Aleck Longfield, recently appointed to the Indian Police, reported his arrival at Headquarters, Madras. He found that his destination was to be the extreme south of the Peninsula. He knew nothing of the country; but the language, Tamil, he had been obliged to learn in England before he received his marching orders.
Head-quarters seemed in a hurry to pack him off. His predecessor had died rather suddenly; it was necessary that someone should pick up the reins and “carry on” as speedily as possible.
He enquired the name of the man who was dead, and was told that he was a Hindu. Cholera was said to be the cause. There could be no autopsy, for the excellent reason that the body had been burnt; and the ashes had been scattered to the winds of the south-west monsoon by his orthodox relatives.
Longfield was duly furnished with information as to outfit and kit, and was recommended to go to a firm in Madras.
“And what is my work?” he asked.
“There are your instructions.”
He was handed a pamphlet, made up of columns and margins of small print. There was a headache in nearly every page. Aleck looked at it dubiously.
“Will this give the practical programme of my daily work?”
“You will find that out when you arrive at your station. You have a good head-clerk in your office and a capable set of inspectors in the district. There will be no difficulty.”
“Is there much crime?”
“The usual amount.”
“With doubtful evidence to sift and all that sort of thing?”
“Enough to keep you pretty busy. Get on with your shopping. The big outfitting people in Madras may be trusted to provide what you want and to send the things after you. Have you engaged a servant?”
“Not yet; several have offered themselves.”
“Don’t have anything to do with them; they are too clever by half. You had better pick up a head boy down there---a man who knows the district and its ways. I’ll write to my friend Anstruther of the X.Y.Z. Cotton Press and ask him to put you up for a few days till the bungalow has been cleaned, and you have had time to get a few bits of furniture together. Mrs. Anstruther——”
“Oh! is there a lady?” asked Longfield, the colour flooding his face.
“Yes; and one of the right sort. She’ll mother you.”
“Is there no hotel?”
“There’s a dâk bungalow which you can share with a bandicoot or two. Personally I should prefer Mrs. Anstruther.”
Aleck Longfield travelled down to Tuticorin, passing through country as level as the Indian Ocean in a calm. It was composed of cotton-fields varied by groves of palmyra trees; stretches of waste land overgrown with thorny stunted acacia and cactus; patches of boulder-strewn land, waterless and burnt by the torrid sun; here and there a hill of rock isolated and bare of vegetation; and far away on the horizon a faint blue line of distant hills in the west. As he travelled farther south the mirage painted the horizon with lagoons bordered by palm trees where no water existed. Below the horizon on the east was the sea, too far away to be seen. In between sea and railway the air quivered with the heat. Occasionally he caught sight of village temples set up for the worship of a malignant demon. The temples were of the same pattern but not of the same size. Some were not more than twelve feet square. Others were of imposing proportions and profusely ornamented with crude sculpture. The demon of South India is always a “she.” In the enclosure sometimes stood a collection of monstrous figures moulded in earthen-ware and painted in brilliant wash, green, red, and yellow, large and small according to the importance of the shrine.
As he neared his destination the cotton soil gave place to a pale sand that daunted the indestructible vitality of the prickly-pear cactus and drove the spear-grass into a patchy growth, which in no way resembled the green sward of Europe called meadow-land. Over it all the sun looked down from its rising to its setting with fierce, merciless heat.
Tuticorin with its line of glaring sea was reached at last. Longfield, hot and dusty with many hours of travelling, descended from the first-class compartment he had had to himself for some time past.
An Englishman in white drill, wearing a huge pith hat, advanced with hand extended.
“How are you? Had a good journey? Got a servant? No? I’m Anstruther. You’re coming to us for a few days. Here!” to a constable who was in attendance. “Get the master’s things together and bring them along to my bungalow.”
Longfield began to protest with mention of the dâk bungalow; no attention was paid to his words. He was led off through the station to the yard, where a comfortable motor awaited the Manager of the X.Y.Z. Press, and was driven to a bungalow.
“The Commissioner at Madras is an old friend of mine. He wrote to say you were coming and asked me to look after you,” said Anstruther on the way.
“Very kind of you; but, really, I wanted to go to the travellers’ bungalow. I can’t bear the thought of giving Mrs. Anstruther so much trouble,” said Aleck, blushing furiously, as he always did at the thought of having to meet women. He was incorrigibly shy, and he knew it.
“She’s delighted. This is a dull place, and a visitor is a godsend. No one comes here who is not absolutely obliged.”
“There’s a house, I understand, that I am to have.”
“Quite a decent bungalow; but it must be cleaned. The last occupant was your predecessor---quite a good fellow as Indians go, but his ideas of how a house should be kept differed from yours and mine.”
They arrived at the bungalow, and Longfield was warmly greeted by Mrs. Anstruther. The servant question came at once to the fore. Anstruther knew of a servant, recently head boy to a man named Brown, who had lately left the station and was not likely to come back to the south of India. The servant’s name was Abboye. He was young, active, and alert, and bore an excellent character.
“Brown took him to England once when he went on six months’ leave. The man was well educated in a mission-school in Tinnivelly. Brown said it was wonderful how he adapted himself to the English life and made the most of every opportunity to see and hear. He picked up information and attended some evening classes for technical instruction, where he learnt a lot about motor-cars and how to drive them. The wireless fascinated him. Brown used to declare that he knew how to set it up.”
“I don’t want a man who is too clever.”
“He won’t be that,” said Mrs. Anstruther. “He will look after your interests in the bungalow and get a decent staff of servants to work under him.”
“I hope he is steady as well as honest.”
“Brown assured me that he had never known him the worse for liquor. Nothing was locked up in the house,” said Anstruther.
“It is far best to trust them if you can,” added his wife. “If they are not trustworthy, the sooner you fire them the better. This man comes of a long line of domestics who were first-rate servants in their generation, so that he has heredity to help him. But in some ways he is not like the paragon of the old John Company days. Education has made all the difference. Added to hereditary instincts you have a man nowadays who can think for himself without making a mess of things. In the old days the English master used to say, ‘Give me a man who can do his work without thinking.’ We should call the servant a fool if he did not use his brains in these times.”
“I hope he will not play any tricks with me,” said Aleck.
“Brown had a curious experience when he first engaged Abboye. It is customary for the head servant to come for orders in the morning before going to market---bazaar, they call it. One morning Brown interviewed Abboye on the subject of dinner. The boy stood respectfully at attention and listened without interrupting. When Brown had finished, Abboye said in his most humble tone, ‘Master dining out to-night.’ ‘What’s that? Dining out, am I? Where?’ ‘With Mr. Campbell, Head Assistant Collector.’ Brown looked at him angrily. ‘How the devil do you know?’ ‘Letter coming from Mrs. Campbell, sar.’ ‘You’ve been reading my chits, you rascal!’ ‘No, sar,’ replied Abboye, quite unruffled by the accusation. Brown took his own way of stopping this supervision of his correspondence. He locked up his letters. The following week he was to dine out. Two invitations had come; one was from the wife of the Doctor, Major Bowood; the other was from the Chaplain, a bachelor who gave delightful little dinners to a few friends at a time.
“Brown stepped into his car and gave the name of the Padre to the chauffeur. Abboye followed it quickly with, ‘Master, please; master going to Doctor’s house.’ Before he could remonstrate he was driven to the right destination and left in Mrs. Bowood’s veranda, where he was duly expected and welcomed.
“This little incident seemed to point to the melancholy fact that the faithful Abboye possessed a duplicate key, which enabled him to study his master’s letters. After this Brown determined to burn all his letters. He accordingly, with some trouble to himself, destroyed them on a dish of charcoal after every post that came in. It was a fatal plan and resulted in much confusion. He forgot to answer his letters unless he did it at once; he forgot the dates of his social engagements. One evening he dressed to go out and the car stood at the door ready. Abboye followed his master and saw him safely in it. The chauffeur turned his head for instructions. For the life of him Brown could not remember which particular friend had invited him. He stared at the chauffeur with knitted brows, but the man could not help him. Then from force of habit---he was already looking to Abboye for everything connected with his domestic life---rather than with any hope whatever of help, he glanced at his servant. Abboye was equal to the occasion. As if it was all in the order of his work he stepped nearer to the chauffeur and said, ‘Go to Mr. Southwood’s house.’ ‘How on earth did the fellow know where I was going? ‘ said Brown to himself as he was driven off. ‘I am certain I tore Mrs. Southwood’s letter to shreds and burnt it.’ Brown discovered later that Abboye made it a custom to enquire of the butlers he met every morning in the bazaar what dinner parties their masters and mistresses were giving, and whether his own master’s name was down on the list of guests. After this experience Brown no longer attempted to fight against the powers that be. He destroyed no more letters and locked no more drawers; and his life, as far as his household was concerned, went very peacefully.”
“Do you think that he will read my letters?” asked Longfield.
“Whether he reads the letters or no, he will never be in ignorance of anything that concerns your welfare,” replied Mrs. Anstruther.
“By the by, Abboye has another accomplishment,” said Anstruther. “ He is a caster-out of devils. He claims to have inherited the art from a grandfather. My own opinion is that he took it up because there is money in it. We had something the matter with the machinery in the Cotton Press last year. Abboye was called in to exorcise the devil before the Indian artificers would touch the work. He arrived dressed, or rather undressed, for the occasion. I should not have recognised him. He professed to have caught the fiend, an imp about four inches high, and to have secured it in a French plum-bottle. The bottle was shown to me. It was full of smoke. I could just distinguish a figure that looked very like a doll taken from a Christmas cracker. Anyhow, the press hands were satisfied. The artificers mended the break in the machinery and we got to work again.”
“I think you told me that he was a Christian,” said Aleck.
“He belongs to the Roman Catholic Church; goes to confession and occasionally asks for permission to make a pilgrimage which lasts five or six days. He takes care to leave an adequate substitute to do his work. No doubt you pay for the wax candles that he presents to his church. They will be entered as firewood and charcoal; but you don’t feel it. The perquisite system in India runs on well-oiled machinery; and we take no notice of it as long as it keeps within reasonable bounds.”
Six months passed, and Aleck Longfield had done much in the way of picking up his work. He was well into his stride; could talk the language and understood something of the people among whom his work lay. The crime he had to deal with was mostly petty, with sly, cunning traits that made it seem childish in some respects and monkeyish in others. Much of his time was spent in camping. He was in camp during Christmas and missed the gaieties of the friendly little station, with the result that he knew next to nothing of his neighbours.
He liked his work and his staff liked him. In the domestic arrangements Abboye proved satisfactory, as Mrs. Anstruther had predicted. Aleck became more and more dependent on the head of his establishment as each month passed. He met with whole-hearted devotion and satisfactory efficiency.
The police-station was not far from the bungalow in which the Assistant Superintendent lived. The servants were given to understand that a rigid line was to be kept between the thana, as the police station was called, and the kitchen. The constables were forbidden to hold any communication with the staff; and the servants understood that they were never to be seen in the police station. Aleck was satisfied that his rules were kept. Abboye saw to it that he should be satisfied. “What the eye did not see the heart did not grieve for.” The Indian night covers many things undreamed of by the tired Englishman.
Longfield met with much kindness from the residents of the station. When the camping season was over and he joined them as a resident himself, he had opportunities of getting to know them better. He was invited to dinner and bridge, to breakfast and early-morning tennis. He accepted the invitations, although it involved much palpitation of the heart on his part. Try as he would, he could not overcome his shyness. It was not so bad when he was with men; but with all the kind-hearted, hospitable women in the place, it was impossible for him to associate only with members of his own sex. He often found himself obliged to play a tennis set in mixed doubles.
He was more or less at his ease when they were married women. He could not have said why they inspired him with less nervousness. Perhaps the older women accepted his shyness as part of himself, and ignored it.
Mrs. Anstruther, his first friend, took some trouble to set him at ease. When his flag of distress was visible, she turned her back on him. It gave him breathing-space to recover himself. He was grateful. No one was more conscious of his weakness than himself.
Bessie Bowood, the doctor’s daughter, was less lenient. She laughed at him, shaking her bobbed hair and calling him Mr. P., which was meant for Mr. Peony. It made him avoid spinsters of any age, and Bessie in particular. This was a disappointment to her. She had hoped to attract him by her pert little personalities. He clung to the society of married women, feeling more comfortable under their maternal wings.
One day Aleck found himself partnered with a vigorous young woman of the up-to-date pattern, short-skirted and manly in action. He could not remember having seen her before, but this fact did not surprise him, having been absent from the station frequently. His partner took the game seriously, murmuring something about the way they did things at Wimbledon. Her energy was tremendous and she threw herself heart and soul into the play.
They lost, in spite of her strenuous efforts to save the game. As soon as the set was over, she walked straight up to Aleck, patting the palm of her hand with her racket impatiently.
“Look here, partner, if we are going to play them a return, and I believe that’s the arrangement, we shall have to pull ourselves together and buck up,” she said with some excitement.
“I---I---I’m awfully sorry that I couldn’t back you up better, Mrs.---er——” stammered Longfield.
“Please don’t apologise. I didn’t mean that. What I want to say is that if we are to pull off the next set, we shall have to work frantically hard.”
“I’ll try,” he replied, inspired by her very real enthusiasm.
“That’s all right. Come and have a drink. You’re hot. You look as if you had been stoking a ship’s fires.”
At the allusion to his personal appearance he was overwhelmed with confusion and did not stir.
“Come along!” she said impatiently. She had decided at the very beginning of the game that she would stand on no ceremony with him. “It’s my job to see that you cool down before apoplexy sets in.”
He walked by her side to the refreshment tent.
“It’s awfully good of you, Mrs.——”
“I’m not Mrs.; I’m Miss Smith, Mrs. Southwood’s sister. I landed from Colombo a fortnight ago.”
“My mistake,” he blurted out in his confusion. It was the limit, and having reached it, he began to pluck up courage and be more like his normal self. She noted the dawning ease of manner and glanced at him with approval.
The refreshments were arranged on a long table covered with a cloth and spread with plates of sandwiches and dishes of cakes and dainties. Behind the table stood the servants ready to hand out whatever drinks the guests demanded. The butler, attentive and watchful, saw that the service was prompt.
“What will you have? Lime-juice with soda-water and ice?” he asked.
“Hot tea in a small cup; no milk and not too strong.”
He handed it to her and received for himself a long tumbler with a piece of ice clinking pleasantly against the side of the glass.
“Excuse me,” said Sylvia, laying a strong, decided hand on the glass. “Not now, please; you can have that afterwards if you like.” She gave it back to the man at the buffet. “Another cup of tea like this,” she demanded. Turning to her partner with a smile that enlisted his forgiveness on the spot, she said, “If we are to win this set, that tumbler of iced soda-water, even if it has nothing alcoholic in it, will be fatal. Do try tea instead, if only to please me.”
“I’m not very fond of tea,” he protested.
“In this country I’ve discovered that long iced drinks don’t go well with games. Try tea, whether you like it or not; it is best for you. I was told on board ship that it’s the engine-room drink. The stokers swear by it.”
He took the tea like a lamb.
“Sugar? You can have a little sugar if you like, but no milk.”
Yes, he would have a little sugar. Mrs. Southwood approached. It was on her courts that they were playing.
“Sylvia, are you ready for another set? I think your opponents expect it.”
“Rath---er! “ she responded.
“And you, Mr. Longfield?”
“Don’t ask him,” cried Sylvia. “He’s just got to play.”
“Then I may reckon on you both,” said Mrs. Southwood. The shadow of a smile appeared on her lips. Sylvia was making the running in overcoming her partner’s shyness and no mistake!
“As soon as we have swallowed this tea we shall be ready. My throat is blistered all the way down. How’s yours, Mr. Longfield?”
“As bad as yours, every bit!” he retorted.
“You won’t have another thirst on till the scald passes off. Come along. Now, do put your back into it and help me to pull it off. Don’t be afraid of poaching my balls when you get a chance of intercepting them.”
“I’ll do my best; but I don’t like taking your balls,” he replied. He had not felt so happy nor so much at his ease since he had been back from camp.
“For goodness’ sake don’t be afraid of that! If you see a chance of smashing anything down, do it; and you mustn’t pay any attention to anybody but me,” she admonished as they walked towards the courts. “You must keep me constantly in the tail of your eye, because we must work together with the least expense of energy. From now until this set is finished, I’m the ‘only girl in the world’ as far as you are concerned.”
“And you? What about you?”
“You’re the only man in the world that matters to me---until this game is over. I’ve no eyes for any other.”
They took their places and their opponents faced them. The play began. Aleck found that his enjoyment increased. The shyness and self-consciousness died down before his keenness in the game. She had roused the spirit of battle in him and excited him till he astonished himself by his own performance. Under her encouragement he recovered his proper form and retrieved his bad play. Finally with a smashing stroke that elicited a shout of approval from Sylvia, he won the last game in the set.
“Well played! Splendid!” she cried. “Now we are one all.” She called to their opponents. “ Will you play us a third?”
Her proposal met with a ready consent.
“Let’s go and get another cup of tea before we begin. The others have gone on the same errand.”
As they walked towards the buffet, Aleck’s colour was florid; but this time it was the result of his exertions with the thermometer at eighty degrees and not of shyness. She congratulated him on his play.
“That was first class. If only you had played up like that in the first set, we shouldn’t have had to play this third.”
“I’m sorry——” he began.
“No apology, please. Now for the cups of tea; one each, no more.”
He looked at her, no longer afraid to “keep her constantly in his eye” as she had bidden him.
“No iced drink? After having done so well, I think I deserve it,” he said.
“Certainly not. It’s to be tea; nothing but tea now and always when you are playing games. If you give way to iced drinks, you’ll put on weight and spoil a good figure.”
Under her directions they again swallowed the scalding tea, which proved surprisingly refreshing. They returned to the fray and carried all before them.
After this Longfield played frequently with Sylvia Smith---so frequently that people in fun accused them of studying each other’s style, so that they might acquit themselves well at the tournament which was to take place before long. They agreed to play together in it, since the pairing was left to choice. They were, however, handicapped heavily, because Sylvia had succeeded in making a reputation which, she found to her dismay, would have its price.
In the intervals between the games and after the sets were over it was quite natural that they should sit together to rest and to recover their breath, for they never spared themselves.
“I was asinine to let them take my measure,” she said one day as they discussed the coming tournament.
“You couldn’t help it. We had to win in every game and make good. I felt obliged to do my level best each time I played with you; not only for honesty’s sake, but because you gave me such sound advice that first day when we were partners.”
She laughed softly, letting her eyes rest upon him with more kindness in their depths than she was aware of.
“I am afraid you thought me perfectly odious in that first game. But that’s myself all over. I get excited over the play and speak without thinking. Am I forgiven?”
“There was nothing to forgive,” he responded quickly. “On the contrary, I feel that I owe you a debt of gratitude for coaching me. Please continue your good offices. You will find me a most grateful pupil.”
“I will with pleasure. We must get some more practice games together.”
“As many as you like,” he replied with a keenness he could not hide. “I feel that every game I have with you improves my play.”
“The reason you couldn’t play your best when we first began was because you were thinking of yourself and not of the game. You shouldn’t think of yourself. It’s fatal, whatever you may be doing.”
“I know I shouldn’t,” he said contritely. “But I can’t help it. I am made that way.”
“Nonsense! Shyness is nothing but a habit, a bad habit; you will have to get out of it.”
“I know I shall; please tell me how.”
He laughed, in spite of his embarrassment. He was too happy to take offence at anything she might say.
“By mastering your nerves. You master those by taking your attention off yourself and by thinking of something else. Have you ever tried to forget yourself?”
“It never occurred to me to attempt to do what I thought was impossible. I’m naturally shy.”
“Rubbish!” It was a favourite expression with Sylvia. “You are no more shy than I am. Do you call me shy?”
There was a challenge in her voice that stirred him.
“No; since frankness is the order of the day I’ll venture to say that if anything you are---are inclined towards the other way.”
“Not bold! don’t say I am ‘a bold, bad hussy!’”
“I wouldn’t for the world say such a thing,” he hastened to assure her.
“You might think it, though,” she rejoined quickly.
Mrs. Southwood came up at that moment and claimed her sister’s attention. The two walked away together. Sylvia gave Aleck a glance which said plainly, “I can’t help myself; I would much rather stay with you.” It more than compensated for the loss of her company.
“Sylvia, I shall have to talk to you,” said Mrs. Southwood as soon as they were out of hearing.
“Why? what have I done now?” she asked, assuming her most innocent pose.
“You’re leading that man to destruction.”
“Never! I have too much regard for him. I like him.”
“I asked you to be civil to him and told you that you would find him shy and diffident.”
“He’s shy enough all right---that is to say, he hasn’t proposed to me yet.”
“Proposed! I should think not! You’re not to let him propose.”
“Don’t you think that it would be rather good for him? He ought to have some practice before he lets himself go with the final choice.”
“If you’re not going to accept him---and I really don’t see how you can, considering that there are obstacles---you must not allow him to ask you to marry him.”
“Of course I should not allow him to spread himself out; I should hold him up before he got out of hand.”
“Then you must let him alone.”
“You asked me to take him up and try to penetrate his shyness for the poor dear’s own good. I’m carrying on.”
“Yes; you are carrying on---anyhow. I’m frightened, and I want you to stop it.”
“Why this sudden change of tactics?”
“Because the man is desperately in love with you.”
“Good.”
“Oh, Sylvia!” cried her sister impatiently.
“Well? What do you want me to do?”
“Drop your unprincipled behaviour.”
“What! when the treatment for shyness has only just begun! That’s asking too much.”
“But what’s to be the end of it all?” asked Mary Southwood with real concern. “You can’t marry him.”
“No,” admitted Sylvia more soberly. “More’s the pity.”
“I wish you had not come out to India under false colours.”
“You can’t call it that.”
“Why drop your title?”
“Because it is loathsome to me; and it would lead to no end of gossip if people knew it.”
“Say scandal.”
“That’s not fair to me.”
Mrs. Southwood failed entirely in her effort to persuade her sister to relinquish her flirtation with Aleck Longfield. Sylvia, having broken the ice and penetrated his reserve, seemed infatuated with the man she had found underneath. She constituted herself his mentor and prompted him to do all sorts of things that he would not have undertaken on his own initiative.
She found a second source of pleasure in the consternation she read in her sister’s face as her influence over him increased. Sylvia had a trouble of her own that she wanted to forget. She was restless and always seeking for distraction. It had brought her out to India and was making her unscrupulous in sacrificing others to her own needs. Mrs. Southwood looked upon Aleck as an unhappy victim.
“Mr. Longfield, it behoves you to give a dinner party,” said Sylvia a few days later, as they sipped hot tea after a hard game on the club courts.
“Oh no! really! I assure you——” began Longfield, flushing at the bare thought of the thing.
“Concentrate your mind on jackals for a minute or so. Your circulation is beginning to go wrong.”
“Jackals!” he repeated, surprised into forgetting his sudden fright at the prospect she had conjured up.
“I am not asking you to give a dinner to jackals; only to concentrate your mind on them for a moment, just to bring your circulation back to its normal non-flushing condition. You have dined out frequently during the last six weeks. It’s about time some of your friends dined with you.”
“I have had four bachelor parties already.”
“That’s quite as it should be; but you can’t stop there.”
“Whom do you propose I should ask?”
“There’s my sister, Mrs. Southwood, her husband and myself; the chief engineer and his wife; then there are the Campbells. They can’t be left out, being the most important people in the place. The Padre; and Mr. and Mrs. Anstruther. Then there’s the Doctor and his wife and daughter. I believe the Traffic Manager is at the railway bungalow. He is on inspection duty and he has brought his wife, a charming woman. And then——”
“Oh, please! After all, I am only a lone bachelor. You’ve named more than a dozen. I’ve only kit enough for six, or at a pinch seven or eight.”
“Well, let’s limit it to ten.”
“Kit! what about kit?” gasped Aleck. “I’ve only six finger-bowls and seven dessert-plates.”
She paid no attention to his protests, but continued to plan out the party.
“Now, which of them shall we choose?” she said. “I suppose we must leave out the Traffic man and his wife, although they would be glad enough of a decent dinner, living where they are.”
“Couldn’t we leave out the Campbells?”
“Impossible; not from your first ladies’ party. She would never forgive you if you invited my sister and left her out. My sister must be included, because I am coming.”
“Of course! I couldn’t manage it without you.”
“Oh, yes! you could. It’s easy enough in India to give dinners. Now count up your guests.”
He obediently ticked them off on his fingers.
“Southwoods three, myself four, the two Campbells six, two Anstruthers eight, the Padre nine, and Mr. Anstruther’s assistant; he lives with them and can’t exactly be left out. That makes ten. And if any of them refuse,” he concluded hopefully, “we’ll make it eight.”
“Eight is not a good number; twelve is much better; more sociable and easier to manage. Ten is the least you can have, but if you take my advice you’ll make it twelve.”
“I couldn’t!---I couldn’t!” he cried in blank dismay. “Knives! forks! spoons! tumblers! Impossible! People can’t share them.”
Sylvia paid no heed to his expostulations. She was busy with a pencil and the back of a club wine-list. She handed it to him.
“I’ve put down the names of twelve. The rest of the station must be asked another day. I don’t recommend more than twelve. These must all be invited.”
“But supposing they all say yes?”
“It will save us the trouble of choosing anyone else.”
“Can’t I leave out the Campbells?” he pleaded. “They are so particular over their food and keep such a good table.”
“On no account; so that’s that.”
“My cook is only a crumb-chop sort of a cook; very good at camp cooking, but a hopeless ass in cantonments.”
“Tell him that you will run him in for incompetency and get him ten days’ hard labour in jail if he doesn’t rise to the occasion and do his best.”
“Which will be roast chicken and crumb chops and plantain fritters!” said Aleck despondently.
“You have got a good head boy, my sister says.”
“His last master gave him an excellent character, and I’ve found him very satisfactory out in camp.”
“Did he do your bachelor dinner parties properly?”
“First-rate; but I don’t think he has had any experience with the dinner you are suggesting that I should give.”
“Leave everything to him and trust to the Providence that mercifully looks after us in India. Now you’re to carry this through. There’s to be no shirking.”
“I shall feel ready to drop into my shoes.”
“No, you won’t. If your circulation goes wrong, you must think of jackals. If they are not big enough game to divert your attention from yourself, you can make it hyaenas. Now about pairing off your guests.”
“We haven’t fixed the day yet,” remarked Aleck, fully conscious of having an all-absorbing topic to discuss. Now and then it had happened that it had been a little difficult to keep her by his side. She was always in request with women as well as men.
“Ten days---no, twelve days from now. Your invitations must go out to-morrow by a peon who will bring back the answers. You will know then exactly where you are.”
He thought he knew that already. He was building up confusion worse confounded for himself and was unable to call a halt.
“Now about sorting your crowd. Give me that card again. The great difficulty is to get the husbands and wives separated, so my sister says. Husbands and wives become duds when they find themselves side by side. They won’t even pretend to talk.”
At this moment Mary Southwood bore down upon them.
“Oh, dash!” ejaculated Sylvia, handing him back the card. “Get your invitations out and we’ll settle the pairing off another day.”
It was Sylvia’s circulation that was short-circuited and went wrong. The heightened colour was due to annoyance. She had been enjoying herself enormously and for the time had forgotten all her troubles. He was like a delicate instrument; he responded to her slightest touch. She was a young woman of many charms, but she had a temper, quick, generous, almost noble in the way it showed itself; all the same, it was temper and apt to be explosive.
“Molly!” she cried with a stamp of the foot. “I give you fair warning that there’s a limit. One day when you come and lead me off with that head-nurse air of yours, I shall break into open rebellion.”
“Everybody is asking me if it is true that you two are engaged,” replied Mrs. Southwood in distress. “I don’t know what to say.”
Tell them to go to---Trichinopoly. I believe that’s the place where there’s only a division of brown paper between it and Satan’s abode.”
“He’ll propose! That would be calamitous.”
“Oh, you think so! Bear up, old dear. I’ll have a talk to him on the subject next time I have an opportunity. You must promise not to butt in. I can’t do anything if I am carried off in this fashion just as I am in the thick of it.”
“Talk indeed! You’re always talking with him. What were you saying just now? He looked absorbed,” Molly asked suspiciously.
“I was telling him it was about time that he gave a dinner party. I made him a list of guests and was just going to pair them for dinner when you came up and spoilt it all.”
“Oh, Sylvia! how could you interfere with his domestic arrangements!”
“He is to ask the Campbells——”
“The Campbells! She is positively dreadful about the cooking, and he’s worse. They don’t mean to be disagreeable, but everybody in the place dreads having them to dinner. I know I’m terrified every time they come to us. I don’t ask them oftener than I can help.”
“Molly, my dear, you’re an owl, and a boiled one at that. Let the two old dears find themselves; find their level among us. Let them be assured that their cook is the very best in the station. They will feel more settled in their minds. Then they can please themselves about dining at home or coming out and sampling the dinners sent up at their neighbours’ houses by second-and third-rate cooks. They will eat their dinner with such joy in the thought that nothing in the menu equals what is turned out by their own man.”
Meanwhile Aleck returned to his bungalow with a heavy heart. To refuse to carry out Sylvia’s instructions was not to be thought of. He dared not risk losing her friendship by rebellion. She had decreed it, and it must be done at any cost. Financially he did not care what it cost, for he had other means besides his pay. What he feared was dismal failure with an uneatable dinner. He could not imagine his bungalow filled with men and women in evening dress; his table sparkling with silver and glass, flowers and table-decorations. It would be a miracle and need the hand of a magician to work such a transformation.
His bungalow was good of its kind. It was built after the pattern of all other South Indian bungalows. Large and airy, it contained a good room in the centre and a wing on each side. On the left was the “vis’tar’s room,” as Abboye called the apartment known in Aleck’s mind as the drawing-room. Behind it was the spare bedroom. In the other wing Aleck had his sitting- and bedroom. The room in the centre made a spacious dining-room. Its walls were colour-washed and somewhat bare; but it was clean and differed in no way from other rooms in the bungalows occupied by bachelors.
Abboye was in the kitchen with the cook. They were discussing the details of a police case. Although the staff of the bungalow was supposed to have nothing to do with the master’s professional work, every detail of crime that reached the Assistant Superintendent’s office at the police-station leaked through to the kitchen of the bungalow.
On arrival at his house, Aleck hurried out of his car and sprang up the steps of the portico, shouting for Abboye. At the sound of his voice the head boy grabbed at his turban. It was safely resting out of harm’s way on the mouth of a waterpot that supplied the kitchen with water for cooking purposes. He planted the turban on his shaven head at the precise angle that fashion among Indian domestics demanded. It showed a smooth bit of forehead and as graceful a curve of the back of the neck as meets with the approval of the shingled lasses of England.
He rose to his feet and unfurled the snow-white drapery that almost but not entirely hid his well-made brown legs. And he pulled down the long cotton coat, the skirts of which had been carefully rolled up to keep them clean and smooth while sitting on his heels. He strode off, dignified and self-possessed, to the front veranda. His master had thrown his racket into one chair and himself into another with an unusual recklessness that did not escape the observant eye of his factotum.
“Abboye!” Aleck always used the full name, instead of the term “Boy,” when the matter of which he wished to speak was of importance.
“Sar!” replied Abboye. The affirmative was pronounced with the vowel drawn out to a length that corresponded with the importance of the occasion. At the same time he straightened himself to his fullest height, five feet eleven, putting his heels together and his hands behind his back.
“They are saying at the club that I must give a dinner party with ladies in it as well as gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir. Other people’s servants talking the same way in the bazaar.”
“Oh! they say that, do they?”
“Yes, sir; the big butlers telling me I am only head boy. Can do gentlemen’s dinner but not ladies’.” The tone in which this was stated held injured complaint. It changed suddenly into pleading. “Master only try me, and I’ll show your honour what I can do.”
“What about a dinner for twelve---five ladies and seven gentlemen?”
Aleck fully expected to see Abboye’s face fall. The proposal ought to have taken an inch or two off his height; but he stood firm, erect, confident as ever.
“I can do,” he replied, wagging his turbaned head in assent. “Master try me.”
“We haven’t got kit enough.”
“We can borrow.” He adopted the “we” at once. It was an adventure they were to undertake together.
“No,” said Longfield with a decision that was convincing. “I’ll have no borrowing.”
At this announcement a cloud passed over Abboye’s face and silence reigned. The shadow cleared away as an alternative occurred to the boy’s mind.
“We can hire from the shop, if master please,” he said. “The shopman has nice things and the charges are small to small masters.”
This was a suggestion that had not occurred to Aleck. His face cleared and one of the chief difficulties vanished.
“You may hire all you like; everything that is necessary.”
A broad smile appeared on the countenance of the boy and he showed a noble array of white teeth. His head wagged with satisfaction.
“Yes, sir. Not borrowing like Cotton-press Assistant. We hire.”
“What will you give for dinner? Mind! twelve people, and it must be good.”
Abboye began glibly to enumerate the dishes.
“I can do twelve people proper. First must have horse-dovers; then soup, fish, four side-dishes, roast saddle of mutton, game, savoury, pudding, estewed fruit and cream, cheese straws——”
“Stop! We shall never get through a dinner like that.”
“Two side-dishes instead of four,” proposed Abboye.
“And no savoury if you get game. What was the first thing you mentioned?”
“Horse-dovers. Ladies and gentlemen always having that now.”
“How do you make it?”
“Sardine, boiled egg, olive, Nepaul pepper, small-small taste of onion, little chopped potato, green peas, tarragon vinegar——” Abboye pattered off the receipt glibly.
“Hors d’oeuvres; yes, I know. You may have that. And you think you can manage it all properly and that you won’t disgrace me?”
“Sar! I make big name for master in the bazaar with all the other butlers.”
The interview with his head boy brought a certain amount of peace and comfort to Aleck’s perturbed spirit; but the following morning he awoke to as great a terror as ever. Abboye came in with the early tea himself and asked for a list of the guests. The subject of the dinner was again discussed, and his servant’s optimism allayed the terror and restored his master’s equanimity.
As soon as he had swallowed his tea and toast Aleck wrote the invitations. They did not take long. A peon was sent out with them. He was told to wait for answers and bring them back with him. Most devoutly Longfield hoped that Mrs. Campbell would refuse, and perhaps two more guests would be equally kind and considerate.
Half a dozen times he thought of those invitations and speculated on the replies; sometimes with misgivings; sometimes with an accession of courage. It was upsetting to his circulation to no small degree. He felt hot and cold all over, with a burning sensation of the skin occasionally, that made him fear he was going to have prickly heat.
He recalled Sylvia’s advice and tried to think of jackals and other extraneous matter; but he could not keep them in his mind. Jackals, hyaenas, and anything else, it was all the same. Those infernal invitation chits got the upper hand and sent the wild beasts back to their lairs.
Even Sylvia herself slipped away into the background of his thoughts. His condition did not improve when the peon returned at lunch-time bearing acceptances to every one of his invitations.
Abboye gave him another bad time in the evening after dinner, just as he was settling himself down in the veranda with his reading-lamp to try to lose himself in a book.
“What wines is master having for dinner party?” asked the head boy, taking up his usual position just behind Longfield’s chair.
“Wines?” repeated Aleck, looking round in consternation. “I had forgotten the wine. I suppose we must have it. What have we in the house?”
“Two bottles of claret; two bottles of whisky; one bottle of common cooking sherry. Must get more.”
“What ought I to have?” asked Aleck helplessly. He drank very little wine at any time. When he dined out, he took a whisky-and-soda, which Abboye, who attended on him, saw that he had.
“White wine with soup and fish; red wine with meat; liqueur after cheese; port with dessert, and madeira if master please. Whisky-and-soda after cigars.”
“Where can I get all those wines? There isn’t time to send to Madras.”
“Can order at the Club and at Spencer’s shop.”
“Do we really want all those wines? What about whisky-and-soda and a few bottles of beer? Perhaps a little claret for the ladies?”
“Butlers never doing that way in ladies’ houses. Master, please, I ask Mrs. Campbell’s butler. If he saying only beer and whisky-and-soda, then we give; but if he says wine——”
“Oh, well, you had better take his advice, and to-morrow you can bring me the order and I’ll sign it.”
Longfield lifted his book to read. Abboye drew a sigh of real relief and returned to the kitchen. He considered that he had now a free hand in the matter of food and wine. The rest was easy; just a matter of price. It should not be his fault if the dinner did not eclipse all the rest of the dinners in the station with one exception. That was the entertainment given by that queen of chatelaines, Mrs. Campbell. He could not hope to do more than equal hers. He would see to it that it did not fall short in any single respect of the standard she had set up and which others found so difficult to reach.
It was just as well for his peace of mind that a criminal case was occupying the attention of Longfield in the district. Later on it would probably necessitate a visit to the village where it was supposed to have taken place. The details served to distract his thoughts from his own private affairs.
The case was that of a murder. It had an element of mystery about it, however, which was puzzling the authorities. A turban and loincloth soaked in blood had been found; also a staff. These properties were known to have belonged to a toddy drawer. He had disappeared. His wife maintained that he had gone to see a brother some ten miles distant. There was no record of any quarrel nor of any robbery which would have caused the missing man to decamp. Nor was there any reason to be found to suggest a secret enemy.
He and his wife had lately made an offering to the ammah at the temple which stood on the edge of the palmyra grove belonging to the village. He had then departed, according to the woman, to pay a visit to his sick brother. The valluvan, the village astrologer had received the offering on behalf of the ammah. He too had left the place, telling the headman that his presence was required at a village some fifteen miles distant, where he was to conduct a devil-dance.
Dinner party or no dinner party, the work of a government official in India must be attended to. But when the office closes, the mind reverts to personal affairs. In revenge perhaps for having been compulsorily set aside, they return in force. Aleck found it to be the case as he left the office to go to his bungalow. His heart was in his mouth. Now and then a panic seized him, which was followed by an insane desire to meet with some catastrophe that would give him sufficient excuse to put off the dinner. He would have welcomed a slight attack of cholera if only it would have scared his guests away.
Sylvia found an opportunity, in spite of her sister’s dragon eye, to arrange the company in proper order with due consideration to rank. He must take in Mrs. Campbell and no other, she announced at the very outset. In vain he pleaded.
“Can’t I take you in, Miss Smith?” he wailed.
“You can’t, and that’s that; so say no more about it. Mrs. Campbell heads the list as the chief lady present. I tail it and come last, as I am the only ‘miss’ in the crowd.”
“But this isn’t an official function,” he protested. She paid no heed to his remonstrances.
“The Padre takes me in, and I shall sit on the other side of you. But don’t imagine that you are going to talk to me. Your whole attention must be devoted to Mrs. Campbell. If you are good, you will have a few crumbs of my conversation that fall from the Padre’s table.”
They continued studying the list until everybody was accounted for and no husband and wife allowed to sit next to each other. She was not satisfied until he had her list by heart. Then she continued:
“Luckily all these people are very good friends. My sister had an awful experience when she first came out. She asked two couples who were dead cuts. They had had a quarrel over a servant, which she knew nothing about, and were not on speaking terms. It was a small dinner of eight. The unfortunate dead cuts couldn’t get clear of each other. Since then she never has less than twelve. If it happens that any of them are at daggers drawn, the poor souls have a chance of avoiding each other.”
“I don’t think I should ever have given another party after such an experience.”
“To go back to business. You must tell each man as he arrives who he is to take in. You have seen Mr. Campbell do it?”
“Yes, I’ve dined there two or three times.”
“Follow his example and you won’t go wrong. Bother! here comes my sister. Now, don’t forget what I have told you.”
“I won’t; but why does she hunt you up in this way? It’s most annoying---to me, I mean.”
“Same here, my dear man.”
“But why?---why?”
“I’ll tell you another time.”
The day arrived; it seemed to have come by leaps and bounds. Dinner was at eight. At a quarter to eight Longfield issued from his room dressed and ready to receive his guests. Abboye had asked for name-cards and had been given Sylvia’s plan of the table. The master strolled into the dining-room. The table presented a sight that left him dumb with astonishment.
Chairs had been imported from---somewhere; and they matched. The table, a long oval arrangement of sections of camp-tables, stretched from one end of the dining-room to the other. It was covered with glass and silver which glittered in the electric light till he was dazzled.
The charm of the noble display was in the flowers. How Abboye had managed to procure the climbing gloriosa lily that riots in flame-colour over the untouchable cactus he did not know. It had been accomplished, and the spoils of the thorny wild had been gathered to adorn his table for a few hours. The delicate blooms were in every stage of development, from the pale, freshly opened bud of a primrose and emerald-green tint to the glorious scarlet of the full-blown flower with its crinkled petals. Nothing but the trailing blue-green foliage had been used in addition. The spirals lay in long coiling lengths covering the tablecloth and festooning a number of highly polished figures of Indian deities that shone like gold.
It was a novel arrangement. The shining brass was an appropriate touch among the scarlet lilies. Another feature was the unobstructed view it gave the guests of each other. There was no need to peep across the table behind pyramids of flowers.
Abboye stood at the end of the room in the wide doorway leading into the back veranda. A screen hid the view of the kitchen, a sight that Longfield so often felt was un-English. The head boy beamed at the scene his master was contemplating.
“By the by, could you get the wines with the chit I wrote?”
“Yessar,” was the confident reply.
“My note told the manager at the Club to let you have whatever you wanted.”
“Yessar.”
“Claret and sherry and whisky-and-soda and some ale?”
“Yessar.” Abboye blinked his eyes once or twice, but ventured no remark. He knew his business better than to give his master’s guests nothing but what was served daily.
“I wonder if I ought to have had anything else. I ought to have consulted Miss Smith; but she has been so difficult to get at lately.”
He spoke more to himself than to his boy.
“Yessar,” responded Abboye with increasing confidence. “Everything got quite proper.”
The sound of a motor-horn in the distance took Aleck hot-foot into the front veranda. It was the Southwoods with Sylvia. She had given her people no rest till they had consented to arrive a little before the time, so as to stand by Aleck.
“Hallo, Longfield!” cried Southwood genially. “This is very sporting of you---very sporting.”
Aleck shook hands warmly with his first guests. His eyes shone with pleasure and his face flamed with shyness.
“Good of you to come,” he replied, addressing Mrs. Southwood but letting his eyes rest on Sylvia. The sight of her sent his spirits up with his colour. His courage returned and he began to feel launched upon a new venture that might be full of pleasure and excitement.
“Jackals!” said Sylvia softly, as he took her hand.
“Where?” asked Molly, glancing round in surprise.
“In the back yard,” replied her sister, allowing the smile to go no farther than her eyes.
Aleck laughed and the colour ebbed from his brow. It might have remained at normal if the other guests had not arrived. They came close upon each other.
“Don’t forget to pair them,” said Sylvia, as he passed towards the portico. This was to remind him to tell the men which ladies they were to take in.
On the arrival of the Southwoods, Abboye had taken up his part without delay. He advanced, followed by a subordinate bearing a tray of glasses. Longfield glanced in surprise at the pair. He heard Abboye say to Mrs. Southwood and her husband:
“Cocktail, ma’am?---cocktail, sir?”
But this was no time to make enquiries nor to show any surprise.
Last of all, as befitting her rank as chief lady of the station, came Mrs. Campbell and her husband. In his most imposing manner Abboye came towards them, offering them the unusual luxury of the American drink.
Cocktails had only lately been introduced into the Club. This was the first private house where they had figured. They could have come from no other place. Longfield---thought the men---would have to pay highly for his cocktails, for he would have to hire the special man from the Club to mix them. The thought did not in the least interfere with their enjoyment.
