A GRAND SURPRISE FOR GEORGE.
“There is no armour against fate.”
--SHIRLEY.
“Behind no prison gate, she said,
Which slurs the sunshine half a mile,
Live captives so uncomforted
As souls behind a smile.”
--THE MASK.--MRS. BROWNING.
A few people in the station knew that the Collector was expecting a
niece, but the news never reached George’s ears. He did not frequent
the ladies’ room at the Club, nor other likely sources of general
or particular information. Belle hugged her secret in silence, as
far as he was concerned, and implored Captain La Touche (who had his
suspicions about this other Miss Redmond, and was prepared to stand
by for some frightful domestic explosion) not to breathe a word on the
subject. It was to be a grand surprise for George.
Mr. Redmond himself escorted Betty from Bombay, and the morning after
their arrival Belle hurried over at an early hour, to greet her cousin,
whom she nearly smothered with her caresses. She looked critically
at Betty, as they sat over “chota hazree” in the pretty fern-lined
verandah, and she told herself that her cousin was much changed. She
was more composed, more self-reliant, and--was it possible?--dignified.
She carried herself with quite an air of distinction, and was
remarkably well dressed. Belle would certainly think twice before
patronising, bullying, or storming at _this_ Betty. And how Belle’s
tongue ran on. She scarcely gave her companion time to answer a
question; volubly setting forth her delight at her arrival, the
condition of her own health, the state of her wardrobe, asking in one
breath what sort of a passage she had had, inquiring for the Finnys and
Moores, and how hats were worn; giving hasty and not always pleasing
sketches of the other ladies in the station, and winding up with an
imperious command to come over and see her bungalow, “only next door,
only in the next compound.”
Betty assented, saying with a laugh, as Belle took her arm, “I don’t
even know what a compound is; it might be a lake or a parish.”
Mrs. Holroyd had done up her house in honour of her cousin’s arrival;
re-arranged the draperies, replaced the palms and re-adjusted the
furniture, and proudly convoyed her from room to room.
“You will find George a good deal changed, very gloomy and silent,”
she remarked, as she displayed his dressing-room, with its rows of
boots and saddlery. “My dear, you never know a man’s _real_ character
till you marry him. In old days he used to be rather jolly, now----”
and she turned up her eyes, and threw up her hands dramatically, “he
is like the chief mourner at a funeral. By the way, Betty, why did you
not marry Ghosty Moore? You were mad to refuse him! I warn you that you
won’t do _half_ as well out here.”
“But I don’t want to do half as well,” returned Betty gaily.
“You don’t mean to say, that you are going to be an old maid?”
“Why not? I am convinced that I should be a delightful one.”
“Rubbish! I know the style. Godmother to every one’s horrid baby;
sick nurse to all the wheezy old women; _confidante_ in love affairs;
peace-maker, and general consoler in times of domestic affliction. Ugh!
sooner than play such a rôle I’d die.”
“No, no, Belle, you have a kind heart, you would play your part more
creditably than you pretend.”
“Look here, Betty,” she exclaimed, inconsequently, “has he said a word
about the diamonds? I suppose not yet--unless he mentioned them in the
train. I mean your uncle, of course, and of course they will be yours.
What a dry old creature he is. Quite gritty. Has he taken to you, dear?”
Betty blushed, and before she had time to answer, Belle added:
“He told me not to chatter about you; and only fancy, George does not
know that you are expected, much less that you have _arrived_.”
“What!” exclaimed Betty, her blush deepening to scarlet. “Oh, Belle,
you are not in earnest!”
“To be sure I am in earnest. I kept it as a surprise for him,” and as
the sound of clattering hoofs was heard rapidly approaching--“Here he
is.”
She and her visitor were already in the hall, as George cantered under
the porch, and she ran to the door, screaming out, “George, guess who
is here. Guess, guess!”
He, supposing it to be Captain La Touche, or some other brother
officer, stood for a moment giving orders to his syce, and then turned
to ascend the steps.
But who was this to whom Belle was clinging? His heart seemed to
contract; his head felt dizzy--as he recognised _Betty_. Betty,
grown to womanhood, and prettier than ever. In one lightning flash he
contrasted the pair before him. The little dark, sallow woman, with the
shining teeth and tropical eyes, who was the wife whom fate had sent
him, and the pale, slight, graceful girl, who was his first love, his
heart’s desire, the wife that he had lost!
