“Oh, I say, they’ll never all go in!” Ann Church leaned up against the bed and surveyed the chaos.
Certainly there was an enormous number of things still left to be packed. Two cardboard boxes cascaded blouses—they must go on the top. Two large square cartons betokened hats; well, the hatbox would take another two easily.
“The point is, can I get anything more into the cabin trunk?” Ann knelt down suddenly by the long and very shiny black tin case. “No, I can’t. Well then, the blouses will have to go in the ‘Wanted on the Voyage’ box, and I’ll get them out on the way. Oh, hooray! just the person I wanted.”
“What’s the matter?” Joyce Cunningham stood in the door. “My dear, what a muddle! I never knew any one who could get their things into such a state as you can! How do you suppose you’re ever going to know where anything is, to begin with?”
Ann’s pencilled eyebrows met over her small nose.
“I shall know all right. Joyce, do tell me, will it be all right if I put some blouses in a ‘Wanted on the Voyage’ box? They will really let me have it out, won’t they?”
“Let you have it out! My dear, what do you suppose ‘Wanted on the Voyage’ means? Shipping companies don’t have labels printed for fun.” Joyce Cunningham spoke impatiently. Ann was always so fearfully unpractical. . . . “I suppose you know they’re coming at five o’clock for the things?” she said, as she turned to leave the room. “Mine are nearly ready.”
“So will mine be in a minute.”
Ann Church sat down on the end of her bed, and her blue eyes brooded. What was it about her cousin Joyce that always made her feel cross? Even at this supreme moment Joyce seemed to jar. There was something so sledge-hammer, something so definite about her. Fancy, Ann began to dream, fancy, the Day had actually come, the wonderful day anticipated for months, the day of their sailing for India. Here they were in the Liverpool hotel, and to-morrow they would go on board the Carpathia. And the next thing would be Bombay, and in Bombay would begin a wonderful new life, in a wonderful new country. And there would be Mummy and Daddy. Ann rested her chin on her hand, and stared in front of her.
“They’ve called from the Docks for your things, Miss.” The trim chambermaid looked round the door.
“Heavens!” Ann slid off the bed. “Half a second!” She pressed, sorted, flew. “That’s all right, now how does this wretched thing fasten?” She hung distracted.
“Like this I think.” The experienced fingers adjusted, snapped.
“Oh, joy! Here’s the key.” Ann’s little teeth gleamed. “How clever you are!” she said.
The chambermaid beamed. “Not the first cabin trunk I’ve helped to fasten, Miss.” She rose from her knees. “Is this your first voyage to India, Miss?” She looked at the glowing face.
“Yes, my very first. Isn’t it madly exciting?” Ann’s blue eyes shone.
“It is indeed, Miss—yes—come in.”
The burly hall porter entered, business-like in leather apron.
“’Ow many? Oh, yes, I see. Now then——” a jerk of the chin summoned a compatriot from the corridor outside.
They were experts at their job, Ann surveyed an empty room.
“Oh, I say, how deserted it looks!” She wandered round, picking up a piece or two of tissue paper. “Heavens! Here . . . wait. . . wait.” Ann raced down the corridor, a hat in each hand. “Forgot them.” She was breathless, apologetic.
The porter laughed openly. “Well, that was a near shave, Miss.” He wiped his forehead as Ann struggled with the clips of the Willesden canvas hatbox. “Now then, sure we’ve got everything this time, Miss?” His voice was humorous.
“Positive,” Ann beamed back. What a nice man. Men are far more friendly than women, she thought as she walked back along the long corridor. Think of the nuns at the convent, for instance, some of them so niggling and stupid in many of their ways; and Joyce, her own cousin, so prone to take her up at every turn. “I do hope Joyce won’t be like that on the voyage; it won’t be any fun if she is,” thought Ann as she turned into her room. What was it going to be like, this new life opening out in front of her? She lay down suddenly on the bed, and put her hands over her eyes.
“Daddy won’t let me risk the submarines, darling, so we must just make the best of it, and Grannie will have you for the holidays.”
Well, Grannie had been a dear, and the last five years had been happy ones. And she really was fond of Joyce, the sort of fondness that one felt for relations—one knew with relations that they would be really interested in the things that concerned you yourself—bracing, of course, but then that did not so much matter.
And now she and Joyce were going out to India. Joyce to her parents in their military station in the Punjab—Joyce’s father was a Colonel—and she, Ann, to her parents in Bombay—Ann’s father was in the I.C.S., Commissioner of Bombay. What would it be like? Ann wondered. Deep in her heart lay a little germ of uneasiness. Would she be in the way? Daddy and Mummy did adore one another so, there was no doubt about that. But still—she dismissed the thought—she would fit in somehow. It would be certain to be perfect. Ann got up from the bed as her cousin came in.
“Hallo, aren’t you well?” Joyce looked at Ann’s tumbled hair in dismay.
“Oh, yes, perfectly well,” Ann turned from the glass; “I was only thinking.” She spoke half in apology.
“You always are, and about such stupid things. I do hope you really will try not to be so weird, Ann. Men do hate it so.”
“Do they? But how will they know I am weird?” Ann’s eyebrows went up.
“Oh, they’ll see in a minute. If you get that dazed look they’ll know there’s something funny about you. Look here, Ann”—Joyce sat down on the bed—“I think as we have half an hour to spare I shall give you a few hints as to how to behave now you are grown up. Would you like me to? Anyhow, I think I shall——” as Ann did not reply.
“Well, perhaps they would be useful.” Ann took hold of the brass knob of the bed with a rather cold hand. She did not very much care for Joyce’s lectures, she had had so many of them at school. However, she met her cousin’s unwinking gaze without resentment.
“Well, don’t forget that a voyage won’t be like the convent, nor will India.” Joyce spoke with great emphasis. “Up to now we have been jumbled up with masses of women, now we are going to meet men, and you have to be quite different with men, Ann. If you take my advice you’ll really attend to what I say and I’ll tell you how to behave.”
“Yes, but wait a minute, Joyce, how do you know?” Ann interrupted eagerly. Perhaps her cousin had had some wonderful experience of which she knew nothing. “Haven’t you been jumbled up with the same masses as I have?”
“Oh, yes, well, I have, of course, but I have never been of it all as you have. There is something so fearfully babyish about you, Ann; however, that’s not the point. Listen. Men hate anything weird.” Joyce leaned forward impressively.
“Yes, you told me that.” Ann’s lips trembled. No, it was only the same old thing—Joyce’s wonderful power of making her feel at a disadvantage—“I don’t want to hear any more.” The words were on her tongue.
But Joyce went on.
“But there is one thing they hate even more”—Joyce’s voice dropped a note.
“Oh, what is that?” Ann’s breath came excitedly.
“Any one clever.” Joyce let fall this pearl of genuine wisdom with the solemnity it deserved.
“Oh, but no one could think I was that, could they?” Visions of herself at the weekly soirées at the convent floated before her—tongue-tied—stupid.
Joyce spoke brutally.
“No, well, they certainly couldn’t.” Ann’s suddenly illumined face had given her a shock. She had looked frightfully pretty. Jealousy reared a venomous head. She walked to the door.
But Ann followed her cousin with eyes suddenly gone blank.
“Oh, but you have hardly told me anything,” she said.
“No, well, I expect you’ll soon find out for yourself.” Joyce’s voice had an edge.
Ann lay in her berth and stared upwards. How thick the glass of the open port-hole window was—she examined it in detail: the round slab of glass circled with brass, and the little gleaming chain that held it up; the brass chain was screwed into the curved ceiling, painted with the shiniest of white paint. What an odd thing a cabin was, and how droll to think of rows of people, all asleep in narrow berths like hers. . . .
Ann raised herself on her elbow, and looked down on to the berth beneath. Joyce was asleep; blankets drawn up to her neck; only the back of a sleek head showed.
“What time is it?” wondered Ann. Her watch lay on the little cabin dressing-table, but to get down on to the floor she would have to step on the lower berth, probably waking Joyce in the process. Ah, there was a clock chiming—one—two—three—four—five. Funny, she would have thought it was later. Well, she must try to go to sleep again.
Ann lay back, and resolutely shut her eyes, but in a moment they were open again. The sea reflected in the thick glass slipped by with extraordinary rapidity, they must be tearing along. No, they weren’t. Ann sat up and looked out. It must be something to do with the reflection that made it look like that. But how alone they were, right in the midst of seas, no land in sight. Who managed it all? It seemed so wonderful to think that that steady vibrating throb had gone on all night. But as Joyce would say, it would be far more wonderful if it hadn’t, if they were ever to get anywhere.
A crunch of the wire mattress beneath sent Ann’s head over the side again. Her cousin’s eyes met hers sleepily.
“Hooray, you’re awake!” Ann spoke joyfully.
“Yes, I am. I wonder what time it is.” Joyce groped under her pillow. “Seven.” She held the little gold watch to her ear.
“It can’t be,” Ann spoke with decision, “it sounded five a little while ago.”
“Yes, but they have bells in ships, and I expect five bells means something else; half-past six probably.” Joyce spoke at random, but with unconscious knowledge.
“Oh, how silly!” Ann lay down again. “If you want to let people know the time, why not hit whatever you hit the proper number of times,” she said. “It was a gong, it wasn’t a bell.”
“Well—they call it a bell, and if you don’t like it complain to the captain.”
Joyce spoke half in fun, and half snappishly. How like Ann to worry a point, and so dreadfully early in the morning too. She rolled over on her side and shut her eyes.
Ann went on talking.
“Joyce, isn’t everything extraordinary. This day that we have simply lived for and talked of for months actually come! Don’t you know how we have imagined a cabin, and here we are in one. Is it like what you thought it would be?” Ann’s sweet little face was all aglow.
“Oh, yes, fairly.” Joyce’s voice was muffled.
“And yesterday, wasn’t it all madly exciting, the getting off; and that rolling thing for the luggage, and the tender; never shall I forget it.” Ann’s voice was almost reverent. “And the way people took it all as a matter of course. I was simply seething inside, weren’t you?” Ann’s grey eyes looked excitedly down.
“Oh, I don’t know. Do shut up, Ann, the people in the next cabin will hear you.” Joyce sat up and yawned. “I wish they’d bring us our tea. Don’t let every one think we’re so new to it, Ann, it’s so stupid.” Joyce’s voice was quelling.
“Well, but we are new, how can we look as if we weren’t? Besides, that is part of the fun. I think that mad feeling of excitement is the most heavenly thing in the world.” Ann lowered her voice obediently, but spoke with conviction.
“Yes, but you don’t want to roar it out all over the ship. Oh, hooray, yes, come in.” The stout friendly stewardess came in with two cups on a tray.
“Your chota hazri, Miss.”
Ann’s eyes shone with excitement. “Oh, what does it mean?” She leaned from the top berth.
“Early tea.” Mrs. Harries smiled up into the eager face. “You fix your little table like this”—she adjusted the wooden flap skilfully—“and there you are. Only don’t upset it, or Miss below will get the benefit!” She left the cabin smiling, pulling the curtain across the rod behind her.
“Isn’t it nice! and, Joyce, isn’t it jolly to have this?” Ann drank with enjoyment. “Aren’t the biscuits perfect! And do you notice there isn’t a door?”
“Yes, there is, only it’s hooked back, so that it can’t swing.” Joyce was brisk. “If it was rough every one’s door would bang, that’s why they have them to hook. Let’s pray it won’t be rough, I should be fearfully ill.”
“Well, it isn’t rough now anyhow”—Ann looked out of the open port-hole—“it’s as smooth as anything. When do we get up? I’m simply dying to see every one, it was too dark last night to really take it all in.”
“Well, I’m going to get up now.” Joyce put a foot over the side of her berth. “No, don’t you start at the same time”—as Ann kicked back the bed-clothes with an excited foot—“two of us can’t scrabble about this tiny cabin at the same time; I’ll tell you when you can get up.”
“Oh, dear, and I’ve been awake much the longest.” Ann lay back again and sighed. How Joyce always seemed to get ahead of her; she watched her cousin as she brushed out her long hair. She was pretty; Joyce’s big eyes and rosy complexion filled Ann with ungrudging admiration. How she had always shown up well at school, too, in the drawing room in the evenings, Joyce, in her white frock, too attractive for words. As for herself—hopeless!
Ann heaved a very deep sigh as a vision of her own pale face flashed before her. No one would want to marry her—ordinary looking people didn’t get married, you had to be rather pretty for that. Joyce would marry—it would be like it always was—Joyce would get everything. And she would have to become a nun. “No, no, I should hate to be a nun.” Ann spoke aloud in rebellion.
“No, no, what?” Joyce, in boudoir cap, turned cow-like eyes on the top berth. “Don’t get one of your vague fits, Ann, for heaven’s sake! Get up, I’m ready, and I’ll lie down while you get up, and then we’ll start out for our baths together.”
Joyce tucked her dressing gown round her ankles, and stared at the chain mattress above her; she yawned.
“Joy,” Ann showing a good deal of slim white leg got down from the top berth, “how heavenly to be up! I shan’t be a second.”
Joyce, from the dim recesses of the lower berth, watched her cousin as she tucked her yellow pigtail under her cap. Ann wasn’t as pretty as she had thought she was. And yet there was something, what was it? A sentence she had heard at the convent flashed across her mind—“If I were a man I should be quite frantic about Ann Church.” Two of the older girls had been talking, and Joyce, brushing past them in the corridor, had overheard. What had they meant? Oh, something silly!
Joyce spoke—“Are you ready?”
“Quite!” The face in the blue cap was radiant.
“Well, come on then, and don’t screech if you see a black man getting the bath ready because the stewardess says he always does.” Joyce’s voice was rather cross. Yes, she knew what those girls had meant, it was Ann’s bewildering change of expression that was pretty. Oh, well, I’d rather be always the same. Joyce led the way stolidly.
Ann stood huddled against the door of the companion. The deck on the side where she stood was deserted, the planks were wet and shining. Every now and then a wave would wash over the bows, and the spray would drift over Ann’s face in a soft rain. If only there was somewhere where she could get warm. Joyce was prostrate in the cabin—Ann shuddered—and the stewardess was looking after her, so she was all right. The saloon was crowded with children, playing and shouting; at any other time Ann could have joined in with delight, but no—she pressed her blue lips together.
“Oh, what shall I do if I have to give up like Joyce has?” Ann drew her jersey coat together with cold hands. “If only the sea would not rise up at me.” She shut her eyes in desperation.
“I say, can I get you a chair or anything?” Major Seymour, doing his mile round the deck, pulled up short as he caught sight of Ann; how wrong of people to take a child of that age out to India. He threw his cigarette considerately over the side.
“Oh, I feel as if the top of my head would come off, and as if what I thought was my inside isn’t.” Ann’s voice was agonised—why had this man noticed her?
Tony Seymour threw back his head and showed two rows of very nice teeth. “So do a great many other people, judging by their aspect!” he said. What an original child! “What you want to do is to lie down: have you a chair?”
“Oh, yes.” Ann bit her lip. “I think a voyage is a most loathsome thing!” The words burst from her.
Major Seymour laughed out loud. “Give it a fair trial! Now then”—he steadied Ann—“try to go with the ship, when it heaves, heave with it. Here we are—I don’t know whose it is, but it won’t be wanted to-day, I expect. Now—isn’t that better?”
Ann lay flat for a minute, and a little colour stole back into her lips. “Yes,” she said.
“Well, now all you want is a rug; it’s fatal to be cold when you feel like you do. Half a second. . . .”
Ann turned her head and watched as Major Seymour stooped a tall head and vanished through the companion door.
“How kind he is!” She smiled gratefully as he came down the deck with a rug and a cushion.
“There, now you’ll feel a different creature in about half an hour.” Tony Seymour bent and tucked the fringe in carefully. “Now, don’t get up till I tell you to. See?”
“All right, I won’t.” Ann watched as he took his cigarette case out of his pocket—what nice hands he had—with the signet ring on the little finger. He caught her glance.
“Don’t be afraid, I won’t light it till I am on the leeward of you,” he twinkled sympathetically.
“Oh, but I feel all right now.” Ann’s eyes were grateful.
“Well, lie still for a bit anyhow, and watch me finish my mile.” Major Seymour sheltered a match carefully with his hand, then blew out a cloud. “That’s it now for the last lap.” He turned with a jolly smile as he started off again with his long stride.
“I think he thinks me very much younger than I am really.” Ann squeezed her hands together under the rug. “But it’s jolly to be taken care of, anyhow. Fancy, this is only the second day. I hope they won’t all be like this.” Her eyes rested on the seagulls as they curved and swooped to the grey sea. How nice to fly to India, no awful rolling and heaving, how nice to . . .
“Feeling less wretched?” Major Seymour stood in front of Ann again.
“Oh, yes, much less wretched, thank you.” Ann’s eyes, forget-me-not blue, were lifted gratefully.
“You look like a little grey mouse bundled up under that rug!” Major Seymour laughed.
“Oh, do I?” Ann’s chin was suddenly thrust out. “I am rather old you know—quite old in fact.” She looked at Major Seymour, dignity mingling with timidity.
He laughed again. “What do you call old? Twelve?” He tucked in a stray end of rug.
“Twelve? Why, I’m eighteen!” Ann got suddenly scarlet.
“Heavens!” Major Seymour was thoroughly disconcerted. “Why, I thought you were only a kid. I apologise most profoundly. You must think me extraordinarily impertinent.” He met Ann’s clear gaze with concern.
“No, I don’t. How could I? You are very kind. I love being taken care of. Please don’t be any different, or I shall wish I hadn’t told you.” Ann spoke eagerly—this kind man looked upset: with her usual stupidity she had done wrong. How Joyce would jeer!
Major Seymour smoked silently for a moment or two. How foolish of him to have taken any notice of the young woman to begin with: it had only been a fleeting likeness to some one he had once known that had prompted the action. Very different to stretch out a helping hand to a jolly little kid whose pigtail he could pull, from being involved in an acquaintance that would probably prove boring in the extreme. And at the very outset of the voyage, too. Major Seymour had made many voyages, and well knew the tendency of the hastily formed friendship to degenerate into something perilously near dislike, or—into something far more dangerous.
His voice, as he spoke with a certain amount of reserve, imbued Ann with an unaccountable chill.
“Oh, well, I haven’t really done anything for you to thank me for,” he said, and he looked out to where the grey water heaved. “I really think it’s steadying down a bit; you’ll be all right, won’t you? Well, I’ll get off into the smoking room: the most comfortable place in this weather.” With a pleasant enough smile Major Seymour turned on his heel, leaving Ann feeling very forlorn.
“Why did he suddenly turn so damping?” Ann moved her face restlessly on the silk cushion. “It must have been because I told him how old I was, he would think I was showing off. Well . . .” she settled herself rather lower in the deck chair and clasped her hands under the camel’s hair rug. “I’ll try to go to sleep and then I shall forget about it.”
Ann’s black eyelashes quivered and lay on a very white cheek, and there was a long silence. One seagull more daring than his fellows, swooped down and dived almost to her feet, but there was no movement from the deck chair.
Ann was asleep.
“Oh, thanks very much, you needn’t have bothered.” Tony Seymour, meeting a dejected Ann trailing rug and cushion, took them from her. “Feeling better?”
Ann’s starry eyes were wide with tears.
“You told me to wait till you came back. I’ve been there for hours!” Her lower lip trembled babyishly.
“Heavens!” Major Seymour stared in dismay: “I absolutely forgot. How gross of me. Haven’t you had any dinner?” He had possessed himself of all Ann’s impedimenta, and stooped to look into her face.
“No.” The monosyllable was all Ann could manage without breaking forth into undignified tears. Surely Joyce had once said that men hated girls to cry. She gulped resolutely.
“Well, look here”—Major Seymour glanced round the deserted saloon, then put an arm round the disconsolate shoulders—“since you look like twelve I’ll treat you like twelve, just for to-day. Come on.” He picked Ann up without any apparent effort and deposited her at the door of her cabin. “There,” he said, and breathed rather quickly once or twice.
Ann’s face was April.
“Oh, you are kind.” She nestled for a moment in the hollow of Tony’s shoulder. “Joyce is in bed, or I’d show you my cabin,” she said.
“Oh, well, don’t let’s disturb Miss Joyce.” Tony choked back a laugh: what a baby! “Now then,” he spoke aloud, “you bustle into bed, and I’ll find that nice old girl who looks after us, and get her to bring you along something to eat, shall I?”
“Oh, thank you.” Ann hesitated. “I didn’t actually cry, you know.” Anxiously she tried to make it clear that she had not been guilty of the great offence.
“No, no, rather not! and I didn’t really forget you, you know.”
Tony’s face was mischievous, but he smiled kindly enough as he bade Anne a rather absent-minded goodnight.
“Have you ever seen a plainer collection of women?” Colonel Playfair put his hands in his pockets, and stretched out a very neat pair of ankles in front of him. “You know, it simply ought not to be allowed.”
“Well, how do you propose to stop it?” Major Seymour looked amused. “Besides, you ought not to travel on an outside line, Playfair, if you want to bask in a galaxy of beauty—first-class P. & O. is the place for you, my boy!”
“Yes, well, but it’s so damned expensive!” Colonel Playfair surveyed his ankles with renewed disgust. “Somehow this sort of thing doesn’t seem to affect you like it does me: it plays the very devil with my nerves.” He looked irritably round the crowded smoking room.
“Oh, well, I don’t know about that.” Tony Seymour leaned forward and tapped out his pipe on the copper ash-tray. “But, as a matter of fact, I have rather a nice looking girl opposite me at table—a little swarthy, and a little heavily scented perhaps, but comely withal.” He waited for Colonel Playfair’s reply with an amused twinkle.
It came explosively.
“What! You mean that ghastly Eurasian woman? I call it a perfect scandal.” Colonel Playfair beat an exasperated tattoo on the polished floor with an excellently shod foot.
“Oh, well, I don’t know, besides, my stable companion is an Indian, so I suppose I’m inured to these little inconveniences!” Tony laughed.
“A native, in your cabin!” Colonel Playfair’s rather prominent eyes bulged.
“Yes, and a very decent little fellow, too. Terribly nervous and afraid of doing the wrong thing, but a clever little beast all the same. Spent the whole of yesterday sorting out his microscopic slides on the top berth.” Tony laughed again at the recollection.
“Well, of course, how you can laugh——” Colonel Playfair’s voice failed him.
Major Seymour began to feel impatient. “Oh, I don’t know; besides, I booked late, and you can’t expect to pick and choose when you do that. And there are worse things in the world than a decent Indian, Playfair. The last voyage I made I had a missionary in my cabin who didn’t wash between Aden and Bombay!”
“Really!” Colonel Playfair was only vaguely interested; he stood up and stared out of the round plate-glass window with discontented eyes. “What a vile thing a voyage is when——” he broke off suddenly—“by Jove! I say, Seymour, half a second.” He turned excitedly.
“What?” Major Seymour did not move; Playfair really was becoming rather a bore. Pity, because he was a top hole soldier, as well as a very old friend.
“Why, here are two pretty girls!” Colonel Playfair raised himself on tiptoe and thrust his head forward.
“Really? Well, I’m afraid they don’t interest me.” Tony spoke in irritation—really this eternal feminine was beyond a joke. “Go and get to know them, but for heaven’s sake leave me out of it.” He took a book up and extended long legs on the seat.
“Yes, well, all right. But look here, Seymour, surely the little one must be Church’s daughter—you know Church—the Bombay Member of Council fellow. I heard they were expecting a daughter out this cold weather. I say, come and have a look at her, she’s the dead spit of her mother.”
“Church’s daughter!” Tony Seymour’s fingers closed suddenly on his pipe.
“Yes, I’m pretty nearly certain I’m right. Come and look. Buck up, they’re just turning the corner.”
Tony put his feet on the floor with rather more alacrity than his former apathy would seem to warrant. Ann came into sight—her little profile passed the window. Yes, that rather pointed chin, that babyish mouth, he knew he had seen them before. He sat down again, but the eyes that scanned the printed page were blank.
Colonel Playfair turned triumphantly. “Well? Isn’t she exactly like her mother? You can’t mistake it. And the girl with the nice figure must be her cousin. Well,” he stretched himself luxuriously, “some one to know anyhow. I think—” the concluding words were lost as the Colonel made a hurried exit.
Major Seymour watched the smoking room door as it shut behind his friend; then filled himself a second pipe with fingers that shook. Well, and what of it? He had often heard her speak of Ann, the little daughter at home. Nothing strange about it really, only rather unexpected, perhaps. Tony leaned back and shut his eyes. Those mad, glorious days at Ooty, he fresh from the horrors of Mesopotamia transplanted to that divine climate, the heavenly rides over the downs together, the picnics, the daily companionship, the inevitable end. “Oh, Tony, don’t!” The grief in the wide eyes, strangely like those of the child he had rolled up in his rug. His own answer passionate. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know?” “Yes, but I never thought it was anything real, don’t you know, every one has some one in the Hills.” The tears streaming down the small face, the quivering mouth, the dark scented corner of Government House garden. Oh, how it drowned him in memory. . . . He flung out of the smoking room.
“Jerky fellow, that!” A man looked up from a distant bridge table.
“Yes, but you know who it is, don’t you?” The second speaker followed Tony Seymour with his eyes. “Sapper fellow—Seymour—got the Victoria Cross at the bridging of the Tigris.”
“Really? By Gad!” An impressive silence fell on the little group.