Soon after the arrival of Mrs. Campbell, dinner was announced by Abboye. He came into the drawing-room resplendent in his gold-and-white turban. The skirt of his long coat was stiff with starch. His cummerbund matched the turban in gold lines. He wore white cotton gloves, and his massive toe-rings clinked as he walked.
Abboye had chosen four assistants to help him in the waiting. Like a good general, he did little himself, but his eye was everywhere. The chosen band, dressed in white with cummerbunds of gold, and white gloves, formed a perfectly drilled set of waiters.
The guests paired off according to arrangement, and Aleck offered his arm to Mrs. Campbell. By this time he was of a brick-dust tint. Sylvia glanced at him with pity in her eye. As he passed near her on the way to the dining-room with Mrs. Campbell, she said softly:
“Hyaenas!”
Her partner offered his arm. He had heard the word, and imagined that she had spoken to him.
“Yes, Miss Smith. What about hyaenas?”
“Have you ever seen one?” she asked.
“To be honest, no, I haven’t.”
“I have seen a hyaena frequently.”
“Not in Tuticorin, surely. They’re not known down here. Where have you come across the brute?”
“In the Zoo in London.”
Approving glances were cast over the table as the guests took their seats.
“Where did you get all these beautiful flowers?” asked Mrs. Campbell.
“My police peons brought them in on their return from their beats,” said Aleck at a venture. He knew no more of how they were procured than Mrs. Campbell herself.
The “horse-dovers” were appreciated. Mrs. Campbell put on her pince-nez and bent over her plate.
“Your cook has a light touch. He has balanced his ingredients to a nicety. I have found it so difficult to teach mine.”
Aleck was beginning to recover himself. He banished hyaenas from his thoughts and allowed himself to dwell on the dinner. An excellent start had been made. He was beginning to hope that the rest would not be so bad after all.
The soup, clear with cunning little balls of force-meat, in which Mrs. Campbell thought she detected a soupçon of chopped olives, was finished in a manner suggestive of appreciation. The fish in fillets was good, but not out of the way. It was the sauce that gave it distinction.
“May I see the menu a moment?” asked Mrs. Campbell. She lifted her glasses to her eyes and read:
“‘Sauce crème d’écrevisse.’ Ah! crab sauce. That’s new to me. Only the other day I was talking to my cook about a sauce similar to this. I was telling him how to make it, and I showed him how to write it on the menu. You have a very good cook, Mr. Longfield.”
Aleck had to be careful over his circulation after this extraordinary praise of the crumb-chop artist in his kitchen. His blood was becoming riotous under the knowledge that his cook came up only to the camp cooking standard.
Two excellent side-dishes followed, each displaying something unusually dainty in its composition, a new flavour or some fresh combination that was acceptable to the palate.
The saddle of mutton had a decided tenderness to recommend it; otherwise it did not differ from similar joints elsewhere. It was cooked to a turn. The gravy was real gravy, and not the water bewitched generally sent up by the camp cook. The joint was daintily carved and served hot. Potatoes and a compote of tomatoes flavoured with green ginger, green peas in savoury buttered eggs, were the vegetables offered.
Snipe figured as game. Anstruther looked up the table with the remark:
“Lucky chap! We can’t get snipe. There’s an advantage in having an army of inspectors and constables spread all over the district. I suppose one mustn’t ask where they came from.”
“Ask, my dear fellow, all you like,” said Aleck, growing bold and almost jubilant as one success followed another. “But don’t expect an answer from me.”
“Sly dog! he’s keeping his secret all to himself!”
A pudding followed. How it was made Aleck could not have said to save his life. It stood up, in spite of its fluffiness, like morning mist upon the hillside. It melted in the mouth with a delicate flavour of fresh strawberry, and the syrup betrayed a liqueur.
“An excellent pudding! “ said Mrs. Campbell. “I know the kind. I thought my cook was the only man who could make such a pudding. He flavours his with apricots---tinned apricots; there are no others to be had. And his syrup is toned up with brandy. This is liqueur. I really must let him have a little liqueur for the next pudding of this kind that he makes. He had better come to your man and ask him to let him have the receipt for the quantity required. Too much will spoil it; on the other hand, too little will make it poor. How old is your man?”
“Quite old,” replied Aleck at a venture. He scarcely knew his kitchen staff by sight even. He thought the cook was a small old man of neat appearance whom he had seen about the premises. Of the kitchen woman and cook boy he was completely ignorant. Abboye gave them their orders, paid them, and ruled them, with the best results to themselves and their master.
The wines handed round by Abboye, mysterious bottles wrapped in white napkins, amazed the host. After white wine with the soup and fish, champagne appeared. Those who appreciated such luxuries observed that it was of the best brand offered by the Club. There was no demand at all for ale; and only one man asked for a whisky-and-soda. His eyes rested longingly on the fizz; but the Doctor had strictly forbidden it.
“Well, Mr. Longfield,” said Mrs. Campbell as the cheese straws were handed to her, “I don’t mind telling you that in my belief you have far and away the best cook in the place. I have always thought that mine was the best, and the only man of the kind. I am not at all sure that yours doesn’t beat him. I congratulate you.”
“I am certain that your man is better than mine,” Aleck hastened to assure her.
The good wine had made her generous and she would not allow that her paragon came up to Longfield’s.
“Now in the matter of that crab sauce, I doubt if my cook will ever succeed to that extent. Of course you used tinned crab?”
“It is safer than the country crab,” ventured Aleck, who knew nothing at all about it.
“Then there was that pudding. My man couldn’t make a pudding like that if he tried for a month of Sundays.”
“He must come to my man and learn the trick,” said Aleck with increasing temerity.
“The champagne you got from the Club, of course. You were quite right. It is the very best. My husband was instrumental in placing it on the Club list. It doesn’t sell quite as readily as it ought. Its price is against it. But if you want a thing good, you must pay the price.”
Aleck was beginning to have qualms of conscience and to feel that he was a fraud. It was impossible to disavow all that she gave him credit for. This was the first champagne he had had in the house. He was not a lover of the wine and much preferred a little mild ale; or lime-juice and soda-water with a bit of ice in it.
Moreover, he had had nothing to do with the choice of the wine. He had left it entirely to Abboye, signing the orders without even reading them through. He had asked more from a sense of duty than from any desire to cut down what his head boy considered right and proper for such a dinner party.
“You are sure that all these things will be required?” he had asked.
And Abboye had replied smoothly, “ Quite sure, sir. Any bottles not opened can be returned, if master please.”
“You must see that the other servants who help don’t get at the liquor,” remarked Aleck, feeling a vague sense of duty which prompted him to look after their morals.
“Yessar; I getting a bottle of very strong rum; bad stuff, sir, and plenty cheap for servants.”
“Oh! is that necessary?”
“Doing that way in the Campbell house. That lady very particular about not wasting anything and giving to servants. We must do the same.”
With the cheese straws Aleck’s mind was restored to its normal condition. He felt as if he was dining with a friend instead of being in his own house. During dinner he had been occupied with his proper partner; but when Mrs. Campbell had commented on the cheese straws, which met with her full approval, her interest in the dinner and her host lessened. She turned to the man on the other side of her and began a conversation that did not concern the menu. Aleck had leisure to speak to Sylvia. More than once they had exchanged glances and he read warm approval in her eyes.
“Well?” he said. There was a world of enquiry in the little word.
“Splendid!---simply splendid!”
“Abboye hasn’t failed me; but don’t ask me how it has been done. None of this kit belongs to me.”
“Borrowed?”
“I vetoed all borrowing. I ordered him to hire.”
“Expense no object?”
“I gave him a free hand and allowed him to get everything that was required in reason.”
“He’s done that all right.” She lowered her voice. “I am afraid our friend on your other side is feeling just a little like the Queen of Sheba. Now you will have to see to it that Abboye is not crimped and decoyed away. My sister would give her ears for an efficient head boy like that.”
“I was rather nervous at first,” he observed.
“I read the chart of your circulation accurately. It fluctuated considerably at first, but finally settled down steadily.”
“I thought of all sorts of things——”
“That’s right; I shall make something of you in time. Now tell me, please, how Abboye worked the oracle. Did he by any chance cook the dinner himself?”
“I really don’t know; he may have done so.”
“If he can cook like that, keep it dark, or you will lose him. What do you give him?”
“Twenty-five rupees a month.”
“Molly will make it forty, given the chance. Her man is beyond the limit. The other day, not being able to get snipe or teal, she had some tinned grouse. The birds were ready cooked, of course. They should have been warmed up and crumbed over and served with bread sauce, gravy, chipped potatoes, and lemon. They were sent up just turned out of their tins like pâté de foie gras, cold with a little bread and butter. But his crowning sin was not in the dishing up. He handed them round as “crows.” You should have seen the guests’ faces as they contemplated the cold black mess! We had the birds next day for lunch. Served hot they were splendid. She says she shall never get over it. People have been chaffing her for serving up the veranda crow as game.”
Mrs. Campbell was busy collecting eyes round the table and the women moved away to the smooth carriage-drive, where camp carpets had been spread and chairs arranged in the brilliant moonlight.
A servant, under the guidance of Abboye, brought coffee; another handed round cigarettes.
Mrs. Campbell, quite a gracious dame in her way, was still occupied with thoughts of the surprising dinner that had put them all in such a pleasant humour. She was seated in a chair next to Mrs. Anstruther.
“One would never suppose that a young man like Mr. Longfield would have the knowledge of how it should be done. The arrangements were perfect and quite up to date. I wonder what he pays his cook. I give mine thirty-five a month.”
“Assistant Superintendents who are out in the district half the year can’t, as a rule, get a good cook to stay with them. There isn’t enough practice. Talent is thrown away in camp, and they know it.”
“It’s that head boy who has done it all. He will go far, unless I am very much mistaken, and end by being major-domo at Government House.”
“Anyway, he is wasted on this bachelor establishment,” remarked Mrs. Southwood, with a sigh suspiciously like envy. “He has no scope for his talent. Probably Mr. Longfield pays him a very moderate salary.”
“Mr. Longfield may have private means and be able to give as good wages as any of us,” remarked Mrs. Anstruther.
“In this country,” said Mrs. Campbell with authority, “a man is expected to live up to his pay and not to go beyond it.”
Aleck Longfield watched the last car leave his bungalow. The place seemed very quiet when the voices of the guests ceased. Behind him stood Abboye. On his face was the same self-congratulatory smile with which he had announced dinner. He was conscious that he had done his best, and what was more, his best came up to a high standard. The starched skirts of his coat stood out uncrumpled; the white cotton gloves still encased his hands. He waited expectantly.
“It was all first-rate, Abboye,” said Longfield.
Abboye’s grin became a trifle wider.
“Master pleased; then everybody pleased; making great name in the bazaar.”
“I didn’t know the cook could do as well. If he can cook like that, why doesn’t he give me something better than crumb chops and brinjal cutlets every day?”
“Our cook very good man for camp. He can’t do dinner-party cooking,” said Abboye contemptuously.
“Who cooked the dinner to-night, if he didn’t?”
“Our cook one mud-head fool, so I borrow Mrs. Campbell’s cook. Master say mustn’t borrow. So I hire. Five rupees for hire. Master please pay now.” At his words appeared behind him a stout, respectable, elderly man in white clothes and a turban in which shone lines of gold. He might have been mistaken for a butler. He was Mrs. Campbell’s highly valued cook.
Longfield sat down to his desk and opened his money drawer. He kept a grave face and expressed no surprise. The thought passed through his mind as he counted out the money into the hand extended: “What, oh, what would Mrs. Campbell say if she knew that all those dishes appreciated so highly by herself and her fellow-guests had been prepared by her own man after receipts which she herself had given him?”
The secret was safe, however. Abboye could keep a discreet silence. The cook was the last person to let it be known that he had sold himself and put a price on the priceless instruction he had received under a vow of secrecy from his mistress.
Life for the Englishman in India is not all tennis tournaments, dinner parties, and big-game shooting. Much of his work lies in the room which is called the office. Here is the hub of his daily labour; here he pores over accounts and studies a heavy correspondence of a most uninteresting character. Here he interviews shifty Hindus and sly Muhamadans, who speak glibly of any subject but the one about which they have come to see the master.
The room is called, by servants and peons alike, the office. The presiding genius is content to leave it at that. The name has its advantages.
Peons haunt its verandas and sit under the nearest tree waiting for the master’s call. The head peon is responsible for the housemaiding of the place. He sits nearest the office door and passes on orders to his subordinates. The table is kept dusted, supplied with blotting-paper, ink, and scribbling block. Also he has to see that there is a tray containing cigarettes and matches. The cushions of the long-armed chair must be beaten up and blinds lowered where the sun comes in.
Carpets, curtains, and tablecloths have no place in the office. The floor is covered with grass or bamboo mats. On no account are bungalow servants allowed to enter, even though the office may be near the house.
When the master is in camp, the same ritual prevails as far as is possible. One of the tents is given the name of the office tent, even though it may have to serve as a dinner tent as well. A part of it is used for official work, and the table known as the office table is never touched by a bungalow servant.
Longfield had two or three criminal cases on hand which were occupying his attention. One was the suspected murder already mentioned, wherein every sign of foul play had been found, but no body. Another was a robbery. A third was the exchange of a young bullock in transit between seller and purchaser for a worn-out, decrepit beast that was useless.
Longfield liked his work; it was interesting. He had to piece details together; study the result and follow up his clues. From studying his cases he was led to study the character and the personality of the people who were brought under his notice through their connection with crime.
Like all people afflicted with shyness, he was a close observer, far more so than his acquaintances suspected. They took the red flags of a disturbed circulation for a blind shyness that veiled his sight. They were mistaken. While his heavily lashed eyes fluttered with swift glances and his colour rose, he was observing more detail than they imagined. And he arrived at surprising conclusions, from which he often worked backwards.
Now and then he failed altogether. Sometimes an Inspector scented out the particular mystery they were pursuing. Longfield was considerate and generous to his subordinates and never behindhand in giving commendation where it was due.
In the case of the missing body, a journey into the district was necessary. There was a dâk bungalow that would serve as a lodging, obviating the necessity of pitching a camp. He mentioned the fact that he would be away for a few days when he was at the Club one evening.
“What’s the name of the place?” asked Campbell, who knew the district well. He had his own camping to do when he was out on revenue work.
“It’s called Tiru.”
“I know it---Tiru Deva; Tiru for short. You had better arrange to motor over every day from the railway bungalow at Mungalum.”
“But there’s a bungalow that I can have at Tiru. I rather want to be on the spot for forty-eight consecutive hours.”
“Then I can assure you that you will have to reconcile yourself to spending the forty-eight hours alone. Not a soul will stay with you,” said Campbell in his unconsciously judicial manner.
Aleck did not reply immediately. He was far from being convinced; but who was he, he asked himself, to contradict the government official of the place? He ventured to remark that he did not think that his head boy would desert him.
“Oh! won’t he!” cried Campbell. “I give you my word for it, Longfield, that, faithful as you may believe him to be, he’ll be off before night time and make a bolt of it. He won’t go beyond the village; the dâk bungalow is a little distance away.”
“If he came back in the morning, it wouldn’t matter where he spent the night,” said Aleck.
“It matters more than you think. Tiru is a toddy village and our servants can’t resist the temptation. They get drunk at the price of an anna; perhaps less, for the toddy is sometimes given to them.”
“I really can’t believe that my head boy would get drunk. He has never been the worse for liquor, and he came to me with a character for being sober.”
“You wait and see.”
“What’s the matter with the dâk bungalow?” asked Aleck.
“It’s haunted.”
“Oh, only a ghost,” said Aleck, who was untroubled by psychic superstitions. “What is the ghost? a murdered man?”
“It’s a horrible monstrosity, according to the villagers; half human, half animal. It appears in the night and stretches out long clawed hands as though it would tear the stranger to pieces.”
At this juncture Anstruther strolled up. He listened to Campbell’s description of the apparition with interest.
“I’ve heard of that ghost,” he said. “I shall have to go in that direction before long myself. I have been warned not to stay at the dâk bungalow.”
Campbell turned to him at once.
“You’re not afraid of ghosts, Anstruther.”
“Not I! but my servants are. One can’t move in India without the useful boy and the indispensable cook.”
“What’s taking you out to Tiru?” asked Campbell of Anstruther.
“To tell you the truth, I’m going to have a bit of a flutter in cotton. If can only get the villagers to harvest the crop with more care than they show at present, there’s a nice little sum to be made out of it.”
“What’s the matter with the harvesting?” asked Campbell.
“The cotton is carelessly picked,” replied Anstruther, pleased to get the ear of the government official. “The importance of setting all hands to work at the critical moment is not understood. The bolls of cotton---pods, you know, Longfield” (Aleck nodded his head)---“should be gathered directly they burst. If they are left on the plant and a whirlwind rises, they get gritty and full of dust and dried rubbish. Or if a thunderstorm comes with a splash of rain, the cotton is done for. Indian cotton fetches a poor price, not because of its quality but because it is so badly harvested.”
“And you’re going to teach the villagers how to do it. Rather a tall undertaking,” said Campbell as he moved away towards the billiard-room. He had no belief in fundamentally changing the ways of the Hindu cultivator.
“How are you going to set about it?” asked Aleck; he always looked with interest on schemes for the improvement of the masses.
“I’ll tell you if you care to hear,” replied Anstruther, who felt that he would have more sympathy perhaps from the younger man. Aleck had not been as long in the country as Campbell. He was less sceptical of the wisdom of introducing reforms of ancient conservative methods. “It’s this way. An aunt of mine has died and left me a legacy. My wife wants to go home on it and ‘bust’ it, looking for a school for the two children and getting a supply of new frocks. Incidentally, she would miss the hot weather and not have to go to Kodaikanal for the usual five months.”
“Would you go home too?”
“Doubtful. You see, we who are engaged in the cotton presses are not like government officials. We have no claim on our employers. The companies treat us well and the pay is good. If the billet is open when we return, we get it; but if another man has got his foot in---well, it is possible he may stay there and we may have to look elsewhere.”
Anstruther lighted another cigarette. He continued:
“I’ve told my wife she can go; but before spending the money on something that will give no financial return, I should like to have a little flutter on my own account. I am buying the cotton off certain fields where I know it is good; and I am going to superintend the harvesting myself. I want to see if I can’t teach the people how to gather it to the best advantage. What is even more important is the exact moment when to gather.”
“Evening classes?”
Anstruther laughed good-naturedly. “Well, yes, of a kind. I shall take out half a dozen intelligent maistries from our Press and get them to give the villagers instruction when they begin work and while they are in the fields.”
“I shall be interested to hear how it works. I’ve thought of mass instruction for my constables more than once.”
“But I’m not going to put up in a haunted bungalow where the servants won’t stay. In this case their superstitions will rule me,” said Anstruther, who loved the bungalow comforts which his wife took care should not be lacking.
“What is the story connected with the ghost? and what is the ghost itself?”
“It is a bloodthirsty devil of the vampire breed. The legend is that an Englishman and his wife were stopping at the old dâk bungalow at Tiru. His work was like Campbell’s, assessing the taxes on the produce of the land. The country round Tiru, as you know, is as flat as my hand. It consists of immense cotton-fields with groves here and there of toddy-palms. Every group of fields with its village has its grove. Inside every grove are two or three palmyras that are never touched with a knife or tapped for toddy; they are allowed to grow as they please. The trees singled out for reserve are branched; they have two or three trunks instead of only a single trunk. Female devils are believed to live in these palmyras, malignant spirits called ammahs. In appearance an ammah is frightful. She has a misshapen body and coarse repulsive features, an abnormally large mouth furnished with the tusks of a wild boar and gigantic canine teeth.”
‘I’ve seen the kind of image out in the district; and also the queer collection of earthenware animals in the temple compound.”
Anstruther continued his story.
“The government official went out for the day, promising to return at sunset. He did not appear. His wife was much disturbed. She ordered the servants to make a search for their master. They were only too ready to leave the bungalow and get into the village, where drink was plentiful. She despatched them after sunset. There was no moon. The Hindus believe that the powers of evil become active immediately after the sun sinks below the horizon. Nothing was done till the next morning.”
“Did they find the Englishman?”
“Parts of him. He had been eaten by jackals.”
“I didn’t know that jackals were dangerous.”
“They are not; they only touch carrion.”
“Who killed him?”
“It was never discovered; nor why the deed was committed.”
“What a shock for the poor wife!”
“She never knew his fate. She was alone in the bungalow. Not a servant returned. They were only too thankful to get away into the village. The place had a bad name at the time; and in the present day it is no better.”
“How was it that she did not hear of her husband’s death?” asked Aleck.
“She died herself in the night.”
“Was it cholera?”
“No; she was killed; she was literally torn to pieces. Her poor body, from all accounts, showed traces of the most horrible treatment. It was bloodless. The villagers said that it was the ammah’s doing. The demoness in the form of a gigantic bat had played the vampire and had then torn her in pieces. The villagers say that the ammah still haunts the bungalow, looking for another feast of blood. It has a bat’s body with black flapping wings; a green face with terrible eyes and mouth.”
“What made the people think that it was the ammah’s doing?”
“They say that there were marks of teeth and claws on her face and neck.”
Longfield was interested in the story as a case of crime. The psychological side of it had no attraction for him.
“Was it ever discovered who committed the murders? I take it they were the work of one person.”
“The ammah was believed to be the perpetrator; no one thought of looking for any other.”
“Was any money touched? any jewels missing?”
“Not a thing. That was the strange part of it.”
“If nothing was taken, I should say that it was the work of a homicidal maniac. The civil surgeon was telling me only the other day that the Hindus are subject on rare occasions to a sudden unaccountable attack of mania. It is called ‘running amuk.’ A man may be perfectly sane; something upsets his nerves; he loses control of himself and goes temporarily raving mad. These two murders might have been done by one of the ryots who was dissatisfied over his assessment and thought he had a grievance. Or it might have been the work of a lunatic not under proper control.”
“Quite likely,” responded Anstruther, who had lived some years in India. “We all know that lunatics in this country are allowed to remain with their families and no supervision is exercised, nor restraint. The wonder is that we don’t have more outbreaks.”
“I can tell you of another kind of lunatic to be found in this country, who is addicted to drinking blood. He wanders down from the north, hiding by day in burial-or burning-grounds, and prowling about for food at night. Some years ago a man on leave in the Berars, who was having a little big-game shooting, lay up for a hyaena that was raiding the burial-ground of a Muhamadan village. He caught the beast, as he thought, at work on a newly made grave. He fired; and he killed one of these wandering ghouls.”
“I wonder they aren’t under orders to be shot at sight,” said Anstruther.
“They are very clever at keeping out of sight; but even if they were seen by the Hindus, they would be unmolested; so the Inspector told me who described them. The people regard them as sacred and dare not touch them.”
Anstruther rose and drifted off in the direction of the card-room, leaving Longfield seated in the wide veranda of the Club.
Aleck Longfield was troubled in his mind. The trouble had nothing to do with the murder mystery, nor with the necessity of having to put up in a haunted bungalow. The cause was intimately concerned with Sylvia. For a whole week she kept aloof, excusing herself from playing tennis and golf with him.
When they unavoidably met, she gave him the old smile and was, if anything, more gracious in her manner than ever. But as soon as he attempted to have any conversation with her or to appropriate her for the time, she slipped away, and allowed herself to become absorbed by other friends. It all happened so naturally that he looked upon it as the result of accident.
One morning he wrote definitely asking her to play tennis with him that afternoon. He received no reply. Thinking that her silence meant yes, he went to the Club, confidently hoping that he would find her waiting, racket in hand, for his arrival. He was early; but she was earlier. Already she was beginning a set with three other people.
He caught her eye for just a moment, flushed deeply with annoyance, and turned on his heel. He was invited to join another game that was just being made up. He refused, and, excusing himself, went to his car and took a solitary drive. He returned to the Club at dusk and fell into conversation with Campbell and Anstruther.
He was puzzled. Hitherto she had been friendly and genial. What did this sudden aloofness mean? He must get at the reason somehow. Had he given her offence in any way? The thought upset him. He was considering this very question as he sat there. The electric light over his head illuminated his face and gave him away.
“Jackals and hyaenas!” said a soft voice behind his chair; the sound of it made him spring to his feet.
“I was just wishing you were here,” he said bluntly. “I want to know something.”
“Yes?” She took a seat, the nearest to the one he had been occupying. “Sit down, please. I’m ready to act as a dust-heap for your remarks; but you must be quick. I have to be off home directly to dress for dinner. We are dining out.”
“Let me drive you there presently.”
“Perhaps; we’ll see. Now then, out with complaint number one. I feel in my bones that it is of the nature of a complaint rather than a bona-fide question.”
“Why have I been sent to Coventry for the last seven days? I haven’t been allowed a game of tennis with you the whole of the week. You had my note this morning?”
She admitted having received it.
“I made sure you were going to play with me because you didn’t send me an answer. Will you have a game to-morrow instead?”
Sylvia avoided his gaze.
“Sorry I can’t; I have promised to play with Miss Bowood and two men.”
“Then I am afraid we shan’t have any more tennis just yet.” As she made no reply, he continued: “On Monday I am going out into the district on business that must be attended to.”
“How soon will you be back?” she asked.
“I can’t say; so much depends on the circumstances of the case. It’s a criminal investigation---a murder.” He returned to personal matters. “Why won’t you play tennis with me? Don’t you think you’re treating me rather badly, after helping you to win the mixed doubles?”
“Am I? I don’t know,” she replied dejectedly. His eyes dwelt on her. Something was wrong; something was troubling her. A wave of compassion swept over him, such as men feel suddenly when they see a woman in distress. The sight sets them wondering if they can be of any assistance; and fills them with an ardent desire to remove the load of trouble at any cost to themselves. A primitive instinct prompts them to go for somebody.
The instinct was at work within Longfield as he sat there. Before tilting a lance at the outside world, he must find out if he himself had given any offence.
“Question number two. Have I done anything to deserve this treatment?”
“Yes,” she replied quickly. “Yes and no.”
“What have I done?”
She leaned, towards him with an expression too grave and serious to be mistaken for her customary chaff. Her eyes were suspiciously moist and her lip trembled as she spoke. He had never seen her thus, and the sight sent the blood circulating riotously through his veins.
“It is my sister; she has raised the difficulty. I will make a clean breast of it, if I may. She accuses me of flirting with you. She says we both flirt.”
“And why the devil shouldn’t we flirt if we choose to do so?”
“We mustn’t; so that’s that.”
He drew his chair nearer to hers and continued hotly:
“After all, this is not a matter that concerns Mrs. Southwood. It concerns only you and me. Why shouldn’t we both flirt as much as we please?”
“There’s a reason——” she began rather feebly. He was not listening.
“Sylvia! will you marry——”
“Oh! don’t!” She sprang to her feet in real alarm and turned away as though she would leave him. He followed her. “I must be off home,” she said in a choked voice.
“Not till we have had this out,” he replied, placing a detaining hand on her arm. For a shy man he was showing a strange temerity. “I’ll drive you home and we can thrash out the question on the way.”
“On one condition---please.”
This was a new Sylvia in her unusual humility and distress. Her pleading held him in check.
“Yes? On one condition? What is it?”
“That you don’t---you don’t propose.”
They went down the steps of the portico in silence. He led her towards the spot where his car was parked. He had not brought his chauffeur, and was driving himself.
“Aleck! please!”
She distrusted his silence and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that half-confidences would be worse than useless. He slipped his hand into her arm in a possessive way that set her own heart beating as it ought not to have beaten for this man.
“I am not to ask you to marry me?”
“No.” The word was little more than a whisper. The pathetic note in it stirred him strangely.
“May I say that I love you?”
“No! no! no!”
“Why may I not?” he asked truculently.
“Because—— Oh! it’s no use beating about the bush! I must tell you all or nothing. I’ve begun; I must go on.”
They had arrived at the car. He helped her in and took his seat. She waited till he had passed through the gateway and they were gliding over the smooth sandy road. He was driving very slowly. He turned to her and said temperately and with restraint:
“Now tell me plainly why there is all this mystery. Why does your sister object to our flirting, as she chooses to call it? Why do you forbid me to say I love you? And why on earth may I not ask you to marry me?”
“Because I have a husband already.”
In his amazement and dismay Longfield could find no words to express himself; and as Sylvia volunteered no further explanation, they finished the drive in silence. He helped her out of the motor-car, holding her back in the darkness of the big portico.
Acting on a sudden impulse, he drew her to him swiftly and pressed his lips to hers before she could speak or thrust him aside.
“Forgive me!” he gasped. “I ought not to have done that. The news that you are married has bowled me over and for the moment I hardly knew what I was doing. Obviously there can be no talk of love between us any more.”
“Or thought of love,” she persisted wistfully, as he hade her good night.
“That,” he replied as he climbed back into the car and let in the clutch, “is more than it is in my power to guarantee.”
The southern part of the Indian Peninsular is a wide plain of level country as level as the sea. It is varied by stretches of black cotton-soil where the cotton is cultivated. Here the palmyra also flourishes in groves presenting a dark line of green unlike the forest lands of any other country.
There are tracts scattered between the cotton-fields and the palmyras where nothing will grow. After rain a little spear-grass springs up to wither almost immediately. The surface of the ground is composed of hard rock---a red-grey gneiss that becomes so hot under the midday heat of the sun that it burns the hand or foot resting upon it. There are also rock-strewn expanses where the stunted acacia and cactus manage to exist. Cultivation is impossible. Goats find a precarious existence, since they are able to eat the foliage of the thorny acacias; but nothing else flourishes.
The Hindus believe that this semi-desert country is the favourite abode of devils. They choose the spots where the rock crops out of the ground to build their shrines and temples to the malignant spirits that they believe find pleasure in the desolation around them.
A Hindu demon must be propitiated at all costs or it will destroy human beings and everything belonging to them. There is always a poojaree connected with the temple who performs the ritual. No written canon governs the strange men who attach themselves temporarily to the shrine till fancy leads them off in another direction. They make a poojah of their own, following a general outline that is familiar. Offerings in kind and in blood must be brought by the worshippers. If coins and jewels are presented, so much the better for the poojaree; for he appropriates the offerings to his own use.
Sometimes the village astrologer, known as the valluvan, takes charge of the shrine and provides the poojah. He is also instrumental in getting up the weekly devil-dance, an orgy dear to the hearts of the villagers, since it gives licence for a big drinking debauch.
An itinerant saddhu may be introduced. No one knows from what place he comes nor where he will wander when the “passing show” is over. He has rendered himself mad by taking drugs and practising austerities. He dresses himself fantastically, painting his face green and rubbing yellow ochre on his bare body. His hair is wild and tangled; his mouth fearful to look at, from the boar’s tusks with which he sometimes furnishes it. The faith of the villagers in these fanatics is worthy of a better cause.
Tiru was a small village standing in the vicinity of a grove of palmyras. On the opposite side of the village lay the cotton-fields. The dâk bungalow stood between the grove and the village. The temple was at the edge of the grove with palmyras at the back and an open space of rocky ground in front. The shrine was in an enclosure surrounded by a mud wall. Within the yard was a wonderful collection of earthenware figures.
The villagers were toddy-drawers as well as cultivators of cotton. The land and the palmyras belonged to a zemindar, for whom the people worked. He paid them in kind, and very little money passed between employer and employed. Money came into the zemindar’s coffers from the buyers of the cotton and of the arrack. It was a time-honoured system to which no one took exception. Reformers would have called it slavery. It was hypothecated labour, and was free from all those evil features that brought African slavery into disrepute. There is no more contented person than the South Indian ryot with his appointed tasks at certain seasons. His temple feasts, his weddings and funerals are regarded as sources of recreation.
Anstruther had arranged to take the whole of the cotton crop at current prices, which were not high, owing to the faulty manner in which the crop was harvested. As soon as the cotton pods burst, the entire population turned out to gather, toddy drawers, herdsmen, and tillers of the ground. The first gathering took place late in January or the beginning of February, just when the sun was beginning to bear more power than in the last two months of the year.
The cotton on the fields at Tiru was not quite ready for gathering, and Anstruther had no intention of arriving on the spot until operations could be commenced and he could put his plans into execution.
Longfield had nothing to wait for. On the contrary, after his interview with Sylvia he was anxious to get out of the station and escape the almost daily meetings that are inevitable in up-country stations.
On arrival at his bungalow after dropping Sylvia at her house, he called Abboye. During the drive home he had managed to recover his mental balance. His pulse, which had been terribly disordered by her almost incredible announcement, quieted down. After the shock of it had passed off, he allowed his curiosity to ask the question, Who could the man be? He rapidly came to the conclusion that it was no one with whom he was acquainted; and by the time he reached home he had made up his mind to put the affair aside as incapable of remedy. It would be better to concentrate his thoughts on his proposed visit to the haunted bungalow. To throw himself into the solving of the murder mystery would be the best way of diverting his thoughts from his own trouble.
Abboye came at his master’s call and stood behind his chair in his usual statuesque pose of attention.
“I have to go out into the district,” he announced without haste.
“Yessar.”
“To Tiru, about a criminal case.”
Abboye was supposed not to know any of the details. They belonged to the office and not to the bungalow.
“Your honour will camp?”
“No; I intend to go to the traveller’s bungalow.”
Abboye fidgeted with his feet and was afflicted with a sudden little restlessness of the toes.
“Not a nice place, sir. Plenty of fleas in that bungalow; strong jumping fleas.” (He called them “ pleas.”)
“We must take a supply of carbolic.”
“Fleas never minding carbolic. Walking out of doors till smell gone, then coming back.”
“What about fly-papers? Can you get any?”
“Can get plenty in the bazaar shops.”
“Get a good bundle to take with us. That will settle the fleas. You can lay the papers on the floor.”
“Yessar; and nicely catch.”
Aleck looked at his boy, lifting himself in his chair and half turning round. Abboye gazed back at his master with immovable features.
“You have no objection to going to the dâk bungalow, I suppose?”
“No, sar,” he replied steadily.
“Will the cook be willing to come?”
“Yessar, if I give the order.”
“You have heard that the bungalow has a very bad name?”
“Very bad name, sir; no servants stopping there.”
“What about yourself. I don’t want to be left alone. If they all go, you must stay; or there will be trouble.”
“Cook and I and kitchen-boy can sleep under neem tree in the compound. Devils never coming near neem trees.”
“I can’t have you and the cook running away.”
“I never run away, sir,” said Abboye in an injured voice. He was hurt at his master’s want of faith in him. “I will never run away from your honour. I am Christian man. Those ghosts heathen devils only.”
He fumbled with a cord by which hung some charm or amulet round his neck. He drew it out and displayed a small picture, the size of a block of four postage-stamps.
“This is St. Joseph, sir. I give five rupees to the priest and he saying prayer over it and sprinkling holy water. Indian devils don’t like holy water. They always run away.”
“You’re a Roman Catholic?”
“Yessar!” responded Abboye proudly. He replaced St. Joseph under the breast of his coat and once more resumed his pose of respectful attention. He was anxious, however, to be released. If the master intended to be absent some days, there was much to be thought of. Supplies suitable for Europeans were not to be found in Indian village bazaars.
“Have everything ready to start the day after to-morrow. Train to Mungalum for the cook, waterwoman, and kitchen-boy, and a bullock-cart from the station. I shall want you with me in the car.”
Abboye made one suggestion which he was allowed to carry out. The kitchen party with the cooking-pots and provisions was to go all the way by cart. The cook preferred the old method of travelling. By starting overnight he would arrive at his destination at dawn, and he would be able to have his honour’s breakfast ready by the time he arrived in the car. When dinner was over, Abboye retired to the kitchen to interview the cook.
“His honour goes to Tiru in two days,” and he repeated the orders that had been given.
The constable on night duty approached the kitchen. He stepped inside and seated himself on the floor against the wall. Abboye continued giving directions.
“Why does the master go to Tiru?” asked the cook. “It is a bad place.”
“He goes to make enquiry.”
“About the killing of a man,” said the constable.
“How is it known that the man is dead, since they have not found the body?” asked Abboye, ceasing to write a list he was making on an envelope taken from the waste-paper basket.
“Because he has not returned to his house and there was too much blood.’
“Was he killed with a chopper? asked the cook, in whose opinion a chopper was the handiest of all implements.
The constable, pleased to be the centre of attention, repeated the ghastly details of the murder. A heated discussion followed as to whether the crime was committed with a chopper or with a toddy-drawer’s knife. The weapon had not been found. In the constable’s opinion a toddy-drawer’s knife was used, because of the quantity of blood that had been shed. The missing man was a toddy-drawer, and in all probability his own knife was used. The cook maintained obstinately that the lethal weapon was a chopper.
“Where did they find the turban and blood?” asked Abboye.
“Between the dâk bungalow and the temple of the ammah.”
There was a short silence. It was broken by the voice of the kitchen-boy.
“A woman bringing fowls to sell in our market here told my mother about it. She said that a knife had been used.”
“How do you know, mud-head?” asked the cook.
“I heard her say it while she was selling my mother a fowl. We had chicken curry that night.”
“Chicken curry!” exclaimed the cook in scornful disbelief.
“It was one that had died. She let my mother have it cheap.”
“What else did the woman say?” asked the constable, who, with the instinct of the profession, never neglected a possible source of evidence.
“She said that the toddy-drawer had quarrelled with the valluvan about his wife. The valluvan wanted the man’s wife to go with him to Mungalum.”
“That will do. Get back to the cleaning of the saucepans,” said the cook.
“Has this news come to the office?” asked Abboye of the constable.
He gave a sign of assent. He did not know for certain, but he made a shrewd guess that some such information must have been received. He had heard an inspector say that the body must be hidden somewhere near the spot where they had found the blood-stained turban. The inspector also expressed his opinion that either he or the Assistant himself ought to visit the place. The presence of the Assistant would carry more weight with the headman and the villagers. Hence this sudden departure for the scene of the supposed murder.
The matter was discussed in all its bearings while the kitchen-woman, assisted by the small boy, washed pots and pans and put them away for the night.
Abboye gathered the details of the case with the keenness of a detective. The cook sat listening and occasionally asking a question.
The constable, who should have been on duty in the veranda of the house, was thoroughly enjoying the position in which he found himself as the chief object of attention. He poured out every scrap of information that had been brought into the police-station. When facts were worn threadbare, he repeated all that had been said by the inspectors and the other constables; and all that was thought as well as said.
Having squeezed the constable dry, Abboye ordered his subordinates to their sleeping-mats and the staff sank into silence.
The dâk bungalow stood some two hundred yards from the village. A little beyond the bungalow was the village temple. Behind the temple was a regiment of palmyras with their stiff scaly trunks and their busby heads of dark green foliage, great tough fan-leaves on hard fibrous stalks. They had every appearance of being as dry as parchment; yet each head of fronds radiating from a centre contained at certain seasons a fountain of liquid---a liquid that a little later, under the magic influence of fermentation, became like sparkling wine.
A neem tree, looking foreign and out of place in the sunburnt landscape, stood near the bungalow. Some benefactor had planted it, coaxing it to live and gave shade and refuge for the servants of those who used the bungalow. If by chance an inexorable and unreasonable master forbade his terrified servants to go to the village for lodging during the dark hours between sunset and sunrise, they wrapped themselves in their sheets, covering eyes, nostrils, and mouths, and huddled themselves as closely as possible to the rough trunk of the neem tree. Well primed with opium, they dropped off into a sleep that rendered them oblivious of a fearsome green-faced ammah with swine-tusks and a bat’s body.
The ammah lived in the palmyra grove, according to tradition. She only came to her shrine on special occasions to receive offerings---food and strong drink, money and cheap barbaric jewellery. The poojaree announced her presence and interpreted the signs that betokened her satisfaction or her displeasure.
The particular tree in the grove that she haunted had three branching trunks, one of them being taller than the other two and each bearing a large sheaf of leaves.
When the monsoon winds blew, the stalks moved against each other with a harsh grating sound. The valluvan, who translated the language of the ammah to her worshippers, declared that these sounds were her voice. The demoness spoke in groans and squeaks, cursing her followers and demanding more poojah, more offerings of food and strong drink. She was insatiable. Never did she by any chance bless them or their crops. The most that could be expected from her was the abstention from any active form of malignity.
To make her journeyings easy between the grove and her temple the villagers had provided her with a perfect menagerie of strange animals as steeds.
The square of ground containing the small shrine was bounded by a low wall, and was entered by a wide gateway without gates. There was no need to shut in the yard. Not a soul but a wandering saddhu or the village valluvan would dare to enter it.
The animals were of sunbaked clay fashioned like horses, bulls, and monstrous beasts, half human, half animal. They were painted in rough colour-wash. Their legs were abnormally thick; their eyes protruded, and their open mouths were furnished with rows of large tusks and horse’s teeth.
It is said that men on whom the evil eye of the ammah fell were compelled to serve her as syces. They were obliged to groom those pottery beasts and run behind them all night as she rode abroad till they were exhausted. They fell at their own doors, parched with thirst and racked with cramped and stiffening muscles.
Similar groups of figures may be seen from the railway as the train runs southward from Madras through the sun-scorched land---a land haunted with mirages of cool sheets of water which only mock the traveller.
It was into the heart of this land of devils and desolation that Aleck Longfield and his faithful Abboye drove in the hope of elucidating a mysterious murder in which the corpse as well as the murderer was missing.
The cook had arrived some hours previously. There was a commotion in the village when it was known that the servants of the Assistant had appeared at the dâk bungalow. It must be a matter of great importance if it brought the Assistant Superintendent instead of the Inspector.
A little crowd waited on the cook at the dâk bungalow to ask for news. They seated themselves in a wide circle round the neem tree. Occasionally a question was shouted at the three servants, but they were too busy preparing their master’s breakfast to give any answer.
The cook-boy was sent for water for cooking purposes. He became at once the centre of attention, and a dozen willing hands would have carried his pot if he would have permitted it. He was wise in his generation. He declared that so sacred and mighty a person was his master that no one must touch his drinking water.
The hoot of the distant motor-horn at nine o’clock made the cook take active and sudden measures to get rid of the spectators. He armed himself with a piece of firewood and drove them away out of the bungalow compound. They did not go far, but took up points of observation under shelter of the compound wall.
A motor was an unusual sight in the village. The belief was still current that the motive power was derived from a powerful demon that lived in the bonnet. The horn was its voice with which it cleared the road of traffic, just as the syce in former days shouted to the pedestrians to get out of the way.
Longfield had taken no Hindu clerk nor inspector with him. He had dispensed with the services of a constable or peon. On arrival at the bungalow he called Abboye to him.
“Boy, can you trust the cook not to take too much toddy if you leave him to himself to-day?”
“Yessar; very good man that cook when master not wanting dinner party.”
“You must warn him against the headman’s toddy.”
“Cook is not a drinking man, sir.”
“The reason I say this is because, not having any inspector, I shall want you with me. I can understand all the villagers say, but I may need someone to make things clear to them. You will come out with me after breakfast.”
Abboye concealed his pride. To do police work under his master was a job after his own heart. All he said was his customary, “Yessar,” as if he had just received an order to buy a chicken in the bazaar.
“I may ask you to translate. You will stand by and say nothing till I tell you to speak.”
“Yessar.”
“And listen attentively to everything that is said.”
“Yessar.”
This was a direction that need not have been given. Abboye would lose nothing that was to be seen or heard. He would draw his own conclusions; but he had no authority to act except under the immediate orders of his master. He waited as usual on Longfield in his capacity as head boy. His assistant, the matey (a second table servant), had not accompanied them.
As soon as the meal was over, the cook and kitchen-woman were deputed to wash up, and Abboye in a short coat was ready to act in any capacity, clerk, secretary, peon, inspector, to which his master might nominate him. He began his duties by announcing the arrival of the headman, who presented himself bearing a small lime covered with gold tinsel. Abboye ventured to offer a piece of advice.
