“THE HONEYMOON.”
“Face joys a costly mask to wear,
’Tis bought with pangs long nourishèd
And rounded to despair.”
“On the 5th instant, at the Cathedral, Bombay, by the Rev. Erasmus
Jones, George Holroyd, Lieutenant, Her Majesty’s Royal Musketeers, only
son of the late George Holroyd, and grandson of Sir Mowbray Holroyd, of
Rivals Place, county Durham, to Isabelle Felicité, daughter of the late
Fergus Redmond, grand-niece of Lord Bogberry, and great-grand-niece of
the Marquis of Round Tower. By Telegram.”
Mrs. Redmond herself had composed this high-sounding announcement, and
had handed it to Colonel Calvert, with instructions to insert the
date, and not to trust it to Holroyd, but to see to it himself--perhaps
in her secret heart she feared that George might modify her magnificent
composition.
The wedding was strictly private, and if the bridegroom looked haggard
and pre-occupied, the bride was both blooming and beaming. The Calverts
and Miss Gay were the only guests, and after the ceremony, the happy
pair went direct to the railway station, and departed on a tour up
country. They visited Jeypore, Ajmir, Delhi, Agra, and Lucknow. Belle
liked the bustle, the constant change, the novelty of her surroundings,
the admiring eyes of other passengers, and the luxury of having every
wish most carefully studied. But she did not much appreciate Indian
sights and Indian scenery. She gave them but a very cursory notice,
her attention being chiefly centred on her fellow travellers. It was
the flood-tide of the globe-trotting season--English, Americans,
French, and Australians, were scattered over the land in hundreds,
“doing India,” from a certain point of view, and believing that
when they had seen the Taj at Agra, the burning ghaut at Benares,
the snows at Darjeeling, a snake charmer, and a fakeer, they were
henceforth qualified authorities on the Eastern question! The hotels
were crammed, the proprietors reaping a golden harvest, and often at
their wits’ end to find quarters for their guests. Belle enjoyed the
numerous and varied society she met at the table d’hôte, her roving,
challenging dark eyes daily wandered among what were, to her, entirely
new types. There was the purse-proud, tubby little man, who scorned
the letter H and expected to be served as promptly and as obsequiously
as if he were in his own house; who roared and stormed in English at
amazed Mahomedan khitmatgars, who did not understand either him or
his wants. There were the people who entered into conversation right
and left, and cheerfully discussed plans and places, the people who
never opened their mouths but to receive their forks--or knives; the
people who ate everything, the people who barely tasted a morsel--and
the delicate couple from Calcutta who had brought their own cook! The
American party, mostly wearing pince-nez, bright, brisk, agreeable,
seeing the world at rail-road speed and pleased with all they saw,
sleeping in trains, eating in “ticca” gharries, _en route_ to some
sight, and writing up their diaries at every spare moment. The English
family--comprised of a father collecting facts, a mother collecting
pottery, two pretty daughters, a valet and a maid--to whom time and
money were no object, and who were a perfect fortune to the hawkers who
haunted the hotel verandahs. There was the gentleman from New Zealand,
who was surprised at nothing but the gigantic size of the cockroaches,
and the ruddy-cheeked youth from Belfast, who was surprised at
everything, and who half expected to see tigers sporting on the Apollo
Bunder or chasing the Bombay trams; also the two cautious ladies, who
brought their hand-bags to the table, and read guide books between the
courses. Moreover, there was the handsome rich young man who had come
out to shoot big game, and discoursed eloquently of the delights of
the Terai, and the merits of explosive bullets, and shikar elephants,
and was not unlikely to be “brought down” himself by the bright eyes
of an Australian girl, who played off Japan against the jungles. Last,
but not least, the seasoned Anglo-Indian, passing through to his
district or his regiment up country, who spoke the language glibly,
helped his fellow creatures to make their wants understood, and seemed
absolutely at home with his trusty bearer, his bedding, and his tiffin
basket--and being well known to the hotel baboo, and so to speak on his
adopted heath, secured, without a second’s demur, the best room, and
the best attention. Many of these travellers were encountered by the
Holroyds over and over again, and Belle, in her lively way, had devised
nicknames for most of them; nor did they themselves pass unnoticed. No
one suspected them of being newly married, for Belle, though smartly
dressed and remarkably handsome, was no young girl; nor were she and
her husband selfishly absorbed in one another, to the exclusion of
ordinary mortals. They were known among their companies as “the lady
with the poodle,” and “the man with the headache,” for George looked
as if he were a continual martyr to that distressing affliction. He
was unmistakably an officer--the lively girl who had been in Japan
declared she guessed it by his boots--and the couple were supposed to
be residents taking a little cold weather tour, _à la_ Darby and Joan.