But Tony leaned over the rail of the upper deck, blank eyes fixed on the flying scud. Contemptuously he recalled his sensations of the past ten minutes. Five of the best years of his life spent in fruitless regret. And for what? Failure to filch another man’s wife. Brutally he faced it. But she hadn’t been like other women, she was heavenly.
Tony dropped his head on his hands as memory stood beside him again. That night at Government House when he had thought she cared—how she had trembled in his arms as they danced—and afterwards, in the dark scented garden, her desperate cry as he had caught her to him. “Tony, don’t, I do love Jack!” His instant apology—and inward fury. As near to the edge as they dared—these virtuous women! Tony straightened himself fiercely. He was sick of it. He would force himself to forget Muriel Church, and he would steer clear of her daughter, too.
Tony condemned unjustly. In agonies of remorse Mrs. Church had confessed everything to her husband, crying bitterly in his arms as she did so. “Jack, he was so nice looking, his eyes were like lapis lazuli, and his lashes were so long. And you weren’t there to take me about, every one had some one, but oh, Jack, you do believe, never . . . never . . .!” The same forget-me-not eyes drowned in tears.
The Commissioner’s down-bent face had been tender. “Believe? Yes, of course, I believe, you foolish child. But how am I to bring my particular style of beauty up to the required standard, eh?” His voice had been gentle and bantering, but his heart had been deeply angry. These Indian hill stations—full of men with nothing better to do than to make love to their neighbour’s wives.
But here again, unjust condemnation. A very gallant and honourable gentleman was Tony Seymour at heart, but sudden translation from hell to paradise does not make for equilibrium, and straight from horrors unspeakable he had succumbed to a wave of passion that in normal times would have left him untouched. Sick at heart he had cut short his leave and returned to Mesopotamia, winning there, a couple of months later by his fearless disregard of death, the soldier’s most coveted decoration. But he thought of it now with shame—what virtue in bravery if you don’t care whether you live or die?
After three days’ tossing the Carpathia settled down placidly into her stride and started to plough her way stolidly Eastward. People began to emerge; Ann watched them as they came into meals in the big dining saloon. Ann thoroughly enjoyed the meals, it was such fun seeing all the people, and as she and Joyce had been brought up very simply, an elaborate meal of several courses was an excitement in itself. They sat at the Captain’s table: the saloon contained several tables, one long one and six other smaller ones at right angles to it, and an officer sat at the end of each. Ann admired them in their blue uniforms with brass buttons, and they came in carrying their peaked caps in their hands. Ann supposed, and rightly, that they hid them under their chairs while they ate. Only the Captain did not bring his cap with him. He was tall and very sunburned, and his blue eyes looked as if they had been varnished, they were so keen and piercing. A tall fair lady sat on his right. Ann gathered that she must be some one rather important to have the seat of honour. The rest of the people were dull; a scattering of young flying officers, whose accents, Ann thought privately, sounded very frightful: some missionaries who sat together on deck and read their Bibles: and a bunch of rather noisy girls, some with mothers, and some without. These last were getting to know the flying officers, so they were beginning to look more cheerful, and they laughed loudly, showing large white teeth as they did so. Then there were Major Seymour and Colonel Playfair; they were not dull but they sat together at one of the far tables and spoke to no one but each other, so except to look at they hardly counted. Opposite Ann was a young civilian, who had a clean-shaven rather fat face, and wore spectacles. He was not so bad, although Ann did not care very much for the look of him, but as he was entirely occupied with what he ate, this did not signify, as he very rarely lifted his eyes from his plate except to look at the menu.
“There’s your man.” Joyce gave Ann a poke, as Tony, very well groomed, sauntered down the saloon stairs after stopping to read the notices on the board.
Ann coloured sensitively. “He isn’t my man. Don’t call him my man, Joyce, please.” She pressed her cousin’s arm to emphasise her words. Why had she told Joyce about his wrapping her up in his rug that day? It seemed to make it so common when Joyce spoke like that. Besides, he had not even looked at her since that afternoon—he never looked at any one, he just came in to meals, and in between either sat in a chair rolled up in a big coat reading, or played bridge in the smoking-room—Ann had seen him through the open door. She wished. with all her heart that he would speak to her again; she had the most extraordinary feeling about him. It was the same sort of feeling that she had had once for one of the nuns. Sister Marian had been tall and cold and aloof, and some of the girls had adored her so madly that they had made themselves quite ill. Ann hadn’t done that, but one night, when she had had a heavy cold, Sister Marian had come to her room with a glass of hot milk. She hadn’t wanted it, and had said so, but Sister Marian had stood quietly by her bed until she had drunk it all: not saying anything, but just forcing her to drink it by sheer strength of will. Ann trembled when she had gone, and had thought how she would have died with joy if Sister Marian had kissed her. This was rather the same sort of feeling. But Major Seymour never even looked in her direction now; in fact he rather seemed to avoid her, because once, if not twice, he had been with Colonel Playfair when the Colonel had stopped and spoken to Joyce. And Seymour had immediately moved on. So why Joyce should say “your man” Ann didn’t know. She sighed.
“Try the oatcakes,” the goggly young man spoke across the table.
“Oh, are they nice?” Ann looked up gravely.
“Very. Here, steward, give the Miss-Sahib some oatcakes.”
The Goanese steward, in his blue Eton jacket, white teeth gleaming, and black hair polished to the last pitch of perfection, stood at Ann’s elbow.
“Oh, thank you, yes, they are nice.” Ann crunched with appetite. “Where do they keep all the food?” she said.
“In cold storage. Everything is frozen. Sometimes you get a meat pie that hasn’t been properly thawed: it crackles like ice then. I don’t care for things so cold. I think it takes away from the taste, rather.”
“Oh, I say!” Ann lifted an interested face. “How freezing the place must be; has any one ever got shut up in it by mistake?” she said.
“No, I don’t think so.” James Gilchrist, I.C.S., was disappointed. Not a particularly intelligent remark, that. But still—Ann’s hair was like raw gold silk, and her eyebrows were nearly black.
“Suppose they were—would they get all hard and crackly too?” Ann took a second oatcake, and nibbled it with small square teeth.
“I really don’t know!” James Gilchrist helped himself lavishly to butter and jam and concentrated on them. Miss Church was undoubtedly a very pretty girl, but her conversation was hardly up to standard.
But Ann had suddenly forgotten about him; her eyes were fixed on the far table. Tony Seymour had swung round in his chair and was getting up. Colonel Playfair was rolling up his napkin about to follow him.
Joyce got up suddenly. “Come on, Ann, what ages you take!” She disentangled herself impatiently. “How I hate these fastened down chairs!” she said as she walked quickly down the saloon, followed more slowly by Ann.
Why did Joyce suddenly tear off like this? Ah, Ann hung back, and wished she had not been so precipitate. Colonel Playfair and Tony stood at the foot of the saloon stairs; the Colonel had one foot on the bottom step ready to mount, but he took it off and stepped back when he saw Joyce.
“Good morning,” he beamed.
“Good morning,” Joyce beamed back, and the two mounted the stairs together. Ann was left behind.
“Good morning, Miss Church.”
Ah, he had noticed her: Ann’s heart gave a great throb of joy: she smiled a fugitive smile.
“Well, how are you getting on?” Tony Seymour walked upstairs beside her. “Feeling rather less as if you loathed it?” He laughed.
“Oh, yes, much less. I like it, I think it’s fun. Do tell me”—Ann stopped in front of the chart—“everyone stops and looks at this, why do they?”
“Oh, that’s the chart.” Tony drew up in front of the big skeleton map. “It shows you the day’s run. You see, they work it like this.” He explained it carefully. “That’s yesterday’s run, you see,” he pointed out the little pencilled circles, with the figures beside them.
“Oh, what a little way—only about an inch.” Ann’s voice was dismayed.
“Well, but an inch wasn’t at all bad with that head wind. And when we have passed Gibraltar we shall get on much faster. This is always the slowest part of the voyage.”
“Oh, is it? And after Gibraltar how fast shall we go? Three inches?”
“Yes, perhaps with luck three inches.” Major Seymour smiled again, but his eyes wandered through the open companion door.
Ann saw the look and felt inclined to cry. She must keep him with her for a little while. Everyone had some one to talk to; Joyce was beginning to be always with Colonel Playfair, and every one else seemed to have found a friend. Only she, Ann, was always alone. The flying officers had friends; the missionaries sat together in little bunches, and even the unapproachable lady who sat next to the Captain spent the whole of her day sitting in a corner with a tall man with a moustache like a toothbrush, smoking innumerable cigarettes. Ann wondered what Grannie would think of it. She would ask Major Seymour who the lady was, it would be something to say.
“Who is the fair lady who smokes cigarettes in a corner with a man?” she said.
Tony looked amused. “Which one?”
“That one.” Ann looked through the companion-door and riveted her gaze. Tony followed it.
“Oh, that is a Mrs. Trevor. Her husband is at Army Headquarters.”
“Oh, but isn’t that her husband?” Ann was surprised. “Why, they sit together every minute of the day,” she said.
“Really?” Tony did not pursue the subject; he heaved his back from against the wooden panelling. “Well, I’ll get along. What do you do all day?” he said as he put a preparatory foot on the top of the brass door-rail.
“Nothing.” Ann burst it out suddenly. “I’m really very dull, you know. Joyce is all the time with that little man who sits next to you at meals. I can’t think why she wants to be but she does. Oh . . .” Ann was suddenly covered with confusion, “I forgot—he is your great friend.”
“Never mind.” Tony’s eyes were amused. Poor Playfair—“that little man who sits next to you at meals”! “So Miss Joyce has rather deserted you, in fact?” he said.
“Yes.” Ann lifted misty eyes. They met Tony’s imploringly. “Stay with me a little while, do,” they said.
But Tony’s mouth went suddenly hard.
“Oh, well, you’ll settle down to things in a day or two,” he said, and lifting the other foot over the door-rail, he left Ann standing.
She watched his straight back getting smaller and swallowed a huge lump in her throat. “Always something turns him freezing just when he is beginning to be nice,” she said. “What is it? What is it?” She walked miserably to her chair and sat down in it, staring at the grey sea.
Dr. Dutta wondered as he watched. How clean a race the English! He averted his gaze discreetly as Tony turned a stripped chest.
“Hullo, doctor, you awake?” Tony smiled, his mouth a blur of white foam as he turned again. “By jove, talk about crême de menthe!” He rinsed with vigour, and replaced his brush carefully in the cabin holdall. “No wonder a kiddy cousin of mine gets through a dozen tubes of it in a term. Twenty years ago I should have done the same, but then they filled us up with stuff called camphorated chalk. Wonder what’s happened to it now, one never hears of it. Ah, that’s better.” He stretched luxuriously. His hair lay smoothly behind each ear in a shining sweep, the little cabin was full of a delightful smell of soap. He sat down on the carpet stool and looked at his square nails.
“Wonderful how different a wash makes one feel, gives you a real appetite for chota hazri.” He spoke without raising his eyes.
The Indian stirred uneasily on his berth. “Is that so? But in our country we take first the chota hazri and then make the ablution,” he said; “we find it more convenient so.”
“Really?” Tony had the shadow of a smile in his eyes. This would be the last time that the chota hazri would take precedence of the ablution, or he was very much mistaken. And after all, if an Indian shared a cabin with an Englishman he must conform to the decencies of life. But Dutta was a nice little chap, he probably only needed the hint.
Dr. Dutta slipped off the lower berth and trod lightly to the wash hand basin. “You think highly of this preparation?” He held Tony’s tube of toothpaste close to his brown eyes.
“Very. Try it.” Tony watched, entertained, as the Indian squeezed a quarter of an inch of flat white substance on to his toothbrush.
“I find it very appetising.” Dr. Dutta showed two glorious rows of white teeth in an appreciative grin. “I purchase at Port Said and I thank you.” He replaced the tube carefully.
“Don’t mention it.” Tony chuckled inwardly. Nice little fellow. And, by Jove! he’s done it. Dr. Dutta turned an immaculate black head—his ivory brushes lay again on their little shelf.
“Now can I do what you so call ‘speak with mine enemy within the gate,’” he said, and smiled delightedly. “And here arrives the chota hazri, so we are all top hole.”
Tony took the tray from the steward with a pleasant smile.
“You English have the superior manners.” Dr. Dutta peeled a plantain with deft fingers, and, mindful of the high standard demanded of him by his cabin companion, flung the skin out of the open porthole, instead of, as was his inclination, dropping it on the floor. “To us the servant is the servant and nothing more; he exists, he does not live.”
“And I am not at all sure that your plan is not the more successful.” Tony drank his tea, showing a muscular throat. “Anyhow, you get more work out of them than we do. But there is something about a Goanese I rather like; they seem more human—— More like us,” he was going to say, but stopped in time.
“That will be because of the religion The Roman Catholic it is less—what shall I say?” Dr. Dutta flicked expressive fingers; “it is less mystic, more of the earth, than the religions of the East. Is that not so?”
“Well, they wouldn’t be pleased to hear you say so!” Tony laughed in spite of himself, but steered the conversation on to a less controversial subject.
Ann was lying in her deck chair, a black satin cushion stuffed in behind the soft gold of her hair. The chair was a comfortable one; Mrs. Church in her letters had been emphatic on this point. So about a fortnight before they sailed Ann and Joyce had had a glorious day of shopping at the Universal Stores, and had bought almost the nicest they could find. Then they had had a very elaborate and expensive lunch in the pretty pink and white dining-room at the top of the building. It had been a really beautiful lunch, ending with strawberry ices.
“If only we were not grown up we could each have had two,” Joyce had reflected gloomily aloud; but Ann had been thankful for the soft coil beneath the little straw hat that marked the wonderful transition from youth to maturity, and incidentally put a stopper on such flagrant greed. She had been thankful, too, when Joyce called grandly for the bill, paid it with an air, and swept her unresisting in her train to the stationery department. There they were to buy despatch-cases, Grannie’s parting gift, and they had chosen the same, brown hide with black lettering. Ann’s lay beside her on the deck at this very moment; she had been writing to Grannie as a matter of fact. Poor Grannie! she hadn’t liked the shopping expedition at all! “My darlings, do be careful you don’t speak to any one!” Poor Grannie—how awful to be nervous like that! Besides, of course, you would never speak to any one you didn’t know, and even if any one spoke to you, you could always ignore them. Well, but could you, though? Ann dropped her letter, and stared out to sea, recalling the one really exciting incident of the day.
She had been waiting for Joyce in the lounge; Joyce had gone to change a cheque at the chief cashier’s office and she, Ann, had sat down at the end of one of the wide leather seats, and had stared around her, full of interest at the novelty of the whole thing. Such crowds of people, all meeting some one. The tall pretty girl in sables, how she fidgeted from one grey suede shoe to the other, until the tall and even nicer looking man in white spats rushed in from the little door near the entrance. “Oh, my darling”—Ann could hear what he said even though she tried not to—“the fool of a taxi!” She could see that he was in a terrible state for having kept the pretty lady waiting. However, she didn’t seem to mind, and they went off together, squashing up against each other in the narrow entrance: on purpose, Ann guessed, they couldn’t kiss, you see! How heavenly to have a nice man in a frenzy because he had kept you waiting for a minute or two! Would Ann ever have one—she devoutly hoped so! Then the angry gentleman who put a penny in the stamp machine, and got it back from the slot marked ‘underweight.’ How he had glared as every one looked up at the tinkle on the floor! And he had stamped off muttering; Ann felt sure that he had gone to complain to somebody. But neither of these things had really been the exciting one—that had been as follows:
She had suddenly felt a feeling of intense horror. Ann shut her eyes and tried to feel it again but she couldn’t. It wasn’t the sort of feeling you got in the daytime, it was the sort of feeling you got in a dream—a dreadful cold wet horror—something silently waiting—Ann had tried to shake it off—had argued with herself—you can’t feel afraid of anything in a crowd, she had reasoned, and for a time she had felt better. But then it had seized on her again, so she had got up and had walked away to look at a paper. And then—something had made her lift her eyes. Standing in the corner by the telephone box, a woman was watching her. Ann remembered her face quite well. It was a long face, the eyes were strange—fixed, and the lids were hooded, like a vulture’s. Ann had stared back fascinated, it was such an odd face. And then the most extraordinary thing had happened: the woman had spoken, had actually spoken to her—Ann. She had walked forward, quite naturally, and spoken just like an old friend.
“It was funny, wasn’t it, to see that old gentleman in such a rage.” She had smiled, and shown long teeth, very long teeth; Ann had particularly noticed them.
“Yes, it was.” But Ann had spoken rather nervously. A sudden recollection of Grannie had rushed over her. Grannie’s last words—not to speak to any one. What should she do? She clasped and unclasped her hands, her face flushing a heavenly wild rose.
But the woman had grasped it all in a moment: Ann had felt terribly ashamed to think how her face must have betrayed her.
“Ah,” she said, “I must apologise. You are waiting for friends, they will be coming back and will find it odd for you to be talking to a stranger. I am very sorry.” She had turned, quite in a hurry, Ann thought, as if she felt she must hide, she had done something so unusual.
But that had quite restored Ann. “Oh, no, no,” she had stepped forward impulsively. “Why, I love you to speak to me; it is only because it is all new to me that I seem stupid. You see, I am really out for the first time by myself to-day. At least, not quite by myself, only with Joyce, but Joyce is just the same age as I am, so it doesn’t seem like any one.”
How that had seemed to cheer ‘Eyes’ up! She had smiled again, and her hooded lids had swept Ann’s young limbs with a look terrible in its appreciation. But Ann did not see it. She was standing in a happy tremor. Joyce could never say she was an idiot again: she had made a real new friend all by herself. And then, more wonder, a man, evidently ‘Eyes’’ husband—suddenly appearing as if from nowhere, and taking it all as a matter of course in the most marvellous way.
“I say,” he had rather a husky voice, “this is awfully jolly. Introduce me, dear. Aha, Miss Church? yes. Well Miss Church, what do you say to tea, tea at Rumplemayer’s, what?” He had a thick neck, and he twisted it from side to side as if he was looking for somebody. “A taxi, all blow out in a taxi, eh? The very thing, dear; hurry along.” He gave ‘Eyes’ a little push, and they moved off together.
But Ann had suddenly stopped dead. “Joyce, we can’t go without Joyce.” She had looked from one to the other of her new friends uneasily. Here was a setback; perhaps they would not want Joyce. Tea at anywhere as grand as Rumplemayer’s would cost a lot for two people. And fancy, she had almost forgotten Joyce, it was all so new and exciting.
But George, for so ‘Eyes’ called him, George was equal to anything. “You go on, dear,” he had given ‘Eyes’ another little push—“I’ll fetch Miss Joyce,” and he had vanished in the crowd.
“But he does not know what Joyce is like.” Ann had still hesitated; surely it would be better to wait and all go together. But ‘Eyes’ was still moving and had even laid a hand on her arm. “We shall meet them outside,” she said, and drew Ann towards the big swing door.
Then . . . then what had happened? Ann found it difficult to distinguish it all clearly in her mind. She had been following ‘Eyes,’ and had got as far as the big door with ‘Out’ on it. She had still felt a little uneasy at leaving the Stores without Joyce, and had hesitated and turned before passing through. And in that short minute she had lost sight of ‘Eyes.’ Breaking into a little run to catch her up she had felt a heavy hand on her arm. Looking up indignantly she met the fatherly gaze of the tall commissionaire.
“And where might little Missie be hurrying off to?” he said. He spoke very kindly, but the hold on Ann’s arm was not to be gainsaid.
“Why, I’m catching up my friend,” she said, and flushed crimson with annoyance. This must be some plan of Grannie’s to prevent her from leaving the Stores before a certain hour. She glared up at the big man in the blue uniform with its row of medals, and her eyes filled with angry tears. “Let go of me at once,” she said, and her lip trembled.
“Just only a minute. Where did you say you were going to, Missie?” His voice was kind, and he really looked sorry for having stopped her. He had caught the eye of the other commissionaire, and the two stood beside Ann. “Did you say the gentleman was looking for the young lady in the chief cashier’s office? Hurry then, Bert.” The big man spoke with urgency, and ‘Bert’ vanished.
But then, just as Ann was feeling that the indignity was more than she could bear without crying, who should arrive upon the scene but Joyce. Joyce, with the commissionaire beside her, Joyce bewildered, deeply provoked. How like Ann to land them in an affair of this kind! She must always behave differently from every one else.
“But I never saw anyone called George; who is he, and why should he take us out to tea?” Thus Joyce angrily, in response to Ann’s faltering explanations. And Ann stirred uneasily on her deck-chair as she thought of the glance that had passed between the two men. She had made some terrible mistake, but what it had been she had never known to this day. And then, worse to follow. The kind man in the beautiful room beyond the mysterious word ‘Private.’ The few searching questions, answered with the blankest innocence in the two pairs of young eyes. The gentle hand on the soft shoulders——
“Well, I think two little girls like you had better go straight home to Grannie in my car.” The anguish of disappointment; it had burst straight from Ann’s quivering lips.
“But we haven’t had tea!”
Such an amused twinkle in the keen eyes, as the capable hand with its gold signet ring sought the electric bell. Tea in the beautiful room, tea brought by a man in uniform, far grander than a waitress. And ices; to Joyce’s intense mortification Ann had exclaimed at the sight of them. “Why, they’re much larger than the ones you get upstairs!” And then, the long drive home in the big car, the big commissionaire in front beside the chauffeur, with a letter to Grannie. And then Grannie—Ann drew the rug more closely round her. Grannie, with slender shaking hands. “Joyce, Ann! My darlings, my darlings!” It was all such a terrific fuss about nothing. Besides, it hadn’t been Joyce at all, it had been hers, Ann’s, the dreadful disappointment and humiliation. However . . .
Ann picked up her despatch-case with its unfinished letter. She would write to Grannie; it was not her fault she was so fussy, old people got like that. Her thoughts were tender as she wrote.
But as she licked the flap of the flag-decorated envelope (how Grannie would appreciate that!) her thoughts returned to the affair of the Universal Stores. How odd it was that there had never been any real explanation of the great to-do. No reproaches even, only weepings and clingings, and a gentle stealing of the little fragile old lady to Ann’s bed that night, and a broken prayer over Ann’s rather self-conscious head. It was all very strange, but still, when people got old they got strange! Ann so summed it up, and was content to leave it at that.
But not so Joyce. Joyce disliked mystery, and here, if she were not very much mistaken, was mystery enough and to spare. She was quite determined to find out what it all meant. And it was not difficult. It was more difficult in Grannie’s household than it would have been in some, because Grannie, although old, was very astute. But there were ways. Phyllis would know: Phyllis went to the High School and knew everything. Phyllis was the daughter of the Vicar, and was always in and out.
“Oh, that . . .!” Phyllis was very off-hand and superior. “Why, that’s all told about in a book. My dear, fancy your not knowing! I’ll get it out of the library if you like. But vow you won’t let Ann see it. And you might let me have the tuppence, will you?”
And Joyce, having produced the necessary cash and given the required promise, had later run home from the Vicarage, with that masterpiece of writing, Where Are You Going To? held securely under her Burberry. Show it to Ann, indeed! Joyce had smiled dryly to herself, as she lay and read under the sheltering sheet. Ann! Joyce could just see her sleeping profile, outlined faintly against the cream distemper of the wall. Why, Ann didn’t even know . . . She was hopeless, absolutely a baby, in fact. Joyce returned with avidity to the horror between the green covers.
“I don’t know that I think a voyage such tremendous fun after all.” Ann squatted up on her berth, and looked down at Joyce, who was making absolute hay of the cabin. Two trunks already covered all the available floor space, and a third threatened to overwhelm the lower berth. When Joyce really began, she could make things in a muddle, there was no doubt about it.
Joyce burrowed beneath a mass of tissue paper. “No, well, of course, you don’t; you don’t make any effort. All you do is to sit in a heap all day. I should be dull if I did that. I do do something . . . oh, hooray, here it is!” Joyce made one final and triumphant burrow, and drew a cloud of pink frills to the surface.
“Yes, I know, you’re like that, you make friends easily. I can’t, somehow.” Ann spoke dejectedly.
“Yes, but you could if you tried. What about that goggly young man with spectacles? He does nothing but stare at you at meals.” Joyce held up her fancy dress, and looked at it critically. “It’s fearfully crumpled,” she said.
“You can easily get the electric iron from the stewardess.” Ann spoke absentmindedly as she stared out at the blue of the Mediterranean. What a heavenly blue it was, and so perfectly clear. It reminded her of that hymn that she and Joyce used to sing when they were children—“Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea”—this was glassy like that. She turned again to Joyce.
“Which goggly young man do you mean?” she said.
“Why, the one with spectacles—Mr. Gilchrist.”
“Oh, that one, why he has a face like a turnip lantern: I simply loathe him.” Ann spoke with soft violence.
“Well, there you are. There’s a man in the I.C.S., ready to be friendly, and all you can do is to say that he has a face like a turnip lantern and that you loathe him. You’ll never have any fun if you’re so frightfully particular.” Joyce stooped to re-strap her trunk, and standing erect again looked at Ann. “The fact of the matter is,” she said bluntly, “you’ve fallen in love with that man with the Victoria Cross; I know you have, and it’s very ridiculous of you. He will never look at you; to begin with, he’s about twice as old as you are, and also Colonel Playfair says he hates women.” Joyce finished on a vindictive note, and twitching her dressing-gown from its peg, she crammed her hair into her boudoir cap and vanished, dragging the curtain along its rod with a rattle of brass rings.