“Master, let headman speak plenty. We find out more that way.”
As Aleck appeared in the veranda, the old man prostrated himself and proffered the lime, which was duly accepted. The palaver began. The headman talked and talked, pleased and surprised to find that he could do so unchecked. Most English gentlemen, Mr. Campbell among them, told him to hold his tongue after the preliminary canter. Here was one who did not cry “Enough! enough! that will do. Now listen to me.”
All the Assistant said was, “Tell me the story of the murder again.”
The headman launched out into an interminable tale, first addressing himself to the police master, and then more particularly to Abboye, whose head wagged constantly in response as he listened. The wags and nods drew out the headman and searched him to the depths. He wandered off into the bypaths of side-issues and explanations that were not always within Longfield’s comprehension. Nothing escaped Abboye, however. At last the old man ran down like an unwound grandfather clock that ceased ticking.
“Now we will go and look at the spot where the murder was committed,” said the Assistant. “I have seen it once, but I will see it again.”
He and Abboye entered the motor-car, and he drove slowly, to allow of the headman and his attendants to follow.
The sun was blazing down in its full noonday strength. In the distance over the level cotton-fields a column of dust and dead leaves rose in a whirlwind. The palmyras stood blacker than ever against the brazen sky; and the kraal of mud animals by the side of the little temple seemed alive in the quivering heat. The villagers watched them with fear. In their eyes the beasts were trembling at the presence of the ammah.
Longfield stopped the car at the spot where the soil had drunk up the blood of the toddy-drawer. He looked towards the village and then at the palmyra grove. Finally his eyes dwelt for some time on the temple.
The headman, panting from the pace at which he had followed the car, came up. Once more he was permitted to tell his tale without interruption. Here the signs of foul play had been found. The sun had dried the blood by this time, in spite of the quantity. The victim must have been walking from the grove to the village. The trees that it was his business to climb and tap were near the temple. Lo! his pots were attached to the palmyras and the toddy still dripping from the incisions made with his knife in the spathe. No one had dared to touch the pots. They were waiting for the police master’s order. The headman stopped and looked at Longfield. Would the order be given to draw off the stuff? It must be fermenting by this time.
“Let the pots hang for the present,” said Aleck.
“The toddy will spoil and go sour.”
“There is a widow. The man paid for the hire of the trees that he tapped,” explained Aleck. “The liquor belongs to the widow. Let her give the order. Now I will go on to the temple. You may go home. I will see you later. Is anyone in charge of the temple?”
“The swami may be there, or he may have gone. No one knows of his coming and going.”
“Do the people of the village employ him?”
“Always, whenever help is wanted at a wedding or death or birth,” said the headman. “He also casts out devils when people are sick.”
“Are there any jewels in the temple?”
The headman professed ignorance of the existence of any. Aleck walked with his servant to the shrine. It seemed to be deserted. The door stood wide open, facing the gateway. On each side of the little temple were ranged the earthenware figures. Those in a line with the shrine were in the form of horses. They were represented with thick legs, staring eyes, and open mouths. Close to the temple were some giant figures of monsters with human bodies and legs but the heads of beasts. At the end of the collection stood a row of dog-faced creatures, smaller and of a more benignant aspect. There was no sign of the valluvan. Abboye called aloud, using the term “swami” as being the one to which he would answer most readily.
A small child of about eight or nine came from behind the compound wall. He was followed by a herd of black goats. The boy pointed with his stick to the village. Abboye questioned him.
“He says the valluvan left the temple at dawn this morning. He returns in a week. He has gone to a temple at Mungalum,” said Abboye.
“Is there no one to take care of the temple?” asked Longfield.
“The ammah guards the temple herself. Master, look inside.”
They stood in front of the shrine and gazed at the image. It was not more than three and a half feet high and was seated on a dais of five steps.
Its face, too large for its squat, bat-like body, was of a green colour. Its eyes protruded with a hideous stare and the brows were drawn together in a fierce scowl. Its wide mouth was full of the teeth of wild beasts. In front of it burned a wick in a large brass bowl of rank oil. Faded flowers hung round its neck; over the open doorway of the shrine was festooned a string of green leaves, curled and withered with the heat. Inside there was no room for anything but the figure itself.
“Will master go and look round the compound?” asked Abboye, as they stood before the shrine at the entrance.
“It is unnecessary and would give offence to the villagers.”
Abboye made no reply. He contented himself with peering about from outside, craning his long neck this way and that with an appearance of spying out secrets. It amused Longfield, this assumption of cunning which deceived no one. Not content with twisting and turning his head to the right and left, he peered into the sky, where two Brahminy kites sailed lazily in a circle above, mere specks in the dazzling blue. Their melancholy wails just reached their ears. The Hindus say that the white patch on their backs is the pile of clothes belonging to the deity, Govinda, whom they are for ever seeking. While they were fetching the divine “wash,” a change took place in the domicile of the gods. The dhoby’s bird was forgotten in the flurry of moving house and it has never discovered the new residence of its masters.
“Let’s get back,” said Longfield. “This doesn’t help. It is hot and the place smells of uncleanness. I’ll have lunch; after lunch I must look up the widow.”
Abboye followed his master to the car in silence. He would dearly have liked to have searched inside the temple compound; but it had been done already by a couple of caste constables. They had reported the discovery of a dead goat that had died a natural death, they said, and had never been missed from the herd. The goat had been left where it fell and by this time was partially eaten by jackals. The kites had probably assisted.
An excellent lunch was ready on Longfield’s return. The cook had proved himself to be efficient without the supervision of his chief.
Later in the afternoon Longfield paid a visit to the widow. She had already been examined and cross-examined by constables and inspectors, regularly and irregularly. She told a different tale every time with much weeping. Abboye stood looking on, putting in a word now and then when ordered to do so by his master. At the conclusion of the examination the boy said abruptly.
“Show the last toddy-pot brought home by your husband.”
The woman gave him a frightened glance and hesitated. He pressed the request and she produced it. It was empty. On its neck was the coir rope by which the man attached it to the tree. Abboye grunted as he gazed at the pot.
“Why did you ask to see the toddy-pot?” inquired Longfield as they moved away.
“Must order people to show things.’
“Did you expect to find any incriminating evidence in the pot?”
“No, sir; that was only for show; to make frightened the woman. Not a good woman.”
Other members of the village were questioned in turn. All professed a profound ignorance that was phenomenal when any questions were asked about the doings of the valluvan. The headman assured Longfield over and over again that the custodian of the temple had gone on a pilgrimage from which he would not return until the next rains came.
Disappointed, Longfield drove back to the traveller’s bungalow. He had to admit to himself that he had accomplished no more than his subordinates had done before him. As far as he could gather, the last person to see the missing toddy-drawer was his wife, who gave him his midday meal before he started for that part of the grove where his palmyras stood. She believed him to be working on the trees till near sunset. Then he should have come home with the toddy that had accumulated. She had prepared the pans for the liquor, which had to be exposed for fermentation. But he did not appear.
Questioned as to why she had not gone to look for him, she replied that she was afraid to be out near the grove after the sun had set. The ammah would be abroad and active. She might kill her, as she had killed the man.
No sound was heard of cries for help nor of quarrelling—Hindus quarrel noisily when they are angry—and not a soul could suggest any reason for the deed.
There was a rumour in the village, founded on the word of the valluvan, that the ammah had been flying from her favourite tree to the temple in the evening; and she had met the toddy-drawer and killed him because he had not stood aside as she passed.
This rumour, coming as it did from such an authority, was believed by the villagers. But the headman was aware that government officials paid no heed to ammahs. They never allowed that any crime could be committed by them. He therefore forbore to urge it; but the people knew. Evil spirits all over the country delighted in giving human beings pain and in inflicting misfortunes upon them.
What was withheld from the Assistant Superintendent---the story of the ammah---was poured into the ear of Abboye, who received it gravely and with the air of confident belief. His master had directed him to listen. He was doing so, but not with any intention of repeating it. His experience had already taught him that it was waste of breath to talk to English sahibs as if ammahs had any real existence.
Longfield dined and soon afterwards turned in. The sun had made him sleepy. Abboye hovered about the room while his master was undressing, finding one excuse or another not to leave him till he was safely tucked up inside the mosquito-net.
The bedroom opened on the north into the front veranda. On the south was a door leading into the bathroom at the back. On the west side was a window which closed in primitive fashion with strong Venetian shutters of wood.
“You have shut me up,” complained Longfield. “Can’t you open the Venetians and give me a little more air?”
“Too many bats, sir. Very bad bats in these parts; sucking blood like the ammah. Village people say they are the ammah’s children.”
Longfield had heard of the vampire bats of the tropics and had been assured that they were not a creation of the oriental imagination. The bats attacked ponies and goats, clinging to the animals like leeches till they were satiated. Beasts thus bitten were not killed by the attack, but they were much weakened from loss of blood; and the bite---usually made on the neck---was apt to fester and become troublesome.
He concluded that it might be as well to leave the window closed. A tumbler lamp with a cotton wick, supported on cork floats, on a pool of oil---a lamp that is more than a thousand years old in the East----stood on the dressing-table near the shuttered window. The light cast was of the strength of an ordinary night-light. It possessed one virtue absent in the night-light---nothing less than a gale blowing through the room would extinguish it.
All was quiet in the village. The cooking-fires by the huts were burnt out; lights were extinguished. The people, terrified of the night-prowling ammah, were wrapped in their sheets, courting sleep under the influence of opium.
But though human voices had sunk into silence, the night was full of sound. Chief among the various noises was the cry of the jackal. Occasionally an owl shrieked; now and then came the squeak and groan of the palmyra branches as the night breeze passed by in a gust.
“Does your honour want anything more?” asked Abboye.
“Where are you sleeping?” asked Aleck, kicking down the sheet and sprawling over the bed. The night was hot.
“Outside, sir, with the cook and the boy under the neem tree. Master call, I hear.”
“And the dâk bungalow matey, where is he?”
“He goes to the village every night. Coming back in the morning.”
“Then I am alone in the bungalow?”
“No, sir; we all stopping just outside.”
“All right; you can go,” and he settled himself down to sleep. He was in the land of dreams before Abboye had finished his arrangements for his master’s comfort. The careful servant left the room with a glance backward. He moved noiselessly and his face wore a smile of grim anticipation.
Longfield had been asleep a couple of hours. He woke with a sudden start. A long wailing cry rang out at the back of the bungalow just outside the bathroom. The kitchen people under the neem tree stirred uneasily and wrapped their sheets more closely around them. The cook-boy drew nearer to the trunk of the magic tree. He and his mother were heathen people, as Abboye called them. They knew---if the English master did not---that it was the voice of the ammah. She was abroad on her evil wanderings, which boded no good to the villagers.
Aleck must have fallen asleep again. He was awakened abruptly by a second sound. This time it was a groan, and it came from someone inside the room. He sat up in bed and gazed through the white veil of netting.
The light canvas door that shut off the bathroom slowly opened and a form appeared in the doorway. It was nebulous and undefined in shape, as if enveloped in a cloak; but its head and face stood out clearly and distinctly in the lamp-light.
He recognised it at once. It was the ammah. Her eyes were fiery, her teeth terrifying, and her greenish-white complexion was deathly.
She approached slowly and extended a long arm with a claw-like finger which pointed at him.
“Who are you?” he asked in a loud voice.
There was a thin melancholy cry behind him. He turned his head and looked over his pillow.
A second form, a duplicate of the first, stood in the open doorway leading into the front veranda. It seemed as if two ammahs, animated by the identical design of haunting and terrifying the occupant of the bed, had met accidentally like two marauding cats.
The apparition from the bathroom was advancing slowly, turning its fearsome face first on one side and then on the other. In her hand the ammah held a toddy-drawer’s knife. He wondered if she intended to tear down the curtains and stab him. He glanced round quickly at the second apparition. The phantom was imitating the action of the one at the foot of the bed. It was slowly advancing, bearing also a toddy-knife in its hand.
He remained where he was and shouted to the intruders.
“Whoever you are, stop this fooling!”
If it had not been for the knives held threateningly, he would have closed with one or the other. He had brought no weapons with him. The revolver had been forgotten and was left lying in one of the drawers of the office table. He had nothing to defend himself with but a walking-stick, and that he had left in the front veranda.
The figure on the bathroom side paused. It had not at once discovered the presence of its double, the mosquito curtains of the bed having hidden it. A blood-curdling yell drew its attention, and it halted abruptly with a grunt of apprehension. At the same time it began to shuffle uneasily with its feet. It seemed to be doing a kind of goose-step, treading the floor with every sign of discomfort.
Meanwhile ammah number two on the veranda side of the room was quite free in her movements. She glided forward towards the head of the bed with a threatening gesture directed towards the first ammah, who continued to tread the ground with ejaculations of distress, and to draw back towards the bathroom door by which she had entered.
Longfield sprang out of bed. His sudden appearance between the two demons had a strange effect on both the apparitions. Before he could collar either they disappeared. Ammah number two vanished into the front veranda; while ammah number one, after the strangest step-dancing, bolted by way of the bathroom and was no more seen. Silence reigned, and as Longfield stood there and listened, he could hear nothing but the distant howls of the jackals that haunted the temple compound.
After a few minutes he went out into the front veranda. The neem tree under which the servants had camped was illuminated by the light of a late rising moon. He could distinguish the white sheets in which the sleeping domestics were rolled. They looked like bales of wool dropped by a passing cart. The fire had burned out and was nothing but grey ash. The wind that two hours ago had rustled the fronds of the palmyras had died down.
“Abboye!” called Longfield.
“Yessar,” came sleepily from a bundle that was just beginning to show signs of movement.
“Abboye!”
“Yessar.” The reply was a little more animated, and the bale of cotton wool took shape and revealed itself in the form of the head boy. He made a grab for his turban, and in the absence of his coat he wrapped himself in the sheet as he ran towards his master.
“The ammah has appeared,” said Longfield.
“No, sir; that some village budmash making humbug. I will catch and nicely beat.”
“There were two ammahs.”
The announcement was of too surprising a nature to be answered. One apparition might be accepted, given the master’s word for it; but two! Why two? His master could not have been awake. Meanwhile Abboye was busy lighting a hurricane-lantern. He led the way to the bedroom and swung the lamp this way and that, throwing the light over the floor till he came to the bed.
Between the foot of the bed and the bathroom door several sheets of paper were strewn upon the matting. They were in disorder.
“What are those bits of paper?” asked Longfield.
“Fly-papers to catch fleas. Master give order and I get from Spencer. Very strong stick-stuff. Fleas walking from bathroom to bed and getting catched.”
“I think something else besides fleas has been walking over our fly-papers. How many did you put down?”
“Two dozen, sir.”
“There are only fourteen here.”
Abboye went through into the bathroom and picked up three more, which left seven still missing.
“The ghost has carried away the rest on his feet,” remarked Longfield. “For a haunting business this has been a wash-out,” he continued to himself. Abboye was busy laying out the flypapers again and rearranging his master’s bed. “I wonder if it was done only to frighten me; or whether the brutes intended to slit my throat with the knife and then say the demon had bitten me and sucked my blood.”
“Bed ready, sir. I leave lantern in the room this time.”
“Did the men who pretended to be the ammah mean to kill me?”
“Can’t say, sir. Very bad people in this village; very heathen drinking people.” The contempt thrown into his voice was immense.
“Why should they want to kill me?”
“Because master looking for dead body.”
“I don’t understand why I saw two ammahs,” said Longfield. He was a little puzzled over the incident.
“This village got only one ammah, sir. So people telling. Two ammahs would make too much bobbery. Can’t have two.”
“You don’t believe in the ammah yourself, do you?” asked Aleck.
“No, sir,” replied Abboye, as he tucked in the curtain and looked to the lamp to see that the oil would not fail before daylight. “If the ammah——”
“---the two ammahs,” corrected Longfield; but Abboye disregarded the amendment. It was an hallucination on the part of the Assistant to think that he saw two demons.
“If the ammah comes again, master hit out hard---hard enough to kill---and call me.”
He left a lathee, weighted at the end with lead, leaning against the back of the bed. But the rest of the night was undisturbed; master and man slept soundly till dawn.
Aleck Longfield was unwilling to admit himself beaten; but he knew that this was the case. He was asking himself how he could pursue a murderer where there was no dead body to go upon. The pool of blood had dried in the sun.
There was nothing even to show that it was human. The turban and the loincloth had been washed, by whose orders he could not discover. It seemed as though the whole village, from the headman down to the ammah herself, had combined to defeat the police.
He spent the next day interviewing all sorts of people and he made an attempt to see the widow again. She, however, was nowhere to be found. The headman informed him that she had left the village overnight to go to her mother, who had sent for her.
There was a curious dearth of news about the valluvan. He was not in the village, if the headman was to be believed; nor was he at the temple.
Aleck drove to the temple, where the little boy was feeding his goats outside the walls of the compound. The child told the same tale. The swami had gone to Mungalum.
“I shall search the temple compound,” said Longfield to Abboye. “The people may not like it——”
“Very low-caste devil, this,” said Abboye.
“---but it must be done in the name of the law.”
“Yessar; and people can make big poojah afterwards.”
“When the valluvan comes back.”
“That valluvan never coming back, I think.”
Longfield entered the compound by the open gateway. He hunted in every corner of the place. So dry was the spot, so burnt up and parched, there was very little jungle. Two or three acacias, eaten bare by hairy caterpillars that had spun themselves thick nests all over their foliage, grew behind the shrine. The clay images gave no cover. They were displayed in all their ugliness in the broad sunlight. Three or four were out of the perpendicular, as though beginning to crumble away at the base. The ground was stony and dusty. Dead leaves and twigs littered the place. Hideous spiney lizards basked in the sun on the slab rock. They opened their mouths at the approach of the disturber of their peace, but did not take the trouble to move out of his way.
In one of the acacias Longfield found the carcase of a carrion crow. It had fallen into the thorny branches possibly with a broken wing and had died there. What with the remains of the goat and the dead bird, the place was unbearable. He wasted no time looking for what was manifestly not there. He could distinguish no sign of a grave recently dug. The whole surface of the temple compound was slab rock. There was not a square yard of earth in which a hole could be made. The acacia trees had sprung from fissures and the coarse grass had no depth of soil. Aleck returned to Abboye, who had been left outside the enclosure.
“I don’t see that I need stop in this foul place any longer. I shall go and have a look at the ammah’s tree. Will you come, Abboye? or do you prefer to stay here till I have finished my inspection?”
“No, sir; I come too, if master please,” said the head boy with an eagerness he could not hide. “Can’t drive car; too many palmyras. We walk.”
He did not at all like being excluded from the temple compound; but being a Christian, his presence was an offence. The Assistant Superintendent’s intrusion was tolerated on the score of his official position.
The grove of palmyras presented a forest of straight, unbranched trunks. They leaned slightly at all angles, none of them very much out of the perpendicular. They sprang from the driest, most uncompromising sand---a soil that looked as though it was incapable of sustaining the vitality of a single blade of the toughest spear-grass. Little circular ridges of clay were built round the base of each stem to catch and hold the rain when it fell, which happened only at long intervals.
The stems of the trees were rough. Up these the toddy-drawer, with the help of a cane hoop which embraced the trunk and his own naked body, managed to climb.
About a hundred yards from the temple was a palmyra that had thrown out two trunks, one on each side. They had grown into the shape of a gigantic three-pronged fork. Each of the three had a bushy head. Neither leaf nor stalk had ever been touched by a knife.
This palmyra was believed to be the private residence of the ammah. A shapeless stone splashed with whitewash and red ochre was embedded in the sand at the foot of the tree.
Longfield and his companion walked round it and examined it as far as was possible; but there was nothing out of the way to be seen. The afternoon wind swayed the dried fronds together and produced a perfect chorus of grating sounds like the gnashings of teeth and the groans and shrieks of the tormented.
“Ammah plenty talking,” remarked Abboye with a grin as he glanced up at the foliage.
His master looked at him, wondering how far the beliefs of his heathen ancestors remained in his blood. He professed disbelief in Hindu devils, but Longfield saw his hand steal up to the talisman that his priest had given him as a charm against evil spirits. With this picture of St. Joseph held in his fingers he could listen calmly to the village demon “plenty talking.”
They returned to the car and Aleck drove back to the bungalow. After the four-o’clock tea he called Abboye and gave the order for a return to the cantonment the following day.
“I shall sleep here to-night. Is it likely that the ghost will walk again?”
“No, sir. I’ve got a long big stick ready for to-night, and I publish it in the village so that the people may all know. I tell everybody that we beat the ammah badly if we catch. That devil never coming again; not liking fly-papers.”
As Abboye removed the tray he asked:
“Master going out again?”
“No; I’m tired and sleepy from the sun.”
In point of fact Longfield was disappointed. He had virtually had his journey for nothing. And as if to make fun of him, a silly trick had been played in an attempt to frighten him with two personations of the ammah. He was “fed up” with the childishness of it all. His night had been disturbed, and, though Abboye had in a way scored off the intruder by laying down the fly-papers, he could not help being irritated at the fact of such a trick having been played. It was disrespectful, if nothing else.
He could also see that the people of the place were very uneasy at his presence. They were all on their guard. He strongly suspected that they were combining to shield the murderer instead of bringing him to justice. He began to feel depressed. What was the good of worrying about a murder where they had no dead body to supply details that could be worked up into a case?
Abboye stood at his elbow just as his eyes were closing for forty winks in his camp chair.
“Master, please, I go to the village to see headman about bullocks for the cook’s cart. Coming back plenty of time for dinner.”
“Very well,” he answered drowsily.
The sun was not far from the horizon when Longfield was roused from sleep by the sound of many voices; raucous voices that indicated wild excitement. His thoughts flew to the ammah, and he wondered if she had engineered a demonstration against his trespass into her temple compound. The noisy party approached from the village, not from the temple.
He sat up, yawned, and anathematised Tiru and its ammah and all its inhabitants. He had had enough of the place. If another crime was brewing, he would recommend the magistrate who tried the case to deal severely with the whole community and impose a fine.
He could hear shouting as they drew nearer; wild insane laughter and snatches of tuneless singing. He rose from his chair and went out into the compound. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
There was the headman foolishly bemused with drink. Several other village worthies were with him, all more or less under the influence of toddy.
In the centre, swaying on unsteady legs, was Abboye, a caricature of the smart, well-set-up head boy of the Assistant’s household.
His turban was crooked and pushed over one eye, giving him a comical appearance that would have brought a broad smile on the Assistant’s face had it been anyone else. Abboye’s white coat, splashed with arrack, was unfastened at the neck, and St. Joseph was hanging precariously over his shoulder. His loincloth, stained with the dark grey dust of the cotton-soil, trailed about his heels and entangled itself in his long bare legs.
He presented a disreputable and disgraceful sight that left his master dumb with angry astonishment.
On one side of Abboye was the cook, apparently sober, not having been included in the headman’s carousal. On the other was the cook-boy. Occasionally they received a cuff and a clout over the head which displaced their turbans. They grasped him firmly by the arms and did their best to keep him on his feet.
But Abboye was a big man and the cook was lean and elderly; the cook-boy lanky and youthful. Neither of them possessed weight or strength enough to control their superior.
Drink affects the Indians in various ways. Some it renders stupid and comatose; some lachrymose and full of self-pity. Others become quarrelsome and very ready with the knife. On the other hand, there are many that drink makes merry.
The headman was lachrymose. He sobbed and apologised; promised that next time his honour came he would have a dead body ready for him. If only he had received sufficient notice there should have been no failure this time. Some of the villagers had become quarrelsome. They did not know what they were disputing about, but they were beginning to grapple with each other.
Abboye stood in their midst, swaying, gesticulating, swinging his arms about and singing. The song he had chosen in his drunken fit was a verse he had learned at the mission-school where he was educated. It was the grace chanted by the children after their midday meal.
The sight of his master standing bareheaded in the light of the setting sun had a slightly sobering effect on him. He stopped singing and made futile grabs at his turban to set it straight. The kitchen-boy with the best intention put up a hand to assist. His effort was resented as a liberty and Abboye caught him a resounding slap on his cheek that caused a sudden howl of pain.
“Abboye!” thundered his master.
“Yeshar,” replied the head boy, assuming an expression of owlish solemnity.
“How dare you disgrace yourself like this?”
The headman did not understand the words, but he comprehended the tone of reproach in which it was said. He took upon himself to answer.
“Not my fault, your excellency---not my fault. I only gave a small quantity of old, very old arrack, very strong, to my best friend, your honour’s butler,” wailed the headman.
“Yeshar! very good old arrack. I chrisshen man. Not like these drinking heathen people. I good chrisshen man. God shave our grashus King!”
“Silence! Abboye!”
“Yeshar! These village people bad people. Got drunken ammah——”
“Hold your tongue, you scoundrel!”
“Yeshar! But Abboye good chrisshen scoundrel and got good chrisshen master.”
Longfield turned to the cook, whom he had noticed was not under the influence of liquor.
“Cook, pour water over his head and let him sleep it off. No good talking to him now. He’s too drunk to understand.”
“Yeshar,” hiccoughed Abboye; “that ammah come to see master in the night. Very bad woman that ammah. I go to temple to give plenty beat. Master come and shee.”
With a sudden twist Abboye shook off the cook and the boy; flung his arms in the air; gave his turban another hitch that sent it over the left ear at a rakish tilt, and seized the headman’s lathee.
“Yeshar! master come. Good master. I chrisshen man; doing everything master tell.”
Staggering like a ship in a storm, Abboye rolled away in the direction of the village temple.
“Stop him, cook!” cried Longfield in a fever of anxiety.
“Can’t hold any longer, sir! Fighting too much. That man plenty too strong,” said the cook, as he sneaked off to his cooking-pots and took cover under the neem tree.
“Stop him!” repeated Aleck. He began to follow Abboye. “Stop him, headman! He’ll do some mischief!”
The headman’s answer to this appeal was to prostrate himself in the dust at the police-master’s feet. Aleck saved himself with difficulty from falling over him.
“Not my fault, great and mighty police lord,” he wailed louder than ever. The cook-boy was still howling, and the headman was obliged to raise his voice to make himself heard above the boy.
It resolved itself into a most disorderly manhunt. Abboye led the way, singing snatches of the childish grace taught by the good mission people. He took a bee-line for the temple.
Longfield followed as closely at his heels as he dared. The wild whirling of the headman’s lathee in Abboye’s hands rendered it unsafe to approach too near. The rest of the company, comprising by this time the whole of the village, with the exception of the Assistant Superintendent’s kitchen staff, tailed behind, keeping a respectful distance for two reasons: one to avoid the wrath of the police lord, as they termed him; the other to maintain a safe space between themselves and the flourishing lathee.
It was not far to the temple; but the pace was severe. Longfield did his best to lay a controlling hand upon his demented servant. Once or twice he was on the point of securing him; but with a dash aside and a fresh spurt Abboye evaded his grip.
What was the drunken fellow going to do? Longfield asked himself the question as he ran. Was he going to smash up the little temple? He was thankful that the valluvan was away at Mungalum. It would be ten times worse if he were present. As it was, the people would be infuriated if anything were damaged; if the image were touched and the pottery animals broken. A religious demonstration and riot would assuredly follow and Longfield would be powerless to save his idiotic servant from the villagers’ wrath. It was quite likely that he would be beaten to death in the fanaticism of the moment.
As Abboye neared the temple he seemed endued with fresh strength. On the other hand, his master became winded and less able to keep up with him. The temple was reached. To the Assistant Superintendent’s relief the lunatic paid no attention to the shrine itself. His fury was not directed against the image, but against the monstrous figures of earthenware.
He laid about him with the lathee, swinging the loaded end over their heads. One of the elephantine horses was the first to suffer. Its nose was knocked off; then a hole appeared in its thick neck. It was as hollow as an empty pot and it crumpled up under his vigorous blows with a clatter of broken pottery and a cloud of dust.
A second horse was brought down before Longfield arrived. The lathee was swinging round one of the big human figures with an animal’s head, that stood a little behind the horses. His master called to him, but his words fell on deaf ears. Abboye was determined to finish his self-appointed task. By this time the headman and his following, sobered to a great extent by the prodigious happenings in the ammah’s sacred preserves, had arrived. The wide gateway was filled with horrified spectators, too paralysed with fear to lay a detaining hand upon the sacrilegious madman.
With a swinging blow Abboye brought his lathee down upon the shoulder of the giant animal-headed figure. It broke under his strokes like a thin walnut-shell. A howl of terror escaped the lips of the spectators as they fixed their starting eyes on the sight revealed.
Instead of hollow emptiness and a cloud of dust, a horrible object appeared. The dead body of the missing toddy-drawer lurched forward and fell in all its loathsomeness at Abboye’s feet.
The sight sobered him immediately. His arm fell to his side; his lathee, still in his grip, rested with its deadly weighted end on the ground.
Abboye put up a perfectly steady hand and straightened his turban. He fastened his coat, collected St. Joseph, and hitched up his loincloth.
He gazed at his master. His master fixed a discerning eye on his man. The exchange of glances explained volumes; but no word was spoken for the space of thirty seconds.
“Go; but keep drunk,” said the Assistant Superintendent in a low voice and in English.
“Yessar!” whispered Abboye as he turned and staggered through the thunderstruck crowd.
Two days later Longfield left Tiru and returned to his bungalow, where ordinary station life was resumed. The servants dropped into their duties and the daily routine was taken up as though it had never been broken by excursions into the district.
The lapse of the head boy had been passed over in a mysterious silence which puzzled his subordinates. Nothing less than threatened dismissal was anticipated, but it did not come. It was assumed that the master had administered a lecture on the iniquity of getting drunk. He could scarcely have done less. In the good old days it would have been accompanied by a corporal punishment, to which the culprit would have submitted with howls of pain and a sense of justice that would have silenced all complaints.
Abboye hinted that the lecture had been delivered during the drive home in the car. It was surmised that a fine would be imposed on pay-day; but of this no one had any information beyond what the head boy chose to divulge. He solemnly warned his fellow-servants that any similar misdemeanour on their part would lead to the imposition of a heavy fine. His honour never got drunk himself. He would not tolerate it in any member of his household.
As to how he allowed himself to be overtaken he would give no explanation. He hinted that it was due to the company---the headman and a choice few of the chief men of the village---treated by himself at the arrack shop as a mark of goodwill. The headman, systematically held responsible for every irregularity in the village, took upon himself the blame and poured forth excuses. Abboye’s recovery was phenomenally rapid. He had been able to wait as usual on his master at dinner that evening.
Dinner had certainly been late after the wild scene at the temple, as there was much to be done officially before the Assistant Superintendent of Police could go back to the dâk bungalow. Matters move slowly in the East. It was necessary to allow the excitement to die down and the fumes of the arrack and toddy to work off before giving any definite orders as to the disposal of the body.
On the discovery of the corpse, dried to a mummy, the headman and his companions fell to the ground, bewailing the fate of their neighbour and begging for forgiveness. The great police lord must pardon them. They had known all along that the body had been hidden inside the pottery figure; but the valluvan had laid an obligation upon them in the name of the ammah, on pain of an epidemic of cholera, to keep her secret.
She, they assured the honourable one, had killed the man herself. He had given her offence. She had hidden the body in one of her own images, with the intention of punishing him by preventing the performance of the shraddah ceremonies that would ensure his reincarnation and future happiness.
Abboye’s suspicions had been aroused. By a liberal dispensing of strong liquor he had elicited the story and had taken his own way of bringing it to light. He had not been allowed to enter the temple compound. His master, fearing to hurt the religious susceptibilities of the villagers, had searched superficially without laying a hand upon any object belonging to the ammah. It would have been sacrilege to have broken any of the figures in cold blood. Longfield had to remember that a benevolent government prided itself on strictly regarding the religious prejudices of Hindus and Muhamadans alike.
Abboye, maddened with drink, was not held responsible for his acts. It was a well-known fact among the people that a man who ran amuk could not be restrained. His deed was accepted as inevitable. If he had attacked the living, he would have been beaten to death with lathees; but he wisely disappeared after his mad act; no one would have thought of following up a man who was running amuk any more than of pursuing a wounded tiger into the jungle.
The hubbub gradually died down. The absence of the valluvan, an inflammatory individual at all times, helped to keep the atmosphere quiet. The drink consumed had a soporific effect; and after the setting of the sun sleep overtook the village with its soothing influence.
The crime was the outcome of a common intrigue between the valluvan and the toddy-drawer’s wife. If the valluvan had been content with certain privileges regarded as acts sanctioned by the ammah, all would have been well; but the man had become infatuated. He demanded full possession of the woman, whom he proposed to take on tour to certain village temples where his presence was demanded. She was to cook for him, besides fulfilling other services.
The husband dared to object to the abduction of his wife. He followed the valluvan to the temple to protest. The valluvan, a powerful man of strong passions, fell upon him suddenly and slit his throat.
This was the story told to Longfield as soon as the necessity for silence no longer existed. It was too late to lay hands on the murderer, and the villagers knew it. He had gained several hours’ start, and the woman had followed him.
It is a hopeless business attempting to bring a saddhu or a valluvan to justice. No one will give evidence against him. In many cases the man possesses hypnotic powers and is known to influence the witness in his favour.
His intention not to return must also have been known; for a few days later another valluvan appeared, an older man who claimed sanctity and renown. He took up his residence at the temple in a little palm-leaf shelter immediately behind the shrine, and let it be known that he was ready to receive offerings and to do poojah on behalf of the people. He arranged to have a devil-dance in the course of a few days, and promised that it should exceed all others that had taken place. He himself would be the chief performer. The ammah, he declared, was very angry. Unless they propitiated her, she would destroy the whole village by disease.
The headman assented readily to all his proposals. While ostentatiously helping the police with many protestations of loyalty, he was promising the new valluvan that he would do his best to get rid of the government officials as soon as possible. The ammah professed to be mollified through the mouth of the poojaree and there was every hope that the village would soon revert to its usual peaceful condition.
Longfield gave the headman clearly to understand that the law must pursue its course; that evidence would be taken; that a search would be made for the murderer and his companion. He himself would return to Tiru in a few days to settle up the affair. Meanwhile, in the interest of village sanitation, he gave the very necessary order for the burning of the body with as little delay as possible.
It was a silent drive home. Before he was five miles from the village Aleck’s mind was clear of police business. Even Abboye, sitting by his side, longing to be allowed to drive the car, a privilege granted occasionally, was forgotten. It was Sylvia who filled his thoughts. He had not ceased to puzzle over the revelation she had made when they last met. If she had confessed to being a widow, it would have been much easier to reconcile himself to the situation. But a wife! with a husband! It was incredible.
She called herself Miss Smith. She was accepted in good faith by all her friends as a single woman. What did it mean? What was she about, allowing herself to be placed in such a false position? He could find no answer to the problem.
Another point that also puzzled him was his own attitude towards her. He had not left her in ignorance as to the state of his feeling. He had told her that he loved her and had ratified it with such a kiss as to leave no doubt as to its character and meaning. He knew it could lead to nothing; but he would not have her ignorant of the fact that he loved her.
Did it imply that he would have to avoid her and alter his conduct in any way? To do so would inevitably bring them both under the notice of the rest of the community; and this at all costs must be avoided. She had confided in him, not without signs of emotion. It would not be playing the game to betray her confidence in any way. His chivalry was roused and the blood in his veins was stirred. Her secret must be guarded at all costs. He must control his own feelings; choke down his love; ignore the fact that she was not indifferent to him. Above all, he must remain as though there was no secret between them; he must think and act and speak as though she was really Miss Sylvia Smith, and not a married woman who had a husband living.
Oh! curse her husband! Of course he was a waster with whom it was impossible for any decent woman to live! If it were not the case, she would have been with her husband, and would not be taking refuge with her sister.
He arrived at his bungalow without having decided on any particular course of action. He must follow the usual routine of the station: go to the Club or the golf-course most evenings; accept invitations for morning and evening tennis, dinner parties, and thés dansants. It must be left to her to show if she wished for anything different.
The day after his return he dressed for tennis, took his racket with him, and went to the Club courts. His eyes searched the place for the one person who now had any effect on his circulation. She was absorbed in a vigorous game of mixed doubles. He made his way to that particular court and strolled round to the side on which she was playing. There he stationed himself as a spectator.
“Hallo! old thing!” was her greeting as play brought her near him. Her words came like the greeting of a bird on the wing. She was off again before he could reply, playing up and putting her whole soul in the game. Whatever she did, she brought her full store of energy into it and gave of her best to compass success. Presently she approached again, running towards him to take a ball in a back-hander.
“Glad to see you safe home again,” she cried, but the distance was too great to allow of his saying more than:
“Thanks!”
After an interval another sentence floated towards him:
“See you after this set; nearly finished.”
He concluded that it would be wise to remain a spectator where he was, and not to make any attempt to get into a game himself. He moved away from the end of the court and took a chair from which he could watch the play. The set ended. Sylvia was on the losing side. She dropped herself into a seat next to his, shook her racket at her partner and told him that he had better go and bury himself---he was no good at all.
“I’m so sorry!” he said, standing in front of her.
“Then go on a pilgrimage of repentance---to the buffet.”
“Shall I bring you anything?” he asked, his eyes turning wistfully in the direction of the iced drinks.
“Nothing, thanks.”
He felt himself dismissed, and justified in searching for that which he craved. As he strode away, Sylvia turned to her companion.
“Now then, let’s hear all about it,” she said.
“Won’t you have some tea first?”
“Later on. I’ll have your story first.”
He told her of his adventures. The twin apparitions pleased her. One ghost haunting another ghost was an original idea.
“Whose notion was it?” she asked. “And what did it mean?”
“I can only guess that it had occurred to two minds independently, instead of only one, that it would be advantageous if I were scared away.”
She thought for a moment.
“No; that wasn’t it. The first ghost, the apparition coming from the bathroom that was stuck up with Abboye’s fly-papers, was the one to be feared. He carried a knife, you say. He meant mischief. The second ghost, that carefully avoided the booby trap of fly-papers, intended to frighten away the bathroom apparition and put terror into its heart. Now let me think: Abboye was the only person who could possibly have carried out such a design.”
“It couldn’t have been Abboye,” objected Aleck. “I saw him lying asleep under the neem tree in company with the cook and the kitchen-boy.”
“That may have been your impression; but he must have been foxing. I wonder who personated the ghost that came from the bathroom,” said Sylvia.
“It was the valluvan himself, of course,” replied Aleck. “It’s the kind of fool-trick he would play. With anybody but an Englishman it would have come off all right. Abboye, with his experience of village tactics and with a mission-school irreverence for valluvans, probably made a shrewd guess at what would happen. He laid out the fly-papers with other designs than that of catching ‘pleas’ as he called them.”
“Did you know what he was about?”
“I paid no attention whatever to his doings. I was dead tired and more than half asleep. Those fly-papers must have held up the ghost if he trod on them with his naked feet,” concluded Aleck with a laugh that did her good to hear. It told her that relations between them were restored. She was Miss Sylvia Smith once more and he was her friend and neighbour in an Indian up-country station, where people must meet every day in what is virtually rigid exile. She had not forgotten the kiss, however. The memory lingered in her mind with a strange persistence.
“I suppose you went for the valluvan the next morning.”
“The man had disappeared. The villagers were living in terror of him; they probably combined to help him to escape. There is no doubt in my mind about his being the murderer. He killed the toddy-drawer and hid the body inside the pottery figure. The whole village must have known of it. If it had been anyone but a valluvan, I should soon have heard all about it, found the body, and caught the murderer.”
“Why are they so much under his domination?”
“They are terrified of his curses. They also believe that they acquire great merit by doing all they can for him. In their eyes a valluvan or a saddhu can do no wrong.”
“Is he a Brahmin?”
“Far from it; Brahmins have nothing to do with blood sacrifices.”
“Now tell me how you eventually found the body,” said Sylvia, who was more happy in his company than she would have been willing to admit. She deliberately closed her eyes to her own attitude towards him, although she might have been ready to criticise his towards herself.
He related the story of Abboye’s apparent lapse.
“Campbell warned me of the danger of taking servants into a toddy village. The liquor is so cheap and the temptation so great. It vexed me beyond measure to see Abboye as I thought the worse for liquor.”
“Abboye the worse for liquor!---never!”
“I didn’t know it at the time, but he was pretending to be drunk. He had his reasons. A man who is intoxicated and running amuk, as they call it, may do the craziest thing in creation and not be held accountable for his actions. It would never have done for him to have gone in his sober senses and broken open one of the temple figures. It would have been a ticklish job for me to do, although I am armed with authority. It might have stirred up a religious riot. The discovery of the body had to be made, and Abboye certainly took the best way of doing it by pretending to run amuk.”
“That’s one up for Abboye. How did he locate the body?”
“To tell you the truth, the jackals gave the show away. After the valluvan had inserted the corpse, he plastered the figure up with clay and put on a little green and yellow wash. Then something happened upon which he had not reckoned. There arose an awful stench. He killed a goat which the jacks ate; then he killed a crow and hung it up in a tree out of reach of the jackals. It wasn’t enough to satisfy Abboye. He spotted a couple of kites overhead. They make no mistake, however high up they may be.”
“And you saw nothing of the valluvan?”
“Nothing; and what is more we hadn’t any evidence against him. Not a soul in the village would bear witness to a single act that might have implicated him.”
“Then he is loose and at liberty?”
“And will remain so, as far as I can see.”
“What was his motive for murdering the man?”
“Some trouble about the toddy-drawer’s wife, but I couldn’t get at the details. These people do lie so. Abboye got nearer to the truth than any of us by pumping the old headman; but I fancy that he had to do a good bit of guessing.”
“I should like to have seen your face when Abboye stood before you in his cups.”
“He did it wonderfully well.”
He described the scene with more detail and they both laughed heartily. The ring of their laughter over Abboye’s pulling of the strings reached Mrs. Southwood’s ears and caused her to turn her head in their direction. She puckered her forehead with a frown of annoyance and abruptly dropped a warm argument she was having with Mrs. Anstruther. They differed as to whether the intensive system with fowls could be successfully carried out in India or not. Mrs. Southwood moved away in the direction of the couple sitting apart and carrying on a flirtation that all could see.
“Sylvia!” she said severely, as she came up rather breathless. Her voice betrayed the fact that she was nervous as well as annoyed. “Sylvia, you are keeping Mr. Longfield from the refreshment table. He must be desperately thirsty after that last set.”
“I haven’t been playing, Mrs. Southwood; but probably Miss Smith would like a cup of tea.”
Sylvia answered for herself. Something stirred a spirit of recklessness within her. Molly, all unaware of what she was doing, was driving her to the end of her endurance.
“I’ve been much entertained by Mr. Longfield’s adventures out in camp. I shan’t tell you the story of how his head boy has been taking a hand in his affairs. You will be tempted to crimp him.” She turned to Aleck and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m frightfully interested in what you are telling me. I want to hear some more.”
“You have had quite enough. Come with me to the ladies’ room,” said Molly.
Sylvia glanced at her from the long canvas chair in which she was resting at full length. There was mischief in her eye, and her sister would have been wise if she had beaten a retreat.
“Molly, old thing, you are quite a good sort; but your nerves are out of order. You look flustered and flurried because you think I---am---leading---Mr. Longfield---on---to propose! Well!---I am NOT!”
Mrs. Southwood’s face was a picture of embarrassed indignation. The blood flew to her temples; she snapped her eyes, which were bright with anger. She glanced apprehensively at the Assistant and seemed on the point of bursting into furious speech. Aleck laughed good-humouredly. He was beginning to understand Sylvia and her many surprises and to like them. He found, to his joy and comfort, that his circulation was for a wonder steady.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Southwood,” he said in a soothing tone. “Miss Smith is ragging us both. I like being ragged by my friends.”
