Two riders passed in leisurely fashion over the newly harrowed fields of a district in Bengal, accompanied by a pack of excited terriers and a few mongrel hounds. In vain did the little dogs dash in and out of the patches of scrub by the way, where the grass and weeds grew in tangled profusion. The jackals were wily and lay low, for they had learned the ways of the chase. There was nothing doing.
The riders, too, showed an unsporting indifference to their opportunities by keeping strictly to the open instead of riding through cover. Indeed, so engrossed were they in each other, that it was enough to discourage the most adventurous of canine hearts, alive to the purpose of harassing objectionable four-footed scavengers that shunned the glorious sunlight. The hounds had already grasped the situation and were trailing decorously behind with lack-lustre eye and drooping mien.
“Yap, yap, yap!” cried the terriers in chorus to their beloved master. “Can’t you take your attention off that soft young thing on the black mare and give it to the business in hand? What’s come over you? Call yourself a sportsman?”
But their yapping expostulations fell on deaf ears. So, for want of something better to do, they amused themselves by scattering a herd of domestic pigs in the care of a village urchin—a scrap of sun-baked humanity, clad in a cotton hood and a string of beads—who took to his heels appealing loudly to his mother for protection. They next intimidated a flock of sheep which they were too well trained to harm, and then took a lively interest in annoying a group of gaunt and hideous vultures that flopped about the vicinity of a dead cow.
“Won’t those birds hurt them?” the soft thing asked anxiously.
“The dogs will look after themselves,” said the man, casting a glance in their direction. “The little beggars are bored stiff this morning at my failure to provide them with sport, and have to blow off steam on something.”
The country surrounding Amabagh was at its best in the winter months when the climate resembled that of England in summer. The early morning air was sweet with the fresh scent of dew-drenched earth in the newly harrowed fields, while the gentle warmth of the slowly mounting sun mellowed the keen edge of the chill morning breeze. The fields, flat as a table, spread uninterrupted to the Ganges on one hand, and to low-lying hills on the other; elsewhere, were groups of hamlets and distant outlines of villages nestling among date palms and mango groves.
“Are all these lands yours?” the girl asked with a sweep of her riding whip that included the entire horizon—north, south, east, and west.
“As far as your eye can see to the south, and to the river which is the boundary on the east; away to the north, a belt of bamboos defines the limit of my estate; and on the west, the hills. If you look towards the river where there is a group of tamarind and pipal trees, you will catch a glimpse of my bungalow peeping through the green.”
She saw it with evident interest and asked questions. It seemed almost a palace, with a flat roof surrounded by an ornamental balustrade in stone.
“On warm, summer nights I put up a tent on the roof and sleep there by preference, for you get all the air there is, and no fear of snakes!”
“Don’t you feel sort of lonesome all alone, so far from Amabagh and your friends?”
He did. Terribly lonesome, and didn’t think he could stick it much longer. This was said with an earnest look at her piquante face under the spreading topi.
He was probably thinking of getting rid of his estate and retiring from the country? . . . She avoided his eye while the colour rose in her cheek.
“Not for any consideration,” the man replied. “This property has belonged to my family for generations, and though I have been brought up in England, it has always been a tradition with us that we belong to India and must in our small way work the estate for the good of all concerned. The natives have depended on us and loved us for a hundred years and more, and it is as much our duty to stand by them as it is to stick to one’s guns when holding a fort.”
“But, surely,” she said hesitatingly, “things in India are not what they used to be? One hears so much of the Indians’ desire to get rid of the British, that they might have their country to themselves. People tell me that it isn’t safe for Englishmen to live in these places, so isolated and alone.”
“There are Englishmen far more isolated than I am here; and there is no doubt that things are bad everywhere, making it dangerous for them. Personally, I am better off, having the confidence of my people. . . .” his voice sounded a trifle uncertain as though he were not so sure of his argument. Things had happened, lately, to shake his own great confidence in the loyalty of his tenants. For one thing, his rents were overdue, and there were rumours that agitators had been busy in his villages preaching sedition and discontent. “At any rate, Panchbusti is mine, and I mean to keep it as long as the Government make it possible for Englishmen to hold India.”
“Do you think you will hold India long?”
“I believe we shall hold India as long as there are diverse races and religions in the country—and that will be for ever. We could not have held India so long, had it not been that the people have needed us; and, now, owing to the reforms, they will continue to need us more, as greed of power brings out the worst in human nature. But don’t let us speak of politics,” he said leaning forward and smiling into her face. “I am showing you Panchbusti just to learn what you think of it. I haven’t yet heard if you like India.”
“I love the life,” she said with an excited catch in her breath, for she had read his meaning in his eyes. “Everybody is so friendly and kind. So much like people in the States. In England you are so difficult to know—why is that?” rushing into a diversion so as to gain time.
“In India we feel drawn to one another because we are, I suppose, exiles in a strange land. But you, naturally, long to return to Boston?” he asked wistfully,
“We shall return in March, before it gets too warm,” she answered, busy with the reins. “But I shall never forget our trip to India. The change has done papa good. I know he would never have stood the winter at home. Ever since mamma died, he has not been the same man. When the doctors first ordered him abroad for his health,” she went on hurriedly for fear of having to decide a fateful question before she was quite certain of her own mind; “he refused, as he had so often done Europe, and is tired of seeing the same places. So, when Mrs. Macmaster invited us to spend a winter at Amabagh, papa planned a tour in the East, beginning with Egypt and ending with India and Japan. It has been a wonderful diversion.”
“This place will never feel the same to many of us when you go,” he said broodingly. “Your father is quite fit again—must you go back with him?”
“My place is with him——”
“Till someone needs you more,” he interjected.
“Ah!” she tried to laugh while the colour burned fiercely in her cheeks. “That of course! and till I need someone, too! Are you going to show me your bungalow? They say it is one of the sights of the district!” she switched off cunningly.
“I should love to, but I am afraid people exaggerate. I called for you for the purpose of giving you a glimpse of my bungalow.”
“I thought it was for another jackal hunt, same as last week? “
“We can still, on our way back, if you are keen.”
“The dogs are! My sympathies are generally with the ‘jack’! I do like all those trees and that wonderful blue convolvulus. What a gorgeous hedge! You simply riot in colour at Panchbusti.”
“That’s the ‘morning glory,’ and those shrubs by the gate are acalyphas, auralias, ixoras, and crotons. They make a fine show, and set off the place.”
The dogs preceded them, very much at home in their surroundings, and were gathered inside the gates by the dogboy and removed to the kennels, a pedigree fox terrier alone having the privilege of absolute freedom. To show his familiarity with the bungalow, he mounted the steps and took up his position on the cushions on a cane chair, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and an invitation, in his friendly eyes, to the guest to rest and be comfortable.
The guest, however, rode round the grounds with her host and did not dismount. There was too little time to spend in examining the interior of the house, for the sun was rising higher every moment and the day growing warmer. Besides, she was not sure that it would be the correct thing to do in the eyes of Amabagh, considering that Derek Lang was a bachelor with an open preference for herself.
Whether her preference for him was, or was not, of the quality that endures, was the burning question. If she could only be sure! But how were girls ever sure enough of themselves to say “yes” to the man who asked the all-important question?
While Derek Lang pointed out the beauties of Panchbusti, the advantages of the situation on the great Ganges, the conveniences, the extensive orchards, kitchen and flower gardens, the house, which was noted for its coolness in summer, its hygienic plan and artistic finish, she stole surreptitious glances at his face in admiration of its clean contours, and took pleasure in the grace and strength of his physique.
He was an Englishman, and she, an American full of pride in her nationality and ancient lineage; one of Boston’s Four Hundred who treasured her English descent and had a soft corner in her heart for everything English. She was not unwilling to marry an Englishman—if she loved him; but she was not at all sure that she loved Derek Lang who was a personage in Bengal society. He was not too young—thirty, they told her. She was nineteen—a disparity on the right side. He was wealthy, apart from his estates, for his investments had brought him a fortune. Though not herself amazingly rich, she was heiress to some few hundred thousand dollars, and need never want. Only, in order to be his wife, she would have to give up her life in the States which she loved, and make her home in the East.
She was nervous of the way things were going in India, and, underlying her partiality for the society of Derek Lang and her certainty that she was falling in love with him, was her fear of the natives, and of other things that discouraged women from marrying men whose business obliged them to live in the East. Curiously, Mrs. Macmaster had not been enthusiastic when speaking of the possibility of her marrying and settling in India.
“Dulcie,” she had reminded her forcibly, “don’t forget that you are of a loving and passionate nature. How would you fare if you were placed in my position, loving your children devotedly and obliged, for your husband’s sake, to live apart from them? They cannot be brought up in India, so just face facts before you let yourself drift. We all know that Derek Lang is charming,” (somewhat bitterly) “all girls he has met will testify to that. But he belongs out here—his inheritance and interests, I mean—and his wife must be prepared to make immense sacrifices.”
A prescience of the torture she would endure under circumstances such as Mrs. Macmaster described, pierced her heart; for she was not of those women who have an aversion to the idea of bearing children. On the contrary, it was always a treasured hope with her that she would marry and become a mother. She dearly loved children, and could not think of an old age bereft of the joys of family.
The more she knew of Derek Lang, the more was she drawn towards him, responding secretly to his wooing, yet diffident of her feelings in the light of Mrs. Macmaster’s warning. It would need very great love for a husband to be prepared to decide in his favour where the needs of her children conflicted, and she trembled, wondering and unconvinced, although she rightly judged him kind and chivalrous. He was a man any girl would be proud to own as a husband, she confessed to herself. Meanwhile, he was acquainting her with the previous history of Panchbusti, and of how it had come into the possession of his ancestors. She had heard how people spoke highly of him; he was loved and esteemed by the men, and women made a fuss over him; particularly the mothers of marriageable daughters brought out to be introduced to society for the purpose of settling in life. “Though why any sane mother wants to see her child’s destinies bound up with India, passes my understanding,” Mrs. Macmaster had said.
Most of all, Dulcie appreciated Derek Lang’s past record, his fine and clean career. He was a great sportsman. In despite of his personal interests, he had joined up when war broke out in 1914. He had been wounded twice; and had been twice decorated for conspicuous bravery; and, finally, been demobilised as major of a cavalry regiment, a rank he was entitled to retain in civil life, but which he had dropped owing to an inborn modesty.
Dulcie Durand loved a good man. There were many who spoke of Derek as if he was that, though not in so many words did they describe him; but it seemed that he must always have been pure and fastidious; and for these virtues, alone, she was specially attracted to him. It was nice to feel that, if married to him, she could look up to him as a man of stainless character and high principles.
With her mind so preoccupied, it was rather wonderful that she had followed Derek’s flow of talk so that he did not guess at her absorption in her own thoughts.
“I am glad you have seen my place,” he said in conclusion, while they rode towards the gate. “The house is spacious and rather well got up inside. It has been a hobby with me, since the war, to cultivate luxurious surroundings to make up for the hardships of active service. I am afraid I am cut out for a Sybarite, though I dare say I can deny myself most things without breaking my heart. But the fact is, I have lately had a feeling that I should be happy—married,” he added shyly, affecting to search for his cigarette case.
“Why weren’t you married all this time?” she asked mischievously.
“I—I couldn’t find her. Only, very recently, she came to me—stepped straight into my heart, where she is going to stay for the rest of my life even if she should find she has no use for me,” he replied, sinking his voice to tones that were indescribably sweet and appealing.
An unreasonable panic caused Dulcie to urge her horse into a canter, so that further conversation was impossible. Derek rode alongside, a look of determination in his eyes which, had she seen, would have convinced her that it was futile to put off the fateful declaration. He meant to speak. He had brought her out that morning that he might ask her to marry him, and, if she had meant to refuse him, she should not have consented to come. It would have been more honourable to save him the humiliation of confession.
Derek and Dulcie rode for some distance in silence, till the black mare flagged, and its rider was breathless. “That was glorious!” she panted. “I enjoyed it so!”
“I loved watching you,” he said, laying a hand on the mare’s mane. He guided the two horses to a patch of deep shade within a bamboo tope, and drew rein. “Let us dismount here and rest awhile,” said he, with a hint of finality in his tone rather than of suggestion. “It is a long ride back, and a drink of hot coffee won’t do either of us any harm. I have a thermos with me.”
He dismounted and lifted her from the saddle. Dulcie rode astride, and the riding suit outlined her slight, beautiful figure to perfection. Though she was not very small, the top of her head just reached his shoulder, which gave her eyes that divinely innocent, upward look when she glanced at his face, that made her more than ever adorable in his sight.
“You little, little thing!” he murmured, refusing to release her. “If you could only guess how I love you! What are you going to do with me, Dulcie?”
The gust of wild excitement Dulcie had suffered when anticipating the imminence of his avowal, was suddenly stilled within the shelter of his arms, and she was supremely happy and content. It settled all argument on the spot, and caused her to behave with a frankness which fascinated Derek and made him regard her with worshipping adoration. Drawing his face down to hers, she kissed him full on the lips with loving ardour.
“You love me?” he whispered, though there were only birds to hear. Strong man though he was, he was trembling from head to foot with the force of his great joy. Her kiss had not only pressed his lips, but reached his very heart.
“I guess I must, to do that!” she returned, hiding her face in his breast that he might not see her blushes.
“And you are not going back to America, but will stay and be my adored wife?”
“I don’t think I could exist in America without you.”
“You darling!” Derek released Dulcie long enough to dispose of the horses by tethering them to a bamboo, then returned to sit beside his beloved on the grass, and spend an hour in Paradise.
There was so much to talk about as is usual between newly declared lovers; the discovery of their wonderful love, the analysis of its growth, and the thousand and one details of their short acquaintance. Then, was there anything to equal the thrills of emotion as lips met, again and again, in obedience to mutual desire, while their hearts throbbed with anticipation of a future to be passed in close union as man and wife, till death should them part?
So they lingered; the coffee was warm and refreshing; love an all-absorbing theme.
Derek and Dulcie had almost forgotten that the sun was steadily rising in the heavens. But its increasing glare and warmth now penetrated to their sheltered nook and roused them to the passage of time.
“Is it very late?” Dulcie asked in scared tones, while Derek laughed as he replied: “We’ve been here for exactly an hour.”
“What will they think?”
“They will understand when they know,” said he helping her to her feet. But before he could put her into the saddle, both became aware of a distant uproar of human voices increasing in volume as from growing excitement or panic. Derek stiffened as he raised his head to listen.
“What can it be?” Dulcie asked fearfully. Her nerves were taut owing to the stories of increasing unrest among the Indians, and the brooding dread of a sudden outbreak of violence. Instinctively, she moved closer to Derek for protection, her eyes growing wide with alarm.
“It is a village fire,” said he, instantly relaxing. “Look,” pointing through the drooping bamboos to a village beyond a wide stretch of fields which patient cultivators were harrowing in primitive style with the aid of bullocks. Thick, black smoke appeared to envelop the huts, while now and again tongues of flame darted through the denseness. The ploughmen hurriedly deserted their bullocks and ran towards the burning village as though for dear life. “That’s the largest and most important village on my estate, and, in this wind, it might burn to the ground in a very short time. I must go at once, darling. Will you mind? They are like lost sheep, in an emergency, and someone must take the lead.”
“But—isn’t there a fire station you can telephone to from anywhere?”
Derek laughed and could not resist dropping a kiss on her soft lips. “There speaks the American! accustomed to every convenience at her elbow! There are no telephones in the rural districts as yet, and nothing but horses and motor cars by which to carry news in any emergency. There is a fire station at Amabagh, but, by the time I get there, if the villagers don’t do something to arrest the progress of the flames, the fire engines will only arrive in time to water the ashes of some hundreds of huts. Will you wait here for me?”
“No. I’ll gallop back to Amabagh and give the alarm,” she said, springing forward to release the black mare.
“That’s splendid of you!” cried Derek, and helping her into the saddle, he mounted his own horse without loss of time. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart,” he called after her as they parted to ride their different ways, his heart aglow with pride and devotion.
Putting his horse to its utmost speed, he soon covered the intervening ground and was entering Gumori village through dense clouds of smoke and with the heat of the burning huts scorching his face. Panic was rampant in the main street and in the narrow alleys of the bazaar. Men stared helplessly at the ascending columns of black smoke, beating their breasts and ejaculating aloud concerning the devil-sent catastrophe. Women ran wildly hither and thither, weeping noisily while carrying infants astride their hips, or articles of personal value. Children added to the confusion by shrieking in their terror.
Derek’s presence, however, inspired immediate confidence, and coherency was restored to the speech of those whose minds were distraught. He learned that the old, bed-ridden mother of Durphukna had been abandoned to the flames in one of the burning huts. Being incapable of energy, she had failed to make her escape with the others of her family. Alas! it was fate. Her time had undoubtedly come. They had shouted to her to crawl forth even on her hands and knees, but no reply had been forthcoming. It was, therefore, certain that she had perished, there being none to volunteer to take the risk of being smothered in the smoke to ascertain the truth, or to bring her away, if alive.
“Where is that coward, Durphukna?” stormed Derek. The man who was the village watchman was well known to him as a worm of no courage. It was only because Gumori village had long been noted for its law-abiding instincts, that Durphukna had been able to retain his position of dignity as chaukidar under the Amabagh police.
“I am here, Sahib!” shrieked the chaukidar above the din and uproar, as he flung himself sobbing at Derek’s feet. “Am I to blame? What can do, with the heat so great that to approach my dwelling makes me blind and helpless. Alack! It is the will of the gods. Some agent of evil set fire to the grain merchant’s basha, and now must we all be rendered homeless and bereaved!”
It was rather the act of a needy thatcher to get employment, put in a voice. “Thatchers have been known, Sahib, to place a smouldering cinder in the thatch of a dwelling for the wind to fan into flame.”
“Cease chattering, apes, and bring me a lota of water and a chadar.”
“Of what use a vessel of water in a fire of such intensity?” wailed the chaukidar reproachfully.
Others eagerly ran to obey Derek’s command in the expectation of witnessing a deed of black magic by which the fire would be extinguished.
After drenching the sheet with water from the vessel, Derek quickly swathed his head and face in the wet cloth and dashed through the rain of sparks and volumes of smoke to the interior of the watchman’s hut to attempt the rescue of the old woman.
The next instant, he reappeared, all but blinded and suffocated, bearing her in his arms, a limp and nerveless object in a dusky sari; and a spontaneous cry of praise and thanksgiving burst from the crowds watching.
“Take her out of this into the fresh air. She will be all right presently,” said Derek handing her over to her son. Many hands assisted to remove the old woman; and Derek’s example was promptly followed, whereby others in peril were similarly saved. In the meantime, he organised a gang for the demolition of the thatched roofs in the lee of the advancing flames, notwithstanding the outcries of the protesting owners who failed to comprehend this method of safeguarding their property; till it was borne in upon them that only so could the raging fire be arrested and the remainder of the village be saved.
“What does the Sahib care! It is our loss. We pay him ground rent, and the cost of building is ours!” grumbled one of the victims squatting on his haunches and wiping the perspiration from his face with a corner of his chadar.
“Yet, if this be not done, the whole village will be rendered homeless this day,” ventured a spectator. “To fetch water in large quantities from the river is beyond human power, so what else is there to do?”
“It is too far, and wells are of no use!” put in another.
“Besides, it will cost little to restore the unburnt thatch to the roof of your dwelling, brother,” said a friend comfortingly; for by the wisdom and initiative of the Sahib, was his own homestead spared.
“With a chain of men to the river, and water passed quickly from hand to hand, I might have kept my thatch damp so that nothing need have happened,” groaned the first speaker. “But now they have unroofed my basha; and see the expense, hai-rd! hai-rd!”
“Go to! you talk without sense! Before your chain was formed your roof would have been ablaze—also the rest in the same line.”
“Abase yourself before the Sahib who has a kind and generous heart,” suggested his friend, “and, of a truth, he will give you money for the raising of the thatch to its place and also the cost of the rope.”
“Look!” someone cried. “See how he risks his life and limb for us. He is, indeed, our father and mother. When does he ever allow a case of tribulation to pass unsuccoured?”
Derek could be seen on the roof of a hut which he was denuding of its thatch, while, with gesticulations, he directed a small army of workmen how to fight the flames. The wind in fitful gusts, artificially created by the heat, blew burning sparks and hot ashes into their faces, and black smoke that blinded and suffocated them in their exposed positions. However, as long as the Sahib remained fighting the flames, none dared slacken his efforts, so that in half an hour the fire was brought completely under control. By that time, the fire brigade had arrived and Derek freed from further responsibility.
Dulcie, still in riding kit, was in a car with Mrs. Macmaster outside the village, and never had she felt a greater pride in Derek than when he joined her, tired and dishevelled, begrimed and scorched, with a big job accomplished to his credit.
The river and a lengthy hose-pipe soon worked wonders, so that Derek was able to ride home to look after his burns and bruises, taking with him the memory of soft eyes full of tender solicitude to cheer him on his way.
It was a very happy and self-conscious American girl who returned from Gumori village with Mrs. Macmaster after the fire was subdued, in spite of that lady’s curious restraint and aloofness. This, Dulcie attributed to the revelation in Derek’s eyes during the few minutes of conversation they had had together before he had ridden away. Without the need of words he had proclaimed his adoration of her, and her own manner had been rather illuminating. It remained for her to confide the truth to her friend on their way back to the station, which she was disinclined to do from a natural reticence and the desire to keep her great happiness to herself a little longer. But Dulcie was too newly happy to mind pinpricks and, in silence, indulged in daydreams of bewildering ecstasy all the way back and till the constrained luncheon tête-à-tête was over.
At length, Mrs. Macmaster gave her something more to think about before retiring to her afternoon siesta, which, at Amabagh, as elsewhere in the plains of Bengal, is considered an indispensable practice.
“I am thinking, Dulcie, that things are beginning to look serious between yourself and Derek Lang, and that I would not be your friend if I did not open your eyes, somewhat, to the step you are possibly contemplating.”
“What ever do you mean?” Dulcie asked blushing hotly. “You have adopted a warning note ever since I met Mr. Lang two months ago.”
“That was only generally—seeing that you are an American girl accustomed to the best in life and that India requires sacrifices you might not be aware of.”
“To what else do you wish to open my eyes?”
“To the private character of the man you are partial to,” said Mrs. Macmaster deliberately.
“Why?” Dulcie was immediately in arms. “I have heard nothing against Mr. Lang’s character. On the contrary everything that is good. You, yourself, have praised him, time and again, as a man and a sportsman; and all Amabagh thinks highly of him.” Dulcie was trembling with indignation. How dare Mrs. Macmaster hint that there could be anything against the character of her wonderful lover!
“You are only a girl, and one doesn’t discuss certain things with such as you, or explain how it is that the world winks at much in a man’s life that is, or has been, irregular. It is only because I know how you have been brought up to feel with regard to the inequality of the sexes, that I think it a pity you should be allowed to go into this thing blindfold.”
“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.”
“I am not surprised. And I don’t want to enlighten you unless there is any real necessity. You have always said you would never marry a man who had anything in his past of which he must be ashamed—I allude to immorality.”
“And you wish me to believe that Derek Lang has such a past?” Dulcie did not know how suddenly white and stricken she looked, or how her face betrayed her.
“You may believe what you like. There are certain facts existing that require no explanation; and others in my knowledge which go to prove that Derek Lang is a very human man indeed; and by no means the god some women would like to believe him. Of course, this is not widely known; only, I happen to be somewhat behind the scenes. However, we won’t go into it. I think a word in season is my duty, and you will thank me for it if you are the girl I know.” With that, she passed out of the room, leaving Dulcie rooted to the spot.
If she had ever been fond of Mrs. Macmaster, she disliked her heartily now, for trying to pull down her beautiful dream-castle to the dust. The natural thing to have done was to have followed Mrs. Macmaster out of the room and insisted upon a full and complete substantiation of her cruel insinuations; but Dulcie was in love for the first time in her life, and the phase was bewildering. She determined, instead, not to believe a word of this malicious slander, and, metaphorically, stuffed cotton-wool into her ears. She was to meet Derek at the Club that afternoon, and were she to lend an ear to gossip that was damaging to his high moral standing, she would be disloyal to him and a traitor to their wonderful love. It was gossip, to be sure, and people were perfectly hateful. Of course, it was now impossible to tell Mrs. Macmaster the truth concerning her new relation to Derek. No unsympathetic ear should hear from her lips what there was to tell!
Dulcie lay down to rest during the afternoon, but not to sleep as her thoughts were very busy. She had come to an understanding of the ways of women with the men they loved; how it was possible to forsake all and follow a beloved husband—even part from children, leaving them to the care of others, rather than separate from one, who was, as God designed he should be, her other self. For husband and wife were one.
It was a beautiful thought, and Dulcie enjoyed dwelling on it—yet, through her great happiness was a new thread of doubt destroying its perfection, no matter how anxiously she strove to eliminate it. She loved Derek and respected him from the bottom of her heart. Indeed, for her to love wholeheartedly, she had also to respect the object of her affection. The two things were inseparable. Dulcie could not conceive a blind worship of an unworthy object. She could not love and despise in a breath. The thing was impossible, for a loss of respect must of necessity cheapen love till it was hardly that pure and exquisite sentiment she knew, but something to be cast out and forgotten quickly. It was wicked of Mrs. Macmaster to hint that Derek was not all she should love and respect. If there was anything real against him, why had she allowed things to go so far before telling her the truth? What was the use of putting forward such deterrents as climate and shattered domestic conditions? Did any of those things weigh against love when it came? The only real and reasonable objection—if she construed Mrs. Macmaster’s hints aright—were reserved by her to the last. Absurd!
The whole thing had arisen out of jealousy, Dulcie was convinced; and wondered why she had not thought of it before. There was very little sympathy between Mrs. Macmaster and her husband—too little to account for her remaining at Amabagh, through all seasons, while her babies were being brought up in England by grandparents and aunts. Dulcie immediately made an analysis of the situation. She had met Mrs. Macmaster in Boston society when that lady and her husband—an official in the service of the Indian Government—were enjoying long furlough after the Armistice. She had just placed her two little girls with their grandparents in England, and was trying to restore her nervous system after a long period of anxiety and suspense endured during the war.
She had once confided to Dulcie that her “dearest friend” had joined up in 1914, since when her nerves had broken down completely. Placing two and two together, it was easy to arrive at the simple result.
Mr. Macmaster had been stationed at Amabagh early in 1914 as Joint Magistrate, so that he and his wife must have seen a great deal of Derek Lang, who had been sent out by his guardians to learn how to manage the Panchbusti estates which he was to inherit on his coming of age. From all accounts, Derek was then very young, a great athlete and supremely attractive. Mr. Macmaster had always been a bookworm and a slave to his official duties to the neglect of his wife. The consequence was, no doubt, that she had made an intimate friend of Derek Lang—he was her “dearest friend” who had joined up when war broke out.
During the war, the Macmasters were transferred to another district; at the close of hostilities, they took furlough, and while they toured in America, Derek Lang was demobilised. He returned to Panchbusti and took over the management of his estates from the agents, the manager having died suddenly of cholera, and was there when Mr. Macmaster was gazetted back to Amabagh as Magistrate and Collector.
Before returning to the East, the Macmasters exacted a promise from their new friends, the Durands, to spend an Indian winter with them should they decide to travel; which the following year, they did; and it was for Dulcie to discover, when they arrived, that the great friendship that had once existed between Mrs. Macmaster and Derek Lang, which the war had interrupted, had atrophied to the merest skeleton of an acquaintanceship. It had puzzled her greatly, as it had others, and two ladies once discussed it in her hearing.
“Something very queer must have happened to make that difference, don’t you think?” said one.
“It only confirms my idea that there must have been something in it. Friendships are only broken in this way when things have gone just a bit too far.
“Yet she has a very soft corner for him. Watch her face when he enters the room. And she often asks him to potluck, but he always has an excuse.”
“The war made a lot of difference to the men. Look at the change in him! He was such a gay boy before it—now he is a man, with all folly set aside, and a man’s duties before him.”
“What about that other business . . .?” one of them whispered, but catching sight of Dulcie, nothing more was said.
Dulcie had brushed the conversation from her mind as futile gossip, but the memory of it returned now, with a pang so like jealousy, that she was appalled. If ever she were made jealous of Derek where other women were concerned, life would be intolerable. Could it be possible that Mrs. Macmaster was nursing a passion for Derek in her secret soul which the years had been powerless to weaken—that her malice was the outcome of jealousy? Was it possible that Derek had once been sentimental about her, and had, since, lost the feeling owing to the distractions of active service? The war had done that and more for many men; making and unmaking marriages and contributing to tragedies that were not all to do with bloodshed.
What had those ladies meant by “something in it”? There could not have been anything wrong in it, she was sure, for Derek was surely not the sort to make love to a married woman—and least of all, to one whose husband was his friend—for Mr. Macmaster always spoke in warm praise of “my friend, Lang.”
It was all a great puzzle which Dulcie could not take to her father as was her wont—he being the safety valve of her troubles on all occasions—for he was spending the afternoon out with the district engineer who had arranged their usual foursome at golf with a widowed sister-in-law. She had therefore to possess her soul in patience and drive to the Club with Mrs. Macmaster in that lady’s two-seater, and pretend that nothing had passed between them to make any difference in their friendship.
Her siesta had evidently had a good effect on Mrs. Macmaster or was it her plain-speaking? for she was less distant and suspicious. Neither referred to Derek Lang, so that no one seeing them now, would have guessed that strained relations had existed between them earlier in the day.
When Dulcie met her father at the Club he was looking younger than he had looked for months, and she noticed for the first time, the strides his friendship with the war-widow had taken. They had been partners as usual at golf and had apparently arrived at a warmer understanding in the course of the game. Dulcie wondered if it were likely that her father would think of marrying again; then decided not to be selfish or dog-in-the-mangerish, since she, herself, was planning to leave him for the man of her choice. She followed them about with her eyes, smiling wistfully as she noted the little coquetries on the part of the woman. How soon men forget! She could now account for her father’s new interest in golf and his liking for the engineer’s society. The wife’s sister was rather fascinating in her girlish way, which was just the way most likely to appeal to a man long past his youth.
Dulcie’s eyes next strayed to Mrs. Macmaster with the thought of Derek as once her lover, and she was scared at the torture it gave her. Of all mental sufferings, jealousy was surely the greatest! Mrs. Macmaster’s was an arresting figure for grace of carriage, symmetry, and dignity. Her proud face was almost beautiful, but for its pallor and the thinness of the lips. “Never trust red hair,” she had heard it said. Mrs. Macmaster’s hair was of a fiery redness which she dressed in the simplest style, away from her forehead, curving in American fashion over the ears, and encroaching on the cheeks; while at the back, it lay in a heavy knot on the nape of the neck. Dulcie dressed her own dark hair very much in the same way, which her hostess had admired and copied with advantage to her style of beauty. Mrs. Macmaster was a far finer woman than herself, Dulcie thought, humbled and depressed over this conclusion. How long could a girl of no particular looks hold a man’s love when other and handsomer women wanted him and were in daily competition for his favour? If he had once cared for Mrs. Macmaster, might he not again? Yet he had no eyes for her now . . . this had been demonstrated very clearly. Dulcie took heart and reared her head proudly. She had forgotten that she had no use for the man who could be so dishonourable as to make love to another man’s wife. She was learning the meaning of life.
However, all conjecture concerning Derek’s past was banished at sight of Derek, himself, with his hand bandaged, descending from his automobile in front of the Club steps.
The same feeling of panic that had made Dulcie put the mare into a gallop to delay the declaration of love trembling on her lover’s lips, made her shrink out of sight and escape to a corner of another part of the long, encircling verandah, that she might hide from his eyes all traces of her doubts and fears. How violently her heart beat! How breathless she felt! for his arms would soon enfold her, his kisses be pressed on her lips. She would not move from the spot—so remote from the others who were busy talking in groups and playing games—yet he would be sure to find her. Instinct told her that he would not rest till he had found her.
And so he did, noiselessly and swiftly, so that for all her expectation, she was taken by surprise and translated to heaven in a moment.
They talked long together, but not once of the things at which Mrs. Macmaster had hinted. There was no room in Dulcie’s mind for ugly thoughts of Derek who was to her a king among men. How fascinatingly he made love! Could anyone do it better? Tender love combined with respect and adoration—what could any girl desire more? How gentle was the pressure of his lips on hers, how surpassingly sweet the little loving things he whispered! Dulcie was sorry with all her heart for the other girls in her world who could not have such a lover as Derek Lang.
Time, for them, passed on wings, till the sound of a motor horn warned the lovers that the members of the Club were drifting homeward to their dinners.
“Just one more kiss, sweetheart,” Derek pleaded. “Put your arms round my neck—so; and say, ‘Derek, I shall love you and be faithful to you till death. Nothing in the world shall part us.’ Then kiss me as you did that first time. I shall never forget the touch of your flower-like lips—like the petals of a rose—darling! “
Dulcie obeyed, qualifying her vow with “because you are so good. Because you are my ideal of what a man should be. Oh, Derek! I used to dream of a man like you for my very own. I think God is so good to give you to me.”
Derek held her close and long in silence, his frame quivering with pent-up emotion. “Sweetheart, you mustn’t idolise me—I’m not by any means good enough for you—I doubt if there is a man in the world fit to be honoured as you are honouring me. I am only a very ordinary fellow, honestly in love for the first time in his life, but no saint of God.”
Dulcie rubbed her cheek against his like a kitten, and the next instant started away to answer her father’s voice in the distance, calling her name. Without waiting for Derek, she sped down the verandahs and arrived at the top of the steps in time to join the Macmasters and her father as they piled into cars and carriages with the guests they were taking home to dine.
“Where is that fellow Lang?” asked Mr. Macmaster. “I wanted to ask him to potluck. Someone said he is here, but I haven’t set eyes on him.”
“He will not want to come to-night, Robert,” said his wife hurriedly. “Don’t think of it. His hand is in a sling—rather badly scorched, and I have no doubt he is also very tired.”
“Plucky act that was! They told me down at the courts that he entered a burning hut and saved the life of an old woman. The natives are greatly bucked about it, and think no end of him,” said the collector.
“They will remember it just as long as it will take to rebuild their huts,” said his wife, driving off with Dulcie beside her, and Tony Vincent, the assistant magistrate, in the dicky behind. “Afterwards they will be ready to join in the hue and cry raised by the agitators against the overbearing British in their midst.”
“I wish we had the power to arrest every man-jack of these seditionists who are poisoning the minds of the simpletons in the rural districts,” said young Vincent, leaning on the hood of the car for a glimpse of Dulcie’s profile as they sped down the station lanes. “They stand up and spout as many lies as their fertile brains can invent, and the fools of villagers swallow everything as gospel, instead of dragging them down and kicking them out. It is humiliating for us, to say the least of it.”
“Freedom of speech in a place like India,” said Mrs. Macmaster, “is putting a premium on disaffection.”
Dulcie was bored throughout dinner, though she did her best not to show it. Tony Vincent had things his own way since Derek was not present, and did his best to make a favourable impression on the girl he openly admired. She liked him very much as a wholesome example of an English public school boy—not unlike the boys she knew from Harvard and Yale, who were once her playfellows; only, that his accent was Oxford, as was Derek’s, and it pleased her to hear him speak. But it dismayed her to realise that her friendliness had encouraged him to pay her special attention this evening, and throw into his voice the ardour of a wooer. Whenever the talk at table touched on Derek, she was careful not to miss a word, and it thrilled her to hear the fine things that were said.
“He has a wonderful influence with the natives about here,” said the Superintendent of Police when the temporary absence of the servants liberated speech. “He can go, unarmed, slap into the midst of a free-fight and no one will touch him. In his own villages he is a sort of unofficial hakim. What a splendid ruler he would make—a born ruler of men.”
“It is his absolute fearlessness they respect,” said Macmaster.
“And he knows how to get things his own way, even if he has to use force to get it; and they never appeal against him, for he is jolly good to them in sickness and trouble; a sort of Mai-bap1 to the lot.”
Later, in the drawing-room, when the servants had finished serving coffee, more was said for the enlightenment of Durand who was interested in the political situation and had much to learn. The discussion began by young Vincent saying in regard to Derek’s influence over the natives: “The thing is, how long will Lang preserve this remarkable power if the agitators get busy in his villages perverting the truth and teaching the people to be discontented and suspicious, resentful and rebellious.”
“I have no doubt he will have his hands full presently,” said Macmaster.
“I can never understand why these irreconcilables are allowed to send their agents broadcast, sowing the seeds of a bloody revolution, when they should be arrested and punished promptly,” said one of the guests. “The same with the editors of scurrilous newspapers.”
“But surely you do not advocate muzzling the press and interfering with the freedom of the subject?” said Durand.
“There speaks the American,” laughed Mrs. Macmaster.
“Sure! It is the essence of freedom if you can freely ventilate grievances and criticise the Government, telling them what darned fools they are making of themselves on occasions.”
“That’s all right for western civilisation,” said a visitor to Amabagh, a prominent member of the mercantile community of Calcutta. “It doesn’t pay in the East if you want peace and good government. In the mass, the Oriental has an inherent reverence for rank and station; and if he sees insolence and disaffection practised with impunity, he loses confidence in and respect for authority, believing it to be failing in courage. To flout the Government, abuse the rulers, despise their methods and doubt their good faith is to insult us as a nation; and, because we take it sitting down, they are becoming convinced that the British Raj is weakening and no longer deserving of respect. Spread that idea, and you come within measurable distance of revolution and anarchy. What are the ignorant shopkeepers and peasants to think when they hear the rankest sedition preached while the police stand by powerless to arrest the speaker? They are told mendacious stories of atrocities committed by Englishmen; they are inspired with racial hatred; they are incited to rebel and cast out the foreigner in their midst. Do you blame them if they accept all they hear for gospel, and go mad with the lust for vengeance and blood? I blame the Government—with apologies to our friend here,” he nodded at Macmaster, “for he has kicked vainly against the pricks for some time. Government takes no notice of all this dangerous propaganda, when by firmness and determination the thing could be stamped out. But they will need to be quick about it, and devilish firm.”
“What does the Collector say to this indictment?” from Durand.
“It is a very difficult question and there are several ways of viewing it. The policy of repression is fairly dangerous.”
“You won’t get my husband to express his honest opinion on political matters!” laughed Mrs. Macmaster.
“All I know is,” said an old resident of the station who had retired from Government service on a well-earned pension, “that things are getting on one’s nerves the way they are going. A few years ago, ladies could travel unescorted from end to end of India, without the least danger. The Indians were always considerate and respectful. There was an atmosphere of peace all over the country. And why? Because the people respected the Government and the Sahibs, and also feared them. Not that they did not love us, too. I speak from personal experience. Why, when I retired from my department fifteen years ago, they gave me a farewell fit for a Governor. The Indian crowd that entertained me, the garlands my wife and I had to wear, the addresses that were read, and the magnificence of the presentation I received! Why, it would all sound like a fairy tale if described. Throughout the land there was respect for law and for those who administered it. Where else could one sleep with windows wide open and doors unguarded? The coolies that pulled our punkahs and dozed in the process, never resented it if they were sworn at for dropping the rope. They knew it was justice—they were paid to pull—and no one respects justice so much as an Indian though he is incapable of administering it with absolute impartiality. We smacked our servants in the old days and called them ‘sons-of-pigs,’ but quite without ill-feeling, they were convinced; for, to whom did they run in times of distress, but the Sahib who never failed to help them? We nursed them in their epidemics, we fed them in their famines, we were looked upon generally as fathers and mothers of the people— called the familiar Mai-bap—and they loved us as we loved them; for in spite of our intolerance of their shiftiness and trickery, we have always had a soft spot for our Aryan brethren who cook for us, sweep, valet, and care for us in their diverse ways.”
“Mr. Durand, you have much to answer for,” said Mrs. Macmaster reproachfully. “You have started Mr. Smith on his hobby and now you are in for it!”
“I am very much interested. Being absolutely ignorant, I am only too pleased to be enlightened. I see you are ready to hold a brief for the uneducated classes, Mr. Smith. We Americans, however, do not come in contact with the masses. It is the travelled and educated Indian with whom we get acquainted.”
“We are ready to sympathise with the just ambitions of the educated Indian, but he has, latterly, made up his mind to hate us cordially because our ancestors took possession of his country nearly two centuries ago, since when the country has enjoyed the benefits of just rule and been given the privilege of education; not to say been rescued from the tyranny and oppression of despotic rulers under whom the life of a subject was held cheap. When you come to think out the question of nationality, what are the Indians? but many distinct races speaking one hundred and forty-five distinct languages and professing a variety of religions. Three-fourths of the population, and more, profess Hinduism in various forms and observe rigid distinctions of caste between the grades of which an unbridgeable gulf yawns. Then there are Mohammedans, and Parsees, and Buddhists, and a host of others; so, what with innumerable races and creeds, you may jolly well understand why we are wanted in their midst. Their instincts, their customs, their racial characters, all differ so widely, that no individual race would maintain the ascendancy except by the sword. It is only the outside element that is able to hold the balance between them all, and prevent conflict.”
“I never thought of it all in that way before.”
The rest of the party settled down to bridge in the drawing-room, while Mr. Durand and Mr. Smith retired to the smoking-room to continue the discussion over their host’s cigars and whisky.
“Yet,” continued the retired Government official, “you will hear people talk through their hats that the British should retire from India and let the people govern themselves. Rank idiocy! People abroad don’t know India and have no right to dictate Indian policy. Give the Indians self-government! Why, if we did, they would not know how to deal with a tenth of the difficulties that are piled on us; and what with bribery and corruption—you can just picture the state of affairs. Allowing for exceptions, bribery is an instinct with Indians. Their one idea of getting what they want is through bribery; and because we don’t permit such methods, they think us disinterested fools. We officers of the Government, in daily contact with all sorts and conditions of natives, arrive at a very just estimate of their character. You can place very little faith in the testimony of a witness in court. Money buys false evidence as easily as shelling peas; the truth is not in them. To the native, a good liar is a man of rare abilities. A clever liar is respected if his lies have achieved his advantage. I hope I haven’t bored you? The fact is, I have lived in India, man and boy. What I don’t know of Indian character, isn’t worth knowing.”
“In fact,” said Durand with a twinkle in his eye. “It is very shortsighted of the Government to have allowed you to retire. You should have been made a member of the Viceroy’s Council.”
“My dear sir, I spent twenty-five years trying to rub in the truth, but it was suicidal policy on my part, for I was, too often, passed over when promotion was due. The Labour and Radical elements at home are too strong for the ruling powers here. They pretend to know more than the men on the spot, with the result that the Empire is being slowly sacrificed.”
“Then you think they will give India back to the Indians?”
“They have virtually done that already. Indians take an important part in the administrative work of the country, and form about ninety-five per cent of the Government staff.”
“Then, what in thunder do they want more than that?”
“They want us out of the Government altogether—out of the country, too. Only I hope to God that we have some wise men left in the Cabinet who will wake up in time to save a good ship from total disaster.”
“It is surprising how little we, in America, know of the ins and outs of Indian politics. The first Indian who comes along talking hot air, gets a sympathetic hearing. We never know the other side.”
“Of course you don’t, seeing that the Indians who go to America are generally political propagandists, out to grind their own axe. Besides, are you Americans ever much concerned to know anything outside your own immediate interests?”
“You are not far out there. We imagine the world revolves round us alone,” laughed Durand, “and only discover when we travel abroad, how much more there is to it, and how mighty ignorant and self-centred we are!”
During the evening, young Vincent seized a favourable opportunity to inveigle Dulcie into the verandah. “You have no idea,” said he, “what a gorgeous sight the milky-way is to-night. I am sure you will never see such a sky except in the East, so don’t miss it. Talk of Star-spangled Banners!”
Mrs. Macmaster’s watchful eyes flashed him a message of congratulation as Dulcie yielded to his persuasions and accompanied him from the room.
Dulcie intended to tell her father her great news after the household had separated for the night, when, according to his usual custom, he should come to her room to tuck her in. But her intention was frustrated, for he came in like a schoolboy bubbling over with happiness.
It was scarcely a surprise to hear that he had proposed to Sarah Sells and been accepted. Anyone with ordinary perspicacity would have known that a proposal of marriage would be the inevitable sequel to those games of golf, and her acceptance a certainty. However, Dulcie tried to show the astonishment he expected, and gave him the approving hug he was aching for from the child of the dead wife whom he had so devotedly loved.
As a natural consequence, her father’s demands on her sympathy and attention, kept her occupied to the exclusion of her own confession, which she decided to postpone to a more convenient opportunity.
Very shamefacedly, Durand spoke of his feeling for the widow and the undoubted suitability of the arrangement. In spite of the disparity in their ages, they were well matched; besides, he felt and looked far younger than his age. The change of scene and new environment had made a different man of him. It was pathetic how he straightened his back and tried to speak with the sprightliness of youth. What was fifty? Poof! a man was as old as he felt, and he could race any man of his years and beat him!
“I know you will like Sally, my dear. She already loves you.” (Dulcie mentally questioned this, for ‘Sally’ had not exhibited much affection for her at any time.) “I only hope she will like living in the States. Guess I’ll be able to give her a good time, any way, and a good time is half the battle when a girl is young. I shan’t worry her by being jealous, and all that. I’m too wise at my age to founder on that rock.”
“I hope she will give you a good time, papa.” American men make such good husbands, that Dulcie did not fear for Sally Sells. But the widow had lived some time in India which is a bad school for wives, and the loyal heart of Durand’s little daughter was pierced by misgivings.
“I am not a bit afraid she won’t, kiddie. She’s a perfect peach. Poor girl! she’s had a bad jolt in the war and will need to have a lot of happiness to make up for it. Her husband was an airman; just before the Armistice, he crashed and was killed. Shocking bad luck for him, poor fellow! The wire informing her of the fact came to her direct, and she nearly died. It was only her wonderful pluck that pulled her through in the end.”
Dulcie did not feel so confident of Sally’s depth of feeling, for she had been in the way of hearing remarks concerning the manner in which Sally had consoled herself while her husband was risking his life at the front; but not for worlds would she breathe a word to hurt her beloved papa.
“You mustn’t think, little one, that I am forgetful of your dear mother,” Durand said in some embarrassment. “I shall always have her enshrined in my memory as one of God’s saints. No woman was a better wife to man than she, nor did I think it possible to care again for another. But man was not made to live alone, and my not marrying again, won’t help any. I only hope you will be nice to her—indeed, I am sure you will, for my sake.”
Dulcie convinced him that she would be all he wished towards the girl he was going to marry; and her father left the room assured of her loyal sympathy. But she could not fall asleep, for her nerves were terribly jarred. To add to her excitement, was the knowledge of her own folly in having consented to view the stars in the company of young Vincent, who, she had half-guessed, was very much attracted to her. He had certainly proved it beyond doubt in the verandah when he poured his eager confession into her ears and besought her to marry him.
It was over in a moment, for she was very frank, indeed, telling him with tears in her eyes how grateful she was that he should care about her in that way; only, she already loved someone else. . . .
“Derek Lang?” he had asked in pathetic disappointment.
She had nodded her head unable to speak for the moment, and then implored him to say nothing as yet to a soul, “Not at least till I have told my father.” She was moving away, when he detained her by laying his hand gently on her arm.
“Will you promise to look upon me as your best friend—after Derek? Half loaves are better than no bread, you know, and I cannot contemplate being nothing at all to you. Say you will like me a little, and let me be a sort of Knight Errant for you?”
Dulcie promised, and he made her very happy by talking of Derek in words of the highest praise.
“He is great! One of the very best. Take an instance—he gives topping house-parties at his place, you may have heard! Last summer, he had a lot of fellows down, and for want of something to do while Lang was busy with his tenants, they played poker, and before you could think, a lot of money was lost and won. The heaviest loser was a boy who has, since, gone home on sick leave, an Assistant Superintendent of police. His pay was about three hundred and fifty rupees a month, and he lost a great deal more than that on the spot. When Lang returned they told him of it and that Grantly was looking queer. Grantly was missing, so Derek went after him, suspecting trouble, and, would you believe it, he was just in time to prevent him taking his life! The boy told me of it himself, deeply moved. He worships Lang. You see, he hasn’t a bean in the world beyond his pay, out of which he was helping a widowed mother at home; and the disaster of losing so much when he had nothing, sent him daft. Of course, Lang pitched into him and gave him a good telling-off such as he had never had in his life, and then paid the debt. Grantly nearly swooned with relief. But he had to give his word of honour to Lang never to gamble again for the rest of his natural life.”
When the story was finished, Dulcie felt she was quite fond of young Vincent. It was such happiness to hear of Derek’s great generosity and goodness towards that weak and foolish boy. “I love to hear tales of Derek,” she confided to him ingenuously. “Tell me all you know, and I promise not to grow weary.”
“He’s a lucky fellow!”
“I’m a lucky girl!”
“You couldn’t get a straighter man, or one more popular with everybody in the district.” After that, he kept her attention riveted to himself with anecdotes relating to Derek Lang.
It had been most generous of young Vincent to speak so warmly of his rival, and though she had enjoyed listening to him, she could not help feeling sorry that she had not been able to prevent his confessing his love. She had given him pain, and the memory of it weighed on her tender heart and spoiled her rest.
Next morning she was up betimes and riding with Derek. Since engaged lovers tell each other everything, she conceived it her duty to tell him of her father’s news first, and then of the incident in the verandah.
Her father’s news did not touch him very deeply, and was the subject of good humoured chaff concerning “step-mamma.” But he was very silent on hearing of young Vincent’s declaration of love, and for a long while was not to be charmed out of his depression.
“You are surely not worrying about it, are you?” she asked, laying a gloved hand on his.
“I shouldn’t, should I? seeing that you are to belong to me; but I am foolish enough to feel that I am going to resent it every time Tony Vincent talks to you.”
Dulcie burst into a ripple of laughter. “But why ever should you, when you know he is nothing to me?”
“Jealousy, I suppose. I shall not be able to forget that you know he is loving you all the time. He will not be able to help betraying it in his look, and I shall want to knock him down.”
“Oh, but how unworthy of you!”
“That’s just it. I know I am very unworthy, darling, and I am living in dread that you will discover your mistake one day, and cool off.” The agony in his eyes at the mere prospect, proved the intensity of his passion for her. “I am so primitive as to feel that it is an impertinence for a man to attach himself to a girl who belongs to someone else.”
“But, dear, Mr. Vincent is not that sort. He was charming about you, and said lovely things.”
“I am sure I am obliged for his favour.”
“Derek!” she said softly, “I don’t like you in that mood.”
“I fear I shall always be ungenerous to men where you are concerned. I did not know I had possibilities of such madness in me. Jealousy is a form of madness. Things grow distorted to one when one loves as I do. We tremble at shadows that threaten our happiness. But they are only shadows, eh, sweetheart?” He carried her hand to his lips.
“That’s all they are. You have nothing to fear, Derek, for there isn’t anyone in the world I would exchange you for. There! if that isn’t flattering, what is?”
“It is food and drink to me. I shall need that sort of flattery pretty often while waiting for the day that will make us one. How soon, Dulcie?”
“I—I haven’t told papa yet!” she exclaimed nervously. “Of course, I will, soon. But he is so much absorbed in his own affair that he will hardly be as interested in mine as I want him to be. I have no mother to confide in, and—and there is no one else.”
“Have you told Mrs. Macmaster?” he asked awkwardly, looking away. Something in his expression arrested her attention, and she was involuntarily put in mind of the conversation she had overheard in reference to his intimacy with Mrs. Macmaster. . . . “There must have been something in it.” The thought hurt, and she answered shortly.
“No, not yet. Shall I?” as if challenging him.
“Just as you like, sweetheart.”
“You were a great friend of Mrs. Macmaster’s, once, Derek?” she asked, hoping for a confidence. But Derek was not the man to confide, even to the girl he loved, episodes belonging to his past, which were not to the credit of a woman. The present and the future would be altogether hers. A man’s past was not entirely his own to give away.
“I used to see a lot of her before I went to the war. She was a bit homesick, and Macmaster was never much of a companion to her.”
“You taught her how to ride?” tentatively.
“She was never an apt pupil—too nervous. I often had to escort her around to dances and things, as her husband would not go. It is station life, and one lives it.”
“I have often wondered . . .” she hesitated, “why you don’t seem at all friendly now?”
Derek shifted in his saddle uncomfortably, fidgeted with the stirrup leathers, and proceeded to remedy the fault while answering her question. “We never quarrelled. I suppose such a big break as the war alters things, even friendships. And now I have no time for anyone but you.”
“But, before I came?” she questioned archly at the risk of appearing curious.
He straightened himself and looked anxiously at her. “Why, darling? Have you any special reason for asking?”
“What reason do you suppose I could have?” she returned guiltily.
“I thought that, perhaps, something has—been said . . .?”
“What is there to say?”
“It is surprising how much mischief might be made over nothing.”
“So long as it is nothing, you are all right as far as I am concerned. I only feel that things are not quite comfortable between Mrs. Macmaster and you. You excuse yourself, so often, from dining there when it would be natural to accept for my sake,” she said deprecatingly. “You can understand why I am puzzled—together with . . .” It was difficult to say more without quoting Mrs. Macmaster’s warnings.
“What else is puzzling you?” he asked miserably, his face looking suddenly lined and tired.
“Only Mrs. Macmaster’s attitude towards our growing—intimacy.”
Derek said nothing, and his face was expressionless.
“She doesn’t seem to favour it.”
“On what grounds?”
“Oh, well—she thinks India won’t suit my temperament or constitution; and that the sacrifices will be too great.”
“Are you unwilling to make any?” he asked after awhile, “for there will be some big ones as time goes.”
“I’ll be glad to make them for my husband’s sake,” she replied, touched by his despairing look as he spoke.
It was worth everything to see the lightning change in his expression at her answer. “Oh, you blessed, blessed little woman!” he exclaimed, the moisture glistening in his eyes. They clasped hands across the space between their horses, and Dulcie resolved to think no more of Mrs. Macmaster’s hints. Doubtless the latter was jealous that she was unable to attract Derek’s admiration any longer, and, therefore, bent upon making mischief.
The dogs accompanying them as usual, unexpectedly started a jackal out of a clump of thatching grass and, immediately, the hounds were in pursuit with the terriers in full cry far in the rear. Dulcie gave rein to the black mare and, side by side, the two riders sped over the clods, their horses leaping the low bunds which bounded the small patches under cultivation, and racing through the keen air.
The jackal had a fair start, but the hounds were overhauling it at every stride. Only a ploughed field remained between the panic-stricken creature and the cover it was making for—a half acre or so of undergrowth and tangled grass growing out of marshy ground.
“How I do hope it will escape!” cried Dulcie to herself. Jackal hunting was very exciting, but it always upset her sensitive nature when it came to the final scene in the chase. After a good run, it was far more satisfactory to her whatever it might be to the dogs if the animal got away unharmed.
The rough clods were trying to the tender feet of the hounds, and they soon flagged in their stride, the jackal gaining ground. To Dulcie’s delight, it plunged into the marsh and was immediately out of sight, leaving the dogs to wade about in the mud and slime, and bark themselves hoarse with disappointment and rage. They had presently to be recalled and escorted homeward, where the dog-boy would have his hands full, washing them clean, and fitting them for human society again.
After a happy interlude in the same bamboo grove that had sheltered them the previous day, Derek and Dulcie rode back towards Amabagh, and, on the way, came in for a common enough episode which was not without excitement for Dulcie, who remained, throughout, a distant spectator.
A mar-pete2 between neighbouring cultivators over a boundary dispute, was in full swing, and blood flowed freely. By the time Derek arrived on the scene, imperious and authoritative, two men out of the twenty or so engaged in the fray, were hors de combat, and by the look of the rest, there was little hope of a settlement till one or the other side was wiped out.
“Hi! Stop!” shouted Derek dashing into the midst of them and laying about him with his dog-whip. “Are you men or wild beasts? What are the law courts for if not to settle your disputes? I’ll march you all to the thana if you don’t give up and go home.”
“This is our concern,” shouted an impudent fellow. “Get out, or we’ll knock you on the head!”
“You son-of-a-pig,” cried Derek furiously, lunging at him with his hunting-crop. “Do you think I am afraid of swine like you? You want to break heads, do you? Take that, and that. You dare threaten me!” He swung about him with his whip, his horse also lashing out with his hoofs, so that they fell back, and a dozen or so took to their heels. “I know who you are. You are in Chunder’s pay,” he shouted to the fugitives, “and I’ll have the lot of you in gaol for breaking the peace. Next time you have a grievance, take it to the courts and have it settled fairly, and not at the expense of men’s lives—unless you want to be hanged.”
Chunder’s men ran homeward helter-skelter, and were lost to view behind a belt of trees, while the others tended the injured and waited to express their gratitude to Derek for his intervention.
“Sahib,” said the leader of the group. “Chunder’s men were caught by us in the act of shifting Narain Singh’s boundary pillars, and as Narain Singh pays us to protect his rights, we set upon them, and that is how the fight began. They would not give up, and threatened our lives with their lathis.”
“You are always at war with each other,” said Derek. “Chunder says Narain has stolen a portion of his land; and you, that Chunder is trying to steal Narain’s. Tell your master to settle the matter once for all in court, and there will be no more fighting. The Government has built kacharis and appointed magistrates, both English and Indian, for the purpose of preserving the peace with justice. See that you keep the law, in future, or you will find yourselves in gaol.”
Narain’s staff removed the wounded, and Derek returned to Dulcie to whom he explained the cause of the fight. “Chunder is a type of malcontent who has acquired lands through money-lending and usury. He is at the bottom of every trouble in the district, and a thorn in my side. Lately, he has been encouraging agitators to visit these parts and discourse to the rural population on their imaginary wrongs. The silly idiots believe all they are told, and one has no means of counteracting the mischief. His latest piece of villainy is to stir up the raiyats against me and stop them from paying me rent. I’d like to catch the beggar, alone, one day, and teach him a lesson. Blighters like him are the curse of India, and are leading the people astray. Imagine men like Chunder in power; and he is one of the most vociferous among Bengal patriots, howling for Swaraj.”
“What is that?” Dulcie asked, ashamed of her ignorance after two months in India.
“Self-government.”
“And what is the idea of not paying you rent?”
“I am of the hated race of white men and must be driven out of the country with the rest of the foreigners.”
“You have an anxious time. It must be getting mighty difficult to manage your tenants if they are being set against you.”
“They were all right a little while back.”
“And now it must be getting quite dangerous!”
“Are you alarmed?”
“On your account, yes.”
“It doesn’t frighten you off—make you want to turn your back upon me and run away to America?” He smiled anxiously.
“I am quite ready to share all that is coming your way,” she said comfortingly.
“Brave girl! But there is no real or immediate cause for alarm. When there is, I shall know how to protect my own.”
He spoke, however, with greater assurance than he felt. Yet, it was hard to deny himself the hope of making Dulcie his wife, for the sake of possible trouble with the natives. In common with other Englishmen, Derek believed that a handful of Sahibs in a volunteer corps was enough to keep a rural population of thousands in order. The moral effect of drilling on the polo ground was undoubted, for the bazaars and villages would turn out in their masses to watch the parades or an Assault-at-Arms, and enthusiastically applaud feats of skill and daring. Of one thing, they were certainly convinced, and that was the indomitableness of the British race—a quality which had made them undoubted rulers of men, and fearless in the exercise of their office.
Derek Lang returned home after seeing Dulcie to her gate. He was overpowered by a fit of depression such as he had not known since the war. Like a cloud hovering over him was the presentiment that his great happiness was not going to last long. “Make the most of her while she loves you—she won’t love you when she knows . . .” rang maddeningly in his brain. He was in a sense, in Mrs. Macmaster’s power. She had come to know a story against him which he was unable to explain for two reasons: one being, that the memory of the dead is sacred; the other, that he had burnt his boats like a quixotic fool. He could only hope that Sheila Macmaster would spare him for the sake of old times—which was a great deal to expect from a woman who felt herself slighted. Women were not always generous towards men who had disappointed them.
He was desperately afraid of Mrs. Macmaster, for there had been that in her eye of late which he could easily have construed into passionate warning; yet, he had taken no heed. How could he, when he was deeply and sincerely in love? and the girl was Dulcie Durand? Sheila was, accordingly, getting her knife into him by dropping hints into the girl’s ears. There is nothing so insidious as poison in small doses; and “the word in season” was the poison he feared which would yet bring about trouble. Already, he could see that Dulcie was fighting suspicions. She herself was so wonderful, so good and pure-minded; her standards of life so exceptionally high, that he would have a very small chance with her if Sheila made mischief as it was in her power to do. Either, Dulcie would overlook everything, trusting in his word alone, or cease to care for him.
For a week after that ride, he continued to meet Dulcie at the Club in fear and trembling lest he should see a change in her, and then was translated to heaven at the sweetness of her smile. Towards Mrs. Macmaster, he was always chivalrous and polite, with not a sign to recall the intimacy of the past. And Mrs. Macmaster apparently “played the game” with a spirit of pride that won his reluctant admiration. Would it prevail?
One afternoon, Dulcie whispered: “I don’t think I shall tell papa yet. It means I shall have to make it public and then Mrs. Macmaster will know. Somehow, I can’t tell her—yet.”
In spite of her smile and that adorable uplifting of her soft eyes to his, he could tell that his beloved was distressed.
“Why do you shrink from telling her, Sweet? She had better be told, for I want the wedding as soon as it can be fixed. I am not a patient lover, I warn you.”