“Hates women? Oh, I don’t believe it.” Ann stretched her slender length on her berth, burying her crimson face in the pillow. She was glad Joyce had gone, she wanted to be alone. Joyce had such a dreadful way of dragging everything out and making it seem common. And she wasn’t in love with Major Seymour; it wasn’t that at all; it was just a heavenly feeling for some one miles and miles above you. The sort of feeling that made every day something to be guarded and cherished, because it held within its golden hours the chance—the heavenly chance—that He would speak to you. The sort . . .
Joyce entered in a whirl of sponges and bath towel.
“Here, hurry up and poke out your head,” she said; “quick, or you’ll miss it.”
Ann slid from the top berth, and thrust a fair head from behind the concealing curtain.
“What is it?” she cried, then shrinking turned a crimsoning face on Joyce. “How could you!” she exclaimed, and climbed slowly back on to the top berth.
“I thought as you were so keen on him you would like to see him in a bath-gown.”
Joyce’s voice was derisive, and Ann winced under it. She lay down and drew the sheet over her face. Tony had seen her, and had not smiled; he had just walked on. He would think she had done it on purpose, and despise her. “Joyce, how could you be so cruel?” she said.
Joyce spoke with exasperation. “Oh, I am so tired of you and your sort of exalted way of looking at everything. It’s all so wonderful and mysterious and holy—just because you happen to be keen on a man, you think no one else has been or ever can be. Can’t you be ordinary and sensible about it?”
“About what?” Ann’s voice suddenly came cold and her eyes were starry. “About what, Joyce?” She sat up on the top berth, and looked down at her cousin.
“Oh, well, I don’t know.” Joyce had the grace to be a little ashamed. “Only you always seem in such a trance, and it irritates me so. I’m sorry if I seemed cross, Ann.” Joyce, the thick-skinned, was a little alarmed. This was a new Ann, with eyes like frozen wells, and mouth set in a small straight line.
“I think it would be better if we did not speak about Major Seymour at all.” Ann spoke very slowly and tried to subdue the feeling in her throat. This, then, was what happened when relations stamped and blundered over your dearest feelings. Even if they were relations, you hated them—you wanted to kill them. Joyce should not—she should not make common this glory of her every waking hour.
But Joyce was hurriedly finishing her dressing. “I’m sure I don’t want to talk about Major Seymour,” she said, as she hunted round the cabin for her work-basket. “Oh, here it is. Yes, I want to tack down those frills before I iron them—no, I won’t do it here, if you’re going to be like this.” Joyce avoided Ann’s eyes and walked to the door.
And Ann let her go. “It was cruel of her to let me look out when he was passing not properly dressed,” she thought. “I would never have done such a thing to her.” Her bruised spirit brooded.
Ann walked slowly downstairs to her cabin. She had been sitting alone ever since breakfast, knitting a jumper. That was all very well in its way; she enjoyed knitting as a rule, but it was beginning to be dull, never having Joyce to talk to. However, it wasn’t any good minding, and now there was work to be done. She must get out her fancy dress for the dance to-night, and it would be certain to want ironing. She walked soberly down the stairs that led into the dining saloon; already the stewards were preparing the long tables for the next meal. “How they must feel that we never stop eating,” reflected Ann. And how hard they worked, whisking like lightning round the tables, with brown hands overflowing with knives and forks. How wonderfully everything on board a ship was arranged, she thought, as she entered her little cabin, now spotlessly neat and tidy for the day. And all the things were so good, even the carafe for drinking water so heavily cut, and the two tumblers on each side of it, each fitting into its own little receptacle. And such a spotless linen hanging pocket, so nicely embroidered in scarlet. Joyce and she each had one. Ann kept her two wide pieces of ribbon for tying up her hair when she went to bed in hers, also her folding frame with Daddy and Mummy in it. . . . Somehow Daddy and Mummy had got rather faint in Ann’s mind; there was so much else wonderful on the horizon now. And Daddy and Mummy weren’t for three weeks yet: such lots of things could happen in three weeks. . . . Ann stooped to grope under the lower berth. Shoes and shoe-trees everywhere—Joyce was untidy. Ah, here it is! Ann hauled at two thick straps.
“Let me do that for you, Miss.” The stewardess stopped as she passed and looked in. She loved Ann.
“Oh, thank you, you are kind.” Ann straightened her back with relief. “It’s this dreadful dance to-night. I must get out my fancy dress,” she said.
“Dreadful dance, fie, Miss Church.” Mrs. Harries shook a reproving finger, and panted a little as she rose from her knees. “You ought to be enjoying yourself all day long. Look at that cousin of yours now—never still from morning to night.” Mrs. Harries did not care for Joyce; she thought her selfish and self-assertive.
“Yes, I know. Joyce loves it. Now I . . .” Ann burrowed under a cloud of tissue paper and lifted a heap. “I like to sit quietly and knit, and just think about things. Don’t you know, Mrs. Harries, it is much more interesting to think than to play silly games.”
“Yes . . . well, I think I agree with you, Miss Church.” The shrewd Scotchwoman smiled sympathetically. “But still, at your age it’s good to be silly sometimes. Now then, let’s see the dress! Eh, but that’s bonnie!” She clapped her hands softly once or twice.
“Do you think so?” Ann’s brow cleared a little as she surveyed the collection spread out on the lower berth. “Well, I thought so at home, but somehow now I wish it wasn’t trousers. What do you think? Do you think any one will laugh at me? It’s meant to be a Mahommedan lady’s dress. But now it looks so . . . so sort of skimpy.” Ann finished on a note of intense disfavour.
“Skimpy? Not a bit of it!” Mrs. Harries held the offending garments at arm’s length. “Why, Miss Church, there’d be room for two of you in each leg of these! You’ll look just the sweetest little thing that ever was, that’s what you’ll look!”
The ship slid silently through the dark night. Only the steady vibrating throb of the huge engines, and the faint musical splash of the tiny waves receding from her hull, showed movement. It was a divine night; Tony Seymour, leaning over the rail, cheroot between his teeth, watched the wide wavering track left in the wake of the vessel with eyes that drank in the beauty of the scene. It was like a stretch of silver road, swerving in parts, where the current caught it. It was more like a night in India than anything else. Certainly not at all like what it really was—the Mediterranean, two days out from Gibraltar. Generally here you got high winds and cold nights. But this was comparatively warm, and beautifully calm—no wonder they wanted a dance. A dance! . . . Tony Seymour shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. What was the mad fascination about dancing? People nowadays were quite dotty about it. And on board ship it was damned selfish . . . all the chairs shoved away into corners, nowhere to sit except the smoking room, where the frowst was unbearable. And the band would go on until quite half-past eleven . . . no chance to sleep until the scuffle of feet overhead ceased. It ought not to be allowed.
Tony stared out over the sea with brooding eyes. How damned sick he was of everything; nothing to look forward to, nothing to look back upon with any satisfaction. One unsatisfactory love affair with a married woman the only landmark on his horizon, and that not in itself much of a landmark, having been unsatisfactory. He twisted his mouth cynically. His brief leave, spent principally in a military hospital on account of an obstinate wound; that on the mend, a couple of months with his people, pleasant enough in a way, but not wildly exciting. Then the parting with his mother—how dreadfully she had minded, Tony had hated himself because he had not minded more. But somehow—since the war his feelings seemed to have atrophied. Everything then was so superlatively ghastly, what was a parting with your mother? It was when a pair of forget-me-not eyes looked out drowned in tears. . . . “Oh, curse it! “ Tony suddenly flung his cheroot far out, and watched it as it fell a glowing speck into the sea. How she had spoilt his life . . . jaded his appetite. He hadn’t really realised it until now. This voyage, for instance . . . why couldn’t he take the fun that came his way? Tony was singularly free from vanity, but even he could not help knowing that there were several in this ship who would give their eyes if he would look in their direction. But not he . . . he was not a Playfair . . . he thought with good-humoured contempt of the Colonel’s obvious flirtation. But on the other hand it had its funny side. . . . Tony suddenly leaned a straight back against the rail and began to laugh. The Colonel, as he had met him that evening on his way to the saloon, the Colonel dressed as a Neapolitan fisher boy—it really had been the most ludicrous sight. . . . Tony shook with silent laughter. Strange what funny things love made you do! Anyhow . . .
The laugh had made him feel better—life wasn’t so mouldy as he had thought it was—he would stroll along and have a look at the dancing.
“By Jove!” he stumbled over something small and glittering. “A shoe, that tells a tale. . . .” Tony felt for his matchbox, and drew out a match.
“Don’t strike a light!” the voice was agitated.
“The owner of the shoe, by Jove!” Tony stood still and waited.
“Can you see anything?” There were tears in the voice.
“Nothing whatever.” Tony’s voice went suddenly cold: the last person he wanted to see!”
“I am in terrible difficulty. I came up to this end of the ship thinking I could get down to my cabin this way, but I can’t. Whatever shall I do?”
“Go back the way you came, I should say: why not?”
“I can’t,” burst out Ann, “I’m not properly dressed!”
“Really!” Tony felt vaguely surprised. “Well,” he said, “let me go and fetch you a rug or something. No one will notice; they’re all dressed up and capering about.”
“No, no!” A small figure emerged from the shadow. “You see it’s my trousers . . . it’s so awful . . . they blow against my legs in the wind, and you can see my knees. Whatever shall I do?” Ann’s breast heaved.
“Oh, I don’t expect they do really.” Tony was suddenly intensely amused. Really there was something awfully funny about this child, hated as were the memories she brought with her. “Come along out into the light,” he said, “and let me have a look.”
“Oh, no!” Ann shrank.
“Yes . . . come on.” Tony grasped what he guessed was a shoulder. “Now then . . .” He drew Ann resisting. “Why,” he looked down at Ann with a smile in his eyes. “Why . . . it’s charming!”
And so it was. With the long white veil bound tightly above the faintly pencilled eyebrows, the loose silk shirt, and vivid satin trousers, Ann made the sweetest picture. And the shining gold shoes clung to the small feet.
Tony was silent. The likeness was stupefying. Why had he run up against her just now, just when he had chucked it off a bit? It was damnable.
The devil within him stirred.
“I say, let’s dance,” he said.
“Dance? Dressed like this?”
“Yes, why not? Everyone’s making more or less of a fool of themselves, why shouldn’t we join them?”
“But if it blows?”
“It won’t show when you’re close up against me.”’
“When you’re close up against me!” Ah, poor Ann! Tony watched her blue eyes dilate with a cruel gleam in his own.
“Well. . . if you really think . . .” Ann was undecided. “There, you see!” she said, and clutched frantically, as a sail-cloth partition on the deck flapped and bellied.
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Ann’s young limbs stood revealed in all their sweet slenderness, and Tony laughed openly. “Come, you’re making a fuss about nothing; we’ll chance the blowing, and join the party. I suppose you’re up in all these new steps?” he said, as he lifted the screen for Ann to pass through.
“Oh, yes, we learnt them at school.” Ann hoped Major Seymour did not guess how her heart was beating. They walked down the gaily-lighted deck, all hung with flags. The next dance was just going to begin. She could see Joyce in her flower girl costume—Joyce had taken ages to dress, and had been in such a state of excitement all the time. And Colonel Playfair was with her now—how happy she must be! Ann turned to Tony.
“Let’s wait till some one else starts,” she said quickly.
“All right.” Tony propped himself accommodatingly against a coil of rope, and looked round with a faint awakening of interest. It really was rather sport to watch, and it looked pretty too. The shaded electric lights . . . he had seen the quartermaster and a couple of apprentices putting them up before dinner, and the whole dancing space was filled in with flags. And the cluster of transformed people . . . so ordinary in daylight, really quite attractive now in fancy dress. Here came one, hurrying down the deck, got up as an Arab. Who was he when he was at home?
Ann supplied the clue: she clung suddenly to his arm.
“Oh, I don’t want to dance with him . . . I can’t bear him . . . tell him I can’t,” she said in a fierce whisper.
“Righto. . . . Sorry, Miss Church has given all her dances to me,” he said easily, as the Turnip Lantern came to a standstill in front of them.
“Oh, has she?” the Turnip Lantern glared angrily. Here was this supercilious ass, too jolly superior to speak to any one as a rule, collaring the only girl he wanted as a partner. These military fellows, and this one in particular . . . set up with his Victoria Cross, he supposed. . . . His near-sighted eyes twitched behind their thick spectacles.
But Tony turned and stooped a tall head, and Ann held out her arms. What matter the Turnip Lantern, what matter anything. The man she worshipped wanted to take hold of her . . . she gave herself in a rapture.
Tony swung out into the middle of the deck, and his eyes looked over Ann’s head a little defiantly. He danced excellently, he knew that, and he was glad to find that Ann realised it and set her steps to his. The band rose and fell, they were playing Paul Ruben’s “Bohemia,” that really heavenly melody with its haunting undercurrent of sadness. Tony hummed it noiselessly at the back of his throat. “Jack . . . I do love Jack. . . .” Yes, she had not minded dragging in “Jack” when things were getting a little too hot for her! And wasn’t there something about Ann, too, the little daughter at home? Yes, he was sure of it. . . . True shield of the virtuous woman who finds herself in a corner—the husband and children. But. . . the little daughter was in his arms now, and if he mistook not, an easy prey. He drew her a little closer to him.
Ann stumbled suddenly.
“Like to stop?” Tony slid into a corner, one arm flung round the slender shoulders.
“Yes, please.” Ann held on to the rail of the ship, and turned her back quickly. What was it, this feeling that swept her from head to foot, and left her shivering. “I feel so funny,” she said, and lifted bewildered eyes.
“Do you? What’s wrong?” Tony stared in front of him.
“Why . . . I feel as if I wanted to cry and yet I don’t.”
“Do you? Well, I felt rather as if I wanted to cry before I began to dance, but that’s absolutely gone off now and I feel uncommonly cheerful.”
“Oh . . .” poor Ann cast about in her mind. “My feeling has only just begun,” she said, “perhaps it has something to do with the music?” She sought Tony’s eyes hopefully.
“Probably.” Tony was suddenly reminded of an incident of his boyhood. He had come upon the cook, carrying a trap with a very small grey rat in it. It was huddled up in the corner staring. Cook had hailed him as an accomplice. “Come along, Master Tony, we’ll drown it. . . .” “Drown it? You beast!” Tony had hurled himself upon the astounded woman, and, wrenching the trap from her, had flown with it to the vegetable garden, where, with trembling fingers, he had set the little animal free. And that night he had cried in bed as he thought of the anguished beady eyes and his mother had heard, and had comforted. “Darling, if you always defend anything that is too small to defend itself, you will never go wrong,” she had said. For that was how he had explained it. “Mummy, it couldn’t stand up for itself, Cook was so large. . . .”
But those days lay a long way behind. Tony’s eyes suddenly grew hard.
“Shall we have another turn?” he said.
The little group by the piano had got denser; this was to be a jazz band. The deck steward, eyes and teeth gleaming, carried the dinner gong, several of the passengers had tin plates, and Colonel Playfair mustered a tambourine.
“No . . . I think we won’t; I can’t stand a row; we’ll give it a miss, and come back for the next.” Tony drew out his cigarette case. “Come along, and talk to me while I have a smoke,” he said.
Ann followed him. Tony dragged a couple of chairs from a stack, and opening them out put them close together. He picked Ann up in his arms.
“There,” he said, and laid Ann flat in her chair.
It was almost dark, but Tony could see Ann’s eyes.
They were black in a white face. She lay quite still.
Tony sank his long length in the corresponding chair, and struck a match. He shielded the flame with his hands, and drew quickly at his cigarette. Then he held the match close to Ann’s eyes and laughed.
“Suppose I burnt off all your eyelashes, what would you say to me?” he asked.
Ann did not reply. Tony withdrew the match hurriedly, and crushed out the burning point. It had flashed a thousand diamonds in a large tear that was stealing slowly from the corner of Ann’s shut eyes. For a moment he felt ashamed again. She was not fair game, this baby. Then bitterness rushed up from the depths. He had been counted fair game, many years ago . . .
“I say, they are making a h—— I beg your pardon—a beastly row down there,” he said, as he blew out a cloud. “Can’t think why people want to make the night hideous.” He stared in front of him; he could see Ann groping for her handkerchief, and it disturbed him.
“Yes, aren’t they?” Ann had recovered herself, and laughed shakily. “But I expect they think it’s heavenly,” she said.
“Well, we don’t, do we? Come now,” Tony smoked on, “you haven’t talked to me a little bit,” he said.
“Well, I don’t know what to say.” Ann half sat up “You see, I don’t know you very well,” she said; “I don’t know the sort of things you care about.”
“No, that’s true.” Tony swallowed a yawn. This was boring; he would have one more turn, and then go to bed. “Come on,” he heaved himself out of his chair, “we’ll dance this and then I think it will be time for little girls to go to bed.” He peered at the luminous dial on his wrist. “Yes, I should think it would—it’s eleven o’clock; they’ll shut up at half-past.”
“Oh, I don’t want to go to bed at all!” Ann stood before him, slim and straight in her gay dress. “This is the time I get a sort of mad feeling in my throat,” she said; “not exactly in my throat, but somewhere here”—she laid a hand on her chest—“I don’t really know where it is, but it makes me feel absolutely frantic.”
Tony looked at her steadily. Was it genuine, this extreme innocence? Ann met his gaze like a child.
“Do you ever get it?” she said simply.
Tony hesitated. “Yes, I have known it,” he said.
“Oh!” Ann waited.
“Well, we’ll get along back.” Tony started off down the deck.
“How fast you go,” said Ann, running to keep up.
“Oh, do I? Sorry.” Tony slackened his pace a little. “Here we are,” he said, as they reached the lighted space; “now then,” and he drew Ann into his arms again.
Some one had looped up the flags to make it cooler, the moon hung low in an inverted bowl of blue. Tony stared out to sea as he danced; it was a divine night, extraordinarily like a night in India. He tightened his hold on Ann.
“Now then, I think we’ve had enough.” He stopped, and steered a way through the crowd to the far end of the ship, and lifted the sailcloth partition.
“Oh, I haven’t had nearly enough; I love it.” Ann bit her lip to stop its trembling.
Tony leaned against the rail and stared through the darkness at Ann.
“I will show you something much nicer than dancing,” he said, and took her in his arms and kissed her.
Tony never forgot the look on Ann’s face as he released her. He could have kicked himself. He stood up, acutely ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he said; “I had no business to do that.”
But after a tremulous pause Ann had dropped a small crouching figure at his feet. “Oh!” she cried, and, to his intense embarrassment, Tony felt her soft mouth on his hand.
“Here”—he stooped hurriedly—“here, you mustn’t kiss my hand.” He lifted her to her feet.
But Ann faced him unashamed. “Why not? If you kiss my mouth, mayn’t I even kiss your hand back?” she said.
Tony groaned inwardly. What could you do with a girl like this? But thank heaven she hadn’t taken it seriously. He spoke impatiently:
“Here, go to bed,” he said, “and forget that I kissed you at all. I had no business to do it, and I am extremely sorry. But if you will promise to forget it I can promise you in my turn that it shall never happen again.”
But Ann stood still. “But I loved it,” she said. “Why won’t it ever happen again? And I don’t want to forget it; I want to remember it for ever. Why”—she came a little nearer to Tony—“why, it’s the most perfectly heavenly thing that has ever happened to me in this world,” she said, and she sought his eyes shyly through the darkness.
But Tony frowned. It is not pleasant to be made to feel that you have behaved like a cad, and every word that Ann said made him feel it the more acutely. She was so utterly—so utterly—well, what was she? So utterly unlike anything he had ever met before. He frowned again.
“Look here, do go to bed,” he said; “it really is late, and I, well, I am beginning to get sleepy. Besides, we shall have Miss Joyce on our track.” He stooped and began to fold up one of the deck chairs. He felt he must at any cost get out of the range of Ann’s clear eyes. But she stood still, waiting.
“Take back what you said about not kissing me any more,” she said obstinately.
“No I shall not. And what’s more, if you don’t go this minute I shall not speak to you any more.” Tony suddenly began to get angry; this was beyond a joke—he thrust his hands abruptly into his pockets, and turned on Ann.
But Ann uttered a soft cry, and flung her hands over her face. “Don’t, oh, don’t,” she cried. “I will go, I will really I will.” She brushed past Tony, and fled trembling, a small vivid shadow in the half light.
The next morning Ann woke early; Joyce had been unusually silent the night before, and the two girls had got into bed with hardly a word exchanged.
“I wonder if any one has ever kissed Joyce?” Ann sat up and looked out into the pale yellow of the dawn, and dreamed and dreamed again. She would put away her fancy dress and never, never wear it again—it was sacred. She looked at it as it hung on the crowded peg: there were only four pegs in the whole cabin—fearfully few for two people, Ann thought, but she supposed there wasn’t room for any more.
Ann leaned out of the porthole and looked down into the blue sea—it was a real Mediterranean blue—like it was always described in geography books. What fun when they passed Malta—that would be soon, she believed. And seeing land was always fun. Not that Gibraltar had been exactly fun, though—Ann recalled her feeling of awe as the Rock had towered over her—that had been something more tremendous altogether. The Rock stood for all sorts of things that you couldn’t describe, things that made you feel choky in your throat, like when the Grenadier Guards band played “God Save the King.” Ann had heard it once at the Crystal Palace. But Malta and Port Said would be different; they would be cheerful, especially Port Said, because it would be summer, and they would get off, and be able to put on thin clothes. Ann clasped her hands in a rapture of anticipation.
And through it all ran the golden thread of joy—He would be there. Ann lay down again, and drew the sheet suddenly over her head. And when He was not there—what then? A terrible cold finger seemed to press on her heart. Only another fourteen or fifteen days, and then Bombay would be reached, and there would be no more Major Seymour; only Mummy and Daddy, and they would have to do instead. Ann shrank into the pillow and set her small teeth into her lower lip. “I won’t think about it yet—not yet—not spoil all that’s heavenly with something frightful that hasn’t come yet.” She forced herself to lie tranquil till Mrs. Harries’ jolly face peeping round the curtain sent her thoughts into another channel.
“Fie, Miss Ann, not awake yet?” She pretended not to see Ann’s open eyes.
“Yes, of course I’m awake. Joyce isn’t.” Ann nodded downwards.
“Yes, I am!” Joyce gave a vast yawn and grunted.
“Oh, hooray! Well, how did you enjoy it?” Ann peeped over, a biscuit in her hand.
“Don’t drop crumbs in my eye! Well, I liked it, didn’t you? But where were you all the time? I only saw you just at the end, when you came along with Major Seymour, and then you vanished again. I never knew such a girl! All that fuss dressing up, and then to hide! The Turnip Lantern was foaming: he wanted to dance with you!”
“Well, I didn’t want to dance with him, I know that.” Ann took a deep drink of tea. “Joyce, isn’t it funny how you can feel it running down inside you all boiling?” she said.
“I can’t, because I let mine get properly cool first!” Joyce raised her eyebrows hopelessly. Really Ann was not like any one else. But she returned to the charge. “But where were you all the time?” she persisted. “No one saw you at all. I saw you just once as I say, just at the end, but that was all. And Mrs. Fawsett did nothing but fuss up to me and ask where you were. She is a most frightful bother, that woman; I wish to goodness she would leave us alone.”
Ann leaped at the crevice like a terrified mouse. “But who is Mrs. Fawsett?” she said.
“Who is Mrs. Fawsett? Ann! you know perfectly well who she is, don’t be such an idiot! She’s that rather fat bundly woman who was in the hotel at Liverpool with us, and who, because she was there and Grannie wasn’t, thinks that she must look after us all the way out to India. I’m sick of her.”
“So should I be if I knew which she was, but I don’t.” Ann lay back and heaved a sigh of relief. She honestly did not remember Mrs. Fawsett, but Joyce would be awfully angry because she didn’t, and that would distract her mind. Nothing would induce her to tell Joyce where she had been the night before; Joyce would make it common—the glory would be tarnished.
Joyce went on: “If only you would pay more attention to the things that go on round you, Ann—I have seen Mrs. Fawsett speak to you heaps of times. That’s probably why she is so interfering; she is angry because you don’t remember her, and vents it on me. Do make a little effort.”
“I will, I really will.” Ann pressed the backs of her hands against her eyes: “Yes, I’ve got her now; she wears a tweed skirt and woolly coat. And at Liverpool she had on one of those dreadful capes with no shape: I know.”
“Yes, and I believe her husband is a Collector—that’s probably why she thinks she must fuss round us. I.C.S. people are like that, I believe, fearfully cliquey. I’m thankful father is in the Service.” Joyce suddenly got very grand, and felt she had scored a point.
“Yes, I expect you are.” Ann was disappointingly acquiescent; she was lying staring at the ceiling, drifting in a heavenly dream. Joyce had forgotten to ask any more where she had been the night before; and the Service—the Service—meant everything that was glorious . . . brown hands . . . a flash of white teeth . . .
“Why wouldn’t you dance with me last night?” The Turnip Lantern drew up beside Ann and sat down on Joyce’s empty chair.
“Because I didn’t want to,” Ann replied promptly.
This was a blow, but the Turnip Lantern’s hide was thick.
“That isn’t the real reason,” he said.