“Yes; it’s quite all right, Molly,” added Sylvia. “We have made a pact---mind, a real pact---that he is not to propose under any circumstances whatever. I know that’s what you’re afraid of. You need not be afraid any longer.”
Molly’s eyes flashed. She was becoming more and more angry every minute as her sister made fun of her in this barefaced fashion.
“Have you told him why?” she demanded.
“He knows enough for the present. More will be revealed when he falls in love with me “
“Sylvia! you are outrageous!”
“---and I fall in love with him.”
At this Aleck’s colour showed a disposition to rise, which did not escape Sylvia’s eyes. She did not mind how much she embarrassed her sister, but she had no wish to make him feel uncomfortable. She sprang to her feet.
“Come along, old thing. Let’s go and scald our mouths with hot sweet tea,” she said to him in her friendliest tone. “And by the way——”
“What?” he asked.
“Jackals and hyaenas!”
Molly glanced at her sister as they walked away towards the tea tables. Had Sylvia gone clean off her head? What had wild beasts to do with a proposal of marriage? A proposal that had not been made and was not going to materialise, if pacts and promises meant anything.
Mrs. Southwood was not content to leave Sylvia to pursue her wicked ways. She felt it her duty to interfere between her sister’s wiles and a poor, innocent, shy creature such as she took Longfield to be. His feelings ought not to be made game of just to gratify Miss Sylvia’s weakness for flirtation.
As soon as refreshments had come to an end, and Sylvia was preparing to lead Aleck away for a stroll in the Club grounds, or better still for a drive in search of a sea-breeze, Molly pounced on the criminal. She took no refusal, but marched her off elsewhere without giving her time to resist
Longfield submitted. He might have protested had he not been the recipient of Sylvia’s confidence. It crossed his mind that Mrs. Southwood might possibly be prudent. There was an artificial note in Sylvia’s manner that suggested a certain recklessness betraying strain and nerves. How he wished that he could help her, protect her from her husband, and restore her peace of mind. Of one thing he was convinced. He must know more about the trouble. He could not act on half-confidences. She must tell him all.
On Mrs. Southwood’s departure with Sylvia he remained at one of the little refreshment tables finishing a cigarette. Bessie Bowood, seeing him alone, detached herself from her late partner at tennis and began to drift towards him. He read the signs, and being in no humour to listen to her sharp and clever comments on social affairs, he rose and strolled away in the direction of the billiard-room as though bent on having a game.
“Hullo, Longfield! you’re just the man I want to see,” cried Anstruther, overtaking him outside the Club-house. They went into the wide veranda and sat down.
“At your service, old man,” replied Longfield warmly. He had always felt more or less indebted to the Anstruthers for their kindness in putting him up on his first arrival. “What is it?”
“You have been out at Tiru lately?”
“Yes; and I’ve got to go there again in a day or two, worse luck. I have to finish off a murder case.”
“A hanging case?”
“If we could find the murderer and get sufficient evidence.”
“My business is something quite different. How did the cotton crop look when you were there?”
“About ready to gather, I should say,” replied Longfield.
“I’ve bought the crop off those fields that lie round the village from the Zemindar. He owns the whole caboodle---the land, the houses and people. They have to gather the cotton. I pay him and he pays them.”
Campbell was sitting near and overheard what was said. He joined in to enquire if Anstruther had already given a cheque in part payment to clinch the bargain.
“Rather! The Zemindar is bound to let me have the crop.”
“I wish you luck in gathering it in. It would have been safer to have postponed payment till the cotton was delivered.”
“I was so afraid of losing it. You don’t think I shall have any difficulty, do you?” asked Anstruther with a touch of anxiety.
“Indian labour is the very deuce to manage,” said Campbell, without committing himself to any prophetic statement.
“We’ve had experience of that in the Press. Every year that passes seems to provide us with fresh snags in the labour field.”
“It’s all right if you know what’s before you,” was the reply.
“I’m prepared,” said Anstruther confidently. “I’m going to take half a dozen men with me; Hindus from our place. They are accustomed to deal with labour as overseers. They can give the necessary instruction and orders to the cotton pickers, and I hope to get the work better done than hitherto.”
“You can try,” responded Campbell quietly.
“This is my own little venture. If I can harvest the lint clean and without the dead leaves and twigs, the stuff will be worth fifty per cent. more than it is at present. Besides turning over my money, I want to teach the coolies to use their hands properly.”
Campbell laughed good-humouredly as he moved away to the card-room. He had very little faith in teaching the Hindu new ways. Better make the best of the Indian as he is created, was the conclusion he had come to after twenty years’ experience of the country.
“How many days will you be at Tiru?” asked Longfield.
“Two or three. It will depend on how quickly the villagers work,” replied Anstruther.
“I fancy my job will take about that time. I shall be very glad if you will be my guest while I am at the dâk bungalow. Bring your man. I will supply cook and fodder. It will suit us both; no chance of quarrelling among the servants.” Aleck said nothing about his recent experiences at Tiru. It was very unlikely that the ghost would reappear. If it did, he and Abboye would be ready for it.
Anstruther accepted the invitation with alacrity. With his wife left at home, the cook could not well be spared. Ragoo was only a “dressing-boy,” as Mrs. Anstruther frequently informed him, when he got a little beyond himself as master’s boy, and caused the butler to complain. He had done no camping for his master, and probably knew very little of cooking. Aleck and his friend agreed to meet at the Tiru bungalow two days later.
On the following morning, before Longfield left the bungalow for the office, Abboye claimed his attention.
“Master please excuse,” he began in the usual way. “I bring man with bullock to sell. Very nice proper kind of bullock to go out into the district. Master got cart. We bought from last dead ’Sistant. Our kitchen-boy can drive and clean cart. Waterman will feed.”
He went out into the front veranda. An elderly man, a typical villager, led forward a bullock. It was a young animal and seemed to be a favourite with its owner, who passed his hand affectionately over its white coat.
“Does he wish to sell it?”
Abboye and the man wagged their heads in assent.
“Why is he getting rid of it? Any fault?”
“No, sir; it belongs to his son. No work got for it. Motor-lorry doing all bullock-cart business now.”
“And what is the bullock to do when we’re not in camp?”
“Plenty business got. Bringing things back from market?”
“What does the man ask for it?”
“He says one hundred rupees. I telling fifty.”
“You are sure that it is a strong, healthy beast?”
He was putting questions in a perfunctory sort of way and paying little heed to the replies. It behoved him as master and purchaser to appear shrewd and anxious to drive a good bargain.
“Master look at legs and feet.”
Longfield did as his boy directed, but his mind was occupied with a matter of an entirely different kind. As each hour passed, his thoughts dwelt more and more upon Sylvia and her unknown troubles. He was no longer content with the information she had given him about herself. It seemed only due to him, having told him so much, that there should be no half-confidences, no reserve. She had imposed restraint of language as well as action upon him in the matter of his personal feelings towards her. Why should he acquiesce unless she rewarded him by trusting him altogether? He had shown her that he was worthy of that trust
“Master please look and see,” pleaded Abboye.
A dirty piece of paper which had been gripped in the fingers of the owner of the bullock was thrust into his hand. It was covered with hieroglyphics.
“What is this?” he asked, wresting his thoughts back from Sylvia and concentrating them on the bullock.
“Brand patterns to know bullock. Here got double circle and star with five legs. Here three marks same like matches and a long line like double cord on each side.”
He pointed to each figure on the paper while the owner showed the mark on the animal. They had been made by the process of branding the poor beast in its calfhood.
Abboye made a sign to the man to lead away the bullock and looked at his master. He was aware that he had had only half his attention. It did not matter, since permission was given to buy. But Abboye was disappointed that his master seemed to get no pleasure out of the bargain. The animal was worth in these days of a depreciated rupee at least two hundred. There was every prospect of securing it for less than half that sum. What was the matter with his master? Something had occurred to upset him and divert his thoughts. It had nothing to do with what had happened at Tiru. Of that he felt certain.
“I think we had better buy; plenty cheap at seventy rupees,” said Abboye.
“Is that the price?”
“Not more, sir. If I tell don’t want; perhaps owner taking less when last word come.”
“Very well; I’ll leave it to you, Abboye. You will want the money for it. I can let you have notes. He won’t take a cheque, I suppose?”
“Must take a cheque, sir. Can’t give notes or silver,” said Abboye with a touch of excitement for which there seemed no reason.
Longfield did not ask why the man was to be paid by cheque. His mind had wandered back to the old tracks. Where was that husband at whose hands Sylvia was suffering? Was he in India? If she was in India, he would probably be there also.
Abboye laid a paper before him, removing the piece that held the hieroglyphics.
“Here is man’s name. I send peon to bank with him.”
“Can he sign his name?”
“Yessar, in Tamil.”
Longfield put on his sun topee and hurried off to the office. The purchase of the bullock was completed; and almost before the cheque was out of his hand, he had forgotten all about it.
The papers lying on his office table were not inviting. They related to crime---cases in which he would meet with a ton of false swearing and only a pennyweight of truth. It was sordid, petty, childish, but none the less easy to deal with for that. In England he would have had clever brains working against him. Here he had to deal with the low cunning of the monkey type which roused his contempt. While he considered the details and balanced the evidence brought together for his consideration, there floated between his papers and his eyes the mental vision of the woman who had confessed in a moment of confidence that she had a husband.
The fields were a beautiful sight. Fleecy cotton covered the bushes like driven snow. Although early in the year, the days were hot. Between sunrise and sunset the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky. The heat set the air quivering like limpid water running silently over a bed of pebbles.
Under the sun’s rays the pods on the bushes burst in profusion and seemed to call aloud for harvesters. Their frayed edges were swept in the breeze, betraying their readiness to float away in fragments with their precious burden of seed hidden in the fluff to be dropped far afield in fresh soil. These winged seeds are the emigrants of the vegetable world, and if they have to be secured it is necessary to harvest them before they break loose from the parent plant and escape.
Anstruther gazed at the scene with appreciative eyes as he drove himself towards the dâk bungalow. He slowed down to revel in the sight, stopping once or twice where the white patches were thickest. If only the crop could be gathered clean and unstained by dust-storms, or unsoddened by the short, sharp showers that come at the tail of the monsoon, his money would be turned over cent. per cent.
He had hoped to find the villagers busy under the superintendence of the overseers who had been sent on ahead. They had received orders not to wait for him if, in their opinion, the cotton was ready. With their experience in the Press they should know exactly when the lint was fit for picking. Anstruther was inclined to believe that the work should have been begun at sunrise. It was too late, however, to do anything on his arrival. He had been delayed at the office and was unable to make a start till after lunch.
His personal servant, Ragoo, was with him in the car, a useful man of the type of Abboye, but having neither the education nor the brains of Longfield’s head boy. The two men were friends; and Ragoo regarded Abboye as a kind of hero who was to be taken as an example. Ragoo had a butler over him. Even if he had been quite as capable as Abboye, he would have been of an inferior status because of his subordinate position.
In the households of the English where there is a lady at the head, the chief domestic is known as a butler. In all other establishments the head servant is known as the head boy. It was Abboye’s ambition to reign as butler some day in the future. At the same time he had no desire to leave his present master’s service. To accomplish his end it was necessary that his master should marry.
When that great event took place and the Assistant Superintendent’s household came under the rule of a lady, Abboye intended to marry himself. He had already cast his eyes on a girl, the daughter of Mrs. Campbell’s butler. She was not ready yet to be handed over to a husband; so much the better, since Abboye was not prepared to join the rank of “family” men, as the married were known in the bazaar, at present. All in good time, however. Things were going in the right direction. Master was much addicted to the society of Miss Smith and he was becoming absent-minded and indifferent to details concerning the house; as, for instance, the purchase of the bullock and the saving it would be to his pocket when the camping season came round again.
Longfield arrived at the dâk bungalow at dusk. He had spent a tiring day, having made a considerable round to enquire about the missing valluvan of Tiru. The evidence about his movements was confusing and untrustworthy and therefore worrying.
The night passed without incident, and the next morning Anstruther was up early. Ragoo, like all good Indian servants, was still earlier, that he might provide the customary cup of tea and buttered toast called chota hazri. He had taken upon himself to add a couple of poached eggs to the toast, knowing that his master would be late for the big breakfast.
Anstruther wore a suit of white drill. His coat, slightly shrunk in the wash, was inclined to go into horizontal rolls round his waist where he buttoned it. But there were no critical eyes to take note of these details at Tiru. An enormous mushroom hat made of pith, wide in the brim and astonishingly light in weight, was pushed back upon his head so that the upper part of his spine might have protection from the sun. As a further precaution the attentive Ragoo had folded a towel lengthways and pinned it inside the drill coat to keep the sun from the lower part of the spine. The towel was sufficient to account for the misfit.
Anstruther himself was more than satisfied that he had fulfilled all his wife’s admonitions to guard himself against the sun. He considered himself sufficiently well equipped to remain, if need be, exposed to it all day. A white umbrella completed his outfit.
He stood on the raised veranda of the dâk bungalow and looked out at the fields. To his right was the palmyra grove with the temple. The mud huts of the village, thatched with palm leaves, clustered on the left. In every other direction stretched the cotton-fields, coming to the very edge of the sandy tract in which only the palmyra could exist. It was not a division marked out by man but the line was drawn by the hand of nature in her geological distribution of surface soil.
His eye swept the landscape, lingering on the snowy patches of the fields. Not a sign could he detect of a picker in any direction. The village showed no evidence of life either. A small boy in the far distance drove three buffaloes towards their feeding-ground among the cactus and the rocks, where nothing but spear-grass and thorny acacia would grow.
Anstruther was disappointed. It was not what he anticipated. He made sure that the Zemindar would have ordered the whole village into the fields; and that the people would not have dared to disobey him.
The only thing to be done was to go at once to the village and ask why the inhabitants had not turned out with their baskets to gather the crop. He would have to seek out the headman first. The house was not difficult to find. It was the only dwelling that had a terraced roof.
As Anstruther stepped down from the veranda, Abboye and Ragoo silently came from the dining-room, where they had been busy preparing the table for the later meal, and gazed after the cottonmaster, as they called him. Longfield was dressing. He was going to Mungalum on the line to question the station-master, a Hindu and a respecter of valluvans, although not a follower of ammahs.
Ragoo’s eyes, deep-set under thick black eyebrows, looked towards the village. His brow was puckered into lines of anxiety. Abboye joined him and together they watched the figure of Anstruther as he plodded along the grey dusty track that led to the huts. Ragoo was a Roman Catholic and a good Christian according to his lights, like his companion. Neither of the men had any sympathy with the “village people,” as they termed the inhabitants. They held them in contempt, them and their uncivilised habits, their scanty dress and their malignant demon.
On the previous evening, after serving their masters’ dinner, the two servants had paid a visit to the headman. Afterwards they sat with him and several of the more important men under the village tree, where was erected a platform. It was used as a common meeting-place for strangers and villagers. It was not difficult to pick up all the current gossip, past and present. They had also gauged the popular temper, which was not to be trifled with after what had lately happened, the running amuk of the servant of the Assistant Superintendent.
“It is as the headman said,” remarked Abboye. “Not a worker in the fields.”
“And the cotton spoiling as it lies on the bushes ripe for the gathering,” replied Ragoo with indignation. He identified himself wholeheartedly with his master’s interests.
By this time the cook and the kitchen-woman had left their pots and had come into the veranda from the neem tree, where they had improvised a camp kitchen.
“The devil in the palmyra tope has forbidden them to leave their huts,” said the kitchen-woman. She had also been to the village the evening before to buy fowls and eggs, and to order a herdsman to bring a cow to be milked at the bungalow. Given the opportunity, she never failed to glean all the gossip of a place within an hour of her arrival with her master’s camp.
Ragoo grunted and put the familiar question to which no answer is ever expected in India:
“What can do?”
The woman did not attempt to make any reply. She began to pour out the information she had picked up.
“To-morrow night a great fire will be lighted in the tope near the temple and there will be a devil-dance. The new valluvan has arrived from Madura, and he will dance. News has been sent to many villages and people will come from all parts.”
“And there will be much horn-blowing and drinking,” added the cook-boy. They relapsed into silence and watched the retreating figure of the cotton-master.
The white umbrella neared the village as its owner plodded over the dark soil, finding his way with some difficulty through the cotton-bushes. The paths were little more than goat-tracks and no six yards were in a straight line.
Not a soul advanced to meet him. The half-dozen overseers, termed maistries, rose from the platform of the village tree. They had been lodged in the chuttrum or Indian rest-house and had been served by the headman with all they required as travellers. They salaamed respectfully as he approached. Their attitude seemed apologetic; at the same time it deprecated all responsibility. Somehow it irritated their employer and raised distrust in his mind which showed itself in his manner.
“Where are your gangs of workers?” demanded Anstruther, not in the best of tempers. Every hour lost was of importance in his eyes---precious time that could not be made good.
“They refuse to turn out.”
“Why? What’s the matter? The cotton is sold to me by the Zemindar. The villagers are his workpeople and they are obliged to gather it.”
“They say that their ammah has forbidden them to work.”
“This is nonsense; they must be compelled to work, ammah or no ammah,” said Anstruther angrily.
“We have threatened them with a good beating with the bamboo; and have told them that the Zemindar will fine them. It is of no use. They are backed by the new valluvan, who declares that the ammah speaks through him.”
“It is the valluvan who wants beating!”
The maistries looked serious and were silent. They were not of the village way of thinking; but, being Hindus, they all knew from tradition that it was extremely unlucky to cross the will of a sacred man. Strange misfortunes befell those who opposed his religious ruling.
“What reason does he give for holding up the work in this disgraceful manner?” asked Anstruther.
The spokesman of the party replied.
“To-morrow night, Friday, is their usual night for devil-dancing. On Saturday they will sleep after much drinking. On Sunday or perhaps Monday they will pick cotton all day long if master please.”
“I don’t please!” shouted Anstruther. “By that time half the lint will have blown away. The rest will be hopelessly ruined by the dust. Where’s the headman. Tell him I want to speak to him at once.”
The old man was anticipating a summons and was beginning to tremble. He would rather have faced a tiger than an angry Englishman, whether the latter had righteous cause for wrath or not. He fixed his red turban on his head, took up his stick---the identical stick with which Abboye had broken up the pottery figures near the temple---and advanced towards Anstruther. He salaamed low, put his stick under his arm, and turned the palms of his hands uppermost, extending them towards the great cotton-master.
A storm of reproach greeted him in his own language, the language of the labourer employed in the cotton Press. He continued salaaming like a Chinese mandarin gone mad, until Anstruther ceased his tirade. When it came to an end he answered volubly.
It was not his fault. He could do nothing, he assured the lord of magnificence and greatness. He called himself a worm, a lump of mud! He threw himself figuratively before his lordship’s pious footsteps and prayed for mercy and forgiveness for sins that he had not committed, but which could only be laid to the door of an all-powerful valluvan. He could do nothing, he repeated, and the great cotton-lord of the universe must forgive him.
Ragoo and Abboye knew exactly what was happening without being on the spot, having gathered the facts the evening before. In their opinion, if anyone deserved an application of the bamboo, it was that old headman. The new valluvan merited it still more. They were a pair, aiding and abetting each other. In return for a present of ten rupees from the valluvan, the headman was backing him in his opposition. The tacit arrangement was that the valluvan was to take all the offertory, money, jewellery, or goods in kind, and no question was to be asked as to what became of it. It would be stored within the temple for a time under the protection of the ammah; then it would gradually disappear as the valluvan found opportunity to dispose of it.
And what, it may be asked, was to be the reward of the villagers?
To begin with, they had the joy of a great debauch. The valluvan sanctioned all their excesses and relieved them of the burden of their sins by acting as their scape-goat. Furthermore, he assured them that the ammah was pleased with the feast and that she would abstain from plaguing them with disease; from burning their houses; from flooding their fields and from frizzling them and their crops to tinder in a prolonged drought. For such benefits was it not worth bringing all their available treasures to the temple and placing them unreservedly in the hands of the ammah’s poojaree?
Half an hour later the white umbrella was seen by the anxious servants returning from the village. Its bearer was unusually depressed. As he slowly walked towards the dâk bungalow, Anstruther realised the fact that he was up against superstition, that terrible Juggernaut, which nothing can move, in India, no matter how imperative may be the need for prompt action.
Not a finger would be lifted to save the crop. It would perish, and not a boll be harvested till the drug-besotted valluvan, who claimed to be the mouthpiece of the ammah, had given the word for work and bidden his followers go into the fields. This he would not do till he had finished his diabolical orgy of drink and dance.
“My master will be vexed and troubled,” remarked Ragoo to the cook. “He is a good master. It is a pity we cannot help him.”
He fixed his eyes on Abboye, who had dropped into silence as though his thoughts were elsewhere.
“When the devil got into one of the machines in my master’s Press, it was the Police-master’s head boy who cast it out,” continued Ragoo.
“Aiyoh!” cried the kitchen-woman. “Our honoured head boy has much power over devils.” She let her glance rest on Abboye with pride and admiration. She felt that his gifts were an honour to the whole establishment.
Whether anything was implied by these remarks it was impossible to say. Abboye gave no sign. It has already been mentioned that he occasionally practised the art of casting out devils and it was generally believed that he possessed a mysterious power of control over all evil spirits.
Being a Christian, he was independent and outside the influence of the demons, and he had no fear that they could work him any harm. He was not at all anxious to be drawn into contact with the Hindu spirit-world; but there had been occasions when he had been tempted for a consideration to deal with the elementals that possessed human beings and that worked mischief with machinery. It was quite another affair, however, to tackle an ammah that had her regular habitat from time immemorial in a temple of her own; and who possessed, so to speak, a country residence in a palmyra tree. He had already run some risk in exposing the evil doings of her poojaree.
Therefore he kept silence; and as he did not wish the conversation to continue, he took steps to stop it. He turned on the kitchen-boy.
“Son of a dhoby donkey! Why art thou not boiling water for the cotton-master’s bath? See! he comes; and not in the best of tempers. Assuredly he will lay his stick across thy back if he catches thee here in the front veranda.”
The boy scurried off to the neem tree to escape the clout over the head that usually accompanied orders of the kind. The woman who had been sitting on the top step of the portico rose also.
“I go to see that that mud-head of a boy does not use too much wood in heating the bath-water.”
Anstruther came back to the bungalow for bath and breakfast. He was filled with a righteous wrath which was gradually merging into the depression that overwhelms the human being when he is up against the inexorable. He felt paralysed; it was the same sensation that would have come upon him if he had attempted to move single-handed one of the huge unwieldy temple cars that sometimes appear in a religious procession in India.
Longfield appeared and the servants bustled back to their work. After breakfast the Assistant Superintendent was off again on business connected with his work. He was sympathetic, and recommended Anstruther to have another try. He might set his maistries to bribe the coolies and see if an offer of a bonus would stir them. The cottonmaster prepared to pay another visit to the headman and started off once more.
Abboye and Ragoo looked out from the front veranda with a searching gaze full of anxiety. A whirlwind rose not far from the temple and sailed away over the fields. It was like a column of smoke from a fire that some invisible hand had kindled and was wafted along in an eccentric course. It gathered up dust and dried leaves and waltzed off over the cotton, powdering the white lint in its path with grit and rubbish.
The villagers watched it from beneath the eaves of their mud houses. According to the tradition inculcated by the valluvan, the ammah rode in it, delighting in the destruction wrought in its passage. It was her daylight chariot; the earthenware horses only came to life at night.
As long as Anstruther was in sight he was the object of the two men’s troubled regard.
“I should set the maistries to give a beating,” said Ragoo.
“It is the valluvan and the ammah that should have the stick!” returned Abboye.
“What is the master doing?” asked Ragoo indignantly. He answered the question himself. “He sits under the village tree. The maistries stand round him; the people hide in their houses, and the valluvan and headman laugh on the piall of the headman’s house. Pah!”
Abboye made no reply. He fell into a deep train of thought.
Longfield was having a busy day. He had been called to an adjacent village of the same type as Tiru where a robbery had been attempted. The owner of the goods had proved too much for the robber, who had lost his life in the execution of his housebreaking. The story as it was told to Longfield was as follows:
The thief had worked a hole in the mud wall that divided the cattle-shed from a chamber used in the house for a store-room. He was heard by the inmates, who were aroused. One of them armed himself with a wood chopper and entered the storeroom. The thief had managed to insert his head in the hole he had made and was taking a preliminary look round.
The inspection was cut short by the delivery of a fearful blow on the neck. The chopper was sharp; another two or three blows severed the head from the body.
The case resolved itself into murder or at least manslaughter; and the necessity arose of identifying the body and arresting the man who had used the chopper so effectively.
One would have supposed that there would be very little difficulty in doing this; but two causes contributed to bar the way of justice.
The first was the disappearance of the head. The second was the impossibility of identifying the body. To do his work the more easily the burglar had gone to it naked and had rubbed himself with oil, a very common practice in India among thieves.
No fewer than three sets of witnesses had come forward and sworn to the identification of the body. Each set of witnesses had declared it to be that of a different man. Search was made at the houses of the three men. All were missing. Only one man had been killed. Which of the three could it be? On the other hand, the body might be that of a fourth man, an unknown stranger.
Here was another mystery to solve, and Longfield had to sift the usual ton of false swearing to find the pennyweight of truth.
Dinner revived their tired spirits, and Aleck sought to amuse his guest with the story of the headless thief.
“Where do you suppose the head is?” asked Anstruther.
“Thrown out in the jungle of thorn and cactus for the jackals to dispose of.”
“And the three missing men?”
“This is where one comes against the folly of these simple-minded villagers. Those three men had something on their consciences. It may or may not be connected with the case; and they are afraid of falling into the hands of the police.”
“If their particular crime is not known, why should they be afraid of such a thing?”
“Someone may have threatened them with exposure; and at the sight of the police they fled.”
“I don’t understand why their relations should identify each one with the dead man.”
“A silly attempt to throw the police off the scent.”
“What are you going to do about it? Track them down?”
“Not I! They will return in course of time and drop quietly into their places in the village as though nothing had happened. My attention is directed towards the family in which the incident occurred. The villagers have a craze for complicating a case like this which would otherwise be perfectly simple. Now tell me how you got on to-day; any work done?”
“None at all. I feel hopeless about it,” said Anstruther, describing how he had spent the day in the village exhorting and scolding in vain.
“You are not working with any contract?”
“No; I never dreamt that such a course would be necessary. I don’t quite see how I could have made a contract.”
“You couldn’t,” responded Longfield. “Neither the headman nor the Zemindar would have accepted any responsibility. They know that their authority would go for nothing when it was a case of opposition from the ammah and the valluvan.”
Presently Anstruther startled Longfield by switching the conversation to another subject. It was that of Sylvia Smith. His curiosity was aroused. He asked Aleck if he knew who she was.
“Mrs. Southwood’s sister, of course,” was his reply.
“That piece of information doesn’t cover everything,” answered Anstruther, looking wise as though he possessed a secret. As Longfield remained silent he continued: “Usually my wife hears the news with the rest of the women at the Ladies’ Room in the Club; but she admits that they are all puzzled over Miss Smith.”
Aleck felt his circulation gradually losing its steadiness. He had no remark to make. It would be best to hear all his friend had to say on the subject before he spoke.
Anstruther continued in his simple-minded way to retail the gossip that his wife had poured into his ears.
“There’s some mystery hanging about the girl. My wife is confident that they---she and her sister---are concealing something. Mrs. Campbell is of the same opinion.”
Again silence followed the remark. They were seated by this time in the veranda. Aleck was doing his best to keep the colour from flooding his face by following Sylvia’s advice and thinking of jackals, but it was not feasible. She herself filled his vision and was not to be driven out by wild beasts. After all, it did not really matter if he turned a vivid brick-dust tint all over from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. In the dim light of the hurricane-lantern it would not show. As he did not speak, Anstruther turned his head and looked at his companion.
“I say! the sun has caught you to-day, Longfield. You ought not to wear that police helmet when you are out in the district where no one can see you. A topee like mine would be safer and more serviceable.”
“I must get one.”
At this moment there came a full-mouthed cry from jackals proceeding towards the village from the palmyra tope. It was opportune.
“Brutes! what an infernal racket they make!” remarked Anstruther.
After a pause he continued: “ ave you any notion what the mystery is?”
“I am beginning to suspect that the dead man is a son or a nephew of the family.”
“I didn’t mean about your rotten old robbery case. I was thinking of Sylvia Smith.”
“She plays an uncommonly good game of tennis. I hope I shall be in the mixed doubles with her again at our next tournament,” said Longfield.
“You don’t go to the Ladies’ Room, so of course you don’t hear what they say there. It is whispered, so Mrs. Campbell says, that she is a married woman.”
“Why shouldn’t she be?” asked Longfield shortly.
“Oh! of course! if it comes to that, why not? But if she is a married woman, why the devil doesn’t she own up and say so?”
“Perhaps no one has ever asked her what her exact status is,” responded Aleck. “I’ve always called her Miss Smith, and she has answered readily enough to the title.”
“Have you heard Mrs. Southwood call her Miss Smith?”
“She calls her Sylvia; that’s her name.”
“My wife says that she always introduces her, when anything of the kind is necessary, as ‘my sister, Sylvia Smith.’ It conveys nothing.”
“As much as we want to know,” said Aleck.
“Say as much as you yourself want to know,” said Anstruther. After his failure in the cotton-fields he was inclined to be irritable, although he was not naturally a contentious man. “We should like to be told a little more. We are all friends. If there was trouble in the family, they would have our warmest sympathy. Great Scott! you are sunburnt and no mistake!”
The breeze had died down and the night was warm and still. Silence reigned everywhere. The village was quiet and the jackals had ceased howling for the present. The bungalow keeper had retired to his little palm shelter near the neem tree, where the servants were also clearing away their curry pots after their evening meal.
A few dim lights still glimmered in the village. The evening meal had been taken and the valluvan had been the guest of the headman. Some of the villagers were already rolling themselves in their sheets and seeking their sleeping-mats under the little verandas that screened the doors of their houses. The women were stacking their cooking-pots where the dog and the jackal could not get at them. It would soon be time for the Englishmen at the dâk bungalow to turn in.
Anstruther was still exercised in his mind over Sylvia Smith. Longfield was doing his best to keep a non-committal silence.
“If she’s a married woman and there’s a husband in the case, why doesn’t she produce him?”
This was exactly the question that was burning in Aleck’s mind. It stirred him strangely. He felt that he and no one else had a right to know the answer to that question.
“Why doesn’t she tell us all about him?” said Anstruther. “What?”
The last query intimated that he was looking for some kind of response.
“Miss Smith has never struck me as being of the married-woman type,” said Aleck, wondering how he could turn the conversation.
“Have you noticed her with children?”
“No; I don’t think I have.”
“I don’t believe in the ‘Miss,’ and I believe still less in the Smith.”
It was all very disturbing. Longfield had sufficient courage, however, to face the music. In spite of all his promises, he knew he was in love with Sylvia. It was of no use to deny this fact to himself. At the bottom of his heart he believed that she was not indifferent to him. The belief unsettled him and caused him to hope against hope, even though he knew her to be a woman of the highest principles. He was also aware that she possessed a firmness amounting to obstinacy. If she did not choose to seek relief through the law——
So absorbed was he in his own thoughts he forgot Anstruther. He was recalled to the fact that he was supposed to be having a conversation with his guest by the next remark.
“You don’t have much to say on the subject, Longfield. Aren’t you interested?”
“No,” said Aleck untruthfully.
“I’m surprised. You see a lot of her; you two are always playing golf or tennis together.”
“I really have never considered the question,” said Aleck with a touch of impatience.
“Now that I’ve put it before you, you might venture an opinion. Is Sylvia Smith an unattached spinster in the matrimonial market? or is she Mistress Sylvia Brown, Jones, or Robinson with a husband up her sleeve of whom she’s not proud?”
“She may be a widow.”
“Then why the deuce does she conceal the fact or pose as a single woman? And why does she head off the youngsters in the way she does? The one under me complains that he can’t make any headway with her. You’re the most favoured and she keeps you at arm’s length. I wonder if he’s a regular bad ’un.”
“Who?” asked Aleck.
“Why, her husband of course.”
“You don’t know that she has one.”
Suddenly a weird prolonged scream burst on their ears, scattering their words to the winds. It banished Sylvia Smith from their minds and the mystery enshrouding her. The sound came from the direction of the palmyra tope.
“A hawk-owl! “ exclaimed Anstruther. “I’ve never heard the devil-bird before. It’s like a boy having his throat slowly cut. Shouldn’t like to keep a bird of that sort as a pet.”
“I’ve come across the hawk-owl more than once when I have been in camp,” said Aleck, rising to his feet.
“It’s the most infernal sound I’ve ever heard; worse than a hyaena, and that’s bad enough when it’s half starved.”
“That scream is not the cry of the devil-bird,” cried Longfield, leaning over the balustrade of the veranda and peering into the warm darkness.
“Then it’s the real throat-cutting business,” said Anstruther, who remained extended at full length in his long chair. “It’s another nice little case for the police. No wonder you’re not interested in our small mysteries with these crimes to unravel.”
Longfield took up his stick and ran down the steps under the portico. If a crime was being committed, it was his duty to mark it down. The local constable had a wide beat and in all probability he was at the other end of it at that minute. The perpetrator of the crime would take good care not to get to work till the field was clear.
Again the cry rang out through the night air. This time it was of greater length and it ended with a curious wail on an ascending note. The scream was not of pain nor of terror. The Assistant Superintendent stopped suddenly on the steps. He drew his cigarette-case out of his pocket and lighted up another cigarette.
“Aren’t you going to see what’s the matter?” asked Anstruther in mild surprise.
“No need for me to interfere. This is some hocus-pocus of the new valluvan who personates the devil.”
“He may be murdering one of his disciples,” suggested Anstruther with a laugh.
“I need not trouble myself about it; I am convinced it is not a case for the police.”
Anstruther called for Ragoo. The kitchen-woman came in answer. She was a Hindu and she was trembling and holding her saree before her lips. The ammah was a reality to her, although she was not a worshipper. She believed that the ammah had entered the master’s room on his former visit, and would have killed him if he had not awoke.
“Where’s Ragoo?” asked Anstruther. “Send him here.”
“He is taking rice, sir,” replied the woman.
“Where’s Abboye?” demanded Longfield.
He received the same answer. It is an unwritten law among the Englishmen who employ domestic labour that Indian servants shall never be interfered with or called away when they are taking the two great meals of the day, at midday and at nine o’clock at night. To unclothe himself before eating is a time-honoured custom from which no Hindu deviates. He is not in a presentable condition with regard to dress to appear before his master. The kitchen-woman, too frightened to retire without leave, stood in the outer edge of the light shed by the veranda lamp. She waited after the manner of her class for orders. They came.
“As soon as Abboye has finished, tell him I wish to see him,” said Longfield to the woman. “No hurry. I want to know what is going on and who screamed. Do you know yourself?”
Before she could reply the sound was repeated.
“The ammah! the ammah!” she cried, covering her head and her mouth lest the devil should enter through her lips or by her ears or nostrils. Without waiting for any more orders, she bolted in the direction of the neem tree.
“What does it all mean?” asked Anstruther.
“It’s a call for poojah,” replied Longfield. “It means that not a stroke of work will be done till the beginning of next week; four or five days hence.”
“The crop will be spoilt!” cried the unfortunate speculator. He inveighed in no measured terms against the villagers and their ammah. “If only I might use force and drive them to their work with the useful bamboo!” he concluded, regarding the officer of the law with comic desperation.
“No use, Anstruther,” said Longfield. “All useless wear and tear swearing at them.”
All the same, the disappointed man continued to anathematise the headman, the valluvan, and the people.
“If there is much deterioration I shall refuse to pay the rest of the money to the Zemindar. Perhaps if he feels the loss it will teach him to exercise a little control over his village people.”
“Easier said than done,” responded Longfield. “The Zemindar promised nothing. You bought the crop standing, without any proviso about the harvesting.”
Anstruther’s attention was wandering. Strange sounds issued from the direction of the palmyra grove. Calls, wails, and groans came in succession like a klaxon-horn gone mad. Aleck slipped out of the bungalow, leaving Anstruther, sitting up in his chair receiving his first impressions of a Hindu village in the throes of rampant animism. He walked quickly towards the palmyra tope.
The villagers had heard the cry and had risen, many of them heavy with sleep, from their mats. It was louder and more penetrating than any human voice.
They cast aside their sheets, hastily girded their loins with trembling fingers, and huddled together in fearful groups. Conspicuous among them were the headman and the valluvan. Behind trooped men, women, and children, torn in two by deadly fear and an excited curiosity.
The valluvan was shaking at the knees till he could scarcely stand. What with arrack and the opium introduced into the curry by the generous hand of a placating cook, he was fuddled and unstrung. The headman was very little better. This activity on the part of the ammah was inexplicable and out of all order.
The voice became articulate. It named the valluvan and the headman and called upon them to obey. It summoned the people to come to the tope and listen to directions which their ammah wished to give concerning the poojah to be offered at the devil-dance.
They dared not approach. Even the valluvan, who had assumed airs of authority, could not be persuaded to enter the tope or go near the temple. It was as well that darkness covered the place. It hid the yellowish-grey tones of the complexion of the ammah’s poojaree.
A sacrifice of goats was demanded with a big poojah which was to last several nights. The new valluvan would dance; the women would make a feast; there were to be pots of toddy for the people and bottles of good arrack for the headman and the valluvan. All this they must do if they wished their crops and their cattle to flourish.
Here the ammah reverted to her yells and ravings. It was some minutes before she became coherent again, so great was her outburst of rage.
What, she asked, were the strangers doing in the dâk bungalow? Did not the people know that no poojah must be performed with strangers in their midst? The foreigners were waiting for the cotton which the overlord, the Zemindar, had sold to them. Here the ammah broke into a shocking invective generally against the Englishmen which made Aleck smile. When she had recovered from her lapse, she continued her commands.
How could the foreigners take away the cotton without the assistance of the people? They had come to the bungalow to sit there till the lint was packed in bags on the carts that the villagers must supply.
“Ahhh! Ohhh! Oooo! Hear ye this, ye mud-heads! Gather the crop! Pick the cotton with care lest there be grumbling and complaint and delay. Gather! gather till the fields are bare. Then let the strangers take the cotton and begone. I will not drink blood nor allow my people to fill themselves with toddy till the cotton-master and the police-master and their servants have left the village.”
The ammah finished her oration by a final imitation of the klaxon horn which widened the smile on Longfield’s face as he listened.
As the last sound died away the people to a man fell to the ground, led by the headman and the valluvan. They grovelled in the dusty soil as they abjectly promised obedience. While they remained prostrated, they covered their faces with trembling hands lest the ammah should enter and possess their bodies.
As they lay thus, too terrified to move, a figure emerged from the grove at a little distance from the temple. His dark body was naked except for the small bit of cloth worn by every Hindu, no matter what his caste or his status may be. In the excitement of the moment no one noticed the shadow slipping away in the direction of the bungalow, still less what he carried in his hand---no one but the Assistant Superintendent of Police.
Longfield returned. He glanced at Anstruther, who had lighted another cigarette. He was still lying at full length in his arm-chair.
“Well? have you solved the mystery of the racket?” he asked.
“Oh! it’s nothing! Just a call to the temple; a summons to the worshippers to come and join the dance to-morrow. The valluvan has an eye to the offertory.”
Some minutes later Abboye presented himself before his master. Behind him, not altogether at his ease, stood Ragoo. Both men were turbaned and clothed in the white garments of service.
“Master looking for me?” said Abboye. “Very sorry, sir. Ragoo and your honour’s servant taking rice.”
“Find out for me the meaning of that screaming.”
“Yessar. Ragoo heard; cook heard; we all heard. Kitchen-woman plenty frightened. Heathen woman, sir.”
“What was it?” asked Anstruther.
“The ammah talking to the people,” replied Ragoo.
“What was she saying?”
“Telling them to do plenty poojah, sir.”
“Confound her! and they were listening?”
“Yes, sir. I think that valluvan making plenty humbug,” said Ragoo.
“Very bad heathen man,” added Abboye in corroboration. “Shall I bring whisky-and-soda, sir?”
“Yes; and I hope there’s some ice left.”
Aleck eyed his servant keenly, as he had done on a former occasion when he ran amuk; but he said nothing. The two boys went into the dining-room and presently returned with the drinks. When they had gone, Longfield said:
“By the way, Anstruther, you mentioned that you had it in your mind to teach these villagers a better method of picking the cotton. How were you going to do it? Classes?”
“That was certainly my intention. I got up from Madras a megaphone for the purpose. But if the local spirit has prohibited the people from gathering the crop, nothing can be done. Nothing can move such ignorance and superstition. Oh! may perdition seize them! My money is as good as gone!”
“Don’t say that. The crop will be gathered after they have had their tamarsha.”
“I suppose you can’t work it with a gang of constables and compel them to pick.”.
“I have no authority to do that,” said Longfield.
“What about my stopping on here? I can’t spare the time to sit in idleness at this bungalow. I took only a couple of days away from my legitimate work. I had better leave the maistries here in the village and return at the beginning of next week.”
“We can decide all that to-morrow. Let’s go to bed. I shall be up early myself, head-hunting probably. We can’t possibly identify this luny---who stuck his head so conveniently through a hole---without his features.”
The following morning, to Anstruther’s intense astonishment and satisfaction, the cotton-fields were alive with pickers. He could scarcely believe his eyes. The whole village had turned out, every available man, woman, and child, herdsmen, agriculturists, toddy-drawers. They picked cotton from sunrise to sunset.
In forty-eight hours the crop was harvested and packed off to the nearest railway-station, and Anstruther returned home with the satisfaction of knowing that he had made good in his speculation.
It was in England that Abboye learned the use of the megaphone, but this fact he did not think necessary to divulge. The villagers, after they had recovered from their fright, grew proud and boastful of possessing an ammah who could really talk. The valluvan, having reaped a bountiful harvest of offerings, departed. To serve an ammah with a voice unlike anything he had heard before was too nerve-racking for him. He preferred to attach himself to one that communicated with her worshippers through himself only.
Longfield was back once more in his bungalow at Tuticorin. When in camp it was his custom to settle the housekeeping accounts with Abboye and the cook weekly. In the station the accounts were done daily. The routine was always the same. It is familiar to all housekeepers in India and has never altered from the days when it was first established.
Abboye, dressed in his cleanest and best, appeared on the morning after their return with a bundle of papers just as his master had finished breakfast. Having lighted a cigar, Longfield was expected to seat himself at a small writing-table near the door leading into the front veranda. The cook appeared from the back and ranged himself just behind the head boy. He was not supposed to speak unless addressed by the master. All communications were to go through the butler, whether the establishment was large or small.
A dilapidated copy-book, the cover parting company with the leaves, was placed on the table before Longfield. This was the account book. Before dealing with it, the menu for the day had to be arranged. It was written on a loose sheet of paper and was read out by Abboye. It was passed without comment.
There had been an occasion in the beginning of things when Aleck had objected to an item in the menu. He asked for beef olives instead of the rissoles put down for the side-dish. Abboye noted the alteration without a word. When dinner was served, rissoles appeared instead of the beef olives that were ordered. A ready excuse was made. The cook was one mud-head fool; the cook-boy was the son of a dhoby-donkey; the kitchen-woman had no more sense than a starved hen. The order had been given to make the change, but it had not been obeyed. They would all be fined two annas on pay-day. Abboye omitted to tell his master that all the purchases for the day had been made at seven o’clock in the morning. By the time the master asked for the change in the menu, the meat and vegetable stalls in the market were sold out and closed. The rissoles turned out to be excellent, served as they were with sliced tomatoes and crisp brown onion chips. Aleck did not attempt to interfere again; but with due consideration to the self-respect of all concerned he continued to examine the menu as if he had the power to alter it.