George, as he gazed, became as white as death; he slowly raised his
chin-strap, and removed his helmet, and ascended the steps with much
clattering of sword and spurs. He could not speak, were it to save
his life. The situation was too strong for him. He ventured to look
at this rather stately maiden, expecting to see certain disdain, and
possibly hatred in her eyes, but no, she met his gaze with a glance of
unaffected friendship, and actually offered him her hand.
“George,” cried Belle excitedly. “How funny you are! _Don’t_ you
remember Betty? This has been my secret, and you don’t know what it has
cost me to keep it, but I thought that it would burst on you as such a
delightful surprise.”
George found his tongue at last, as he said in a level, expressionless
voice: “This is indeed a most unexpected pleasure! When did you arrive?”
“Last evening by the mail,” rejoined Betty with desperate cheerfulness.
“I little guessed when I heard yesterday that Mr. Redmond had gone
to Bombay to meet a lady who that lady was. Belle,” turning to his
garrulous wife, “I see that you _can_ keep your own counsel.”
“Can I not? Betty, you may trust me with all your love affairs. I am
sure you have had at least _one_, and you will find me a most discreet
_confidante_.”
“How did you leave them all at Ballingoole?” enquired her husband
precipitately.
“Very well, just as usual.”
“And did you see my mother lately?”
“Yes, just before I started. I have brought you a small parcel from her
and Cuckoo.”
“I suppose Cuckoo is growing up.”
“She _is_ grown up, in her own estimation; she wears long dresses and
has abolished her pigtail, and is really quite a nice-looking girl.”
At this statement, Belle broke into a peal of derisive laughter, and
said, “And pray what has become of Brown, Jones and Robinson?”
“Poor Brown is dead; he died of apoplexy, just like any rich old
gentleman. Mrs. Finny has taken Robinson, and Miss Dopping, Jones. I
was thinking of bringing him out, but I did not know whether Uncle
Bernard liked dogs.”
“And now you know that he is a dog-ridden man--dogs clamouring at his
table, dogs at his heels, dogs everywhere.”
“Yes, and all fox terriers, but none to compare with Jones. Uncle
Bernard has told me to write for him, and as he is a dog of independent
means he can pay his own passage. By the way, as I don’t see him, I
suppose ‘Mossoo’ is dead.”
“_Dead_,” echoed Belle in her shrillest key. “How dreadfully unfeeling
you are, Betty! Do you suppose for one moment that you would see me
laughing and talking if I had lost him? No, thank goodness! ‘Mossoo’
is in splendid health; this is his morning for the barber. If anything
were to happen to ‘Mossoo’ it would break my heart. I always hope that
I may die before him.”
“Oh, Belle!” exclaimed her kinswoman in a shocked voice. “I see you are
just as bad as ever, and now,” opening her white umbrella, “I really
must be going. Uncle Bernard will think that I am lost. Good-bye,
Belle. Good-bye, Mr. Holroyd,” and she went down the steps and walked
quickly away, with Belle’s last sentence ringing in her ears:
“Not Mr. Holroyd, Betty; you must call him _George_.”
* * * * *
George had stood listening to his wife and her cousin like a man in a
dream. Was it real--was this girl Betty?
How bright and merry she was, how her eyes sparkled and smiled--was she
a marvellous actress, a woman with matchless self-control; or else had
she never cared? Most likely she had never cared.
She was young, and happy, and free, whilst he was bound, and fettered,
and wretched.
“Well, George,” said Belle angrily, “I really think you might have
offered to walk back with her, I do indeed. It’s rather hard on me that
my husband can’t be civil to the only friend I have in the world. Do
you dislike her?”
“No, why should you suppose so?”
“Then why did you not _talk_? Why were you so stiff and ceremonious--so
different from what you used to be at Noone? You hardly spoke to her,
and she is like my own sister; you might have kissed her. I am sure she
expected it.”
“And I am sure she did nothing of the kind,” he returned sharply, and
then he went into his writing room, closed the door and took off his
mask.
This was the refinement of torture, the devil himself had arranged this
meeting!
