The Unvarnished Truth

Chapter I

Unchaperoned

When the day came for Ruth Mallard to sail for India to join her parents, she was inwardly thrilled with anticipation, for she was told that to travel ‘in the care of the Captain’ was equal to making the voyage alone. She might sit at his table, but, otherwise, she would not exist for him. He had far too much responsibility, taking all those passengers to India and Australia, to remember that a girl of seventeen was on his ship and in his charge. Possibly her cabin steward or the stewardess would report occasionally that all was well with her. If she were very seasick he might take notice of the fact, and enquire of the ship’s doctor concerning her condition, but it was no one’s business to follow her fortunes on deck or to spy on her should she be disposed to act unconventionally. She would be her own mistress for those twenty-one days at sea, with no one to call her to account for her behaviour. In fact, it was taken for granted that she was of an age to take care of herself.

“Getting cold feet?” asked the man from Cook’s, who had taken her passage under instructions, and was deputed to see her safely on board.

“I am frightfully excited,” she admitted. As he was young enough to make her feel at home with him she did not mind confessing her nervousness. “I like this cabin.”

She stood among her belongings and looked about her. Two berths, one under the porthole and the other at right angles to it, showed that she would not be alone, for on one lay a light suitcase and a neatly rolled umbrella, while a cabin trunk stood on end alongside.

“It’s fairly roomy, but whoever your cabin companion is, she is an old campaigner, for she’s bagged the better bunk.”

“I don’t mind. They look the same.”

“The only difference is when the boat rolls. The lady has an eye to the main chance, so don’t get put upon. Just as well the bunks are not one above the other, or she’d disturb you whenever she’s late getting to bed.”

“I might be the late one,” said Ruth laughing.

“Little girls should be in bed early.”

“I’m not as young as you think.”

“Anyone meeting you in Bombay?” He sounded concerned.

“Someone from Cook’s, I believe.”

“Far to go?”

“I have no idea. Bihar is the province. Why do you ask?” She thought him rather inquisitive.

“It’s a long journey. I know India, and don’t think young girls should take long journeys alone at this unsettled time.”

“There are bound to be others, so I am sure to be safe, or they would have arranged something.”

“Do you think you will like it—the country, and the climate, I mean?”

“I couldn’t say, for I was a little child when I left India about nine years ago.”

“A lot has happened since, and they say things are greatly changed.”

“Do you think, as some do, that it won’t be at all nice now that we’ve given up India?”

“One hears all sorts of things, but from what I gather, England’s stocks are very high just now, for no other nation in the world would have given away a great Empire with both hands, and said, ‘Bless you my children’, into the bargain.”

Ruth wished she had heard more on the subject from her parents, but they had been uncommunicative on the whole of late, as the political situation had been a bad blow to them. They were among the unlucky ones who could not retire with the British Government, and there had been a marked falling off in the tone of their letters since the change over. There had been hints that her mother’s health left much to be desired, that life was no longer what it had been, and that they were faced by many anxious problems. As her place was with her mother, considering all things, there was nothing for her to do but to return to them without demur, and resign herself to whatever might be in store. She was ashamed to think that the summons had been unwelcome, for with the war to prevent personal contacts she had lost touch and grown away from those who should be dearest, because nearest by ties of blood. They had sacrificed much for her sake. It was now her turn to make sacrifices—the greatest being the career for which she had wanted a university degree.

However, that could not be helped, and it was natural that the old people should consider themselves now that times were bad. She had had many hints of how bad they were, and how difficult it was to make ends meet, the deprivations they suffered; and she wondered if there was nothing she could do to lighten the burden for them. Unfortunately, a good education alone, without any degrees, was not enough to qualify her to earn her livelihood in the educational profession.

A long blast of the ship’s siren warned friends and relations of passengers that it was time for them to go ashore. There was a general move for the gangways, and Ruth witnessed some heartrending partings as she accompanied Cook’s man to the side. He wished her goodbye and good luck with frank reluctance, and she watched him mingle with the throngs on the quay. Handkerchiefs were waved, voices shouted last-minute messages, inaudible in the din of escaping steam and the clanging of a bell. The distance between the liner and the shore insensibly increased, and Ruth felt a strong inclination to cry, she hardly knew why, unless it was because the voyage had begun and she was leaving behind her very happy memories and warm-hearted friends.

Memories crowded upon her. First, there had been old Grannie, so kind and good. Then, after she died, there were cousins like brothers and sisters among whom she was always welcome in holidays. Boarding-school had been like home to her, and the mistresses so understanding and helpful. What carefree days! What scores of companions! And how she had loved everyone and been loved in return. She was going to miss the old life terribly, for this was adventuring into the unknown. Relatives had seen her into the boat train at Liverpool Street station, as no one could spare the time to accompany her to the docks, for all were working. Cook’s man had taken her over and done the rest. Till she reached her journey’s end she would be entirely responsible for herself. An alarming thought.

A tear trembled and fell. But could she find a handkerchief? Not by any means, though she tried her sleeve and her handbag.

Handkerchiefs had a way of vanishing when most required.

In the midst of her embarrassment someone put one into her hand—a considerate act which Ruth appreciated thankfully, though incapable of speech. It hardly mattered to whom she owed the kindly consideration, though the largeness of the cambric square was an indication of the owner’s sex; she returned it almost immediately and made a dash for her cabin where she could indulge her miserable reactions to her heart’s content.

But finding her cabin was not so easy, for she was soon lost and bewildered by the many corridors and decks, and the numerous cabins that baffled her with strange numbers. It was particularly confusing as she had forgotten how many decks and stairways she had used when with the man from Cook’s. Everything was strange; there were so many people, all strangers, that she did not know of whom to ask her way, when she was suddenly rescued by a man, and obligingly conducted to the right deck and her familiar number, for which she was greatly relieved and thankful.

She had a suspicion that he took the longest route, for she was shown, incidentally, the public saloons that might have belonged to one of the most luxurious of West End hotels. She was fascinated by the spacious lounge with its rich carpets and upholstery, and the grand piano at the end. The library looked most inviting with its many dainty writing-tables, and card-tables, and cases of books. There were galleries overlooking the main companion with divans and shining brass railings. Eventually, she had a ride in a lift which eventually landed her not far from her cabin door. Evidently, her guide was well acquainted with luxury liners and ocean travel, for he told her a lot of useful things to know with a delightful friendliness till she almost felt that she had known him always. Afterwards, she had a feeling that she had been somehow so completely disarmed that she must have given him a great deal more information concerning herself than she knew of him. Of himself, he said nothing at all, when she came to think of it. But instinct told her that he was no ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ against whom she had been so often warned, but merely someone nice who had a delightful smile and a way with him that appealed to her confidence. Actually, his society had done her good, for she had been taken out of her blues and given a fresh outlook on life. If the days she was to spend at sea could be relieved by the companionship of such a charming fellow, she was going to be very lucky.

She felt greatly cheered recalling some of the things he had said that had lingered in her memory.

“It was very stupid of me to have lost my way,” she had told him apologetically.

“Your first voyage?” he had asked.

“Since I was a little kid. My people are in India. How kind of you to come to my rescue.”

“Your eyes put me in mind of a startled gazelle I once saved from drowning,” he said. “It looked so lost and frightened till I set it free in the jungles. But it wasn’t the least stupid, and I am sure if it had been able to speak it would have said: ‘How kind of you to come to my rescue!’” He smiled at her blushes.

The colour of the handkerchief peeping out of his cuff was the same as the one that had been lent her earlier, and she said shyly,

“Was it you who lent me a handkerchief when I felt like crying?”

“I was beside you at the time, though you never saw me.”

“I thank you again. You are kind,” was all she could say at the moment.

Ruth’s cabin companion was in truth an ‘old campaigner’, as the man from Cook’s had called her, for when unpacking her trunks, Ruth found that she was already in possession of the major portion of the hanging cupboard with evening gowns and silk frocks suspended on hangers irrespective of the law of give-and-take. However, though she had been advised not to be ‘put upon’, Ruth, always accommodating, made do with the space that remained, and what she could use of a chest of drawers. The occupant of the berth under the porthole introduced herself as Elizabeth Trent, and did not improve matters by assuming a patronizing air. Being older than Ruth by at least ten years, she was pleased to regard her as an unsophisticated schoolgirl and treat her accordingly, which Ruth inwardly resented, feeling quite grown up and emancipated. However, it was as well to start in a friendly spirit if they were to share the same cabin for the voyage.

“Have you hired a deck-chair, or have you one of your own?” she asked Ruth while lighting a cigarette preparatory to returning on deck. “If not, they’ll all be gone presently.”

As Ruth had no chair and had not thought of hiring one, Miss Trent condescended to secure one for her and have it placed in a sheltered position for her if she wished. This was an unexpected kindness, gratefully accepted by Ruth. Possibly, Elizabeth Trent would prove a congenial companion in spite of her affectations, for it amused Ruth to watch her airs and graces.

Her accent was artificial though cultured. She spoke with a drawl and moved with a languid grace, which reminded Ruth of the mannequins she had seen on fashion parades. Who, and what had she been before she came on board? Her clothes were expensive, her luggage new and costly. The dressing-case she opened with a key smelt of the shop, and the fittings spoke of wealth. In these days when everyone was impoverished, it was a treat to see such a private display of riches. It almost made Ruth ashamed of her simple possessions. She had a feeling that she had no business to be travelling first saloon when she was such an insignificant creature of no standing and dependent on the generosity of a benefactress for all she was and had.

Miss Trent, having lighted her cigarette from an enamelled lighter, smiled condescendingly at Ruth and left her alone.

Was she engaged to be married? Ruth felt very curious, as a solitaire diamond had flashed blue lights on the third finger of her left hand. She wore no other ring. Engaged to be married and going to India?

Probably her fiancé would meet her at the other end.

Out at sea, Ruth quickly lost incipient seasickness and a giddy feeling whenever the floorboards grew alternately heavy and light under her feet. Her appetite increased with leaps and bounds, and hope revived.

She sat for meals in the crowded dining-saloon, feeling very inconspicuous and small at the Captain’s table, at which were gathered the élite of the passengers. It made her realize that it was one way of demonstrating the fact that she was in the Captain’s charge. Whoever he might be in private life, the Captain was the Big Shot on the voyage, she gathered, and at his table sat people of consequence, some of whom were titled, and one a Pakistan Minister. Ruth would far rather have been anywhere else, possibly somewhere among young and frivolous people who were responsible for all the entertainments organized for the voyage. She also had a shy hope of discovering what had become of her quondam acquaintance of the first day on board, who strangely enough was nowhere to be seen. He could not have fallen overboard, for she would have heard of the tragedy. He was therefore a passenger, only not visible to her. Where had he put himself, and why did he not make himself known? It was very disappointing.

At the Captain’s table she felt very much like a child again, ‘to be seen and not heard’, for the conversation was often far above her head. Now and then someone would remember her existence and take the trouble to be conversational within her comprehension. She looked so young that very often her intelligence was underrated till it was discovered that she was not only gifted with brains, but had good sense and a fund of general knowledge. That came about in due course. For the present she won good opinions because she was not lacking in discernment and knew when to be self-effacing. Once she was handed a plan of the tables and was able to learn the names of those in whom she was interested, which she found useful. To her all the young men looked alike, with the stamp of their public schools and their passion for sport. The girls were mostly sophisticated and ultra-modern. Their free and easy manners did not shock Ruth, who had grown up among all sorts and had formed her own ideas of a woman’s place in the scheme of things. Having been trained to observe moderation in all things, she had standards of conduct to which she adhered, and though under eighteen showed the promise of the woman she would be when seventy.

Ruth was quickly popular with boys who were eager to partner her in games, and after-dinner dances. Occasionally, she felt honoured when the Captain, in his rare visits to the promenade deck, walked and talked condescendingly with her. He was old enough to be her grandfather, and she secretly regarded him as a ‘pet’. Other elderly gentlemen showed a marked appreciation of her society, and would bore her with attentions, often making things difficult for young fellows who were more to her liking.

In fact, Ruth appeared to be enjoying herself amazingly. Perhaps she was, but something seemed to be missing all the time. Though there was joy in the blueness of the sky, the gold of the sunlight as it danced on the waves, and the fun and games provided for the amusement of the passengers, she was always searching for a particular face of unforgettable appeal.

Before the week ended Ruth found herself bracketed in tournaments with a youth who was good at all forms of sport. She played games, danced with him, and won many prizes with his assistance. She liked his nature and admired his intellect, for their tastes were identical in literature and pastimes. It was a shock to her when Elizabeth Trent warned her that people were beginning to remark on the association. That meant gossip.

“But why?” Ruth could see no reason for it, and was then made to understand that it was because he was an Indian. So far, it had not occurred to her to think of him as any different from the English boys she knew, for his manners were perfect, he dressed in good taste, and spoke with a cultured accent.

Of course he was very dark, but she forgot to consider the colour of his skin, and did it matter so much when Serenath was in all essentials a gentleman?

Elizabeth Trent thought that it did. It was a question of race. The prejudice was insurmountable. Had she forgotten that?

But Ruth had never reckoned with it. As a child in India, living on a Rajah’s estate which her father managed, and had managed before she was born, she remembered being on familiar terms with all at the Rajbari. The Ranee had made a fuss of her and done her best to spoil her with indulgence, and her two boys very little older than herself had been her daily playmates. Her parents were not in a position to raise objections, and she had been too young for them to instil in her any colour prejudice.

The only difference between herself and her Indian friends lay in ethics and ideologies. Otherwise, they, like all other children, had the same faults and failings, the same characteristics and varied temperaments. All else belonged to environment and training. In matters of honour and truth she had found their morals elastic; and the law of expediency governed all conduct.

In childhood, however, these questions did not arise, but they accounted for much that had confused her then.

To Elizabeth Trent, Ruth merely said she liked Serenath Das as he was a nice lad, which could not be said of many of the boys on the boat.

“Would you marry an Indian?” she was asked. Elizabeth lit one cigarette from another, and gazed disdainfully at her.

“That has never occurred to me. No—now I come to think of it, I would not. I should not want to. For one thing, our religions, for instance. . . .”

“There is much more in it than that. There’s the Eurasian problem.”

“Of course. There is that, too. That has always been to me a tragedy.”

“Then why run around with Serenath Das when he is obviously gone on you?”

Ruth felt convicted of acting foolishly. The trouble with her was that she was thoughtless and impulsive. She was not in love with Serenath, yet it had flattered her that he should worship the ground she trod on. It was cruel and wrong.

The effect of this conversation was to make Ruth distribute her favours more generally, and thus dispel any hopes the young man might have been cherishing with regard to marriage. If he suffered in consequence just as any British lad would have done, she never knew it, for Serenath was reserved and proud. But if it contributed to any bitterness of spirit in him towards the British race, it was understandable. Bitterness of the soul is not fertile soil for the growth of national good fellowship. Many descendants of British pioneers in the East had discovered that fact for themselves, and were preaching a new doctrine; but there were others who callously kept the old wounds open.

One night in the Mediterranean there was a ball on the promenade deck to commemorate a special occasion, and a portion was screened off with bunting and flags, making a brilliant and colourful display under a blaze of light from powerful lamps.

Ruth’s card was fully booked for the dances when she appeared on the floor, looking fresh and sweet in a diaphanous silk frock. By that time it was common knowledge that she excelled in ballroom dancing, and her programme, printed in the Purser’s cabin, was a testimony to her popularity. She was the centre of a group of gay youngsters, her face alight with anticipation, when Elizabeth Trent came towards her through the crowds lining the deck to present the very man she had been looking for since tire voyage began. She recognized him on the instant, and was ingenuous enough to show her unfeigned delight.

“I did not know you and Captain Cunliffe were already acquainted,” said Elizabeth, surprised. “And yet you asked to be introduced?” she turned to him obviously displeased.

“Unofficially we are old friends,” said he. “I happened to be of use to Miss Mallard at the beginning of the voyage.”

“And I have been wondering what had happened to you, for I couldn’t see you anywhere. What became of you?” she asked with flattering eagerness, the colour rising to her cheeks, her eyes like stars.

Elizabeth answered for him.

“I had the surprise of my life when I saw him in the second saloon, watching the deck tennis from behind the barrier. When I asked him why he was travelling second, he said ‘because there isn’t a third’. Can you beat it? But all writers are mad.”

“Call me all the names you like, but I am very much indebted to you for asking me to the dance. As I am travelling second,” he told Ruth, “I am debarred from visiting here unless invited. The same law does not apply to you on this side.”

“Do you write books, or do you write for the newspapers?” Ruth asked shyly feeling consumed with curiosity.

“He’s a novelist and a journalist,” said Elizabeth. “Our dance, Nigel,” as the band started a fox-trot.

“Excuse me for one minute,” and he bent to Ruth. “Have you any for me?”

Her reply was to show him her crowded programme.

He took it, ran his eye down the list, and wrote his initials upon three out of five dances booked by someone else.

“It’s not fair. I’ll make it all right with him,” and returning the card, he led Elizabeth away to mingle with the dancers already on the floor.

Ruth’s own partner claimed her immediately, and for the next half-hour she could scarcely contain her impatience while waiting for Nigel Cunliffe to return to her. She was almost too excited to think coherently, and was sure her partner would think her a bore, for her answers to his pretty speeches were wide of the mark, and pointless. She knew it was all wrong, and that she was making a fool of herself for nothing. She had to remind herself that Nigel Cunliffe was a complete stranger and had plenty to occupy him on a long voyage without wasting time on an ex-schoolgirl who could only bore him with her lack of sophistication. Every time she passed him on the floor, she looked studiously the other way, the colour tingling in her cheeks, thus appearing all the more adorable for her transparent attempts at indifference.

Finally, they danced together and she felt she was treading on air, it was so effortless and enchanting. When he said,

“You dance exquisitely, Ruth!”

She replied impulsively,

“That’s because you are a wonderful partner.”

“I wish I had the next, and the next . . . and all the rest with you,” he said enviously.

“What about Miss Trent?” (reproachfully).

He grimaced.

“Is she a great friend of yours?” She longed to know.

“She belongs to my home-town—I hardly know her at all. That is,” he amended, “we have met a few times out hunting. Her father is a trainer, and has charge of the Maharaja of Bindalookari’s race-horses.”

“She shares my cabin,” Ruth volunteered.

“Does she?” He seemed to wince at the idea. “How do you get on?”

“We don’t fight, if that’s what you mean,” Ruth laughed.

“Don’t let her boss you. She looks the sort. Have a good time,” his eyes softened wistfully. “Unfortunately, I can’t help you in any way. I tried to change over to the first, but every cabin is full, and I am cursing myself for having been a fool.”

“Shan’t I be seeing you often?” She was all at once low-spirited and unhappy.

“When you play games if you look up you will probably see me watching you from the poop. I generally do.”

“And I never knew it! Why didn’t you make a sign?”

“I was often tempted to, but it wasn’t easy. You might not have liked it—I didn’t know—I now wish I had, for you might have met me at the barrier, and we could have talked.”

“Of course. You might have shown me all over your saloon. Is it comfortable, second?”

“Absolutely, if not luxurious. I’d love to show you round. There is nothing to prevent it.”

“Will you?” Her eyes brightened and the smiles returned.

“I’d love to. When? It’s up to you, you know.”

“Tomorrow? Where shall we meet and when?”

Clouds of despondency vanished in a breath, and Ruth was herself again, vivid with the joy of life, natural, frank and friendly.

It was an evening to remember, and she was awake far into the night thinking and planning how to pass the glorious days at sea. All the while Nigel Cunliffe dominated the picture and was the pivot round which all prospective events turned.

He was nice—very nice, she told herself. Though not terribly good-looking, it was a face to like—and trust.

She hoped he liked her too, and thought he did. His eyes seemed to tell her so. When they had sat out after dancing he had taken such good care of her, seeing that she was cloaked so as not to take a chill, and bringing her refreshments—even cautioning her against certain drinks. She was touched and grateful when he said it was because she was so young and new to things that he took the liberty of putting her wise. There was nothing so revolting, and at the same time so pitiful as to see girls tight. Nine out of ten times the fellows were to blame, for they knew what to expect, and the girls did not—at least, not till afterwards, and generally they got blunted.

“I shall remember what you say,” she said with a lovely smile. “You are so good to tell me these things, Captain Cunliffe.”

“Why so formal? Don’t I call you Ruth?”

“Shall I say Nigel?”

“I should love you to.” And he looked sincere.

All this, and little scraps of conversation she had enjoyed returned to mind alluringly, till overcome by natural fatigue she at length fell asleep.

It worried her a little that Elizabeth Trent was cool towards her for no known reason. She was not conscious of having done anything to offend her, yet she was not disposed to talk or exchange experiences as girls were wont to do after a dance.

But then she was forgetting Elizabeth Trent was much older, and hardly what one would call a girl. She had danced a lot with Nigel, who was her guest, surely she did not grudge those dances he had with anyone else—herself, for instance? Ruth could only attribute it to jealousy, as Nigel was such a good partner, and a treat on the dance floor.

Matters did not improve the next day when Ruth vanished from the first saloon after luncheon, and was not seen again till time to change for dinner.

Human nature could not resist such a mystery. In spite of strained relations, Elizabeth Trent had to ask what she had done with herself all day.

“I have been over in the second saloon,” Ruth replied candidly. “Captain Cunliffe showed me all over it, and afterwards over the ship. It was wonderful. We paid a visit to the Captain’s bridge—by the way, the Captain knew Captain Cunliffe’s father years ago when he was touring in the East. Nigel was then at Eton. Isn’t it a small world? It seems Nigel is to change over to the first saloon, the Captain will fix it. Someone is getting off at Port Said. Isn’t it great?”

“You seem to have been having a royal time,” said Elizabeth languidly, studying her make-up in a hand mirror.

“It was lovely,” said Ruth with shining eyes.

“And were you on the Captain’s bridge for the rest of the day?”

“Oh, no!” Ruth laughed at the idea. “Only for a very short time. The Captain is a darling. He showed me everything and how orders are given, but Nigel wouldn’t let me take up his time as he is so busy. I had tea in the second saloon with a family going out to Australia. They have a lot of children who adore Nigel. He has a wonderful way with the kiddies, and they simply walk all over him. You never told me that Nigel’s father is a baronet, and squire of Netherdale in Norfolk!”

“I imagined he would save me the trouble.”

“He didn’t. I gathered it from the conversation at the Captain’s table.”

Chapter II

A Birthday Gift

Elizabeth Trent was not very encouraging in the matter of Ruth’s friendship with Nigel Cunliffe, and took many opportunities of warning her against expecting too much out of it. Whenever they met in the cabin and she heard some fresh account of Ruth’s doings in the second saloon, she would smile disdainfully, and make remarks calculated to dash her enthusiasm.

“The trouble with you very young girls is that you fall for the first man who pays you attentions. You don’t realize that men do that kind of thing as a matter of course, and some fools of girls run away with the idea that it means marriage. Have you never heard of boardship flirtations? They end the moment you step ashore at Bombay. Nigel Cunliffe is just as great a flirt as most, and it amuses him to see how far he can go with a pretty girl who has no one to chaperone her on board.”

“Don’t think it necessary to talk like this to me, you are wasting your time,” said Ruth, annoyed. “I am not the sort of fool you picture.”

“I am speaking for your good. It doesn’t concern you that people have eyes? They gossip, you know.”

“I hope it amuses them. It doesn’t worry me.” Ruth was too happy to let anything so far-fetched annoy her. She did not imagine Nigel was in love with her, nor did she think of gossip. She was too happy to care what people said. When not with him she loved to recall all he said. One day he asked her,

“What have you done with the Indian boy who used to be your partner in games?”

Ruth blushed and temporized. “He has several friends of his own nationality on board.”

“You thought it wiser to leave him alone?”

“Elizabeth Trent did some plain speaking.”

“She would. But I’m glad. It was kindest in the long run. But—I am sorry for him. Racial prejudice is a cruel thing. Unfortunately, these people fall in love like anybody else.”

“I have no prejudices. I liked him very much. He is a good sport.”

“So you saved him from making a mistake.”

“You are very quick.”

“Perhaps one is, when interested. I was just a little anxious at first—lookers-on see more than you think. You are going to India, and as you say, have no prejudices. Nor have I with regard to race and colour; but will you remember that mixed marriages never work?”

“I know. There is too much involved.”

“Right. It means unhappiness for both parties. I have many Indian friends. In fact, I shall be a guest in Pakistan of a Moslem, and have a very high opinion of the Hindus and Moslems I have known, yet hold no brief for mixed marriages. They, too, have strong views on the subject, and feel the truth of the saying, ‘East is East, and West is West’. But why talk of it? Tell me of yourself.”

And Ruth obediently had given him a glimpse into her life’s history, and the reason for her recall to India.

“I am worried about my parents. I know life is becoming very hard for Daddy, and Mummy’s health is not what it was. It is time he retired, for he is getting old; and yet it is not possible. They were middle-aged when they got me; and now that I am no longer a child, it is time I helped them.”

It struck her that he would find it hard to understand her position and the anomalies of it. Here was she travelling first class on a luxury liner, with parents too poor to retire in their old age. Her father would have to die in harness because of the need to support his family. So she explained the case frankly.

“I told you that Daddy managed a Rajah’s estate. The Ranee has been wonderful to me. I owe her my education at home and all it has cost in passages. She was very generous to me, for which I am utterly grateful. My parents couldn’t have sent me home at all.”

After that there was a diversion, and the subject was not resumed.

But Elizabeth continued to show disapproval of Ruth’s conduct and she encouraged criticism of it among the gossips. It was duly noted that the boy who had paid court to Ruth had retired in favour of Captain Cunliffe, who, for a whim, was travelling second class, but, since knowing Ruth, had managed to arrange a transfer to the first, after Port Said. The reason was obvious.

“She is always with him.”

“It is a shame that there is no one to advise her.”

“She has lost her head over him, and does as she likes.”

“It’s too bad of him when he knows she is so young, and he doesn’t mean anything!”

“Does she know?”

“Not unless he has told her,” said Elizabeth. “Anyway, it is no business of mine.”

Nevertheless, she made it her business; and played her last card to stop Ruth from spending so much time with Nigel.

That night, with the lights of Port Said in view, she suddenly appeared more sympathetic as they dressed for dinner.

“It will be too bad if you cannot land at Port Said to look around a bit. I am joining a party, and I’m sure they won’t mind if you care to come with us. One or two men, and half a dozen women all known to you.”

“I’m not sure what I’m doing tomorrow. I believe Nigel said something about going ashore.”

“You surely don’t mean to go off alone with him?” Elizabeth looked horrified.

“Why not, if he suggested it?”

“I’m sure the Captain would never consent to it, unless there is a party,” she drawled. “You are so young. In your place I would not have the nerve to suggest it.”

“I don’t know anything about it. Perhaps it will be fixed up tonight. He is dining with the Captain tonight he said.”

“I don’t at all know what he intends, but you might as well know that you are the talk of the ship. At your age girls do not have all that liberty. Besides, he should know better than to carry on like this, considering how he is placed.”

“How is he placed?” Ruth was angry. She had had enough of Elizabeth’s interference.

“The announcement of his engagement to Lady Lorna Bingham appeared in the newspapers just before we sailed. They are to be married on his return from the East. I ask you, is it fair that he should make you conspicuous with his attentions when he is pledged to her?”

The words struck a sudden chill to Ruth’s heart. Why, she did not know. It was not as if she had expected anything to come of her association with Captain Cunliffe. She was not such a fool as to imagine he was in love with her, or meant to propose marriage, for what had a man in his assured position to do with the daughter of Jeffrey Mallard, who hadn’t a bean, and was hanging on to the only means of livelihood open to him at his age, as he could not afford to retire. It was tragic.

Yet she suddenly felt sick, and sat down on the edge of her berth, feeling she had been living in a fool’s paradise, allowing a charming fellow to creep into her heart, and so fill it that she had no room for any other thought than the need to see him, and be with him always. It had happened so suddenly, it was unbelievable. Nevertheless, it was true. How dare Elizabeth spoil her life by giving her such bad news! At the moment, she hated Elizabeth, and wished she could never see her again.

“Why did you have to tell me this?” she cried. “What concern is it of yours if Nigel and I are friends, or that spiteful people gossip over nothing?”

“My word, you are angry! It’s time someone spoke to you and told you not to make a fool of yourself, by flinging yourself at a man’s head when he belongs to someone else.”

“How dare you say such things to me!”

“You’ll tell me next that you are not having a rare old time flirting with Nigel Cunliffe? That he has never kissed you?”

“I can, and will. Believe it or not!” cried Ruth, temper making her eloquent in her defence. “I have been with him every day since the dance, and he has been—splendid. He has never said a single thing his fiancée could resent. Nor even tried to make love to me—and there have been opportunities enough, I’ll say! Perhaps it is because he has been so wonderful that I admire him, and prefer him to anyone I have ever met. You spoke of him as a flirt. He has never attempted to flirt with me, and whatever you may think, it is true. Why I should bother to tell you so, I don’t know. Nor do I care if you don’t believe me,” and Ruth surprised herself by bursting into tears and weeping as if her heart would break.

Her unexpected collapse embarrassed Elizabeth, since her unprovoked accusations had caused it. Dinner was imminent, and Ruth was in no fit state to appear in the dining-saloon.

“Pull yourself together, Ruth. There’s no need for hysteria. What about dinner?”

“I’m not going to dinner,” cried Ruth passionately.

“The Captain will wonder why.”

“I don’t care.”

“What shall I say if I’m asked?”

“Say what you like. You don’t need to be prompted to invent any story you please.”

“I think you are behaving very foolishly, and should be more controlled.”

Just then the gong sounded, and Ruth turned her face to the wall, only one thought in her head—Nigel was engaged to someone he loved. He could not have asked her if he did not love her. Why didn’t she know this before!

A stewardess presently brought her a tray of something appetizing. Ruth, feeling sick at heart, made a pretence of eating. She was told that Miss Trent had ordered it to be served in her cabin, and that alone was enough to make her turn from it.

Still later, with sounds of music in the air and footsteps overhead, voices full of laughter, and a constant crash of lift gates, there came a tap on her door, and a steward brought her a note. Ruth opened it with a beating heart and saw it was from Nigel Cunliffe.

I hear you are not feeling well. Shall I not be seeing you tonight? Nigel.

“I am to take a reply if there is any.”

“There isn’t any. Please tell Captain Cunliffe that I have gone to bed,” she said. That was all, and he could make what he liked of it. She could not trust herself to see him that night, and hoped to feel less shattered in the morning.

The ship anchored off Port Said late, and next morning all was liveliness and bustle aboard.

Elizabeth Trent ignored Ruth, who preferred things that way between them. She knew that Nigel had not yet changed his accommodation and wondered if he would try and communicate with her. On no account should he guess that she had heard anything to upset her. She had acted like a fool and was deeply ashamed. She could have no self-respect to take things so to heart when Nigel had never made love to her. He liked her company and she had been vain enough to hope he had meant more than had appeared on the surface. Henceforth, she would have to be very careful not to give him the slightest handle for imagining she was a sentimental kid, crazy for him. Ruth was sure she had come to her senses and felt ready to face any contingency.

She leaned on the taffrail and watched the boats in the water below, with Egyptians doing a thriving trade with the passengers. Two boys beside her kept her amused by offering double or quits to a trader for a heavily fringed silk shawl that neither wanted. One of them begged her to accept a jade necklace he was offered for an exorbitant sum, and ended by tossing for it, as a present for his best girl. To all appearances Ruth was enjoying herself immensely, when she heard Nigel’s voice from behind her say,

“How long will it take you to get ready, Ruth? I have the Captain’s permission to take you ashore to look around and have lunch.”

“That’s very kind,” she said, in lukewarm tones, “but I am not going. Thanks all the same for suggesting it.”

“But—surely you haven’t changed your mind?”

“I wanted to go yesterday, but—I’d rather not today, if you don’t mind.” She did not know how childishly she gave herself away. As she was determined to avoid looking at him he stiffened.

“I don’t understand. Are you feeling ill?”

“I am quite well, thank you. It’s only that I am not interested.”

“A white lie to camouflage the real reason,” he said, while the din around them made his voice audible only to her.

“Look at me, Ruth.”

There was something in his tone that wrung her heart. How could she play-act with him, when they had been such pals? What did she gain by treating him badly? He was not to blame for what had passed. It was all so silly! Repentance followed swiftly, and with it, smiles returned. The laughter-loving mouth could not long remain forbidding.

“I’ll come, if you wish it,” she yielded, and he accompanied her to her cabin door.

“What’s the matter, Ruth?” he asked her on the way.

“Nothing, really.”

“You are suddenly different. Have I done anything?”

“Why should you think such a thing?”

“Because you were not at dinner the only night I was a guest at your table. You never answered my note, and this morning you are definitely queer. You have something against me.”

“You are quite wrong. It is only that I had a row with Elizabeth Trent, and it upset me horribly. I don’t like rows.”

“Damn Elizabeth! What has she been saying to you? I think I can guess. She’s got her knife into both of us because I have not paid her any of the attentions she expected. I know Betty Trent—she is very well known where I come from. Frankly, I have no use for her. I am sorry you share the same cabin. What has she said to spoil things for us?”

“Nothing worth talking about. Say nothing more. I promise to forget it.”

“As you were?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Of course. We are the best of friends.”

After that, Ruth was determined to enjoy herself, and in doing so, also to spite Elizabeth, who watched her from an upper deck as she went ashore with Nigel. She was resolved not to allow anything she had heard to make any difference between herself and him. The only real difference was that now she knew exactly how things stood; and when she had sufficient command of herself, she would congratulate Nigel sincerely on his engagement to Lady Lorna Bingham.

In a floral silk frock and wide-brimmed straw hat, she looked a veritable human flower as she trod the quayside with Nigel, and many eyes were drawn to follow her. A coquette from infancy, it was second nature for her to charm her companion with sweet smiles and soft glances, particularly as her feminine instinct told her that she was something very special to the man at her side. It was too easy to forget the existence of a fiancée in the background, and to neglect to do to others as she would they should do unto her. A voyage to India did not last forever, and the temptation to make the most of every romantic moment could not be resisted. Everything she saw was new and enchanting. It was fun diving in and out of bric-à-brac shops to pick up souvenirs and curios, all of which Nigel insisted on paying for. The arguments they had! The laughter over it all, and she had given in rather than make a fuss about a trifle. Would she ever forget that day of days? How they sat under an awning outside a café, continental fashion, having orange squashes and ice-cream sodas, and Nigel’s remark that he had never drunk so many soft drinks in one morning, in the whole of his life, so it showed what a good influence she had! What colourful, cosmopolitan crowds in the streets, and cunning little urchins pestering travellers with sleight-of-hand tricks of amazing skill!

“Do you like this?” “Are you happy?” “Glad you came?” she was asked from time to time, and he was generously rewarded with the loveliest of smiles.

There was a guilty moment when Nigel insisted on giving her a valuable ‘keepsake’—so he called it—following a visit to a jeweller’s shop where they had admired together Oriental handicraft in the window. It was a small, carved, silver jewel box, inlaid with jade and semi-precious stones, an exquisite thing. He had disappeared into the shop for a few minutes, and returned with a brown paper parcel, saying nothing at the time. But he showed it to her during luncheon at a restaurant, and thoroughly appreciated her startled reactions.

“But, Nigel, I couldn’t take it! It’s too wonderful of you, but I mustn’t—really, I mustn’t! Such a beautiful thing! Why did you buy it?”

“Because I was sure you would love to have it on your dressing-table in memory of the voyage—and me,” he added wistfully.

“That’s true—but I have no right to accept anything so good!” She meant ‘expensive’, having heard from older heads of ‘gold diggers’, and the contempt in which such girls were held.

Two lustrous eyes gazed at him in dismay.

“What are you afraid of, honey?” (And thereafter he called her by no other name.)

“It is just that I should not let you.”

“If it makes me happy?”

“That’s sweet of you, but,” she shook her head, while handling it yearningly, “someone else has a far greater right to your lovely gifts.”

A short silence.

“Is that what Betty Trent told you?” he said at length.

“About her? Yes.” And then with a quivering smile—“I have been meaning to congratulate you, but—somehow——”

“Forget it. There is a lot I have to tell you, only I’ve got to make the time. Now about this trifle,” and she had never seen him so much in earnest, “it is for you, and no one else. I shall be greatly hurt if you fling it back in my face.” He watched every shade of expression on her face, glad of the spreading bough of a well-grown palm in a flower-pot that screened their recess.

Ruth’s lashes flickered indecisively, there was moisture in her eyes that dimmed their lustre. Then came a sudden inspiration, and a smile broke through with the effect of sunlight through gathering clouds.

“Isn’t it a coincidence? I can accept a birthday present from a friend! It’s for my birthday. In a few days I’ll be one year older!”

“That’s a real miracle!” he said, and they both laughed together gaily.

“And how old exactly does it make you, honey?”

“Eighteen,” she said, unaccountably thrilled to hear the pet name. No one had called her that before, and no one else should, in future.

“Actually quite grown up! And the date?”

She named it shyly. “I wouldn’t have told you, or anyone, only it makes it all right for me to have this lovely box. I do think it sweet of you! Thank you, Nigel.”

“Your birthday will fall on the day we leave Suez. We’ll be in the Red Sea. Give me the evening after dinner, and we’ll spend it on the forecastle. It’s the coolest spot, and I’ll tell you something I want you to know. Is that a ‘book’?”

“Yes,” she said, “I shall look forward to it.” Her eyes shone as if in anticipation of a birthday treat.

On their way back to the ship he made her buy a topi, which, incidentally, he paid for, refusing to be reimbursed, as it was bound to be necessary in the Red Sea, and in India.

When they arrived on deck it was a rush to change for dinner, and Elizabeth was not helpful, for she occupied the amenities of the dressing-table without reference to Ruth’s needs, and in little ways was inconsiderate and obstructive, which could only be attributed to jealousy. Ruth had ample time to discover that Elizabeth was full of affectation, and was a snob; and was beginning to think that jealousy was the outcome of her disappointment in regard to Nigel, of whom she had hoped much. Having made his acquaintance on the hunting field, she would have liked to have shown him off as her intimate friend, to other snobs among the passengers, and had no reason to feel pleased with Ruth for having come in her way.

As Ruth was no match for Elizabeth in a quarrel, she wisely refrained from asserting her cabin rights, and made the best of a hand mirror for her make-up. Apparently, however, Elizabeth was curious to know how she had spent her time on shore, but was too much on her dignity to question her outright.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she remarked, breaking the awkward silence, “if the Captain had something to say to you about going ashore with Nigel Cunliffe alone. At your age, it isn’t done.”

Ruth ignored the matter of her age.

“He will probably like to know if I enjoyed the outing, which I certainly did, bless him for letting me go in Nigel’s care.”

Elizabeth laid aside her comb, and stared at her balefully.

“You want me to believe you had the Captain’s permission to run around all day in a place like Port Said with a young man you have only known hardly more than ten days or so?”

“Believe what you please.”

Nothing more was said, as the gong sounded and Ruth was glad to escape. Nigel having transferred himself to a cabin in the first class, was waiting for her by the door of the dining-saloon, and both went in together, he to the vacant seat at a remote table, which gave her nothing more than a view of the back of his fair head. But what did it matter? She knew she would see him every day from morning until night, and her heart sang with joy.

The Purser having heard by some mysterious means that it was Ruth’s birthday the day they left Suez, a wonderful monster cake appeared before her at afternoon tea, with eighteen candles, almond icing, and decorations complete. Many were the congratulations and good wishes expressed from all sides, her friends milling around her; Nigel alone, for some inscrutable reason, remained in the background, discussing handicaps for a forthcoming tournament with the games committee, to which he had been elected. He effaced himself soon after the Chief Officer helped Ruth to cut the cake, leaving her with a sense of desertion that nearly spoiled the afternoon for her.

Later on, as they paced the hurricane deck together for the first time, he explained that his behaviour had been a concession to Elizabeth’s capabilities of malice. Her eyes had been on him, and she was ready to make capital out of the occasion had he been too much in evidence. With a mind like hers, she could spoil the rest of the trip for Ruth. He did not repeat the conversation he had had with Elizabeth when she sought him out at the tea party.

“Was the cake your inspiration, or the Captain’s?” she had asked him inquisitively.

“The Purser’s, as a matter of fact.”

“Who told him that Ruth Mallard was eighteen today?”

“You’d be surprised how things get around,” he returned, a baffling smile on his lips.

“She’s very cunning, or childish, to give it away, but what can one expect!” Her tone was contemptuous.

“There you are wrong. It hasn’t occurred to you that the Purser might have heard it from the Captain, whose business it is to have all the particulars relating to his charge. It was a very charming gesture, don’t you think?”

“Personally, I think it a mistake, the fuss the ship’s officers, and the Captain himself, make of the girl—not forgetting you, too—enough to turn any kid’s head. What is she but an emancipated schoolgirl? By the way, I might as well tell you I was very discreet in my letter home by air mail. Say ‘Thank you, Betty’—I think I was very sporting.”

“Only a very mischievous brain could have found anything to write home about concerning me, that calls for discretion and my gratitude.” He looked her in the eyes with a steely gaze, and Elizabeth retired with the excuse of being wanted elsewhere.

Ruth was rather a demure figure at dimer that evening. She spoke little, feeling a very insignificant person among so many elderly people, but had plenty to occupy her mind while taking secret pleasure in frequent glimpses of the back of Nigel’s head. It seemed he had already made many friends among the sporting set, and was much in demand, yet he had held her to the engagement on the forecastle after dinner. That was because he had something to tell her, and she was thrilled, wondering what it could be about. Possibly, about his engagement, for something told her that he no longer wished to fulfil it. It had all been a mistake; a ghastly mistake.

But how absurd to be jumping to conclusions on such slight foundation! Nevertheless, she could hardly contain her excitement throughout the meal.

As she rose from the table, an old lady who looked very much the grande dame, said kindly,

“You look pale, my child. Birthdays are exciting events in one’s teens. I hope it has been a very happy day?”

“It has been wonderful, and everyone has been so kind.” Even condescending to drink her health after dinner—an embarrassing moment, and she felt overcome at the bare thought of it.

“I am glad you enjoyed it. Have an early night, and you will be all the more fit tomorrow. I hear your friend Captain Cunliffe is now one of us? He has repented his rashness in economizing on his passage ticket.” She was disposed to tease Ruth for the pleasure of making her blush.

“He is a journalist,” said Ruth, “and likes varied experiences.”

“Nothing of the sort,” the old eyes twinkled. “It is dull living in one village, with your friends in another. The Cunliffes of Netherdale have been hard hit by taxation. You see, I am from Norfolk and have met the Squire. They have had to sell land lately, and as the old man is in bad health, should he die the death duties will make things very difficult, I imagine, for nobody has any wealth these days. As a soldier, Nigel has learned to rough it, and a cheaper passage had its appeal.” Ruth felt a twinge of conscience, remembering the lovely jewel box given to her as a birthday present. “But,” concluded the old lady, “other things have even a greater appeal, and Nigel is proving that he has a sense of values.”

She patted Ruth’s cheek, and smiled encouragingly as she trailed after the rest of the company to the lounge on an upper deck.

If she knew so much of the Cunliffe family, how was it that she had made no allusion to Nigel’s engagement? Ruth thought it strange, and concluded she must have missed seeing the announcement in the paper.

“What a nice child that is,” the old lady was heard saying as she mounted the companion-way. “I am greatly taken with her for she is so different from the so-called modern girls one sees, with their cocktails, and chain-smoking, bad language, and bad make-up. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Are you talking of the Mallard girl?” drawled Elizabeth Trent, who was close behind her. “She belongs to an Anglo-Indian family in Bihar, and is on her way to join her parents.”

The old lady turned and looked at her, raising her lorgnette with deliberation.

“I have never quite understood what ‘Anglo-Indian’ means,” she said, folding her glasses and returning them to her bosom. “Is it having an Indian strain in the blood, or just being pure English, but domiciled for a generation or two in the country.”

“I understand it means mixed parentage now, to some extent.”

“Then what is ‘Eurasian’?”

“Surely, the actual half-caste!”

“Ruth Mallard hasn’t any such descent. Or if she has, she is a credit to her class. But what proof have you that she is Anglo-Indian?”

“The fact that she was born in India, admittedly, and that her parents and grand-parents were also born in India. Planters and the like. In early days there was a lot of intermarriage I believe.”

“Pioneer stock. Therefore, if one is born in a stable, one is naturally a horse?”

“At all events,” said Elizabeth loftily, “she is ‘country born’.”

The old lady dropped the subject and Elizabeth too, as if she had ceased to exist, and left her smarting under the snub. No matter how hard she tried, Elizabeth found it impossible to become intimate with such people.

Chapter III

The Parting

Ruth found Nigel waiting for her in the shadow of a ventilator on the well-deck, and he took her up an iron ladder to the forecastle, where among chains and coils of rope they found a spot in which to sit; he spread a rug for her comfort, and placed a cushion for her back. The air was cool after the heat of the day, with the salt breeze blowing in their faces, the pale moon glinting on the waves, and on the spray as it flew past the bows. The weather was calm and still, the breeze was of their own making as the vessel forged on under the translucent night sky. Ruth could hear the orchestra playing sweet music in the distance; occasionally, a lascar called to another, otherwise, there was no sign of life, and in their isolation on the forecastle they might have been in a little world of their own.

“How do you like it here?” Nigel asked her, sure of her reply.

“It’s unbelievable! I wish I could stay here all night!”

“Instead of which, we’ll have to get back by ten. I would not dare keep you later.”

“Why not? Don’t you like it?”

“Not when I know that Elizabeth is on the prowl, waiting for a chance to blacken your reputation.”

“She is playing bridge in the library.”

“She believes I am drawing up plans for the games tournament, and arranging the handicaps.” They both laughed like naughty children.

“Is that what you ought to be doing?”

“I allowed her to have that impression.”

“Why should Elizabeth dislike me so?”

“Because you have all she has not, and never will have.” Ruth, who had never flirted in her life, having had too little time away from her books, games, and physical training to spend on sentimental adventures, was desperately conscious of vague emotional yearnings within. She wished Nigel would come closer—even hold her hand in his. She thrilled from head to foot at the thought. Was he purposely keeping a distance between them because of his engagement to Lady Lorna? Of course he must have kissed her. How wonderful to be kissed by him! She was jealous at the thought of his wanting to be with any other girl than herself, she was so utterly spoiled by him for any other man. When they parted at Bombay, life would become a blank for her. How she was going to live without a chance of seeing and speaking to him again, she could not imagine.

“You were going to tell me something, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous catch in her voice. “I have been wondering what it’s about. Have you forgotten?”

“It was the need to have you all to myself when I tell it, that made me bring you here. I have been wondering a lot if I should say it now, or chase you across India to speak, when, or if, I am free to do so. You congratulated me on my engagement, and I let it go, for there was so much to explain that I preferred to wait.” He sounded in deep earnest, and a little breathless. “The fact is, I do not know if I am engaged to Lorna or not. It sounds absurd, but it is a fact. Listen, honey, and try to understand. One thing is dead certain, and that is—I love you and no other girl in the wide world.” He spoke as if stating a fact about which there could be no argument, but he made no move to draw any closer.

“Nigel!” escaped from Ruth’s lips in a frightened whisper, “it isn’t true?”

“It’s been true from the first day we met, and has become the biggest thing in my life.”

“Then why—oh, why didn’t you say so all this time?” She held out both her hands to him, and he took them and held them fast, his own quivering with suppressed feeling.

“I shouldn’t be telling you now—but—there’s a limit to things, and I have reached it.” He pressed his lips to each hand in turn, then continued: “Let me tell you what happened. Lorna is the daughter of a neighbour, and we had seen a lot of each other in childhood. Both families thought it a good idea if we married after her twenty-first birthday celebrations. I was not in love with her, but on the other hand we got on quite well together. She rode well, we hunted together, and she was generally my partner at dances. It seemed there was no reason why we should not run in double harness quite well. Yet, somehow, I could not work up enough enthusiasm to clinch it. Then came the announcement following her birthday dance. A local rag got away with a paragraph quite unauthorized, and Lorna was furious. She felt badly humiliated as it was totally untrue. She was afraid I’d think it was done by her family to bring me up to scratch. We met the very next day, and seeing how she felt, I—I asked her there and then to be my wife, but she refused me outright. Wasn’t going to marry me with a pistol at my head.

“We were at it hammer and tongs for two days, till she gave in and said she’d think it over. I felt cornered, but had no option but to say it was up to her. If she decided to say ‘yes’, it would be okay by me. As I was leaving immediately for the East, we left it standing over till my return, so if Lorna has made up her mind to say she’ll have me, in all honour I’m bound to her, or I’m a cad. That’s how we stand. I’d like nothing better than to cable: ‘It’s off, for I have met the sweetest, loveliest, most adorable kid of eighteen I have ever known, who loves me, too’—or is that just my conceit?”

He suddenly bent towards her, and they were locked in each other’s arms.

“Oh, Nigel!—is it very dreadful of me to love you as I do? To be crazy about you when there is Lorna to consider? But you don’t want her.”

“I want only you,” he said, kissing her with the utmost tenderness—almost reverence.

“But—you can’t send that cable?”

He was silent, his face hidden in her hair.

“You will go back and marry her—” her voice broke in a sob as she pressed her soft cheek to his.

“I’m going to write to her and tell her everything. I am pretty sure she will release me from my promise. Lorna is proud. She’s not the possessive sort. I couldn’t imagine her holding me when she knows I love you.”

There was a gleam of comfort in his words. No self-respecting girl would marry a man who confessed he was in love with someone else. Ruth abandoned herself to the moment, refusing to let any scruples stand between her and the greatest experience of her life. She was in love for the first time with the most attractive of men, and he had said he adored her.