“Yes, it is.” Ann put down her knitting and stared. “Why should I particularly want to dance with you?” she said.
“Well—er—I don’t know: but—er—it isn’t natural for a girl like you to sit out all the evening,” the Turnip Lantern smiled furtively.
“But who says I sat out all the evening?” Ann flushed scarlet in spite of herself.
“I do.” The Turnip Lantern began to get peevish. “I can’t think what all you girls see in that tall fellow,” he said after a pause; “I suppose it’s his decorations and uniform—women are mad on decorations and uniforms.”
“Who do you mean by ‘you girls’?” Ann suddenly froze: the Turnip Lantern was being familiar—how dared he be? And what business had he to comment on what she did? “Have you ever worn a uniform?” she said, and her young voice cut like a knife.
“Yes, I have.” The Turnip Lantern was now in a rage—thank goodness he had not gone any further with this girl—she had the temper of a fiend.
“But if you think I went to the war you are mistaken,” he said; “my duty lay to the country in which I happened to be at the moment. ‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’” he finished with a flourish.
“Oh!” Ann suddenly fell silent. What was the use of lashing herself up into a passion with this young man? He was one of those dreadful crawly sort of people that you read about in books. She lay back in her chair. “Please go away,” she said. “I am tired of having you here, and you are sitting on my wool.” She went on knitting, her dark lashes lying on her cheek.
The Turnip Lantern got up, but the look he cast at Ann was not pleasant. But Ann, young in the ways of the world, did not realise that an enemy, however apparently insignificant, is not a desirable addition to one’s circle, and she did not trouble, as an older woman would have done, to placate the Turnip Lantern. Besides, at that very moment a voice behind her sent all the blood to her cheeks.
“Good-morning, Miss Church.”
“Good-morning.” Ann’s ball of wool went rolling. “Good for the jumper!” Tony swooped with a laugh. “I came to tell you that we are within sight of Malta,” he said; “come round here and you’ll see.”
Ann followed him; Malta, emerald in an expanse of blue, lay placid under a cloudless sky. They were not near enough to distinguish much, only a spire here and there showed white.
“How odd it is that there should just happen to be an island there. What made it, I wonder?” Ann stared out, crinkling her eyes a little at the glare.
“Volcanic—Malta is rock, and years ago no ship was allowed to enter the port without a certain tonnage of earth. That’s how they’ve got things to grow, from the earth brought by passing ships. Now it’s quite fertile, you can have a topping garden, we had a beauty when I was there.”
“Oh, have you been to Malta?” Ann looked at the island with new interest.
“Yes, I was there before the war—top-hole place.” Tony’s mouth settled into a line of sadness. He had been young then.
Ann spoke timidly after a pause: “What are you, exactly?” she said, and fidgeted with one pink nail.
“How do you mean, ‘what am I’?” Tony smiled down amused.
“I mean, what sort of a soldier are you? Some ride horses, some walk.” Ann, with her conventional upbringing, floundered.
Tony flung back his head, and laughed with all the spontaneous joy of genuine merriment. “Oh, my aunt, we walk! By Gad, don’t we walk!” He choked suddenly.
Ann blushed scarlet. “I’ve said something stupid,” she said, and the tears welled up.
“No, no, you haven’t; what a shame!” Tony recovered himself and glanced down. The tip of her nose was getting pink. “No,” he said hurriedly, “all I laughed at was the funny distinction you drew. I’m what’s called a Royal Engineer, you know, we build things—that is, when we aren’t walking,” he concluded with a twinkle.
“Oh, I see. What sort of things?” said Ann, restored.
“Bridges principally.”
“Oh . . .” Ann pondered again. “Tell me,” she moved nearer to him, “were you building a bridge when you got your Victoria Cross?”
Tony was silent. Bother the girl . . . but, of course, she didn’t realise. “Trying to,” he said.
“Oh!” Ann clasped her hands. “I like to think of you winning it,” she said.
Tony’s nerves gave a sudden jerk. “Do you?” he said. “Well, I don’t. Now then, the event of the day is over; we have seen Malta, and we shan’t see anything else worth looking at till we get to Port Said. Bye-bye for the present,” and he prepared to move off.
Ann sighed wretchedly. “Oh, are you going?” she said.
Tony laughed. Ann looked like an abandoned child. “Well, I was thinking of it,” he said, “why, do you want me to stay?”
“Yes, well, I rather do. You see,” Ann spoke confidentially, “the Turnip Lantern, that’s Mr. Gilchrist, you won’t know him by that name, will come and sit by me. Joyce is never in her chair now, you see—there she is.” Ann pointed to where her cousin hung rapturously over the side of the ship, deep in an animated conversation with Colonel Playfair. “So you see,” Ann went on, “Mr. Gilchrist comes and sits in her chair and I can’t get away. Although I don’t know that he will come any more now,” she ended, feeling that the Turnip Lantern had perhaps had his death blow!
“I see,” Tony cogitated. What an odd thing it was that these two girls should have been allowed to make this voyage absolutely unchaperoned. He spoke his thoughts aloud, slightly modified.
“Oh, but it wasn’t meant to be like that,” Ann hastened to explain. “Just at the very last minute, Grannie heard that the lady she thought was going to bring us couldn’t, because her little boy had measles, and it worried Grannie so fearfully that she had one of her goes of bronchitis, and couldn’t even take us to Liverpool. So we had to see to everything ourselves. But the bustly lady in the purple coat was in the same hotel with us in Liverpool, so she thinks we belong to her. Joyce says that we don’t, and that she wishes she would leave us alone, but still. . . I don’t know, I expect she means to be kind.”
“I hope she takes her duties seriously; I gather that she does!” Tony smiled.
“Oh, she does! All last night she did nothing but ask Joyce where I was,” said Ann naively.
“Did she though! And what did Miss Joyce say?” Tony put his hands in his pockets and looked closely at Ann.
“She said . . . she said that she didn’t know.” Ann suddenly felt bewildered. Had it been all a dream, the happenings of the night before? She had waked, feeling her world transformed, and here it was, just the same, only perhaps rather duller.
Tony took out his cigarette case; he wanted to get away, and did not quite know how to manage it; but Dr. Dutta, coming swiftly down the deck towards them, gave him the opportunity he wanted.
“May I speak to you a moment, Major?” He bowed ceremoniously to Ann.
“Certainly.” Tony just nodded to Ann, and turned away with Dr. Dutta.
Ann stood where they had left her. The day that ought to have been so heavenly was going to be wretched. She had already been frightfully rude to the Turnip Lantern, and now Major Seymour looked tired and out of spirits.
Ann lay in her chair, her face in shadow.
“Hullo! upstairs already?” Major Seymour sat down beside her. “Come for a walk?”
Ann did not reply. She stared out at the dark sea: there was a slight breeze, and the awning flapped a little. There were no stars, night lay close, gloomy and enveloping. Ann felt she wanted to scream. That morning she had witnessed a burial at sea. Life was awful—people died and you couldn’t stop them—you loved people, and they either did not take any notice of you, or hated you—everything that you . . .
“Why, what’s the matter?” Tony leaned forward and spoke more kindly.
Ann struggled. “Joyce says men hate seeing you cry . . . go away,” she said.
“Bother Joyce.” Tony looked round. Here came the crowd from dinner, pouring out through the open music-room door. They must not see Ann in tears; Tony did not care much for public opinion, but he knew ’board ship!
“Look here,” he said, “make a huge effort, and come along for a walk. You can cry again, if you like, but not till we get further away from the mob. That’s right. He stopped and leaned up against the rail and smiled at Ann.
But Ann was unnerved by her sad day, and her longing for the man beside her. “Everything is frightful, and I wish I was dead!” she said, and cried again.
Tony fumbled for his pipe, and wanted to swear. He knew perfectly well what was the matter with Ann. At intervals during every day he met her eyes, mute and worshipping. He ignored them, but every day he felt more uneasy; and for last night he cursed himself. Up till then he really hadn’t been to blame, but now a certain amount of fault did lie at his door. But she would get over it—girls had these manias, they worshipped actors, and stuck up their photographs—but that sort of thing fizzled out naturally.
He spoke after a pause. “Here, buck up!” he said.
“Buck up, buck up!” Ann turned like a small animal at bay, and glared through the darkness. “You . . . . you wouldn’t care if I died . . . you wouldn’t care if I was rolled up in a blanket under a Union Jack and shot into the sea; you would be glad . . . you would say ‘Joy! there goes the girl who would follow me about, and stare at me all the time.’ . . . Oh, how I do hate and loathe you really!” Ann ended in a trembling undertone and flung away, down the stairs, along the corridor, anywhere, away from the tall man in evening clothes who looked at her in a petrified surprise.
Abject with despair at her outburst Ann undressed more slowly than usual. Her small face showed pale between the two fair pigtails. Now, of course, she had offended Major Seymour beyond recall, and he would know too that she was in love with him. . . . Mrs. Harries’ entrance came as a welcome diversion.
Ann sat and looked at the Scotchwoman, her childish mouth piteous in its lines of misery.
“And what’s the matter with my dearie?” Mrs. Harries suddenly laid a gentle hand on Ann’s head.
Ann gulped, then turned and buried her face in the crackly apron.
“Oh, Mrs. Harries, I am so wretched! . . . No one knows how wretched I am!” she sobbed.
“Eh, but what’s wrong?” Mrs. Harries raised a round kind face to the ceiling. “Tell me, my dearie tell Harries what ails her darling.” She bent again, and pressed Ann’s face close to her.
“Oh, I can’t even tell you. If only I could! I would rather tell you than any one; but I can’t.” Ann raised a face blurred with tears. Then she suddenly sprang to her feet in terror. “Don’t let him come in, don’t let him come in!” she cried. “Mind! he will see me!” She retreated to the far corner of the cabin, and got behind a frilled petticoat hanging from a peg.
“Eh! but what ails the child, there’s no one coming in!” Bewildered, Mrs. Harries trotted to the door, and drew the curtain aside. Tony stood there, a cigarette between his fingers.
“Oh! Hullo, Mrs. Harries,” the tall soldier smiled down at the stout woman, “I say, can I speak to Miss Church a minute?”
“No, no!” Ann made frantic signals of dissent.
“Eh, but she’s not dressed!” Mrs. Harries turned back and laughed. She adored Tony, and had sewn on many a fugitive button for him.
“Oh! I see. Well then, look here, give her this, will you?” Tony tore a leaf out of his pocket book, and scribbled rapidly against the wall. “That’s it, thanks very much.” He folded it, and put it into Mrs. Harries’ hand.
Ann tore it open. Mrs. Harries watched her, the light of comprehension gradually dawning in her eyes.
“Don’t be a little goose! S.”
“Oh! . . .” Ann’s white chin dropped on her breast. “I must write an answer,” she said, and her eyes sought Mrs. Harries anxiously.
“Eh, yes, ye must, that’s sure.” Mrs. Harries waited then bore the twisted scrap of paper triumphantly to Tony’s cabin steward. “And ye’ll not delay in giving it to the sahib,” she said, “for it’s most important.”
And Tony, strolling out on deck between two rubbers of bridge, read it by the light of the moon. “All right, only please don’t look at me as if you wished I wasn’t there!” wrote Ann. And Tony laughed as he twisted up the scrap of paper and flicked it into the sea.
“I must try not to let it be so apparent!” he said.
Ann and Joyce hung over the side in an intensity of enjoyment. Early that morning the Carpathia had glided silently into Port Said, and they had wakened to find themselves at anchor, lying under the arm of the great breakwater. Lesseps’ statue, impressive with its calm assumption of superiority at the great work well finished, dominated the harbour.
“Fancy having made a thing like the Suez Canal!” Ann was breathless with awe.
“Yes, but I think it’s fearfully conceited to point at it like that. After all, I don’t suppose he thought of it all by himself.” Joyce, as usual, sounded the damping note.
“Yes, but he didn’t make his own statue.” Ann felt she must champion the dead hero, although she wished with all her soul that he had never thought of the Suez Canal. Fancy if it still took three months to get to India, think of the joy of it! But she resolutely flung sad thoughts aside. This was going to be a happy day, not a day all spoilt by thinking of miserable things that hadn’t happened yet. She seized Joyce’s arm with a laugh of pure glee.
“Look, Joyce!. . . do look! The Ritz Hotel!” Ann pointed mirthfully to a blue verandahed house, standing close to the quay. Although sunk in the last stages of shabby gentility, the tall gilt letters on the roof leaning dolefully to one side, the sun-flooded facade had a certain foreign charm of its own. Ann looked at it with affectionate interest. “I wonder who stays there!” she said.
“No one. Every one goes to the Casino Palace.” Tony, unobserved, strolled from the smoking room and stood behind the two girls. “Good-morning, children,” he bowed ceremoniously.
“Children, indeed!” Joyce bridled and flushed; Colonel Playfair had joined the group.
The little man smiled indulgently. “No, no, Seymour, that’s not fair! Well, Miss Joyce, what do you say to making a move?” He took out a fat gold watch.
“Rather!” Joyce spoke enthusiastically and vanished.
Ann stood blank. “Oh, is she going on shore?” she said.
“Yes, and so are you, only you are going with me, and Miss Joyce is going with Colonel Playfair. Now go and put on a hat, a proper hat—a topi, that is to say, no fancy hats in this climate.”
“Are you really going to take me on shore?” Ann’s eyes were ablaze.
“Yes, why not? Why, are you afraid of Mother Fawsett?” Tony laughed. Ann was really awfully sweet in her unfeigned rapture.
“Of course not! Only . . . only . . . it seems too good to be true, somehow.” Ann waited, then turning to go she spoke shyly. “Shall I want any money?” she said.
Tony shook his head. “No,” he smiled.
Ann vanished in a whirl of joy. On shore, in this new wonderful land! . . . and with Major Seymour! It was too much! She changed with intense care, putting on a tussore coat and skirt and soft blouse. Joyce was in the cabin, hurling herself into a striped silk coat-frock.
“We’ve got to wear topis!” Ann dragged hers out of the cretonne-covered hatbox.
“Yes, I know. Oh, Ann, do I look all right?” Joyce turned anxiously.
“Rather! You look awfully nice!” Ann lifted a small eager face. “Do I?” she said.
“Oh, yes, quite.” Joyce’s voice was not enthusiastic. But then, as Ann reflected, Joyce never was enthusiastic about her. She struggled with her shoes.
“Even if I spoil them I’m going to wear them,” she said as she surveyed a very neat buckskin foot.
“You won’t, People don’t walk in these countries. They drive.” Joyce groped for her bag. “Good-bye. I’m ready,” she said, and vanished.
Ann finished more slowly; it was nice to have the glass—generally Joyce had it all the time. But as she looked into it she sighed. She was so frightfully pale, and she had such a dowdy look. Hadn’t Joyce anything she could borrow? Earrings? She came on one as she groped in the little wooden partitions. Yes, that was better. She held her head on one side to see the effect. Now for the other. She located it after a search.
“Do I look all right?” Ann, plunging out into the corridor, nearly knocked Tony over. He stood slim and well-knit in a silk suit, and laughed:
“Heavens, what a whirlwind! Well, stand still, and let me look.” He crinkled up his eyes. “There’s something different,” he said.
“Yes, there is! These!” Ann pointed a joyful finger.
“Oh, yes . . . well . . . I don’t like them at all.” Tony spoke very decidedly. “Take them off,” he commanded.
“Oh, must I?” Ann turned and spoke dolefully. “I will, of course,” she said; “but I put them on because I thought they made me look more grown up. Don’t you think they do?”
“Yes, I do, and that’s why I don’t like them. You look nicer as a baby. Besides,” Tony spoke solemnly, “the younger you look, the easier it is for me to take you about.”
“Oh, is it!” Ann shot behind the curtain and reappeared, the lobes of her ears pink where she had dragged at the screws. “Now then, they’ve gone, now do you like me better?” she said. “If you still don’t, I’ll take off anything else you can suggest.” Ann spoke in a frenzy of anxiety to please.
“No, now you look very nice.” Tony spoke with gravity, but his lips twitched. “Now then, down to the well deck, and along to the gangway,” he said.
“Oh, I say!” They stood together at the top of the narrow wooden ladder; Ann clutched the rope balustrade affrightedly. “How it wobbles! she said.
“Yes, it does, but it’s perfectly all right. Hold on to me if you like, I’ll go in front.” Tony walked steadily down, Ann following, a timid hand on his coat collar. They reached the foot in safety, and Tony pointed. “Now we go in that,” he said.
“Oh, do we, how heavenly!” Ann looked with delight at the bobbing flat-bottomed boat with its dusky Charon. “How far do we go?” she said.
“Only about ten yards. That’s it!” Tony guided Ann’s wavering footsteps to a seat. “Now then. Chalo!” He spoke to the Egyptian, who pushed off with a flash of glorious white teeth.
Ann was entranced. “Why does he wear a bathgown?” she said.
“He doesn’t; at least, he doesn’t call it that. That’s a djibbah, his national garment: but it certainly is uncommonly like a bath-gown.” Tony looked at Ann as she sat gazing absorbedly round her. How pretty she was! with her babyish rather turned-up nose, her rounded chin, and—Tony’s eyes lingered—her passionate mouth. Passion was there unmistakable, and Tony hated himself for the thought that it was his to call to life if he wanted to. If he wanted to—fatuous brute! Probably Ann wouldn’t look at him.
He spoke abruptly as they grated against the quay. “Hullo! here we are; don’t move until I tell you.”
“Oh, so soon? Why, it’s only a minute!” Ann in her excitement stood recklessly up, and then sat down again in a hurry. “Oh, I say!” She straightened her hat, tipped awry.
“Yes, I knew that would happen; wait until I’ve paid the brute before you move.” Tony stood, sunburnt and alert, and dived into his pockets. “What? May you hope to get it!” A flow of Hindustani greeted the whining protest of the Egyptian.
“What’s the matter?” Ann looked alarmed and uncomfortable.
“Oh, he only wants three times as much as I have given him; they all do that on principle. Now then!”
Tony steadied Ann, and putting a hand under her elbow hoisted her on to the quay. “Now then, here we are, Port Said—filthy hole—where shall we go first?”
“Filthy hole!” Ann planted her buckskin shoes firmly in the dust and looked up astounded. “Why, I think it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen, the sun is so bright!” she spoke fervently.
“Yes, well . . . it certainly is that!” Tony laughed, and then felt sorry he had dimmed the radiance in the forget-me-not eyes, if only for a moment. “No . . . well, perhaps it isn’t as filthy as I thought it was,” he said. “Now for a gharry, and we’ll trot round. Here we are!” He held up a hand, and a large pair-horse landau rumbled up to them with a great deal of cracking of the whip. The gaily dressed Egyptian on the box grinned a welcome.
“Oh, this really is heavenly!” Ann settled her skirts and gazed round her, as they rattled up the main street.
“Now, we’ll go first to the Post Office, I always send some of these stamps to a young nephew of mine, he’s mad on getting them. Then we’ll go to Simon Artz, and look round his shop: how would you like that?”
“I should adore anything!” Ann clasped her hands together and felt as if she would really die with joy. It was too much: Major Seymour beside her quite alone, a heavenly day stretching in front of her! What had she done to deserve such happiness? She touched her companion shyly on the arm.
“Well?” Tony, leaning back with folded arms, his topi very much tipped over his eyes, smiled.
“I am so happy, and it is all your doing!” Ann tried to put the gratitude she felt into her voice.’
“Oh, that’s all right!” The flash of Tony’s white teeth was brief, but he was pleased. “Now! . . . here we are.” They stopped with a clatter of iron feet on a cobbled patch under an arched gateway.
“Is this the Post Office?” Ann was amazed, as they walked through the garden, gay with flowers. It was all so different from England, so much more cheerful.
Ann remembered the Post Office in the little country town at home, full generally of people in streaming mackintoshes with umbrellas, from which, propped against the counter, little rivulets meandered across the dusty floor. And sometimes your umbrella fell down, and you picked it up all covered with dust on one side. How dull, compared with this!
“Thanks!” Tony’s pleasant voice was friendly, and the coloured clerk, who had looked up every variety of stamp he possessed, beamed with satisfaction.
“Don’t mention it, sair!” He was proud of his English; and here was a real sahib, not one of these loud-voiced new sort of people, who swarmed off the ships in their ill-fitting uniforms, and shouted and hectored. Unconsciously the Egyptian clerk mourned the passing of the old Army, and all unknowingly his thought communicated itself to Ann, as she passed down the narrow footpath out into the sunlight.
“Have you ever thought that it would have been better if all the new sort of officers had been killed before the old ones?” she said.
“Often.” Tony held Ann’s elbow as they settled themselves anew upon the dusty seat. “But you must remember,” he said, “that no one but that old Army could have held the line, when a broken line would have meant destruction.” He swallowed suddenly. Those gorgeous old days in the little up-country station; every one a pal, all the traditions fiercely upheld. And now . . . the latest joined subaltern . . . the cold disdain of Subadar-Major Hari Singh . . . “Well . . . well, I suppose they know their own business best, but it’s a bad look-out.” Tony pushed back his hat impatiently, and met Ann’s eyes, fixed despairingly on his:
“I’ve said something that’s made you unhappy,” she said.
“No, no!” Tony jerked his thoughts back with an effort. “No, no! Only, you see, a great many of the Lahore Division were pals of mine . . . and I miss them,” he said simply.
“I see!” Ann suddenly gave Tony’s hand a convulsive squeeze. She looked out into the bright sunlight, and it shivered and melted in a watery haze. He had laid his brown hand on hers for a moment . . . his hand on hers. And in another fortnight’s time it would all be over. Less than a fortnight, Ann calculated with the rapidity of the criminal, knowing his days numbered. It couldn’t end! . . . something must happen to make it go on. “God, God, make it last somehow; do anything, but don’t let it come to an end!” she prayed wildly.
Ann’s habit of invoking the Deity in any crisis had shocked the nuns. “You must not do it, dear,” they had exhorted mildly. “But why not?”. . . “People who love you don’t want to be spoken to specially.” Ann had been indignant and flaming in her denial of this aspect of the Deity’s omnipotence. “I shall speak to God how I like!” she said, and walking swiftly away to her little cubicle, she had first stamped on, and then torn in half, a small book of devotions. “They are cringing!” she said, “and God loathes cringing people.”
But that was years ago; now life in all its juggernaut ruthlessness lay spread out before her; and perhaps God had already settled for Major Seymour to marry some one else. Then of what avail to beseech Him to let it last? Perhaps it would be better if it came to an end, then. Perhaps in going back to the ship that dreadful rickety little boat would tip over. She could easily make it. . . . Should she? . . . She looked up and met Tony’s eyes.
“What’s the matter?” he said quickly.
For a moment Ann was tempted to blurt it all out. . . her despair, her longing, her terror of a future in which he was not. Then common sense came to her rescue, people never wanted things that they could get easily. And it would be frightfully cowardly to try to drown herself. She took a long breath, and spoke bravely.
“Nothing’s the matter,” she said, “only, don’t you know . . . sometimes when you are enjoying yourself frightfully you get a sort of terrified feeling that some one will snatch it all away from you. You are the thing that I don’t want snatched away just at present.” Ann’s lip trembled in spite of her desperate effort to control it.
Tony’s eyes laughed, but within him something deeper suddenly stirred. Ann was awfully sweet! He put his hand swiftly over hers.
“No one is going to snatch me away,” he said; “no one can, unless I want to be snatched. See . . .?”
“Had enough?” Tony laughed as they emerged from the dark, aromatically scented shop into the glare of the street. They had had an hour’s delicious rummaging; no one bothered you to buy in this new heavenly country, you just strolled from counter to counter and looked at what you liked. Tony had done a little shopping on his own account, and had bought stacks of cigarettes, and two large boxes of Turkish Delight for Ann. She clutched them to her as they waited for the big gharry to disentangle itself from a miscellaneous collection of vehicles by the side of the road.
“I never could have enough!” Ann sighed, as they rattled away down the narrow streets. She had seen Joyce in Simon Artz’s shop. Joyce and Colonel Playfair, standing close together by one of the counters, with rows and rows of amber beads spread out in front of them. Joyce was trying them on, her rather dark face all alight with enjoyment. Was he giving her one? She wondered. . . . She had consulted Tony, giving his sleeve a little tug.
“Probably, I should think.” Tony stared over her head at the two in the distance. Playfair was making a pretty obvious ass of himself . . . however, he was old enough by now to know his own mind. He smiled down at Ann as they sat side by side in the disreputable old gharry: “Well, what would you like to do next?”
“Well . . . I suppose we must go back to the ship.” Ann heaved a sigh of regret at the thought of rapture cut short. “But I could stay on shore for ever!” she said fervently.
“Well, then, let’s go and have lunch at the Casino Palace Hotel; you’ll enjoy that, and it will be a change from that old ship. How do you like the idea of that?”
“Oh! . . .” Ann’s eyes were eloquent; then she twisted her hands together. “Won’t it be very expensive?” she said.
“Not more than I can manage,” Tony smiled, touched. How unlike the modern girl, out, as a rule, for all she could get! “Yes, we’ll certainly go there,” he said, “and while you’re tidying up I’ll have a look at the telegrams.” His brown face was keen and alert under the white Hawkes topi. How jolly it was to take any one so fresh and unspoilt about!
