A MOMENT OF RELAXATION
On leaving the Brights' dinner-party, Captain Dalton made his way to his
car and sped out upon the moonlit road. An appreciable hesitation at the
gate ended in his taking a course in an opposite direction to that in
which lay Sombari and his patient.
A misty peacefulness of smoke and quietude brooded over the Station.
Darkened bungalows looked like sightless monsters dead to the world, and
the silent lanes were alive alone with fireflies scintillating like
myriad stars in a firmament of leaves. At Muktiarbad, there was little
else for the English residents to do after the Club had closed its door
at nine, but eat, drink, and sleep. Theatres never patronised _mafasil_
stations, and cinemas had not yet found their way so far into rural
Bengal. In the bazaar also, which was strictly the native quarter of the
town, the night was silent save for intermittent tom-tomming on the
favourite _dholuk_,[10] or, here and there, the murmur of gossiping in
doorways. Behind mat walls men gambled or slept, and by the pale light
of the moon could be seen the smoke of burning cow-dung--kindled for the
destruction of mosquitoes--curling upward from the clusters of thatched
huts, and filling the air with opalescent mist.
[Footnote 10: Indian drum.]
But Captain Dalton had no business in the bazaar.
If Honor Bright could have seen him then, she would have been surprised
at the look of indecision on his usually determined face. Freed from the
restraint of curious eyes watching for revelations of himself, the man's
face wore a more human expression; his peculiar half-smile of
toleration, or contempt, relaxing the lines of his stern mouth.
For a couple of furlongs he drove fast, then slowed down to a noiseless
glide as he ran past the tall cactus fence bordering the Collector's
domain. At the end of the fence where it turned at right angles dividing
the "compound" from a paddock, the engines were reversed in the narrow
lane, till the car came back to the rustic gate beyond the culvert.
It lay hospitably open in the usual way of gates in the Station, and
gave access to the grounds. There was only a momentary pause while
Dalton seemed to make sure of his intention, and the next instant he was
moving slowly up the drive between the handsome goldmohur trees of the
avenue. In the dark shadow of one of these, he shut off his engines and
stepped to the ground.
All about him, the garden was bathed in silver light, each shrub and
arbour steeped in tranquil loveliness, while footpaths gleamed white
amidst stretches of dusky lawns; the whole presenting a scene of
veritable enchantment under the soft radiance of the moon; a gentle
breeze, the while, rustling among the leaves.
In front of him lay the wide, squat bungalow with its flat roof
ornamented by a castellated balustrade of masonry, and supported by tall
pillars. The verandah was in darkness but for a hurricane hand lantern
on the top step.
He was not sure that he had the right to intrude at that late hour even
with the pretext of a semi-official inquiry ... but lights in the
drawing-room and the tones of the piano, rich and sweet, ended his
indecision. The staff of servants being reduced by their master's
requirements in camp, there was no one at hand to announce his arrival.
Even the peon, supposed to keep watch against the intrusion of toads and
snakes, had betaken himself to the servants' quarters behind the
bungalow, for his last smoke before shutting up the house for the night.
Joyce was playing Liszt's _Liebestraum_ with diligence, but no feeling.
Her execution was good, but her soul being yet unawakened, she played
without understanding, and Dalton's musical sense suffered tortures as
he listened for a few moments; then, abruptly parting the curtains, he
ruthlessly interrupted the performance by his entrance, conscious on the
instant of the alluring picture she made,--or, rather, would make, to
senses that were impressionable. Having outlived that stage, he could
only survey at his leisure the curve of her youthful cheek and the small
bow of her mouth that seemed to demand kisses; watch the lights dance in
the gold of her hair, and amuse himself with the play of her eyelashes.
She was dressed in rich simplicity, the only colour about her, apart
from the shell-pink of her face and the natural crimson of her lips, was
a deep, red rose in her bosom. He inhaled its perfume as she ran to him
and seized his hand in impetuous welcome, while he could not but
appreciate the exceptional opportunity afforded him of improving their
acquaintance.