Having broken the ice of enforced silence, Nigel was a lover any girl would have found irresistible. It was just Ruth’s good fortune that his respect for her innocence and youth made his love-making the dearest of memories for her with a promise of undreamed of happiness to come.

Under such blissful circumstances time fled, and ten o’clock came all too soon; nevertheless, Nigel did not hesitate to restore her to the public eye before the evening broke up, and passengers began to retire for the night.

A hasty visit to her cabin to tidy-up, and Ruth joined a party of young people on the promenade deck, among whom Nigel was already awaiting her, and so she ultimately bade him good night, with no one the wiser, but a lascar or two, of her interlude on the forecastle in the glamorous moonlight, with his kisses as a crowning birthday gift.

“I never saw that child look so charming,” said the same old lady who had spoken to her that evening when they left the Captain’s table, as she rose from a bridge table in the lounge. “She is most captivating.”

“She is very vivacious and pretty,” said one of the players, making a move to the lift, “I could not help noticing, specially tonight, a positively luminous expression in her eyes, and I dare say many of the boys have fallen for her.”

“Nigel Cunliffe has seen to it that none of them gets a look-in when he is around, and I don’t blame him.”

Elizabeth caught sight of Ruth for a moment, after not having seen her since dinner, and was struck by the almost ethereal beauty of her as she stood in the full glare of the lamps bidding the Chief Officer good night. He said something to her that made her lashes droop self-consciously and the colour mount to her face. It seemed to Elizabeth there was a conspiracy to flatter and spoil the girl.

What the Chief Officer said to Ruth was:

“Did you like your visit to the forecastle, tonight?” His eyes twinkled meaningly.

“Where were you?” she countered.

“On the Captain’s bridge. I wasn’t spying, honestly! I had a pair of binoculars and picked out some movements. When I recognized the two figures making their way in the gloom to the bows, I behaved like a true sport. Do you believe me?”

“Of course. But I don’t think I would have minded a little bit if you looked for us. You would never have found us, for we discovered a marvellous spot behind a huge coil of rope, and had a very happy time.”

“I am quite willing to believe that, and am envious of Cunliffe. But he is a grand chap. I have never met a better.”

“Nor have I,” she said confidingly. “He always takes such wonderful care of me.”

“I have noticed that. If you were my sister, I’d trust you anywhere with him. He’s fine!”

“Good night,” she said, “and thank you.”

“Good luck,” said he, and stood watching her till she passed out of sight.

After this, there were no more visits to the forecastle in the gloom of night, though Ruth would most certainly have gone with Nigel had he suggested it; but it would seem he was taking good care of her, being jealous for her reputation. As he had made his confession and they understood each other, he showed his wisdom in avoiding temptation. He was very human, and much in love; human nature had limitations, and Ruth was very young. It was her unsophistication and simplicity he loved and desired to protect, so there were no more secret sentimental sessions. In his self-imposed starvation of intimate moments of love-making she, too, was deprived; but she loved him all the more for his respect and protection.

The few remaining days on the ship passed in close companionship with stolen kisses when chances could not be missed, soft looks and whispered endearments. Interested passengers prophesied an engagement at the end of the voyage, only to gossip, after dispersal, of ‘boardship flirtations’ and the perfidy of men, who turned a girl’s head only for the fun of it, and forgot her after the voyage ended.

The approaching end of the voyage brought tense moments to Ruth, which Nigel shared, though with greater self-control. She was often very near tears when they stood side by side leaning on the taffrail talking of the future and building castles in the air. All hinged on Lorna’s reply to the confession he had yet to make.

When, at last, they reached Bombay, and passengers clamoured for letters at the ship’s post office, an air mail from home was handed to Nigel. Ruth saw it over his shoulder, and fled, for she felt sure it was from Lorna to meet him on arrival with the news that she had made up her mind and had decided to marry him, as she loved him too much to give him up.

Of course she must love him. Ruth could not imagine any girl failing to love such an outstanding character. His looks and personality made him irresistible. There wasn’t a girl on the ship who would have refused to marry him if he had asked her; that was positive.

Her heart panicked when she thought of the situation Nigel faced. He must now write and tell Lorna that he had changed his mind and could not go on with it; and how could he bring himself to deal her such a blow when they had known each other so long and the families were so intimate? He had said Lorna was proud. The slight to her pride and her status was inconceivable. It was very probable that she had already told her people of her intentions, and was receiving congratulations, for she had no reason to expect Nigel to fail her after what he had promised. He would think of these things and be in an unenviable position, all on account of a girl he had fallen for on the boat! Ruth’s pride stirred, and she was ashamed to think that she had stolen Lorna’s prospective husband, and caused him to act dishonourably.

She could not bear to think that Nigel was in this quandary because of her. If she hadn’t ‘flung herself at his head’, as Elizabeth had accused her of doing, nothing of the sort would have happened; but it was true. If she had not gone out of her way to attract him and drawn him on in little ways, things would never have gone so far.

Ruth remained shut in her cabin putting the finishing touches to her packing, hardly conscious of what she was doing, her mind in a whirl.

When she came on deck she was in time to see Elizabeth about to leave the ship, surrounded by opulent-looking, gold-braided and be-jewelled Indians. Beside her walked a stout, important looking Indian gentleman in a long velvet tunic, a flowing muslin undergarment she remembered as a dhoti, and a silken turban folded tightly about his head.

When their eyes met, Elizabeth’s flickered with momentary embarrassment, but she faced up to the situation, and introduced: “My future husband, the Maharajah of Baramahal. The wedding will take place tomorrow.”

Ruth bowed and passed on. She was so taken aback that she lost her presence of mind. To think that Elizabeth, who had held forth to her on the subject of mixed marriages, should have all the time been engaged to an Indian nobleman, probably for his fabulous wealth! She had even talked of the ‘Eurasian problem’! What did it all mean? Did she imagine she could slip off the boat without anyone knowing about her? But unexpectedly finding herself met by her prospective husband, with Oriental pomp and dignity before she could leave the ship, she had decided to put a bold face upon it and eat her words!

A moment later Elizabeth excused herself to the Maharajah and caught up with her at the lounge door.

“I thought I’d say a word to you before leaving, Ruth. I know by your face what you are thinking, for you do give yourself away—you always did. But it is quite true that I don’t believe in mixed marriages, and it’s because of this business of rearing Eurasians. It’s the only snag, so I wanted to let you know that there will be no children. I took good care of that before I came out. So you see I am consistent. The Maharajah is a multi-millionaire, and, my dear, wealth has enormous compensations. As the Maharajah already has a son by his Indian wife, he will not be defrauded, and I’ll queen it royally in the palace. He’s terribly proud of me, and I’ll have the time of my life, you can take it from me.” Elizabeth immediately resumed her languid air and affectation of poise.

“I am glad you are pleased with the idea,” said Ruth, still feeling knocked out and taking the count.

“I don’t suppose we’ll meet again as India is so vast, and we will be in the Punjab. Goodbye. Won’t you wish me luck?” she drawled.

“Goodbye, and good luck,” said Ruth.

“Look over the side presently, and you will see the crowd on the wharf to meet me with garlands and whatnot, and I believe there is an escort of decorated automobiles outside on the road, with an Indian band in attendance, ready to strike up in my honour. It’s rather embarrassing, but they never do things in a niggardly way out here, and I have got to feel it’s a great compliment.” She waved a gloved hand and retired, leaving Ruth feeling and looking stunned.

Nigel found her a moment later, in the lounge where she had taken refuge while waiting for Cook’s representative to appear. Finding anyone in that jostling crowd of people arriving and departing, touting, seeking service, offering help, or meeting friends, was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Nigel’s face was alight with happiness.

“Darling!—Oh, honey-sweet! I have such wonderful news for you,” he said for her ear alone.

“You had a letter by air mail? I saw it handed to you—and I have felt like nothing on earth ever since. Oh Nigel—quick! What is it?”

“It’s from Lorna—bless her heart! Darling, she has turned me down flat. It’s ‘No’! And that’s that. You see, she can’t get away from the idea that it looked like a put-up job—that announcement of our engagement—and she says it has made her feel so beastly cheap in her own eyes, no matter how it is in mine. She thinks it better for us to remain friends, as always, for she has come to realize that her feeling for me is no more than that of a sister. You can’t make mud pies together in childhood and expect to become lovers, she said, and she would have to love me a lot more than she does, to marry me; so it’s ‘as you were’, as far as she and I are concerned. She hopes I won’t mind, and will find someone to suit me better. Isn’t that wonderful? I wanted to fling my hat into the air and shout ‘hurrah’! Instead, I have been looking for you ever since.”

“I have been in hiding—Oh, I was such a coward in case it meant bad news!” Ruth was afraid of the good news. Afraid that she would wake and find she had only been dreaming it. When able to accept it as true, she was afraid that something would happen to dash the cup of happiness from her lips. No one was expected to live on earth and have heaven, too. Life was contrary and the Fates were jealous of human happiness. But she had no time to analyse her emotions, for Cook’s man appeared and gave her a letter from her mother. He had instructions to see her through the Customs, and into a reserved compartment for ‘Ladies Only’ in the through train to Howrah. There she would be met by another Cook’s man who would drive her to the Great Eastern Hotel in Calcutta, where she would breakfast and rest, then catch her train to Bihar. The driver and guard would be notified to put her down at Kiapara, where there was a halt. Trains called when requested to do so at the halt, otherwise they went on to the next station some thirty miles away.

“Then—I suppose we must say goodbye here?” Ruth tried to keep the quiver out of her voice and the tears from filling her eyes.

“Not a bit of it. I’ll see you home, and you will introduce me to your parents.”

“Nigel!” At first her heart leapt with joy at the prospect, then quailed at the thought of Nigel’s introduction to conditions that she feared he would find distasteful.

From recent letters, it seemed that everything had gone down-hill at her old home. Since the British exodus, the Mallards had few friends they cared to entertain, and having lost interest in India, things had been allowed to slide. Mrs. Mallard had complained that there was no money nowadays for repairs to furniture, or replacements. Daddy was hoping for a bonus at Christmas to enable him to brush up things in general. Ruth had been reminded that it had taken all Daddy’s earnings to keep abreast of the times, with the rocketing of living expenses. They had been obliged to dismiss a servant or two. Daddy and she were woefully shabby, and were likely to get more so as time went on, for he could not ask the Rajah for an increase of pay, since he had to be thankful he had not been ‘sacked’ and his job given to a babu with zemindari experience. But the Rajah had been considerate. If his son and heir had had a say in the matter, Jeffrey Mallard would have been given a paltry bonus, and been dismissed. The Rajah, however, wanted him, as he was incorruptibly honest, and had served him well for many years. The Ranee and Mrs. Mallard had been close friends, the Englishwoman having gained the confidence of the ladies of the zenana by proving her value in times of sickness and trouble.

The picture that had impressed itself on Ruth’s mind, however, was very much akin to slum conditions. Possibly, she had exaggerated things by reading too much between the lines, and was needlessly anxious and disturbed, for she could not bear to take Nigel home with her to receive the shock of his life. She would have to go alone to do what was possible to improve things and prepare her parents for the visit of a stranger accustomed to living in far different circumstances and conditions.

No one expected a bungalow in a rural district of India, where Europeans could be counted on the fingers of one hand, to be luxurious, or even to possess all the usual amenities of life; but things would have to be decent, as becoming gentlefolk, before Nigel called and was introduced as her future husband. Of course, he would never tell her what he thought, but it would break her heart to think her family had let her down by lazy, careless ways, and neglect. Oriental standards of living were, altogether different from European, and the slothful ways of the East were infectious.

Ruth was determined not to spring a surprise on her parents to their embarrassment and her own. It was not fair in the circumstances. She would have to do her best to make her point reasonable to Nigel.

These thoughts flashed through her mind in less time than it takes to record them, during which she looked her dismay into his tender eyes.

“Oh, no! I could not dream of letting you do that!” she cried. “It is too far, and your plans are all made. You are expected by strangers as a guest, wherever you are bound for—how could I take you away from them!”

They walked together to the gangway, preceded by Cook’s courier, and argued the pros and cons.

“Won’t you like me to travel with you?”

“I’m not so silly as to expect to have everything my way. I shall hate to say goodbye—you know that. But it makes me happy to know we shall meet soon. It is lovely to think of you being in India and that there is nothing to keep us apart.”

“You love me, darling?”

“You know I do.”

“I shall be much happier if I can make it all right with your family. I want to have a talk with your father, honey.”

“Of course. But I would rather tell him first—prepare him and my mother. You will then be asked to come and stay. We live at the back of beyond, and it’s only a bungalow, but you’ll be welcome. Be sure of that. But I think Daddy and Mummy will want to be prepared in a way for what is coming to them!” She tried to laugh, but gave the impression that she was a little nervous of her parents’ reactions.

“Are you going to be happy there?” he asked anxiously.

“With my father and mother? Of course. They love me dearly. What did you think?”

“That you have something on your mind. I only want to know that they will be kind to you, sweetheart.”

When they were through with the Customs, Nigel called at a post office, after which he joined Ruth and the courier at the railway station to find that the reserved compartment for ‘Ladies Only’ was already occupied by an Indian lady with two children, he therefore took charge of the situation.

“As I am going to Calcutta,” he said to Cook’s man with determination, “there will be no need for Miss Mallard to travel in this coach. I shall arrange for her in another, and look after her comfort.”

“If you say it’s all right.”

“I am Miss Mallard’s fiancé.”

Ruth felt utterly helpless as she looked from one to the other.

“It will not be necessary then for me to stay,” said the courier, taking his leave of Ruth.

“It’s quite all right,” she said reassuringly, for the look of Nigel’s jaw showed plainly that he was not open to argument.

Nothing further was said as she followed him to a vacant compartment on the train. Her hand luggage was placed in the rack opposite his own, and she prepared to accept the situation short of letting him accompany her to Kiapara in Bihar. That would not be allowed under any circumstances. Nigel disappeared, to return very quickly with an armful of magazines, and soon afterwards they were on their way.

In spite of her perplexities and fears, she was very happy and thrilled at the knowledge that he now belonged to her, and that the future was to be a dream of delight. They would be parted only for a few days while he waited in Calcutta till he received her mother’s invitation. After that, everything would be wonderful.

“Where will you stay while waiting?” she asked him.

“At the Great Eastern. But I shall hate letting you go alone.”

“It is perfectly safe, or they wouldn’t have arranged it.”

“I think someone should have planned to meet you and take you home.”

“My father? There is no one else, and he couldn’t leave his work. You know he is with a Rajah.”

“You will promise not to keep me waiting long? I couldn’t bear it. I shall begin to fear I will never see you again.”

“Silly!” She rubbed her cheek against his coat sleeve, and he turned her face upward to kiss her gently on the lips. Ruth felt greater confidence in him because he treated her as the most precious being in the world, to be cared for and protected even from himself.

“How did you manage to break your programme so as to come with me such a long way?” she asked him.

“I sent excuses by wire, postponing all engagements.”

“On my account? How you spoil me!”

“Aren’t you worth it? I look forward to spoiling you to my heart’s content once you belong to me. Where shall we be married, honey-girl?”

“There isn’t a church within thirty miles of us!”

“We’ll make an excursion of it.”

“Are you sure you won’t repent marrying me?”

“Are you likely to?”

“You are everything I have in the world,” she said, pressing her cheek to his, her voice sounding like music in his ears. “You can hardly understand how lonely I felt going back to India, and losing touch with everyone and everything.”

“Was that why you were crying when I first saw you?”

She nodded, and hid her face on his breast.

“You will never be lonely again while I live, my sweet!”

Was there anyone in the world so dear? was her thought.

Chapter IV

Unwelcome News

Ruth’s return to Kiapara after nine years’ absence in England during the most impressionable period of her growth, made Mrs. Mallard feel sick with anticipation. She was prepared to find the child pretty, as letters had prepared her for that, but would she be like every other modern miss, full of airs and graces, independent, and impatient of advice?

She had left India as a little kid in auburn pigtails, friendly, and laughter-loving. She was now grown up, almost a stranger to her parents, and with a woman’s instincts and outlook on life. The thought made her nervous. The outbreak of war had contributed to the widening of the gulf, as letters had taken too long on the way, and many were lost. Other people had moulded and influenced the child’s nature, not she. She herself had been compelled to stay with her husband in the East for lack of the means and the facilities to travel. Was it surprising if she had lost touch with her daughter? It would be a tragedy if Ruth had lost all affection for her, and if her sacrifices had resulted in alienating her child.

Children had short memories and earlier impressions so quickly faded.

Any moment now she would hear the motor horn . . . Jeffrey had promised to sound it when within earshot of the bungalow, so that she may have time to brace herself for the reunion. Delays undermine morale terribly, and she felt hysterical.

From the verandah she had a distant view of the high road before it arrived at the diversion to the culvert outside the gate, and she trembled for the child’s first impressions—being suddenly aware of the general shabbiness everywhere, which she had overlooked because blinded by familiarity with the gradual deterioration. How would it strike the eyes of one fresh from meticulously kept English homes?

Oh well, it couldn’t be helped! Ruth would have to take things as she found them and be thankful, seeing that India was no longer a white man’s country as before. Who cared for appearances in these days? No one at the Rajbari, and there was no one else for thirty miles, that counted. After all, they had their home running smoothly, and were used to rubbing along any old how, with plenty to eat and a roof over their heads. They had to be grateful for mercies, for things could have been a great deal worse now that India was Independent. On the whole, they had little to worry about except friction with the Rajah’s upstart son, occasionally, and certain climatic drawbacks, which they had learned to bear with because unavoidable.

Would the child be happy in such quiet conditions, cut off from her friends and youthful associates, deprived of entertainment, and nowhere to go?

Thinking of her own wasted years, tears sprang to her eyes. But for a good husband, they were, on reflection, like penal servitude, when she took into account all she had missed of life, which was short enough, in any case. For Ruth, it could only be for a little while, and she would leave them to make a home of her own elsewhere. Good for her, but for herself and Jeffrey it had been a long spell of self-denial and loneliness. The uninspiring view of rice fields recently harvested, date palms dotting the landscape, mud huts with roofs of thatch clustering together in the distance, was nothing new, nor kites sailing in the skies, and crows cawing raucously in the trees. There was nothing picturesque enough to write home about, while the added desolation of a neglected garden, where leggy zinnias struggled to live in beds overgrown by weeds, made her painfully conscious of how everything had gone to seed inside as well as outside the house. But it could not have been helped when wages soared, and they were unable to afford to keep on the mali. When feeling in the mood, she would weed the beds, while coolie-women looked after the gravel paths. She had put on too much weight of recent years to be able to bend and stoop for the sake of maintaining the garden, so had left it alone. What Ruth would think of the old place, she could not predict. It was to be hoped the child would realize present conditions, and make the best of them.

She paused by a pillar to listen, thinking she heard sounds, but it proved to be a bullock-cart rattling over the ruts in the road, and not the shabby old Chevrolet.

The cook, a Hindu from a local village, appeared in a doorway to render his accounts and receive the day’s stores. He grinned sympathetically, for everyone knew that the baba was returning home from Belât. It was a great occasion, and the memsahib could be excused excitement and irritability. No one could do right that morning. Everyone had had a scolding just because of trifles—a cobweb here, a spider there, a toad under the sideboard, and mildew on neglected shoes. Presently, it would be his turn, for the prices of vegetables in the village hât had risen, and chickens cost the earth. Catching the memsahib’s eye, he salaamed, and coughed deferentially.

“I can’t attend to you now, Behari, don’t you know that the Miss Baba will be arriving in a moment?” Then becoming aware of his slovenly condition, she stormed at him.

“What do you mean by appearing in that state? Look at your filthy jacket and dhoti, your rag of a puggaree, with your hair sticking out on all sides. Get out from here this minute! What are the servants coming to, I’d like to know, for at breakfast I had to speak to the kitmutghar about the cruets and the state of the silver, while the bearer had the impertinence to forget his turban, and to appear in a cap.”

The cook disappeared incontinently, and complained to the rest of the domestics that the mistress was probably ill.

“All these days, for I don’t know how long, she has had no eyes to notice things, and now all of a sudden she takes to nagging.”

“Let her talk,” said the bearer. “If she worries me I’ll walk out. A cap is cooler, and I have been wearing one, off and on, for a month without a word from her. And now she makes a fuss.”

“And what-for does she say I’m filthy?” said the indignant cook. “I don’t serve at table, and these marks are only from wiping my greasy fingers when cooking. As for my puggaree! I, too, prefer a cap, and this piece torn from an old dhoti is because of the custom. I am not to blame if it isn’t long enough to make many twists.”

“Today she called me the son-of-a-pig,” said the sweeper, as he squatted on the steps of the cookhouse, and filled a hookah. “No more will I submit to abuse from these foreigners. Next time I will protest.”

“That’s nothing! The sahib always says it, and he is too old to change his habits,” said a peon. “He’s a good master, and is kind to us in sickness. Always he is just, none can say he is not.”

“Listen! They have come. Let us go and pay our respects and see what-like she is, this daughter from Belât.”

Feverishly they ran to their quarters on the premises, and reappeared in clean garments, curious, like children, and eager to take part in a show, whatever it might be.

In the meantime, Mrs. Mallard watched the car turn in at the gate and come to a stand before the steps. Jeffrey alighted, and Ruth with him, looking a little bewildered at the sight of the domestics lined up before the verandah, salaaming respectfully. Memories crowded on her, as she returned their salutation smilingly.

“Salaam,” she said to them all, her hand raised to her forehead, and the next moment was in her mother’s embrace.

“My darling! Let me look at you.” Mrs. Mallard held her away to enjoy the sight of her sparkling face. How happy she looked! How sweet!

“A sight for sore eyes, eh, Charlotte?” said Jeffrey. “The kid’s properly grown up, what?”

“I am so glad to have you back, my dear. Come in and let me have a good look at my child.”

For the first time in years she boggled over the words ‘my child’, a spasm of pain crossing her face.

Both parents looked at her and embarrassed her by discussing her looks with frank delight and obvious pride, then Ruth was handed over to her old ayah, who was in tears at the sight of the girl, whom, in the old days, she had bathed and put to bed, crooning lullabies while patting her to sleep.

“Take her to her room, ayah, and help her to unpack,” said Mrs. Mallard.

The ayah in her best chintz skirt and muslin chudder, loudly acclaimed her baba’s growth and beauty, recalling to mind her adorable naughtiness and disobedience when she was learning to walk. Apparently, there was never a child like Ruth!

“I remember you, ayah, and all those bracelets, how they used to jingle, and a ring on your big toe! Do you still wear it, Sunia?”

“She even remembers my name, Khoda be praised!” and the ayah stuck out a foot to show the silver ring in place.

In her delight at finding things far better at Kiapara than she had expected—making allowances for wear and tear—Ruth embraced her ayah and kissed her cheek, thereby causing the emotional old woman to weep again. She was then conducted to her bedroom while Mrs. Mallard and Jeffrey discussed her in stricken tones behind her back.

“Jeffrey—what have we done?”

“Why? What’s wrong?” he said uneasily.

“Everything. You and I have behaved like fools—or have we? We have deceived that child and the day of reckoning is near.”

“Why should you say so? You women love making a mountain out of a molehill. What we did was right at the time, and when the time comes to talk, we’ll face up to it with clear consciences. Where would the poor child have been but for us?”

“You forget. It’s not as simple as all that. We have a duty, and it is going to be very difficult to do it and not create trouble for her.”

“There you go!” Jeffrey became impatient as he realized the justice of his wife’s remark. “Can’t you forget it and leave things as they are for the present? When we feel we owe it to her, time enough to do what we must. Just now there’s no call to shake hands with the devil before we see him.”

“She’s so sweet-looking, Jeffrey. I never expected her to be quite so pretty. They always said in their letters she was a pretty girl and considered attractive, but she has such fascinating ways, and is very affectionate. I loved the way she called me ‘Mummikins’. Her whole face radiates happiness. It’s a treat to see it, in these Godforsaken times.”

“She’s all right,” Jeffrey, manlike, had no patience with emotionalism and hysteria. “What I feel is, she now has her duty to us—you in particular, old dear, and it’s time she realized it, for after all you have done for her, the deprivations you have suffered, your poor state of health, you need help and sympathy from the child. It is her turn to be self-denying and pay you back some of what she has received.”

“I think she is wonderful not to owe it against us for bringing her out now when she wanted to qualify for an educational career.”

“I never saw anyone less typical of the school marm than our Ruth. Take it from me, she would not have passed the first stage of her career, for some fellow would have blown her ambitions sky-high by marrying her and carrying her off to make a home and raise a family. That’s a woman’s true vocation, and Ruth is built for it.”

“God bless her! I do hope it will be long before she decides to leave us for some fellow. At all events, she won’t have much chance in a place like this.”

It was a comforting thought, if a selfish one, and Mrs. Mallard’s smiles returned as she went to see how Ruth was getting on. She had no urgent need to worry. ‘Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.’

Ruth tried not to let it appear that the dilapidations in the bungalow were a distressing fact. Though not slummy, the whole place needed spring-cleaning, distempering, and paint. Surely the Rajah would have it done if the matter had been represented to him? But again, that did not solve the difficulties of repairs to the furniture, renewals and replacements, fresh curtains and wholesome matting. It revolted her to see the holes in the grass matting, darns in the muslin window blinds, and rings missing from the threadbare purdahs, that hung, Indian fashion, in doorways. These signs of poverty and neglect leapt to her eye, and made her heart sink. But she comforted herself with the thought that neglect can be remedied in a matter of days, and poverty was no crime. Given a day or so, to create a metamorphosis in the home, she would send for Nigel, and loving her as he did, he would surely understand.

Her father was a dear; bald, rotund, and full of natural charm. He might dress shabbily, but no one could mistake him for anything but a sportsman and a gentleman. He had got into a way of living in shirtsleeves and shorts, and looked a comic figure, but he survived the danger of drifting into a state of mind conducive to an inferiority complex, and had held his head high by sheer force of character.

As a matter of fact, Jeffrey Mallard had always been an uncompromising die-hard, and had opposed every argument for Indian Independence, or even Dominion Status. Right or wrong, he was an imperialist to the marrow, and would have died upholding British prestige and sovereignty in India.

He had first met the Rajah as a young man when they had shot tigers together from the backs of elephants. Though he had a very poor opinion of Indian character and ethics, he had maintained a special regard for this particular Indian for his many sterling qualities; therefore, when Jeffrey could no longer earn his living as an indigo planter, he accepted the Rajah’s offer to work for him as the manager of his vast estates. The scale of salary was modest, but his many allowances coupled with a bungalow free of rent, made him thankful for his mercies, for he was past middle life. For over twenty years thereafter, he had smoked a hookah with the Rajah in a matey way, and the two were notorious for their heated arguments on the subject of self-government for India. The Rajah always admired his courage in expressing his convictions, and they remained on excellent terms. It was his son-and-heir, Krishna, a student in a Calcutta University, and a firebrand in the cause of Independence, who was a thorn in Jeffrey’s side. But the Rajah kept the peace between them, because of his respect and admiration for the Englishman whom he could trust more than any of his own countrymen. Concerning them, he had no illusions.

When India attained Independence, Jeffrey concealed a broken heart, and suffered martyrdom at being unable to afford to retire to England with his British friends.

The disorders that broke out first in the Punjab appeared to be fulfilling his predictions of bloodshed and anarchy; but they quickly died down and Jeffrey had to bow to the inevitable and conform to changed conditions since he was too old to throw up his job, and seek one elsewhere. The Rajah was his good friend, and he was earning a living when most men sat back and enjoyed a pension. There was, unhappily, no question of a pension for the manager of a Rajah’s estates. He would have to work, if allowed, till he was past work or died in harness.

His wife had suffered from long years of frustration. She had a longing to travel, and had never left India. She had dreamed of riches, and had always to count her coppers. She had hankered after gaiety, and had had to be contented with living in rural districts and making the best of it. With it all, however, she had been a good and faithful wife, devoted to Jeffrey, whom she would not have left for a kingdom.

Ruth was sorry to find her looking pale and poorly, with tired eyes, and lacking energy as well as interest in life. She had so long resigned herself to her fate, that she had ceased to care for her appearance, and had become flabby and stout, and, consequently, disposed to inertia. Her clothes were out of date; and her hair, a faded blonde, was dressed in an unbecoming knot on the top of her head. In fact, she was a blend of Victorian and Edwardian times, and an anachronism in 1949.

The cook put his best foot forward that evening and made a four-course dinner in honour of Ruth, and the servants showed they were not backward in doing their part.

After dinner, Ruth sat with her parents in the faded lounge, selecting a chair less rickety than the others, and answered questions concerning the family at home. She had already said she had enjoyed the voyage out, and had not suffered from seasickness after the first day.

“We were rather worried about your travelling alone,” said Mrs. Mallard, “but I am told it’s often done under the Captain’s care. I suppose you had a lovely time?”

“The time of her life, I should say,” said Jeffrey, disposed to tease, “making eyes at the fellows, you bet! I am sure you annexed a ‘best boy’, and flirted as most girls do, according to all I hear.”

“There were lots of passengers,” said Ruth, wondering how to approach the subject of her engagement to Nigel Cunliffe, “some particularly nice.”

“Was Cook’s man attentive?” asked her mother.

“I—I didn’t need him,” Ruth almost gasped. “One of the passengers took the trouble to accompany me to Calcutta, and put me on the train to Kiapara. He could not have been kinder.”

The colour in her cheeks, and the sudden drooping of her lashes looked suspicious.

“You mean to say he would not have come to Calcutta but for you?” Her mother looked surprised, and her father took up the paper and pretended to be interested in the headlines.

“He did not have to come. He was engaged to visit people in Delhi, but sent them a wire postponing it, and took care of me instead.”

“That’s very decent of him,” said Jeffrey.

“He did not travel in the same carriage, surely?”

“He did, all the way, and was wonderful.”

“But, darling, that was not prudent. It isn’t done when a girl is as young as you.”

“Oh, Mummy, what did it matter when we are—engaged? He is now in Calcutta waiting to see you and Daddy to tell you all there is to say. You’ll think him the dearest thing in the world. I could not tell you how happy I am.”

“You have—promised to marry him, child?” Mrs. Mallard looked scared, which made Ruth laugh. Weren’t mothers funny!

“Yes, he only waits to see you both for everything to be fixed.”

“But—but—” Mrs. Mallard looked helplessly at her husband who sat forward, laying aside his paper.

“Who is this fellow, Ruth?”

“He is Captain Nigel Cunliffe—used to be in the Guards—he lives on the family estate in Norfolk. His father is the Squire of Netherdale—a baronet—I believe he is the only son. I wonder what he saw in me, but—oh, we do love each other so much! Say you are pleased “

“My God! Look at your mother!” for Mrs. Mallard had suddenly fainted.

After that, what with attending to her and putting her to bed and sending for the native doctor at the Rajbari who was in charge of the local hospital, the subject of Nigel Cunliffe was shelved for the time being.

Sal volatile and smelling salts did their part, and Mrs. Mallard quietly recovered from the shock of hearing Ruth’s news. But why it should have affected her so badly, Ruth could not understand. Jeffrey assured her that she had never done a thing like that in her life, and, consequently, he was very perturbed and alarmed.

“Perhaps,” she said innocently, “she hates to think of me wanting to leave home so soon after being so long away. It does seem pretty selfish of me, but—could I help it? It’s my life. I hope Mummy will forgive me.”

“It’s not a question of forgiveness, Ruth. She’s been hard hit, because she feels she, in fact, we, are to blame for having deceived you all these years. No sooner Mummy is herself again, she and I have something to tell you.”

“What is it, Daddy? It must be very serious for Mummy to have collapsed like that.”

“In a sense, it is. From my point of view it should not interfere with your life’s happiness. But others might think differently. I can’t say more, for it is only fair that your mummy should talk to you of this, since she is most concerned—not I.”

Ruth felt turned to stone. She was dumb from very fear. What was this thing she was going to hear that might affect her ‘life’s happiness’? She had a feeling of a dark cloud hanging over her ready to descend and blot out all her hopes for the future, and any desire to live.

Meanwhile, Jeffrey waited for the doctor impatiently. He swore at Indian doctors in general, and said he had little faith in the one employed by the Rajah to care for the health of his tenants. What did he know anyway. Like as not, he would be an alarmist and frighten the life out of them, saying that Charlotte was going to die. “Blast him! Why doesn’t he hurry?”

A little more swearing relieved his overcharged nerves, till the Doctor-babu drove up in his Ford and was taken to see Mrs. Mallard.

While he examined the patient with a stethoscope and prodded her stomach, Jeffrey hovered distractingly at his elbow, unable to conceal his lack of confidence in the Doctor-babu’s skill. The mere fact that he had taken his training in India was quite enough to make him contemptuous of the man’s medical knowledge. Gopinath Das may have been performing critical operations on the native peasants, and coolies on the estate, for years, it made no difference. To Jeffrey’s prejudiced mind, he was responsible for all the deaths in the local hospital.

“There is too much adipose tissue,” said the Doctor-babu at the conclusion of his examination, and regarding Mrs. Mallard with apathetic eyes.

“What the devil do you mean?” cried Jeffrey, indignantly, as though he were being blamed for his wife’s condition.

The doctor, who was as lean as a scarecrow, ventured to explain in staccato English.

“With so much accumulation of fatty substance, sar, the digestive organs are affected, therefore there is tendency to dyspepsia, and the distension of the diaphragm, with gas, exercises undue pressure on the heart, with the result that syncope is induced.”

“What utter rot! My wife has no dyspepsia. She was upset. She has had too much excitement over the arrival of our daughter from England. You had better concentrate on her heart, for if it is weak I’ll wire for the Civil Surgeon. Hurry up!”

“Doubtless you are right,” the babu agreed, and Mrs. Mallard submitted to further applications of the stethoscope, while Jeffrey paced the floor like a lion in a cage, scowling at the ineptitude of medical practitioners in outlying places.

“Functional disorder, maybe, but organic—oh, no sar! I will send by messenger some pills, and no doubt she will recover, perhaps.” And Doctor-babu Gopinath Das returned the instrument to his pocket.

“What is the meaning of ‘no doubt’, and ‘perhaps’, Babu? A contradiction in terms. Be lucid, man.”

The babu screwed up his nose apologetically and said meekly, “Onlee a manner of speaking, sar; ‘no doubt’ conveys my earnest hope, and ‘perhaps’ is in recognition of adverse possibilities. No offence, your honour.”

“Oh, go to blazes!” growled Jeffrey, and the babu, not in the least put out, prepared to depart. He was too used to the manager sahib to attach any importance to his excitability.

“Till you send the pills,” said Mrs. Mallard exhaustedly, “what shall I take, Doctor-babu?”

“To sip cold water is of great efficacy, madam. Best of all, avoid agitation and compose yourself to sleep. Rest and peace of mind, an empty stomach, and sal volatile, will effect restoration.”

“But I have had sal volatile,” cried Mrs. Mallard anxiously.

“Take another dose, if you like, madam, it will do no harm.”

“It is not a question of what my wife likes, but of what she should have,” burst from Jeffrey.

The doctor considered this remark thoughtfully.

“Oh, yes! Indisputably, you are right. They are two different things. Onlee, what is necessary to the case is important. In the present instance, there being no urgency, I advise sipping cold water as the most practical and refreshing.”

“What about brandy?” from Jeffrey aggressively. “Ever heard of the virtue of a whisky-peg, or a spot of brandy?”

“As your honour pleases,” conceded the babu, beating a retreat.

“And he comes all this way to prescribe a drink of water!” said Jeffrey with disgust. “Any fool could do that.”

“You are very impatient, dear,” said his wife. “Perhaps he thinks I don’t need treatment.”

“Then why didn’t he say so? Dyspepsia, my foot!”

“It might be that I got dyspepsia being so het up over Ruth and her telling me—what she did—” Mrs. Mallard swallowed hard. “It was so unexpected, I sort of went queer all over. I feel better now. Perhaps we’d better send for her and hear all about it.”

“You’ve had enough for one night. No good getting ill over it. Take it from me, if Ruth’s in love and the man is keen, nothing we say will have any effect. He’ll probably not care two hoots about all that.”

“But he’d have to know.”

“I suppose so. It will then be up to him.”

“And it is time Ruth knew, for they can’t be allowed to live in a fool’s paradise, can they? Or rush blindly into marriage. Not a man in his position. Fancy our Ruth!” said Mrs. Mallard, her face relaxing into a smile of pride. “Whoever he marries will be ‘Lady Cunliffe’ one day. It is a pity, isn’t it, to spoil it all and make her miserable just for that unspeakable—” her voice broke.

“Jeffrey,” she said, after a pause, as she applied the smelling salts to her nostrils, “suppose we never said a word?”

“You mean, if we cheated him into marrying Ruth? Someone with a long memory would let it out. What then? But where’s your conscience, Charlotte?”

“Jeffrey—you forget. Nobody was told. We purposely told no one, so that Ruth would grow up unhandicapped. How cruel to spoil her life! She is in love with him!”

“We always intended to tell her when she grew up, my dear. It will then depend on the man. He needn’t spoil it if he can stomach the truth.”

“His sort are so proud. But I suppose you are right.”

Chapter V

Taking the Count

It was Jeffrey, after all, who had to tell Ruth the unhappy story connected with her origin and birth, which had been hidden for so long for the most kindly of motives. Mrs. Mallard in her nervous state could not bring herself to relate it without threatened relapses and palpitations. She was ready to pour out sympathy on the girl once she knew everything, but the telling of it was beyond her strength.

Jeffrey, disliking the ordeal with all his heart, made the best he could of the job, with Ruth looking as if turned to stone. Every vestige of colour left her face during the recital and she sat moveless, her hands locked together, a stricken look in her lovely eyes.

The story he told was as follows:

Ruth knew that the Ranee and Mrs. Mallard were intimate friends, that is to say, as far as their separate customs and religions permitted. The Ranee enjoyed the Englishwoman’s society and found her not only interesting but useful. The younger women at the zenana would come to her for lessons in English, and the Ranee, who had no ambitions beyond the zenana and the Hindu way of life, nevertheless loved to hear about English customs and liberties. Sometimes Mrs. Mallard would attend the nautches and festivals which she found instructive. Sometimes she would go with the Rajbari ladies to their place in Darjiling, where she would spend the summer months as the Ranee’s guest—an Englishwoman among the zenana ladies, keeping to British customs in an annexe of the dwelling, and placing most of her time at the Ranee’s disposal. On one occasion she had been in Darjiling for six months, when the newspapers were filled with the account of a criminal case at the High Court of Calcutta, at which an Englishwoman was condemned to death by hanging, the sentence being commuted to penal servitude for life because of her pregnancy. The child was soon afterwards born in the prison infirmary, and offered for adoption. The Ranee, always tender-hearted for children, could not bear to think of the injustice to the little child, who must grow up to pay the price of her parent’s sin, so she did not rest till Mrs. Mallard, who was childless and longing in vain for motherhood, consented to take it over and bring it up as her own.

After consulting her husband by letter and gaining his consent, she left for Calcutta unknown to her friends, who had not seen her for many months, and after all formalities were through, she returned to Kiapara with the newborn baby as her own. This, the Ranee agreed, was the kindest course in the child’s own interests. People credulous and self-centred, accepted the fraud as people do, particularly in the East, where English communities are very mobile, and Ruth grew to enjoy the freedom of the Rajbari and became a favourite with the Ranee and her ladies of the zenana. She had the little sons of the Ranee for playmates, Krishna and Nobin, and ran a good chance of being spoilt, but for Jeffrey’s determination to nip in the bud every fault that threatened to warp character.

Qualities of sportsmanship he encouraged, and Mrs. Mallard took care of whatever else mattered in the rearing of the child, whom she grew to love as her own. Jeffrey, too, became very fond of her, and when she grew too fast and became delicate, he accepted the Civil Surgeon’s advice to send her to England for her health and education, India being considered unsuitable as to climate for the very young. But the snag was expense. However, the Ranee did nothing by halves, and provided the money that was necessary for the girl’s advantage, insisting on the best, just for the satisfaction of proving that heredity had no influence on character, given opportunities of decent training and environment.

The secret of Ruth’s birth and background had been well kept by the Ranee and her women, none of whom had any compunction in lying resourcefully in support of Mrs. Mallard’s claim to motherhood though approaching the ‘change of life’. It was expedient, and therefore right, and the Englishwoman had the credit of being one of the few who can contrive to hide the fact of pregnancy with astonishing success.

The Ranee, younger than Mrs. Mallard and enjoying the experiment, continued to maintain her interest in Ruth’s career with great generosity. She was sent to the best of schools, allowed ample pocket money, and given every extra accomplishment that schools provide. When she wanted to go to college the money was not lacking, and surrounded by good influences she fulfilled every hope that her benefactors had fostered for her.

However, what with the war and political changes in India which took the heart out of Jeffrey and his wife and pinned him down to the East indefinitely, the time came for them to think more of themselves and less of their adopted child. The Ranee, too, agitated for the sight of her again. “What nonsense is this,” she once said. “Shall we wait till we are dying of old age before our baba comes out to gladden us with her sweet face? The child is now a woman, and will soon be taking a husband, what, then, will we have of her in return for all we have done to make her what they say she is? Only pictures and letters!—Ai khoda! Send for her. She has been gone long enough.”

So it thus happened that Ruth returned to Kiapara, filled with high hopes that were doomed to be shattered.

“What was my mother’s crime?” Ruth asked Jeffrey in a toneless voice, and nothing but her great pallor to show the state of her mind.

“I hate to talk of it. After this let us forget it. At first it will not be easy, I grant, but if you are courageous and all goes well with your future—and, dammit, I see no reason why not!—the whole thing can be forever buried.

“What was her crime?” Ruth repeated.

“The verdict was murder.”

“Who was she?”

Jeffrey was silent. His tongue refused to form the words in answer to her question.

“Please tell me. I have got to know everything.”

“Perhaps you are right. I wish to God you could have been spared such a sordid tale. . . . The woman had gone off the rails in girlhood, and had been kept by a business man who was unkind to her.”

“Why did she commit murder?”

“Because the father of her child refused to marry her. It was said in court for the defence, that she was tired of the life she had been leading and wanted to rear the child that was coming to her respectably. She killed the man after he had turned his back on her and become engaged to marry someone else. It seemed she shadowed him, watched her opportunity, and stuck a knife into him when he was walking home from his club on a dark night. He was found by a constable as if dead, but revived in hospital, and lived long enough to give her away.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“I have no memory of his name, but I believe he was a well-known figure in society.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died at your birth.”

Jeffrey put an arm round Ruth and tried to comfort her.

“It’s very hard on you, poor kid. Now we must try to see what can be done to put things right for you. It would be damned cruel if you have to pay for what is no fault of yours. If that fellow, who wants to marry you, really means business—has his heart in it—he will never let a thing like this stand in his way. Cheer up, little one. Want a good cry? Have it. I’m here to sympathize. Mummy and I have loved you from the beginning, and have never regretted a single minute having made you our own little girl. We can’t do much, but—” his voice died away huskily.

It surprised him that Ruth showed no disposition to cry. She seemed hardly to hear him as she sat staring out of the window unseeingly, a tightness round her lips. He could hardly bear to look at her young, stricken face.

“I’ll tell you what—write and ask him on a visit, and we’ll have a talk. I’ve a mind to hear what he has to say. Be honest with him, and you’ll find, if he is truly a decent lad, that honesty is the best policy.”

They had been talking together in the lounge after breakfast, and Ruth made a move to leave the room.

“What are you going to do, Ruth?” he asked anxiously.

“I—don’t know—I think I’ll go to my room.”

“To write that letter?”

“No—oh, no! I couldn’t. Not now. I feel queer.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to my room.”

“Won’t you see Mummy first? She is waiting for you. She is terribly worried about you.”

“I am going to my room,” Ruth repeated in a dull monotone, and went.

“My God!” muttered Jeffrey to himself. He wished he knew what they should have done. Now that it was past undoing, he felt it would have been kinder to have bypassed conscience and told her nothing, made up any silly lie rather than have dealt her such a knock-out blow. What was going to happen now? He did not know. He thought he would see Charlotte and hear what she might suggest, and made his way to her room.

“I have told her, and I’ve never hated myself more than now, for blighting that poor kid’s life. It was so unnecessary, too,” he said. “Far better if you had left her in that orphanage. Some person might have adopted her and told her nothing at all. She would have married a plain, honest-to-goodness sort of chap, and been happy ever after. But we must need try and save our own exaggerated sense of honour at the expense of her happiness and self-respect.”

Mrs. Mallard wept as they discussed the position.

“I’ll have to find out why she said she won’t write at once to ask him here. She has nothing to blame herself for.”

“Of course not. But it’s a horrible story for him when he is wishing to marry her and his people are aristocrats. She is sensitive, and I suppose hates the idea of his knowing what she comes from. Practically the gutter! It’s unthinkable. Why did we do it? We took this on ourselves, and never thought, in our short-sightedness, that it would end in this way!”

“He is the son of a baronet,” said Mrs. Mallard. “A tremendous feather in our little Ruth’s cap, for he is ready to take her on her face value—and I’m not surprised.”

“Nor am I. You will go far before you see anyone to equal her. If there had never been any of this, how wonderful it would have been for her! Perhaps it will yet come right. But I’m afraid it’s too good to be true. Don’t forget, he’ll have to do some tall thinking. People ferret out things, and complications arise. Once he knows all, I shouldn’t wonder if he backs out. In his position, his obligations to his family are a consideration. But, by the look of Ruth, I’d say he’s not going to get a chance of deciding the issue.”

They talked in circles and came to no solution of Ruth’s problem. It was beyond them both to predict what course she was going to take, or how they should deal with such an unfortunate situation.

“It all boils down to the mistake we made not to have told her in the beginning that she was adopted; later on, she could have learned the rest,” said Jeffrey.

“We might have done that if she had been with us. But being away——”

“And living far beyond our means at the Ranee’s expense, gave her ideas and did not prepare her for such a crushing blow as the truth about herself, poor kid!”

“She got used to ‘everything in the garden being lovely’, so that it’s hard to realize that her little bit of it is rotten. How is she going to act about young Cunliffe?” Mrs. Mallard choked at the bare thought of such a problem.

“—Who is cooling his heels in an hotel while waiting to be invited here, poor devil!” Jeffrey concluded for her, “I really can’t imagine!”

Let him come, said his wife. “I believe in leaving things to work themselves out. It’s when we begin to play Providence that they go wrong.”

“I’m quite willing. Let Ruth sleep on it and decide in cool blood what she owes to him, and act accordingly. If he’s too high and mighty for her, he can go to hell for all I care. She’s best quit of a snob who’d make a rotten husband, anyway.”

“‘In cool blood’!” sighed Mrs. Mallard. “She is in love, and won’t ever cool down unless he disappoints her.”

While they discussed her with loving solicitude, Ruth sat on the edge of her bed trying to think connectedly. It was difficult to face a problem like hers with calmness and calculation. She had never been self-interested or calculating in all her young life. She had enjoyed every phase of it, for it had been grand to be alive. Even while the war lasted and she with her school had been evacuated to the country, grim conditions had only intensified her appreciation of life. It had all been wonderful—the calm acceptance of danger, the need to help the cause of victory and keep a stout morale. She had loved the thrill of sitting in a bomb-shelter and proving she was not afraid while the anti-aircraft guns had thundered at a lost bomber overhead making its way to some distant objective! And the sewing classes, when she had knitted socks for soldiers; the parties, too, at Christmas, and all the fun; and boys running after her and becoming sentimental. What happy days they were at college, when fired with ambition she had determined to take degrees and embark on a scholastic career. Though disappointed when denied her goal, she had been perfectly happy to return to her people in India. . . .

It was hard to readjust her mind to the revelation that they were not in reality her own flesh and blood, but just philanthropic strangers who had adopted her—rescuing her from degrading circumstances. It was harder still to realize such degradation. All she knew was that women like her mother were not mentioned in society.

There was more to it than that. She had been told of her birth in a prison infirmary! Was it possible she could have sprung from such horrible depths? Born of a woman of, practically, the streets, who had been condemned for murder, who would have been hanged but for her unborn child. . . . Ruth was revolted and sprang to her feet, then sat down again.

A clock ticked loudly somewhere; probably in the lounge, as doors were never closed because of the heat; the sound could be heard distinctly through the cretonne curtains hanging on rings in the doorways. They gave her all of privacy she needed—the unwritten convention of the hanging purdah, which may not be drawn aside without permission and was rigidly respected in the East. How quickly she remembered little things like this. At the moment she rebelled, for she wanted to lock herself into her room as she could have done in England, and run no risk of being disturbed. But she would never be alone again in India where all was noise and excitement, and lack of self-control. People shouted unnecessârily. They talked to one another from a distance, they quarrelled in the servants’ quarters. Just then, a woman’s shrill wrangling tones could be heard accusing someone of something unintelligible, but her tones were metallic and hysterical, and Ruth put her fingers in her ears in a bewildered way, wanting to scream. She wondered if she were going mad. A crow cawed persistently outside her window, dogs barked, servants’ children screamed in play.

Possibly, her nerves were at fault. They jangled confusedly, making it impossible to think clearly. She had to do something. What was it? . . . She had to write to Nigel in Calcutta, where he was awaiting her invitation to Kiapara.

She recalled their parting, and how she had to use every argument to convince him that he must wait till she had seen her parents—her parents!—before she could spring the surprise of an engagement on them. That was reasonable; .and, at length, he had yielded. . . . All the time she was thinking only of slummy conditions and shabbiness, like a snob, with no sense of values, little dreaming that much worse awaited her return to her people!