This mistake was intolerable to Belle, and she pursued one harmless
lady with undying animosity, because as they were shuffling out to
Amba, on the same elephant, she had innocently remarked:
“I suppose this sort of a ride is no novelty to you--you are quite
accustomed to India.”
Belle, whose temper was precarious, and who was now in a deadly fright,
and consequently inclined to be cross, said snappishly:
“Pray _how_ long do you suppose I have been married?”
“Well, say ten years----”
“Say ten days,” rejoined the bride, with laconic severity.
“Oh my! I _am_ vexed. Well, I hope you’ll excuse me;” but Belle did
not do anything so generous, and cut her dead when they subsequently
met at Laurie’s Hotel, Agra. The moon was full and, as a natural
consequence, so was the hotel; for what sight so renowned as the Taj
by moonlight? Belle went over the fort, grumbling and reluctant, in
the wake of a conscientious guide; the day was warm and there was
far too much to see! The Motee Musjid, the Jasmin Tower, the dining
halls, durbar halls, tilting yards, court yards, and baths--the
combined works of Akbar and Shahjehan. Her taste was more for the
horrible than the beautiful, and when she was taken from marble halls
above, to dark dungeons and underground passages below, and when she
had crawled, torch in hand, through a hole in the wall, and seen
with her own eyes the secret chamber where women of the palace were
strangled and thrown into the Jumna, she expressed herself as deeply
interested and gratified. The tomb across the river was duly visited,
and then the Taj. Yes. She admired it! but it aroused her enthusiasm
in a much fainter degree than the contents of a shop of gold and
silver embroidery, although the sight that bursts on the traveller
as he enters the great gateway, and catches the first glimpse of
the approach, surmounted by the famous dome and minarets, is surely
unsurpassed. The Taj, to translate its name, is “the crown” of every
building in the world, and it is to be regretted that Shahjehan did not
live to carry out his intention of building a similar tomb for himself
in black marble at the other side of the river, connecting the two by a
marble bridge.
Belle agreed to a second visit by moonlight, because, as she assured
herself, “it was a thing to say she had seen,” but the admiration the
Tomb evoked, the intent look on men’s faces, the tears in the women’s
eyes, merely filled her with amazement and derision. She praised the
delicate Italian inlaid work, and the lace-like marble screens, and
tried her not particularly sweet voice, under the echoing dome, with
a shrill roulade that considerably startled her unprepared audience.
At eleven o’clock at night she again found herself in the Taj gardens;
“much too early,” she grumbled, as she seated herself on a bench
half-way between the Taj and the entrance. “The other people won’t be
here for an hour.” It was evidently “other people” she had come to see.
George made no remark; he stood behind her with his arms folded. He had
always secretly worshipped the beautiful in nature and art--an Indian
sunset in the rains, a chain of lofty snow-clad peaks at sunrise, a
fair landscape bathed in moonlight, appealed at once to his taste,
and the building before him, with its pearl-white dome rising into
the dark blue starry sky, the stately grace of this crown of love,
the beauty of this perfect monument to a woman’s memory, crept into
his senses and sank into his soul. The moon was so bright, the air so
clear, that he could distinguish the fretwork, and the heavy-headed
lilies around the basement of the tomb, and this garden, in which “the
light of the Harem” had lain for eighteen years--whilst thousands of
workmen laboured, aye, and died for her fame--was truly a fitting
setting for so pure a gem of art, with its tall trees and paved walks,
its fountains and fish ponds, its masses of yellow roses and groves of
fragrant orange blossoms, now filling the air with their perfume. What
a paradise for lovers, thought George, an ideal spot for whispered vows
this exquisite Eastern night! But what had _he_ to do with love? He
was a married man, and in his heart, there was not one spark of love
for the smart little lady, with the dog on her knee, who was his own,
his wife, his other self for evermore, who had a right to be beside
him, and to share his lot, as long as they both should live. Esteem he
might give her, respect and a certain kind of admiration, and possibly
affection; but love--Never! Meanwhile it was his most urgent duty to
disguise the truth, and sharp as Belle was, she never once guessed it.