Dulcie pressed her cheek against his sleeve and sighed. “I have a feeling that things won’t be the same after she knows.”
“Why do you say that?” His heart seemed to stand still.
“I don’t know why, but I feel it. You cannot always explain or account for a feeling, can you? I only know that for some reason she does not like our being so much together. She watches us and behaves queerly. She might put papa against you.”
“What is your idea about it?” he asked, drawing her close into his arms as if in defiance of enemies.
They had strolled away from the Club where tennis was in full swing and were alone in the deserted, walled-in racquet court which was as sheltered as lovers could desire.
“I never know what to think, except that she is—jealous. Is there any reason why Mrs. Macmaster should be jealous of me?” Dulcie asked, her eyes lowered, her breath suspended.
Derek lifted her face and fell to kissing it lovingly, thinking to turn her thoughts from the question, and thus avoid the necessity for a reply.
“Is there?” she took breath to ask again.
“Can a man ever answer for a woman?” he fenced, when it would have been better to have made a clean breast of the truth, which was not so terrible after all. But it was not like him to give one woman away to another.
“You never were—that is, perhaps she was once in love with you?”
“You would make me conceited, sweetheart!”
“Tell me, were you in love with her?”
Derek felt more sure of his ground when he replied from the bottom of his heart: “ I have never loved any woman as I love you. I might have been soft about many; but, in love—no! Perhaps I was weak enough to have been ‘soft’ about Mrs. Macmaster, one time. I have only now learned what it is to really love.”
So that was all! Dulcie’s face cleared and she returned his kisses affectionately. Women, married or single, she reasoned, might inspire admiration and find soft corners in male hearts without any harm being done. It did not imply love making. It was enough for her that Derek had never been in love with Mrs. Macmaster.
Derek did not see into the workings of her innocent mind, or he might have followed her thoughts as she lulled her doubts in such fashion.
Another blissful week passed while their engagement remained a profound secret between themselves, and then events marched.
Derek had plenty of business on his estate to occupy him when not in attendance on Dulcie at Amabagh; and he was often to be seen riding about his estate accompanied by enthusiastic dogs. Five villages were included in his property, which accounted for the name, Panchbusti. Their sanitation; supply of drinking water; market facilities; the encouragement of competition in local industries; the arbitration of quarrels and the settlement of domestic difficulties, were all matters for his personal attention. In times of epidemics, his hands were full. The families of the sufferers came to him in their extremity with touching confidence in his power to aid and relieve them.
It was only recently that he noticed a change in the demeanour of the villagers wherever he went. Instead of familiar confidence and goodwill on broadly smiling faces as he rode past, there were looks of sullen discontent and suspicion directed at him. The children no longer ran beside his horse shouting “baksheesh!” and salaaming or tumbling joyously in the dust; but gaped at him nervously as though, at some new species of monster, unmasked and dangerous.
Yet they had known him long!
Frequently on his rides of inspection, he would come across Chunder’s peons lounging at the village well which was the centre of gossip, and would be treated to passive insolence and malignant scowls. When all stood up and salaamed with their wonted respect, they would remain seated or expectorate in contempt on the roadway.
Derek knew how deep an insult this behaviour conveyed to the native mind, and also the demoralising effect of it on others if he allowed it to pass unchallenged; so, on one occasion, convinced that the slight was intentional, he sprang from his horse and approached the group.
“Is there anything wrong with these men’s legs?” he asked of the group, generally, pointing with his whip to the limbs in question, and speaking with calm authority.
“Nothing, Sahib, that we know of,” said a native turning aside to hide a smile. A tense of humour is never lacking in the Aryan.
“They are just sitting,” said another equally amused.
“That I perceive,” said Derek, eyeing the three men squatted before him on their haunches, trying to support their disrespect with a show of bravado. “I happen to have lived long enough among you to understand why, at this moment, they are ‘just sitting’ when all the others find it correct to stand in my presence. They wish to show me that they have a right to remain sitting when your Bara Sahib passes. They are deliberately and consciously offering me disrespect, and hoping that I shall feel insulted and annoyed. On the contrary, I am amused, and would like to improve the occasion. Have any of you got chairs in your houses?”
“I have!” called the old pundit who lived close by. “Three chairs I bought at Amabagh at the last auction of a Sahib’s effects, but the seats being gone, I have nailed canvas over them.”
As chairs are an undreamed-of luxury to villagers, who are happiest seated upon mats and rugs, there was a loud laugh of derision.
“They are only for show; he rarely sits on them,” explained a friend apologetically. “Only, when the ground is damp after rain, he sits on one and places his feet on another.”
“Fetch them out quickly. I have a fancy to offer these three peons whom the money-lender employs, three chairs on which to sit in state in my presence. Perhaps they have never before sat in chairs like Sahibs? No matter, we shall see how they look!”
As ridicule is one of the things no Indian can endure, the peons rose hurriedly to their feet, looking furiously discomfited, and made off as quickly as they could, while the villagers, greatly entertained, guffawed noisily.
“What a pity,” said Derek, as he remounted his horse. “You have been deprived of an amusing spectacle. However, these men have had their lesson, and will keep out of my way, in future, if they cannot behave towards me with respect.”
Chunder, himself, Derek rarely met, but his activities were ceaseless everywhere, in support of Swaraj. The great moneylender who lived on property he had acquired through usurious money-lending, was like a human spider weaving his web of mischief far and wide in the district. At every turn, his baneful influence could be felt. The sole ray of brightness to Derek in this atmosphere of unrest and discontent surrounding him, was the gratitude of some of those he had helped during cholera epidemics; and of the maimed, the halt and the blind, who were his weekly pensioners. It was also a compensation to observe the watchful fidelity of his staff of up-country peons, and especially of a Mohammedan bearer, Syed Khan, who was his self-constituted bodyguard in the house and often out of it, and who worshipped Derek and found as much pleasure in his self-appointed duty, as a lover does in serving his mistress.
Narain Singh, a petty zemindar, was also friendly. He owned paddy lands which had been in his family for generations, and which yielded a mere living. In spite of the growing disaffection and the sedition openly preached on all sides, Narain Singh remained a loyal subject of the King Emperor, and a strong supporter of the Government. At village fairs, he would counsel moderation to hot-heads who made wild speeches concerning the political aspirations of new India and stigmatised the Government as “Satanic.”
“Humph!” Narain Singh was heard to say: “And it is this very Government that has brought us out of darkness into light; has given us a share in the administration, and brought peace and prosperity to the land. Under them we are sure of receiving justice. But can we be sure of anything, if, yielding to pressure, British rule is withdrawn? That will indeed be the advent of an era of tribulation. Chunder, who is powerful with riches, will snatch all my lands from me. I am poor, and for the poor and weak there will be no help! ai khoda!”
Since the mar-pete, Narain Singh was an anxious man. One day, he sought an interview with “Lang Sahib,” who was his other powerful neighbour, and one whom he respected as an honourable and upright gentleman.
“Sahib,” said he miserably, “I took your advice brought to me by my servants and, going to Amabagh, I laid my complaint against Chunder in the court. Every now and then, he shifts my landmarks; every year I lose a portion of my ground. So there are broken heads and disturbances of the peace.”
“Once, while riding over my estate towards the north, where your property joins Chunder’s,” put in Derek, “I saw men moving boundary pillars under Bhutna Singh’s supervision. But, as it was no business of mine I asked no questions.”
“There! Huzur saw with his own eyes! That Bhutna Singh is as great a rascal as his master! Sahib, I ask you but to see my deeds and maps. In that spot, the belt of babul trees was originally within my boundaries, now it is in Chunder’s land.”
“He will fight it in court, I have no doubt.”
“But I have proofs, and huzur saw the swine thieving!”
“He will swear that he was restoring them to their proper place, having found them previously moved by you,” said Derek.
“He is without conscience, Sahib. But see my papers which I will offer in court. Yet, alas! I am a poor man and have no chance against one so fat with riches. The case is to be heard by the Deputy Babu who is of Chunder’s gushti3 and all know he is open to bribery.”
“That is a serious charge against a Magistrate, Narain.”
“That is so, Sahib; but alas, it is true. It is a great misfortune that my countrymen should have so little honour or regard for justice, that their favour may be bought by the highest bidder. The moneylender is rich and will offer the Dip’ty a fat bribe to decide for him. He will falsify his papers; he will hesitate at nothing; and what can a poor man do? For this reason I have come to see you. You have a great friendship with the Collector Sahib and those in office who have authority over these matters; and, peradventure, if you speak for me, they will transfer my suit from the file of the Dip’ty to that of the Assistant Magistrate, who, like yourself, is a Sahib and will not take bribes. The case will then be tried on its own merits, and justice be done. This I beseech of you, huzur, with my hands joined. I will even touch your feet.”
“That won’t be necessary, Narain Singh,” said Derek kindly. “I will look over your papers and convince myself that your claim is just; and if satisfied, I will be a witness for you in court that I saw the pillars being moved. That will be quite enough.”
“That is a great favour, Sahib!” said Narain Singh with a deep salaam. Leaving his papers with Derek, he retired full of hope and gratitude; and, on returning home, lost no time in spreading the news through the bazaars, that Lang Sahib was to be a witness on his side. He trusted to the moral effect of such intelligence on the mind of the “dip’ty,” who would refrain, under the circumstances, from having illegal dealings with the notorious moneylender.
Reflecting on his conversation with the zemindar, Derek thought that Narain Singh could not have paid a higher tribute to British rule in India than by wishing to have his case transferred to the file of an English magistrate. No one knew native character better than a native.
Narain Singh won his case through Derek’s intervention on his behalf, and the boundaries between the lands of the two zemindars were authoritatively demarcated. Chunder was bound down to keep the peace, and, consequently, cherished a deeper hostility than ever towards the Englishman, brooding over plans of vengeance and boasting that the days of the white man in India were numbered.
Narain Singh heard the gossip of the bazaars on the subject, and held forth to his intimates warningly; saying in conclusion, “In this country, the Sahib is our best friend, let men talk as they please. Only to those whose ways are crooked and full of double-dealing, is he an enemy. Blessings on Lang Sahib! Long may he live. May he marry, and his wife bear him many sons to care for his old age.” But, ai khoda! he thought within himself, the times were becoming more and more troublous. What were the rulers about to permit the growth of such malignant feeling in the land? A neglected sore festers, and the whole body may become infected; whereas, by the timely application of a strong cautery it can be eradicated and the patient’s life saved. It was thus the malcontents should have been treated in the beginning. Was it true that the Government was indeed weakening? If so, then were the people betrayed. For tyranny, extortion, and violence would presently prevail in the land, and for none would there be any safety.
Narain Singh was not the only one who was dismayed at the unchecked growth of sedition and the rapid falling away of the people from the faith and trust that had marked their attitude, in the past, towards the English in their midst. Syed Khan, the Mohammedan bearer, was filled with misgivings at the way sedition was preached in the bazaars and hatred of the British inculcated. It was becoming a matter of deep anxiety to him that his master’s rents remained unpaid, for there were signs of disaffection in the attitude of the raiyats, and he feared there would be trouble the moment steps were taken to enforce payment.
Derek, however, had other and more personal matters to occupy his mind; and, for the time-being, delayed coming to conclusions with his tenants. He believed they had been influenced by agitators who were penetrating, unhindered, everywhere, with the avowed determination of stirring up the people against the “hated” British; and he did not doubt that once he put his foot down, there would be no difficulty in recovering his wonted authority and influence.
The marriage of Mr. Durand and Sally Sells was fixed to take place in Calcutta, at the end of January, after which, the honeymoon couple were to tour in northern India, visiting places of historic interest. Meanwhile, Dulcie was to stay with Mrs. Macmaster till their return. Fearing that her father would book a passage home for her when securing berths for himself and Sally, Dulcie decided to tell him her own great news without further delay. It would not be too much of a surprise, for all Amabagh expected to hear, sooner or later, that she was engaged to Derek Lang. He had taken no pains to conceal his admiration for her, and it was clear to station society what their intimate friendship was tending to.
Dulcie knew she would miss Boston and the life she had been brought up to in the States, but her love for Derek was equal to any sacrifice. She believed she could teach herself to like the East. The climate had no terrors for her for she liked warmth, and, if she needed a change, the mountain resorts were always available. The free and easy ways of colonials charmed her. She was naturally adaptable; ready to make friends and to take the rough with the smooth, in spite of her luxurious and indulged upbringing. There were things in her new life which she knew she would never get used to, and which would always try her nerves. Snakes, for instance, and other crawling things of which India seemed to have the monopoly. Yet there were hosts of Englishwomen supporting such conditions with Spartan indifference; and she had met American ladies of culture and refinement doing mission work in the district, who liked the life and had grown acclimatised. Dulcie had called on them with her father when they first came as guests to the Macmasters, and she had been surprised to find how much at home these mission ladies were in their oriental surroundings. Once every three years, the Mission sent them home to New York on a six months holiday; yet they were happy to return to India, and contented in their vocation, doing really useful work.
Moreover, things could never be the same for Dulcie at home, with her father married to Sally with whom she knew, instinctively, she would never get on. So she was glad to feel that her future was decided otherwise, and was prepared to make the fact public.
Things, however, rarely turn out according to plan.
Mrs. Macmaster, one day, came upon Derek and Dulcie in lover-like converse in a secluded corner of one of the verandahs at the Club. While others played billiards or cards, and danced or gossiped, the lovers felt safe from interruption in their retreat which was lighted only by stars or a sympathetic moon. And they were supremely happy, as may be supposed. There was so much to be arranged—the date of their wedding, the manner of it, and a number of other important details. Dulcie wanted a bright, drawing-room wedding; Derek had a leaning towards a church. There was something so sincere about marriages in a church—so truly holy; and as his feeling for Dulcie was the most sacred thing he had known, he had an impulse towards consecrated ground where, kneeling before God’s holy altar, they would mutually vow to be true to each other till death did them part. But he was too shy to explain the reasons for his preference. Then Dulcie had a fancy for camelias instead of orange blossoms. She was not an American for nothing, and held independent ideas on accepted matters. Just because orange blossoms had always been regarded the appropriate flowers for the adornment of a bride, she was disposed to dispute their indispensability. Camelias were her favourites, and their exquisite purity would be far more symbolical of the true spirit of marriage.
It was at the moment Derek had yielded to this opinion, that Mrs. Macmaster came unexpectedly upon them and stood rooted to the spot, at the scene which met her eyes. The two lovers sat with arms entwined and cheek pressed to cheek, oblivious of their surroundings, till, startled by her involuntary exclamation, they rose to their feet to confront the intruder, while Derek drew Dulcie closer to his side as if to challenge remark.
“I am sorry, but I was looking for Dulcie,” said Mrs. Macmaster stiffly, as she turned and hurried away, discomfited.
The culprits, recovering their equanimity, laughed together as at a huge joke. “Of course, I shall have to tell her to-night,” said Dulcie, “though I would rather have told papa first.”
They rejoined the company at the farther side of the building, and Dulcie drove home beside Mrs. Macmaster, longing vainly for an opportunity to make a dignified confession of facts; but Mrs. Macmaster wore an air of icy reserve so that her young companion should feel the full weight of her disapproval.
“She knew it all the time!” Dulcie said to herself. “It is no use her pretending that she did not know how things were going! “
Eventually, just before they arrived at the gate, the girl put out a feeler.
“Won’t you congratulate me, Sheila?”
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” came the prompt answer from set lips and an uncompromising profile.
This immediately roused the American girl’s spirit. “Of course, you will explain why; otherwise we cease to remain friends. You have been very kind and hospitable, Sheila, and I am most grateful. But, in a matter like this, no girl can allow herself to be insulted.”
“I do not insult you. I merely cannot congratulate you, if you want me to understand that you are engaged to Derek Lang.”
“You could understand no less, after the situation you happened upon this evening. You must have a very light opinion of us both to understand anything else.”
“Of course, it is your affair. However, I think you have made a mistake, and have the courage of my opinion; that’s all.”
“And you won’t give me your reason?”
“I would rather not.” There was a hint of indecision in Mrs. Macmaster’s voice.
“Very well. I shall not press you. In any case, I should take Derek’s part, so it would be futile if you wish to put me against him.”
The car pulled up at the steps and they descended. Nothing more was said. Her father was dining out, so Dulcie was left to sustain her share of the banal conversation of the dinner table so that Mr. Macmaster might not guess that anything out of the way had occurred. She was surprised at her own ability to talk superficially and with ease on matters of general interest when, all the while, her heart was in a tumult of excitement at the peculiar turn events had taken. She firmly believed it was breeding that helped her at this juncture—generations of culture and pride. Mrs. Macmaster, who, according to gossip, could not boast of gentle descent, was unable to conceal her rage and disappointment. She had warned Dulcie sufficiently, as she imagined, to no avail.
There was brooding resentment in her eyes, a nervous trembling of her fingers that was beyond her control. Had her husband been in the habit of observing his wife’s moods he would surely have noticed how strangely she was behaving. But he was the type of husband for whom Dulcie had no toleration. His wife was no more to him than the furniture he had acquired. So long as she discharged her social duties as the leading hostess in the station, he had no fault to find with her, and was content to leave her absolute mistress of her own actions. Yet, surely, he had once loved her—and she him? Looking at his self-satisfied, clever face, Dulcie wondered what experiences could have chased from his mind all shadow of regard for his wife other than as a partner on the social side of his life—controlling his household and dispensing hospitalities, official and non-official! It was a painful state of affairs, thought Dulcie, having it in her heart to feel sorry for Mrs. Macmaster. In her place, she would have gone to her children long ago.
At first Dulcie thought of waiting up for her father, but on second thoughts retired to her room, being weary after the excitement of the evening, and would have fallen asleep the moment her head touched the pillow had it not been for a sound at the door.
There was a hesitating footstep near the threshold; the door was being gently pushed open.
It was not locked nor bolted, as to do either is unusual in India, so Dulcie helplessly watched, not knowing whether to cry out or keep still. By the light of the moon which flooded the cool, china matting and shone on the daintily distempered walls, she could see the door move silently inwards as if pushed by an unseen hand. The next moment a candle was visible—then—Dulcie stared, forgetting to breathe.
It was Mrs. Macmaster.
Dulcie sat up in bed, and Mrs. Macmaster, seeing her awake, showed relief as she came forward.
“I was afraid you had gone to sleep, in which case I would not have disturbed you, but left what I have to say till the morning. The fact is, on second thoughts, I feel that it is only right that you should know all there is to tell, since you are contemplating so fateful a step as marriage with Derek Lang. As he would hardly care to discuss such matters with you, and you should not, blindfold, do anything irretrievable, I have conceived it my duty not to remain silent any longer.”
“Certainly—I can but listen,” said Dulcie, so startled that for the moment she was at a loss how to act. “But it is only fair to say that nothing you tell me will make any difference.”
“That, of course, is your affair. But, since it is through me you met him, I should prefer to ease my conscience—even at my own expense—of its responsibility in the case. You are very young, and the question of your future happiness is involved.” Mrs. Macmaster put out the candle and, leaving it on a table, seated herself on the edge of the bed. Dulcie noticed that she had not undressed, and concluded that she must have been spending the time since they parted that evening in some hard thinking.
“I don’t know how far it would be disloyal of me to listen. I would much rather you said what there is to say in Derek’s presence.”
“I have no objection to your telling him all I say to you to-night. That absolves you of disloyalty. You need have no secrets from him if, after to-night, your feelings are unchanged. Apparently, he is not so rigid with regard to you. What I am going to tell you is rather a long story, and I hope you will be patient. I know, from your own conversation, that you have rather high ideals—that you have little use for men who do all that women are hounded for, and yet never have to suffer at all. Now judge for yourself. For this reason, I have decided to tell you things concerning myself that I would tell no other living soul.”
Mrs. Macmaster drew a long inhalation of aromatic salts through her delicate nostrils, and Dulcie thought her looking white and ill in the uncertain light.
“Derek Lang was sent out in 1912, when he was hardly twenty-one years of age; and a nicer boy was hard to meet. My husband and I were fairly new to the country, and he was in a junior position in the Service when we were first appointed to the station. Naturally, we saw a great deal of Derek—in fact, he was a sort of tame cat in this house. It happened that, in 1914, my very dearest friend was married to Herbert Slack, manager of Panchbusti, with whom Derek was staying while learning zemindari work—that is, the business of managing estates. I never liked Mr. Slack, but his wife adored him like nothing on earth. I could never make it out, for he wasn’t an ideal husband by any means. However, she was devoted to him. Derek found him a congenial companion as he was a sportsman, like himself; so they got on very well together. Mr. Slack did not interfere much with Derek, who had plenty of leisure to run about with us, play polo and the rest of it, but he very seldom came into the station himself.
“Well, one day, his wife, who had been home for a few months, came out suddenly, without letting her husband know she was coming. She wanted to give him a delightful surprise and, instead, suffered the shock of her life. You see—she found a native woman established in the bungalow.”
“Oh!” gasped Dulcie, growing hot with shame. Anything degrading and bestial she loathed, and disliked even to touch upon. This story struck her as particularly disgusting, and she recoiled from it as from filth.
“You can imagine her feelings. Her husband was out at the time on the estate, and when he returned he was mad that she had not written she was coming. He did his best to put off her suspicions, but when he found that they were fastened firmly on himself, and that she was ill with hysteria and injured feelings, he told the truth in self-defence. He could no longer pretend that she was the wife of one of the servants; they have their wives with them in outhouses. Besides, the woman had shown too plainly that she was not. The facts of the case as he gave them to Mrs. Slack were that the woman was Derek’s mistress. Derek was master of his own actions, and the property being his own, he was answerable to nobody.”
Dulcie sat perfectly still as if turned to stone, and Mrs. Macmaster continued:
“It seemed that the woman was a mere girl of sixteen, sold to Derek by her father, a coolie who worked on the estate. He had parted with his daughter as money is more to some of these low-caste natives than pride or virtue. The girl herself was too young to disobey her lawful guardian and, I have no doubt, was perfectly happy in the change. Whatever it was, Derek was faced by Mrs. Slack, and owned up, which made all the difference in the world to the relations between husband and wife. I have no idea what Derek had meant to do about the girl’s future, but the war broke out, and he left for the front all in a hurry. The girl was sent back to her people immediately after the burst-up, but they declined to keep her—this I heard from the missionaries who tried to rescue her but failed—and her ultimate end was the bazaars. I believe she is now an abandoned woman, and her baby, a boy, born some months after Derek left the country, would have been dragged up in the gutter, only, after demobilisation, when he returned to take charge of the Panchbusti estate—poor Herbert Slack having died suddenly of cholera—and was told of the birth of the child, he rescued the little one and sent it to the Mission. He had an interview with the mother, I was told, and, practically, had to buy the child from her. Of course, it was not a legal transaction, but it was only right, seeing that the boy had English blood in his veins. It was unthinkable to leave him in the bazaars. So he is now one of the orphans the American ladies are caring for, and is a queer little fellow with sandy hair and light eyes that don’t at all match his dull, nondescript complexion.”
(Derek’s hair was dark; but that did not occur to Dulcie, whose mind was paralysed as she listened.)
“But all that is beside the point. Of course, Derek did the right thing—settled, also, to pay an annual sum to the missionaries for the maintenance of the kid. He could hardly do less. My poor friend, Mrs. Slack, is now at home living at Hampstead, bringing up her small family in the way it should go. Her husband’s death, of cholera, about the time the Armistice was declared, was a fearful shock to her and, for a while, she was almost off her head.” Mrs. Macmaster drew a long breath and suddenly leant forward. “Now,” said she with cruel deliberation, “this is where I come in. What will you think when I tell you that all the while there was that native woman at Panchbusti, Derek Lang was my slave? I should perhaps be ashamed to make the confession, but I do so in order to open your eyes. You ought to know the sort of man you want to marry, and judge for yourself whether or not he is the proper husband for an honest, straightforward, pure girl. I was a disappointed wife, and recklessly indifferent to consequences when thrown into the society of a boy of Derek Lang’s charm of personality. He was just bursting with vitality and the love of life. It was wonderful to watch him in those days. He is much changed since the war, so much more grown up and self-controlled. He was fascinating to me, and I’ll admit I fell madly in love with him. Being a bit older, I, at first, mothered him; but, one day, barriers went down. I was ready to follow him to the ends of the earth—he to take me, when the news of the war burst on us like a thunderbolt. And to think that, even while he professed love for me, there was that——”
“Don’t! Oh, please don’t!” broke from Dulcie, her face buried in her hands. With a wild effort to ward off disillusionment, she turned passionately upon Mrs. Macmaster: “You are lying to me! It is not true—all this that you have said—give me proofs. Why should I listen to your venomous stories? You are mad with jealousy and are trying to take him from me!”
“Mad with jealousy . . .” repeated Mrs. Macmaster without a shadow of resentment. “That is quite true. I have been mad with jealousy, watching his growing attachment for you; yet, I hoped against hope that he would not get you. I thought you would never consent to live in India with so much against a happy family life. I tried to warn you twice, but you would not listen. Now you have had to hear the unsavoury truth. I might bring myself to overlook his immorality, for I am a hardened woman of the world and have broad ideas on the subject of men and life; but not so you. You will never be able to trust him. You will always remember these stories that go to prove his lack of moral sense, and your life will be a hell.”
But Dulcie still reiterated: “Your slanders are nothing to me without proof.”
“There is plenty of proof,” said Mrs. Macmaster. “I shall call with you at the Mission to-morrow, and you will hear from the ladies there, who it was gave them a little Eurasian boy to bring up as a Christian—and who pays regularly for his maintenance. You may also see the child for yourself. Do you need more convincing? And as to his feeling for me—read this letter.” She drew a folded note from her pocket and tossed it over to Dulcie. “It was written on the eve of his departure for the front—the only letter I never burned, for I hoped one day to make him take it back . . . it hurt so terribly. But it proves quite enough—also, that Derek Lang has very little heart. He is the most attractive man on God’s earth, and the most fickle! I do not need to be convinced that he will never be anything to me again. Love once dead, is as cold as ashes; and cannot be fanned into flame again.” She lit the candle as she spoke.
“And you are a married woman!” Dulcie cried desperately, looking like a wounded creature at bay. Taking the proffered note, she read it, shrinkingly, to the end.
Panchbusti,
August 15th, 1914.
Dearest,—I am afraid this letter is going to seem very cruel, for it conveys to you the news that I am off home, at once, by the mail, to join up. It is inconceivable that I should do anything else, whatever might be my natural inclinations.
I have come to think, also, that it is the best turn I can do you. When I am out of the way—and it might be for ever—you will be able to return to a normal way of life and forget the things that have come between you and lasting happiness. The love of your children will give you that. I am just a would-be thief, stealing what is another’s, and self-convicted before the accomplishment of the deed. This war has come just in time to pull us both up on the brink, and we may yet live to be thankful that we found there was something for us each to do which may hereafter save bitter self-reproach.
After last evening, in that corner of the Club verandah which has been so kind to us, it would be weakness for us to meet and say good-bye. You will not wish me to go, I know, and, at the best of times, good-byes are miserable things. So I am leaving to-night for Bombay. Wish me luck and God speed. I feel it will be best if we do not write. The thing is finished. My love to you, and all good wishes. I am a bad hand at expressing myself, but I want you to know, in case I never come back, that I am very sorry if I have ever caused you in any way to suffer.—
Yours, Derek.
Dulcie sat as still as death, staring at the words “in that corner of the verandah which has been so kind to us.” So he had often made love to Mrs. Macmaster, another man’s wife, in that same corner which had become sacred to themselves. How could he have taken the girl he professed to love, to a place so full of profane memories? The thought was revolting.
Moreover, he had lied about Mrs. Macmaster! He had sworn that he had never been “in love” with any woman but herself! Yet, here was proof of the shameful passion he had felt for a woman he could not marry.
Dulcie felt she could almost make allowances for Mrs. Macmaster’s transgression, for she was a disappointed wife; but for him there was no excuse.
“You are satisfied?” Mrs. Macmaster asked earnestly.
“I am convinced, if that is what you want to know,” Dulcie replied firmly. She would not let Mrs. Macmaster guess, on any account, the agony of disillusionment she was suffering.
“Will you come with me to see that little child at the Mission?”
“I am quite willing to take your word concerning him. I don’t think I should care to verify the fact of his parentage and existence. May I keep this letter?”
“Certainly you may. It is of no further use to me.”
“Thank you,” said Dulcie bravely. “Now I guess I will try to sleep. It’s been a long day, and I feel just all in. Goodnight.”
She wondered how it was she could control her voice so as to speak naturally when her whole frame was beginning to quiver as with an ague. But, at all costs, Sheila Macmaster must not realise what she was going through.
Mrs. Macmaster rose, possessed herself of her candlestick, and murmuring “ good night,” retired from the room, leaving Dulcie alone with her despair.
Derek had retired to sleep that night full of elation and thankfulness. Sheila Macmaster had refrained from malice, and all was going happily. He had often been oppressed with a nightmare dread that something might happen to wreck his happiness and plunge him headlong into the depths of despair. The greatness of his love for Dulcie was the biggest thing he had known in his life. It made him tremble and grow weak—the bare thought of losing her; and he longed for the day to arrive quickly that would make her his own. That she had condescended to love him—a fellow so much older than herself, was too good to be true; hence his anxieties and fears; for though he had been an object of admiration among many women, his natural manliness and modesty had left him unspoiled. It was also wonderful that she was willing to give up her life of luxury in the States to live in an Indian station where the innumerable conveniences of life in highly civilised conditions, were lacking and, in their stead, various discomforts abounded. He was indeed blessed by Almighty God far above his deserts, and, very shyly, in the privacy of his bedchamber, he knelt to thank the Giver of all things for this marvellous gift. His very soul was illuminated with the glow at his heart as he composed himself to sleep. Dulcie was his last thought—her slender form, her piquante face, the inexpressible fascination of her individuality, and the thousand charms and graces which made her the most attractive of women. She was not considered strictly beautiful—nor even pretty; she was something far better. She was the “right sort.” He had realised that at the first meeting when irresistibly attracted by the tones of her soft voice with its hint of an American accent.
He was falling asleep, thinking and planning how to improve and beautify his home for her reception, when a low cough at the verandah door arrested his attention. In India, when a native gives a cough it does not necessarily imply that he has a cold in his throat. As in the present case, it prefaced a desire for an interview.
“Huzur,” came a low voice designed to carry just as far as the Sahib’s ear, “it is Syed Khan with something to say of the utmost importance.”
Derek sat up in bed. “Come in Syed. What has brought you out so late?” he asked as he lighted the reading lamp by his bedside.
Syed entered with the cautious steps of one accustomed to intrigue. “Huzur, it is an evil thing of which I have come to tell.” He looked anxiously about him to make sure that they were alone. “There are enemies of the Sahib even now seeking subtle means of putting him out of the way . . .”
“You mean that someone is watching for an opportunity to kill me?”
“That is what is being plotted by those who are filled with envy and hatred of the white race, and with much malignancy towards the Sahib in particular.”
“Well? What have you discovered? For it is not only to tell me this that you are out of your bed at this late hour.” Derek was only half interested and not a little resentful to have his dreams of happiness so rudely dispelled.
“To-day, when I was at Gumori village arranging for the supply of oats for the stables, I saw Mugra, that swine of a khidmatgar that attends at the Sahib’s table—though, of a truth, his breakages and neglect of his duties warrant his dismissal from the service. I saw him, I say, walking and talking with a servant of Chunder the moneylender. ‘This man,’ said I, ‘is nimak haram4 to be in the company of the Sahib’s enemies. Some evil plot therefore must be in contemplation.’ So I followed from afar, and having eyes in my head sharpened for the discovery of badmashes, I, at once, noted that Mugra’s face was pinched with guilt and that his eyes were of a restlessness unusual to those whose minds have nothing to fear. He looked this way and that, and licked his lips as when they have gone dry; and all the while his ears were listening to the persuasive talk of Pagal Singh.”
“You are very suspicious, Syed Khan.” Derek was beginning to feel impatient.
“Listen, Sahib, and you will see that my suspicions are not without just foundation. Pagal Singh, like Bhutna Singh, is a badmash, and not for nothing would he be in close conversation with the fool, Mugra, who has a weak mind—so I reasoned as I followed; and when they sat down beside an empty shed in the market-place with their heads close together, I crept to the back and applying my ear to the mat wall against which they rested, I was able to hear all. Mugra was bribed to poison huzur. For that I could kill him with these hands, after which I should be hanged. Then who will protect the Sahib from his enemies? So I decided to tell huzur, instead, and let you deal with the rascal.”
“Are you sure?” asked Derek, roused at last.
“With my own ears I heard, and my stomach was turned with horror. I can repeat the words of the man: ‘When you have seen him drink his tea, half asleep, it being so early, you will remove the cup, wash it clean, and go. With so much money in your pocket, you will be able to travel far, and choose the place of your residence. Who will find you in this great hive—this land of swarming humanity? Where, if you work for fifty years, will so big a sum be offered you for so easy a task? In a little while, you will be a zemindar like your master with servants to do your bidding and men doing you homage!’ he said.”
“Good God!” muttered Derek.
“Then I heard Mugra give his consent. Nervously he gave it, promising to drop the powder in your tea, in the morning, when he comes as usual to wake you, having in his hand the tray with the cup steaming. See what a conscienceless pig he is! So, when I heard all they had to say, and they rose to separate, I, too, slipped out and returned homeward. But the Sahib was at Amabagh and I was compelled to wait. Not even when he returned could I say aught while other servants were about; for suspicions would have been aroused and huzur would not be able to catch the badmash with the evidence of his guilt upon him. Even now my liver is dried up with fear of what so bad a servant might yet accomplish if he remain in the service another day; so Sahib, be warned, and hand him over to the police with the cup of tea he would have you drink in the morning.”
Syed’s face was pale with concern, his hands joined in supplication.
“You have done me a great service, Syed,” said Derek with a ring of affectionate gratitude in his voice not lost upon the bearer. “I will remember not to drink the tea Mugra brings to me in the morning. As to what I shall do with him, is for later consideration. The ungrateful rascal! After I nursed him through his fever, too! So he is willing to murder me for money?”
“The danger is, that there are many like him who will risk much for money, and Chunder has plenty to offer that his way might be cleared, his evil courses be unhindered.”
“Go now, Syed Khan, and I shall sleep upon what I have heard,” said Derek, shuddering at the thought that, but for Syed’s faithfulness, he would, in a few hours, have died from the treachery of a servant to whom he had invariably shown kindness. And Dulcie? What would she have done if the murderer had succeeded in his fell design?
Trying to picture Dulcie under such tragic circumstances, made him forget to plan how to deal with the kitmutgar in the morning, who, by the way, was personal assistant to the Mohammedan butler, a dignified personage of great experience in domestic management and matters of table etiquette.
Derek felt deeply touched by the loyal devotion which had saved him from a treacherous and untimely death. Though he had been too often near death to fear it, life for him, now, was more than ever worth living.
The man and the poisoned cup would arrive about sunrise—how providential that he knew it would be poisoned! Would he thrash the fellow within an inch of his life, as he deserved? The traitor! Or hand him over to the police? It seemed such a paltry form of summary justice for a crime so deliberate and cold-blooded. At any rate, the wretch would be out of the way of further mischief were he convicted and transported for a term of years. But there would be others as easy to bribe, and taking warning from Mugra’s case, they would be careful not to be found out.
In the end, Derek did not decide on any plan of action, but fell asleep, thinking he would wait on events and act accordingly.
At sunrise he awoke with the familiar sound of the clinking of china. A teaspoon was rattled consciously, for it was time he awakened. The early cup of tea had arrived. The khidmatgar was placing the tray on the table at his bedside on which stood the reading lamp, and it was obvious that his hand shook as he adjusted the cup and saucer for safety; also, that he had an evasive eye. In a flash, Derek remembered Syed’s warning.
“Hullo!” he called lazily to the retreating servant, for his advantage over the would-be murderer had put him in the mood to play with the rascal as a cat with a mouse. “Don’t go yet, I have something to say to you of a private nature. Shut the door and come here.”
Mugra did as he was told, looking nervous and puzzled.
“You have been a very good servant to me,” said Derek with a suppressed yawn, “so I have been thinking, latterly, of raising your wages. Have you any complaints?”
The man shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but the words would not come.
“You are content in my service? If not, you would not have remained so long at Panchbusti. Isn’t that so?”
The man nodded and moistened his lips with his tongue in the way Syed had described.
“In my country we grow fond of old servants and, with all their faults, would not change them for new. They become part of the family. Servants, too, who have been employed for years in the same service, are known to be very faithful. Let me see—you were here before the war, and knew and served me when I first came to the country, about nine years ago? Sometimes when you have annoyed me exceedingly, I have abused you, calling you ‘suar ka bacha’; but I have never struck you, for it has never been my way to use violence. And, occasionally, on feast-days and holidays I have given you a generous baksheesh?”
“The words of huzur’s mouth are true,” said Mugra through shaking lips.
“Good! so now to show you how pleased I am with you, Mugra, I am going to prove my kindly feeling. The morning duties are heavy, and you will naturally work better for a refreshing cup of tea. I shall be happy, therefore, if you will drink the tea you have brought me, just as a mark of good-will.”
The servant’s knees shook visibly as he backed away.
“No—no, Sahib! It is impossible. How can I, a Hindu, drink from the Sahib’s vessel?”
Derek laughed. “There is no one to see, and what do Hindus care if none of their zat see what they eat or drink?”
“I dare not put my lips to the cup! My caste will go!”
“Nonsense! As if you don’t help yourself to the good things that go off my table! Besides, you are not a Brahmin, therefore not so rigid. I have a fancy to see you drink this tea, and, as you know, I will not be thwarted. To refuse my request is to insult your master. Now—hi, stop!” As Mugra would have fled. “Sit down.” With a leap, Derek stood between him and the door, his manner full of determination, and Mugra collapsed on the floor, palsied with fear.
“One would think I was going to poison you, to see the way you are shaking. Instead of which, I am unbending to my own servant and giving him the tea that I should drink. It is untouched, so you have no reason to refuse. Here, hold the cup, or shall I hold it for you?”
But Mugra writhed in a crumpled heap at his feet.
“I am waiting. Don’t you know that it is insolence to keep your master waiting?” said Derek, determined to wring confession from the weak-minded rascal. “I am going to make you swallow this if I have to pour it down your throat.” By this time, Mugra’s nerves were shattered and he was incapable of further resistance. Clasping Derek round the knees, he wept and gibbered in his fright: “Throw it away, Sahib! Throw it away. I was mad. I was bewitched! They cast a spell upon me and I did it without understanding the consequences!”
“Did what? Explain yourself.”
“I—I—they gave to me a powder and told me to put it in huzur’s tea. Ai Khoda! What insanity made me listen to their talk?” he babbled, beating his head on the floor.
“Why did they want you to put powder in my tea?” Derek asked sternly.
“I don’t know! How can I say?”
“You know, or you would not have been so anxious to avoid drinking the tea yourself.”
“Oo-o-o-o,” moaned Mugra.
“You won’t say? Then I’ll see that you drink it. I shall then see by its effect what was intended should happen to me.”
“No—no—no!” wailed Mugra. “I’ll tell—I’ll tell! The powder is a poison, and they made me give it! I was threatened with dire misfortunes if I refused.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Derek’s eyes looked terrible, as though they held tongues of flame. “You took money from Chunder’s man, Pagal Singh, to get me out of the way. Chunder finds that I am too strong for his success in this district, and begins to hire assassins among my own household!”
Mugra prostrated himself, his face to the carpet, and shivered. “Alas! all that the Sahib says is true. It cannot be denied. Have mercy on me, a poor man, afraid of his life, who was led astray by greed of riches. I am a family man, huzur, think of the innocent woman and the children of my house!”
“Mercy on you! you murderer?” cried Derek, dragging him to his feet and shaking him till his teeth chattered. “You had the stomach for this foul deed, and you dare ask for mercy? I am going to send this cup of tea to the doctor for analysis, and with his report in my hand, do you know what will become of you?”
“I shall be hanged by the neck—ai Khoda! This is a great calamity! Oh, what evil fate made me give heed to the tempter! Have mercy, Sahib, and let me go, never to show my face in these parts again.”
“You will not be hanged by the neck, Mugra; but you will be sent to gaol where you will have to work hard as a punishment, and be a marked man for the rest of your life. Your name will be for ever disgraced and your people will spit at mention of it.”
“I was mad! mad!” howled Mugra, shedding copious tears. “It was the thought of the money that turned my brain. The wretched money that turns honest men into rogues and the poor into thieves. Alas I alas! I am done for; let me die here and now.”
“Stop that noise, or you will be heard. Listen, and I shall tell you what I am going to do.”
Mugra wiped his face in his tunic and stood before Derek with bowed back and hands joined. “I am listening, Sahib. Be merciful to a man with little children depending on him!”
“It is in my hands to break you utterly. As you know, I can have you arrested and sentenced to a long term in gaol. Now, for the sake of proof, I am going to get the tea in that cup analysed; but, the report I shall retain in my possession. I shall not send you to gaol, nor shall I dismiss you from my service. I am going to keep you always with me, watching that no one else tries to perform the same trick. For your own sake as well as mine, you will watch unceasingly, for I am going to put it in writing, along with the report of the analysis in a sealed letter to the Commissioner, that you made this attempt on my life; so that should I die suddenly, Mugra, the lawyers who keep my documents for safe custody, will forward this sealed letter to the Government, and the police will know very well where to look for the guilty one. They will say, he who attempted it once has tried again, and this time successfully. He must be hanged. So now you know what to expect. Go, attend to your duties, but if you run away, I shall have you caught and put into prison. Whereas, if you stay, I shall know that it is to your own interest to keep me alive. I have no wish to die just yet—there is too much for me to do.”
Mugra flung himself at Derek’s feet in an outburst of thanksgiving. “Then I am free? I am not to fear arrest?”
“What punishment can I give you that will fit the crime you tried to commit?”
“Truly, there is nothing adequate!” wept Mugra humbly. “I have been nimak haram; my head is bowed with shame.”
“You committed an act of grave shame and wrong which even your religion condemns.”
“I will make offerings in expiation; but first, the Sahib will do well to take a stick and beat me. Beat me till the skin breaks and the blood flows.”
Derek smiled contemptuously. He had no desire to inflict corporal punishment on the wretched man whose fright had chastised him already. His narrow escape left him free from vengeful feelings; nor was he disposed to make futile reprisals on the miserable instrument of the real enemy who plotted, and would continue to plot his destruction.
“Oh, get out of this and send the bearer to prepare my bath!”
Mugra crawled from his master’s presence, abject and contrite, and, soon afterwards, Syed Khan appeared, full of anxious curiosity about the result of the episode. When he heard of his master’s decision, he fairly staggered with dismay.
“And is the rascal to remain on, when so nearly he caused the death of the Sahib?” he gasped.
Derek took some pains to explain his point of view for, though he rarely discussed his affairs with his servants, Syed merited his confidence. When he had finished, Syed Khan bowed his head, awhile, in silent thought.
“Perhaps,” said he, “the Sahib has done what is best. Even such a weakling as Mugra will want to place his head at huzur’s feet for such great clemency.”
“There is more than clemency in it, Syed. It is a measure of self-defence. It will be to the khidmatgar’s own interest, now, to keep me alive; and, in him, I shall have a capable spy in the kitchen with both eyes wide open for treachery from without.”
“Then let me, always, be appointed to bring in the Sahib’s early morning tea.”
“No! Mugra has always done it. If I make a change now, he will think I am afraid and cannot trust him. Let him continue, I have the faith to believe that his repentance is genuine.”
Syed made no reply, but as he turned aside, a tear glistened in his eye.
Derek drove to Amabagh the same afternoon in his high-powered Wolseley, with no presentiment of the trouble that was brewing for him. He was becoming so sure of Dulcie’s feelings for him, that nothing but gladness filled his heart, expelling every doubt and fear. All the way along, he tried to imagine how she would look and what she would say when he told her of the fortunate escape he had had from being poisoned. She was such a loving little soul, and so gracious in her demonstrations of feeling, that he could almost imagine how she would throw her arms about his neck and cling to him in the fulness of her thanksgiving. Thinking of his happiness made him realise how much he was in love with life so that the idea of death, now that life held so much for him, seemed too terrible to contemplate. Surely there must be a Fate in all things, else why had he been saved so marvellously? Syed Khan had been chosen as an instrument of God to discover and frustrate the design of his enemy; and why should it have been so ordered if it were not that he were fated to marry Dulcie?
He was very happy in the thought; but his spirits were somewhat damped when, on his arrival at the Club, he found that Mrs. Macmaster was playing tennis and Dulcie was nowhere to be seen. As he could not interrupt the game to ask where Dulcie was, he strolled to the house to see if he could find her there, possibly, in the society of young Vincent who sought every opportunity of talking to her. But Vincent was on the polo ground, playing at the top of his form, while a group of girls applauded his good hits with enthusiasm.
Derek longed to question them, but feared it would look too pointed, so he waited about hoping against hope that she would yet turn up. She was not to be found at the Club, so, undoubtedly, something must have happened.
Unable to bear the suspense any longer, he approached Mrs. Macmaster who had finished her set, and inquired if Dulcie were ill. He never spoke to Mrs. Macmaster without a feeling of self-consciousness at the memory of the old boyish passion she had once inspired in him which was as far removed from real love as one pole from the other; and her manner did not help him to recover his natural ease when in her society. There was too much of subtle reproach in it and in the challenging gaze of her eyes; and he was fast beginning to dread and avoid her.
Yet he had to hear about Dulcie.
“I don’t think she is ill,” said Mrs. Macmaster indifferently, “Only, she wasn’t inclined to come, so I had to leave her behind.”
“Not inclined to come?” The words struck a chill to Derek’s heart.
“Did she say anything—send a message?” he asked desperately.
“None at all. I think she is packing, as her father wants her to spend some little time with him in Calcutta before the wedding.”
“Is Dulcie going with them? I thought she intended to go later?”
“So did I. But she seems to have changed her mind.” Mrs. Macmaster’s eyes fell before the stern questioning in his.
“Has anything been said to—to cause her to change her mind?” he asked, whitening to the lips. It was growing dusk as they strolled together towards the steps, for which both were thankful.
“Why not?” Mrs. Macmaster cried with sudden fierceness. “Why should you suppose that I should spare you after your callous treatment of me? Do you think I have forgotten anything? Have you been kind or fair?” Her words fell like a torrent from her lips.
“Was there anything worth remembering?” he returned quietly. “Or, rather, wasn’t it better to try to forget?”
“For a man to forget is easy,” she sneered. “We women, unfortunately, have greater depth of feeling.”
“What have you said to her?” Derek’s tone sounded wrathful.
“No doubt, she will tell you if you ask her!”
“Thanks for the permission,” he replied. “I shall accept your suggestion without delay,” and leaving her, he strode swiftly towards his car. Mr. Durand was anchored beside the lady of his devotion; the Collector was engaged in playing bridge; and as Mrs. Macmaster would never commit the mistake of returning too soon, now that she knew where he was going, Derek felt sure of an uninterrupted half-hour for explanations. Accordingly, he drove at high speed to the Collector’s bungalow.
Dulcie had had hours in which to magnify her case against her lover into a burning sense of wrong. She had believed such wonderful things of him, investing him with god-like attributes; and, now, her idol had fallen and her disillusion was agony. She told herself in her pride, that he was, after all, nothing but a pitiful hypocrite and unworthy of a thought; yet, she could not cast him out of her mind or turn it to other things for the memories that tore at her heart-strings.
He had lied to her! Was there anything more despicable? He had sailed under false colours and passed for a true and gallant gentleman!
Double-faced!
He had “never loved anyone before!” . . . Dulcie tried to laugh, and choked, instead, on a sob. Truly, there was nothing for her to do, but to return with her father and his bride to the States and, for ever, forget so false a creature—a monster of immorality and wickedness.
It was intolerable to think of him as Sheila Macmaster’s one-time lover—spending thrilling moments with her in that same secluded spot in the verandah which she had consecrated like a fool to herself! How he must have been tickled to death with amusement, recalling past episodes and comparing them with present—oh, it was degrading! No! She never wanted to see him again—a man who was saved by the war from wrecking a married woman’s name and home—utterly lacking in moral sense.
She was very angry indeed—a large proportion of her mixed feelings being disappointment and jealousy, which she could not distinguish in the anguish of her mind.
Hateful! hateful! was her ceaseless iteration, when her despair gave place to wrath.
Like many American girls of undeniable charm, Dulcie was temperamental and passionate; and, occasionally, under great stress, given to childish outbursts of violent protest against individuals or the force of circumstances, that often inflicted more suffering on herself than on others when all was said and done. On this occasion, had she but realised it, she was faced with an entirely new set of conditions. But in the chaotic state of her feelings, she was incapable of realising anything save the sense of wounded pride—of intolerable humiliation at being so deceived. She was filled with the longing to punish Derek for having dared to offer her his love and ask her to be his wife when his past was soiled with dishonourable episodes. She had pledged herself to him, sincerely believing in his truth and stainless honour. Had he been falsely accused, none could have defended him before all the world as she would have done. But this!
So it was not altogether a propitious moment for Derek when he arrived and was shown into the drawing-room, determined to see his beloved and refusing to accept the excuses she sent.
Messages through servants were necessarily vague and unsatisfactory—she was in, therefore, must receive him.
When Dulcie realised that it was growing late and a state of confusion must ensue if Derek were not disposed of, she at last went out to him a changed being, bearing little resemblance in her rigid unfriendliness to the soft-voiced, delicious, feminine thing he knew.
“What am I to make of this?” was his first question put in cruel suspense.
“Only, that I have found out all there is to know about you, which, had I known in the beginning, would have saved us both a great deal of pain and disappointment,” she answered, white with suppressed anger.
“And what have you been told?”
“I need not go over what you know too well. Perhaps, it will be a short cut to a definite conclusion, if I give you this.” She handed him the letter Mrs. Macmaster had relinquished, and watched his face grow ashen as he read it to the end. By his earnestness, it was conceivable that he had forgotten its contents. “You see, you left me ignorant of that episode in your life.”
“But, Dulcie!”—his lips shook as though for a moment he had lost control of his nerves, and he spoke humbly—“surely you will not let that long-past foolish business come between us when I love you so?”
It was match to gunpowder. “You love me? I don’t believe in your love!” she retorted furiously. “You lied when you told me you had never loved anyone but me; and you lie now.”
“Dulcie!” he cried shocked and reproachful.
“I mean it.”
“You are unfair to me. I have never in my life loved a woman as I do you. It was hardly love which I felt for—her. I cannot speak of it without saying what I would rather not say of any woman. I could not have told you, either, for I should have behaved like a cad. Men don’t talk of the women who—who . . . Besides,” he interrupted himself hurriedly, “even so, there was no harm done. Why need it trouble you?”
“I am not troubled! please don’t think it,” she said proudly, with a flash of her eyes. “When you cease to respect a person, the things he has done cease to touch you deeply. I have no respect for the man who could call another his friend, and make love to his wife.”
“Dulcie—Dulcie! you don’t understand. You are judging, remember, a boy, not a man; a youngster who was not above the flattery of a woman’s preference——”
“Don’t make matters worse by putting the blame on the woman—like Adam in the Garden of Eden,” she said scathingly.
“I have no wish to talk of Mrs. Macmaster. But I am on my defence, and you are unjust to me—what am I to say if I may not tell you the truth——”
“Don’t attempt to explain,” she interrupted scornfully. “I have no more confidence in your words when I think of all you swore to me. It is begging the question for you to say you never loved Sheila. In that letter you call her ‘dearest.’ People don’t call each other that unless it is felt,” she cried with indignation. “And you refer to that corner of the verandah—what do you suppose it makes me feel? I am humiliated to the dust! “
“There was no other place at the Club,” he said lamely. “You cannot imagine how different——”
“Oh, please don’t!” she cried putting her fingers, childishly, in her ears and stamping her foot. “I never want to remember it again. I shall writhe in shame every time I think what a fool I was to trust you and to care as I did. And . . . that is not all.” Her face was suffused with colour, her eyes were lowered in shame. “I, now, know of that other terrible thing—far worse—in your past. But it is not a matter I care to discuss. You know to what I refer, and, if you have a spark of self-respect in you, you will leave me never to return. I hope I shall never see or speak with you again.”
Derek’s eyes dilated and contracted with amazement. Just for a moment he failed to recall what he had done that was worse than make love to a married woman with her consent—or, to be truthful, at her invitation. How he had blessed the war for the chance it had given him of breaking away! His mind felt confused, his nerves unstrung. How differently things had turned out, that afternoon, to what he had expected! Could it be possible that Dulcie was in earnest? She could not surely mean to cast him off for a silly affair like that?
But this other thing that she said was worse, and caused her to flame with disgust and embarrassment? . . .
Enlightenment flashed upon him: “Are you thinking of that unfortunate business which had to do with the Slacks?”
“So you remember!” with concentrated contempt.
“Dulcie! You shall not use that tone to me,” he cried, lashed into passion. “You are a foolish, ignorant child, taking far too much on yourself when you sit in judgment on a man who, before God, has done nothing of which he has cause to be eternally ashamed. You are now saddling me with a wrong of which I am innocent—+”
“Stop!” she returned, whipped by his sternness into unreasonable fury. “You dare say you are innocent! Will you, also, deny that you have to pay for the keep of a child at the Mission?”
“I pay; but I don’t have to,” he answered grimly.
“I dare say you have some remnant of conscience left. It is fortunate for the child.”
“What will you say if I tell you, right now——” (unconsciously falling into an Americanism picked up recently), “that you are making a very great mistake? I have no moral responsibility on that score.”
“You want me to believe that the woman Mrs. Slack found living at Panchbusti, was not there on account of you?” Dulcie was scarlet at the outrage to her modesty in such a discussion.
“Exactly.” He looked her full in the face.
“May God forgive you for that lie!” She looked back at him defiantly.
Derek was stricken dumb. He could only stare down at her with protesting eyes, his face working with the emotions roused by her treatment of him. He wanted to do many things—fling himself at her feet and plead with her for a kinder judgment, he loved her so! He wanted to snatch her in his arms to shake and kiss her in a breath, compelling her to submission and penitence for her unjust judgment and obstinate refusal to hear him plead his cause. He even wondered if he might argue temperately with her—only, he was past undertaking anything, temperately, while her eyes challenged him so defiantly. If he could only bring her to a sense of her cruelty! But that was impossible. She had made up her mind that he was lying, and that was the end of it.
Dulcie to believe him a liar! And only twenty-four hours ago, she had softly yielded to and returned his caresses, vowing to love him till death; swearing that nothing should part them!
But since then, she had discovered what he had hoped was dead and buried; and, as a result, she believed him capable of everything bad—even of lying!
A sudden longing to get away somewhere—anywhere, like a wounded animal, to be alone, that he might hide his suffering from human eyes, made him turn without another word, pick up his cap and pass out of the room.
Dulcie saw him reel as though drunk, and make straight for his car which stood at the steps of the verandah. Not once did he look round or up at her, but, like one in a dream, with set face and unseeing eyes, started the engine and soon disappeared down the drive.
Dulcie stood rooted to the spot till the sound of the motor was lost in the distance, then rushed to her room like a demented creature to fling herself among the pillows on her bed, and cry till she could not see.
Having exhausted herself thoroughly, her passion cooled, leaving her face to face with her tragedy—despairing and hopeless. She had been mad to lose her self-control; she had said wild and unpardonable things, and her tongue had been as a two-edged sword to wound herself. Regret now took possession of her, intensified by the haunting memory of Derek’s face at parting. She had been very cruel—she need not have hurt him so. That his love for her was sincere, she could not pretend to doubt. Oh, yes—he truly loved her, whatever the feeling he had once had for Mrs. Macmaster; and she might have had it in her heart to forgive him that unfortunate episode, were it not for the other unspeakable affair. What was the use of his trying to lie about it? Only a fool would believe that he was innocent. No innocent person would willingly have accepted such a false position—it was inconceivable! The disgrace was intolerable. How did he bear it so indifferently? He was supporting the child at the Mission—what clearer proof was required of his guilt? Of course he had lied! It was the only thing possible under the miserable circumstances if he had hoped to make things right between them.
Painful! painful!
And she had thought so highly of him!
The great question in her mind was, how to support the terrible blank that had come suddenly into her life. How live through the long dreary days, bereft of the heaven she had learned to know?
Mrs. Macmaster arrived shortly after Derek had gone, but did not approach Dulcie till dinner was announced, when she knocked at her door to ask if anything was the matter.
“Nothing at all of consequence,” said Dulcie, speaking with an effort, in her natural voice. “I am only tired and shall be glad if you will excuse me. I am going to sleep if I can.”
“Your father is wondering if you are ill.”
“Tell him I was never better in my life.”
“He missed you at the Club. So did Tony Vincent.”
“I am sure that was very nice of Tony. Please tell papa that I hope he had a good time—my love to Sally if he is going over to-night.”
“May I come in?”
“Certainly; if you like; only don’t turn up the light, please, as my head aches.”
Mrs. Macmaster entered and stood beside the bed, in the semi-darkness. “Surely you will let me send you something to eat?”
“I couldn’t swallow a morsel. You may, if you like, send me a glass of milk by the ayah, if I must be nourished,” said Dulcie with a hollow laugh.
“The servants say that Derek Lang came here. You saw him, of course? I am not curious, but I am naturally interested as to how you got on? Don’t tell me anything unless you wish.”
Dulcie disliked Mrs. Macmaster intensely, for a moment. “Derek Lang and I are nothing to each other. You guessed as much, I suppose. It couldn’t be otherwise, after what you told me last night.”
“I only wondered, as you were so sure that nothing could make any difference to you—you said so, if you remember.”
“And I believed it—till I heard all you had to say. I could not honour and respect a man with such a past, so that’s the end of it.”
“You are rather wonderful, Dulcie! I could not have had the strength to throw Derek Lang over—I could never have done it!” said Mrs. Macmaster in genuine admiration. “Perhaps you have never really learned what it is to be in love. It is a form of madness—slavery—almost an illness. One is obsessed. Of course, you are too young, really, to understand. It is when you have known Life——”
“Perhaps you are right,” Dulcie interrupted, disinclined to continue the conversation and aching to be rid of her friend. She was thankful for the darkness that hid her ravaged face.
When Mrs. Macmaster had gone, her step sounding much more elastic than when she had entered, Dulcie lay motionless, her eyes wide in the gloom, seeing, in imagination, Derek’s white, quivering face and look of passionate reproach when he turned and left her.
Yes. There was no doubt about it that he loved her greatly.
But she had driven him from her, grievously wounded him, and called him a liar! Men did not forgive these things, and Derek was very proud. He would cease to love her after this.
It should not have mattered to her at all that Derek should cease to love her; yet she mentally writhed in anguish at the thought.
Afterwards, looking back at this crisis in his life, Derek believed he would have gone mad but for the distractions of his work. He plunged headlong into the business of his estate, giving it close and individual attention; so that for many hours of his waking moments he was able to ward off the nightmare of sorrow that haunted him. Only at night, was he the prey of his unhappiness and despair.
At such times, it was unspeakable torture to recall Dulcie as he had last seen her; and he would then rather dwell on the memory of those few happy hours when she was his loving little sweetheart—his promised wife—so full of allure, whom he had lost through the “venom clamours of a jealous woman’s tongue.” At least, she had loved him, and the memory was very sweet.
He might have won her to overlook that dead-and-gone matter about Sheila Macmaster; but the other story was a grave obstacle since there was no evidence he could produce in support of his word, and this she refused to believe. If, to her, he was a liar, there was nothing more to be said, though he was cut to the heart that she should think him one.
The wound she had given him had gone deep. Never again would he approach her to plead for the chance to explain. The truth was buried in the grave of a man whose memory was sacred to his widow and children. Let it stay buried. It was a quixotic step taken to save the happiness of a devoted wife, and so far as he knew, the story was known only to those immediately concerned. Had Dulcie no trust in him? Besides, even if she believed him really responsible for the existence of the little half-caste at the Mission, was it reasonable or just that he should be denied all hope of wedded happiness in the future? Were there not scores of other men in the country and all over the world, who had fallen in such fashion? and was he, alone, to suffer condemnation? and, oh, the irony of it!—for an imaginary sin?
One thing was certain—he would, never again, give Dulcie the chance to insult him, however he might hunger for reconciliation with her whom he still worshipped with all the strength of his being.
The Doctor, Derek’s special friend, noting his continued absence from the Club, drove out one afternoon to Panchbusti, to inquire what was wrong. He found Derek in his office, patiently going through the numerous petitions presented by his tenants who were squatted, meanwhile, on the grass outside the window, waiting their turns and filling in the time by squabbling among themselves and gambling.
The Doctor, waiting in the verandah, amused himself watching the crowd. “Don’t let the Sahib see you at games of chance,” he heard an up-country peon say, strolling past a group of players, “for assuredly he will take the skin off your backs with his dog-whip. You all know that gambling is against the law, and it will be either thana, or the dog-whip if you don’t stop it.”
Either alternative being discouraging, the cards were put up till the peon was out of sight, when they were produced again. Elsewhere, there was much discussion and argument respecting the demands they were prepared to make, and their ability to hold out against the determined nature of the Sahib. It seemed that they had not come to pay their rents, which were long over-due, but to seek unheard-of concessions suggested by agitators who had been stalking the district for the purpose of stirring up discontent among the rural population.
An hour later, when they had dispersed, Derek joined Dr. Freeman, looking languid and out of spirits.