She remembered his saying: “Promise not to keep me waiting long. I couldn’t bear it. I shall begin to think I shall never see you again.His words were prophetic. He little knew, at the time, how near truth was his fear.

Thoughts of Nigel, the memory of his kisses, brought back in a rush all her love and longing for him, and she rocked to and fro in an agony of despair. How wonderful he had been to her! How careful of her, how tender! What was she worth at all? Less than nothing to a family of proud traditions. What were hers? Shameful and dishonourable.

She began to shiver as with ague, and huddled under a rug to wait till the seizure had passed. It was nerves—only nerves and shock. Strange, how she had no inclination to cry. Formerly, it had been easy to burst into tears when her feelings were hurt or she was angry. Now they refused to flow. The fountainhead of her tears had run dry. She was past crying. Her very heart was dead. Without Nigel, life itself was worthless.

When the ague passed, Ruth rose feeling she must do something that could not be delayed. Nigel was waiting for a letter and she would have to write it.

What could she say? How tell him that their wonderful dream of a love-marriage could never be realized. No use his coming to her and making it more difficult to do the only thing she must in the circumstances. It was all over, and he would have to forget her.

She would have to write the letter at once if she wished to catch the outgoing post. At Kiapara it went out once a day in the afternoon, and came in at breakfast.

When she took the pen in her hand, the pad before her on the camp table by the window, she found herself bereft of inspiration how to express such a letter. She had never written to Nigel, and it seemed strange that her first letter should also be her last to him, with so much to say, and yet unable to explain what had happened. What would he think?

It was impossible to tell him the facts, they were so revolting that she shrank from writing them down. It was bad enough to give Nigel up without having to give away the shameful story of her birth, and lower herself in his eyes for ever. He would have to think her heartless and believe that she had only flirted with him. She would have to leave him no alternative but to accept her decision, and go back to Delhi and forget her. She must be absolutely final, and give him no loophole for thinking he could win her back, even if, in the end, he despised her for a shallow nature and a human weathercock.

The idea of Nigel misjudging her, and ending by despising her, was too much for Ruth to bear. She crumpled up over the writing-pad, and at last broke down, weeping disconsolately.

It did her no good, for the fateful letter would have to be written, or he would be telegraphing for news. She could not imagine him sitting patiently waiting for days and not doing something to find out what had happened. At the thought of all he meant to her, she wept again, this time passionately, till exhausted.

Feeling dead to the world, she at last wrote what was required of her, which was totally unlike herself, and told him nothing.

‘My dear Nigel,

‘I am very sorry to have to write this, but it cannot be helped. It won’t be possible for me to ask you to visit us. In the first place, my mother is not well and could not entertain. There are no hotels in this village, nor is there a pub or any place, not even a waiting-room in the station, which is only a “halt”, where you could put up.

‘Thinking things over, I have made up my mind that I don’t want to get married. Not for years, if ever. So goodbye, and thank you very much for all you have done for me. My parents are very much obliged to you. Please don’t answer this, as it is final. I want you to forget me, and forgive me if this hurts you. I am very sorry. Please don’t mind if I return the jewel box by parcel post. I feel I cannot keep it now.

‘Yours sincerely,

‘Ruth Mallard.’

The date and ‘Kiapara’ followed.

She read it through to check and correct mistakes; but she had made none, only thought the whole of it sounded rather immature and childish. Anyhow, she could not write it all over again, for reaction was setting in and she felt oddly ill for the first time in her life. Bed was the best place. At least she could pretend to sleep if they came to see her—her poor mother! She would, of course, be ‘mother’ still.

She would want to know about the letter, and what had been done about Nigel. The letter was on the table, stamped and ready. She could have it posted, but it was physically impossible for her to talk of Nigel—not for a long time, if ever.

Ruth was suffering with nervous prostration when Mrs. Mallard came to see her, having heard from the ayah that the baba was very ill, and it was impossible to feign sleep when her mother was so solicitous.

“I am not ill at all, only feeling stupid and unable to think. My brain is all muzzy, but don’t worry, I’ll be better presently,” she said, to soothe Mrs. Mallard’s anxiety.

“I am not surprised, darling. How I wished we could have spared you!” was said tactlessly.

“It was something that had to be said, sometime, only I rather rushed you into it. Please post my letter, dear.”

“I will, without delay. It is best done at once. When he knows all there is to know, and still wishes to marry you——”

“Please, please! Don’t say anything. I can’t talk. It is all finished—tell Daddy not to mention the subject again.”

“But, darling! It goes to my heart to see you looking like this. So different from when you arrived. Oh, my dear! This has hurt you badly!”

What else was to be expected? If she would only go! Ruth turned her face to the wall.

“Ruth,” Mrs. Mallard persisted, wishing to be comforting, “if your letter is a bit hasty, don’t send it. Wait till tomorrow. Things might not be hopeless. If he is a good sort, he won’t care for that old, unfortunate business.”

“It isn’t that.” Ruth made a great effort to close the argument. “It is not what he wants to do, at all. It is how I feel, now that I know the truth.” She waited a minute till she had mastered her rising emotion, and could express herself to the point. “I couldn’t marry him now. You see, I know him, and all he is and stands for. I feel he is miles away from me, socially, and on another plane. I should never be happy as his wife, after this, even if he wished it. No, no, never, never! It would be like a—a—crime.”

“It’s all very distressing. I wish I knew what to say.”

“I think if you leave me quite alone I’ll fight it out by myself, and feel better. There isn’t anything more to say.”

“Do you think you can sleep? Have an aspirin, precious.”

“No, thank you. I’ll be all right, if left to myself.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Who would have thought this would have happened!” sighed Mrs. Mallard as she retired from the room. “Call the ayah darling, if you want anything. She will be within hearing.”

At last Ruth was alone with her misery, and able to think lucidly. She looked about her helplessly, wondering if the rest of her life was to be spent with the dear old people who loved her, and yet knew so little of what she was suffering that they could drive her insane by all the fuss they would make of her in their effort to be comforting. They meant so well, but every time they tried to show how sorry they were for her they made matters a thousand times worse.. If she could only sleep, and never wake again. Not to have to long and long for a sight of Nigel’s dear face, and dream of those wonderful times on the ship; ache for the feel of Iris arms about her, his kisses on her lips, that she would never know again. Sleep, and never wake. . . !

A thought suddenly came as an inspiration. Why shouldn’t she take something to make her sleep and never wake again? What good was life to her without Nigel? She had sent him away, disgusted—what else could he feel after reading her letter? And when he returned to England, there was Lady Lorna who could be persuaded to change her mind. She will have got over her annoyance about the advertised engagement, and would, probably, make him a very suitable wife.

One thing was certain, Ruth knew, she had no wish to see the announcement of Nigel’s marriage to Lorna. It would be the last straw.

She suddenly remembered seeing a medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It stood behind the door. She could look inside it for what she wanted—anything would do if labelled ‘Poison’.

She was just in the act, a while later, of raising a phial to her lips, the label of which was red, and conspicuous, when a hand reached out swiftly from behind her, and snatched it out of her hand.

“God in heaven!—is that the idea? Are you mad, child?”

It was Jeffrey, who had heard her going to the bathroom, and a moment later the rattle of bottles in the medicine cabinet. If the child felt ill and wanted something she would need advice.

As he entered the bathroom he saw her searching for and finding the laudanum. The next instant it was in his hand.

“Oh, Daddy! Why did you!” came from her wailingly.

“You were going to poison yourself?—you little fool!”

“I am so unhappy.”

“It didn’t matter to you the consequences to us of such a selfish and cruel act! Nor the questions that would be asked at the inquest, the whole story and your family history revived and broadcast to the world! What we have taken the trouble to hide concerning this ghastly business, you would have given away gratis and why. Because, forsooth, you are miserable!” Jeffrey was furious, but the sight of Ruth’s startled wretchedness melted his heart, and he took her into his arms.

“My poor baby! My little pet. Was I harsh? Did I sound beastly? But I had such a shock. You shouldn’t do such things, for it would be the death of your dear mother and shatter me for good.” Before he had finished, Ruth was sobbing in his arms repentantly.

“It was cowardly of me. Forgive me, Daddy. Oh, I was wicked to attempt it!”

“Swear you’ll never do it again! If I hadn’t come when I did, it would have been too late. Think of that! Too late to have saved you—our beloved kid—our only treasure in the wide world.”

“I am very grateful to you for loving me—you and Mummy. Forgive me. I swear I shall never do it again.”

“Don’t tell the old dear about it, or she’ll pass out.”

After a pause:

“We’ll just forget it ever happened. Now come to your bed and try to sleep. . . . You’ll be better tomorrow. There has been far too much excitement lately. See, I am trusting you. No more tricks!”

Chapter VI

The New Life

There were no more attempts at suicide after Ruth gave her promise not to do it again. Though she was unable to sleep easily, except when exhausted by her emotions, she regained some of her poise, and did her best to behave normally. Jeffrey and his wife would exchange secret looks of gratification, and strictly avoided all mention of Captain Cunliffe.

He replied to Ruth’s letter by return of post, saying:

‘My Darling, I simply refuse to believe you mean all you said in your letter. What I felt about it when I read it, you will never know; but it is not going to end like this. You have some reason for behaving in this way, at which I couldn’t guess, if I tried and you are foolishly keeping me in the dark. Let’s have it. Come into the open, and let me understand your idea. Whatever it is I’ll say now, it is not going to part us. I don’t care two hoots for accommodation. I’ll sleep on a haystack if there is one handy, but I shall, and must, see you.

‘The little girl I said goodbye to in the train, could not lie or act dishonestly. I am not flattering myself when I say you loved me then, and couldn’t have changed in a day. Understand that I love you, and that there is no other girl in the world I want for my wife, or shall ever want. Everything else but my need of you is trivial and of no account. Have a sense of proportion, and send me a wire to end my suspense. I can’t stand it too long, for I’m good for nothing until this is cleared up and you see reason.

‘Everlastingly yours,

‘Nigel’

More secret tears were shed over this appeal, and in order to end it all, and be allowed to live her life with courage and resignation, she showed Nigel’s letter to Jeffrey, to get his advice.

“He’s a grand chap, kiddie,” was her father’s reaction. “I feel darned sorry for him. Why not confide the whole story to him? He couldn’t be such a snob as to visit your mother’s sins on you, or think any the worse of you for the facts of your birth, if you mean all that to him.”

“He is not a snob. On the contrary. Oh, Daddy, don’t make it more difficult than it is. Of course, he would come like the wind, and insist on our getting married. But that must not be. It may be I’m being silly and am making too much of what happened before I was born; but surely you can see that it has left a stigma on me? A dreadful blot in my history-book that can never be erased, and which I have no right to bring into Nigel’s proud family? He has a grand pedigree, dating centuries old, and they set mighty store by it, I gathered from my cabin companion who lived in his neighbourhood.” Ruth composed her growing agitation with an effort, and went on: “Daddy, I have been thinking it out, and not only would it be wicked and selfish of me to let Nigel’s children down, but I would hate that he should think of me as having such a background. Whatever he now says, he might some future day feel—sort of besmirched. That thought would kill all possibility of happiness for me. I can never marry.”

“So you say! It is not likely you’ll stick to it ten years hence. But if it is your last word, leave it to me and I will write and put the lid on the whole thing. He must not be allowed to force you into doing anything against your inclinations. Sure you’ll be happier if he consents to drop it and clear out?”

“I will, if—” her face looked strained and anxious.

“If what?”

“If I know it will not make him do—” her voice fell to a whisper—“what I nearly did.”

“He won’t, take it from me. He’s not the type. I don’t say it won’t hit him hard, for kids like you don’t drop out of the sky every day, and you are some girl. I’ll say it, at the risk of making you vain.” Jeffrey tried to infuse a little fun into a very grim situation. He kissed her and patted her cheek.

“If I could be sure he will get over it—and that I shall never see him again—” she ended on a sob and flung her arms round Jeffrey’s neck, burying her face in his breast.

“You can make your mind easy. He’ll be dancing at Government House before a month is over, and we’ll take care of you. Nobody comes to Kiapara, so you’ll not be troubled. We’ll leave it at that for the present, what?”

Jeffrey wrote the promised letter to Nigel, which affirmed Ruth’s first, and put it to him to respect the girl’s decision. She was very young, and it was best not to tie her down in marriage yet. He said he was writing for her, as there was little need for her to repeat what she had already said. Her one hope was that he would forgive her if she had caused him any pain.

Nigel received this letter at the hotel, and sat for a long time, alone, pondering it. It seemed inexplicable to him. At first he feared Ruth had been forced into breaking with him. Her family did not want to give her up so soon. ‘She was very young’, her father had reminded him. But there was nothing against a girl marrying at eighteen, and Ruth had impressed him as full of character. She was not likely to be forced into anything against her will. Her own letter sounded definite enough, yet not like herself at all. It was cold, and she was the essence of warmth and affection. The whole affair was very mysterious, especially as a planter he met at the hotel spoke very highly of Jeffrey Mallard. However, there was nothing to be done, since it was evident that he was not wanted at Kiapara. He could not force himself on the Mallards when Ruth had unaccountably turned her back on him.

He could only conclude that he was wasting his time in Calcutta when he had engagements in Delhi, Karachi, and Kashmir, so accepting Ruth’s decision in wounded silence, he returned to the Punjab with a heavy heart, determined to put her out of his mind—the most adorable girl he had ever known—and stigmatize her as a most dangerous flirt in embryo, who had only used him—a mere male—as someone on whom to practise her wiles. What she would be a few years hence, was anybody’s guess. He only wished it was as easy to fall out of love as it was to fall into it; but it would not be his fault if he ceased to care a damn for love or sentiment, and got a little of his own back on women, some day.

To Ruth, giving him up was like submitting to a major operation on her heart, and she often wished she were dead. Instead, she found much in the home to occupy her mind and hands to keep her from brooding to her hurt. The first idea was to clean up the place, and restore something of the old habits of refinement in the old people who had allowed everything to slide. It was imperative that she should pay her respects to the dear old Ranee, who had been so good to her, and was often asking when Ruth was coming to see her. She had been put off with the excuse of indisposition, but that could not hold for more than a week.

“Must I go?” Ruth questioned Mrs. Mallard’s resolution to lose no more time. She felt she had lost touch with the Rajbari folk, and was hardly in the mood for renewing familiar relations with them. “I’d rather go on with spring-cleaning and sewing new curtains. The carpenter is such a careless fellow, he needs supervising in his repairs to the chairs.”

Not that she knew much, but she found that a great deal more was accomplished when Indian workmen saw that there was some interest taken in their work.

“You can’t delay it any longer without appearing ungrateful and hurting her feelings. Don’t forget, darling, all she has done for you.”

“But for her I would have been brought up in an orphanage,” murmured Ruth.

“True,” said Mrs. Mallard, feeling it was a point scored.

“If she had only minded her own business, and left me where I was, I would have been, perhaps, much happier than I am today.”

Mrs. Mallard thought it tactful to change the subject, because of the germ of truth the argument contained.

“Do you remember the Ranee?”

“I have a recollection of someone seated on a deep divan, and jewels flashing coloured lights.”

“Tell me how much more you remember,” and she encouraged Ruth’s memories of her childhood to distract her mind. It went to her heart to see how quiet she had become, how pale and sad in repose; so unlike what she had been on arrival, with dancing eyes and laughing mouth, her cheeks pink—no need for make-up there—and her expression full of animation. It was as if they had killed something in her. The lamp of joy and hope had been extinguished.

“I have a memory of the Rajbari boys. Two little fellows who were always climbing things, and their despising me because I did not like to dirty my hands playing with mud. Once I hurt my ankle in a field and they left me alone, while they chased a cat. Krishna forgot my existence, but Nobin came back and carried me home on his shoulders. He was very little older than myself, but much bigger. Krishna used to bully him.”

“Nobin has a gentler nature. Krishna has developed into a fine athlete, and is very full of himself. He has his own aeroplane, a billiards table in his own quarters, and no one can beat him in tennis. His father is very proud of him as the son-and-heir, but they hardly agree on a single point.”

“Is the Rajah a petty king, or something?”

“Oh, no! He is only a wealthy landowner, whose ancestor—a great-great-great, was made a ‘Rajah Bahadur’ in bygone times.”

“Like a baronetcy?”

“I believe so. He has always been very good to us and Daddy likes him very much. Krishna, on the other hand, throws his weight about, and can be very rude. He never liked the British, and yet he is very glad to order his clothes from London, and furnish his quarters in European style. He was educated out here, but toured abroad after he left the Calcutta University. He likes America better than England, as they made a fuss of him there, but was not noticed by the English much, was unpopular for his bumptious ways, I imagine—so, at least, I gathered from newspapers.”

When Ruth accompanied her mother to the Rajbari, which was situated a short distance away, she was disappointed in its aspect, just as she had been when she first arrived and saw the bungalow which appeared shrunken and frowsy. Her early memories of it had been glorified by time and absence into a palatial residence; the long verandah with its pillars supporting the roof under the eaves, an ideal skating rink for little people on roller skates. She was disillusioned when she found the verandah shrunken in length, the pillars squat and weather-beaten, and the flooring not shining marble, but stout cement highly polished in parts where punkah coolies were accustomed to sit on their haunches while pulling a punkah by a rope through a hole in the wall for the convenience of the sahibs within the rooms. There was no electricity at Kiapara, therefore no electric lights and fans. The district lagged behind the times, as the Rajah was content to adhere to old practices that had served his forefathers well. Modern methods were regarded with suspicion, and in their mystery, inventions of the devil.

In this the Ranee agreed. “Let them explain to me,” she had said, when Krishna wanted the Rajbari electrified, “what thing it is that performs such miracles, and I’ll be glad to have this power installed. But when one touch of a finger on a button on the wall by the door will light the lamps, or make the wings of a monster spin for the cooling of the atmosphere, and no one can explain it, I prefer to let it alone, as assuredly it is the impulse of bhooths.”

Krishna’s radiogram, worked by a battery, she regarded as black magic, indeed. All Mrs. Mallard had to say was to no purpose; the fact that nothing tangible operated it, was in itself a challenge to human intelligence, therefore best left alone. The Rajah, though more enlightened and tolerant, was too slothful to march with the times.

To Ruth the Rajbari looked an untidy mass of brick and tile buildings huddled together with no relation to conformity; the largest being brick-built entirely, with a pillared verandah, and steps leading down to a paved courtyard within high walls that were surmounted by broken bottles and flints. Sikh and Punjabi peons were clustered in groups below the steps of the verandah, as if they had nothing to do but discuss the latest political crisis or the price of rice. The callers were greeted with respectful salaams, and one of them conducted the ladies round to the back of the house where the Ranee had her quarters with the women of the Rajbari, most of whom were poor relations dependent on the Rajah’s bounty for a roof and food. They were companions for the Ranee, while the young women and their progeny provided her with interest and pleasure. “Where would we old ones be,” she would say to Mrs. Mallard, “if it were not for these young things and their chatter and laughter?”

All the windows of the zenana were protected against adventurous males by bars, and were never without curious faces pressed to them, watching whatever of life passed without.

The Ranee, who had already been warned of the intended visit, received the Englishwomen in her living-room, and embraced Ruth with demonstrative fervour. Seated on her divan in a richly carpeted chamber with some of her women in attendance on her, she was no nonentity, but the pivot round which her small world revolved.

After making many flattering remarks concerning Ruth’s appearance, she immediately broached the subject of her spinsterhood, which, in her eyes, was a personal slight to her sex.

“Isn’t there any man found ready to take her? What is all this delay for? By now, one so good to look upon could have been the mother of sons!”

“Nothing could be decided while she was away in Belât,” said Mrs. Mallard placatingly.

“I suppose not. But you and Jeffrey-sahib must waste no time, or she will lose the first bloom of her youth, which is of such value in the eyes of a husband. Presently, we’ll see her a great lady with a husband high up in the government. Many British sahibs are staying on in the country, for the present, to see to the smooth working of the new order. My child, you will drive in a grand hawa-ghari, dressed in silk and satins with sparkling jewels on every finger, and ropes of pearls round your throat. What a day that will be for our little one! What a triumph for us, eh Memsahib?” and her face was wreathed in smiles. “But that is our secret. No good distressing her with that old tale.”

“She knows everything, Ranee sahiba,” said Mrs. Mallard. “But we have agreed not to talk of it.”

“Very wise. Of what use to keep alive memories that are best wiped out and forgotten? Go, Suki, call my daughter-in-law,” she commanded one of the females. “I would make her acquainted with the baba as they are the same age. Her eyes will fall out of her head when she sees what-like this one from Belât is—so beautiful, and like a flower come to life! . . . Now tell me, little one, are you glad to be home again?”

As she spoke in Hindustani while Mrs. Mallard interpreted Ruth found conversing with her rather embarrassing.

“I am getting used to the change,” she said, rather than tell a polite lie. “It is nice to see my parents again. At this moment I am doing what I can at the bungalow to make things look fresh. But the whole place needs doing up, everything has fallen into disrepair. I believe the thatch leaks badly in the rains, for the mats are all damp and mildewed in places.”

If that wasn’t a hint for a general overhaul of the bungalow, which the Mallards had been too backward to suggest, she had forgotten the meaning of the word!

“That seems strange! Why didn’t someone tell the Rajah? If the bungalow is falling to bits, it is becoming without value. I’ll see about that.” She asked minute questions of Ruth, and showed genuine distress at the inconvenience occasioned to her English friends. “The Rajah will send for his contractor and very soon the bungalow will be as good as new. Ai khoda! How easy it is to become blind to the needs of others!”

Just then, a young Hindu girl, in an embroidered muslin sâri and flowered jacket of Indian design, came in and was introduced as Sunia, wife of Krishna-sahib. She wriggled forward bashfully, covering her sulky mouth with a fold of her sâri, and stood before Ruth with her eyes on the floor.

“Speak, Sunia! Haven’t you got a tongue in your head?” said the Ranee sharply. “You were not designed by Khoda to be a worm, so walk upright and unashamed. The baba will think you are without intellect. Where is the child?”

“He is hiding behind his great aunt,” said Sunia almost inaudibly.

“She is shy, this daughter-in-law. Bring my grandson forward,” she called to a woman in the background, and Krishna’s young son was led to the front, protesting loudly. “A fine child, but we must forbear to praise him, as it is unlucky.”

As there was no quieting him, he was conveyed kicking and bawling from the room, after which Ruth and Sunia stole glances at each other curiously, nothing being said, as Ruth had not yet recovered her former facility with the language, though it surprised her how words and sentences conveyed their meanings to her when spoken.

“I wish I could speak to Sunia,” she said regretfully, “but it is so long since I was here that I have forgotten Hindustani.”

“Sunia can talk if she likes. She has an understanding of English speech, for her people gave her a teacher of your race. Go on, Sunia, show what you can do.”

“I don’t remember,” whispered Sunia.

“Don’t tell lies, girl! Krishna makes you talk to him in English.”

Sunia tightened her lips stubbornly and refused to speak.

“Really,” said the Ranee, losing her temper, “I am not surprised that my son beats you. Like a mule, you are. Be gone! You are nothing to look at, and are without brains into the bargain.”

Relieved to be released, Sunia fled from the room, leaving an impression with Ruth that she was well worth cultivating, if only for the purpose of understanding her character and nature. If it were true that her husband beat her, it threw a light on the girl’s behaviour. She was rebellious and sullen, because unhappy. No one took the trouble to win her affection. Even the Ranee’s mind had been poisoned against her, which made Sunia defiant in her presence.

The talk was bright and lively, led by the Ranee in her desire to be hospitable and entertaining. Refreshments were ordered, and the guests, who occupied the only chairs in the large unfurnished room, were given native sweets and sherbets that brought to Ruth’s mind the days of her childhood. She remembered those sticky confections of curds and syrup that she had been used to eating in the zenana, when a little child, and of Jeffrey cursing them and the women when they gave her a bilious attack. The very sight of these sweets in the bazaar, covered with flies and wasps gave him a horror of them, particularly in the cholera season. Yet Mrs. Mallard enjoyed them occasionally, when presented with a trayful by a hopeful contractor, just as Jeffrey liked his particular hookah, which was kept at the Rajbari for his visits to the Rajah.

Krishna and Nobin arrived during the feast and renewed their acquaintance with Ruth. They were dressed in European clothes in honour of the new visitor, and Krishna, with well-oiled hair that reflected lights like polished furniture, was quite the dandy, and unusually genial and suave. Nobin, also, in a tailored lounge suit and irreproachable tie, stood by, unable to get a word in while Krishna held the stage.

Ruth talked to them both with a show of cordiality, and Mrs. Mallard had great hopes that she would soon be herself again, now that there was no fear of young Cunliffe reopening the wound. That was over and done with, and, for the present, if the Indian boys served to distract her mind and restore her morale, it would be allowed to heal.

It was learned during the conversation that Ruth knew how to ride, having had lessons at a riding-school in holidays. Krishna immediately offered to place a horse at her disposal, which had perfect manners. The Rajah had a stable full, all wanting exercise, and he would be only too glad for her to take her pick. Krishna recommended an Arab. He would bring it round in the morning if she said the word.

Ruth said he was too kind, and that there was nothing she would like better. Nobin, feeling out of it, talked with Mrs. Mallard, content only to gaze at this picture of English womanhood in their midst. Both men spoke well and in cultured accents, though Krishna was more the man of the world.

Last of all, the Rajah came in, having learned of Ruth’s visit and was kindly and genial. When he heard from the Ranee of the dilapidations in the bungalow, he said he would personally see that repairs were taken in hand, and was warmly thanked by Ruth and her mother.

On the whole, the visit to the Rajbari was reckoned a success and duly retailed by Mrs. Mallard to Jeffrey, who was also told of Krishna’s unconcealed interest in Ruth.

“Anyone could see he was greatly taken with her,” said she, “for he went out of his way to create a good impression.”

“A little late in the day considering how he has behaved all along to me, damn him.”

“Anyhow, it is all to the good if he and Ruth get on well together, for he’ll think twice before he annoys you again. Besides, it will take her out of herself and give her a chance of getting away from her own trouble.”

“I have no wish to let Ruth act as buffer between that ill-conditioned bully and me. And I should hate to think of him trying to make up to our girl. She is far too pretty to waste herself running around with a gross fellow like he is. No good his getting ideas, and paying her unwelcome attentions.”

“My dear, aren’t you being foolish? The man is married.”

“What has that to do with it when the blighter is a polygamist?”

“Oh, Jeffrey, what an idea!” And Mrs. Mallard laughed, then checked herself, fearing lest Ruth might hear her. It sounded so unsympathetic to laugh, while the poor child was going through such an unhappy period. It was a mercy that Krishna was going to provide her with distraction. To ride every day would be a godsend.

Ruth was already popular with the domestic servants. Not only did they enjoy looking at her, but they were flattered and grateful because she had noticed their wives and children.

Having been warned not to comment upon the fatness of a baby or to say how healthy he looked lest she should be inviting the ‘Evil Eye’, she had tactfully refrained, and only played with them and given them toys made out of rags and cardboard. A woolly bear that looked like a pig, and an elephant with a trunk out of all proportion to its size, were treasures in the servants’ bashas, and the foundation of a great attachment to herself built up during her tour of the quarters behind the bungalow in quest of diversion. Incidentally, her memory of the language revived with leaps and bounds, and in a month she was talking fluently with the staff.

Many visits to the Ranee brought her again into contact with Sunia, who seemed to watch her from behind purdahs unseen, and to delight in hearing her speak.

“Why don’t you let us make friends?” Ruth asked her in English one day, when she met her in a passage on her way out of the zenana.

“Perhaps—you don’t like me,” was the reply in pure ‘chee-chee’.

“But I do like you, Sunia. I want you to come and see me at the bungalow.” She was surprised at the sudden leap of interest to the girl’s face. “You and I are both of the same age, or nearly, and should be friends.”

Sunia wriggled shyly. “Why you ask me? You so different. I can’t talk, and you will laugh, for I am stupid. I not learn much Engleesh. My husband say I fool.” It was not respectful to mention her husband by name.

“Oh, no! Do come. Perhaps I can help you. I won’t laugh. Will they let you come?”

“Oh, yes, if no man in your house.”

“My father? He is at office all day till dark.”

“Then I come. One woman servant will bring me, and my face covered. Who can see what-like I am? Maybe, with no nose, or my face eaten with smallpox. All the same it is. No one sees it,” and she pouted sullenly.

“Perhaps, some day, you’ll give up purdah?”

“Oh, no! My mother-in-law not letting. She say purdah best for wife, or she cheat her man.”

“But that isn’t true.”

“Oh, yes! My cousin, she broke purdah to many high-up minister in government, and when he talked all night in Congress she had fun. The servants caught a lover climbing down from her window, and no more it was fun, her husband nearly killed her, then took another wife.”

“That was dreadful, Sunia!”

“But, poor thing! What can do if the other one is nice, and her husband is bad man?”

The moral of her tale justified the purdah system, it seemed.

“You will come tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock, Sunia?” said Ruth, making no further comment on the subject of a despised wife’s right to act unfaithfully. “I will give you tea, as in my country.”

“I know tea party!” Sunia clapped her hands like a child who was offered a treat. “My Engleesh teacher—governess, you call, no?—she spread cloth on little table and put tray with pretty cups and saucers! And bread she did cut like paper, with butter; also, there was a fat little cake, and fruit like dead flies in it!”

She sparkled for the first time, and Ruth thought her quite pretty in her dark-skin way.

“I’m sure you will like my tea party,” she said encouragingly.

“Will you ask anyone else?”

“Who is there to ask?”

Sunia lowered her voice, looking around her to be sure she was not overheard.

“There is Nobin. You can ask him. He is relation, so he is allowed.”

“Do you want me to?”

Sunia nodded. “He nice.” Overcome by shyness, she covered her face and shot away, thus giving Ruth the impression that there was more in the request than appeared on the surface.

She liked Nobin who had a gentle nature. Krishna had called his wife a fool, and the Ranee had let drop, incidentally, that he beat her, and was justified in doing so. Poor little Sunia, with a hefty infant to rear, had very little joy in her life. No wonder she was drawn to her brother-in-law because he was ‘nice’, so few at the Rajbari were disposed to be ‘nice’ to the ignorant little wife.

Ruth met Nobin on her way home and asked him to tea, as Sunia was the only guest. Neither he nor she had thought it necessary for the husband to be included in the invitation. For one thing, he would be busy in his father’s office; for another, his wife’s company would be no attraction for him. Nobin, however, was eager, and showed, away from his mother’s watchful eyes, his sympathy for his brother’s wife when the two were Ruth’s guests at tea. If Mrs. Mallard, who assisted in the entertainment, was unobservant, Ruth was not, and did not miss the little things her quickened imagination detected: the shy meeting of eyes, yearning looks from Nobin, dog-like devotion expressed in the girl’s face, all told their simple story, which was another tragedy to Ruth.

Nobin had also married when very young, but his wife had died of a fever, and he had not married again, nor could he be persuaded to do so. He seemed to have little interest in marriage and spent his time with books and study. It was said he wrote poetry but, discouraged by the family, no one had a chance to discover if he was gifted or not.

He came to the tea party in national dress, which did not appeal to Ruth’s European tastes: a loose muslin dhoti, its folds reaching the ankles, a tunic falling below his hips, patent leather shoes, low socks, and a close-fitting cap, and could not in any circumstances be made to look elegant. Sunia wore an embroidered silk sâri and many jewels, and her efforts to copy Ruth’s graceful manners were pathetic. Nevertheless, she enjoyed the outing and begged to be asked again.

Chapter VII

The Moghul Mosque

The days following her break with Nigel passed, to Ruth, as in a dream. It was as if someone else, not she, was doing all sorts of unaccustomed things from morning till night; riding with Krishna across country, sewing with her mother, housekeeping for her, visiting the Ranee to improve her Hindustani, seeing to matters of hygiene, interesting herself in the children of the servants, strolling with her father for exercise, when the sun was down. She might have been anyone else but the girl, Ruth Mallard, who had arrived at Kiapara so light-hearted and full of hope, such a short time ago. Not only did she feel detached, but much older. The impulse to laugh, to run, to play was gone, and she acted with the poise and self-possession of middle age. Mrs. Mallard would have given years of her life to restore the illumined look to her face, and hear again that spontaneous, rippling, girlish laugh, so infectious and happy. It had been slain after the first day of her return. She smiled instead of laughing, and it was not the same thing. It was more a compliment than a response to the fun of the moment.

The Ranee made her smile at her quaint sallies. Sunia amused her by her childish love of dressing-up and play-acting. She liked nothing better than to don a garment or two of Ruth’s, and to learn how to ape an English lady. In many ways, Sunia was a child, but was crafty by nature, since she had no compunction in lying and deceiving the family at the Rajbari if it served her purpose or gamed her any advantage; as when she left the impression with the women at the Rajbari that she was the only visitor at the bungalow. It did not strike her as necessary to say that Nobin had also been a guest, and this made Ruth anxious.

What did it mean? She said nothing, however, as it was no business of hers. She liked Sunia, as she could be very diverting with her gossip and ingenuous outlook on life. She could hardly be blamed, said Mrs. Mallard, when mother and daughter discussed the subject of Sunia’s complex character, considering the example she had in the zenana of deceit and lies, gossip and scandal; for the women had nothing else to help them to pass the time.

“I wonder what the younger women would do if suddenly emancipated?” said Ruth.

“They would be like a flock of lost sheep. The Rajah and Ranee have never troubled to give them occupation of a sort likely to employ their minds and fingers.”

“It would, probably, be very awkward at first for them to go unveiled,” ruminated Ruth, “the habit of hiding their faces would almost make them feel naked in mixed company.”

Mrs. Mallard laughed. “I never thought of that. It would certainly go to their heads when men stared at them—the pretty ones, I mean, and some are quite lovely. The Ranee herself was a very handsome woman. Krishna gets his good looks from her.”

“And then what is to prevent them from going all wrong? For, judging from Sunia’s stories, they have no morals at all.”

“But, indeed, they have. The Ranee has always made a great stand for chastity. Indian women are naturally modest and virtuous. They are horrified if any female in the family goes off the rails, and no one is so cruelly hard on the delinquent than a proud purdah woman. Women of the old school are the strongest supporters of the system, and have no wish to see it abolished, but the march of time is bringing education and travel to the whole of the East, so that, in a few years or less, there will be no more purdah, and women will no longer hide their faces in their sâris.”

It was a common thing for the children of the servants to hang about the steps and dodge behind the pillars for a sight of Ruth in the hope that they would be called in to learn something. They were always learning something new from the baba who had the knack of imparting information in fascinating ways; generally it was in story form, for children of every race have an inexhaustible capacity for listening to a story.

Jeffrey had never allowed the servants’ children to enter the house. Such familiarity was unheard of, and should be discouraged. What were they all coming to, if servants thought their kids could take liberties which they themselves never dared to expect in the old days?

But when he saw that Ruth was getting some entertainment out of the little ones, he refrained from further protests to his wife. To Ruth, he had not the heart to say a word.

“Why dammit,” he said to Charlotte, “she has too little fun out of life, so if she gets a kick out of this educational experiment, I suppose we’d better turn a blind eye.”

“It does no harm,” said Mrs. Mallard.

“It will make the servants take advantage of us. They will soon lose all respect for sahiblog.”

“On the contrary, dear, they are behaving very well—far better than before Ruth came. I believe they are vying with one another to show off at their best. The ayah says that Ruth’s stocks are very high in the servants’ quarters—though she did not put it like that! They think the world of her for taking so much trouble with their children, whose greatest ambition now is to be allowed to sit in a row at Ruth’s feet while she darns your socks, listening to stories of Belât. Dear me! Those funny little grubby things, you’d hardly believe they were intelligent enough to be told of other countries, and how the children live, and play, and learn to be clever. They drink in every word, and I am amazed, not only at them, but at Ruth’s command of Hindustani. She finds it has all come back to her. The ayah and the Ranee have the credit, for they have worked her hard till she is getting absolutely fluent, even better than myself, and I have been all my life in the country. The old ayah worships the child.

“Not more than you do, my dear.” Jeffrey’s eyes softened as they rested on his wife’s amiable face, blind to the signs of advancing age and an unbecoming hair-style.

He himself was getting foolish about Ruth, and over-sensitive to her loss of spirits and social deprivations. If he only could have taken her somewhere, given her a good time, like girls of her age expect, she’d soon get over hankering in secret for the lover she had lost—“damn the fellow!” But for him she might have been content with the stagnation of life at Kiapara.

It was a good thing she enjoyed her morning rides, for she would return from them flushed from the exercise and glowing with pleasure. Krishna rode well and gave up much of his mornings to the exercise of the horses and to the society of Ruth, who won his admiration by her good seat in the saddle and fearlessness over jumps. What he thought of her looks was anyone’s guess.

“Don’t you think,” he was told by the Rajah, “that you are making yourself conspicuous in the eyes of the district by the way you seem to be paying court to an English girl?” They conversed in the vernacular.

“Why should I mind what people say?”

“You never did. But it has been drawn to my attention that it is hardly the thing to do when she is the daughter of my manager. You are both young, and too much of this might lead—anywhere.”

Krishna helped himself to a cigar from the desk, and sat down on the corner of it, prepared to argue the point.

“What then? Suppose it led to my wanting her for my wife?”

“Don’t talk like a hot-headed boy. You have a wife, and a son. You are my heir. I have no mind for any complications.”

“There needn’t be any. I can have another wife, can’t I?”

“You can. There is nothing to prevent you. Our religion does not forbid it. But—this is strange coming from you who have no use for the British!” The Rajah sneered openly.

“What has that to do with it? Ruth is a woman, isn’t she? And an uncommonly desirable one from a man’s point of view, you will admit, Father. Why raise objections if I set my mind on it?”

“I object strongly. Not on the grounds of her nationality nor her character. She is a good girl and clever. If you were to get her, you’d probably be envied by your masculine friends. Perhaps you imagine she would go down well if you enter politics and want a partner to help you to success. But you cannot have your way always. There is a very great reason why I object, and as it seems in your own interest, you will have to be told, but say nothing of what I am going to divulge. Your mother would never forgive it. She has a special interest in Ruth—women take crazy ideas, and she has made a protégée of the girl from infancy. Now you shall know why. Take a look and see no one is hanging round outside to hear me.”

Krishna rose lazily, and raising the purdah hanging in the only doorway, satisfied himself that the peon in attendance was seated on the steps of the verandah some distance away. He next looked out of the window, and then returned to his seat, puffing at his cigar nonchalantly.

“You can go ahead. There is no one eavesdropping. Not that what you say will be of any use, for if my life were at stake over this, I’d still go my own way, I warn you.”

“I’d be surprised. You will bear in mind that we are proud people. Caste-Hindus, and of noble birth. You may wish to have an English girl as your mate, but I doubt if you will care to stoop to the gutter for her, for that is where she really belongs. Now listen to me——”

The Rajah then embarked on the old story of Ruth’s origin, hiding nothing and purposely emphasizing the worst points in his narrative. In conclusion he added, “I am very sorry to have to bring all this up against the poor child. I like her for herself, and there is no doubt that she is as pretty as a picture. But you are my heir, and to put aside your wife, the mother of your son, for one who is of the lowest of the low, and who would be despised even by her own people were her story known, is madness. We may be charitable to her, poor girl, but she can never be one of us, even if she accepts our faith. Such an act as you suggest would be an insult to our ancestors and my status in the country.” He eyed Krishna in anxiety and agitation, watching for his reactions, and was furious when he laughed defiantly.

“Through marriage is the only way. I couldn’t get her without, and I’ll not let her slip through my fingers. If you were young like myself, would you, when the whole of you is on fire to possess her?”

“You always forced your way upon us, and we were fools to give in to you. It’s got to stop. Time you learned to curb your desires and remembered your ambitions for a political career.”

“As no one has ever heard the truth about her parentage there is nothing to fear, for she is the sort to win admiration, not contempt. Her manner, her grace, her looks will lead society in high places. She will further my ambitions, not disappoint them. Forget that old story. Who will connect Ruth Mallard with the woman who died in gaol in childbirth? It is nobody’s business to dig it up because I make her my wife.”

“The fact of your taking an English woman to wife—you my son and heir, a man of property and the future Rajah of Kiapara—will be quite enough to start questions and set busybodies prying into what is no concern of theirs. Your enemies—and you have many because of your ambitions and superior attainments—will be only too glad to lower your pride in the dust, and turn you into a laughing stock.”

“That’s ridiculous. I am not to be frightened into giving way. My mind is set, so we’ll say no more about it. I’m off to attend to that boundary question that has come up, so I’ll see you later, when I hope you’ll not bring all this up again.” And Krishna moved to the door nonchalantly.

“Stop!” cried the Rajah, his anger at white heat. “How dare you show me disrespect? You will tell me here and now what you are about to do. The boundary question is by the way, this other is not.”

“I am not going straight off to propose marriage, if that is what you want to know, Father. She is not ready for that, even I can tell she has something on her mind and has no eyes as yet for me. I shall wait a bit, see how things are, before I speak to her.”

“To her father, you mean—I wonder you have the face, seeing how you have treated him. He has no cause to welcome such an arrangement.”

“I have nothing to do with Jeffrey-sahib. It is not necessary, as the English conduct affairs of this kind very differently. It rests entirely between the girl and myself.”

“Listen! If, despite what I have told you, you go on with this wicked thing, I warn you that it will be the worse for you. Don’t forget I have a second son, and I have the power to disinherit you, you ungrateful one!”

“I will not be threatened!” cried Krishna, equally roused. “I am not a child to be ordered by you or anyone. Let there be no talk of disinheritance, or I, too, can threaten!”

“You!” The Rajah rose, his portly figure raised to its full height, his eyes blazing. “Get out! Get out! I tell you! And don’t let me see your face till you have thought better of this degrading business.”

Krishna stared at him for a moment, astonished at his severity, for never had his father taken such a firm attitude with him before, and he looked as if he meant every word of what he said.

“As you please,” he retorted sullenly. “I go, but I have not changed my mind, and I don’t like threats.” With that, he departed, an expression on his face his father had never seen there since Krishna had grown to manhood.

On relating the episode to the Ranee for the comfort of her approbation and advice, he said:

“What has come over the boy? Never has he dared to speak so disrespectfully, though on all subjects we have had different views. He talked of threatening me—me—his father, the controller of his purse, and of every prospect he desires!”

“Attach no importance to the speech of a young man in love. He has lost his wits and will regain them when our little English Ruth shows him plainly that she has no wish to be married. That child is carrying a heavy heart within her, because of having had to give up her English lover. Why she did so, is past understanding, when he was never likely to know more than the truth that she was adopted, and an orphan of unknown parents. How many waifs and strays there are adopted by childless parents! The young man would have been quite ready to accept her for her beauty alone, but she must needs cut out her own heart and dismiss him without explanation—what a fool! Yet I love the child, she is very sweet. But there is no fear of her taking a husband, black or white, while sick with grief. See the blue shadows under her eyes, the fat leaving her bones? Soon she will be a stick, and lose all her beauty, then Krishna himself will not want her. Already, he thinks she could do with more flesh on her. He likes women to be plump, not a bag of bones.”

“It would be good if you can persuade her people to send her away for a change. Say it’s for her health’s sake, and to save her from fading away.”

“No need. She won’t take Krishna. He is too ill-tempered. Besides, I like seeing her every day. It is a treat to look at her and to hear her talk. The children, also, would make trouble if she went. She likes playing with them and making them toys. I am not surprised Krishna is wanting her for himself. She is so different from his own woman. Our daughter-in-law is too stupid for a clever one like him. She would have suited Nobin better. He is always playing with her child. The little one goes with him happily, but howls and shows fear of his father, as he is harsh, and beats his mother.”

The Rajah’s anger cooled under this barrage of chatter, and he retired, feeling comforted.

That very morning, preceding his talk with his father, Krishna had as usual accompanied Ruth on her ride before breakfast, when the sun’s rays were yet weak, and the air cool and fresh with the first hint of autumn. These rides were her only personal enjoyment at Kiapara, for she had never had so good a mount since she had learned to ride. The Arab’s paces were easy and he was good-tempered though spirited; the most valuable of the horses in the Rajah’s stables. “I specially picked him out for you,” Krishna had told her on the first day, for which she had thanked him gratefully.

A gallop across country, jumping low mud dykes, for the sheer excitement of the motion, chasing a lonely jackal till it escaped to cover, were the only thrills she now knew, and they took her out of herself as nothing could have done.

Naturally, her gratitude to Krishna was sincere. Though she did not admire his character from the little things let drop by her father and Sunia, his shortcomings were no concern of hers, so long as he behaved perfectly when with her, and kept her from brooding on her sorrow. The thought that she was laying herself under obligations to him that she could not repay was unpleasant, but of little account besides the far greater obligations she was under to the Ranee. She and Krishna had played together as children, so there was nothing to worry about.

There were times, however, when she had surprised a look in his eyes of smouldering desire. But what did it amount to when he was married, and she had no interest whatever in him, personally?

Many fellows had made her familiar with just such a look—a normal proceeding with them when in the company of a pretty girl they admired—and it had always ended in nothing, if ignored. Ruth was used to the sentimental reactions of men.

After a long gallop, with the wind whistling past her ears, Ruth drew rein, breathless and exhausted, and turned to Krishna, who was never far off.

“Wasn’t that grand!” she cried, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes starry.

“You enjoy these outings?” he asked her.

“They are what I like best. I do thank you again and again for letting me ride Abdulla.”

“It is a treat to watch you in the saddle. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone look so well on horseback.”

“Thank you. A pretty speech, Krishna. Where did you learn to make them so neatly?”

“It is instinctive if one is sincere. Look over there”—he pointed to a low mound on which stood a quaint old ruined Mohammedan mosque, small and low-roofed, and smothered in jungle. “Would you like to take a look at it at close quarters? It’s worth the trouble.”

“I would, very much. What is it?”

“A Muslim place of worship about two or three hundred years old, and the tradition is that it was abandoned after an epidemic which decimated this district. The village was deserted for a hundred years, and then rebuilt. You see it over there.” He drew her attention to a small village half a mile away behind a plantain grove and tall pipal trees. They rode up to the ruin, and he assisted Ruth to dismount, after which he fastened the horses by their reins to saplings. “Mind—go carefully, there might be snakes,” and cautiously he led the way inside, after driving away two goats nibbling at weeds at the entrance.

Ruth looked around her and saw crumbling walls and part of a dome, no windows, and numerous names carved in the masonry, which was composed of diminutive shallow bricks, some of them faced with the remains of blue enamel, as polished and glazed, still, as it must have been in those far-off years.

“There is nothing to see, really,” said Ruth.

“Only that blue enamel on the narrow bricks. People have been very much interested in it from an archaeological angle, for it is a lost art. Most of the best pieces were stolen years ago, before we—that is, my ancestors—realized their beauty or value. What’s left isn’t worth anything, but you get an idea of the astonishing durability and art of that enamel. There is nothing like it in the world today, so they say.”

Ruth was fascinated, and was given a chip to take home with her. It was as solid as the brick on which it was laid when new; and the colour was the glossy blue of a beetle’s wing.

“But how in the world did it get here?” she asked Krishna. “What did India know of such craftsmanship?”

“It was evidently Italian, and introduced in the time of Akbar, the Moghul Emperor, but—I did not bring you here for research,” he laughed ingratiatingly, “I thought we’d rest a bit before returning, and enjoy a chat. I never get a chance, as I don’t visit at the bungalow, and at the Rajbari I never get a look in. The Ranee pins you to her side. Here’s a good spot”—he selected a large concrete boulder, among a pile of debris, and spread a clean handkerchief over its dusty surface. “Do sit down, Ruth. It’s cool here and shady,” sitting on another close at hand.

“It is, and so quiet,” said Ruth, not unwilling to linger awhile and rest. “Listen to the wood-pigeons.”

“Do you know what they say?”

“What is your interpretation?”

“Not mine! I was told by someone—an English lady, years ago—that the cock-bird says to the hen-bird, ‘I-rue-I-took-you, I-rue-I-took-you,’ and her reply is, ‘A- bargain’s-a-bargain, a-bargain’s-a-bargain.’” He mimicked the guttural notes of the pigeons, rolling his ‘r’ and running the words into each other.

Ruth’s laughter rewarded him, and he pleaded with her to laugh again.

“You never laugh, and it is the sound of music. Why are you so sad, Ruth?”

“Do I look as miserable as all that?”

“You are too grave, when your lips are made for laughter.”

“I try not to seem so; Daddy told me the other day, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone.’ How true that is! One has no right to force one’s own sorrows on others, or act as a damper on their spirits.”

“I am so troubled for you,” said Krishna. “I keep wondering if there is anything I can think of to make you happy. You are so different from other girls, and I have met so many away from home, especially since our Independence. You are in a class of your own. What wouldn’t I do if I could! But I’m all in the dark.”

“You couldn’t do anything for me. Nobody could,” she replied, the sadness returning to her face.

“Tell me,” he leaned towards her. “Have you quarrelled with some fellow—he disappointed you?”

Was he being inquisitive? Ruth forgave him his error in good taste, as, possibly, he did not know it was ill-mannered; besides, they were both young, and sympathy was very precious from one who could understand because of his youth.

“It wasn’t that. We did not quarrel. It simply couldn’t be done—I can’t explain.”

“You mean getting married?”

“That’s so. There was too much against it, so I had to—to send him away.”

“You—were fond of him?”

“We both cared very much. You see, it takes time to forget—if one ever can.”