After the menu came the accounts, and he was expected to study the copy-book before him. He found it difficult to interpret some of the items. In spite of a boasted education at the mission-school, Abboye’s spelling was not perfect. “Cabbage for buffalo squick” puzzled his master until he understood that bubble-and-squeak was intended. “Eggs for sweat homelett “ was also somewhat mystifying till he arrived at sweet omelet. He came to know them all in time, but this morning he was perplexed by an item in the accounts called “harey storer” which he had never seen before.
“You haven’t been giving me hare for dinner, I hope,” cried Longfield in sudden dismay. “I don’t like Indian hare; I’d just as soon eat jackal; nasty feeders.”
“No, sir; not good game, hares,” responded Abboye, who knew the English prejudice.
“Then what is this?” he asked, pointing to the entry.
“That’s ointment to make hair grow, sir.”
“What does Cook use it for?”
The cook had begun to fidget nervously, standing first on one foot, then on the other.
“Making hair grow,” replied the head boy promptly.
“On what?” demanded Aleck.
“On head and face.”
“Do you use it?”
“Yessar.”
“Oh, I see. Hair restorer. I think you all might buy your own cosmetics for the future. However, I’ll pass it now. I shall cut it out if I see it again.”
He paid up the balance owing to the head boy and cook and returned the copy-book. He was about to go when the boy, signing to the cook to leave, asked for a few minutes more.
“Can I speak to master?”
“If you’re quick. It’s time I was in the office.”
“The gardener wants leave. His father done die; wants to bury him.” Longfield suppressed a smile at the old tale. “He has brought a substitute, sir.”
“He can have leave. Go on; anything more?”
“Bullock doing nicely. Master see in the accounts; no expense for cart hire in the district this time.”
“I’m glad to hear that you are cutting down camp expenses.”
It had already occurred to Longfield that it might be as well to practise economy in his expenditure. He had not thought definitely of marriage up to the present; but it was beginning to loom in the distance. A good balance at his Agent’s would be satisfactory. It was with this end in view that he looked into Abboye’s accounts and objected to supply his kitchen people with cosmetics.
The head boy was quite ready to fall in with his master’s wishes. He had from the first exercised a rigid supervision over others and he could honestly say that, thanks to his watchfulness over his master’s interests, no one cheated him. He took his own perquisites in moderation. They were small and came from the tradespeople themselves. Compared with those acquired by Mrs. Campbell’s butler, they were almost trifling.
Abboye had other means of making a little money---means that were legitimate and above-board to a certain extent. He had suggested to his master that fowls should be kept. Fresh eggs for breakfast could only be ensured by his honour laying his own eggs himself, he said. There was room for a good fowl-run in the compound. The presence of a constable peon on the premises would keep away thieves; the fowls could be attended to by the cook-boy, who had already been saddled with the care of the bullock. Aleck had refused, but he had added:
“You may keep the fowls yourself and I will buy the eggs.”
It was an arrangement that suited all parties. Scraps from the house and the kitchen partially fed the fowls and the space available for the fowl-run was given rent free. His master’s table was always supplied with good eggs at a minimum of cost.
Two years ago Mrs. Campbell had been at some trouble and expense to import some pure-bred Orpingtons. In course of time fine broods of little yellow Orpington chicks were to be found at the back of other people’s kitchens. A brood appeared in the new fowl-house of Longfield’s compound. Abboye honestly bought the food for the fowls; that is to say, he paid the grain merchant himself a small sum for sweepings which supplemented the scraps that came from kitchen and back veranda.
Mrs. Campbell was blissfully ignorant that pure-bred Orpingtons walked and crowed and cackled and laid the real thing in eggs in the compounds of other bungalows than her own. Her butler knew all about it, however. When he exchanged a dozen Orpington eggs for a dozen bazaar eggs that did very well for kitchen use, something else besides the country eggs was given as well.
Again Longfield attempted to get away from his housekeeping duties; but he was detained by another “Master, please,” from Abboye.
“Well, what is it now?” he asked with a touch of impatience.
“Mrs. Campbell’s butler asking how long reward for lost bullock lasting?”
“Till we have found the beast, of course. Does he know anything about it?”
“Campbell butler speaking about butcher. He says he has got a nice young bullock in his yard to make beef of next week. Mrs. Campbell ordering sirloin.”
“What’s the name of the butcher?”
Abboye gave the man’s name and address, and the matter ended as far as the head boy was concerned.
“I asking master’s pardon. My father plenty sick with cough. Very old man; crying for son.”
Longfield turned on Abboye in sudden dismay.
“You’re not trying to tell me that you want to leave? I can’t spare you.”
“Yessar!” responded Abboye with infinite satisfaction. It was the attitude that all good masters should show towards their servants. He answered, as became the excellent, indispensable domestic, that it was his ambition to be.
“Can’t leave master; but what can do? Father plenty crying. All this making bother and trouble.”
“Where is the old man?”
“He has been living in Madras.”
“Can’t you bring him down here and give him one of the go-downs?”
“Yessar; I think that’s best,” replied Abboye, as his master proposed the very course that his servant had in mind.
“Has he a wife?”
“No, sir; wife die long time ago.”
“Will he come?”
“I asked a fortnight ago. First time saying no, can’t come; too far for an old, old man to go. Then I promise box.”
“Box? What for?”
“To bury in, sir. When servants and small people die, the proper custom is to tie up in mats. Only big people bury in box.”
“Have him sent down here and tell him that I’ll see to it that he has his box all right. It won’t cost much, I suppose?”
“No, sir. I give the carpenter empty cases which I buy cheap at the big Europe shop. Carpenter make very good box.”
Aleck rose from his chair. The interview had been longer than usual, but it left the head boy well content. Matters concerning his household were obliterated from Longfield’s mind by the work awaiting him in the office at the police-station. No additional evidence had been brought in that threw light on the killing of the burglar whose head was missing.
An inspector came in during the morning to report on a visit he had paid to the butcher who was to provide Mrs. Campbell with the sirloin.
“I have just been to see the animals at the butcher’s, sir. I looked at every beast he had in his stalls. There were four.”
“Did you find the lost bullock that we are in search of?”
“No, sir. They are all old. The one we want should be quite young.”
“Did you examine their marks?”
“No need to do so; they were all-old cows past the age for calving and giving milk. They are being fattened up, and the best of them will supply Mrs. Campbell with a fine sirloin, which she will pay for at the rate of prime young bull beef.”
Longfield laughed; the inspector evidently relished the joke.
“That won’t matter to us,” said Aleck. “She will believe it to be prime beef, and her husband will eat it as such and be none the wiser. Have you put up the notices of the reward?”
“Two hundred of them have gone out into the district to be posted up in the villages. I’m afraid they will give us some work, sir.”
“If they bring the missing bullock to light, I shan’t grumble. What about this murder? I suppose the head hasn’t been found yet?”
“No sign of it anywhere. The man we have arrested as the murderer swears that he did not do the deed; that it was done by his cousin, a person of his own age who sometimes stays in the house.”
“Where is the cousin?”
“He is missing. May be the man is right. It looks rather like it.”
“Is there nothing by which the dead burglar could be identified except his features?” asked Longfield.
“Apparently not. He was stark naked; we have no clothes nor any articles marked with blood that will help us,” replied the inspector.
“It’s a very odd thing how a head could be got rid of so completely and in such a short space of time. It must be buried somewhere. Was the missing cousin seen leaving the village that night?”
“No, sir; not that we can discover. He was unpopular in the village, a quarrelsome, drinking man, and they all seem pleased that he has taken himself off.”
“They wouldn’t hide him?”
“Not in the least likely. He has probably gone to Madras and shipped himself off to Burmah in a labour party.”
“You have disposed of the body?”
“Yes, sir; it was necessary. The case is complicated by the father, of the man we have arrested.”
“What has he done?”
“He has given himself up for arrest and made a confession. He swears that it was himself and not his son who chopped off the thief’s head. He declares that his son can prove an alibi.”
“The last resort of every Indian criminal. What are the father and son?”
“Toddy-drawers, like the rest of the people.”
A note was brought in; the inspector took the opportunity of leaving. His business was ended and there was nothing more to say. The Assistant’s eyes were upon the envelope; he became oblivious of murders and inspectors. The handwriting was Sylvia’s. The note was short. It asked if he would play golf with her that afternoon. Would he call for her at half-past three and drive her to the links?
Sylvia was waiting in the road outside her brother-in-law’s compound. The house with its deep verandas had no view of the road. Mrs. Southwood was still in her room. Tea was ordered for four o’clock, but Sylvia was not waiting. For several reasons she was glad to escape. Just now she and her sister were at variance. Too often the conversations that took place between them while Southwood was busy over his work led to useless argument. Both had fixed convictions involving principles; both were more or less obstinate, possessing strong characters; and neither would yield to the other.
Sisters have a way of expressing themselves without reserve. The elder is often under the impression that she has a right to dictate where she considers that the younger is in error. She is apt to forget that the younger is no longer a child; but is a woman, with possibly more experience than she has acquired herself.
Sylvia had asked Aleck to play golf with her, not for the sake of the game, but as an excuse for escaping from these unsolicited counsels. She had named half-past three as being an hour when Mrs. Southwood would not have come from her room after her “rest,” that, like the seasoned Indians, she took between lunch and tea. The sun would still be hot and unpleasant; but with sun topees, a game was possible, if the players were keen on playing.
It was a sandy course without shade, except for a small pavilion, where a little later the Club servants would appear with tea and iced drinks. The only advantage about the openness of the situation was that if there was a sea-breeze it could be felt; there was no jungle to shut it out. Very little was said as they covered the short distance to the pavilion. Sylvia asked a few questions about his second visit to Tiru. He told her of Anstruther’s difficulties over the cotton crop and how the harvesting was affected.
“I think it was Abboye’s doing. He picked up a good many wrinkles when he was in England,” said Aleck. “I hope he won’t overreach himself with all his cleverness. The villagers can be very nasty if their religion is trifled with. Fortunately for him, the former valluvan was under a heavy cloud of suspicion which kept him out of the way. The new man was a stranger and unfamiliar with the ammah and her traditions.”
“You need have no fear about Abboye. He is a born ‘wangler.’ He will wriggle out of his difficulties---if he ever has any---like an eel.”
He helped her out of the car and took her clubs.
“We’ll dump them in the pavilion, yours as well as mine,” she said impetuously.
He could see that something had happened to set her nerves on edge. Asking no questions, he did as she wished, and waited for things to develop. She glanced round as though she were looking for someone. All she wanted was to discover if they had the pavilion to themselves.
“If you are thinking of caddies, I can caddy for you. They won’t be here for another half-hour,” he observed.
“I don’t want caddies. I don’t want to play golf. What I want is a waste-paper basket!”
“A waste-paper basket!” he repeated, mystified. “We must go back to the office for that.”
“You will do as a waste-paper basket; someone to listen to my grousings and help me to have a good swear all round. Let’s get into the shade and sit down. If anyone else comes along, we will begin to get busy with our game.”
She slipped her hand into his arm and led him to a seat in the veranda. He could feel her fingers tremble. Something unusual must have occurred to unhinge her to this extent, was his thought. She produced a cutting from a newspaper and pushed it into his hand.
“Read that, and tell me what you think of the brute who is responsible for it.”
It was a notice cut from the personal column of the Times newspaper, and was to the effect that Sir John Dennis (Dennis was not the actual name, although it began with a D) would not be responsible for any debts his wife, Sylvia Dennis, might contract in his name.
Aleck read it through twice, slowly. Then he looked at the woman seated by his side. She was perfectly still. Her eyes were upon the sandy dunes over which the golf-course was made. A belt of palms in the distance bounded the horizon. On the boundaries of the course were great cushions of pale green cactus where many balls were lost. Thorns and snakes kept the most assiduous of searching caddies at a respectful distance. In Sylvia’s eyes there was a deep pathetic misery that moved him.
“You are Lady Dennis,” he said as he returned the paper.
“For my sins I am; though what sins I have committed to be punished thus, I don’t know.”
Her voice was low and scarcely under control.
“Why has this thing been done?”
“To insult me; to bring disgrace on my name. He knows that I am not extravagant; that I have money enough and to spare of my own for all my needs. He is well aware that I would never touch a penny of his. This is one of the ways by which he thinks he can persecute me and make my life a burden.”
“Where is he? In India?”
“In Europe, I believe.”
“Why is he persecuting you in this way?”
“He wants me to divorce him.”
There was a pause. Aleck felt that he must know more now that he knew so much; but he hesitated to ask the questions that would bring the information he wanted.
“You refuse to do so?” he said.
“Absolutely. Why should I, who have done no wrong, step down and assume the anomalous position of neither wife nor maid?”
She looked at him like a suffering, helpless animal that had been trapped and was fearing the infliction of more pain. In her eyes were unshed tears.
“There’s another woman, I suppose.”
“One who has thrown a spell over him. She is living with him in Paris. It is she who is neither wife nor maid. He wants my position for her; to make an honest woman of her, as they call it. Why should I give up my rights to another woman? I won’t! I wont!”
“Was he in love with you when you married?”
“There was never a doubt of it; and I trusted him and gave him the first love of my girlhood. Two happy years we had. Then this woman came into our lives; first as my friend, afterwards as his temptress. I ought to have seen through her from the very beginning. She was out to capture him and to oust me. I won’t be ousted without putting up a fight. I hate divorce. It’s wrong. I never could reconcile myself to the thought of divorced persons.”
The words fell from her lips like stinging little drops of crystal water. They were thrown at him with unerring aim and they penetrated, leaving a sharp, clear impression on his brain of her attitude towards the two who had wronged her.
He sat perfectly still, giving no sign of what was passing in his own mind. It was one thing to hear her mention a husband lightly and with a certain amount of mystery. It was another to be told details of her own priceless love, scorned and set aside for a less noble love---an emotion that was sordid and self-seeking as well as unscrupulous. If Aleck had harboured any doubts hitherto as to the state of his feelings for Sylvia, he was free from all doubt after hearing her story. He knew that he loved her.
The hands lying in her lap were restless; her eyes were moist and her lips trembled as they framed the words; but there was never a sign of any other weakness. She held herself upright and rigid as though braced to bear pain. As his eyes rested upon her, he was conscious of a sensation that a humane man might have felt who was looking on at the perpetration of injury, the sufferer being a woman. But even while he gazed the conviction was forced upon him that he was powerless to help.
It had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly; he was taken by surprise. Emotions that were entirely new had him in their grip. He found himself face to face with an unfamiliar Aleck Longfield. An instinct was making itself felt, a protective instinct that belonged to primeval man. If the defaulting Sir John had been anywhere within reach, he would have brought him to book summarily and given him the punishment that he deserved. Longfield was a big, hefty person who would leave his mark on anyone whom he rough-handled.
“You have a separation?” he asked, his voice hoarse and low and unrecognisable to himself.
“That’s what makes him and his new mate so furiously angry. Instead of setting him free to please himself, I have riveted the chains that bind him to me by a separation order. I have made good my claim to call him husband for all time; yet he is powerless to possess me. I am within my rights, and they both know it. I was under the impression that the deed of separation would protect me from this kind of annoyance.”
“So it should. He could be restrained.”
“It is too late as far as this offence is concerned. It is done. No good for a lawyer to tell him he mustn’t do it again.”
“He should apologise; not privately, but publicly, in these columns where he has insulted you.”
“Washing dirty linen in public doesn’t appeal to me. I want to avoid publicity. It was for that reason I dropped my title; called myself Smith, my maiden name, and came out here. I was under the impression that I could pull myself together in an entirely new world. But it is not as easy as I thought it would be, either to hide myself from my old world or to forget. On the contrary, I have felt lately that I must have a sympathetic ear into which I can pour my troubles.”
“It ought not to be difficult to hide your identity. No one knows who you are. I had no suspicion that you were married.”
“Bless you! you wouldn’t have a suspicion about a soul. Though you call yourself a police-officer, you are as unsuspicious as a child. That’s why I chose you for a waste-paper basket. The people here are good, kind-hearted souls, but they are full of curiosity.”
“Their curiosity need not be roused if you are careful.”
“It’s my sister who rouses it. She feeds it by a conscious reticence that is quite unnecessary. They ask questions about my young days. Where was I at school? Where did I spend my holidays? She puts on a sort of ‘Oh-we-never-mention-it’ expression that sets them all wondering whether I am a black sheep or not.”
Aleck was obliged to admit that Mrs. Southwood showed a strange anxiety occasionally.
“There’s another source of difference between us,” she continued. “It is on the question of divorce. She wants me to institute proceedings. I won’t.”
Divorce! It was a magical word. With lightning swiftness there flashed through his brain all that it might mean to him. It was full of possibilities that caused his sensitive pulse to beat. He did not speak; she went on with the unburdening of her overcharged mind.
“It is because Molly sees no other way out of the mess. If I am to sue for a divorce, she tells me that I must be circumspect in my conduct. I need not add that this is the reason why she disapproves of my friendship with you.”
He understood what Mrs. Southwood meant. He also comprehended Sylvia’s spasmodic outbreaks of recklessness. Excitement of some kind she must have to take her thoughts off her trouble. Personally she was attracted towards him. He was a man likely to win the approval of nice women. She was not afraid of him. His reserve and shyness would naturally make him reticent where a woman was concerned.
Molly, however, could see farther than either of the two. Both were young; the one had a sore, wounded heart; the other possessed a sensitive, unselfish temperament. She trusted neither of them to remain cold and calculating. On the contrary, she believed it to be extremely probable that they would fall in love. Sylvia would be caught on the rebound; he through his responsiveness. If anything like an understanding arose between them and they agreed that marriage should follow divorce, the decree would not be made absolute.
Had Mrs. Southwood only known it, she need not have feared any such complications. Sylvia had all along set her face against divorce. Marriage with her was a sacrament, inviolable under any circumstances. If she formed a friendship such as this, which was growing into something more than a mere acquaintanceship, it would be built up with respect, and with that purity of thought and intention which is a God-given gift to some men and many women. He broke the silence that had followed her last sentence.
“Were you very much in love with him?” he asked.
“Yes---oh, yes! I thought there was no man like him.”
“Would you take him back if he came with repentance?”
She caught her breath in a little gasp of dismay; it betrayed more than she was aware of.
“Oh!---yes---I suppose so.” The halting speech did not convey conviction to the man by her side.
“The dog that bit you!”
She did not reply. He had startled her. She turned and gazed at him with a new perplexity in her moist eyes. He continued:
“The dog might bite again if it is in its nature to sin that way. It would be certain to bite again when---tempted.”
“I couldn’t bear it a second time. The shame, the degradation of being neglected and superseded, has been already more than I can bear. I am a woman of strong emotions. There have been moments when I have felt as if I could kill him. I have had other desperate times when my loneliness has made me cry out for pity.” She paused and pulled herself together with an effort. Then she added: “But he won’t come back. She has him fast and I have reason to believe that she will hold him.”
“Will she make him happy?”
“Quite likely. He is a man who is attracted by anything new, and he is always pleased with his latest fancy. He has taken up this flying business because of its novelty.”
She ceased speaking and dropped into silence. He could see that her thoughts had gone back into the past.
“You loved him devotedly, whole-heartedly,” he said in the tone of one stating an incontrovertible fact. “You were once ready to sacrifice yourself for his happiness. You are not of the same mind now. The devotion you offered had its price---the price of his fidelity. Failing that, your love is beginning to weaken. If you desire his happiness at the present moment, you will divorce him.”
His words contained no question in them. They stated a hard, cold fact that shocked her.
“I do desire his happiness.”
“You honestly mean that?”
“That’s why I am ready to take him back.”
“What if his happiness depends, not upon his return to you, but on your gift to him of his freedom?”
She covered her face with her hands. As he spoke the words his heart smote him. Had he been cruel? The colour flooded his face. He felt that he ought to apologise; yet he would not have recalled a single word that he had spoken.
“I think it is absolutely necessary for you to consider the question all round, if you wish to act rightly. It seems to me that you cannot do so without regarding it from at least two separate points of view. There is the religious; there is also the human.”
“Yes,” she replied meekly, her hands falling back into her lap and the tears dropping unchecked upon them. How he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her! “Please put it all plainly before me.”
“There is your very right-minded belief in the inviolability of the marriage vows. If all women held rigidly to that belief and acted upon it, the world would be a better place. On the other hand, there is his happiness. If he is able to make ‘an honest woman’ of her, as you put it, his doing so won’t make a dishonest woman of you. On the contrary, many people will commend you for your sacrifice.”
“Even at the expense of my principles?”
“The deed will be an offering on the altar of self-sacrifice.”
She did not reply. He waited; it was not easy to ask all the questions that he felt must be answered if she was seeking advice. As far as he understood up to the present, it was not so much counsel that she needed as a confidant; someone in whose sympathetic ear she could pour out her troubles and find relief.
“Is there another life involved in this tragedy?” he asked.
For answer she drew out a private letter received from a sympathetic old friend by the last mail. She read aloud a paragraph: “I hear that your husband has lately flown from Hendon to Paris in his private aeroplane. He did not go alone. Report says that his companion’s health is delicate and that she will remain in France for the winter and spring. For the present she has decided to give up flying. I am afraid this rather complicates the situation.”
“Evidently there is another life,” he said. “If it is a son, it will rest entirely with you whether the child is an honoured son, recognised as his heir, or whether it is branded with the terrible curse of illegitimacy.”
Before she could reply a sound of voices on the other side of the pavilion fell on their ears. Mrs. Southwood entered, followed by two or three golfers and a group of caddies.
“Oh! there you are, Sylvia!” cried Molly. “I wondered where you were. The butler said you had been picked up at the gateway by the police-master; but he couldn’t tell me where you had gone. You must join us in a round.”
Sylvia and Aleck exchanged a swift glance. Not a word had been addressed to him by the angry Molly. The discussion of Sylvia’s troubles was by no means finished; but there was no chance of continuing it at present. Somehow Aleck felt disinclined for golf. He wanted to be alone. She had given him much food for thought.
He turned and moved away in the direction of his car. As he did so, he heard Sylvia’s voice toned up to its usual key, as though she had not a care in the world. What a wonderful woman she was!
“Delighted. I know Mr. Longfield is glad to escape from my toils.”
It was with relief that Aleck turned his back on the golf-course and the players. Sylvia had given him much to think about, but it had not been altogether a one-sided affair. He had put before her even more than she had brought for his consideration. She had given him facts. He had evolved problems from them of vital importance. They were problems that would have to be reckoned with. It would be impossible to set them aside.
He had made a strong appeal to her generosity, her Christian charity, he felt, and in so doing had opened her eyes to an intricate condition of her difficulties.
The action demanding self-sacrifice which he favoured, the legitimatising of the child’s birth, was at direct variance with her religious principles. It was asking her to break the sacred vows made before the altar. She turned from it as she would have turned from breaking any of the Ten Commandments. It needed no words of hers to tell him this.
Was it expecting too much of her to demand the laying aside of her high ideals, the placing of herself on a lower level with those who were less scrupulous in keeping their vows? Moreover, it was they who had sinned; they who were continuing to live in sin. She might ask why she should make amends---she, the sinned against, and not the sinner.
As he became calmer he wondered at his own boldness in stepping into the breach to show her the path he thought she should take. She had not asked him for advice. She had called him her waste-paper basket. As such it was his business to listen without comment or criticism. He was conscious that he had exceeded the liberty she had given him.
In another respect he had his qualms. He wondered if his own boldness in speaking was prompted by self-interest. Divorce would make a free woman of her, with no obstacle to the wooing and winning of her but her own prejudices. These might be overcome in time, in spite of being built upon principles. He was disturbed by the thought that everything he had said was unintentionally biassed by his own desires.
In his heart of hearts he knew that he cared little if a chance child was born to strangers under the bar of illegitimacy. It was nothing to him beyond being a matter of general regret that such injustices could exist. Yet he had pressed the urgency of instituting divorce proceedings with the strongest argument that he could summon to his aid, appealing to sentiment rather than to principle.
The story she had told him had not lessened his love. It had added fuel to it by rousing his pity. She required a guardian and protector. In him she would find all that she needed. As he contemplated the man who had treated her in this way, he longed to have authority to deal with him. He was keenly anxious to avenge the wrongs of an innocent woman who was being persecuted by a heartless wretch in whose power she had placed herself.
He banished the theory of his own selfishness and justified his action. Of course she ought to get a divorce for her own sake. As for taking a man back into her life after he had treated her thus, it would be nothing less than courting disaster. He was probably one of the good-looking, careless scamps in whom continence was entirely absent. As he had offended her once, so he would offend again as soon as temptation came in the way.
She would be well rid of him; and while she was about it, it should be a clean cut with no threads left behind by which she could feel herself tied. Her husband had shown himself capable of spiteful actions. If he continued his malicious persecutions it might entail endless misery upon her. When mud is thrown, some of it is sure to stick. She must put herself into a safer position where it would be impossible for him to hurt her; and that could only be done by divorcing him. Mrs. Southwood was quite right in warning her sister against anything that could be construed into a flirtation.
Longfield felt disinclined for the society of his fellow-men just now. Instead of going to the Club, he went back to his bungalow. He had brought home the papers of a case that was occupying his professional attention with a view to studying the evidence at his leisure that evening. It was not an uncommon form of crime in India and has been already mentioned in connection with his police work. It concerned the abduction of one of a pair of bullocks. The story was as follows:
A pair of draught-cattle, young and well bred, had been purchased of a herdsman in the neighbourhood of the village of Tiru. The herdsman lived in a hamlet about four miles distant. He owned a small herd of cattle of the Mysore breed, the white humped beasts that make the best draught-bullocks of South India. It was arranged that the pair was to be sent and payment made to the drover in charge on delivery at Tuticorin.
The drover was believed to be honest. He had delivered beasts for his employer on former occasions and had brought back the purchase money safely in a roll of notes or by cheque.
This man took charge of the animals in question and received money for expenses on the way. The charges were not heavy, as the bullocks carried across their backs the sacks of fodder required for food. He was allowed a week to do the journey, which could be covered by a motor-car in three hours.
The animals arrived in good condition and payment was made by cheque, which, at the seller’s request, was placed in the hands of the drover. The man departed, returning by train to Mungalum---the nearest station----from which place he walked back to the hamlet.
When the bullocks were fed and watered, the purchaser went out to look at them before they were led away to their stalls. To his great dismay he discovered that only one was young. The other was old and unfit for work. It was evident at once what had happened.
On the journey the better of the two had been exchanged for a useless aged beast only fit for the butcher’s knife.
Where the exchange had taken place it was impossible to discover. The drover could not help in any way. His story was that he never left the animals night or day; that he slept by them and noted no change in their appearance. If there was an exchange, it must have been made after he had handed them over to their new owner’s servant.
It was suspected that he had been drugged on the road, the narcotic having been administered in the curry that he purchased in some village.
While unconscious he was probably put into a cart and carried away from the spot where he had been drugged. Eventually the old bullock that drew the cart was unyoked in a lonely part of the road and one of the young ones put in its place. The thief then tethered the old animal and the second young one to a tree and left the drover lying by them.
Some hours later he must have recovered from his intoxication sufficiently to resume his journey. He would still have been too fuddled to have discovered the exchange. On arrival he handed the animals over to the purchaser, who never doubted but that the man chosen by the seller himself had been faithful to his trust. Such confidence had he that he omitted to verify the marks, an omission that cost him dear.
Some time after the exchange was discovered, the theft was reported to the police; but, with no evidence except that which the drover could give, there seemed little chance of a conviction and still less of the restoration of the animal.
A list of the hamlets through which the bullocks passed did not help. In that wide expanse of dead flat land there was very little traffic and witnesses were scarce. In two or three villages the drover was recognised. Those who had seen him readily swore that the pair he was driving were both young beasts. The villages were all of the same pattern as Tiru, and the inhabitants as unreliable as the Tiru people.
The drover was not likely to have taken his cattle off the great highway, which offers no crossroads or by-paths to confuse the traveller. The country does not lend itself to short cuts. The palmyra topes, the cotton-fields, and the rough thorny waste of ground with its gigantic patches of cactus, stony tracts, and wide stretches of sand allow of no deviation from the highway. The road is straight where there are no hills to be avoided or rivers to be crossed. Government sees to it that the highways are well made and kept in good order.
The drover stuck to his story; his testimony as to his route could not be shaken. He called two or three witnesses to testify that they had seen him at the wells on the road where he fed and watered his bullocks. They also said that both the beasts were young and that he was driving them carefully. All the witnesses summoned at his request testified as to his sobriety.
His lapse under the influence of drugs was not proved; but owing to past experience it was strongly suspected by the police that there had been trickery of some sort.
Longfield was worried over the case. This was the third of its kind that had occurred in his district. In one the exchange had been made in a small drove of country ponies. Two of the best had been taken and in their places a couple of old and infirm animals had been introduced. In the other a single bullock had been removed from a cart at a place where the driver had halted to rest and sleep for a couple of hours in the heat of the day, and another less valuable beast had been substituted.
The irritating part of all these crimes was the extraordinary slowness of the victims in notifying their losses to the police. In nine cases out of ten the thieves had ample time to clear out and establish an alibi before the facts were made known.
Longfield determined to offer a reward for information that might lead to the recovery of the bullock and the conviction of the thief. Two hundred rupees was the sum upon which he fixed. He had posters printed in the vernacular. They were put up in the villages and hamlets through which the drover had passed with the bullocks. Aleck was surprised to find that his inspectors were not in favour of his scheme.
“We shall have a lot of trouble if these notices are scattered broadcast, sir,” said one of them, an elderly Anglo-Indian who had been born and brought up in the country and knew the Hindu ryot from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. “It would be better to send out two or three of our trackers and a few extra constables.”
“They have such queer methods of forcing confessions where they suspect,” said Aleck.
“It does no harm. It is easy for us to prove the truth of a confession or the soundness of evidence; but it is extremely difficult to get independent information where there is no clue.”
“We have the record of the identification marks?” asked Longfield.
“Yes, sir; it is here.”
The Inspector unlocked a drawer and took out a soiled and worn sheet of paper containing a set of hieroglyphics. They consisted of a single line, a circle, an arrow head, and a single short upright mark. They were brands which the animal would bear to its dying day and could never be erased.
“I suppose the herdsman who bred the beasts was not foolish enough to duplicate the brands?”
“No, sir. Here is a paper of the brands on the other bull which the purchaser received safely. They are differenced by a square which was put in the place of the circle.”
The substitution of a four-cornered figure for the circle made a striking difference, leaving no excuse for confusing the two. The brands were placed on parts of the bullock that could not be cut out---along the back on either side of the back-bone, and on the flank.
“Well, we will see what the offer of a reward will bring forth,” said Longfield as he parted from the Inspector.
On his return from the golf-course he handed the car over to the chauffeur, a Hindu, with the intimation that it would not be wanted again that evening. He felt restless after his interview with Sylvia and disinclined to mix with his fellow-men and acquaintances. He was unhinged and unlike his usual self. The small-talk of the billiard- and card-rooms at the Club put fear into his heart, lest he should hear her name mentioned, as Anstruther had mentioned her when they were at Tiru. His nerves were on edge and he dared not trust himself to keep silence. It had been difficult enough with Anstruther. He knew him as being kind-hearted and the last person to throw out hints that all was not as it should be with Miss Smith. Yet he had shown enough curiosity to irritate Longfield and tempt him to say something sharp against idle gossip.
It was still early in the afternoon and he felt the need of exercise, the exercise he would have taken had he brought off his golf with his companion. The papers he intended to look through would keep till the hour when the lamps were lit and the short twilight was over. He took up a walking-stick and strolled out into the garden.
Like all Indian bungalows, the house stood in the middle of an acre of ground, called a compound. At the back were the outbuildings, a long row of ground-floor rooms, each furnished with a door and a small window.
The centre of the go-downs, as the out-buildings were termed, was devoted to the kitchen. The servants’ rooms came next on either side. At one end was the fowl-house and at the other the stall for the bullock. It had formerly been the stable, but in these days of cars horses were not required. The car was kept in a shed built against the side of the bungalow.
In the front of the house was a flower-garden, a large circular bed such as all Indian gardeners delight in. It was not inviting; but the master of the house was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to pay any attention to the straggling marigolds and the half-starved pot plants that seemed to be crying out to be repotted. He paced absent-mindedly along the path that encircled the flower-bed.
His advent had been noted by the whole establishment. It caused some surprise, and there was a question in everybody’s mouth as to what had brought him back at such an hour. It necessitated a few little alterations in the programme for the couple of hours before dinner, which are essentially the servants’ own. Preparation had to be made for the passing of the master’s eye over the scenes.
The kitchen-woman, who had promised her youngest son a beating, deferred the ceremony lest his shrieks should disturb the master. The fowls let out for a good healthy scratch in the garden were rounded up into their sleeping-place a full hour earlier than usual. This was advisable because if seen in full daylight at his leisure, the master might observe the family likeness between them and the Campbell fowls. Uncomfortable questions might be asked as to their origin and much unnecessary trouble stirred up.
The bullock, which had been receiving attention from Abboye and the waterman---the latter washed it and kept it beautifully clean---was driven back into its stall and covered with the light rug it usually wore.
The cook in the kitchen put away a very dirty pack of cards, hastily dismissed his friends, bidding them come the next day; clouted the kitchen-boy and bade him clean a saucepan that already shone in the rays of the descending sun. In short, the whole compound and all its inhabitants sat up at attention with the alertness of busy birds when the cat walks into the garden.
Abboye, dressed ready for service at the dinner table---it takes but a short time for the regulation long white coat and turban to be put on---approached his master.
“Shall I get whisky-and-soda? Ice done come,” he asked.
“No; I only want to be quiet.”
Abboye divined that something was wrong. He became silent. While he stood a pace or two behind his master, his hands behind his back and the skirts of his coat gently blown against his long legs in the evening breeze, he gave himself up to deep thought. What could have been the cause of his master’s erratic behaviour in coming back to his bungalow? By all the rules of usage common with English gentlemen, he ought to have been at the Club drinking these new drinks called cocktails and playing billiards or cards.
A quarrel with another gentleman it could not be. His master was not one of the quarrelsome kind. A quarrel with a lady? No; it was impossible. Yet---terrible thought!---could Mrs. Campbell have discovered the borrowing of the cook or the acquisition of Orpington chickens? If so, she would make a personal matter of it, although the master was not to blame.
Ah ho! It was the Smith lady! To-morrow in the bazaar he would find out from the Southwood butler if there had been more scoldings and trouble for the missie on account of his master. Why did the mistress make so much bobbery when the missie played golf and tennis with the Assistant Superintendent? It was because he was not a big enough gentleman for missie to marry. The mistress had forbidden her to play with the master; and the master was sorry.
Abboye decided regretfully that he could do nothing. There were no strings that he could pull in this case. He had sounded the Southwood butler on the subject of the missie’s private character. From his account she was everything a good, self-respecting butler could desire as a mistress. The ayah who served her reported that she was liberal with regard to money; but she had eyes. She did not give money for nothing.
It was the general opinion of the butlers, who discussed their employers down to the last thread, that a mistress who looked after things was better to serve under than one who was lazy and left household matters to chance. Such a mistress was always scolding and never satisfied.
Longfield drifted aimlessly round the house. It was a long time since he had visited that part of the premises. As for the back veranda, which is the pantry and larder of a bungalow, he rarely set foot in it.
Slowly he and his head boy arrived at the entrance of his back premises. As he approached the broad steps an old man rose to his feet and salaamed low. He was dressed in white and wore a small neat turban. He was clean-shaven, except for a carefully kept white moustache that would have done honour to a Brigadier-General.
“Who is this?” asked Longfield, his mind suddenly diverted from the troubles of Sylvia Smith.
“He is my father, sir,” replied Abboye proudly.
Again the old man salaamed with a magnificent sweep of his hands to his forehead.
“I thought you told me that he was in Madras.”
“Just come up, sir, from Madras. As soon as I write about box”---he pronounced it “barx”---“he starting. Very good old man, this; giving no trouble and soon die.”
Again another salaam from the aged servant.
“Here on this side got box.” Abboye indicated a long chest made of rough wood. It stood in a line with the meat-safe along the wall. It was raised from the ground on bricks. Round each pile of bricks was a rag soaked in paraffin oil to protect the coffin from the attacks of the destructive white ant.
Abboye explained that it was made by the carpenter employed permanently in Anstruther’s cotton-press. He had purchased some old packing-cases belonging to a European firm and the man had manufactured an oblong box. Fortunately for Aleck’s nerves it did not resemble the real thing too closely. The name “Spencer” upside-down still remained on one of the planks. Another bore the title “Johnnie Walker.”
Beaming with pride, Abboye led his master to the new importation with an insinuating request.
“Master please come and look.”
A loose lid was raised, the old man assisting, and the inside of the shell displayed. It was lined with gold-spangled turkey-red. Along the edge was a row of pink paper roses. The bottom was covered with newspaper and on the papers were laid the master’s golf-clubs.
“This very good place to keep master’s golf things. My father can make shine nicely. Very good old man. He will give no trouble. Every morning he will clean the silver, sitting here by master’s gracious favour.”
“All right; do as you please. How much did the---er---the box cost?”
“Twenty rupees, sir. I give advance five rupees. I ask master’s honour to advance fifteen, which please deduct from my pay two rupees a month.”
Abboye looked at his employer with a shade of anxiety in his eye. Did he remember his promise? It was a bold stroke ordering the box before he was sure of the money. He had done it to gratify his father, so that the old man should see it on arrival and know that his son had been as good as his word. Abboye had made no mistake, however. His master’s next words set his mind at rest.
“Ask me for the money to-morrow morning and you shall have it. I promised it; and I make your father a present of his box. Mind you see that he is happy and comfortable.”
The old man comprehended all that was said. He advanced towards Longfield as he was still standing by the coffin. With his hands raised palm to palm he dropped suddenly to the ground.
“Sir, my gracious lord and master, this poor man throws himself before your honour’s pious footsteps. May your honour get a good place in Heaven; for that this poor old worm of a servant will ever pray.”
He spoke in English fluently. It was a curious little speech with an echo of the dim past of John Company’s days in it. The ancient head was bowed and the forehead touched the ground while the extended hands closed over the instep of Longfield’s right foot.
Abboye, knowing that his master did not like scenes of any kind, came forward and helped his father to his feet. He led the old man to a mat laid before the coffin and established him there. Although the ceremony was closed as far as Longfield was concerned, it was by no means ended.
Later in the evening while the master retired to read and smoke in the front veranda, Abboye and his father held a reception that became the talk of the bazaar on the following morning. All the upper servants of the different European houses came in the order of their master’s rank, headed by the Campbells’ butler and cook. Each in turn made his salaams. They were permitted to inspect the “barx”; and after all its perfections had been pointed out, the close-fitting lid, the tinselled lining, the paper roses, they passed on towards the kitchen, where they were regaled with “second sorts cooking brandy” and betel.
After the “quality” came the inferior servants, the kitchen-women, the watermen, the cook-boys, the syces and chauffeurs, the peons and constables. For these less noble visitors arrack was provided. Those who had caste to consider, like some of the peons and constables, did not think it necessary to forgo the refreshment. They received their tot of spirits into their cupped hands straight from the bottle.
It was a great occasion for Abboye, and was of the nature of a social triumph. Few of the visitors could boast the possession of an old father near his end. Not one of them dared to hope for the unprecedented prospect of burying an aged relative in a real coffin made expressly for the purpose.
The following morning a very clean, cheerful old man took his seat on the mat, laid where Abboye had placed it before the box. Round him were ranged articles of brass and silver ready for cleaning. His first duty was with the golf-clubs, which the matey, the second house servant, handed out to him one by one from the coffin. When he had finished with them they shone with a wonderful polish. They were carefully replaced in their new resting-place and the lid closed over them. This done, the brass and silver had to be cleaned.
At noon the ancient retainer had completed his tasks. He put away his wash-leathers, plate powder, and brush, and toddled off to Abboye’s room. There he took his curry and rice. Afterwards he slept away most of the afternoon. He began his day at four in the morning, when he got up and made his son’s coffee. His working-day lasted till noon. It was wonderful how much cleaning he got through in the time.
In the next pay-list of the wages presented to Longfield was a new item. It stood at the top. “To silver matey, three rupees.”
The old man had risen from dog-boy to dressing-boy; from dressing-boy to head boy; from head boy to butler. As butler he had remained for more years than he was able to count. Now he had come down from butler to silver matey, and as such he would finally end a long life of honest work. He would find a resting-place in the box that stood ready to receive him as soon as he should be ready to lie there.
“Why make him work?” asked Longfield. “He is too old. I’ll give him the three rupees for nothing---as a pension.”
“Can’t take money for doing nothing, sir,” replied the son. “Not too old to clean silver and master’s clubs. Must give work or the old man will sit and cry all day.”
A few mornings after the publication of the notice offering a reward of two hundred rupees for the recovery of the stolen bullock, the police-station was besieged by people from various parts of the district.
They came leading bullocks of all colours and ages. They tethered their beasts to trees and rails and posts; inside the compound of the police-station if the constables on duty did not drive them outside. The animals were one and all extremely quiet, resigned to whatever fate was in store for them after years of bitter experience in the matter of over-loading and over-driving with proportionate under-feeding. A small bundle of rice-straw was carelessly thrown down under the nose of each bullock. The owners troubled themselves no more about their beasts. Squatting near the straw, they rested and waited.
The Hindu has a wonderful capacity for waiting. He eats and sleeps, gossips and chews betel with an enviable disregard for the passage of time.
At the appearance of anyone in uniform---constable or inspector---the owners of the cattle rose to their feet and attempted to explain their presence. The official listened for a time in silence. Waving the hand of authority, he directed the speakers to sit down again and wait. He explained that the big police-master could not be seen at present. He was busy; or he was eating; or he slept.
There was no grumbling as each in turn met with the same treatment. The statement was taken with a grain of salt; it meant that the moment for the interview had not arrived. It appeared to be only what might be looked for from the great ones of the Law.
As the police-station could not be turned into a permanent cattle-kraal, the crowd had to be dealt with. It was Longfield’s custom, unless anything unusual required his presence elsewhere, to go to the police-station at ten o’clock. The bullocks had arrived at dawn and were continuing to come in. As soon as the Assistant Superintendent had dealt with two or three matters at his writing-table, he came out into the veranda.
On his appearance there was a crush to get near him. Three or four constables produced order and sent the men forward in turn. Dragging their slowly moving bullocks up to the veranda, where Longfield stood on the top step, they were given a hearing.
The claim made in every case was the same. This young beast was undoubtedly the missing bullock advertised for. It had been brought by the present owner many miles at great trouble and inconvenience. If the big police-master would pay over the reward, the bullock would be left in his hands and the recipient of the reward would be glad to get back to his village where his field was suffering by his absence.
Asked how he came into possession of the bullock, the tale was always more or less the same. He had found it straying in his pumpkin garden. It was plenty hungry and had eaten half his pumpkins. An urgent request followed that the animal might be closely examined and the money awarded.
The production of the precious paper containing the records of the brands disconcerted some of them. They recovered their self-possession quickly, however, and hoped to strengthen their case by additional hard swearing.
Every man had to be examined and his deposition taken with his name and village. Most of them were turned down with as little delay as possible; but as everyone knows, haste in India is impossible. They accepted the verdict with resignation and found compensation for disappointment in the delights of a town bazaar. To their village-bred eyes the station was a metropolis.