"How did you know that I was longing to send for you but lacking in
courage?" she asked, holding his hand in both hers with extreme
cordiality, born of her gratitude for his late services. Her manner was
that of a child towards a respected senior, and was not without a
certain charm.
"You did not come to dinner," he replied with his grudging smile, "so I
had to call and see why. You are such a grave responsibility to me in
your husband's absence."
"Does it weigh very heavily on you?" she asked coquettishly.
"As you see, it dragged me here at this late hour!"
"Poor you!" she sympathised; then instantly pulled a long face and
explained her alarms deprecatingly while she drew him--still holding his
hand--to her bedroom that he might see the child for himself and judge
of his condition.
It was her habit to have the baby's crib by her bed, and the ayah close
at hand in case of disturbed nights, while Meredith was compelled to
retire to a separate suite, adjoining hers. "Such a young infant needs
his mother, you selfish old Daddy, and must not be deprived." Arguments
respecting the advantages of employing an English nurse and establishing
a nursery had been swept aside as arbitrary and unfeeling. As if she
could ever consent to a hireling occupying her place with her beloved
child! Others might do as they pleased and lose their place in their
little ones' affections, but not she! Fathers should consider their
offspring before themselves. When Meredith had looked unconvinced and
injured, she had tried to soften the blow by cajoleries, in the use of
which she was past-mistress. Silly goose! as if the same roof did not
cover them both! and didn't she belong to him and no one else in the
world?--"Was he going to be a cross boy, then, and make his little
girl's life miserable with big, ugly frowns?..."
The doctor gave the child a brief examination as he and Joyce leant over
the crib, shoulder to shoulder. She seemed so unconscious of the close
contact and of its effect on the average masculine nature that he
mentally decided she was either a simpleton or a practised flirt, given
to playing with fire.
"I shall sleep so much better tonight now that I know there is nothing
seriously wrong with my precious darling!" she said, returning beside
him to the drawing-room and tantalising him with brief glances from her
shy, sweet eyes.
"You worry quite unnecessarily, take it from me," he returned. "Don't
put him in a glass case, and he will do all right. You should go out
more."
"I shall, when Ray comes back. He has the car."
"Play tennis every afternoon at the Club."
"I daren't! I play so badly," she pouted.
"Then come driving with me," he said on an impulse which he regretted
the moment after, for it would deprive him of the scant leisure he
usually devoted to a treatise he was writing. It was not his habit to
sacrifice himself to strangers and people in whom he was not greatly
interested. However, the study of the little spoiled beauty might prove
entertaining since she was not as transparent as he had imagined. The
mystery of her undeveloped nature, her childish outlook on life, her
ingenuousness and coquetry, were all somewhat unusual and appealing. He
could not quite gauge her feeling for her husband who worshipped the
ground she trod on. She probably took him for granted as she took the
solar system, and was not above practising her arts innocently on others
to relieve the monotony of her days. Like most pretty women, he judged
her fully aware of her prettiness, and not bound by too rigid a sense of
propriety. It might amuse him to test how far she would permit herself
to go--or the men who admired her physical beauty; and as he had no
friendship for her husband, he was not troubled by too many qualms on
Meredith's account. With a big score to settle against Life, he
considered himself at liberty to choose the nature of his compensation,
and so be even with Fate.
"I should dearly love to drive with you," Joyce said engagingly,
thinking of his perfect little car and the triumph it would be to tame
this unsociable and reserved person in the eyes of all the Station. What
a score for her little self!
Being essentially of a friendly disposition, she saw no reason why he
should not become her particular friend. Not as if she were a creature
like Mrs. Fox, or other women who flirted--perish the thought! There
could therefore be no possible wrong.
"Have you ever driven your car?" he asked indulgently.
"Never."
"Nervous?"
"I don't think so, only no one ever showed me how."
"Shall I teach you?"
"Will you? What a dear you are!" she cried with eyes sparkling and
dimples in full play as she seized the lapels of his coat and made him
swear not to back out. "It will be great! What a surprise for Ray--you
won't mention it? I can fancy myself hopping into the chauffeur's seat,
and whoof! gliding away before his eyes. I shall dream of it all night."
"And of me?" he asked looking at his watch and recalling his intention
to visit Sombari before midnight.