“Bad luck,” said he, with a gleam in his eye that was more satisfaction than pity. “What was wrong? You can treat me with confidence. Aren’t we friends? Anything that hurts you gets me down.”

“It is not that I am unfriendly, Krishna. There are some things one simply can’t talk about, and this is one of them. It was very recent, and nothing is to be gained talking it over with you or anybody.”

“I only want you to know how much I feel for you. Are you likely to see him again?”

“Oh, no! He will return to England, and—perhaps marry someone else. I quite expect it.”

“What you must do is to forget him. No good wasting yourself thinking of a man who can sit back and be content to let you go out of his life once he has known you, and wanted you. If he’s pledged to that other woman, he has only to break it off. I would have done so, in his place. To hell with him! What you need, Ruth, is love, plenty of money to spend, and a husband who will give you the moon.”

Ruth smiled and rose.”None of those things appeal to me,” she said, “so don’t let us talk of it again. I’m going back now.”

Krishna had the wit to know she meant it, and rose with her, and with that look in his eyes of which she was nervous. There was no true sympathy there, but something hard and calculating, which she, in her inexperience, could not fathom. Once on her horse, she allowed no chance of further conversation as she galloped home. She was rested, and the horse enjoyed it as much as she.

Chapter VIII

Juvenile Delinquents

“I think,” said Mrs. Mallard one evening after dinner, while Ruth was playing chess with Jeffrey and she was knitting a pullover for him, “I really should take Ruth to call on the Freeborns.”

Ruth could not remember having heard the name before.

“Who are they, Mummikins?”

“More to the point if you asked, how far away?” said Jeffrey, lifting piece after piece from the board and changing his mind.

“You really musn’t, Daddy, or I’ll penalize you.”

“Sorry, but I’m in a bit of a jam. There are three things I can do to save my bishop, but am not sure which is best.”

“Take your time, darling. These Freeborns . . . ? Who are they, and where do they live? Is it imperative that I should be taken to call on them?” Ruth asked her mother.

“Not really, for they are so out of the beaten track. A certain Marmaduke Freeborn, in business in Calcutta, made a bit of money in the last coal boom, so he bought a small mica mine which has possibilities, and put his son, Alastair, in charge—that was before the war. It’s rather tragic, for Alastair found it too lonely, so married to make things more comfortable for himself. Without a wife there is no home feeling, and no family to make life in the jungles worth living.”

“No business to have brought a young wife out, fresh from home, to languish in such a spot,” said Jeffrey.

“But she knew she was going to live at the back of beyond.”

“What could she know of conditions in such a place?”

“Anyhow, let me get on with the story. Marcelle Freeborn certainly had the shock of her life when she had to travel for eight miles on the back of an elephant, or be carried in a palanquin, in these modern times, because there was no road through the jungles, only a rough cart track. She had never been on the back of a horse before, either, so once she got there she was practically marooned. As Alastair was new to mica, and had to learn all about it from the Eurasian manager on the mine, he was cheated. He lost money hand over fist, and couldn’t afford to have holidays, or give his wife a change to the hills in the hot weather. I saw Marcelle a few times—doing those eight miles, myself, on a borrowed elephant, as our car had to be left at a village ten miles from here. On the first occasion, it was in answer to an SOS from Alastair, as his wife was going to have a baby and no nurse was available, for the war was on, and every trained nurse was wanted in the hospitals.”

“But what good were you, if you knew nothing of midwifery?” cried Ruth.

“Precisely. I knew next to nothing but what books advise, and felt a mass of nerves, relying on a village woman to do what was common knowledge, while praying that nothing would go wrong.”

“Damned careless of Alastair not to have sent her to Calcutta in good time, even if she had to be jolted in a palanquin,” said Jeffrey. “How’s that? Check to your king.”

Ruth extricated her king, then wanted to hear more.

“What happened to Marcelle? And was the village woman any use?”

“How do you think all these kids here came into the world?” said Jeffrey. “The village midwife and a few nostrums, plus Nature, do the trick.”

“The survival of the fittest,” said Mrs. Mallard. “In this case all went well—plain sailing. The baby came. Unfortunately, it died, when two years old, of cholera.”

“But how terrible for Marcelle!”

“Of course. She went to pieces, and was never the same. Every time I saw her, things were worse and worse. She and Alastair were out of step and I never saw anyone go down-hill like she did. He had his work to occupy him. She had nothing. Then suddenly she gave up and cleared out, poor thing. I could hardly blame her. Alastair came to his senses after she went, and realized that much of it had been his own fault. He had wanted to join up during the war, but was refused on account of a weak heart. However, he divorced her——”

“You never said she went off with someone else!”

“There is always someone round the corner,” said Jeffrey, “ready to comfort disillusioned wives.”

“This was a good-looking Anglo-Indian contractor, and he was working for Alastair. One day, he packed up and went, taking Alastair’s wife with him. He must have had a bit of money, for they emigrated to Australia and no one has heard of them since. Meanwhile Alastair was taking to drink. Daddy and I had him here for a bit and got him right. He pulled himself together, and the next thing we heard was he had married again. This time a widow with a ready-made family, so now he seems well set up. Two of the children are at school in the hills nine months of the year, and are home for the Christmas holidays—about three months. The three young ones stay at home.”

“But how does she like living in such a place?”

“She suits Alastair down to the ground,” said Jeffrey. “As she has been all her life in this country and has a touch of the tar-brush, she is acclimatized, so there is no question of her deserting her post. But she’s a lot older than he. Occasionally one gets news, and the latest to drift our way is that she has vastly improved the bungalow and garden, and rules Alastair, who is now on the water wagon. The place is at last beginning to pay, and the old man in Calcutta can now sit back and feel at peace.”

“How would you like to pay the Freeborns a visit one day, Ruth?” Mrs. Mallard returned to her question. “It will, at least, be something for you to do.”

“That’s checkmate, Daddy! One minute, Mums.”

“So it is—clever girl!”

“That’s two games to one. The best of three, I take it?”

“Oh, no! I’m game to go on. The best of five. That suit you, honey?”

Ruth suddenly sat back as though shot. He had called her by that name—sacred to only one person in her world.

“What’s up, kid? Feeling queer?”

“I’ll be all right, Daddy. Just a little giddiness.”

“Too much concentration,” said Mrs. Mallard.

Ruth inwardly hoped he would never call her honey again, and plunged into the diversion of the proposed call on the Freeborns.

“How soon do you want to pay that visit, Mummy?”

“I’ll have to drop Mrs. Freeborn a line first to prepare her. We’ll need to, for she’ll never forgive me if I don’t give her a chance to put her house in order for visitors. It’s generally in an unholy mess. Liberty Hall for the children, who are at home at Bunumbagh, as the school closed down on account of whooping-cough. They have a nice bungalow, but everything is at sixes and sevens as neither Alastair nor his wife has any control over the children.”

“We can’t talk, for we let things slide of late years,” put in Jeffrey, returning from the dining-room with a glass of sherry for Ruth. “Drink this, you’ll feel much better.”

“I am all right now, Dad. You shouldn’t have taken the trouble.”

“I know that ‘people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’,” said his wife, “but our case is hardly the same. We lost heart, things being in a bad way, but now, how different it is, thanks to Ruth, though the repairs have not yet been begun. Why are they so dilatory?”

“We’ll be lucky if the Rajah gets down to it before the New Year. No one hastens to do anything here. The old chap has been talking for years of pulling down and rebuilding the stables at the Rajbari, but can’t stir himself to get things going. The only thing I agree with Krishna about, is the old man’s inertia. He wants a bulldozer behind him to make him get a move on.”

“I prefer him with all his slow ways, to Krishna’s push,” Ruth said.

“Krishna is a cruel brute,” said Jeffrey. “A few days ago, he had a new shotgun up from Calcutta, and had been showing it to his father, who has an eye for guns. To test the sight, he took a pot-shot at a bird—a myna—on a tree in the yard, and wantonly killed it.”

“Oh, how could he have done that!” Ruth exclaimed. “How callous! I didn’t think he was capable of that.”

“I could shock you with tales of his indifference towards the suffering of others. So long as it doesn’t affect his own skin, he’s not concerned. He wanted to make a runway and a hangar for the Moth he was set on buying, and in order to get the best site, he cleared part of the village behind the Rajbari, and evicted the tenants without reference to their wishes or convenience. One family had nowhere else to go, and were too poor to lose their only means of livelihood, which was a small bania’s¹ shop on the verandah of their homestead, and the man was on his knees to be allowed time, which the Rajah was inclined to grant him. It was a matter of starting afresh, and transporting his goods to another part of the district, if he was successful in finding a suitable dwelling. Krishna was impatient at the loss of time over the argument, and secretly had the place burned to the ground, by which the poor devil was ruined.”

“Was it proved he had done it?”

“He thought he had been very smart, and boasted to me of it afterwards; but though he was indirectly responsible for the death of the man’s wife and their newborn child, it never worried him. They had to live under the trees at the bitterest time of the year, when a light frost lies on the ground till sunrise—none of them with suitable clothing—so that both the mother and babe took a chill and died. But what did it matter to Krishna? They were of no account in his eyes, being low-caste Hindus. Besides, his own requirements came first.”

“He is not a kind husband to Sunia, and how she loathes him!” said Ruth.

“Altogether, he is a nasty piece of work, and his family are to blame for not giving him a good hiding every time he showed himself cruel and ill-tempered as a kid. That puppy, for instance, when he was ten years old. He was playing with it, and because it bit him, he, in a fit of temper, dashed it to its death on the tiles of the verandah. I would have laid into him, but the Rajah excused the act on the score of his rage at being bitten. ‘You shan’t have another dog,’ he said. But he was given another a few days later, just for the sake of something to bully. It was a relief when it got distemper and died, mainly for want of attention and care.”

“Is Krishna really so dreadfully cruel?” Ruth was appalled. For a moment she felt physically sick. “I wish I hadn’t heard this, for I shall hate to speak to him again.”

“Don’t take it to heart, kiddie. Children brought up to be self-willed and uncontrolled, with their passions allowed full sway, are sadistic little devils. I would have known how to deal with him, but it was none of my business, and my interference would only have got me cheeked by him. However, let’s hope he has improved in some respects, though I doubt it.”

“I don’t think he has improved, if what Sunia said is true.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t wish to repeat it, it makes me feel really ill. I did not believe it at the time, nor did Mummy, Sunia is such a little liar.”

Mrs. Mallard, not so squeamish as Ruth, enlightened Jeffrey, while Ruth put her fingers in her ears. “Sunia said that he was disturbed by the barking of a pariah dog at the back of the house when he was falling asleep one night, and locating it in the moonlight, he fired at it with number four. It did not die at once, but lay howling at intervals till the small hours, and he would not take the trouble to get up and put an end to its agony, but turned over and went to sleep cursing it.”

“That’s typical of the fellow, damn him!”

Ruth could not rid her mind of such unspeakable cruelty, having a conviction that the stories were true; and for the next few days found excuses for not riding in the mornings, as she knew Krishna was bound to lie in wait for her as usual on horseback. He was probably wondering what was the matter, and would send a note round to enquire. It presented a problem that was difficult of solution, as she could not tell him that she was revolted at the thought of pretending a friendship for him she could not feel, now that she knew his true character.

Yet, she foresaw that she could hardly treat him discourteously, when he had done nothing to offend her, personally. On the contrary, he had laid her under obligations to him by the loan of the Arab. She also feared his vindictiveness were she to be frank and tell him plainly what she thought of him, as it would be bound to create ill-feeling between the bungalow and the Rajbari.

The visit to the Freeborns at Bunumbagh, therefore, came as a welcome break in the programme of her days, for Mrs. Freeborn wrote and clinched the engagement, making them very welcome. They drove, after an early breakfast, one morning—Jeffrey’s mechanic at the wheel—and were dropped where the jungle road to the mica mine met the common highway, there to be met by a peon and a springless covered conveyance called a ‘shampony’.

It was like a small, springless, low-hung omnibus on iron-tyred wheels, and was drawn by a pair of Jhansi bullocks with humps, and massive benign heads, their lethal horns decorated and be-tasselled with scarlet cord, and chains of cowrie shells. They carried themselves proudly, and trotted almost like ponies, though unlike ponies they were yoked to a pole.

Driving in this vehicle was an unpleasant experience, and if the distance had been greater, the absence of springs and the bumpiness of the road would have made invalids of Mrs. Mallard and Ruth by the end of the journey. Altogether, it was an unforgettable ordeal.

“I’ll be black and blue by the time I get there,” groaned Mrs. Mallard. “Why doesn’t somebody make a decent road?”

“It would certainly make it easier to get about. The car would have got us there long ago,” sighed Ruth, her head colliding with the roof, “and this sort of thing wouldn’t have happened,” she concluded, rubbing the spot.

“Perhaps they can’t afford it. They never can be sure of a good turnover, for when it is not one thing it is another. I do hope you are not hurt?” Being reassured, she proceeded calmly, “I heard from your dad, who got it from some of his babus, that the mica mine is working at a loss just now, as they are having labour troubles. Communists, my dear. It is generally Communists, and why nothing can be done to stop them spreading mischief, I don’t know. I must really tell Mrs. Freeborn that I prefer a palanquin to this catastrophical conveyance. Even an elephant would have been better. They can always borrow an elephant from one of the contractors near by.”

“If they only had a road, it would be more civilized.”

Neither the driver nor the peon took any interest in the feelings of the passengers, as one was occupied in urging on the clumsy bullocks, and the other had enough to do to prevent himself from being flung into the road from his perilous seat on a step of the shampony, at the back.

A wilderness of jungle flanked both sides of the road.

Finally they entered the precincts of the mica mine, judging by the shimmering quality of the fine dust on the leaves of trees and on the roadway; like Jack Frost depicted on a Christmas card, thought Ruth.

This effect was more general and picturesque when they came in sight of the house and caught a view of the mica dumps like small hillocks, glittering in the sun.

“All that is mica dust,” said Mrs. Mallard, informatively, “when there is a wind it is apt to blow about and even enter the house.”

“It looks solid, like a snowdrift.”

“It’s anything but solid. Most deceptive. Anyone getting into it could be lost and suffocated.”

“How dangerous! Why don’t they fence in these dangerous dumps?”

“No one is likely to try climbing a mound of mica dust! They are so used to it here.”

“What about animals?” Ruth’s mind instantly thought of the unreasoning, dumb creatures.

“Darling, you always make yourself responsible for animals. They know how to look after themselves, or where’s their instinct?—-except for sheep, perhaps,” she added reflectively. “They are so brainless. Long ago, I remember a sheep managed to get itself involved in a mica dump, and it would have been lost and quickly dead if someone had not heard it bleating and rescued it in time. The rest of the flock could only herd together and look on panic-stricken. Of course, it shouldn’t have happened but for someone leaving the gate of the pen open. Sheep are not allowed near the mine in case they take it into their silly heads to fall down the shaft. Not that it is at all deep. Oh, here we are!”

The conveyance stopped below the steps of the verandah, and Mrs. Mallard and Ruth were heartily welcomed by Mrs. Freeborn.

“So nice of you to have troubled to come out all this way. We were so anxious to make Ruth’s acquaintance. How did you manage to stand the bumping?”

“We sat it very heroically,” said Mrs. Mallard. “Perhaps you have some embrocation?”

“Heaps of it,” said Mrs. Freeborn, with a gale of laughter. “Don’t I know the feeling! That is why I think twice before I leave home. And this is your daughter? I am delighted to meet you, Ruth, come right in and be refreshed. My hubby is at the mine, but he’ll be here in a moment, Bala Singh has gone to call him.”

Mrs. Freeborn was a large woman, with a high, prominent bust, rendered abnormally so by tight lacing. Her lonely existence and being rarely called upon to entertain her own sex or come into competition with women who dressed well, had made her negligent of her appearance. Without attention to corseting, and living all day in a dressing-gown, her figure had, consequently, lost its normal proportions. She deplored having put on weight, when discussing her health and comparing her aches and pains with Mrs. Mallard’s; both ladies taking a real pleasure in describing their individual symptoms. Mrs. Freeborn had a tendency to oedema in the legs, and breathlessness, when she took undue exercise; while Mrs. Mallard congratulated herself on having escaped such an affliction, but had to admit to breathlessness, and much flatulence. It got her under the ribs, she confided to her hostess, making her feel like a blown-up tyre. “All because of nerves.” No question of over-eating. “Nerves are accountable for most illnesses in these times, my dear,” she said resignedly. “We all have our troubles, and there is nothing we can do about it. Have you consulted your doctor-babu?”

“He’s a dear thing. He always lets me please myself. If I do not like a medicine he changes it. He is absolutely docile and amenable.”

Ruth, listening, hardly thought these qualities appropriate to a physician.

“My husband has no faith whatever in doctor-babus,” said Mrs. Mallard; “but I will say his prescriptions have done me a lot of good. I don’t believe I would feel happy under him if anything were seriously wrong, but Providence is merciful and ‘tempers the wind to the shorn lamb’, for we, too, like yourselves, are so far out of the way of immediate medical aid. . . . Where are the children, by the way?”

“I heard them a moment ago, they are always up to some mischief,” their mother remarked placidly. “Only yesterday, for the first time in these two years we have been here, Billy gave us all the fright of our lives. He is only six, poor lamb, so hasn’t much sense. Just fancy thinking of hiding himself in a mica dump when playing hide-and-seek with his brothers and sisters!”

“Oh!” gasped Mrs. Mallard, overcome at the idea.

“Luckily a peon managed to get him out in time, he was all but smothered. We always have a peon in attendance on the children when they are running wild outside. If not outside, then where else I ask you? It is absolutely hopeless to try even to think when they are in the house. Alastair, I must say, is very long-suffering, but he keeps out as much as he can, and when he is in, they are usually in bed. Just to ease things a bit they have their meals by themselves, so that we can feed in peace. I am a firm believer in allowing children to express themselves and not be constantly restrained, their initiative squashed. Let them develop naturally, mentally and physically and be what the Almighty meant them to be, each according to his or her capabilities. I don’t believe in too much correction. Young things must blow off steam, and they are only young once. Besides, we like them to look back upon a happy childhood without unnecessary restrictions. I am so glad you agree,” as Mrs. Mallard said nothing, and ‘silence means consent’.

“But,” said Mrs. Mallard at length, deprecatingly, “if a child is not guided and shown proper consideration for people, and to ‘do unto others as you would they should do unto you’ how is he to grow up a gentleman, and not a hooligan?”

Not prepared to argue the point, Mrs. Freeborn digressed.

“Oh, my dear, how selfish we are to leave poor Ruth out in the cold. She cannot be interested in the bringing up of children, having none of her own! My child—how do you like India?”

“I was a child in India,” Ruth reminded her, “it is all very familiar.”

“So it would be. I had forgotten you went home just before war broke out! Oh, here is my dear hubby!” as Alastair came in and greeted the visitors. Ruth saw a tall, thin, tired young man, who might have passed for Mrs. Freeborn’s son. He had a weak, good-looking face with a bored expression and hair receding at the temples.

Looking at the husband and wife, Ruth could not help wondering if the true reason Mrs. Freeborn never left Bunumbagh was a secret fear that, if she were to encourage gadding about the district or taking holidays in the hills, her young husband might be attracted to youthful society and regret his marriage to her. It was a very natural fear, seeing he looked about thirty, and she at least fifteen years older, sprouting hairs on her chin, and utterly shorn of sex appeal. How did he ever come to choose her? Ruth had heard the expression, ‘being caught on the rebound’, and believed it was just that in Alastair’s case when unable to face the loneliness of Bunumbagh, and there was no other woman who would take to such a place.

He seemed to brighten up considerably at the sight of the visitors, and was interested in talking to Ruth. But the children arrived, and Ruth felt lost in the avalanche, for they scattered all coherency of thought and made connected conversation impossible, while they imperilled life and limb performing acrobatic feats on the upholstered furniture and made a general nuisance of themselves. The eldest forced himself on the visitors, and was pert, contradictory, self-assertive and noisy.

“I’ve got white mice,” he informed Ruth challengingly. “Do you like white mice?”

“I am afraid I don’t,” and she shuddered involuntarily.

“I think I’ll get one of them and let it down your neck!” He yelled with delight at the prospect.

“Tell me, where do you go to school?” She tried the effect of diversion.

“To Nainital. I’m the oldest there and top of my class.”

“How many boys in your class?”

“Two,” he said reluctantly. “It is holidays now,” divertingly.

“It’s a dame’s school,” put in his mother. “He’s so young.”

“You mean a ‘damn’ school,” and he doubled up at his own joke. “I punched a boy on the nose, and it bleeded. He looked so funny.”

“Didn’t the teacher punish you? I am sure you deserved it!”

“I won’t tell you! You are a nosy parker, I don’t like you.”

“Darling!” from his mother, in sweet protest. “You will hurt Ruth’s feelings.”

“What do I care! She can put her head into a bag.”

“Look here, my son! You shall apologize for being rude,” said Alastair, “say you are sorry.”

“You shut up! It’s not your business.”

“I’ll show you that it is my business,” and Alastair seized the boy by the wrist and proceeded to drag him from the room, while he struggled to escape.

“Ma!—see what he’s doing to me! He will beat me. I won’t go. I won’t! I won’t!”

“Don’t bully my poor Jo-Jo! Alastair! A great hefty fellow like you to be so rough!” cried his wife sternly.

“He’s got to apologize, or I’ll make him.”

“Please don’t think of it any more,” Ruth pleaded, hating the commotion. “I understand children. I don’t think he meant to be rude. He was only showing off.”

Looking relieved, Alastair relaxed his hold, and the boy shot away, his tongue out of his mouth in contempt, and shouting “Boo!” in which all the children joined, capering and somersaulting on the mat.

“I apologize for him, Miss Mallard. I am frightfully sorry you have been treated to such an exhibition, but it seems modern children begin life out of hand. God help them when they are adults. They’ll be juvenile delinquents before then, I prophesy,” and he looked grim, his lips drawn tightly over his teeth. He could not have said more plainly that he was ‘fed up’ with them all.

“Just run away and play, darlings. See how good you can be, we want to talk to the ladies,” said Mrs. Freeborn placatingly. “Go to Kareem, Jo-Jo, and ask him to give you some food for the ducklings. They are such dear fluffy things. Take your spade, and dig up worms for them. They will love worms.”

“Let’s all dig for worms.” There was a general exodus of the children to the poultry yard, and Ruth trembled inwardly for the hapless ducklings left to the tender mercies of Jo-Jo and the gang.

“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Freeborn exultantly, “see what a little sympathetic understanding can do? They are perfectly happy and so are we! You would like to wash your hands before tiffin, ladies? Alastair usually has a tub about now. Meantime, I’ll fix up a picnic for the children under the trees. They will enjoy it far better than being with us; if they have it at the table first, it will delay us. I am sure you are both hungry.”

Mrs. Freeborn had a harsh, strident voice, and the habit of speaking loudly made her forget that she could be heard beyond the room. Consequently, Ruth and her mother both overheard the biting remark she made to her husband, after they left the room.

“The next time you lose your temper with any of the kids, I’d like to remind you that I won’t allow bullying. They are my children, and I have a right to bring them up according to my own ideas. I’ll have no interference!”

What Alastair replied was inaudible, but it was doubtless provocative, for his wife’s voice was raised a tone higher, only her words were not clear, and Ruth tried not to listen, but followed her mother into the bathroom, where much clatter and splashing drowned Mrs. Freeborn’s subsequent remarks.

“That did not sound healthy,” was all Mrs. Mallard said.

Chapter IX

A Practical Joke

It had been agreed with Jeffrey that Ruth and her mother should stay the night at Bunumbagh, if asked to do so; a foregone conclusion in a district where distances and bad roads made visiting prohibitive. Accordingly, as they had come prepared, and the inevitable hospitality made argument a discourtesy, the Mallards consented to stay till the next day. If it had been left to Alastair, he would have liked to keep them at Bunumbagh for a week, but Mrs. Mallard was firm. Jeffrey would be lost without them; they could not be spared for so long, she argued.

Ruth cared neither way. It was a relief not to have to meet Krishna as a regular thing, but she was sorry to give up her rides. She also had a secret wish to understand the Freeborn youngsters and discover how to reach their better instincts, which nobody seemed to trouble about. It seemed that Mrs. Freeborn’s mother-love was more concerned with their health than their manners; and she had the common fallacy of unintelligent women, who believed that children naturally outgrew their bad traits when sent to boarding-school. “They’ll shape all right when they are more sensible,” she was wont to say. But how? thought Ruth, if no one showed them the evil of their ways, or made them realize how unfortunately it reacted on themselves? What sort of citizens would they turn out? No great man, who had ever made noble history, had been reared without early attention to self-discipline, and a recognition of his duty to his neighbour. Moreover, an ill-brought-up child had a hard time coming to him when he went to school.

“Really, Ruth,” said Mrs. Mallard, when they were alone, “I am beginning to think you have missed your vocation, and should have been allowed to qualify as a school mistress.”

“I wonder?” said Ruth, not at all so sure. She was discovering of late that she had no vocation for anything, and had difficulty in pinning her interest for long to any occupation. She was too quickly bored, as when telling the native children stories to awaken their intelligence, or trying to make Sunia take up some hobby. Unfortunately, Sunia had the rooted conviction that to work with her hands at any craft was beneath the dignity of a Hindu lady. There were carpet-makers, basket-weavers, workers in leather goods and in fancy needlework, who passed on their trades from father to son; therefore, Sunia refused to learn how to make things that Ruth had taken up as accomplishments; they were derogatory to her status, so she preferred to idle. In the end, Ruth was glad Sunia had taken that stand, as there was no object in insisting on teaching her any skilful occupation when she had no desire to learn, or in wasting her own time on Sunia’s meaningless and mischievous chatter.

But to return to the young Freeborns. She thought that something could be done with Jo-Jo and ‘Bhunda’ (christened Archibald) who was nearest Jo-Jo’s age. But why should she trouble? Was it worth while? Was anything worth while any more? She lost interest in the boys, without giving the matter a second thought.

Alastair took her that afternoon to see the mine from the top of the shaft, and he enlightened her considerably on the subject of mica, of which she knew nothing.

She was allowed to examine the mineral in its various stages and was shown ‘books’ of mica in the office, and had admired the clear transparency of the thin sheets that formed a ‘book’. She was fascinated, and for a while was her old self, animated and entertained. Later on, while returning from the outing, she was asking herself why she had concerned herself with mica, when she would never have any use for it in her life? It had been a waste of time. But, then, everything seemed a waste of time to her, in her detached state of mind.

“I am so glad you came, Ruth,” said Alastair. “You don’t know what it has done for me. I’ve been frightfully depressed of late. Things are always the same—never any change, and you suddenly flash into Bunumbagh like a bird of paradise, and brighten the whole picture for me. Now you will return and everything will get black again. Not a hope of relief. Oh, I don’t know why I should bother you with all this! Forgive me.”

“I have nothing to forgive. I am only sorry you should be feeling so down.”

“Could it be otherwise? You have had a peep into my life. I have made a hell of a mess of it, and often wish I were dead, and out of it all.”

“I am very sorry to hear you say so. Why not get away for a bit? Take a holiday?”

“Unless I could go alone it would not be worth it. But that is impossible. She’ll insist on going too—and take the children with her. My God!” He seemed to slump.

It did not occur to him he was speaking very disloyally; but knowing Mrs. Freeborn, Ruth felt he had good reason for wanting to be quit of her, for a time, at least. She and her children strained his nerves to breaking point.

“I can do one thing,” Alastair was inspired by an idea. “I can find an excuse to visit your father. We’re old friends, and I can get his advice about our labour troubles. Christina couldn’t be accommodated at Kiapara with her outrageous brood, so I’d go alone. Would you or your mother object?”

“Why should we? I’d be glad if it did you any good.”

“That makes me feel a lot better.”

It occurred to Ruth that any other woman than Mrs. Freeborn would feel lost and submerged in a place like Bunumbagh without near neighbours, or social amenities of any kind. Beyond her own unruly family and a husband unsuited to her, the only other human beings she saw were servants and coolie labour. It was inconceivable how she endured it. She certainly had enough to occupy her mind and energies, coping with the unpredictable initiative of her children; and the garden, perhaps, contributed some things towards diversion. She was devoted to her garden, which was a credit to her, in its way, though she, personally, never laboured in it, but merely directed untrained malis how and where to dig and delve, plant and sow, and carry out her ideas as to lay-out. All through the rains, it was allowed to run wild with the hardiest of perennials making patches of colour in the midst of long grass and smothering weeds; but at the moment, flower beds were prepared for the sowing of annuals, while flowering shrubs were trimmed, and gravel paths weeded. The gravel was composed of crushed red bricks, and they made the paths a bright contrast to the greenness of the grass borders. The bungalow was spacious, the thatch tidy, and the windows newly painted, the interior distempered.

Beyond the precincts of the garden, which was bounded by a duranta hedge, its mauve blooms in full glory, was a meadow preserved for the grazing of cattle, and Ruth saw the two Jhansi bullocks and a flock of sheep scattered over it.

Beyond the meadow were signs of coolie habitations—accommodation for imported labour from another province for the mine—a conglomeration of thatched roofs, bamboo fences and plantain trees intermingling with the thorny babul (the mimosa of India) and scattered date palms. Further still, lay a belt of jungle for miles, through which the only cart track wound its way back to rural civilization from the settlement of Bunumbagh; the mine being the motive of its existence, as well as the primitive forms of transport necessary in the circumstances.

Actually, the Freeborns had done better with their bungalow and surroundings than the Mallards at Kiapara. Mrs. Mallard’s failing health had robbed her of energy and interest, which the political upheaval did not improve. It was only since Ruth’s coming that a fresh start had been made to better conditions.

Mrs. Freeborn, on the other hand, had long lost touch with England. Her forebears had adopted India as their home country for generations, and some intermarriage in earlier times had bred a preference for the East. In fact, she and her children reflected in their appearance unmistakable evidence of mixed blood, and made Alastair the only alien in his home. “Poor fellow!” was the verdict of the district.

Ruth and he were in sight of the bungalow when a peon met them in breathless haste, having been sent to call the sahib urgently, as great trouble had arisen. Everybody, he said, was looking for Bhunda baba, as he had been missing for the past hour.

“All are running this way and that, for without a word he has disappeared. Khoda knows what has become of him!”

“But what was Dhunia Singh about to have let it happen?” said Alastair irritably. There was no respite from the children’s vexatious diversions. “It’s his job to see no harm come to the babalog.”

“True words, huzur. But for one minute he sat down to take a pull at his hookah while the babalog were playing innocently in and out of the godowns, and when he arose, the child was missing. First he was asked by Jo-Jo baba: ‘Dhunia Singh, where is my brother?’ as if it was the peon’s fault that the baba had disappeared. ‘You should know, baba, not I. Haven’t you been playing together?’ ‘But I don’t see him. Where has he gone?’ So they started to look, to call and call, but there was no answer. ‘The bhooths have carried him off!’ said the baba. Now, what to do? The memsahib says, ‘Go call the sahib. See if he can say where else to look’.”

“Jo-Jo baba is at the bottom of this, or I’ll be damned. He knows more than he will say. I’d like to twist his neck.” Alastair added for Ruth’s benefit in English.

“Huzur is never wrong. Assuredly he knows. Could it be possible that he has done the child a mischief?” He only needed a little encouragement to complain of the children to the master.

“Has anyone thought of the mica dumps?” asked Ruth fearfully.

“The kids are as much afraid of falling into them as I should be were I crazy enough to try climbing them. Once bitten, twice shy. Billy gave us a fright once when a toddler, a year ago. It was a lesson to the rest to give those dumps a wide berth.

“I heard of that.”

When they entered the bungalow they found Mrs. Mallard far more concerned about the lost child than his mother. Mrs. Freeborn sat in her rocking-chair imperturbably engaged in manicuring her finger-nails publicly, to her husband’s disgust, and determined to discount all need for anxiety.

“I have no doubt whatever that he will turn up,” she said. “If you had known my ruffians as long as I have, you’d take no notice of their nonsense. I’d have been grey by now if I had gone off the deep end every time they started a scare. Don’t worry. When it is realized that no one is at all excited or disturbed, Bhunda will show up.”

“But suppose,” said Mrs. Mallard, “that he has strayed and lost himself in the jungles? Surely there are tigers to fear?”

“My dear Charlotte, there are no tigers within fifty miles of Bunumbagh.”

“But there are leopards!” said Jo-Jo, in tragic tones. “Dhunia Singh found pugs near the stables, a few days ago, Ma!”

“I don’t believe it. Or if there are, I can’t see a leopard leaving cover by daylight. At night—maybe.”

“But it is an awful thought if a tiger did find its way into Bunumbagh and pounced on the child if he strayed too near the jungles,” said Mrs. Mallard.

“I couldn’t care less,” murmured Alastair, in exasperation.

“Oh, you brute!” cried his wife, overhearing him, “typical stepfather, you!” And the look she cast at him hinted of how much more she could have said had they been alone together.

Mrs. Mallard tried to throw oil on troubled waters.

“Alastair, like ourselves, is a mass of nerves over the disappearance of the child.”

“What do you suggest I should do?” said Alastair testily.

“Nothing. I can’t persuade you all that there is no need to worry. It’s just another trick of his to vary the monotony of the days.”

“I’m glad you can take it so philosophically.”

“I couldn’t,” said Mrs. Mallard. “I am thankful he isn’t my child.”

“If I took notice of everything the children did, I’d die of heart failure.”

“But, Ma,” put in Jo-Jo, bent on breaking down her apathy. “’Sposing he’s fell in the well and got drownded!”

“Bhunda can’t be persuaded to go within ten yards of the well, you know that, darling. He’s such a little coward, bless him!”

“If he’s down the well, he was pushed in,” said Alastair, vindictively, “in that case you did it, Jo-Jo, and you are his murderer. When the police come they’ll get you, and you’ll be hanged, all right.”

“How beastly of you to frighten the child! You couldn’t do anything so wicked, could you, my pet?”

Joseph opened his mouth and bawled, “But I didn’t! I never did!”

“Tell that to the police, and see if they will believe you. I’m sending for them now; so if you’ve been up to anything you’ll be locked up, anyway.”

“You bully!” snarled his wife. “They don’t hang children, Jo-Jo. Don’t listen to him.”

Ruth could imagine what a shrew Mrs. Freeborn could be when angry. When men are dominated by their wives, it is only because they love peace at any price, so Alastair was ruled by Mrs. Freeborn to avoid unpleasant scenes.

Jo-Jo, who had been taught by the servants to fear the red-turbaned minions of the law, was too terrified by the word police to hear what his mother had said, and kept on beseeching Alastair not to send for the police inspector.

“I don’t want to be hanged!” he cried. He had no faith in his mother’s ability to protect him, once the men with the scarlet turbans took charge. “I didn’t do it! Bhunda isn’t in the well, he is safe. I only hid him for fun that everybody should get scared and look for him.”

“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Mrs. Freeborn triumphantly. “Boys will be boys.”

“Where is Bhunda?” sternly from Alastair.

“I’ll go and fetch him,” cried Jo-Jo, wiping his tearful face with grimy fingers and leaving it mottled and striped, as he ran from the room.

Mrs. Mallard and Ruth breathed freely again. Both would have liked nothing better than to see Jo-Jo put over Alastair’s knee and spanked soundly.

The relief was general, even the servants relaxed as they hung around for the sequel.

“You are always hard on Jo-Jo, and make no allowance for children’s high spirits. After all, no harm is done.”

“‘All’s well that ends well’,” said Mrs. Mallard soothingly.

“You’ve had enough of us to last a lifetime,” Alastair looked ashamed. “I do apologize to you and Ruth for all this upset.”

“What does Ruth say?” Mrs. Freeborn smiled apologetically, to atone for the excitement and confusion. “You say little, but think quite a lot, isn’t that so?”

“I’m thinking you don’t have much chance to be dull here,” said Ruth.

“Sensible girl! I knew you understood children. I hear you wanted to be a teacher? I’ve often wished I could get hold of someone like you to be governess to my kiddies, then they wouldn’t have to go to school till much older. But no girls like to live in the jungles.”

She was checked abruptly by the reappearance of Jo-Jo looking terrified, his eyes starting out of his head.

“Bhunda is dead! Bhunda is dead! Oh, Ma!—Pop—come quick!” He was shaking from head to foot, genuinely frightened.

“Heavens, child! what do you mean?” Mrs. Freeborn looked paralysed.

“Explain yourself, you little fiend!” from Alastair.

“They’ll say I done it! Oh, Ma! I didn’t do it! I didn’t! I never thought it would happen!” and he howled dismally.

“Look here—stop that, and tell me where he is!” Alastair shook him by the arm.

“He’s in the godown—in the grain chest. We only did it for fun.” Alastair was gone before Jo-Jo finished speaking, leaving the others prostrated with shock. Mrs. Mallard seemed to be fainting, and Ruth ran for restoratives; Mrs. Freeborn wept and wrung her hands. No further sense could be got out of Jo-Jo till Alastair returned, carrying the semi-conscious child in his arms.

“He’s all right, only overpowered,” he said, as he laid the boy on the sofa, and left his mother to take over charge. “But it’s been touch and go—asphyxiation—that damned chest. But for a crack in the lid he could not have held out so long.”

By slow degrees Bhunda recovered, and sat up, wondering what all the fuss was about. When memory returned, he was able to talk with much of his normal fluency, and tell the company how, for a joke, Jo-Jo had put him in the grain chest just to give everyone a scare. It was fun to think how they would believe he was lost and turn the place upside down looking for him. As the grain was low, there was just room for him, so Jo-Jo dropped the lid and ran away to give the alarm. Bhunda had heard the hue and cry, and though feeling warm and breathless he kept still and never said a word. However, after some time he could hardly pull a breath and felt confused. He then tried to get out, but could not lift the lid, as the staple held the hasp secure. He then panicked, and screamed to be let out, but no one heard him, they had all gone away, Jo-Jo with them—perhaps to watch the fun! Bhunda burst into tears at the memory of his panic. When the doctor-babu arrived Bhunda, who was hysterical, was put to bed, his mother fussing round him like a hen with a chicken. Mrs. Mallard quickly revived, and all was again serene, except that Jo-Jo, penitent and miserable, sobbed disconsolately in a corner of the lounge.

There Ruth found him and administered consolation, at the same time tactfully pointing a moral to the nearly tragic tale.

For the rest of her stay Ruth was subjected to the children’s unremitting attentions. Five adoring small people followed her about, hung round her, tripped her up, and poured open flattery into her ears.

“You’s got a pretty face,” Billy confided to her.

“I like you,” from Dollikins, who was a year older.

“When I grow up, will I have long eyelashes like yours?” she was asked by Marigold, aged six.

“Smile, Aunty Ruth,” Bhunda repeatedly demanded.

“But why?”

“A little hole comes in your cheek.”

“Aunty Ruth is a smasher,” cried Jo-Jo. “If I was a artist I would paint her picture, and hang it up.”

“As a target?” asked Ruth.

“Some target!” said Alastair, “why not a goddess for Joe to do pujah to?”

“Goddesses in India have lots of arms and legs. My picture would not be eligible,” and Ruth laughed.

When the time came for the Mallards to leave, the youngsters fought hard to prevent Ruth from going. They hid her belongings, even tied her leg to her chair so that she could not rise from the table after chota hazri. Bhunda was dragged from under the breakfast table, and Jo-Jo made to sever the cord with a table knife.

“We don’t want Aunty Ruth to go!” wept Billy, burying his face in her lap, and the two girls throttled her with embracing arms, and smothered her face with kisses, while Mrs. Freeborn looked on indulgently. In her opinion, Ruth had every reason to feel flattered. It was the first time they had shown any liking for a stranger.

“A thousand pities I cannot get someone like you to live here and be the children’s governess,” she sighed, hinting openly.

Ruth, however, turned a deaf ear.

Finally, Mrs. Mallard and Ruth tore themselves from the family and, entering the shampony, rattled out of the compound, leaving the children in various states of vocal despair, while Mrs. Freeborn started to nag at her husband, as he swore at the darlings for “making a nuisance of themselves.”

“Why interfere with their self-expression?” Ruth heard her say, before the noise of the ungreased wheels drowned all other sounds. “It’s just because you couldn’t get a word in edgeways with Ruth. Think I am blind?”

“What a family!” cried Mrs. Mallard. “If I had to put up with them for a week, I’d be a fit subject for a lunatic asylum.”

“They are rather bewildering,” said Ruth. “Poor little wretches!”

“Poor Alastair, I should say.”

“I have no sympathy for him. He asked for it.”

“He was hardly himself at that time. But he has been a fool.”

The car was waiting for them in the village by the junction of the roads, and they made the rest of the journey uneventfully.

It felt good to be back again, though their home compared unfavourably with the Freeborns’; but at least, it was peaceful.

A goat had to be driven off a rose bed, where it was feeding peacefully on a polyantha bush, and a garden coolie was set to fill up a gap in the hedge. Jeffrey was at work at the Rajbari, and all looked as usual, except the expression on the ayah’s face as she relieved them of their coats and hats.

“Ayah, old dear, you look sick. Anything wrong?” Ruth asked.

“What can I say?” sighed the ayah rolling up her eyes and turning down her mouth. “The misfortunes and evils of the world are past belief. You have only to leave home, huzur, and there is trouble “

“Is the sahib well?” Mrs. Mallard’s thoughts flew immediately to Jeffrey.

“This has naught to do with the sahib. It concerns the Rajbari, huzur. There is great tribulation at the Rajbari owing to the misconduct of one who has neither conscience nor pride in her virtue. Alas! That this should be!”

It was plain that the ayah was longing to embark upon a scandalous story, but traditional circumlocution was necessary before it could be told. The ground must be prepared, the listeners keyed up with anticipation and curiosity, or half the pleasure of conveying shocking news was lost.

“What has happened at the Rajbari?” questioned Mrs. Mallard patiently.

“Who has done—what?” asked Ruth.

“In all my days, we, of the people, have respected the purdah system for our women of birth and breeding, of high caste and good repute. Now, what is this? Some are free and go unveiled. Others are supposed to be in purdah, but in secret they violate the law. This one breaks it when she pleases and her man says nothing. He sees so many of his jât going openly before men, so what does he care? He has no use for purdah for his wife, nor any desire towards her, it seems. So she takes a lover:—ai Khoda!” In horror, the old woman threw up her hands crying, “Tobah!”

“Are you talking of Krishna Sahib’s wife Sunia, who comes to see us?” asked Mrs. Mallard.

“It couldn’t be anyone else,” said Ruth.

“Of a truth, it is the mother of the babe Hiramoti, Krishna Sahib’s son. It is a great shame, huzur. The Ranee’s tongue is sharp. She has naught but abuse for her daughter-in-law “

“What exactly has she done, ayah?” asked Ruth.

“I am coming to that. The serving woman in the zenana woke in the night, and heard screams coming from the rooms of Krishna Sahib, and quarrelling like tigers fighting. Running, she stood beneath the window and listened. The brothers were fighting at that late hour in the bedroom of the wife who has her own apartment next to her man’s, with her child. Suddenly, the Rajah Sahib, awakened by the confusion, came to see what was doing, and he stopped the fighting and demanded to hear what was the cause. ‘Let the elder speak first,’ he said, and Krishna Sahib told how he returned unexpectedly at midnight when he was not due home till today, and found, when he went to his wife, that his brother was with her.”

“I don’t think you should go on, ayah,” said Mrs. Mallard, feeling embarrassed on Ruth’s account. “This is no story for an unmarried girl to hear, and——”

Mummikins! . . . How benighted! She is not telling me anything I do not know. These are modern days, not Victorian. Go on, ayah. I must hear all now you have said so much. But is it true?”

“May I be struck down where I stand if what I say is false.”

“Never mind, go on, ayah.”

“A disgusting story. That little minx! I never did think much of her.” From Mrs. Mallard.

“We saw how the land lay, and should not be surprised. It has probably been going on a long time. ‘Still waters run deep’, as far as Nobin is concerned.”

“What happened then, ayah?” Mrs. Mallard asked the woman, resigning herself to listen to the sordid tale, with a very human anxiety to know how it ended.

“The two brothers fought as the elder felt dishonoured,” the ayah proceeded, “and no blame to him. Though he has ceased to treat his woman with kindness, he has pride in his position, and men commit murder in like cases. ‘What have you to say for yourself, Nobin?’ said the Rajah. ‘Nothing,’ said Nobin, ‘but that the girl would have been happier married to me. We want to be allowed to go away together.’ They talked and talked, while the wife wept and moaned, and repeated that she would go with Nobin. She wanted him and no other for her man. ‘Never shall it be said of me,’ the Rajah said ‘that I let evil triumph, and allow the wicked to go unpunished. My son-and-heir has been shamed and humiliated. His woman shall go back to her family. Go, Krishna, and telegraph to them in Benares to expect her. We don’t want her here. As for Nobin . . . he must go early tomorrow and take a train to Calcutta, and from there, to his tea garden in Assam. He shall learn to grow and make the tea the world drinks, and the English manager will teach him how. It will be better, for the present, that he lives away from home and so retrieves his sin against you and the family. You, daughter-in-law, make ready to start on your journey, your child will stay with his grandmother—there will be many to take care of him.’

“It was a wise decision,” said the ayah.

Chapter X

The White Woman

The next day Mrs. Mallard called on the Ranee to verify the ayah’s story of the disgrace that had befallen the highly respectable House of Kiapara, and, incidentally, to offer her sympathies. Such dishonour was hard to live down, and the Rajah’s wounded self-esteem would take long to recover. It was a sore humiliation for the family to feel that their private affairs were the talk of the bazaars, and that their enemies triumphed in their shame. No wonder that Krishna had flown to Delhi to stay with friends, till affairs readjusted themselves. It seemed that he had left by private plane, even before his faithless wife had been taken in a passion of hysteria, and put into a train with two female attendants for Benares, via Calcutta.

Ruth was relieved to hear of his departure, for she could exercise the Arab horse daily without having to accept Krishna’s escort, whether she liked it or not. She had no justifiable reason for returning the horse to its stable at the Rajbari, as it belonged to the Rajah and not to his son, so she had no need to feel under obligation in the matter, as she owed the Rajah a great deal more than the loan of a horse.

There was an air of deep depression prevailing at the Rajbari when Mrs. Mallard was conducted to the zenana. Even the peons thought it respectful to wear long faces and subdue their voices when gossiping on the front steps.

The Ranee was as pleased to see her as always, but her old eyes flashed when she discussed the enormity of her younger son’s behaviour, and her daughter-in-law’s lack of morality.

And think, Memsahib, what a bad example to set to the young wives in the zenana! It all comes of listening to talk of emancipation from purdah life, the poison of discontent. What more did she want than she had? My son Krishna is a man that any wife can be proud of. True, he has a bad temper and sometimes beats her when roused by her silly obstinacy, but hasn’t he given her a fine son who will one day be the Rajah?—though may that day be far distant. Long may the Rajah live! Oh, if I could have laid my hands on her, I would have torn her hair from her head, and slapped her face soundly!”

“She seemed fond of Nobin,” ventured Mrs. Mallard.

“Who wasn’t fond of Nobin?” cried Nobin’s mother proudly, forgetting for the moment that he was in disgrace. “A gentler character doesn’t breathe. Always kind and soft-voiced. That is why his father never did him justice. ‘He’s not a man. He has no stomach for violent games in which his brother excels,’ said he. ‘He’s good for nothing.’ Not a man? Good for nothing? They have different natures perhaps, but Nobin was man enough to take the woman he wanted and fight his brother in self-defence. ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, ‘that any son of mine is not a man’!” she concluded illogically.

“You are not defending Nobin surely?” Mrs. Mallard could not resist saying.

“Why not? Isn’t he also my son?”

“She was not entirely to blame, Ranee Sahiba.”

“The woman is always to blame,” said the Ranee. “But for these women, there would be no unfaithful wives, and dishonoured husbands.”

“But for men,” said Mrs. Mallard, “there would be no unfaithful wives.”

“There is that to be said, I admit. It takes two men and a woman to break up a home. But the woman is always the one to begin it. Haven’t I seen how Sunia lifted and dropped her eyes and went through all kinds of tricks to lure Nobin on? It’s nature, of course; for the female is the one to draw the male; he only yields to the desire his manhood dictates. If Sunia had not cast down her eyes and made sidelong looks at Nobin through her eyelashes, he would not have forgotten the relationship existing between them, which permitted him to make free with the zenana. That very relationship should have made her like a sister, inviolable.”

“I think, if you will pardon my disagreeing with you,” said Mrs. Mallard, thinking only of the unfairness of blaming the girl-wife solely for what had happened, “that Nobin was sorry for her, because Krishna used to treat her violently and hit her when angry. That was enough to make him wish to comfort her, and so it went on till nature took a hand in it.”

“And why shouldn’t a husband beat his own wife without anything being said? It’s the only way to keep her in order. She belongs to him, doesn’t she?”

“I only say it proves that he must lose her affection in the end, and so make her look to another for comfort.”

“We don’t look at marriage like that, Memsahib,” said the Ranee. “A good, virtuous wife regards her husband as her lord, and never lets her mind stray to any other man. In your country where all mix freely and marriage is a matter of choice, you have no virgins, many divorces, and unwanted old maids, deprived of motherhood because denied by nature the gift of allure. Not so with us. To us, the motive of life is to bring children into the world that the generations do not fail; therefore, when a man takes a woman to himself, to be the mother of his children, he likes to know without doubt that they are his, and not another man’s, so he invents the purdah system, and she is made exclusive. She may not look on another man. She has to veil her face heavily, so that no man is attracted to her. In this way we have no unfaithful wives among the higher classes. Looser behaviour, the mixing of men and women, belongs to the labouring classes. Therefore, with us, is the shame of infidelity unpardonable in a wife, and it falls heavily on the husband she has dishonoured.

