stole softly round the back of the chair and knelt by
his side.
"Trixie?" His arm went round her; she pressed her face against his.
"Shall I tell you now," she asked, "or are you tired?"
"Tell away," he encouraged her cheerfully, in prompt understanding.
There was a pause; then he found she was crying.
"Darling!" he urged with concern. "Whatever you tell me I shall
believe--of course."
"Oh, George, I love you, I love you; but I was frightened. I didn't know
what you might think. Really I hadn't--hadn't done anything _awfully_
wrong."
"I know, I know," he soothed with tenderness, and waited, stroking her
hair until she grew calmer. "Well? How did it happen? Don't tell me
unless you like; it won't make any difference."
"Oh, but I want to explain," she began once more. "You know, that
evening, the night you came back, it was so hot and so lonely, it seemed
as if the time would never go by--and I let myself be persuaded into
dining with that rowdy little Roy woman. We all went on the river
afterwards because there was such a moon; and somehow, _not_ on purpose,
I went in a boat alone with Guy Greaves." She paused again, reluctant to
"give away Guy," yet anxious to make no concealment. The pause and a
little unconscious movement signified mental unease; Coventry guessed
what had followed and came to her aid.
"And then, I dare say," he suggested good-humouredly, "young Guy made an
ass of himself, and you were obliged to squash him?"
"Oh, George, how did you know?"
"Never mind. Well, let us skip that part and proceed. What happened
next?"
"Then we got stuck on the sandbank. I thought we should be there all
night, perhaps till after you had got home next day." She shivered,
recalling her anguish of mind.
Slowly the tale was unfolded, till she came to the walk through the dust
in the road, and then she omitted, without hesitation, her quarrel with
Guy regarding her husband, and the qualms it had caused her of which she
was sorely ashamed; so she unwittingly spared him a measure of extra
pain.
When she had finished he kissed her lips. Words were not needed between
them now. She laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh of supreme
content, feeling ineffably happy.... The room was almost in darkness;
the only sound within it was the whirring of the fan.
Coventry drew his wife into his arms; he knew she was wholly his. Love
and tenderness flooded his heart, that yet ached with a load that could
never be lightened. For even as he held her, sweet and silent, to his
breast, his conscience cried the bitter truth--that always must he owe
the saving of her love, and of her trust, to the woman in the bazaar.
PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe".
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the
speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.