“I expect you are having a devil of a time with your people, which explains why you have not been to the station for some days. It is long since you played polo; the fellows are making tender inquiries after you. Surely you are not losing your interest in the game?” said the doctor.
“Oh, no. I shall be round, soon, for a chakkar.”
“I hear you are having trouble with your tenants. Do they still refuse to pay their rents?”
“That’s the new idea, and Government does not make it easy for one to deal, as one would like, with obstructionists and malcontents who are leading the people astray.”
“How would you like to deal with them?” asked the Doctor with his eyes twinkling as he helped himself to a whisky and soda. He was a big man of middle age, with a saving sense of humour.
“I should give them a taste of the ‘cat.’ It is a powerful deterrent. If every seditionist knew that he would get a jolly good dose of it, if caught red-handed, there would be fewer adventurers in that line. Of course, such a procedure would be considered arbitrary. The liberty of the subject is not to be interfered with, even should it be employed to provoke contempt of the Government!”
Dr. Freeman stretched himself out in his easy chair, relit his pipe and prepared to enjoy one of those rare discussions with Lang on the political situation, which a day in his society at Panchbusti, made inevitable; for the Doctor had not made up his mind on the subject of Indian politics and was open to argument. His devotion to his profession had kept him aloof from active participation in matters commonly discussed, which gave him a feeling of ignorance and a desire for enlightenment. Popular anxiety regarding the spread of disaffection had made him, however, decide to keep his wife and young family in safety in England, for the present. He therefore encouraged Derek to mount his hobby, and prepared to listen.
“No arbitrary course would be tolerated now by the Indians,” said he provokingly.
“I don’t consider it would be arbitrary to use strong measures where and when they are needed, promptly and without hesitation. But the whole thing is this,” and Derek sat up to explain with energy. “There is too much wire-pulling from home; too much interference with the men on the spot. How can ‘arm-chair politicians’ in Whitehall, who have no personal experience of the East, no first-hand knowledge of conditions in India and of the psychology of the Indian mind—how can they, I say, be competent to deal with the problems of Indian administration, and to dictate the policy of the Government of India in circumstances calling for prompt decision or decisive action?”
“I must say that the ruling powers, here, seem to carry on with their hands tied.”
“Just so. If matters occur demanding instant action on plainly unmistakable lines, and they take courage to deal with them as they should, no sooner does the report reach the Home Government, than some meddling ass in Parliament gets on his hind legs and brays impertinent questions with no object but to embarrass the Government; and the matter is taken up and debated by a parcel of party politicians, none of whom would relish being placed in the position so freely criticised and condemned by them. The result is, that the policy which saved the situation is subverted, and a fresh impulse given to disloyalty.”
“What’s the Viceroy for, to say nothing of his Council, I should like to know? Surely they are in a position to advise the Home Government?”
“It seems to me,” said Derek, taking a fresh cigarette, “that the principle of the Cabinet is to appoint puppets to the highest posts under the Crown, on whose obedience and submission they can rely. At least, this is the case in these days. We never have strong men in the administration now, and that is why revolutionary teachings and doings have increased so enormously. Not so many years ago, native editors and printers served terms of imprisonment for publishing political articles not nearly as inflammatory and libellous as those appearing now-a-days in the Native Press with impunity. The vacillation, irresolution, timidity, displayed in coping with most flagrant cases of seditious propaganda calculated to incite to rebellion and causing open acts of rebellion, are responsible for all that is happening now, and has happened within the last few years. There is no respect for law and authority since it is seen that scurrility and insolent defiance may be practised unchecked. From words it is easy to pass to acts, hence the assassination of officials, and the terrorising of the police and the C.I.D.”
“I don’t wonder,” said Freeman, “that agitators find it easy to pursue their mischievous trade.”
“And what gets me,” said Derek, “is that political crimes seem to be exempt from the operation of the law!”
“One would think so, or why is it that offenders caught red-handed and brought up for trial, are not only given the minimum penalty, but are shortly after released to re-commence their nefarious activities? It is incomprehensible!”
“Up to about a dozen years ago,” continued Derek, “the mass of the population were contented and peaceful; but they have been industriously undermined by the agents of Gandhi and the Ali Brothers, and are becoming infected with their false doctrines, so that they are ripe not only to believe anything evil of the British Government and their British fellow subjects, but to act upon their belief. They are credulous and simple minded in the mass, and can be easily roused to commit dangerous excesses once they are led to hate and distrust us; and, especially, when signs of waning authority are manifest. They construe these signs as a sort of admission, on our part, that we have no right to be here. Even the few who are loyal and law-abiding, cannot help being shaken in their confidence in us when they see the forces of disorder and violence either feebly restrained or not restrained at all. Is it surprising that they interpret this weakness in the Government, and this immunity of evil-doers as the decay of British power and the approaching end of the British Raj? The next step for such as these, is to range themselves in self-defence, on the side of the self-constituted ‘leaders’ of the people. The influence of these agitators on the turbulent and badmash element is easily understood. They are the sort always ready for mischief—idlers, having no settled occupation, and ever ready to profit at the expense of their neighbours; not wanting in brute courage, relishing free-fighting and skirmishes with the police, and willing to hire themselves out to remove some human obstacle from his enemy’s path. These abound in every community and come out, in their numbers, to join any organisations for the subversion of existing authority because of the tremendous possibilities, to themselves, of loot during and after the fray.”
“So the agents of these so-called ‘leaders,’ may be just a lot of badmashes after all?”
“I would certainly place the agents of the ‘leaders’ in this category, and would emphasise the fact that these, and the entire rank and file of the extremists, with their leaders, are all feverishly pursuing their destructive policy without a thought of the sequel. They do not realise that they are blind to consequences. It does not concern them whether there is any scheme ready to take its place once they achieve the downfall of the existing order.”
“Who knows,” said the Doctor thoughtfully, “but that there are wire-pullers behind the ostensible leaders, with their plans cut and dried?”
“I have no doubt of it. Who these might be, we can only wildly guess at. Perhaps Bolshevists, perhaps a secret and powerful combination in the country and of it, whose existence in our midst is not even dreamt of! . . . However, that anarchy will follow the withdrawal of British power, is as certain as that night follows day. The land is not peopled by one race, and the population does not constitute a nation. The varying creeds, in themselves, form an insurmountable obstacle to unification. Which of them is capable of exercising the impartial toleration practised by us? Who that has lived here does not know of the age-long conflict between Hindu and Mohammedan, with their racial and religious animosities?”
“One hears that they are making common cause together,” put in the Doctor. “They seem—that is the educated classes—to be very much more friendly.”
“If they appear to bury the hatchet, these days, it is only for the purpose of attaining the common aim. Besides, the apparent fusion is confined only to the leaders of both creeds and their immediate followers. The masses are too deeply imbued with their old traditions, and too inherently conservative ever to reach conditions of amicable religious toleration towards opposing creeds.”
“The thing is, how are we to convince the world at large, not to say Indian malcontents, that we are right in holding India?” asked Freeman.
“We hold India by the right of conquest, though we did not come here to conquer, but to trade. Conquest was forced upon us by the hostile action of rival traders who roused the natives against us,” continued Derek. “At the same time, no one can quarrel with our action. What was the state of India when we acquired it, and what would it come to were we to turn our backs upon it to-morrow? A continent five times as large as the British Isles, peopled by an agglomeration of races, of different religions, antagonistic to one another and yet living, side by side, in harmony and contentment till quite recently. There is no doubt that we have justified our existence here. The British regime has been an era of progress and enlightenment. We may regard our position here in the light of a stewardship; it would be an injustice to the vast population of this land were we to withdraw from our responsibilities just because of the spiteful clamour of a negligible minority. More than that, it would be cowardly, for we would be guilty of desertion under the pressure of terrorism—and a state of chaos would be the inevitable result.”
“I see that. It is our moral duty, having put our hands to the plough, so to speak. It makes my blood boil though, when I hear the beggars talk of the Government as ‘Satanic.’ What hasn’t it done for them!”
“In a small way, I am up against much of the same sort of unrest and ingratitude as the Government is,” said Derek. “My tenants are holding out in obedience to the agents of sedition, and won’t pay their rents. They hope by their obstinacy and threats of violence, that I will weaken and sell up. But I’m damned if I will—not at their bidding. They shall pay me all that is due before many days, or I shall confess myself beaten.”
“If you show fight, you might precipitate a local rising,” cautioned the Doctor.
“That is the way the policy of the Government is being influenced. Do you think I shall funk it?”
“Or they will find some means of doing for you.”
“I was very nearly done for the other night, though my tenants were not concerned in that,” said Derek, and related the affair of Mugra.
“By Gad!” cried Freeman appalled. “I wonder you care to stick it! You should have made a terrible example of the fellow. I hope you are running him in?”
“I prefer my own methods,” said Derek, and proceeded to explain them to the Doctor’s surprise and disapproval. “I only hope you are not making a great mistake,” commented the Doctor, as he concluded.
“I enjoy experimenting on the raw material to hand, and I have an idea that my plan will work best in the end.”
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders. “What are you going to do to force the fellows to pay their rents?”
“I shouldn’t attempt force in a matter like this,” said Derek thoughtfully. “I shall have to resort to diplomatic means, by which I shall not only gain my point, but give the blighters a good moral lesson.”
“Take care of yourself in the meantime, so that your enemies don’t knock you on the head. I hope you go about armed.”
“Not a bit of it! My servants would be the first to know it, and spread it abroad.”
“Good thing, too; then nobody would try on any tricks.”
“They would think I was afraid of them, and then there would be an end to all hope of influencing them. As it is, they respect me for a fearless man, whatever else they may think or feel; and that’s good enough for me.”
When the Doctor dined that night at the Collector’s, he was very full of his visit to Derek Lang, and interested the company after dinner with the story of the attempted poisoning of their friend. Other guests were also present, and there was a great deal of discussion which drew the attention of the company from Dulcie’s stricken face.
“He really carries his life in his hand,” said a lady fearfully.
“I wonder he has the nerve to live all alone!” said another shuddering.
“What is India coming to! I really wonder if it is safe for us out here? The natives are beginning to treat one so insolently.”
“I know a number of men who have cabled to their wives to cancel their passages,” said the Doctor. “I am thankful my small family are not with me.”
“I guess we’ll have to hustle and get out,” said Mr. Durand, “and not do that historical tour stunt when we are married, eh, Sally?”
“I think a good deal of what one hears is exaggerated,” said Sally, who had set her heart on showing off her second husband to friends in the U.P.
“Let’s hear what the Collector has to suggest. What he says, goes.”
“There is no doubt that we live in critical times,” said Macmaster, “but there is no need for panic. Government know what they are about——”
“Let us hope so, at least!” interjected his wife.
“. . . and have the situation well in hand, I have no doubt.”
“So the newspapers always tell us!”
“Well, let’s hope that we’ll be out of the country before anything serious takes place.”
“The most serious thing of all will happen before you leave, papa, not after!” teased Dulcie.
“She means our wedding! How smart, Dulcie!” and Durand beamed affectionately upon her. It struck him she was looking rather white and that her humour was forced. There was that fellow Lang people made a fuss of—a fine man, no doubt; rather attentive to the kid . . . was there anything in it? he pondered. Because, if there were, he was not sure that he would like it, considering the state of India.
The same idea was in his mind when he called on his little daughter at bedtime, for the familiar process of tucking her in.
“Say, kid . . . I have an idea that you entertain a soft corner for Lang. Don’t let it be anything more, for though he may be all right in every way, India is not the place now for white women.”
“I am not thinking of marrying him, papa,” she said, hiding her face on his shoulder. “We are absolutely nothing to each other, so you need not worry.”
“I am glad. Of course you are coming to Calcutta with me and will return with us to the States.”
Silence.
“Eh, but that is settled, isn’t it?”
“It will not be the same to me now,” she answered uncertainly. “I shall no longer be mistress of our home.”
“But—but that is as it should be. All the same, till you find a husband of your own, my home is yours. You know that.”
“Yes. But I have a horrid, jealous nature, and might not pull with Sally.”
“Nonsense! You have the sweetest nature in the world. Not pull, indeed! It will hardly be home to me if you make me feel that I have turned my little girl out!”
“Dear—I could not live with you and Sally. I shall feel, all the while, so mean towards her for having taken you away from me, that life will not be a bed of roses for either of us. Besides, it is not right that a newly married couple should have anyone to live with them.”
“What bosh!”
“So I have made up my mind to be busy. As I have no vocation for marriage——”
“What! You are born for it, my dear. And what about——” he named someone in the States whose letters came regularly by the mail—someone who hoped against hope . . .
“I prefer to be doing something useful,” she coaxed. “I am going to try-out being a missionary like the American ladies here,” she said with a gasp, afraid of the effect of this announcement on her father.
“Good God! What next!” he exclaimed. “And how do you suppose you will stand the hot weather, the snakes, the mosquitoes, the natives?” his eyes fairly glared.
“The same as the others are doing. I have talked to Miss Annie—she is a perfect peach. If you weren’t so taken up with Sally, you would have seen how happy she and the others are.”
“You have already spoken to her?” he asked grimly. “What does she say?”
“She’s just tickled to death. I shall have the cutest brown babies to look after at first. Of course, if I don’t like it, I can always return home.”
“I have never heard of such folly!” Mr. Durand was weakening as he had done since Dulcie’s infancy when her mind was set on a thing. “I’ll talk about it in the morning. Good night.” He retired muttering “wild-cat scheme—country in a seething state of unrest—these modern girls—self-willed and obstinate.”
By leaving the room so abruptly he admitted defeat, and Dulcie knew that her point was gained. The idea had taken deep root in her mind the last few days and was not to be cast out. Why shouldn’t she remain if she preferred doing so to living with Sally? There were American ladies all over India, in schools and missions and offices. She had become used to Amabagh and the thought of danger, which so many believed exaggerated; and could not bear the idea of leaving it; at any rate, not at present. Why should she shrink from risks that so many of her countrywomen were facing? Besides, she would be doing truly useful work. So much better than leading an idle life of luxury and growing into a selfish old maid.
In recalling the Mission, it was natural to remember that from a point in the verandah, one could see the broad expanse of the turbid Ganges and, at a certain spot on its bank, the tall tamarind and pipal trees which marked the spot where stood Derek Lang’s bungalow. She was even sure that a corner of his roof was visible.
But, of course, this had nothing whatever to do with her decision to become a missionary! Why should it?
The next few days saw the final arrangements for the departure of the Durands for Calcutta, and the wedding. Derek came up to the Club for polo on the last night, but beyond a distant salutation, nothing passed between himself and the girl he adored, which was not unnoticed by those interested in the affairs of others. The whisper was presently passed on that the lovers had quarrelled!
Derek played a more than usually reckless game of polo because Dulcie was looking on; but when he appeared a while later, after his bath and change, Tony Vincent had taken her home. The fact mentioned in his hearing caused him agonies of jealousy. Yet what right had he to be at all concerned that Vincent or any other should have the privilege of taking her home, he questioned himself harshly? But the thought that any other man should have the exclusive right to her sweet society was the refinement of torture.
On the way home, he thanked heaven that, after that night, he would no longer be meeting her at Amabagh, for he could not have borne to see Vincent take his place at her side; still less, witness her encouragement of the young fellow’s addresses. If she must marry, let it be some one in America, and he not know anything about it.
Derek buried himself at Panchbusti for a fortnight, and never missed reading the daily passenger lists and sailings. At last, one day he saw the announcement of the marriage of Sally Sells to Newton Durand of Boston, U.S.A., and soon afterwards their names in the list of passengers sailing for Japan (apparently the tour of historic cities had been abandoned!) But, though he scanned the column from top to bottom several times, there was no mention of Dulcie. Was it possible that she had remained behind? Full of suspense and a mixture of contradictory feelings, he decided to get some definite news, so went down to the Club that afternoon for polo and bridge.
He did not need to lead up to the subject, for it happened to be under discussion among the ladies when he arrived just as the games were finished. He heard with a thrill that almost stopped the beating of his heart, that Dulcie was staying with the Americans at the Mission, not far from Panchbusti, with a view to taking up missionary work as a vocation.
Dulcie a missionary! He could not reconcile the idea of a missionary calling with such as Dulcie! She was so entirely unsuited to the peculiarly prim, narrow existence of a missionary lady.
“Her father was very much against it,” said the wife of the Superintendent of Police, smiling and nodding to Derek. “We are gossiping, as usual, Mr. Lang, so, if you object, run away, for we are often catty when discussing our friends.”
“I couldn’t imagine you ungenerous to anyone,” said Derek joining the group. “What will you drink, Mrs. Coates? and you?” He invited the ladies present to name favourite liquid refreshments, and when the Club servant had departed with orders, conversation was resumed.
“I wonder at her choice when she could have returned to America and luxury!” said one of the ladies.
“Such a monotonous life, too!” said another.
“Are you talking of Dulcie Durand?” asked Miss Coates, coming up to them with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a tennis racquet in the other. “Isn’t she the limit! Who would have dreamt that she had leanings that way? But she won’t stick it long.”
“I don’t suppose she will,” said her mother. “She has no idea what the hot weather is like.”
“Nor has she of the discomforts of the place. I spent a night, once, with Miss Annie Mitcham who is the cheeriest of the bunch—which isn’t saying much, they are all old maids!—and they hadn’t even ice in the very hot weather we were having at the time. The pastor believes in mortifying the flesh—as if that doesn’t happen the minute you are dead——”
“Molly! how disgusting!”
“But think of an American girl without iced water and ice cream!”
Derek suffered a pang of concern and instantly registered a resolution in his mind. “What else do they do without?” he asked with apparent carelessness.
“Oh, heaps and heaps of things! Their beds, for instance, are the last word for discomfort. The mattresses are of cocoanut fibre, and as for the hills and dales thereof!” she spread her hands in dismay, “the less said the better. I never slept a wink. Then, though they are very dear people, they are all Methodist cranks and think it right to deny themselves the most ordinary things of life. The place hasn’t a decent sofa or easy-chair in it; the linen is of the coarsest. You miss the refinements of life terribly. They bath out of earthen gumlas—never tub; there isn’t one in the place except a wee zinc one for the babies.”
“Oh, I couldn’t stand that!” cried the wife of the District Judge. “I like a luxurious bath, that is why I always carry mine wherever I go. In most Anglo-Indian houses they have the earthen gumla. You stand on the tiles, soap yourself, and pour cans of water over yourself which runs off the floor through a hole in the wall.”
“That’s the idea,” and the company laughed appreciatively.
Derek looked tragic. “Go on; let’s have the sum total of their deprivations.”
“I shan’t know when to stop! For instance, I nearly had a fit over the filtering arrangements, and drank soda water all the while I was there. Such a mercy they had a few bottles in the house! Instead of a Pasteur filter, they have a primitive contraption of three earthen vessels, one above the other. The first contains charcoal; the second, sand; and the third receives what drips through the other two, and this is supposed to be fit for consumption. All the vessels are covered with muslin cloths to keep out insects and dust, and the water trickles down a bunch of rags at the bottom of each, stuffed into the holes which have been drilled there, in order that the process of filtration should not be too quick. Anything more primitive you have never seen, and you wonder what special dispensation of Providence has saved them from cholera all these years.”
“But why in the name of common sense do they do it?” asked Derek in pathetic despair, mentally registering another resolve.
“I tactfully asked that and other questions, and learned that custom has set its seal on the method. The fact is, the Mission is really very poor. Their people at home are not at all in sympathy with it and see no necessity for a branch at Amabagh where the Hindus are notoriously conservative to their religion and hostile to missionising efforts. They haven’t made a brilliant success of it, and may possibly have to close down, some day, in the near future. Now may I make the request for which I have come?” asked Molly Coates archly, and trying to look irresistible.
“Why not?” from Derek with a forced smile.
“If the others won’t owe me a grudge for carrying you off, I want you to give me a game of billiards.” (She added to herself: “One could never get you to do anything while Dulcie Durand was around—thank goodness that infatuation has died a natural death. Now, you belong to us once more.”)
“With pleasure, if you wish it.” And that is how he came to be playing billiards with pretty Miss Molly Coates when Dulcie arrived a while later, and looked in for a moment at the billiard room door.
To the intense gratification of the Mission, she had brought with her from Calcutta a little “run-about,” strongly built, and of the type warranted to be long-suffering and durable; for the roads in the district, especially those side-tracks to the Mission used by bullock carts, left much to be desired.
Instinct, and the pout on Molly’s face, caused Derek to turn and look towards the door as he was about to pot a ball, and he was just in time to see Dulcie walking away with her chin in the air.
“It’s Miss Durand,” said Molly with a snap. “Bad shot!” as the ball ran round the table instead of falling into the pocket. “You are quite off your game.”
“I am afraid I am. There are times when I can’t aim straight, and this is one of them.”
When the game was over, Derek slipped away and wandered down the darkened verandahs glancing into the lighted rooms for a glimpse of Dulcie, till he found her. She was at the piano, running through an accompaniment for Tony Vincent, who was considered Amabagh’s best singer and was much in request for musical parties.
Derek leant against a pillar and feasted his eyes on her sweet face, so child-like and rounded in its contours. He noted the familiar upward sweep of her dark lashes, and hungrily watched the starry eyes as they earnestly studied the page before her; and he thought that there was nothing so captivating as her blush of deprecation when she blundered and appealed for tolerance.
“I was never any good at sight reading,” she apologised, looking at young Vincent in the way Derek had always found so irresistible. It set him thinking of that morning among the bamboos when he had first taken her in his arms and blurted out his love—it was just after such an innocent, upward look of her eyes!
Derek realised how bitter was his anguish when a tear splashed down on his hand, taking him by surprise. The moment after, he was making for his car with long strides, his cap drawn low over his eyes.
After the song had been practised to young Vincent’s satisfaction, Dulcie found a seat in the brightly lighted room not far from a group of gossips, resolutely determined not to be enticed by her companion into the starlit verandah. In the first place, she was aware that Derek was somewhere about, and she did not want to flaunt in his face that she had plenty of opportunities of entertainment without his aid. If he still cared for her—a fact of which she was not so sure now—it would be wantonly cruel and hurtful. Since she could never be anything to him, it did not improve matters to be mean and little-minded. He might play that game if he chose—Molly Coates could be very engaging, though she had hideous hair the colour of carrots and a long nose; but there was no accounting for tastes. Anyway, it was all most unsatisfactory and there was very little pleasure in visiting the Club.
Then, again, there was always the fear that Tony Vincent would propose again. He had the look in his eye, no matter in what company, and it was hateful to have to turn him down a second time. Why would he not accept the fact that she had no wish to marry. Life was a most disappointing business for some. She tried hard to enjoy things—for example, driving the “auto” her father had given her as a parting present; but even that bored her. Everything and everyone bored her; the ladies at the Mission whom she had imagined she would like; the bungalow with its unrefinements and hardships; the native children who sang Moody and Sankey hymns through their noses and talked English with a “chee-chee” accent; the ill-cooked food and badly served meals—such a contrast to what she had been accustomed to! But she had made up her mind to give the work a trial, and would not allow herself to be discouraged by such little things as personal discomforts.
“Do you know,” Vincent was saying in her ear, under cover of the buzz of conversation: “I did not know how to live through the days while you were away. I was absolutely a fish out of water. Yet, I knew all the while you didn’t give me a thought.” It was just a feeler, and he hung on her reply.
“I was too busy helping the bride, to give a thought to anyone not on the spot,” she answered in matter-of-fact tones, hoping to dash his ardour and take the tremor out of his voice.
“Do come for a stroll in the verandah,” he urged, trying once more to make her change her mind. “I never by any chance get you to myself. You so rarely visit the Macmasters. Mrs. Mac says you are not pleased with her. . . .”
“I have not quarrelled with her. We just don’t care, tremendously, about each other.”
“I knew she wasn’t your sort. But do come.”
“I am a bit tired—please excuse me.”
“I’ll find a quiet spot where we shall not be disturbed.” Which was exactly what she wished to avoid. She was sure he was thinking of the back verandah, and winced perceptibly. No one had ever disturbed her there during the time she was engaged to Derek, except Mrs. Macmaster, the night she had thrown her bomb. Hateful woman! “Please don’t suggest it again!” she pleaded.
“I have so much to tell you.”
“Then tell it here, if it is important.”
“You see,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “when I saw that things had gone all wrong between you and Derek Lang, I was frightfully concerned and wanted to help. I knew it wasn’t a trifle and, while you were away, the suspense and the worry got on my nerves till I went off my feed and, generally, made an ass of myself at bridge and other things. Couldn’t fix my mind on my work; couldn’t concentrate, don’t you know, till one day Mrs. Mac got hold of me and gave me a straight telling-off, and literally wormed out of me all I felt about you. So she put me wise.”
“Did she tell you things against Derek?” Dulcie asked with a flash of wrath.
“No particulars, but I pretty well guessed what it was all about. She said it had cured you of your ‘infatuation,’ she called it, and left me to feel that there was just a shadow of hope for me. It was very decent of her to have tried to comfort me, but—that’s talking through one’s hat. I know Lang—and I think I know you. Though it would mean everything in the world to me to feel that there was a chance for a fellow like me, I know I am not in the same street with Lang. Oh, I know, I know! He is supposed to have done queer things, but these are queer times, and memories are mercifully short. Besides, Lang is an exceptionally fine chap. Then, you are so tender-hearted and true. You are not the sort for ‘infatuations.’ And things with you go a bit deeper than the surface, what? So I feel this trouble might yet be patched up between you. You see, I just have to know where I am, for it’s everything to me.”
Dulcie sighed and touched him gratefully on the hand. “You are such a dear fellow! I hate to hurt you, but I don’t want you to think of me in this way, though I am through with Mr. Lang.”
“If you have ceased to care for him . . .?”
Dulcie rose reluctantly and led the way out into the verandah, where they continued their conversation pacing to and fro.
“If you have no more feeling for him, perhaps, if I wait long enough . . .?”
“Does one ever really cease to care?”
Vincent’s fingers crushed hers for a fraction of a moment, sympathetically. “I know—I understand.”
To Dulcie it was a relief to be able to speak, now that the ice was broken. “Sometimes I wish—oh, I wish I had never been told. ‘Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise,’ is too true. I would still have been happy if I had never known!”
“It was rotten of Mrs. Mac.”
“Perhaps she was right. There is no sense in doing things, blindfold. It might have been a fool’s paradise, that’s all.”
“Somehow, I can’t look upon Derek Lang as a—a—an outsider. He isn’t the type. He seems so clean and straight.”
“Somehow, the world is not very hard on men for—for some of the acts they commit. Mrs. Macmaster does not condemn him. It makes morality a point of view!” she replied bitterly.
“I don’t think so. But in some cases, don’t you think it would be easy to forget and forgive? It hardly does, in this world, don’t you think, to fix one’s standards so high, that they are all right for angels, but not for mortal men?” he suggested diffidently. “We are, none of us, saints of God.”
“Nor are we women. But we need not be saints of God to be self-respecting and moral in thought and deed. We often fail in the small things of life, but in big things we don’t sin deliberately with our eyes open. That’s all. If we do—why, then, we deserve to become what the world decrees—social outcasts. Why should it be different for men?”
Tony Vincent was silent. He had no words in which to frame a reply. “Of course, the world is dashed unfair,” was all he admitted.
For several days, Dulcie kept away from the Club for very fear of the suffering it entailed. To see Derek was to live again, in secret, all the happiness she had known, through him, and lost. It also pained her to watch Molly Coates using her best efforts to attract him; Molly being one of the girls with revolutionary ideas concerning life, and not one to care how disreputably the man she loved had lived in the past. In her eyes, Derek would be all the more interesting for having had “a past.”
It was such women as these, thought Dulcie, who encouraged wrong-doing, and gave men no incentive towards goodness and virtue.
The Amabagh Mission House stood in the middle of a paddy-growing district and was picturesquely sheltered by mango trees and date palms. The country on all sides was flat and uninteresting, intersected by ill-kept roads that were little better than cart tracks called into existence by the bullock-cart traffic of generations plying continuously between Amabagh and the outlying villages.
In itself, it was a little world of benevolence and industry, and was presided over by an American pastor, aged, and fast growing infirm, who had lived in the country for so many years that he had no desire to leave it. His assistants were three American ladies and a staff of native Christian teachers whose task it was to teach both English and the vernacular to orphans in the schools, and to instruct the adult converts in a trade or profession likely to be of use as a means of livelihood. The Mission had provided many a cook to the English residents at Amabagh, also ayahs, dhobis and malis. It had also sent out into the world, carpenters and joiners, cobblers and blacksmiths, and was not a little proud of its achievements. But it was a discouraging fact that a very small percentage of those who left the Mission to support themselves by their own industry, ever continued to remain Christians. Either they renounced their faith, unable to endure the social ostracism to which they were subjected by their fellow villagers, or their conversion was not a matter of conviction, but of convenience.
The old pastor, being deeply religious, made their back-slidings a subject of prayer; but he was entirely unable, in the face of the reports brought him, to convince the supporters of the Mission that his labours were worth the money spent on them. The days of the Mission were, therefore, numbered.
“If they would only let it last my time,” the old man said in deep depression. “I shall never bear the uprooting. I love my people and my work, and the day I have to break up here, my heart, too, will break.”
Dulcie was very sorry for him, and whenever he was downhearted, she would offer consolation. “It is a great thing, anyway, to feel that your influence and teachings must bear good fruit in many lives.”
“God knows I have done my best. It is not my fault that it grows, day by day, more difficult to win the people from their heathenish beliefs. They are being steadily perverted, forgetting all that the Mission has done and is doing for them. Once upon a time, the villagers would send their little ones to learn to read and write English, and we were able to sow the good seed in the fertile soil of these young minds. But now they want to have nothing to do with us. Suspicion of us has been aroused in their minds by these evil seditionists, and our work in that direction is at a standstill.”
“At any rate, you have the orphans. They, at least, are not likely to be influenced.”
“That is so.” He nodded his white head gravely. “But I am sorely troubled about Joseph.”
“Who is Joseph?” Dulcie had been too short a time at the Mission to know any of the children by name; there were so many of all ages.
“The Eurasian child we have adopted. His mother is a woman of loose character and quite unfit to have charge of him. But, lately, she has come in for a bit of money left her by a native zemindar, and, having bought a plot of land outside the bazaar at Gumori village, means to earn her living in future by growing crops, and so, wishes to resume the care of her son.”
Dulcie grew crimson as she realised that they were talking of the child Derek had denied was his. A lie, of course, on the face of all that had gone before. Delicacy of feeling had prevented her from asking to see the boy, but she had guessed that the little fair-headed child with a light complexion—such a contrast to the others—was no other than Derek’s natural son. When the children played in the yard, she was in the habit of following him with her eyes as he moved among them.
“Surely you need not give him up?” said she.
“I do not mean to, so help me God. The little one is a Christian, and has an Englishman’s blood in his veins. He shall not be restored to his mother who is a Hindu. He is only six years old, and all he has learned will surely be lost. Besides, he is accustomed to our way of life, and it would be a great hardship for him to live as an Indian of the lower classes. I don’t mean to give him up even if the law commands me.”
“But would the law do such a cruel thing?” she asked, shocked.
“You cannot place any reliance on what the law may, or may not do, my dear young lady, especially since this policy of pampering the natives came in. The woman is the child’s legal guardian, and, though she voluntarily gave him up during the war, being unable to take care of him, there is no reason why she should not claim to have him returned to her, now that she is prepared to live respectably. But, God helping me, Joseph shall not leave us. He belongs to us. He is a Christian; and, even if the Mission gives up this branch and we disperse, there are other Missions all over the country that will be only too glad to take the child.”
Dulcie shuddered at the thought of the little fellow, so unlike an Indian, being brought up as a native of the bazaars, and she wondered if Derek knew.
“Is there no one—who—might be interested to help you in the matter?” she asked in embarrassment.
“Yes, and I have written to him,” said the Pastor.
Dulcie thought continually of this sword of Damocles hanging over the head of the Pastor in the threat to little Joseph’s future. Yet, what a terrible thing, it seemed, that a mother should not be allowed to have her own child, if able and willing to bring him up respectably. But, for Joseph, under the best of circumstances, his mother’s way of life would be utterly unsuitable although she may have abandoned her evil courses and have become thoroughly and sincerely reformed. What an everlasting reproach to Joseph’s English father was the fact that he was unable to assume his proper function as guardian in this case!
Dulcie even wept over the problem. Oh, Derek! Derek! she moaned to her own heart. If it had only been anyone but you!
There were times when she kept order in the playground, to assist Miss Annie who was a hard-working teacher in the Mission schools, and, in the course of her duty, she would find herself unconsciously seeking some point of resemblance in the child, to Derek; but there was none. Still, he was vaguely haunted by an impression of something not unfamiliar in his features. Somehow, she never felt drawn to pet and fondle him, as did the Mission ladies; she found it, instead, painful to have him in her proximity. The sight of his dust-coloured hair and light, muddy complexion, could not fail to recall his mixed origin.
One day she saw Joseph’s mother, and it was with a sense of shock she could not help, that she realised the degraded nature of the life led by this woman and others of her class. How horrible was all she stood for—how bestial!
Yet, it surprised her to see how clean and pretty she looked in her oriental way, and how very young. Another surprise was to find that the woman could speak English.
When Dulcie came upon her on the steps of the verandah, she was arguing with Miss Annie, determined to see her son. She was saying:
“Yusuf may be Christian, but he is onlee a babe. Little children no caste got; that will be afterwards. What his mother is, that he will be; Hindu, though not of high caste, but respectable, oh, yes. What I care for Christian! Soon no Christian, anywhere. For that I take him before the devils are let loose and he is finished.”
“You mean that there will be a rising of the people one day?”
“Who knows! One say this; one say that.”
“Anyway, you are not going to get Joseph, be sure of that. You gave him up and cannot take him back.”
“Then I make one petition to Collector Sahib. The court will grant order to make over to me.”
“Do whatever you like, it won’t help any, for we sha’n’t obey the order.”
The woman affected to wipe away a few tears, and, catching sight of Dulcie, addressed her next. “See, they keeping my child. I am his mother, and am I to be without my own flesh and blood, born of my body?”
“He will not be happy with you whom he does not know,” said Dulcie. “If you love him, you will do what is for his good. Surely you will always be ashamed to confess he is your son?”
The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why I be ashamed? All knowing the truth that my father sold me to the Sahib for plenty money. Could I disobey my father? Now I got my own money, I buy back my caste and all pay to me respect.”
It revolted Dulcie to hear of this sordid transaction, particularly when she knew who was the Sahib in question, and she fled into the house miserable and humiliated, leaving Miss Annie to dismiss “Sukie,” as the woman was called.
The same day certain presents arrived, anonymously, at the Mission—a Pasteur filter securely packed, and labelled With Care; and by the same carrier, a monster bath tub, enamelled white within, and painted without.
The ladies were beside themselves with excitement. The elder Miss Mitcham collapsed into a chair when it was unpacked, and nearly wept. “To think of it! A real bath! Won’t it feel like home?”
“Say,” remarked the practical Miss Leech, “that tub will take some filling!” Visions of the water-carrier with a banghi of two kerosine tins of water from the Mission tank, swinging from a split bamboo on his shoulders, as he plied back and forth from the bath, appealed humorously to Dulcie, and she laughed aloud.
“I know who has done this,” said Miss Annie fixing Dulcie with her eye. “Don’t think I am such a sumph!”
“Who? Do say!” asked the others.
“Dulcie, of course! And don’t you deny it, my dear.”
“But I do. I know nothing about it.”
“No one else could have. I saw how it peeved you that we could raise nothing better than a gumla for baths. You got into one the first time and broke it into halves, and thought you were never to bath again till we explained how it was used. Confess!”
“Really, really, I am innocent,” Dulcie repeated.
“Then it was your father who ordered it to be sent. He’d be tickled to death if he saw how delighted we are!”
“Papa was too much engaged getting married to think of enamelled baths for us at the Mission.”
“Why not Mr. Lang?” suggested the Pastor. “He has enough money to waste, and now the weather is getting warm, his natural concern for friends——”
“His natural concern did not focus itself on bath tubs all these years!” said Miss Leech.
“It’s for Dulcie’s sake, my dear,” said Miss Mitcham, nodding her head.
“Oh, no!” cried Dulcie reddening. “How should he know that we hadn’t tubs in every bathroom in the house?”
“That’s true enough,” said Miss Annie. “Then I’m through with guessing—and there’s the filter. Bless the giver, anyway. I have often been worried about microbes during the cholera season. I shall be happier now.”
The next day there were further surprises in the shape of several other packages which, on being opened, proved to be as many horse-hair mattresses as there were beds in the bungalow; and last, but not least, an ice chest.
The ladies shrieked with something akin to hysterics. “It’s the work of a fairy godmother!”
“It’s a conspiracy to be kind. Our friends at Amabagh have done it!”
“We’ll live and sleep like princesses!” they ejaculated.
“I wish we knew whom to thank,” said Miss Leech.
“And look!” screamed Miss Annie pointing to a packing case from which water leaked, “it’s ICE!”
It certainly was. Packed carefully in sawdust, was a maund5 of ice, and Miss Mitcham wept.
“It is nothing to cry about, my dear,” said Miss Leech. “Let us all drink iced water.”
“I—I am thinking how handy it will be if—any of the orphans have fever,” said Miss Mitcham. “I’ll write to the drug store, to-morrow, for a rubber bag; the ice will last, with care, for a week.”
Presently, when the post was delivered, a letter from the Amalgamated Ice Association, informed them that the same amount of ice would be delivered free of charge, twice weekly, throughout the hot months, by order of “Mr. John Smith of Calcutta.”
“John Smith!” laughed Miss Annie. “There being I suppose at least five hundred John Smiths in Calcutta, it is so illuminating! No, my dears, I have arrived at the only solution; but, as the giver prefers to remain anonymous, I shall respect his wish and keep my inspiration to myself.” A sly glance over the fields to the tamarind and pipal trees in the dim distance of the Ganges, was the only hint of her line of thought, but it was lost on the others.
“I don’t believe you know any more than we do,” said Miss Mitcham.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Durand sent the order from Madras. The heat must have reminded him of Dulcie’s discomforts,” said Miss Leech.
“I can write and ask him, but it will take months to get the reply, seeing he is on his honeymoon and has no fixed plans,” said Dulcie.
“I do think you are a heroine to have given up the luxuriousness of your life at home to stay with us,” said Miss Mitcham ingenuously. “It shows you have a real vocation for the work.”
Dulcie blushed and Miss Annie said: “Fiddlesticks!”
“Why doubt it, Annie?” said her sister reproachfully.
“Because Dulcie is cut out for something far different. She is only experimenting at present, being at a loose end. But she is a heroine all the same, for she is putting up with conditions that make her blood curdle many times a day!”
“Oh, I hope you don’t think me so fastidious!”
“You can’t help it, being born that way. Look at your room, for instance—not that I don’t appreciate it with all my heart! In a little while it has begun to look kind of exotic. Those dainty curtains, the lace duchesse sets, your bed-spread, your nightie-case, and your underwear! I was passing the wash-house only this morning, and saw the dhobi in pathetic despair gazing upon your silk nightie with all its fine lace, as if he feared even to handle it, while the women of his household offered advice.”
Dulcie laughed deprecatingly.
“The servants know she likes things about her to look pretty,” said Miss Leech smiling indulgently, “for I saw the mali gathering flowers—such as we have—for her vases.”
“Isn’t he a dear!” said Dulcie. “He brings me a bunch every morning.”
“And he will go on doing so as long as you are here, if you keep tipping him as you do,” said Miss Mitcham. “The rascal has at last begun to take an interest in the garden.”
“Then,” continued Miss Annie ruthlessly, “you use lavender salts in the bath every morning—I smell it from my room; it’s delicious, I must say, and I wish I had the time to do the same——”
“Or the means,” put in Miss Mitcham.
“Oh! but you should see her when she senses the presence of creepy-crawlies and nasty things that fly into the room attracted by the light,” chaffed Miss Annie, in memory of two particular episodes which the ladies had enjoyed at Dulcie’s expense. Shrieks of terror issuing from the guest’s room had brought in half the Mission staff and the ladies, running helter-skelter to discover the cause; they had thought that at least the bungalow was on fire. But, instead, there was Dulcie, fully dressed, inside the mosquito cage that surrounded her bed, and a bat circling round it, blindly inconsequent in its flight.
Miss Annie had slain it with a carpet-beater while the others had retired in relief. “I thought, at least, you had found a cobra among your pillows, or that a mad dog from the village had strayed into your room!” she said reproachfully.
“I shall always be afraid of bats,” returned Dulcie unashamed, “for they never know where they are flying, and flop so unexpectedly. If one settled on my hair, I know I should die.”
The other episode had to do with a centipede which started to cross the tiles of the bathroom floor while Dulcie was on the point of enjoying a bath. Never, in her life, having seen such an alarming object, and perfectly sure it was making straight for her, she leapt into the earthen gumla full of water, which immediately broke in halves. Miss Annie hearing the commotion, burst in to the rescue and put an end to the mysterious-looking thing, with her slipper; afterwards preserving it in a bottle of spirits as an “object lesson” for her infant class.
Dulcie was also suspicious of the lizards that lived behind pictures all day, and came out from behind them, at night, looking like miniature alligators, in quest of food in the shape of the moths and grasshoppers which flew into the room attracted by the lights. They would run at great speed along the flat surface of the wall, and after securing their prey, would swallow the living insect whole with many contortions to the neck and head. Toads and frogs, too, startled her by their predilection for the interior of the bungalow; and it was the last straw, one morning, when she found a baby frog inside of the shoe she was trying to pull on. Later, she learned the vagaries and possibilities of the leaping variety, and her peace of mind was destroyed when anything that looked like a frog came hopping along the carpet. To think that in a moment it was capable of landing from the middle of the floor on to its objective at the other end of a large room, made her weak with horror and altogether unnerved till it was removed.
“If I had my way,” she once remarked in self-defence, “I should have mosquito frames in every window to keep out insects, and hurdles at every threshold to deter the toads. But frogs are beyond me altogether.”
“They are very friendly things,” the Pastor remarked tolerantly. “I once had a friendly companion in a big fat toad that used to live under a bookcase. Every afternoon it came out for tea, and enjoyed pieces of cake and bread and butter like a human being.”
“Personally, I object to toads and frogs in the bungalow as they bring snakes,” said Miss Leech.
“How is that?” asked Dulcie.
“Snakes eat them,” was the reply. Yet, in spite of all these disagreeables, Dulcie elected to stay on at the Mission to understudy Miss Annie, play the hymns at church to relieve Miss Mitcham, and assist Miss Leech in the mending, which surprised all except Miss Annie who wisely kept her own counsel.
“I have been looking for you for a definite purpose, this morning,” said Miss Annie putting her head into Dulcie’s room before luncheon. “May I come in?”
“Surely! What can I do for you?” said Dulcie who was tidying herself before the mirror.
“It is rather urgent, but first I want you to understand, exactly, where we are. Joseph is the trouble, and we are n despair.”
Any subject connected with little Joseph was disagreeable to Dulcie. The very mention of his name was the signal or distressing palpitations of the heart and restlessness. Yet he realised, with the others, the gravity of the problem with which they were faced. Why was Derek so indifferent to it? Surely he could do something to help the missionaries in this crisis? How could he reconcile it with his conscience to ignore his responsibility, under God, where his own flesh and blood was concerned. It was not like him, as he had seemed to her in heart and disposition, to be so cruelly callous if the fate of one who owed his being to himself. How could he be so wicked? Beyond paying, annually, a sum of money for Joseph’s keep, he took no notice of his existence! A perfect monster! She wished with all her heart that Miss Annie would never talk to her of the child.
“It is unthinkable that the law can compel us to give the child back to his mother. But she is his lawful guardian and the law is an automatic machine for administering so-called justice. We can’t risk the case going to court, so I have suggested a plan which the Pastor thinks possible of achievement if only we can get the help of the one person whose assistance would be worth anything to us, and you know who that is.”
“You mean, you will cheat the law, if possible?”
“Exactly. But without Mr. Lang we are helpless. He must work with us.”
“Then why not ask him?”
“We have. That is, the Pastor wrote, but the reply is most unsatisfactory. Listen,” and Miss Annie drew a note from her pocket, adjusted her spectacles, and read that portion of Derek’s letter which bore directly on the case.
. . . “ a very good solution to the riddle of Joseph. If it is true that his mother has reformed, she has every right to have her child, and there is no reason why he should not save his own soul as a good Hindu. Unfortunately, you cannot guarantee that he will grow up a good Christian, and that’s what really matters, after all. Personally, I would rather not meddle in the matter. Though I am sorry for your disappointment, I believe in people minding their own business. It is no part of mine to interfere in this.”
“That is all,” continued Miss Annie. “Rather heartless, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have thought it of him, for he has been good to us all along and has helped us over many a tight corner.”
“What did the Pastor want him to do?”
“He asked him to use his influence with the Collector—explaining the child’s promising appearance and nature. It is inconceivable that he should be allowed to become a native of the bazaars and a heathen. The boy is too young to remember our teachings, and, as we are guardians of his soul, we must leave no stone unturned that will prevent this scandal from taking place. Consider—he has English blood in his veins. But Mr. Lang is rather indignant that we should expect him to approach the Collector on a matter that will probably have to come up before him, officially. The Pastor wasn’t considering the etiquette of it, but the need to save a human soul. Well—now for my plan! The Pastor agrees that it is the only way to save Joseph. We want him kidnapped and taken away to Calcutta where certain missionaries would assume charge of him and hide him till he can be sent to America with the next batch going on leave. Only, we must on no account be told where he is, or anything respecting him after he is kidnapped, so that we can truthfully say we know nothing. See?”
“Yes—but it would not be strictly true, for you would know who kidnapped him,” said Dulcie mischievously.
“They wouldn’t think of asking such a question and we shouldn’t think of volunteering anything. We must stretch a point and prevaricate if we are to match ourselves against this cast-iron law which favours the native every time. So, here’s where you come in.”
“I? What can I do?”
“You have been very friendly with Mr. Lang—though you don’t seem to be on speaking terms with him now. I am not probing for the reason, but I do know that he loved you and I don’t believe he will be able to refuse you anything. Pocket your pride, dear, and drive over to see him. I’ll come to keep you in countenance, and back the appeal.”
“Miss Annie!” broke from Dulcie’s quivering lips. “How can you suggest it!”
“Why not? I admit the awkwardness of meeting after having parted for good. But Joseph’s future is at stake—you cannot let your feelings stand in the way!”
“Have you any idea what the quarrel was about?” Dulcie asked earnestly. “If you do, you will surely understand why it is particularly awkward for me to see him about Joseph.”
“If it is because you found out about Joseph, I think you have a special right to appeal to him for justice towards the child.”
“I couldn’t. Oh, I couldn’t!”
“How did you come to know, Dulcie?”
“Mrs. Macmaster told me,” said Dulcie, her face buried in her hands. “She also gave herself away.”
“I guessed she would. What cats we women are! She was mad about him before the war. Flattered him, ran after him, till I was ashamed for my sex. If her husband had not been such a stick he would have sensed what was going on. Young Lang was only a boy—a very charming boy, and gradually got drawn into a flirtation. I saw it coming on—in fact they were the talk of the station. But it was more her fault than his. She literally wooed him, and few men can stand against a woman’s flattery. I was glad the war took him away, or there would surely have been a scandal.”
“He knew it was dishonourable!”
“I don’t suppose very young men stop to think when they are fired by a woman’s preference. Yet, I don’t believe there was any real harm in it. She did her best to get him back when he returned, but he wasn’t the same—so changed and older by years. You never saw such a difference. All his high spirits and desire to play about had vanished. He worked hard and was just a man’s man, till you arrived. What you did to capture him, is best known to yourself, but I guess it was reaction did it. He was fed up with married women and war memories. Married women were too forward and the war had been a nightmare; so when you came along as fresh as a daisy——”
“Oh!” moaned Dulcie.
“He just let himself go. I suppose he had ceased to feel any regrets—men manage to get away scot-free from the consequences of their wrong-doing. I allude to Joseph and the woman he caused to become a—well, something unmentionable. Possibly he considered it buried.”
“Please don’t talk of him.”
“I thought it best you should know that I have guessed how things are between you. You feel he is not the man you idolised, yet in your heart of hearts you love him still.”
“Wounds that are deep take long to heal, Miss Annie—but they do heal in the end.”
“Mercifully, they do. But it is safest not to idolise anyone; then there are no wounds to heal. However, it makes no difference to the matter in hand. Joseph is now the chief consideration. If you have any pluck, you will set your own feelings aside, and help us to save him. Tell Mr. Lang that he must fix up the kidnapping of his kid so as to save him from becoming wholly a native and a Hindu. He can arrange it any way he likes, so it’s successful.”
“You are asking an impossible thing of me. I simply haven’t the nerve for it!”
“Then cultivate it quickly. In our vocation, we women have to do a great many things that are against the grain if, by our self-sacrifice, we can glorify God.” Miss Annie continued in the same strain till the gong sounded for luncheon.
“When do you wish me to do this?” Dulcie asked, trembling from head to foot.
“We can go immediately after luncheon, to-day.”
Having pleaded and persuaded till she had gained her point, she kissed Dulcie on both cheeks affectionately, and they left the room together.
It was close on three o’clock when they reached Panchbusti that afternoon, in Dulcie’s automobile, and were informed by a servant at the gate that the Sahib was not in. He had gone out on his horse to Gumori village, and God knew if he would ever return alive. The man spoke with tragic hopelessness which alarmed his listeners.
“Why? What has happened?” asked Miss Annie sharply, while Dulcie studied their faces in her anxiety to understand what was said.
“A great to-do,” said the man, looking scared. “None of the tenants of the estate would pay their rents, and, yesterday, there was a stranger in the market-place speaking at great length, and the words of his mouth were fierce and full of fury against the white people, rousing the anger of the villagers against them, for they are foolishly ready to believe all they are told. So with much noise and many oaths, also shouts that were disrespectful to the Sarkar and defiant of our Sahib, they resolved to be disobedient and otherwise to annoy their zemindar. This was told to the Sahib in the night, and he made arrangements at once to meet the tenants in the market place this afternoon. They were told to assemble to hear what he had to say, and we, knowing the temper of the people so stirred up by this speaker and his friend, the moneylender, fear for him and our hearts shake within us for what might be.”
“What is he saying?” asked Dulcie.
Miss Annie explained rapidly the gist of what she had been told.
“Oh, can’t anything be done!” moaned Dulcie, white to the lips.
“He has probably got a gun with him.”
“Never! He always refused to go about armed. I have heard him say that he preferred to rely upon personal influence!”
“Isn’t there anyone with the Sahib?” asked Miss Annie catching the infection of Dulcie’s agitation. “His peons with lathis, in case the people get out of hand and are violent?”
“He went alone, Miss Sahib. Always, he goes alone and without protection, carrying only his short whip, for he rides. We suggested that one go for the police, but that made the Sahib angry. ‘What do I want with the police?’ he said. ‘Aren’t they my people? Wherefore should I have police about me?’”
“He is a brave man! I only hope he will get through without harm. Well—we had better return home.”
“No, no! Oh, Miss Annie! Let us go to the village in case he is injured and needs help.”
“What could we do, my dear child? If he is thrashed by the crowd, they will be so out of control that they will turn next on us. It would be highly dangerous to show ourselves.”
“Can’t we creep round, somewhere, so as to be at hand? I could not go home now that I know he is in danger. I couldn’t, I couldn’t!”
She was so distraught and hysterical that Miss Annie spoke sternly:
“Be calm, Dulcie. I certainly wouldn’t dream of venturing into the bazaar with you while you are so uncontrolled.”
Dulcie clasped her hands, and with a great effort overcame her agitation, then turned a resolute face towards her friend. “If you don’t want to come, I’ll go myself, and take my chance. Don’t think I shall do anything foolish—I only want to be there in case we are needed.”
“If we can get to Simon’s, the blacksmith’s, who lives in the market-place, we might see what is going on. Simon is one of our Christians, who, strange to say, is very much beloved of the natives. He remains staunch, and they respect him.”
“Oh, don’t let us lose time,” cried Dulcie, putting the car in motion. “If he should be injured we might be able to fetch him away.”
“If he is touched by them, he will be killed outright.”
“God forbid!” She drove the car swiftly to Gumori village and through narrow roads where charred huts still showed evidences of the recent fire, till they arrived at the cloth merchant’s shop, with which Miss Annie was familiar, and pulled up.
“The cloth merchant owes me a deep debt of gratitude,” she told Dulcie while directing her to the place. “I stored all his goods at the Mission when he had orders from the leaders of the non co-operation movement to burn all his Manchester goods. He faked a pile and set it afire after dark; and all the while his goods remained safe with us. Afterwards, when there was a reaction, he recovered all his property intact, and proceeded with business as usual, as though nothing had happened. Chuni Lall!” she called aloud as the car was drawn up at the door of a large shop.
But the shop was empty, save for a very old woman, Chuni Lall’s mother, who was dressed in a greasy sari and wore tinkling, glass bangles.
“Chuni Lall and all the street have gone to see the tamasha,”6 she cried gesticulating excitedly. “Chunder, the moneylender has heard that the Sahib is to speak to the people in the market-place, and has sent down his own lathials7 armed with heavy sticks to stir up the people against him.”
Miss Annie translated fluently.
“Oh, God!” Dulcie’s heart sank like lead.
“That man Chunder is a perfect specimen of vampire. He preys on the unfortunate cultivator till he is, body and soul, in his power. He is a moneylender without a conscience. That is the type we do all we can to save the people from, and often get no thanks for our pains. They are so thriftless and so shortsighted. They gamble away all they have, or they borrow on usury to carry on, and in the end lose everything. How the Pastor has warned them! But they are not farseeing.”
“If you listen,” said the woman bending forward with her face intent, “you will hear the noise the people are making.”
True enough. Dulcie could hear a hoarse roar in the distance that sounded like surf breaking on the seashore.
“We can leave the auto here, if you like to take the risk, and make our way along the back alleys to Simon’s hut in the market-place,” said Miss Annie, inspired with Dulcie’s determination to do what she could for Derek Lang, who was in peril of his life.
For many nights, Derek had slept badly. He had altogether given up attending the Club at Amabagh, for fear of a repetition of the torture he had endured at the sight of Dulcie with young Vincent, who did not trouble to hide his infatuation for her. To watch them together when he was no longer at liberty to speak to her was more than could be borne; and it was hateful to feel that his break with her was the subject most discussed. Gossip was already trying to account for it, and gossips were, to Derek, anathema. So he stayed away to spend his days in work and his nights in broken sleep in which he dreamed a lie, and awoke to realise despair.
The night previous to his visit to Gumori—mentioned in the last chapter, he strolled out into the starlight in his slippers. It was late, and he wanted a breath of fresh air before turning in to woo sleep. However, half way down the garden path, he all but collided with a stalwart figure standing motionless with his back turned to the house, as though listening for sounds from out of the darkness beyond.
“Hullo, Syed Khan! What are you doing here? I thought you were fast asleep,” said Derek in the friendliest of tones.
The man salaamed with old-fashioned courtesy by way of apology. “I am anxious, huzur, so sleep is far from my eyes.”
“What is troubling you?”
“There was a mass meeting, huzur, in the market-place at Gumori this afternoon, and much big talk, with boasts and the making of wild resolutions.”
“Yes? and what was it all about? What were the police constable and the village headman, and also Durphukna doing?”
“The constable and the mundel both sat and listened, while Durphukna retired within his dwelling. Of what use for these men to protest when there are hundreds concerned? Chunder, the moneylender, was there with a stranger, who spoke for hours, and Chunder has the raiyats and villagers under his feet. They owe him too much money, Sahib; and what with the high interest and a bad season, they are only too glad to keep his favour. This is the second time a man has been brought by Chunder into the Sahib’s village to mislead the people with false promises, and inflame them with hatred against the Government and the foreigner in their midst, so that they are encouraged in lawlessness and acts of violence. With my own ears, as I sat in the dwelling of the cobbler getting one of the Sahib’s boots repaired, I heard the people being told that the rule of the Sahib is finishing; that the Sarkar has no longer the power nor the courage to govern; that it needs only the united efforts of the masses, irrespective of caste differences, to drive out the British and establish Swaraj. Ai Allah! What is the Sarkar about to let such poisonous talk infect the minds of the ignorant and simple minded? Even the constable said when I asked what he thought of such impertinence: ‘What can do? The Sarkar is without backbone to enforce respect and obedience. Such a ruling body loses the confidence of its supporters, and encourages the spread of lawlessness!’ What will be the end, huzur, I dread to think, if agitators are left free to stir up the evil passions of the ignorant to create hatred and violence?”
“Syed,” said Derek, lighting his pipe, “the Government is all right if its policy is not. It is like a man with the toothache. Instead of pulling out the bad tooth that is infecting the others, he chloroforms the pain and hopes it will not return, he tries every means of soothing the diseased nerve instead of curing the trouble, once and for all, by the shortest cut to peace and comfort. Of course, he is ill-advised by some fool dentist—and so, in the case of the Sarkar and the man at the top who doesn’t know his job. But the Raj in itself is as strong as ever, and will act for the best when there is good reason to act at all.”
“God protect the poor if there is no longer the Raj to deliver impartial justice. It will be an evil day, huzur, for I see only misery and distress in the land with the strong oppressing the weak, and bribery and corruption and religious antagonism on all hands. But it is Kismet! What will be, will be. And meantime, the swine Chunder has ordered the Sahib’s raiyats and tenants not to pay their rents, saying that, by refusing to pay, they will force the Sahib’s hand and bring about the desired result, which is, to oblige him to sell his lands to the highest bidder and clear out. Chunder hopes thus to secure these properties, and so live as a Rajah in great state with his heel on the necks of the people. Huzur, it is not the Sahibs that are the enemies of the kola admi8 if they would but understand the truth; but men like Chunder, who have greed of power and wealth and no conscience to guide their actions, are those whom they should fear. Yet the fools acclaim all he says and are ready to follow his teachings. So no more rent will be paid into the Sahib’s kacharies, and my soul is filled with misgivings, having great fear of what may be the next move.”
“Don’t worry, Syed. They will pay all right when I go, myself, and talk to them. They are like children and need to be shown what is plain.”
But Syed Khan looked doubtful. He had been present at the meeting and had seen the temper of the villagers. “Huzur, perhaps, does not realise the danger that is brewing. Though there may be many in these villages who have reason to bless the Sahib for his acts of mercy and charity in bad times, and when sickness prevails; who have received consideration when their crops have failed and left them unable to pay their rents; there are others, also, who have been taught only bitterness and rancour against the white race because of their power and might, and are ready to perform any act of treachery and violence towards any one individual who stands to them as a symbol of the ruling race.”
“By which you would like to warn me, Syed; I appreciate your feeling. But I am not afraid of the people, who are as children only waiting for a stronger hand than Chunder’s to give them a lead. In future, I shall lead them myself. I have thought out a way for their good, and though it may mean the loss of a great deal of money to me, it will be well spent if it saves them from madness and slavery.”
“But they owe much money to Chunder and are afraid to go against him.”
“That is exactly where I mean to come in. Go you, Syed, and tell the people of my villages that I shall be in the market-place at Gumori early in the afternoon, and would have them meet me to hear what I have to say.”
“It will not be safe, huzur; it will be dangerous,” said Syed gravely. “Should one man forget himself and behave without self-control, there will be many to follow his example; and then, who can tell what may happen? The people are like sheep.”
“Nevertheless, do as I bid. I shall now go in and get some sleep.”
Still Syed stood irresolute. “If the Sahib would but carry a pistol . . .?”
Derek laughed. “Why should I? I am not going out to kill; nor do I expect to be attacked. No, Syed Khan. If I were to begin to fear my tenants, I might as well allow that swine Chunder to turn me out of my holdings. Do as I tell you early in the morning, and I shall go alone, unarmed and unattended, to speak to them.”
“They will get to know it, huzur. . . .”
“I want them to know it.”
“The Sahib is of great courage; but even courage is unavailing before greater numbers and an evil spirit.”
“We have to drive out that evil spirit.” He dismissed the Pathan and retired to sleep, and for once found diversion from his unhappy thoughts in planning for the encounter with the multitude on the morrow.
On his way to the market-place at Gumori the following afternoon, Derek met one of his staff, a tall Rajput, named Nisan Missir, who looked excited and unnerved.
“I heard the news and came hurrying to tell huzur that there is yet time to reconsider your decision. The people are upset and are goaded on to violence by Chunder and his friends who are full of disloyalty to the Government, and, for a word, might do even the Sahib an injury. Turn back, I pray you, Sahib. Or if you must come, bring a guard of police and carry firearms. That might impress the multitude and maintain order while the Sahib has his say.”
Derek smiled at him from the saddle, keeping his horse at the trot, the man running alongside.
“I am the same man they have looked up to, Nisan, all these years. They know me well. Nothing you can say will keep me from my appointment with my people in the market-place.”
“Then, Sahib, I must accompany you.”
“I have no need of you, and there is work for you elsewhere. Go about your business, Nisan Missir.” He merely pointed with his hunting-crop in the direction of the bungalow and continued on his way, leaving Nisan to obey his order.
Derek then urged his horse to a brisk trot and soon entered the outskirts of Gumori, the largest of his villages. The dust lay thick on everything and swirled spirally on the roadway before light gusts of wind. The huts massed on both sides of the main street looked drab in spite of the golden sunlight and the green of the landscape, for their mud walls and thatched roofs were a monotonous grey; and the road, glaring and dusty, offered no alluring contrast. Nor did the date palms, clustered together, drooping their graceful branches over their dingy trunks; while to complete the cheerless aspect of the village, the charred walls of the huts recently destroyed by the fire, reared themselves, forlorn and deserted in the sunlit atmosphere.