“You see Krishna’s dilemma? He will now begin to wonder if his son is his or Nobin’s; and that will poison his life. The Rajah says that with a character like hers, it will be a risk for Hiramoti to remain in the line of succession to the gâdi, and to his vast properties. It may be that Krishna may yet take another wife, and her child be allowed to supersede Sunia’s.”

“But do you think that would be fair to the child Hiramoti? You, personally, know that she never thought of Nobin till lately, and Hiramoti is two years old.”

“That may be. But it would not be to the honour of Kiapara for a Rajah to have an outcast for his mother. It is going to be a problem for the Rajah and Krishna.”

Mrs. Mallard returned home to amuse Jeffrey with an account of her visit to the Ranee.

“I never in my life heard anything so one-sided, or so unfair. The husband may do as he pleases. His morals may not be criticized when he is unfaithful to his wife. He may even take more than one wife, which is considered perfectly respectable. But let her make one slip, and she is forthwith cast into outer darkness, and becomes a thing of shame to the end of her days.”

“That will all disappear when there is no more purdah to accentuate sex-life, and women take their stand on an equality with men,” said Jeffrey. “The next generation accustomed to freedom will probably behave differently. The old Ranee is a product of an ancient school of thought, so you can’t expect anything different from her. But in spite of her want of logic, and her narrow outlook, she has some sound ideas. I have no doubt that you get quite a kick out of arguing the toss with her. I used to, long ago, with the old boy, but he’s losing his sense of humour as the present generation are too go-ahead for him and Krishna is beyond control.”

Ruth often had the feeling at Kiapara, of the horizon fencing her in. There were trees and the sky, and no getting away from the villages and the paddy-fields. The life she had known and loved was beyond her reach for ever more.

Where was Nigel? Had he managed to put her out of his mind? Was he planning to return home in the spring, knowing he would probably never see her again? Was he disillusioned and disgusted with her after receiving her father’s letter telling him not to write again or expect her to change her mind?

He had not written again, thereby showing that he had accepted her decision as final. He was probably sick of the whole thing, believing her shallow and without depth of character, and he would end by despising her utterly.

It hurt Ruth inconceivably to think of the injustice to herself, of Nigel despising her for committing the greatest sacrifice of her life in his interests. Many a girl in her place would have married him and told him nothing more than the fact of her adoption. There were many illegitimate children being adopted in these times, and they would marry some day, and no one be the worse for it. She could have done the same with Nigel, and ‘where ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise’. But she could not do it.

Her adopted parents had regarded it as a matter of conscience that she should be told, when old enough, the facts of her birth and her tragic background, so that she should not marry under false pretences. She, too, had the same impulse towards the truth, but went further. She declined to marry at all if it meant degrading herself in the sight of her lover with so unsavoury a story. In Nigel’s case, she had also to think of his position and save him from the shame of contracting so unsuitable a marriage. She went over all this constantly to convince herself that she could not have done otherwise.

If told the truth, would he feel justified in marrying her? He had to think of his family and the future heir, before pleasing himself.

The whole thing did not bear examination, and her only hope of happiness lay in teaching herself to forget him.

Ruth shopped occasionally for her mother in the local bazaar, and took an interest in chatting with the shopkeepers and their families. She found them simple, friendly people, responsive to notice, and ready to welcome her whenever she appeared—generally, with a bodyguard of nude children and pariah dogs.

There was a time when the natives regarded the Sahiblog as a superior race, to be respected and treated with reverence. From father to son they had grown up through generations to look up to the British as their overlords by divine right. Jeffrey had told her this, and of how, in his father’s time, an Indian would not ride past an Englishman, but had to dismount and lead his pony. Not to do so was disrespectful. Umbrellas had to be lowered and closed at sight of an Englishman walking on the same pavement, even though the sluice gates of heaven were open, and torrential rain falling. These, and other traditional acts of respect, were instituted by pompous Rajahs and arrogant Nawabs; and were accorded to the ruling race, whose prestige was high.

However, with the political consciousness of the people awakening, and fired by propaganda and education, with aspirations towards self-government, the humble attitude of the natives had changed in one generation, and the progress of evolution was gaining in momentum. Voices had been raised against the old order; freedom of speech had allowed sedition to be preached with impunity. Leaders of the Congress party had agitated for National rights; concessions were made; more were demanded, and more were conceded. Conciliation was regarded as weakness, and the Government was gradually discredited. Its prestige was shaken in the eyes of the masses. Students became vociferous and insulting. A Liberal administration encouraged ambition; propagandists in rural areas spread revolutionary doctrines. Members of the intelligentsia went to prison for defiance of the law, and unrest was general.

Within Jeffrey’s experience, changes reached their climax after the end of the Second World War, when India was granted independence, but not without some passion and prejudice and grave warnings. Finally, power was handed over by the British Government to the politicians, and two newly created sovereign states came into being, with blessings and promises of advice and help if needed. At first, grim tragedies and hysterical rejoicings intermingled. Riots and bloodshed ushered in a new era for the sub-continent, with panic and confusion that threatened to justify every evil prophecy, till, in due course, wise counsels prevailed, army and police assisting; after which, confidence was restored. Populations were transferred and exchanged, the ownership of properties readjusted, and compensation paid; the question of boundaries clarified, and the refugee problem tackled with skill and sympathy.

Jeffrey discovered, almost overnight, a beneficent improvement in the attitude of the natives of Kiapara towards the few British left in the district. Old resentments had vanished and there was an underlying spirit of appreciation noticeable following the magnanimity of the British Government towards what had been a subject race. The altruistic resignation of an Empire for the promotion of peace and goodwill was without parallel in history.

It was disconcerting at first to Jeffrey, to have all his alarming prognostications discounted. Beyond inevitable reactions after the great upheaval, civil war and anarchy did not occur; and the population gladly settled down to their peaceful avocations, thankful to go their way as before, free and unrestricted. Communal riots flared up occasionally, but came to nothing when it was realized that nothing was achieved, for rival parties were unmatched, and communities depleted.

It was a new India that Jeffrey saw evolve out of the old, in which the babu no longer shed his shoes humbly on the doorstep when he paid a business call on a sahib, instead, he showed off gaudily striped socks and elastic-sided, patent-leather shoes as he crossed his legs and smoked the cigarette he was offered.

In towns, students were arrogant and self-assertive, taking every opportunity to jostle European pedestrians on the pavements, or to whistle seductively to unattended English girls, if only to prove equality of status. Office clerks assumed a patronizing air to a white man in quest of an interview with the boss; railway subordinates lolled in their seats and spat pân-juice with impunity in the premises, and were no longer obsequious to irate foreigners with a grievance.

At Kiapara, life continued as usual, and there was no disposition on the part of the natives or domestic servants to take advantage of the situation to assert themselves, or to try to humiliate English people, whose business commitments kept them in the country, though it was no longer under British rule.

For one thing it was not to the advantage of the shopkeepers in the bazaars to make themselves unpopular with the sahibs, who were their best customers in the district, and servants feared to lose lucrative jobs in domestic service, as it was no longer easy to find others where they would be so well paid. Besides, many were attached sincerely to their English masters, and secretly regretted the change. To them it was a major calamity, for they had nothing to gain, and everything to lose by it. Jeffrey, being the Rajah’s right hand, was a figurehead in those parts, and regarded as a permanency, whatever might befall.

But much of the fighting spirit had gone out of Jeffrey now that hope of retirement had died, and he had nothing to look forward to but charity, or dying in harness. When he allowed himself to think of the future, he had ‘cold feet’, and did his best to take no thought for the morrow as the present was about all he could face. It was some sort of consolation to think that he should not look too far ahead, for something might yet turn up to make a change for the better. One could never tell.

Ruth often sat on a stool in Abdul Hussein’s shop and chatted on the subject of politics or local affairs while he measured out yards of material which she needed for replacements in the home. He and a handful of Moslems had risked trouble by staying where they were, instead of joining in the flight to Pakistan territory. The plight of refugees had not inspired Abdul with any desire to drop the bird in the hand for two in the bush, unless offered compensation to move. Besides, he placed his confidence in the Rajah’s power to protect his tenants, and for the rest, it was Kismet what happened next.

On the opposite side of the road was a row of shops under one label— “Gunesh Chunder Roy, Swadeshi General Stores, Under the Distinguished Patronage of the Rajah of Kiapara.” It was written in both English and Hindustani, and it was rumoured that the concern did exceedingly well, for it catered for all communities and domestic requirements; combining hardware with cotton goods, canned groceries, fresh vegetables and agricultural needs made in India. Its doorposts were decorated with everything attractive to the shopper’s eye; pots and pans, bamboo baskets, tin bath-tubs, bins, pitchforks, rakes, and country-made toys for children.

The lifelong feud existing between the Hindus and Moslems found expression in the Kiapara bazaar in violent propaganda on the part of Gunesh against the quality of Abdul’s imported cotton goods; a campaign which was calculated to ruin his trade and force him to remove himself to other parts, so as to leave the field clear for the Hindu. Against this, Abdul was powerless, and would expatiate on his grievance against his powerful rival to Ruth, whenever she called to buy something at his shop.

Abdul’s wife would help him only when there were no male customers, as she was a proud adherent to the purdah system, and preferred exclusiveness as a mark of self-respect. She dressed well, had a gracious manner, and welcomed visits from the English girl, because she took an interest in her young brood of children. Moreover, she was a good customer of late, buying only from the Mohammedan as she liked his English goods.

Abdul’s children, true to custom, ran wild with the other youngsters in the bazaar, irrespective of caste and creed, and all in various degrees of nudity.

After she had settled her bill and Abdul was engaged with another customer, Ruth usually paid his wife a visit at the back of the shop, and found her one day earnestly endeavouring to master an English primer.

“Let me help you,” she said, and for a while the ‘Mother-of-Kareem’, as she was known—taking her identity from her first-born—was assisted to pronounce English correctly, and read words of one syllable. When tired of so much concentration, she settled down to gossip, telling Ruth of the dangers and difficulties attending the business which was out-rivalled by Gunesh Chunder Roy’s.

“Why not retire to somewhere in Pakistan, Kareem-ki-ma? Surely you would feel happier on Moslem territory?” said Ruth.

“Sshush!” whispered the Moslem woman. “It is what we hope to do. It will be costly to transfer all we have, and the children are too young. I have had one every year for six times, and all are a great charge. My servant left with the refugees, and now I have only a low caste Hindu to help cook and care for the youngest. How to make a long journey by train so burdened? But in a year or so, perhaps, it will be accomplished. My man will then buy a second-hand hawagari² and we can all be together, and not have to risk the hazards of a train journey with—who knows—-what murderous attacks at wayside stations?

“How glad the father of my children will be to turn his back on that Hindu swine across the way! Have you heard, Miss Sahib, of his young English wife?”

“English wife?” Ruth thought she could not have heard aright.

“Yes, Miss Sahib. They tell me she is English. No one is allowed to look on her face, for Gunesh Chunder is a jealous man and only by keeping her purdah can he hope to live in peace.

“He will even leave his customers to take a peep at her, to make sure she is there and not making eyes at someone through the bars in her window. My servant has a sister working for the lady, and she says what-like she is. Very fair, and with hair like what grows from a head of bhoota³, and her eyes are as blue as the skies. She cries a great deal, and, of course, married to one like that—not of her race, and kept like a caged bird, when accustomed to be free, what-for will she submit? Therefore, she weeps.”

“I would like to know more of this. Where, and how, did she come to marry such a man?”

“There is much talk in the bazaars for miles, and all are filled with curiosity, even the young men who work in their father’s fields, and the sons of the zemindars who are on holiday from college. But Gunesh is cunning. He knows the wickedness of men, and has built a high wall round his back yard, for he takes no chances of her being overlooked when she eats the air.”

“What is known of her?”

The Moslem lady shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows how much is to be believed? But my man did get a letter from an importer in Calcutta, who used to know Gunesh, before he went Swadeshi. It said her mother died when the child was very young; and her father cannot work as he is always drunk. They had rooms in a poor quarter, for he was living on the charity of friends. When they all left the country, he and the girl would have starved, but Babu Gunesh Chunder Roy, who once employed this so-called Sahib, took the girl to wife by an arrangement with her father to save her from the fate that threatened her; for, as she could not find work suitable to her when all her race were leaving the country, it remained for her to support herself and her father by living a life of shame. So it is no blame to her that she married Gunesh. My heart melts for her, as Gunesh hates the British, and must often make her pay for that hatred, and for having to pay a heavy fine in court by order of the British for cheating a customer.”

Ruth was horrified at this tale, and hurried home to tell her parents about it.

“How appalling!” said Mrs. Mallard. “If it is true, she is to be pitied. Our ayah told me something about the shopkeeper, Gunesh, having a white wife in purdah, but who pays attention to bazaar gossip? I wonder if the Ranee knows, and what she has to say about it.”

“Nobody can do anything about it, if the girl was old enough to know what she was about, and is past the ‘age of consent’, said Jeffrey, “her blood be on her own head if she has chosen to marry him in expectation of wealth and an easy life.”

“I would like to see her, but wonder how it could be managed,” said Ruth.

It occurred to her that she might offer to call on her, if her husband raised no objection. His wife would surely want to see and talk with someone of her own nationality?

She, accordingly, called at the shop, with the excuse of buying a coir mat for the pantry, and was served by Gunesh himself, a heavily-made Bengali Babu, inclined towards obesity, with an aggravatingly condescending manner, and whose English was marred by the clipped accent and inflection of India.

“Someone told me that you are married to an Englishwoman. Is that a fact?” Ruth asked, trying to sound pleasant, while he was directing an assistant to pack up the mat.

“I will have it sent to you Miss Sahib, no doubt tomorrow,” he said, ignoring her question, his face entirely expressionless. If he meant it as a snub, Ruth was not taking it.

“That will suit me quite well. But what about my question, Babu?”

“My private affairs are my own, Miss Sahib, and I do not discuss them with my customers.”

A slap in the face, thought Ruth. Here was something that wanted looking into. As an Englishwoman, she felt it a duty to find out how another Englishwoman was faring in very peculiar circumstances. She refused to be offended, and tried again.

“Forgive me, Babu, but I am naturally interested to hear she is English. Is there any reason why she may not receive a visit from me, when I am only wanting to make friends?”

“Maybe there isn’t, Miss Baba. Only it is not my wish, and a wife has to respect her husband’s wishes. Having accepted my domiciliary conditions and adopted the customs of my country, she can have no further interest in her countrywomen.”

“That means you intend to deprive her of any friends she may want to have? Isn’t that rather like zullum?”⁴

“Call it what you please, lady. I do not intend that anyone should interfere between husband and wife, or dictate to me how I should manage my own affairs.” His tone was almost insulting.

“Certainly, if the law is on your side, no one can force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“What exactly do you mean when you say, ‘if the law’?——”

“I am not so sure that she is your wife, Babu Gunesh Chunder Roy.”

He looked at her malignantly.

“Why should you doubt it?”

“Because I know that the British law would not consider it legal, a British subject to be married to one who was already married.”

Ruth wondered at her own courage in talking as she was doing to this Indian, who had no love for the British; but she had a conviction that no Englishwoman could be happy in the circumstances described to her, and Gunesh’s behaviour did not give her any confidence in him. Indian wives in purdah were always permitted to entertain female visitors, and they enjoyed doing so. Their husbands never dreamed of denying them such a simple pleasure. But Gunesh, presumably married to an Englishwoman, refused to let her have access to visitors of her own sex and nationality. What was he afraid of? Letting the world discover that she was miserable, and that he had no legal right to keep her in restraint?

“You seem greatly interested in my private concerns, Miss Baba” he said, frowning at her. “May I ask what business it is of yours?”

“I know it is very interfering of me, but quite natural, all the same, that I should wish to call on an English girl, when there are practically none in the district. I should think you would feel complimented, instead of annoyed—unless—there is something you wish to hide?”

“I have nothing to hide. We were married according to our law (not British), a year ago, in Calcutta. What may not be legal in England, is so in India. The question, therefore, of my having been married before does not arise.”

“Well—I cannot force you to allow me to call on her, and I’m sorry, for it might have pleased her to see me. Perhaps the Ranee will persuade you to change your mind. I am going to see her today.”

The mention of the Ranee seemed to make Gunesh reconsider his attitude. All Kiapara knew that Ruth was a favourite with her. The Ranee had the Rajah’s ear, and the Rajah could ruin him if he wanted to do so.

“Look, Miss Baba,” he said, with a perceptible change of tone, “when I deny visitors to my wife, I do so in her own interests, for she is likely to get unsettled. She has had private trouble of her own from which I rescued her, and it will take a little time for her to get used to a new way of life—a thing she accepted with her eyes open. No one forced her into it. Now you know. Far better to wait till she is reconciled—I mean—” he immediately corrected himself—“contented, which will be when her child is born. At present, she is a little troubled with—what you call—let me see—nostalgia. That’s it. It is inevitable, so why go for to make things worse for her?”

“I promise not to make things worse, but to cheer her and—give her hope.”

“Hope? Hope of what?” He picked her up on the word.

“Why—hope. No one can live without hope. It is hope that keeps up one’s morale. You surely see that?”

He was not sure that she had no deeper meaning. Nevertheless, she had won by her persistence and her hint of the Ranee. It was apparently no wish of his to rouse the Ranee’s interest in his domestic concerns, for she was a very interfering old lady, who thought nothing of making it her business to see that people were not allowed to please themselves. It was she they must please, and what she considered right was law for those who lived on the Rajah’s property and hoped to prosper. It was in the Rajah’s power not to renew his lease in the bazaar, when it terminated in a few months time.

Self-interest and his financial prospects dictated a saner line of conduct, and he smiled craftily.

“What can I do when a lady insists?” he asked apologetically. “If Miss Baba feels like honouring my wife with a visit, how to persist in disappointing her? No! No! Whatever the objections, they must stand aside. I will go and prepare her. Please excuse to me.” And Gunesh Chunder Roy retired into the rear apartments at the back of the shop, while Ruth waited in quiet appreciation of her triumph.

Chapter XI

A Proposal of Marriage

There were signs of agitation on Gunesh’s heavy face when he returned to lead Ruth to his wife’s apartments, and she thought he looked nervous.

“My wife is hysterical and talks wildly you will find, but that is to be expected in her condition,” he said on the way.

A rather gloomy passage in a brick-built annexe, heavily stocked with stores, brought her to the living-rooms in the rear, and she was conducted through a door which Gunesh unlocked, and was ushered into a bright airy English-looking bed-sitting-room, furnished in English style, but with bars in the windows instead of curtains. In one of the windows, seated on the ledge, was the sole occupant—the English girl clad in a sâri, and glittering with gems. Her arms were covered with bangles, called choories, her bare feet were in sandals, and she might have been pretty, but for the tragic expression of her young face. Ruth judged she was under twenty.

“My wife,” said Gunesh briefly.

“Good morning,” said Ruth amiably. “I have been so anxious to make your acquaintance.”

“But why?” asked the girl sullenly.

“Because you and I are both English. I thought you might be lonely.” She turned to the husband. “Don’t let me keep you from the shop.”

“I have seen to that,” he replied, showing that he was taking no chances in leaving the girls alone. “Perhaps you will do me the honour of taking a seat?” and he placed a chair for her by the window near his wife; and Ruth saw a paved courtyard, a corner of which was a dumping ground for packing cases, straw, and paper. Lively sparrows and a prowling cat provided the only signs of life.

Ruth realized that she had undertaken a very difficult task, for, with Gunesh present, there was no possibility of winning his wife’s confidence. Who was she? Obviously of no birth or breeding for her features were coarsely pretty, and her voice unrefined. But she was very young and possibly attractive to some men, were the thoughts that passed swiftly through Ruth’s mind. She was probably seventeen, hardly more. But what a sullen face!

“My name is Ruth Mallard, what is yours?” Ruth asked, with an engaging smile.

“Does it matter? He says I am ‘Luchmi’.”

“But that is Indian.”

“I am now of Indian nationality, he says.” She spoke with complete indifference, a frown on her brow.

“You must have had an English name, surely?”

“Of course. It was ‘Lucy Norton’. Want to know more?”—defiantly; “my father was paid a sum of money to hand me over to this man, and was left to drink himself to death. I don’t care, for he never cared about us—my mother and me.”

“Need you say all this?” protested Gunesh.

“Yes. One day I’ll scream it from my window. One day I’ll go mad. Let her know I hate you. I hate you, and will kill you if you lay a finger on me!”

“Be quiet, Luchmi,” he said sternly. “No good your behaving like this. You now belong to me; and—” he turned to Ruth, “what sort of wife is this? A mad woman she is, and I am wasting my time trying to tame her. But I’ll do it yet.

“You married me, didn’t you, by Hindu rites?” he hissed at her.

“I must have been drunk when I did it. You and my father between you drugged me with drink. I did not know what I was doing.”

“It’s too late to say that now. When you come to your senses you’ll settle down. Don’t forget you will be the mother of my child.”

“I will kill it—and myself.”

Gunesh made a gesture of despair.

“Now, Miss Baba, you have seen her, are you satisfied?” he said harshly. “It is like this every day, and there is only peace when I am in the shop or asleep.”

“Why don’t you let her go, Babu?”

“I paid her father a large sum for her——”

“But you can’t buy slaves. No law will permit that.”

“She is my wife, the money is another matter. I have a right to keep her. In the end I will wear her down and she will learn who is master.”

“You cannot do this to her!”

“Who is going to prevent me?”

“I will. Do you want to come, Lucy?”

Lucy burst into a passion of tears and for a while was demented, crying, “I want to go—let me go!”

“I will ask you to leave us, Miss Baba. This is my concern and I will deal with her.”

“I will go straight to my father, and he will advise me what to do.” She laid a hand on the girl’s head reassuringly. “You are driving her mad. You cannot keep her against her will!”

“Can’t I? This is nobody’s business. I am good to her. I would give her the earth if she ceased all this wild behaviour and made up her mind to accept her position as my wife. She has nothing against me. What-for does she trouble so much? You see why I said leave her alone, or you upset her?”

“She is very unhappy and you know she hates you. Why make a prisoner of her? I think you should let me take her to my home with me for a little while till she recovers her mental balance. Just now she is not herself. When she is better she will be able to decide what she wants to do.”

Gunesh looked at her as if she herself had lost her senses.

“Let you take my wife from me?” He laughed viciously.

“You can’t want to keep her when she hates the sight of you?”

“Why not? She is my woman now, and her duty is to me. I will teach her to be less obstinate and violent. Soon she will be all I wish. Leave her to me.” And he practically turned Ruth out and locked the door behind him.

Ruth went home feeling violently upset, and poured out the whole story to her mother, and later to her father when he returned from work. It would be a crime, she said, to leave Lucy with her so-called husband when it was driving her mad to have no freedom, no society. The man was a bully and a coward, and would be the death of her if she were not taken away from him.

“I don’t see how anyone can do anything in a case like this,” said Jeffrey, “She must have been drunk or a fool to have allowed this to happen. No one has a right to interfere between the man and his wife—for I have no doubt she knew what she was about. Anyhow, it is no business of ours. Have you any idea what it would cost to employ a lawyer to ferret out the truth of the marriage and then extricate her from the fellow’s clutches? He has got her for keeps, and it is evidently an opportunity for him to work off some of his hatred of the British on an English wife.”

“But Daddy, we can’t stand aside and leave her to such a fate!”

“We’ll have to. Nor can the Ranee do anything, if that is your idea. This is his country and the civil law will be in his favour. If there is any doubt of the issue, he’ll bribe the lawyers and the Court to decide the case in his favour.”

This was a bad blow for Ruth, who took the matter to heart and felt like moving heaven and earth to effect a rescue. Gunesh was not the man to make any girl happy. He was cruel and possessive, and would not hesitate to terrorize Lucy into submission. Nor would anyone know it, for he guarded her too well. The whole village was talking of the marriage, but few knew the facts of the case.

The following day Krishna returned from Delhi, and took up his life where he had left it, wiping Sunia out of his mind as though she had ceased to exist.

The first Ruth knew of his return was when he joined her in her ride as before, making himself doubly agreeable to her because he had not seen her for a week. Hoping to achieve something by appealing to him for his support in the rescue of Lucy, she confided the whole story to him. He was instantly flattered at her seeking his help, but made it very clear that no one had any power to take the girl away from her husband when he could not be charged with cruelty in a legal sense. She was his chattel and as such Gunesh was fully responsible for her well-being and support. Krishna then allowed something of his own desire to appear, while he looked at Ruth and talked to her of his having missed her while he had been away.

“I have never known myself like this before,” said he almost tremulously. “Could I get you out of my head? Do what I could, you were there all the time, Ruth. Sweet Ruth! Don’t turn your face away, I—I—I love every line of it and I have realized that I am no good unless you consent to be mine! I offer you marriage. Ruth. Freedom—none of that purdah business!” Passion crept into his voice—“a place at my side in society. We’ll live in Delhi, and only use the Rajbari as a country house when my father dies. I already have plans,” he continued in a torrent of words, giving her no chance to speak, “for rebuilding the Rajbari into a palace fit for a wife such as you. I have dreams of loading you with jewels. Say the word, and whatever you desire will be yours. If you want to travel I am ready. If it’s round the world, I won’t say no. Just think of your power over me. You can make it heaven or hell.” He stopped for sheer breathlessness.

“Krishna, how can you!” she at length managed to say. “How could you, for a moment, think I would say ‘yes’ when you know how it is with me? Didn’t I tell you I am heart and soul in love with someone else? It isn’t easy to tear an image out of one’s heart, and put another in its place.”

It was ghastly having to speak of it, but she felt compelled to do so in order that he should never propose marriage to her again. Besides, there was Sunia! Was he mad to think she could overlook the existence of Sunia?

“Don’t answer me so hastily!” cried Krishna, emotionally. “You don’t know how I have been building on this ever since you returned to us and allowed me the privilege of seeing you every day.”

“If I thought it over for years, I’d still have to say I can never marry you, for I would never marry a man I did not love. And there is another reason. As a Christian, my religion, as well as the law of my country, forbids it while Sunia is your wife. You, as a polygamist, feel differently in these matters. I am not a polygamist.”

“I care nothing for your religion or your marriage laws,” said Krishna, becoming heated. “Men and women recognize only one code, and that is the great need to have and to possess the one being that means the world to them. You are, to me, that woman. If you could love me, and you will, you would come to me despite every obstacle. It is done every day. What of the divorce court? Or are you thinking of the racial question? My colour?” His lips trembled so that he could scarcely form the words.

“No, Krishna. If I loved you, your colour would mean nothing to me. I know what it is to love, and no other being in the world exists for me but one. I told you I have given him up. I shall never see him again.” Tears ran down her face. Why had she to recall Nigel! Why wasn’t she to be allowed to forget him?

“That is my strong point,” insisted Krishna. “He is out of your life—you say so—then why not let me make it up to you? Listen,” he went on, as Ruth was past speaking at the moment. “I was given a prospective wife when I was a schoolboy. We came together when she was old enough by law to be given to her husband. I had no idea of love. How could I? I took her just as I would have taken a drink of wine. It was good while I tasted it. But it was impossible for me to feel one with that uneducated, mindless fool, or even to make a companion of her. We had not a single idea in common. She was no wife for me. For years we have quarrelled and made it up, and quarrelled again. How long can one endure that? Then you came—That’s all. I can’t say more. You came Ruth! I saw in you all I wanted and admired. I felt I could make you happy. It was not for nothing we played together as children. You just got me, and you cannot do this thing to me—deny me, and ruin my life!”

“I can only say I am very sorry,” said Ruth.

“You mean that as final?”

“Absolutely. I could not marry you as I don’t feel I could ever love you or want you as my husband.”

“You feel superior!” Krishna’s temper, rarely controlled, broke bounds, and Ruth was alarmed at the look in his eyes. When she would have turned her horse round and galloped for home he caught her reins, and obliged her to hear him out.

“I am black, and you are white. That alone is the difficulty, only you are too polite to say so. Damn your feelings! Consider mine for once——”

“You are quite wrong, Krishna!”

“We are proud people, and understand that I compliment you when I offer you marriage. I, the heir to my father’s estates and great wealth!” The words spluttered from him in his rage and humiliation. “Who are you? Just you consider what you are and what I am! We of Kiapara belong to the aristocracy of India, you belong to the gutter. Born in a prison and saved from an orphanage by my mother! She could not have you, so the Mallards, who owe their livelihood to the Rajah, brought you up, the Ranee footing the bills. And now her son having set aside the shame of your birth and illegitimacy, is looked down upon and scorned for his colour. It is farcical! You can go!” and he flung the reins from him. “I have nothing more to say.” For the moment Ruth thought he was insane. He was in any case beside himself with rage and disappointment.

“But I have!” she cried, recovering her wits. “And that is, I have never in my life met such a cad. You—swine! You dare to say such wicked things to me. They may be true, but for you to fling them in my face makes you vile. If you were the last man in the world I would not marry you. I hope I need never see or speak to you again.”

Ruth rode home quietly, while he took another direction. She had said enough to make her confident that he would not try to overtake her, and he had said so much himself, that he could not possibly add to his insults.

But what would happen now?

Thinking of her father’s position made her feel anxious and uneasy. The Rajah would probably take his son’s part and feel that there was only one thing to be done, give him the required notice and tell him to go. They would soon be homeless.

Ruth panicked, for she realized that these were bad times for Englishmen in India, and with situations hard to find for the young, how much more so for the old?

It was not the climate in which to preserve youth, and men aged more rapidly than in England. Jeffrey over sixty was getting white, and his heart was not as robust as formerly. He should have been able to retire and take life easy in an armchair at home in England. It was agony to think of the darling old dad having to go from pillar to post begging agents of industrial concerns to give him work. And what were his qualifications? He was good with labour—or was. Nowadays, with the mischief of Communism infiltrating into the country, labour had become well-nigh unmanageable. He understood the management of zemindaris—the Rajah could vouch for that. But would he, if he listened to Krishna, who would want them all out of Kiapara in the shortest possible time? The Rajah might also feel offended that anyone placed in her position should have the impudence to look down on his family, for so Krishna would make it appear.

Ruth returned to the bungalow hardly able to restrain her tears.

“See what I’ve done!” was her attitude. “All through me Daddy will lose his job, and we’ll have to get out.”

When she heard all, Mrs. Mallard’s sympathies were entirely with Ruth.

“The idea of his expecting you to marry him when there is Sunia!” she cried. “It would be quite immoral, apart from anything else. Besides, we don’t believe in mixed marriages. See what that unfortunate girl in the bazaar has done for herself!”

Though Krishna was far more enlightened and cultured than Gunesh, Mrs. Mallard knew that mixed marriages were bound to bring unhappiness to both parties, having seen too much of that sort of thing in her time. True, snobbishness and prejudice had a lot to do with it during British rule, yet there was much against the idea; and she talked to Ruth of the plight of Eurasians. “I could not bear you to have children who were ‘half-castes’. The Freeborn children are bad enough. This would be worse!”

Jeffrey, as expected, was for going straight to the Rajah to hand in his resignation. How had Krishna dared to insult Ruth as he had done? It might not have been an insult to want to marry her, but to have thrown up that unspeakable story of her birth in her face was unpardonable, and something should be done about it.

“Don’t do anything in a hurry,” his wife counselled. “Sleep on it.”

Jeffrey slept on it, and walked round to see the Rajah the next morning, his temper well in hand, but his sense of true sportsmanship was violated, and he was up in arms. His contempt for the son-and-heir made him feel that he would relish giving him a good horse-whipping, but for the certain knowledge that he would be charged in court for assault, and the unpleasant facts that led to it come out publicly. However, the Rajah would have to know what an unsporting cad Krishna had shown himself to be. The old man, being a great sportsman, would appreciate the enormity of the act.

He was too early for the Rajah, who rarely interviewed callers till the sun was high in the heavens. He was getting old, was his excuse, being in his seventies, and was obliged to consider his disabilities. Jeffrey had, therefore, to wait for him in the private office, getting more and more irate as his grievance against Krishna piled up. He had not changed his mind about his resignation, for his self-respect demanded it under the circumstances. Whatever might happen afterwards—failure to secure work, hardship and misery, was on the knees of the gods.

At length, the Rajah came in at his usual leisurely stride, and took the wind out of Jeffrey’s sails by saying,

“I see my son has been making a fool of himself where your girl is concerned.” Krishna, of course, had made the most of his rejection, and tried to enlist his father on his side!

“I have really called Rajah Sahib, to offer my resignation.”

“Why take the thing so seriously, Jeffrey Sahib?” The old man said conciliatingly. “I am very angry with Krishna, and am sorry to say there have been hard words between us. First, let me take the blame for telling him the story of Ruth’s adoption. I had to do so in the interests of all. If he had succeeded in persuading her, I would have been obliged to disinherit him and make either Nobin or Hiramoti my heir. It would have had to be Nobin, I think, as Hiramoti’s mother has forfeited her right to be regarded as respectable. However, I made that clear to Krishna not long ago when he confided his intentions to me, and I warned him not to go on with it. He has not only disobeyed me, but insulted the girl we all love. My heart bleeds for her humiliation. I believe if I had been a younger man, I would have taken a stick to Krishna and broken it on his back. I am ashamed of his unsporting conduct, and his ill-manners towards an English lady in these peculiar times. If anything, he should have been most considerate, now that the British have retired from the country.”

Every time Jeffrey tried to get in a word, the Rajah interrupted him very suavely, as if to give him time to cool down and reconsider his resignation.

“Now,” he went on, raising a hand to arrest the flow of indignation threatening to swamp the argument, “I feel that nothing should be allowed to disturb the good relations that have existed between you and me all these years. I would take it as a personal slight, Jeffrey Sahib, if you threw up your situation because of my son’s romantic folly and his indiscretion. You know how I dislike changes, and it will be a bad day for Kiapara if I lose you. I pay you the compliment of saying that I know of no one I should care to put in your place, for you not only know the business of administering my estates blindfold, but you are liked and respected by all the raiyats and the tenants here. A new man would, probably, feather his nest, as the saying is, by raking in nazzas, which is neither more nor less than bribes for favours granted. He would grow fat on the pickings. Don’t think that I have not duly considered all I owe to you, my old friend. For that—and this is strictly between us—I intend to reward you with a pension when you wish to retire. I have long decided to do so, and for that shall be sending for my lawyer presently, to make it secure.” He patted his manager’s arm, and laughed comfortably.

Having completely disarmed Jeffrey, by confining his wrath to Krishna alone, there was nothing more to be done than for the Englishman to return to the bungalow much relieved in mind that he was not out of a job, and strengthened in his determination to have nothing more to say to Krishna, whose authority he need not acknowledge in the future.

For the next week, an ominous silence from Krishna made Ruth wonder what mischief was brewing in his vengeful brain. He was not the man to accept a rebuff as deserved, or give up a cherished dream too readily.

Mrs. Mallard was sure he would sulk for a bit, and then behave as if nothing had happened, since his father had proved unsympathetic. But Ruth feared that his pride was at stake; and he looked the type that never forgave an injury. However, as Jeffrey was in high favour with the Rajah, they could all afford to attach no importance to Krishna’s moods.

At the end of the week Alastair arrived, he said, to take Jeffrey’s advice on the subject of labour. His coolies had been giving trouble by absconding while their advances were still outstanding, and absenting themselves over trivial grievances. As a matter of fact, he confided to Ruth, this excuse for his visit was as good as any other, when he was at the end of his tether and wanted to get away alone. He told Mrs. Mallard that his wife was getting fat and lazy, and the children would soon be completely out of hand. “I have pointed out to her,” said he, “that if she can’t control them now, she certainly won’t be able to five years later; but it registers nothing with her, for she believes I am prejudiced. All she thinks they need is discipline when old enough to be taught its value, and they will get that when they go to school as boarders.”

Alastair mounted Jeffrey’s old nag and accompanied Ruth on her morning rides, during which she took him into her confidence concerning Lucy Norton. After he had heard all about Ruth’s visit and how it had ended, he was as anxious as she to see the girl rescued from an impossible situation. They became close conspirators as they discussed plans and projects. To Alastair, it was nothing short of a crime that an English girl, however much she might be to blame, should be at the mercy of an Indian, and forced to live his life.

But could anything be done for her?

Apparently not. In the past she could have been taken away from him, on the grounds that they were not legally married, and he had no right to exercise unlawful restraint. But by Indian law Gunesh, being a Hindu and a polygamist, could marry more than one wife if he wished, provided she had no objection to his domiciliary conditions. Unfortunately, Lucy had very little knowledge of such matters, and had agreed to the marriage, so that she had no cause for complaint but her objection to purdah regulations, which she thought were abandoned. She had seen so many women of good class leading free lives in happy social conditions, that she had never thought Gunesh meant to keep her from mixing with people, or to insist on her being heavily veiled. She was suddenly shut up like a bird in a cage and no one had the right to open the door and set her free. His excuse for turning the key on her was that being hysterical and unaccountable for her actions, she would run away and put him to great inconvenience to find her.

One day, came the rumour that Lucy had nearly died by her own hand. Alastair, who was spending the week with the Mallards, felt at one with Ruth in her horror of the news. She had once nearly done the same herself, but not because deprived of her freedom. Could it be true?

Servants were inveterate gossips, and Mrs. Mallard’s ayah never missed an opportunity of conveying scandal, or circulating exciting news, authentic or not, so Ruth paid another visit to Abdul’s wife who had the means of learning everything that went on in the bazaar, though she remained exclusive and apart.

She received Ruth with a flood of complaints against her Hindu neighbours, who were always being put up by Gunesh to provoke Abdul into quarrelling, in the hope of bringing about a fight. She declared it was nothing but persecution, and it was only due to the fact that the Rajah was a just man and would not permit communal fighting, that the few Muslims in the bazaar were alive this day.

“Yes,” she said, in reply to Ruth’s question concerning Gunesh’s English wife. “They tell, she nearly died. So bad she was, Miss Sahib, that Gunesh had to run and fetch the Rajah’s doctor-babu. He would have preferred a female practitioner, but there are none in Kiapara, and he was afraid, if she died, he would be blamed.”

“What was the matter with her?”

“Are you surprised, Miss Sahib? Like as not her brain was turned by the life she led. Only Indian females to talk to, and none with any education—all not fit to associate with an English mem, so what to do, but take poison and end it all.”

“She tried to poison herself?” Ruth looked very grave.

“Of a truth she did. Her servants told my woman, who sees her daily, that it was rat poison she took. Arsenic, it was, which Gunesh used for the destruction of rats in his dwelling. The bottle he left, in error, on a shelf in his room, and his English wife found it and drank what was left in the bottle.”

“Good heavens!”

“She vomited so much that the doctor-babu said the poison all returned, and so she lived. But her expectations of motherhood went, too, for which she was not sorry. Instead, she told the doctor-babu she was glad. Good for her there were no complications, so that she was well in three days; and Gunesh can’t go near her, but she threatens to kill him. I believe he is getting frightened that she might kill him when he sleeps, so he keeps the door locked between the two rooms, when he retires to his bed.”

Talking it over with Alastair, Ruth had an idea that a double purpose could be served if by some lucky chance she could help Lucy to escape. If Alastair could only meet her, he might like her enough to take her away to Bunumbagh as a governess to Mrs. Freeborn’s children. She would earn her living and it would enable the unhappy girl to save a little money to pay her fare to Calcutta, and help her to live till she worked her way to England. There, the Labour Exchange would soon make her self-supporting. It seemed a real ‘brain-wave’, only how could she manage to get the two to meet?

Alastair was more than ever sympathetic towards Lucy after hearing of the arsenic episode, and he was ready, even without seeing her, to give her a chance of hiding at Bunumbagh till something could be done. His wife wanted an English governess for the children.

“What is she like?” he asked Ruth. “Do you think she could cope with Jo-Jo and Bhunda? They’d give her a hell of a time.”

“She wouldn’t mind it I’m sure after a dose of Gunesh and slavery. Anyone can teach young children.”

“How I wished you would undertake it!” he said wistfully. His enormous respect for Ruth made him realize there was no use in his getting sentimental over her. She was not the sort to encourage a married man. It would be the end of their friendship if he was fool enough to try and make love to her. He could, therefore, look forward to making the acquaintance of the tragic Lucy, in the hope that she might be a diversion to him, while making a pretence of teaching Jo-Jo and Bhunda.

Had Ruth only thought of it, anyone so starved of romance and sentiment as Alastair was ripe for any folly into which he might be led by one in Lucy’s position. But Ruth rarely looked on the sordid side of life.

Chapter XII

Fire!

Meanwhile, in his gratitude to Ruth for refusing Krishna’s offer of marriage, the Rajah was in a mood to do anything within reason for the Mallards; he therefore sent for his contractor and stormed at him for being so dilatory with the repairs to the bungalow.

“What-for is all this delay, you bastard? Didn’t I give the order months ago? What are you here for if not to carry out orders!” Procrastination was always the thief of time at the Rajbari, and the contractor was expecting this.

“Protector of the poor, it is to my advantage to please you,” replied the contractor obsequiously, his hands joined as he bowed himself before his august master. “The estimates have lain on your honour’s desk for approval, but till now they have not been noticed. How could I proceed with “

“Silence, son-of-a-pig! Would you put the blame on me?” The Rajah glared ferociously at him.

Being of a mild nature his ferocity and abuse made him no enemies, but evoked if possible greater respect and humility.

“Khodavand, if blame there is, the babu who is your writer, must acknowledge the fault, for he knows I am sitting waiting for permission to begin,”

There was marked activity following this scene. The Rajah, relieved that a shameful heritage was not to be introduced into the blood of the future proud Rajahs of Kiapara, stepped up the work so that repairs and decorations would be completed by Christmas. Being the Christian festival, he knew it would please the Mallards.

Till Christmas week the bungalow presented a frightful aspect, with the thatching grass, new and old, piled in heaps in the compound. Now and then a gust of wind would lift some of it and transfer it elsewhere. Flower beds were strewn with it while the old, mildewed stuff was stripped from the roof and allowed to fall where it would. Bamboo ladders and scaffolding added to the confusion, while tins of paint and buckets of whitewash and distemper tripped up the unwary in unexpected places. The family had to camp about the house, where and how they could, while the roof was renewed in sections, and were glad to put up with any inconvenience for the pleasure of having everything nice and fresh for Christmas Day.

During these operations, Ruth continued paying visits to the bazaar, so as to keep an eye on what was going on in Gunesh’s abode. Abdul’s wife kept Ruth duly informed, Ruth’s interest in the English wife of the Hindu shopkeeper acting as a stimulus to her own love of gossip and scandal.

In this way it was gleaned that matters had quieted down at the grocer’s shop across the road, and that no further attempt had been made by the white woman to create trouble. Her man had tried to placate her with the present of a diamond necklace and various other expensive gems, since his knowledge of women led him to believe that the possession of jewellery was the panacea for every form of discontent and unhappiness.

Whatever his motive, the women in the bazaar were deeply touched by his generosity, and openly jealous. Abdul’s wife seemed to be weakening towards the grocer, because of his wife’s ingratitude.

“Of a truth, she must be very difficult, for he has done what he could to please her,” said the mother-of-Kareem. “Evidently he sets great store by her, for he spends money like water to gratify her. Unsuited, they are, but at least in him she finds a protector now that she is alone and without anyone of her own to provide for her. When a woman is poor and on the verge of starvation, she is fortunate to marry a man who has plenty of money, no matter what his nationality or colour. Let her consider the alternative. Would she prefer a life of shame? Tobah!” Abdul’s wife threw up her hands in horror, having forgotten the views on mixed marriages she had expressed a short time back. “After all, in a world full of temptation and evil, it is money alone that matters, and food. What think you, Miss Sahib?”

“Money cannot buy freedom or happiness. Freedom is the heritage of the British, and is valued above all else,” said Ruth. “The freedom to live her own life, and to be able to make her own choice in marriage, even to work at an honest trade for a living, is better than gold and silver and precious stones and riches to spend, while in slavery. That must be how the poor girl feels.”

Ruth’s hope was Alastair. No one else was likely to help her to save Lucy and restore happiness and youth to her.

If only they could meet and he liked her, it would be wonderful if he could take her to Bunumbagh, for a time, as a governess to the children. Mrs. Freeborn had wanted a governess, and here was one ready to hand. Lucy might deserve all that had come to her for consenting to be Gunesh’s wife, as was said by the few neighbours who dropped in on Jeffrey and his wife, just to say ‘Hullo’ and have a drink. What did they care? An Englishwoman married to an Indian was as good as dead to them. But it was cruel, for Ruth could only see Lucy’s case as that of a wild bird in a small cage, beating its wings against the bars and pining for freedom.

Gunesh did a thriving trade after the publicity he had unwittingly caused by Lucy’s attempted suicide. The villagers took every excuse for entering his shop in the hope of catching a glimpse of his wife, though aware that it was the one thing that would never be allowed. Children hung round the entrance for the fun of carrying home exciting news, for which their female folk thirsted, and they were not backward in inventing fiction.

All this time Krishna held aloof from Ruth, much to her relief, but she had an uneasy sense that something would happen yet, if only to prove that vengeance against her was brewing. It was like living in the neighbourhood of a delayed-action bomb, and trying to hear its ticking. All she knew of him was through Mrs. Mallard, who had it from the Ranee that Krishna used his aeroplane frequently in visiting his contemporaries in distant places. He appeared to have lost interest in his home. The servants in the Rajbari spread the news that relations between him and his father were strained, which was deplored by the Ranee, as a son’s duty was to respect his father, and not spoil the last years of his life with dissension and ill-feeling.

Krishna made no attempt to supplant Sunia, and of her there was no news whatever. Where she was, and how she was bearing up under her separation from Nobin, whom she adored, was nobody’s business. Nobin was in Assam, dutifully obeying his father’s command, and learning tea-planting—an occupation suitable to his quiet tastes.

Presumably, he meant to settle down on the pick of his estates, and after learning all about tea from the English manager, to dismiss him, and take his place. It was perfectly natural that he should do so, as by degrees it was hoped that no aliens should remain to exploit the country, which was now absolutely under Indian rule.

The Ranee expressed the wish that he would take a wife some day from among the daughters of a neighbouring zemindar, and rear a family in Assam. He was always a good son, amenable to authority, and he was not to blame, she said, for the false step he had been lured into taking, which dishonoured his own brother.

By Christmas Day the Mallards’ bungalow was as good as new, and the happiest of the family trio was Mrs. Mallard, who felt as if she had received a personal gift. She was a different creature, with a more optimistic outlook, and a heart full of thankfulness, once the last piece of furniture and the last ornament were back in their place. Even the garden looked fresh and smiling, with order restored to beds, and a clean, newly decorated bungalow to set it off. It was a pleasure for her to walk outside and see the gay annuals coming into flower, and the grass on the lawn matching the green of the windows, while the brown of the thatching grass on the roof made a picturesque contrast to the whitewashed walls. No more damp patches on the pillars, and crumbling masonry.

“I feel it would be very ungrateful to worry any more,” she told Ruth, “or to hanker any longer for the impossible. As we just have to stay out here, we might as well make the best of it. I am afraid I let everything slide, for it is hard to live with frustration always. But then I hadn’t you here, and that did make a difference. It’s so good to have you about. Oh, I have much to be thankful for, as things could be far worse. My health, for instance, always improves in the cold months, and Daddy, too, is keeping well, thank God! And I am glad Krishna keeps out of his way.”

So was Ruth; not only glad, but relieved in mind, and hoping he had come to his senses and meant to leave her alone. She still kept the Arab, as it belonged to the Rajah, with whom she was on excellent terms.

“My only trouble,” Mrs. Mallard continued, “is this matter the doctor-babu scared me about concerning Daddy. If only he wasn’t so prejudiced against the poor fellow, he might follow his advice, but he always flies off the deep end just as if the man knew nothing at all, and was utterly incompetent as a physician.”

“What does having ‘high blood pressure’ mean?” asked Ruth.

“I couldn’t say exactly, but it must be something one shouldn’t have. But to hear Daddy—he was so angry at being told to go slow and knock off whisky, eat less meat and keep out of the sun, that I was sure he’d insult the poor thing. ‘He’s an old fool,’ he said, loud enough for the babu to hear. ‘Blood pressure be damned! Who knows anything about it, anyway? Give up whisky! One would think I was a toper when I am the most moderate drinker in the district. Let him talk of high blood pressure to the Rajah; he’s more likely to have it than I, for he’s getting as fat as a pig, and will be dropping down dead one of these days.’ “

“The Rajah certainly isn’t looking well,” said Ruth. “He is always breathless, too.”

“That’s because he is stout. Dad is very funny about the babu. He says if he hears anything more about ‘going slow’ and minding his diet, he’ll challenge him to a race, though the fellow has the advantage in age, and he guarantees he will beat him by yards.”

That was so like Jeffrey that Ruth had to laugh. It was a reassuring sound, which added to Mrs. Mallard’s new optimism.

The next thing that happened was a visit from the Ranee, who was interested in seeing the metamorphosis at the bungalow.

“If it really looks so attractive, I may be tempted to have the Rajbari done. The Rajah must realize that the place wants doing-up, or it will shame us,” she said.

The day before Christmas, she drove over in her much decorated Rolls-Royce, though the distance between the bungalow and the Rajbari was a matter of a few hundred yards. The fact of driving, however, made it appear an excursion, and, as such, a change from the dull routine of her days. Every male on the premises had to be banished at sight of the Ranee’s approach so that she and her female attendants could be received with the traditional observance of the purdah custom.