They drove up under the flower-covered porch, and stopped with a clatter. Ann stood timidly in the hall while Tony paid the driver. That worthy salaamed almost to the ground, and spat triumphantly on the coins before consigning them to an unspeakably filthy under-garment. This was a real sahib! He climbed contentedly back on to the box, and rumbled away, along the shady drive between the flaming border of poinsettia, out into the sunlight again.
Tony glanced round. “I’ll get some one to show you upstairs,” he said. “Don’t hurry, because I’ve got to fix up a table, and it will probably take me about ten minutes. Here,” he spoke in the vernacular to a hovering native, “show the miss-sahib upstairs,” he said.
Ann followed the man up a flight of stairs carpeted with cocoanut matting. Green bamboo chicks flapped in the open windows, stirred by the soft breeze. The corridors were long and bare. The native stopped in front of a door, opened it with a deep salaam, and vanished.
Ann stood in the middle of the floor and stared round her. Then with a low cry of pleasure she ran to the open window, and out on to the verandah. The sea, heavenly blue and bathed in sunlight, lay just below her. As she watched, an incoming wave broke, and flung itself out on the yellow sand, spreading its foam-flecked edges wide. Ann watched in an ecstasy of enjoyment. Being so near the sea and hearing it break, always reminded her of a holiday she had once spent with Mummy and Daddy. The lodgings had been so near the sea, that Ann had been able to lie in her bed at night and listen to the wonderful sound made by the retreating wave, as it first flung itself wide on the shingle, and then hurried back into the shelter of the great ocean, carrying with it hundreds of little reluctant grumbling stones. For so Ann had explained to herself the slurring drag of the backwash, the little stones didn’t want to be swallowed up again. She drew the comb through her straw-coloured hair in a happy dream—remembering that holiday had made her feel closer to Mummy and Daddy again. She replaced her hat, and walked soberly downstairs.
Tony, tall and well groomed, turned from the telegrams that hung in a bundle from a nail. “That’s right. By the way, Miss Joyce is waiting for you, she and Colonel Playfair have just rolled up and we’re all lunching together.”
“Oh, are we?” There was such unfeigned disappointment in Ann’s voice that Tony laughed aloud.
“Yes, I know, but what could I say? Here she is,” as Joyce emerged excitedly from the reading-room:
“Oh, Ann . . . Ann, I’m engaged!” Joyce was almost speechless.
“Joyce! . . . who to?” Ann turned pale.
“Colonel Playfair, of course. Isn’t it madly exciting? What do you suppose Mother and Father will say?”
“I can’t think!” Ann still felt dazed. How could Joyce speak and look quite ordinary when this astounding thing had befallen her. “Does Major Seymour know?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so, at least, not unless he’s guessed. You tell him; he’ll look at me with those awful gimlety blue eyes of his, and I can’t stand it.” Joyce lingered while Ann took a few dumbfounded steps towards Tony.
“Major Seymour, Joyce is engaged to Colonel Playfair,” she said.
“Is she though? I say!” Tony walked over to where Joyce stood trying to look unconcerned. “I say, many congratulations, Miss Joyce. Where is the lucky man?”
“Here!” Colonel Playfair, very natty and gay as to the tie, dug Tony cheerfully in the ribs. “Yes, we’ve fixed it up,” he said, and beamed at Joyce.
“Well, of course, the event must be suitably celebrated.” Tony left the group, and beckoned to a passing waiter. He stood in colloquy with the man for a moment or two, and then came back.
“We’ll have lunch in the palm court,” he said, “it’s cooler there. Come along.”
Ann never forgot that lunch. It was a glimpse into a life totally different from anything she had ever seen or dreamed of before. The long beautiful marble floor, open to the sea; the tall palms, that stooped their heads as if in dignified protest that any one should do anything as mundane as eat under their big fan-like leaves. The table, with its decoration of pink antigonons, scattering little tiny white buds over the snowy cloth. Then the champagne; poured from a swathed bottle, into a flat wide-mouthed glass, sending up myriads of gleaming breaking bubbles. Ann eyed it with apprehension, and Tony met her glance.
“Don’t drink it if you’d rather not,” he said.
“I’d like to; but I’m rather afraid.” Ann blushed scarlet.
“Well, perhaps if you’ve never had it before. . . . Look here!” Tony took Ann’s glass and emptied it into his own. “Now then, you’ll just be able to taste it, and that’s all you want for a health,” he said, and smiled reassuringly.
Ann felt a rush of gratitude; Major Seymour always understood. She lifted her glass, and beamed at Joyce, as Tony, quiet and self-possessed, said a few words of congratulation. But in her heart she marvelled. How could Joyce look so pleased when she saw Colonel Playfair and Major Seymour together? Major Seymour, with his high-bred face and beautiful hands, and Colonel Playfair, rather ruddy and short, and rather fatty fingers, and a sort of fussy look. But that Joyce was pleased, there was no doubt, and Ann felt a sympathetic thrill—Joyce had Colonel Playfair for ever—no awful loomings for her.
“Oh, God, let it last for me, too,” she prayed, dropping starry eyes to her plate.
“Joyce, what did he say when he asked you?” Ann sat on the top berth, watching her cousin dress for dinner.
“I can’t remember the exact words.” Joyce shook her long straight hair loose from the pins that held it, and laid them one by one on the polished shelf in front of her. “But it was something like this—‘I say, Miss Cunningham, don’t you think you and I hit it off uncommonly well?’ Then I said, ‘Yes, I think we do,’ and then he said, ‘Well then, let’s’ . . . something—I can’t tell you exactly what he said, Ann. No one ever does that.”
“Oh! . . . it sounds lovely.” Ann was, however, conscious of a feeling of blankness. The lover of her dreams would have caught her to his heart, crushed her. But still, of course, you couldn’t do that in a shop. “Was it in Simon Artz’s shop he said it?” she asked.
“Just after, in the carriage driving to the Casino Palace, about ten minutes before I saw you,” said Joyce, coiling diligently.
“Oh, I say!” Ann cogitated. “What do you feel like at this very instant?” she said.
“Just the same. Why, what do you suppose I should feel?” Joyce flattened her chin on her neck, as she hooked her evening dress.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . sort of mad with joy.” Ann stared at the ceiling, and wondered what she would feel if she was in Joyce’s position. Engaged . . . all her life settled . . . no more awful lonely groping feeling. But then—she had not felt lonely, or groped before she saw Tony. “Now I expect you’ll sit together on deck?” she said.
“Yes. Charles is moving my chair next to his this evening; he knows a lovely corner, he says. It’s frightful fun being engaged, heaps of people have congratulated us this evening. And Mrs. Fawsett is in a frenzy, she said at once, ‘What would Mother and Father say?’ But I told her that they would be glad, as Charles is in the Service.” Joyce clipped the press fasteners of her sash together, and gave a final look in the glass. “I’m ready; you start now,” she said, and vanished.
“Charles is moving my chair next to his,” Ann thought despairingly, as she got slowly off the berth. Now she would be left all alone—and it was a most awful feeling always to sit alone on board, you felt so conspicuous. Of course you could knit, but then you couldn’t talk to yourself while you knitted, and on board you must have some one to talk to. Even the Turnip Lantern would have been better than no one, but he was offended beyond recall, Ann felt sure. Tony had gone again too, he and the Captain had gone together, the Captain looking so different in a lounge suit. Ann was going to be all alone for the rest of the voyage—abject, hopeless misery! She stared in the glass, her small face smaller and whiter than usual. “What can I do, what can I do to make him want me like Colonel Playfair wants Joyce?” Ann wrung her hands in anguish. She flung herself face downwards on the lower berth, and the tears trickled through her fingers: “O Lord, give me an idea,” she prayed.
She lay still for a few minutes and felt better. Then she turned and looked at the watch on her wrist. It was an hour before dinner, Joyce had evidently wanted to be dressed and on deck betimes, so that she could talk to Colonel Playfair. Ann need not begin to dress yet, she would just do her hair, and then read.
As she brushed her silky hair, gleaming gold under the electric light, her eyes suddenly focused. What was it Major Seymour had said the other day? “You ought to bob your hair, it would suit you awfully well.” He had been running his fingers through the short crop of a child on deck, and had looked at Ann and laughed. Ann’s heart began to beat wildly: perhaps if she had short hair it would help. She doubled the strand she held, and tried to see the effect. But it was difficult; you wanted to get hold of it all at once.
With Ann, to think of a thing was to do it, and she struggled into her dressing-gown, and tied the cord with trembling fingers. She would have it all cut off now— this instant. She peeped out of her cabin, and seeing the coast clear, tore down the corridor to the barber’s shop. No one but the Goanese barber was there. Ann pulled the curtain across the brass rod, and beckoned to him. He advanced, immaculate in white uniform.
“Miss-sahib want shampoo?” he bowed respectfully.
“No . . . hair cut like this.” Ann opened her fingers like scissors, and closed them on a long strand.
The shining black face was petrified. “Not cutting off Miss-sahib’s hair?” He opened and shut his mouth like a fish.
“Yes! Now!” Ann climbed into the chair, and wrapped the sheet round her. “Begin!” she commanded.
The barber collected his implements and came nearer. “Miss-sahib’s hair very silliky, pity to cut.” He clacked his tongue in concern.
But Ann was adamant. “I want it like small Miss-sahib on deck,” she admonished, and shut her eyes.
“Wah, wah!” The barber could not resist this small expression of despair, but seeing Ann was determined, he ceased to protest. He knew his job, and soon Ann sat in a gale of falling gold.
“Ready, Miss-sahib.” He brushed round Ann’s neck with a small soft brush, and stood waiting, hand-glass in hand.
But Ann did not open her eyes: a sickening sense of horror at what she had done had stolen in on her. Hair took months to grow, suppose she didn’t look nice now it was done!
The barber coughed. “Ready, Miss-sahib,” he said again, and scratched one black foot with the other.
“Thank you.” Ann disregarded the hand-glass and got out of the chair quietly. “I will send the money,” she said, and lifted the curtain.
The barber swooped to collect the pale strands lying heaped on the polished floor. “Making very fine transformation,” he said, and laid them carefully in a box. “Miss-sahib not paying, I say nothing,” he concluded magnanimously.
But Ann was dragging the curtain of her cabin along its polished bar. Unhooking the white door, she closed and locked it fiercely, then shutting her eyes so that she might not see her reflection in the glass, she flung herself on the floor. “God, let me die now!” she cried, and crawled so that her head lay under Joyce’s berth.
Tony, lean and well-groomed in evening dress, came down the corridor. He was late, the gong had sounded some time ago, but he had come on board from the shore fairly late, and had then stopped and talked to Dr. Dutta. The little man was getting off the next day; he had received orders to report himself in Cairo, and he was packing. Tony was sorry in a way, he rather liked the doctor, but he hailed the idea of having his cabin to himself.
Mrs. Harries, knocking at one of the white doors, barred his way.
“Eh, Major”—she stood aside straightening herself—“eh, what’s amiss here? The door’s locked, and it’s fair against orders.” She knocked again, then looked up, her face anxious.
“Whose cabin is it?”
“Little Miss Church’s. Her cousin’s in at her dinner; it’s Miss Ann that’s missing. Eh, Miss Church,” she called softly through the keyhole.
There was no reply. Tony lingered in spite of himself. It was a most extraordinary thing how Ann always seemed to be thrusting herself on his horizon.
“Eh, I must tell the Purser.” Mrs. Harries, looking terribly worried, turned from the door.
“No, don’t do that yet.” Tony took a step forward, and rapped at the door. “Miss Church,” he said, and stood with his head a little bent.
There was a sound of moving from within, a hand fumbled with the key, the door opened a crack. Mrs. Harries gasped with relief.
“Yes? What is it?” Tony could just see Ann’s pink mouth.
“We wondered what was wrong—your door was locked, and it’s against the rules,” said Tony, laughing across at the stewardess.
“Nothing is wrong, at least nothing very special, only somehow I don’t feel like coming out.” Ann began to close the door again.
“Eh,” Mrs. Harries lifted a warning finger to Tony; she smiled. “Let me come in, my dearie,” she said, and went nearer to the door.
“All right.” Ann opened the door again, and Mrs. Harries vanished. There was a sound of low voices, something perilously like a sob, and Mrs. Harries came out again.
“Eh, but she’s cut all her hair off! “ she said, and lifted petrified hands.
“Cut all her hair off? What on earth for?” Tony repeated stupidly. Wild ideas chased one another through his brain. Was Ann thinking of becoming a nun? “What the devil has she done that for?” he said.
“Lord knows! . . . and crying something pitiful.” Mrs. Harries’ eyes were full of kind concern. “Says she’ll die in there.”
“Rubbish!” Tony spoke abruptly. “Look here; stay here, will you, just to make it all very proper,” he twinkled, “and I’ll go in. I’m coming in,” he said, and stepped quickly over the threshold.
There was a scuffle: Tony looked round the empty cabin, then walked quietly to the sausage-like excrescence inside the curtain, and unrolled it.
“Now then, what’s it all about?” he said, and held Ann by both elbows.
Ann tried to free herself, but Tony’s fingers were strong; she lifted streaming eyes.
“My hair!” she said, and sobbed.
“Well, it’s gone!” Tony’s eyes laughed down on the silky crop. What had possessed the child? But it was rather sweet all the same, hanging squarely over the small ears. “I like it!” he said decidedly.
Ann’s face was a study. She came a little nearer, and sought his face with eyes pathetic in their intensity.
“You like it?” she said. “Why . . . I did it for you, and then I thought perhaps——” her voice broke.
“You did it for me!” Tony’s eyes took on a look of horrified concern. This was beyond a joke. He let go of Ann, and put both hands in his pockets. “Look here,” he said, “I wish—— But the words died on his lips. How could he tell Ann that it did not matter a rap to him how she looked or what she did? It would be like kicking a confiding puppy. He turned, and swore inwardly. What should he do? . . . Leave it alone—it had been his fault ever since that night when he had kissed her. He swung round, and spoke kindly. “Look here,” he said, “come along out and don’t be a little goose. But the next time you want to do anything mad because you think I shall be pleased, just ask me first, will you?” He nodded and smiled as he stepped over the brass door rail, and beckoning to Mrs. Harries, he made his way on to dinner. But as he ate he brooded in an uneasy abstraction.
On the whole Joyce was merciful to Ann about her hair.
“You really look quite nice,” she conceded, “although no one but you could have done anything so hopelessly mad.”
This was cutting, but not overwhelming, and the fact of Joyce saying she looked nice meant a good deal. People on deck stared at first, but she had, at Mrs. Harries’ suggestion, tied up her head in a scarf on that first dreadful evening, so no one had noticed then, and the next morning everything had been better. Things always are better in the morning, Ann had reflected, and it certainly was heavenly to be able just to run your comb through your hair and be ready, instead of struggling for a quarter of an hour in front of a glass. As a matter of fact Ann looked like a delicious boy, and the Turnip Lantern gnashed his teeth.
But Mrs. Fawsett did not take the metamorphosis quite so calmly, and although she did not speak to Ann herself about it, she unburdened herself to Margaret Cursetjee, sitting still by her side in a deck chair.
“Her mother will be terribly annoyed,” she said, and wielded her knitting needles disapprovingly.
“Will she?” Margaret Cursetjee stirred a little. “What is Mrs. Church like?” she said.
“Very much like Ann: when I knew her about six years ago she was exactly like Ann. A little stouter, perhaps, and, of course, not so childish, but the same frank unsophisticated outlook on life. Not at all a helpful outlook for those who have to live in India. However, let us hope that as Miss Church grows older she will become more circumspect. My husband and I were for some time in the same station as Mr. and Mrs. Church; he was our Collector at the time—my husband was his assistant.”
“Oh? And where are they stationed now?”
“In Bombay; Mr. Church is Senior Member of Council.”
“Really? In Bombay?”
“Yes. I do hope——” Mrs. Fawsett dropped her voice a little. “You know, I feel a little uneasy about Miss Church and Major Seymour: her devotion is so very obvious, poor child.”
“Yes?” Margaret liked Mrs. Fawsett, but oh, how merciless women were to their own sex, she reflected, as she stared at the awning through which shafts of sunlight stabbed like sharp knives.
“Yes, even Mr. Gilchrist said something to me about it last night.”
“Mr. Gilchrist? What on earth has it got to do with him?” Margaret roused herself sufficiently to turn in her chair and stare at Mrs. Fawsett. She knew the young man in question a little, and disliked him instinctively.
“Well, I suppose being in the same Service, and knowing that I am practically in charge of the two girls, and also seeing that Miss Church is practically a child, he felt it his duty to bring it to my notice.” Mrs. Fawsett spoke rather stiffly.
“I see. . . .” Margaret spoke after a long pause. “I don’t think any one need feel anxious,” she said. “Major Seymour is not the sort of man who could ever be anything but entirely chivalrous and honourable.”
“No . . . no, quite. . . . I am not saying anything against him. But when you see such open admiration. . . . However . . . Oh dear, I have run out of wool.” Mrs. Fawsett, rather at a loss, rose and trod alertly away.
Ann and Tony stared down at the absolutely translucent water. The fish skimmed, like glittering sardines, just above the surface. Ann was entranced.
“It’s just like you read about in books and never think you’ll really see,” she chuckled delightedly. “Aren’t they sweet?”
But Tony was staring fixedly at something else; Ann followed his eyes.
“Why, the ship is steaming!” she said.
“Yes . . .” Tony spoke absently. “Well, I think I’ll get along,” he said, and walked abruptly away.
Ann followed him with her eyes. “Always it starts nicely, and always it ends up wretchedly,” she said to herself, as she wended her way back to her chair.
But Tony had taken the companion stairs two at a time. “I say!” he knocked sharply at the door of the Chief Officer’s cabin.
“Yes? Come in.” The cheery sandy-haired man in white uniform looked up from his table.
“I say, come down to the well deck and have a look, will you? I rather think——” Tony formed the dread word with his lips.
“Really? Thanks very much for coming so promptly.” The two went hurriedly along the corridor, and down the iron ladder on to the well deck. “Yes, by Jove!” The Chief Officer drew in his head swiftly. “Thanks very much,” he said, and pulled a whistle out of his pocket and blew sharply on it twice.
Tony, seeing he was no longer wanted, walked upstairs again. His heart beat no whit more quickly. Fire . . . well, what of it? He sat down again in his chair and picked up his book.
But Ann had pondered over Tony’s sudden exit. He had gone so very suddenly, had it had anything to do with the funny squirls of smoke coming out of the sides of the ship? Were they still there? She got up and went to look. Yes, they were, but they were getting thicker and blacker. They didn’t look like steam at all, they looked like smoke. Fire! . . . the horrid word blared itself suddenly across her consciousness. Ann stood still, and the most awful feeling of terror assailed her. It was as if all the blood were receding from her heart, like when you poke a stick in the wet sand, and all the ground round the stick gets dry. The roof of her mouth was dry, too; she moved her tongue mechanically on it. That’s why they had fire drill, then, in case anything like this happened. Ann had been amused to see her own cabin steward running when the big fire bell clanged, and from all quarters of the ship they came swarming like ants carrying buckets and ropes. But that was pretence . . . now, now it was real, and when the big bell clanged, then it would mean . . . “You can’t get off a ship, you can’t get off a ship,” Ann repeated the words to herself mechanically. Only, that is, into boats, and then you drifted about for days unless somebody picked you up. And if they didn’t you died of thirst. And who would pick you up in the Red Sea? Ann searched the molten quivering horizon. No, it was death. Ann’s knees suddenly felt like paper; she went back to her chair and gripped the arms of it. At any cost she must not let people know the ship was on fire; people would be frightened, people with children especially.
The Captain strolled down the bridge, but he passed Ann walking more quickly than he generally did. He smiled at her though; how white she was, he thought, and what was that tall lean fellow about, that he sat reading in his chair, when he could have had Ann in his arms for the asking. However . . . the Captain walked on and found a Chief Officer very black and sweating in the bowels of the ship.
“It’s fairly got hold of number seven bunker, sir,” he said, and wiped the perspiration off his forehead.
“Has it? Well, then, just signal the engine-room dead slow, and we’ll turn the steam on to her. The Captain went back to the bridge and lit a Burmah cheroot . . . that Japanese coal was the devil.
Ann heard the gradually lessening throb of the engines with a feeling of agony difficult to imagine except by any one with a vivid imagination. She had already mentally collected all her small valuables, sat for a couple of hideous days in an open boat, and forgone her last drink of water so that a child should have it. So that the clang of the luncheon gong brought a scream of real terror to her lips. But no one heard it, the vibrating echoes only stirred the baking people to a pleasing anticipation, and they heaved themselves out of their chairs and filtered one by one down to the saloon. But Ann sat on.
Tony passed her. “Coming down?” He halted.
“No.”
“Feeling seedy?” He scanned the white face curiously.
Ann shook her head.
“Well, don’t start banting because it’s hot; it’ll be a good deal hotter than this before we’re out of the Red Sea.”
“Yes.” Ann already saw the flames. Yes, it would be hotter than this.
“I say, what is the matter?” In spite of himself Tony lingered. “Ah, here’s Miss Joyce come to fetch you,” he said with relief.
Joyce came up, her unimaginative face all alert. “Ann, do you know the ship is on fire?” she said.
“Rubbish!” Tony spoke abruptly, and looked at Ann again. So that was it. Ann had heard of it and had got the wind up, poor little kid. He spoke rather sharply to Joyce. “Here, don’t go spreading yarns like that about the ship,” he said. “There was a fire in one of the coal bunkers, it’s true, but that’s all, and probably by now it’s well under control. At any rate here comes the man to let us know,” he said, and turned from Joyce and walked up to Captain Rome.
Joyce turned with a flounce and went on to lunch.
Ann sat still. Tony exchanged an apologetic and half-laughing word with the Captain and then turned back to Ann. “Now hear what the man who really knows has to say,” he said, and smiled.
But Captain Rome levelled a very tender glance on Ann’s quivering nerve-racked face, and he nodded dismissal to Tony. “You leave me to talk to the young lady,” he said, and he sat down by Ann, and took hold of a small damp hand. She clung to his feverishly.
“Tell me!” she said, “shall we be burnt to death?” Her voice was tortured.
“Burnt to death! Not this voyage.” Captain Rome’s voice was loud and breezy, he laughed like a gale of wind. “Why, Miss Ann, that tuppenny ha’penny bonfire in number seven bunker was out long ago.” He beamed reassuringly. “You come along with me, and you will see what you will see,” and he led the way to the bridge.
Ann stood in the midst of polished brass, speaking tubes, binnacles. Captain Rome put his mouth to a tube longer than the rest and blew gently. Softly came back the long-drawn whistle. Captain Rome beckoned Ann close. “Now listen,” he said.
“Fire in number seven hold extinct,” it came like a tiny voice from another world.
Ann’s eyes shone; she clutched Captain Rome’s hand in a passion of relief. She would not have to die yet.
She went down to lunch treading on air, her mind in a whirl of thanksgiving. But later in the day, as she lay asleep in her deck chair, her golden head a little on one side, her small face very white against the black satin cushion, Captain Rome watched her from the bridge with troubled eyes. It was his business to know all that concerned the welfare of his passengers, and his heart ached over Ann, his little shorn lamb, as he had playfully dubbed her. Could he . . . could he? . . . He smoked furiously as he stared at the back of Tony’s very well brushed head protruding from the Willesden canvas of his deck chair. No, no, it was not possible, in these civilised days; such things were not done. But as he bit the end off his third cheroot since lunch, and spat it meditatively over the side, he made up his mind that should opportunity offer he would further Ann’s cause by just a little word. “But we’ll give it another twenty-four hours, we’ll give it another twenty-four hours,” he said to himself, and in so saying spoke more wisely than he knew!
Ann moved a sticky face on a hot pillow. Even though the cabin steward had fixed the windscoop to the porthole, a clever device for literally scooping all the air there was, the cabin was suffocating. The electric fan whirred wildly, but it only seemed to stir up the hot air and make it hotter. Ann wished Joyce would come to bed; perhaps she could settle off and go to sleep then. As it was she had an unsettled feeling, it was no good trying to get comfortable if you knew some one was coming to switch on the light and fuss about the cabin.
Ann’s face was nervous and over-strained as she lay staring at the ceiling, glimmering faintly white in the light from the corridor. She had had a miserable day, the terror of the fire, and the sort of unsettled turmoily feeling that she always had inside her now. Oh! for the happy peaceful days, when nothing happened that wasn’t fun . . . when she was at the convent . . . or at Grannie’s. When a letter from India was pure joy, with its promise of a wonderful new life to come. But here was the wonderful new life begun, and what did it bring? Nothing but a most awful feeling of longing for something that you couldn’t have.
The curtain shot along the rod with a rattle of brass rings—Joyce came in and gasped.
“I say, it’s boiling in here! I vote we sleep on deck to-morrow—the men do.”
“Yes, I know they do. But do the women?” Ann blinked wearily at the light.
“Some do; that’s why Charles and I had to come away—the stewards began dumping down their mattresses in front of us. It’s heavenly cool on deck.” Joyce began to undress.
“Which of the men sleep on deck?” Ann rolled over and took the Eau de Cologne out of her rack: she dabbed it behind her ears.
“Charles.”
“Yes.”
“And your special person.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know any one else. Oh, yes—the Turnip Lantern.”
“Oh, how frightful he must look in bed!” Ann chuckled.
“Yes, mustn’t he?” Joyce had got to the stage of plaiting her hair. “Of course your man has taken the best place,” she went on as she knotted and tied the ribbon securely; “bang in front of the music saloon. No one else can get past, he fills up all the passage.”