Yet, Gumori was as prosperous as most well-conducted Bengal villages, in the substantial character of the dwellings and the opulent aspect of the shops. The half-naked bania seated on his haunches among his bags of grain, had never known such a busy season as the winter now gone. Further on, the portly oil merchant was to be seen smoking idly in his doorway. He had evidently been watching for Derek, for he called over his shoulder to someone within, and wrapping his chudder about him, left his hukha, to follow the rider at some distance behind. The cobbler, busy at his last, forebore to salaam as the others had done; but he, too, set aside his work to fall in with the procession swelling in Derek’s wake.
“What is going to be, think you?” one asked another as they proceeded.
“He has come, doubtless, to threaten the raiyats and all those determined not to pay their rents,” was the reply volunteered by one of the crowd. “They say he means to confiscate the crops when they are ready.”
“If he uses threats, there will be mischief done.”
“Syed Khan came at day-break, saying that his master was to speak this afternoon concerning the rents, and others of the Sahib’s servants have spread the news elsewhere. But Syed who was boasting of his master’s personality and power, they caught and tied up to a tree till it be settled how to deal with the Sahib.”
“He is a big man, is Syed. How did they overpower him without broken heads?”
“Some were hurt; but when so many fell on him, he was pinioned in a moment, and rendered powerless with stout cords.”
“I like not these lawless gatherings and such bold acts,” said the cloth merchant. “I am a man of peace; what for are these mad ones disturbing it?”
“For Swaraj. It is their only cry. And when they have got it, which I much doubt, how will it be with us?” and the oil merchant shook his head. “Alas! I have no faith in Swaraj. The fighting races of the north will kill or oppress us simple ones, and we shall be slaves. Whereas, now, each man is safe and his interests are guarded by the law courts where the Sahib’s favour is not to be bought with gold.”
“Don’t I know that to my cost?” put in a contractor whose lime kilns destroyed the rural charm of the neighbourhood. “Once I was prepared to pay a large sum for a Sarkari building contract at Amabagh; but when I approached the Assistant Engineer who had the matter in hand, hoping to receive his personal recommendation for the job, he was deaf to my hints. Even though there were no witnesses and I spoke plainly, he would not heed, but threatened to beat me for making the offer. And it was not a small offer, too! Another time, a police Sahib almost sent me to prison when I brought him a large sum of money to withdraw a case against my father. These Sahibs have no respect for money, but value justice and honour above riches—which cannot be said of my own countrymen in like circumstances! Many a time I have paid a Daroga9 to drop an inquiry against one of my employees, and bribed him to behave with clemency to a friend who had broken the law.”
“Myself, I don’t hold with all this big talk of defying the Sarkar,” said the oil merchant. “To invite bloodshed and confusion when we may live contentedly and at peace with everybody, is folly. Of the two, I would rather my wrongs were redressed by a Sahib than risk taking them to a magistrate even of my own zat. In one case, I am sure of justice while, in the other, the award will go to him who can pay the bigger sum—such has been my experience.”
“But this case of paying our rents,” put in a cultivator. “Why should we all submit to a landlord of the hated race and make him fat with riches gained by our thrift? Let him get out and give us, in his place, one of our own for a zemindar.”
“Would you have Chunder Babu buy the property?” snapped the oil merchant.
“May the gods forbid!” said the cultivator piously. “We have had enough of Chunder.”
“Chunder would suck us all dry. Already, he has made slaves of most of you cultivators because of the failure of the crops last season.”
“Go to!” cried a Hindu roughly. “You are favourable to the foreigner, and, as such, you will be a marked man, let me warn you.”
“I am favourable only to peace,” was the nervous reply as the speaker edged away.
Derek could hear the hoarse murmur of the crowd following him, without catching the drift of the words; but he never looked back. Entering the market square, he came to a halt in the empty cattle mart, and gazed around him. He had a complete view of the crowds streaming towards him, and of those who already formed a bank of humanity outside the bamboo pens; he also saw that they were a mixed company of men, women, and children from far and near. It was not a market day so they had the square to themselves and soon filled it to overflowing, while the air was made noisy with the raucous clamour of their voices.
Derek presently recognised Chunder making his way to the front, accompanied by two friends wearing, like himself, muslin chadar over their white shirts, muslin dhotis, and patent leather shoes with elastic sides, on bare feet.
“Hullo, Chunder!” said Derek in English, with a twinkle in his eye. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Since the Sahib is pleased to ask, I have the happiness to state that I am in the enjoyment of very good health,” was the pedantic reply given without the customary salaam of greeting.
“Good. Do you know why I have come here to-day?”
“Syed Khan has already given warning of the Sahib’s intention and, for his truculence and boasting, has been tied to a tree to await the chastisement he merits. No doubt, he will not be the only one to suffer.” Derek passed over the malignant insinuation. “Has anyone hurt my servant?” he asked, his eyes suddenly blazing. Syed’s absence from the bungalow all the morning, was now explained.
“As yet he is unarmed,” called a voice from the crowd.
“It is well, for the man who injures Syed Khan will have to reckon with me. Now,” he said, turning on Chunder “I don’t ask your business here, for that I can guess. I ask you to explain mine?” He spoke in the vernacular with ease and fluency.
“To demand the settlement of your rents, in default of which the crops of the raiyats will be seized by the police when they are ready, and sold. In the case of the shopkeepers and tenants, generally, their dwellings will be seized and they will be turned into the street,” replied Chunder, loudly, for the benefit of the assembled multitude.
Derek filled his pipe leisurely. “Before we talk of what may or may not be done some months hence, I have something to say. I am talking to men, not children. Will any one here, tell me that I have no right to these rents that are due? Am I not the zemindar?”
“You may, by the law, be the zemindar,” cried a voice from the crowd in front of him, “but this law made by the Satanic Government, we despise and repudiate. The land was wrested from us, the real owners of the soil, by the power of the sword and has, too long, made riches for you and foreigners like you. Robbers all!”
“That man seems to have a fund of information. Fetch him out; I would see what manner of fellow he is,” said Derek, lighting his pipe and flinging away the burnt-out match.
The habit of obedience to recognised authority is strong, and a youth whom Derek recognised as a student of law at Amabagh was hustled into view. He looked truculently about him, then favoured Derek with a stare of studied insolence.
“So that is what they have taught you? Now listen to the truth concerning my possession of these lands.” Derek raised his voice so that it should carry far, and spoke with perfect calm. “I have in writing what I am going to tell you, and any who wish to prove the truth of what I say, may come to my office and see the document I mention, brown and yellow with age. More than a hundred years ago, this property was given to my great grandfather who was a doctor, by the then Maharajah of Amabagh who held these vast estates. The Maharajah met with an accident from which his life was in danger. It is an interesting story if you have the patience to listen, but Chunder would rather you did not hear it as he would prefer that you should believe the lie. Isn’t that so?” he asked the moneylender.
“We are not children, as you said, to listen to fables!” sneered Chunder.
“I will cut it short to spare your patience. They were tiger-hunting, the Maharajah and the doctor, when the Maharajah was thrown from his elephant and mauled by the tiger. The doctor shot the tiger and, after that, took the Maharajah home where he nursed him and, by his great skill, saved his life; for he had blood-poisoning and severe fever, which nearly caused his death. It was such a miraculous cure, that the Maharajah, in his deep gratitude, presented the doctor with a large tract of land; for, as he said, the services that had been rendered him were beyond price. From that time onward, the lands have been in the possession of my people. They were not snatched from the Maharajah at the point of the sword, but were bestowed as a free gift out of gratitude for a great benefit. So I have the right to receive my rents. Can any one dispute it?”
“Who cares for the things of the past,” cried a friend of Chunder. “The time has come for us to have done with the foreigner and with a Government that, to us, is Satanic!”
“You call the Government ‘Satanic’! Yet, it has protected the weak against the strong and brought your country out of darkness into light. It has given you education and freedom; it has improved your conditions of life and given you a large share in the work of administration. You are all nimuk haram.”
There was a murmur of indignation at the charge, though no argument was forthcoming to refute it. “We understand none of that talk,” cried a voice. “All we know is that we are no longer like bullocks to be driven at the plough. No longer are we going to submit to oppression, to be robbed and beaten and impoverished. We, ourselves, shall garner the riches of the land.”
“I see. You have been thoroughly misled by men whose profession it is to talk this sort of fool’s talk in the bazaars. And you haven’t the wisdom to know that there would be no riches for you to garner if the British ceased to rule the land. In the midst of carnage and bloodshed, when the devil is let loose, there will be no one to carry on the nation’s work, and production will cease. All security and peace will be destroyed—as in all revolutions—and, as in the case of another country, the people will starve. You, who have homes, will weep and regret the times of peace and plenty, which, in your rash ignorance, you flung away; many who have money hoarded and wealth in plenty will be dying for lack of food—and why? Because the lands will lie untilled, the shops will be empty, and trade will be ruined. Nor will there be any one to rule. Age-old enmities between religions will break out afresh, and if there is no powerful Government, no organised police force, and no army to restore peace—what then? You are all without brains to reason. How was it in the land two centuries ago, before the white man began to rule this country with its mixed peoples? Peace was often disturbed; justice was rare; property and human life were at the mercy of the oppressor. Look around you now! The smallest landowner can rely upon the law, which you despise, to uphold his rights and to have justice done. That which is yours, is your own; and none, not even the most powerful may deprive you of it. The justice that protects the weak against the strong, also punishes, heavily, those who abuse authority. What other Government in the world would have done more for you than the British Government, which you abuse? But you are like parrots repeating words you do not comprehend just because your crazy leaders tell you to. You do not understand what you want, and are ready to plunge your country into bloodshed and confusion, at the bidding of men who could not govern this land if they were put to it. Instead, they would fight among themselves, paralyse your trade, kill your industries, and fling you to the jackals. It is you who will be crushed in the end, suffer untold misery—you simple village people, who have no understanding of government and all that works for peace and prosperity in countries so divided in castes and creeds as this. And you will be crushed, not by the foreigner whom you treat with such ingratitude, but by your own countrymen and by the consequences of a bloody revolution. . . .”
Throughout this long speech, Chunder and his friends tried to distract Derek by interruptions and loud laughter, but the crowd being interested, he was permitted to speak on, gaining inspiration as he proceeded; and as he spoke in clear, commanding tones and with the fluency of a native, having lived in India in his childhood and having unusual linguistic gifts, he gripped his audience, who listened spellbound.
“Don’t heed him!” shouted one of Chunder’s friends violently. “He hopes by the lying pictures he draws, to win you to pay your rents.”
“Can’t you see that it is to his advantage to frighten you?” sneered Chunder, a sympathetic shout being raised by his adherents. “He wants his money, so he tells you things to turn your stomachs.”
“Hear the great moneylender talk!” said Derek, trying to re-light his pipe which had gone out during his harangue. “The unconscionable usurer who exacts from the poor and needy three times as much, in interest, as what he lends! Is he a friend of the people?—or a tiger waiting to pounce on the unfortunate he has driven into a corner, and tear him to pieces? Think of men like Chunder, given the power to rule the land! and who among you can hope for justice or mercy?” Derek’s eyes blazed at Chunder, and did not see the flutter of a white skirt in an opening of the mat wall of a hut some little distance from where he sat on horseback, raised above the heads of the people; nor was he aware that two pairs of eyes were anxiously watching him from the chinks. The two ladies were near enough for one of them to translate the gist of his address to the other, for they had arrived in time to hear him telling home-truths to the ignorant and uneducated villagers. “You, Chunder, would like to own my estates, wouldn’t you? so that, body and soul, the raiyats would be under your heel—slaves of your wishes. Now, we British people abhor slavery in any form, and worship freedom. For that, we have allowed vermin like you to crawl unharmed on the face of the earth, even though, like poisonous reptiles, you would kill us if you could. But we know how to stamp out our enemies when they become vicious. Therefore, you shall leave my property and not set foot in any part of it again. Whoever owes Chunder money, come forward and listen to me,” he called loudly; and the crowd pressed nearer, breaking down the bamboo barrier and surging round him—some hostile, others eager to hear what further he had to say. “Those who owe Chunder money may borrow from me and end their indebtedness to-day,” said Derek to those about him, who shouted out the offer with enthusiasm. “I am not a usurer, and you will pay me only bank interest; and this I do for you, that you may be free men!” With head held high, he challenged Chunder.
Chunder and his friends whispered together, scowling vengefully, while the multitude shouted hoarsely among themselves, criticising the Sahib’s proposal.
“It is a trap!” cried Chunder, loudly. “The Sahib is lying to you all, just to win your confidence. Don’t trust him. He is one of the hated foreigners.”
“He is a bold one to speak thus of Chunder, the moneylender, who is so rich and powerful!” exclaimed one of Chunder’s satellites. “Why tolerate his interference? He is alone, and rumour says, unarmed. Why be afraid? Thrash him, till he learns how to respect you better. Have him beaten with lathis till he is all but dead. Your men are here ready, at a word from you, to do your bidding.”
“This Sahib would turn me out? He would humiliate me?” screamed Chunder furiously. “Drag him from his saddle! Fling him to the ground! Beat him! Beat! beat I even if he should die!”
There was a rush of feet; the crowd swayed as though of two minds—blows were exchanged, sticks resounded as they met in air, and, for a moment, Derek thought his end had come. Yet he looked on apparently unmoved, one hand raised to command attention. Chunder’s party was intercepted by a party of villagers, and above the uproar was a shout of “Mar! mar!”10
Chunder, beside himself, goaded his men on; who, in their turn, tried to fight their way to reach the Sahib seated immovable in his saddle, his pipe between his teeth and a look of stern contempt in his eyes.
In the blacksmith’s hut, Dulcie was petrified with fear.
“Oh, Miss Annie! He will be killed! Oh, what can we do to save him?”
“We can do nothing,” said Miss Annie, restraining her from breaking away to expostulate with the mob. “But see! The men are actually fighting each other on his account. He will win them over yet. Oh, he is the bravest man I know!”
Just then a diversion occurred which had the effect of suddenly quieting the uproar. An old man was seen to force his way through the throng surging round Derek, shouting in shrill, piercing tones to compel attention.
It was Narain Singh. Breathlessly climbing a bamboo fence so as to raise himself above the heads of the crowd, he flung up one hand while he clung on with the other, and addressing himself to the crowd, cried in penetrating tones: “Stop, fools! are you without sense? Would you despise an offer so generous as that you have just received? Do you prefer to be bound in slavery to Chunder Babu, and ground into the dust of poverty by his usurious demands?—or will you seek deliverance through the Sahib who has ever been as a father and mother to you all? I, for one, touch his feet with gratitude for what he has done for me and mine! With such nominal interest as he names, shall you not save yourselves and your children?”
“You would have us pay our rents?” came from the crowd.
“Is not your rent less than the interest you pay to the moneylender, which you will be saved? Have you no honour among you, no notion of fair dealing?”
A babel arose in the throng as Chunder’s debtors calculated, aloud, their advantages under the Sahib’s proposal, or questioned his good faith.
“You fools!” again cried Narain. “Would you hesitate, seeing how you pay twice and thrice the principal, in interest? Year after year, this high rate of interest robs you of the money to pay back what you borrowed! But, by the Sahib’s offer, your debt is paid, and you are freed. With the Sahib as your creditor, you are safe from threats and penalties. And what of the interest? It is only a trifle compared with what the mahajuns and Kabulis exact. Instead of two annas in the rupee every month, it is barely two pice in the rupee every year!”
“Think it over,” Derek called in clear, penetrating tones. “My offer stands open for a week. I ask for no securities. You are my tenants and I have always found you straight in all your dealings.”
“How are we to know you will act up to your word? that it isn’t a trick to tie our hands and render us helpless?” asked a voice above the tumult of the crowd, who were now showing a tendency to waver. Chunder took the opportunity of the diversion, to beat a hasty retreat, fearing a possible attack on himself from the mob, the majority of whom could be counted as victims of his usury. His supporters also slunk away, realising the changed attitude of the villagers.
“How are you to know?” repeated Derek. “Has any man, here, ever found me fail to keep faith? Is there any among you who can say that Lang Sahib is not a man of his word?”
The challenge was unanswerable, and shouts of acclamation were raised in which could be distinguished the words: “Lang Sahib ki jai!”
“When must we pay our rents?” queried a cultivator humbly.
“Go to my office at the bungalow as usual, and take your receipts from the cashier, as always. As long as you remain my tenants you will pay. As for Chunder, I forbid you to deal, again, with him. When you are in trouble, come to me.”
“The Sahib has always been compassionate towards suffering!”
“To whom else should we go!”
“Let Chunder Babu show his face in this village, and he will receive the beating he richly deserves!”
“And that is what he feared, for see! he and his men have run away!”
Said Derek: “I want no one on my lands who is a danger to the peace of the community. A usurer is a robber; and a robber is a badmash. Therefore, is Chunder a badmash and all who consort with him. They are enemies to freedom, they and the agitators who would stir you up to be discontented and to hate the Government. For there will be no peace for you or for the country, once confusion and violence are brought about; nor will you know freedom or security, once the enemies of the British Government get the upper hand.”
As Derek ceased speaking, a young woman was seen pushing her way through the crowd, distractedly: “Let me go to the Sahib! Let me speak with him! He will tell me what to do. Make way quickly!” She struggled forward fiercely, intent on reaching Derek without loss of time, her face tragic in its anxiety.
The crowd pressing round him made way for her; and, reaching his stirrup, she flung herself on her knees and burst into tears, beating her forehead on the ground. “My child is sick! My little one is dying! You saved him once, from the deadly bite of a snake. Save him now, Sahib! I beseech you, come and tell what to do that his life may be saved!”
“It is the wife of Dhuna, the fisherman,” said one.
“The mother of Bakur,” said another.
“She, whose little one was bitten last season by a snake, and healed by the Sahib who happened to be in the village at the time. In his own arms, he carried the child to the forge and burnt the poison in the wound with a red-hot iron. It was a seeming cruelty, but it saved the child’s life, so what mattered the pain?”
“What is wrong?” asked Derek, stooping towards the weeping mother. “Is it Bakur, the little one I know?”
“The same, huzur. Daily, have I watched beside his bed while the fever has consumed his flesh and reduced him to bones with only skin covering them; and, daily, have I hoped to see the sweat pouring from him and the fever gone. But, to-day, nothing avails—not even the magic of the koberaj11 who has tried jharo,12: and now himself despairs. ‘It is as the gods will,’ he says. ‘Who can fight against fate?’ So I know my child will die this very day unless the Sahib will condescend to enter my house and bring good luck. Alas! five children did I lose in one sickness and another; am I now to give up the only one remaining?”
Derek dismounted immediately, his face full of compassion, and handed the reins to one of the many hands held out to take them. “I will come at once with you, but I am not God to save the dying. I can but do all I know for the good of the child. In the meantime, let someone ride my horse to Amabagh for the big doctor. Who can ride among you?”
“This one can,” said Durphukna who had discreetly appeared on the scene when there was no longer any fear of violence. He pointed out the tall youth, who, a moment since, had been on the side of Derek’s enemies. “He is the son of the Contractor and has learned to sit his father’s horse.”
“I will ride for the doctor, huzur,” said the youth in the friendliest of tones.
“Up with you,” said Derek, assisting him into the saddle, “and ride quickly to the Doctor Sahib saying I sent you. He will come in his motor car; bring him straight to the fisherman’s dwelling.”
“The Sahib is gracious!”
“The Sahib is full of pity for the sick,” was uttered around Derek as he next issued orders for a party to find Syed Khan and release him from his bonds.
“He is tied hand and foot to the post by the well, huzur,” said a raiyat with a grin. “It will do his proud spirit good to be, for a while, helpless and unable to do aught but abuse the ancestry of his enemies to the third and fourth generation!”
“Any ill-treatment of Syed Khan, my servant, will be punished by me,” said Derek sternly.
“He is unhurt, huzur. None wishes to injure him, for he is much beloved by all castes. But this morning it was Chunder’s order, and our mood was one of folly, which led us to obey him.”
Derek was led by the sorrowing mother down devious alley-ways to the hut of Dhuna, the fisherman, where little Bakur lay, as it seemed, at the point of death.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for a great deal!” said Miss Annie as she and Dulcie slipped out of the blacksmith’s forge and made their way to the spot where they had left the little automobile. “What do you make of it?”
“I agree that Mr. Lang is a very brave man,” said Dulcie with a catch in her breath, her eyes suffused with tears.
“More than that, my dear.” Miss Annie eyed her narrowly. “He is a born leader of men! A personality! If they had men like Derek Lang at the top, India would be splendidly governed. At least, that is, if Whitehall did not interfere. He has the soul of an Abraham Lincoln. To think what he faced just now! Had he shown the slightest sign of weakening, those natives would have killed him with Chunder, there, to egg them on.”
“I couldn’t have borne it much longer! “ said Dulcie.
“You could have done nothing. An infuriated mob is terrible to face.”
“It is a thousand pities—” said Dulcie as they entered the two-seater and started down the road. But she refrained from continuing. Two bright spots of colour in her cheeks, alone, bore witness to her embarrassment at her unspoken thought.
“What is a ‘thousand pities’?”
After some pressing, Dulcie went on with downcast eyes and trembling lip: “It is a thousand pities that such a man should have stooped to such a sordid act as the undoing of a defenceless young native woman.”
“You mean Sukie.”
Dulcie nodded, and Miss Annie was silent for a while. She was disposed, rather to hold a brief for Derek than to condemn him as befitted her missionary character.
In the meantime, Derek sat in the fisherman’s hut revolutionising the treatment which the little patient had received for his unbroken fever. Outside, a very wrathful Pathan, released from his bonds, vowed vengeance on Chunder and his sycophants while the villagers gathered round listening and chattering.
“He is a bad man, and why the people listen to him, is beyond understanding!” said an old hag. “And to think that, only a while since, they were threatening the Sahib—one who is ever ready to help the poor and suffering. Tobah! tobah!”13
“How fearlessly he sat his horse with nothing in his hand but his whip which could injure no one; and they with their lathis, and field implements. Ai khoda!” said an eyewitness of the demonstration in the market-place. “And he giving so much money, too, for the rescue of the people from the hawk, Chunder! Those are, indeed, nimak haram who were ready to tear him from his horse and beat him to death! Now see him seated in the fisherman’s dwelling, feeding the sick child, spoon by spoon, with milk!”
Whereupon, some inquisitive faces peeped round the doorway to verify the statement, and among them Syed Khan’s with admiration and devotion stamped upon it.
“That’s a Sahib, indeed!” he said with a gulp. “If they had injured a hair of his head, with these two hands would I have taken the lives of Chunder and his man, that arch badmash, Bhutna Singh.” He had forgotten that his two hands had been bound, and that he, himself, had been trussed up to await and share his master’s fate.
Within the hut, Derek fed the little sufferer on milk, in defiance of the village koberaj who had eliminated it from the patient’s diet. By close questioning, he discovered Bakur had not been fed for many days. Milk being taboo, there was nothing else but rice-water, which he rejected; or boiled rice which he was too ill to digest. “Alas!” sobbed the mother, “without food, how can the strongest live? And this one so frail and weak! See, his fingers are like matches, his cheeks have fallen in.”
Derek tended the inert form with the gentleness of a woman, and his words of encouragement and hope were as balm to the parents’ fears. The fisherman could not do enough to show his appreciation, and ran errands to the bazaar at the Sahib’s bidding. “Even as he would do for his own, is he doing for my son,” he told those of his friends he met in the street.
“Don’t we know? Have we forgotten all he did for us in the Great Sickness, not so long ago?” said one to another.
When the fisherman returned with the barley procured at Derek’s order, he was next instructed in the preparation of barley-water for the dilution of the milk which was to be given to the sick child at stated intervals. In the meantime, warm water was prepared, and the patient sponged from head to foot. As he had not been bathed for many days and the pores of his skin were choked with mustard oil, the relief was immediate and undoubted; for he opened his eyes, sighed and stretched, and, soon afterwards, fell into a deep and natural sleep.
“It is wonderful!” exclaimed the women of the household, weeping with sympathetic joy at the change. “Already, he is better! For days he has lain still with eyes shut, muttering in unconsciousness; and now, behold, he looks about him for his mother!”
“Don’t be afraid of water on the body when the fever is strong,” said Derek to the mother. “Fever is like a furnace consuming your child’s blood, so the application of tepid water to the body is good, and quenches the great heat. But always see that you dry him thoroughly, and cover him after.”
“Dost feel better, my heart’s precious?” the woman asked her child. “See—it is the Sahib who has, out of his great sympathy, come to make you well. He has the wisdom of the gods, and even now has given you comfort. Is it not so, my own?”
But Bakur had fallen asleep.
“Let him sleep,” said Derek. “Natural sleep is, of itself, healing.”
“Sahib,” the mother cried emotionally, “for this great act of mercy, I place myself under your feet. I will make vows and lay my head in the dust! May none do you harm—may your enemies perish!” A delicate reference to the late disaffection among the tenants.
It was late in the afternoon when the Doctor arrived in his powerful car and confirmed Derek’s treatment of the case; after which, he and Derek left together in the car, the latter undertaking to have his friend’s prescription made up at the bungalow where there was a room fitted up as a dispensary under the care of a civil hospital assistant.
“Another day, and I have no doubt that the kid would have died of exhaustion,” said the civil surgeon. “They starve a fever in right earnest till the patient has no strength left with which to fight it. In these cases of remittent fever, or typhoid, they don’t get a dog’s chance to pull through.”
Derek entertained Dr. Freeman at afternoon tea with an account of the excitement in the market-place, and how it was brought to an end. “The finish was typical of the temper of Indian crowds,” said he, “swayed by every wind that blows. Their grievances have no real substance, and are dissipated the moment you are able to play upon their self-interest.”
“But you stand to lose a lot of money over this?”
“I should have lost a good deal more had they stuck out over my rents, and, possibly, lost my life into the bargain. It is all a great game, and I enjoy playing to win. My chief weapons are self-respect, determination, and a sympathetic understanding. They never fail to score in the end.”
“Do you think you will get any of your money back from the rascals, or any gratitude?”
“I rarely look for gratitude, and sometimes am surprised by the wealth of it that is poured out on me, gratuitously. As for the money—the Indian is a good fellow in the matter of paying his debts. Without a scrap of paper, these raiyats and villagers hold themselves bound, and pay up to the last pice what has been borrowed, interest and all. Which is more than can be said of many a white man. It will be a relief to them all to be quit of Chunder who was squeezing them dry; and, incidentally, I have made friends of my own tenants for life, or I am much mistaken.”
“I have been wondering a good deal if it is safe for a man in your circumstances to marry,” said the Doctor. “I take it, you will be thinking of it, some time. It seems a risk to have a girl out here, at the mercy of these devils should they cut up rough.” The Doctor thought to penetrate Derek’s reserve on the subject of Dulcie Durand, with whose name station gossip coupled his; for he felt somewhat concerned at the evidence of a breach between them, if that breach was responsible for his friend’s retirement from social life.
“It is less of a risk in my case than you think. However, were there any prospect of my marrying—which there isn’t—I might then think it worth my while, if things were to become worse, to make this property over to the agents who had charge of it before, and take my wife out of it all. Risks I might enjoy alone, would be an intolerable anxiety if I were married, and to ask a woman to share them would be rank selfishness.”
Before the Doctor left, he brought up the subject of little Joseph at the Mission, who was rarely mentioned between them.
“What is going to become of that kid of Slack’s, by the way? I hear that the mother has been up before a magistrate for an order to have him restored to her guardianship. Will the missionaries care to give him up? It seems hard on them, and on the youngster, too.”
“I refuse to meddle,” said Derek. “I think I have done quite enough for Slack to last me the rest of my life.”
“You were a quixotic fool, Derek. A damned extra special brand of one. Why don’t you clear yourself of that scandal? The fellow is dead and beyond the consequences of his rotten conduct.”
“His wife lives; and there are many who would be officious enough to tell her.”
“It is time she knew. Why should you make a scapegoat of yourself?”
“It’s done now, and she’s a lot happier for it, poor soul! Anyhow, I’m in the mood to stand by my act even though it’s giving me hell.”
“Utter folly. Society believes that the kid is yours, and I would, too, but for what you have told me.”
“And why do you believe my story? I might be a liar.”
The Doctor smiled. “I flatter myself that I have some acquaintance with human nature, and a fairly deep insight into yours, old man. You are just the sort of chivalrous fool to save another man’s reputation at the expense of your own.”
“Not under all circumstances. In this case, Mrs. Slack was a woman I respected highly. She was far superior to him, yet loved him devotedly, and the queer part of it was, that he, too, cared a lot for her—only he was incapable of fidelity; which, of course, she never knew. When that happened, and it meant disillusionment and life-long unhappiness for her—the parting of the ways for them both—he threw himself on my mercy—and—and—there seemed nothing else to do. I stepped into the breach, having nothing to lose that mattered. We men don’t pay the piper to society as women do. So I took on the burden of Slack’s crime—it was little short of one, as things turned out—and left the country to join up. I did not know a child was expected!”
“That would have made no difference to you at the time.”
“I suppose not—still, one never knows!”
“The kid is the living image of his father. I’m surprised that those who knew Slack can doubt the child’s parentage. It would be quite enough to convince Mrs. Slack.”
“Did you know Slack?”
“I saw a photograph of him at Mrs. Macmaster’s.”
“When I returned from the war, the Mission nailed me in the matter of my ‘obligations,’ and there it is! Mrs. Slack is at home doing homage to her husband’s memory, while I haven’t a shadow of proof, even if I wanted it, with which to clear myself. My taking on the support of the kid is, literally, a case of burning my boats.”
“The woman might speak.”
“She is of the sort to say anything you wished for a bribe; so her word wouldn’t count for much.”
“I should think the child’s looks would be enough to give the show away.”
“Probably, if attention were drawn to the fact. Only, people are not really observant. The tale is accepted, and there is evidently nothing more to be said.
“So, for this, Dulcie Durand has thrown you over?” Freeman asked. He had guessed as much.
“We had it out, and I denied the responsibility of Joseph; but she as good as told me not to make matters worse by lying! Don’t let us talk of this again; it’s not a pleasant memory.”
The Doctor, studying his friend, could now account for the jaded lines lately showing on his face; the look of hopelessness in his young eyes, his wasted contours, and general air of listlessness.
“That girl’s a rotter,” said he. “She was frightfully keen on you and could allow a thing of this sort to part you!”
“It was because she was honestly keen that a thing of this sort has knocked the bottom out of her respect for me. For a girl of her purity and sincerity, it’s a big thing to be disillusioned. I have disappointed her ideals!” he answered bitterly.
“Ideals be damned. No true woman lets her ideals interfere with her heart, take it from me.”
“You are confounding her with women of the world. Dulcie is little more than a child—a beautiful soul—a nature unsullied. To her, a man, such as she now believes me, is a moral leper.”
“Bosh!” cried the Doctor, testily, as he rose and prepared to take his leave. “What’s she at the Mission for? Seems funny she elects to remain out here, and in such discomfort, when she might go home to life and luxury!”
“Don’t run away with the idea that it’s on my account. Her father has married again, and she is not too fond of her stepmother. Moreover, her position at home will not be the same. You can account for her striking out on independent lines, and the Mission, with American ladies running it, appealed to her as a little bit of home.”
“I suppose you, sometimes, catch a glimpse of the missionaries through your telescope?” asked the Doctor, mischievously, his eyes on a pocket telescope that had seen service in France.
Derek coloured, and pocketed the telescope.
“There is nothing in common between the missionaries and myself. The old Pastor has an occasional cigar with me, but, latterly, I have displeased him by refusing to do anything further in regard to saving Joseph from his mother, so relations will, I dare say, be strained.”
“Well, good luck to you! This is a queer world, and women are unaccountable creatures. It is true that one need never despair.”
“Though I love Miss Durand deeply, I shall not grovel at her feet, Doc, nor take any steps to prove myself innocent.”
“Proud as Lucifer! She called you a liar—that finishes it.”
Derek, unconsciously, straightened his back and threw up his chin, which caused his friend to laugh affectionately, and lay a hand, lingeringly, on his shoulder.
“The things we say when we are angry! I’ll go bail she sheds tears of remorse every time she recalls that moment. The pity of it!”
With that he left, and Derek escorted him to his car, after which he returned to his chair feeling unutterably lonely.
The plan for the rescue of little Joseph was delayed for a few days owing to Dulcie’s temporary break-down following upon her exciting visit to Gumori village. Miss Annie could make nothing of her state, so called it “nervous prostration;” for the girl lay in bed wide-eyed and sleepless, her face turned to the wall, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she could be induced to swallow nourishment.
“I feel as if food will choke me,” was her plaint.
“Nothing but hysteria, my dear,” the downright Miss Annie said, not unsympathetically. “And it’s no wonder, seeing that you had to look on while a man you once thought the world of was on the point of being torn in pieces by a frantic mob.”
“I cannot forget it! It is stamped on my brain,” and Dulcie shuddered.
“But, of course, now that you don’t love him any more,” Miss Annie continued with mischief lurking in her eye, “you will pull yourself together and carry on. Tell yourself that he is nothing to you, and you’ll come to believe it.”
“I do,” said Dulcie pathetically, but——” she sighed heavily.
“It’s a pity, isn’t it, that the heart does not always obey the head?”
“I wonder how long it takes to conquer one’s weakness?”
“A life-time, in some cases,” said Miss Annie, growing reminiscent. “But just you take a header into the sea of Charity. Work hard for others. Do good to others, and it is wonderful how soon you will be able to build up a wall round your private trouble that will shut it out of sight. It will be there always, but will cease to obtrude itself.”
“Have you built such a wall, Miss Annie?” Dulcie asked wistfully.
“Very long ago.”
“How brave of you! I am afraid I am not at all brave. Sometimes, I imagine I would rather die than carry on in the dull way we have here. Forgive me! I am not discontented, only, I think I am spoiled utterly. I keep longing for the happiness I have lost and which, perhaps, by stretching out my hand, I can find again. But something tells me that it will never be the same. It cannot be what it was! Love is not love without respect!” she said with a sob.
“Half-loaves are better than no bread, Dulcie.”
“It is not a case of ‘half-loaves!’ If you have tasted bread, a stone will not satisfy you!” Dulcie burst into tears, and Miss Annie stroked her hair. “It is so horrible and sordid! So degrading! It would never be the same again!”
“So you won’t stretch out your hand?”
“No! Never, never! I will fight through and win. Perhaps hard work will teach me to forget. Give me loads of work, Miss Annie.”
“When you feel like getting up, we’ll see what we can do.”
A few days later, Dulcie pulled herself together, and was about to take up her duties again in earnest, when Sukie threw her bomb into the Mission in the shape of a letter to the Pastor, written by a bazaar writer in typical bazaar English, as follows:—
To Rev. Pastor of Amabagh Mission.
Honoured Sir,—It is my duty to inform to your Worship that the Courts have this day duly awarded me injuncshun on said Mission for recovery of my son what the Christians have named ‘Joseph.’
Re same: I will make application for possession one weak from this date, being unable to call earlier as I have been brought to bed of a temporaneous chill in stomach.
Trusting it will be convenient to your Honour to hand over said offspring on said date.—I remain, yours obediently,
Sukie.
Under her name, Sukie had made her mark.
This missive was duly delivered by the post and read at the breakfast table by the Pastor himself, and then handed round to the ladies in turn, who read it in silent consternation. At last the matron, Miss Leech, spoke in patient desperation:
“To think that Mr. Macmaster will go to church on Sunday, and read the lessons!”
The Pastor’s fist descended, unexpectedly, on the table, rattling the cruets and glasses. “I shall disobey that unnatural injunction! I shall not give Joseph up to paganism. We must find a way to get him home to the States. It is a crying scandal,” he cried emotionally, “that Christian men of authority in this land, should not use their privileges for the glorification of the Almighty!”
“It is on a par,” put in Miss Mitcham, “with their protection of heathen places of worship, and their consideration for religions which mock at Christianity!”
“To say nothing of treating with respect those unholy pagan festivals!” grunted Miss Leech.
“Here we have a ‘brand snatched from the burning,’” continued the Pastor, “and they would have us fling it back into the fire to perish. Can you think of Joseph as a bazaar urchin? That deplorable spectacle of begrimed nudity, familiar to us all, rolling in the dust with others of his age, lost to the fold? Our teachings forgotten, learning vulgar habits, and, though possessing English blood in his veins, calling Bengali his mother-tongue! It breaks my heart!”
“But it is his mother-tongue,” said Miss Annie. “I object to losing him, on the ground that his mother has forfeited her right to him. She is not fit to be the guardian of the child for he is, now, Anglicised and ought not to be abandoned to the conditions she lives in! They can surely see that?”
“They care for nothing but to please the Indians at all costs,” groaned the Pastor. “I enjoin you, dear ladies, to unite in prayer for the rescue of Joseph from perdition. The Lord is strong to find a way by which the law and Joseph’s pagan mother may be rendered powerless to work his undoing.”
Miss Annie, however, made direct for Dulcie, who was late in rising that morning, with the idea of again putting the case to her.
“I hope you don’t mind my bursting in on you in this unceremonious way,” she said with suppressed excitement. “The fact is . . .” and she related the circumstances of the injunction with tragic vigour.
“And now,” she said despairingly, “Joseph will have to be made over to that abandoned creature and lose his soul!”
“How wicked!” cried Dulcie, appalled.
“The only thing we can do, now, is for you not to mind the humiliation of pleading with Mr. Lang personally. I have great hopes of your success—particularly, if you go alone.” In her heart of hearts, Miss Annie hoped, also, that a better understanding would come about between the lovers by a tête-à-tête meeting, so was determined not to accompany her. “He will never refuse you anything, Dulcie.”
“Oh, Miss Annie! Anything but that! I don’t believe I could stand such an ordeal!”
“Oh, yes, you can. You never know what you can do till you try. After all, you are going on our behalf; he cannot but respect your mission.”
“But to plead for Joseph! How can I look him in the face and speak to him of—Joseph!” Dulcie’s cheeks were already scarlet and tears moistened her luminous eyes.
“It’s awkward, I know. But he will forgive everything if you are only tactful. Tact is everything—and don’t be too hard on him, Dulcie. If you manage it all right, he will, I know, do anything in the world to please you.”
“When shall I go?” Dulcie asked desperately.
“When you are dressed. You might just catch him before the luncheon hour. He is, generally, in from his morning ride before the sun gets too hot for the dogs and horses, so we hear.”
So Dulcie swallowed her reluctance and dressed a trifle more carefully than usual, her heart beating violently the while. Some time between breakfast and lunch, Dulcie guided her little car towards Panchbusti and the bungalow among the pipal and tamarind trees, wondering what Derek would think of her for coming to him on such an errand when she had no longer any excuse to approach him at all. At all events, he must not imagine for a moment that she was carrying the “olive branch,” and was desirous of reviving the old understanding. Her pride would not stand that!
Her cheeks burned with shame and embarrassment and with the memory of their parting scene when she had said such cruel words to him in her anger. She was far from angry now; but her determination was unchanged. She could never be the wife of a man, however deeply she loved him, whose past held so much that was unclean. To think of him was to visualise Sukie, the girl she believed he had wantonly bought for his lust; and, whom, after she had borne him a son, he had abandoned to a life of degradation. This dwarfed, in her imagination, that other act of viciousness—bad enough in itself—for she was willing to believe, in the light of his letter to Mrs. Macmaster, that his intrigue with the latter had not gone too far. He had had the grace to break away to fight for his country. Besides, Mrs. Macmaster was in love with him and, Dulcie did not doubt, had tempted him as only an attractive and unscrupulous woman can.
The “morning glory” was still in blossom on the fences that enclosed the bungalow garden; the hedges and shrubberies were as she had seen them last—ablaze with colour; and she was reminded of her tour round the grounds on the black mare, Lady, with Derek to tell her all he had done and was doing for the improvement of the place. The bungalow, large and spacious, with its pillared front and encircling verandahs, looked too big, she thought, for its solitary owner. He had sought to have her reign there as its mistress, and, now,—a pang shot through her heart, startling in its severity, as she realised the bitterness of the present as compared with the radiant promise of a few short weeks ago. She had shared whatever of pain she had dealt out to him, and was suffering at the moment, quite indescribably, while recalling the morning that she had spent with him, when he had caught her in his arms in the shelter of the bamboos and kissed her, passionately, crying: “What are you going to do with me? I love you so!”
Dulcie blinked away the sudden tears and bent forward to call a semi-nude garden coolie to her.
“Your Sahib?” she asked with no command of the language.
The man said something in reply and pointed within.
With some difficulty, she made him understand what she wanted, and the man retired to tell his Sahib that a lady from the Mission had called and was waiting at the gate.
For a few moments she was panic-stricken as she wondered whether Derek would imagine, when he caught sight of her, that she had called to make up the quarrel; and whether, in his heart, he would despise her for taking the initiative. The thought froze her, and made her want to flee from the spot before he could come out to ask what had brought her there. But Joseph’s case was urgent, and, whatever happened, she must stay to plead for his rescue. Besides, Derek was too modest to jump to any conclusions flattering to himself.
For all that, she forced herself to assume an air of formality and aloofness such as any stranger might wear, who had come on a purely business errand.
Derek, believing Miss Annie had called in Dulcie’s car for a subscription, or for the purpose of seconding the Pastor’s appeal on behalf of Joseph, was considerably shaken as he approached the gate, to see that it was Dulcie who was the visitor. He could see that she had called in no mood of conciliation, and, rightly, leapt to the conclusion that the missionaries were using her in the cause of Joseph.
“Good morning,” said he, stiffly, standing a few paces from the car. “You asked to see me?” How maddeningly familiar was every line of her sweet face! How alluring the curves of her mouth as she bent forward to reply.
“Good morning,” avoiding the use of his name. “I hope you will forgive me for disturbing you, and, also, for calling on a matter so disagreeable to you . . .?” She could not but notice how thin and tired he looked. With no one to look after him, he was probably eating next to nothing, and neglecting his health woefully. Someone should tell the Doctor to keep an eye on him.
“They have sent you to speak about the child, Joseph?” he asked coldly.
“It’s—it’s very urgent,” she said, breathlessly, her colour coming and going. “The Pastor is in despair—the courts have ordered the—the surrender of the child to—to his mother!”
“Why not? He is her child. A mother has every right to bring up her own son.”
“Oh, how can you speak like that!” she cried reproachfully, forgetting, in her concern, her resolve to be entirely distant with him. “Have you no feeling? No personal interest?” Her eyes met his in direct questioning and grieved astonishment.
“None at all,” said he in resentment at a situation so impossible. “A man of my type is altogether impervious to weak sentiment—don’t you know that? It is no concern of mine if the child is brought up a Hindu or a Christian. Why shouldn’t his mother have him, if she cares enough to want him?”
“But, surely, such a mother! A father has some right—to care—for the moral welfare of his son!” Dulcie cried, her eyes lowered beneath the bitter cynicism of his.
“Unfortunately, his father is dead—but, I forgot. You once called me a liar when I said something of the sort.” His eyes glinted.
Dulcie looked timidly at him. She had never known him in this mood, and the beating of her heart so confused her that she was unable to take in the meaning of his remark. She could only recall how passionately she had accused him of lying when he had denied being Joseph’s father. For the moment, she wondered if Derek had ever doubted Sukie’s faithfulness to him, and whether he had reason to believe she had played him false. That she had called him a liar, it was evident he would never forget. She had certainly accused him of lying, but that was his own fault, for, at least, he did not deny that Joseph’s mother had been his mistress.
She felt confused, embarrassed and ashamed. “I should have had more self-control,” she murmured. “Papa always said I allowed my tongue to run away with me when I was angry.”
“You think your anger was just?” To cover his rising emotion, he spoke with almost cutting contempt.
“Wasn’t it?” she replied desperately. “But it isn’t to talk of that, that I have come. We are all so troubled at the Mission. We cannot contemplate giving up Joseph, a Christian child, to his native mother, who is a Hindu . . . and especially as—he is—really Eurasian. He would be out of place in native bazaars—surely you see that?” (impatiently). “And you can do so much if you will.”
“What can I do?” he asked, folding his arms on his chest and gazing across the fields in his strong effort at self-control.
“Oh, if you only would,” she said, dropping her voice and sounding more confidential. “You see,” she gasped in anxious embarrassment lest she should bungle her mission, “the Pastor wants the child taken away quite secretly, and does not want to know where he is placed, for they are sure to question him—the police, I mean. It is against his principles to tell an untruth. He cannot, justly, say he does not know where Joseph is to be found unless he really doesn’t know. So if only you can have the child carried off and sent to people you know in Calcutta till you can make him over to missionaries who are leaving shortly for America, Joseph will be safe. The police cannot hold the Mission responsible if they know nothing—and they will never dream that you interfered, particularly as you have always shown no personal interest in Joseph. Don’t you think you can do this—Mr. Lang?”
Derek started perceptibly. “Mr. Lang “ struck him like a blow in the face, and the blood rushed upward to meet it.
“Have you any idea that you are asking me to do a criminal act?” he asked sternly.
“Surely, seeing who the child is, you would be justified in—in kidnapping him?” came deprecatingly.
The phrase was, unfortunately, ill-chosen. “As I prefer to see the mother’s natural feelings gratified, I am justified in refusing, outright, to meddle in the matter,” he replied cuttingly, looking as if he would find it the greatest pleasure in life to give her a shaking.
His voice and manner both offended her outrageously, and she drew herself up. “If you refuse to help us, I can only say that I am sorry to have so needlessly occupied your valuable time.”
“Please don’t mention it,” came through half-closed lips. Dulcie felt inwardly furious with herself. She had bungled her mission in right earnest, though how, and why, she could not tell as she fumbled with the starting plug, longing to get away and hide her miserable head. Derek’s scornful eyes, his cold tones, were more than she could bear; and in that moment she realised how, at their last meeting, her anger and humiliating language must have cut him to the heart, breaking up the happiness of a most perfect understanding. It was his turn now, and she could not complain.
“Good-bye,” said she, through trembling lips.
“Good-bye,” said he, longing to kiss them.
Motors, however, are unaccountable things. For no assignable reason, the machine refused to start. The more Dulcie tried, the warmer she grew and the more distressed. It would have been so much more dignified if the car could have glided away leaving him standing with angry face and folded arms, in the middle of the roadway.
“Can I help you?” he asked, without moving.
“I dare say it will be all right in a moment,” she replied with palpitating heart.
But the feat of starting the unwilling motor was beyond her. Unfortunately, the workshop at the Mission had relieved her of the necessity of learning the mechanism of her automobile. Such being the case, there was nothing to do but to humiliate herself still further to the enemy—for such, at the moment, did he appear to her. Two eyes, therefore, looked towards Derek with the pathetic expression he had never been able to resist; so, after that, there was nothing for her to do, but to sit back while he tinkered with something inside the bonnet.
“I would like you to tell the Pastor from me,” said Derek’s voice from under the lid, “that I advise him strongly to leave the matter of Joseph to Providence, and not to mix himself up with the law; for it is a relentless machine that has only one function, and that is, to administer justice. Providence, being merciful as well as just, and the Pastor a righteous man, his prayers might avail much in finding another way out.”
“Then you are determined to do nothing?”
“I have a great respect for the law and none at all for a thief. Not even to save Joseph’s immortal soul shall I commit theft.”
“But, surely, to run away with him for his future good isn’t theft!”
“You might give it any other name you like.”
How hatefully he was behaving! Dulcie could have stamped her foot with helpless rage and beaten him. Being unable to do either, she wanted to cry, and only saved herself by concentrating her mind on the breakdown of the machine. If it would only start and get away! But Derek seemed in no hurry. A long silence ensued while he busied himself with the magneto.
“Do you find things comfortable at the Mission?” he asked, awkwardly, his face entirely invisible.
“Much better than I had expected at first, thank you,” she replied shortly.
“How’s that?” in casual tones.
“Things have begun to improve. There are now more comforts, for one thing; and I am beginning to find the work interesting.”
“You must miss a great many of the luxuries to which you are accustomed? For instance, they are rather Spartan in their habits—drink any old sort of warm water, and haven’t the foggiest idea how to live comfortably.”
“Oh, but you are quite mistaken! They have the most perfectly filtered water—and ice, twice a week. We have the very best of beds, and everything is very nice.” She did not think it necessary to add that the articles mentioned had been sent to the Mission, only lately, by an anonymous donor. “Do you think the machine is ever likely to start?” she broke off to ask, “for if it is likely to delay me much longer, I shall walk back and send coolies to wheel it home.”
“That would not be necessary. My car is at your disposal if you are pressed for time. But yours will be all right in a minute.
“I have been wondering if—you would care to do me a slight service!” he asked still more awkwardly. “The black mare is getting no exercise and wants it badly. I thought, if you did not mind, I would send her over to the Mission every morning for you to ride. . . . She’ll be quite spoilt if not ridden regularly “
“Thank you so much,” said Dulcie, distantly. “You are too kind, but why don’t you ride her yourself?”
“I am afraid she is not up to my weight.”
“I am afraid I have very little time in the mornings, now that I am learning a vernacular. Thanks, all the same.” Dulcie suffered a pang of regret at having to refuse, but she was determined not to lay herself under any obligation to Derek Lang. His refusal to “meddle” in the matter of Joseph was humiliating and she felt very indignant and sore. Therefore, much as she loved riding the black mare, she gave Derek an unqualified refusal.
“Quite sure you can’t make use of her?” said he shortly.
“Quite.”
“There—that’s finished. You will now have no difficulty in starting,” he said, straightening himself and letting down the cover.
With a bow and a murmured acknowledgment of his trouble, Dulcie drove swiftly away, desperately sorry for having consented to carry out Miss Annie’s idea of enlisting Derek’s co-operation.
Dulcie being a very human young woman with plenty of spirit which often led her into impetuous and unwise conduct, her feeling on coming away from Panchbusti was an overwhelming desire to punish Derek for his treatment of her at his garden gate. At the back of her mind had been an idea that the love he had borne her would have made it impossible for him to refuse any request she made, however unreasonable. This idea had been encouraged by Miss Annie’s assurance that they had no doubt of the result of her intercession with Mr. Lang on Joseph’s behalf. But Derek had surprised her, not a little, by his uncompromising attitude towards the scheme; and still more so, by the inflexible line he took in answer to her pleading. She felt mortified, humbled, and, in consequence, resentful. In novels, the case of the disappointed lover was usually very differently depicted. But then, Derek Lang was unlike most men. Certainly she had never known anyone like him. It hurt bitterly to feel how quickly he had recovered from the blow of that parting.
It was now due to herself—her pride, dignity, and self-respect—to let him see that she was in no wise less strong-minded than he.
She would never forget the dreadful sense of failure which went with her as she drove back to the Mission; nor the humiliation of confessing to the Mission ladies that Mr. Lang had remained immovable in spite of her arguments. Miss Mitcham wept; Miss Annie raved. Miss Leech alone was the philosopher.
“I can’t see that there is anything more to be done,” said she dejectedly. “If the woman has the law with her, sooner or later we would have to give in. It is a crying shame—a crime to give Joseph up to such a mother, and such a life—but it has to be done, so why upset ourselves about it?”
“I would sooner see him dead!” from Miss Annie.
“The poor little lamb! After he leaves us, we might meet him any day, playing about with the chokras in the bazaar roads, in a state of nature, decorated with a string and a bunch of cowries!” sobbed Miss Mitcham. “He will learn filthy ways, tell lies, cheat and swear. I see no hope of Joseph growing up a decent, self-respecting youth. His end will be perdition!”
“He will forget all his prayers, and will learn to fear and propitiate Kali and those monstrosities in stone with a pack of arms and folded legs, which you see carried about in Hindu festivals!” groaned Miss Annie. “I could—I—I really could beat Derek Lang, though I have always admired him so!”
"If Dulcie cannot move him, what hope is there?” sighed Miss Leech. “May God protect the poor babe!”
“He didn’t seem the same, somehow,” said Dulcie in self-defence. “I felt out of touch—but that is only to be expected, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so!” said Miss Mitcham, wiping her eyes. “The poor, dear Pastor will break up over this. He had set his heart on your influencing Mr. Lang.”
Dulcie slipped away to attend to one of her simple duties in the school, and came upon Joseph in the playground, astride a stout bamboo which served him as a mettlesome steed, while half a dozen boys about his own age or younger, ran on all fours around him, emitting joyous barks.
“What are you playing?” she asked kindly of the rider.
“Me Lang Sahib on gee-gee,” said Joseph. “Me hunting jackals.” During the cold weather, those in the Mission compound used frequently to see Derek Lang, on horse-back, riding over the fields with the dogs in attendance.
Dulcie smiled sorrowfully and passed on, thinking of the misfortune clouding Joseph’s future. For the second time, his likeness to a face she had seen and could not place, piqued her memory. He was nothing like his mother, and she could trace no resemblance to Derek, however slight. Neither in colouring nor features was he, in the least, like his supposed father, which seemed rather strange. Derek’s forehead was high; Joseph’s low, with the hair growing in a peak. His jaw receded, whereas Derek’s was square and firmly moulded. The child had a protruding upper jaw, supposed to have been pushed forward by the habit of sucking his thumb; Derek’s was an attractive feature for its strength and shapeliness. Derek’s eyes were set deep; Joseph’s were slightly prominent. So Dulcie decided that Joseph’s lack of resemblance to his natural parents was a freak of nature, unaccountable, but not unprecedented.
Derek’s unpardonable behaviour, his galling treatment of herself, preyed so on her mind, that she sought a means of reprisal through Tony Vincent who was ever at her disposal. She therefore drove that afternoon to the Club and was specially charming to the young Assistant Magistrate.
Fortunately, Derek was not there to be pained by the sight or she might, in truly feminine fashion, have been led into regrettable folly. As it was, she schemed for an invitation from Vincent to ride out with him of a morning; and found it only too easy to obtain his enthusiastic response. He had delightful polo ponies and she was offered the pick of his stable.
Dulcie left the choice to him, thrilled that Derek should see her riding Vincent’s pony immediately after her refusal to use his black mare; for Vincent would call for her at the Mission, and in the course of the ride she was almost certain to meet Derek, seeing that the greater part of the countryside in that direction was owned by him.
She was too deeply concerned in her desire to vindicate her heart where Derek was concerned, to give a thought to the false hopes she would be raising in Tony’s mind by her open encouragement of him.
That afternoon, Dulcie lost all her popularity with the girls at Amabagh, who considered her nothing but a wanton flirt.
“She is absolutely heartless!” they told each other. “Not content with playing with Derek Lang’s affections, so as to make him blind and indifferent to anyone else, now that she has no longer any use for him, she has started on Tony Vincent! Watch the soft looks she gives him.”
“She has that way with everybody,” said Mrs. Coates. “Men and women alike.”
“It’s the way of a born coquette,” said the wife of the District Judge.
“She is very fascinating.”
“Oh, mother! You never see anything wrong in Dulcie Durand!” snapped Molly.
“That boy is clearly gone on her,” said one of the ladies. “Perhaps it’s business this time.”
“I wish she’d take him, or go back to America,” said Molly. “It is only a whim that keeps her at the Mission. She doesn’t do any real work, but only plays at being a missionary. It’s pretty mean, if she doesn’t intend to marry out here, to turn the fellows’ heads in the way she is doing. Dog-in-the-mangerish, I call it.”
“Mrs. Macmaster says American girls are all most attractive to men, and I’m beginning to believe it true.”
“It’s their unaffectedness,” said Mrs. Coates with a disapproving glance at the powder on Molly’s nose. “Dulcie Durand never seems to trouble about her appearance. She relies entirely on her power to please, amuse, entertain. She has plenty to say and it is always free from malice. She is a very sweet girl and I am not surprised that the boys all find her delightful.”
“Her clothes have a lot to do with it. Dulcie dresses expensively; her frocks are from Paris and cost pounds and pounds!”
“She can afford it, I dare say,” said one.
“I don’t blame her!” said another. “If I had the money I should love to dress like that—so simply and yet so exquisitely.”
Tony Vincent was at the Mission at the appointed hour the following morning, with a pony for Dulcie, and the ride was an agreeable break in the monotony of her days, and would have proved an unqualified success, but for her own unaccountable mood. Though everything went according to plan, she failed to derive the satisfaction she had expected from her revenge. The day was cool, the ponies fresh and full of life, Tony the best of companions; and she knew she rode gracefully; yet, she returned home in the deepest depression.
They had come face to face with Derek Lang as they turned out of a narrow lane in Gumori village in front of the cloth merchant’s shop where, lately, she had stalled her car under critical circumstances, impossible to forget. He was on foot discussing business with a local contractor and as the way was narrow and cramped, he had to stand aside to allow Dulcie and Tony to pass.
“Hello! It’s Mr. Lang,” cried Tony Vincent, genially, to cover his embarrassment, for, somehow, he felt uncomfortable, knowing how matters stood between his companion and the friend he could not help liking. “Good morning! We are trying to find a short cut home, and believe it’s through here?”
“Quite right,” said Derek in a voice hardly like his own. “At the end of this road you will find a cart track over the fields. Follow it till you come to a tank, then bear to the right, and you can’t miss the high road.” He raised his hat and turned aside.
“Thanks awfully. I have not been long enough in the district to know the geography of it.”
For the rest of the way, Dulcie’s cheeks were aflame, and shame seared her heart. Revenge might be very well for mean and spiteful natures; malice and hatred were foreign to hers. Therefore, no sooner was the encounter over, than came remorse and pain to scourge her. Derek would guess she had chosen that way on purpose to hurt him; and he would not admire such pettiness. The thought spoiled her ride.
As for herself—her first glimpse of his face before he was conscious of her presence, had given her an involuntary pang of anxiety—he looked so wan and tired.
The woman in her melted to see the haggard lines under his eyes; the suggestion of weariness in the droop of his shoulders. For all his wickedness in the past and his obduracy with regard to Joseph, he was Derek! the man she had loved—was loving even now, to the loss of her own self-respect. Does a woman ever forget the man she has adored? to whose passionate kisses she has lovingly surrendered?
Derek looked ill, and Dulcie thought of him all the way home, blind and deaf to the efforts Tony made to entertain her.
“I am afraid you are tired,” he said reproachfully, suspecting that something more than fatigue was the matter.
Tony was such a dear, and she had been such a beast to use him for her own horrid ends! Ashamed and sorry, she smiled with unconscious encouragement into his earnest face, holding out a gloved hand in atonement.
“You are so good to me—a very worthless girl, Tony,” she said sweetly, as he caught the hand and held it clasped.
“You are the one girl in the world for me,” he said huskily, “and that’s no news to you!”
“I wish you would try to be fond of someone else; that’s what makes me feel so wretched!”
“Why should it? It makes me so happy to worship you——”
“But I can never return your love. I have too faithful a heart, Tony. I, somehow, can’t make myself forget things that are past and done with.”
“So long as they are past and done with! I won’t worry you, Dulcie. I’ll just—stand by; and you will know I’m there—waiting to—to help you to forget what’s gone.”
He was rather a pathetic figure to Dulcie—standing by, till she felt able to care for him—faithful to her as she was faithful to her love for Derek! He deserved some kindness in return . . . so she left her hand in his, not having the heart to withdraw it immediately.
They were riding across a flat open field with the tank ahead of them and the village behind, and it was just at this point that they became visible to Derek through a gap in a group of plantain trees by the side of the road. With a pocket telescope always handy, it was beyond the power of human restraint to deny himself a chance of looking once more at the girl he loved before she passed out of sight. The telescope always lay in the pocket of his coat, ready, at any moment of pent-up longing, to afford him a nearer view of the Mission compound and a chance glimpse of Dulcie, herself, as she crossed it on her way to and from the school buildings. It now revealed to him Dulcie’s impulsive action which would otherwise have been invisible to the naked eye: her hand continued to remain clasped in Vincent’s as they rode slowly on, side by side. It had so lain in his when they were all in all to each other not so long ago, thought he, unable to withdraw his gaze from the torturing spectacle till the voice of the contractor beside him, making useful suggestions as to the work on hand, recalled him to the necessity of resuming his iron self-control.
“It’s splendid, anyway, to have such a friend as you, Tony,” said Dulcie comfortingly. “Though I promise nothing, and you are not to construe my friendliness into big hopes, I will say that you are quite a comfort to me just now.”
“I love you to say that,” he answered fervently. He, at any rate, was the happier for her temporising. As there is nothing to equal the optimism of youth, he was soon looking upon himself, prospectively, as Dulcie’s accepted lover and carrying himself with the dignity proper to that distinction.
That morning’s ride was the beginning of a series for Vincent and Dulcie. She, however, took good care to keep out of the way of any chance encounter with Derek. She told herself, by way of comfort, that it was possible propinquity might effect the desired miracle in her feelings and make her genuinely fond of Tony. One never knew the possibilities of the human heart! So she gave herself up to the task of uprooting that which had sent its roots into her soul and become part of her being; and, for a while, tried to deceive herself into believing that it was not a hopeless one.
Derek, meanwhile, never went to Amabagh save on business connected with litigation; nor did he use his telescope again, but set himself to bury for ever the memory of an ideal passion. His inability to cure himself of the heartache, was no reason for neglecting his duty to the thousands of souls who looked to him for help and guidance.