"Of course. That goes without saying if it is about your car!" twirling
lightly on her toe with the grace of a born dancer.
"I find it difficult to believe you are married," he said with a crooked
smile. "Your husband should call you 'Joy.'"
"He invents all sorts of pet names far sweeter."
"Anyhow, I shall think of you as 'Joy,'" he amended, taking up his cap
from the piano.
"I can't fancy you thinking of any one so frivolous as myself," she
laughed. "But you are not going, surely? We haven't even begun to talk!"
The open piano and her frank disappointment drew him to dally with
temptation, and he seated himself on the music stool, uninvited, to run
his fingers over the keys. "You were playing the _Liebestraum_. Will you
let me play it to you?" he coolly suggested, anxious to give her a
lesson as to how it should be interpreted; and without waiting for her
consent, began to play.
Joyce drew up full of interest and pleasure to listen and watch,
instantly aware that he was no self-advertised musician. As she had no
conceit in regard to her one and only accomplishment, she was ready and
willing to learn from him.
Dalton played with the technique and sympathy of a great artist. Though
the opening movement was soft and low, every note fell like drops of
liquid sweetness, clear and true--the melody thrilling her with its
tender appeal. Insensibly it grew stronger and louder, the pace
quickened, till the crash of chords and the rippling rush of sound
caused her to hold her breath in an ecstasy lest she should be robbed of
a single delight. Now and then, she glanced at his face and she knew
that, for the moment, she had ceased to exist for him. His strange,
jade-green eyes with their flecked irids had widened as though with
inspiration. He saw visions as he played, gazing intently into space;
Joyce wondered what he saw, sure that it was beautiful, and passionately
sad. Gradually, the passion and dignity of the music having reached its
climax, it grew weary and spent. The glorious melody sighed its own
requiem and softly died away on a single note.
For a moment neither spoke, till Joyce gave a hysterical sob that broke
the spell. "It is too wonderful--the way you play!" she cried
breathlessly. "It makes my flesh creep and my heart stand still. I know
now why you chose to play the _Liebestraum_!----"
He smiled back at her like the culprit he was.
"I had dared to attempt its murder!--believe me, I shall never play it
again!"
"I wanted to show you how it might be played, but I do not dare to
criticise."
"You have done so, scathingly!--Oh! I feel so small."
"Then I am sorry I played it."
"I am infinitely glad. You will have to teach me something more than
motoring," she said wistfully, her blue eyes pleading. "You will have to
tell me how I should play. I want to hear you all day long!"
He smiled at her enthusiasm. "I shall be delighted to give you all the
help I can."
"Honor Bright said yesterday that you once sang to her--I am jealous!
Won't you sing to me?"
"Did she tell you of the occasion?"
"Yes, and how good you were to her."
"She is a heroine--_Honor Bright_," he repeated her name with curious
tenderness.
"She thinks you are a wonderful person, altogether."
"Does she?" he asked quickly, a shadow falling suddenly over his face at
a thought which was evidently disturbing. "How am I wonderful?"
"I don't know. She said something about great depths in your nature. She
believes you are tremendously good, inside, but that you will not show
it because you have been hit very hard and feel like hitting back."
He was silenced for a moment.
"What made her say that?" he asked while continuing to draw subdued
harmonies from the instrument.
"It was to explain your attitude towards people. You are so hard and
cold. But what does all that matter? The main thing is, I want you to
sing, and you must!" She laid her hands over his on the keys with pretty
imperativeness, and put an end to the chords.
"Look at the time," said he, drawing attention to the gilt clock on an
occasional table. The phrase "hard and cold" echoed in his ears to mock
him.
"It is certainly late!" she gasped, as she realised that the hands
pointed to a quarter past eleven. "But I am so lonely and dull. Do sing
to me!"
A mischievous smile twisted his lips as he struck the opening bars of
_The Dear Homeland_. "It's an old ballad and will probably bore you to
tears," he said, before beginning to sing. Joyce had often heard it
sung, but never with the feeling Captain Dalton threw into it for her
benefit alone. It was a strong and direct appeal to nostalgia, and the
quality of his voice, together with the words, dissolved her into tears
of positive distress. When he had finished, she was weeping silently
into her little hands,--unaffectedly and sincerely.