They had brought their food, millet puddings---unwholesome-looking brown balls of raggi flour. Others from the eastern parts of the district had coarse-grained rice pressed together into equally uninviting dumplings. It was a holiday excursion and they had all come with the intention of making the most of it for forty-eight hours at least. They did not picnic together, although they gossiped and joked with each other. Each retired into as secluded a corner as could be found, and, turning his back on the crowd, ate his food in silence.
It was a long and fatiguing morning for the whole staff, including Longfield, who never ceased to marvel at the combined cunning and stupidity of each claimant.
One old man from a village some twenty miles away produced a cow which he declared to be the stolen bullock. Its marks more nearly resembled those of the missing beast than any other brands inspected. But the sex came in the way. The owner stoutly maintained that it had been formerly a bullock. A devil had entered the animal through its having been inadvertently tied to a tamarind tree and left there all night. From that time it had assumed the appearance of a cow owing to the devil’s desire to avoid draught-work and the beatings and tail-twistings that always accompanied it. If the police-master would only keep the animal a little time and feed it with jagghery (sugar), it would lose its cow-like appearance and show its true sex. It was useless for Longfield to be angry. The man was at length made to understand that the beast could not be accepted and that no reward would be given. He was advised to take it to the butcher’s and sell it for beef.
He received the counsel with an assenting wag of the head. Now that all hope of a reward was gone, he felt free to expatiate on the sins of the poor beast, sins that he took as personal injuries to himself. The devil had entered into it when it was a young heifer. It had given no “child” and no milk. He had stuffed it with food; kept it without water; starved it till it could scarcely stand and changed its husbands often. He agreed that the butcher’s would be the best place for it.
Hindus and Muhamadans of the town were drawn by curiosity to the spot. Some of them were ready to take the opportunity of making purchases. Among these was no other than Mrs. Campbell’s august butler. Abboye had been in the habit of giving him a lift to the bazaar in the morning and bringing him back with his more precious purchases that were not to be trusted to the cook-boy. The Longfield head boy had been very pleasant and accommodating; but it seemed to the butler that it would be more dignified not to be under an obligation. If anyone was to receive a favour, it should be the head boy.
With Abboye’s assistance they discovered a nice little grey humped animal, too small for the ordinary country cart but the very thing to go in a light vehicle with springs. Negotiations were opened with the owner; they lasted several hours, but ended in the transference of the bullock to Mr. Campbell’s compound.
The compound of the police-station and its vicinity looked like a cattle-fair. The men, having come from the depths of the country, were determined to see all the wonders of the town. They left their beasts tethered, after watering them, and went off to the bazaar. Drink they could get cheaply and plentifully in their own villages. The arrack-shops had no attraction. It was the display of “Europe goods” that held them fascinated. Glittering knives and scissors, gay bags and boxes, mechanical toys, gaudy beads and enamelled plates and mugs, delighted them. They had little money to spend; but what they had they spent slowly, after hours of deliberation, squatting before the stall that held the coveted objects. As long as the bazaar was alight with its lamps they found it impossible to tear themselves away.
They slept in the open near their cattle, rolled in the garment that had been worn during the day round their waists. At daybreak the mob of claimants departed, thoroughly satisfied with the result of their journey. No one had won the reward, so there was no need for jealousy. As they drifted away their places were taken by others who had just arrived on a similar errand. The constables succeeded this time in keeping the compound itself clear. This was the more necessary as it required attention from the municipal sweepers. The open ground outside the walls was invested. Bullocks of every age, shape, and colour appeared, the best of them worth no more than twenty-five or thirty rupees.
“Shall we withdraw the offer of a reward?” asked a stout Anglo-Indian inspector, who had been longer on his feet than he considered good for his health.
“No; let it remain.”
“The present owner of the missing beast will never dare to come forward and claim it. He has probably sold it to some butcher by this time.”
Longfield was not to be put off his purpose. He had more faith in its efficacy than his subordinates had.
“The offer of the reward will show the people that we are still actively looking for the animal,” he said.
“The next trouble will be the information that will come in about bullocks in the district, whose owners refuse to bring them to us, such as we had about the cattle at the butchers’.”
“We can please ourselves about instituting enquiries.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the inspector, who was beginning to understand the temperament of his chief.
The following two days were passed in much the same way as the first when the bullocks began to appear. Longfield had a busy time while daylight lasted. At the end of each day he found himself too tired to play tennis or golf. He went to the Club after the sun had set, avoiding the ladies’ room.
At intervals, between studying the brand marks on bullocks led up for inspection, his thoughts turned to Sylvia and the problem she had put before him. The more he thought of it, the more convinced did he become that she must seek a divorce whether she approved of it or no. Principles, he believed, must be sacrificed sometimes when charity demanded the sacrifice.
Their conversation had been interrupted on the golf-ground. He had been obliged to leave much unsaid. Even her confidence had been cut short. She had tried to make it full and complete; but obviously much still remained, not only to be said but to be discussed. They must have another interview when they could consider each point quietly and without fear of interruption. Such an interview was not obtainable at the Club, with the anxious Molly on the watch to safeguard her sister’s interests.
Sylvia had opposed the suggestion of divorce vehemently. She had given Aleck no time to bring reasons, that he believed to be paramount, before her. She had swept them aside with impatience and he had deemed it wiser not to oppose her.
In his profession he dealt chiefly with humanity. He had already discovered that the law, even from a police-officer’s point of view, cannot be enforced in a rigid, inhuman fashion. There must always be a softening of the edges, a consideration of circumstances. It was in this respect that Sylvia was a little blind, in his opinion. “The brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree.” In this case it was charity that should make her leap o’er the cold decree of her principles.
He did his best to put aside all thought of self. More than once he reassured himself that he was contemplating only her good and what would be beneficial for her in the long run. If she hoped to have peace in the future, she must sever herself entirely from the man and leave him no opportunity of inflicting unhappiness and mortification of the spirit.
It was evident that her husband was actuated by something more than petty spitefulness. He had an object of deeper import than personal malice. He possessed a strong reason for forcing himself, his wife, and his mistress into publicity; and he was playing a desperate game to win a point that was of vital importance to himself and his second mate.
The paternal instinct, latent in every man, had suddenly been roused into activity. He was fighting a battle for his unborn son. He may have committed a sin. This was no reason for bringing disgrace and dishonour upon an innocent child.
Longfield believed that Sir John would move heaven and earth to gain his end, and would stick at nothing in accomplishing it. He had already wronged his wife. A little more or less could not matter compared with the wrong that would be done to the coming child. He could not undo what had already taken place; but he might prevent the second wrong if he could somehow contrive that the child should be born in wedlock.
This was the line of argument Aleck supposed that Sir John had taken.
He was sorely tempted to seek Sylvia. He went as far as to write a letter asking her to meet him, that they might have another talk. The thought that such a request might seem presumptuous made him hesitate. She had not asked for advice. She had distinctly informed him that he was to play the part of a waste-paper basket. He was to hear her story; condole if he pleased; preserve her confidence and leave it at that. He tore up the letter.
Providence came to the rescue in the shape of Mrs. Anstruther. She had been able to get nothing out of her husband on his return from Tiru---nothing, that is to say, which would elucidate the mystery of what the relations of the young people were. Anstruther showed signs of impatience when he was cross-examined. He did not believe that the two were anything more than friendly acquaintances, drawn together by a similarity of tastes in outdoor games. At last he was driven to say:
“My dear, I am absolutely ignorant on the subject and I have no opinion to offer. If you want to find out more than I can tell you, you must do it by observation yourself.”
“So I will!” cried his wife, quite pleased with the suggestion. “Happy thought! I’ll soon come to the bottom of this little mystery. They are both so simple-minded that one ought to be able to read them and their story as easily as a book.”
She lost no time in carrying out her design. She invited the Southwoods and Sylvia to dinner, and made up her party of ten with the Bowoods, the chaplain, and Aleck. Mr. Longfield should take in Miss Smith and to the chaplain should be assigned the lively Bessie. She kept the names of her guests secret till the evening came.
It was known of course in the bazaar among the butlers. They were not interested. Mrs. Anstruther was a thrifty body. Her husband’s occupation carried no pension. It behoved her to save money if she had any regard to the future. She had not, therefore, the liberal hand of the government official’s wife. Prices were combated and expensive dishes that did credit to a cook were barred. The dinner was a matter of anxiety to a self-respecting butler and provided nothing that allowed of any boasting.
Abboye was the only servant who felt an interest in it. He debated in his mind whether he should let his master know who had been asked in addition to himself. He decided not to tell him. He believed in chance meetings and surprises, being a thorough-paced opportunist. Also St. Joseph’s guiding hand could be relied upon. Had he not presented four candles and half a rupee at the saint’s shrine only last Sunday? It was impossible not to believe that all was working for the best and that any interference would be a mistake.
It was a merry party that gathered round Mrs. Anstruther’s table. Whatever private troubles might be overshadowing the lives of the people present, no clouds were visible on their smiling faces.
Abboye was one of the servants who waited. The dinner was good, although, in his opinion, it fell short of the standard he and his master aimed at. Cocktails were absent altogether; and there were no “horse dovers.” These two omissions gave him and his friend the Campbells’ butler secret satisfaction when the entertainment was discussed in the bazaar on the following morning. The table decorations also were nothing out of the way and the whole proceedings were quite informal.
Aleck and Sylvia accepted the situation without a sign of the inward trepidation which momentarily had them in its grip, when they were told that they were to be partners at dinner. He offered her his arm, conscious that his circulation was beginning to give trouble. With the shadow of a smile and an upward glance she said softly:
“Jackals!”
He laughed and recovered himself quickly.
“That’s all right. Did you know that I should be here?” she asked under cover of the general conversation as the guests took their seats.
“No, I did not. I haven’t seen you——”
“---since the last time,” she finished for him as he paused. “I should like, some time, to continue our discussion.”
“Was it a discussion?” he asked. “I was under the impression that I played the part of a waste-paper basket.”
“That stage is over. I need a counsellor next; not just now. My sister has her eagle eye upon me. Later we may have an opportunity. Do tell me how you have been getting on. Has Abboye been taking a hand in anything lately?”
“He has produced a picturesque old father who has come to die on our door-mat, so to speak. Abboye lured him here with the promise of a present which I am paying for. A selfish act on my part; I was so afraid I should lose Abboye.”
“Lose Abboye!” cried Mrs. Anstruther. The conversation had lessened with the entrance of the soup and she had caught part of the last sentence. “He is not leaving you, I hope.” She had been instrumental in bringing master and man together.
He told her of the arrival of Abboye senior, and how he had been lured from Madras by the promise of a coffin.
“The old man sits on a mat close to his ‘box,’ as he calls it, and cleans the silver. He also holds receptions of his son’s friends, who come to see the coffin when I am out of the way. I understand that it is a very swagger thing for a servant to be buried in a coffin.” Here Abboye returned to the dining-room in the train of waiters bringing in the plates of fish. Aleck, considerate of his servant’s feelings, changed the topic. “I have had a strenuous time lately over a bullock case.”
He told the story of the exchange and the offer of the reward for its recovery, and described the result: the arrival of scores of animals at the police-station. By this time he had the whole table as audience.
“There wasn’t a single beast that came anywhere near the description of the lost bullock. Some bore the same brands, but in the wrong places. One old villager assured me that the scars moved as the bullock aged. Another vowed that his bullock had scratched the marks out of place with its hind foot. A third solemnly introduced me to a cow with the assurance that it had begun life as a bullock and had been turned into a cow by an evil spirit. Several admitted that they came on the chance of selling me their beasts at the price of the reward to replace the one that was stolen.”
There was a general laugh; all those present knew enough of the simple-minded Hindu to appreciate Aleck’s story.
“Poor you!” cried Bessie Bowood, flashing her eyes sympathetically at him. “But it must have been very amusing.”
“If you had been there to laugh with me I think we should have roared over it,” he replied quickly, with a glance and a smile that puzzled Mrs. Anstruther. She began to have serious doubts concerning Aleck. Was he a flirt? Was she herself finding nothing but a mare’s nest?
“Send for me next time and I’ll come and help. I suppose the bulls are all tame and warranted not to toss?” she retorted.
“They are monuments of patience and most difficult to move. My inspectors see nothing to laugh at in the affair. They are having a busier time from sunrise to sunset than they like.”
“It is all over by now, I hope,” said Mrs. Anstruther.
“I am afraid we are not nearly through with it yet. The stream of bullocks has decreased; but we have another trouble in the shape of requests that we will come and see such-and-such an animal that answers in every respect to the description of the lost beast.”
“These demands give occasion for nice little excursions into the district just as the hot weather is upon you,” remarked Anstruther, who had not forgotten his expedition to Tiru and the heat of the sun in the cotton-fields.
“The constable whose beat is in that particular locality has to make enquiries and report on the case. The answers vary. They reveal curious facts. ‘The bullock in question is sixteen years old.’ Our lost lamb is rising six. ‘Raman’s animal had a calf last night.’ ‘Sundra’s bullock is dark grey with black points.’ Ours is white. ‘Govinda’s bullock has fourteen brands.’ Ours has only four. ‘Raju’s beast is blind.’ The claimants seem to think that we have no eyes and no sense.”
“That’s the irritating part of dealing with the Hindu,” said Anstruther. “He is sly and cunning enough himself, but cunning is the last thing he credits us with.”
He launched forth into a story of a couple of work-people employed in the Press who tried to persuade the overseers that some missing tools had taken wings and had flown away to the spot where they were found secreted.
The attention that had been centred on Longfield was diverted to the host. Under cover of the laugh that followed his story, Aleck found opportunity to exchange a few words with Sylvia, that were not likely to be overheard.
“Am I to give you counsel?” he asked.
“I won’t promise to take it.”
“I am afraid you won’t like it.”
“If I follow the line of pleasing myself and doing what I think right, I don’t think I need counsel.”
“Then perhaps it would be wise if I held my tongue.”
She was silent. The laughter had died down and there was a lull in the conversation such as frequently occurs in social gatherings.
“Are you going to the hills this coming hot season, Miss Smith?” asked Mrs. Anstruther as Aleck and his partner dropped into silence with the rest.
“I hope so; the hot weather here would be an unnecessary ordeal for one who has no tie.”
“Quite so; you are unattached and have no domestic duties to keep you in the place.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Sylvia.
“I am going home with the children. It is time the little people went to school.”
Sylvia made no reply. In England Mrs. Anstruther would learn all that there was to know of Sir John and his wife---if Sylvia decided to divorce him. She would hear from friends that Lady Dennis was Sylvia Smith before she married, and that when her husband forsook her, she went to India.
“What are you going to do, Mr. Longfield?” asked his hostess.
“Stay on and get my first experience of the heat in March, April, and May; not because I like it, but because I have no choice in the matter,” replied Aleck cheerfully.
Others began to shadow forth their plans for the hot weather, comparing notes and discussing the merits of the different hill-stations.
“Take proceedings,” said Aleck to the rather silent woman by his side.
“Is that honestly your advice?
“I am convinced that it is the only way by which your peace of mind can be secured.”
“I thought I was to act solely to bring peace of mind to other minds than my own.”
“That you will do also.”
“And I shall find peace myself, even though I outrage my principles?”
Aleck was inclined to anathematise her principles.
“Will they be outraged?” he asked. As she did not reply, he continued: “If you allow charity to enter and listen to its dictates, you will forget your prejudices “
“Principles, please. This is not a matter of prejudice,” she replied with a touch of obstinacy. The obstinacy was gentle but strong; it left him without much hope of making an impression.
“There I differ from you,” he ventured to say.
A voice broke in upon them. It was Bowood’s. He was appealing all round the table for support from the men.
“Don’t you think so, Longfield?”
“I beg your pardon; I didn’t catch the drift of what you were saying. I was talking to Miss Smith about prejudices,” Aleck answered.
He caught Mrs. Anstruther’s eye upon him. She was looking puzzled. Her two guests had found much to say to each other, but she could detect no signs that pointed to an attachment of any kind.
“That’s the word!” cried Bowood. “It’s prejudice that rules us all, as I was just telling Mrs. Southwood. We try to justify ourselves by giving prejudice another name and calling it principle. Some of these Hindus are turning out to be first-rate surgeons and general practitioners; but no European will employ them if there is a white man to be had.”
“It is quite natural to be prejudiced in favour of one’s own nation,” remarked Mrs. Bowood, who was not as enthusiastic over the Hindu practitioner as her husband. Perhaps she was unconsciously influenced by the fact that she possessed a daughter who was inclined to set aside all prejudice where good-looking Indians were concerned. Miss Bowood professed to be up to date and interested in all forward movements.
“It is just as well to distinguish nowadays between prejudice and principle. They are easily confused,” said Aleck; with which platitude he lost the attention of the company, to his own satisfaction and possibly Sylvia’s.
The thread of their conversation was broken, however, and they were unable to pick it up. The dinner table is not a place for private discussions; although it may seem easy in the buzz of many tongues to escape being overheard, it is never safe to say much.
Mrs. Anstruther did not linger at the table. As soon as dinner was finished she made a move. It was a hot evening. The chairs were taken out on to the smooth carriage-drive. A moon, not yet full, illuminated the garden.
As Aleck in company with the other men followed, Sylvia appropriated him.
“Come for a little turn to the end of the garden,” she said.
“Take care, Miss Smith,” cried Mrs. Anstruther, as she noted that their steps were directed towards a big palm tree that grew near the boundary of the garden. “The palm is said to be haunted. Take care you are not bewitched.”
“If I am, I shall send for Mr. Longfield’s boy. I understand that he dealt very successfully with the mischievous sprite that disordered the working of the machinery at Mr. Anstruther’s place.” Then, turning to Aleck as they strolled away out of hearing, she said quickly: “Let me know what you advise quite plainly; don’t hesitate to speak out. Do you advise me to divorce him?”
“Most emphatically I do; I can’t see any other satisfactory way out of it.”
“Are you giving me this advice for my own benefit?”
“Not entirely; but your chief thought must be to see that you do no wrong to an innocent life.”
She was silent. He felt instinctively that he was putting before her the strongest argument he could use. He continued to press it home.
“Of your charity give the wrong-doers an opportunity of rendering all the justice that lies in their power to the coming life.”
“I must do it quickly,” she said, more to herself than to her companion.
“You will have your reward.”
In saying this he struck a wrong note. She was endeavouring to get away from self. It was only by thinking of another to the exclusion of self that she could take action.
“I don’t look for a reward. At this moment I am conscious only of a kind of vindictiveness. I have no charity when I think of him and of her.”
“Put them out of your mind. Let them go,” he pleaded.
They had reached the palmyra. It had a thick bushy head of green and dry fronds that reminded her of the shock head of some giant vagabond; a fitting spot for the lair of a wild cat and the haunt of an ammah.
Sylvia was aware that two pairs of eyes were upon her, watching her movements from a distance. Mrs. Anstruther’s curiosity was not yet satisfied. Mrs. Southwood was still distrustful of her sister’s discretion in allowing Longfield to absorb her attention to this extent. It would be wiser if she would rejoin the party where they were sitting instead of wandering away to the farther end of the garden.
“It will bring peace and happiness to yourself if you will only cut yourself completely adrift,” he urged, again on a wrong note.
“How can it do that when it leaves me stranded, nameless, homeless, forsaken?” she demanded.
“You may——”
“Stop!” she cried impetuously. “I know what you would say. Please understand once and for all that there is no second marriage for me. There my principles will stand as firm as a rock. As long as Sir John lives, I shall not marry again. If I thought that I might be tempted to do so, I would not seek a divorce.”
“Not for charity’s sake?”
“Charity! Charity should begin at home,” she cried with a quiver of angry self-pity in her voice. “It is they who have sinned. Let them take the consequences of their deed. Why should I make any sacrifice?”
He was silent. She was passing the stage when it was possible to discuss the subject with cool deliberation. He dared not say more. She must have time to think over what he had already laid before her. She made a move towards the group on the carriage-drive. He followed.
“Read what Saint Paul says.”
“Where?” she asked.
“In his first letter to the Corinthians in the thirteenth chapter, and remember the innocent life.”
Mrs. Anstruther hailed them as they came towards her.
“So you ventured into the fatal shadow,” she said. “Bold people to defy the devil at night. Into which of you has it entered?”
“Me!” cried Sylvia quickly. “And Mr. Longfield has undertaken to exorcise it.”
The arrival of the bullocks and their owners was an unusual event for the town. The spot where the animals were tethered was never without its little group of spectators. Among the visitors were a few chance buyers, who were attracted by the cattle and the opportunity afforded of securing a bargain. Like all Indian markets, it became the centre of gossip.
For reasons of his own, Abboye had walked to the provision-market the last few mornings. He mentioned casually that his bullock was not very well. A sore place had appeared on its neck where the yoke did not fit. It would be necessary to have the yoke planed. It was imperative that the galled spot should be healed as soon as possible, as he could never say when the master might want to go out into camp.
After the usual consultations with the cook concerning the purchases that should be made, Abboye left him to complete them by himself and prepared to leave the bazaar. He divested himself of his coat and turban. The crown of his head was shaved as smooth as a billiard-ball. Hair grew from the back part of the scalp. The hair was long and thick; it was neatly plaited into a tail that easily coiled beneath the turban. He loosened the plait and let his glossy hair flow over his bare shoulders. The loincloth was tightened till it was little more than a roll round his waist. A large silk handkerchief was thrown over his shoulder to complete his dress, not as a servant but as a prosperous young tradesman or merchant of the town.
Longfield would not have recognised his head boy had he met him. There was no fear of an encounter, however; the Assistant Superintendent was not likely to be wandering in the improvised cattle-market. On the contrary, he would give it a wide berth. An inspector of a constable might be looking around, repeating a warning now and then that a “move on” would be ordered as soon as the master returned to the police-station; no notice would be taken by the constable of the spectators, who would disappear as soon as the objects of their curiosity departed.
Abboye strolled among the owners of the bullocks, asking the price of the cattle as though he intended to buy. He made depreciatory remarks about the animals, another trait that marked him down as a purchaser. They took him for a young merchant of the town on the lookout for bullocks for his carts, a buyer with money at the bank. They did their best to propitiate him with fair words and amiable grins, and to put him in a good humour. A surly purchaser drives a hard bargain and robs the transaction of half its pleasure.
Occasionally Abboye seated himself on his heels. Two or three of the men ventured to follow his example, squatting near enough to carry on a conversation among themselves in which they hoped he would join.
They required very little encouragement to pour out their news. The subjects in which they were interested were the affairs of their neighbours in their villages. They talked of them without reserve, telling all they had seen and heard with the usual mixture of truth and fiction.
He learned that the devil-dance organised at Tiru by the new valluvan had been a wonderful affair; but although the “tamarsha” had given so much satisfaction, the valluvan declined to take on the post of village astrologer permanently. He professed to have received a call elsewhere which he felt bound to obey. The village of Tiru was likely to be left without one.
Then came gossip about the headman’s family. He had nephews who were quarrelsome and sons who were aggressive and grasping. They all took too much toddy. Why did not the Abkarri officer count the trees when he licensed them for tapping instead of taking their word for it as to the number? Aiyoh! if the police only knew! but the village constables were poor creatures. Their necks were under the yoke of the headman.
Abboye listened with a show of indifference, saying little beyond the universal grunt that a Hindu makes to intimate that he has heard what is said. To the chattering country people he appeared to be waiting only for the prices asked for the bullocks to come down. It was quite natural and only what might be expected on the part of the buyer. A sale is a priceless amusement to the Indian. No bargain is concluded in a hurry. While he waited, it was all in the order of things that he should show a passing interest in the news of the district. In their opinion, it was easy to see that his eye was solely upon the cattle.
“Has the head been found of the thief who tried to get into a house through a hole in the wall?” asked Abboye indifferently.
“Aiyoh! it did not happen in Tiru!” cried a man from that village.
Abboye raised his eyebrows without removing his eyes from one of the animals that seemed to attract him.
“The bullock tied to the post over there is ten years old, perhaps eleven,” he remarked. “It is not a young beast.”
Its owner assured him with many repetitions that it was no more than six. As soon as the Tiru man could catch the attention of the supposed young merchant, he proceeded to vindicate the honour of his village. They had had a death at Tiru, it was true; but it was the doing of the ammah, a terribly vindictive demon. She had killed a toddy-drawer and had driven away the valluvan. Now she was driving away the new poojaree. Oh! but she was a bad one, she was!
Another man broke in with his story. He was not a Tiru man. He belonged to the village where the house-breaker had met his fate. Abboye withdrew his eyes from the cattle and allowed them to rest on the speaker. Flattered by the notice, the countryman’s tongue wagged uninterruptedly for fully five minutes. An occasional “hah!” kept him going till he had fairly emptied himself of all he knew and all he surmised.
When he had finished, a third brought his evidence to bear and corroborated all that the other had stated, with the exception of one point. He maintained that the thief was a stranger. As for the man who had killed him as he tried to enter, there could be no doubt about his identity. He was the member of the family who had run away and could not be found. They were a quarrelsome set, always fighting among themselves over family matters.
“What about the old man who has given himself into custody and confessed that he did the deed?” asked the villager from Tiru.
“Pah! everyone with any sense can see that the old man has not strength enough to cut off as much as a finger. As for a head, it is a tough job and it requires a very strong arm and wrist to do it.” He knew, for he had helped the poojaree to decapitate sheep and goats at a goat festival when a hundred animals were killed in sacrifice to the ammah.
Abboye was not interested in blood sacrifices; he brought the conversation back to the original subject by asking why the old man said that he had killed the burglar when he had done nothing of the kind.
“Honoured sir, it is because he is a very old man. He is too old to be of any use in the house; he is only a charge on the family, where it is hard to fill all the mouths with food. The crime is not murder; the inspector called it man-killing only; for which there would be no hanging. Several years in prison might be given; too many years for the old man ever to return to his family again.”
Abboye put on a perplexed expression which led his companions to believe that he did not understand the situation. Another took up the tale and tried to enlighten him.
“The prison is a good place for old men. The food is plentiful, the work is easy; the rooms occupied by the prisoners are dry and comfortable. Good blankets are given to the aged, who are kindly treated.”
“Sir, it is true,” said another. “Young men commit crimes, the aged confess them; the young men prove an alibi, and the old go to prison, as is only right and proper. Why should the strong and able be shut up while the weak and aged who cannot work go free?”
“He speaks a true word, your honour,” said another. “There is no hardship; everybody is pleased.”
It was not news to Abboye that out in the district where life was dull and hard, the old willingly served time for the young, and considered themselves fortunate in being so well provided for. They might miss the betel and tobacco; but very little of those luxuries came their way when they could no longer earn for themselves in their own homes. The good food of the prison---far better than that which was served out to them by the younger generation---compensated for the loss of the chewing stuff and promoted sleep without the necessity for narcotics.
Abboye paid more than one visit to the cattle-market. The crowd changed, as owners left with their bullocks and others took their places. All were ready to talk when a listener could be found. Perhaps there would have been more reticence had it been known that the stranger whom they took for a merchant of the town was none other than the head of the Assistant Superintendent’s household.
The men chaffed each other good-humouredly and passed remarks that were not always complimentary. No tempers were lost, however. Some of their observations were of a cryptic nature, possibly containing some joke that was not evident on the surface.
An allusion was made to salt. The word “salt” brought a grin to the faces of those who listened. One man who had the reputation of being a wit observed that salt-pots told no tales, whether they owned tongues or not. It was received with a chorus of loud “ah-hahs!” as though some of those present understood the allusion.
Abboye’s eyes’ were peculiarly devoid of expression as he listened. His ears lost nothing, however; and his brain was busy piecing together the fragments of gossip. A quarrelsome family; one of the members missing; salt-pots. What had salt-pots to do with the subject? Were they connected with the attempted robbery? Or did it point to traffic in contraband salt?
Abboye left the cattle-market, promising to return the next morning and consider the purchase of the bullock, a promise he had no intention of keeping. He had gathered all the information the men could give. Now he needed time to put two and two together and think out the mystery.
That morning while Abboye was wasting his time listening to the gossip of the bullock owners, an inspector from the Municipal Office had called to see Longfield. He had begged to draw his attention to the cattle-market that had sprung up near the police-station. No licence had been issued by the Municipality for the sale of cattle at that spot; and no arrangements had been made for keeping the place in a sanitary condition. He pointed out that the air was growing foul and offensive, and asked that immediate action might be taken by the police to expel the intruders. It was imperative that the place should be cleaned at once by a staff of sweepers who would be told off to perform the task before sunset.
In addition to this small trouble, the post was bringing by each delivery a number of letters, mostly in the vernacular, which the clerk was doing his best to tabulate for reply. They all related to bullocks. The owner of each assured his honour that his animal was undoubtedly the identical beast he was in search of. The writer demanded that someone should be sent to inspect the animal. Meanwhile the reward was claimed and instructions were given as to how the money was to be sent.
More than one correspondent begged that master would look upon him with favour because he had one poor sickly wife and many children. Another demanded consideration on the score of having married two wives, each having old and infirm parents whom he had to support. A third drew his attention to the fact that he, the writer, was a big family man and likely to be bigger later on when his wife expected to give birth to another baby. All the letters ended with an entreaty that his honour would come at once; that he would see the bullock for himself and make an advance out of the sum offered as a reward.
Another small item of annoyance was the sudden appearance of a plague of venomous cattle-flies. They invaded the police-station and feasted on the bare limbs of the constables, and the ankles and wrists of the clerk and the inspectors. Longfield himself was attacked. A big, greyish-brown, snub-nosed fly settled on his neck and took a deep draught, leaving a thin red stream to mark the spot. Inflammation followed quickly and Bowood was called in to prescribe. He as sanitary officer as well as civil surgeon inveighed against the presence of the cattle and spoke plainly of the necessity of taking drastic measures to stop the nuisance. When night came every bullock had vanished and the town had settled down into its customary quietude.
On Abboye’s return from his last visit to the colony of bullocks he waited on his master as usual, and when breakfast was over produced the housekeeping books. At the end of rendering accounts the head boy asked with many apologies if he might speak.
“What is it?” inquired Longfield wearily.
“Mrs. Southwood’s second servant has gone to Bombay, sir, by this morning’s train.”
“Oh! is Mrs. Southwood looking for another boy? I am afraid I can’t help.”
“The boy is coming back, sir. He is a good servant.”
“I think that’s all I have to say this morning, Abboye,” remarked Longfield, rising from his chair with the intention of returning to his work.
“The Southwood boy has orders to stop and see the ship start.”
“What ship?” asked Longfield, beginning to awaken to the fact that Abboye had something more to talk about than the movements of one of the Southwoods’ servants.
“The ship that takes the missie to England.”
“What?” Abboye had his master’s full attention now. “What missie? Miss Smith?”
“Yessar; she left this morning by early mail.”
“Miss Smith said nothing about going to England when I saw her the other evening at Mr. Anstruther’s. I think you must be mistaken Abboye.”
“No, sir; no mistake. The Southwood butler published the news in the bazaar this morning. Missie giving ten rupees present to the travelling boy.”
Longfield received the news in silence. Abboye waited a minute or two in case his master might wish to put more questions; but there was nothing to be said if the information could not be contradicted. Sylvia gone! It seemed incredible that she could pass out of his life with such suddenness. It was bewildering and of the nature of a shock. She had given no hint of taking any action. On the contrary, she had shown herself opposed to instituting proceedings that would set her free.
He could only suppose that the words he had said that evening at the Anstruthers’ house had borne fruit. He was aware that he had spoken forcibly; but he had felt all the time, even when he enlisted the help of St. Paul, that he was up against inherited principles adamantine in their nature.
Yet why should he be surprised? He had counselled her to take a certain line of action and had given her all the reasons he could muster in favour of it. It was inconsistent to be astonished to find that she had acted on his advice.
In his honesty he had not contemplated the effect that her absence from the station would have on himself, and on his outlook on the little world in which he lived. His spirits sank, and existence became incredibly dull from the moment Abboye informed him of the Southwood boy’s movements. For several days he waited confidently for a letter with some explanation of her action. It did not come.
The boy returned. A little questioning of Abboye easily elicited all the information he could give. He had gone on board the big ship. What he saw filled him with wonder. The missie had a cabin with another lady. He had helped to unstrap her trunk and to find her chair, which he placed for her in a spot that she chose herself. He had returned by the mail train; but not before he had looked round at the Bombay bazaar. What he had to say about the wonders of the city itself did not interest Longfield and was cut short. The boy found a deeply interested circle of listeners in the morning market among the other servants. To very few of them had come the good fortune of going as far north as Bombay.
The days passed, but no letter reached him. The time arrived when he knew that it was useless to look for one. If she had not written it before leaving Bombay, there would be no means of posting after departure. He must wait till she touched at one of the ports on the homeward route.
At first he was annoyed at what he was inclined to regard as neglect; but when he recalled her words he could not help acknowledging to himself that she was doing right. She had declared that she would never marry as long as Sir John was alive. After such a declaration there could be no question as to the wisdom of a permanent break. If they could never be more to each other than acquaintances, it would be folly to cultivate friendship. It was love, not friendship, that he felt; and he could not help hoping that her feeling for him was of the same nature.
He took the first opportunity of speaking to Mrs. Southwood, which happened to be in the twilight hour after tennis. He was pleasantly surprised to find that she no longer avoided him. She made no secret of her sister’s departure for England; but she mentioned it with the openness she showed when she talked with friends.
“I thought you would be a wee bit startled, as others were who don’t know her intimately.” He winced with the sensitiveness of a sore heart but dared not remonstrate. “She came to me unexpectedly on a short visit. She received a letter by last mail recalling her to England. It was her intention to go home before the hot weather set in. This summons has only shortened her stay here by two or three weeks.”
“I hope it was not bad news that hurried her away,” he said lamely.
He wondered what Sylvia had told her sister. Had she confessed that she had made a confidant of him? He did not think it likely, knowing how much Mrs. Southwood disapproved of their friendship. In all probability Sylvia had kept her own counsel, and he would be wise if he acted on that assumption.
The position was awkward. He could not ask any of the questions that were on his tongue without betraying the fact that she had told him about the unfaithful husband. He longed to reassure Mrs. Southwood that he did not consider himself Sylvia’s lover; that he had warmly advocated a divorce and had actually urged Sylvia to take steps to procure it. A feeling that it would be a breach of confidence kept him silent and Mrs. Southwood became no wiser.
Had Sylvia gone home on an errand of mercy to set things straight for that coming innocent life?
His attention had wandered from Mrs. Southwood’s conversation. He had forgotten the remark he had made expressing the hope that Miss Smith had not received bad news.
“My sister is a woman of impulse. She need not have acted on the spur of the moment,” said Mrs. Southwood. “The telegraph would have served for all that was necessary in adjusting the business, and she could have followed at her leisure.”
She spoke as if the business were of a financial nature. Aleck felt sure in his mind that it was not money, but the divorce. His spirits rose at the thought that through it she would be free six or seven months hence. They fell again, and this time to a lower depth than ever when he recalled her emphatic assertion that nothing would induce her to marry again as long as Sir John was alive. Judging from the photograph of Sir John, he had the strength and the vigour of a young viking; a life as good, if not better, than that of his ill-treated wife.
As Mrs. Southwood sat watching her silent companion, she congratulated herself on Sylvia’s sudden resolve to go. It put an end to what was becoming an increasing anxiety. She believed from what she was now observing that she had been quite right in her fear that they were not indifferent to each other.
“Will you let me have news of your sister when you hear of her arrival in England?” he asked.
As he put his request into words he knew that his circulation was becoming affected. He could almost hear the beloved voice with its lowly spoken warning: “Jackals and hyaenas; or even tigers!” Fortunately it was growing dark. Seeing Mrs. Southwood’s eyes upon him, he thought it as well to add something in justification of his request.
“We were excellent pals in the games we joined in. Her tennis was wonderful. I shall never forget the dressing-down she gave me for not playing up properly in the first game I had with her. I hadn’t known her more than an hour and she talked to me like a mother.”
“That was Sylvia all over. She would have brought the Governor himself to his bearings if, in her opinion, His Excellency needed a scolding.”
“Are you going to England yourself for the hot weather?” he asked.
“Not this year. I have taken a house at Coonoor for five months and shall be off in a fortnight.”
The conversation dropped. He was interested in one subject only; and it was evident that Mrs. Southwood did not intend to say more on it. He could not repeat his request and must perforce take her silence as a tacit refusal. She was leaving the place too soon for her to receive news of Sylvia on her arrival in England; and it was not to be expected that she would write to him about her sister.
He endeavoured to face the fact with an even spirit, but it was difficult. A great fear was dawning in his mind that Sylvia herself was allowing him to drop out of her world. She was deliberately cutting him adrift. In all probability they would not meet again.
Later, when he had time to think it over, he admitted to himself that Sylvia had acted for the best and that her sister supported her. It would not be wise to feed his love and keep it alive with a starvation diet of meagre scraps of news. It was best that a curtain should be dropped on the incident, and that all hope of renewing the friendship should be extinguished. He knew in his heart of hearts that it was for the best; but the knowledge did not lessen the acute ache for the sight of her and for the sound of her voice.
It became necessary for Longfield to pay another visit to the village where the attempted burglary had taken place. He informed Abboye of his intention.
“Master going into camp or stopping at dâk bungalow?”
“Neither; I shall drive to the village in the car and come back in the evening. The road is good and the weather dry.”
“Taking chauffeur, sir?”
“Yes; he will do. I shan’t want you.”
“Very glad, sir. The old man is getting weak; he says he will soon die.”
“He’s not ill, is he?”
“No, sir; only very, very old. For three days he can”t clean the silver. He can only clean master’s clubs.”
“Can’t you do something to make him stronger?---food or medicine or something. Anything he wants, give; and charge it to the house account.”
Abboye put his hands together, palm to palm, in his gratitude for his master’s kind thought. Something in the action indicated the absence of all hope that his father would ever be better.
“No good, sir. He can’t stop dying. When the time comes to die, he must die. To-day he sent to call the debt sircar. He is to come to-morrow morning.”
“Debt sircar? who’s that?”
“The sircar who bought all his debts when he left Madras. To-morrow he will pay the sircar. Many friends coming to see my father pay his debts all proper,” concluded Abboye, with a touch of pride he could not conceal. Not one of the servants in the place could boast of a father who would be buried in a “box” and who could liquidate his liabilities before he died.
“Has he the money?” asked Longfield, wondering if the information would be followed by a request for a loan. In this respect he did Abboye an injustice. Borrowing was far from his thoughts.
“Yessar. He has been saving a long time.”
“What is the money in?”
“In notes and rupees and gold sovereigns.”
“That’s all right. I suppose I had better clear out early to-morrow, and you will have the whole day if you want it for the settling up. I shall take a tiffin-basket with breakfast, lunch, and tea, and I shall be home for dinner.”
“Is master going to Tiru?”
“Not this time. I intend to go to the village beyond to see the family of the old man who has given himself into custody as the man who killed the burglar.”
“May I speak, sir?”
Longfield never found that time was wasted listening to what Abboye had to say.
“Say on; what is it?”
“When the men came with the bullocks I walked among them and listened to talk. Plenty bad doings in the village where they chop off thief’s head.”
“More killing and murdering?”
“No, sir. Those people making humbug with the salt trade. They have no licence. They get the salt cheap somewhere and sell to the villagers. Master make them bring out all pots of salt, and empty before your honour’s eyes. That way finding out many things if no one tells that master is coming.”
“Is this a new business?”
“No, sir; they often do this way with the salt. If your honour will ask the Abkarri officer, he will say the same.”
“Could you find out where the young man, nephew to the old man, has gone?”
“Some spoke of Burmah; others of Ceylon; it is not known for certain.”
“And what about the thief? who was he?”
“There is a gang of dacoits giving plenty of trouble in the Madura district. The police there are hunting them down. This man they think was one of them,” was Abboye’s reply. He repeated gossip. His own opinion he kept to himself.
Longfield paid a visit to the Abkarri office, a department which looks after the excise and the sale of salt, a Government monopoly. The officer in charge, an Anglo-Indian, was very much alive to the importance of detecting a case of smuggling. He offered to meet Longfield at the village. He had his own car and would bring a caste inspector in case a house had to be entered.
“I have had a hint that something wrong is going on in that part of the district,” said the Abkarri official. “But I could not locate it. The salt is manufactured by evaporation in a primitive way from sea water somewhere on the coast, and it is smuggled inland. No tax is paid either for the making or for the retail sale in the villages. A surprise visit is the thing; and I am much obliged to you for letting me know that you will be in that direction to-morrow. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
“All right; I’ll be there.”
It meant an early start and Longfield was roused by Abboye before dawn. At half past five, just as a faint yellow glow appeared low down in the east, the precursor of a hot cloudless day, the Assistant Superintendent’s car moved away from the bungalow. Abboye watched the car till it was lost in the distance. Then he turned down the electrics, gave directions to the matey, and went to his own room to take his coffee and rice-cake before starting for the market. He bent over his father.
“My son,” said the old man in a feeble voice, “bid the sircar come this afternoon. I pay my debts; and to-night, by God’s favour, I die. Tell the matey that he must clean the master’s clubs to-day. I can clean no more. The strength is gone out of my hands. I lie here till I am taken into the back veranda to meet the sircar.”
At the usual hour Abboye, accompanied by the cook, went to the bazaar, where the necessary purchases were made. This business completed, he hunted up his friends and issued his invitations. A little before three o’clock that afternoon his father, he told them, would settle his affairs and pay his debts in the sight of all his son’s friends. Afterwards the priest would be sent for, an Indian of the Goanese Church. He would say prayers and pronounce the Church’s blessing. It was unlikely that the old man would live till the morning. News would be brought to the bazaar; and if he died in the night, as was fully expected, he would be buried before sunset on the following day.
The news went quickly through the bazaar, and nothing else was spoken of but the coming function arranged for the afternoon. Chief among the crowd was the Campbell butler. He made it his business to pronounce a panegyric on the dying man. Abboye senior had been a great man, he said, a very big man “with plenty debts.” He had borrowed and he had lent. He still had a little money out at interest. This he would pass on to his son. If he had not been a man of substance, he could not have contracted debts.
There were other debts not connected with the business of lending in small sums. They were incurred through personal expenses. His own marriage, a very big affair; the burial of his wife; the marriage of a daughter and other domestic events. All these were to be cleared off and no one was to be saddled with the responsibility of liquidating them or of paying further interest.
To effect this payment, the Campbell butler informed all who chose to listen, jewellery had been parted with; a share in a house at Madras had been sold; currency notes had been stored for years on the old man’s person; as well as twenty gold sovereigns and a bag of rupees. After his debts had been discharged, there would be enough to pay the funeral expenses and possibly something over for his devoted son.
The old man took his midday meal, in which something had been put to resuscitate temporarily his failing powers. At the time appointed he was carefully dressed in his son’s best turban, a clean coat, and fine muslin cloth that hid his thin, shrunken legs. A silk handkerchief thrown over his shoulder completed his costume for the occasion.
Abboye supported him as he tottered out before the assembled company and took his seat on the mat lying before the coffin. Everyone who had received an invitation was present. Outside the compound a crowd of syces, peons, and hangers-on stood to stare “wide-eyed” and wondering at the function that was going on.
The money was laid out on a little table six inches high, such as accountants and money-changers in the bazaar use. It stood in front of the old man now. Now and then he took up a pile of rupees and counted them. His son counted them after his father, lest the trembling hands should have dropped one. Several of the butlers were asked to come forward and go through the packets of notes, which they did with slow dignity and assenting wags of head to intimate that all was correct with notes and coins. The company looked on, too much impressed to talk.