His rents were paid, and the reaction after the scene in the market-place made him, for the time being, one of the most popular of zemindars—English and Indian—in Bengal. He had sacrificed a great slice of his capital to carry out his generous offer to his tenants; but there was no doubting the moral effect created by his action. ‘Lang Sahib’ was looked upon as a unique benefactor in the land, and the fame of him spread far and wide.
The Commissioner of the Division, hearing of Derek’s influence with the natives in and around his estate, invited him to accept the office of Honorary Magistrate; and, ere a month was gone, the bungalow at Panchbusti, on certain days of the week, presented the aspect of a mafasil court of law, with the swarms of humanity seated on the gravel walks awaiting their several turns to obtain justice or the settlement of their difficulties. It was soon humorously stated that an applicant for justice under the law would sooner risk losing his case under Lang Sahib’s judgment, than have it placed on the file of a native magistrate at Amabagh.
“And these are the people who, we are told, want to be rid of British rule in India!” said Mr. Macmaster to a Member of Parliament with a strong prepossession for the extremist point of view, who, in the course of a tour for information, happened to be his guest for a few days. They had discussed Derek Lang’s immediate success as an Honorary Magistrate, together with the unprecedented fact that appeals against his judgments to a higher court were never made. “Lang took a high hand with the agitators on his estate, and nipped their mischief in the bud. For the present, he is safer alone on his property than we are at Amabagh; and, unless we can make striking examples of the rascals who preach against the Government in our bazaars, we’ll have an orgy of bloodshed one of these days. It is a great mistake to shut our eyes to the effects of political agitation unscrupulously carried out, with lying propaganda aimed at creating distrust, which is very hard to combat, once it takes hold of ignorant minds.”
“But there is such an outcry against repressive measures. Questions are asked in Parliament, and there’s the devil to pay all round. For that reason, severity can only be used as a last resort, I should imagine.”
“Yes. We have a pack of blind sentimentalists, or—opportunists shall I say?—at home, from whom the extremist element draw encouragement,” growled Mr. Macmaster. “The Empire is going to the dogs with the kind of policy practised, of late years, in the name of Reform. There is no sense in yielding, as we have done, to clamour and violence. Why, my dear sir, the natives, themselves, are astonished at the way we have made concessions to violence. The object lesson to the extremist is to howl abuse, and threaten; to throw bombs at officials and police; to fall upon defenceless English men and women and do them to death, and thus gain Swaraj. Then, when offenders are caught and sentenced, judgment is either reversed on appeal, or they are let out of gaol after serving a quarter of their sentence, just to show the beauty of clemency and persuade them to behave! Good God! How they are laughing at our pusillanimity!”
The M.P. slowly nodded his head, seeming to ponder the point. He had seen and heard enough in those few days to make him realise there was another side to the question. “It is a very vexed problem,” he said thoughtfully.
“So I used to think till I saw how courage and determination work at Panchbusti. It is a big game we are playing and for large stakes—the peace and prosperity of India; the welfare of her millions; British prestige in the East; the Empire, itself. Who are morally stronger—the forces of disorder? or the Government? What we want is to spread the right propaganda; maintain strict control; exercise necessary severity to uphold our prestige in the land; and we would soon have the millions well-behaved and contented. It is vacillation, weakness, yielding to pressure, that has brought us, as a Government, into contempt with the extremists; and the people do not know what to think. Gad! We have mucked up our glorious opportunities by sheer incompetency at the top.”
“But you don’t deny, surely, the lawful aspirations of the people?”
“If their aspirations are lawful, their methods to obtain them are not. The very men who profess them are busy breaking the law, and encouraging contempt of it.”
“Then what of the right of a nation to ‘self-determination’?”
“Clap-trap! If to plunge a country, from end to end, into bloody civil war is a prelude to ‘self-determination,’ the less India sees of it the better. Besides, India consists of many nationalities and has had centuries in which to determine which is going to be top dog, with the result that we are here to keep the peace. All this is forgotten in the outcry of ‘India for the Indians!’ I should like to know what would happen if we left India to complete self-government before the people are fit to look after themselves. Swaraj cannot be attained without our training them for it. It is not to be bestowed at the bidding of a few rabid orators who are, in no sense, the spokesmen of the millions of India. But I will say this—it will not be long before the ignorant masses who have no minds of their own, are led by them; for they are gullible enough for one thing, and are, besides, learning to believe that our power is waning. The leaders are cunning enough to work on them through their religious susceptibilities which they exploit by filling them with outrageous lies about our aiming to overthrow religions, castes and ceremonial. There is nothing more calculated to rouse their passions.”
The Member of Parliament gnawed his moustache and pondered the question. It was disquieting to find that his preconceived notions of the political situation seemed to be in the wrong.
“All I can make out of this man, Lang’s, success, is that he has bought the people over to favour him. He has spent pots of money to pacify his tenants—so it appears to me. Apply the analogy to Government—they also use the policy of conciliation to win good behaviour?”
“You make a mistake. Lang spent pots of money as a philanthropist, to free his tenants from the oppression of Chunder, the moneylender, who had them bound body and soul. They were enslaved with debt and did not realise it. He opened their eyes by his voluntary act of sheer benevolence; and, at the same time, he showed there was justice in his demand that they should pay their rents, which they had refused to do. It was a masterpiece of diplomacy. Apply the analogy as you say. We are prepared to grant reforms to satisfy the growing aspirations of the people. But we must exact what is our due as guardians of the public safety—as rulers of the Indian Empire. We have held the scales of justice between conflicting interests, protected the weak and restrained the oppressor; and all the while, we have steadily developed education, and instituted every measure of progress and civilisation. Our prestige is in danger—the prestige of a great nation—and it is Englishmen who are blindly contributing to our humiliation. As a protest, I am retiring. I can no longer actively belong to a service which is fast ceasing to be the instrument of government, and whose members are no better than nonentities in the eyes of the natives. More than this, the task of carrying on the work of administration does not earn the approbation of Whitehall. It is a thankless business; yet, one which is being performed with increasing difficulty and danger.”
When the week, under notice, passed and Sukie made no sign, the Mission ladies began to believe that it was a case of the divine interposition in answer to prayer. The Lord had, undoubtedly taken pity on Joseph, and brought about a change of heart in his mother.
As a matter of fact, it was Derek Lang—possibly, the chosen instrument of divine power—who had created a diversion after his own diplomatic fashion.
On market day at Gumori village, Syed Khan approached Sukie who was inspecting a tray full of tinsel and glass ornaments in one of the booths, and drew her aside for a word in her ear.
“My Sahib sent me to seek you,” he informed her, amid the din of sale and barter all around them, “saying: ‘Syed Khan, go you and find Sukie the mother of Yusuf, and tell her that I have aught to say to her that might be to her advantage.’ Therefore, be advised, and present yourself at the bungalow of my Sahib after dark this evening, without fail.”
“Did he appoint the hour?” asked Sukie, with a gleam in her eye, and preening herself unconsciously in anticipation.
“No. That is out of my own wisdom. One of your reputation should not be seen at my Sahib’s house at any time; but since it is his wish to speak with you, let it be at an hour when your identity will not be revealed to curious eyes.”
“Go to!” said Sukie with a toss of her head. “Let the Sahib protect his own name. Besides, all know that I am about to return to respectability. Though I have never been a common woman of the bazaars, but the favourite of rich men, I no longer desire the life.”
“If you can maintain your resolve, you will be the first I have known to do so!”
“La, la, la!” cried Sukie mockingly. “But, certainly, I will obey the invitation of your Sahib—and why need he be particular? His friend was not.”
“Anyhow, he has no need for such as you!” Syed returned insultingly.
“We shall see!”
“I know my Sahib, so I warn you that you have no reason to build hopes on his summons. He is as a god, having no eye for women. Doubtless, he has a mind to make a fresh bargain with you respecting your son who is a Christian and content to remain at the Mission.”
“No eye for women!” Sukie cried derisively, smoothing her well-oiled hair and readjusting her numerous necklaces to the tinkling accompaniment of the silver and glass bangles covering her arms from wrist to elbow. “For what, then, was he riding over the fields with the Missee Baba, the one now at the Mission, if his manhood has no desire toward women? Now she goes with another, and—he sends for Sukie!”
“Stop it!” growled Syed wrathfully. “You but insult my master if, in your vanity, you suppose that his request for your presence has aught to do with your trade.”
“I have no longer a trade!” she returned, tossing her head.
“I have only to warn you to present yourself in all respect at the bungalow; listen to his words of wisdom, and depart quickly when all is said.”
Sukie laughed coquettishly. “There is no wisdom when a man looks on a woman and she is desirable! To that end were we born. Me?” she broke out with sudden earnestness. “I would count myself a queen if your Lang Sahib said to me: ‘Sukie, you may stay with me.’ And why not? I am young and beautiful! You, who have a man’s eyes in your head, acknowledge it when you stare into my face while whipping me with your tongue, pouring scorn on my head. It is a pretty head, Syed! Men have slain each other because of me. Ah, Syed, but, always, it has been Lang Sahib in my heart, though towards me he has ever been as a stone. I was the chosen one of his friend, so never a look from him did I win. When he came back from the Great Fight and sent for me, my heart bounded with hope. But it was only to give me money as compensation for robbing me of my child. ‘It will only be a burden to you, Sukie, whereas, at the Mission it will be well cared for and happy,’ was what he said, and his voice so kind, that I melted towards him and parted with my son. But, now, all is changed. I have plenty of money, and with the land I am about to purchase, my life will be spent in peace and respectability, with my son to care for my old age. Nevertheless, such is my feeling for your Sahib, that for him I would leave all and serve him faithfully.”
“Make no mistake,” said Syed loftily. “As I said, my master has no need of you.”
“Tell him that Sukie will wait upon him at dusk.”
Accordingly, when the shades of night deepened, Sukie made her way over the fields to the bungalow at Panchbusti, and stood, hesitating, on the steps of the verandah till the pedigree terrier had been captured by an energetic servant, and carried away, filling the air with his protests.
“It is Sukie, isn’t it?” said Derek’s voice as he rose out of an easy chair and came forward to interview her. “I am glad you have come, Sukie,” he said in the vernacular, “for I had something to say to you.”
“That is what Syed Khan said, Sahib.”
“When is it that you mean to remove your child from the care of the Mission ladies?”
“To-morrow is the appointed day, huzur,” said she in dulcet tones, standing so as to receive, full upon herself, the rays from an electric lamp shining through an open doorway; for she knew she was very beautiful in her diminutive fashion with her childish face and great almond eyes, heavily lashed and blackened after the custom of women in the East.
“Tell me, what is your idea in taking him away?” He stood towering over her, dignified, but full of a gentleness and sympathy which was infinitely appealing.
“He is my only child—I have no other.”
“Where are you living?”
“Just now, I am without a home. I lodge with a woman—like myself—outcasted. But I am negotiating for a piece of land with a dwelling and granaries. It is at a corner of Gumori village. I am weary of my life—and now, having money, I have a preference to live alone with my child.”
“I see.” With arms folded, he seemed to be studying her, and her eyes fell shamefacedly. “There is no reason why you should not have your son. He might be a comfort to you if you rear him well and carefully. But, where you intend to live, he will get no chance to grow up a fine fellow, for people will teach him to despise his mother. Your life, then, will not be peaceful, nor your son the comfort you desire. Can you think of nothing else?”
“I could go away, taking him with me. But it is a strange world, Sahib, and I am afraid of it.”
“Surely there is yet another way?”
“What other way?” she sighed and stole a glance at him in anxious coquetry.
“You have lost your caste?”
“That is so, Sahib, ever since——”
“I know . . .” he pondered thoughtfully.
“I am ready to do aught that the Sahib suggests, and that is good in his sight,” she murmured, drawing a corner of her sheet across her mouth with a pretence of modesty.
There was no mistaking her hint, given with a droop of her heavily lashed eyes, and a sinuous movement of her shapely body which brought her insensibly nearer, at which Derek winced.
“I have thought of your case for some days past,” said he, making no sign that he had read her meaning. “I have even thought how you might regain your lost position in the eyes of the world. It is a very fine thing for a mother to bring up her own child, to win his love and loyalty, to turn him into a good man and make him a credit to his country. There is nothing to equal the joy of such an achievement; nothing should be allowed to interfere with it. But the conditions around you must be favourable. To begin with, your son will never be looked upon as anything but what he is. He will be despised—jeered at—rendered miserable, because he is unlike others among whom he lives. Therefore, I would suggest, instead of removing your son from the Mission, why not join him there? They would welcome you. They would be very kind and never bring up the past to wound you. You would not be forced to become a Christian, and would have the happiness of watching him grow up under the best of conditions. Why not think about it?”
While he was speaking, her figure drooped, despondently, before him; the coquetry died out of her eyes. “I have no wish to go there,” she said with a sob.
“Then, perhaps, we might find a man to marry you? It could be arranged, if you wish; for the plot of land and homestead will be a great inducement. In which case, you will not want Joseph with you. A stepfather is not always the kindest of guardians. You will, very probably, have other children, and will not miss Joseph who does not know you, and whom you have not learned to know.”
A new interest seemed to revive in Sukie at the mention of marriage. Evidently, she had not thought of that contingency, nor that a man could be found who would care to brave the contempt of his fellows by taking her to wife. “Who will marry me?” she questioned.
“No doubt I shall be able to find a good man in a few days, if I search diligently.”
“Most men of marriageable age have wives already, and, though allowed by their religions to take more wives than one, few can afford to do so. Also, it is a shame and a reproach to marry one who has been in my walk of life.”
“There are many native Christians in my villages with open minds—would you marry a native Christian?”
“If a Christian would marry me.”
“I understand that you have given up your degraded profession. Is there no danger of your returning to it?”
“Returning to it, when, of my own will I have abandoned it?” she returned angrily. “That is not likely, for I hate it! I hate it! I took to it because my father would not have me back, and one other”—her voice dropped low and trembled—“who was to me as the sun, moon, and stars, would not stoop to me, but went, instead to fight in the Great War”—her voice trailed away into silence.
An involuntary flash in Derek’s eyes, betrayed comprehension.
“It was a pitiful blunder, Sukie, for you are too pretty and too good to give yourself up to the filth of the gutter. But you are still very young—at an age when many English girls are just beginning to understand the joy of living. There is no real joy to be found in things impure and bestial. Will you come, again, and tell me your decision? Meantime, leave the child where he is.”
Sukie looked irresolute. “If I return to the house of the woman in the bazaar, I shall be so pestered by the men who frequent it, that I shall want my son as a proof of my sincerity that I am no longer of them that lodge there.”
“Is there no one else with whom you can lodge?”
“Sahib, there is no one.”
Derek took a turn up and down on the tiles of the verandah, his head lowered in grave contemplation of the problem.
“There is a spare godown in the servants’ quarters. I shall speak with Syed Khan, if you will wait. Syed!” he lifted up his voice in a shout—a common practice in the East where bells are not in use to summon domestics.
“Huzur!” came from a distance, with a sound of hurrying feet, and Syed Khan appeared before his master with folded hands, silent and respectful.
“I wish you to see that Sukie has the spare out-house for her use for the next few days, till certain matters can be arranged.”
Syed looked surprised and reproachful. That his master should be so unwise for the sake of this wanton, filled him with consternation and anxiety. What explanation was there for his wishing such an arrangement, but that he was bewitched?—for all hinted that Sukie had unnatural gifts for the enslavement of men—else, how had one with riches, left her a portion of his wealth?
“That is all,” said Derek, shortly, in answer to his servant’s troubled look. “It is my command.”
Syed salaamed respectfully and withdrew with lagging step.
“How about your belongings, Sukie?”
“I will go at once and fetch them in a bundle, Sahib.”
“You understand you are to consider one of two things—whether you join the Mission and live there with your son, or marry and give him up altogether. After a few days I must have you arrive at a decision.”
Sukie salaamed with a slow and fascinating smile on her vermilion-tinted lips; her eyelids were lowered, and her bare feet fidgeted, self-consciously, together. In the light from the electrolier in the drawing-room, she was a truly alluring picture for the masculine eye. “Always, I am ready to obey whatever the Sahib wills,” she said softly, then turned and passed noiselessly down the steps with sinuous grace.
Once out in the darkness of the drive, her steps quickened and her breast heaved. It had been a great achievement, this change of abode, and the future was on the knees of the gods. Unfortunately, the villagers would not be permitted to believe that she was living at Panchbusti as the Sahib’s woman, for there was Syed to spread the truth—such was his jealousy and pride for his master’s dignity and good name! Ai ma! But was not Syed, himself, a glorious creature? Verily a man! Had he not eyes in his head? And for what had she been created a woman if not to conquer men who blinded themselves to the allure of womanhood? That insolent Syed Khan—Pathan Mussulman!—but above all, a man!
When Sukie returned an hour later and appeared before Syed Khan, carrying her worldly goods under her arm, there was a gleam bf triumph in her bright eyes and a sauciness of carriage which, to him, was a great offence. Women of her stamp traded on their charm, and he admitted, grudgingly, that hers was undoubted.
“I see no occasion for your airs,” said he scowling as he led the way in lordly fashion to the little room assigned to her at the far end of a range of out-houses some distance from the bungalow, yet within its precincts. “You are not brought here to be the mistress of the Sahib’s establishment, or you would have been given something better than this for your abode.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said mischievously. “I am not one to quarrel, Syed Khan.”
“Then keep them so,” he snarled, pained and miserable.
The evening was dark with that crystal clearness of atmosphere which indicates a dewfall. The stars glittered in their myriads overhead, while, below, village lights twinkled across open fields that lay silent and mysteriously indefinite in the darkness. Tall trees were silhouetted against the star-spangled sky, their leaves whispering gently in the wind that stirred among their branches.
Derek found the night warm, for the season was advancing, and soon the scorching heat would make the plains a sweltering oven. He wondered, anxiously, how Dulcie would stand it at the Mission where comparatively rigid conditions were necessitated. He had done a little to alleviate them, and Miss Annie had sought an opportunity to thank him; whereupon, she had been bound down to secrecy. How little he had done! He could not offer to rebuild the Mission bungalow with its thin walls and sparsely thatched roof, in no wise calculated to keep out the raging heat. Despite his wounded pride and jealous determination to think no more of her now that Tony Vincent had, apparently, been accepted as the chosen companion of her rides and admitted, possibly, to a lover’s privileges, he thought of no one else, and all his plans reflected his consideration for her. She had personally besought his interest on behalf of Joseph; and though he was unable to do as she asked, he was bending all his energies to the one end—the child’s rescue, that Dulcie might realise he was not altogether unmindful of her request.
Thinking of his scheme with regard to Sukie, he had qualms as to the wisdom of bringing her to live at Panchbusti; yet, by doing so, he hoped to influence her for her own good and Joseph’s, and must risk public opinion. His own servants could not be deceived, and would soon absolve him from any suspicion of evil; for there was nothing in his private life that was hidden from their inquisitive eyes. Syed, for instance, watched over him like a parent over a beloved child, and would soon satisfy himself that all was well.
Dinner was unaccountably delayed, and Derek grew impatient, for he was tired and meant to sleep early. Just as he was thinking of demanding the reason for this unusual unpunctuality, Mugra, the khidmatgar, burst in upon him, overcome with agitation to the verge of dementia, and almost speechless. Trembling and scarcely able to stand, he contrived to stammer in gasps:
“Sahib! Sahib! The butler is dead—and, together, Syed and I have killed him—alack, alack!” With hands joined and gibbering mouth, he mumbled on, incoherently repeating himself.
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” cried Derek, leaping from his chair in horror.
“It is true, if the Sahib will but hear me!” Mugra swallowed, hysterically. “Since that time, when I was persuaded by a servant of Chunder’s to put poison in the Sahib’s tea, I have been watching with sleepless eyes all that goes on in the kitchen. If strangers came to talk, I did not leave, but, all the time, I sat watching and listening.
“To-day, however, I was delayed looking for a lemon from the tree; and when I returned to the kitchen, there was the butler who, as we know, has been but a year in huzur’s service, whispering with someone I have never seen. When I came in, they ceased talking, but there was that in the eyes of both, that made me suspect evil——”
“Stop all that, and come to the point,” commanded Derek sternly.
“I am telling the Sahib, exactly, how it came about,” Mugra said, shaking and shivering where he stood. “So I pretended to leave, but I saw through a chink in the door—stooping, so, with my eye to the crack—the stranger pass a bag of rupees to the butler. ‘Ha!’ said I to myself. ‘It is a bribe; therefore, the man is an enemy of our Sahib.’ Now, for what is the butler, who has charge of the food, bribed? Why not the cook? . . . But the cook has grown old in the service; he has a great respect and affection for the Sahib—as I have, huzur, since that evil night when I was treated with such clemency! But the butler—what like is he? Always falsifying his accounts and looting the Sahib, the moment Syed Khan’s back is turned and I am out of the way! Therefore, I suspected him and, from that moment, did not let him out of my sight. At great personal inconvenience I watched him, huzur, God knows, till at length my vigil was rewarded. After the soup was dished up by the cook and his back turned, I, peeping, saw with these eyes, the butler empty the contents of a packet—such as, alas I was once in my possession—into the tureen. Immediately, I ran for Syed Khan who has the courage of ten men, and, seeing him about to take soda water from the ice chest for the Sahib’s dinner, I told him quickly what had been done, my tongue drying up in my mouth with fright. So we ran together, he and I, and catching the butler on the point of carrying the tureen to the bungalow, we made him put it down, and we did with him what the Sahib would have done with me had I not confessed in time —ai Khoda! We, together, poured it down his throat—he struggling and imploring for mercy.”
“You made the butler drink the poisoned soup?” cried Derek, startled and sceptical. “Idiot! I only pretended to make you drink, for I knew I could, by threatening, make you confess.”
“We made him, huzur! Syed has great strength, and I helped by holding the butler’s arms behind him. The cook stood by and watched, not knowing what was doing, and none heeded the noise. ‘You would have killed my master?’ Syed shouted. ‘Now die the death you intended for him!’ And holding tight the butler’s nose, he poured the soup down the rascal’s throat. Of a truth, a great deal of it was spilled, but it took immediate effect, and——”
“Good God!”
“Now he is twisting with pain, his face black. By now, he is, assuredly, dead. Alack! It is a terrible thing to take the life of a man! What will be, ai Khoda! Now, will we both be hanged!” he wailed.
Derek wasted no more time, but sprang down the steps and hurried to the kitchen which stood at some distance behind the bungalow, and there he came upon the tragic scene.
The butler lay, convulsed, upon the kitchen floor, emitting agonised groans, his face grey and drawn with pain, while, around him, stood the rest of the house servants scared out of their wits. Syed Khan, alone, looked composed and unrepentant as he faced his master.
“Let him die,” said he callously. “Thus should we treat such traitors.”
“Syed! This is a shocking thing you have done!” cried Derek sternly. “I cannot blame Mugra as much as you, for he is weak and easily led.”
“Wouldn’t he have seen huzur die in like manner? Swine that he is!”
“But you have taken the law into your own hands and will be punished.”
“Whatever they do, I shall still be glad that these hands have rid the earth of one nimak haram traitor!”
“Search among his clothes for the paper Mugra saw him empty into the soup,” ordered Derek, and the servants ran their fingers through the butler’s clothes, but without success.
“I must know what it is, if I am to give him the antidote.”
At these words the butler opened his eyes and muttered in English: “It was arsenic.” Evidently he was not too far gone to assist towards his own cure, and made no demur when an emetic was administered and other remedies poured into his mouth.
Later, when he sat up, well on the road to recovery, his fortunate escape from the fate intended for the Sahib was attributed, by Mugra, to the fact of half the cup, at least, being spilled in the struggle.
The following morning, the victim of forcible feeding had disappeared; at which Derek was relieved, for justice demanded an inquiry into the attempted poisoning of himself, by the butler and others concerned. Syed Khan and Mugra would, also, have had to be indicted on a charge as grave; and the worry of a court case with its continual postponements and claims on his leisure, was an unmitigated nuisance. He, therefore, wiped out the incident with a stern lecture to his servants in a body, on the subject of lawlessness, which Syed in particular was recommended to take to heart.
It was a great relief to the missionaries when a fortnight passed, and still Sukie gave no further sign of her intention to remove Joseph from their care. It was so extraordinary and unaccountable, in the face of all that had gone before, that the ladies were sure the woman was very ill from the “temporaneous chill” referred to in her letter—perhaps dead?—which, though sad for the poor, unsaved heathen in the midst of her sins, was a providential solution to the problem of Joseph. The Pastor, however, was inclined to believe that the threat to remove the child was a piece of bluff attempted in the hope of extracting more money from those interested in the boy.
“I have no doubt that she thought we’d communicate with Lang and obtain a substantial sum from him as further compensation to her for giving up her claim.” He spoke from behind his newspaper.
“I don’t know,” said Miss Annie, dubiously. “She is supposed to have come in for quite a lot.”
“Oh, you are not obliged to accept everything you hear as the ‘whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ Money is everything to an Indian.” From Miss Mitcham, who had just come in from the garden.
“As it is to most people in all parts of the world,” said Miss Leech, who was busy converting a discarded pair of the Pastor’s pants into a garment for Joseph.
“When Annie is again at Gumori, she might put out a feeler or two. The natives are only too glad to gossip, and she might find out if they know anything,” was Miss Mitcham’s suggestion.
The idea being a happy one, Miss Annie seized on it and immediately trudged over to the village to visit the cloth merchant’s old mother who made it her business to know everybody’s affairs. Dulcie preferred not to accompany her as she had the use of Tony Vincent’s polo pony while he was away on a short tour in the district, upon official business. Riding was one of her only pleasures; nor was it without excitement, for “Merrylegs” was spirted and required management. Then, there was an element of adventure in the stray chance of meeting Derek, whom she ostentatiously avoided. Derek was known to ride daily over his estate, and as a part of her course lay over a portion of his lands which were intersected by public roads or cart-tracks, her heart was given to leaping at the sight of any rider in the distance, who, on coming nearer, might prove to be he. On this particular morning, she rode towards the low chain of hills that formed the western boundary of Derek’s estate where it joined that of Chunder’s, the unscrupulous moneylender, who was a “thorn in the flesh” to the missionaries, and Derek Lang’s sworn enemy. In all her rides, she had never yet been in the direction of the hills, as the ground, she had been told, was hard and not good going, being either laterite soil, or heavy clay. But the scene was picturesque in the morning sunlight-red soil rising in gentle undulations to a height of about two hundred feet, and dotted over with solitary palms and groups of feathery babul trees. As the morning was bright and clear, she cantered across the fields keeping to the well-worn cart-tracks, the wind whistling in her ears. Occasionally, she passed pedestrians on their way to out-lying villages; or was obliged to make way for a crawling bullock-cart piled high with bricks or thatching-grass, the driver content to loll in his seat when not twisting the tails of the patient beasts to accelerate their speed.
From the crest of a rise, she had a splendid view of the surrounding country. There was the Mission with its collection of neatly thatched brick buildings enclosed within cactus fences. In the distance, lay the broad Ganges, and Panchbusti nestling among its tall trees and flaming blooms. Far to the south, she could detect the well-remembered grove of bamboos, in the shade of which she and Derek had plighted their troth—so soon to be broken! Still farther, was Gumori village, grey and dusty, and typical of all larger villages in Bengal.
She could imagine Miss Annie gossiping with the mother of the cloth merchant; or beating up Christian recruits for prayer meetings at the Mission. Probably, they would be induced to attend with the promise of lantern slides and stories from the New Testament; for they took a childish delight in listening to stories. And for an hour or so, their interest and curiosity would be sufficiently awakened to make them go again to hear more. Then the wrath and scorn of their caste-fellows would be too much for them. The threats held out, of social ostracism and deprivation of caste, would terrify them into foreswearing their quest after the white man’s faith, and they would avoid the missionaries ever after. Small blame to them! thought Dulcie. A few there were who braved the loss of caste and the contumely of the village community. These were, generally, people who had not much to lose and a great deal to gain by their conversion, and they were usually allowed to live within the Mission precincts where they would be trained in some craft, or in the work of the Mission itself.
It was wonderful to Dulcie that the Mission ladies should find satisfaction in their colourless lives, or continue to take an interest in the work of ministering to souls that had little sense of spiritual needs. She had inwardly arrived at the decision that missionary work was not her vocation and that, sooner or later, she would have to confess herself a failure. Since the alarming scene she had witnessed from the hut of Simon, the blacksmith, she was afraid of the natives and shrank from contact with them. She was sensitive to the unveiled antagonism towards the white race in their midst which they displayed, and could not overcome a feeling of apology towards the natives that she should be living among them. Was it because she was born and bred an American? Were she English, she might have felt differently. . . .
She marvelled that anyone cared to live in India; and she could imagine that there were large issues at stake for the Government and for private individuals. For instance, there was Derek Lang, whose main source of income was his estate—his, by just and lawful right. It was said that he was a good zemindar, and that he was respected by his tenants; which she believed was true, judging by the way he had won over to his side that hostile and threatening mob at Gumori. Few would have faced such odds with the confidence and assurance he had displayed! Dulcie thrilled, again, with pride in him, though he was now nothing to her, and shuddered at the memory of the men’s murderous looks. Yet, in a moment, these very men had been charmed into the gentleness of lambs! Afterwards, he spent hours, she was told, with a sick child in the village, who was now quite well and in rude health. For that, and similar acts of sympathy and charity, the villagers loved and trusted him; though, in their stupid way, they would be ready to listen, again, to the next fluent liar that came along to poison their minds against the “British intruder.” But Derek was wise enough, in his position of Honorary Magistrate, to deal summarily with any cases of which came within his jurisdiction. He had made it too difficult for agitators to find a footing on his property; with the result that the people had settled down to enjoy an old-fashioned peace. They realised, through Derek’s methods, how much of enlightenment and modern progress they owed to the “intruder,” so refused to lend their ears to malicious propaganda.
During her solitary ride, Dulcie reflected on the marvellous completeness of the organisation which ruled the millions of India with so much sympathy and justice: an organisation which sought to promote the welfare of all classes, and to encourage industrial development; which conferred the benefits of sanitation and education and of improved modes of living and communication; which gave relief in times of famine, disease, and distress; which kept the peace between warring creeds, rigidly observing religious toleration towards each and every faith, granting protection for the observance of religious ceremonials, and showing respect for caste prejudices; and, last, but not least, which had admitted Indians to a large share in the work of administration, in order that they might learn to take their place, in process of time, among the nations of the world as a self-governing people.
In process of time! “Rome was not built in a day”; and India could not have self-government before those who would govern, were fully trained to undertake the task of controlling the vast and complicated machinery of State, and maintaining a firm hold over the millions of her population.
Yet, the wild ambitions of a handful of irreconcilables, overflowing with race-hatred, were fast bringing the country to revolution.
Dulcie had been a silent listener to private discussions among officials who had experience of the people—their needs, and their difficulties—and who had helped them to prosperity and contentment within the law; and she had begun to understand what had before seemed to her arbitrary and unjust. For one thing, the people needed, more than anything, the protection of the British Government from unscrupulous adventurers who were greedy of power and wealth, and were working for the expulsion of the white race in their midst. They also needed British arms to guard their frontiers from invasion; British justice to hold the balance between rich and poor, strong and weak.
Who could say what the end would be? Would not the Government, itself, be to blame for its policy of inaction?
Was it not its duty to deal, effectively, with the authors of the mischief?
Dulcie looked across the fields to the villages dotted over the plains as far as the horizon, teeming with humanity, like hives swarming with bees; and she shivered at the thought of the danger to lonely officials and white families in isolated situations, should there be an outbreak of fanatical violence. The missionaries—how would they fare? And Derek Lang, alone in his bungalow . . .?
Her heart throbbed anxiously, a moment, as she thought of herself. She was running unnecessary risks—and why?
Because she could not tear herself away from the district that held the man she loved, in spite of all that had happened, or all that might happen. Possibly, she was growing used to the thought of Joseph—or tolerant towards the sins of Derek’s past? Perhaps, less narrow-minded, or was it more coarsened? She did not know; only, as the days passed and her agony of longing refused to be stilled, she began to see herself telling Derek: “It is no good—I simply cannot live without you—take me and teach me to forget the things which have hurt and seared my heart.”
He surely would do so, the brave, loving fellow, who was now leading such a blameless life in his sorrow and loneliness.
She was sitting in her saddle, at ease, in the shade of a babul tree, dreaming of the inevitable end to the quarrel she had made, when her attention was attracted by the sound of furious galloping at a distance. Someone was riding hard.
Her pony pricked its ears, listening intently.
In another moment, Dulcie was able to locate the sound to a cart-track she had crossed on her way to the hill she had mounted, and she could now discern Derek’s horse, riderless, and at full gallop, heading for its stables at Panchbusti.
What did it mean? She had recognised the animal without difficulty, and her heart seemed to stand still. There had surely been an accident—or why was it riderless?
Urging her pony into a trot, she rode in the direction from which she supposed the horse had come, and was led by hoof marks in the soil, to a part of the hill where gaped deserted stone quarries. The ground here was harder, so the marks of the horse’s hoofs were altogether lost. Some dogs were barking ferociously in the distance, and she thought they sounded like Derek’s excitable terriers. It occurred to her that they were probably attacking a jackal, and that Derek, having dismounted to put an end to its sufferings, had neglected to secure the reins, with the result that his horse had bolted. On the other hand, he might have met with an accident and be in need of assistance?
But what was exciting the dogs? for their barking sounded unusually fierce, as if attacking . . .
Intent on finding out the cause of the commotion, Dulcie moved forward at a quick trot, rounded a group of rocks which had once been blasted from the hillside, and skirting the edge of a yawning excavation, made for the quarter whence proceeded the shrill chorus of barks.
The disused quarries lay on the lower undulations of the rocky chain, the red soil only here and there sufficiently fertile for an outcrop of jungle vegetation with little depth of root—an occasional babul tree or a solitary sapling of pipal. Guided by the violent barking, Dulcie suddenly came upon the cause of the noise. Two native peons were swinging lathis in their endeavour to kill Derek’s terriers which, full of ferocity, were keeping them at bay. Their master’s unconscious form lay prone on the ground, his face looking like death.
At sight of Dulcie, the peons took to their heels and fled, believing, no doubt, that the young magistrate who usually accompanied her on her rides was following close behind. The terriers gave chase, and did not stop till they were convinced they had routed the enemy, when they returned, tails aloft, to receive congratulations and praise.
But the master was as still as death, and the soft young thing who had long ceased to ride with him, was beside him on the ground, weeping as she strove to win from him a sign of life.
“Derek! Oh, Derek! Can he be dead? Oh, my God!” she cried, wringing her hands.
There was blood trickling from under the hair at his temple and making a dark stain in the dust, while, near by, lay a stone with a smear of blood on its smooth surface.
“Derek! Speak to me! It is Dulcie! Oh, shall I never hear his voice again!” She gently lifted his head on to her lap and wept piteously as she tenderly kissed his face. Still there was no sign of returning consciousness. She became aware of the urgent need of help. What was she to do? How helpless she felt alone! Surely, some one would pass that way? The doctor must be found—oh, God!
But there was no one within sight. She called aloud—still there was no answering sound! And to her dismay, “Merrylegs” had taken to his heels and was visible cantering steadily in the direction of his stables at Amabagh. A horse’s first instinct is his stable, which he is surprisingly eager to leave, and to which he is as anxious to return.
What was she to do?
The dogs, meanwhile, sat down to rest, confident that the master would wake presently and resume his normal activity. Only, the soft young thing’s tears and ejaculations were rather disconcerting. The pedigree terrier, alone, who lived night and day with his master, seemed to divine that something was amiss, and put his nose, frequently, into his master’s face, whining piteously.
If dogs could only understand and carry messages! Dear, faithful little creatures! But they did not know what was wanted of them, and Dulcie gave way to a passion of tears.
The riderless horse with his stirrups swinging!
Dulcie suddenly recalled the sight of Derek’s horse galloping home, riderless, the bearer of evil news. Syed Khan would surely understand and search the countryside for his master! A search party would be sent out—surely—surely? She waved her handkerchief, again and again, in the hope that someone would see it and come to her assistance; and, between whiles, tended the wound on Derek’s temple and endeavoured to shelter his head from the burning rays of the sun which was steadily mounting into mid-heaven. Once she tried to raise his shoulders and draw him towards the shelter of some babul trees near by, but found the task beyond her strength. Presently, she bethought herself of a plan to shelter herself by breaking off a leafy young branch of a sapling, and holding it between herself and the sunlight, sitting so as to let her shadow fall on the unconscious man. He was so helpless that she dreaded to leave him and go herself in search of aid. There was always the fear that the men might return—or that vultures might peck him to death. That he was alive was proved by the faint beating of his heart. So she waited, all her thoughts a prayer for help, her heart torn with remorse and anguish. She had called him a liar! But was it a sin to lie in the effort to save their beautiful love? She had been harsh and unforgiving, and had punished him for what he had done in his youth while there was as yet no great incentive towards fastidiousness and purity. He was now a man, living a blameless life for the good of others. Oh, how could she have been so narrow and prejudiced? If he would only recover, she would humiliate herself to him—she would sue for his forgiveness.
When the heat seemed to be confusing her faculties, there came a sudden and welcome change. A bank of dark cloud coming up from the north-west, quickly obscured the sun. Low rumblings of thunder could be heard, while flashes of forked lightning occasionally rent the black masses of advancing cloud.
Dulcie had staunched the blood from the wound on Derek’s head by means of her handkerchief folded in a pad and held in place against his temple with his own bound over it. With his head pillowed in her lap, she, alternately, caressed and prayed over him, unheeding the ominous change in the weather. She had heard of the spring nor’-westers, but had little idea of their suddenness and violence, so she was not prepared for what was coming. The sky grew darker from the density of the billowing storm-clouds, while a little above the horizon, a reddish haze appeared which sensibly advanced until the air was thick with red dust flying before a raging howling wind which bent the trees as if to snap them, and carried away great branches, hurling them to the ground like straws. Large heavy drops of rain now fell to the ground, an earnest of the torrential deluge that was coming.
Dulcie was panic-stricken. Out in the open, and at the mercy of such a storm! How could she endure it? The lightning and thunder terrified her, and, seeing the downpour threatening, she looked despairingly around for shelter. Never in all her life had she been exposed to the fury of the elements, and her first impulse was flight. Surely there was shelter in the quarries, under projecting rocks and in caves excavated by blasting operations . . .?
But she could not desert Derek, whom it was her clear duty to protect in his helplessness, and for love of whom it was a passionate gladness to sacrifice herself; so she cowered over him tremblingly, waiting, as it were, for the crack of doom.
As the rain increased, splashing down upon Derek’s upturned face, his features twitched, his eyelids quivered and opened.
“Oh, thank God!” cried Dulcie, forgetting all her fears in her joy and relief. “Derek! Oh, dearest, how glad I am!” and tears of thanksgiving ran down her cheeks.
“Dulcie?” he said wonderingly, putting his hand to his bandaged brow. “What is this? I must have got hurt! And it’s raining—by Jove! It’s going to pelt and you will be soaked through.” He strove to rise, but was overcome by an attack of giddiness, and lay back for a moment with his hands pressed to his eyes.
“We are going to get dreadfully wet, dear, you and I; but nothing matters now that you are better,” she said, smiling through her tears while the rain beat down on her hat and shoulders.
“We must find shelter somewhere,” said he thickly, making another and more determined effort to rise, this time with success, though, once on his feet, he was obliged to lean heavily on Dulcie to keep himself from falling. For the moment, he had forgotten everything, taking her presence there for granted—natural to the setting, for she, so often, had been his riding companion with the dogs in attendance. The eager creatures leapt on him for recognition, glad to see him about to make a move, for they disliked the rain as much as Dulcie did; the pedigree terrier protesting loudly against the crashes of thunder.
Derek moved forward like a man in a dream. “Come,” said he, staggering towards a hollow in the hillside under overhanging rocks, and drawing Dulcie with him. Into it he stumbled blindly, then sank to the ground, and once more into unconsciousness.
“Oh, God! Don’t let him die!” wailed Dulcie as she wrapped her arms about him and drew his head to her bosom. “Save him—oh, dear Lord, save him! Give me a chance to atone for my hardness of heart,” was the burden of her cry. And with the dogs stretched out near them, they remained sheltered from the force of the storm while the thunder raged and the lightning darted across the darkened skies; while the wind shrieked in the rugged walls of their recess, and the rain descended in torrents. In her overwhelming anxiety for him, she could not collect her thoughts to pray coherently, but with her lips to his brow, her tears on his cheek, could only repeat: “If he should die, I shall not live.” Then, with her cheek to his unconscious head, she whispered: “I am willing to forget all, dear heart, and marry you when you wish.” She had no doubt, whatever, in her mind that he would forgive and forget all, and take her to his heart again, the moment she humbled herself to him. Never again could she find it in her heart to be so harsh to him—her splendid lover!
In an hour the rain ceased, and Dulcie, full of alarm for Derek’s prolonged unconsciousness, slipped out into the open and looked wildly about her for help.
With a throb of relief, she saw two figures toiling up the sodden path, and recognised one of them as Derek’s faithful bearer, Syed Khan!
“Oh, come quickly!” she cried, waving her hands frantically. “Your Sahib is here!”
They wanted no second bidding—her distress and excitement with the word “Sahib,” were enough, even if Syed Khan had not had a working knowledge of English; they fairly ran towards her, and were soon bending over the insensible form of their master.
“He has been hurt on the head,” said Syed to his fellow-servant. “Go you to Amabagh, and if you can commandeer a bazaar pony for yourself in the first village, take it and ride without stopping for the big doctor, and he can come in his hawa-ghari14 to Panchbusti. I will go back and fetch the Sahib’s big one without delay.”
This he translated into broken English, to Dulcie, and, for another half-hour, she waited in crushing anxiety for his return.
When Derek’s car arrived at the foot of the hill, Syed and the Indian chauffeur-mechanic, together, carried the unconscious Sahib to it and laid him on the seat, Dulcie supporting his head on her shoulder; and so they proceeded to Panchbusti.
Dulcie could never forget her arrival at Panchbusti, with Derek still unconscious and dead to the world. As she felt it impossible to leave him in her state of suspense, she followed the servants who carried him to his room and saw them place him comfortably in his bed, after which, overpowered with fatigue, she dropped into a chair in the verandah while Syed prepared his master for the Doctor.
Presently, he came to her with the news that he had changed Derek into a night suit, but that the master was still without appearance of life. “Maybe he will die, and what shall I do without him!” he cried, weeping unrestrainedly. “To me he is everything. I have dedicated my life to guarding him!” Seeing that Dulcie did not understand, he tried to put his meaning into English, then ceased in despair. “This is one great misfortune. Ai Allah! How he fall when he ride like sowar, I no telling!”
Dulcie endeavoured to explain: “There was a stone near, and, on it, was blood. Two men with lathis ran away when I came. They must have thrown it.”
“Ha!” gasped Syed. “What like they was?” Syed’s eyes gleamed, and he nodded his head.
Dulcie was able to recall their appearance. “One was tall and narrow-shouldered with a light skin and thin cheeks. The other was short and fat with a round face.”
“Ho!” and he nodded sagaciously. “Bhutna Singh and Pagal Singh! I know Chunder Babu’s men. I will remember, Missee Baba! That Bhutna one devil.”
Not long afterwards, the Doctor arrived in his limousine, and Dulcie gave him an account of the incident.
“He became conscious, Doctor, when the rain beat on his face; and he was able to walk with my assistance to a sheltered spot in the quarries. Why should he have relapsed?”
“He was not wholly conscious, I imagine. You, probably, noticed that he spoke strangely, if he spoke at all, and seemed rather queer?”
“Yes. He spoke almost as if he had an impediment in his speech, and relapsed almost immediately.”
“I have known men with concussion to do things they never recall afterwards. How lucky for Derek that the dogs were with him, for those men would probably have finished him off, and left nothing to bring home the crime to them!”
“Thank God I found him when I did!” said Dulcie fervently.
The Doctor looked keenly at her tired face which bore marks of recent emotion. Her eyes still expressed anxiety and a wistfulness to be reassured. He nodded wisely to himself and gnawed his moustache, thoughtfully, as he followed Syed to Derek’s room.
Left alone, Dulcie remembered, for the first time, the obligation on her to allay the apprehension of the Mission ladies who were certain to be uneasy about her long absence. She would send someone to tell them. How could she leave Derek so critically ill? She must, at least, stay till she knew there was no danger.
While waiting for the Doctor’s verdict on the patient’s condition, Dulcie was served with tea in the drawing-room, after which she felt sufficiently refreshed to take an interest in her surroundings. This was Derek’s home to which he would have brought her as his wife. How comfortable it was; and how cool with the great electric fan revolving overhead! China matting covered the floor, delicate net curtains hung in the doorways, and a few choice pictures and artistic furniture bespoke the owner’s fastidious taste. It was, in every detail, a dainty and elegant room, needing no finishing touches, and thoroughly restful and refreshing to one accustomed to the barn-like simplicity of the Mission sitting-room.
Dulcie was studying an exquisite water-colour painting of the “Snows in Darjeeling,” when the Doctor’s entrance put an abrupt end to her efforts to find distraction.
“There is no need to be at all worried,” said he kindly, relenting towards her at sight of the inward suffering her face betrayed. Had she not given Derek hell over an imaginary wrong? And now she was paying for her cruel hardness to him. “Derek is already coming round,” he continued, “and will probably sleep it off, and be on the road to recovery in a few days. It is a miracle his neck wasn’t broken by the fall from his horse. Someone flung a stone which must have knocked him insensible. He’ll have a bit of a headache for a day or two, I shouldn’t wonder. Well, well, it’s been a narrow escape! But what of yourself? You look played out and in need of a good rest.”
“I am dreadfully tired, and I guess I’ll sleep well to-night, if I am not wanted to do anything here?”
“I feel like ordering you home now, if I can get you to listen to me.”
“But—who will take care of—him?” she asked tremulously.
“I will—with Syed Khan’s help. If necessary, I can wire for a nurse. But I don’t think I need to. Concussion needs absolute rest and very simple nursing, and I shall not return to the station till I am sure he can get along with Syed alone. That servant is one in a thousand—worth his weight in gold to Derek.”
“Oh, Doctor, you have so relieved my mind!” she exclaimed gratefully. “Perhaps—if you let me know when he is better—I’ll come to see him,” she said shyly.
“Good! I shall be glad to do so, and believe that the prospect of your coming will be the best medicine the dear fellow can have; that is, when he is fit for the dose . . . equal to an elixir—what?” he teased, feeling infinitely pleased.
With that, he returned to the sick room, and Dulcie went in search of a peon that she might requisition Derek’s automobile to take her back to the Mission. There was no excuse for her to remain on there; and the reaction now setting in, she began to long for a bath and bed.
While waiting in the verandah for the car, she heard a light tinkle of bangles, accompanied by a soft footfall on the tiles—a shuffle, rather, of bare feet, and saw a woman in the act of passing into the house from a flight of steps that led up from the garden.
In a moment she recognised Sukie, looking quaintly picturesque; bejewelled, and in a sari of salmon pink silk, which hung about her shapely person in artistic folds. She carried herself with the cunning grace of a born coquette, and slanted a glance at Dulcie under her forest of black eyelashes.
The shock of the vision paralysed the girl, and she could only stare at the little wanton in absolute amazement. What was she doing in Derek’s bungalow? What? What?
Oh, God! could it be possible? Her heart sank within her. Sukie, the mother of his child, again, under his roof—Derek’s! So that was why she had not claimed Joseph on the appointed day? He had taken her back . . . !
Dulcie felt faint, and sick, and utterly unable to rise, yet, she peremptorily beckoned the woman to her and spoke with as much dignity as she could command.
“You did not call for your son, Sukie. Why was that?” She was determined to make sure there was no mistake, no matter the agony to herself.
“I was coming, Miss Sahib,” said Sukie with drooping lids and shy contortions of her shoulders, “but Sahib did send for me, and I am here, since.”
Had Derek sent for her! Yet it was surely the truth, or how could she, a creature so debased, be there?
“He sent for you?” repeated Dulcie, the colour leaving her cheeks.
“He sent Syed Khan to the bazaar to call me.”
“Well?”
“When he tell to stay, why for I go?”
Why, indeed! The wall and pillars of the verandah swayed about Dulcie, who lay back in her chair, wishing with all her heart that she could die.
“Miss Sahib sick? Sukie call Doctor Sahib——”
“No—no!” Dulcie strove to conquer her weakness. “I am only tired—I am going in a moment.” She rested for a few seconds with closed eyes. Then: “So Lang Sahib sent for you, Sukie?”
“Lang Sahib lots goot—plenty kind to Sukie. One day he make Sukie to marry. When husband got, why for wanting Yusuf. No, he can stay Mission!” she said, airily, with a wave of her small, bejewelled fingers while the bracelets made fairy music. “Now they telling that Lang Sahib much hurt got?” Her face suddenly clouded, her eyes grew wide with concern, tears welled up and overflowed. “Doctor Sahib sitting in room; he tell true words to Sukie if Sahib no get well. If Sahib die—ai Khoda! then how Sukie get husband?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“That will do,” murmured Dulcie, pressing her hand to her heart to still its agony. “Go, I have heard enough.”
Syed Khan entering the verandah to announce the approach of the car, ran forward at this juncture, furious at the sight of Sukie in the Sahib’s verandah, in impudent converse with a lady. “What are you doing here?” he cried, angrily, in the vernacular, his eyes ablaze. “Isn’t it enough that he has given you quarters in the compound, but you must sully his floor with your restless feet?” All of which was unintelligible to Dulcie, who was glad, however, to find Syed order Sukie out of the verandah, leading the way himself to make sure of obedience.
The automobile arriving at the moment, Dulcie took refuge within it, and was driven rapidly away.
Out in the garden, Sukie recovered her spirits and was in her element, for the great, muscular hand of Syed, clutching her delicate shoulder, was trembling curiously. Being an adept at reading the masculine mind, she drew her own conclusions as to the reason for this evidence of emotion, and did not resent his forcefulness, but stole glances up at his stern face, her eyes charged with allure.
“Syed Khan,” she said as he was about to leave her. “Syed!” and her voice had the quality of a dove. “How you resemble your master more and more, every day—it passes my comprehension!”
“How so?” he asked, swallowing hard as he turned and faced her.
“There is a difference, without doubt—and in your favour, Syed, for he is fair and you are dark. He is tall and strong, but you are even taller and stronger. Yet, in the magnificence of your manhood, you despise poor, little me—a lonely woman who has done you no harm, and in whose eyes, Syed, you are beautiful, even as the gods.”
“Cease!” he snapped, trying to keep his eyes averted from the winsomeness of her small face, and the lithe grace of her shapely body. “Who am I to despise anyone? But between us is a gulf fixed, you being what you are, also a Hindu of low zat.”
“I have always yearned to be a Mussulmani,” she murmured, her lashes sweeping her cheek.
“Have you? Then make the change quickly, if you would be absolved from impurity, and make vows before the Moulvie,” he said, blinking before the flash of her bewitching glance.
“If I do, wilt thou still put thy heel on my neck, Syed?” she coaxed.
“Bah! You talk folly!” Still he lingered, unable to turn his back and go.
“Wilt thou teach me, concerning the Koran, Syed?” she pleaded softly. “With both ears will I listen, and your voice will be as music in my ears.”
“Have done!” said he harshly. “You are learned in the art of speech, it would seem, having had much practice. There is a teacher in the bazaar—go you to him for instruction, and no doubt he will charge you nothing, if you use such honeyed tones. Your profession has made you clever, indeed!”
Sukie bit her lips to still their twitching. His symptoms were not strange to her. So the witchery of her glances was surely overcoming his resistance! “You are severe, Syed, and every word you speak is a blow designed to hurt. No more virtuous woman than Sukie, lives to-day. What she yearns for is a home of her own and a husband who will belong to no other. To be his in marriage is her one dream, and to serve him humbly, kissing his feet for the honour and for his favour, is her one ambition. And why not? A man may well marry Sukie, for the old days are dead. She will be faithful, giving him and no other, her beauty—and they say she is beautiful . . . Syed?”
“I have no doubt there are many who speak, with authority, concerning the matter!” he returned, frowning down at her.
Sukie shed a few tear-drops, emotionally, and her lips quivered like a child’s. “Always you bruise me with your harshness, Syed!” she cooed.
“There—let be! Why do you provoke me? I do not seek that we should speak; yet, for ever, you pester me with reproaches.”
“I shall endeavour to cease thinking of you, Syed, though it will be difficult. Nor have I control of my dreams which are always of you—so great and god like! Doubtless, there are many who will be pleased for me to single them out for thoughts and dreams. Peradventure, in the north, where is your home, you have a wife, Syed?”
“What of it?” said he rudely. “Does a man come to my age with hair beginning to ripen, and remain unwed?”
“Alas, no!”
“I have a wife, but she, miserable woman, is afflicted with madness, therefore is she put away in a house for the insane, and for very fear of incurring another misfortune, I remain wifeless.”
“That is sad for you, Syed, when there is so much happiness to be found in . . . the arms of a beautiful wife.” The long-lashed eyes drooped and lifted coyly.
“My woman was not beautiful. They united us when we were young and without knowledge of aught but obedience. She was even repulsive, being pitted heavily with small-pox. But she was of good birth.”
“The pitted skin! What a misfortune! Many times I have thanked the gods that I have a skin like velvet—feel it, Syed,” and, under the shelter of the hedge that screened the servants’ quarters from the house, she offered her cheek to his hand.
Very nervously, Syed’s fingers advanced and touched her rounded cheek—then, all at once, his eyes grew lustrous, as his two hands framed her face.
“Sukie! Sukie! Art born of woman or devil?”
“What matters it? I was born for man, Syed—for a husband.”
“For man, yes! For a husband, no! Woman of light fame . . .” he sneered, through clenched teeth.
“I was but a child, Syed, when my father gave me to Slack Sahib. And now—still full of youth, I have learned wisdom. A husband for me, or I go to my death alone.”
“You won’t find one. What man, think you, would risk the torment of marriage with one of your beauty and your looseness? He will have to sleep with one eye open and a knife in his waistband.”
“You are hurting me, Syed, cruel one!” she cried wrenching herself free. “With your tongue and your two hands you would crush me. Well, go your ways, Syed. Only, know that he who takes Sukie to wife, will be as one drugged with the joy of living. He will sleep—ah, how he will sleep—with both eyes closed, and within these arms! What then is there to fear?”
Syed turned swiftly and lurched away, his arms tense, his fingers tightly clenched; nor did he once look back.
All that night he sat outside Derek’s door, listening for the first sound of his master’s voice calling his name; alert to serve, though the doctor was in charge of the patient and occupied a couch in the same room. Sleep, however, was far from Syed’s eyes, for they beheld continuously—maddeningly, an entrancing vision in pink silk draperies, with starry eyes full of allure, and soft lips murmuring: “How he will sleep—with both eyes closed, and within these arms! What, then, is there to fear?”
On the edge of daybreak, when he was satisfied that his master had no need of him, his footsteps strayed under the starlight, almost against his will, to the door of the outhouse which had been given to Sukie for her use. All was silent about him, and deserted. The servants were still asleep, for grey dawn was but slowly chasing the shadows away.
Trembling like an aspen leaf, he laid his hand on the panel of the closed door and shook it gently. It was locked inside.
There was no response.
He fingered the hasp and rattled it irritably.
“Who is there?” called Sukie’s voice sleepily.
“It is Syed . . .”
“Oh, Syed? I have been dreaming of thee, Syed,” her voice cooed.
“And I have been sleepless on account of thee, Sukie,” he returned hoarsely. “Open, and let me in.”
“That will I gladly do, Syed, when I am thy wife,” came her reply.
Syed struck the door, violently, with his open palm, and swung away with angry strides and glowering looks.
Dulcie was received with open arms when she reached the Mission.
“Oh, if you only knew how we have been worrying about you!” cried Miss Mitcham. “Two of our chaukidars are still searching the countryside for news of you. Oh dear, you have given us a fright.”
“Especially during the storm,” put in Miss Leech. “We wondered where you had taken refuge.”
“It seems you were safe enough, anyway,” said Miss Annie mischievously, “judging by the manner of your return. I guess the storm did you a good turn.”
But Dulcie looked anything but happy. “I have had a very dreadful morning,” said she, determined to say as little as possible of her experiences. “I happened to find Mr. Lang after he had met with a bad accident. He was thrown from his horse and was lying insensible at the quarries. Just a chance that I went that way, or he might have died! The storm came on us suddenly, so that I was terrified, not knowing how to get him into shelter; but he revived for a little while and we managed to reach a cave in the hillside. I was thankful, indeed, when the storm stopped, for he was again unconscious. But his own men found us and brought the auto, so we were able to take him home. Then the doctor came, and when I was sure he was going on well, I came away.” She rattled off her story, eager to get it over and fling herself on her bed to sleep till the crack of doom.
“My goodness!” ejaculated Miss Leech. “What an appalling thing!”
“Gracious! It might be a judgment on him for refusing to rescue Joseph!” exclaimed Miss Mitcham.
“Nonsense, my dear!” said Miss Annie. “Don’t confound the Lord with Kali.” Then to Dulcie: “It was indeed lucky you went that way—but Dulcie, while you were at Panchbusti, did you—did you happen to come across Joseph’s mother?”
“I did,” said Dulcie shortly.
“They told me in the bazaar that she has been given a lodging at Panchbusti, but the mother of the cloth merchant seemed to think the act is purely philanthropic.”
“Just as well that they, in the bazaar, are able to give Mr. Lang the benefit of the doubt!” said Miss Leech. “Very few would put any, but one, logical interpretation to it.”
“To think that, after all this time, he should have taken that creature back!” groaned Miss Mitcham.
“What is to prevent the advent of a few more Josephs!” said Miss Annie scathingly. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible that he could be so bare-faced!”
“She—she hinted about marriage,” put in Dulcie in Derek’s defence.
“What?” cried the three ladies in a breath. “Mr. Lang marry a native woman? Derek Lang couldn’t be such a fool! Dear, dear, isn’t there anyone to speak to him? It is scandalous!”
“But,” added Miss Mitcham, “it is not for us to call an act of reparation scandalous.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” cried Miss Annie. “The woman is a—a—you know what; and think of Mr. Lang!—his position, his wealth, his——”
“How worldly minded, Annie!”
“In the meantime,” said Miss Leech, “here’s this poor child dying of fatigue and hunger, and we are discussing our neighbour’s affairs; as if it matters to us a dime, what Mr. Lang chooses to do. At any rate, the marriage of Sukie would make Joseph’s position safe. Go to bed, Dulcie, and I shall send you a cup of broth.”
Dulcie needed no second bidding, and vanished through the doorway, repeating, mechanically, to herself: “What a fool I have been—oh, what a priceless fool!” What manner of man was he to have so easily consoled himself! It was disgusting! He was not worth a single tear, a single regretful thought! The memory of her abandonment to grief on the hillside, her remorse, her passion of pity, her resolve to restore their severed relations, seared her. Thank God, he had been unconscious and would never know that she had kissed him! She would never cease to be ashamed of her loss of self-control—her weakness!
While she wooed sleep, her mind obstinately reverted to the meeting with Sukie, and her pride was bitterly hurt and shamed that she should have relented towards Derek, unsolicited. For Sukie was at Panchbusti—sent for by him, and re-established. Possibly, she would soon be his wife. Englishmen had been known to wed native women; and Sukie, bad as she was, had distinctly a quality of feminine appeal.
When morning came, she confided to Miss Annie her decision to leave India. “The fact is, I don’t think I shall be able to stand the climate, and I am not really suited to missionary work,” she explained deprecatingly.
“I knew that you would never stand the plains. Already, your face is beginning to look peaky,” said Miss Annie. “But, say! The place will never be the same, again; we shall miss you so. When do you think of taking your passage?”
“I don’t know when I can get one. I’ll write to my agents, and when I hear, I shall let you know. I am very sorry I have been of so little use here.”
“If you haven’t done much in the way of missionising, at least you have been an invaluable help as a paying guest. Money is tight, and there isn’t much more coming as far as I can see. This old place will just have to close right down, from what I can judge. It’s enough to send the Pastor to his grave.”
Dulcie’s eyes were very compassionate as she thought of the old Pastor and his life’s work failing for want of sympathetic support. “Papa gives me a very liberal allowance,” she said earnestly. “And I should be so glad if a regular subscription—such as I have been paying as a guest—would be of any practical use; my agents could see to that.”
“I think you are a perfect peach! Why, Dulcie, it would be wonderful of you, and relieve us of very pressing anxieties just now. The Pastor was saying that he gets too little public support to feed the orphans, however economical we are. It takes a lot to keep up a place so large as this.”
“Then I shall see that my going is no loss to the Pastor,” Dulcie said with a smile.
“I have been wondering about this matter of Sukie,” said Miss Annie, breaking away abruptly from the subject of finance, “and I thought of telling you my idea—I hope it doesn’t annoy you to speak of it?”
“It does hurt badly to think of it.”
“Of course, it does. You see, Mr. Lang was very much in love with you—there is no doubting that. Then, when you broke with him over that business of Joseph, he sort of retired within himself—unable to help caring still, for it seemed to make a great change in his appearance. He looked so ill! After that, I sent you to plead for the rescue of Joseph, and he refused our plan. It must have troubled him, mightily, to have refused you; so he sent for Sukie, thinking if he kept her happy at Panchbusti, she would let Joseph alone. I hardly think he intends to marry her. He is just doing this for you.” Miss Annie nodded her head impressively.