She seated herself on the settee in the lounge, while her women squatted on the mat, and, pulling up her legs under her, she expanded affably in a patronizing spirit. She was in the mood to enjoy everything, even the tea, and the curd sweetmeats provided for her, made by the Brahmin confectioner in the village.

While on the subject of the bazaar, she talked of the English wife of Gunesh Chunder Roy, of whom everyone was gossiping.

“Why does the man hold on to her if she wants to leave him?” Mrs. Mallard asked her. “Surely he sees how she feels and would be glad to be rid of her?”

“It is not often that one in his position gets the chance of possessing an English girl for his wife,” said the Ranee, “so why will he make a fool of himself in the eyes of the world by giving her up just because she refuses to adapt herself to his life? She is only a self-willed girl, who, like as not, doesn’t know her own mind. If she wished she could be happily married to him, for he is good to her, and many a white husband would not bear with her ways. Gunesh is not one to let a woman rule him, and smash up his plans for no reason but his nationality. I have no patience with her sort. Leave her to her husband, I say. No one has a right to interfere. I am told he is spending a fortune in trying to conciliate her.”

Ruth had hoped to win the Ranee to her point of view with regard to Lucy’s release, but was discouraged listening to her opinions. It seemed the girl would be left to her fate because nobody wanted to lift a finger to rescue her.

After she was refreshed and entertained in the lounge, the Ranee was conducted over the bungalow at her request, and was more interested in Ruth’s dainty room than in any of the improvements to the bungalow. That it should be necessary for a girl to have so many pretty glittering articles of silver and cut glass to assist her in the process of dressing was past her understanding, and she had to be enlightened as to the use of everything she saw and handled. Like a child she squeaked her appreciation of various cosmetics and perfumes. The many toilet appointments in tortoise-shell, mounted in silver, were examined curiously, most of them being birthday, Christmas and parting presents from the family and devoted friends. Ruth’s little divan-bed, with its coverlet of pink silk to match the window curtains and the flowers on the cretonne purdah in the doorway, fascinated her, and she departed fully determined to reorganize her private apartments at the Rajbari on similar lines. She would send for furniture, for there was luxury in a bed like Ruth’s, with a mattress so soft and yielding, having springs inside of it; also, she thought a dressing-table like hers was a decorative thing—like an altar, in front of which one might almost do pujah. Finally, she departed with her retinue, well pleased with her visit, and wistfully envious of the European standard of life.

“Oh, well!” said she to Mrs. Mallard resignedly, “each to her own habits and customs. Maybe you don’t make great use of mustard oil, which we find so beneficial when rubbed into the limbs, and how quickly would beautiful cushions and coverings be ruined if we made free use of them in our homes.”

Christmas being a very special occasion, Mrs. Mallard thought it a good opportunity to ask Alastair to share their fare, particularly as the Indian contractor had sent them a luxurious hamper as a present.

“So generous of him,” said Ruth, ingenuously.

“Nothing of the kind,” said Jeffrey, who had no illusions. “He is only hoping for future favours as I have the handling of the contracts for the Rajbari. He knows how to reimburse himself out of his profits. Yet, a hamper at this time must not be considered a bribe, as it is a time-honoured custom, and to refuse it would hurt the blighter’s feelings.”

Mrs. Mallard was used to receiving such hampers annually, and was not as excited as Ruth when its contents were disclosed—a turkey, a ham, a plum pudding, various canned fruits, a plum cake, a bottle of cheap champagne, a bottle of port, fresh fruit, almonds and nuts.

Mrs. Freeborn very likely had a similar hamper from Alastair’s contractor, nevertheless, when Mrs. Mallard, regardless of manners, wrote and asked him informally to dine on Christmas night—apologizing for not including the family for lack of accommodation—he accepted the invitation with alacrity, but had his own ideas as to how to broach the subject to his wife. A profound knowledge of her reactions to invitations which did not include herself and the children made him decide on subterfuge. Therefore, at the eleventh hour, something cropped up urgently, which he could not settle without due consideration and consultation with Jeffrey Mallard. Being the oldest English resident in the district, the latter was in the position of Gamalial to the younger generation, who paid tribute to his wisdom by frequently soliciting his advice. So, knowing this, there was nothing Mrs. Freeborn could do about it; and watched her husband ride away on Christmas Day, wondering how much of it was true. As she never interfered in his business, she knew nothing about it.

Alastair arrived at the Mallards’ bungalow like a schoolboy on holiday, and made himself thoroughly at home, helping Ruth nail up garlands made by the mali with greenery for a gala effect. Christmas was not Christmas without decorations. He had heard nothing of Lucy since his previous visit, but could tell Ruth that the governess idea had been welcomed by his wife in self-defence, for the kids were getting on her nerves. It now all hinged on the girl’s chances of escape. But how it would be possible to manage anything so difficult was beyond them both. Ruth told him of the latest developments, but had no solution ready for the problem, which looked hopeless.

It was a pleasant little dinner party they had that evening, and almost pathetic for the effort made to conform with the time-honoured custom of drinking to the health of absent friends, of speech-making and the pulling of crackers, out of which came paper caps to adorn their heads and keep the spirit of Christmas alive. Jeffrey even tried to be funny so that Ruth might be induced to laugh, a thing she seemed to have forgotten how to do, except on the rarest occasions. The old toast which belonged to the days before her time was dragged out: “To sweethearts and wives—-may they never meet!” was drunk by Alastair with undue fervour, showing the trend of his mind.

That night, in bed, Mrs. Mallard confided to Jeffrey that, without desiring to connive at immorality, she could almost wish that Alastair could elope with Lucy Norton, and so make two people happy, at any rate. They could be married after he was divorced.

“Not a hope of his being divorced, my dear,” said Jeffrey discouragingly. “Mrs. Freeborn is no fool, and is not likely to get another husband with that calamitous family tied to her skirts. She’ll cling to Alastair like a limpet. But why all this plotting for him? He hasn’t even seen Lucy. He might get the shock of his life when he does, and run a mile rather than marry her.”

“Ruth said she thought she was, or could be, attractive under other circumstances. But, of course, tastes differ.”

It was in the small hours of the morning of the 26th December, while the world slept, that a great turmoil broke out in the Kiapara bazaar. The night watchman, asleep as usual, was roused from his slumbers by strange sounds proceeding from that direction. There was the unmistakable ring of panic, such as could be occasioned by a sudden catastrophe like an outbreak of fire, which, in a rural village like Kiapara with no fire-engine available nor water at hand, would be a major calamity. A red glow in the sky, accompanied by a billowing column of smoke rising above the village, confirmed his fears. Immediately, he gave the alarm.

“Fire! Fire!” he shouted. “Wake up—wake up, all! The bazaar is on fire! Hasten—lose no time—FIRE! FIRE!”

The peons asleep on beds of sacking on the floor of the bungalow verandah were awakened by the alarm, and rousing others, ran to the village to offer help. Servants arose from their string beds and also hurried to the bazaar, girding their loins as they ran; for, of all things, a fire was the most dreaded and fearful event that could occur in a crowded village, where even a breath of air would fan the flames, and spread the conflagration rapidly, which would swallow up everything in its path.

Jeffrey was awakened by his wife, and dressed hurriedly. If there was a fire in the bazaar, and it spread, the bungalow would be in danger, should a wind arise and blow the flames in their direction.

“You are not going into the thick of it, Jeffrey?”

“I’ve got to be there to do what is possible, organize a means of stopping it, and save what is possible. Watch out and see if sparks come in this direction. Send the peons to sit on the roof with culsies of water to extinguish any fire that starts in the thatch. Look after yourself and Ruth. Where’s Alastair? Send him along.” All this was rattled off at speed, and he was gone, followed close on his heels by Alastair.

The night was peculiarly dark, and the red glow of the blaze reflected in the sky seemed to intensify as orange flames leapt above the screen of trees and black smoke belched towards the stars. The confused shouting of the people increased to a pandemonium. At all times vociferous and noisy, it only needed a fire to make for panic among the natives.

Jeffrey found the headman of the village in a dithering state of fear.

“We are ruined! We shall all be homeless!” he cried in agitation, resigning himself to the worst.

“Pull down the huts in the way of the wind, marshal the men, and set them to work immediately, or the whole village will burn down,” shouted Jeffrey above the uproar. It was impossible to get nearer to the seat of the fire without feeling roasted, the heat was so intense. The scene beggared description. Half-naked black bodies, silhouetted against the glare of the flames, trying to beat them out with sticks, looked like dancing dervishes, while a helpless multitude, devoid of initiative, were gathered on the outskirts to watch the proceedings—men, women and children; women beating their breasts and wailing in distress, men paralysed with shock, children screaming in excitement, as every now and then there was a fresh burst of flames.

“Hasn’t the Rajah got a fire-engine?” asked Alastair of Jeffrey.

“No earthly good when there is no water handy. The well in the market place is all they have, and the nearest tank is half a mile away, so what’s the use of talking! The old boy has never got further than contemplating a reservoir or tank near by and a fire-engine, so he needs a lesson like this to wake him up. It will act like a squib under his bottom, I hope.”

Jeffrey and Alastair tried to do some organizing between them, and demolished dwellings in the path of the flames to stop their spreading. They shouted themselves hoarse, cuffed a few slackers and worked like niggers themselves, while a breeze arising drove a wall of fire in a wide path to the last cluster of huts on the rim of a potato patch, where it died down for lack of fuel to burn. In the wake of the flames was a blackened mass of ashes and charred timber, behind, and in the neighbourhood of which, the rest of the village looked smugly aloof and uninjured, owing to a line of roofless mud huts surrounded by damp thatching that had been saved from the fire by precautionary demolition. The well in the market place had been all but drained in the process of saving the thatch on the ground.

“My home is destroyed,” a woman wailed, rocking herself to and fro. “Ai ma! The sahibs have wantonly torn down our roof. Alas! What to do? We have nowhere to lay our heads.”

“If we hadn’t pulled down your thatch, mâgie” said Jeffrey, who heard her in passing, “you would not only have been burned out, but would have lost all you possessed. Now the roof can be put on again.”

Till dawn and the rising of the sun, women and children were searching in the hot ashes and the debris for personal belongings, while from all sides the wailing continued.

Abdul, the cloth merchant, stood guard over his demolished shop and homestead, a forlorn figure, and a firm believer in fate.

“It was bad luck for you, Abdul Rahman,” said Jeffrey, stopping for a word with him.

“It is Kismet, sahib. These things are written, who are we to complain? Alas! I am ruined.”

“I hope your family is safe?”

“They have taken shelter with Ali Majid, the tailor, huzur. He is a kind man and has a tender heart for those afflicted and in trouble. I am standing here till the heat lessens, and I can search within those charred walls for my possessions. I dare not rest till I have found what I want, or someone will be before me and clear what remains. My small hoard in a tin box, my wife’s jewels, buried in the ground beneath her bed, cannot be abandoned. It was an evil day that the grocer Gunesh brought the white woman to live with him against her wishes, for it was from his dwelling that the fire started, which has brought loss and suffering to many. They tell she was mad, so she must have done it, without doubt. Now they are both dead, so who can discover the truth?”

“Gunesh is not dead,” said the village blacksmith as he was passing. “He was found in his yard, badly burned, and in much suffering, so they have carried him to the hospital behind the dispensary.”

“What of the white woman, Lohar-ji?” questioned Abdul. “Has she perished?”

“Nothing is known of her. Like as not she is dead. So great has been the confusion that no one has been concerned as to her fate. Presently, her bones will be found among the ashes which lie deep, there was so much furniture which was consumed. Only the brick walls are standing. Even the ceiling collapsed.”

Jeffrey and Alastair crossed the road to peer into the smoking ruins of Gunesh’s shop, but did not attempt to enter it. Nothing alive was likely to be found in there with the place radiating heat like a brick-kiln.

“It is a ghastly idea to think of that poor girl dying like this, because no one took the trouble to rescue her long ago,” said Alastair.

“Nobody had the right to interfere,” said Jeffrey. “I wonder if she set fire to her home as a last bid for freedom? In which case, it is possible she got away.”

“I hope so. Now that the husband is in hospital he won’t be able to hunt her down for a long time. A good chance for her.”

“No good our wasting time here; I’ll get back and turn in for a bit. I’m not used to spending half the night out of bed.”

“Same here,” yawned Alastair.

“I am glad to see the police on the job to prevent looting,” and Jeffrey pointed out scarlet turbans moving among the smoking ruins of the village. “Though I’ll not put it beyond them to do a bit of salvaging on their own account. Abdul wisely does his own salvaging, having experience of his fellow countrymen and their code of morals.”

The two turned homewards and, on their way, encountered Krishna, clad in curtah and dhôti, accompanied by a posse of peons, paying a leisurely visit to the scene of destruction. When he saw Jeffrey approaching, he turned his face aside, and spat insolently in the roadway, as a sign of contempt. Neither spoke, but Jeffrey had the feeling that Krishna was only biding his time to get his knife, metaphorically speaking, into him, in retaliation for the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Ruth.

As they entered the house, Mrs. Mallard met them on the verandah with the startling news that Lucy Norton had taken refuge with them.

“When the fire was raging at its height the poor girl arrived, directed by the natives she met in the road, and threw herself on our mercy. I never saw anyone in such a pitiable state,” went on Mrs. Mallard excitedly. “She was beside herself with fear, and in a state of collapse, saying she had murdered her husband and if caught and put into prison she would be hanged. Ruth reassured her, though it terrified us to hear what she had done. I don’t think she could have been responsible for her actions. Anyway, Ruth gave her a drink of whisky and put her to bed.”

Chapter XIII

The Aftermath

Lucy was a very different creature in the Mallards’ bungalow to what she had been in Gunesh’s dwelling. All her defiance had vanished, and she was humble and deprecating. She sat up in bed next morning clad in Ruth’s silk pyjamas and dainty bed-jacket, deeply apologetic for giving so much trouble. The sâri she had been wearing when she arrived was put away out of sight, so that she should be allowed to forget the agony of mind she had suffered before the climax was reached that ended in her escape. Alastair helped to comfort and reassure her, and seemed to enjoy the privilege. He carried her trays, and could not do enough to show his sympathy.

Ruth was overjoyed at the thought that Lucy was, at last, free, and could not be forced to return to Gunesh. At all events, Gunesh was too ill at the moment to be interested in her, or to know if she were living or dead.

“I can’t think how you managed to get away. Was it the fire?” Ruth asked her, when she became coherent later in the day and able to concentrate on what actually had happened, everything up till then having assumed the nebulous form of a dream.

“I thought I had killed him, and was so frightened!” she cried. “We had quarrelled because he wanted me to sleep with him and I wouldn’t. I hated him, so I took the table-lamp and flung it at him. It was the only way. In a moment, the oil was on fire on the floor, and he tried to stamp it out. I saw that the key was still in the door, so I ran to it, and he could not stop me as his clothes were on fire. That was the last I saw of him. It was dreadful!” She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. “If he dies, will they hang me?” Two pathetic blue eyes and tremulous lips were very appealing, and Alastair did his best to reassure her. Gunesh was safe in hospital and would be all right in a week or two. By that time she would be in hiding at Bunumbagh under the care of his wife till some better arrangement could be made.

“I know her,” Lucy said, indicating Ruth. “But who are you?”

“I am Alastair, Ruth’s friend.”

“How kind you are to me! You are all so good. I feel as if I have been out of my mind all this time, and I can’t believe I am free at last. Will your wife like me?”

“Of course. We all like you very much. How would you like the job of teaching little children? I have stepchildren, little devils, but they have to learn at home or go to school.”

“I’ll do anything—anything you wish.” She startled Alastair by seizing his hand and kissing it gratefully. Ruth was sure that Alastair was enslaved from that moment. He told her when they were alone that she was wonderful. (Why ‘wonderful’ was not clear, as Lucy had done nothing outstanding but burn down part of Kiapara village in her determination to be done with Gunesh.) However, it was impossible not to pity her and make every allowance for her mad behaviour. She was no longer crazy, but just a normal young girl, helpless and afraid, and very appealing.

“Don’t you think her pretty?” Alastair asked Ruth.

“In a way—perhaps,” said Ruth truthfully, thinking that Lucy had just missed prettiness. Her cheekbones were too high for beauty; her nose too blunt, her face pale and thin, but her eyes and mouth were good, in spite of the latter being a trifle too full to please a critical taste.

“You are so grudging! I think she has a very striking face, and a lovely figure.”

“How soon do you think you can take her to Bunumbagh?”

“Just as soon as it is possible. I’ll write for the shampony today. It will meet us at the village where you garaged your car. It should all be fixed up for the day after tomorrow. Do you think your father would lend us his car?”

Ruth was quite sure there would be no objection, but for the first time she began to have qualms, wondering if they were not assisting at a rather dangerous situation. It had not occurred to her that Alastair might lose his heart to Lucy, in which case, what would be the result?

Mrs. Mallard made her feel worse by saying that it was a foregone conclusion that Alastair would.

“Poor fellow! He is paying for his stupidity in marrying a woman much older than himself, with a large family, just because his wife had let him down and gone off with another man and the loneliness of the district was sending him ga-ga. Naturally, any young girl like Lucy, appealing to his chivalry, not bad looking and without a friend in the world, is going to upset everything for him and make him utterly miserable, unless——”

“Unless he has the initiative to smash up existing conditions and go off with Lucy? I see that, and am wondering how far one is justified in leading the poor things into temptation,” said Ruth.

“It’s no business of ours, anyway. Let them get on with it. We have enough to cope with in our own problems without troubling about other people’s. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less if Alastair got quit of that incubus—that impossible wife of his, and those children—and went off with Lucy. She’d do as well as anyone, if he wants a divorce.”

“Mummy! I am surprised at you!” said Ruth, with a twinkle in her eyes. “Fancy you, the most virtuous of women, advocating such immoral behaviour!”

“My darling, perhaps I am virtuous, because I am happily married, and would not change Daddy for any other man—not for a kingdom! But that doesn’t mean I am devoid of human understanding. Being virtuous it would seem, is an accident of circumstances. Had I been married to a wife-beater, like Krishna, or to a neglectful and cruel husband, I might have been as great a sinner as any unhappy wife who is courageous enough to take the law into her own hands and go off with one she loves, and who loves her—dear me! I shouldn’t be talking like this to one as young as you!” There was consternation in Mrs. Mallard’s face. She had allowed her tongue to run away with her.

Ruth gave way to a surprising gust of laughter.

“I am not likely to be led astray by what I hear, Mummikins. But, like you, I am sorry for Alastair, who has all his life before him, and has made a mess of it at the start. He is a good sort, and deserves a better fate than being tied to that dragon, who hasn’t an idea in common with him. Perhaps it won’t be a bad thing for Lucy to be his rescuer. He has fallen for her already.”

“Pity someone doesn’t put the idea into his head. His one fault is lack of initiative.”

“Lucy will supply it. But how nice to think you agree.” Ruth was reconstructing her ideas on the subject of life. “I am not wanting to support one’s right to break social laws just for personal or selfish reasons,” Mrs. Mallard found it necessary to say. “I have an immense admiration for self-denial and self-control. There are definite reasons for self-sacrifice if there are children to consider, but I am not laying down the law. People have to work out their own problems and be responsible for themselves. But no one has a right to interfere, or to condemn others if they don’t act as the Church and society dictate. That’s all.”

Being very young and inexperienced, Lucy had thought the world had come to an end as far as she was concerned, the night she believed she had killed Gunesh. The gallows stared her in the face, as Indians ruled the country, and she had supposedly killed an Indian. Who was there to plead for her, and point out she had acted in self-protection? Who would believe her? Her relief, therefore, was great when she was told that Gunesh was not dead but going to recover. She rose in the morning and dressed in a frock Ruth had given her, feeling and looking a different being. She could even take a delight in being an English girl again in garments she had longed for, ever since hers had been destroyed and replaced by an Indian sâri. Shorn of sullen discontent and hatred,, she was just a simple girl—“rather sweet,” Mrs. Mallard said to Jeffrey. “Definitely attractive,” Alastair remarked to Ruth.

Before two days had passed, she voluntarily told the Mallards her history. Her mother had died when she was very young, and the nuns had brought her up. When seventeen, her father, who had been an incurable drunkard, claimed her, and they lived in cheap localities and disreputable boarding-houses whenever he was in work. When he was not, they depended on the charity of friends. After the British retired from India, he was sunk. No work, and no friends, as he had lost those who had tried to help him, so that they were absolutely ‘down and out’ when Gunesh Chunder Roy of Kiapara came upon them one day. He worked things to suit himself. Her father was lent money to drink himself to death, if he liked and, in return, he gave his consent to the Indian’s marriage with Lucy. By that time she had come to such a pass of shabbiness and lack of proper food, that she could put up no opposition. It was, at least, better than the degrading alternative to which her father’s drunkenness was driving her.

Ruth weeded her wardrobe of clothes, giving Lucy enough of her things to wear till she was able to get more from Calcutta. Once dressed suitably, her courage and spirits returned, making her ready for any adventure in search of independence. She was delighted at having made friends with Ruth, and ingenuously glad to think she was to make her home with Alastair, whom she thought most charming; but she was nervous of meeting his wife.

“What is Mrs. Freeborn like?” she asked Ruth.

“She is over-indulgent with her children, and an affectionate mother. In other respects she is easy-going, and not difficult to live with,” was the guarded answer. “If you don’t get on the wrong side of her, I am sure you will pull together quite well.”

“I’ll do my best, one can’t do more. But I like Alastair. He’s a lamb. A perfect dear, with the kindest eyes and the sweetest smile ever! I could fall in love with him if he were not married.”

“But he is, and don’t forget it!” Ruth laughed at her frankness, attaching no importance to the sentiments she expressed; for she was discovering that Lucy was impulsive in speech, and that it was not necessary to take her seriously.

At length, the Mallards said goodbye to her as she left with Alastair for Bunumbagh, and Jeffrey heaved a sigh of relief. He had got out of the way of entertaining strangers, and liked his home to be a place where he could relax. He was a bit grim after the night of the fire, feeling, as he did, that he had an enemy at the Rajbari, now more malicious than ever, and only waiting the opportunity to do him harm. But for the Rajah, he would not hold his job a day if Krishna had a say in the matter.

“We don’t know what to make of Krishna,” the Ranee confided to Mrs. Mallard in one of their intimate talks while learning how to knit a cardigan for her husband. “He would spend money like water if allowed, just to impress the world with his importance. He wants the whole place pulled down, me to retire to my home in the mountains near Darjiling, while workmen are here, and he and his father to sleep in tents while a palace is being raised on the site of the Rajbari. It would cost a fortune, but because there is no shortage of money, he is for living like a great prince. Oh, he is a pushful person, and wears out his father with his ideas and demands! There is a big house in its own grounds, in New Delhi, which he wants to buy from the English family who are going back to their own country, for he means to enter politics and become a leader in the land. But that, of course, his father turned down. For what will he spend thousands? Just for show? Let Krishna become a minister of the Government first, and then talk of buying property in Delhi, say I. He is all for grandeur, and takes too little interest in Kiapara. Only this morning news came that there had been a mar-pete⁵ in the bazaar, and a man killed, heads broken, and arrests made. Krishna should have gone to look into it with the police, but when he heard that it was only a communal flare-up and a Moslem killed, he sat back and smoked his hookah instead, saying it served the son-of-a-pig right for hanging on here. ‘Let the police attend to the job. It’s their business’—that’s Krishna!”

Mrs. Mallard repeated the story to the family on her return home, and Ruth immediately went down to the bazaar to learn what had happened. A Moslem had been killed. Who was it, and why? For none of the Mahommedans in the village could afford to be aggressive when in so small a minority.

She hurried through the bazaar to the house of the tailor, Ali Majid, as Abdul’s wife and family had taken refuge with him since the fire. Whatever might have happened earlier in the day, there were no traces left behind. The charred remains of burnt-out dwellings were a tragic reminder of Lucy’s escape to freedom. Where Abdul’s house had stood children were playing on the outskirts, prevented from raiding the premises by a constable in a scarlet turban. It was a pitiable sight, deep in ashes, the roof burnt out, and a few blackened beams of sâl wood protruding from the interior. Ruth remembered the well-stocked shop, its great bales of Manchester goods, the tidiness and self-respecting look of the dwelling, and felt a pang at her heart. Lucy would never know that her act had had such far-reaching consequences. What was the poor fellow going to do now that he was ruined? She recalled his wife saying that they were saving up to retire to Pakistan, as they anticipated that the move and setting up again would cost a lot of money.

Ali Majid s shop had been untouched. There was the small verandah built to keep the interior of the dwelling cool. In the living-room Ali plied his profession seated on a mat in front of a sewing machine, with Indian garments in various stages of completion hanging on pegs on the four walls. He was assisted generally by his son of fourteen who was learning the profession under him, and his wife cared for his creature comforts in the rooms at the back.

When Ruth arrived and asked for Abdul and his wife, the tailor looked at her in surprise. Hadn’t she heard the news?

Ruth tried not to think that it concerned Abdul in particular, but guessed the worst at the sight of the tailor’s jaded, unhappy face.

“Was it Abdul Rahman they—they—killed?” she asked him gravely.

“It was, huzur, and his wife collapsed, for who can stand up to such a double calamity? She, poor woman, is now alone, the sole protector of her children; and, but for the little they put in the bank, she would have nothing.”

“Tell me what really happened?”

“Abdul stood guard over the ashes of his home, Miss Sahib, fearing that people would loot all of value that might have escaped destruction, and his family brought food to him. But for how many nights can a man do without sleep? Last night he was overcome with weariness and dropped off to sleep before dawn, the stars giving the only light there was. Suddenly he awoke, his head still drooping between his knees where he sat in shadow, and he listened, not moving, for he heard sounds of rustling near at hand. Someone was creeping about in the ashes, doubtless searching for what he could find of value. There was a hole Abdul had dug under his bed, to accommodate a tin box containing his woman’s jewels. This was impossible for him to get at, though he had tried single-handed for two days after the ashes cooled, so he was waiting for some help from his friends to remove the heavy beams and tiles that lay piled in confusion on the ground. Naturally, he was alarmed, as he feared a thief had made his way to the treasure, and unless stopped it would be stolen. He rose stealthily,” continued Ali Majid, unable to resist telling the story with a maximum of dramatic tension, “then, suddenly, he flashed his torch on to the spot from where the noises proceeded. As he had expected, there was a man burrowing under the mess, with his posterior region—naked, save for a loin cloth—exposed to Abdul’s gaze. All this he described, poor man, before he died. Abdul being armed with a lâthi, struck at his bottom many times till the fellow backed out and attacked him violently, shouting for help, as if it was he who was the innocent one being killed! People heard him and without knowing the rights of the case Abdul was dragged into the street. Hearing the noise, I ran out of my house, and from all parts men came running. Khoda Bux, the carpenter, who is of my faith, had his head broken, and he was left for dead in the ditch.

“I, remembering my responsibilities to my family and Abdul’s, who were sheltering with me, quickly retired, for we of the Faith were too few, while these pagan idol-worshippers were too many. I could do nothing but court death by interfering. Presently the police brought Abdul, as if dead, to my house, bruised and covered with blood, and his woman screamed at the sight of him. The police had quelled the riot, and believing him dead, thought that I, who was of the same faith, would see to his burial. The other fellow, Khoda Bux, showed signs of life when found, and was forthwith taken to the hospital.

“When the police had gone, and while the women wept loudly, beating their breasts, Abdul opened his eyes. We gave him water, to drink, and for a little while he survived long enough to tell us how it all had happened. After that, he died. Ai khoda! the pity of it! And now his body lies at rest under a sheet awaiting burial. This evening, when few are about, he will be taken to a spot near the old ruined Musjid beyond the paddy fields. Peradventure, huzur has seen it?”

It was the mosque Ruth had visited with Krishna one morning.

“I know the Musjid. I am greatly distressed. Could I see Abdul’s widow?”

“Today, she is bahose, Miss Sahib. She does not speak, neither will she eat, but she lies, her eyes swollen with weeping, and all but lifeless. No one can comfort her, only the little children, for their need is great. The women only distress her with their talk and loud weeping. They do not understand that even an animal likes to hide when in suffering till the urge to live returns, for the human mind comforts itself, and the power to reason dictates resignation to the will of Allah. Abdul was a good man and deserved great merit. Alas! that he should have gone! But who can avoid one’s fate? What will be, will be.”

“Will you tell her, then, of my visit, and say if there is anything I can do, to tell me, and I will be glad to help her?”

“That, I assuredly will, huzur.”

Ruth returned home deeply depressed.

Abdul was buried that evening by his co-religionists; and his son Kareem was taught to look on Hindus with an undying hatred, and told that, one day, they would be wiped off the face of the earth by the Moslems, who had only to prepare for the call, and be strong.

“When will it be?” Kareem asked in his reedy childish tones, examining his biceps hopefully.

That lay with Fate, he was told.

Chapter XIV

The Shock

One morning, while the dew was still thick on the grass and every leaf glistened in the early sunlight, Jeffrey was roused from his bed and called urgently to see the Rajah, who was very ill. Krishna was absent from home after having had another quarrel with his father.

“What is wrong with the Rajah? He seemed quite well yesterday,” Jeffrey asked while dressing hastily.

“He complained of feeling a difficulty in breathing, huzur, after Krishna Sahib flew away in his plane, and then this morning he was confused in his mind when he got up. Then, without warning, he fell flat to the floor on his back and was carried to bed unconscious, but alive. The Ranee Sahiba is distraught with fear. The doctor-babu has applied restoratives, but without result. He breathes heavily, but knows nothing, hears nothing.”

By the time Jeffrey reached the Rajbari, the Rajah was dead, and his sudden collapse stunned everybody, Jeffrey most of all. Loud wailing in traditional fashion came from the women’s quarters with eerie effect. Mrs. Mallard heard it at the bungalow across the patch of meadow-land that lay between it and the Rajbari, and well knew its meaning.

“Ruth! Are you awake? Darling, it’s bad news. Oh, I don’t know what’s going to happen!”

Ruth sprang up, half awake.

“What’s the matter, Mums?” The scared look on her mother’s face meant that something really serious had occurred.

“Listen! Do you hear something?”

Distinct sounds of sing-song wailing, almost like dogs howling in pain, could not be mistaken.

“That’s from the Rajbari? Somebody is dead?” Ruth was not unfamiliar with the peculiar melancholy tones conventionally used when there is a death in an Indian family.

“A moment ago they sent for your father, saying the Rajah was very ill, and now—that! Oh, my dear, my dear! I hope it isn’t the Rajah. If he has gone, what hope has Daddy that he will be kept on here? He won’t want to stay under Krishna even if he were asked to; it would be too humiliating. I’ll go and get ready, for the Ranee may want to see me.”

“We are always too ready to jump to conclusions and fear the worst,” said Ruth. “Daddy will return in a little while and tell us what it is. Till then don’t let us cross bridges before we come to them.” But she, too, dressed hurriedly, knowing that the death of the Rajah would mean the end of Kiapara for them.

Mrs. Mallard waited for Jeffrey to return, and when he did, an hour later, it was to give her a message from the Ranee:

Would Mrs. Mallard call upon her some time in the afternoon?

“The poor old dear is in a bad way. It’s been a terrific shock for her, for it is the last thing in the world she expected to happen so soon.

“Though the Rajah had not been in the best of health, they were not unduly anxious, as he had not complained much, nor appeared ill. A little shortness of breath, perhaps, and nervy, but he had had enough to bear from Krishna, of late, which would account for his nerves being irritable. The doctor-babu says he had a ‘fatty heart’, but what does he know? It’s very easy to put down whatever is beyond his diagnosis to ‘heart’. ‘When in doubt play trumps’,” Jeffrey said in disgust. “If it had been me, he’d probably have said, ‘high blood pressure’! He’s got a few slogans up his sleeve for emergencies, and hopes to get away with them every time.”

“Nonsense, darling! He knows enough to be able to recognize obvious symptoms. But how awful!”

“It’s pretty putrid.”

“What’s to happen now?”

“Ask me another!”

“Have they sent for Krishna?”

“They have been wiring all over the place, hoping to catch him somewhere. If you ask me, he’ll rejoice, the swine. It’s his wilful temper that has been responsible for what has happened. The poor old boy was in a cleft stick over him; he was so dissatisfied, fearing Krishna would play ducks and drakes with his fortune. The lad had outgrown Kiapara, and actually talked of selling the estate and casting the poor relations adrift. The idea was that the Rajah and Ranee could live far more luxuriously in Calcutta on what he had saved, and Krishna become a big noise in Delhi on the proceeds of the sale of the property. Last night they quarrelled violently and the Rajah all but collapsed after Krishna cleared out. He then sent for his lawyer and had a long interview with him, after which he went to bed. I hope he has disinherited the young devil.”

“Where do we come in?”

“We don’t. As far as I can see, I’ll have to try at once for another billet. Not that I have much hope of one, seeing that I am no longer a young man, and no Englishman will get a job in India if there is an Indian capable of working it. That’s to be expected.”

Mrs. Mallard felt as if it was the end of the world for them, and began to cry.

Jeffrey put an arm round her comfortingly, but felt too grim to say much.

“I am sorry, dear,” said his wife, choking back the sobs. “The whole thing is, we are too old to take these reverses in our stride. But I shouldn’t give way and make matters worse.” She was realizing that Jeffrey needed cheering, and nothing was gained by depressing him further.

“Things do mend when they are at their worst, isn’t that so? One never knows, but it may be we’ll hear of something soon.” Which was all very vague. She was thinking that they had not only themselves but Ruth to consider, and it broke her heart to think of being homeless, when the girl needed somewhere in which to hide for a while, to recover from her own sorrow, before having to battle with life in order to live.

Oh, this terrible lack of money! she sighed, to herself.

Mrs. Mallard hated the thought of going to the Rajbari while the Rajah lay dead and all that dismal wailing filled the air. But if the Ranee had asked for her it was her duty to go that afternoon, as requested.

The gloom at the Rajbari could be felt as Mrs. Mallard made her way to the Ranee’s quarters, but she was surprised to find the widow bearing up with heroism. She had spent the first spasm of her grief over the corpse of her husband when she visited it alone, after which she had pulled herself together and faced up to her responsibilities. She shed no more tears, and talked with Mrs. Mallard of the situation her husband’s death had created as if he had only gone away on a vacation.

"I shall be interested to hear what Krishna will have to say when he hears the contents of his father's will," said the Ranee, with bitter triumph, for she was speaking of her first-born, who had been such a disappointment to his parents.

“I know the contents, for the Rajah confided them to me when we talked last night before he fell asleep. The poor man was greatly agitated and disturbed in mind concerning what he felt was the wisest course to take, for Krishna frightened him by his recklessness and contempt for the property which had been handed down to him by his ancestors. Krishna made it too plain what he intended to do when he inherited the estate—and other things besides, which made them quarrel violently. So, after he had left the Rajbari in his aeroplane, the Rajah sent for the lawyer and wrote out a new will, in the English fashion, making everything legal and clear. In it he cancelled all other wills in existence, and forbade the sale of Kiapara, and—this is important to you and Jeffrey Sahib, and why I wanted you to be happy and sleep well—he bequeathed to Jeffrey Sahib a sum of fifty thousand rupees as a mark of appreciation for his long service and good work while employed at Kiapara. It was in the nature of a gift, and free of income tax. Is that satisfactory?”

“Oh, I am speechless!” cried Mrs. Mallard, her eyes brimming with tears. “This is—simply wonderful! How generous and kind!”

“He knew that you had little to hope for in the future. That money will help you to return to your country, and perhaps set you up in some business. At least, you will not be sorry to go from here as soon as you please.”

“Ranee Sahiba, I cannot tell you what this has done for us.” Mrs. Mallard broke down and wept. “You have given us new life. The blessings of the Almighty be upon you and yours always. I shall never forget your goodness Sahiba.”

“Go now,” said the Ranee. “My heart is like lead, and the joy of life has departed from me. But I would have you give your man courage, Memsahib, and an old woman’s blessings for his honest service to the Rajah. When Krishna returns home the lawyer will come and the will that the Rajah wrote, and which was lawfully signed, will be read to all. They will open the safe, he and Krishna, who is now Rajah, and find it there, where he said he had put it, after which, all will be well. Myself, I would like to see my son’s face when he learns what his disrespect has done for him! And I will be there, behind the purdah, seeing through a peephole all that takes place!” Having said all she had to say, the Ranee lay back among her cushions on the divan and wiped away the resentful tears that forced their way down her old cheeks.

Mrs. Mallard hurried home scarcely able to contain the wonderful news she had heard. It was going to be a tremendous shock to Jeffrey, but of a kind that never kills. She longed to see the new life that would return to his face once the bogey of starvation and penury was slain.

Jeffrey was less excited on hearing her story than she had expected. He continued to fill the bowl of his pipe, only a quiver in his cheek to show he had heard her; for he was not too ready to accept as fact anything the Ranee might say. Indian women jumped too readily to conclusions, and romanced out of wishful thinking. The Rajah had probably told her his intentions and she had interpreted them as accomplished. Jeffrey had long learned in a stern school the vanity of putting his ‘trust in princes, or in any son of man’. At the same time, he could not help secretly hoping it was true; for it was like the Rajah to take such a step when he knew of the uncertain state of his health, and Krishna’s unpredictable initiative.

He said to his wife,

“My dear, I have learned it is wiser to ‘praise a fair day at night’. Before we rejoice let us be very sure that the Ranee is not letting her imagination run away with her.”

“She spoke as if she were certain of her facts, darling. I seem to remember her saying that the Rajah told her it was all finished, and the will put away in the safe.”

“If, by any luck, it is true, why then,” said Jeffrey, a flash of youthfulness in his eyes, “I’ll be a new man. With a little money behind me, what couldn’t I do! We’d go home, the very first thing, and start again in some line of business—say a share in a garage. Or buy a pub on the mortgage system. Or even buy a tobacconist’s shop with newspapers and confectionery, somewhere in a London suburb. Anything with decent prospects of making good by hard work and business ability.”

“You never professed to be a business man, darling.”

“I’m no fool,” said Jeffrey indignantly. “There is nothing I put my hand to that I could not master, if given a fair chance of getting down to it.”

Mrs. Mallard, feeling hysterical, began to laugh.

“There is nothing funny in the old boy dying suddenly,” grunted Jeffrey.

“It’s not that,” said Mrs. Mallard, wiping her eyes. “It’s you selling newspapers behind a counter!”

“What’s so amusing in that?” Jeffrey looked hurt. “Isn’t England a nation of shop-keepers?”

“But you! When I think of you pigsticking and shooting tigers, winning cups at gymkhanas, and a trooper in the Central Bengal Light Horse, to say nothing of riding your own horse in steeplechases—why, I just can’t picture you as a tobacconist in your old age, Jeffrey.”

“I didn’t know you were a snob, Charlotte.”

“I never was, Jeffrey, and I’m not being one now. But it was just—grotesque. What in the world have you ever had in common with tradespeople?”

“Everything is changing now. The world’s gone democratic, and every man is as good as his neighbour. We’ll have to make a living, and I can’t, unless I have a go at something. Fifty thousand rupees won’t go very far in these days, when translated into pounds.”

“How much is it in English money?”

“By the rate of exchange, taking it at fifteen rupees to the pound—maybe a little less, or more—it will be in the neighbourhood of four thousand pounds.”

“It sounds a lot in Indian money, but not anything to write home about when reckoned in pounds,” said Mrs. Mallard, sounding disappointed.

“I have two more proverbs you should take to heart,” said Jeffrey. “The first is—‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth’, and the other, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched’.”

“Really, darling, you’ve done nothing but speak in proverbs since you heard the news!”

For the rest of the evening the Mallards could not talk of anything but the bequest that was coming to them. They had only to wait till the morning to know all the facts.

“I do wonder what Krishna will say when he hears the will read,” said Mrs. Mallard. “Just imagine the scene, and the Ranee peeping through eyeholes in the purdah watching proceedings.”

“I can imagine what he will say, but he can’t do anything,” said Jeffrey.

“I think you and I, Mums, should start going through everything and packing whatever we’ll be taking away with us,” put in Ruth. “It will take a little time, for we’ll have to leave, so we had better start thinking about it.”

Mrs. Mallard was immediately helpless. The thought of the energy required for such a task made her feel weak.

“How shall we ever do it?” she sighed. “Think, we have been here for more than twenty years and have got into every hole and corner of the house. You’d be amazed to see how one’s belongings have spread and spread, till there isn’t a crack or crevice that does not harbour old stuff and rubbish of some sort.”

“I advise you,” Jeffrey said sweepingly, “to make a bonfire of everything we’ve got, bar what we need, personally. The furniture will have to be auctioned, or bought by the next occupant.”

“I shouldn’t know where to start, my drawers and my cupboards are so full—it is like a major operation to tear up certain things I have treasured since I was young. Actually, I have the programme of my first ball, and all your love letters “

“What do you want them for? You have me, haven’t you, old dear?”

“Of course. But they are so sweet. Then, a trunk full of dresses I’ve not worn for at least fifteen years. Also a few things that were passed on to me when my mother died—her wedding gown, an ivory fan, satin slippers, photograph albums, and what-not. It would feel like sacrilege to destroy them, leave alone the piles and piles of photographs—such comic things, belonging to the time when mother used to wear crinolines and polonaises, sent to me when she died. Those photographs have always been so entertaining when I have had a house-party and my friends wanted something to amuse themselves with. What shrieks of laughter at side whiskers and tight trousers, and kiddies in velveteen and lace collars. Then the snap albums that dated from girlhood upwards; my girl friends and I in tennis get-up. I’ve nearly had hysterics myself, to think of the way we dressed. Skirts to the ankles! How we ever ran across the court I can’t imagine. And now—just look at the pictures of Wimbledon! Such short shorts, and so much leg, you wonder what next.”

“The next generation can’t wear much less, except in a nudist colony. The seaside is almost a nudist display now, according to the illustrated papers,” said Jeffrey selecting a picture from a recent one to stress his point.

“But that doesn’t get us nearer packing to be in readiness for leaving at short notice,” Ruth returned to the attack. “I think the bonfire idea is the only solution.”

“Quite right,” said her father. “Who the devil wants to preserve such junk, when there is a lot of travelling in view? Besides, when we are dead, who is going to care two hoots for all that stuff? Be stern with yourself, old woman, and stop being sentimental.”

“No doubt you are perfectly right, but it will be such a wrench.”

Rudi’s reactions to the coming change were expressed practically. To her, Kiapara meant nothing. Too much had happened since her childhood to allow her to have any sentimental affection for the place. But, at least, of late it had given her a refuge, for a time, when she needed to pull herself together and face up to realities. So far, she had conquered her disposition to brood and look miserable. Jeffrey had quoted, ‘Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Weep, and you weep alone’. There was nothing truer. To go about with a long face because the bottom seemed to have dropped out of one’s world did no one any good, as it radiated misery. The unhappiness within her had to be bottled up and buried deep, in order that she might carry on with duties, and do her bit to lighten other people’s burdens. It was proved that her laughter made a wonderful difference to the spirits of the old people, so she tried to laugh more often, and behave, when in company, as any other normal girl. Kiapara and the quietude had given her the leisure to think, and she had thought to good purpose. She felt she wanted to move, now that it was clear her father would have to give up his situation, for she was young, and the young thrive on changes. New scenes, new friends, something useful to do. These had attractions for her, since she must not look back.

Before they went to bed, the Mallards heard Krishna’s aeroplane arrive behind the Rajbari. Flares were lighted for his landing and extinguished later when all was safe and the machine put away under cover.

“He has come back,” Mrs. Mallard put her head into Ruth’s room. “Krishna is back.”

“I wonder what would happen if he had crashed, and was killed, for he is no favourite with the people. They loved the Rajah, but are afraid of Krishna, and he seems to prefer it that way. He has no use for the people or their affection.”

“I never thought of that. He could any time, quite easily, he is very reckless, they say. In that case, I suppose Nobin would have Daddy stay on. But your father has made up his mind to get out of this dead end. I wonder when we’ll hear? They will be reading the will tomorrow morning,” and Mrs. Mallard hurried away to bed hoping, like children do, that by falling asleep the time would go faster.

Chapter XV

Suspense

The next day was a fateful one, with so much in the balance that even Jeffrey could not keep his mind on his work, but had to watch through the office window all that went on in the Rajbari verandah; the arrival of the lawyer in his Ford, and his being conducted to the presence of Krishna, who had already assumed authority, as if he had not only inherited his father’s title, but also the whole of his estate and wealth.

There was much coming and going of Krishna’s friends to condole with him on the death of his father, and to sympathize with the Ranee. Those from a distance would probably stay over for the funeral, which could not be delayed. First, there would be the reading of the will. Unable to bear the suspense, Jeffrey returned home and hung about restlessly, straining his ears to hear if anyone was coming to him with news. Surely someone—even a peon, would be sufficiently interested in such a handsome bequest as to run over and be the first to tell the sahib what was the talk of the Rajbari?

But the morning passed, and only Mrs. Mallard’s ayah talked of what seemed to be happening at the Rajbari.

“It is very unseemly,” she said tentatively, in Hindustani, “that while the Rajah-Sahib’s body is as yet awaiting the funeral pyre and heads are bowed in grief, that there should be all that confusion at the Rajbari.”

Being very human, Mrs. Mallard, who usually discouraged gossip, asked her,

“Why ‘confusion’, ayah?”

“That’s what I am told. People hurrying hither and thither and the Ranee scolding at the top of her voice just like a common coolie woman. They say she must be mad.”

“But why? What has happened?”

“Khoda janta! Who can tell but the Almighty! I hear she has had the whole house turned upside down looking for some paper—it must be of some importance, or why so much golmal?”

Mrs. Mallard felt sick with anxiety as the thought occurred to her that they might be looking for the Rajah’s will. But how could that be? What did Jeffrey think?

Jeffrey refused to think. It was bad enough to be in mid-air, so to speak, waiting for news, but to borrow trouble by imagining the will was lost, was insanity. In good time they were bound to hear—the best, or the worst.

The entire day passed without a single sign from the Rajbari to give the Mallards any inkling of what had taken place. If the will had been read, they would surely by now have been acquainted with its contents, especially as he was a legatee.

By the evening a summons from the Ranee requested Mrs. Mallard to call and see her. At last there was something definite. Mrs. Mallard went at once to the Rajbari, her heart beating so irregularly that she thought she would die of heart failure.

The Ranee was on her divan in her living-room, as usual, and her women departed the instant the English lady arrived. There was an ominous frown on the old lady’s face, and she was obviously agitated.

“I sent for you, Memsahib” she said, excitedly, “as a strange thing has happened. The Rajah’s will has not been found though the safe in his room has been searched thoroughly twice over, and again by myself. Today, I broke purdah in my anxiety to get at the bottom of the mystery, for the Rajah told me himself that he had written a will, and the lawyer, Shri Koruna Chowdhry, says it was true. It was witnessed by Bharat Singh, the office messenger and Khublal Palit, the accountant. The lawyer says the Rajah was putting it into an envelope when he left, and he does not know what happened after that. But, as I said to you, my respected husband told me in confidence that he had put it into his safe, and the key remained on his person. Now that key was in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing when he undressed and went to bed, and it was there in that pocket hanging up on a peg when the lawyer and Krishna, together, went to open the safe this morning. But the will has disappeared. The question is, who is the thief that has taken it? No one knew where to look for the key, nor could anyone have entered the Rajah’s room, for two chowkidars were on duty outside his door all night while another sat under the window which has to be kept open for air. They might have slept, who knows? But if a common thief had wanted to open the safe, he would have stolen money and jewels.

Yet everything was untouched, only the will was missing. Now, only to you can I say what is in my mind, and it is a hard thing to say, but I have a feeling it was Krishna who has done this wicked thing. He, alone, was fearful of his father’s will, and, perhaps, was alarmed lest he was disinherited, as his father so often said he would do. If he took the will and broke the seal, he would not dare to return it to the safe, for the broken seal would betray him. So he must have taken it away, and he, alone, knows where it is, and what he has done with it. Am I wrong?”

“You could be right. But it seems very like theft surely, all the same.”

“Theft it is, Memsahib! It would be to his interest to destroy it. It may be burnt up by now! Without this one, the old will, made many years ago and left in the bank, will have effect. The lawyer tells me that it is of the highest importance that this will is found, or the old one becomes law. It is a terrible thing for a mother to say, but something tells me inside that it is Krishna who has stolen that will. Only it cannot be proved. The lawyer says it might easily be that it was not put into the safe at all. It might have been destroyed by the Rajah himself, in the night, if he repented making it. Who knows? But I, alone, will swear that it has been stolen, for the Rajah went to bed that last night of his life happy in the thought that he had made a wise arrangement, and he was particularly glad to think he had rewarded Jeffrey Sahib for his long and faithful service. Yet, you see how it is that I am powerless to do anything? My word goes for nothing. The lawyer’s word cannot help if the will is never produced. When I think of all I told you, Memsahib, and your happiness in the news, it rends my heart to think of what you will feel when you realize that you are no better off than you were before, and worse, for Jeffrey Sahib will not wish to wait till Krishna tells him to go. And that is what he intends. Alas! to think he is my son!”

All the time she was speaking to Mrs. Mallard, the angry tears, coursed down her face, her eyes flashed, and her teeth gritted together.

Mrs. Mallard remained extraordinarily calm, almost as if she were listening to someone else’s death knell, then gradually her sense of reality returned, and her heart seemed to sink within her, leaving her with a sense of nausea and an impulse to scream aloud, for she realized to what extent she had been building up her hopes. Their collapse was like death.

To what purpose had she and Jeffrey been raised to heaven, if they were to be dropped to hell the next day?