“No one else ought to want to get past—except, of course, Charles.” Ann put the last words in hurriedly.
Joyce ignored this remark; it was like Ann’s remarks usually were, foolish. “Charles is a dear, and we are going to be married the instant we get to India,” she said.
“Joyce, before you have even asked Aunt and Uncle? . . . you can’t! Besides, . . . supposing you see some one you like better in India . . . you have only seen about three men yet.”
“And what about you, how many men have you seen? And don’t you simply worship Major Seymour? Why, you’re simply idiotic about him!” Joyce was ruffled.
“Yes, but I’m not going to marry him though!” Poor Ann, worsted, struggled to assert herself.
“No. But you would like a shot if he asked you to!”
How terribly true! Ann did not attempt to reply; she handed down the Eau de Cologne to Joyce, standing tall and slim in her white night-gown.
“It was jolly lucky that that fire was put out so quickly,” she said as she dabbed. “Charles was in a P. and O. once when it caught fire, and the refrigerator was cut off. They had to exist on the food that was left in the pantry, and there was hardly any. Mercifully they were near Eastbourne, so they put in there, and it was all right. But it easily mightn’t have been,” she concluded with relish.
Ann’s heart seemed to stop beating again. She wished Joyce hadn’t reminded her about the fire—she was trying not to think about it. There was something about this hot, still night that brought it back to her mind. She lay motionless as Joyce switched out the light. And when Joyce’s even breathing filled the tiny space Ann still lay sleepless. For several nights now she had not slept well. She would drop asleep all right at about eleven, and then at one or two o’clock she would jerk back into wakefulness for no apparent reason. And for about two hours she would lie awake, feeling more alert and sleepless then than she had felt during the whole twenty-four hours. But to-night she could not settle off at all, sleep was miles from her eyelids, she lay and stared at the white ceiling.
Suddenly her nostrils twitched and she sat up. Smoke! She could smell it! The fire could not have been really put out; it was there, smouldering, ready to burst out again at any moment! Ann gripped her hands together in a sick terror. What should she do? Tell somebody? But who? She slipped out of bed, and looked up and down the silent, deserted corridor. There was no one about, there would not be—every one was asleep. But she must tell somebody. She turned back and slipped noiselessly into her kimono. She would go a little further afield—perhaps she was only imagining smoke, she would be quite sure first.
Outside the smell was less—naturally, because Ann had caught the smoke from the galley drifting down the windscoop. The native passengers cooked their food in the galley; Ann had often watched them, entertained by their excited gestures and odd clothes, and the careless way in which they sprawled on their gorgeous Persian rugs flung down on the planks of the lower deck. But she had forgotten this. Trembling, she gathered the gay cotton wrapper round her, and crept towards the saloon. She would go upstairs and look all round, she could not rest unless she were sure.
Up the stairs, her damp hand sticking to the polished rail, she went, through the music-room, so weirdly silent, and out on to the deck. How heavenly cool it was! Ann even in the midst of her terror breathed in the cold air with relief. But now to see: she tiptoed to the side of the ship and looked over. Nothing, no squirts of smoke, Ann drew in her head comforted. And no smell either: she snuffed the chill night air. No, it had all been imagination, and she must go back. She turned to retrace her steps; one or two mattresses with their motionless occupants glimmered in the darkness. Only one prostrate figure moved, and Ann did not notice it. She regained the music-room door, and then stopped dead. Would it be wrong now she was so near just to peep at him asleep? No, how could it matter. She tiptoed to where she knew Tony would be lying . . . there he was—his dark head making a black patch on the pillow. He had kicked off the sheet, and was lying flat on his back, his arms folded under his head. Ann looked down at him and came to a sudden determination. She would not go back to her cabin at all, she would spend the rest of the night just sitting by him cool and peaceful. Some one did it in the Bible—Ruth—and no one had minded . . . in fact the person—Boaz—had been rather pleased.
Ann sank down a pale blue heap, and leaned her head against the white wall. The air blew in cool and fragrant from the sea, one light glimmered, a quivering firefly at the masthead. It was nice, it looked like a watchful eye, seeing that everything was all right. Ann shut her eyes, and sat still.
And so, a little later, Tony waking, wondering what had fallen on him, found Ann, a slumbering heap, stretched across his feet.
Tony Seymour generally found no difficulty in making up his mind swiftly. But here was something that floored him utterly. He lay still and swore under his breath. What time was it? He carried the wrist that held the luminous dial close to his eyes. Five. They would be coming in half an hour to swab down the decks. And even now the horizon showed the faintest promise of dawn. . . . Ann must be waked.
He moved his feet.
Ann stirred, sat up, and yawned widely. She rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands, and stared.
“Hullo!” she said, and beamed.
Tony sat up, drawing the collar of his pyjama coat across a very brown throat with a hand that longed to give Ann the whipping she deserved. “Look here,” he said, “Heaven only knows what you are doing up here, but that’s not the point. The point is that you have got to go back to your cabin now, this instant, do you hear?” He spoke in a vehement undertone.
“Oh, . . .” Ann crept nearer on her hands and knees her hair fell over her ears in a tumbled cloud—“I’ll tell you,” she said. “I couldn’t go to sleep because it was so hot and I thought I smelt smoke again, you know; I was frightened about the fire. So I came up here to see, and then I saw you, and I felt that if I sat down by you I shouldn’t be afraid. And then I suppose I must have gone to sleep.”
“It was an appalling thing to do!” Tony spoke furiously: no girl should be allowed loose who is so utterly despairingly devoid of even the most elementary knowledge of the facts of life, he thought to himself savagely.
But Ann, standing up, had turned swiftly. “Some one is coming!” she said suddenly, and her eyes filled with apprehension.
Tony sprang up. “Coming? From which side?” he said, and tried to hide Ann.
But it was too late. A pale, rather puffy face slid silently round the corner, and then withdrew itself as silently. “Oh, I beg your pardon!” it said. The words came ominously to Tony and Ann standing breathless.
“That’s torn it!” said Tony, and looked out past Ann into the chilly dawn.
Ann lay face downward on her berth weeping wildly. “Joyce, Joyce, don’t,” she cried, and covered her ears with her hands.
“But you are!” Joyce stood straight and vengeful. “It’s the most fearful thing to do, to go and sit by a man in the night! It’s worse, it’s worse than . . .” Joyce failed for a word—“it’s the sort of thing people do who have babies before they are married,” she said.
“Joyce! . . .” Ann sat up and flung the hair back from her face: it was ashen. “Joyce, don’t tell any one I did it. I beseech you not to tell Charles, I beseech you!” Ann broke into the most terrible sobbing. “I never knew it mattered so much, honestly, honestly, I didn’t. Oh, Joyce!” Ann clutched at her cousin’s shoulder as she stood level with the top berth—“Joyce! stand by me; don’t, don’t desert me like this! Do you suppose, do you suppose”—Ann’s starry eyes were wide with terror—“Joyce, shall I have a baby?” she cried.
“No, of course you won’t.” Joyce felt she had gone too far, and she took hold of Ann’s burning hand consolingly. But she meditated as she dipped a sponge in cold water and handed it up to Ann. Oughtn’t Ann to know something? It was so fearful to have things like this happening, and the Turnip Lantern of all people to know about it! But still . . . Joyce squeezed the sponge and put it back in its place in the cabin holdall—Ann would soon be in India now, and then Aunt Muriel could tell her things. After all, there wasn’t much else frightful left for Ann to do! Joyce smiled grimly as she waited for Ann to give her back the towel.
“Thank you, I feel better now.” Ann smiled faintly as she finished wiping her face, and clung to Joyce’s hand. “You are nice to me, Joyce,” she said, and lifted a pathetically ravaged face.
“Oh, well, I’m sorry for you.” Secure in her own happiness, Joyce really did feel sorry for Ann, and she got on to her own berth, and reached up and kissed her cousin. “I won’t tell a soul, honestly I won’t,” she said, and smiled reassuringly.
“You wanted me, Sir?” Tony Seymour, tall and well-groomed, stood in the door of the Captain’s cabin.
“Oh, yes, Major, come in, come in.” Captain Rome stood up and pushed forward a big leather chair. He stood with his hand hospitably on the rounded back of it. “Sit down, sit down,” he said heartily, and cursed in his heart at the job that lay before him.
“Thanks.” Tony dropped his long length into the capacious seat, and took a cigarette out of the box that the Captain held out to him. “By Jove, you do yourself jolly well up here,” he said, and he glanced approvingly round at the luxurious appointments of the beautiful cabin.
“Yes, we’re comfortable enough.” Captain Rome followed Tony’s glance with complacence. He loved his ship, and was proud of his quarters. “But we’ve need to be,” he said; “a seafaring life is not all beer and skittles by any means.”
“No, I can quite believe it.” Tony looked round for an ash-tray and then flicked a little of the ash from his cigarette through the open door. “Mustn’t damage the beautiful carpet,” he said, and smiled. “No, you people must have had a hell of a time during the war. Nerve racking, awful work.”
“Yes, it was bad, it was bad.” Captain Rome got up and began to pace round the room. He came back to Tony’s side, and took a cheroot from a box that lay open on the polished table. “But things like the war aren’t always the worst in a job like ours. Not by any means the worst,” he concluded significantly.
“No?” Tony was at a loss. What was the matter with the old boy? He had gone out on the bridge and was chipping the end of his cheroot into the fire bucket. Wandering about like a cat on hot bricks.
Captain Rome came back, and drawing up a chair he sat down in front of Tony. He breathed heavily.
“The fact of the matter is, Major, I’ve a damned unpleasant job in front of me, and I just don’t know how to tackle it,” he said.
“Really?” Tony was politely interested. The old fellow was bothered about something and had sent for him to help ravel it out. Well, he would do his best; he leaned forward attentively.
“One of the passengers has informed me that he saw you and Miss Church in conversation during the early hours of this morning on deck,” said the Captain heavily.
Tony sat back. So that was it! What a fool he had been not to think of it before. Of course—Gilchrist had been up. Well then, what should he do? He thought rapidly. “Well, . . .” he began.
Captain Rome looked wretched. Who was he, after all, to arraign this man sitting so calmly in front of him and with his wonderful military record, too? He coughed uneasily.
Tony stepped into the breach. “I gather that your informant was that unutterable little cad, Gilchrist?” he said.
The Captain nodded.
“A pity that you did not take him by the scruff of the neck and drop him overboard.” Tony spoke violently. There was only one course open to him now, and he knew it, but for the moment he fiercely hated the man who had made such a course necessary. Then he laughed easily. “It’s a pity Gilchrist didn’t come to me first,” he said. “After all, although of course it looks rather odd, especially to a man with a mind like his, there is nothing very out of the way in a child like Miss Church running to the man who is to be her husband, when she happens to be frightened. Is there?” he looked straight at the Captain as he spoke.
“And you don’t mean to say that’s how the land lies! Well, you couldn’t have told me anything that would have pleased me better!” The Captain’s relief and joy were so unfeigned that Tony could have laughed aloud had he not been so profoundly wretched.
“Yes, Miss Church got the idea of the fire on her nerves, and rather rashly sought me out to reassure her. So you see, that’s all there is about that.” Tony heaved himself out of his chair. “But if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t say anything about it until to-morrow,” he said.
“Surely. I won’t say a word. Well, it’s grand news, and if you’ll allow me, Major, I’d like to say that if you’d sought the world over you couldn’t have found a sweeter, dearer little lass than that golden-haired child.” The Captain wrung Tony’s hand vigorously.
“Thanks very much.” Tony smiled quietly, and stepped over the brass door rail. “And you’ll keep it quiet until to-morrow, won’t you!” he said.
“Surely!” Captain Rome turned back into his cabin and sat down again in his big leather chair. He felt a little bewildered. Tony had not the look of a triumphant lover, and so much fuss about not making it known until to-morrow—what was it all about? He laid his half-smoked cheroot on the arm of his chair, and watched the blue smoke curl out of the door with absent eyes.
Tony went straight from the bridge to his cabin. He turned the electric fan full on, took off his coat, and sat down to think. He must have it all very clear—what he was going to do and say. The first thing was to see Ann, but that could wait for half an hour or so.
He dropped his head in his hands. Marriage—the word seared itself across his brain. Twice he had shared a house in the hot weather with men whose wives were in the Hills. The first—his lips twisted involuntarily as he remembered it all—poor old Mannering, how he used to pour it all out! . . . The ayah—“damned incompetent old woman, actually gave the kid its bath bang under the punkah.” And the wail from the Hills in the daily letter—“My wife says—would you believe it, Seymour—that insolent ass of a chokra actually declares that he must have a coolie to help him push the perambulator.” And this from Mannering, who used to be the finest polo player in the station. There he used to sit, with the thermometer 112 in the shade, his rather near-sighted eyes held close to the written sheets, his face puckered with anxiety.
And then there was Carthew—Tony stirred on the carpet stool, he hated to think of Carthew even now. That was in 1912, one of the worst hot weathers he ever remembered. Tony had come back to the bungalow early one evening, he had got into the way of leaving the Club early because Carthew couldn’t afford to go there much, with his wife in the Hills. And as he had turned rather wearily in at the gate, it was still suffocatingly hot he had heard someone laughing uproariously. The veranda was empty, but after throwing his topi into a long chair, he had walked quickly along to Carthew’s room. And there he had found him—hugging his knees, and rocking himself from side to side on the bed. “I can’t stop laughing, Seymour. Chuck some water over me for God’s sake!” And through the gasps he had told him—“She’s done a bolt, done it because she’s sick of economising! . . . And only to-day I sent her up a little extra, damned funny isn’t it?” And he had screamed with laughter again, until Tony had called the hovering and alarmed bearer, and despatched him for the regimental surgeon. And a couple of weeks later, the same keen-faced surgeon had faced Tony with an unspoken question in his eyes—“You are quite sure, Seymour?” And Tony—remembering his friend’s tortured eyes as he had twisted and clutched. “For God’s sake, Seymour—for the kid’s sake—swear it was that old pi [Pariah dog] I was after . . .”—had sworn without a qualm.
But hadn’t he thanked his stars then that he was single! And now—it was to be his lot! Fate was getting her own back with a vengeance. He laughed aloud hardly. He had started out to make Ann wretched, who was the wretched one now? Tony got up and flung across the cabin, and leaning his elbows on the top berth stared out of the porthole. Why the h—l hadn’t he left Ann alone? And yet—suddenly her small wistful face floated before him. After all, she wasn’t a bad little kid. And perhaps she would refuse him . . . Tony suddenly caught sight of his face in the looking-glass, and laughed. Perhaps she would—well . . . he switched off the fan, gave a couple of dexterous sweeps to his hair with his ivory-backed brushes, and walked out into the corridor.
Ann was passing: she shrank back against the wall.
“Hullo! Good-morning.” Tony stopped.
“Good-morning.” Ann’s face flamed. “Don’t stop me, please,” she said urgently.
“Why not? What’s the hurry?” Tony put his hands in his pockets and looked at Ann. There was something wrong, some one had said something to her. Was it that thrice accursed—— “What’s the matter?” he said again.
“Nothing’s the matter; why should there be? I’m only going to get some more wool for my jumper.” Ann looked desperately up and down the corridor.
“Oh, blow the jumper, I’ve got something to say to you. Let’s get away somewhere where we can be quiet. I know, we’ll go down on to the well deck and have a look at the horses. I don’t believe you’ve ever seen the horses, have you?”
Ann’s face was white. “Something to say to me? . . . No, no, I don’t want to hear it.” She flung out her hands as if to ward off a blow.
“Mind! You don’t know what you may be refusing!” Tony for one mad moment felt that Ann had had her chance—then he pulled himself together. “Come along,” he said briefly.
“I tell you, no!” Ann lifted a face distorted with misery. “I have heard it all from Joyce already,” she said.
“Heard what from Joyce?”
“That I am disgraced for ever—that you will loathe me—that only the most frightful people do what I did last night; people who—who, people who . . .” No, perhaps Major Seymour did not know that—she would not tell him.
Tony looked round quickly. “Here, we’ll finish this little history in a more secluded spot,” he said; “come along after me.”
They stood alone in the middle of a jumble of rope and rigging. The grey sea spread itself out behind them in a swirl of churning foam. Tony leaned up against the rail, and looked down at Ann:
“Well?” he said.
Ann faltered. “Joyce was angry with me,” she said; “I don’t want to tell you any more.”
“Angry about what?”
“About my sitting by you in the night. She waked up and found me gone.” Ann’s soft breast heaved.
“Oh, well, that was unfortunate of course. But still . . . nothing to get angry about. Look here!” Tony suddenly possessed himself of Ann’s hand, very small and damp, and held it in his. “Will you marry me, Ann?” he said.
As long as she lived Ann remembered that moment. A little tiny insect was walking along the rail: she watched it until it vanished into a crack. She saw Tony’s hand on hers, it was very brown, and the signet ring on the little finger had something like a dagger on it, a dagger and something else, mechanically she tried to make it out.
But of thought and sensation she knew nothing, until she looked up . . . then both came back with a leap.
“Well?” Tony was smiling.
“But you can’t want me to . . .” Ann’s lips were dry.
Tony lied instantly: “I should not ask you if I did not want you,” he said.
“Oh . . .” There was a short silence: then Ann lifted tormented eyes: “It’s something to do with my sitting by you in the night,” she said.
“Well . . .” Tony looked out to sea, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “Perhaps it is,” he said. “Perhaps that showed me as nothing else could have done how much you need some one to look after you.” He suddenly felt profoundly sorry for Ann, she looked such a pitiful baby with her quivering chin.
“But that’s not wanting it because it’s me, that’s only wanting it because you think it’s right to ask me.” Ann suddenly saw with an awful clearness. Major Seymour did not love her, she suddenly felt quite sure of that. But . . . but she had a chance to have him for her very own—could she refuse it? No, no, she simply couldn’t. She flung out a prayer into the unknown. “God! I want him so frightfully, I simply must have him!” she cried in anguish of spirit.
Tony waited. His head was beginning to ache intolerably: unconsciously he pressed one hand to his eyes. Ann saw the gesture and forgot herself instantly.
“You are beginning one of your headaches,” she said. She knew that since his four years in Mesopotamia these headaches were wont to descend on Tony without any warning. “Come, and lie down in your chair and I will get you your aspirin,” she commanded.
“No . . . yes . . . all right, but give me my answer first.” Tony leaned against the rail and his vision cleared. He hadn’t been able to see Ann for a second or two; these heads were the very devil. Then he smiled faintly. “Well?” he said.
“Yes . . . well, I will. . . . But now come, don’t wait for anything.” Ann spoke hurriedly, intent on getting Tony back to the shelter of his chair. She walked quickly along beside him. “You go and lie down and I will fly to your cabin,” she said; “tell me where the aspirin is; it won’t take me a second.”
“On the top of that little cupboard place, you know.” Tony flung himself down in his chair, and dragged his topi low over his eyes. Ann was a brick; he was thankful to be waited on . . . he drank and swallowed without a protest when Ann returned, panting a little in her hurry.
“Now you are not to move until I tell you to,” she said, and she laid a soft hand on his shoulder to emphasise her words.
It was beginning to get dark when Tony stirred in his chair, and opened drowsy eyes. The awnings were rolled up, and the evening breeze blew in coolly. He looked bewildered down the deserted deck—it was surely very late, he must have slept for hours. Yes—he looked at the watch on his wrist—nearly seven, by Jove, he had been there for about five hours. But his head was better, thank Heaven. He heaved himself out of his chair and stretched, yawning widely. Now for a bath, and then . . . to seek out Ann. She had said “Yes,” poor little kid, he remembered that, and then the pain had come down like a fog, blotting out everything else. But she must have sat by him all day, and kept off the children, otherwise he would never have been able to sleep undisturbed as he had done. Yes, there was her chair next to his, Tony saw the familiar jumper; and a book, with a postcard stuck in it as a marker. . . . He walked down the deck, breathing in the cool evening air with relief. Somehow he felt more content with life, more able to take an interest in things. And, oh, yes, by the way, he walked up to the Turnip Lantern, straining his shortsighted eyes over an illustrated paper.
“I say!” Tony stood, lean and compelling, at the head of the Turnip Lantern’s chair.
“Yes? What is it?” The Turnip Lantern did not bother to get up: he looked round at Tony with a sort of furtive dignity.
“Well”—Tony spoke slowly, weighing his words. “Look here,” he said, “I hear from the skipper that you felt it your duty to tell him that you saw Miss Church with me on deck early this morning.”
“That is so.” The Turnip Lantern tried to be impressive.
“Well”—Tony surveyed him quietly—“it was extraordinarily impertinent of you, and if it were not for the fact that it is so extremely hot, I should give you the biggest lambasting that you have ever had in your life. As it is I will reserve the kicking you so richly deserve for a more convenient time. But if I find that one other single person in this ship has been made aware of Miss Church’s entirely innocent action I shall half kill you. You quite understand, I hope?”
The Turnip Lantern was livid. This supercilious ass. He stuttered in his fury.
“You seem very much concerned about Miss Church’s welfare,” he sneered, showing his teeth.
“Naturally, as she is my promised wife.”
Tony stood for a moment enjoying the Turnip Lantern’s suddenly down-dropped jaw, then he turned on his heel. That had really done him good. Lord, what a worm! But his face was thoughtful as he scrubbed himself dry in front of an open porthole. An enemy, especially an entirely unscrupulous one, was a dangerous asset. However, India was large, and once off the ship the odds were against his ever running up against the Turnip Lantern again. So he whistled cheerfully as he rolled himself up in his bath-gown and wended his way back to his cabin.
But the Turnip Lantern sat on and bit his nails, and stared out into the gathering darkness.
Tony, immaculate in evening dress, leaned over the rail of the ship, a cigarette between his teeth. It was an odd state of affairs to ask a girl to marry you, and then to have her vanish off the face of the earth. For beyond a fleeting glance at her at dinner Tony had not seen Ann at all since the morning. And most of the people had come up from dinner—there were Joyce and Colonel Playfair—there was the Turnip Lantern—there gathered the usual crowd of flying officers, with their accompaniment of chattering young women. But no Ann! Oh, yes, there she was. Tony walked straight up to her, standing uncertainly in the lighted doorway of the music-saloon. “Here you are!” he said.
Ann started.
“Oh . . .” her voice came with a gasp, as if she had been running.
“I wondered what had become of you.” Tony spoke easily: he saw that Ann was terribly nervous. “Come, let’s go and sit down somewhere,” he said; “where shall we go?”
“Oh, let us stay here.” Ann clasped and unclasped her hands.
“No, there’s too much of a mob here. I want to be quiet. I know: we’ll go up in front of the smoking-room.”
They walked together side by side. Tony looked round the deserted space with relief.
“That’s better; now for some chairs.” He busied himself with a stack.
Ann stood and looked out at the waste of moonlit water. How could she say what she had to say? It would be easier if he were not looking at her. She spoke:
“I want to say something,” she said.
“Say on.” Tony detached a chair, and set it upright.
Ann took a long breath. “This morning you asked me to marry you,” she said. “I know now that you did not really want me to. I mean, that you did it because you felt you had to, partly that, and partly because you had a headache. People do things they don’t mean when they don’t feel very well.”
“Really?” Tony had stopped putting up the chairs, and was looking intently at Ann.
“Yes. . . . And so . . . well, you needn’t feel you said it. I mean, that I don’t feel that it meant anything.” Ann gripped her hands together—it was so much harder to let Tony go now than it had been when she had sat alone and watched by him lying helplessly asleep. Then she had felt that she could do anything for him, even to the tearing out of her own heart. But now—now it was different.
“You mean, then, that after all you don’t want to marry me?” Tony came a little nearer and threw his cigarette, still burning, into the sea.
Ann was silent, but her eyes were anguished.
“Tell me, is that so?”
“I can’t answer you that.” Ann turned away her face.
“But you must! After all, if I ask you to be my wife, and first you say you will, and then you go back on it, surely I am entitled to some explanation.”
“But I have explained.” Ann felt that her self-control was going. She flung her hands suddenly over her face. “You don’t really want me to—you don’t really want me to,” she cried.
“So that’s it!” Tony came nearer and took hold of Ann by her wrists. “Listen,” he said, “I am old enough to know my own mind, and if I say that I want to marry you I do. Now then”—he sat down in one of the chairs and drew Ann, still holding her—“now then, tell me what is going on in that odd little brain of yours,” he said, and he pulled her down on to his knee.
But this was too much for Ann, and with a stifled cry she turned her face to Tony and buried it in his coat.
Tony sat still—but the eyes that looked out over the golden head were tender. All that was best in him was stirred by Ann’s tears, and by the convulsive clutch on his sleeve. He waited a minute and then stooped a dark head.
“Don’t wash me quite away,” he said, and brushed Ann’s golden hair with his mouth.
She stirred, took a quavering breath, and sat up.
“My handkerchief. . I don’t know where it is.” She hunted frantically.
“Have mine.” Tony laughed as he handed Ann his big silk square. “Now then, feeling better?” He looked at her quizzically.
Ann waited a moment before replying. “I feel,” she said, “I feel . . . May I say just one more thing? Or will you mind?”
“Not the least little bit in the world.” Tony smiled encouragingly.