"I cannot bear it!" she sobbed childishly. "Why did you choose that when
you knew how I am longing for home and the home faces!"
"I am a brute, am I not?" he said repentantly, taking down her hands and
drying her eyes with his handkerchief. "Was it a nasty fellow, then, to
tease?"
"It was," she laughed hysterically with downcast lids and sobbing
breath, looking adorable with her saddened wet eyes and crimson flush.
"Come, I'll make up for it and sing you something quite different." And
he was as good as his word, singing passionate love-songs that swore
eternal devotion to a mythical "Beloved," till a clock, striking twelve,
brought him abruptly to his feet.
"Do you always allow your visitors to stay so late?" he asked while
saying good-night.
"I never have visitors at night when I am alone," she returned,
surprised. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you are too pretty and will have to be careful. Pretty women
have enemies of both sexes."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that men will want to make love to you if you are too kind, and
women will tear your reputation to shreds."
He watched the flush deepen in her cheeks: she was uncertain how to take
his remark, but decided he had not meant a liberty.
"I think I shall always fear women more than men," she said finally,
thinking of the slanderous tongues of her sex.
"Am I forgiven for having made you cry?" he asked.
"Of course. Thank you so much for the songs. You sing like an angel."
"A very bad one I'm afraid," he returned. "With your leave I shall take
this rose as a pledge," he said drawing it from the brooch at her bosom
and laying it against his lips. "Look, it is fading fast. Will you fix
it in my coat?"
Joyce unaffectedly complied. He was welcome to the rose as a reward for
his beautiful music. "When you get home, put it in water, and it will
fill your room with fragrance," she said patting it into position.
"--And my mind of you?" he suggested tentatively, knowing full well that
he would forget all about her and her rose the moment he was out of
sight of her dwelling. Already he was wondering why he had allowed
himself to waste so much of his valuable time in trifling and whether he
would have dared the same liberty with the rose had it been resting on
Honor Bright's bosom. With Honor, somehow, a man would have to plead for
favours and value them for their rarity when obtained. No man in the
Station took liberties with Honor Bright, and every man thoroughly
respected her. Dalton shook his mind free of the thought of Honor
Bright.
"I shan't mind if the rose recalls me to you, so long as you promise to
forget my _Liebestraum_!" said Joyce.
"I shall remember only the tears I caused you to shed, and never be so
cruel again." Dalton passed out into the verandah accompanied by his
hostess who desired to speed the parting guest. "When does your husband
return?" he asked.
"Tomorrow night. I am counting the hours," she replied. "Haven't you
heard that 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder'?"
"I don't subscribe to that sentiment," he retorted with a disagreeable
laugh as he walked towards the car.
She certainly had the makings of a dangerous flirt, he decided, though,
at present, she was only feeling her way. Time would develop her powers
and then, God help the young idiots who would lose their heads! Most of
all, God help her fool-husband--the besotted idealist! In a few years,
Joyce Meredith would be no better than most lovely women in the
East--notably such as flourished in the hill stations of India.
Dalton was amused, and laughed aloud at his own weakness and folly. He
had not wanted her rose--yet, at the moment, the propinquity of her
beauty had magnetised him and given him the desire for a closer
intimacy--possibly a kiss!--so he had put his lips to the rose! Feminine
witchery had made utter fools of men through the ages! Given further
chances of intimacy, a rose might not again suffice!
By the time Dalton had reached the crossroads, indecision had again
taken possession of him, and he hesitated at the wheel. He had left the
Brights' party fully intending to run out to Sombari, but had been
diverted; and now it was too late. They would not be expecting him after
midnight. He yawned, thoroughly tired, as he had had a strenuous day,
and decided to call at the Mission fairly early in the morning, instead.
There was nothing he could do for the sufferer more than was being done
by the trained nurse he had procured for the case.
Satisfied in mind that bed was the best place for tired people, Dalton
turned his car and drove it to his own bungalow next door to the
Brights'.