“Oh, Miss Annie!” cried Dulcie startled. “How truly terrible, if you are right!”
“If one could only find out the truth!”
“Even if it is true, can’t you see how impossible the situation is?” groaned Dulcie.
“And to think that he might just go and marry her!” cried Miss Annie, desperately. “But I cannot believe it—I will not. Sukie is a bazaar woman, a prostitute!”
Dulcie shuddered visibly at Miss Annie’s brutal frankness of speech.
“It’s all so beastly! “ she said with tingling cheeks.
“It is; only, there is a small difference in my eyes, if the motive was good. It saves the act from being vicious and wanton.”
Dulcie shook her head and burst into tears. “Oh, I am such a fool! You must feel such a contempt for me! But I cannot help being miserable that this should have happened. Of course it is the end of everything!” And she sobbed without restraint, while Miss Annie patted her shoulder and stroked her hand in sympathy.
“I am very sorry for you, Dulcie,” she said feelingly. “If one could only understand men better! One would hardly think Mr. Lang could have borne to have anything to do with a creature like Sukie when he was—is—in love with a girl like you. I wonder if we are on the wrong tack altogether?”
“I am inclined—to think,” sobbed Dulcie, “that he gave up caring after my harshness to him—we loved each other so much that I ought to have been incapable of giving him up—yet I did; I don’t know how I did it—but—I was mad! Mad with him for disappointing my ideals! Then he lied, and I was so disgusted. . . .”
“Poor Dulcie!”
“Ah, but it is all done now!” cried Dulcie, rising and drying her eyes. “It doesn’t bear talking about.”
She wrote that afternoon to her agents, in Calcutta, to book a passage for her to London, and sought distraction at the Club in the gay society of the younger set. She played tennis and danced, and tried to appear as merry as the merriest.
Mrs. Macmaster was so pleased to receive a cordial smile and bow from her, that she was emboldened to draw Dulcie aside, before they left the Club, and proffer a request.
“I want you to spend the day with me to-morrow, just to show there is no ill feeling,” she said pleasantly. “My husband is giving up—made up his mind rather suddenly to retire from the Service, and, as Government seems only too anxious to make way for Indians, we shall be out of this next week. So do come, for I should hate to leave, feeling that things are not all right between you and me. We have been such good friends.”
“I have no resentment towards you, Sheila,” said Dulcie.
“I quite realise that you spoke in my interests.”
“I certainly did; though it might have been better if I had not interfered.”
“Don’t let’s trouble about it, anyway.”
“I won’t since you have got over the shock. But I have felt so guilty, ever since, on account of the change in you. You have become so thin that I fancied you were going into a decline, or something!”
Dulcie laughed in hollow amusement. “Not a bit of it. I feel as good as anything—never so energetic in my life.”
“Then you’ll come to-morrow?”
“Yes indeed!—with pleasure.”
Accordingly, Dulcie drove to the Collector’s house the following morning after breakfast, determined to behave towards Mrs. Macmaster as though there had been no estrangement between them.
Mrs. Macmaster’s manner towards her had a touch of deprecation in it, and was frankly conciliatory. While they enjoyed iced drinks under a waving punkah, conversation flowed pleasantly, and Dulcie learned something concerning the Macmaster’s successors.
“My husband gives over charge to a native Collector next week, a Hindu, known to hold extreme views on the subject of the Reforms, and who keeps his wife strictly purdah. The ladies may call on her, but no men will be received. And when she is entertained in the station, it will be on the understanding that she meets no one of the opposite sex. Husbands will have to be asked to keep clear!”
“How comic!” returned Dulcie. “I could never comprehend how Indian women stand that sort of treatment!”
“They have generations of tradition to get over before they acquire the proper amount of courage to kick over the traces. So far, they willingly submit to their own seclusion, and regard it as a sign of the highest dignity and respectability. The new Collector, Mr. Gobindo Lall Chaudri, is, we hear, insufferable; and, wherever he has been stationed, has been most unpopular. There are some Indians you really like, for they are sufficiently enlightened and Europeanised to try to mix with Europeans on an equal footing—that is, their wives are educated women, and move freely in society. Some are very admirable, and you see some quite devoted couples. Chaudri, however, is oriental through and through, and it is hopeless for such a man to expect to be treated by Europeans as an equal. His English manners are merely a veneer and, in spite of his politeness, you can see his hatred of the British peeping through.”
“But why should he hate the British? They are generally courteous to Indians?”
“Western education may turn them out scholars and fit them to hold administrative posts, but it does not bridge the gulf that exists between the East and West. I doubt if it ever will. Consequently, they are never one with us—and, can you think the fault is on our side, when you realise their attitude towards women which no British gentleman can tolerate? While they meet us on common ground, dine and dance with us, their own women are shut up—among the respectable classes—and dare not even show their faces to a man. As long as their customs savour of the barbaric, they can never be, socially, on an equality with Europeans. And this is, of course, resented. They want things both ways. Take Chaudri, for example. While copying our manners and customs, he remains oriental at heart. He cannot bear that his wife should meet any of the gentlemen he mixes with in society. It would be an impropriety if they so much as beheld her face. Men, like him, have such a sordid outlook on life that, when you think of it, it is an insult that they should be allowed the privilege of dancing with Englishwomen and of mixing with them in their homes.”
“It is intolerable!”
“They must have a very degraded opinion of human nature to be so suspicious and distrustful as never to permit an easy and natural intercourse, socially, between the sexes.”
“I should hate to shake hands with an Indian, if he has such ideas.”
“There has been an improvement, as I tell you, in this respect, of late. But towards men like Chaudri you have an instinctive feeling of distrust and dislike. Such men are, fortunately, in the minority.”
“Don’t you think that they will be cured, in time, of their benighted prejudices?”
“Honestly, I don’t see how they can, as long as their religions are so exclusive and bigoted. Caste is a great stumbling block with the Hindus; and Mohammedans have rooted ideas concerning sex, ineradicable and everlasting. Mohammedans, when married to Englishwomen, are less narrow—otherwise, no Moslem will introduce an Englishman or any other man to his women. They are strictly parda.”
“Have they no faith in human nature?—no belief in virtue?”
“None at all, I should think!”
“Then, what on earth do they think of us?”
“They probably have the worst opinion of Western women, and I shouldn’t be surprised if they hated to have us making friends with their wives and daughters for very fear that we should be infecting them with European ideas respecting the emancipation, education, and equal privileges, generally, of women!”
Dulcie pondered, awhile, on the idea. “I suppose it does shock the Indians to see the way some women in society conduct themselves with men who are not their husbands?” For the moment, she had forgotten Sheila Macmaster’s passion for Derek Lang from which she had been mercifully saved by the sudden outbreak of war and his eagerness to fight. “I don’t blame them if they have little respect for our women, when there are so many women who have no respect for themselves.”
Mrs. Macmaster suppressed a yawn. “But, why are we discussing what doesn’t concern us?” she said to change the subject. “The last few days I have been fairly rushed off my feet with packing, sorting, and preparing a list of the things to be sold. Usually, when one is leaving a station, one’s successor can always be relied upon to take over the bulk of one’s furniture and other bungalow necessities. But this native, Chaudri, has said he will need nothing. I suspect he lives Indian fashion, on mats and gudhis15 in the zenana, and has the plainest of furniture for one reception room only. Country-made stuff which he carts about with him wherever he goes! So we are trying to sell off in the district.”
“Do let me help in the packing! I should just love to be of use.”
“Will you? how truly sweet of you! But I did not ask you, here, to make you work!”
“Oh, but I should enjoy it! Give me things that won’t break easily, and I shall pack them with the utmost confidence!”
“If you are in earnest, we’ll start after luncheon. There’s a box with heaps of straw and paper.”
“Let me begin, right now,” said Dulcie eagerly; and, her hostess raising no objection, they both employed themselves, till luncheon, with packing a quantity of Mrs. Macmaster’s precious belongings in silver and brass, chatting, amicably, the while.
With mutual accord they avoided mention of Derek Lang’s name, though it is conceivable that he was present in the thoughts of both.
After the mid-day meal, however, the ice of reserve was broken.
Dulcie came across a photograph of Mr. Slack she had often seen on a table in Mrs. Macmaster’s drawing-room, which, as she had never particularly noticed it, she had forgotten. As her eyes fell on it, unexpectedly, it seemed that it was a picture of Joseph grown to manhood looking full at her out of the silver frame. The same narrow face and receding chin, weak mouth, and close-set eyes. There was no mistaking it, so that she was suddenly reminded of the haunting feeling she had always had, at sight of Joseph, concerning his resemblance to a face, she had seen somewhere, and forgotten. This was the face, the memory of which had lain, subconsciously, at the back of her mind.
“What is the matter?” Mrs. Macmaster asked, on hearing her involuntary exclamation.
“How very strange!” said Dulcie, studying the photograph she had been about to pack away with others.
“That is Mr. Slack, my great friend’s husband who used to manage the Lang estate—Panchbusti—during Derek’s minority, and when he was at the war. I think I told you he died of cholera.”
“But—have you never noticed the astonishing likeness . . .?”
“Likeness?—to whom?”
“Little Joseph’s likeness to—this?”
“My dear Dulcie! What are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting nothing, only stating a fact as it has just struck me. I used to wonder, every time I looked at Joseph, who it was he reminded me of—and now I know. It is curious, isn’t it?”
“I have not seen the child for some time, and my memory is not too good for faces. If there is a resemblance, it can only be a chance one—unless you would like to suggest, in spite of Derek Lang’s admission, that the kid is Mr. Slack’s and not his! If the unhappy widow only heard you!”
In Dulcie’s mind was the memory of Derek’s denial of Joseph as his son. And she had called him a liar! The hot blood rushed to her face and there was a loud singing in her ears. She now understood why Derek took no special interest in Joseph. If Sukie who had been admittedly his mistress, had been false to him, and he knew it . . . he would still befriend the boy, because of the English blood in his veins. With that picture in her hand, she could no longer believe that Derek had told her a lie. She wanted no better evidence of the child’s true parentage.
Still, it made very little difference—Sukie had been acknowledged by him, at the time, as his mistress and that was everything. It seemed, now, that he had forgiven her faithlessness and taken her back!
It was beyond understanding—unless as Miss Annie said, he had done so that Joseph might be left with the missionaries—and because he knew how deeply she, herself, was concerned in the rescue of the child.
“Have you no recollection, at all, of Joseph?” she asked Mrs. Macmaster.
“When I first called at the Mission on my return to Amabagh, I asked to see him, and he was then a queer little thing with straw-coloured hair, light eyes, and a muddy complexion. He did not resemble anyone, as far as I could remember; not even Derek Lang. How is Derek, by the way? Dr. Freeman is staying at Panchbusti as Mr. Lang was thrown from his horse and rather badly hurt.”
“He is getting better, the Pastor was told when he called this morning.”
“The Doctor mentioned it in a letter to my husband this morning, giving no particulars.”
Dulcie stooped low over the packing case into which she had put the photograph of Mr. Slack, disinclined to enter into explanations.
“I wonder how he was thrown, for he is a wonderful rider!” Mrs. Macmaster was persistent. “Surely the Pastor heard all about it?”
As there was little doubt Mrs. Macmaster would hear all there was to tell from Dr. Freeman, Dulcie reluctantly described the circumstances, very much as she had done to the Mission ladies.
“And he knew nothing of your finding him?” The old jealousy brooded in Mrs. Macmaster’s eyes.
“Nothing at all.”
“Perhaps it was as well, since you are now nothing to each other. I do want your assurance, Dulcie, that I am forgiven for having interfered between you.”
“I said so, didn’t I? Marriage is too serious a matter to be entered into, blindfold.”
“It is, and nothing is so dreadful as discovering, afterwards, that you have fixed yourself up for life with the wrong man.”
“It’s a calamity I should decline to put up with.”
“What would you do?”
“Have a divorce, of course. In the States, we are humane enough to grant a divorce to those who find it difficult and degrading to live together.”
“You lucky Americans!” sighed Mrs. Macmaster. “Unfortunately, we are not allowed to go back upon our blunders so easily. Married couples have to stick to their bargain, though life be a hell for both, because the children must be considered. Yet I should fancy that the moral harm done to the children, if they have to be witnesses of unseemly quarrels between their parents, is infinitely worse. Far better, if, for the sake of peace, the parents lived apart—divorced, and capable of creating happier homes for their children to visit. It’s only a point of view, and the world would be all the better if our English law-givers changed their point of view on the subject of divorce. You, probably, wonder why I speak so feelingly on the subject of divorce? You see, had I not been tied to my husband—both of us totally lacking in sympathy for each other, I might have married Derek Lang while he was fond of me. The fact of my being married, parted us in the end.”
“I am sorry for your unhappiness, Sheila,” said Dulcie softly. “I can imagine nothing so dreadful in married life, as an indifferent husband. I suppose you couldn’t help getting crazy about—someone else.”
“I couldn’t help being madly in love with Derek—he was so sympathetic and sweet to me. Do you mind my confiding in you? It is so wearing to be always shut up within oneself.”
“You may speak as freely as you like.”
“I will admit that it was my fault that we drifted into a love affair. I don’t suppose he would ever have said a word,—but I—I—simply had to make him care, and to show he cared, whenever we were alone. I wanted his love more than anything on earth—yet—he never really gave me his heart,” she said miserably. “Though he has a most ardent nature, he never, altogether, let himself go. I used to lie awake at nights wondering by what arts I could move him to the same madness—I ought to be ashamed to confess it, but it does me good. Never once did he offer to make me his own, and so cause my husband to divorce me; so that I came to the conclusion that his head governed his heart very efficiently. It made me reckless—crazy. I suppose there is always a time in one’s life when one is mad about a man. I was about Derek; and, though it has passed, I cannot blame myself for he is just the kind of man to be loved to the point of folly.”
“You said that he never really gave you his heart,” said Dulcie, bending low over her packing. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Just that. He was always able to save me from—well, from forgetting that there was my husband to think of and my children, too, who must grow up to respect their mother. I used to wish that he would lose sight of these things for love of me—as men do in the passionate love stories we read! But he always took such wonderful care of me—and of himself! for which you think I should now be unutterably grateful?—perhaps I am—or shall be when I am old! I wonder what would have happened if there had been no war to claim him?”
“Perhaps, he would have taken you away then?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Macmaster bitterly. “I am more inclined to think that one of his friends high up in the Government would have obliged him by getting my husband transferred to the other end of Bengal. It has been done before, under similar circumstances, elsewhere, in the case of two lovers I knew, one of whom had his head screwed on all right.”
Somehow, deep down, Dulcie was glad that Derek had never been really mad about Sheila Macmaster.
“Knowing so much, you will understand and forgive me for putting a spoke in his wheel when he was engaged to marry you. I felt that I could never bear to see him the husband of any girl I knew. I told no lies to part you—only the truth, as I knew it. You have high ideals and would require something more in the man you marry than his love, isn’t that so?”
“It is quite true,” said Dulcie with drooping head.
“Then you forgive me?”
“Indeed—I do,” Dulcie replied firmly, and Mrs. Macmaster rose and kissed her cheek.
When Dr. Freeman wrote, a few days later, to tell Dulcie, as promised, that Derek was able to see visitors, he was amazed to receive a brief reply from her to the effect that they were all pleased to hear of “Mr. Lang’s” recovery, and that the Pastor intended calling on him shortly.
“The Pastor!—damn it!” Freeman ejaculated. “What the devil is she driving at?” Staring at the few lines on stiff notepaper did not help him to arrive at an understanding of the girl’s meaning. It was a snub, and no two opinions about that. After all her concern for Derek, was she going to deny any feeling for him, and stay away? It was abominable —this blowing hot and cold. “The Pastor intended calling!” Good God!
The worst of it was that Derek had been told that Dulcie, herself, was coming—wanted to come—that she had been bowled clean over by his accident! The disappointment would about floor him! Confound these girls—temperamental, American girls, especially,—changeable as the wind—weathercocks, all of them! poof! bah!
He expected Derek to be acutely disappointed, and was relieved when the latter said nothing on being shown Dulcie’s letter; only, lay still for a moment with closed eyes and compressed lips.
“She’s had time to think it over, old man,” said the patient, quietly. “Second thoughts are best, they say. She feels it is better not to bridge the gulf, and, if that’s so, we’ll not discuss it.”
The Doctor agreed, feeling that the subject was too painful to pursue. He returned to Amabagh, that day, leaving Derek to move languidly about the house and apply his mind to the affairs of the estate and the letters that had accumulated during his illness.
The following day, the Pastor arrived on his little village pony, his feet a few inches from the ground, and asked to see Lang Sahib.
He was immediately shown into Derek’s presence, looking more than usually bent and feeble, not to say tremulous as to his hands and head.
“We are so sorry that you should have met with such an unfortunate mischance,” said he, shaking hands. “Are you taking no steps to bring those rascals to justice?”
“None at all. It would be too difficult to prove anything, and also a great bother. I would rather let it pass. What will you have to drink, sir?”
“I shall be grateful for a cup of tea,” said the Pastor, dropping into a chair and mopping his brow. “If you don’t mind, I will ask you to stop the electric fan. It makes me chilly after my exercise, and the heat does no one any harm. Besides, these great mechanical contrivances create such a hurricane, one feels worried. Give me the old-fashioned punkah, every time.”
Derek switched off the fan, and led the way into a back verandah where there was a gentle breeze blowing from the river. “You will find it pleasanter out here.”
“Thank you, I do. You have a nice view from here, and must find the river an endless source of entertainment. We, further inland, have nothing but paddy fields to look at.”
Derek ordered tea which was soon served by Mugra, and, with a choice cigar, the Pastor settled down to conversation.
“My call has a dual purpose—first to inquire about your health, and then to thank you for your latest act of generosity in waiving the matter of the arrears of rent still due to you. It is very merciful of you, Mr. Lang, and I can’t begin to say how we appreciate your generosity. If it were not for your having let us off all rent, I should have been obliged to close—most heart-breaking! It is suggested from home that we amalgamate with another, rather promising branch in Northern Bengal, in which case I should have to retire on a pension. This would finish me, for to be put on the shelf when I have still plenty of vigour, is tantamount to sending me to my grave.”
“You have worked so long and conscientiously, for many years, that I should think you would be glad of the rest.”
“Rest? I shall have a long enough rest when I’m dead,” said the Pastor indignantly. “However, it is not a question of what I wish, but what may have to be done. I have met with so many disappointments and the regular donations have fallen off so considerably, that I fear our days here are numbered. Besides, there is a strong antagonism rising up against us in the district owing, I am sure, to our enemy, the moneylender——”
“My enemy, too,” put in Derek.
“So I believe—and it may, soon, be impossible to carry on.”
“I wish we could be rid of him from these parts, but I am afraid he is too securely dug in for anything to move him. At any rate, I have put a stop to his holding meetings in the bazaars on my property, and the villagers loathe him sufficiently to hoot him out if ever he shows his face among them.”
“I am real glad to hear it.”
“I suppose he has been interfering with your converts?”
“Sure thing! If ever they settle, anywhere, in his villages, he subjects them to such systematic persecution, that it is never very long before they backslide. The latest move is to start fables about our orphanages. Our little ones come from the peasant and labouring classes, waifs and strays they would otherwise be, overcrowding the families of the poor who are only too glad to give them up to us to rear, educate, and start in life; and now it is rumoured that we kidnap children, and that no one’s family is safe. This is, altogether, changing the attitude of the natives against us.”
“It’s all part of the propaganda against white men, started by these malcontents who want to get rid of the ‘foreigner’ from the country.”
“I have no doubt of it. But I am frequently annoyed by having to defend myself in the false cases brought up against me in court, and I don’t know where it will all end!”
“A very thankless job, yours, I should think.”
“It, sure, is. And that reminds me—that woman Sukie?—she has made no further effort to claim her son. Perhaps, young man, you can enlighten me, since I am told she is living—er—under your protection.”
A slow smile curved Derek’s lips at the signs of marked disapproval in the Pastor’s eye. “She is here, right enough, and has other things to occupy her mind at present that might, eventually, result in her giving up her claim to Joseph, altogether. I have given her a room in the compound till her affairs are settled.”
“Of course it is no business of mine—I have no right to speak; but I cannot help feeling sorry to know that she is here, though glad if she can be persuaded to resign her claim to the child.”
“I don’t think you need worry, Pastor,” said Derek, looking the old man full in the face while a twinkle lurked humorously in his eyes. “I am afraid, though, if ever I want a certificate of high moral character, I shall have to go to my servants for it—not the Mission.”
The pastor shook his head doubtfully. “To stand high in the estimation of the world, we have to avoid even the appearance of evil. However, you are master of your own conscience and acts.”
When the Pastor rose to go, Derek gave him an envelope addressed to Dulcie with the request that he would kindly hand it to her. It contained a polite expression of his thanks for all her kindness in looking after him on the hillside; and nothing could have been more dignified and distant than the tone of the letter.
Having done his duty, he tried once more to banish the girl he loved from his thoughts. She had only done for him what the veriest stranger would have felt herself compelled to do under the circumstances. It did not alter the existing position between them.
Later, that same day, Syed Khan claimed his attention.
“It is of the woman, Sukie, I wish to speak, if huzur will give heed.”
“Speak, by all means, Syed,” said Derek.
The Pathan shuffled his feet in embarrassment. “It is now going on three weeks since she came to live on the premises. What is the Sahib’s wish respecting her?”
“Why, what harm is she doing?”
“It is a false position, huzur, and none can understand it.”
“It keeps her from associating with people in the bazaar who would like to make her return to her old life. My hope is, that she will make up her mind to join the Mission so as to be with her son, instead of taking him away.”
Syed shook his head. “That will she not do, Sahib. She will not join the Mission. Since the Sahib suggested the idea of marriage with someone who will find her money an inducement, her mind is set on becoming wife to some respectable man.”
“Excellent idea. We must see if we can’t find her a husband.”
“There are many ready to take her, Sahib; but not as a wife.”
“What does she say?”
“She is firm in denying admission to any. No man finds favour with Sukie. Her door remains locked all night.”
“So you made that discovery?”
“The Sahib knows everything,” said Syed, with lowered eyes. “I would therefore pray the Sahib to send her away. Since she came, all the servants on the staff are quarrelling among themselves for her favour. It is with difficulty that I keep these hands from their throats. One day, I shall not control myself, and there will be murder.”
“So she favours none!”
“She favours one, huzur, and that one is myself. She would turn to my faith if I but say the word and take her to wife; but that word remains unspoken.”
“And why? She is young and very good to look upon, Syed; and you are, at least, twice her age?”
But Syed shifted his feet uneasily, looking perplexed and miserable. “We Moslems are proud, Sahib, and do not take to wife, women of Sukie’s record.”
“I understand. Yet—if it is a question of record, Syed, are you, a Moslem, more virtuous than Sukie? It seems you are proud without reason, and hold in scorn what is, in reality, no worse than yourself.”
“It is tradition with us, Sahib.”
“As the world grows wiser, it grows kinder, Syed. It learns the great need of humanity for tolerance and forgiveness. I believe that Sukie will make some man a very good wife. Of her own accord she has abandoned her debased mode of life. She has not been driven to leave it.”
Syed heaved a deep sigh. “At all events, her presence here makes for disquietude,” he persisted.
“I will attend to the matter without delay,” said Derek.
As a consequence, the following morning, in the course of his ride, he called at the shop of Simon, the blacksmith, whom he had always found a steady, hard-working villager; and, for some time, held a conversation with him respecting Sukie. In the days before the war, it was Simon who had wanted Sukie for his wife; but, being a Christian, his offer was rejected, her father having other plans for her.
Derek’s visit proved of a highly satisfactory nature; for, as a result, Simon spent an hour, that afternoon, in the company of Sukie, both smoking as they conversed outside her doorway in the sight of all the servants and their families.
When Syed, who had been absent at Amabagh all the afternoon, returned at nightfall and heard of the strange circumstance, it was said that his cheek went suddenly pale; and, thereafter, his behaviour was unusual and unaccountable. For the first time in his master’s service, he forgot small details of his accustomed duties, and so absent-minded was he, that Derek had to repeat himself, frequently, in giving orders.
“What is the matter, Syed? Are you not well?” he queried with twinkling eyes.
“I am well, huzur, but my mind is diseased.”
“Haste and cure it, then, Bearer. Get at the cause, and remembering the shortness of life, do that for yourself which will make for happiness, regardless of what people may say. Since we cannot please everyone in this world, at least let us please ourselves, if by so doing none is injured.”
“Sahib, as ever, the words of your mouth are pure wisdom. Therefore, shall I straightway go and heal the cause of my illness.”
Accordingly, his hulking form lounged out of the bungalow in the direction of the outhouses; but, in the shadow of the tall hibiscus hedge, it stopped before the slender shape of a woman, lurking as though in wait for someone.
“So!” said he, cruelly. “You are losing confidence in your power to attract men if you must go half-way to meet and waylay them!”
“Oh, Syed, you startled me!” she gasped. “I did not hope you would come so soon!”
“What have I to do with you?” he sneered.
“Alack, nothing,” she sighed. “Yet I waited that I, and no other, should give you the news.”
“Then you would have me believe you were waiting for me?”
“For whom else should I wait?”
“How can I tell?” he shrugged. “What was the blacksmith doing here this afternoon?”
“What is that to you?” she retorted, stung into anger. “Have I not had acquaintance with him for years?”
“So! He, too, was one of them!” Syed grit his teeth audibly.
“Ah, no! Simon is a good man—a Christian. He came not near me for years; though, ever, he offered prayers for my rescue from infamy. He has grieved many years for Sukie, and, to-day, he came to offer congratulations that I have of my free will turned my back on the past. But of that I have no occasion to speak. There is news—news that will, no doubt, give you great satisfaction, Syed,” she said archly, lifting her pretty face to his in the moonlight.
“If so, keep me not in suspense, woman. I have need of good news,” growled Syed, turning his gaze from her winsomeness.
“You will, of a surety, deem this very good news! I am to leave Panchbusti. You will soon be rid of Sukie’s polluting presence.”
“Where will you be going?”
“To my homestead, near the bazaar. The purchase is almost completed.”
“When will you be going?”
“After my marriage.”
Syed started visibly. “What marriage?”
“Blockhead!—haven’t I said?” she laughed. “My marriage. Did I not say I would marry? And, since there is someone found to take me, yea, pleading for my consent, what folly to refuse!”
“Who is the man?”
“Ho, Syed! You speak like a great Mogul. My suitor is a good man and one to be respected.”
“He is a brave man who will risk his good name and the respect of his people for the sake of a wanton.”
“Always he has looked towards me with yearning. For that reason he has never wed.”
“A lie! No man of your zat remains unwed after he arrives at manhood.”
“From a youth he gave up his religion to become a Christian; and, with such, marriage is a matter of will and choice. He is one who has a heart of molten gold for his fellow-creatures. His pity is unbounded——”
“You are telling me of Simon, the blacksmith?” Syed’s fingers fastened on her slender shoulders and held them as in a vice. “Has it been arranged definitely that you are to wed him?”
“I am to tell him my decision in the morning.”
“Listen—you!” Syed’s grip hurt her tender flesh. “Attend! You will send him away when he comes for his answer in the morning. Do you hear?” He shook her in his excitement, his face bent to hers, his jaw protruding. “You will send him away the moment he opens his mouth to speak, or, by the faith of my fathers, I will kill him!”
“But why, Syed? For what reason would you take his life? He has done you no harm?” she murmured coyly.
“For a reason I know not! Only at sight of him I will surely crush the life out of his mean, shrunken body.”
“Syed!” she cried breathlessly, “Syed!—when you look so, and bruise my flesh, you make me tremble—you make me weak, so that my knees give way. To me you become a prince among men—I would lay my head at your feet. Beat me, Syed! strike me! and I will but kiss thy hand in return.” She swayed toward him till her slim, perfumed shape brushed his giant form, maddeningly. “Syed! Syed!” in quick, agitated accents, compelling, because of the passion that animated them. “Given a man like you for my own—my husband—there would be none other in the wide world for me! . . . I would turn Moslem . . . and thou should’st build me a high wall round our dwelling; and, within it, there would be all I want of life—thee to care for—thee to cook for. I would serve thee, unremittingly, and bear thee fine sons like their father! Oh, Syed—would’st yield me to another after this?”
Blindly, Syed picked up the little form in his arms and crushed it to him, murmuring: “So small! So small! I could devour it! I could break it in two! yet, how it intoxicates me. Ai Allah! Where is my will? It melts like water. Woman—have thy way! I am all thine. Wilt embrace my faith?”
“That I surely will. What is good for thee, Syed, is good for me,” she chanted softly.
“It is enough—let us haste and get that dwelling and build a high wall around it. The women of my house have always been parda. Wilt thou have no regrets?”
“To be thine, Syed, will leave no place in my heart for regrets.”
“But—I can never leave my master!” he cried suddenly, stiffening at the memory of his duties and obligations, self-imposed and unremitting. “Daily, I must be here, so that his enemies may know that Syed watches sleeplessly. Thus, they dare not break in, for with my two hands will I choke them, and tear out their eyes.”
“Then it will be my pleasure also to stay. Peradventure, the Sahib will permit us to raise that wall about our quarters—a high wall, so that none may look over it; where Syed and his woman may live content with their children—no?”
“I will ask him this very night,” he mumbled, his lips buried in her throat. “But what of that homestead beside the bazaar?”
“I will cancel the purchase.”
“One thing more, before I haste hence to my Sahib—thou hast no more thought towards him—my master, for whom you have always had a yearning?”
“If I had, it withered and died within the flame that rose up in my bosom for thee, Syed Khan, my prince!”
“Woman! Thou art as a jewel—as a diamond, thou art! Of a purity that no soil even of the gutter can destroy! I take thee from the mud of the street, and lo!—cleansed of all its filth, thy glory dazzles my eyes—thy perfection fills me with wonder! Henceforth, I shall be as a king for pride in thee, my queen! Though my friends scorn me—my coreligionists despise me, still, will I be rich in happiness—still, shall mine eyes desire only the sight of thy beauty and perfection. Wilt thine arms enfold me in sleep? oh, little one, with the voice of a dove!”
Thus they billed and cooed as lovers all the world over, and later, Syed Khan crept full of shy self-consciousness into his master’s presence, and salaaming low, made his confession.
“I did as the Sahib suggested—and dealt with the root of the trouble that was weighing on my mind, with the result that now all is well with me.”
“That is, indeed, good news, Syed.”
“Huzur, I am now like a giant, strong to face the world and justify my right to act according to the dictates of my heart. I am ready to slay those who would jibe at me, or blame me for that which I have undertaken.”
“And what is that, Syed?” asked Derek, disingenuously.
“It is, that I have settled to take Sukie to wife, huzur,” said the Pathan throwing up his head, defiantly, and squaring his shoulders at the thought of the criticism and condemnation of his fellows.
“This is no sudden decision, is it?”
“For three weeks I have fought against it, but,” he shook his head helplessly, “it was of no use. It is Kismet!”
“I am glad, Syed. Very glad. But I shall be sorry to lose you.”
“Who said I am going?” asked Syed indignantly. “Never would I leave huzur’s service! even if the Sahib told me to go, yet would I remain.” He then proffered his request concerning the building of the wall round his quarters, and was grateful to find that it met with no opposition. “Within this enclosure will be a small courtyard for fresh air and recreation, so that the woman may not feel imprisoned.”
“And is she willing to give up the freedom to which she is accustomed?”
“It is her own choice, huzur, in recognition of the Moslem custom for those who desire to live respectably.”
“But—Sukie is a Hindu, surely?” Derek was puzzled.
“She will embrace my faith, huzur.”
“I am delighted, for your sake and hers. Go, build your wall quickly, but see that the enclosed space is large enough for Sukie’s comfort and health,” laughed Derek, convinced that Syed would need no second bidding, nor be over-scrupulous as to the area and extent of compound he would appropriate for his domestic needs. “And, Syed—tell Sukie to relieve the minds of the missionaries respecting the child Joseph. She will not need to remove him, now.”
“Without doubt! She will not need the child now, huzur.”
For the next few days Dulcie did her best to recover her natural spirits by mixing freely, once more, with her friends in the station, and was almost able to convince herself that she had succeeded. As Derek had given up attending the Club, it was easier, in his absence, to teach herself that he was not essential to her happiness; though, as yet, she was unable to hear the mention of his name, unmoved. One day, the Doctor spoke, in her presence, of a shooting party at Panchbusti, which included Miss Gladys Goldney and her aunt, Mrs. Bagshot, the wife of a senior official in the Secretariat. Dulcie felt a vague, unreasoning jealousy on hearing this, but succeeded in arguing herself into the conclusion that the affairs of Derek Lang no longer concerned her; a form of auto-suggestion that enabled her to smile with a semblance of pleasure at Tony Vincent’s conversation, though she often scarcely took in a word of his meaning.
“. . . Anyhow, it was a lucky thing the little beggar didn’t trip over the reins and come a cropper!” was one of his remarks that reached her without its seeming to bear on anything in particular.
“I beg your pardon,” she said with contrition. “I missed that.”
“I was afraid your thoughts were far away!” he said, forgivingly. “I was only saying what a good job ‘Merry-legs’ didn’t come to grief galloping home from the quarries that morning. But you are not to blame, for I can imagine the shock it must have been to you when you found our friend lying unconscious on the ground. I have been consumed with jealousy that he had you to take care of him!”
“There was no occasion for jealousy.”
“Anyhow, ‘all’s well that ends well.’”
“Tony, have you ever met Miss Goldney—or do you know anything of her? “ Dulcie asked deprecatingly.
“Gladys?—Rather! Met her at Simla last season. She had just come out. Why do you ask?”
“I have heard she is visiting Mr. Lang with her aunt, Mrs. Bagshot.”
“Then he must be getting up a shoot. That’s all Gladys Goldney and Mrs. Bagshot would come to this district for. They are both great sportswomen—lots of pluck and no end of ‘go.’ Gladys is rather a remarkable girl. To look at her you wouldn’t think she is a dare-devil on horseback; that she can shoot straight, and doesn’t know what it is to be troubled with nerves. She has a perfectly controlled manner, a low-toned voice, and is altogether feminine. Dresses beautifully, for instance, with due regard to the little things that make all the difference between elegance and dowdiness. She also dances well, and is a good deal run after by fellows, everywhere.”
“Go on—I like to hear all about anyone I am likely to meet. I suppose she is sure to call at the Mission.”
“She had rather a knock-out blow in the war, I was told. Lost her fiancé, who was killed the day before the Armistice was declared. Since then, she has had no use for men, from a sentimental point of view—so they say. Mrs. Bagshot is very much all there—a sort of ‘Bunty’ in her way. Likes managing people and things. She is rather masculine in her style—wears ‘shirt-waists,’ and silk ties; smokes like a chimney, and would have tried to set the fashion for women by adopting swallow-tails and a boiled shirt for evening dress, had her husband not put his foot down. He seldom does; but when he does, it makes a proper impression!”
Dulcie laughed. “How queer she must be!”
“Oh, she’s quite good fun . . . plays bridge like a man, and drinks her share of the whiskies without turning a hair! But Gladys is one of the best! Did a very plucky thing, once, which got into the papers, much to her disgust; so that she is very much admired in sporting circles.”
“Do tell me about it!”
“She and her aunt, with Mr. Bagshot, were guests of the Rajah of Muthigunge, who was entertaining a large house party of sporting johnnies. One morning, she was out with some fellows, to look on at pig-sticking from a distance, when her uncle, Bagshot, was charged by a boar and flung, horse and all, to the ground. Had it not been for his boarhound attacking the pig, he would, undoubtedly, have been gored to death. But—what do you think? Gladys Goldney, who was supposed to be well out of the way as a spectator, galloped to the spot, was off her horse in a trice, and standing over the prostrate form of her uncle with only a hunting-crop in her hand to defend herself and him from the infuriated animal! Of course the dog saved the situation by keeping the wild boar busy till the field came up and finished it off.”
The story thrilled Dulcie through and through, and gave her an unaccountable sinking of the heart.
“Does everybody know that story?”
“I should think everybody who knows her, as well as a great many who do not.”
“She must be splendid!”
“She is a topping good sort. What she did, was really very foolhardy, for it wouldn’t have helped anyone had she been killed as well as her uncle. But, still, we feel like taking our hats off to such a plucky act. A wild boar is a most formidable creature when roused, and will charge an elephant. It is the bravest of all wild animals, and will fight to the last. You know, sportsmen never shoot pig—they stick them with hog-spears, and it takes some doing, I assure you. The most dangerous of all forms of hunting! To shoot a wild pig is regarded by pig-stickers as cowardly and unsporting.”
Dulcie was thinking that Derek would be sure to admire such a personality as Gladys Goldney—and she was now at Panchbusti!
“Has—Mr. Lang known these ladies long?” she ventured to ask.
“He and I were in Calcutta, together, last November, when I introduced him to her at the races.”
“She is very homely to look at, I suppose?” Dulcie next asked, presuming that any one individual could not possibly combine all the attractions in her person. It was only just that she should, at least, be plain!
“What do you mean by ‘homely’?” he queried, laughing.
“Why—plain-looking, of course.”
“On the contrary, she is particularly handsome—tall and slight, with an athletic build and carriage, and a rather Greek profile. There’s a heap of tiger jungle on the other side of the river—property of the Maharajah of Amabagh, who is only too glad to lend his elephants to sportsmen if they will kindly rid him of the tigers. The village people on that side are afraid of their lives, after dark, and often beg of us to shoot some prowling beast that has walked off with a calf or killed a cow. I shouldn’t wonder that Derek Lang has a party from Calcutta, members of the Tent Club, staying with him for tiger-shooting.”
Dulcie’s hands were pressed tightly together, to still their trembling. She wondered what Gladys Goldney was doing at Panchbusti at that moment, and whether Derek had begun to take an interest in her. He would, probably, give her the black mare to ride, be her partner at tennis, and take her out on the river in his motor-boat. He knew the channel as well as he knew his own back garden. Oh, dear! But why should she mind so terribly? Did she, really? or was it just a dog-in-the-mangerish feeling?
The next afternoon, Derek’s guests evidently had a desire to see the station, for they drove to the Club in his motorcar, a party of three men and two women, and were, immediately, welcomed by the Doctor and Tony Vincent, who showed them round the rooms and sat with them under the waving frill of the punkah, in the verandah, where they were served by the Club khansama with iced drinks. The Indian Collector, who had relieved Mr. Macmaster, and other members of the Club were introduced to them while they watched the tennis with interest. Dulcie played on a court near by, so that, in watching them, her attention was hopelessly diverted from her games. She heard a young man with a military moustache explain the reason of Derek’s absence—which was due to press of work—and she was able to take particular notice of Mrs. Bagshot and Gladys Goldney—the others, including Mr. Bagshot, short and rotund—did not interest her at all.
Gladys Goldney was all, and more, than Tony had pictured her; strikingly handsome, with a face full of character. Her dress was both simple and elegant; her carriage, dignified and graceful. How tall she was! Dulcie imagined she was almost too tall—but how completely at her ease among strangers!
Dulcie considered that Mrs. Bagshot looked a freak, and might easily have passed for a man but for the skirt she wore. She was masculine even to her boater and square-toed shoes, and possessed a complexion which had been so much exposed to the Indian sun, that it was weather-beaten and tanned. In manner she was inclined to be dictatorial and commanding; and she sat with her knees apart and gown sagging between, smoking a cigarette in a holder several inches long.
There could be no better foil to the grace and patrician beauty of Gladys Goldney than her aunt, Mrs. Bagshot, thought Dulcie, as she seized the first opportunity, when her set was over, to slip away to her automobile and drive home to the Mission. She was not prepared to meet and talk with Miss Goldney, beside whom she felt insignificant and “homely”—not dowdy, thank heaven! An American girl need never be that! But she hated to feel the contrast which she knew was apparent between them in every respect, so refused to become acquainted with one who, she knew, was sure in the long run to win Derek’s admiration and love. It was not likely he would dream of marrying the native woman, Sukie, with such a girl as Gladys free to be won!
On her arrival, she was greeted with suppressed excitement by Miss Annie, who did not rest till she had carried her away to the privacy of her own room to hear what she had to say.
“I have such astounding news for you, Dulcie!—Oh, you would never have believed it! Nor would you guess, even if you tried ever so hard!” she babbled. “To think of the terrible injustice you, and I, and all of us have been doing that poor, dear, unselfish fellow, Derek Lang!—How can anyone atone?—Yet, it was his own fault that we all misjudged him! Why he should have sacrificed himself to a friend and his wife to such an extent, is beyond understanding—except that it is the nobility of his character. Oh, Dulcie, Dulcie!”
“Miss Annie—put me out of suspense! Whatever do you mean?” cried Dulcie, almost equally excited. Her nerves were worn to shreds and it would have been a relief to her to scream.
“Dulcie!—My dear, my dear! Mr. Lang is not Joseph’s father at all!—I found that out only this afternoon, while you were away.”
“Oh, but I guessed that before Mrs. Macmaster left! Mr. Slack was Joseph’s father. The likeness is unmistakable. I saw his picture.”
“You did? and never told me?”
“Because it made so little difference to the main point. Sukie’s being unfaithful did not lessen Mr. Lang’s culpability.”
“Unfaithful?—unfaithful?—Oh, you are on the wrong tack altogether! Sukie was here, this afternoon, to tell us we may have Joseph altogether, as she is going to marry Syed Khan—a Mohammedan. She is embracing his faith and going to marry him in a few days; so will not need to rob us of Joseph. I was so amazed to hear of her arrangement with Syed Khan, that I questioned her, and then it all came out. She was absolutely honest in her confession of her past misdoings. Never has she had, at any time, any intimacy with Derek Lang. She was actually made over by her own father to Mr. Slack while his wife was in England!”
“Oh, Miss Annie!” moaned Dulcie, covering her face with her hands.
“We have all done him a great wrong—through no fault of ours.”
“But how terrible! Can men do such dishonourable things!”
“Some men, Dulcie. Thank God, not all!”
“How could you tell that Sukie was not lying?”
“There was no object in her lying. She is crazy about Syed Khan, and nothing else seems to matter. ‘Once, in those days,’ she said to me, ‘I would have given my head—I would have abased myself to the earth for Lang Sahib’s favour; but never did he so much as touch me with his finger. I seemed not to exist for Lang Sahib!’ I, then, asked her how she came to be staying at Panchbusti. ‘He sent for me to make one of two decisions,’ said she. ‘Either I was to live with my son at the Mission, or let the Sahib find me a husband, with the bait of my money as a balance against my lost reputation. I chose marriage, so he would have arranged it for me, only my eyes were set on Syed Khan who is as a prince to me. When Syed, also, desired to wed me, the matter was settled.’ ‘But why,’ said I, ‘did Lang Sahib give out that falsehood about himself and let Joseph pass for his son? ‘ Sukie shrugged her shoulders and laughed. ‘It was, to me, always surprising that he should have cared for the tears of Slack Sahib’s Memsahib! I was made to promise never to open my lips for her sake. She was a wife terribly wronged and should not be made to suffer. So I held my peace.’ You see, Dulcie, Mrs. Slack came out unexpectedly, and, finding Sukie there, she would have gone clean insane if Derek Lang hadn’t saved the situation by his noble lie. We can now account for his lack of feeling for Joseph—and how terribly it must have hurt him when you broke off your engagement and sent him away!”
To Miss Annie’s dismay, Dulcie burst into a passion of uncontrollable weeping. “For the sake of my mad, jealous folly, I have lost him—lost him for ever! Oh, Derek, Derek!—why did you do this wildly quixotic thing! Oh! why, why did I not believe you!”
“You love him just as much as ever, Dulcie?”
“I love him!—I love him with all my heart and soul!—with every pulse of my being!”
“Then it will all come right; for, surely, he must care for you still. You can’t fall in and out of love at will.”
“He despises me now—I feel it. There are some things men never forgive—I called him a liar! Think of it.”
“And he did lie,” said Miss Annie, whose sense of humour was imperishable. “He can’t quarrel with you for stating the truth.”
“It was a very different lie I accused him of! He will never love me again, for he was innocent all the time. Had he really been guilty, he might have deserved it. Oh!” A fresh outburst of tears.
“I should call and see him, Dulcie,” suggested Miss Annie.
“Oh, I never could!” sobbed Dulcie. “Never—never—never!”
“Then, I should write. You owe him that at least.”
“I couldn’t! “ said Dulcie, sitting up and wiping her eyes.
“It would be so inadequate—such a futile amende to make when we had been so much to each other!”
“If he has a grain of justice in his composition, he will understand that it all came out of his original lie. I just don’t care what you say, but it is my opinion that you owe him a letter—a dignified little note, just explaining that you know everything and are sorry that you said what you did. That is all. The rest will be up to him. Do it, right now!”
Oh, the bitter humiliation of wanting back the love she had flung away! Gladys was with him now—in close companionship! The charm of her personality had, no doubt, won upon him, and he would only feel a pitying contempt for the girl who could so heartlessly have flung his love in his face.
“I cannot excuse my lack of faith. He told me he was innocent, and I called him a liar! My love failed him at a time when it should have conquered all doubt.”
“All the more reason that you should do your part—take back what you said, and leave the rest in his hands,” persisted Miss Annie.
The following day, when calmer, Dulcie sat down to write to Derek the most difficult letter she had had to compose in her life.
“Dear Mr. Lang,” sounded too formal.
“Dear Derek,” was better—it had once been “My very dearest.”
“I have only just come to know——” (Come to know—come to know—come to know . . .?) Dulcie sucked the end of her pen frowningly, hating the expression. Yet she could not say, “I have just discovered,” which would sound like prying into his affairs!)
Inspiration.
“I have only just accidentally learned that you are altogether innocent of the things that were attributed to you, and which you, yourself, allowed to pass for the truth, uncontradicted all these years. Oh, why did you? I see that it was truly a very noble impulse that made you shoulder another’s sin, and I want to tell you that I am cut to the heart to think how severely I judged you—and how unjustly! It will make me happier if you will send me a line to say you forgive me, for I shall hate to leave the country, feeling that I have not tried to make amends by asking your forgiveness.”
It was a good idea to refer to “leaving the country,” for then he would not think she was hinting to him to take her back into his heart. Her pride altogether refused to bend to so complete a humiliation. Besides, very likely, he was so much taken up with Miss Gladys Goldney, that he would be unmoved by her letter and would hardly trouble to reply to it. However, it was the best she could do, and also her duty to him. Miss Annie would appreciate what she had written. To assure herself that she had stated the case in the only possible way compatible with her pride, she took her letter to Miss Annie for confirmatory opinion.
“Tell me frankly if you think it will do, or if you would advise me to alter anything?”
“It is just right,” said Miss Annie. “Not gushing, nor falling over yourself, so to speak, to make up, but simple and dignified. I shall be tickled to death to see what he has to say.”
Miss Annie was the dearest thing ever!—but, sometimes, Dulcie found her jar on her badly. It was too serious a matter for her to discuss so flippantly.
However, the letter went by special messenger, and Dulcie could neither eat nor drink as usual, nor settle down to work for the rest of the day.
“All the Sahibs are out,” the native Christian coolie said on his return, empty-handed. “They have crossed the river to hunt tiger on the Rajah’s elephants, and will not be back for two or three days. Several tents can be seen on the opposite bank with the aid of telescopes.”
The suspense was terrible to Dulcie.
Then came rumours of the hunt. Apparently, the party were having an exciting time. There were three elephants, the Mission learned; Mrs. Bagshot was with her husband on one, and Miss Goldney, with Derek, on another, while the two other guests shared the third; and, already they had “bagged” a fine tiger and two leopards.
“I wonder you never made Mr. Lang teach you how to shoot?” Miss Annie remarked to Dulcie without meaning to annoy or point a comparison; but it was the last straw, seeing that Dulcie shrank from the very sound of a gun.
“Don’t rub it in,” she answered irritably. “I know I am a nervous fool and will live and die a coward.”
“My! what a kid you are, Dulcie!” from the penitent Miss Annie. “I wasn’t trying to be nasty, but helpful for future guidance. You have to identify yourself with the pleasures of the men you like. Mr. Lang is a sportsman, so you should have made him educate you to his tastes. He would have loved doing so. It would have been tact on your part.”
“What’s the good of anything!” cried Dulcie in tones which held a world of regret.
“There is plenty of hope yet. Why be downhearted? Men like Derek Lang are not weathercocks.”
As they were alone, Dulcie’s reserve gave way and she flung her arms round Miss Annie’s neck. “I just love you when you talk like that!” she whispered.
The days dragged on. Dulcie hardly knew how she lived through them. A letter from her agents held out small hopes of a passage to London on such short notice; but, as people were given to dropping out at the last moment, there was a chance that she might suddenly hear of a berth going. So, torn with conflicting desires, Dulcie left her plans to fate and tried to bear up bravely. News came filtering through that the shooting party had returned from the jungles with three tigers and two leopards; one tiger having fallen to Gladys Goldney’s gun.
In the meantime, Miss Annie began to grow uneasy about Dulcie who looked pale and had completely lost her appetite. As yet, she had received no reply to her letter, which was strange and unaccountable.
“It’s a short cut to a complete understanding that all is over between us,” said Dulcie, her pride in the dust.
“Never! I should never believe Mr. Lang guilty of such rudeness. At least, he is a gentleman,” Miss Annie asserted. “It might be possible that he did not receive your letter. If you like, I shall write and ask him . . .?”
“Don’t you dare!” cried Dulcie vehemently. “I’d never hold up my head, again.”
It was then decided to cross-question the servant who had carried Dulcie’s note to Panchbusti.
“I gave it to Mugra, the khidmatgar,” said the coolie. “He took it from my hand, straight to the Sahib’s room, saying that it would be the first thing he would see on his return from the jungle. ‘See that it is not lost,’ I warned him. ‘Nothing gets lost in this house,’ was his answer; and, content, I came away.”
“I don’t think there can be any doubt that he received it,” said Dulcie bitterly. “The thing is, he is too much absorbed in—his guests, to remember such a trifle as that letter!”
Miss Annie remained unconvinced. “I still think something has happened.” However, as there was no way of discovering what that something was, short of writing to ask, the matter was dropped between them; and Dulcie, holding her head higher than ever, spent a merry afternoon at the Club, judging from the brightness of her eyes and her ready laughter, which deceived everyone, and, for a while, even Tony Vincent.
Tony met her with enthusiasm, and attached himself to her side till she returned to the Mission. He was full of a week-end he had spent at Panchbusti, and, in the intervals between sets of tennis, Dulcie found herself listening with acute interest to an account of his visit.
“There was a sumptuous dinner on Saturday night,” he said, “to which some of the station people were asked; and, my word! Derek Lang did have things in tip-top style! The menu was a marvel, and his new butler is priceless. What with iced wines and electric fans and lights, you’d almost have imagined you were in town, not in the heart of the country. As to his table appointments!—they were absolutely the last word! Oh, it was first-rate. My one regret was that you weren’t there!” he sighed.
“Tell me about the guests—what they wore, and said, and behaved like?”
“Are you talking of Mr. Lang’s dinner party?” broke in Molly Coates who was passing. “It was absolutely IT. I enjoyed myself tremendously. That Artillery man is a dear. I have quite lost my heart to him—almost as completely as Miss Goldney has lost hers to Mr. Lang!”
“Whoa, there!” laughed Tony, uneasily, with a glance at Dulcie. “You are jumping too readily to conclusions.”
“About her?—not a bit of it. It’s a gone case between them, take it from me. I have sharp eyes, and I saw a lot of by-play that escaped you, my friend! The way she kept looking across at him all through dinner, was a revelation. You don’t go into camp with a man, share his elephant, win his undying admiration over your prowess in the hunt, without something coming of it! Anyhow, she’s familiar enough to call him ‘old thing,’ and link her arm within his while standing at his side. I heard her say, ‘Your garden looks heavenly with the river Jordan flowing past.’ (‘Ganges,’ I interjected.) ‘Be an angel, and come with me to enjoy the beauties of the night, old thing!’ Of course he went—didn’t seem to want much persuasion, either,” Molly added, not without malice, for Dulcie’s benefit.
“She left him no choice,” said Tony.
If Gladys could take such liberties with Derek, thought Dulcie, how was it possible for him to withstand her charm?
When she was alone with Tony Vincent, she plucked up courage to tell him the truth about Derek’s past as she felt it was due to the latter to do so. Tony and others were under a false impression, owing to his obstinately quixotic attitude, and Tony, at least, had to be put right. So, with some hesitation, she broached the subject.
“Derek was badly misjudged by us, after all, Tony.”
“How’s that?” he asked curiously.
“I hate to talk of it,” she said with averted eyes, “but the Mission people have learned through—that woman—all there is to know. Next time you are over at the Mission, the Pastor will tell you all about it—how, for a particular reason, wholly noble and self-sacrificing, Derek took the onus of that unsavoury business on himself.”
“Gad!” broke from Tony. “Yet, it is like Derek—every bit of it! I always wondered about it—now I quite tumble to the idea. What a criminal shame! But, surely—he needn’t have kept his lips shut to you? To save his own happiness, and yours, it was his duty to——”
“Oh, Tony,” came almost in a sob from Dulcie, “that’s where I failed him. He did try to tell me he was innocent—but I did not believe him. Please don’t let us speak of this again!”
“But—pardon me—oughtn’t you to tell him that you know now?—and—and would like to take back all you said?”
“I have told him—but I suppose he is very proud, and now—there is Miss Goldney.”
Tony’s hand covered hers, sympathetically. His eyes softened. “You know I love you and would do any mortal thing for you. But I count my happiness as a secondary thing. Yours comes first, always. Is there anything you would like me to do?”
“You can do nothing—I have decided to go home, Tony. I only wish I could, at once!”
“What is going to become of me?”
“We’ll be friends for life—I shall always look out for your letters.”
“I shall be getting furlough next year. Can’t you put off returning till next year so that we might go together?”
Dulcie shook her head. “I have written for my passage.”
“That’s all right—there are none to be had! I know a man who has been trying for one since December, and has no hope! The waiting list is huge. You will have to be content with a trip to Darjeeling to keep you fit, and I’ll take week-ends and amuse you there, if I may?”
While Derek was engaged in entertaining his guests across the river, Syed Khan answered a summons to appear before the Assistant Magistrate, Mr. Anthony Vincent, to reply to a charge of assault and battery laid against him by one Bhutna Singh, a peon in the service of Chunder.
The case against Syed was, that he had waylaid the peon on a lonely footpath when the latter was returning from Amabagh whither he had been sent on duty; and had thrashed him till he could not stand—an unoffending man who had never in his life exchanged an angry word with the defendant. In fact, he was, in no way, concerned in Syed Khan’s affairs. Even so, without warning, the Pathan had sprung upon him who was defenceless, and not content with beating him, had covered him with humiliation—him! a high-caste Hindu, of exclusive birth!—by using a weapon of offence, a shoe—a coarse shoe, which, as a mark of respect, it is customary to remove from the feet when entering the presence of superiors. Bhutna Singh had thus been insulted, humiliated, besides rendered sore in many places.
“What proof have you that it was a shoe and not a stick, presuming that your story is true?”
“I saw it, huzur! There was no mistaking it because of its great size. The marks I bear on my body testify to the force with which it was used to inflict injury to my person. It was used, with murderous intent, by my assailant who has the strength of two men.”
An argument ensued between complainant and defendant respecting the veracity of the statement, in which Bhutna Singh asserted that the shoe was big enough to have caused his death. God alone had saved him from the fate Syed had intended should be his.
Syed, who was conducting his own, defence, waited for the excitement in the court to subside, and then reproachfully asked, “What does this orator—this man of fluent speech—this glib aristocrat mean, when he talks, huzur, of this alleged beating with a shoe so large, when I have a foot conspicuous for its delicacy and smallness? Will your Excellency ask for a proper description of the weapon in question?” He folded his arms and awaited the examination.
“Describe the shoe, Bhutna Singh,” Tony Vincent commanded.
“What can I say to carry conviction?” cried the excited complainant. “The shoe, huzur, was, of a truth, one yard in length, at the very least.” (There was a howl of laughter in the court which was quickly suppressed). Bhutna Singh held his two hands apart to indicate the size.
“Ho!” ejaculated Syed in derision. “Out of his own mouth he convicts himself of lying. Where is there a foot so large for which such a shoe would be made?” and the crowded court again showed enjoyment.
“Silence!” The magistrate rebuked him. “It is for me to speak. Do you know what you are saying?” he asked the complainant. “You are asked to describe a shoe, an article of human wear, and you tell me it was a yard long! Has anyone ever seen such a shoe? Does anyone’s foot measure a yard?”
“Sahib, I but state a fact. The shoe was immense, and how I escaped with my life, God knows!”
“I am told you are a pugilist. How is it you made no attempt to defend yourself?”
“I had no stick with me, such was my misfortune! What could I do against one so agile and acrobatic? Syed Khan played around me like lightning—once here, once there, so that I could not lay hands on him or even run away, and in the end I fell howling on the ground, and still the shoe battered me like a threshing machine.”
“What time of the day was it?” Syed asked sternly.
“You know full well that it was after dark, yet you ask!”
“It was after dark, and yet, with no light either on earth or in the sky, he is able to swear that it was Syed Khan who assaulted him. Ai Allah. This Bhutna Singh is without a conscience.”
“How did you identify him?” asked the magistrate.
“By his shape, huzur, which is of a height and width not to be mistaken.”
“In the same way is he able to describe the weapon as a shoe, one yard in length!” Syed smothered a laugh behind his hand.
“Was there any motive for the assault? Why should this man wish to chastise you, Bhutna Singh?” asked the magistrate.
“Excellency, I cannot say, unless he suspected me of having been the cause of his master’s accident at the quarries.”
“He has no authority for saying so, unless from an accusing conscience,” put in Syed, with a bland and smiling countenance.
Bhutna Singh scowled at him malignantly. “I have a witness of the shoe-beating, huzur, who will bear me out.”
Accordingly, one Girish, a thatcher by trade, was called, and timidly gave evidence.
“I was coming along from the bazaar at Amabagh, when I heard sounds of a mar pete, with much howling and shouting for help. But, being by nature of a nervous disposition, my knees shook so with fright that I was compelled to sit down by the way, hoping that it would soon be finished. Hardly was I seated, when came the defendant running with something in his hand, so large, that I had no knowledge what it was till it fell to the ground. Then I knew it was a shoe.”
“How large was it?” asked Syed, fixing him with his eagle eye.
In his excitement, the man held his hands even farther apart than did Bhutna Singh when describing the size of the shoe.
Syed’s tongue clicked with a sound of contempt.
“These men think the magistrate is a child because he has no hair on his face! First they talk of a shoe so large that only a giant could wear it! Then neither has agreed as to the size, huzur!” he protested. “They waste the time of the court. You Girish,” he said suddenly, “you were nowhere on the spot described. The case is a false one, and Bhutna Singh gave you ten rupees to swear for him as a witness against me!”
“I—I—I——” stammered the man.
“Don’t lie, or you will go to gaol.”
“I have never had ten rupees from Bhutna Singh!” cried the thatcher, “and, assuredly, I was on the spot!”
“He never promised to give you ten rupees—think before you reply!”
“He—he—promised to give me five rupees, Syed Khan, not ten.”
“There! Huzur, the man’s evidence is discounted. He admits to having received a bribe to witness against me.”
“Huzur! “ cried Girish, bursting into tears, “it was only to encourage me to tell the truth that he offered me five rupees. Sahib, it is true; but the money was not a bribe, only compensation for the ordeal of speaking in court.”
“I have nothing more to say, huzur,” said Syed in righteous dignity. “I have shown that the case against me is plainly false, first by the description of a shoe no mortal can wear, and then, by proving that the witness has been bribed to tell lies so that I might be unjustly punished. What more is there to say?”
After a few more questions and answers which threw no more light on the case, Tony dismissed it as a false charge; his decision mainly determined by Bhutna Singh’s representation of the shoe, which was incredible. “If you are such a simpleton as to imagine any court would accept your tale in support of the bruises on your body, all I can say is, you deserve to lose your case. Next time you have a grievance, keep to facts, and don’t hire witnesses, or it will be you who will be sent to gaol,” was his advice to the complainant.
Derek heard from Tony at his dinner party of the case for assault against Syed Khan which the latter had successfully defended.
“A personality, that servant of yours, Lang. He would have made a fine pleader.”
“I wonder how much truth there is in the story of the thrashing,” replied Derek. “I wouldn’t put it beyond Syed to have given Bhutna Singh a shoe-beating, which would be specially humiliating to a man of his caste.”
“But the size of the shoe!”
“Of course, that savours of romancing.”
“If they had only stuck to facts, Syed might have found it difficult to get off. But who ever heard of a shoe three feet long!”
However, while undressing that night, with Syed in attendance on him, Derek questioned him closely:
“How much of all that was true, Syed, and how much false?”
“It was true, every word, Sahib.”
“Even to the size of the shoe?”
“That, too, was according to facts. I caused the shoe to be made, secretly, by the village shoemaker, and of a size incredible. Of cane was it made for lightness, and then covered with leather; and, day after day, I watched for Bhutna Singh who had so nearly caused huzur’s death at the quarries; for did not the Miss Sahib describe him and that other who for fear of me has run away to his country? So I waited, knowing that he often passed that way, it being a short cut to Chunder’s lands. When at last I got him, I made up for the hours of waiting, till he fell on his knees howling for mercy. He is a great rascal, is Bhutna Singh, for, having no witnesses, he did not hesitate to procure one. There was no one within half a mile from that spot, huzur, so I hazarded the amount of his bribe and caught him, who is verily a fool. Ai Khoda! the wickedness of these men is past understanding!”