“Well. . .” Ann took a long breath. “I know,” she said, “that you don’t love me like I do you, nobody could love any one like that. But you see heaps of people, I mean you go about a great deal, and you are very nice looking. It doesn’t matter my telling you that, because you must know,” put in Ann naively. “And supposing, supposing you were to see some one that you liked better. I don’t mean that you would do it on purpose . . . but people do sometimes change . . .”—Ann’s chin began to tremble-“I could bear it now,” she said, “but it I had got used to belonging to you, then I think it would kill me.” She put the handkerchief suddenly up to her mouth.
Tony was silent. It was so difficult to say what he felt without seeming unkind.
“Look here,” he said, “I am going to be quite frank with you; it’s far better. Once I did love someone, not any one quite young like you, but someone a good deal older . . . I can’t explain about it exactly, but there it was. Anyhow, I couldn’t marry her, and for a time it made me awfully wretched. But now, I think I have got over it . . . at any rate there is nothing whatever for you to be worried about.”
“Oh . . .” Ann waited. “And if you saw her again, and found that you could marry her?” she said.
“I shouldn’t want to.” Tony suddenly felt quite sure of it; he smiled into Ann’s searching eyes.
“Oh . . .” Ann suddenly caught her breath like a child who has cried too long.
“And so,” Tony smiled, so that Ann could see his teeth flash white in the dark blur of his face—“that’s all settled, and we are going to forget all our doubts and miseries for ever. And now there only remains one thing to be done.” He paused.
“What?”
“I’ll show you. Get off my knee for just a second.” Tony got out of his chair and stood beside Ann. “Now I promised you once that I would never kiss you again,” he said, “ but this washes that out, doesn’t it?”
Ann nodded dumbly.
“Well, then,” he came nearer and took hold of her hand. “I’m not good at saying things,” he said, “ but I do want you to know that I value your love and trust most tremendously, and that I will do all I can to be worthy of it.”
He looked at her, she was so small and tremulous standing in front of him in her short evening dress . . . he took a quick step forward.
“Oh, Ann . . . you are sweet!” he cried, and picked her up in his arms.
Long after Ann had gone that night, Tony—his long length flung in a deck chair—sat smoking pipe after pipe—his feet on the rail. For better or worse he had done it, prompted at first by a feeling of chivalry, and later—when Ann had given him an opportunity of backing out—by a curious feeling of fatality. Somehow it was meant to be, and, as it was—it was better to give way to it. And Ann was awfully sweet; as she had clung to him and cried he had been surprised at the feeling of tenderness that had swept over him. She was so small, and so pathetic in her wide-eyed worship. And yet she was sensible: Tony had very keen eyes, and there had been plenty of opportunities for Ann to be very silly on this voyage. No one really to look after her, and plenty of extremely foolish people to be foolish with. But she had simply sat alone, wrapped round in a quiet childish dignity of her own, and had had the sense to squelch the Turnip Lantern at the outset, summing him up as, what he undoubtedly was, a cad. No, Tony felt that he had been wise in his choice of Ann—if you would call it choice! But—he bit viciously on the stem of his pipe; how was he to face Ann’s mother, the woman to whom his last words had been passionate recrimination for love unreturned! Well! . . . Tony heaved himself out of his chair, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the edge of the tub of water—“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” He shrugged his shoulders philosophically as he walked downstairs to his cabin.
“By Gad, it’s hot!” Tony fanned himself vigorously with a vivid silk handkerchief as he spoke.
“Yes, isn’t it? But I rather like it.” Ann knitted contentedly: she had been engaged for three days—three frightfully exciting days. Every one had congratulated her—Mrs. Fawsett, rather disapprovingly, Joyce with the frankest astonishment My dear, I shouldn’t have thought he would have looked at you!”—Mrs. Harries with the tenderest, most motherly hug, and even the Captain—who was a very great personage—had come specially down from the bridge to shake her and Tony by the hand. Ann had been quite overcome by this mark of favour. Only the Turnip Lantern had said nothing, but, as Ann reflected, she would have hated it if he had, so it was just as well. But now it had begun to be more ordinary, people had got used to it, and she and Tony were left just to sit quietly by each other and read or do what they liked. Ann shot a swift glance at him—could it possibly be true that he belonged to her? His delicious hair, lying smooth and crisp close to his head, and turning a little grey above his ears. And his hands—she loved his hands, beautifully kept, and with a gold signet ring on his little finger. Everything about him was perfect. . . . Ann shut her eyes. It was too much. . . . God was too kind to her! . . . No, no . . . not too kind! A sudden premonition of disaster swept over Ann: it was only when you were happy and not grateful that things were snatched away from you. But it shouldn’t be like that with her, she would be grateful—not taking it for granted.
Tony looked up. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing . . . at least. . . I suddenly felt that perhaps I was too happy. Supposing you died—people do die! . . . Oh, Major Seymour”—Ann still shied at the Christian name—“you don’t think you will die, do you?”
“I don’t feel at all like it at the present moment, Miss Church!” Tony twinkled.
“Yes, I know, but it always sounds to me so familiar.” Ann blushed, then dropped her knitting into her lap with a deep sigh. “Oh!. . . “ she cried, “if only we could be married to-day!”
“Why?”
“Oh, because then I should be with you always. Don’t you know—now it’s all cut up into bits—the night comes, and then for about twelve hours I don’t see you. But if we were married it would be all straight on, wouldn’t it?”
“It would.” Tony’s eyelashes quivered.
“Well—don’t you think it would be nicer? At least—no—perhaps you don’t!” Ann looked anxiously across the space that separated the two chairs.
But Tony was laughing openly, and his eyes met Ann’s with a world of amusement in their depths. “Oh, Ann! you are priceless!” he said, and laughed again.
“Why? Have I said something funny?” Ann returned to her knitting. “There are so many things I should like to ask you,” she said confidentially, after a little silence; “things I can’t very well ask any one else. Joyce would know, but somehow I don’t like asking Joyce things. Now, for instance,” Ann leaped forward, and spoke in a low voice, “supposing some one like me were to marry some one like Dr. Dutta?” Ann paused. Tony met her eyes quietly.
“Yes?” he said.
Ann hesitated; she picked up a knitting needle and then put it down again. “Somehow, now it comes to the point, I don’t care to ask you,” she said.
“Well then, don’t.” Tony heaved a sigh of relief, and picked up his book again.
Ann was silent for a little while, then she laid her knitting down again. “Have you ever thought what Daddy and Mummy will say when we tell them we are engaged?” she said.
“Often.” Tony kept a finger in between the pages of his book, and let it fall on to his knee. He looked at Ann.
“What do you suppose they’ll say?” Ann clasped her hands round her knees, and leaned forward.
“Probably, that it is out of the question.” Tony spoke seriously—it was just as well that Ann should face this possibility. But he was not prepared for the terror that leaped into her eyes.
“And what will you say?”
“What can I say?” Tony lifted his shoulders very slightly. . .
“But won’t you say anything to show them that it is possible?” Ann searched his face in an agony of apprehension.
“How can I? I know that it is really very unsuitable. I am almost twice your age; as a matter of fact I am exactly twice as old as you are. You are an absolute baby, and you have seen no men. What more do you want?” Tony paused.
“But don’t you want me then?” It broke from Ann in a wail.
“That’s not the point: you asked me what your parents would say. I am telling you, and also giving you the arguments that they will bring to bear on the question. Whether I want you or not, is another thing altogether. As a matter of fact”—Tony watched Ann as her eyes hung on his—“I do!” he said, and his teeth suddenly flashed white.
“Oh! . . .” Ann steadied her lips with an effort. “Let’s think about something else,” she said quickly.
Tony agreed with relief. There was nothing he disliked more than to think about his meeting with Ann’s parents. It would be quite impossible to tell them the true facts of the case, and he would stand before them a sorry figure. However . . . he shrugged his shoulders philosophically.
The Turnip Lantern passed down the deck in his tennis shoes, badminton racket in his hand, chin a little out, shoulders poked forward. Ann dropped her eyes. Tony watched her.
“Look here, I don’t want you to ignore the Turnip Lantern like that,” he said suddenly; “it’s awfully unwise. At least,” he corrected himself hastily, “it’s rude.” He was not going to tell Ann how utterly the Turnip Lantern had her in the hollow of his hand, nor how deadly an enemy he might prove to be. “It’s awfully rude,” he repeated, “and it’s a great mistake to be rude to people, especially in a small place like a ship.”
“But I do hate him so!”
“That may be, but don’t show it. Now I really am going to read, so you sit quiet, like a good little rabbit.”
Tony lifted his book, and held it in front of his face. But he did not read: at that moment he was far too worried to do anything. What was going to be the end of the whole thing?
“Do you know we’ve only two more days?” Joyce, unplaiting her hair, turned inquiring eyes on Ann, sitting as usual well out of the way on the top berth.
“Yes, I do, I keep on counting them.” Ann’s starry eyes were melancholy.
“Well, I’m not sure that I mind. As a matter of fact,” Joyce took the end of her pigtail from between her excellent teeth, where she had been holding it for safety while she untied the ribbon, “I’m getting a wee bit tired of Charles. He is so small, to begin with, and then he never seems to say anything new.”
“Joyce!” Ann was horrified. “Why, you’re engaged to him!” she said.
“Well . . . I don’t know that I am now. You see, on a voyage you must have some one, but when I get to India I don’t know that I want to be tied to any particular person. It might be the most frightful bother.”
Ann was speechless.
“You see, I’m quite young,” Joyce pursued calmly, “and Mother and Father may not care for the idea. And I dare say when I explain it to Charles he will feel the same. After all, you want to be fearfully fond of a person to marry him.”
“Oh, yes!” Ann spoke fervently: this was something she could take hold of. To hear Joyce talking calmly of breaking off her engagement petrified her: she had no response ready. “Oh, yes, you must be awfully fond for that,” she said.
“How do you know?” Joyce looked at her curiously.
“Oh, I know much more than you think I do!” Ann’s virginal spirit gave a terrified flutter. She was always afraid of what Joyce would say; she couldn’t explain to herself what prompted the feeling, but it was there. Joyce and the Turnip Lantern—they were rather alike: what was it about them?
But Joyce could not stop now to bother with Ann. She pinned the two pigtails round her head, and pulled the blue cap low over her eyes. “So when Gimlets asks you about Charles and me,” she said, “say that you think it is all off, but you are not sure. As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if your engagement was broken off too, in about a year. No one can live at the pitch you do for long.” Joyce left the cabin, pulling the curtain across the rod behind her.
“Why can’t they?” But Ann addressed an empty cabin. How she hated it when Joyce called Tony “Gimlets.” It was supposed to be funny, but it wasn’t a bit. And how she wished Joyce wouldn’t say that about not being surprised if her engagement was broken off too. It seemed to give shape to the dreadful hovering feeling of uncertainty that she always had about it. However . . . she got slowly down on to the floor; the voyage was coming to an end—no doubt about that, and it was no good minding, that was quite certain too. So the only thing was to try to make the best of the two days left to her.
Ann lay back in her deck chair, reading. Tony was spread out in the chair beside her, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
“What’s your book?” he said, and put a swift hand across, and took it from her.
“Oh!” Ann made a grab. “It’s heavenly,” she said; “please don’t lose my place.”
“But what is it?” He turned and looked at the back. “Oh, I say, frightfully unsuitable.” He whipped over a few pages, turned a couple of pages back, and then settled himself a little lower in his chair, and there was silence.
Ann moved restlessly. It really was rather too bad: she was so tremendously interested. She shuffled her feet. Tony looked up, stared, and then laughed.
“I say! What a shame! But really, it isn’t a book for you,” he said, and shut it up and put it underneath his chair.
“But why not?” For the first time since her engagement Ann felt provoked with Tony. She loved the book, it gave her the most heavenly sensation down her spine. “I love it,” she said; “it makes me feel all squirly, and the man is just like you.”
“Thanks for the compliment!” Tony bowed ironically. “And the lady has just as much sense as the lady sitting opposite me at the present moment,” he said.
“Yes, isn’t she stupid?” Ann leaned forward eagerly. “If you really and truly won’t let me finish it,” she said, “do tell me what happens at the end. I had just got to the part where she and that man are shut up in that shooting-box place, and she sits up all night holding a revolver to her head. Why does she do that?” said Ann.
Tony groped for His Hour, and turned over the pages. “I missed that exciting incident,” he said, and wrinkled his forehead. “Oh, yes, here we are . . .” He read in silence—then put the book down and laughed. “What an unmitigated sweep!” he said, and laughed again.
“Oh, no, I think he’s most frantically adorable.” Ann was quick to champion. “And if she wanted to kill some one, why didn’t she point the revolver at him?” he said.
“Perhaps she was afraid she would miss him.” Tony spoke gravely, but a smile lurked in his eyes.
“Oh! . . .” Ann still wondered. “But why kill any one?” she said.
Tony reached slowly for the book, and opened it. He turned over the pages. Why not see if Ann was really the baby she appeared? Having found what he looked for, he passed the book over to her, his finger between the leaves. “Read from there,” he said.
Ann sat back, and instantly became absorbed. Tony watched her. Not the tiniest change of colour, not the faintest perceptible quiver of an eyelid. She laid down the book, and lifted her eyes. “I can’t think what made her behave like that,” she said.
“Well . . .” Tony took back the book, and shut it up.
“Perhaps she had a headache,” he said, and his mouth twitched.
“Yes, perhaps she had.” Ann spoke pleadingly. “Do let me just read the end,” she said.
Tony reached down and picked up the book again. “I’ll read you the last sentence,” he said, “and you can see if you understand any more then.” He read slowly “‘I did but kiss your little feet,’ he said.”
Ann’s face was blank. “I think that’s more stupid than the other part,” she said. Then she suddenly blushed scarlet. “Oh, I know now,” she said, and looked hurriedly away from Tony in confusion.
“Well, enlighten me.” Tony felt in his pockets for his oil-silk tobacco pouch, and began slowly to unroll it.
“I don’t think I quite can.” Ann looked up and down the deck in apprehension.
“Yes, you can—you can say anything to me.” Tony began to fill his pipe, pressing down the tobacco in the bowl with extreme care. “Go on,” he said, and he stretched out one long leg to feel for his matches.
“Well . . . I think it’s this,” Ann spoke very quickly, “you see . . . she’d been to sleep, and she knew she’d been quite alone with him all the time. So when she woke up, she had an awful fear that perhaps something like—something like being kissed on her mouth, had happened—don’t you know that always comes as a shock at first. And when they were married, wanting to make her feel quite happy about everything, he tells her that it was only her feet he had kissed. . . . That’s all I can think it was,” said Ann, and stopped speaking, breathing very fast.
Tony laid down his unlighted pipe, and looked across at Ann. She sat—her cropped head a little bent, her small face very red.
“I see . . .” he said slowly, and for the first time longed to kiss her.
“We’ve just signalled Bombay.” Captain Rome, bronzed and burly in his white uniform, passed Ann and Tony on his way up to the bridge. “So my responsibility ends to-morrow.” He looked and laughed at Ann.
“But had you any?” Ann looked gravely back.
“Decidedly . . . until I handed it over to him.” Captain Rome jerked his head in Tony’s direction.
“Had he really?” Ann looked at Tony, when Captain Rome had disappeared up the bridge ladder.
“No, of course he hadn’t; that’s only his jest. But by Jove—fancy being within hail of the old Gateway of India again!” Tony spoke with a certain amount of zest, although he groaned reminiscently, “The beastly old East! But Warinagar ought not to be so bad . . . the cold weather just beginning, with its wily ‘ishnipe.’”
“What is a wily ‘ishnipe’?” she asked him.
Tony burst out laughing. “Oh, Ann!” he said, “Snipe—a bird that gets up in front of you just when you don’t expect it to. Finest small game shooting in the world,” he ended enthusiastically.
“I’ve never seen one, and it would make me jump.” Ann leaned her head on her hands and stared down into the dazzling blue of the Indian Ocean. “I feel most awfully wretched,” she said. “All this beautiful heavenly time is over, and you will be going somewhere else miles and miles away, and you will have other things to do and think about, things that haven’t anything to do with me. And I shall only want you, because all the things that I used to care about are you now.” Ann looked up suddenly. “It isn’t a bit the same to you to say good-bye to me as it is for me to say good-bye to you,” she said.
Tony was silent. It was true—partly, but not altogether. He had grown very fond of Ann during the few days of their engagement. She had the unusual gift of being able to sit silent. Of all things that Tony most disliked was the “cackling female” genus, as he politely designated it. Ann was the reverse—she could sit and work or read for hours without speaking. And then, of course, she was quite extraordinarily pretty. Tony would not have been human if he had not felt a quickening of his blood when Ann clung to him, as she often did, in the soft light of the upper deck, her young passionate mouth pressed to his. Tony was fastidious in his love-making. Ann satisfied him, she yielded rather than gave, but when she gave it was a gift held out with both hands, vivid, flaming.
He stooped and took hold of her hand. “I shall miss you dreadfully,” he said.
Ann’s eyes filled with tears; she curled her small fingers round his.
“Oh, I can’t help being glad of that!” she cried. “If I know you mind too it will help most frantically. But it’s this fearful feeling I have here,” she laid her hand trembling on her throat; “it’s this feeling I mind most—the feeling that Mummy and Daddy will for some reason say that I am not to be engaged to you. I have it the whole time, and it kills me. Tony, tell me, if they say it you will try to persuade them that I can be. Promise me . . . promise me you will?”
Tony Seymour leaned his head on his hands and stared down, as Ann had done, into the vivid blue of the sea. Through his head, for some unexplained reason, danced the words, “And on this hang all the law and the prophets.” This was the moment in his life on which hung all his law and prophets, so to speak, for Ann’s parents would, he was perfectly convinced, oppose with all means in their power the idea of any engagement between him and Ann. Therefore, honourably acquitted, he could walk out of her life for ever. Could he? . . . honourably?
He drew her small hand a little closer into his—“I promise you I will, Ann,” he said.
The Commissioner’s garden lay fragrant and riotous with colour under the slanting shafts of the early morning sun. The lawn, green and dewy, was splashed with the vivid scarlet of poinsettia blooms, which the tree in the corner was shedding with true oriental prodigality. Huge stacks of canna, flame colour and yellow, flung themselves into vivid relief against the whitewashed walls of the long rambling bungalow. The lawn stretched itself down to the sea, and between its green fringe and the tumbling mass of white breakers, a hedge, one gorgeous mass of pink antigonons, ran its untrammelled length. It was a heavenly sight, and one which the Commissioner, leaning now in striped pyjamas over the edge of the verandah, enjoying his early morning pipe, never failed to revel in anew.
“Oh, I say—what a divine morning!” Muriel Church—extraordinarily like Ann in blue cap and kimono—emerged from her bedroom door on to the wide matted verandah. “Oh, chota hazri’s here! Joy!” She sat down at the round wicker table, and tucked her kimono round her bare sandalled feet.
“I suppose you’re in the last stages of excitement?” The Commissioner knocked out his pipe on the verandah rail, and smiled.
“No . . . at least . . . now it’s actually come I don’t think I am; I only feel a fearful despair in case it isn’t a success.” Muriel Church lifted the tea-cosy from the flowered teapot, and dropped it into the long chair by her side.
“You would! What’s the particular misgiving now?” The Commissioner laid down the paper he had just taken up.
“Well, supposing you like Ann best? You might—fathers sometimes do like their daughters best—they look all fresh and new, like they did when they married their mothers.” Muriel Church dropped a lump of sugar into her husband’s cup, and then hurriedly fished it out again.
“Supposing I do! How many years have we been married, and yet you cannot remember that I don’t take sugar?” The Commissioner looked whimsically at his wife.
“Nineteen, and I’m beginning to look old, and to get that sort of thick fatty look, like the matrons in Weldon’s have. Oh, I do hate it so!”
The Commissioner always knew when his wife was really troubled. He got up and walked round the table.
“Always the sweetest and most beloved face to me,” he said, and stooping, kissed her.
“Yes . . . I know you still like me, and I know that it doesn’t really make any difference getting older.” Muriel Church pressed her lips swiftly to the brown hand that hung by her side. “But you know, I am fearfully spoiled, or, at least, I have been, and I hate it. Then about Ann coming here—most mothers would be dewy, and bubbling over with longing to see their only child. I am . . . but somehow I am afraid too. Girls are so different nowadays; they want all sorts of things that we never did, and they think their mothers stupid if they can’t get them. And Ann will want to join all these spoiled Bombay girls, rushing to dances, and going to the races alone with young men, and I shall hate it, and I shan’t know how to prevent it without seeming fussy.”
The Commissioner kissed the fingers that still held his, and releasing them walked back to his seat.
“Somehow I don’t think Ann will be like that,” he said; “at any rate the accounts your mother has given us of her don’t in the least give that impression. And if she is . . . well, we must just lump it.” He sat down and took up the paper again.
“All the time you are reading I shall talk,” said Mrs. Church, “but you need not answer. I have that bubbling feeling in my brain, and I must get rid of it. Although, as a matter of fact the toast is getting all soft, and it would really be better if you ate first and then read,” she said and looked mischievously across the table.
“Oh, lor’! Well, just let me see what exchange is, 1 /3⅛. Heavens!” The Commissioner put down the paper and drew his chair nearer to the table. “Well, now, bubble away!” he said, and speared a roll of butter with his knife.
“What will you feel like when Ann gets engaged: sorry or glad?” Mrs. Church settled herself comfortably in her chair.
“How can I possibly tell? Glad, I expect, if having her here unsettles you, which it appears to be going to do! But, give the poor child a chance—she hasn’t arrived yet.”
“No, I know . . . but it’s sure to happen. I do pray it will be to some one nice. . . . I should like it to be Lord Erskine—how mad all the other mothers in Bombay would be!” Muriel Church crunched her toast with sharp teeth.
“Snob!”
“No, I’m not; only I say things, and other people think them.”
“You are a snob—and I should hate to be Erskine. It isn’t a soldier’s job that, hopping round a Governor’s wife. No, Ann is not going to marry an A.D.C. if I can help it!” Mr. Church set his jaw, and looked very determined.
“Oh, Jack, I do adore you when you are firm.”
Mrs. Church dimpled all over her face. “Well, as I was saying—yes, ayah, what is it?” Mrs. Church smiled at the little old woman who came silently in with a tinkle of glass bangles.
“Telephone chajhta [Is ringing], Memsahib.” Mauri salaamed deeply, and withdrew.
“It’s the Embarkation—they said they’d let me know when the Carpathia was signalled.” Mr. Church got up, and hooking his grass slippers towards him with one toe, he slipped his feet into them, and walked out, carefully pulling the curtain behind him as he went.
Left alone, Mrs. Church got up and leaned her elbows on the edge of the verandah, and looked out over the beautiful garden, and on beyond to the sea. Ann coming to-day. . . . It meant that youth and all its attendant fun was over for her—not exactly over, but with a grown-up daughter you couldn’t behave quite the same. And yet inside she felt just the same—how awful it must be to be unmarried, and to have just the same longing for love and for nice men to talk to you, and yet to know that they didn’t want to talk to you at all, at least, if they did, they only did it because they felt they ought to “Well?” She turned swiftly at a jingle of brass rings on a brass rod.
“She’s signalled, and will be alongside in about four hours.” The Commissioner lay down in a long chair, and reached out for a paper.
“Jack!. . .” A wave of colour flooded Mrs. Church’s face. “Jack! And you can lie in a long chair! Four hours? Why, when we last saw her she was a little gawky girl, and her hair was all straggly.”
“Yes, well, but I thought you didn’t want to see her?” The Commissioner smiled tenderly over the top of the Times of India. “Oh, Muriel, you are a baby! Do go and have your bath, or you won’t be ready,” he said.
“Yes, all right, I will; but——” Mrs. Church dropped suddenly on one knee. “Oh, Jack, do still go on loving me best!” she said.
Mr. Church’s voice was stern, although his eyes were tender. In his heart of hearts he knew that his wife was spoilt. But still, it was very largely his own doing, he had only himself to blame.
“Get up this minute and go and have your bath,” he said, “or I shall begin to count your grey hairs, of which I can see at least ten. . . .”
“Where?” Mrs. Church clutched frantically at her head. “Jack, you wretch,” she cried, “I’ve got on my cap, you can’t see them!”
“No, but you’ll very soon see mine if you don’t leave me alone to read the paper!” said the Commissioner.
The great day had dawned at last. Ann woke in the dark to the gradually lessening throb of the engines. The warm damp sea air blew softly in through the porthole, the sound of a siren, and the turbulent swash of some small vessel alongside showed Ann, now accustomed to these happenings, that the pilot was coming on board. They were there! The journey was over, and in a few hours she would see Mummy and Daddy again. Why wasn’t she gladder? Why wasn’t she all aglow with joy? Why was the only feeling she had one of misery? She lay in the dark and struggled. She would . . . she would subdue these awful feelings of selfishness. They were abominable—they would bring down an awful judgment on her. She cared for no one but herself. “Oh, but I do—I do—I do love him!” Ann wrung her hands together, and pleaded with her conscience. “But that is no excuse,” Conscience replied very decidedly. “In loving him you are only really pleasing yourself, be glad and rejoice at seeing your parents again, that is the right, the decent thing to do.” But somehow—somehow, it was too difficult. “I could if I knew that they would be glad that I was engaged,” replied Ann rebelliously, and she stared out of the porthole, now becoming a palely glimmering circle. This day, that was to be the beginning of a beautiful new life, could only be that if her parents were kind. But they would be—they would be—only sometimes grown-up people had such odd ideas of kindness. However, hope for the best. Ann saw the pale shafts of the sun and felt better. Everything was always better in the morning, she reflected.