Who could be more attentive than George? Her merest hint was caught at,
the best carriages and best rooms were secured for her everywhere in
advance by telegram; he protected her from rain or heat, from draught
or dust, as if she were made of wax. And he had given her most lovely
presents. Such a diamond ring and such a pair of earrings! If poor
Maria Finny could only see them she would die--die of envy, hatred and
malice. His affection was not demonstrative but practical--and, as
such, was appreciated and preferred.
As George’s sombre eyes fell upon his companion, he noticed that she
was now gazing at the Taj in an entirely different attitude, with an
air of rapt, absorbed meditation. Ah, it had grown on her at last, as
it did on every one; she had even dislodged “Mossoo,” who was hunting
frogs, with all the zeal of his nation.
“Well, Belle, a penny for your thoughts?” he asked eagerly.
“Oh,” rousing herself to look at him. “Well, I was wondering, if I
could get any curling pins here? and do you know, that I have been
thinking seriously about that blue and silver dress front; perhaps
I ought to take the pink one after all--you remember the one at the
corner shop; there was more stuff for the body. What do you say, dear?”
Here was a companion with whom to gaze on earth’s loveliness! No, no,
Belle had, as she boasted, no sentiment about her; she did not care for
past greatness,--the marble glories of Shahjehan, nor the red granite
courts of Akbar. She much preferred the present age, a brisk drive back
to the hotel, and a nice little hot supper; yes, she would rather have
mulled claret and cutlets, than moonlight and marble!
“Have _both_ if you like,” returned George after a momentary silence,
“and had we not better be making a start?”
“Both!” rising to her feet. “Oh, you dear, good, generous George,”
taking his arm as she spoke. “If you are quite sure that I am not too
extravagant, for there is something else I want.”
“What is that?”
“A present for Betty; you know how good she has been to me; she really
worked like a slave to get me ready, and I would like to send her
something pretty; it need not cost much, but she has no nice things, no
generous George to give her presents,” glancing up coquettishly into
his face. How white he looked--or was it the moon? “You know what a
dull life she leads--any little pleasure, any little surprise----”
“She won’t be dull when she is Mrs. Moore,” he interrupted sharply.
“I shall tell you a great secret, that no one knows but me; she will
never marry Ghosty, never. She was quite angry with me, when I teased
her. She declares she will never marry any one, and if she keeps her
word, as I hope she will--for who is there to marry at Ballingoole?--it
will make my mind _so_ easy about poor mamma!”
As Belle made this sweet, unselfish remark, they had reached the
entrance, and whilst she was coaxing “Mossoo” into the carriage, George
turned away, ostensibly to take one last look at the Taj as it appeared
framed by the great gateway, but it was not of the Taj that he was
thinking. Although his eyes were resting on a vision of a dazzling
white dome and minarets, he was a prey to tormenting speculation; he
was asking himself a startling question. Could Mrs. Redmond have lied
to him? Or was Betty’s speech merely a girl’s hypocritical repudiation
of a lover. Who was the most likely to speak the truth, Mrs. Redmond or
Betty?
As Belle and her husband drove rapidly back towards the cantonments,
with “Mossoo” extended on the front seat of the landau, they were
unusually silent; not one word was spoken about their recent
expedition--they seemed buried in their own thoughts.
_She_ was busily engaged in mentally making up the pink and silver
satin, and _he_ was thinking, that if what Belle had just told him was
true--as true as she appeared to believe--he never would have married
her!
Two days later, Mrs. Holroyd was sitting in the hotel verandah,
surrounded by jewellers, their wares displayed temptingly in the
invariable manner on Turkey red.
“Well! what about that present?” enquired her husband, as he discovered
her. “Get something good. Will two hundred rupees do?”