“I think you need not sit in judgment, Syed, for you, too, are a bit of a rascal, I observe!”
“Huzur, to live among my countrymen and not be equal to an emergency such as is illustrated by this case, is to walk among thieves and murderers with one’s hands tied behind one’s back. For this reason did I have the shoe made almost a yard in length; otherwise, I would assuredly have been fined for performing an act of justice. Could I tell how many false witnesses would be produced to swear to every detail of the circumstance?”
Syed retired from his master’s presence with a smile of virtuous satisfaction on his clear-cut face.
By the end of the week the wall round Syed’s dwelling was completed, and Sukie, thereafter, being converted to Mohammedanism, they became man and wife.
“Not really his wife,” said the servants one to another, “for Syed has one already in his country. She is the true one, though he says she is weak in her head, and living in a house for the insane.”
“She is his first wife, Sukie is the second, for Mussulmans are permitted to take more than one woman.”
“For her there is another name, not wife,” said Mugra.
“What matter? Since they will live here, having acquired land as a wedding present from the Sahib, Syed will not need to return to his country; so Sukie will, in truth, be his wife; and, in time, bear him children, while Syed will dance to her piping; for never was a big man so weak in the hands of a woman as Syed in Sukie’s!”
Which was a fair statement of the case.
“Who would have thought that Syed Khan, a proud Pathan Mussulman, would have done this thing!” said the butler, also a Mohammedan. “He has, thus, alienated himself from his brethren. They no longer look kindly on Syed.”
“It is a strange happening, but Syed is, after all, a man, and Sukie is a witch-woman,” said the cook. “You Moslems believe in kismet; so what else is there to say? It is kismet-ki-bat,16 and Syed is not able to help himself.”
Trouble was brewing at Amabagh.
The Magistrate and Collector, Mr. Gobindo Lall Chaudri, smarting from his own failure to move in English society with the ease and bearing proper to his position as the leading official in the station, revenged himself by resigning the Club and discouraging the visits of those who were disposed to treat him with friendly courtesy. He next showed sympathy with the Extremists by associating intimately with the notorious Chunder, moneylender, zemindar, and seditionist; a proceeding not calculated to improve the relations between Europeans and Indians in that mixed community. Moreover, he took a dislike to Derek Lang which he scarcely troubled to conceal whenever they happened to meet.
Chaudri in his arrogant behaviour towards Europeans with whom he came in contact, was equalled only by Chunder himself, whose jealous hatred of the English had no foundation, except the consciousness of his mental and moral inferiority.
The passive attitude adopted by Chaudri towards instances of open disaffection, emboldened the extremist element in Amabagh to display their animosity to Europeans in acts of unwarrantable insolence, aimed at provoking disturbances of the peace. His Indian sympathies also prejudiced his judgment, so that whenever European and Indian interests clashed, his decisions usually favoured those of his own countrymen; with the result that never in Amabagh official history had there been so many appeals to a higher court. Not that there was much to be gained thereby, for, in the interests of peace and conciliation, Chaudri’s judgments were generally upheld.
The Collector’s friendship for Chunder found its echo in the sympathy with which Bhutna Singh’s grievance against Syed Khan was discussed in the station bazaar, and made one of the subjects of extremist propaganda. Young Vincent had tried the case and dismissed it; which proved, according to bazaar logic, that young Vincent was on his friend’s side. Having eaten of Lang Sahib’s salt, it was natural for him to support the servant of his host. So Vincent was bracketed with Derek Lang and Syed Khan for special vengeance when the time should be ripe for action.
Indians are as ready to follow a lead or take advantage of weakness as they are to respect strength and to yield to determination. The ineptitude of the Government, and the Collector’s complaisance in the matter of seditious meetings in the bazaars, soon made it dangerous for Englishwomen to venture into the native quarters for household purchases, as they had done for years without fear of molestation. By the end of February, the truculent behaviour of the natives had grown so intolerable that, with the excuse of the heat, most of the ladies and children in the district were hurried away to the hills, earlier than was customary. The missionaries were among the few who remained behind, though they, too, were urged by their friends to take a change till conditions should improve.
It was with quite another motive, however, that the three ladies took a short holiday to Calcutta, leaving Dulcie to take care of the aged Pastor and perform some of the lighter duties of the Mission. Joseph was to be handed over to a party leaving for America, that he might be brought up as an American citizen; and as the three were eager to see the last of him, and Dulcie did not at all mind being left alone, they prepared eagerly for the diversion, full of plans and pleasure.
On the eve of their departure, a painful rumour filtered to the Mission; a rumour that was spreading like an epidemic over the district, and finding root in the fertile soil of ignorant and uneducated minds. The countless charities of these unselfish workers were forgotten in the burning resentment aroused by their action in sending away an Indian child to a foreign land for certain mysterious purposes. The story current was that the Mission was an agency of the “Satanic” Government, for the capture of native orphans for purposes of scientific research in Europe. Vivisection was one of the atrocities mentioned and accepted as the truth by simple minds that were not too simple to be roused into a thirst for vengeance and bloodshed.
The same rumour finding its way to Panchbusti, caused Derek Lang no little uneasiness. Syed, who was out of favour with his co-religionists as well as with most respectable Indians, since he had taken Sukie to wife, brought him the tale with grave misgivings.
“This story has been started by enemies, without doubt, huzur, in the hope that it will supply the match to the store of gunpowder which has been gradually piled high. Once the people are started on the path of destruction, there is no reckoning where they will stop. The enemies of the Sarkar and the white race, care not how many innocent suffer so long as they might so embarrass the ruling body that it will, in disgust, retire from the country. That is their futile hope. They see not farther than the horizon, Sahib. But for the badmashes, at least, there is always loot; and, among thousands, each hopes that he will escape arrest if the movement fail.”
“What simpletons they are to believe such a tale against the Mission!”
“They have seen, from time to time, the sending away of orphans from the Mission to England, even to America. Sometimes little ones have been adopted by Memsahibs and taken away—God knows where! Now they are sending Sukie’s son to America where he will become a sahib. But what matter the truth? Lies are easier to believe, for venom is like the poison on a snake’s tooth, and sinks deep, taking speedy effect.”
“Sukie doesn’t believe these fables?”
“She would not dare, huzur, for very fear that I should send her adrift. I would as soon think evil of my dead mother as of that old man so bowed with years, and so god-like! He, who has spent his life feeding the hungry and protecting the weak, is not one to distrust or to be thought capable of so wicked an act.”
“Yet, there is no doubting the ill-feeling that is increasing in the district against him.”
“That is so, huzur; and it would be a good thing if he were persuaded to get away from these parts till the rancour subsides. Also, to my thinking, it is not safe that white ladies should live at the Mission, alone, without police or military protection, in case of a sudden outbreak.”
After a night of disturbed dreams, Derek wrote, warning the Pastor, and the letter arrived simultaneously with gossip from the bazaars, the evening before the Mitchams and Miss Leech left for Calcutta.
“Isn’t it too absurd?” laughed Miss Annie when she had told the others what a Christian convert had heard concerning the rumour.
“Evidently, Mr. Lang does not think it altogether absurd,” said the Pastor, producing Derek’s note.
The Mission party were seated at their simple meal from which the little refinements so essential in highly civilised surroundings, were lacking. But the food was good and wholesome, and there were fewer insects than usual, flying round the table lamp which occupied the middle of a drawn-thread table-centre—a sample of art-needlework done in the school.
The attention of the company was immediately arrested by the Pastor’s speech.
“What does he say?” the ladies asked, while Dulcie grew very still.
“He strongly advises me to shut down as soon as possible, as the present temper of the people makes it unsafe for us to be here, as we are absolutely unprotected. You ladies should be induced to go without delay”—Dulcie winced and stiffened—“and, as the Mission is to be closed in a few months, he thinks it hardly worth while for us to risk so much to carry on till then.”
“We can think it over when we return from Calcutta,” said Miss Leech. “It is kind of him to advise us, don’t you think?”
“He probably thinks he is doing us a service. But I don’t agree with him that there is any danger,” said the Pastor. “The people don’t really mean us any harm. Nor have they the courage to attack us, for they know it would be worse for them, afterwards.”
“I don’t think Mr. Lang would write like that if he did not feel he had reason for anxiety. We had better see what can be done the moment we return. There is Joseph to be considered first, as he must be made over to our friends at once,” said Miss Mitcham.
“How do you feel about it, Dulcie?” asked Miss Annie. “If you are at all nervous and would like to leave, one of us will stay behind, and you can go at once.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Dulcie, indignantly. “Let Mr. Lang mind his own business. We have not asked his advice. Of course, I shall stay. I am quite glad to be of use for once in my life. The Pastor ought to know the natives better than Mr. Lang does. He thinks people exaggerate the danger.”
“I do,” said the Pastor. “The natives often talk a lot, and it’s just hot air. It will blow over if no notice is taken.”
In his reply to Derek, the Pastor made light of the situation. “I have been long enough in India,” he wrote, “to understand native character, and I am not afraid of silly bazaar talk. It is clearly my duty to stand by the Mission as long as it is able to carry on, and I don’t think any of the workers would care to run away at the first hint of personal danger. It is different in the case of Miss Durand, who need not expose herself to risks of any sort. We have already suggested to her that she should leave us, but it is her own wish to remain here till she sails for America, which might be very soon.”
When Derek had read the Pastor’s letter, he called Syed Khan, and after a long and confidential talk with him, gave him certain directions.
“We must keep a look out, Syed. We must know exactly what is going to happen, and be prepared. No harm must come to the Mission—least of all, to the little lady from America who lodges there.”
Syed looked affectionately at his master with eyes of understanding. “Myself will take measures to discover what is hid, so that huzur may be prepared in case of trouble. Also, I will have the routes to the Mission watched, day and night, in case of surprises from afar.”
“I trust you, Syed Khan.”
“You may trust me, Sahib. Syed’s life is at your service, and will be risked for the safety of the Miss Sahib from America. She shall come to no harm while this arm is strong for her defence.”
Derek next turned his attention to the local volunteer corps of which he was the O.C. since the retirement of Mr. Macmaster. He called a meeting of officers and troopers—his personal friends—in the committee-room of the Club, at which he explained the necessity for readiness and efficiency on the part of every individual member of the corps, for the sake of the moral effect on the lawless element surrounding them; and he urged them to greater zeal in the discharge of their military duties.
Before the end of the week, the Amabagh Light Horse were parading in great form in sight of the station, with the usual interested gallery of Indian spectators hanging to the branches of trees or peeping over the hedges which surrounded the parade ground; watching the goodly show of vigorous manhood, fifty strong—self-constituted guardians of the peace—set in the midst of thousands deeply infected with the poison of red revolution.
The following day, Derek received a letter from Mr. Gobindo Lall Chaudri, the Collector, accusing him of assuming a provocative attitude.
“. . . By making a display of the military strength before people already rendered restless and discontented by political grievances, you are tacitly threatening them with military repression and provoking conflict with them. I warn you that the Government will hold you responsible if a breach of the peace occurs.”
Derek controlled an impulse to reply requesting Chaudri to “go to the devil”; and, instead, wrote with cutting politeness, that, as agitators were inciting the people to violence, it had become necessary for the volunteers to be in a state of readiness for possible contingencies. The volunteers were drilling in the interest of public safety—a purely defensive measure, for which any Government, in the circumstances, should be grateful. “If you did your duty,” he added, “and put down sedition with a firm hand, there would be no need for the display of military strength which you deplore. So long as the present unrest continues, I feel it my duty to keep the volunteer corps under my command, fully prepared for any emergency.”
Chaudri foamed at the mouth with rage on reading this communication, and, forthwith, held a conference with his friend Chunder, after which he wrote a humble appeal to the Commissioner, putting forward that one Mr. Lang, zemindar, commanding the Amabagh Light Horse, was needlessly flaunting the military efficiency of his volunteer corps in the eyes of a disturbed and sensitive population; obviously with the object of humiliating them. “I submit, Sir, that at this time of grave unrest, Mr. Lang’s act is calculated to inflame the ill-feeling, already existing, into an outbreak of violence. The people cannot be forced, by displays of military strength, into submission to the policy of the Government. It is the duty of every zealous official to bring them to it with their eyes open. But such high-handed proceedings cut the ground from under our feet, and must assuredly bring about disaster. I therefore pray, Sir, that you will support me in this demand for an immediate cessation of these tactless exhibitions.—I have the honour to be, Sir,” et cetera.
By return post, Derek received a semi-official letter of remonstrance from his friend, the Commissioner of the Division, persuading him to discontinue, for the present at least, his Light Horse parades, as Government had their hands full and could not afford to be further embarrassed by a tactless provocation of violence. “Indeed, I am afraid,” wrote Mr. Woodhead, “that you have made a mistake in choosing a time like this for military activities. We have to be careful to soothe, and not irritate, popular feeling. I trust things will quiet down when the district realises that no insult is intended, nor any desire to humiliate the people.”
Derek swore for several minutes to relieve his feelings.
“Oh, these sloppy sentimentalists!” he cried to the Doctor in whose verandah he was enjoying an iced beer at the time. “These neurotic old women they give us as rulers! When is a display of military efficiency more imperative than at the present moment? They would shut their eyes to the need for precautionary measures which would nip in the bud whatever trouble is brewing! One would suppose that volunteer corps were raised for amusement and recreation; to be in evidence on high days and holidays! The priceless idiot! Are we to blind ourselves to the danger that is seething under the surface and take no steps in self-defence till there is a sudden general massacre?”
“Government is notorious for shutting the stable door after the steed is stolen,” said Dr. Freeman. “One would think a little judicious display of preparedness should prevent trouble, instead of fomenting it. What are you going to do—stop the parades?”
“I’ll be damned if I will!”
Derek replied there and then to the Commissioner with wrathful frankness:
“My dear Woodhead,—You make me feel that it is time you bigwigs of the Government took to chicken farming in Kent, or joined the Salvation Army. India wants a strong Government. No chicken-hearted policy or psalm-singing will do with a people who are engaged in a trial of strength with their rulers. Unflinching determination to enforce obedience to the law, is the surest way to peace and contentment. Believe me, weakness is fatal. The natives around us are in a ferment over fancied grievances and manufactured wrongs, the outcome of mischievous propaganda which should have been countered long ago; and the best remedy the district can receive, is a dose of the Amabagh Light Horse going strong, well-drilled, efficient, and awe-inspiring. There is no better deterrent to mob violence than the display of armed force ready for action if need be; prompt to operate in the cause of peace. The policy of the Government has too long been ‘peace at any price.’ They would do well, now, to ensure peace at all costs. If the malcontents realised that, at all costs, we mean to have law and order at Amabagh and elsewhere, no outbreak would occur here or anywhere. The more you pander to supposed susceptibilities, the more difficult will it be to safeguard the peace. Take it from me, that these susceptibilities are merely invented for the people, by irreconcilables and badmashes.
“At present, we are living on the crater of a volcano which is showing signs of an eruption. You would have us shut our eyes to the danger. Perhaps, after we have all been massacred in our beds, the Government will put up a handsome memorial to those who were foully done to death, and our friends will subscribe for the widows and orphans. I prefer, however, to take the initiative, and act so as to prevent the possibility of rioting and violence; and will, therefore, continue to drill and exercise the volunteers under my command, for reasons both of efficiency and the moral effect of the display. Incidentally, the British community here hope and pray that the ‘Powers-that-be’ will be persuaded to remove from their midst the swine Chaudri, who is a friend of anarchists and rebels in the district; yet holds the position, under Government, of Magistrate and Collector. Good Lord deliver us!”
Derek posted his letter to the Commissioner and was about to return to Panchbusti, parades being over for the morning, when a telegram was handed to him.
It was an “urgent” telegram forwarded from Panchbusti, and proved to be a message from Mrs. Bagshot:
“Coming with Gladys for week-end. Meet eleven forty-five. Bagshot.”
Derek was dismayed. He certainly had given Mrs. Bagshot and Gladys an open invitation to visit him at Panchbusti whenever they felt inclined, and they had only taken him at his word. But times were getting anxious, and he was not eager to increase his responsibilities.
It was too late to stop them, for their train was due in a couple of hours. He must, therefore, make the best of the circumstances, and let them know, incidentally, that he would not be entertaining for some time—not, at any rate, till things had quite settled down. In the meantime, a messenger was despatched to Panchbusti for his car.
In due course it arrived at the railway station, where Derek waited with the Doctor, whom he had persuaded to join the week-end party; and was, presently, welcoming his guests with his wonted cordiality.
“We were so bored with town that we thought we would throw ourselves on your mercy for a few days. You did ask us to come just whenever it suited us?” said Gladys eagerly.
“I certainly did.”
“We made up our minds only last night, so had no time to give you proper notice,” said Mrs. Bagshot.
“I am afraid you won’t get any sport this time,” said Derek, “as we are having volunteer parades every morning and I have to be on the spot.”
“Oh, we didn’t expect anything, but just a lazy time,” said Gladys. “It is so nice of you to let us come. I have fallen in love with your home.”
“Are you sure it is with his home, only?” murmured Mrs. Bagshot.
“Aunt Billy!” Gladys reproved with mock severity. “It is a mercy Mr. Lang knows how to take you. Why, I have done nothing but dream of the black mare and her lovely paces!”
“She has had very little to do since you left,” said Derek.
“Why don’t you use her yourself, more regularly?” said the Doctor.
“She is not really up to my weight. I should advise you,” he said, turning to Gladys, “to keep well within the boundaries of my estate if you ride to-morrow morning. There has been a great change in the attitude of the natives since you were last here, and you might meet with disagreeable adventures. For this reason, I shall have to give up entertaining for the present. One never knows what to expect.”
Gladys showed open disappointment. “You will let us stay till Monday, won’t you?” she coaxed.
“I am delighted to have you—if you are not nervous.”
“We are not nervous, Aunt Billy and I!”
“I hope they will behave themselves while we are here,” said Mrs. Bagshot. “It is such a relief to be away from Calcutta, guests of such a charming host as yourself, along with a bridge-player like the doctor, and all the comforts of life—that I am going to enjoy myself; and I warn you that I may refuse to leave till you, literally, turn us out.”
“Then you will be here indefinitely,” said Dr. Freeman. “Derek likes nothing so well as giving a house party a rattling good time.”
“Mr. Lang, why ever don’t you marry?” asked the downright Mrs. Bagshot, who enjoyed making people blush. “I saw a lovely cruet at Osler’s which I thought would be just the most perfect wedding present—and so inexpensive—comparatively!”
“It isn’t tactful to publish your love of economy!” laughed Gladys.
“I merely set an example in these hard times. Why, Mr.Lang? Please confess what makes you remain a lonely bachelor?”
“Perhaps someone will not marry me,” said Derek evasively.
“Perhaps she thinks you a bold, bad man,” said Mrs. Bagshot daringly, “though, personally, I have a special leaning towards bold, bad men if they are as charming as you. What do you think, Doctor?”
“It seems you are getting quite a lurid reputation, Derek,” said the Doctor. “Yet, they love you all the same!”
“We all know he is naughty, but he’s very nice,” said Gladys, flashing her eyes, affectionately, at Derek.
“If you really believe I am as bad as you seem to have heard, I should not blame you if you turned your backs on me.”
“Which means that he is a very much misunderstood being! How disappointing!” sighed Mrs. Bagshot. “That’s the Mission, isn’t it?” when they came in sight of the group of brick buildings with thatched roofs, far across the fields. “I remember we were going to call, but, somehow, it never came off!”
(Gladys grew suddenly silent. She had heard from Molly Coates the history of the brief engagement and the alleged reason for its rupture; and stole a look at Derek’s face, for she knew that his allusion to “someone” could have meant no other than Dulcie Durand, the American girl, who was living with the missionaries. But his face was inscrutable.)
“You are welcome to the car at any time you like,” said Derek, in reply. “I am sure you will receive a very kind welcome.”
“Second thoughts are best. I fear I am not sufficiently self-sacrificing to accept your kind offer. We are not their sort. Our ways are not their ways, and I distinctly object to being asked if I am ‘saved.’”
“Surely, they will take that for granted!” laughed Gladys.
“They prefer to make sure. Besides, they will expect you to make a tour of the school, and listen to the children singing ‘Shall we gather,’ or ‘There is a happy land,’ and my nerves are not equal to the strain. I’d sooner shoot tigers.”
“They have Miss Durand staying with them, I believe?” said Gladys tentatively.
“Yes,” said the Doctor shortly.
“I have heard about her—Miss Coates said that the Mission ladies speak of her as ‘the cutest thing’!—and ‘Gee!—some girl’!” put in Mrs. Bagshot.
“I’ll ride over and call this evening if I may?” said Gladys.
“You will find only the old Pastor and Miss Durand there,” said Derek; “the others have gone to Calcutta for a week or ten days.”
“All the better. It will give me a chance to become acquainted with the American girl.”
“When shall I order the black mare?” asked Derek, rather eagerly, she thought.
“After tea, at sunset, if it will be convenient?”
“I’ll give the order.”
Gladys looked forward to the visit with burning interest. The girl who could turn down Derek Lang must be a curiosity. Surely, he had got over the disappointment . . .? It was cruel if he was going to hanker after her when there were—others.
Gladys decided that Derek, being a man, would, like most other men, be open to distraction. There was such a thing as affections caught on the rebound!
After luncheon there was bridge till Gladys wearied. Mrs. Bagshot retired for a short afternoon siesta; the Doctor did the same, so Derek was left to entertain Gladys who insisted upon a peep at his office.
The office, at the other end of the bungalow, was so particularly expressive of Derek’s personality, that she took a special pleasure in it, and in the feeling that it was here that he spent most of the hours of the day. It was a large room fitted with cabinets full of lettered drawers, bookshelves, and sporting pictures. There were hog-spears on the walls, an assortment of ancient weapons of warfare, mounted heads of deer, buffalo, pig. Tiger skins lay about the floor; a large office table, slightly in disorder, was, yet, perfectly appointed. On it, were, also, a tobacco-jar, pipes, and a box of cigarettes. A glass case held a glittering array of guns. A tennis net and racquets occupied a side table and rack near the door.
Gladys’ eyes were attracted to a framed and enlarged snapshot of a girl, which Derek was just about to slip into a drawer.
“Let me see that!” she cried, holding out her hand. “I love looking at photographs.”
Derek had no option but to pass it over, and Gladys saw that it was a photograph of a girl in a simple white frock with a tennis racquet in her hand.
“She is not—pretty?” came on the impulse.
“Not strictly, perhaps.”
“Is it Miss Durand?” Gladys asked in a strained voice.
“Yes,” was his brief answer. Evidently he was not disposed to discuss the picture though, apparently, its place was on his writing-table. She returned it to him and watched him lock it away in his desk, uncommunicative and reserved.
Gladys then occupied his revolving chair while he took the corner of the table with permission to smoke.
“I didn’t really come here just to see your room,” she confessed after some time spent in idle conversation, the colour mounting to her cheek. “I came to have you all to myself. My aunt talks so much that to be anywhere within reach of her, is to lose the initiative in conversation. You and I enjoyed ourselves, together, so tremendously when I was here last, that I am spoiled for anything else in life. You did enjoy the fun we had shooting together, and our talks in the moonlight? our delightful rides?”
“I did, very much indeed. You were a godsend to me, Gladys. Only, you did not know it.”
“Why didn’t you let me know it?” she asked, her eyes looking yearningly into his. “Do you know, since I knew you, you have, always, been the man I wanted for a best pal. We got along so well, too, at the shoot—yet, I don’t really seem to know you. There is always an invisible barrier of reserve between us. Hateful of you, Derek! Why not pull it down?”
“I was not conscious of it.”
“I am. It is like a towering wall I cannot see over.” Her voice failed and she picked up a cigarette to take refuge in smoke. Derek struck a match and lighted it for her.
“You wouldn’t smoke, when I suggested it!” said he, reproachfully.
“I feel a sudden inclination to smoke now—it steadies one’s nerves. My nerves are jumpy to-day!”
“It’s the heat,” and he switched on the fan. “I am so used to the heat that I hardly feel it.”
“It has nothing to do with the heat. It’s to do with—you, Derek!—I know so well that, deep down, you are just as unhappy as you can be. Why not let me help you, old thing?”
“You couldn’t, my dear—no one can. This is a matter that is past help. I’ve just got to forget it.”
“Yet—you keep that picture on your table to prevent you from forgetting.”
Derek hung his head.
“What’s the good?” she asked softly.
“No good at all.”
“Poor old dear!” She laid her hand on his, but received no response. How sad! How pathetic, that he should waste himself so! It should not be permitted! “You want change and diversion, Derek. You want new interests. You must let someone else take charge of you and teach you how to be happy again.”
“I don’t seem to care one way or another.”
“You will. It isn’t human nature to remain unloving and unloved. Derek I . . . I don’t care if you have found it out or not—but—I—I am awfully fond of you, dear . . . tremendously fond. I would do anything for you! Suppose you—you made up your mind to shake off this obsession, and married me—I know I could make you happy and teach you to forget. . . . Oh, Derek! Can’t you see that your silence humiliates me beyond words?” Her cigarette lay smouldering in an ash-tray; her proud head was buried in her arms.
Derek’s face flushed hotly, and as suddenly paled. For the moment he was speechless. Then:
“Gladys—dear old pal! I wouldn’t for the world have you think that!” He laid a hand affectionately on her shoulder. “It is just that I am a bigger fool than I thought.” Rising wearily, he walked to a window and stood looking out with set lips and white face.
“What does that mean?”
“That I am incapable of unloving the girl you are going to see at the Mission this afternoon. That is all! I am mad, I suppose, to care when she has given me up. Haven’t I fought hard against it? But it’s the truth, and now you can account for the barrier—the wall between us. I simply can’t get outside it.”
The next moment, Gladys’ hand was on his shoulder, her cheek pressing his sleeve. “It is no longer there, dear fellow!” she whispered comfortingly. “You have confided in me, and lo! it has vanished. I can, now, see into that dear, loyal heart of yours, despised and thrown aside. Oh, Derek! what a privilege you have given me by your confession! I feel ever so much closer to you. Don’t you feel it, too? Give me a sign that you feel it, too?” She lifted her face to his, her lips offered him solace; and Derek, looking down on her patrician beauty, realised that it was rather terrible that he could feel no impulse to respond to such love as it openly revealed. It was a beautiful gift Gladys was offering him—the gift of her proud heart, which she was humbling herself to offer him! He felt he ought to have been overwhelmed with gratitude—yet, her generosity left him cold. He was ashamed that he should feel so unmoved when, not long since, the lightest touch of a beloved hand had had the power to thrill him to the depths of his being.
“Gladys,” said he, putting his arm round her in an impulse of the purest kindliness, “you are the dearest of unselfish beings—a true woman. You have done me the greatest honour in life, I—I haven’t words——” he broke off, searching for inspiration not to hurt her badly.
“I want no words, dear,” she returned in an ecstasy of emotion. “I ask you to trust your happiness to me. I know I am acting unusually—but I have no choice. You would not give it to me! But now that we understand each other I will accept it as the mission of my life to make you forget your sorrow—the disappointment of that other unhappy mistake—if you will only let yourself love me. Oh, Derek! Kiss me in token that you will let me make it up to you!”
“Gladys—I am a bad hand at promising what I know can never fulfil,” he said desperately; yet, yielding in his great pity for her.
As their lips met they made a pretty picture framed ii the window for Mrs. Bagshot to see as she entered the room.
“Dear, dear!” she laughed. “I see myself buying that cruet after all!”
“Aunt Billy!” cried Gladys protestingly. “You should not walk in on people like that!”
“I beg your pardon, but how was I to know? Tea is ready and the Doctor is getting so impatient for his cup, I thought would tell you. I suppose I ought to congratulate you?”
“Oh, Aunt Billy! I am the happiest girl in the world!” cried Gladys with a sob. “Derek is the dearest—the best! But I do think you are horribly matter-of-fact to suggest tea at a moment like this!”
“I am dreadfully sorry. Do forgive me! But you have many opportunities for consulting each other’s feelings. The Doctor and I are gasping for tea.”
“We shall be with you presently,” said Gladys, burying her face in Derek’s breast, where it remained till Mrs. Bagshot had gone.
It was true that Derek’s arms were about her. He even kissed her, again and again, in obedience to her demands; but his heart felt benumbed, his actions were mechanical. Could he have proposed marriage to Gladys Goldney? He could not recall having done so. What could he have said that she should take so much for granted?
The tragedy of it! He could not love her in return for her great passion for him, which she took no trouble to conceal! Was this like Gladys who was always so composed, so self-controlled, so perfectly mistress of herself? Indeed, she had shown herself mistress of the situation, and he had completely failed to clear himself from misapprehension!
Derek broke away from disloyal criticism of the girl who was eager to be everything to him, and tried to force himself to accept, with philosophy, the position in which he found himself so unwittingly placed.
And why not? Dulcie had spurned him. She would have none of him. He was not to blame for yielding to the embraces of another, and for teaching himself to find new happiness in a new love!
Under the influence of Gladys’s passionate wooing, he welcomed a spirit of defiance towards Dulcie whose image he had been cherishing in his heart and worshipping unceasingly. She did not want him. Why should he go on wanting her?
For all his self-deception, he could not find himself capable of infusing warmth into his caresses. It was beyond his power to respond to Gladys’ endearments with any show of ardour. A tumult of conflicting thoughts worked in his brain. What was the fair and honest thing to do?
He knew; but he could not do it. How could he crush Gladys to save his selfish feelings? He must steel himself to go through with the engagement, cost him what it might.
Afternoon school was over, and the playground of the Mission schoolhouse echoed to the noisy shouts of children’ voices, the Bengali intonation apparent, though the word were indistinguishable.
Dulcie had interviewed the native Christian headmistress as to the report she had prepared for the ladies who were returning on Monday. To-morrow would be Sunday, a day of complete rest and quiet at the Mission, save for Sunday school and chapel services, none of which claimed her attention as they were conducted in the vernacular. She was glad to feel her responsibility nearly at an end with the approaching return of the Mission ladies. It had been lonely and dull for her; yet, she had resisted Tony Vincent’s persuasions to accept his escort to the Club, for she felt it incumbent on her to remain at her post to watch over the Pastor’s comforts and the needs of the children; and, for that week she had not left the Mission.
Tony had written of the activities of the volunteer corps and of the consequent excitement in native circles; for the annual Camp of exercise had taken place in December, and in the ordinary course of things, drills and parades were over for the year. Attention was focussed on mass meetings that were being held, unchecked, in the bazaars. Agents of Gandhi and other political leaders, who were arrested by the police from time to time, and brought up before the Deputy Magistrate, were, on one pretext or another, released and permitted to resume their mischievous undermining of lawful authority.
Tony had, accordingly, written to Dulcie of his grave anxiety for her in the circumstances. “Frankly, I want you to consent to marry me, and I would then put in for leave. We would get away from this poisonous hole and have a good time anywhere you would like to go; and, on my return, I am sure I shall find myself gazetted to another station. It won’t be worse than this one is now, you bet your life! Say ‘yes,’ and make me the happiest of men. I shall eagerly look for your reply.” To this she had replied affectionately and firmly. It was no use his wanting her to marry him. At present, things were too fresh in her memory for her to think of marriage. She would probably hear, shortly, of a passage and would, then, leave the country for ever. Meanwhile, she was but sharing the anxieties of other people in the district, and was not afraid.
When afternoon tea was cleared away, Dulcie occupied herself with mail letters, settling down to a desk in the Mission “parlour,” an austerely furnished room, protected from the rays of the sun by a thatched verandah and a clump of bamboos growing near.
Through an open doorway she could see the punkah coolie drowsily pulling the rope that swung the be-frilled pole over her head; and, beyond his squatting figure, was a glimpse of the garden gate and cactus hedge. Occasional clouds of dust rose spirally on the boisterous wind which heralded the dry heat of summer. From a tree in the garden, the “brain-fever” bird was indulging in vocal exercises which ascended the scale monotonously, ending on an agitated warning of what to expect in the days to come. “Brain-fever! brain-fever! brain-fever!” Dulcie thought the heat bad enough without this reminder from the feathered prophet.
The afternoon passed quickly, owing to the distraction of her correspondence, so that she was surprised to discover that the sun had set before she had stamped and addressed the last of her letters to friends at home, announcing her intention to return at the earliest opportunity.
A sound of horse’s hoofs clattering on the gravel, brought her to the doorway to see Derek’s black mare, ridden by a lady, advancing to the steps.
It was Gladys Goldney, who, she had imagined, was in Calcutta. Evidently, Panchbusti held a strong attraction for her!
Dulcie found herself suddenly unnerved and tremulous. Why had this stranger troubled to come? Wasn’t it enough that she was a guest of Derek Lang’s without flaunting the fact to Derek Lang’s one-time sweetheart? But, however resentful she felt, she was too well bred to betray her feelings Miss Goldney was asked to “come right in”; offered tea—which she refused as it was past tea-time—given a chair in the “parlour” opposite Dulcie, and encouraged to converse. Not that Gladys ever needed much encouragement to make conversation. Her ease and self-possession were remarkable and Dulcie was more than ever full of grudging admiration.
“I have been longing to make your acquaintance,” said Miss Goldney in excellent spirits, “so, having returned to the district for a few days, I was determined not to let anything hinder me from calling.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Dulcie conventionally For the moment she felt quite at a loss. How handsome her visitor was! What wonderfully accurate features! What a tall, commanding figure, and how graceful! Beside her, Dulcie felt little and insignificant, and could have wept with distress, but for her pride and self-respect.
“I have heard so much about you,” went on Gladys. “Mr Vincent is your great admirer, I expect you know that, and always talks in praise of you.” At which Dulcie smiled appreciatively. “But you are quite different from what I imagined.”
“What were you led to imagine?”
“Somehow—I pictured you as very vivacious, like most of your countrywomen.” She did not say more as it was impossible to confess that she was more than surprised to find that Dulcie Durand, who had captured the fastidious affections of Derek Lang, was just an ordinary, undersized little woman—girl, rather, since she looked scarcely more than seventeen, though rumour said she was nineteen—very pale and rather depressingly quiet! Of course, there were possibilities . . . for instance, her eyes were nice—some might consider them lovely, and her mouth was distinctly pleasing.
“I suppose vivacity is dependent on the state of one’s spirits,” said Dulcie. “It isn’t exactly lively at the Mission at the best of times.”
“I shouldn’t imagine it is. I wonder you stay!”
“I am waiting for my passage home. There are no berths available just now. But you mustn’t think I am complaining,” she hastened to add in justice to her friends, the missionaries. “They are all so good to me, here.”
All the while they talked commonplaces, Gladys Goldney studied Dulcie narrowly, and she was not content till she had brought the conversation to bear upon Panchbusti and Derek Lang. There was something she was burning to know; with tact, it was possible to surprise the truth from this childlike creature with the limpid eyes and sensitive lips. “You are such a near neighbour of Mr. Lang’s—I almost expected to meet you at his place?”
“Oh, no! We are almost strangers,” said Dulcie, nervously.
“Pardon me, but I don’t see why that should be. Can’t I induce you to return with me to dinner? My aunt will be delighted and so will the Doctor. He is the only guest. Of course, Mr. Lang expects you.”
“It—I really couldn’t—it is quite out of the question,” said Dulcie, thoroughly confused.
“But why?—please——”
“For one thing, I cannot leave the Mission while the ladies are away. You must excuse me. But—did he tell you to ask me?”
“To be strictly honest, I said I would bring you back to dinner, if I could; and he said I was to do as I pleased. You have to know that it is rather a special occasion. We are celebrating our—engagement.”
“Your engagement—to Mr. Lang?” asked Dulcie, through whitening lips. It had come. She had always expected to hear it—but never dreamed it would be mentioned so brutally.
“Yes. It happened this afternoon,” said Miss Goldney shamefacedly. She had wanted to see the effect of the announcement, and now that she had her wish, she felt she had behaved very tactlessly. “Are you not well?—do let me know what I can do for you!” she cried, bending toward Dulcie, solicitously.
“I—I am quite well,” laughed Dulcie, hysterically. “Don’t worry—the heat often makes me feel suddenly queer—it will pass presently.”
So Gladys knew what she had come to find out. Dulcie was still in love with Derek, though of her own free will she had cast him off! What a fool she had been! After all, she deserved to suffer.
“It is just as well you are going home,” said Gladys, “for the heat gets very much worse in May and June.”
“I shall be gone before then, I hope. Do let me congratulate you,” said Dulcie, recovering her equanimity by sheer force of will. “I hope you will both be happy—you are going to marry one of God’s good men.”
“That is very nice of you—but—somehow, I had the impression that you and people in the station looked on Mr. Lang as a person of—elastic morals—that is, someone with rather an evil reputation?”
“There was never a greater injustice done to any man,” said Dulcie earnestly. “There isn’t a better man living than Mr. Derek Lang,” asserted Dulcie vehemently. “I didn’t think so once, but I know it now. There was a story about him—to his discredit—but it was false.”
“I heard the story, but it doesn’t trouble me. I am too much a woman of the world. Do you mind telling me how you have discovered that it is false?”
“Not at all. I think everybody should know,” and Dulcie told her visitor the facts of the case with eager enthusiasm.
“Thank you so much. . . .” It was all very puzzling. Since Dulcie now knew her mistake, why had she made no effort to restore the relations that had once existed between herself and Derek? Did he know that she had been enlightened? “I am very much obliged to you for the truth, though, as I said, it didn’t matter much to me. You would, naturally, set a great deal of store by such things.”
“It is a question of ideals, I suppose,” returned Dulcie.
“It is best to take life as we find it,” said Gladys, rising to take her leave. “We have to make the best of things if we wish to be happy.”
But Dulcie shook her head. “I am not built that way. I could not love where I did not entirely respect also.”
Gladys rode back to Panchbusti in the deepest depression. She carried away with her the haunting memory of Dulcie’s white and stricken face and her brave lips offering sincere congratulations; and she writhed inwardly. “She loves him still—as he loves her! That baby-faced child with her exalted ideals and inexperienced mind! If he were not bound to me, they would not be parted long, now that she has discovered his innocence! But—I cannot give him up! I shall not give him up! She could never make him as happy as I can. How could she satisfy his mind? She is the opposite of him in all things that count, whereas, our tastes are identical. We were made for each other. I could be a pal to him—he said I was a ‘godsend’ . . .
“A ‘godsend’ to distract his thoughts from her? Ah, how shall I bear it! He must be encouraged to forget. My love will do that for him. Derek, oh, Derek! you shall love me best in the end.”
When Gladys arrived at Panchbusti, she looked pale and dispirited, and spoke little of her visit to the Mission. Though Mrs. Bagshot plied her with questions, she was not to be drawn, but gave the impression that she had been bored with her visit.
Later, she found no difficulty in inducing Derek to follow her into his “sanctum” which was her name for his study, a luxurious little smoking room set apart from the reception rooms in the bungalow—and his ready compliance filled her with hope. He had asked no questions, but had been absentminded and thoughtful all the evening.
In the study, however, his reason for wishing to be alone with her, was explained by his anxiety to hear the details of her visit that afternoon. “You haven’t said much, have you?” he said lighting her cigarette and his own, when she would far rather he had made love to her and let her love him. “Where was the Pastor?”
“As if you are keen to hear about the Pastor!” reproachfully.
“Why not? I like the old man exceedingly. He is as true as gold.”
“Derek! Tell me the truth, darling! You want to know all about Miss Durand? If that is so, my heart is broken,” she cried playfully, though the pang in that organ was intolerable.
“There isn’t much use, is there?” He had the grace to blush uncomfortably. “That is all over and done with, Gladys.”
“If I could only be sure of that!” To inspire him with some of the passion that consumed her, she twined her arms about his neck and kissed him fervently on the lips. “You belong, now, to me, dear, and I am going to make you very happy—oh, so happy! Don’t you believe it?”
“I should be very ungrateful if I thought otherwise. You are too good to me, Gladys,” he said humbly.
“Do you still want to hear about the American girl?”
“Not unless you wish to tell me.”
“I’ll be generous and tell you that I thought her very nice. Let me see—I shall give you my exact impression.” Gladys rested her head on his shoulder, half closing her eyes; and, bearing in mind the fact that men usually admire magnanimity in women, drew on her mental picture of Dulcie to describe her adequately.
“She was dressed in white muslin, soft and clinging. One of those frocks that are just the inspiration of an artist, for it was as simple as it could be, but so perfectly cut, that I was sure it had been made either in Paris or New York. Yet, she was not in the least degree overdressed.”
“What about herself?”
“I am coming to that. She looked almost as white as her frock, and her eyes had blue shadows underneath. I was thinking of suggesting malt and cod-liver oil; only, the weather is too warm. She has very sweet eyes, Derek, but she is too thin to be beautiful. I rather think it was a sort of knock-out to her when I told her we are engaged.”
“You told her?” he asked startled.
“Why not? An opening occurred and I thought it better she should hear it from me than from others. Do you object?”
“Well—no. I suppose you did right.”
“Thank you.”
“What—what did she say?”
“Nothing much—she offered congratulations,” said Gladys shortly. “She—she Derek, if you make me talk any more of Dulcie Durand, I’ll scream!”
“I’ll not mention her again. Forgive me, Gladys.”
How cold he was!—how apathetic!
It was late that night when Derek fully realised what he had done, and he was overwhelmed with dismay. While loving Dulcie with the whole strength of his virile and passionate nature, he had allowed himself to become engaged to marry Gladys Goldney—a girl of good family, courageous, unconventional, of unimpeachable character, and desperately in love with him! He might force himself, for sheer pity of Gladys, to act a part, to live up to all she expected of him; but would it be humanly possible for him to keep on living a false life, indefinitely? It would be intolerable for him. Far better that he were dead. Moreover, sooner or later, she would be disappointed; it would end in their loathing each other. Put it as he would in the generosity of his heart, there was yet no denying the fact that he had not asked her to marry him; it was she who had asked him—and, for the first time in his life, he had shown weakness. He had committed the mistake of saving a woman’s feelings at the expense of a great wrong, both to her and himself. Yet, at the moment there had seemed no way of escape.
Mercifully, the greatest wrong was to himself. Dulcie would not suffer, for she had ceased to care—so he argued.
She had ceased to care! Perhaps women were easily distracted, and found it possible to transfer their affections when disillusioned? She had certainly been disillusioned—poor child!
Why should she have accepted his denial? “All men are liars.”
Oh! she was right to despise one who stood for the shame, the vice, which he had taken on himself. . . .
Do what he would, Derek’s thoughts came round to Dulcie—Dulcie, all the time. He had started out to face the situation between himself and Gladys, but found himself thinking and dreaming, as ever, of Dulcie. It was her face he saw in imagination, as he lay in the dark verandah when all were abed and asleep; her lips he remembered so sweet in kisses—not Gladys’, so recently yielded to his!
Pictures of Dulcie fed his imagination: he saw her riding with him to hounds. He held her in his arms in the bamboo and asked her to be his wife. He looked again, deep into the clear eyes upraised to his—the sweet, frank eyes, so pure and innocent—so loving! “She loved me—God knows she loved me, once!” he groaned.
He shrank from the memory of their parting, when she had flashed scorn at him and refused to accept his word. . . . He preferred to think of that lonely corner of the Club verandah, where she would nestle in his arms and reveal all the natural charm of her disposition in a thousand ways.
Derek roused himself and made a strong effort to overcome vain regrets, and to face with courage the problem of his engagement to Gladys. He told himself, wearily, that, at least, she must not be made to suffer. He would play the game.
His wrist watch showed midnight, and he rose to take what he could of rest before embarking on the affairs of another day.
In his bedroom, the little clock in its handsome, ebony frame supported on a massive bracket, had stopped. The key lay beside it; the keyholes in the dial were inviting.
Subconsciously, he started winding it, only to find that it was fully wound. Then he recalled having wound it that very morning. Most annoying that it should go wrong when it had kept perfect time for years! Derek was very sleepy, but the clock was now on his nerves like a great many other things, and he put out his hand to take it from the shelf and administer a shake to the works. As he lifted it down, an envelope was revealed at the back, resting against the wall. Apparently, a letter which had been placed, some time, on the clock, had been blown down between it and the wall and remained there ever since.
Derek had no recollection of having placed a letter on the clock in his bedroom—evidently a servant’s doing, as it was a spot most likely to attract his attention. . . .
He lifted the envelope in his fingers, and was startled to see that the address was written in Dulcie’s pretty, vertical writing.
A letter written by Dulcie and sent so long ago as to be covered with dust lying behind the clock! His heart seemed to stand still. The clock, the hour, were forgotten as Derek opened and read the pathetic note of apology Dulcie had written him three weeks ago, the reply to which she had waited for in cruel suspense.
The date on the letter drew from him a sound of passionate despair, and he read with bounding heart:
“Dear Derek,—I have only just accidentally learned that you are altogether innocent of the things that were attributed to you, and, which you, yourself, allowed to pass all these years for the truth, uncontradicted. Oh, why did you? I see that it was truly a very noble impulse that made you shoulder another’s sin, and I want to tell you that I am cut to the heart to think how severely I judged you—and how unjustly! It will make me happier if you will send me a line to say you forgive me; for I shall hate to leave the country feeling that I have not tried to make amends by asking your forgiveness.—Yours sincerely,
“Dulcie.”
Derek’s fingers closed on the paper in a spasm of anguish as he finished. “It will make me happier if you will send me a line. . . .”
And he had never written!
What did she think of his silence? Derek’s head came down on his arms and, for a brief moment, he was unmanned. He next drew on his boots in feverish haste, when a sudden realisation of the lateness of the hour arrested him. It was past midnight and not the time to present himself at the Mission.
Sleep was banished from his eyes; his excitement was intense.
Dulcie knew he was innocent—she believed in him! She even thought his act noble. God bless her! God bless her!
Gladys? . . .
Derek felt turned to stone as the recollection of the position in which he was placed was borne in on him. He was now engaged to Gladys. In a mood of finality, he had placed his dead mother’s ring on Gladys’ finger as a pledge that he would marry her.
A sickening sense of despair clutched at his heart. If this letter had only reached him three weeks ago, how much suffering would have been saved! If he had found it but yesterday, he would, now, have been a free man—free to go in the morning to Dulcie and plead with her to take him back into her heart! But there was Gladys!
Tony Vincent . . .?
He did not mind Tony if Dulcie did not love him.
She wrote of leaving the country, which proved that Vincent was nothing to her. The tone of her letter filled him with alternate hope and despair—despair because of Gladys.
What rascal was responsible for the muddle? In whose hands had Dulcie’s letter been placed for it to have found its way into such an effectual hiding place?
Derek, clad in his pyjamas, went in search of Syed Khan, and knocked, imperiously, on the door of his quarters. The door was in the high wall, and Sukie replied from the other side.
“Syed?” she asked sleepily. “God knows where he is to-night! He heard news of mischief brewing at Amabagh, and went to prowl about for information. Often, after his dinner, he spends the night looking for badmashes, and returns to sleep when the sun rises. Between his duties he sleeps in snatches. Alas! he but wears himself out, needlessly!”
Derek retreated to seek for Mugra, in hopes of gaining enlightenment from him. Mugra rose from his bed with a bound, on hearing his master call from the door of his quarters. “I am coming! I am coming, huzur,” he replied, winding a muslin sheet about his shoulders.
When he had handled the envelope of the letter and had understood where it had been discovered, his jaw dropped.
“I put a letter some weeks ago on the clock in huzur’s bedroom. Ai Khoda! who was to know that the wind from the fan would cause it to slip behind!—of course it would be covered with dust, for Syed—when does he dust the Sahib’s furniture conscientiously? Only, what the eye can see he cleans. All his time is now spent with Sukie “
“Why wasn’t it given into my hand?” Derek asked sternly.
“Huzur was beyond the river, shooting tigers when a servant of the Mission gave it to me, so what to do but put in Sahib’s room? Afterwards, it was gone, so I said nothing, thinking all was well!”
“Take nothing for granted another time,” said Derek, returning to the house, his brain in a turmoil.
Scarcely had he reached his room when a tall, agitated figure plunged through the doorway and dropped with exhaustion at his feet.
“What is it, Syed?” Derek exclaimed, shocked at the man’s appearance. His turban was awry, his jacket spattered with mud, and he looked like one who had seen and done terrible things; yet, withal, a gleam of triumph lurked in his eye.
The moment Syed Khan regained his breath, he proceeded to explain in tones of tense excitement, the reason of his appearing before his master at that unseasonable hour and with so little ceremony.
“Sahib! I have killed a man—with these two hands I killed him. I was not myself when I did it—but a devil, with the blood hot in my head and eyes. It is Chunder Babu I have killed. I held his vile throat and choked the life out of his body. If I had to do it again, again would I act with the same determination, as of a madman, to kill!”
“Stop!” commanded Derek, stunned at the news. “If you are in your senses, Syed, that is not a thing to tell me. I do not wish to hear anything—as you value your life “
“Sahib!—this night is the end of all things—what have I not seen and heard! What bloodshed, rapine, loot, there will be! The devils of hell are let loose——”
“Bloodshed?—what are you saying?”
“I will tell from the beginning quickly, for there is no time to lose,” said Syed, swallowing hard. Derek listened acutely while the Pathan’s words rushed in a torrent from his lips. “I have run for miles without stopping and who knows, by now, what is happening? Sahib, I heard a rumour this evening from one hurrying out of the district, and I went to Amabagh bazaar, disguised with a red beard that none should know me—the hour was ten by the kachari clock. Huzur gave me leave to retire early as, seemingly, I was not well. It was for this I left my duties. When I arrived in the marketplace of the station bazaar, it was thronged by a riotous multitude of people—Hindus and Mohammedans, alike, all drunk with the lust of blood and loot. They were listening to a speaker of great fluency—and, beside him, prompting with evil suggestions, was Chunder Babu. Between them, they said many untruths, one being that Sukie’s child, Yusuf, has been sent away to be chopped to pieces by European doctors in the cause of knowledge. Also, they said that the fire which burnt so many dwellings at Gumori, and which huzur helped to extinguish at risk to your life, was caused at your instigation for the intimidation of your villagers and to force them to pay their rents. The Sarkar was described as an evil and rapacious monster feeding upon the lifeblood of the nation, and the people were called upon to rise and exterminate this race of taskmasters in the land. Chunder Babu named me, huzur, as a pervert from my faith, having taken to wife a woman of ill-fame, and so debased me, a Pathan Moslem, in the eyes of all in the district! I was also said to be a disciple of a vicious Christian master. I, therefore, threw a stone, huzur, that felled the speaker like an ox under the hammer, and in the confusion following, I saw Chunder Babu run for his life.
“Sahib—he did not run far! In an alleyway between two huts, I overtook him. Of the joy it was to me to see his terror, to hear him plead in vain, I will not speak! He even offered me money to release him! Ai Allah! I finished him, then returned to hear and see what was happening. Sahib, a large multitude with sticks and sabuls and axes, dahs and every conceivable implement of death, were clamouring for leadership, and one party led by a notorious badmash, planned to raid and burn the Mission, another led by Bhutna Singh, was told off to sack and burn Panchbusti bungalow and kill all within; the third, and largest of all, was to lay waste and kill in the station. Sahibs were to be massacred, and their Memsahibs too, after they had finished wreaking on them their hellish atrocities!”
“Where were the police?” asked Derek who had been hastily donning his uniform while listening. “Did they make no attempt to disperse the gathering? Did no one send to the Superintendent Sahib—rouse all the Sahibs in the station?”
“The police? Ai Allah! The police made a feeble effort, huzur; and, when stoned and beaten by the crowd, they took to their heels and fled. What could a few scarlet turbans, ineffectually armed, do in that throng? With my own eyes I saw two go down with blows. So I ran, huzur, first to the house of the Collector—the chicken-hearted Chaudri Babu—and told him that before morning, his throat would be cut, for a mob wild with the desire to kill, never reasons. Chaudri is a servant of the Government which he and Chunder have taught the people to despise; and he, as well as Chunder, must pay the price. I left him snatching at his valuables and did not stop till I had given the alarm everywhere. The Police Sahib-logue had already received information; the young Magistrate Sahib I roused from his bed. I then came on to Panchbusti, the breath all gone from my chest. Even now, the rascals will be on their way to the Mission—and others will be coming here. It is for huzur to say what had best be done.”
For a minute or two, Derek thought hard; then, issued his orders rapidly, his mind calm and collected in the awful emergency threatening.
“Have the car ready at once—close all but one entrance to the grounds; this you will close after the car has left with its load. Rouse all the servants and tell them to be prepared to defend the house. Send to the five villages on my estate for help. If they come at once, we might be able to give the rebels a lesson. I want a mounted messenger to ride to Vincent Sahib at top speed and have the volunteers called up; also send warnings to the Sahibs who are living at a distance from the station.”
“This has already been done, huzur. In my presence, he sent word by mounted messengers in all directions. By now, the bullumteers are putting the fear of God into the rioters at Amabagh. We have to think of Panchbusti and the Mission.”
“You did splendidly, Syed. I am proud of you! Your promptitude has probably saved a great deal of bloodshed.”
“But these hands have taken the life of Chunder! For that I shall doubtless be hanged!”
“I told you to be silent—I wish to hear nothing of what you did, but what was for the public safety. Take this.” Derek thrust a revolver into the Pathan’s hand. “You may need it in self-defence, or to protect others. But be careful how it is used. Send Sukie and the women down to the house of the fisherman at Gumori. He and his wife will give them shelter till the trouble is past. Go—waste not a minute.”
Syed vanished from the room caressing the butt of the revolver at his waist, and Derek ran round to the Doctor’s chamber, and pulled him out of bed. “Dress like blazes! the Amabagh natives have risen and are out for murder and loot,” he said, and while the Doctor threw on his clothes, he tried to explain in a few words what he intended to do. “The ladies must be rushed out of the district—will you take charge of them? The car will be round in a moment. Drive first to the Mission for the Pastor and Miss Durand. I shall ride there, straight, to see that things are O.K., and then see you off on the old road to Pipalgunge. That district has been exemplary—no trouble there, yet. The car can take the ladies to Calcutta, to-morrow, if they wish. But I must go to Amabagh after I leave you, so as to join the corps and help in restoring order.”
“Good God!” ejaculated the Doctor as he finished dressing. “So it has come! I am dam’ glad my wife and kiddies are safe at Brighton. It takes an immense load off a fellow’s mind when he has no womenfolk of his own to get on his nerves at a time like this.”
“You’ll have other people’s womenfolk to worry over to-night, Doctor. Quick’s the word!” and Derek left him and went to rouse the ladies.
Already, the excitement in the servants’ quarters was intense. Women were crying, children bawling, the servants chattering nervously together, of the danger overshadowing them; for during an orgy of lawlessness and rioting, there would be no governing the bestial impulses of a mob rendered insane with drink and evil passions, so that even their own countrymen and women would not be safe if found in the camp of the enemy.
Mugra had climbed a tree the better to look out over the fields, and his announcements were creating a state of panic among the domestics and their families.
“I see lights far away in the distance moving up and down . . . like people running . . . Ai Khoda! they are masals17 such as men carry over the fields in the dark. Listen! do you hear the sound of many voices on the wind?”
“They are coming! they are coming!” was chorused as the servants and their families herded together like frightened sheep.
“Is this the way you are going to protect the Sahib’s property?” cried a peon furiously. “Get you gone, all of you who have no courage to face a fight. In a little while the rioters will be here with sticks and stones and they will find you unprepared to resist them.”
By dint of much scolding and hustling, the women folk and children were at last got together. Carrying bundles of their more precious belongings, and weeping noisily, they were soon on their way to Gumori to find refuge among friends and relatives there.
“Do you think we shall be able to get away without risk of being held up, somewhere?” Mrs. Bagshot asked Derek, while hurriedly collecting her valuables and stuffing them into a dressing-case.
“The trouble comes from Amabagh, I understand. I don’t anticipate any interference on the road in any other direction. The Doctor, however, has his revolver—you and Gladys have your guns, so I think there is no great cause for alarm,” he reassured her.
“Sahib! Sahib!” called voices from without. “Mugra says he sees a great many torches in the darkness moving in the direction of the Mission; and others, again, are taking a short cut over the fields and seem to be coming here! What to do if there is none to help! Let us run while there is time!”
“Run, the lot of you, if you wish,” said Derek. “Where is Syed?”
No one could tell what had become of Syed. Outside the gate, however, Syed was parting from Sukie whom he was sending to the house of the fisherman, for safety.
“Go swiftly, beloved of my heart,” he said, holding her close with hands that shook from nervous reaction. “Be easy for me. That only will happen which is already written, and who can wrestle with Fate? To-night I must see to the protection of my master’s property, that none may injure it. It is my duty from which I must not escape. He is a good master, Sukie. If need be, I will lay down my life for him.”
“Speak not of death, Syed! “ said Sukie weeping. “What is life to me if thou be gone?”
“Lovest thou me so fondly?”
“Thou knowest how greatly do I love thee! The sun rises and sets on thee alone! I am as dust under thy feet; trample on me, and I cling the closer. But lift me to thine heart, and my joy soars to the sky like a singing bird. Syed—if thou comest not for me in the morning, then will I assuredly go forth to seek thee, whatever the danger!”
“By morning all will be peace; see if I speak not true words! The peons have gone to bring the raiyats and villagers to our aid; they are all loyal to our Sahib, and you will hear that the badmashes will be thrashed and given into custody by the hundred. In the morning, after the sun has risen, myself I will go and bring you home again.”
The car was at the steps, yet Gladys delayed. At last, after a stern lecture from her aunt, she appeared cloaked and carrying a suitcase.
“Derek! once more, let me beg to be allowed to stay with you! I cannot bear to be sent away like a helpless woman when I might be of some use.”
“Get in, Gladys,” he said impatiently. Time was passing, and his nerves were at breaking point. “At a time like this, we want to feel that our women-folk are out of harm’s way. One never knows what may, or may not happen. Please delay no more. We must get to the Mission at once.”
Gladys stepped into the car without another word, looking hurt and aggrieved. Derek seemed to have forgotten her in the tension of the moment. She saw him trot on ahead, and heard him caution the driver to be careful as, under the circumstances, it was unadvisable to use lights.
The distant hoarse murmur of voices floated towards them across the wide stretch of paddy fields.
“They must be having an exciting time at Amabagh to-night,” said the Doctor. “I hope young Vincent is equal to the occasion, and that the police will stand fast.”
“Doesn’t it strike you that the voices are rapidly growing louder?” asked Mrs. Bagshot. “They can’t be very far away!”
“That’s deceptive, for we have a fitful wind.”
“How appalling! I am heartily sorry we came. But, who was to dream it would be like this?”
“It has all come to a head since that treacherous Chaudri came as Collector. He runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds, and has been up to an incalculable amount of mischief. If Macmaster had stayed, things might have been brought under control. Now that Government are encouraging men like Macmaster to retire, to make room for vermin like Chaudri, the country will go fast to the devil.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Bagshot. “Shall we ever get to the Mission?”
“It isn’t as far as you think, only the suspense and the darkness make it feel miles,” said Gladys, her voice quivering with excitement. Again and again her eyes strayed to the silent rider leading the way, and her heart fainted with terror lest his life should be in danger. It was agony to think of rushing away by motor-car to safety, while he must face unequal odds in the midst of infuriated rioters. “Oh, God oh, God!”
When they, at length, reached the Mission, there was no doubt, whatever, that a large and hostile mob was on the Amabagh road making for the spot. Shouts and cries of angry threatening voices were borne distinctly on the breeze, am sounded ever nearer. Within the Mission enclosure, all was confusion. Frightened women and children were collected in groups, crying and praying; others were hastily putting together their small possessions; none seemed capable of controlling or organising.
As the car stopped within the gate, the Pastor came forward dazed and incapable of thought. “What are we to do?—what are we to do?” he cried, wringing his hands. “Oh these poor, defenceless souls! How am I to protect them? Thank God you have come!”
Dulcie, who had been standing at the top of the steps, now hurriedly approached. In the darkness and confusion, she did not see Derek, who had dismounted and was speaking to the Pastor, nor observed the eager movement he made toward her. He could see that she was too intent on the question of the general safety to spare a thought for anything else. Taking the Pastor by the arm, she cried:
“They are all ready to go as soon as you bid them. Tell them to go at once. There is no time to lose. We must see to their safety before we think of ourselves.”
The Pastor turned helplessly to Derek: “She wants me to tell the teachers and converts to seek protection at Panchbusti—what am I to do!”
“There is no time to waste,” replied Derek. “But I can guarantee no safety at my place. It is for that I have brought the car to take you and Dulcie right away. Let your people seek safety with my tenants at Gumori village. I don’t think the trouble will reach them there. Send them away at once.”
At the sound of her name on his lips, Dulcie turned her face towards him in the darkness. But fear, and the critical situation they were in, had driven all sentiment from her mind. Imminent tragedy stared them in the face. Mrs. Bagshot was calling aloud for immediate action; Gladys was urging on Derek the necessity for haste. “Bring Miss Durand and the Pastor to the car,” she cried. “We must not delay, or we shall all be sacrificed!”
The Pastor, however, drew back, shaking his head. “I must not leave the Mission; at least, not till I have seen all these poor children on the road to safety; then Dulcie will drive me wherever you advise me to go.”
“Damn these arguments!” shouted the Doctor as he came forward. “Where is Miss Durand’s car?”
“It has to be brought out from the shed,” was the quavering reply. “There has been no time to think of anything——”
“Then that settles it,” said he. “You must both come at once.”