Where were they to go? And what was to happen to them when they had so little money, that, at the end of a month or two, they would be starving, unless by a miracle Jeffrey managed to find work.

“Don’t worry about us, Ranee Sahiba,” she heard herself saying, for she was too proud to scream hysterically, or show her state of nervous collapse. “You have always been too kind to us, and to Ruth. I shall never be able to repay it, but I shall always remember you with gratitude and love. I give you my grateful salaams.”

“What are you going to do, Memsahib?” The Ranee looked ashamed and grieved.

“I am going to the bungalow to pack, and to see what we will leave behind to be sold.”

“That means you will be leaving us soon? Ai, Ma! How shall it be here without you, who have been like one of us, so intimate and friendly? Who will tell me the world’s news, or explain the meaning of these national differences that make for wars? Who will pick up the stitches I drop when I knit?—but alas!” she clapped a palm on her brow resoundingly, “what-for will I now knit, when the one who was to wear the cardigan is gone for ever from my sight!” The Ranee seemed to crumple up as she sobbed loudly.

Mrs. Mallard dragged herself home to break the bad news to Jeffrey, but had no need to say a word, for her lagging gait, and the look on her face, advertised the truth. Ruth, too, did not have to ask any questions.

“So it’s all gone up in smoke?” said Jeffrey. “I had a feeling that something like this would happen.”

“The will has been stolen from the safe, and there is only one person who could have taken it, that is plain,” said Mrs. Mallard, flinging her topi on a chair, and sinking into another. “Krishna, alone, was interested in knowing what was in the will. It seems he was told of the lawyer’s visit, and jumped to the idea at once. The result is—no will is to be found, and the lawyer can’t prove that the Rajah put it in the safe. He even says it is likely the Rajah repented and tore it up. But the Ranee knows he did not. There is an old will at the bank for safe custody, and that will take effect. Oh, how I wish I had never been told of that fifty thousand rupees! I wouldn’t be feeling so disappointed if I had never known of it—and all those castles in the air we built like two old fools!”

“We are no worse off than we were, and who is it said that ‘everything happens for the best’?”

“It’s cheap philosophy when one has had a knock-out blow, and can’t retaliate,” said Ruth bitterly, which was painful to hear from one of her age.

“At least, it is helpful, for it is good to have faith,” said Mrs. Mallard, rousing herself and making a brave effort to think of what was to be done. “We are going, all the same, I suppose?”

“You bet your life we are,” said Jeffrey. “Better to resign my job than to wait till I am sacked.”

Ruth sprang up with an appearance of energy and some liveliness. “Then let’s get cracking. What about that bonfire?”

“You are right. We’ll see about consigning my Lares and Penates to the flames. No one has a right to hoard sentimental relics of the past to take up valuable space and be an embarrassment to the dear ones we leave behind.”

“Not unless they turn out to be genuine antiques, and can be sold to collectors for a fabulous sum. That photograph of your uncle, old girl, with the mutton chop whiskers and tight trousers might, for instance, turn out a winner one day!”

Mrs. Mallard smiled, as she knew Jeffrey was only trying to be funny to hide his true feelings.

After the Rajah’s grand funeral, which the Mallards attended, and a week spent by them in the process known as ‘breaking up house’, Jeffrey, at last, sent in his resignation. The delay was of no consequence, as nothing was ever done in a hurry at the Rajbari. Even Krishna did not seem to know exactly what he wanted to do next, and preferred to procrastinate till difficulties solved themselves. He had, at first, to call at the bank in the neighbouring town, and take steps with the manager, who was the executor, to prove his father’s old will, made when he and Nobin were children. He was now the Rajah of Kiapara, and for a while expected to be absorbed by his duties as his father’s successor. He had plenty of time to decide who was to take Jeffrey Mallard’s place when he gave the English manager notice. Meantime, the work of the estate would have to be carried on, and there was no good rushing things.

However, there was no one more surprised than Jeffrey, when, one evening, while waiting for dinner to be served, he was told that the new Rajah had called, and wanted to see him, if convenient.

Jeffrey could hardly believe his ears. ‘If convenient’? Was it Krishna speaking? An extraordinary change. He had actually called, personally, on the manager—the arrogant Krishna, now in his father’s shoes!

“Hear that?” he asked his wife, with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “What the hell does he want with me?”

“Better than sending for you, don’t you think?”

“He isn’t coming in here, is he, Daddy?” from Ruth, ready for instant flight.

“Show him into my study,” said Jeffrey, in lordly fashion. Now that he was going, he felt he could afford to stand on the dignity of his age and long service.

When they met in Jeffrey’s study, Krishna behaved like a perfect English gentleman. He chose to forget his past insulting behaviour, and matched his Savile Row lounge suit with suave dignity.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, Mr. Mallard, but I wanted to bring you a piece of good news, personally.”. He smiled blandly, while Jeffrey interrupted him to offer his condolences on the death of the Rajah. “Yes, it was a great shock to us all, as I was totally unprepared. But these things happen in old age, and when my time comes to go, I hope it will be as peaceful an end as his. Now, this matter which cannot be delayed. You may have heard, as it is the general topic of conversation in Kiapara, that my father’s will, made the night before he passed away, cannot be found. Its loss is a great mystery, and may never be solved, but I am told by my mother and the lawyer Chowdhry, that in it he bequeathed a sum of fifty thousand rupees to you as a bonus and token of appreciation for your long service with him. I find my mother greatly upset over the loss of the will, particularly on your account, as she has a very strong regard for Mrs. Mallard. Legally, sir, I am not obliged to pay you anything of the sort, but,” and he sounded very patronizing, “after such long service, and though there was no mention of a pension in the letter of appointment when you joined my father, I feel that it is incumbent on me, as his heir and successor, to respect his wish in this matter, and to tell you that I shall be paying this money, in any case, into your account at your bank. No—don’t thank me,” he raised his hand deprecatingly, and shook his head. “I insist that I am only carrying out the request of my father. He always had great confidence in you, Mr. Mallard——”

“—Which I am afraid you did not share,” Jeffrey interrupted him. “Thank you for calling. But I would like to say that I cannot accept that money, for the reason that it is not legally a bequest. With so much doubt attached to the existence of the will, I feel I must decline to accept what is actually a gift from you. I thank you all the same for the gesture.”

“But—but, Mr. Mallard, I would like to think that you have that money. Besides, by my ‘gesture’, as you call it, my mother will feel less disturbed and embittered. She, too, wanted you to have it, and the disappearance of the will has upset her exceedingly. Personally, I am sure it will turn up some day. I hope it will. In any case, since you are leaving us—I had your letter today saying you wished to be relieved of your duties as manager—it is nothing but right and proper that you should accept the money, even as a bonus. Come, now, Mr. Mallard!” Nothing could have exceeded Krishna’s friendliness as he made the point. “I think, sir, you have earned a right to that bonus, and you will slight the memory of my father if you persist in refusing the money. I spoke to the Ranee, my mother, of my intention regarding the bequest, and she is entirely in agreement with me that you have earned it. My action has her entire approval.”

“If you don’t mind, I will discuss the matter with my wife, and let you know my decision tomorrow,” was all Jeffrey could say in reply; feeling inwardly amused at the thought that he, practically a pauper, had in fact refused a generous sum of money, to possess which would make all the difference to his future. He had not dreamt that he would ever have a chance of doing anything so crazy in life.

“Now—there is another small matter, if you don’t mind. My father’s old will made in our childhood shows that he had a very real affection for Ruth, for he remembered her to the tune of ten thousand rupees, as a contribution to her marriage dowry. It is a custom with us, as you must know, to apportion some money to the daughters of a family as a dowry. He had no daughter, and as the Ranee took a deep, motherly interest in Ruth, I think he tried to show she had all his sympathy.”

“He did enough for Ruth while she was growing up.”

“That was entirely my mother’s affair. This ten thousand is his mark of affection. When the probate is through, the money will be paid into her account in your bank. As she is bound to be getting married one of these days it will come in handy, I hope. Will you please say I offer my congratulations, and that I hope she owes me no grudge for asking her to marry me? I should like to say something, if I may?” Receiving a nod of encouragement, he continued, in some embarrassment. “The truth is, I was in great earnest—in fact I am still, but my hasty temper got the better of me and, I grant, I behaved very badly. I have since had time to review the occasion calmly, and am very sorry I offended her. If you will ask her to ride with me again, just to show there’s no ill feeling, I will be greatly obliged. There is no reason for us to part as enemies.”

He rose, and Jeffrey accompanied him to the steps outside, shook his hand mechanically, and returned to his wife and Ruth to tell them of the astounding offer which he had virtually refused.

“Oh, but you cannot! You must not!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallard when she had heard the whole story.. “It’s an answer to prayer. How I have prayed about that will, you’ll never know! Oh, my dear!” and she sobbed in her handkerchief. “I suppose now Ruth will go and do the same!”

“Not on your life, Mummikins!” Ruth showed the greatest satisfaction. “I loved the old man, and the Ranee was a darling. It has nothing to do with Krishna. That money will allow me to see a bit of India before I leave the country for good. I am very glad.” Her face showed it. “But—break it to Krishna as tactfully as you can Daddy, that I am not riding with him again. That last time makes it impossible. I could not bear it.”

Jeffrey agreed.

“What wonderful power has money!” he said, soliloquizing aloud. “I dare say I’d be a fool to fling fifty thousand rupees back in Krishna’s face. I am sure it is ‘conscience money’. He jolly well knows he pinched that will and destroyed it, as he would not share the estate with Nobin, who is a weakling and would only hoard his share of the income in a cellar underground for it to be grabbed by Communists in the end. Krishna has political ambitions that will need a heck of a lot of money to spend on bribes—he won’t be backward in that respect—take it from me. It wouldn’t suit him at all if it got known that he had monkeyed with his father’s will and done me out of a bequest. It would stink. So he makes a virtue out of honouring the old boy’s memory—a very nice gesture indeed, and true to type! However, in this case, perhaps, false pride is the road to starvation for us; so, taking everything into consideration, I’ll do well to say—‘Okay, you blighter, hand over the bonus, tend be damned to you!’ I owe Krishna nothing.”

“So we’ll have the bonfire after all, and in a spirit of great thankfulness,” said Ruth.

“Oh, these ups and downs and thrills! If I stayed on here much longer you’d have to bury me,” said Mrs. Mallard, beaming on the family.

“Where would you have the grave dug, old woman?” said Jeffrey, looking impish, “there is no cemetery in Kiapara.”

“It would have to be in the vegetable garden, darling, and the future occupants of the bungalow will have wonderful cabbages and cauliflowers for a long time.”

It was late in January before the Mallards were well on their way towards evacuating the bungalow at Kiapara. Packing-cases, tin-boxes, fibre suitcases, cabin-trunks, bags, bundles and all, were stacked in every available space, the family living in trunks, and only waiting for the new manager to take over from Jeffrey. The bank had advanced enough money for two passages to England, second saloon, and Ruth, having elected to stay awhile and see the India she had not yet known, was allowed to draw money on her own account. She only realized how large a country India was when she learned how long it took to travel from one distant spot to another, north, south, east or west.

“I have to see the famous Taj Mahal at Agra,” said Ruth, “and the Memorial Well at Cawnpur, with the angel; then Lucknow, and the old Residency, and the sights at Delhi, belonging to Shah-Jehan’s time; for once I leave for home I am not likely to come back again.”

“But I can’t feel happy about your travelling alone,” said Mrs. Mallard. “It’s all wrong leaving you behind.”

“There are lots of decent people travelling every day, everywhere, so I’ll be perfectly safe along with others. It will only be for a month or so, and I’ll return home by air. By that time, you’ll have your little home, and Daddy will have his job through the Labour Exchange.”

“You bet I will,” said Jeffrey, “despite the ban on the over sixties! If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll run an ‘old clothes’ shop, after you have mended the moth holes. Or, maybe, I can be the doorman—the ‘Commissionaire’—at a posh cinema, dressed in gold braid and faked medals?”

“Why not become a chimney sweep?” suggested Mrs. Mallard, sarcastically.

“That would need technical skill. I’m not qualified.”

“You forget you have lots of good friends now in England, and they might pull a few strings for you, and land you in some golf club as a secretary,” suggested Ruth.

“That’s an idea. I’ll consider it, for I used to be rather good at golf when I was younger. I could coach, now, couldn’t I?”

“I’m sure you could do a lot of things very well, Daddy. Only let people find you out.”

“When I think of it,” said Jeffrey, reflectively, “I was a good ‘all-rounder’. I used to pay all my club bills, when a youngster, with my winnings at snooker. I won tennis prizes at open tournaments at district gymkhanas, and even played polo.”

“I used to be so proud of you, I remember. Particularly when you went up to be presented with silver cups and rose bowls, to say nothing of other prizes like salad bowls, silver salvers, et cetera! It was so funny when a club member said once, ‘Damned if I’ll subscribe any more towards Mrs. Mallard’s family plate!’ He was such a dear!” she sighed.

“It will be like old times knocking up against the old crowd again. I have a few addresses, and will look them up when we are settled.”

“I hope they’ll give you a handsome tip, if you are the Commissionaire at a cinema, looking resplendent in gold braid and medals,” his wife said slyly. They had cheered up considerably, and would chaff and talk nonsense at the bare thought of the change that was coming.

Shortly after this, on a sunny afternoon with a crisp coldness in the air, Ruth saw a clumsy, springless vehicle turn in at the gate, swarming with children. As it approached the steps, she saw Jo-Jo on the roof with his legs dangling on the driver’s head, and Bhunda half out of a window doing his utmost to unseat his brother by jabbing at him with a stick borrowed from an obliging peon. At the same moment, confusion reigned within as the two little girls struggled for the possession of a dilapidated rag doll, while Billy, being the odd-man-out, bawled vociferously to be allowed to get out as he had ‘cwamped legs’.

The door at the back of the conveyance opened, and Mrs. Freeborn was the first to descend to the gravel, after which there was an avalanche of youngsters overjoyed at their release from captivity, and prepared to make themselves at home, no matter whose the dwelling. In a twinkling they had overrun the flower beds, trampling the borders, and were out of sight on a tour of exploration, led by Jo-Jo, Billy bringing up the rear.

Meanwhile, Ruth made a lightning dash to the lounge, where her mother was resting.

“Mummy, wake up! Just see who has arrived!”

She was back on the steps to greet the visitor, who kissed her on both cheeks and pressed her to her bosom.

“Oh, my dear Ruth! What a relief to have arrived! What a journey! I thought we’d never make it! I am sore from head to foot, and my poor darlings, too, so cramped for space, and bumped to pieces.”

“But where is Lucy?” cried Ruth. “Haven’t you brought Lucy?”

“My dear! Don’t mention her name, the little bitch! She has seduced my poor weak hubby, and right from the start, too. It’s disgraceful! We’ve had an awful row, dear, and I packed her off—but Alastair went with her. I might have expected it, he is such a fool to be taken in like that!”

“Mummy,” Bhunda’s piping voice at her elbow broke into her explanations, “what does ‘seduced’ mean?” Curiosity had brought him to the house.

“Never you mind, darling, run away and play. Oh, Charlotte, there you are! What a time I’ve had!”

The story related by Mrs. Freeborn to Mrs. Mallard in private, as unfit for a young girl’s ears, came well up to expectations.

Apparently, Lucy never had her heart in teaching children, and from the first, frankly disliked them, as much as they disliked her. Most of her free time was spent with Alastair, who became a changed man, absent-minded and living in the clouds. Mrs. Freeborn quietly watched the pair of them while wondering which was to blame, or if she herself were not imagining things. Finally, Alastair told her that he had sold the mica mine, and that she would have to pack up as they were leaving Bunumbagh. He was fed up with the place. She spent several days in packing, believing they would all be living in Calcutta till he found some other way of earning his living; then growing suspicious, as he had removed himself to his dressing-room, she spied on Lucy and found Alastair with her! Of course, he had nothing to say in self-defence, except that he was in love and meant to go away with the girl. It was like a match to gunpowder, as far as Mrs. Freeborn was concerned, and she blew up.

There was a frightful scene, with Lucy blaming her—a devoted wife—for losing her husband! “Was there ever such a minx? It was all so disgraceful, for the servants came running to see what was wrong, they thought maybe the house was on fire! What they made of it all was nobody’s business. Of course, I packed her off the very next morning, but the worst of it is, that fool-hubby of mine went with her, and I could do nothing to prevent him! Think of it, Alastair has left me, a good and faithful wife, for what? A tart! That’s what she is—putting on an act of sex-appeal! How the best of men are taken in by immoral creatures is past understanding! This morning, I had an official notice from the Calcutta agents saying that the property having changed hands, the new owner required vacant possession of the bungalow immediately. This is how I have been treated. Oh, won’t I make him sorry for himself! Divorce him in order that he can marry that minx? Never! He will soon find that he will have to support me and the children in perpetuity, whether he likes it or not, and Lucy will learn she is not going to have everything her own way. I’ll have the law of him.”

If she wanted sympathy from her audience she failed to get it, as Mrs. Mallard, though sorry for the way things had turned out, told her she always thought it a risk to marry a man many years younger than oneself. It invariably ended in disaster. Added to this, it seemed to her that Bunumbagh was hardly home to Alastair when his step-children gave him no peace, and were utterly unruly and undisciplined.

“Forgive me if I am too outspoken, but this is what we feel about your case. Perhaps, if you had considered him more, and your children less, this might not have happened. When I was at Bunumbagh I thought, then, that you were riding for a fall.”

“I never heard such rudeness in my life!” said Mrs. Freeborn. “I came to you, thinking you were a friend, but I find I was mistaken. I intended to ask you to put us up for a few days, but I feel that we shall be unwelcome, after the way you have criticized me.”

“I would have put you up with pleasure, but we are moving ourselves, almost at once, as you must see”—Mrs. Mallard pointed to the state of the bungalow. “We are all packed and ready, so that I could not offer you any comforts. Really, I don’t know what to suggest.”

“Don’t worry, dear, I dare say we can camp it out any-old-how till tomorrow. The children can sleep on unmade beds, and the sofa will do for me. All our stuff is on bullock carts at the Halt, awaiting us, and we’ll make an early start in the morning, if that won’t put you out? It is too dreadful to think how selfish men can be, when a little self-denial and consideration for others would make for peace and happiness.” She did not think of the husband’s point of view at all.

Mrs. Freeborn left Kiapara the following morning with her energetic brood, whom Ruth had kept out of mischief at some sacrifice to herself. It was afterwards learned that when they arrived in Calcutta, expecting to retrieve the truant husband, Mrs. Freeborn was told that he and his girl-friend had left by air for Pretoria, his plans having been laid well beforehand. To save his wife any hardship, he had arranged with his father that she should have an allowance sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, beyond that, he could do nothing, and could not care less. It was the last the Mallards had to do with the Freeborns, nor were they sufficiently interested to make enquiries.

Chapter XVI

A Surprise

The Mallards, at length, uprooted themselves from Kiapara after a farewell visit to the Ranee, who, being emotional, wept copiously at having to say goodbye. Mrs. Mallard was given a scintillating trinket in memory of old times. Its value was beyond estimating, and she nearly wept to think she could make no return. She was comforted, however, when the old lady said a photograph of her was all she wanted to recall the happy times they had spent together. Mrs. Mallard’s endless patience over the knitting lessons would live in memory to the end of her life.

As she had not been photographed since she was a younger woman, the portrait Mrs. Mallard gave the Ranee was a glamorous Edwardian picture of herself with an hour-glass figure and a fringe, which delighted the old lady as it put her in mind of old times.

To Ruth, the Ranee only gave her blessing. Though fond of her, the roots of her affection were not so deep. “Marry quickly,” was her advice, “and forget you were a child of adoption. There are troubles enough in the world without going out of your way, little one, to make more for yourself. You are beautiful by nature, and any sahib will be proud to say you are his wife. What need to belittle yourself in any man’s eyes? There are worse things to deplore than the misdoings of one’s ancestors. If it comes to that, kings and emperors in history have left criminal records of which their successive generations might easily be ashamed.”

“You have always been so good to me Ranee Sahiba,” said Ruth, “that I should like to write to you from time to time.”

“It will give me great pleasure to hear from you baba. I may not be here, for if Krishna carries out his intentions, Kiapara will be a house of retreat, a palace, maybe, where he and his friends will spend their holidays shooting tigers. I shall very likely retire to my home in Calcutta, and, in the hot weather, to the house in Darjiling. But any letter sent here will be forwarded on to me.”

“Have you any news of Sunia?” Ruth asked her.

“That foolish one?” laughed the Ranee. “We never speak of her, for it would humiliate Krishna to know she was no good as his wife, but is the sun, moon and stars to his brother, Nobin. The wicked one never went home to her family when she left us, but wrote to them from Calcutta to say that Nobin was meeting her there, and taking her to his tea-garden in Assam, where all will believe she is his wife. She wrote to tell her aunt, who lives with me, that if she had married Nobin instead of Krishna, she would never have looked at another man. Is there any accounting for tastes? Much as I disapprove of my elder son, he is, at all events, a man, not soft and sentimental like Nobin.”

“Then Sunia is in Assam, living happily with Nobin?”

“Of a truth, that must be so. She, who would not trouble to learn from books, now has a teacher in the wife of the manager of the garden, who is to her as a sister. Though English, there is no barrier, and Sunia finds the life full of surprises. She goes to the club with the manager and his wife, Nobin of the party, and even dances, would you believe it?—that shameless one!” and the Ranee laughed heartily as at a great joke, which was appreciated also by the others.

Ruth went down to the bazaar to see Abdul’s widow, and to bid her goodbye, but learned that she, with her salvaged jewels and the children, had left by train for a town in Pakistan, where she had relatives.

Mrs. Mallard never felt convinced that she and Jeffrey were quit of Kiapara till they arrived at an hotel in Calcutta to await the sailing of the P. & O. liner for London. It was then a succession of thrills for her, and a promise of dreams about to come true. Her happiness would have been complete if only Ruth had not obstinately determined on staying behind for a month or so, and on flying home as a new experience.

As a matter of fact, Ruth shrank from travelling by sea, so poignant were her memories of ocean travel. The very thought of dances on deck, companion-ways, cabins, and deck-chairs, side by side, gave her a pang at her heart. No voyage without Nigel could she picture as enjoyable; and she did not feel like asking for any more heartbreak.

At length, the day arrived for sailing, and both Jeffrey and his wife had no regrets when they left India—particularly Calcutta, which seemed to be drifting rapidly into a typical Oriental city. Ruth had to be told by them that the shoddiness and general slovenliness now apparent was not the Calcutta they had known in the past under British rule. It was part of the Eastern slackness natural to the people, who had little sense of refinement, less of hygiene, and an incurable way of letting things slide. From top to bottom, a lack of order and discipline, indifference to dirt and untidiness, prevailed.

“What can one expect?” said Jeffrey, “when you see how the ordinary man lives. The very dhoti, as a national dress, is a negation of smartness. It may suit the climate, but is hardly decent. What did Gandhi look like in Europe, and when preaching Swaraj? Do housewives in India insist on spring-cleaning annually? They don’t know the meaning of it, and revel in dust and cobwebs. To think, that before Ruth came out, we were surely and steadily drifting into the same careless ways. My word! It’s good to feel that we have done with it all, and are going to a land where no one can spit in public, and garbage is not allowed outside of bins, nor washing ornamenting balconies, or hanging out of windows.”

“Daddy, you talk as if you have second sight. To hear you, old dear, you might be just out from home, instead of going there for the first time,” Ruth teased him.

“I do keep my eyes and ears open, read a lot, and listen to talk.”

“You are dead right, darling.”

Ruth said goodbye to her parents on the deck of the ocean liner and watched the departure of the vessel from the jetty, a lump in her throat while waving as long as it was in sight. No one, except herself, knew the true reason for her wishing to linger in India.

As long as she knew Nigel was in the country, and there was a single chance of her seeing him, without being seen, she wanted to take it, if only to refresh memory and see if he had changed. It was a mistake to think she could put him entirely out of her life when they had so truly loved each other. Possibly, a sight of him again under different circumstances might help towards disillusionment? Possibly, she had exaggerated everything about him till she had endowed him with attractions he would only possess for a sentimental schoolgirl? She had come out of that silly stage in the months that had passed, and believed her judgment more matured, so she was sure she could bear to peep at him in some public place, and then grow more resigned to her fate.

For this reason she planned to go north till the end of March. She even remembered the date of his return passage (and hers, for by then they would have been married! The very thought made her dizzy and her heart stand still). How happily they had planned it all, little knowing what was in store! Yet, in spite of the Ranee’s advice, she could never have done other than she had, when she broke her engagement, making no explanation, and leaving him to despise her for a heartless flirt. It had been the only way to make an effective break.

By now, he had probably ceased to love her . . . a painful thought—and just as well to be sure of it so as to strengthen her determination to forget him, and make her own happiness apart from love and lovers.

Ruth entered a taxi and was driven back to the hotel, feeling very solitary and lonely as she realized how friendless she was in the country now that her dear ones had gone. She knew nobody but chance acquaintances picked up at the hotel, men and women, some in residence, others passing through to other parts, and all would have welcomed her in their party, for which Ruth felt grateful, but her own plans made it difficult for her to form friendships and encourage invitations that would tempt her to outstay the period she had allotted herself, and, in the end, find herself stranded for money. Living expenses were unexpectedly exacting, and she had to go cautiously.

Already, at the end of February, the weather was growing warmer, and the drought was felt in the air. Presently, fans circulating warm draughts of air would be in operation, but at the moment there was still a lingering coolness after dark, and until the sun rose high in the heavens.

While waiting for tiffin in one of the public rooms less noisy than the others, she was startled to see Krishna, now Rajah of Kiapara, approaching her corner.

“Good morning,” said he more diffidently than she had yet heard him speak, as he drew a chair forward and took a seat.

“Good morning,” she replied, feeling tongue-tied. Why was he in Calcutta? How did he know where she was staying?

“You are naturally surprised to see me, as I did not know I was coming here till yesterday. I made up my mind on the spur of the moment, after hearing from my mother that Mrs. Mallard had written to tell her you were staying behind to do a bit of sight-seeing before leaving the country. It seemed to me that you would be quite alone, and I might, possibly, be of some help; so I flew here. Besides, I can’t bear to think of your leaving the country still feeling ill-will towards me. We were once children together, and I am afraid I haven’t shown up in a very good light of late.”

“But you mustn’t think that I have any grudge at all against you, Krishna—or should I say ‘your Highness’?” she smiled at him, to put him at his ease.

Krishna’s very fine eyes flashed in disapproval.

“I couldn’t bear you to be so formal. Besides, we are not so exalted. ‘Rajah-Sahib to strangers. No one ever addressed my father as ‘Highness’. We of Kiapara are not Maharajahs. . . . Then you have forgiven that unfortunate behaviour of mine? I can’t tell you how it was that I so forgot myself as to have made such a bad blunder. Put it down to an uncontrolled temper. I never troubled to study self-control till quite lately. Perhaps you won’t believe it, but I had the shock of my life when my father died. I have suffered some self-reproach since, for we were never on good terms. Never saw eye-to-eye. Well, there isn’t much use going into that now. I am learning never to look back, but always forward. It is the only way to forge ahead if one has ambitions and means to make the most of one’s life. Do you think that’s wrong?”

“Not at all. I should think it is the only way to get on.”

“Thank you. I have another and very sound reason for coming to see you, Ruth. I thought it might give me my last chance of speaking to you and trying to get you to change your mind on the subject nearest my heart. I need hardly explain what I mean.”

His voice sounded unsteady, and he had difficulty in meeting her eyes. Ruth felt hot and cold with a rush of repulsion and, with it, a feeling of distress. She did not think she would have to discuss his proposal of marriage again.

“You are the only woman that I have ever wanted as wife. I knew it as soon as we met again after all these years. You are free and on the point of going out of my life for ever. Do you blame me for coming to try and stop your leaving, even at the eleventh hour? It would make all the difference in life to me, Ruth. There is nothing I would not do to make you happy. I wouldn’t ask you to live in that wilderness, Kiapara. I should wish you to choose your own life, and I am willing to sacrifice everything, give up every ambition, if you say so, to have the happiness and privilege of sharing my life with you. Don’t you believe I mean it?”

“I do—I am sure you are sincere, and I am only sorry to have to give you the same answer, for no other than the same reason.”

“That other fellow?”

“Yes.” She thought it best to say so.

“But you haven’t seen him for a long time.”

“Not since we parted in Calcutta on my way to my parents.”

“If you cared for him, why didn’t it come to anything? Why did he give you up?”

Ruth found it hard to answer him. It was bad enough to know the reason why she must never marry a man in Nigel’s position, but to speak of it was harrowing. Yet he knew her story. In his rage he had used it to flay her for refusing to be his wife. His character had bared itself to her in a way he would never realize.

“When I came home to my people at Kiapara I was told the facts about my parentage for the first time. That was enough to make me realize that I had no right to marry into any proud family without telling the truth about my birth, and that was not easy. I preferred to let everything go. I just couldn’t speak of it.”

“It is nothing to me. You are all that matters. What do I care for things dead and gone?—even forgotten? Life is full of change. Who stops even to think? I prefer to ignore that unpleasant story. Besides, you bear the adopted name. Who even remembers the other? I don’t, and don’t trouble to ask for particulars. Don’t you think you needlessly sacrificed yourself?”

“Perhaps I did. I took no chances, for I, too, have my pride.”

“His loss would be my gain if you would only let me take his place in your life—if not your heart. That would come later, when I have earned your sympathy and your forgiveness. I beg of you not to send me away disappointed. As I have said, nothing lasts. Your feeling for him will fade, till you won’t think of him again, for I shall fill your life with new happiness.”

His manner was very restrained, making her realize that he had to a great extent learned his lesson; nevertheless, he could make no headway. Ruth was untouched, as remote as the stars.

She did her best to soften her refusal for the second time, but in the end left him in no doubt of her determination.

“Some day you may change your mind—a year or two hence, perhaps?” he said, tentatively. “In that case—will you manage to let me know it? I would go half round the world to reach you, the moment I hear.”

“You are very persistent, Krishna. Don’t say anything more, please. I shall never marry.”

“I could not imagine that happening. If you care all that much, swallow your pride, Ruth, and let that fellow decide the question. He might not care two hoots about all that ancient history over which you are breaking your heart. Why not give him a chance? I pity him, poor chap, if he knows you are keen on him, and are keeping out of his way for some unknown reason, which is only a family skeleton in your obscure little cupboard.” He rose dejectedly. “I don’t suppose we will ever meet again, but I shall always remember you, Ruth, as my ideal of womanhood. Goodbye.”

She rose with him and walked beside him to the door.

“Give my love to the Ranee, please.”

“She will be delighted, I am sure.” He bowed in rather a courtly fashion, and passed out of the building, and she went to tiffin.

Ruth made her way to her table in the dining-room and saw that the vacant places which had been occupied by her parents were already allotted to a couple—a man and a woman, and both were so occupied in taking their seats, he holding the back of her chair till she was settled, that neither looked at her. The woman was one of a party resident in the hotel, and the man was—Nigel. . . .

Ruth was glad that she had a minute or two to recover from shock before she was noticed, for it gave her a chance to assume her natural ease of manner. If she had lost all her natural colour, she did not know it. Otherwise, her poise was perfect. The lady being already slightly known to Ruth, greeted her naturally.

By that time she had met Nigel’s eyes, and acknowledgment was distant and mutual. He showed no surprise, and might have been the merest acquaintance.

“I see you already know each other,” said the lady. “Did your people get off all right?” she asked Ruth.

“Without any trouble, and as excited as a pair of children.”

The lady turned to Nigel.

“I don’t know if you knew that Mr. and Mrs. Mallard left for home this morning; but Ruth elects to stay behind. How’s that for teen-age independence?”

“I heard that Ruth is to follow by air. She has certainly grown up since I saw her last.”

“When was that?”

“I hardly remember—seems a long time ago.”

“I just wonder how she stuck it in the jungles all these months. Fancy, no shops or theatres, not even a cinema, and surrounded by Indians in their bustis!⁶ Mrs. Mallard told me how it nearly drove her potty till Ruth came out. Your little pest Alison, could not have stood it a week.”

Ruth barely heard her for she could not get over Nigel’s callous tone. He ‘hardly remembered’ when he saw her last, and thought it was a ‘long time ago’! She felt that he had wantonly humiliated her in order for her to appreciate how little she meant to him now. But who had told him her news?

His coolness did more to stiffen her morale than an alcoholic stimulant. If that was how he felt about her, she would rather die than let him think she was carrying about a broken heart.

In the meantime, the two opposite her were enjoying badinage, which she was forced to hear.

“Did you say ‘Pest’?—or ‘Pet’?” said Nigel, helping himself to vegetables. “Which am I to consider you are to me?”

“I said ‘pest’, though I would rather it was the other—what?”

“If you are feeling that way, what a pity you didn’t give me a hint last night, at the dance.”

“I didn’t dare after so much champagne, and feeling hypnotized by your marvellous dancing! Anything might have happened. But how truly charming of you to call today and stay to tiffin!”

“It was more than charming of you to have asked me, such a stranger. Why, I might easily be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“You’re a perfect lamb, dear man. You convey it in your whole demeanour. When we were introduced last evening at the Saturday Club, I said to myself—but, perhaps I shouldn’t tell you what I said?”

“Don’t leave me in suspense!”

“Instead, I’ll tell you that Mummy has fallen heavily for you. She said this morning—‘If I were twenty-five years younger, I’d be quite weak about this boy-friend of yours. He’s smashing!’ Now don’t go and get conceited.”

‘Mummy’, Ruth knew, was Mrs. Langdale, a managing sort of woman, who sat at a far table for three, along with her inconspicuous husband.

“I thought you were at the other end of India,” said Ruth, for something to say, and not looking at Nigel. “What brings you to Calcutta?”

“You might try a guess,” he replied. “I’ll give you ‘twenty questions’ to discover the reason, and then you’ll fail.”

“Let me try,” said Alison, helping herself to salt. “I’m very good at that game.”

“If you are, I’m afraid I’ll be betrayed. On second thoughts, I won’t play.”

“What does Ruth say?” Alison insisted.

“Does it matter? I’m not interested,” said Ruth with an air of indifference.

“Is a girl the reason?” from Alison.

“Girls are generally the reason for all that we do, or leave undone.”

“How very thrilling! You told me last night that you knew none in Calcutta. Is she fair or dark?”

“I said I wasn’t playing.”

“Coward! Ruth, he is afraid to give himself away! Who is she? As Ruth and I don’t know her, what does it matter?”

“It will matter to Ruth”—a pause—“you see, she is already bored stiff.”

“Ruth is an unknown quantity. I can never make her out,” Alison said garrulously. “Half the time she is bored, and the other half dodging the fellows—poor dears! Today she surprised me by having a caller—such a handsome, athletic-looking Indian. Dark horse, Ruth! You had him all to yourself in that writing-room and I longed to join you and be introduced, but Dad said, ‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd’. So I satisfied myself with only a peep. Say—he wasn’t proposing marriage, was he? He looked so goofy.”

“I am afraid I did not notice how he looked,” said Ruth, surprised at Alison’s bad taste.

“Anyway, I do hope you did not say ‘yes’, for I am against mixed marriages. The other day—round about Christmas—a Maharajah of some place or other in the Punjab, quite unpronounceable, brought his English wife to the races, and, my word! if she didn’t make a fool of herself the way she threw her weight about looking down her nose at her own countrywomen. Showing off, of course—all dolled-up in a silken sâri and masses of jewels! To see her ordering the old boy around, you’d have thought she was a queen and he her consort. Everyone cold-shouldered her. His Highness looked fed up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he murdered her one of these days.”

“I have seen a lot of Elizabeth in Delhi. Ruth knows the woman quite well, I believe, as they travelled out on the same boat,” said Nigel, meeting Ruth’s eyes, his own expressionless.

Ruth felt she could bear no more of it. To think that Nigel—her Nigel—could ever look at her so coldly, was like a knife in her heart.

“If her name is Elizabeth, yes. I know her very well. I believe she disapproved of me.” She spoke almost mechanically.

“What on earth for?” in surprise from Alison.

“She considered I was a brazen flirt.”

“She had the advantage of sharing your cabin,” put in Nigel. “If I remember rightly, Elizabeth rather prided herself on her intuitive faculty.”

“Women are generally swift to draw conclusions concerning one another,” added Ruth.

There was more in this vein till tiffin ended and Ruth was able to get away, leaving Nigel and Alison sparring on the edge of a flirtation as the two moved to join the senior Langdales.

She felt too hurt and bewildered to understand what Nigel had meant. He despised her, or he could never have hit at her as he had done, only she could not have believed him capable of such cruelty, or was it malice?

On her way to her room she was stopped by a smart American woman, who belonged to a party of tourists.

“You are Miss Mallard, I believe?” she asked pleasantly.

“Yes,” Ruth replied, wondering what was wanted of her.

“Mrs. Langdale told us that you wouldn’t mind taking a job as companion, secretary, or something, if it gave you a chance to tour India?”

“Quite true.” (It had occurred lately to Ruth that she might travel less expensively in such a capacity to globe-trotters.)

“Then you are just the person my sister wants. I’ll take you to her,” and she hurried Ruth along to an annexe of the hotel.

“By the way, I haven’t introduced myself. I am Lucienne Byng, from New York. We have been touring in the Far East, and are now doing India,” said the stranger, who spoke with a pleasing American accent.

“I am very interested, as I am longing to see a bit of India before I return to England, but I was afraid it might be more expensive for me than I had imagined,” Ruth replied, with a touch of shyness that was very prepossessing.

Chapter XVII

Capitulation

Lucienne Byng led Ruth to a suite of rooms at the back, where she was introduced to a younger woman and her husband, both very cordial and disposed to be friendly. “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Faulkner, from California,” said Lucienne.

“I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Mallard. It is a real joy to know that, at last, I have found someone who may be willing to fill my need. Do sit down, my dear. You are very young to be travelling about India alone, surely?”

“I wouldn’t have thought of it had I not been familiar with the country. I was born out here, and educated at home. Now I am alone only for a little while.”

“Your parents have just left the country?”

“I saw them off this morning.”

“But how wonderful! And you don’t mind joining us to help out, for we are in a bit of a quandary? It’s like this. Three out of four of us expect to be having rather a gay time in Delhi, as we have letters of introduction to Indians as well as English people who are in the swim of things. It’s the only way to see a country properly, don’t you agree?”

“My wife is more interested in people than places,” said her husband, who looked the typical, prosperous American business man, good-humoured and indulgent. “She may enjoy seeing Oriental palaces, and will admire the architectural charm of the Taj Mahal and other famous buildings, but most of all she looks forward to seeing Maharajahs and Maharanis in the flesh. She wants more than anything to be asked to dine where she may eat with her fingers seated on the mat, and watch the pageantry of the East from within, as it were.”

“I am afraid she will be disappointed, for the East behaves so much like the West in these modern times, progress has been so rapid, that dinner parties are like any on the Continent and in most civilized countries,” said Ruth. “In what way can I be of use to you, Mrs. Faulkner?”

“Don’t mind what my husband says. He is always making fun of my enthusiasms! It’s like this, Miss Mallard. We——”

“Call me Ruth. I don’t know myself as ‘Miss Mallard’.”

“That’s most charming of you. It is nice to start off as friends. We have a daughter of fourteen, who is blind. It is a very terrible handicap, but we do our best not to let her suffer more deprivations than she must. So we have brought her with us, and she is really enjoying herself tremendously. She—”

“Oh, how very sad!” exclaimed Ruth.

“That’s so,” said Mr. Faulkner. “But she is not sad at all. In fact, she has, naturally, a lively disposition, and it is astonishing what a kick she gets out of travel. You’d imagine she saw everything same as we do. Gee! I wish I had her guts!”

“She is very brave,” said the blind girl’s mother, “and so independent. Does everything for herself, except what is impossible. My idea is, that unless we have someone with us who can be a companion, as it were, we ourselves will be tied down when we are asked to various parties and functions in the evenings, which I am told I shall greatly enjoy. So how does it appeal to you to undertake Isobel? Be with her, if we are called away, and help in other ways to give her a happy time? She is a dear child——”

“A wonderful kid,” said Isobel’s father.

“I think I had better bring her to meet Ruth,” said Lucienne, rising.

“Sure! Do so, dear,” said Mrs. Faulkner. After she had left the room Ruth was told that Isobel’s aunt and godmother was devoted to her, and unless they could engage a ‘companion’, Lucienne would be sacrificed to the dear girl who could not be left alone. “We brought a governess-companion with us, to do all I am asking of you, Ruth, but it seems she got engaged on the voyage, to a wealthy hide-merchant, and was married on arrival in Calcutta, without any reference to us. It did not seem to matter how she put us out, and all our plans—oh, no! I never saw such callous behaviour. The bridegroom, who is a German, offered to pay us back the girl’s passage money, which, of course, my husband refused; and the two left for Madras immediately, leaving us stranded here till we could find someone to take her place. So, my dear, you can imagine how thankful we are to have found you. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Ruth assured her that she was delighted at the chance of travelling with her party for a while, but could not promise to stay indefinitely. She was expected to rejoin her parents in a month or two.

The Hamilton Faulkners said they were perfectly satisfied if she stayed with them just as long as it was convenient to herself. With any luck, they might hear of someone else to take her place if she had to leave them before they returned to the States.

“We propose going to Simla, if the weather gets very warm, just for a peep at the gorgeous scenery and a breath of mountain air before we embark, which will be early in April. Now about salary. Please name your terms, Ruth.”

“I couldn’t,” said Ruth, in some embarrassment, for she had no idea what she could expect. “In fact, if you are paying all my expenses, I want no salary, for I shall be enjoying myself more than if I had been travelling alone.” Besides, Ruth had a feeling that a salary would entail obligations she might not find agreeable to fulfil; and if she made up her mind to leave earlier than they wished, it would not be so simple when paid for her services.

They were deep in an argument on the situation, when Lucienne returned with her hand in the arm of the blind girl, and Ruth heard her say in low distinct tones:

“I am sure you will like her—she is very sweet—and so pretty.”

Isobel shook hands with Ruth and was allowed to pass her fingers over her face, so as to ‘see’ her more intimately.

“I don’t want to be rude, but tell me, what is her colouring?” she asked Lucienne. “Do forgive me, Miss Mallard, if I sound ill-mannered—I don’t mean to be.”

“There is no question of manners. I am only too happy to make your acquaintance,” said Ruth warmly.

“It is the only way I can begin to make yours,” said Isobel. “Afterwards, I shall feel as if I can see you. I have not always been blind,” she volunteered, “it happened after a gym accident at school. Do you ride, Miss Mallard?”

“I love riding!”

“So does Isobel,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “I am glad you ride, for, perhaps, you will be able to accompany her. We always manage to get horses wherever we are; my husband generally goes with Isobel, but if you ride, you two girls will be much happier alone. Can you manage a leading rein?”

“Quite easily, I should think.”

It was finally decided after many protests that Ruth would travel as their guest without a salary, which meant, Lucienne explained confidentially, that it would be ‘made up to her’.

Ruth did not trouble to analyse exactly what was meant by that, but had little time to think, after being told they were starting for Delhi the next morning. It gave her the rest of the day to pack, and she could not have been better pleased at the short notice, for with a possibility of repetitions of that day’s luncheon experience, with the likelihood of Nigel coming constantly to see the Langdales at Alison’s invitation, it would be crucifixion for her to meet him again. She did not want ever to see or speak to him if it meant exposing herself to so much pain and humiliation. Since he had put her out of his mind so successfully, he had the advantage of her, for he had ceased to care, while she had no power to forget so easily. The penalty for being a sentimental fool! Fate, however, was on her side, for all she wanted was distraction, and more time to conquer her weakness. All that was left her was her pride, and she meant to guard it jealously.

How lucky to have met the Faulkners and to be going away at once. She was glad to cling to them for distraction, for they seemed friendly and warm-hearted people. On tour with them, she would be safely out of the way of meeting Nigel any more.

She devoted the afternoon to packing, and after dinner picked up a close-fitting hat and a summer coat, as she wanted to take a stroll in the moonlight. She had no intention of going far, just a short distance as a breather before turning in for the night. It had been an exciting day, and she was tired, mentally and physically.

On her way through the crowded hall to the front door someone blocked her way, and it gave her a shock to discover that it was Nigel—the very person she was trying to avoid.

"Hullo!" she gasped, involuntarily. He stepped aside, and allowed her to pass on, then walked beside her with quiet determination.

“Are you going out alone?”

“Just for a stroll.”

“I have a car outside, and will take you for a run. I have something to tell you, and there is no hope of seeing you alone in the hotel.”

“I am not coming.” What did he mean, after his behaviour at lunch? She paused at the entrance, waiting for him to leave her. Instead, he took her arm and led her firmly down the steps to a line of waiting cars.

When he stopped before one at the end of the line, she hung back. For the moment she felt hypnotized.

“You refuse?”

“I do. I was hoping not to meet you again. I see no object in our being alone anywhere or anytime. I don’t want to talk to you. Believe it or not.”

“I will believe anything you wish after I have said all I want to say. Come! We can’t stand arguing here. I have got to speak to you—or else why am I in Calcutta at all?”

How stern he sounded! She had never heard that tone from him before, and she was dumb, while his words—‘Why am I in Calcutta’, rang tantalizingly in her ears. At luncheon he had left her guessing why he was in Calcutta, and now she was required to believe it was for her sake alone, as he had something to say to her that she must hear.

She allowed him to shepherd her into a large limousine, which was driven by a puggareed Sikh, who sat like an automaton at the wheel. Nigel took his seat beside her.

“Where are we going?” she asked coldly, determined he should not know how desperately she panicked, how rapidly she was weakening.

“Nowhere in particular. He has just got to keep on driving till I say ‘home’. I want to tell you a few things before I get on to what interests me most. Will you listen?”

“I can’t avoid doing so under the circumstances.” He looked at her almost angrily.

“Do you know, I’d give a very great deal to understand what has changed you from the ingenuous little girl I adored, to this—this unimpressionable piece of flint,” he ended bitterly. “It isn’t Ruth. I am looking for Ruth. What have you done with her?”

“Why did you go out of your way to hurt me today?”

“If there was any other way of reaching you, I’d like to have known it. But I am not wasting precious time talking of the present, when there is something I have got to know.”

“Who told you I was in Calcutta?”

“I called at Cooks and found out the date you and your parents were sailing for home, and when you cancelled, I waited. I am rather good at the waiting game. You may be interested to know I met an Indian friend of yours at Delhi. We played polo on the same side.”

“I don’t know anyone in Delhi.”

“He was a visitor—from Kiapara. Now you know.”

“Krishna, the new Rajah?”

“He wasn’t the Rajah then, and I found him a good sport. We went about together quite a lot—after I heard he was from Kiapara.”

“To spy about me?”

“You can put it that way, if you like. I had to get news of you. Perhaps you don’t quite realize what I went through after we parted in the train at Howrah? When you would not write I was going to follow you, but at last you wrote that amazing letter. I could not believe it had anything to do with you, so wrote again. Your father answered it, and I had to accept his decision, for I was told he was a good man and respected in that district. Pressing engagements called me to the Punjab, Kashmir and Karachi.” He paused thoughtfully, then continued “I did not know what to think and could gain nothing hanging about here, so I went north, believing you had met someone else who had cut me out. That was a bitter pill to swallow. Then I got to know young Krishna. When we grew intimate, he told me, confidentially, of his hopes. I nearly went mad when I thought you were going to give yourself to an Indian! Much as I like many Indians I could, not bear to think of you—my honey-girl—” he broke off, unable to continue for a few moments, and the passion in his voice, his vibrating tones, sunk deep into her consciousness, dispelling all her doubts of him, and making her long to weep on his breast. This was her Nigel! The real lover she had sent away without telling him why. She could never tell him why, but to send him away again was beyond her strength.

“Are you going to marry Krishna-ji?” his voice broke in on her stifled emotions.

“There was never a thought of it.”

“Of course, I heard that you turned him down, and I was glad. But he has been to see you today “

“I know. Poor Krishna!”

“You are sorry for him? You were not for me?”

She did not dare to reply.

“When I heard from him the sort of life you were living in Kiapara, I knew then that it was not for another fellow, or for a good time that you got rid of me. It was for some bigger reason. I began to wonder if they had told you of some hereditary disease like insanity in your blood, that made you scared to marry me. Was that it?”

“No—no! Nothing like that.”

“Yet you cannot tell me?”

“Don’t, Nigel—please don’t.” There were tears in her voice.

“Forgive me, I’m beastly, but think of what it has done to me! I never thought anything could have got me down as this has. What made you think that any consideration in the world would make me give you up?”

She was silent, trying to master her emotions.

“Will you come to me—as before? Your dear self, loving, enchanting—my little wife?” he bent low to her, hands gripping each other on his knees, but not attempting to touch her.

“No, that is impossible, Nigel.”

“You have discovered you don’t love me any more?”

“Oh, no—no!” And the next moment she was in his arms weeping on his breast. “I could never love anyone else as long as I live. I have thought of you day and night ever since we parted. I wanted to die—but Daddy stopped me—he wouldn’t let me. Oh, I wish I were dead!”

Nigel held her close, his lips returning to hers repeatedly. The fool-mystery was her own, and he had no right to force her to explain it.

After awhile, when he had dried her tears and calmed her distress, she rested within his arms in an ecstasy, her own about his neck.

“Am I the old Ruth?—or a piece of ‘flint’?” she asked him, trying to smile.

“I seem to have got you back again, honey; but I’m no nearer the heaven I was hoping to regain. Am I to be sent away once more?”