“Two hundred! I was thinking of fifty. What a lavish, extravagant
fellow you are; you will ruin yourself if I don’t look after you.”
But she accepted the sum, in spite of her pretty protestations.--George
was beginning to know what these protestations were worth!--Belle
carefully selected a delicate gold bangle, and exhibited it on her own
wrist, with much complacency.
“You are not going to give her _that_, are you?” he enquired with
secret dismay.
“Yes, I thought of it at first; it would almost match one you sent her,
but really it is too much to give her, and on second thoughts,” with a
playful air, “don’t you think it looks very well on _me_?”
“Yes, yes, of course it does; leave it where it is,” he said with eager
acquiescence, “you must keep it yourself.”
Anything was better than sending Betty a second bangle, and Belle, the
munificent, the grateful, the honourable, chose for her cousin--when
her husband was not present--a simple brooch, value thirty rupees,
though she told him it cost eighty--and pocketed the balance.
From Agra, the Holroyds went to Cawnpore--melancholy Cawnpore!--with
its dusty, glaring roads, grim barracks and tragic history. The
garrulous guide who drove them round, lolled at his ease half into
the carriage, preferring the _rôle_ of _raconteur_ to coachman,
leaving the horses chiefly to themselves; but no doubt, they knew the
too familiar weary rounds, from Nana Sahib’s ruinous house, to the
entrenchments--the Memorial Church--the massacre ghaut--and the well.
The full details of the tragedy had a horrible fascination for Belle,
and despite her husband’s continual interruptions and denials, she
would hear all; and the guide, for once, had a listener entirely after
his own heart; but the Indian mid-day sun, and Indian atrocities
were too much for this excitable traveller with a lurid imagination.
A climax arrived, when she stood gazing at the angel over the well,
that exquisite embodiment of sorrow and peace--which the guide glibly
assured her was “the work of ‘Mackitty,’ the same man who had built the
Taj, at Agra.” As she gazed with twitching lips, and working eyebrows,
she said, “You call it a lovely face, George! Not at all. To me, it
is not a face of sorrow, but a face of cold, undying vengeance. Yes,
vengeance,” she added, raising her voice to a scream and glaring at the
guide with a wild flicker in her eyes, “why don’t you keep a supply of
natives here for us who come on pilgrimage? I know what _I_ would do to
them, with my own hands.”
She looked so odd and excited, that the old soldier was completely
cowed, and ceased to relate how “he and Havelock” had marched to the
relief of Cawnpore. This handsome lady had a strange face, she was
muttering to herself, and gnawing her handkerchief, as she lay back
on the carriage cushions, and she had passionately tossed his humble
offering--a bit of yew from the site of the house of massacre--far away
into the powdery white road. He had not even the presence of mind to
ask for a whiskey peg, when George paid him off at the station, but he
whispered confidentially as he pocketed his rupees:
“I’ve seen ’em in hysterics, and I’ve seen ’em crying, but I never saw
one take on like _her_ before,” indicating Belle with his horny thumb.
“She _would_ draw me on, you see--and all them times is real to me--I
was in ’em, and my words has worked on her feelings, them and the sun
has done it; keep her cool and quiet, and she may come all right in
time for the mail train.”
But was it the sun? A terrible thought, a sickening dread, occurred to
George; was there not a gleam of insanity in those fiery red eyes that
encountered his, in the dim light of the waiting-room? He and her ayah
applied ice and eau-de-cologne to her head, and kept her in a still,
dark room in complete quiet, and this regimen wrought a speedy cure. By
the following morning Belle declared herself ready to go on at once, to
go anywhere, and they proceeded to Lucknow. The grey shell-shattered
walls of the Residency, the scene of her countrymen and women’s heroic
resistance, had no more interest for Mrs. Holroyd than the Taj. The
Silver Bazaar and the cavalry band at the “Chutter Munzil,” were far
more to her taste, not to speak of a screaming farce at the Mahomed
Bagh Theatre. At length they turned their faces towards Mangobad, and
as the train steamed out of Lucknow Station, George, as he carefully
arranged Belle’s pillows and rugs, and books and fans, breathed a deep
sigh of thankfulness and relief--_At any rate the honeymoon was over._