Lastly the sircar arrived. He was a portly person in a red and gold turban and a long white coat. He smiled and bowed and salaamed. There were many whom he recognised in the assembly. On pay-day he waited on them and received the rupees that had been paid as wages into their hands. In return they took what they wanted from his shop and trusted him to keep the account correctly. He was one of a firm that had its headquarters in Madras, and sent out its members to half the towns in the Presidency to do what is still known as sircar business, lending money and supplying their clients with goods in return for the wages placed in their hands.
It is an intricate business, lucrative but risky. There is always the chance that death may cut short all responsibilities and remove the debtor.
The sircar was invited to sit down. Gathering up the folds of white muslin that enveloped his fat legs, he took his seat on a mat spread for the purpose on the other side of the table. He folded his feet under him and posed, quite unconsciously, like a Buddha. The company drew the circle a little closer in, the Campbell butler marshalling them like a master of ceremonies.
Abboye signed to him to approach. One of the rolls of notes was placed in the butler’s hands. He counted the notes and testified to the fact that the stated number was there. He glanced round at the assembly as though to reassure them and handed the roll back to Abboye. It was then given to the old Abboye, trembling with age and weakness and impressed by the solemnity of the moment. The money was held out to the sircar, who extended his cupped hands, the right over the left, to receive it.
The same ceremony was observed with every roll of notes and with each pile of rupees. The sovereigns came last and were offered to the money-lender singly. When the table was bare, the sircar laid down his stamped receipt, touching his forehead with his fingers in acknowledgment. Abboye with the assistance of the butler lifted the old man to his feet. The sircar also rose, and they salaamed to each other. The sircar passed down the steps of the back veranda and walked slowly to the pony-cart that had brought him. The company opened and made a passage for him, salaaming. It was the passage of a prince, the master of many lacs of rupees, their friend in need when unemployment faced them or domestic ceremonies demanded a splash of extravagance.
Abboye senior was led to the go-down, divested of turban and coat and wrapped in an old chudda shawl, the gift of a lady whom he served in years gone by. He sank down on his sleeping-mat and his son spread the scarlet blanket over him. The last act of his long and honourable life was performed. There was nothing more to wait for; and he was ready for the call when it came.
The visitors were in no hurry to depart. They stood about discussing the affair at which they had assisted, repeating again and again the exact amounts of the sums in notes, rupees, and sovereigns that had changed hands. There was not one of them that did not feel a spasm of envy at the brilliant ending old Abboye was effecting. To pay his debts in the face of the world and to receive such an honourable salute after it from the money-lender was a triumph of respectability. The affair would afford a subject for gossip in the bazaar for some time.
Abboye himself gained in importance through the transaction. He had taken over his father’s business of small loans and had been accepted by the sircar as a recognised debtor. He must therefore be considered as a man of substance, owing money and with money owing to him. He drew himself up to his full height, fully alive to the position as the company one after another made their farewell salaams. The butler was the only one to remain. He ranged himself alongside the head boy as though he was already a member of the family.
When the last had moved away, the butler was taken into the room to which the old Abboye had retired. He stood looking down at the shrunken figure.
“It would be as well to send for the priest,” he remarked gravely.
“It has been done,” replied the younger Abboye.
Longfield had a wearisome drive over a flat and dusty road. The car was parked under the village tree, where it was never without its little circle of villagers, chiefly women and children. They believed implicitly that the motor power had its origin in an imprisoned devil. The protection from the sun offered by the tree was not equal to that afforded by the roof of a dâk bungalow or a camp tent.
Aleck also was more or less exposed to the sun throughout the hottest hours of the day. It was the beginning of the hot weather and the sky was cloudless. The glare was even more trying than the actual heat.
He and his companion found ample evidence in the court-yards of several houses that a considerable traffic in contraband salt was being carried on. He left the Assistant Commissioner to pursue his enquiries and collect his evidence. When this had been done, it would be seen whether the services of the police were needed. Meanwhile, another matter occupied his attention and kept him fully employed all day.
Dinner revived him. At Abboye’s suggestion he exchanged his customary glass of lime-juice and soda for a bottle of Lager beer. When the meal was ended, he rose from the table and lighted a cigarette. He looked at his factotum, who was helping the matey to clear the table.
“Abboye, one moment. I want to speak to you.”
“Yessar.” The head boy signed to his subordinate to leave the room, and the man scurried away with a tray of plates to be washed. Abboye waited, heels together, hands behind his back, and chin uplifted. It was the attitude he assumed when he took orders. He had learnt the trick from Mrs. Campbell’s butler, an acknowledged leader among the domestics of the station in dress and deportment.
“You suggested to me before I went out to this village that something might be wrong with the salt trade.”
“Yessar, I thinking that way.”
“I acted on your suggestion. The Assistant Commissioner and I ordered the people to bring out all their pots and their jars for inspection. I had a surprise.”
“Yessar,” said Abboye respectfully but without emotion of any kind. The expression on his face was as wooden as that on the countenance of a graven image.
“Perhaps you thought I might find something in addition to a store of contraband salt?”
Abboye’s expression became more wooden than ever.
“Can’t say, sir, what humbug those village people making.”
“Did you know what might be hidden in a saltpot?”
Longfield glanced sharply at his servant, whose attitude remained unaltered, in spite of the severe scrutiny.
“No, sir; I never know; I only think.”
“It seems to me that you think to some purpose; only I must warn you that thinking has its dangers.”
Abboye’s eyes blinked for one second, but he showed no curiosity as to the meaning of his master’s cryptic remark.
“I have discovered something to-day for which we have all been looking for some time past.”
“Yessar; plenty smuggled salt. Those villagers bad heathen people.”
“I found the missing head of the burglar.”
Abboye stirred slightly but did not alter his pose.
“Very glad master pleased.”
“It was hidden at the bottom of a large widemouthed rice-pot and it was covered with salt. If it had not been for the Salt Commissioner I should not have found it. He ordered the pot to be emptied so that the salt might be weighed, to see if the weight exceeded what was allowed for household use. The head rolled out, to our great astonishment.”
“Which house was it, sir?”
“The house where the burglary was attempted.”
Abboye’s tongue was loosened at last and he felt that he might speak without being accused of splitting on his countrymen.
“That way robbers hide many things. They put stolen money and jewels into all kinds of pots; jagghery, salt, and toddy-pots; into rice-jars and ghee (butter) pots and milk cans. Government order is that food and cooking-pots mustn’t be touched because of caste rules. Village people thinking that cooking-pots are good places to hide things in.”
Longfield gave an assenting grunt. This was perfectly true and had proved an obstruction to more than one investigation carried out under his orders. There was the same difficulty in searching temples as in the case of the ammah’s shrine. They must be kept inviolate for fear of hurting the religious susceptibilities of the people---a privilege that the people were not slow in utilising.
“Did you hear anyone say that the thief’s head was in a salt-pot?”
“No, sir; but when I was looking at the bullocks brought for the reward there was much talk among the men. One laughed and told another that a salt-pot can’t talk, even though it may have a tongue inside it. I asked him what village he came from, and he said it was the one your honour has been visiting to-day. Country people are like crows, sir. They must be always cawing and telling news when they are not looking for food. When the men spoke like that and laughed, I thought that salt-pot must have something to talk about.”
“You were right; but if you suspected that the man’s head was hidden in that way, why didn’t you tell me straight out?”
“Plenty trouble coming for me with police inspector and constables and the village people, if I do tracker business and help master to find out.”
“You have to get drunk before you take a hand in the job,” remarked Longfield with a smile.
Abboye covered his mouth with the palm of his hand to hide the responsive grin on his own lips. To turn his master from a subject on which he did not wish to be too communicative he ventured to ask a question.
“Did the Commissioner find much smuggling, sir?”
“Quite enough to keep his honour busy. We established the identity of the thief. The head belonged to the man who was supposed to have run away to Burmah. But probably you know the whole story better than I do.”
He turned and looked at Abboye with a certain amount of curiosity.
“No, sir; I know nothing. I only listen and think.”
“Well, what did you think?”
“From the talk among the cattlemen, the thief whose head was chopped off, belonged to the house. He gave plenty of trouble in his family, asking for too much money; a drinking, fighting man. They told him to go, but he would not go. He eat much food and would do no work.”
“And so he played the robber?”
“No, sir. The old men held a family punchayet [council] and they agreed to give good beat with bamboo. It would have been all right if he had not died. Then they were frightened and made up humbug story about thief. Everybody is very glad that the bobbery-wallah is dead.”
“It is all wrong for people to take the law into their own hands in this fashion. They have no right to punish; it is for Government to do that. That’s what the police are for, and the magistrates.”
“Old, old business to punish that way, sir. Can’t do it in towns, but up-country they often do it still. Everybody is satisfied and nobody grumbles. These are only heathen people. Very wrong for Christian people to do so. Heathen people don’t know better.”
Somehow by the aid of his ears Abboye had picked up the story fairly accurately. As elucidated by the Assistant Superintendent of Police, it worked out as follows.
Longfield in search of contraband salt in company with the Commissioner had directed the villagers to produce the pots in which they stored their supplies of food. Their caste prejudices were respected and any handling of the utensils that had to be done was effected by the owners.
At the house where the burglary was said to have been attempted there was a good deal of salt. The Assistant Commissioner’s suspicions were roused and he ordered it to be turned out and weighed.
As one of the largest crocks was being emptied, the missing head of the supposed thief was discovered.
The truth then came out as far as he could get it. The headman called up witnesses and commanded them on pain of punishment to speak out. Seeing that the fat was in the fire and lying was of no further use to them, they made no difficulty in telling his honour what they knew.
It is a very deep well in India that holds the truth, but with patience the jewel can be found. Longfield was all day finding it in this case.
The family was of the Shanar caste, who are mostly toddy-drawers and supply the labour for the cotton-fields. Three generations lived together with their wives and children in the ancestral home, a rambling mud building with a deep tiled roof. It is a common custom with the Hindus and works satisfactorily as a rule.
In this family they were amicably disposed with the exception of one member. He was a widower without children. There had been attempts to find him a wife in the hope that he would settle down, but they were not successful. He was of a quarrelsome disposition and gave plenty of trouble, as they put it. He demanded more than his share of the income; and, what was a still greater offence, he interfered with the wives of the other men.
A stand was made against his aggressions. A family conclave was held and the decision arrived at that he must leave the house and make a home for himself elsewhere. This he refused to do. They threatened force, and he retaliated with a counter-threat. He would go to the police and expose the illicit trade carried on by the family in smuggling salt from the coast.
They were alarmed, and a second family council was held. It was agreed that if he did not clear out and take himself off to Ceylon or to Burmah by a certain date, they would give him a severe beating. It was impossible to live with such a budmash in their midst, they declared, the women being the most vociferous among his accusers.
One night they doped his curry, intending to thrash him soundly as soon as his strength and his senses were affected. Preparations were made for a man to hold each limb. The old head of the house was deputed to wield the bamboo; he still possessed strength sufficient to administer a good punishment.
When they came to carry out the sentence, they found, to their horror, that he was dead. The dose of opium had been too heavy.
Then came the question as to what was best to be done. The little drama of the burglary was concocted. A hole was made in the mud wall of the store-room. The dead man was placed in position with his head thrust through it and the chopper was used. He was decapitated and his head was hidden in the hope that his identity would be destroyed. They omitted nothing that gave colour to the story, stripping him naked and rubbing his body with oil after the manner of thieves when they are at work.
It was arranged that the old man should strike the first blow. If there was an enquiry, as was inevitable, he was to tell the following extraordinary story. He was to take on himself the blame, and was to confess to the killing, and to allege that he did not recognise the thief in the dark. In his anxiety to defend the family jewel chest, he had struck in ignorance, not knowing that the intruder was his own nephew. The young men were away at a village where a devil-dance was taking place, and he was by himself except for the women, who were in hiding and far too terrified to help in protecting their property.
No alarm was to be raised until the young men had found time to get safely away and prove an alibi. It was all successfully carried out. No doctor was at hand to say that the head had been severed from the body after death. The village constable considered that his duty took him in the direction of the village where the devil-dance was held. And the next day the body was disposed of in the usual manner, for the excellent reason that it was imperative in the interests of sanitation to have it removed.
The alibis were proved, and the old man, when examined, persisted in his statement that he had killed the intruder under a mistaken apprehension that he was protecting his family and property from a dacoit.
The rumour got abroad that the burglar was one of a gang of thieves operating in the next district. The missing member of the family was said to have gone to Madras, from which port he had sailed for Burmah with a gang of labourers.
Later, a sentence was passed on the old man for manslaughter. It was received with general satisfaction by the whole family, including himself. Life of late had been very unquiet and disturbing. He felt too old and feeble to deal with insubordination. His eldest son would have a tighter grip on the reins and re-establish order. He himself would find peace and plenty in the place to which a benevolent Government would send him.
It would have been quite simple to have stated the truth and to have confessed that an overdose of opium had been given accidentally in the food. It was intended only as an opiate. He had died after it, however, and they were terrified lest the police should accuse them of having murdered him. This was their method of destroying his identification and of accounting for the presence of a dead body in the house.
The following morning the second servant brought the tea-tray. Usually it was Abboye who roused his master and rattled the teaspoon in the saucer as a hint that it was time to get up.
“Hallo! Where’s Abboye?” asked Longfield, throwing up the mosquito curtain and rousing himself into wakefulness.
“With his father, sir.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, sir; everything all right. Abboye’s father done died in the night.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was likely to die so soon.”
“Nothing to wait for, sir. Yesterday he paid his debts all proper. Last night he died all proper. This afternoon Abboye will bury all proper.”
The matey left the room. He had a busy day before him with all the work of the bungalow to do. He would receive no assistance from the head boy for some hours.
Longfield took his tea, and lighting a cigarette, dressed to go out. The early-morning hours, fresh and cool, were precious, whether he had any police business on hand or whether he wanted to play tennis or golf before the sun became too warm for exercise. In the old days the English people in India were wont to be in the saddle at sunrise. In the present time it is the minority who ride. Golf or tennis or a drive in the car along roads where there is no speed-limit takes the place of the horse exercise of old. This morning Longfield intended to walk to the police-station, where he would find his head inspector, with whom he wished to discuss his adventures of the previous day. As he came from his room he met Abboye.
“Sorry to hear you have lost your father,” he said with sympathy in his voice, which his servant recognised gratefully. The man did not speak. He assumed his usual attitude of attention, which indicated that he had something to say. “I was not aware that he was so near death,” added Longfield.
“Yessar; time come for my father to die. Yesterday he paid his debts to the sircar. After paying he went to the go-down to his mat. Never speaking again after lying down. He shut his eyes and at three o’clock this morning he stopped breathing. All quite proper, sir. Priest telling prayers and saying my father very good old man; get good place in Heaven.”
“Let’s hope so,” responded Longfield gravely, as became the occasion. “When will the funeral take place?”
“By master’s gracious favour at half past two o’clock this afternoon. I take four hours’ leave to bury. I come back in time for dinner.”
“You can have the whole evening, if you like.”
“No, sir. Four hours plenty; from half past two to half past six.”
“Very well; do as you please; I shall be agreeable.” Abboye remained standing in his respectful “at attention” position. “Anything else?” Longfield asked.
“One thing more I ask---a very great favour of master’s honour.” Abboye spoke with anxious deference.
“What is it? Money in advance?”
“No, sir. It is tomtoms. English gentlemen and ladies don’t like tomtoms. I speak true word only. My father would be much pleased if by your honour’s gracious favour he could have two tomtoms at his funeral. I will see to it that they are only small tomtoms and that they shall not be beaten loud.”
The anxious eyes rested on his master.
“Your father is dead; it is you who would have the tomtoms.”
“Yessar; out of respect to my father to go before the box when it is carried to the burial-ground.”
“Do you want me to pay for them?”
“No, sir; my father left enough money for all expense.”
“Have them by all means. It is your affair, not mine, if you have the money that is needed for them.”
“English people saying tomtoms not nice; making too much bazaar noise. I tell tomtom men to beat gently.”
“That’s all right,” said Longfield good-naturedly. “The tomtoms won’t bother me. If they do, I’ll go to the office at the police-station.”
In his appreciation of his master’s goodness Abboye fell at his feet, touching the ground with his forehead. His gratitude was genuine, and this was his only means of showing it. Words to express gratitude do not come easily to the Indian. There is no word in the Tamil language that exactly translates the English “Thank you.” But in action the self-abasement and the salaam that includes the prostration is equivalent to the European’s spoken thanks.
Abboye considered that he had much to be thankful for. Through master’s gracious favour full honours were to be done to the dead.
The head boy did not go to the bazaar that morning. He sent the cook with directions as to the purchases. He was also charged with a message to the Campbell butler, who was to issue invitations for the funeral to all who were present at the great liquidation ceremony. The message brought the butler to the compound at the first moment he could get away from his duties and his mistress.
He had a long interview with Abboye, and it was settled between them that the butler should act as master of the ceremonies, and take on himself responsibility for all the arrangements. He promised that the affair should be grander than that of the day before and be the talk of the bazaar.
Returning to the bazaar at once in his little bullock-cart, the butler spread the news of all that was to be done. Two things impressed every servant in the place. The one was the coffin; the other that the master had consented to allow the beating of tomtoms on the premises.
The market buzzed with excitement, the tradesmen being as much interested in their client’s affairs as the community of domestics. Nothing else was spoken of but the coming funeral and yesterday’s ceremony. The tale of the debt-payment was repeated again and again by those who were fortunate enough to be present to those who had not been invited.
Rumour was already busy concerning the magnificence of the funeral. In addition to the tomtom beaters, two professional mourners were to be hired, elderly women who were experts in the demonstration of grief. The bearers were to be provided by the priest, who was also supplying the bier and the pall. Every follower was to carry a candle. Never within the memory of man had a domestic servant been buried in a box with tomtoms and hired mourners. If employed at all, the tomtoms and the wailing women had been picked up on the way. Here, by the gracious favour of a master who excelled all others in generosity of spirit, the procession was to start from the house.
Lunch was over. Longfield had been waited on by the second servant assisted by the cook. Whatever happened in the go-downs, the master was not allowed to suffer any discomfort. He was half asleep in a shaded corner of the veranda where the sea-breezes would presently bring a freshening of the air. The rhythmic beat of the drum fell on his ear. He was ignorant of the meaning of the sound and at first it suggested nothing to his mind. The Indian knows at once how to interpret the beat of the drum; whether it proclaims wedding rejoicings or is sounding the burial tattoo.
Presently a second drum took up the melancholy chorus. The drummer beat with his fingers and the base of the palm of his hand. He threw more energy into his task. The other increased his efforts, and in spite of Abboye’s promise that there should be as little noise as possible, the voice of the drums’ lament for the dead filled the compound and penetrated through the open house to the front veranda.
Longfield looked at his watch. It was just on half past two. He rose from his chair and went through the dining-room to the back veranda. The place was deserted. Every servant of the establishment was waiting for the procession to form. The coffin had been removed from the back veranda and the mat upon which the old man was accustomed to sit was no longer there.
From the top step he looked down at the scene. The coffin stood before the door of Abboye’s godown. In the brilliant sunshine a great crowd had collected. They were dressed in their best in honour of the occasion. Those who had received invitations had gathered round the door of the room in which the old man had died. The uninvited spectators waited at the entrance of the compound to join the procession behind the mourners. It was curiosity that drew them; but they treated the event with respect, and every man had donned clean if not new clothes. Here and there a red-and-gold or a blue turban caught the brilliant sunlight and struck a note of colour.
The bearers, bare to the waist and wearing new loincloths, took up the coffin at the direction of the butler. The pall fell over their shoulders, partially hiding them from sight. Their burden was not heavy, made as it was out of deal cases. The little old corpse inside the “barx” was as light as that of a child.
The bearers began to mark time to the beat of the drums. They moved slowly forward, their pace regulated by the tomtom beaters, who were placed immediately in front of the coffin.
As soon as the start was made the two professional mourners took their places behind the coffin. The butler, assisted by Ragoo, brought Abboye from the go-down, leading him by the hand and putting him behind the women.
Longfield scarcely recognised his neat, trim head boy. He wore no turban and his dishevelled hair hung wildly about his bare shoulders. On his head he had poured dust and ashes. His face was swollen with weeping, and tears streamed from his eyes. He threw his arms about, freeing himself from the grasp of his two friends, as though distracted and unable to control his movements. His supporters caught his wrists and continued to guide his footsteps and keep him in his place as chief mourner in the procession.
The women did their part. They wailed aloud and tore their clothes and their hair, which was loose and tousled beyond description. Now and then they threw themselves to the ground, grasping handfuls of dust to pour over their heads. They were lifted to their feet and supported by ready and willing hands until it was time to repeat the little drama. Abboye would have followed their example, but for the firm grip on his arms by Ragoo and the butler.
The procession passed out of the compound and slowly made its way to the Roman Catholic cemetery. The roll of the funeral drums died away in the distance, and silence reigned in the place except for the sound of the cawing of the crows, the shrill scream of the chipmunks in the rafters, and the incessant chirp of the sparrows. It was an impressive scene. The epitaph engraved on the tomb of Bizzos, the son of Pardos of Syria came into Longfield’s mind:
“I lived well; I die well; and well I rest.”
Before leaving the back veranda he glanced round noting the spot where the rough box had stood. It had been Abboye’s glory and pride. Now it was gone, and with it all sign of the old man, who had so diligently cleaned his honour’s clubs, as a testimony of the gratitude he was unable to express in words.
The matey was in the dining-room as he passed through to the front veranda. The man was setting out the afternoon-tea tray with the gentle tinkle of china and silver that is a welcome sound in a hot and thirsty land.
“Master taking tea?” he asked.
“At half past three. I am going to the golf-ground, so don’t be late with it.”
“Yessar,” replied the matey in close imitation of Abboye.
Dinner was at eight as usual. It was a solitary meal, but it was served with as much care as if it had been prepared for half a dozen honoured guests.
Abboye, turbaned and coated in white, appeared with the soup, which he placed before his master. He took up his position behind his master’s chair as usual. The storm of grief had passed. It was followed by a reactionary calm, which was in its way consolation for all that he had gone through.
He had the gratification of knowing that the affair would be in people’s mouths for some days to come. It was something to be remembered. He himself had contributed much towards its success by his exemplary conduct as chief mourner.
A police-officer’s life in India is full of interesting work for any man who is a student of Oriental human nature. He is never without some intricate case of crime that requires unravelling; and there is always the element of impish childishness that brings unexpected results. It seems as if the Indian criminal goes out of his way to complicate his case even if it is to his own disadvantage. He denies facts when there is no reason to hide the truth.
The witnesses make unnecessary statements and seem to have no knowledge of the nature of an oath. They will swear unblushingly to anything if they are under the impression that their perjury will not be discovered. Nothing, in their opinion, is wrong until it is found out, whether it is actual crime or false testimony.
The days passed monotonously for Longfield, but he was by no means idle; nor did he find himself dull. He went to the golf links whenever he had an afternoon to spare. The solitary game suited his mood. In addition, he associated Sylvia with the spot. It was there that he had more than once had her to himself, and it was the scene of one of their latest conversations. He received several invitations to tennis, for he was a good player. Occasionally he accepted, but more often than not he excused himself on the score of not being able to get away from office soon enough. The game had not much attraction for him now it brought back memories which he would willingly have forgotten. He was doing his very best to bury them in oblivion and to reconcile himself to existing circumstances.
The Club saw him nearly every evening when he was in the station. He did not go near the Ladies’ Room, having no inclination to look up anyone who might be there. His tours in the district took him away frequently for ten days or a fortnight at a time, and interfered with any regularity of practice either at tennis or golf.
The day arrived when he might expect a letter from Sylvia, if she intended to write and give him an explanation of her sudden departure. The letter did not come. He was disappointed, more so than he was aware of. He waited till two or three mails had arrived which might have brought him one. Then he bethought himself of enquiring of Southwood whether he had received news of his sister-in-law.
Mrs. Southwood had departed with her children to Coonoor. Her husband, unable to get leave, was at the Club every evening between half past six and eight, playing cards or billiards. Somehow Longfield hesitated to put the question; one reason for his reticence was the fact that he seldom if ever found Southwood alone. Another was that he had no ostensible reason for asking after Sylvia Smith.
One evening chance befriended him. Anstruther, coming into the Club intent on bridge, asked after Mrs. Southwood in Longfield’s hearing. Having been assured that she and the children were quite well and very happy on the hills, he said:
“How is your sister-in-law, Miss Smith? Has she arrived safely in England?”
“According to my wife she had a very pleasant trip home and is pleased to find herself in England again.”
“Where is she staying?”
“In London somewhere, I believe.”
“In London! My wife is there by this time. Can you give me Miss Smith’s address? I’ll send it to Mrs. Anstruther. She will look her up. They might do a theatre together.”
“I am afraid I can’t give it to you, for the excellent reason that I don’t know what it is. Sylvia is always erratic in her movements. I never met a more restless person. She came out to us on the spur of the moment. She may be in Aix at this moment or having a flutter at Monte Carlo for all we know, or she may not have left London.”
“Hasn’t she got an agent like the rest of us, or a bank, to whom letters may be sent?”
“Not she! She’s a waif and stray, unaccountable to anyone for her movements. Hallo, Bowood! looking for someone to make up a game? I’m your man.”
Southwood moved away and Anstruther followed close at his heels, intent on the same object. Longfield was left. They had not noticed him, for which he was thankful. His face was partly hidden in the illustrated paper in which he was apparently engrossed. The pictures and words had floated before his eyes without leaving any impression on his brain. He understood from what he had heard that nothing more was to be extracted from Sylvia’s rather indifferent relative. It seemed doubtful if Mrs. Southwood had any more information to give than her husband. She would have had no object in keeping him in ignorance had she known.
Sylvia was covering up her tracks and giving no one the opportunity of following her, or of learning anything of her affairs. Longfield felt that he was one of the crowd she was endeavouring to escape. It was his duty as a friend and as an honourable man not to attempt to do violence to her wishes. It was not easy to school himself to this view of the case; he determined to respect her expressed wishes, and he asked no questions of either Southwood or Anstruther. When she desired to hear from him or see him, she would bring it to pass herself without any action on his part.
One morning Abboye requested permission to speak. It was early, and Longfield had not left the bungalow. The hot weather was upon them, and there were mornings when he did not care to go out to the golf-ground or to the tennis-courts. Half an hour after the sun rose above the horizon he found the heat unpleasant, and the glare too great to make games attractive. The car with the hood up took him to the office and brought him back to the bungalow for lunch.
Abboye began with the usual call to attention.
“Master please I will speak.”
“Yes; what is it?”
“The reward for the lost bullock, sir. It is not withdrawn?”
“No; it still holds good; but we have had no claim for some time.”
“Please, sir, I make claim.”
Longfield turned and gazed at him in astonishment.
“You! What do you mean?”
“I make claim in master’s name for your honour. I can show the bullock.”
Abboye drew himself up to his full height and assumed his most confident pose. He beamed with pride and gratification.
“You can produce the bullock?” Longfield repeated; “the animal that was stolen on the road and replaced by an old one?”
“Yessar, can do it all right,” said Abboye, as though he were prepared to perform some conjuring trick.
Longfield was mystified and inclined to be incredulous. He called to mind, however, the fact that Abboye had managed to pull the strings on one or two occasions in a remarkable way. It was possible that he might be able to put the police on the track of the thief and bring about the recovery of the animal.
“Do you actually know where the animal is at this present moment? Can you lay your finger on it?”
“By master’s gracious favour, I can, sir.”
“Where is it?”
“Outside front veranda. Master come and see.”
Longfield went at once to the portico. There to his amazement, stood the very desirable bullock he had bought at Abboye’s instigation to facilitate economical camping operations in the district. For some time past it had been used and had proved most satisfactory in saving cart hire.
A neat little cloth of country-made coarse drill covered its back. Its hair was as white as soap and water could make it and it was the picture of a draught animal in the prime of life. The kitchen-boy stood at its head, holding the rope that was threaded through its nostrils. The lad’s grin of pride and gratification was a reflection of the head boy’s emotion.
He was not alone in his sympathy. Behind him were the cook and the kitchen-woman, and beyond them were the chauffeur, the gardener, and the waterman.
Abboye produced the record of the brands the bullock bore when it was purchased. He placed the paper in Longfield’s hands.
“Master please look and see the marks,” he said, stripping off the drill cover.
Longfield stared from the paper to the animal’s back and then at the paper again. He was completely puzzled. The brands no longer tallied with the record of the chart.
“Have you changed the bullock?” he asked.
“No, sir. Same bullock but not the same marks. That man who sold it making humbug marks by shaving. He doubled the long line. He put three legs to the V to make a star. He added two upright lines to the one like a match; and he put a second circle round the first circle. This is the stolen bullock, sir; master’s own bullock bought with your honour’s money.”
Abboye spread himself out, puffed up with real pride, which was reflected on the faces of the whole establishment.
“Well, what are we to do? We shall lose the bullock,” said Longfield with the dawning of a conviction that he was in a dilemma.
“Now your honour can claim the two hundred rupees reward,” said Abboye, triumphant and confident.
Longfield called for the chart of the lost animal. It was supposed to be locked up in a drawer in the office, but Abboye had seen to it that it was forthcoming. He produced it and handed it to his master, who studied it closely and found, to his horror, that the head boy was correct in his statements. The bullock that had passed for months as his was stolen property!
He was bewildered at the extraordinary situation in which he found himself. Master and man regarded each other in silence: the one with an increasing consternation; the other with a triumphant satisfaction that suggested the conquest of worlds. At length the Assistant Superintendent of Police spoke.
“Abboye!”
“Yessar.”
“Do you know what you have done? You have turned me into a receiver of stolen goods.”
“Aiyoh! no, sir. That can’t be!” cried Abboye, aghast and suddenly filled with horror.
“You know the penalty for receiving stolen goods. It is prison. With the bullock in my possession, and the fact recorded in my cheque-book that I paid for it, I have rendered myself liable to imprisonment---nothing less.”
“Aiyoh! but sir, we are ready to restore the bullock; we are not hiding it with the intention of keeping it; and for that there is a reward,” protested Abboye, now thoroughly frightened at the consequences of his ingenuity.
He had pulled the strings this time, with dire consequences to his beloved master. His pride fell from him like a gaudy bit of tinsel, and he stood aghast and trembling like a real criminal before his accuser. He literally drooped and wilted as he stood there, the picture of disgrace and misery. Longfield’s annoyance vanished before the sight of his faithful Abboye’s collapse at the shattering of his machinations. His pity was roused. The official disappeared and the sympathetic master took his place. It was necessary, however, that Abboye should be under no mistake as to the true position of affairs.
“The receiver of stolen goods cannot claim any reward that may be offered for the recovery of stolen goods if he is aware all the time that it is stolen. I must see what can be done to get us out of this hobble with clean hands. It may not be an easy task.”
“Sir, I can put back the humbug marks------”
“Abboye!” Never had he heard his master speak in such a stern voice. “Are we heathen or Christian? Do we know the difference between right and wrong?”
Again the unfortunate head boy drooped and wilted. He had nothing to say.
“I hope we may be able to trace the thief through the cheque I gave him——”
“That was why I asked your honour to give the cheque,” said Abboye quickly and without thought.
“Then you knew what we were doing? even when I was paying for the animal you were aware that it was the stolen bullock?”
“Not knowing, sir; only thinking,” pleaded Abboye.
Longfield in speaking had been careful to identify himself in the action with his servant. Perhaps Abboye might have been less anxious if his master had thrown the whole responsibility on his shoulders. As it was, his honour considered himself implicated to the same extent as his servant.
“Bring the bullock to the police-station when I am there. I will explain to the inspectors that you knew nothing when I bought the animal. I can plead the same thing myself with a clear conscience. What you thought must be kept to yourself. We deal at the police-station with facts and not thoughts. Above all, say nothing about the purchase of any hair restorer which you bought and I paid for.”
Abboye’s face cleared and his spirits revived.
“The reward?” he asked. “Will it be given to your honour?”
“I shall not claim it; nor will you. If we can get out of this scrape without being accused of receiving and keeping property which we knew to be stolen, we may consider ourselves lucky.”
When Longfield found himself alone he allowed the smile that had been suppressed to appear. The incident had its humorous side. He was not altogether sorry that Abboye had burnt his fingers over the deal. It was a warning to him not to do too much thinking; too much pulling of the strings.
From Abboye his thoughts went to the Club and its members. The story must come out eventually, for it would be known in the bazaar. He would be wiser to tell his own tale and not let it dribble through the butlers and ayahs of the station. Anstruther was an old friend; he also had a sense of humour. Longfield had to face a certain amount of chaff for being a receiver of stolen goods. It was suggested by the irrepressible Anstruther that his premises should be searched and that he should turn out his pockets in the presence of the Club committee.
Strange to say, the story that circulated in the bazaar was one that redounded to Abboye’s credit. His master had bought a bullock for camp use. Unknown to the buyer, the brands had been altered by various additions. In course of time the hair grew again where it had been shaved.
On the discovery of the “humbug” marks, the bullock was taken to the police-station and identified as the stolen beast. Abboye was highly commended by the police; but the reward was not given, no one in the service being eligible for rewards.
The bullock was sent to the original purchaser. The thief, after drawing his money from the bank, decamped, and was not heard of again. Longfield cut his losses on the transaction and provided himself with another bullock that did not carry on its hide any “humbug” brands.
“The girl ought to be married at Christmas,” declared Mrs. Campbell’s butler. “Her mother tells me this every day of my life.”
He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out a gold ornament. It was tied up in a small piece of calico. He opened the tiny parcel slowly and deliberately, as became the importance of the occasion. The object revealed was a kind of medallion. Gems were set in the form of a cross upon it. It was a thali, used by Indians instead of a ring at their marriages.
“With this thali I thee wed,” says the Christian bridegroom.
It is attached to a string of jasmin flowers or to a cord on which are strung a few gold beads---to be added to later as the husband prospers. The bridegroom throws the spring over the head of the bride and the thali lies hidden on her neck in the folds of her saree, never to be removed.
The butler had ordered it to be made and he displayed it with some pride to a small circle of friends invited to his go-down. They were seated in the open a little distance from the door. One of the party was Abboye. Another was Ragoo, Anstruther’s personal servant.
Ragoo was also contemplating marriage. He was not obliged to go out into camp. His master’s business, except for one occasion, kept him in the station. This was when Anstruther had his flutter in purchasing the crop of cotton. Ragoo was therefore in a position to look after a wife and lead the life of “a family man.”
The butler displayed the thali on the palm of his hand, exhibiting it first to Abboye and then to Ragoo. These two were the eligibles of the domestic community, and Abboye was generally recognised as the favoured suitor for the hand of the butler’s daughter.
“In addition to this thali, which has been made before my eyes, or those of my wife when I have been too busy to watch the goldsmith, I am providing other jewellery.”
He proceeded to enumerate the various articles. They were all for the bride’s use; on marriage they became the property of the husband; she, however, retained possession of them and wore them on suitable occasions. When he was away, all except the thali were deposited in his strongbox and a few inexpensive glass bangles were substituted.
An Indian woman adorns herself solely for the benefit of her husband. When he is not at home, jewellery and fine clothes must be laid aside if she wishes to be thought a modest, self-respecting wife.
Abboye made no comment. He was more than a little worried. At one time he had reckoned confidently on his master being married by Christmas. His hopes were dashed to the ground when Miss Smith left the station so suddenly, and there was no talk of her return. He could not understand it. She seemed so friendly; but she had gone away without a word. Of this he felt convinced, because of what he had seen and heard. To a certain extent Abboye knew all about Longfield’s correspondence. No letter had come from England different from those his master had received regularly since his arrival. He drew his own conclusions. His honour was falling into bachelor habits, and as each month passed there seemed less and less likelihood of matrimony.
The butler having held out the thali to Abboye, turned to Ragoo and exhibited it specially to him. Ragoo was flattered by the attention, and leaning forward he remarked on the fine workmanship and solidity of the jewel.
“It is fit for a sircar’s daughter,” he said.
“So are the jewels I am having made,” responded the butler quickly. “My daughter will also take three silk sarees with her, in addition to those I am providing for every-day wear.”
Again the butler glanced at Abboye, who avoided his eye and remained silent. He would have taken his leave and gone home but for his desire to speak privately with the butler.
“It is said that Mrs. Campbell goes to England next hot weather,” said a Club servant, who gathered much news as he brought various drinks to the members. Every Madras servant understands English and most of them speak it fluently.
“She goes home to bring out a daughter,” said the butler. “The master will follow her, and they will all come back together in October or November.”
“That will mean promotion for his honour. They will not return here, but will stay in Madras where there will be many dinner parties,” remarked the Club butler, who claimed to know the Presidency town well.
A little later the party broke up. With much ceremony they took leave of the butler. Only Abboye remained. He had something to say connected with the thali, which by this time was tied up in the little bit of rag and replaced in the butler’s pocket.
“The girl has been promised to me; why then did you show Ragoo the thali? It has nothing to do with him,” said Abboye resentfully as soon as they were alone.
“I am ready to give,” responded the butler, “and I am quite ready to make arrangements for the wedding.”
“It cannot be just yet. My master goes frequently into camp and I have to go with him.”
The butler grunted an assent.
“If I have a wife, what am I to do with her when I am away in the district? I cannot take her with me. I have no mother to play the mother-in-law and guard her.” He paused, looking at his companion for comment and possibly sympathy; but the other maintained silence. “I might send her back to her own mother.”
“If his honour goes to England I shall not be here. I shall go to Madras with my wife and family, where I shall wait for the master and mistress.”
There was a pause. An expression of anxiety clouded Abboye’s face. The butler did not seem inclined to help him out of the difficulty.
“I need more time,” said the young man.
“It is not good to wait too long when a girl is ready for marriage. It is likely to bring trouble. A husband must be found for her.”
“Is it that you would prefer Ragoo?” asked Abboye with a touch of jealousy.
“A year ago I chose you. I said then, Let a year pass. You replied, At the end of the year I will marry her. It is within a few weeks of the year’s end. Is the marriage to take place?”
“If God wills, I wish for nothing better.”
He spoke seriously. His heart was in it. For months he had made his little preparations for his bride’s comfort; provided the best of cooking-pots and tins for the storing of sugar, salt, and the condiments required for curry. He had purchased a pair of English sheets and blankets. But his pride was in a large looking-glass that had once belonged to an English sahib. It had lost its stand and its reflective powers were dimmed by dust and damp. The bride, however, would be able to see half her length, which was more than she had ever been able to do in her father’s house. The butler spoke again.
“There are ways of bringing about the marriage.”
“What are they? I am ready to do anything that is in my power.”
“Another master may be found; one who is married and does not go out into camp.”
Abboye made no reply. The solution of the difficulty in that manner had crossed his mind, but he had rejected it at once as impossible. Leave his honour! Let another take his place! It was not to be thought of. During the past year he and his master had been drawn together by various incidents. He was bound to follow him to the end. To leave him would be nothing less than desertion. No; it was impossible to ask his master to look for another servant.
“If you come with me to Madras,” continued the tempter, “I shall have no difficulty in finding you a good place. The Club butler there is my friend. All the gentlemen go to him for servants.”
“It must be considered,” said Abboye diplomatically. He dared not refuse the offer, although he knew in his heart that he would never consent. He rose to take his leave.
At that moment Marie, the bride-elect, came out of the door with her brass water-pot on her hip. The yellow metal glittered in the sun, for she had scoured her pot till it shone. So also did the brass bangles on her arms. She wore a brilliant coloured saree bordered with a thread of gold. Her hair was smooth and glossy; and in the strands of the coil that nestled in her neck she had tucked a ball of marigold blossom.
She stepped out of the doorway and her eyes were lifted to the young man who stood beside her father. As they met his they were modestly cast down, and the edge of her saree was drawn shawl-fashion over her hair. A shy smile curved her lips, but she dared not give him a second glance. She recognised him and was not ignorant of the part he might play in her future.
She had not gone ten paces when her mother issued from the go-down with a loud exclamation of annoyance. She caught her daughter by the shoulder, roughly pulled the saree forward over her face, and administered three or four thumps with the knuckles of a clenched fist. She dragged her back to the door and drove her inside with a rapid utterance of reproaches for her bold behaviour in passing before the eyes of a visitor.
Marie whimpered and wailed. Abboye could hear the little girl weeping inside the go-down, and his heart went out to her in pity. The father looked on in approval.
“That was well done on the part of the child’s mother,” he said. “There is more mischief bred in going for water at the well than in any other business. When a woman goes to draw water for the house, her eyes as often as not draw a lover.”
Abboye’s attention was still focused on the door; the sound of weeping had not ceased.
“It is well not to be too harsh with those who mean no wrong,” he remarked.
“No use being harsh after the wrong has been done. You see that the child has been well brought up. She will make a good, obedient wife and will take the stick quietly.”
“I shall not use the stick to my wife,” said Abboye.
“That will depend entirely upon whether you find the bamboo necessary.”
Abboye took his leave and the butler entered his house.
“You did well, wife,” he said in a low voice. Touching the child on the shoulder, he continued. “Cease crying, little one. You can go to the tap now; my friend has departed.”
Marie, grateful for the words of kindness, protested that she did not mean to offend. Her mother had asked for water for the cooking.
“When you saw a young man with me, you should have retired indoors to wait till he had gone. By bold ways are good husbands lost and bad lovers caught. It is uncertain if the Longfield head boy will ask for thee. It may be that Ragoo offers. He has a mother who has a heavy hand and a short temper. I would rather give thee to the Longfield head boy.”
Marie escaped with her brass pot in the direction of the tap that served all the out-buildings. The butler spoke to his wife before he left for the back veranda.
“I think we shall secure Abboye, but there are difficulties---great difficulties. They may perhaps be overcome.”
“I hope so, husband. I don’t like Ragoo’s mother. She is a bad-tempered, evil-tongued woman.”
It is the same all the world over, east and west, north and south. A woman may beat her own daughter, but will not allow another to touch her child.
It was not often that Abboye found himself in a real quandary. As Sylvia had said of him some time previously, he had a wonderful facility for wriggling out of any difficulty. This time he seemed fairly caught on the horns of the proverbial dilemma and did not know which way to take.
On the one hand was his beloved master; on the other was the dainty, desirable little bride. He wanted both. Apparently he could not have both. He must make choice of one or the other. The domestic scene so cleverly arranged by Marie’s mother had the full effect intended. It roused the lover’s pity---the pity that is akin to love. As a counter-blast, a slight attack of fever rendered Longfield dependent on his faithful servant for a few days. His helplessness roused Abboye’s devotion; his master was so patient and so grateful for the careful nursing he received from his head boy that Abboye concluded for the twentieth time that he could not leave his master under any circumstances whatever.
The resignation of his bride had an additional sting in the knowledge that Ragoo’s father had held an interview with Marie’s parent. There could be only one reason for such an event. The knowledge of it sent a cold chill to his heart and disturbed his peace of mind more than a little. Never had he regretted so much the death of his parents as now. If his old father had been alive, the marriage might have taken place. The bride could have remained with her father-in-law and all would have been well. Under the present circumstances Abboye, the cook, and the kitchen-woman would all have to go into camp whenever the master had to go; and the premises would be deserted except for the gaunt old waterman, the gardener, and the low-caste sweeper. Abboye possessed no relatives who could be invited to come into his house and play the part of mother-in-law to his bride.
Christmas was approaching. The arrangements for the holidays of the officials in India are made on a more liberal scale than those in England. A week or ten days may be secured where consideration is given to the religious festivals of the Hindus. The social festivities contemplated by the European community were freely discussed at the Club. A very strong echo reached the bazaar, where the dinner parties, dances, and theatricals were commented on by the servants. To the butlers and the cooks fell the task of catering for their masters and mistresses and the guests who might be invited.