Surely his lot was bad enough as it was--a squalid home, a scolding
wife, a broken career. For staff appointments were inaccessible, he
would not dream of applying for one. People would as soon have the
cholera in the station, as the notorious Mrs. Holroyd--and now, as the
crown and flower of all his sorrows, here was Betty, come to witness
the misery, the horror, the daily heart-sickening humiliation of his
married life, and would naturally say to herself:
“It was for _this_ he forsook and forgot me.”
And she would never know. He must be for ever silent. In his mind’s eye
he saw Belle, with her irrepressible tongue, throwing a lurid light on
their domestic life, on their quarrels, on their social misfortunes,
and on all his shortcomings. At the very thought he clenched his hands
fiercely and great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. He
saw his future, the future he had chosen, stretching out before him--an
awful, barren waste. He saw that he had made a hideous mistake, and the
iron of a great despair entered into his soul.
* * * * *
“So you have been over the way _already_?” exclaimed Mr. Redmond as his
niece joined him. “Why, you look quite pale, the journey has knocked
you up, what possessed you to go out?”
“Oh, I am not the least tired; it is no distance; and you know we are
very old friends. Belle came to fetch me.”
“As long as she does not come and fetch _me_, I don’t care. Yes, my
dear, I don’t like your cousin; thank goodness, your very distant
cousin. She is the only drawback to Mangobad.”
“Oh, Uncle Bernard, I am so sorry to hear you say so.”
“Do you like her?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, of course I do,” returned Betty, and she believed that she was
speaking the truth.
“Well, my dear, you are the mistress of this house, and I wish to see
you make yourself at home and happy. Have her here as much as ever you
like when I am away, but I entreat and implore of you to keep us apart,
I am afraid of my life of her. I am not joking--I am paralysed by the
mere terror of her presence, I give you my honour--I am indeed.”
In one respect George’s prognostications were correct. Belle made Betty
her _confidante_. She went over to see her daily, to “chota hazree” or
tiffin or tea--always at hours when the master of the house was at
Cutcherry. She liked to turn over Betty’s dresses, to unburthen her
mind, and to drive out in the Collector’s easy landau, and under the
wing of the Collector’s pretty niece worm her way back into social
importance. (No one recognised an effort on Betty’s part, and she
only knew it herself, when she realised what a relief it was to be
alone with her uncle.) This was the bright side of the shield; it had
its reverse. It was hard to see a girl, who had always been in the
background, placed above her, living in a luxurious home, driving in
London-built carriages, presiding at splendid dinners, and attended by
obsequious and numerous chaprassies. Luckily for her own peace, the
new queen gave herself no airs; she was as kind, as generous, and as
sympathetic as ever, but on one subject she refused, fiercely refused,
to sympathise--_George_. She would never listen to a word against him.
Once she turned a white resolute face on Belle, and said very sternly:
“You say that he is an excellent husband, nurses you when you are ill,
gives you everything you ask for, presses you to buy new dresses, and
to go to the hills, has never begun a quarrel, never gambles, drinks,
or flirts; what do you want?”
“He is all you say, but he is odd. He--only to _you_ would I tell this,
Bet--”
“Don’t, don’t, I won’t hear it!” cried her companion passionately, and
putting her fingers up to her ears.
“It’s nothing bad,” screamed Belle, pulling away one of her cousin’s
hands. “It is only this. George, I daresay, likes me as well as most
men like their wives, and he is far more polite and considerate than
one out of fifty, but I am sure he has never been in love with me.
There is no harm in telling you what is true. I cannot grumble, for
I have never been in love with him; we are not really sympathetic.
He is scrupulously polite, and attentive and kind, but he hates
‘Mossoo.’ I have heard him _swear_ at him, and he is so reserved and
undemonstrative. There is a veil across his heart that I have never
been able to tear aside. He as good as told me once, that he _had_
liked some one--and once means always with him, he is so pig-headed!
Oh, if I only knew who she had been, or who she _is_,” and her eyes
blazed dangerously, “how I could hate her. I suppose, Betty, you have
no idea? You know the Malones so intimately. Did they ever drop a
hint?”
“Never,” she responded in a low, quiet voice.
“Oh, well then I can’t make it out! I should have thought you might
have known--you were such friends with that odious little tell-tale
Cuckoo--and that if anyone could have told me, it would have been
_you_.”