Derek turned to a trembling native convert in European dress and rapidly gave him some orders. He then shouted aloud to command the attention of the panic-stricken crowd. “Run for your lives to Gumori. Women and children are to be kept in front. Don’t stop till you get to the workshop of Simon, the blacksmith—say I sent you. He will take in all of you. Fear nothing.”
The man lost no time in herding the little throng together, and effecting some order amongst them. The men and boys made way for the women and children to go first, and the compound was soon cleared. Yet, the Pastor, shivering with ague, refused to move. “My place is here. I cannot desert my post. The skipper stays with the sinking ship,” he protested feebly, resisting all persuasion.
“Take him by force and make an end of it,” cried the Doctor, “or you sacrifice the ladies. The mob will be on us in a few minutes.”
Calling to Dulcie to follow, Derek and the Doctor each took the old man by the arm, and ran him to the waiting car.
But, in that moment, a native servant, the last of the fleeing domestics, cried to Dulcie in passing: “The child! the little one with the fever! He has been forgotten. If he is not rescued, he will be burned alive when the devils set fire to the Mission!”
Dulcie looked, despairingly, after the retreating forms of the three men, and strove to make her voice reach them; but, at the moment, the shouts of the advancing mob rose to a chorus of bloodthirsty yells. Irresolute for a moment, yet realising the peril of the sick infant, she turned back and hastened with trembling steps to the infirmary. Derek and the others must wait—or go without her. Her duty was plain. She felt she could not leave the helpless child to perish. If there were time, she would carry him, herself, in the darkness across the fields to Gumori village. It was impossible to run away into safety when she knew that a little child’s life was in the balance. She would never forgive herself as long as she lived if she abandoned him to save herself.
Breathlessly she ran, and alone, for the woman had not waited to assist her.
The school houses were built of wood, with thatched roofs, and lofts which had dormer windows—these were dormitories, one being set apart as a hospital. Dulcie ran direct to the ward in which she knew the child, who was recovering from an attack of malaria, had been placed. Stumbling up the dark stairway, she rushed past a row of empty beds to the one in the corner, only to find that it, too, was unoccupied! Someone must have remembered the little one in time, and carried it out.
The servant had made a tragic mistake!
Convinced that there was nothing more required of her, she returned hurriedly to the yard in time to see a red glow of flaring torches illuminating the road beyond the cactus hedge, and throwing into relief every object at the open and deserted gateway.
But nowhere was there a sign of car or horse.
They had gone! They had deserted her, and she was left to meet a hideous fate!
Never to her life’s end would Dulcie forget that moment of agonised fear, her sense of helplessness and desertion, when she realised that the rescue party had abandoned her and fled. It was her own fault for having run back, trusting to Derek’s chivalry to wait for her. She had thought she could have returned to save herself and the child, in time; but they could not wait! There were other lives to consider so they were not to blame. Derek had his guests, and—there was the Doctor—also, the Pastor. She was nothing to him now!
Oh, God! The horror that faced her was beyond belief. Her senses reeled—she was filled with panic.
Yet, she must act—not stay and meet a diabolical fate without making some effort to escape! . . .
To hide within any of the buildings would be folly, for they would find her, or she would be burned alive.
The fields?—the dark, wide fields, stretching far on every side. . . . There were clumps of long grass in the uncultivated patches. She was ready to risk snakes, jackals, anything—rather than fall into the hands of an infuriated mob. She would hide in the long grass—in the dry ditches below the dykes—till rescue came.
Dulcie tried to think out a way of reaching the fields. Already, the entrance was filled with a leaping, yelling mob of natives brandishing torches and lethal weapons above their heads. They were full of the lust of blood and destruction, and incapable of mercy for the weak and defenceless.
Her eyes swept the hedges of cactus which surrounded the Mission, and she suddenly recalled having heard the Pastor recently complain of a gap through which the Mission goats strayed; and the need to have it filled in before long. Fortunately for her, the habit of procrastination in the East had allowed the gap to remain unrepaired. With the idea of looking for it, she ran round to the back of the premises, swift of foot, and collided in the darkness with someone tall and broad in figure, approaching from an opposite direction. For a moment she thought she would die of fright; but the arms holding her were Derek’s, and his welcome voice sounded in her ear:
“Dulcie? Thank God! I have been looking for you. Why, in God’s name did you run away?”
She explained, breathlessly, while clinging to him in her fear. “I couldn’t leave the sick child to die! I couldn’t Derek! But they must have taken him, for he is not there.”
“You darling!—you little heroine!” burst from him. “But, come, we haven’t a moment. We must get through the hedge, somehow.” He dashed towards the cactus fence bearing her in his arms, and would have torn a way through, despite the thorns, when she told him of the gap.
“It is somewhere at the back—we can find it,” and they ran along the prickly wall, searching in the gloom for the spot that might prove their salvation. And all the while the yells of the frantic rioters resounded in the buildings as they swarmed about in search of their victims.
Dulcie, with her hand fast locked in Derek’s, marvelled worshippingly, that he should have left his party to find her—thrown in his fate with hers that he might help to save her. If they were discovered and surrounded, they would die together. Death lost its terrors for her while Derek’s hand clasped hers protectingly.
Though it was no time for explanations, Derek managed, as they hurried on, to tell her in a few words of the lost letter: “I found it only to-night—you will understand why it was not answered!” Dulcie pressed his hand sympathetically. It was wonderful how the thought helped to raise her flagging courage.
He had just succeeded in locating the gap when there was a patter of bare feet on the stones of the path they had left, and a dusky figure cautiously approached.
Derek and Dulcie crouched, motionless, in the shadow of the hedge while the Indian, stooping his body forward, apparently peered in their direction as if suspecting their presence.
Realising that there was no hope of concealment, Derek hurriedly whispered to Dulcie: “The gap is behind you, darling—run for your life! Don’t wait when you are through—I will follow.” And he prepared to receive the now advancing figure.
The next moment, Dulcie saw him leap upon the native and bear him to the ground. A choking, gurgling sound from the man’s throat indicated that Derek had him helpless in his grip. But the same instant, there was a chorus of shouts, and a body of rioters rounded the corner of the schoolhouse, carrying torches. Dulcie scrambled through the gap, scratched in the process, and fell out on the other side. Picking herself up, she ran stumbling over the grass, not stopping to think, and climbed the bunds into the fields beyond, till, trembling and breathless, she collapsed on the edge of a track she knew well as the main road between the Mission and Amabagh.
Amabagh! It suggested a haven of refuge! There were officials and English people there—also the volunteers. So she decided to make her way to the station of Amabagh, having no idea of the condition of affairs at that centre, on that night; the pillage, the arson, the bloodshed. The servant who had roused them from their sleep, urging all at the Mission to save themselves, had been too panic-stricken to give particulars. He had been told by a fugitive from one of the villages, that the devil had been let loose in the district and that all white men, women and children, and Christians generally, were to be massacred; but Dulcie did not know that the outbreak had started at Amabagh.
She had lost Derek effectually, of that she was sure; for, though the minutes passed and she strained every sense, as she hurried along, to listen for his step or voice, or paused momentarily, to look back, she saw nothing but the glare in the sky over the Mission, growing brighter every minute as the thatched roofs blazed and lit up the surrounding fields. She began to fear that her fleeing figure would be observed; yet she could not remain in her exposed situation; so, stooping low, she moved swiftly beside a mud dyke that bordered the cart-track, stopping every moment to look about her for a chance sight of Derek, her whole soul uplifted in wordless prayer for his safety. He was so brave and strong; surely, he would overcome all difficulties, and they would meet again? His low, caressing tones still echoed in her ear. He had, in the excitement of the moment, forgotten Gladys. The unhappy misunderstanding between them had been explained. He had called her “little heroine!” But it was sad to think that, even were they spared through this terrible night, things could, never again, be the same between them, because of Gladys. He certainly admired Gladys and was promised now to her! Yet, those few, tragic moments together, were unforgettable, for he had risked his life to save hers. . . . He had sent Gladys away with the others that he might serve her; and, in the darkness, his voice had sounded full of tenderness and love—as of old.
Or, she had imagined it! In those moments of agony and suspense, she might be pardoned for imagining any folly.
The main road seemed deserted; but in the distance, where Panchbusti lay, could be heard a clamour of voices and the sound of fighting with sticks; at the Mission there was pandemonium.
Dulcie reached the shelter of an avenue of young bhur trees, and paused to rest awhile. Twenty minutes of crouching and creeping had left her utterly exhausted. She felt she could not drag her feet any further till she had in a measure recovered; so she lay down on the grass by the wayside, her nerves quivering, her heart beating heavily in her breast.
How often over these very roads and fields she had galloped with Derek, jackal hunting! Now, in imagination, she was the jackal, hunted by a pack of bloodthirsty human animals; only resting a moment in palpitating fear of discovery while looking for a way of escape! How glad she had always been whenever the miserable prey had been able to elude the hunters! Would fate be as merciful to her? Never, if she were spared, would she again join in such a form of “sport” as meant harassing to a cruel death one of God’s little creatures. The terror, the agony of the victim—could she ever forget it? . . .
The red glare over the Mission had spread till the sky was aglow, and objects all around as visible, almost, as in daylight. With her ear to the earth, Dulcie became aware of the thudding tramp of many feet on the road. A large crowd was moving towards her from the Mission. Having set the place on fire after looting it of its contents, the disappointed rioters were now making for Amabagh.
Dulcie sat up in an access of terror and saw the glare of advancing torches. Where could she go? Where hide herself?
There was only the dry ditch by the wayside, full of dead leaves which the season of drought had gathered in every hollow.
She immediately slipped into the ditch and lay still among the fallen brown leaves of the bhur trees, covering herself with handfuls, and burying her face in her arms as children do who wish to believe themselves hidden. Her courage was not equal to the strain of glancing up from her covering of leaves, at the road which she knew would be brilliant with the flare of many torches. Should her eyes attract other eyes to herself, the fright, alone, would be enough to kill her.
Dulcie had no thought of snakes—the greater fear of falling into the hands of these brutalised human beings made the idea of snake-bite a trifle in comparison. Death was not the worst that could befall her that night.
She was cold and shivering as with an ague by the time the first batch of the dancing, shouting demons in human flesh were abreast of the spot in which she was lying, and her brain refused to think; she could only pray for protection.
In the midst of the tumult, a voice shouted from above, and startled her into looking up, when she saw the smoke-begrimed face of a man peering down into the ditch holding a torch over his head. In the glare of the torches carried by the mob, nothing could escape detection. Her white frock barely concealed by the dead leaves, had betrayed her. With a shout, he called the others to a halt, and, in a trice, Dulcie was snatched from her hiding-place and buffeted from hand to hand. A blow on the head rendered her insensible for a while, and she was spared the fierce squabbling which took place as to who should profit in the transaction presently to take place, when the station bazaar should be reached.
When Derek had told Dulcie to fly for her life, it was with the hope that she would escape in the darkness and be saved. He believed she would make for Gumori, knowing that the fugitives from the Mission had taken refuge there; and it never occurred to him that she would think of any other resort.
His hands gripped the Indian’s throat till all movement ceased; and, to his relief, the shouting crowd were too intent on firing the building to notice the struggle in the shadow of the hedge. He slipped, noiselessly, through the gap, emerging on the other side, and made his way along in the lee of the hedge until he should strike the path for Gumori, whither he had made sure Dulcie had gone. Moving with all possible care and vigilance, he, at length, reached the cart-track which took him direct to the village.
On arrival, he found it emptied of its youth and manhood, all of whom had shouldered all imaginable implements of agriculture as weapons of war, and gone to Panchbusti in obedience to the summons from there, to come to the defence of their zemindar’s property. Only the old men, the women, and the children were left behind. The Mission fugitives sheltering there, answered Derek’s inquiries about Dulcie, and convinced him that she had not travelled that way. In an agony of apprehension, he retraced his steps, at a loss to know where next to seek her. Where could she have gone? he asked himself and feared to imagine, as he heard the sounds of riot and disorder fill the night. From the direction of Panchbusti, there resounded the shouts of a fray. Sticks were evidently being freely used; and there was the occasional bark of a pistol. They were having a busy time there, with the martial-spirited Syed Khan to lead them in the defence of the bungalow.
It occurred to Derek that his place was at Amabagh with the volunteers; but Dulcie was lost, and there was no question of duty for him while her fate hung in the balance.
He wondered if she could have made her way to Panchbusti and succeeded in getting in before the attack began? Or she might now be in hiding among the clumps of firs on the river bank? He seized the idea and worked his way along the river bank to the back of his bungalow where stone steps led to the water’s edge, hearing, all the while, the din of the fight on the road in front of the bungalow, the shouts of exultation from the defenders, and the cries of those who were wounded.
A few of his peons set to guard the approach by river, would have fallen upon him precipitately, had he not called to them by name:
“It is I—your master. Where is Syed Khan?”
They gathered about him eagerly. Syed, they told him, was on the farther side where the fighting was thickest. All was going well; the badmashes from Amabagh, led by Chunder’s peons, had been beaten off, a large number had been taken prisoner, and all would soon be quiet. Only a few of Chunder’s myrmidons headed by Bhutna Singh, who was thirsting for the blood of Syed Khan, were still showing fight, not realising their defeat.
None of these men had seen the Miss Sahib from the Mission. They had all seen the flames and were glad the Sahib had escaped. But if the young lady were indeed lost, it was without doubt that she had fallen into the hands of the raiders.
“Bring Syed to me,” said Derek, heartsick with dread.
To think that she had all but escaped with him! And now he had lost her, because, fearing for her safety, he had let her go from him the moment the howling mob appeared in sight. Yet, they had not been separated more than a few moments! He blamed himself for having taken too much for granted. He ought to have named Gumori to save mistake.
In a little while, Syed appeared, dishevelled and bloodstained, but with a triumphant mien and the pride of the fighting race in his eye. “We have beaten them soundly, huzur,” he cried excitedly. “Bhutna Singh came to kill me for the humiliation of that shoe-beating—he also accused me of being the bearded stranger who killed his master—my size and shape being distinctive! ‘To-day you will not escape me!’ he cried in a loud voice, ‘for with these hands will I take your life in payment.’ But his friends have carried him away with a cracked head; and if he lives, it will be long ere he will have the strength to speak of the doings of this night!”
“Syed—come with me, I have urgent need of you,” said Derek. After a few words of explanation, they left together, while others were sent to search the fields for the little lady from America.
“This is not a night for such as she to be alone and unprotected,” said Syed in the deepest concern. “At all costs she must be found.”
The most torturing thoughts worked in Derek’s mind. He shuddered to picture her fate if she had encountered the raging fiends out for murder and rapine. He could not suffer himself to dwell on the thought, for that way lay madness. With a mighty effort of will, he shut out the horrible imaginings crowding on his brain, registering a vow to find and save her, or die in the effort. Life had no meaning for him without Dulcie.
“She might have fallen, unconscious, in a field and be too weak to move?” suggested Syed. “Sahib—let us start from the spot at which you parted.”
The idea seemed reasonable, and Derek acted upon it, immediately. The Mission was, by now, a great bonfire visible for miles around.
On approaching nearer, the black bodies of some stray rioters could be seen against the glare, still busy snatching what they could from the flames. The great majority seemed to have departed for fresh devilry elsewhere, so that Derek and Syed Khan felt they could safely go forward.
When they reached the gap in the cactus hedge, they discussed together the possibilities of the case, unaware of a pair of eyes peeping at them from the shelter of the cactus.
“If she was captured in the act of running from here, then I have little hope that we shall find her to-night, huzur,” said Syed gloomily. “But what is written, is written, and who can resist the will of Allah?”
“If any man has harmed a hair of her head, I will with my own hands, take his life!” exclaimed Derek.
While they talked together in low whispers, out of the gap in the cactus behind them, crept singly, half a dozen dusky bodies clothed only in scanty loincloths and greased with mustard oil. As the last man came through, all suddenly flung themselves on Derek and bore him to the ground. None paid attention to Syed, believing that he would—on finding the odds against him—leave his master in their hands and take to his heels. But they did not reckon on the Pathan’s attachment and fidelity. The same instant, a rapid discharge of shots from the pistol which Derek had given his bearer, resulted in scattering the assassins, one of whom rolled over dead, just as he was about to plunge a knife into the Sahib’s breast, while three others slunk away, more or less hurt. The fifth and sixth, sprang upon Syed, and a deadly struggle took place.
Derek recovered his feet immediately, and shot one of the men through the head—the other fled, but not before he had buried his knife in Syed’s back.
Syed, himself, drew it forth and flung it from him, then collapsed on the ground. “I am finished—it is the end!” he exclaimed, as Derek, overwhelmed with grief and consternation, knelt beside him.
“Syed—I shall run and fetch aid,” he cried. “I shall not be long. We will take you home on a bed, and I will send for the Doctor.”
But as he spoke he knew that nothing would avail to save the faithful servant’s life. By the choking gasps with which he spoke, Derek knew that there was internal haemorrhage.
“Don’t leave me, Sahib—I am going . . . very soon . . . where I shall need no aid.”
“Oh, Syed! I cannot lose you—I must save you!” Derek knew in that moment, how much he loved the Pathan whose loyalty and devotion had never failed him.
“It is better so. In my heart . . . have I dreaded the degradation of the hangman’s rope for the murder of that swine, Chunder. Your laws exact a life for a life—irrespective of character, and—I . . . would—have been made to . . . pay. However, I—do not complain, for all things—are written. I die in peace, now that—Chunder is no more!”
Derek changed the dying man’s position to ease his breathing. “Do you think you could bear it if I carried you?” he asked affectionately.
“What good? I should die on the road! Don’t trouble for me—there is the . . . Miss Sahib to find. Huzur—in dying, I have naught to fear for myself—only for you . . . for who will guard you from—your secret enemies? It will be best if huzur retire from this land. Why waste—a great heart . . . on—nimak haram people?”
“The people of my villages are not ungrateful, Syed. See what they have done for me this night! “
“That is so!—they but paid back a little of what their Sahib—did for them . . . when he rid them of—the tyrant, Chunder. But they are—like children. They soon forget . . . and—will give heed to evil teaching. They are blind . . . also, they know not their friends from their enemies. For them—I say—Allah save the land from the rule of the kala admi.18 For—in us there is little sense—of justice. Though we value it—we do not—practise it; we take that—which we can win by force. . . . But for the Sahiban over us, we would be—eternally fighting—race against race—caste against caste. We do not trust each other. Let the Sarkar continue to rule like a wise and just parent—Ai Allah!” Syed’s head fell back; his exhaustion was extreme.
“Drink this, Syed,” urged Derek, putting a flask of brandy to his lips, which Syed feebly thrust aside. “It is sharab19 which my Koran forbids. Sahib!” he cried out despairingly, “in death I have but one request to make!”
“Speak, Syed, and it shall be granted.”
“It is for Sukie whom I took to wife. She will be bereft—of reason—when she hears that I am gone! I cannot see—her future. What to do for Sukie! What to do? . . . See to her, Sahib——”
“Don’t let the thought trouble you. I will see that she is safe.”
“The Sahib is merciful to suffering. I was to—call for her—in the morning when—all was peace. It is kismet!” Syed’s body stiffened, was convulsed for a moment, and then relaxed. Derek knew, after a brief examination, that he was dead, and laid him gently down on the grass, his heart heavy with regret.
With one more look at the still form of his faithful servant, he made his way back to Panchbusti. Dawn was already glimmering in the east and he felt the need to get immediate help from the police in his search for Dulcie.
At Panchbusti, he called together the Mohammedans on his staff, and briefly related to them the story of Syed’s end, instructing them to bring home the body and break the news to Sukie. He then mounted his horse and galloped towards Amabagh, for Dulcie’s need of help was uppermost in his mind.
When consciousness returned to Dulcie, she found herself secured with a muslin sheet to the back of a coolie, and being carried along the road to the accompaniment of loud cries of triumph and shouts of ribald laughter. The crowd surged about her, leaping and shouting, and making obscene jokes.
Instinct warned her to simulate a continued state of insensibility, lest she should invite fresh insults and cruelty. Her head ached from the blow she had received, her limbs felt cramped and stiff. Nerveless and faint, she closed her eyes to shut out the horrifying spectacle of the gloating faces, and prayed to die quickly.
In the narrow lane which approached the native section of the town of Amabagh, the party which had raided the Mission, came upon another band in disordered flight from the station, where, apparently, their plans had not met with success. With much clamour and gesticulation, explanations were entered into, in the midst of which, the coolie who was carrying Dulcie, took the opportunity to enjoy a rest. He laid her by the roadside, apparently unconscious; then, mixed with the fringe of the crowd to hear what was going forward; and, in that moment, Dulcie seized her chance and squeezed through the dilapidated bamboo fence into a meadow beyond. Sick and giddy, she stumbled along in the darkness till she came to a grove of mango trees where, too exhausted to move another step, she fell prone on the grass, drifting again into unconsciousness.
Meanwhile, the temper of the crowd had changed. They began to be irresolute as to whether they should go forward, or scatter to their homes. While they hesitated, there was a cry raised that a body of troops was approaching. This had the effect of putting them to rout, so that, in a very few minutes, the road was deserted.
It was broad daylight when Dulcie again opened her eyes, racked with pain from head to foot and in a burning fever, which the strong sunlight blazing down upon her did not improve. Memory returned in snatches. She could recall Derek telling her to fly—she saw again the lowering faces looking down on her in the ditch—the crowd of dancing demons around her as she was carried on an Indian’s back,—but how she came to be in the ditch—or tied to a coolie’s back, were mysteries. What had become of Derek? Had he been overpowered and killed? If not, surely he would have overtaken her? She tried to think, but thinking only made her head ache the harder. Yet, it was not possible for her to lie in the sun under the trees so far from home, for it was a strange field, bounded by a bamboo fence in bad repair, with a road beyond. All was still and peaceful—a vast contrast to the night before.
Her head was confused and the sun blinded her. Derek—why did he not come? Who said he was killed? If Derek were dead, the world would cease to exist for her. Derek was strong and wonderful. He would find her yet—her prayers would surely be answered, and he would come. “Oh, come to me quickly!” she moaned.
The stillness was strange after the pandemonium of the preceding night. Never had the sky looked bluer. The birds were singing in the branches, and there was a distant tinkle of cow-bells. Presently, she heard the prattle of children. A herd of domestic pigs passed, driven by two small people who stood to stare at her as at some curious sight. They pointed to her head, whispering together, till Dulcie put up her hand to feel what was wrong, and discovered that her hair was caked and clotted with blood, and that dried blood clung to her temple and cheek. She then realised the cause of the pain in her head. Her white linen frock was splashed with blood and full of rents. One shoulder was bare and marked with bruises; she had evidently been badly knocked about and was a ghastly sight to view by daylight.
As she rose, unsteadily, to her feet, the children shrieked and fled; and Dulcie, not knowing what would follow, staggered, weakly, from the spot to hide elsewhere.
Why was everything so quiet? Perhaps, after all, it had only been a bad dream?—she was even dreaming, now, that she was walking over the grass to the tumbledown fence. She passed through it without difficulty, and tottered along the lane, wondering if there was no white man or woman who could be found to help her. Instinctively, her feet trod the way to the Mission. Her one idea was to get to her own room and its familiar surroundings that she might drop on her bed and sink into sleep. She wanted, more than anything, to sleep—she was so tired. In her imagination, she saw the Mission buildings ablaze—a realistic dream which was haunting her persistently. The idea of burning bungalows was confused with the memory of dancing demons, and Derek’s voice urging her to fly for her life. If these things were true, then why was she on the road, walking towards the Mission?
It was help, she wanted—help, and Derek!
She dragged herself painfully along, seeing the colours of the rainbow dance before her eyes, the ground shift and sway under her, the landscape retreat and fade like a vision. The way seemed interminable. She was light-headed with fatigue; yet, through all, was hope in the sounds about her—the singing of the birds and the distant tinkle of cow-bells.
In the far vista of that long road, a cloud of dust moving steadily towards her, determined itself into a rider. When he was nearer, she distinguished a man sitting home in the saddle and urging his horse forward. He, too, was part of her dream, and the thud of the horse’s hoofs was the pulse beating in her brain.
At sight of her he drew rein, his horse almost falling backward from the suddenness of the check, and, springing from the saddle, he came swiftly towards her, calling her name aloud. That he should have Derek’s beloved features and tones were, of course, only a delusion due to her crying need of him, and the fact that his face and voice were in possession of her soul. . . .
As he approached with arms held out to her, she fell forward in a swoon and knew nothing more.
“Oh, my darling! My own little darling!” he cried in a voice broken by emotion as he bent over her on the road, his eyes full of a horrible fear. “My little love! What have these fiends of hell done to you?”
Her condition was appalling—the ragged dress, the bruises and the blood. Her skin was hot and dry—her mind, as consciousness returned, was wandering in delirium. Derek lifted her in his arms—a feather-weight—and, capturing his horse, which was grazing at the roadside, placed her on the saddle; then mounting, gathered her to him, and cantered back to Panchbusti which lay nearer than Amabagh.
All the way, his arm held her, securely, to his breast, his heart breaking with grief at the sight of her small, sweet face looking like death, and disfigured with bruises and blood.
Thoughts chased wildly through his brain. He would have to get the Doctor—he must move heaven and earth to get Freeman back—God! What had the brutes—the devils incarnate, done to her to make her look like this! Was she dying? he cried to himself, again and again, haunted by a great horror. How she must have suffered! How had she managed to escape? Where had she been hidden, so far from the Mission? If she had been harmed—he took God to witness that he would “do” for every seditionist he met, if he had to swing for it. His lips caressed the ugly bruises and bloodstains on her unconscious face, his tears fell, unchecked, upon it.
At last, Panchbusti bungalow on the river, came in sight, screened by its high fence—now torn down in places—and sheltered by tall trees whispering in the wind. Servants were engaged in restoring order to the grounds and garden, and removing the traces of the fray. Mugra, with a bandaged head, was enjoying the sympathy of his fellow-servants.
“To think that I have been spared and Syed taken!” he was saying as Derek rode in at the gate holding Dulcie within his arm. “What the Sahib will do without him, is beyond imagination. Such devotion as he showed! But his was a soft job, for all his master’s reliance on him. Now who will take his place? Ai Khoda!”
At sight of their master, the servants ran forward eager to offer assistance. On dismounting, Derek carried Dulcie’s unconscious form into the house, and laid it tenderly on the bed in the room Gladys had used.
The room was just as it had been left the night before, when the alarm had been given—the floor littered with the contents of a dress-trunk, the tables covered with articles belonging to Gladys, discarded by her as of secondary importance when obliged to fly for her life.
From force of habit, Derek would have called for Syed, to whom he always entrusted the most important errands. It grieved him in that moment of anxious concern, to recall that the faithful Syed was no more, and the regret he felt was intensified at the realisation that Syed had, in a sense, given his life for him. The thought of Syed recalled Sukie. He must have a woman’s services for Dulcie. Sukie must be fetched. He proceeded to wash the grime and blood from the unconscious girl’s head and face, and to dress and bind the wounds. The hospital assistant employed by him on the estate was engaged attending to the casualties among the tenants and servants.
A sais was despatched, immediately, in search of Dr. Freeman, and another, to send off telegrams to Calcutta, for nurses to be sent to Panchbusti by the first train. Dulcie would need skilled nursing and every comfort money could procure.
A peon now came to say that Syed’s body had been brought in and laid on the bed in his walled-in quarters. Sukie, who had just arrived in search of him, was like one bereft of her senses. She was at that moment seated beside the body of Syed, not weeping and wailing and rocking her body, as was customary in those bereaved, but as if turned to stone. They had left her gazing at the corpse, for none could bear to look upon her stricken countenance, or intrude on such grief.
While the man was speaking, another peon came hurriedly in with a scared face and shaking lips.
“Sahib! Sahib! A terrible thing has happened! I looked in for a moment on Syed Khan who is dead, that I might offer condolence to his woman, and there, with my own eyes, I beheld the terrible thing!”
Half the establishment came running behind him to confirm the tragic news that Sukie had taken her own life and was lying dead beside Syed’s bed on the floor of their room.
“She has a knife in her breast, huzur. Her own hand struck the blow, for her fingers are fast on the handle. The sight is enough to turn the strongest stomach.”
Derek paid a brief visit to the scene of the tragedy and saw that Sukie was indeed dead. She had preferred death with Syed, to life without him; and Derek’s heart swelled with sympathy, for, were Dulcie to die, what would life be worth to him. He had no doubt left in his mind that he could be nothing to Gladys. He respected and honoured her—but he loved Dulcie with every pulse of his being, and none could take her place in his heart.
On his way back to the house, he saw with intense relief, the car drive in at the gate, with Dr. Freeman and a lady in the tonneau.
“Thank God!” cried he. So the Doctor had returned of his own accord.
It pulled up, and as he hastened forward, Dr. Freeman and Gladys Goldney alighted and came towards him.
“I had a wire from the station that things were well in hand,” said the Doctor, “so thought it safe to bring Miss Goldney back with me.”
“Derek! I had to return. I simply could not stay away!” cried Gladys. “You will be sorry to hear that the poor old Pastor is dead.”
“Dead?” exclaimed Derek, dazed.
“He had a stroke and sank rapidly. He was in a bad way,” said the Doctor.
“Won’t you say you are glad to see me, Derek?” asked Gladys reproachfully.
“Gladys—Doctor! I am bewildered—I have been longing for help in my difficulty—and you come as an answer to prayer! Dulcie is terribly ill—for God’s sake come to her!” He turned and led the way into the house; Gladys and the Doctor followed him to the room where Dulcie lay, and Derek retreated to his study to throw himself into a chair at the table and bury his face in his arms.
While Dr. Freeman was making his examination of the patient with Gladys to assist him, Derek felt that the world hung in the balance. Presently, there was a rustle of skirts, and Gladys came and stood beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. It was well for him that he did not see the anguish on her face, or he might have feared the worst.
“Derek, old fellow, cheer up!” said she with a twisted smile. “The Doctor is much relieved about Miss Durand’s state. She is not so bad at all—no serious injuries, old thing, only a few bruises from being knocked about. The shock, together with the heat of the sun, has done most of the damage, and he is sure that, with care and nursing, she will soon be herself again. The fever is nothing serious.”
“Thank God!” ejaculated Derek, raising his head and lifting relieved and grateful eyes to her face. In them she read the suffering he had endured that brief quarter of an hour of suspense. “What an angel of mercy you are! And you have come to help my poor little Dulcie!” his voice choked. “She will want a deal of care—and, till the nurses arrive——”
“I shall do everything that is necessary. You don’t suppose I could do less than attend her in her helpless condition?”
“As I said, you are an angel of mercy!”
“I am glad you think so,” she said wistfully. “Now, tell me all that happened after you sent us away and stayed behind to find her.”
Derek went over the events of the night, hurriedly, till there was little left to be said. “It doesn’t bear speaking of—the death of that splendid fellow, Syed Khan, and my search for Dulcie in that thick darkness—the suspense! . . . The memory of those hours will be with me to my life’s end.”
“You have been through a ghastly time—and she, too,” said Gladys, passing a hand tenderly over his ruffled hair. He was still dusty and unshaven and as tired as a dog. “Now just have a tub and a sleep. Dulcie is in good hands, and we don’t want to have you ill, so be off, sir.”
“Oh, I am so thankful!” he sighed.
“Yet, you haven’t once thanked me!”
“Haven’t I?” He was immediately contrite. “What a pig I am to be so forgetful! I do thank you a lot for being such a sport as to return.”
“Yes—I am just that,” said Gladys ruminatingly. “A ‘sport’! Yet, at this moment, I would change places with a soft-eyed doll-creature; a baby-faced girl; a feminine thing all nerves and temperament; I would, believe me, for, it seems, that that is the sort men love most.”
“Do they?” asked Derek ingenuously. “I don’t think so. They love something far better. Purity, innocence, the power of self-sacrifice, and something else that is indescribable, which, when there, is wholly irresistible; and that is, feminine charm.” He had forgotten her presence while describing his ideal.
“And some of the very best haven’t that at all, isn’t that so?” asked Gladys bitterly.
“Quite true.”
“So, instead, you call them ‘sports,’ to make up?”
“Oh, Gladys! I wasn’t thinking of you when I spoke just now!”
“I know it, old thing—don’t apologise.”
“But, really,” he stumbled, “I am just about as dull as a country bumpkin this morning. Don’t take anything I say so seriously.”
“You are terribly dull, dear heart. You have even forgotten that we are engaged.”
Derek coloured hotly. “I—I have not. I have been thinking of it all the morning,” he said truthfully, for thoughts of his engagement to Gladys and how to free himself without hurting her badly, had recurred only to be banished with decision as something to be dealt with, presently.
“I ought to be flattered, my dear, and cease persecuting you when you are half dead with fatigue. Go and refresh yourself with a long sleep; it’s the best medicine for your case.” She fairly pushed him from the room and, when she was alone, burst into a flood of the most feminine tears she had ever shed for the sake of a mere man.
A week later, when Dulcie was recovering under the skilful care of two professional nurses, the missionary ladies arrived to view the charred remains of the Mission, and to collect their scattered flock for distribution among the other branches of the same Society. As Dulcie was well enough to be allowed to see them, they gathered round her bed, full of sincere sympathy for her recent terrible experiences, and of regret that the trouble should have come to a head when she was there, unsupported. They declared they felt like deserters.
“On the contrary, I was thankful you were away,” said the girl. “It would have made it so much more difficult had there been others to share the danger. You could have done nothing to save the place—it was not possible.”
“I shudder to think of the fiends getting hold of you,” cried Miss Annie. “It is wonderful how you managed to escape from them!”
“It was providential,” said Miss Leech. “But for that hold-up on the road when the other crowd arrived, they might have—oh, I daren’t think what they might have done to you, my poor child!”
“I don’t like to think of it, much less recall it.”
“It makes me think of those lines from Shakespeare, ‘God’s goodness hath been great to thee. Let not day nor night unhallowed pass, but remember what the Lord hath done.’ They are so appropriate,” said Miss Mitcham.
“I suppose you see quite a lot of Mr. Lang now?” ventured Miss Annie with a touch of human curiosity to know if the old understanding had been re-established.
“I never see him at all,” said Dulcie wistfully.
“But, surely! doesn’t he come in and talk to you?”
“Oh, no. I have had to be very quiet—besides, Miss Goldney is here—they are engaged, you must know.”
“My! I forgot that. Did you never hear why he never answered that letter?”
“It was lost—and not discovered till—too late.”
“A calamity!” sighed Miss Annie. As the others knew nothing of the letter in question, she tactfully resisted the longing to learn more and returned to the subject of Miss Goldney. “I wonder what made him get engaged to her. Their tastes are too much alike ever to make marriage a success.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Miss Leech. “I should have thought that it was the best of all reasons for marriage.”
“You have forgotten nursery lore,” laughed Miss Annie:—
“Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean;
So ’twixt them both they cleared the pot,
And licked the platter clean.
“Which goes to prove, my dear, that people of opposite tastes are best suited to be husband and wife.”
“Miss Goldney is a lovely girl. While I was in Calcutta, I heard a good deal about her, very much to her credit. He should think himself a very lucky man.” Being ignorant of past relations between Derek and Dulcie, Miss Leech saw no reason for reserve.
“I admire the way she does the honours of the house for Mr. Lang,” said Miss Mitcham. “She will make a perfect hostess.”
“But I could never believe they were engaged. They are so matter-of-fact.” Miss Annie was determined to spare Dulcie’s feelings.
“You surely don’t expect them to bill and coo in public?” asked Miss Mitcham reproachfully. “It would be so vulgar.”
“I guess, if I were engaged, I’d expect some recognition of the fact in public, or there’d be nothing doing!”
Dulcie listened with very human feelings of gratification. She could not have borne to have heard of Derek devoting himself to Gladys; yet, she was altogether without hope that Gladys would, of her own initiative, set him free. She sighed at her own weakness and strove to change the subject.
“Tell me about Amabagh. What, exactly, happened there, that terrible night? They have told me hardly anything. But I am well enough, now, to hear details.”
“Mr. Vincent telephoned to Calcutta for military assistance when he found that the outbreak was too widespread to be handled by the volunteers and police. But he knew they could not arrive for some hours; and was forced, at one time, to fire on a big mob which poured into the European quarter, howling for bloodshed. That really squashed the outbreak, for they saw the volunteers meant business. So much mischief had already been done, that, if there had been any half-measures and the volunteers had hesitated to fire, it would have been too late to stem the rebellion. So Mr. Vincent who was supported by the District Superintendent of Police, gave the order, in the absence of Mr. Lang, to fire a volley into the thick of the mob—that was, after they had jeered in defiance at the firing of blank charge. The rioters were all armed with knives, crowbars, brick-bats, and what-not, to say nothing of a few muzzle-loaders; but they could not stand up against the real thing, and so fled in disorder, and the whole thing fizzled out.”
“They did first fire blank charge, then?” inquired Miss Leech.
“Yes, and that only made matters worse, for the mob believed the volunteers were afraid of the Government and wouldn’t dare to use bullets; so they have now had a wholesome lesson. But poor Mr. Vincent and Mr. Coates!— They are to be sat upon by a Commission, and will probably get it in the neck for causing heavy loss of life. Now, is there anything more illogical? If they had not acted as they did, there would not have been an European left alive. Though most of the women and children are in the hills, there are enough at Amabagh for several ghastly tragedies to have happened, had the situation got out of hand. As it is, an Eurasian clerk was butchered in his bed; a number of native policemen were knocked down and trampled to death; the Treasury was attacked, the guard overpowered, and some Government peons beaten insensible—two have since died. The daughter of the Sub-Assistant Engineer on the railway—you have seen her? a nice girl just out of school——”
“The family are too poor to send her to the hills, nor do they belong to the Club,” put in Miss Leech.
“She nearly met with a tragedy,” continued Miss Annie. “She hid from the mob, so successfully in her bungalow, that she was nearly burned to death when they set the house on fire. Her mother was in Calcutta at the time, and her father was playing bridge at a friend’s.”
“How was she saved?”
“A faithful old servant dragged her out in time, just as a party of volunteers came up and scattered the mob.”
“An ayah saved the children of the Loco Superintendent. She hid them in a shrubbery in the garden—you wonder they were not bitten by snakes!” added Miss Leech.
“How dreadful for them! I can truly sympathise with their agony of mind!” cried Dulcie.
“Dulcie is getting excited,” said Miss Mitcham. “We had better let her rest. She has talked quite enough.”
“Oh, no! please stay. I’ll be quite calm. The Government should be very proud of Mr. Vincent for the good work the volunteers did!” said Dulcie.
“I can’t make it out,” said Miss Leech. “Because a great many of the rioters were killed, there is all this fuss. They might do any amount of damage, and it is forgiven them, but dare the troops or volunteers fire on them with bullets, it, immediately, has to be made the subject of inquiry and ultimate humiliation for the officer responsible, even though by his promptitude he has saved an ugly situation and the lives of the community.”
“I can’t imagine how the Government hope to create a good impression on the natives by censuring or humiliating Mr. Coates and Mr. Vincent?” said Miss Mitcham.
“Indeed, it will be quite the opposite,” said Miss Annie. “Take the case of General Dyer. He saved a critical situation by drastic measures, restored peace and order to a province seething with rebellion, and put the fear of God and the British into those infected with revolutionary doctrines. But the Government must needs hearken to the voice of the Extremists, and order a Commission of Enquiry, which appears to have sat with the determination to pacify native public opinion—or rather Extremist opinion. They sacrificed a fine old soldier and killed British prestige in India, for ever; so that a captious minority might be appeased. Instantly sedition broke out afresh, encouraged by the weakness of the Government, and things have since gone from bad to worse. The Indians laugh in their sleeves at the Government, and think they can defy it. Disorder and violence continue unchecked, so that the natives imagine the Government dare not use force to repress outbreaks. General Dyer should have been upheld if India is to be successfully ruled.”
“Poor Tony! I hope he, also, will not be sacrificed!” said Dulcie. “It is very hard for those responsible for law and order, and for the safety of human lives, if their hands are tied in the execution of their duty, and their judgment called into question when they see fit to use repressive measures.”
“In fact,” said Miss Annie, “it has become a common saying among junior officials, ‘If you don’t fire on a mob out for serious mischief you’ll be killed, and if you do, you’ll be hanged.’”
“If we Americans had the ruling of India,” said Miss Leech, “we’d soon show what a strong hand means. The Britisher plays too much to the gallery, so is in danger of losing the game.”
(Some months later, the Superintendent of Police and Tony Vincent were censured by the Government for the heavy loss of life among the Indians during the outbreak at Amabagh, and were transferred to other and less salubrious districts to do penance for their “error of judgment”; while Chaudri, the Collector, who returned to his post when all danger was past, claimed openly the honour and glory of having accomplished their disgrace. His appeals to the Viceroy, he declared, had borne fruit; and, thereafter, among the extremists he was reckoned a friend of the Hindus and Mohammedans, alike. As an immediate result, a new campaign of sedition started in the district, this time taking the form of civil disobedience and non-co-operation—but these things have nothing to do with the story.)
One afternoon, when Dulcie was allowed to sit up in bed, preparatory to being carried into the verandah, Gladys Goldney came in with a curiously happy light in her eyes, and, taking a seat, entered into conversation with more than her usual animation. Latterly, she had been a rather silent visitor, wearing a mask of reserve. She had never mentioned Derek, nor encouraged Dulcie to talk of her experience on that ghastly night.
To-day, however, something must have happened to cause the change, and Dulcie’s heart was heavy with pain.
“You are looking very sweet, Dulcie,” said Gladys, settling herself, comfortably, in her chair. “Not so frail and white. How do you feel?”
“I think I shall soon be able to leave for home,” said Dulcie, folding her thin hands together. “How good you have been to me, Miss Goldney.”
“I wish you would call me ‘Gladys.’ After all, there is very little I have done for you. The nurses had you entirely in their care.”
“You have been very kind to lend me your nighties and things till others could be sent for from Calcutta. Besides, till the nurses arrived, you must have had a deal of trouble.”
“I only did what anyone would have done in my place.”
“Why do you look at me so strangely?” Dulcie asked shyly, for Gladys had forgotten to remove her eyes from the childish face with the large eyes, starry and wistful.
“I—I was just learning . . . nothing that matters, really.”
She was taking in the subtle something about Dulcie, which she herself and many other women lacked, and giving it a name. It was sex-attraction. She could imagine the seductive effect on the opposite sex of that little unconscious trick of raising and lowering the eyelids, the sudden radiance of the smile through demure lips, parted to reveal the gleam of perfect teeth. Dulcie guilelessly appealed to a strong man’s ideal of true femininity. Her eyes, when uplifted, were indescribably alluring, hinting of a nature all womanly and loving. She was, probably, just a foolish, soft-hearted thing; clinging, passionate, illogical; as dainty as a flower, as fastidious as a saint, as pure as a little child—judging by those innocent eyes! She was timid and nervous—probably ran from a spider or a mouse, and winced at the report of a gun; but she was all a man wanted to adore and cherish, guide and protect, to his life’s end; and no other had a chance beside her. “Heigh-ho!” sighed Gladys inwardly. “She would never make Derek the companion I should. But he will, always, love her best.”
It is love, after all, that matters most in life, was the conclusion Gladys came to as she stooped forward, suddenly, and kissed Dulcie’s cheek.
“You are not very happy, kid! Do you know what you said in your delirium? It is dangerous to be light-headed when you have secrets to keep.”
“Did I talk?”
“Didn’t you! The nurses know everything there is to know.”
“What is there to know!” Dulcie sighed and coloured uncomfortably.
“So much, that it has led to my forming a plan—a quite marvellous plan!” Gladys laughed teasingly.
“You make me curious—and so nervous!”
“Try to support the feeling till this afternoon.”
“I couldn’t wait till this afternoon—I haven’t the nerve to live so long in suspense!”
“You see, Derek is busy all the forenoon, and as he is my confederate—or will be when he knows—we are obliged to wait for him.”
“Derek? Are you sure he—will—care to be drawn into it?”
“Why not?”
“Oh—because”—Dulcie could not raise her eyes—“he has never been near me since my illness.”
“You are quite wrong. He has seen you constantly. The first night, before the nurses came, he took his turn to watch while you slept. It was only when you were very much better that he remained away—perhaps, because he thought it the proper thing to do.”
And so it was, seeing that he was engaged to Gladys! Dulcie’s face fell and she was very still. She could almost hear the loud beating of her heart at the thought of his watching over her in her sleep. It thrilled her to recall his voice saying, “You darling! you little heroine!”
What was this thing that Derek must be party to—planned as a result of her delirious utterances? What could she have said at all? She began to look so agitated, that Gladys grew alarmed.
“Dear baby, calm yourself. Be sure it is nothing terrible. First of all, there is to be a small tea party.”
“Anyone from Amabagh?” Dulcie wondered if Tony had been asked—poor Tony, who had written her several distracted letters of anxiety for her state!
“No—no one from outside.”
“Oh, dear! I guess I must learn patience!”
“It won’t do you any harm!”
In the afternoon, Gladys busied herself arranging the pillows and preparing Dulcie for the event. “A great occasion, dear kid, and one to be made the most of. You are at last recognised as convalescent, and the fact is to be celebrated.”
“How kind you are!”
“It is nothing to what I can be,” laughed Gladys with a sudden, hysterical catch in her voice. She picked out the prettiest of pale pink silk dressing gowns with foamy lace falling in a cascade about the shoulders, and spread a new coverlet over the bed—one in the best drawn-thread design, bought recently of the now defunct Mission.
“You look as picturesque as one of Harrison Fisher’s covers,” cried she, standing back to admire the effect. “Now I’ll attend to the matter of tea.” With that she vanished, to return, a little while later, with Mugra carrying a tray fully equipped with the daintiest of tea-things. “I have sent the nurses out for a drive in the car, poor things! They are just about bored stiff with Panchbusti! Now, smile your prettiest welcome—I am going to find Derek.”
“Gladys!” Dulcie called her back from the door and gripped her hand. “Suppose he would rather not?” It was all so painful and embarrassing—the refinement of cruelty, if Gladys only understood!
Gladys, however, made no reply, but kissed her heartily, and, smiling rather wistfully, left the room.
Dulcie’s heart beat wildly—Derek was coming! How could she meet him in such ordinary circumstances, and talk of little nothings in the presence of Gladys when, all the while, her very soul was aching with longing for him!—for his arms around her—his kisses on her lips! How could she bear to see Gladys with him, treating him to the little familiarities of one who was soon to be his wife! It was cruel—hateful!
Presently, her eyes alighted on the tea-tray, and she noticed only two cups. What an omission! Gladys had forgotten the third—how had she made such a mistake? . . . but it could be remedied.
Oh, Derek, Derek! Only a little while ago, he had spoken to her in words of fond endearment . . . but that must be forgotten. It was a slip at a time of great stress. He would be very different now, having had time to remember things forgotten at that moment. Hers would be the memory of that blessed lapse, to treasure to the end of her days.
She would soon be well enough to travel. She would go back to America and they would never meet again. Till then—she covered her eyes with her hands and willed herself to be strong—to look Derek, calmly, in the eyes and simulate indifference. Oh, it was too cruel!
There was a slight sound at the door—they had come—Derek and Gladys—to spend an hour celebrating her convalescence at afternoon tea. She heard Gladys murmur something—Derek answer in his deep, manly voice. Then, through the wild beating of her heart, she heard footsteps cross the floor. She was physically incapable of looking up, her hands refused to uncover her eyes. . . . What a fool—oh, what a childish fool she was! “I must be mad! mad!” she cried to herself. “What will he think of me—so nervous and silly!”
“Dulcie!—little girl!” Derek’s voice spoke caressingly.
How could he dare speak to her so when he was pledged to Gladys?
Dulcie was so amazed that she uncovered her eyes and looked straight into Derek’s. In a flash she saw that they two were alone. Gladys had not come in. Why?—had she gone to fetch something?
Derek took her swiftly into his arms, kissing her with tender passion, and whispering the sweetest endearments in her ear. For the moment Dulcie forgot Gladys and yielded lovingly. Then—
“Derek!—I cannot bear it—why do you come to me like this!”
“Because I love you.”
“But——Gladys!”
“Gladys sent me to you, darling. She knew, all the while, that I loved only you, and she has given me up that you and I might be ‘happy ever after.’” And he laughed softly, the tears glistening in his eyes. “Gladys is a real ‘sport,’ Dulcie. She understands.”
It was worth anything to Derek to see the gladness leap into Dulcie’s expressive face. With her arms entwined about his neck, she told him of her panic—her dread of his visit, now all gone, because all mistakes and misunderstandings were swept away.
After a while—
“So that is why she sent in only two cups?”
“Yes. Isn’t she great? She told me to be ready to have tea with you, but kept her wonderful surprise to the last.”
“She is a dear!—and I shall always love her for this. Now, will you pour out tea, or shall I?”
“You, sweetheart, for I want to look at you. I am starved for you. If you only knew how I feel at this moment—I am drunk with happiness—Dulcie, when will you marry me?”
“Just as soon as you wish, dear,” she returned, as she poured out the tea.
“Then I shall get the licence at once and send for a parson.”
“And will you take me back to America? I feel that you and I have had about enough of India, don’t you think?” she said coaxingly.
“I will do just what you wish. You have only to express your commands.”
Dulcie dimpled happily. “And they say Englishmen don’t spoil their wives!”
One day, shortly after the events related in the foregoing chapter, a rumour like the breath of an ill wind, drifted through the five villages of the Panchbusti estate, bringing gloom and consternation to the inhabitants, who collected in little groups by the roadside to discuss it with grave foreboding.
The largest group had gathered outside the fisherman’s hut, for the fisherman’s family had the reputation of being special protégés of the Sahib, and would be likely to have the latest authentic news of what was afoot at the bungalow.
The fisherman’s wife, highly appreciative of the distinction enjoyed by her family, carried herself with an air of importance and mystery which barely concealed her anxiety to learn the truth of the rumour.
“In his own time will the Sahib give forth his intentions. Go your ways. Rest assured that he will not leave his tenants to suffer. Is not he our Mai-bap?”
“But, wherefore keep the truth to yourselves, you and your man? If all is known to you, relieve our minds, for it is a disaster to the people of these villages if this thing be true,” said Durphukna, the chaukidar.
“At least, you must know if it be settled that the Sahib is to be married?” said the headman of Gumori. “That would not be ill news, seeing that it is good for a man to fulfil the destiny to which he was born, that the race may not fail. But this other thing! Alas! We view it as nothing less than a calamity.”
The fisherman’s wife shaded her eyes with her hand, and strained her expectant gaze across the fields for a sight of her husband returning from his errand to the Sahib’s bungalow, whither he had gone to glean what news he could from the servants. “Behold! There comes my man. He will tell what the servants at the bungalow have heard about it.”
The group moved in a body towards the advancing figure, the woman accompanying them, and eagerly accosted the fisherman.
“Give us the news, brother. What is to be?”
“Is this thing true?”
“Are we to be abandoned—left to the mercy of a rich Hindu or Mussulman who will grind us to the dust and treat us like cattle? Is the Sahib going to leave us and go away, selling his lands to the highest bidder? Ai Khoda! But it is an evil rumour, and, if it come to pass, there will be an end of everything good for us!”
“I know not what to think!” sighed the fisherman, squatting down on his heels, his example followed by the entire group; for, among Indians, any matter necessitating thoughtful consideration, cannot be effectively discussed, standing. “I saw the servants of the estate, and they, too, do not know what to think. Some that understand the language of the Sahibs have picked up talk that points to this approaching evil. Moreover, there is one established truth, and that is, the marriage of the Sahib—not to the tall one who walks like a man and shoots tigers; but to the small one who fell into the hands of the mob and escaped harm by the intervention of the Almighty. This marriage is to take place to-morrow, on the arrival of the Padri Sahib from beyond; and the tall one stays till the knot is tied. After that, what will be, no man can as yet tell, the talk being in their language which is incomprehensible, so that only hints of this calamity can be gathered.”
“What for did you refrain from questioning the Sahib himself?” asked one. “He would have answered you.”
“My courage failed me; for had he said, ‘Yea, these are true words,’ I would, assuredly, have lifted up my voice and wept.”
“We would all weep in concert,” said a shopkeeper.
“Let us take a few from each village,” suggested the headman, “and make a deputation to him concerning this miserable rumour, and plead that such statements should be contradicted to relieve our minds.”
“And take with you offerings of fruit and sweets,” said the fisherman’s wife; “else how can you ask the favour of an audience? He will, perchance, be softened, and alter his plans before they reach completion.”
The idea of a deputation being approved, the headman and the chaukidar of Gumori village set forth the same afternoon, and, having called together the principal men of the other four villages, led them to Narain Singh, zemindar, to invite him to act as their spokesman, which he readily consented to do. They then presented themselves at Panchbusti accompanied by a small retinue of coolies carrying baskets of fruit and sweets; and, with the gravity proper to the occasion, stood respectfully grouped together, leaving Narain Singh to ascend the steps into the verandah.
Derek and Dulcie were together in the verandah discussing the arrangements for the marriage which was to be solemnised the following morning, when a peon appeared to announce the arrival of the party led by Narain Singh. Derek rose immediately, and advanced to meet the zemindar as he mounted the steps.
“Come and sit down, Narain Singh,” he said courteously, offering his visitor a chair. “What is the trouble?” For, that it was “trouble,” could be read on the anxious faces looking earnestly up at him from below the drive.
Narain Singh nervously seated himself and stole a pathetic glance at the pleasing face of the American girl resting in a low chair beside the Sahib.
“Dear, this is Narain Singh, my friend and neighbour,” said Derek, and Dulcie inclined her head in kindly acknowledgment while the zemindar salaamed respectfully.
“Sahib,” said he reproachfully, in Hindustani, “are these true words that you are leaving us and going away?”
(“Leaving us and going away” does not fully convey the pathos of the original, Chor ke chala jata? “Chor ke” rather signifying “abandoning.”)
“I am contemplating it, Narain Singh,” said Derek, smiling.
Narain Singh collapsed in his seat and, for a few moments, words seemed to fail him. In the meantime, servants collected the gifts of sweets and fruit, which it would have been discourteous to refuse, and the party from the five villages pressed nearer so as not to miss a word of the dialogue.
“But, Sahib,” protested Narain Singh, rallying for argument, “what is to become of the district? Your tenants are appalled at such a prospect. It is inconceivable that these lands that have been administered by generations of sahibs should pass to kala admi.”
“That is just what I understand your leaders desire—I mean those who have set themselves to obtain swaraj,” said Derek whimsically.
Narain shook his head. “They are not the leaders of the people, Sahib. The people know when they have good, conscientious rulers, and have no desire to raise confusion in the land. It is only the vakils and the student class who are agitating for change, not knowing what it will bring; and the ignorant herd, egged on by badmashes, are led into shouting themselves hoarse for they know not what, and are ready to do the bidding of false swamis who are wolves in disguise and the instruments of foolish and wicked men who would bring trouble on us all to feed their own revengeful spite. May the great God over all, forbid such a calamity! This district has grown used to you, Sahib. The people understand and love you, and want no other to own the land, and to force his will on them. Your word is their law. They have, therefore, come crying to me to intercede for them. ‘Tell the Sahib that we prostrate ourselves at his feet. We beseech him to stay with us, or there will be no peace for honest men—no justice for the poor. Who is there we trust among our own? Each man is for himself, and there is no honour or truth in any.’ Alas! for myself, too, it will be a bad day, for though Chunder is no more, I am a landowner of modest holdings, and, as such, have plenty of enemies who envy even that which I possess; and with Chaudri Babu as magistrate, there will be none to see that I get justice. You, Sahib, are powerful. You are just. Your wisdom is beyond praise. You pity the oppressed and have influence in high places, which has a restraining influence upon the lawless and unconscionable ones who seek their own advantage and would prey upon the defenceless and weak. I beseech you, Sahib, think of us, and reconsider your plans.”
“Narain Singh, I am going to be married, and a man should consider his wife before anyone. After the recent local outbreak of violence, in which the lives of women and children were threatened, it is not to be expected that my wife will live happily in this district. For her sake, therefore, I wish to sell my estate. I cannot sacrifice her to the estate.”
“I see—I understand. This is a great misfortune for us all; and it will be a greater misfortune to the country if we should be altogether deprived of the rule of the white Sarkar. Alas!—then I have failed!”
Narain Singh looked appealingly towards Dulcie, who had tried to follow the conversation and now asked Derek to translate for her. The obvious distress on the zemindar’s face and the anxious countenances of the group waiting patiently on the drive, aroused her keen sympathy for their unknown request.
Derek explained the situation to her in detail, visibly moved himself, while doing so.
“Why—I think it is a very wonderful tribute to your work among them! It must make you feel very happy—this acknowledgment? For they must really love you if they want you to stay?” cried she.
“I am very sure they do,” said he with moist eyes.
“Oh—I never knew it was quite like this!” she exclaimed, deeply touched. “I imagined they were indifferent and ungrateful!”
“They did not realise the position themselves till they learned that I was going away for good. And now that they have begun to trust me and have confidence in my authority, they want to keep me; for when I am gone they will feel like lost sheep without a shepherd—poor fellows! You really cannot help being sorry for their helplessness.”
While they were speaking, Narain Singh was addressing the headmen of the villages. “Alas!” said he, “I have failed, and, to us all, this will be the greatest calamity we have known. It will never be the same at Panchbusti again. Owned by kala admi who have little compassion for the troubles and difficulties of the poor, these lands and villages will be as a body without a head. Go!—depart. Our errand is finished. It is a day of mourning—proclaim a hartal! Our sun is about to set.”
As the men broke into expressions of consternation and grief, Dulcie touched Derek’s arm.
“What did he say?” she asked, and he translated.
“Is there nothing we can do or say that will cause the Sahib to reconsider his decision?” asked the fisherman, beginning to weep with the frank simplicity of a child.
“Are we to be left to the mercy of blood-suckers and cheats?” cried a shopkeeper.
“The next one that comes will exact from us salamis20 and will rob us right and left,” howled a raiyat with a vivid imagination. “Our rents will be raised, and we shall be ground in the dust under his feet while he grows fat on our industry. Such was Chunder, and such will be any of his kind who has wealth to buy and possess these lands—Ai Khoda!”
Derek translated, and Dulcie’s tender heart melted.
“Oh, tell them that you will not leave them!” cried she. “Say you will not sell this estate, but will keep it always and make it your headquarters. I cannot bear to see them in such trouble!”
“And live apart from my wife?” he smiled down at her.
“No, never! I shall grow used to India. When I am with you, I am so happy that I want nothing better in life. I shall learn to love Panchbusti for your sake. Tell them we mean to return—you will not forsake them. I see that it is clearly your duty to stand by them, for they need you.”
For a moment, Derek could scarcely command his lips to speak; then: “You most wonderful girl!—And will you never regret this decision?”
“Why should I, when I have you? We can’t always get everything our own way in life, and I have been so marvellously blessed,” she said with shining eyes. “Besides, this is your life’s work, and I am proud to feel and know that thousands are the better for your living and working among them. Perhaps, I, too, can help, if you show me the way,” she added shyly.
Derek gave her a glance of passionate admiration and then turned to face his people, realising only in that moment how great a sacrifice he had been prepared to make for Love. Now that it was not necessary, it was with a glad heart that he made his announcement:
“Narain Singh, and all you, my raiyats, listen!” he called aloud, and waited till the attention of the entire group was his. “The lady has decided the question. She has been deeply moved by your petition and feels that it is my duty to grant it. You may return to your homes with easy minds. I shall not sell my estate, but will stay and look after it and your interests, as before. To-morrow, after the marriage ceremony and the feeding of the poor outside the gates, we shall leave this to travel for a few months in other lands, then we shall return to Panchbusti, and to you. My heart is very full for I gratefully appreciate your affection for me which you have amply proved. Know, that it will be my happiness to continue among you, trusting in your loyalty as you trust in my good faith, and may God give us grace to work together, always, with mutual understanding and confidence.”
A confused and happy murmur rose from the group as they repeated among themselves the inspiring news: “It is the lady’s decision!” “She feels compassion for us!” “She, too, is our Mai-bap!”
And as Narain Singh salaamed low to Dulcie in grateful acknowledgment of her generosity, the members of the deputation, who had arrived with such dignity, scrambled up on to the verandah, and flung themselves at the feet of the Sahib and his lady, calling down blessings on them for ever, among which could be distinguished the familiar hope that they would wax prosperous with the years and have many sons to cheer their old age.
It was dusk by the time the deputation had withdrawn to carry the joyful tidings to the villages. There was a crimson after-glow in the western sky, and dark shadow’s lay athwart the verandah. Derek turned to his beloved and clasped her in his arms in a gust of passionate love.
“You have done this in noble unselfishness! You are the most wonderful girl in the wide world!” he cried in tones of deep emotion.
“Are there not many Englishwomen doing the same all over India, for the men they love?” she replied, thrilled in his embrace.
“God bless you, and them!”
Mother and father. ↩
Free fight. ↩
Following; clique. ↩
Unfaithful to his salt. ↩
The equivalent of 82 lb. ↩
Entertainment. ↩
Fighters. ↩
Black people. ↩
Native Inspector of Police. ↩
Kill. ↩
Medicine man. ↩
Exorcism. ↩
Shame! ↩
Motor car. ↩
Mattresses. ↩
A case of fate. ↩
Torches. ↩
Black people. ↩
Strong drink. ↩
Propitiatory offerings of money. ↩