“I could never send you away, Nigel.” There was a little stress on the word ‘send’ which he failed to notice.

“But, listen, sweet. We can’t go on like this always. It will not work. I’ll go clean daft.”

“I could be friends with you—glad to know you love me. That alone would make me very happy,” and she raised her lips to his.

“That is because you are just a child, honey. A beloved child. But people would have to be blind or imbecile not to know I am madly in love with you. Friends are not in love like this. How can I see you every day? How can we live in crowds, eternally frustrated, calling ourselves friends only? I’ll end by abducting you one day.”

Ruth laughed aloud for very joy in his passion.

“I wish you would!—though it doesn’t mean I’d marry you.”

“Would you come happily with me, sweetheart?”

“I’d go to the end of the world with you.”

“And leave me if I suggested the parson, or the register office?”

“Marriage will always be out of the question.”

Ruth was thoroughly sincere. Rather than lose Nigel again, she would even live with him, as his mistress, if he suggested it, and only leave him when he inherited his father’s estates and had to marry for reasons of an heir to inherit them. She could always die if it came to that. Anyway, that belonged to the future. The present was everything to her.

But Nigel was sorely perplexed.

“What is this dreadful thing that stands between us?” he cried in desperation. He was completely baffled. “However, I have got you back, and we’ll just not talk about any stumbling block at present. We will be ‘friends’, as you say, just to see how it goes. You can call me your fiancé—that won’t hurt anyone or alarm you. It will give us a chance to go about together without rousing gossip and slander. Will that make you happy?”

Ruth did not know whether to feel complimented or ashamed that Nigel had not taken her offer to live with him seriously. His love and respect for her were too great for him to dream of taking her at her word. He had treated it almost as a joke from one who did not realize what she was talking about.

“I am going to take you back to the hotel, honey, for it is getting late. Now that your parents are no longer here to look after you, I feel very responsible, so don’t lose more of your beauty sleep than you can help. We will have heaps to talk about in the morning.”

“Nigel”—Ruth felt like a culprit about to confess a crime. “I am leaving Calcutta tomorrow for the Punjab.”

“What?” It was incredible. “Say that again.”

“I have taken a job to care for a blind girl. Her parents are touring India, and are stranded for someone to help out. I have taken it on as they will pay all my expenses. I refused a salary so as to be more free. They are so pleased to have me. The girl is only fourteen, but she is wonderful!”

“Is all this cut and dried—actually fixed up?”

“Yes. I couldn’t back out now without letting them down badly. I only settled it after luncheon—when you were so disagreeable to me,” she added ingenuously.

“Give me time to recover my senses. I was looking forward to touring with you, and fixing up our return journey on the same boat. I figured out that my cabin could be given up to you, and I could put up in any cubby-hole if the bookings are full. But how long does it mean you will be tied to the blind girl?”

“About a month, at least.”

“Then you had better break it to them that I am joining the party, too.”

Chapter XVIII

Recalled

Ruth went to her room filled with anticipation and joy. Solely because Nigel was hers again, and his feelings unchanged, she seemed to have recaptured, by a miracle, all the happiness she had lost. The very thought of it brought back the starry look to her eyes and restored the laughing curves to her lips, making her infinitely attractive, so that many eyes in passing had to turn and look again. Even Alison Langdale was struck by the change, and was sure it meant good news of some sort—possibly Ruth would presently confess that she meant to marry the handsome Indian.

It was long before Ruth slept that night, her thoughts being busily retrospective. To think Nigel had made friends with Krishna in Delhi only to learn news of her! And that he had come to Calcutta because Krishna had told him that the Mallards were leaving for England on a certain date—passages booked—and it was his great chance to see her and have it out. Apparently, he had found out from Cooks that she was not leaving with her people but later, by air, and had chosen to lunch with Alison Langdale at her hotel for the sole purpose of planning how to get into touch with the girl he loved. Alison had only served as a stepping stone to her. Next, he would have taken a room at the hotel.

Oh, Nigel! She hugged the thought of him to her heart, though she knew they were as far from being married as when she had at first sent him away.

What was to be the end of it all?

Did it matter so much? Whatever the end, she would never lose him again. Ultimately, they were bound to live together, somewhere, anywhere, abroad possibly. She belonged to him, heart and soul. Did anything else count? She was past caring for the law or her cherished principles. Nigel’s need would be her law, and she was sure she would be utterly and completely happy making the sacrifice for him.

The only qualms she had was the fear that she was a true daughter of her mother in putting love before all else in the world. She began to understand how desperately her mother must have suffered. She must have been driven insane with jealousy and disappointment to have done—what she did. Ruth shuddered, for under no circumstances could she kill.

The very thought of her mother’s case was torture. If a true daughter of her mother she might yet prove the wrong girl for Nigel. The bare fact of her willingness to be his mistress might lower his opinion of her and make him wonder if she was all he had thought her. She had heard that, for love to last, a husband must respect his wife. Did men respect a mistress? . . .

Yet, she could not see Nigel give her up rather than take her on her own terms.

It gave her food for thought when she realized how easily she was setting aside moral considerations, when all her life she had been bred on such in her very conventional upbringing. It almost proved that human nature was stronger than laws and conventions when emotions ran riot.

There was something else—a fresh argument that disturbed her in the silence of the night. She might have children. She loved babies; but hers would be illegitimate. Would that be fair to them? After sleeping fitfully, she rose to finish her packing, for it prevented her from thinking. They were to make an early start, and she had yet to prepare the Faulkners for an addition to their party.

When on the point of going down to breakfast, there came a knock on her door. Who could it be? Possibly Lucienne, with last-minute instructions concerning the journey.

When she opened the door, to her surprise, she saw it was Nigel, looking strangely upset.

This was quite unexpected, and she was seized with a premonition of misfortune. Her heart sank like lead. What had he come to tell her that could not wait till they met at the station?

“Nigel!” She trembled from head to foot.

“Darling!” He came in and closed the door. “I have had bad news——”

“No—no! Don’t tell me,” she cried, as he caught her to him, “I couldn’t bear it!”

“I have had a cable——”

“I knew it—I knew it! Something has happened, and you have been called home. Nigel!—I cannot let you go. Don’t leave me!”

“God knows I don’t want to.” He kissed her repeatedly, holding her close as if he would never let her go again. “They have cabled urgently to say my father met with a bad accident out hunting, and I have no time to lose. He might be dead by now—God forbid! My dear father—I hate to think of it, but it means I have got to go at once, by air. If only I could have taken you with me!”

“I thought it would be something like that. Life is very cruel to me,” and she wept on his breast.

He made no reply, but kissed her again and again. When she looked up at him, his eyes were brimming with tears. Her own overflowed, wetting her cheeks, a pathetic and adorable vision.

“It is almost as if Fate owes me a grudge. I have no right to be happy! We were not meant to come together like this—what is that about the ‘sins of the fathers’? Oh, but it is unfair! Why should I suffer all this for another’s mistakes!” Ruth sobbed incoherently, abandoning herself to his arms, and letting him make what he could of her rambling outburst.

“My sweetheart—it will only be for a little while. You know I don’t want to leave you—but I must. You must think of me every day, as I shall be thinking of you. I’ll write when I arrive. This is au revoir—I won’t say goodbye.” He did not try to fathom the meaning of her wild talk.

“When are you going?”

“I have to be at the aerodrome within the hour if I hope to catch a certain plane leaving Karachi tomorrow morning. I was offered a seat as some fellow dropped out. It’s cursed bad luck, just when I wish to be with you; but it will all come right—I am sure of it, so cheer up—smile, honey! Let me take away the memory of your smiles, not tears.”

“I’m all right—only being very silly.” She brushed away her tears, and forced herself to be calm.

“Take down my address—you will have to write to me often, or I shall be worried to death.”

Ruth obediently took down his address in her little pocket diary, and controlled herself sufficiently to smile when, once more, she returned to his arms.

“If you are in a great hurry I must not keep you too long.”

“How I hate going!”

“Since you must, I should ‘speed the parting guest’.”

“That’s wonderful!”

They clung together for a moment, then parted. The door closed behind him and she was alone.

After a while Ruth pulled herself together with a great effort and went down to breakfast hoping the last traces of tears had been eliminated, and did her best to appear natural. If unhappy at the sudden parting, she could yet smile and take an interest in the plans of her new friends, for she was not devoid of hope, as before. She could thrill to the knowledge that Nigel was hers and she his, and one day, soon, she would be with him again.

The Langdales complimented her on having joined the Americans for their tour in the Punjab, and she in her turn thanked them for having been instrumental in her being engaged as companion to Isobel Faulkner.

In the midst of a great deal of bustle and confusion, inescapable when coolies handle luggage, the touring party at length left the hotel and Calcutta, and were soon on the noisy platform of the railway station at Howrah. Indian passengers were boarding trains at various platforms like lost sheep in need of a shepherd. They seemed in a panic lest they, or some of their party, should be left behind. Everyone seemed to be yelling to get heard above the rush of steam, while in the pandemonium, hawkers with trays of sweets, cigarettes, and fruit, wormed their way through the crowds, bellowing their wares. Wheeler’s bookstall had a crush of mixed nationalities making last-minute purchases, till a blast from the engine and the clanging of a bell saw passengers shut into the coaches and the train in motion, increasing its momentum as it went.

Isobel stood the noise and confusion very well, for she was getting used to India and the excitability of the people. Though she saw nothing, she was able to picture the scene on the platform which Ruth described in her ear like a commentator on the radio.

The memory of that tour with the Faulkners will live long in Ruth’s memory, with its unforgettable pictures of world-famed sights. It amazed her to watch the blind girl’s appreciation of all they saw, as if she could visualize the beauties of towers and minarets, Moghul gardens laid out in measured formality, pearl mosques, and fretwork in marble. Often her fingers followed the tracery of inlaid flowers in marble panels, each petal a semi-precious stone, each design a perfection of art; and she would examine the marble screens fashioned in delicate fretwork, like lace on a woman’s gown, and speak afterwards with enthusiasm of what she had ‘seen’.

“I never knew there was anything so beautiful in the world as the Taj,” she said, with that spiritual look so usual in the blind whose minds had the gift of sight. “I have never seen anything to equal it, and what a romantic story!”

“He must have adored his wife—what was her name?” said Lucienne.

“Arjumand Banu,” an hotel resident volunteered.

“For it must have cost the earth to build! She must have been very beautiful, or very inspiring.”

“It is a great romance, though I question whether the half of it is true, or just a pretty story,” said Mrs. Faulkner.

“Moslems were often hard nuts to crack, the autocratic blighters, to whom women were soulless, and mere chattels,” said her husband. “She was Shah Jehan’s favourite wife, and as he intended the Taj to be a fitting tomb for himself, as a mighty Emperor, he had her planted there first, so as to keep the place warm for himself.”

“And afterwards,” put in Isobel, with ready laughter, “it was such a temptation to historians to add frills and prettiness to fit the poetry of the marble mausoleum.”

“I hate to be disillusioned,” said Ruth, stubbornly. “I much prefer the idea of the adored wife, and the perfect setting to justify that undying love-story.”

“He was a heartless monster, anyway,” said an Indian gentleman, “for if we are to believe history, he had the architect of that deathless work of art blinded, lest he be tempted to build another tomb as beautiful.”

“I refuse to believe it possible,” said Isobel.

“I, too,” said Ruth. “I will always cherish the idea of the adored wife, honoured in death with a tomb that is one of the wonders of the world, and will, I hope, live for ever. The tale of ruthlessly putting out the eyes of the architect is unworthy of so chivalrous a being.”

“It might have been true,” put in Lucienne, “for his end was very like Nemesis. To be imprisoned for seven years by his own son, Aurungzebe, must have been heartbreaking. The only view of the outside world he was permitted to gaze upon from his confined apartment was that bit of landscape with the Taj Mahal—the wonder tomb of his adored wife—and his own future burial place—the marble dome and minarets graciously pointing towards heaven. I wonder, when feasting his eyes on its perfection, if he ever thought of the man who designed it, and if he asked his forgiveness for making him sightless.”

“Don’t Lucienne! You give me the creeps,” said her sister.

They were a very happy party as they travelled from one place of interest to another, sometimes stopping a few days in some important centre, to be the guests of an English family to whom they had letters of introduction, or of Indian officials, and officers of the army, cultured and travelled Hindus, whose womenfolk had discarded purdah and lived like Europeans. On one occasion, to please Mrs. Faulkner, they were invited to a feast given according to national custom, when they sat on the floor, and fed sumptuously on various curries and bowls of rice, which had to be eaten with their fingers.

It was a remarkable experience for the Faulkners; and Ruth, who had stayed away for Isobel’s sake, was told of their reactions.

“There seems a special knack in feeding with fingers, instead of knives and forks, for, to watch Indians, it is a treat. Personally, I have never been so embarrassed in my life,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “My husband never tried. He had to be provided with cutlery; but Lucienne and I courageously laboured to the end. It was lovely food, especially with all those funny little accessories in small dishes. I couldn’t begin to describe them, but it was fun!”

“Gee! The curries were warm! They burned all the way down. I can’t say I am a convert,” said Mr. Faulkner. “But the wines were sure good, and plenty for all.”

At Delhi, watching a polo match at a mixed club, Ruth met Elizabeth, the English wife of the Maharajah of Baramahal, and was received with surprising cordiality. Ruth got the impression that Elizabeth was thankful to meet someone of her own race, who was likely to be sympathetic; for Elizabeth, who liked the top ranks of society, had suffered rebuffs, as the ‘best people’ did not seem to take to her. She sat apart with her Indian friends, some of whom treated her to lofty patronage, or amused tolerance, while the few English women present hardly noticed her at all.

The Maharajah, however, was very proud of her regal bearing and the way she set off his priceless jewels.

“Do come and take a chair beside mine, Ruth. It is so refreshing to see you again. I want to hear all about you. What are you doing with the Americans?” she drawled languidly.

Ruth explained.

“It’s only a temporary arrangement as I shall be going home very soon. What about you? Do you like the life?”

Elizabeth was dressed in a rich silk sâri. to her ankles, high-heeled shoes, and nylons, and carried a bejewelled handbag. Her jewellery was profuse, and in bad taste for an afternoon function.

“How do you think I look in these garments? I dress to please His Highness,” she said, taking a pride in giving him his title, “for it pays to be politic, I find. I have quite tamed the dear thing so that I am given the utmost liberty. You would hardly believe it, but when we were married he actually expected me to conform to purdah regulations! I would have been something between a slave and a pampered favourite of his harem! But I used all my tact, and in three months I was the sole occupant of the harem, and had complete freedom. Don’t you think I deserve credit?”

“I do, indeed. How did you manage it?”

“Oh, I played my cards wisely. There is an art in wheedling. Did you ever imagine I would be a past mistress at wheedling? Otherwise I should never have got him to eat out of my hand as now. Nothing is too good for me. Really, sometimes it is a terrible bore, but I am bearing up, as it won’t last for ever,” she felt free to speak openly as the air was full of chatter and cheering while the chukkas proceeded, and no one seemed anxious to listen to Elizabeth’s conversation.

“Why? Are you thinking of returning to England?”

“Oh, dear no! We have a place in the hills, near Simla, where I shall be spending the summer months. The Maharajah will not join me till the autumn, and I hope to have the time of my life there. Simla is a gay station, quite after my own heart. A military, as well as a Government summer headquarters, you know. There’ll be lots of dances. I hear they are keeping up old traditions very well. It will be a nice break. Now, what news of Nigel? Have you seen him since you went to Bengal?”

“Yes. He is now at home, as they cabled for him. His father met with a hunting accident.”

“If I remember rightly he was very keen on you? By now I expected you would have been married. I don’t mind saying I hardly approved of his behaviour, as his people had other hopes for him. However, it seems nothing has happened so far?” glancing at Ruth’s left hand.

“Quite right. Nothing has happened,” said Ruth.

“You are bearing up wonderfully.”

“I am afraid I don’t understand.”

“Only—I am surprised, for you were crazy about him. I am sure I was not mistaken.”

“It must be very puzzling, I’m sure,” replied Ruth. “But if it will interest you at all, I hear from him very often. Now, if you will excuse me, Elizabeth, I will return to my party or they will begin to think I have deserted them.”

“One minute—I wanted to say something. The way you wear that hat is not becoming. A little further back is more the present style. I think you look very well considering you have been so long in Bengal. Had any malaria?”

“No, nor cholera, nor typhoid, and I was not inoculated before leaving home.”

“Most imprudent. Nor was I. But I wasn’t going to Bengal. A terribly humid climate, and so full of queer diseases. You are lucky—goodbye.” She waved a slender hand affectedly at Ruth’s back as she turned to join her party.

It was a great day for Ruth when she received her first shilling air-mail letter from Mrs. Mallard.

In order to make the fullest use of the space allowed for the half-ounce weight, she had written small and closely on four sides of the sheet, and crossed all over it, writing in red ink. Though it cost Ruth time and patience to decipher many of the words, she would not have missed a line.

“Poor Mummy!” she said to herself, since there was no one in whom she could confide. “It isn’t all as easy as she had expected.”

The address at the top of the letter was:—

‘Rippingdale House,
‘Downing Crescent,
‘Bayswater,
‘London, W.

‘Darling Ruth,’ (she read),

‘This house has a high-sounding name, but it means nothing, for it is only a boarding-house, one of the most moderate we could find, and, funnily enough, it seems favoured by retired Government servants who left India, expecting a revolution. I am sure they would be much belter off in Ooty, or a hill station like Darjiling. At least they would still have had their Indian servants, whom your dear Daddy misses sorely. It is lonelier here than I thought it would be, for those whom we knew out East are scattered in different parts of Britain, and are not easy to reach. Some, as you know, retired to Australia and New Zealand. Granny lived in London with my sister, but now both are gone, and your cousins, whom you knew so well, have nothing in common with us. They met the boat, and did what they could in finding us this place, but they are all working and haven’t much time for two old fogeys, so we feel very like strangers in a strange land, instead of being at home. Yet, ties of nationality are strong, and though we were born in India, we would rather be uncomfortable in a white man’s country, than live out the remainder of our lives at ease in an alien land. It’s quite mad, I suppose, but there it is.

‘I am still very confused by the vastness of London and have to depend on the kindness of fellow-boarders to show me about, for I would certainly get lost, and have to be brought home by the police. You know how independent Daddy is, and how he hates to be told what to do—an idiosyncrasy of his—he prefers a map, and to pick up information like manna from heaven, so it is not surprising he got into an Inner Circle train by mistake, and was carried halfway round London, instead of taking a bus straight to Lloyds Bank, Lower Regent Street. He almost panicked, thinking he would soon find himself in the depths of the East End, in the humiliating position of having to apply to the police. Seeing his predicament, a stranger, who was getting off at Baker Street, kindly took him under his wing, and put him into the Bakerloo Tube. From Piccadilly Circus, a constable on point duty put him right for Lloyds, which he arrived at after closing time! He was so cross! He spends his spare time studying maps of the London streets, Underground Routes, and all the literature he can get concerning buses. I do think that people are very kind to strangers and elderly folk. After all one hears of the insularity of English people, their reserve and aloofness, I believe it has more to do with shyness than snobbery.

‘We are longing to get a little place of our own, as boarding-houses are soul-destroying places of abode. The people here think we are pagans or Hindus, as we never go to church. As you know, we lost the habit umpteen years ago, as a church wasn’t within miles and miles of us. I hope we are none the worse for that, but it is awkward to begin now when we don’t know our way about the Book of Common Prayer, and would make a spectacle of ourselves creating a windmill of the leaves in order to chase the prayers about. Yet I admire the devotion of the old dears here, who never miss on Sundays, though they haven’t a good word to say of their neighbours, and pick holes in the management of this house wanting everything for practically nothing.

‘My first sight of London was very disappointing, for the East End looked so slummy with its little backyards like cat-runs and the washing drying in the sun. Everywhere was a forest of chimney pots, and it was raining heavily. We looked down on narrow streets full of shining umbrellas. I had to tell myself, “This is London, the greatest of cities, and the home of my forefathers!” But I was not favourably impressed. That came afterwards. How I do love sitting in Kensington Gardens and in Hyde Park, watching the people go by. And always I am struck by the absence of bare-bodied coolies, swaggering babus, and an Oriental population clad in dhotis, curtahs, and puggarees. It seems odd that I have left them all behind in the East, and must get used to everything different. Sometimes T get a bit nostalgic for my dear old ayah, and our faithful old Indian servants, with whom we were so exacting! I feel apologetic when I contrast them with the pert maids they have here, who walk out on a mistress when it suits them, and who won’t stand for fault-finding. Poor Behari! the slovenly, unprincipled, long-suffering rascal! But think of the five-course meals he turned out as routine work, and the tasty dishes he made, and then live in a London boarding-house where a tasteless joint is hot on Sunday, cold on Monday, stewed in a watery mess on Tuesday, and is a toad-in-the-hole or shepherd’s pie, on Wednesday! You then begin to realize what you have lost.

‘Daddy is determined to get a job though the Labour Exchange is not encouraging. He has no technical qualifications, and is over sixty, which is the official retiring age in this country, irrespective of health and vigour and the ability to continue. It doesn’t make sense, for so many have no pensions to fall back upon, and are not old enough for the Old Age Pension, which as contributors men are not due to receive till sixty-five, while Daddy, as a non-contributor, would have to wait till he is seventy. Meanwhile, they must struggle to live any-old-how, for all the jobs go to younger men with or without brains, while the capable and experienced elderly man has to starve in an attic, or fall back on charity. An unthinkable catastrophe to a proud and independent character. Only Statesmen and Company Directors may work as long as they please, even when bordering on senility.

‘I am only wondering what is going to happen to the people of this country in the future, for, with such high taxation and salaries static for the majority of white-collared workers, they have no chance to save for their old age while their standards of living are woefully declining. No one in these difficult times could live, anyway, on the Old Age Pension, such as it is. What standard of life can they look forward to in old age, who have all their lives lived simply, but have never known poverty and hardship? I give it up.

’Yesterday, I made Daddy write to an old friend he knew in India, a fine old sport (who has retired on a thousand pounds a year and does himself remarkably well) just to tell him that he has come home for good, and what about meeting? I am hoping he will be asked to lunch or something, and that it might lead somewhere.

‘We are longing to have you with us again to see places and do things together. And when we get that little house or flat we want, we will keep it going with your help, dividing labours—for you will probably know far more about domestic science than I do, but I can always go round with a duster and polishing cream, and do whatever needs the least exertion! With so many labour-saving devices in English homes, no one should get housemaid’s knee. Electricity saves so much trouble. So till we set up house in our little way, we shall stay on here and make the best of it. I believe the landlady means to be kind, but oh, the food! The other day, to please us, she made a curry. You should have seen Daddy’s face when it came on the table. One look at it was enough for the poor dear! (How he longs for a good curry!) This one was just another wishy-washy stew with a sprinkling of curry powder in it, and pappy rice fringing the outer rim of the dish. I told Dad that he failed for the first lime in true sportsmanship when he left me to be the martyr (rather than hurt the poor thing’s feelings) and he calmly devoured bread and cheese.

‘Really, I must end, darling, or there won’t be room to sign my name.’

Mrs. Mallard finished her screed on a narrow margin rather than embark on an extra page which would imperil the shilling postage. After reading it through Ruth felt she had no right to be in Delhi with strangers when she was wanted by her own people in England. Her duty was to them, and they should not be neglected. Her engagement with the Faulkners could be terminated at any moment, her reasons for leaving them being sound. There was no good in waiting for Nigel to fetch her when his father still wanted his help at home. He, too had duties and she must not take him from them. She was excited at the thought of giving him a surprise with a telephone call from London after her arrival. He would hardly believe his ears! After that, her plans would depend on subsequent events. No use making any beforehand. A cable would suffice to prepare her parents for her coming.

Having made up her mind to fly home, all that remained was to break the news to the Faulkners.

Chapter XIX

Plain Facts

Ruth broached the subject of leaving India when Mrs. Faulkner started making plans for a trip to Simla. She had heard and read so much about Simla, especially in Kipling’s books, that she felt that not to see such a famous hill station would be something to regret for the rest of their lives.

“You must not count on me,” said Ruth. This was in the nature of a bombshell.

They occupied a corner of one of the public-rooms, regaling themselves with coffee and cigarettes before Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner and Lucienne left for a bridge party at the house of a prominent Indian Government official.

All stared in dismay at Ruth.

“Break it to us gently, please,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “What’s the new idea?” said her husband.

“Ruth! What have you got up your sleeve?” from Lucienne, while Isobel waited to hear more.

Ruth explained what she felt since reading her mother’s letter, and said it was her duty to go to the parents without wasting any more time enjoying herself.

She met with a barrage of protests and pleading.

“Oh, Ruth!” said the blind girl. “I can’t think how I shall ever do without you. You make word pictures so real for me, that I feel, when with you, I can see all you describe.”

“Oh, Ruth! How could you be so cruel as to leave us? I was going to beg of you to come with us to the States—name your own terms, dear, but do reconsider this. We can’t spare you!” Mrs. Faulkner nearly wept.

“My dear Ruth,” said Lucienne, “this is a major disaster. It spoils everything for us if you mean it. I could never be to Isobel all that you have meant for her. It is not only being an ideal companion, but it’s your youth. Isobel feels more at home with you than even with us.”

“Don’t put it like that,” said Isobel. “I love being with Ruth, for she—she doesn’t make me feel blind. I can’t explain.”

“You are all very charming to Ruth,” said Mr. Faulkner, “but why not think more of her feelings than your own? It goes without saying, that we’ll miss her; but if it is her duty to be with her parents, then go she must.”

“Thank you. That is very considerate and generous,” said Ruth. “I shall never forget the lovely time you have given me, and if I have been of use, I am glad. But I don’t feel I should stay on here, when I know they need me. If you’ll understand, it is like this. They have lived all their lives in India, and are practically strangers in England. Life in India doesn’t fit you for a hard life, which it is when you are poor, and must count your pennies. I don’t think my mother has the remotest idea of cooking, or economy. That is, the way one has to study both nowadays. At present they are in a boarding-house, and the sooner they have a little place of their own, the better for them both. I shall have to do all the thinking for them, poor dears, or presently they will find themselves in great straits. I have the advantage of them, as I have been brought up at home, and know my way about. So, knowing all I do, it would be cruel if I left them in the lurch at such a time.”

“She is perfectly right,” said Mr. Faulkner. “I congratulate you, my dear, on your sense of duty, and your parents in having such a daughter.”

Ruth was fortunate in securing a seat in a plane bound for London a week from that date; and having made up her mind to leave at once, she could hardly wait to begin the flight. A letter by air, posted by an earlier plane, was all that was necessary to prepare the old people for her arrival early in April. Nigel would have that telephone call when she had recovered from the effects of the journey. Some people were very airsick, but she hoped she would do well, as she had been a good sailor on the voyage out.

On the evening before she left Delhi for Karachi, she was at a cocktail party with the Faulkners and met Elizabeth again with her Indian friends—the women, free, sophisticated, and full of charm. The weather was getting very warm, and there was talk of a general migration to the hills. Already Elizabeth looked pale, and, Ruth thought, highly strung and nervous. Her usual languid air was forgotten, and in its place was something akin to restless anxiety.

The moment she saw Ruth, she attached herself to her, feeling, she said, that they were old friends.

“It’s so hot in here, and all this chatter is getting on my nerves. People are always so excited over nothing, and everybody talks so loudly, a terrible habit in the East,” she complained. “Do come out on the balcony, it is cooler there, and bring your drink with you. I want to have a chat with you. Oh, by the way,” as they passed out into the gloom of the deserted balcony, “I suppose you have heard from Nigel that his father died suddenly last week?”

The shock of the unexpected news was so stunning that Ruth could not speak. She dropped into the nearest chair, and tried to cover her confusion by sipping her cocktail. As a matter of fact, she had been wondering why she had not received her usual letter from Nigel. And now—this, to account for his not writing.

“Is that true? I have not had a letter for more than a week,” she was at last able to say. “In his last he said his father was better and hoped to attempt walking again.”

“It’s very sad, for he wasn’t so old, and looked so hale when I last saw him. A friend of mine wrote by air mail saying that it was heart failure. He never really recovered from his internal injuries, I hear. Of course, Nigel succeeds to the title. He was a very devoted son. Not that they had pots of money—for the present Government sees to it that no one is allowed to be rich. So now, I suppose, Nigel will have to sell a farm or two and part with some land, in order to pay the death duties. A bad blow for him. He really should marry money, that is why his mother tried her best to get him married to Lady Lorna, but apparently it came to nothing. I suppose he wasn’t a good enough catch for her ladyship, who flies high, for now there is a rumour that she goes about a lot with Viscount Rodney Piers, whose father is an Earl. Really, Ruth, believe it or not, I am frightfully homesick. Do you blame me?”

Ruth saw she was in earnest by the strained look on her face.

“I am very sorry for you, if you are,” said she, immediately sympathetic, for it seemed to her that sooner or later Elizabeth was bound to suffer from nostalgia, and be devoured with a longing to return home to her own land and people. However much she might have hankered for wealth and lovely jewellery, thinking that, as the wife of an Indian nobleman, there would be many compensations for the loss of the old faces, and places she had known and loved, once her possessions grew stale, and she found herself alone and friendless in an alien land among alien people whose ways were not her ways, she would feel almost as if abandoned on a desert island. With all her affectations and selfishness, Elizabeth was no fool. She had only miscalculated her ability to conform to the Eastern mode of life and habits. The language baffled her, as also the psychology of Orientals.

Much of this she tried to explain to Ruth with pathetic regrets.

“You see, I always wanted to see India, and it seemed marvellous the comfort and ease people enjoyed there, and the gaiety and pomp. It was wonderful to think of being the wife of a multi-millionaire and able to buy just what you fancied, regardless of the price. I have always had a passion for jewellery, and was thrilled to think of the diamonds I could wear, without thought of the expense. Ruth, don’t laugh at me if I tell you I would give all I’ve got for a little home in Norfolk; my home country, a man I loved, and—children! To think I have sacrificed all that for—what?” her voice broke and she turned her face aside.

“I have no inclination to laugh. I am only very sorry.”

“I need your sympathy, for I’ve had a hell of a time.”

“Your—husband—” Ruth hesitated, for was Elizabeth, properly speaking, a wife, when married to a Hindu, with a wife or wives, living? Or would English people regard her only as the man’s mistress? “He’s not unkind to you? Or is he?”

“According to his lights, he is a wonderful husband to me. Doesn’t he load me with jewellery? Doesn’t he give me anything I fancy—clothes, cars, furs, furniture, anything I may demand? What he can’t give me is the respect of English men and women, who take every opportunity to humiliate me, and show me that I have lost caste by what I have done. On the surface they are very polite and bland, but they make me hate living like this. . . . I dress in sâris as the Maharajah insists. He tried to insist on purdah for me, but at that I rebelled. It happens that he is very fond of me, so I won my bluff when I said I was returning home. He gave in, and since then I have done as I please. But his jealousy wears me out. I have had to use all the tact I possess, be revoltingly sloppy and affectionate when it is necessary to appease the old fool, till I have lost all self-respect, and feel degraded. It can’t continue, Ruth, so don’t be surprised if you hear, some day, that I have cleared out with someone.”

“Do you really mean it, Elizabeth?”

“I most certainly do, and I thought you might like to know it is all secretly fixed up. The fuse is laid, and it only wants a match.”

“I will grant you are very courageous.”

“It needs courage.”

“Who is the man? Or should I not ask?”

“You’ve not met him. He’s an American—about my own age, and he wants to marry me. I am told I am only a wife in India, but in any Christian country I am free. The Hindu laws permit polygamy, you know. Once we are out of India, we’ll be married and live in Hollywood.”

Though not specially interested in Elizabeth’s affairs, Ruth felt curious to know how she had managed to arrive at such a daring decision while living as the wife of the Maharajah. How had she done it, and where did she get to know the American?

Elizabeth seemed glad to open her mind to the English girl, who was young and romantic enough to appreciate her peculiar circumstances.

“An American film company was travelling in India and was in Delhi all winter until now, making a picture of Oriental splendour and romance. The producer got the Maharajah’s permission to use parts of his palace in New Delhi for his ‘sets’, so I naturally saw a lot of him. We took great risks and met secretly. It is amazing how we escaped discovery, but it was worth it. For the first time in my life I know what it is to be in love. We intend leaving by plane. I shall dress as an Englishwoman, of course, and we are booking as husband and wife. No one will recognize me, nor will anyone know where to look for me for quite a long time, as the Maharajah will think I am visiting his people in Benares for a week. I am taking only a woman servant with me. She will be given leave immediately to visit her family, and will know nothing. Of course, you must not let a word of this pass your lips, Ruth. I am trusting you, because I know I can.”

“I should not dream of saying a word.”

“All my hopes in life are wrapped up in this plan of escape. If the Maharajah got wind of it, he would stop me and lock me up, which is unthinkable. Do wish me luck.”

“I do—and I hope you will at last find happiness,” said Ruth.

“Mind you, he isn’t rich. He has a good salary, but the film trade is an uncertain proposition. However, we are taking a chance. He is quite sure I have a future as a film actress. The Americans like a good English accent, and I have the looks and carriage. He says I will make a hit, if I can act. Of course, I can act. I learned deportment as a mannequin in London, where the best shops employed me. As for acting, I had two years at the Royal Dramatic School of Art, after I left school, and they considered me one of their best pupils, so I have no fears.”

As others came out on the balcony, Elizabeth said no more; and not till Ruth was alone in her room at the hotel, was she able to think clearly on the startling news she had been told concerning Nigel’s father. There was so much in the same connection, that she felt unable to judge how far his death affected her, or how it could concern her at all. She had always known that Nigel would succeed his father, but that event never seemed to belong to the present.

For one thing, Nigel would be terribly busy for some time over the business of running the estate, which was now his responsibility. If they were hard hit by death duties, he would have to decide how they were to be met. All thought of flying out to India to bring her home would have to be given up.

It seemed as if the Fates were conspiring to keep them apart, for it was clearly her duty not to be the obstacle in the way of his carrying out his obligations to his family and the property. All that she had been selfishly planning seemed suddenly to appear in a different light. If carried out, it would be degrading to her as well as to him, and she was no nearer to marrying him than before.

Why, then, deliberately part him from his family and force him to act against his conscience by living with her ‘in sin’? For that, according to society, would be the position. She had to remember his social standing in the county, and all that she had already thrashed out to the bitter end.

Ruth came to the conclusion, after shedding secret tears of grief and renunciation, that she would write to him by air mail offering him her condolences and sympathy, and at the same time tell him, as they could never marry, that it was best for him to give up all thought of her. She would be returning to her people in London as they needed her help to make a home, for they could not manage alone. If possible, she would find part-time work, so as to make things easier for them all, and if he would only realize that this was the only reasonable and practical way of solving a very unhappy problem, he would not make things harder for her and them both, by trying to make her change her mind. She had studied the situation from every angle, and this was her final decision.

She wrote the letter before going to bed, as it would have to be posted early the next morning, and if it was not exactly in the words she had composed in her mind, the gist of it was the same; after which she did her best to sleep, so as to be fresh for all that lay before her in the new day.

Nigel’s belated letter to her arrived the following day, giving her his news with a touch of sadness and restraint, and wanting her to know how doubly precious she was to him, now that he was bereft of one as dear to him as his father had always been.

There was no one in the world, he said, could take her place in his heart, and it only remained for them to marry and forget the difficulties and obstacles that had kept them apart so long. Whatever they were, love such as his would sweep them away.

But, thought Ruth, he did not know what they were! He was not in a position to judge. How could he be? So it was for her to act in his best interests, and solely for his good. That was what she believed to be real love.

She did not need to answer the letter, as hers had gone and would explain everything; and as she had given him no London address, he could not write again.

At last the day came, and Ruth boarded the air liner at Karachi, feeling years older than when she came out to join her parents, with greater command of herself, and wisdom exceeding her age. It was a wrench to part with the Faulkners, Isobel in particular, who had experienced enough sadness in her life and had learned so well how to bear up under her cruel affliction, with cheerfulness and a brave philosophy. Ruth left the family, certain of a warm welcome and unlimited hospitality should she ever find herself visiting the States, while her admiration for Americans in general had a new meaning.

The familiar accent drew her attention to a member of the party assembled for the journey by air, and she saw a typical, square-jawed, hustling individual in an arresting lounge suit of pronounced checks with a flamboyant necktie, making way for a lady, presumably his wife, who was laden with flowers and carried a priceless python-skin handbag. She was heavily veiled but her deportment was unmistakable, her grace and languor familiar.

As she passed Ruth to mount into the machine, she put out a hand and squeezed her arm intimately.

Having recognized Elizabeth, Ruth responded with a smile. Nothing more was expected of her at the moment, but after they were airborne, Elizabeth raised her veil, and gave Ruth a deliberate wink! Later on, they were able to talk into each other’s ears, as people were obliging enough to exchange seats temporarily, so that they might converse.

“Everything went off without a hitch,” said Elizabeth with more excitement than Ruth had ever seen her display. “I am supposed to be visiting the Maharajah’s family in Benares—really, it worked wonderfully. I must introduce my boy-friend—he’s a darling. They say he excelled himself in his last picture, Stolen Virtue—a real smasher! What do you think of him?”

“He looks a forceful character—what you might call a ‘go-getter’,” said Ruth, wondering at the change in Elizabeth. She had lost her patronizing air, and was actually treating her as an equal in intelligence, a thing she never did on the ship.

“He’s all that. He said as he saw me, that I was the very type he had been looking for, for the films, and is sure Hollywood will take me to its heart. So encouraging! He even thinks I’ll earn a lot more than he ever hopes to do, if I become a success; and of that he is certain. He says he wishes he was as certain of his job, for producers have enormous responsibility and can’t afford to be unpopular with the film corporations. Isn’t that wonderful? I never dreamt, Ruth, that I should ever have the chance of becoming a film star! And to think I had to go out to India and marry a Maharajah before it could happen. Truly, the ways of Providence are inscrutable.”

Ruth was too tactful to say that she did not think Providence had a hand in anything so unethical as Elizabeth’s selfish career. Disapproval would have shocked her, as she firmly believed that the end justified the means.

The flight home was uneventful. Jeffrey met her at Heath Row, and she took him back to Bayswater, as his sense of direction and knowledge of London was still vague. Left to himself he would have taken double the time, as he would have had to ask his way at every turn. Ruth thought he looked very much improved in a new lounge suit, which made him look slimmer, and even distinguished.

“It cost a fantastic sum,” he groused in his familiar fashion, but not without pride. “What with purchase tax, and prices what they are, I feel it is positively criminal, when one can’t afford things, living on capital as we are.”

“Never mind, darling,” Ruth pinched his arm as a tribute to the new suit, “you look somebody, and I’m very proud of you.”

“Not half so proud as I am to be seen with you, kiddie. People are wondering whose ‘Baby’ I have stolen. My word, won’t your mother want to show you off at the boarding-house. I hope to give you a peep at a flat we are thinking of renting. The sooner we move the better, the boarding-house is getting me down. How do you feel about coming home?”

“It is about time I did,” she answered. “I will have to get down to earning my living as soon as possible.”

Jeffrey maintained a wounded silence, resentful towards fate for making it impossible for him to provide for her as he would love to do. They talked of everything from the prospective flat to the stern realities of life, but not once did Jeffrey mention Nigel. His silence on that one particular subject was provocative, till Ruth broke it courageously

“Did you hear that Nigel’s father is dead?”

“What’s that?—oh, Nigel’s father? Um-um—yes,” sounded so self-conscious, and transparently artificial, that Ruth could not understand what was in his mind. Jeffrey was notoriously a bad actor. “It was all in the papers. The boy is now a baronet. Your mother was saying”—he did not finish, as they came to Paddington and had to get out and take a bus. Ruth could easily have concluded his remark without prompting, for Mrs. Mallard was bound to be full of regrets at the situation, as she was human enough to have a worldly streak deep down in her feminine make-up. Ruth, however, was glad to drop the subject, for she was well aware that she, alone, was responsible for the regrets. Yet no amount of sophistry or argument would make her expose her shameful origin to the man she loved. It was her cross, and Nigel should not be allowed to carry it, to his own detriment.

The boarding-house was typical of many of its kind, familiar to people of modest means, who had to swallow their pride for reasons of economy. As Ruth and her father entered the narrow hall she was greeted with the smell of boiling dishcloths rising from the basement kitchen, Ronuk floor-polish, and the lingering reminder of a recent meal. A charwoman rose from the floor, where she had been engaged in resuscitating the faded pattern of the linoleum, and stood aside to allow them to pass, the expression on her face sour enough to curdle milk.

Jeffrey put his head in at the door of the sitting-room on the right, the bay-window of which faced the road sporting an attenuated palm in a majolica pot and beckoned to someone within.

His gesture had an immediate response in the person of Mrs. Mallard, who clasped Ruth in her arms and hurried her up a flight of stairs to a bedroom she shared with her husband, Jeffrey bringing up the rear somewhat breathlessly. It was not high blood pressure or advancing years that made him short of breath, he said, anticipating concern, but those damned steep stairs that took it out of one.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mallard was explaining to Ruth that the sitting-room was full of old ladies browsing over a coal fire and discussing their particular ailments, so that it was impossible for anyone to have any sort of privacy, except in their bedrooms.

“Oh, darling! How good to see you again! But—you are thinner—and far too pale! What have you done to yourself, my precious?”

“Nothing, Mummikins. I’ve only lost a little weight—shed some of my ‘puppy fat’, and am all the better for it.”

Mrs. Mallard could not say enough to express her relief and gladness at her safe arrival. “For days I have been living in prayer. Somehow, I can’t feel any confidence in aeroplanes. You read of so many crashes, and of everyone on board being killed. I haven’t known a peaceful moment. But, thank heaven, you are here all right!” They talked of the flat they hoped to take, and were sure Ruth would like it, as it was in a suburb of London, a sort of Garden Estate, and so picturesque with Virginia creeper all over the walls, though, at this time of year, there were no leaves, but new shoots were sprouting.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but Dad has found an old friend living there, and he has been persuaded to join a golf club. Also, there is a bowling green, and as he is so good at games, he has taken to bowls like a duck to water.” Mrs. Mallard was very proud of Jeffrey.

“I suppose it will suit you, too?” said Ruth, “for you will have lots of neighbours. I hope they will be friendly.”

“Oh, they are that, I am sure, for they were very helpful and told us about the shops and other things. One smiled so pleasantly on the back stairs, that I know I shall like her.”

“The trouble is, the minute you get chummy, they will live on your doorstep, and borrow from you whenever they run out of stores,” said Jeffrey.

“Or I may be borrowing from them,” said his wife. “It will be very different from this.” Mrs. Mallard sniffed the air and screwed up her nose in disgust. “That awful landlady! Why must she do anything so inconsiderate at this hour of the day, heaven alone knows!”

“And why laundry should hang out at the back till late in the afternoon, making it impossible to sit out in the sun, is past understanding,” said Jeffrey. “Not that she has any garden to boast of.”

“At the flats, where we hope to go,” said Mrs. Mallard, “they have nice bits of lawn, and a children’s playground. It is so cheerful.”

Not a word, so far, about Nigel. Ruth was getting restless and impatient waiting for her mother to mention his name. Just to listen to anything that might concern him, or even to rouse an argument as to what she meant to do about him, would be better than studious avoidance of the subject. At last:

“Did you tell that boy, Nigel Cunliffe—or I should say, Sir Nigel—that you were coming home, Ruth?” said her mother, as they chatted together by the window, and Jeffrey read the evening paper. (Mrs. Mallard had heard from Ruth, by letter, of her meeting Nigel in Calcutta.)

“Oh, yes, dear. I wrote and told him I had to, or he might have flown out.”

“Did he suggest that?”

“It was the idea. That is, he was determined, and I could not have stopped him. But when his father died, I thought it would not do, and told him so. You see, he would not give up the idea of our getting married, and now he will have to see it is impossible. So I purposely did not give him my address.”

“What does he think of your reason for acting like this? Have a heart, darling. First you were engaged, then you broke it off without giving him the reason why. Then you consent to be ‘friends’—a rather anomalous situation when you are both in love—and now you turn your back on him completely! What is he to think, but that you are being capricious? Don’t you think it is time you thought of him? Allowed him to be the judge of whether you two should or should not marry?”

“Haven’t I been thinking only of him?”

“You couldn’t bear to tell him such a shameful story. I’m afraid you were thinking more of your pride.”

Ruth was very still . . . was that how it had appeared?

“Look here, Charlotte,” said Jeffrey, laying his paper aside. “No good beating about the bush. Let her know the plain facts.”

“I did not know you wanted me to tell her. I thought you’d rather let things work themselves out.”

“I don’t think so now. The fact is, Ruth, I have seen Nigel. That was the day before yesterday. He’s been trying to find me, and as the bank would not give him my address, a letter was forwarded to me from him asking me to lunch at the Carleton.”

“Oh, Daddy!” came almost like a wail from Ruth, who could only see more pain and suffering for herself and Nigel, out of this new turn in her affairs.

“My child, I am thinking we have all been a lot of idiots. Anyhow, it is up to you now to cut your own throat, so to speak, to crucify yourself, if it pleases you to do so. I wash my hands of it all.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because—I suppose I am a coward. I didn’t know how you would take it.”

“What did he want to see you about?”

“What do you suppose?”

“And the upshot?”

“He is calling to take you for a run in his car tomorrow afternoon. Go and have it out with him for the last time. If you are obstinate, it will have to be the last time, for this cannot go on for ever. And your blood be on your own head.”

Ruth rose, feeling suddenly weak and helpless. She had tried to do what she had thought was best for Nigel, and was beaten. Perhaps he had a right to be told everything.

“Would you mind, Mummy, if I went to my room?—I think I’ll rest. Where is it?”

Mrs. Mallard led the way, and when she returned, she was very near tears.

“That poor child, Jeffrey! She has suffered greatly over this unhappy business. I wish we had never told her anything. We are to blame. In trying to do what we thought was right, we have spoilt everything for her. But for us, Ruth might, by now, have been happily married to the best of fellows—and why not?”

“Why not, indeed!” said Jeffrey. “I have been thinking like this for a long time. But it seems, the older one gets, the less is one’s judgment to be trusted. At one time it seemed dishonest to keep Ruth in the dark and let her enjoy a fool’s paradise; dishonest to let her marry under false pretences, so to speak. So we pulled her card house about her ears and plunged her into a hell of disillusionment, not to say shame. Not once did we consider the other point of view, as we are now doing. I have come to think it is better to let live a kindly lie, than to allow the miserable, unvarnished truth to blast the lives of those we love. Who are these Cunliffes that a girl like Ruth should be sacrificed to their family pride? To my mind, they ought to thank God for her, and be proud to have Nigel marry her. He’d be damned lucky to have such a wife.”

“I hope she will be sensible and be guided by him.”

Ruth’s eyes were more than ever like a ‘startled gazelle’s’ when she entered Nigel’s sports-car and was driven by him into the country for the promised heart-to-heart talk.

To her, it was like being put on the rack to be obliged to tell the unspeakable story of her birth. The shame of it was more than she could bear.

They had met with restraint on the doorstep, aware that many eyes were applied to the window blinds of the boarding-house, and when they drove through the traffic, the restraint persisted. He said little of consequence, touching lightly on matters of mutual interest. Of course, he had received her letter, which he had not taken seriously, and which was the reason of their drive. Yes, he had been frightfully busy, yet he would have met the plane, but her father thought he would rather meet her alone. Mr. Mallard was a grand fellow, and it was Nigel’s loss that they had not known each other in India. This was said with sincere feeling.

After driving till they were quit of traffic, and fields and hedges came into view, Nigel suddenly diverted the car off a country lane on to a side track leading to a farm, and stopped under a group of beeches, as his patience was apparently at an end. Abandoning the wheel, he drew Ruth into his arms, and kissed her repeatedly to make up for the long abstention.

“This is where you belong, honey,” and his voice reminded her of that night on the forecastle of the liner. “What do you mean by giving me such a rotten time, when I’ve already had a bad knock-out?”

“Oh, Nigel, darling!” She was once again the little girl of the voyage—all love and longing. “But what can I do?”

“You can say you will marry me at once—if not sooner!”

“But—I have got to tell you everything—that dreadful story that has destroyed all real happiness for me for ever, since I heard it.”

“You needn’t waste our precious time, my sweet. I know all about it.”

“Who told you?” Her startled eyes looked full into his.

He kissed her again.

“Your father. I practically made him—to save us both. Oh, we had a wonderful talk. He decided you were far too young to be allowed to make so vital a decision, and he’s dead right. You—an angel of purity and goodness—have nothing to do with the sordid affairs of the woman who gave you birth. You are another person, with your own life to live, your own future, nobody else’s to answer for. The law gave you a new name, and new parents, who reared you in perfect respectability, bless them! You may well be proud of them. Why, honey, if you want to discuss the matter of ‘skeletons in cupboards’ we Cunliffes have a good few we blush to recall.

“For instance, certain cousins in Australia are descended from the Cunliffe who was sentenced to penal servitude for some ghastly deed a century ago—I have forgotten what it was—but he escaped the gallows by the skin of his teeth. As a child I was thrilled, and longed to meet the family. I believe they are now very honest, hardworking sheep farmers—so what? It’s a pity you were told anything, for your sensitive conscience has been trying to make a burnt offering of you on the altar of tire Cunliffe family honour, which you are under no obligation whatever to study. Now kiss me! Are you satisfied that you have behaved like an adorable little fool by making a mountain out of a molehill?”

“You may call me anything you like, I am so wonderfully happy!” said Ruth, capitulating entirely.

The End