Foremost among entertainers was Mrs. Campbell. This year she intended to surpass herself. It would be probably her last Christmas in Tuticorin. She thought of leaving for England in March. Her husband would follow in July or August for three months’ short leave, to return with his wife and daughter in October.
Anstruther would be in the station for Christmas; as also the Padre, the Southwoods and Bowoods. They would have guests staying with them, and there might be two or three of the junior officials coming in from the smaller stations. Presumably Longfield would also be there. When asked, however, what his plans were, he was uncommunicative and seemed in doubt how he should spend the holiday.
Since he had come back from camping he had found himself often in the company of Bessie Bowood. He could not tell how it happened. It was not of his seeking. On occasions when he could be persuaded to play a game of tennis she was assigned to him as a partner. He was asked to take her in to dinner whenever they met at a friend’s house, and on the golf-course somehow they were never far apart. It was apparently accidental, but it was not always to Aleck’s liking. Bessie Bowood had a sharp tongue and he was no match for her. He felt worsted at the very outset. He had ascribed no meaning to these small accidents, but Anstruther inadvertently opened his eyes to possibilities.
One evening they were returning from the golf-ground. Longfield was giving his friend a lift to the Club in his car. A brilliant moon was rising in a cloudless sky.
“Like to have a run before we go to the Club?” asked Aleck.
“Not a bad idea. I shall be in plenty of time to get a game of billiards,” replied Anstruther, buttoning his top-coat across his chest. The air was cool and fresh after sunset at that time of the year.
They discussed the game, and then Anstruther said suddenly and as if in response to thoughts that had not crystallised into words.
“This is no place for a man to bring his wife to. The heat tries a woman more than a man. It is like taking her into the desert. And it is very dull as a rule.”
“You can’t help yourself, Anstruther.”
“No; I came out married; but I can see what it has been to my wife. She has been awfully good all through. Never grumbled while she was here. Her letters show me, however, what England is to her now she is back. She doesn’t know; but I can read between the lines. I’m going to advise her to stop at home for another year. I can get on all right by myself. I’m in a groove, and I can’t get out of it. It’s my living, and I don’t know that I want to get out of it. I’m not like you in that respect. You can apply for another district if you marry, and you will be wise to do so.”
Marriage had been banished from Longfield’s thoughts altogether since Sylvia had passed out of his life.
“I’m not thinking of taking a wife. All the same, I intend asking for a transfer, and I shall probably get it at the beginning of the hot season, when some of the men in my service want leave.”
“Oh! marriage doesn’t appeal to you, then?” said Anstruther, glancing at him with a touch of curiosity. “Perhaps you are right.”
They drove along in silence in the white moonlight. The moon would be full a day or two after Christmas Day. and the bachelors were planning to give a moonlight picnic in the festive week. Passing rapidly through the air had an invigorating effect. It was like riding, but without the fatigue of the exercise in the saddle. Pace left them cool instead of heated.
“This is not a good place for a girl,” remarked Anstruther, harking back to the subject that was uppermost in his mind. “She hasn’t half a chance in a climate like this. There’s Bessie Bowood, for instance. She must find it frightfully dull.”
“Her mother took her away to Ootacamund for the hot weather. She will probably go to Madras after Christmas,” replied Longfield indifferently.
“She’s a nice girl. My wife always said she liked Bessie, and thought she would make a good wife. There’s lots of fun in her, if one cares to dig it out,” observed Anstruther, who was beginning to think that there was no truth whatever in the rumour current in the station that Longfield was attracted. “My assistant says she is a good dancer. Perhaps you have already found that out for yourself.”
Longfield murmured an assent that told his companion nothing.
“We must get up two or three dances this, coming Christmas,” said Anstruther.
“I shall not be here to help,” said Longfield.
His companion glanced at him with swift enquiry.
“You haven’t got a transfer already, have you?”
“No; I’m going to take the Christmas holidays, and a few days’ casual leave tacked on if I can get them, in Ceylon. It is quite easy to go across by the little cargo-boat. It comes in on the Sunday, the day before Christmas Eve. She still carries passengers to Colombo, if she can get them. She comes into port at daylight and goes out at sunset.”
“Any friends in Ceylon?”
“I shall go to one of the hotels.”
“I shouldn’t mind coming with you,” said Anstruther with a touch of envy. The green island has a wonderful fascination for dwellers on the plains of India. “But I can’t get away.”
They reached the Club. Longfield put Anstruther down and drove off. Anstruther smiled to himself as Bessie Bowood met him with a little exclamation of well-simulated surprise.
“Where have you sprung from?” she asked. “Have you dropped from an aeroplane?”
“From Longfield’s car, which is entirely terrestrial.”
She glanced round. “Where is he?”
“Ask me another. He went off in his car heading for his bungalow.”
“Don’t you think that camping out has an unsatisfactory effect on men? It teaches them how to dispense with society and how to be happy without a club.”
“Not a bad thing on the whole. We are all too dependent on the Club. What a pack of lost dogs we should be without it. As for Longfield, he would be perfectly happy if the Club closed tomorrow.”
“What does he do at home? Does he garden after office hours?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I’ll ride round that way one morning and have a look over his compound wall.”
“Yes, do, Miss Bowood. It may give him a bit of a fright to have a lady staring over the wall at him. But I am sure it will be good for him.”
She laughed as she answered, “If you think I shall put the wind up him, I’ll ride in the other direction out of pity for poor Mr. Peony’s blushes.” And she left him.
“No hearts lost in that direction either,” said Anstruther, rather pleased with himself for having discovered the true state of the case. “I must remember to tell my wife when I write.”
There was an undercurrent of excitement among certain of the domestics in the bazaar the next morning, but it was kept secret for the present. The affairs of the station had been discussed as usual in between making the purchases from the market people. Dinner parties with the guests invited and the menus decreed by the mistresses were notified and commented on. Orders were given for snipe and teal and for Bangalore vegetables.
The gathering broke up at the usual time, and the cooks, butlers, and cook-boys departed for their respective bungalows. Mrs. Campbell’s butler and Mrs. Southwood’s man put their heads together. There was news to communicate. They moved away from the few who still lingered to haggle over the fraction of an anna or the testing of eggs in a basin of water.
“We have news of the missie,” said the Southwood butler. He drew out of his pocket a telegraph envelope. The envelope had been opened, the telegram read and returned to the envelope. It had been torn in two and thrown into the waste-paper basket. The wire had been received that morning. The butler had fished it out of the basket while his mistress was out for a drive in the early morning. He pieced the slip of paper together and read the words.
“‘Crossing over from Colombo by boat arriving Sunday morning.’” It was signed “S.S.”
“‘S.S.’---what does that stand for?” asked the Campbell butler.
“That’s our missie,” replied the other.
“Have you heard any talk of the missie coming back?”
“No; but two days ago a letter came with the Ceylon stamp.”
He drew another envelope out of his pocket. It had been crumpled in the hand and thrown into the basket by the side of the writing-table used by Mrs. Southwood. He smoothed it out and exhibited it.
“Where is the letter?” asked the Campbell butler.
“Locked up in the desk; but we do not need it.” He touched the telegram with his forefinger. “After receiving the Ceylon letter the mistress gave orders to air sheets and get the visitor’s room ready---the room given to the missie when she was with us.”
“She will be here in two days’ time.”
“In the morning. The mistress will tell me to go and meet her.”
Abboye had not yet left the market. He had just secured a fine florican for his master, the best of all India’s game-birds, and not easy to find in an open market. Mrs. Southwood’s butler beckoned to him to join them and the news was communicated to him.
“When does your master leave?” asked Mrs. Campbell’s butler.
“On Sunday afternoon, by the same boat that brings the missie.”
“Is it likely that his honour will ask for the missie in marriage if they meet?”
“We thought that he would do so at one time,” replied Abboye, looking at the Southwood butler.
“My mistress was always against it. I heard her scolding the missie for driving with Mr. Longfield and playing golf with him. It made the missie sad; she cried.”
“She is coming back to find him!” exclaimed the Campbell butler in some excitement. It meant so much for them all if these two people, all unconscious of the momentous interest taken in their affairs, could be brought together.
“The mistress is keeping quiet and saying nothing, so that the police-master may leave without knowing that she has come,” said the Southwood butler.
There was silence except for grunts of consternation and annoyance. The three men gazed at each other in perplexity.
“This must not be allowed. Something must be done,” remarked the Campbell butler.
“It would be as well to let him know that she is coming,” said the Southwood butler, looking at Abboye.
“No use to tell him,” responded Abboye despondently.
“Why?” asked the Campbell butler. “If he knew she was coming, would he not wait to see her?”
“He has been offended by the Southwood lady,” said Abboye. “Twice has she asked him to dine and he has said no. He has not been to the Southwood house once since the missie left.”
“They must meet,” pronounced the Campbell butler decisively. “If the missie has come back to say she will marry him, she will say it. She is not a child. They must meet on the golf-course. Plenty of time to talk and make agreement while they look for balls.”
“His honour leaves for certain on Sunday afternoon. I go with him. He has taken rooms at the hotel in Kandy,” said Abboye.
The Campbell butler regarded him thoughtfully as he explained Longfield’s movements.
“Is it necessary that his honour should have a servant with him? Cannot he go alone?” he asked.
“He will not choose to go alone,” responded Abboye quickly. “It is well known that hotel servants are not good; nor are they honest. He must not go without me.”
The butler grunted assent and let the subject drop. It seemed to Abboye that the butler was making another attempt to hold him back from his fidelity to his master’s interests. The thought made him more vehemently protest against any separation, even temporarily. He had taken his master’s measure accurately. Longfield was not enthusiastic about his journey to Ceylon, which he had arranged more with a view of escaping the Christmas festivities with its Bessie Bowoods than of finding pleasure in the change.
If there had been any means of bringing his master and the missie together, Abboye would have pulled the strings and have brought about a meeting; but for once his ingenuity failed him. To blunder at it would do more harm than good. The anger of both might be incurred by any semblance of interference. A candle and a prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mary were the only things he could think of.
It was hard to come within sight of the desired end and to feel that it must slip through his fingers. On his master’s marriage undoubtedly hung his own. The butler had consented to wait till Christmas was over. By the middle of January Abboye must arrive at some decision. If he intended to stick to his master with the bachelor establishment, he must give up all thought of Marie. If he chose the bride, then he must leave his honour and look for another situation. It would not be difficult to find if the services of the Madras Club butler were enlisted.
But the thought of the parting his marriage would entail filled Abboye with misery. During his year and quarter’s service he had developed a great liking for the Englishman; and he had made up his mind to link his life with Longfield. He intended to serve him faithfully throughout his residence in India. As the Assistant Superintendent of Police rose, so he hoped to rise with higher wages and a larger staff of servants under him.
Abboye’s thoughts were recalled by a pronouncement from the Campbell butler.
“His honour must not leave on Sunday afternoon. It must be prevented.”
“It cannot be prevented,” said Abboye, who knew his master’s temperament.
“There must be difficulties put in the way of departure,” persisted the Campbell butler.
“Unless something happens to keep him here,” put in the Southwood butler, “there will be no marriage. My missie holds her head high and is proud. She will not follow him to Ceylon nor will she wait here for him to return.”
“Cannot we give him the wrong time of the sailing of the ship?” asked the Campbell butler.
“The shipping office has already sent notice of the time of sailing. His honour has read it. It would be of no use to alter it or to destroy it,” declared Abboye.
“What if the missie is told on arriving that the police-master is leaving?” suggested the Campbell butler.
“Shuh!” exclaimed the Southwood butler. “She would think that he was running away. She would laugh and say, ‘Let him run, for all I care!’”
They were silent for some seconds. It was time to be getting back.
“There is nothing to be done but to stop his departure,” said the Campbell butler.
“Which is impossible,” responded Abboye.
“That we will see,” returned the Campbell butler, who was not accustomed to give in without making a struggle. “To-morrow meet me here and we will again talk of how best this business can be managed.”
The Christmas holidays began on Monday, which was Christmas Eve. Longfield received notice from headquarters that he would be transferred to another district at the end of the holidays. He had not mentioned it to a soul: not even to Abboye. The notice of the transfer would appear in the first gazette issued after the holidays. He was also granted the few days’ leave for which he had asked; they were to be tacked on to the end of the holidays.
He was told that the man who relieved him would take the house and probably purchase the few bits of heavy furniture which Longfield had bought from his predecessor’s executors when he arrived.
Abboye was in a distressed state of mind and full of his own affairs. He had been buoyed up to the skies when he heard that the missie who had attracted his master was returning. His spirits had descended proportionately when he learned that she would be landing on the day of his honour’s departure, and in all probability they would not meet.
Another shock was being prepared for him by fate. The notification of the transfer had been in Longfield’s pocket ever since he read it. Consequently Abboye knew nothing about it. His master intended to give him the information as soon as breakfast was over on the Friday, and the little ceremony of going through the house accounts had ended. There was no necessity for keeping the news secret. As Longfield handed back the account, he said:
“I am leaving on Sunday by the Colombo boat. I shall want you to come with me.”
“Yessar.”
“You will have to pack my two portmanteaus some time to-day or to-morrow.”
“Yessar. Master taking two boxes?”
“Yes, and the suit-case as well. It is likely that I shall not return here after my leave. I am to be transferred to another district.” He named the place.
Abboye was startled; too much so to be able to respond with the usual assent.
“I shall go to Madras from Colombo, and you will come back here. You will send the cook and matey on to me at once by train. You will hand over the bungalow and what furniture the gentleman wishes to buy who succeeds me. The rest can go to the auction-rooms in the bazaar. The camp kit I shall keep. We shall want it. The bullock and cart must march.”
Longfield added more directions. Abboye listened like a man in a dream standing behind his master’s chair, statuesque and without expression. While he listened his equilibrium was gradually restored. He was able to respond with his familiar “Yessar” when Longfield had finished and to ask for directions concerning the car, which were given.
Aleck lighted a cigarette and started for the office, walking in the cooler weather that now prevailed. Abboye followed him to the front veranda and watched him till he was out of sight. He had the veranda to himself. He wanted to be alone and have a few minutes in which he could assimilate all the information he had received and the orders that had followed it.
He sat down at the door leading into his master’s bedroom. He took off his turban and laid it by his side. He could not spare much time for rumination. There was a great deal to do if the master intended to clear out all his personal property. But the packing did not trouble him. A few hours would be sufficient to complete it, with the help of the other servants.
The question Abboye was facing concerned himself. Which line was he to take? Something definite must be decided. Was he to forsake his master for the sake of securing a wife? Or was he to reject matrimony as his master had apparently done? Was he to remain a bachelor and follow him to another district? This would entail the cutting adrift of himself for ever and renouncing his claim to his bride-elect.
The figure of the little Marie with her brass chumbo, her brilliant saree, the swift glance of her dark eyes, danced before the mental vision of the lover. There were moments when he felt that it was impossible to give her up; that no sacrifice would be too great to make if it secured her to him.
He was torn between the two emotions that rule the lives of human beings---the love of man and the love of woman. He could not have both. Which was it to be?
He rose to his feet with a deep sigh, replaced his turban, and passed through the house to the back veranda, where the matey and the cook’s boy were washing up the breakfast things.
“Bring out the master’s travelling boxes; dust them and find a clean newspaper,” he said to the boy.
“Is the master leaving?”
“That knowledge will be yours at the fitting moment. Get out the boxes.”
Longfield came home to lunch and departed again to the office, this time in the car. On his return if he had an appointment for a game of tennis or for a round of golf, it was usual for him to change into flannels. To-day he decided that he would go to the tennis-courts.
The following afternoon he would go round the golf links by himself and pay a final visit to the Club. On Sunday morning he intended to go to church as usual, leaving Abboye to get on with the packing; and early in the afternoon he would slip away quietly to the harbour and go on board.
No sooner had Longfield departed for the tennis-courts than Abboye hurried off to the Campbells’ house. He had great news to tell, and he must impart it as soon as possible.
The butler received it in silence. It was the transfer that filled him with consternation. To have Abboye removed so suddenly from the scenes upset his calculations altogether. He had deliberately played off Ragoo against Abboye, hoping thereby to stimulate the latter into definite action. There was only one course, in his opinion, that should be adopted, and Abboye required pressure to make him take it. He must seek for another situation and sacrifice his inconvenient consideration for his master. The butler did not take kindly to Ragoo’s father, a grasping man with a sharp, talkative wife. He had set his heart on Abboye for a son-in-law and, what was more, he intended to secure him.
“This settles the matter,” said Abboye, when he had told his tale. “His honour cannot possibly take charge of a new district without a servant who knows all about his property. I must go, and there must be no more talk about marriage for me.”
“This is not my wish,” remarked the butler.
“Nor mine; but what can I do?”
“Give your master a month’s notice from the time he takes over charge.”
“I can’t do it. The master wants me, and I must stay with him.”
The butler remained deep in thought. Abboye consoled himself with a wad of betel.
“If we could manage it so that his honour met the missie, would it be possible for them to arrange their marriage?”
“It might be arranged if they met; but they can’t meet, as I have told you before. His honour has said that at three o’clock he goes on board ship. How can they meet if he leaves soon after she comes ashore?”
“Could you persuade him to go on board before she lands?”
“He attends church at eight, and while he is at church she will come ashore.”
Again there was silence. Presently the butler spoke, leaning towards his visitor and lowering his voice.
“There is a way of stopping his departure---of putting it off for a day or two. A small, small dose---just enough to make him a little sick and obliged to stay in the house “
The butler looked at Abboye for response. There was none. The young man’s eyes avoided his and his lips closed obstinately.
“It would do no harm; just a little dose in his soup and one day only in bed. The missie would hear that he was ill through the butler and would be sorry. She would perhaps come and see him and then “
“It cannot be done; it must not be done,” said Abboye with some abruptness. He was restless under temptation, although he was as firm as a rock in his determination to prevent any trifling with his master’s health.
“I will give six handsome bits of gold jewellery set with gems in addition to the thali,” said the butler. “And she will take brass pots; those she is accustomed to carry; they are not too heavy for her; and they are of the best Madura brass metal.”
“I will not do it,” responded Abboye. He spoke firmly and the butler could detect no sign of weakening.
“It would be wise.”
“I am his faithful servant. He shall suffer no harm from my hands.”
“It is not harm that I would have you do; it will lead to good.”
“To make him suffer?” asked Abboye with a trace of indignation in his voice.
“Only a little---only a few hours,” pleaded the butler.
“Not even for a few minutes will I give his honour pain,” said Abboye.
The butler rose to his feet. It was the signal for his guest to depart. They took leave of each other with more ceremony than usual. The butler was unusually grave. He felt that it was his last effort to move Abboye, and he had failed. The other, on his side, was aware that he had resisted the temptation successfully.
Like all Indian servants, Abboye loved to pull the strings, given the opportunity. European masters and mistresses in India imagine that they are exercising their free will when they are only following lines laid down for them by their subordinates. Their actions have every appearance of being uncontrolled; but the circumstances in which they move are so arranged by their servants that the results are sometimes different from what is anticipated by the master. Many a horse in past days lost a shoe when the syce and his master were of two opinions as to the time of starting on a journey.
If it had been anyone else but his master, Abboye might have lent a hand and taken a risk; but to dose his master under any circumstances was expecting too much of him. The temptation was great; the loss to himself was colossal; but never for a moment did he weaken or waver in his decision.
He loved the little Marie in his way as much as his master had loved Sylvia; but he must relinquish all hope of securing her after what had passed between him and her father. As he walked towards the Assistant Superintendent’s bungalow his heart sank and he was miserable. Ragoo would win the prize; for the butler was determined to marry his daughter before many weeks had passed.
The following morning---it was Saturday---Abboye gave directions to the cook to attend the market and make the necessary purchases for the house. He excused himself from going, pleading business at home, the packing of his master’s boxes. Longfield was to look through his clothes and sort out the old and useless, which would be distributed among the servants.
The cook went off in the bullock-cart full of importance at being entrusted with the shopping. When he had finished making his purchases the kitchen-boy placed the goods safely in the cart, and was ready to climb on to his seat near the bullock’s tail, as soon as the cook should think fit to crawl in at the back and give the word to start.
The Campbells’ kitchen-boy ran up hastily with a message to the cook to the effect that the butler wished to have a word with him. The cook hurried to the spot where the butler and his chef stood apart from the crowd. The three men consulted together, the butler doing most of the talking. The Campbell cook put in a word now and then. A couple of rupees changed hands and Longfield’s crumb-chop artist returned by himself to the market. He went to the fish-stall, where he purchased certain molluscs.
“They make an excellent curry, but”---here the salesman paused, his eye upon the purchaser---“your master won’t like them.”
“I know! I know!” replied the cook, interrupting impatiently. “They are for my own eating.”
“Then you are fortunate. There is no better fish for currying than these.”
The cook paid him and carried the shell-fish away in a grass basket.
Longfield went to the office after breakfast. It was his last visit. If his successor had been there he would have handed over charge in the usual way; but, like himself, the man who was coming to succeed him did not intend to lose a minute of the Christmas holidays.
Everything was in order, and it was easy to leave the head inspector in charge, an Anglo-Indian of many years’ service. He had just finished the business when Anstruther came in with a warm greeting.
“So you are off to-morrow,” he said.
“That’s so, and I shall probably not return here.”
“Sorry to lose you; but we never keep a junior in your service long. As soon as a man knows his business he is sent to some other district where there is more work.”
“More work!” cried Longfield. “There’s quite enough work here. My hands have been full all the time. I don’t want them any fuller.”
“Oh, well, it’s supposed to be a fairly light job.”
“Only a few murders and dacoities, poisonings and cheating the revenue!”
“By the bye, have you solved that poisoning case?”
“Yes; the family was dosed wholesale with a mixture of poisons. The intention was only to make them a little sick. The operators miscalculated the strength of their mixture, and five out of the seven died.”
Aleck offered his friend another cigarette.
“What was the object of their villainy?” asked Anstruther.
“Jealousy and spite over the licensing of some toddy palms. The poisoned family stole a march on their neighbours; got the first word in and secured the trees. The others didn’t like it.”
“Is it a hanging matter?”
“I don’t think so. As far as we could make out, the intention was only to inflict stomach-ache, which they call by another name.”
Anstruther laughed. “They are rather fond of paying off their grudges with a pain under the middle button,” he said. “Come and dine with me at the Club to-night. It will be nice to have a last yarn. You began your time with me; it’s right you should finish it in my company. You are really going on Sunday by the Colombo boat?”
“I am. I’ve taken a room at the Queen’s Hotel, Kandy.”
“The place will be full of planters making merry. I wish I could go with you, as I said before; but I can’t. I’m letting my assistant off and have given him a month instead of ten days.”
“It would be very pleasant if you could come; I shall be by myself,” said Longfield persuasively.
“My dear fellow, I can’t. Have you ever heard anything of Miss Smith? She was with us this time last year, and jolly good company she was!”
“Not a word; have you?” responded Aleck.
“No. The Southwoods are curious people; awfully close about anything that concerns themselves. I never got her address; you heard me ask for it. We shan’t hear anything more of Miss Sylvia Smith, unless it’s news of her wedding in the papers.”
“In that case the chances are that I shall not see it.”
“Don’t you read the papers?” asked Anstruther.
“Not unless I can get to the Club. As I am out in camp several weeks at a time, I lose touch with the English news. One hasn’t the time to read up old files of papers in this country.”
Anstruther went off, leaving Longfield to his thoughts, which were of a mixed character. The Assistant Superintendent was conscious of various emotions now that the end of his service in the place was approaching. A man in any of the services in India regards his first station with slightly different feelings from any he experiences later. It is the spot where he has taken his first lessons in the new sphere of his life. He looks back upon it with a deeper interest and more vivid memory than he ever acquires later of subsequent stations.
On the whole he had been happy in his work and in his friends. He was sorry to be leaving the little community. Everyone had been without exception pleasant and friendly; in particular Anstruther, good-hearted and kindly in spite of his weakness for gossip.
He had one reason for congratulating himself on his departure; it was purely personal. He believed he had conquered his love for Sylvia and had schooled himself into hearing her name mentioned casually without showing any signs of confusion. He was pleased to find that Anstruther’s sudden question had not upset his equanimity. He had answered the question coolly putting another on the same subject.
For some months past he had kept his thoughts away from Sylvia and had concentrated them on his work. Now that he had slackened off and was relinquishing the work, there was time and opportunity to go back to the old trouble. He discovered, to his dismay, that he was harbouring a feeling of resentment against her. She had treated him badly by maintaining an obstinate---yes, it was obstinate; nothing less---silence. It would have been perfectly easy to have sent him a few lines. It was due to him after their confidential talks to let him know what course she had taken. It would not have compromised her in any way. He was not a man to lose his head with his heart. She might have trusted him not to forget her position.
Only on one occasion had he gone farther than he ought. It was when he had kissed her. He had told her at the time that he would never offend in like manner again. He was a man of his word, and she might have trusted him to keep it.
He came to the conclusion that, under the circumstances, he did not wish to see her. Certainly if he had known that there was any chance of meeting her, he would have avoided it. He was neither morbid nor sentimental. He was not going to break his heart over it, nor allow it in any way to affect his life. It was quite possible, however, that all thoughts of marriage might be banished from his mind for some time to come.
He informed Abboye that he was dining at the Club and told him to put out his evening kit. The head boy drew a breath of relief. He did not think it necessary to go at once to the kitchen and counter-order the dinner that was in course of preparation. It was only fifteen or twenty minutes before the dinner should be served that he announced that his honour was dining at the Club.
Longfield returned home immediately after dinner, refusing all invitations for bridge or billiards. He had been much cheered by Anstruther, whose even temperament helped to banish thoughts of Sylvia and quench his resentment against her.
The bungalow was already beginning to look as if some change was imminent. Ornaments and pictures had been taken down and were packed in a big case that was three-quarters full already. His golf-clubs, cleaned and oiled, were in a long box ready to be nailed down. Aleck thought of the other long “barx” in which they had reposed after the old Abboye had polished them. It was just as well that the father was gone, or there might have been some difficulty over the move for Abboye. It was a matter of congratulation for the master that nothing stood in the way of taking his head boy with him.
To go to a new district and into fresh quarters without him would have been a serious trouble for Longfield. Abboye had become his right hand in all domestic matters. Whether on pleasure bent or on business, he could not do without him. He would have been filled with dismay had he been aware of the influences that were at work to rob him of Abboye.
“You have not finished packing my portmanteaus,” said Longfield, as he entered his dressing-room on his return from the Club.
“No, sir. Plenty of time to-morrow morning. To-day I have put away little things to keep while we are in Ceylon. Also house-linen and curtains.”
“Who are you leaving here in charge of the bungalow?”
“The matey and the cook. Everything will be all right. To-morrow I pack master’s boxes in plenty of time to go on board.”
Longfield went to bed with an easy mind and slept the sleep of a tired man.
Aleck opened his eyes to the usual bright Indian morning. The golden shafts of the rising sun were spread over the flat landscape, casting long blue shadows on the pale straw-coloured sands.
He flung up the mosquito-nets and called for his tea. It was usually brought by Abboye. This morning the matey appeared with the tray, which he placed on a table in the veranda, just outside the door of his bedroom. He brought Longfield’s slippers and dressing-gown.
“Hallo! Where’s Abboye? Why isn’t he here?” he asked quickly.
“A little sick, sir.”
“Sick? What’s the matter?”
“Can’t say, sir. Small-pox perhaps,” replied the matey.
He spoke with the curious absence of surprise and excitement that is peculiar to the Indian servant in announcing domestic events; as when a certain head boy wrote to his absent master: “Last night my wife died. Also one duck.”
“Why do you say small-pox?”
“Got spots, plenty spots on face and chest. Perhaps measles; master please; perhaps chickenpox.”
Longfield lost no time in taking his tea and in dressing. Before going to the little church which he was in the habit of attending once on a Sunday, he went over to the go-down occupied by Abboye to see him.
The old kitchen-woman was there looking after him. It was her business to make his curry, prepare his coffee, and keep his go-down in order. The room was not well lighted. Abboye was lying on a mat wrapped in a scarlet blanket.
“Very sorry to give master all this trouble,” he said, lifting his dark head from the hard little pillow which he preferred to any other.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Longfield, relieved to find no sign of collapse or serious illness.
“Plenty rash come out. Master look and see.” Longfield stooped over him and saw that what he said was true. His forehead was covered with spots. About his mouth and chin the spots were developing in patches. Instead of being red as with the white races, the rash was of a dark colour, darker than his brown skin.
“Board-ship doctor will not let me go on board, sir. Never taking rash people on board-ship. What can do?” concluded Abboye in distress.
Longfield touched his hand and felt his pulse.
“You haven’t got much fever and your pulse seems pretty steady. All the same, I must send for Major Bowood.”
“In two days’ time I shall be all right,” said Abboye, looking at his master anxiously for confirmation of his statement.
“If you have chicken-pox or measles---I don’t believe it is small-pox, you aren’t ill enough for that---you won’t be allowed to move for three or four weeks, because you will be infectious.”
“Master must go on board without me and take matey.”
The matey was a useful servant for washing plates and trimming lamps out in camp, polishing the silver and laying the table; but he made a poor sort of dressing-boy and was useless as a personal attendant.
“If you really have chicken-pox or measles or anything infectious, I mustn’t go on board. I shall be in quarantine as well as you. I will see the doctor after service and will ask him to look in and tell me what must be done.”
“What about master going to Ceylon?” asked Abboye, distressed at the thought of being the cause of upsetting his master’s holiday in this way.
“I shan’t go; that’s all there is to it. I can stay on here and take short leave later on. You get well and don’t bother yourself about me.”
Bowood came later and looked at Abboye. After an examination of the patient he said:
“I can’t tell yet what it is going to be. It isn’t small-pox; and I don’t think it is measles. It may be a kind of chicken-pox. Anyway, neither he nor you, Longfield, can cross to Ceylon to-day by the boat. You must make up your mind to that. It is quite possible that you yourself can get away by train and go via Rameserum tomorrow or Tuesday. I’ll see him in the morning. I shall be able to tell by then what’s the matter.”
“Is there any infectious disease about in the town?” asked Aleck.
“No; we’ve got a clean bill of health just now.”
Bowood looked at Abboye again and felt his forehead where the eruption seemed most fully developed.
“By the bye, what did you have for supper last night?” he enquired abruptly.
“Prawn curry, sir,” replied Abboye.
“Who made it?”
“The kitchen-woman.”
“Tell her to give you an egg curry to-day. No meat, no fish, and no arrack.”
Bowood and Longfield left the go-down. They reached the back veranda when the doctor said to the matey, who was there:
“Call the kitchen-woman; I want to speak to her.”
She was close at hand, busy over a pan of charcoal on which was a saucepan. He went up to her.
“You made the head boy’s curry last night,” he said in her language.
She gave him a frightened glance, but did not reply.
“You used prawns.”
“The cook gave the prawns. The master was dining out.”
“There were mussels as well?”
“By cook’s order; it was a very good curry; the head boy eating plenty and saying very good. Always liking prawn curry.”
“Did you tell him that you had put in mussels as well?”
“No, sir; not asking, not speaking.”
“I thought as much! Where’s the cook?”
The cook was nowhere to be found. No doubt he believed that it would be as well if he were absent for two or three hours that morning.
Bowood rejoined Longfield and they went back to the front veranda, where they found chairs and cigarettes.
“I mustn’t stay long. Just one cigarette before I go to my next patient,” said Bowood as he seated himself.
“Well? Did you discover anything from that old woman?” Longfield asked as he followed his guest’s example.
“Someone owes your man a grudge; he was given a curry of prawns last night. Some mussels were added. They are perfectly wholesome and very savoury; but with nine people out of ten the mussels affect the skin and produce a rash. On a European it is more like scarlet fever than anything else without the other symptoms. It will disappear in thirty-six hours and he will be all right. Do you want to take him with you?”
“It will be most inconvenient travelling without him. I intended to cross to Colombo by the boat this afternoon.”
“You can’t do that; they won’t have him on board at any price. They are taking over two hundred coolies to Ceylon and will be scared to death at the sight of his face. But if you don’t mind a day’s delay, you can go to-morrow by the night mail via Rameserum.”
“It will suit me just as well; my time is my own, and I have no appointment with anyone.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. Your man will be up and doing his work by this evening, and the rash will have disappeared by to-morrow.”
On Sunday afternoon the station played tennis if it felt energetic enough. Later they met at the Club. Some of the women attended the evening service, which did not begin till a quarter to seven.
Longfield had already said good-bye to his friends and was not anxious to meet them again. They would be curious as to the reason for his change of plans. If it could be avoided, he would prefer not to confess that he was held up through the folly of his servant, who had chosen to eat shell-fish the evening before. He decided to go to the golf-course and have a solitary round just for exercise.
It was the matey’s duty to clear the lunch, to wash up and put away the glass and silver. Instead of pursuing his usual course, he left the lunch table untouched and ran to the go-downs in a state of excitement.
Abboye was feeling much better. The rash was fading, although it would still have been visible to the eye of the port doctor. The Campbell butler, who was leaving nothing to chance, had just called, having been driven in the little bullock-cart that his mistress had provided for his use. He came to announce the arrival of the missie. He had gone to the landing-stage with the Southwood butler and had seen for himself that she had come.
“Please excuse!” cried the matey, salaaming to the butler. “The master has just given orders for his golf-clubs to be taken out of the packing=case. The car is to be ready a little before half past three.”
Abboye and the butler exchanged glances. This information left them in no uncertainty as to Longfield’s intention of spending the afternoon on the golf-links.
“You can go back to your work. You did well to come and tell me at once,” said Abboye.
As soon as the matey had left, the situation was discussed. The next thing to be dealt with was how the missie was to be lured to the golf-links and whether it would be safe to let her know that the master was to be found there. Abboye was not in a fit state to leave the compound. It rested with the butler to take action, which he did promptly.
The little bullock-cart that brought him rattled away in the direction of the Southwoods’ house. The two butlers put their heads together and the ayah was sent for.
Sylvia had slept for half an hour after lunch and awoke refreshed and alert. The puller of strings in this case would have felt much easier in his mind if he could have known that it was her intention to see Longfield during the course of the afternoon or evening. His name was not mentioned by her sister. She therefore heard nothing of his departure by the Colombo ferryboat. She called the ayah and asked for a cup of tea, saying that she was going out and could not wait for the usual afternoon tea. The woman appeared with it five minutes later.
“Very glad to have missie back again. Everybody glad,” said the ayah. She spoke from the bottom of her heart.
“Any news in the place?” asked Sylvia idly.
“Plenty news,” replied the ayah, busying herself with shoes and stockings and garments needed for the afternoon. The woman was pleased to be allowed to chatter; this was the kindness of missie that was so much appreciated by those who served her. After mentioning changes that had taken place in the domestic establishments of one or two of the residents, she said:
“Our big police-master going to leave the station. Got bigger appointment. Everybody plenty sorry to lose his honour.”
“When is he going?” asked Sylvia quickly.
“To-morrow by train.”
The ayah’s mistress gasped. Aleck leaving at once! and without giving her a chance of seeing him unless she could manage the meeting this very day.
The ayah asked which dress she would need, but Sylvia did not reply. Her thoughts were far away. The ayah glanced at her once or twice; then she ventured to fulfil the order that had been given by the two butlers.
“The police-master going to golf-links at half past three.”
“How do you know? Who told you so?”
“Butler hearing news.”
Sylvia looked at her watch. Ten minutes past three.
“Tell the chauffeur I want the car at once.”
Sylvia wasted no time over her toilet. In ten minutes she was speeding towards the golf-links as fast as her brother-in-law’s car could take her.
On arrival she searched the ground and the enclosure in which the pavilion stood. She had the links to herself. No other car had come and it was too early for the caddies to arrive, unless ordered to be there. From four to six gave ample time to go round and afforded quite as much walking as the most energetic of golfers required in that tropical climate.
She directed the chauffeur to take the car back to the house. Her sister would require it later. Then she walked into the pavilion and took a seat. Her heart beat with anticipation, mingled with fear lest she should have come on a wild-goose chase and find herself stranded.
Longfield drove himself to the links without haste or trepidation. He was in complete ignorance of what was in store for him.
When he arrived at the pavilion he was in two minds---whether he would get out and begin his game, or whether he would go for a drive. It would be his last; and although he had no particular affection for the sandy tracks, he felt that he would like to look at them once more. His eyes roamed over the golf-links where he had spent so many happy hours with Sylvia. He paused undecided.
With the departure of the master of the house the establishment drew a breath of relief. Abboye rose from his mat and dressed as usual for work in the bungalow in turban and long coat. As he issued from his go-down he was greeted by the cook, who had ventured to emerge from his hiding-place.
The cook was profuse in his apologies and still more overwhelming with his excuses. He vowed that he did not know that any harm would result. The Campbell butler had recommended him to get the fish. He had eaten a curry of the same the evening before and found it excellent. Abboye listened in silence. The deed was done; the master’s departure from the station was deferred for twenty-four hours and no real harm had resulted. The head boy had a clear conscience. It had been none of his doing; but now that it was effected he was reconciled to all that had happened.
At half past four the Campbell butler reappeared. He assumed a bold front, intending to carry everything off with a high hand if Abboye showed signs of protest. He found him agreeably contented with the turn events had taken. By this time the rash had to a great extent faded. The butler regarded him with infinite satisfaction.
“This that we have done is all for the best,” he said as he seated himself. “Where is the master?”
“He has taken the golf-clubs and therefore must have gone to the ground,” said the matey, who was busy with the knife-board within hearing.
“If no meeting takes place this afternoon, the master must be told that she has arrived and is at the Southwood house,” said the butler, who had openly assumed the lead.
“He will not seek her,” said Abboye.
“Then she must be made to seek him. I have seen the ayah. The missie will be told that he has gone to the golf-links and she will follow.’
Abboye did not reply. He was content to leave things in the hands of the man who was determined at all costs to become his father-in-law.
“In the matter of my daughter’s marriage,” continued the butler, “I have decided to wait till his honour’s transfer has taken place. You will settle your master into his new bungalow; find good servants for him; and then——”
Abboye’s eyes were fixed upon him with keen enquiry: what then?
“I cannot leave him,” he said.
“If he does not marry you will go sick. The new place will give you fever. You will ask for leave and come to me in Madras to get well. We will choose a good servant who can take your place. If your master believes you are sick, he will let you go. He must be made to believe it.”
Abboye had nothing to say. The decree of his future father-in-law made him feel sick already at heart.
“You will marry my daughter at the end of February and take another place.”
Abboye’s head drooped lower still. The butler was sorry for him but inexorable. He touched him on the arm and said:
“My son, you will find a bride consoles and softens a man’s sorrow more surely than many bottles of the best arrack.”
The air on the golf-links was fresh. There had been rain inland and the flats in which the toddy palms grew had been covered with wide stretches of water. Already the floods were disappearing; but sufficient water was still about to cause evaporation and consequent coolness.
It was spring-time, if spring means the fresh growth of trees and flowers. Even the ubiquitous cactus, called the prickly pear, was decorating itself with delicate cupped blossom of pale primrose and sending forth tender green bosses of new limbs.
The north-east monsoon had blown itself out in its passage down the length of the Peninsula till it was nothing but a gentle breeze scented with the blossom of trees and plants.
Longfield looked round him. After all, it had not been a bad place to begin his work in India. He might have been sent to some spot where he would have been faced with many more difficulties. It was undoubtedly one of the hottest stations in the south of India; but it was healthy for the man who took ordinary precautions against the sun.
He had drawn up at the pavilion. No one was on the course and the pavilion itself was empty as far as he could see. He decided to remain. Carrying his golf-clubs himself, he entered the deeply shaded building. A figure rose from one of the seats and advanced to meet him, wearing the lawn collar and cuffs of widowhood.
“Aleck! I wondered if you would be here.”
“Sylvia!” he cried, hardly daring to believe his eyes until he felt the firm clasp of her hands within his own grip. “What are you doing here? How did you come?” he gasped.
“The car brought me. I have sent it back to take my people to the Club after they have had tea.”
“I don’t mean from the house to the pavilion. How did you come from home?”
“By ship to Colombo; and I crossed by the little steamer that leaves this afternoon. I landed at eight this morning.”
“——by which I intended to leave. But for an accident I should be on board now---a providential accident.”
He spoke as if in a dream. His eyes were devouring her and the dress she wore. It was widow’s weeds. Over her white sun-hat a long black veil was draped, falling to her waist at the back. And with it all she looked so young, younger than when he had last seen her. Some of the lines, that pain had engraved round her mouth and eyes, were gone and the fresh colour of the girl flooded her cheeks.
His eyes held questions which his lips hesitated to form. She slipped a hand in his arm.
“Come and sit down,” she said with a touch of the old imperiousness. “You don’t want to play golf with me here. I have so much to say. Did my sister tell you I was coming?”
“No; I knew nothing of it, or I should not have arranged to leave the station.”
“You haven’t seen much of her, then?”
“Next to nothing. I meet Southwood at the Club, but he never mentions your name. Since you went away I have felt out of favour with your sister. She never did like me, and she has not got over her fear lest——”
He stopped suddenly. It was all coming to him with a curious kind of shock. Fear of what? Again he looked at the widow’s white cuffs. There would be no fear now lest they should fall in love with each other. She was free! free! free!
It was like a song in his ears; the tearing down of deadly barriers that had shut out warmth and light from his life. The thought took his breath away in glad surprise. It brought action. His eager, trembling lips sought hers; and met with an equally warm response.
“Poor old boy,” she said softly. “You have had a bad time. I could not help it. It only happened six months ago. A crash in France and instantaneous death. We succeeded in keeping it out of the English papers, as it happened abroad.”
There was silence. Sylvia’s eyes were moist, but no tears came. She leaned her head against him like a tired child that has reached home at last after a terrifying journey.
“May I know more?” he asked presently.
“You must hear everything. Have you your car here? If so, we will go for a drive. Someone is sure to turn up for golf sooner or later. I am in no mood to meet old acquaintances just yet and satisfy their curiosity.”
They were off and into the country, which they had to themselves. As they glided along the broad road, past great groves of palms, wide stretches of cactus and boulders, cotton-fields with the loose blossom that was so soon to bring the snowy lint, she told him her story.
On her return home she began to institute proceedings. There was no opposition. The case was unusually free from those details that attracted reporters. But before it could become public, the accident happened and the proceedings came to an abrupt end. She was left without a rival in her widow’s weeds.
“I may be selfish; but I was glad to have the undisputed right to wear what you see me in,” she said.
“Where was he buried?”
“In the vault of his ancestors. I begged the family lawyer to go over to France to bring back the body. At the same time I asked him to see that she was properly provided for. The shock of his death made her ill. The child, a boy, was born dead. I have settled an annuity on her. She has a little money of her own, so she will not be destitute. Horrible woman to steal my man like that! She doesn’t deserve my charity!”
“I suppose you did not meet.”
“No; I avoided it. There is too much of the old Adam in me to condone a wrong such as she did me. I can’t forget! I can’t forgive! Perhaps you will be able to drive the devil out of me and make a better woman of me in time. I am glad---I’m disgracefully glad that the divorce did not materialise.”
“The great reason for the exercise of your generosity is removed. The child is dead.”
They reached the point where he intended to turn. The vast stretch of wide land was their own. The sun was setting in a magnificent glory of gold as though it would flood them with a warmth of happiness.
“How beautiful it is after the cold and the fogs of England,” she said.
“I am leaving it; shall you mind?”
“Transferred?”
He named the district to which he was going.
“We shall be near the hills,” he said.
“Anywhere; I don’t mind where, as long as I am with you.”
“Sylvia! You might have written!” he cried.
“I came instead.”