And a couple of hours later, as she and Tony leaned together over the side of the ship as the Carpathia made its stately progress into dock, the very novelty of it all took away her misgivings. It all looked so absolutely different from anything she had ever seen in her life before; there was an aroma of mystery over everything. Bombay lay in a faint bluish haze; and out of it emerged shadowy buildings. One, the Taj Mahal Hotel, looked exactly like a castle out of a fairy story; another, that Tony explained as the museum, had a beautiful rounded shining dome to it. And lying low, in the middle of a cluster of green trees, the Yacht Club stretched its hospitable length. Ann was enchanted, and Tony beside her felt all the keen pleasure of the bored traveller in finding what had become to him a matter of habit, interpreted as a source of intense enjoyment by some one else.
“Yes, that’s the Yacht Club, and the docks are there, and we go in right away to the right. They used to take us off in tenders; now we go straight up to the quay.” Tony stared out and wrinkled up his eyes. “I hope to goodness Ishmael Khan meets me,” he said.
“Who is Ishmael Khan?” Ann thought privately that it sounded like some one out of the Bible.
“My servant, a Pathan, nailing good servant, but a frightful scoundrel.” Tony smiled affectionately.
“Oh . . .” Ann felt desolation overwhelm her again. It was beginning, a life in which she had no share. Then she struggled again.
“The Yacht Club looks nice: do you suppose we shall go there?” she said.
“Oh, yes, sure to; Bombay people live there! Although, as a matter of fact, I believe that the club on the other side of the Hill has hit it a bit. That’s the Willingdon Club, a club for Indians as well as Europeans. It’s a sports club, and a very good one too. Probably you will go mostly to that, as your people live on the Hill.”
“Yes! . . .” It was beginning to be awful again. “Oh, Tony, what will they say about us?” she cried.
“Never cross your bridge before you come to it.” Tony Seymour quoted lightly; but there was a vague misgiving in his heart. He dreaded the coming interview with Ann’s parents more than he would like to confess. To confront the woman to whom you had once made desperate love, with the news that you wanted to marry her daughter! It didn’t bear thinking of.
“Look here—when you meet your father and mother first I would rather not be there,” he said suddenly. “Just meet them and all that without me, and I’ll roll up later. And I’ll see your father on shore, you know, to ask him about you and me. So don’t you say anything about our engagement straight away. See?” he smiled.
“Yes, all right.” Ann fought her feelings of increasing misery and gave her lover’s hand a little squeeze. She turned and surveyed the deck. “What a fuss every one is in!” she said, and tried to smile.
Tony was grateful. He, too, had had his moments of misgiving that morning, and he had lain and hated himself for the craven wish that he were well out of it. But when he remembered Ann as he had left her last night, how would it be possible for him ever to get out of it, even if her parents opposed it tooth and nail? For she had clung to him desperately—passionately. “Tony, kiss me so that I shall never forget it! Kiss me so that I almost die of kissing, because I know that it is never going to be the same again,” she had moaned in her despair. And in the dark stillness of the upper deck, with only the faint tinkle of a distant piano, and the steady vibrating throb of the engines to break the silence, he had taken her in his arms, and had only released her when he felt her tremble and turn her face from him. No, it was over, done with, any idea of cutting loose now. Ann was his, body, soul, and spirit, and that to the end of time—something told him that. But that the interview with Ann’s parents was going to be damned unpleasant, there was no doubt whatever, and the only thing was to put as good a face upon it as possible. He smiled at her.
“Yes, aren’t they all affectionate? They always are on the last day, exchanging cards, and I don’t know what else. In a week’s time they will all have forgotten each other’s names. I’ve been many voyages, and I’ve seen it happen time after time. Bubbling over with keenness to meet again now; dead sick at the very idea of it a week hence.”
Ann’s face was pale and drawn. “Do you think I look better with or without my hat?” she said abruptly. She had to say something. Her heart had given a great leap, and then died away like a frightened thing—“Dead sick at the very idea of it a week hence!”
“With, I think—especially if your mother doesn’t know you’ve cut off your hair,” Tony smiled, all unconscious. “She’ll like it—she can’t help it, but better not to burst it on her all at once perhaps. Now then—we’re nearly in—see the quay?”
They watched the feverish activity on the wide wall—hausers creaking—huge coils of rope, thicker than a man’s arm, slowly winding, winding. Crowds of faces, dark and pale, gradually getting clearer and clearer. Tony dragged his topi lower over his eyes, and stared through the glare. Then he spoke, and there was a ring of genuine pleasure in his voice—“By Jove, there he is!—good old Ishmael Khan. See him? . . . down there! Salaam Ishmael Khan!” Tony leaned far over and lifted his hand to his topi; the fierce bearded face looked up, and then bent in dignified salute.
“Welcome, my Sahib above all other Sahibs!” Ishmael Khan, spotless in white coat, wide baggy trousers, and huge puggaree, bent almost to the ground. Now life took on a different hue—his Sahib had returned from the Vilayat. “But who, who is the small pale miss-sahib by thy side, O my Sahib?” he muttered into his black beard.
Ann stood in a timid silence—there didn’t seem anything to say. Mummy didn’t look quite like she thought she would. Daddy did—he was brown and jolly, like she remembered him. But Mummy looked older . . . and so grand somehow. Ann stood speechless—she felt as if some one had taken her by the throat. She didn’t realise that meeting relations after a long interval is always dreadfully difficult; she put it all down to her own stupidity, she ought to have heaps to say. But a Customs official advancing gave her the opportunity she wanted. “Oh, yes, my keys,” she fled with relief in search of them.
Joyce was in the cabin, a jubilant Joyce, flinging things excitedly into a despatch case.
“Yes! We’re off by the Postal Express! And Ann! . . . what do you think? Daddy knows Charles quite well! Isn’t it extraordinary? I shouldn’t wonder if I kept on being engaged to him after all! Anyhow, I’ll let you know. And you’ll let me know, won’t you, what they say about him . . . whether they approve or not? I’ve said good-bye to every one. Charles is coming with us. Well, it’s only you now! Good-bye, old thing.” Joyce flung her arms round her cousin with real affection. “Do write to me, and I will to you!”
Joyce had gone, with one last squeeze, and Ann looked helplessly round the untidy cabin. This had been home—this tiny space—and Ann’s heart yearned passionately over it. Now everything was to be different—and she had to learn to live alone. Tony would be gone in less than twelve hours, and she would have to be content just to live in the thought of the past. Where was Tony now? . . . And what had she come down for?—oh, yes, her keys. She searched for them and taking them in a cold hand mounted the saloon stairs again.
“Hullo! here you are; I was looking for you!” Tony, very tall and well-groomed, but feeling wretchedly ill at ease, accosted Ann as she emerged from the companion door. “Ishmael Khan’s packing my kit, so I’m free. Now then, introduce me to the parents.”
They walked side by side down the deck, Tony shooting a swift glance from under his eyelids as they went. Where was she? . . . and would he? . . . By Jove, yes . . . there she was . . . and that must be Jack beside her. Tony stifled a quick stab of amusement—Jack at last, in the flesh. He straightened his shoulders as the burden of years rolled off them. Face to face again, and not a quiver of the pulse. Oh, thank God for it! He drew up beside the little group.
Ann took a step forward.
“Mother! . . . Daddy! . . . This is Major Seymour, a great friend of mine. He has been very kind to me on the voyage.” Ann’s voice was tremulous, and her hands were wet with nervousness.
Muriel Church looked up, began to speak, then stopped suddenly, bathed in a flood of scarlet. The Commissioner, grasping the situation immediately, spoke with instant cordiality:
“How do you do, Seymour?” He held out his hand.
Tony took it. “How do you do, sir?” he said.
“Well, this is very odd! You just happened to be on the same ship as our little girl, then—it’s very strange.” The Commissioner was marking time. “Muriel”—he looked swiftly across at his wife—“Muriel, you have met Major Seymour before, I believe? That is so, isn’t it?” he looked from one to the other.
“Oh, yes!” Muriel had recovered herself. “Yes, we met at Ooty years ago, five years ago, wasn’t it?” she laughed nervously. “How very odd that you should turn up again like this! I hope our little girl has behaved herself on the voyage.” She laughed again, rather shakily.
“Oh, yes, excellently!” Tony’s voice and eyes were steady. His whole being was one chant of thanksgiving.
Gone for ever, the shadow of years! And what a trump Ann was, not to pipe out that he had never told her that he knew her mother before—most girls would have done so! He smiled down at her, as she stood looking up at him intently. Her thoughts, too, were busy. How very odd of Tony not to have told her that he had met Mummy before; it was the sort of thing you would expect a person to say almost first of all. She felt a little bewildered; he had said “Introduce me”; you didn’t introduce people who knew one another already! However, Ann dismissed the little troublesome thought—if Tony had done it, it was done for some good. She smiled at him.
“Well . . . er . . .” after rather an awkward pause the Commissioner spoke again. He put on his topi, and looked round vaguely. “Said good-bye to all your friends, Ann? I suppose it’s about time we made a move. Handed over your keys? That’s right. I’ve put a clerk to see your things through the Customs. Well, Muriel, there’s nothing to keep us, is there?” The Commissioner looked across at his wife.
“No, nothing at all.” Muriel Church put out her hand. “Good-bye, Major Seymour,” she said.
“Good-bye.” Tony wrung her hand cordially. It was bigger than Ann’s. “Good-bye,” he said again. “I’ll just see you as far as your car, if I may.”
“Do!” The two men fell behind as the little group moved down the deck. Tony unconsciously put a finger inside his collar, and wrenched it a little.
“I should rather like to have a word with you later in the day, if I may, sir,” he said.
“A word with me? Oh, yes, of course, by all means. Well, now, what shall we say? Lunch at the Club—how will that do you?” The Commissioner was thinking swiftly. What on earth could the man have to say to him? Unless it was something to do with Ann? The Commissioner, shrewd, had noticed her fluttering colour. But no! Hardly possibly after that Ooty affair. By Gad, how Muriel had blushed! The Commissioner chuckled inwardly. But what could the fellow have to say? Anything about? . . . Of course not—what would be the good of raking all that up again? Anyhow, he’d know in an hour or two—why anticipate? He smiled cheerfully. “Well, then—we shall meet again later—at the Club—make it half-past one, will you? Now then, you two, hurry along.” He smiled indulgently at his wife and daughter. “No respect for a man’s office hours, eh, Seymour?”
The big car, with its scarlet-coated puttiwala in front, crawled slowly up to the door of the spacious waiting hall. Mr. Church stood impatiently waiting—Ann cast a terrified glance round; was this the end? . . . to be torn away like this for ever without the chance of a word? . . . She sought her lover’s eyes, with a passion of appeal in her own. But Tony, under the cover of the little confusion of settling into the car, caught hold of her hand, and gave it a quick squeeze. “Courage!” seemed to say that firm grip: and Ann smiled, restored.
All through her life Ann remembered that drive from the docks, to the beautiful bungalow on Malabar Hill. It was her first sight of India—an India of blazing sun, and gaily-dressed crowds. That was what struck her most—the sunlight flooding everything, and the crowds of gaily-dressed human beings. And they nearly all walked in the middle of the roads, not on the paths at all, although there were paths! That struck Ann as very odd. And some of the women carried big brass pots on their heads; they carried them most beautifully, just balancing them, not holding them at all. The men were funny too: some were dressed like the natives you saw in books, but some wore clothes like Europeans only their hats were different, they were like tiny tin coal-scuttles standing on end.
“Mummy, what are they?” She touched her mother’s hand timidly—Mummy was very silent.
“What are what, darling?” Muriel Church brought her thoughts back with an effort.
“Those people with tin hats like coal-scuttles? Look—over there.” Ann pointed.
“Those? Why, they’re Parsis, Ann.” Mrs. Church laughed heartily. “That’s not tin; it’s American cloth.”
“Oh, it looks exactly like tin.”
Ann was silent a while. Somehow Mummy—rather tall, and very beautifully dressed in a white serge skirt and heavy crêpe-de-chine blouse—did not seem the sort of person to whom you could easily say things. In fact, the whole thing was rather overawing: the very large car—the chauffeur in uniform—the grand man in scarlet by his side. And the talc wind-screen, drawn close to her face. Ann felt that only the lunch at the Casino Palace Hotel had at all come up to it. Even the policemen on point duty seemed to feel the magnificence of it, and beckoned them on when there was quite a crowd of carriages waiting at the cross-roads.
The hall of the Yacht Club was deserted when Tony arrived. Dismissing his taxi, he strolled to the board to see if there were any letters for him. No—none . . . and no telegrams or cards either . . . he went to each in turn. Now then . . . to wait for “Jack.” He sat down on the big circular leather seat in the middle of the hall, lit a cigarette, and pointed laconically to the electric fan above his head. The Goanese hall porter, in red waistcoat and blue uniform, ran hurriedly to switch it on: there was something rather compelling about the tall figure in uniform with its row of multi-coloured ribbons.
Tony had had a busy morning—first to the Brigade Office for orders—then a visit to his Agents—a cheery interview there with the Manager—an old friend of his, then to the Taj, to engage a room, and to leave Ishmael Khan there in charge of his kit. Then to the station to engage a berth in the express leaving at midnight, then back to the Taj to change—and here he was—booted and gaitered, so to speak, for his interview with “Jack.” By Jove! Here he was! Dead on time.
The Commissioner’s long low car slid under the porch and stopped with an almost imperceptible burr of the engine. A chokra, barefooted, in blue jersey, striped yellow and blue fisherman’s cap, and white shorts, ran to open the door. Tony got up.
Mr. Church hung his topi on one of the pegs, and then looked round for his guest. Not here. . . . Oh, yes, of course—uniform. He came forward and shook hands cordially with Tony.
“I am sorry you were before me, Seymour, but I was detained at the last moment.”
“I was before my time, sir.” Tony’s voice was very pleasant.
“Oh, well, that’s all right. Now then, let’s go up.”
The hall was beginning to fill up. Car after car discharged its occupants—silk-suited, prosperous looking men. Boxwallahs! [Merchants] thought Tony, and envied them. Nothing to do but sit in an office and rake in the cash. Then his spirit revolted—how he would loathe it—stewing in this climate all the year round. Already his collar was beginning to stick to his neck.
“I thought a table on the verandah would be pleasant.” Mr. Church led the way through the reading-room on to the balcony. A small table loaded with flowers stood in the middle of a wide embrasure; down below, beyond the green lawn, the sea lay and sparkled under the fierce midday sun. Far out the homeward mail rode at anchor, smoking from her two white funnels. Underneath the wall of the Club a fleet of tiny white boats bobbed and glittered. People in Bombay were keen on sailing, Tony remembered, and this was a Yachting Club, of course.
“Well, Seymour,” the Commissioner unrolled his table napkin as the Goanese waiter stood at his elbow with a dish of hors d’oeuvres, “had a pleasant leave?”
“Very, thank you, sir.” Tony helped himself to a couple of olives, and wondered when he should introduce the subject of Ann. Not until the soup had come and gone, he decided. “Yes, I had a topping leave, plenty of shooting, and, except just at the end, heavenly weather,” he said. He omitted any mention of his time in hospital, but the Commissioner knew—two people had already asked him if he knew the V.C. who had come out in the same ship as his daughter, and Mr. Church had noticed many glances at the tall figure in khaki as they had lingered in the hall. He suddenly felt frightfully proud that Tony was having lunch with him.
“Splendid!” He spoke with enthusiasm. “Glad you enjoyed it all—nothing like a well-deserved holiday.”
Tony blushed. “Oh, well, I don’t know about that.” He sat in silence for a moment or two. He had taken a great fancy to “Jack,” and he wished he would not be so friendly. It made him feel such an unutterable swab when he remembered the past. However . . .
He laid down his spoon.
“I wanted to speak to you, sir. . . . You may have guessed what I want to say. With your permission, I want to marry your daughter.” There, it was out! He leaned back in his chair, and felt better.
“You want to marry Ann?” Mr. Church spoke after a stupefied silence. But in spite of himself his first feeling had been one of intense gratification. This man, with his wonderful military record, with his future—probably destined to be equally brilliant, wanted to marry his daughter! What a tremendous chance for Ann! Then his thoughts swung back—Muriel—she would be furious; he, too, ought to be furious really. Why, it was only a few years ago that he had listened to an account of this fellow’s love-making to his wife, and that from his own wife’s lips. It was really the most barefaced effrontery that he should presume to aspire to his daughter’s hand at all! But somehow—he knew Muriel so well—a man at her heels—she adored it; and the fellow certainly was extraordinarily good-looking.
“Well, Seymour . . . to tell you the truth you have absolutely knocked me sideways. The whole thing is so utterly unexpected. Ann is only a child—too young to think of anything of the kind. Marriage—it all seems so incongruous—I was struck with it to-day, her look of immaturity.”
“Yes . . . well, she is young, but not too young, I think, to be engaged.” Tony helped himself to some chipped potatoes and wished the Commissioner would think of offering him a drink. He was frightfully thirsty. Hooray!
Mr. Church spoke apologetically.
“I say! I’m frightfully sorry. What will you drink? I’m afraid my thoughts are wool-gathering, but really! . . . What shall it be? Sure? Boy, bring two chota pegs.” Mr. Church relapsed into silence as the Goanese waiter, spotless in white uniform, vanished and reappeared as swiftly. The tiny bubbles sparkled upwards and broke, a faint film gathered on the outside of the glasses. Mr. Church spoke.
“Well, Seymour—here’s the very best.” The eyes of the two men met. A twinkle lurked in the Commissioner’s eyes. How Muriel would give it him when he told her! But after all, he hadn’t agreed to anything yet. As a matter of fact they had not even discussed it. But—say what you might—a Victoria Cross—you couldn’t get over it. The Commissioner was extraordinarily good at his job, and it was a job that called for brain, and brain of a very high quality. But at heart he was intensely primitive, and personal bravery made a very strong appeal to him. He spoke again, and this time rather more thoughtfully.
“But to continue, Seymour. You know—forgive my saying it—a voyage is often responsible for a good deal that dies a natural death when opportunity ceases. Don’t you know—the Red Sea—moonlight nights—no particular occupation.”
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean, sir. But in this case I think things are rather different.” Tony spoke seriously. Who knew it better than he—a moonlight night in the Red Sea—what had it done for him? But there was Ann—Ann, who trusted him.
The Commissioner finished his drink abruptly. “Here, boy, bring me another chota peg. Seymour, have another? No? . . . No, fill it up.” He watched the soda as it fell with a bubbling splash. “Well, as I was saying, I don’t feel that I can quite turn it down offhand. But I am afraid there will be trouble. Her mother . . . don’t you know, women like to plan for their daughters. And for Ann to arrive practically engaged . . . By the way, what does the child say?” There was a loophole—the Commissioner looked up hopefully.
“She says . . . well . . . she is quite prepared to marry me.” Tony could feel Ann’s passionate young arms, and her voice, frantic in its urgency—“Tony . . . promise me . . .” He smiled faintly. “Yes, she is quite willing,” he said.
“Oh, well, then, of course . . . but on the other hand . . . By the way, when do you leave Bombay?”
“To-night, at midnight.”
“Well, then, how would it be—” The Commissioner’s sense of hospitality warred with his dread of a scene. Muriel would be furious! But still, there were some things . . . He spoke cordially: “Dine with us to-night and we’ll talk it over again. Come early, half-past seven, say.” The Commissioner looked at the watch on his wrist. “I’m sorry to say I shall have to run away. I have a Council meeting at half-past two, and I daren’t risk being late. But you stay and smoke. Here, boy, cheroots, cigarettes lao. [Bring] You’ll enjoy yours in a long chair—we poor Bombay civilians—slaves—absolute slaves, every one of us. Well, good-bye, Seymour. So glad to have met you; and we shall see each other again to-night.”
“Yes, thank you, sir. Good-bye.”
Tony watched the Commissioner as he disappeared at a run down the wide polished stairs, and his eyes laughed. He was a top-hole fellow—Jack! And he had taken it like a trump—not a word about that affair at Ooty, although it must have been in his mind the whole time. How hateful it all appeared now, when confronted with this nice honest English gentleman—sordid. Tony turned and threw himself into a long chair. He felt a huge contempt for himself. Five years wasted in a morbid gloating over a futile love affair with a married woman—and the wife of this jolly fellow, too. He checked the disloyal thought that struggled for birth—how could she ever have wanted to flirt with him? His fault of course: he had begun it. Strange how he had been able to see her again without a pang . . . she had altered . . . aged. . . . Or was it perhaps the contrast with Ann’s vivid youth? Anyhow, nothing could make the dinner anything but extraordinarily awkward—but he had to go through with it—something must be settled. And he must get along back to the Taj; Ishmael Khan must be warned. He heaved himself out of his chair.
Ishmael Khan was unpacking, standing in the middle of a sea of clothes; he salaamed profoundly as his master entered.
“Hullo, Ishmael Khan! making the usual hash of things!” Tony’s teeth gleamed faintly. “Look here,” he said, “we’re dining on the Hill to-night—early—half-past seven. You’ll have to stow all the kit on a taxi, and we’ll take it up with us. Then we’ll go straight to the station from there, see? And if you forget anything I’ll flay you alive. Malum?” Tony smiled again. He was extraordinarily glad to be within the scope of Ishmael Khan’s ministrations once more.
“Malum, Sahib!” Ishmael Khan continued to fold and unfold, but his thoughts worked busily. The long string of pink beads that he had found in the suitcase, packed so neatly in the little cardboard box, what did they portend? And the dinner on Malabar Hill—that was a thing unknown. Always on return from leave they had gone straight to the station; but now—surely this was all concerned with the little white miss-sahib? Had she won where all the other miss-sahibs had failed? Ishmael Khan ran swiftly over in his head the collection of miss-sahibs who to his certain knowledge had cast eyes of desire at his sahib. They were numerous, and had been found in each station in which they had been quartered. There had only been one short period of time when he had not accompanied his sahib, and that had been in the cold Hill station, when the sahib had had leave from Mesopotamia. Then Ishmael Khan, yielding to the importunities of his female relations, had returned to his “muloch,” [Country] for a short spell. But afterwards how he wished he had accompanied his sahib, for not only had his female relations deprived him of every pice he possessed, but his sahib had returned with a look of suffering in his eyes. He also had suffered at the hands of a woman, or women as the case might be. But that was many years ago. Since then to his certain knowledge his sahib had had dealings with no woman.
Tony strolled from the verandah, his hands in his pockets. He stood over the suitcase.
“There’s a small cardboard box somewhere about, Ishmael Khan. Seen it?” He spoke carelessly in the vernacular.
“A small cardboard box? Nahin, [No] sahib.” Ishmael Khan dropped on his knees and began artlessly to rummage.
“There it is.” Tony stooped. “Liar!” He spoke to himself as he saw the slightly disturbed knot. But Ishmael Khan was regarding him with the gaze of a child; the beads—perchance now some explanation would be forthcoming. But Tony strolled away and slipped them into his pocket as he went. Time enough to tell Ishmael Khan he was going to be married when he was! And by the end of the evening Ishmael Khan would know more about the whole affair than he did, or he was very much mistaken!
And under the huge puggaree Ishmael Khan’s brain was also working quickly. The establishment of the sahib with whom they were dining would be a large one—being situated on Malabar Hill. Therefore there would assuredly be an ayah in attendance. Therefore all information as to the possible dowry to be obtained with the miss-sahib, and the income now drawn by the miss-sahib’s father, and the office held by the miss-sahib’s father, could without difficulty be obtained from her. Ishmael Khan felt a certain amount of responsibility in any alliance contemplated by his sahib. It must be worthy. . . .
Muriel Church lay on her small brass bed under the electric fan and watched the slow sweep of the blades—it was really too cold now for a fan, but she liked the look of it. She generally went to sleep in the afternoon, but somehow to-day she couldn’t—meeting Ann had upset her—and getting up early—and, in fact, it had been an upsetting day altogether. But she must try to sleep; she had a committee meeting at half-past five, and she must be fresh for that. She loved being the wife of the Senior Member of Council, but it had its drawbacks—you had to be on everything. However, mercifully they were at home to-night, they were not dining out. She turned over on her side and stared at the patch of rust-coloured canna just visible below the verandah. Ann had admired the canna—sweet little Ann—she had been very overcome with the grandeur of everything when she had arrived. And old ayah—who had nursed Ann when she was a baby—had fallen on her knees and kissed her feet, and Mrs. Church had only just been in time to stop Ann from kissing her back. “Just pat her shoulder, darling, that will do,” she had prompted, and Ann had patted it and got very pink. And now Ann was asleep. Ayah had pattered in and whispered, “Miss-sahib soter hai,” [The miss-sahib is asleep] and Muriel Church envied her. He hadn’t altered a bit—Tony—he was just as good-looking—better in fact—because his hair was beginning to turn grey. Of course it was five years ago . . . his wasn’t the only hair that was beginning to turn grey either . . . Muriel Church clenched her hands—how she loathed getting old—she could not see one tiny redeeming feature in it. However . . .
The telephone bell shrilled through the bungalow; Mrs. Church slipped off the bed: somehow she felt sure the call was for her. She poked her feet into the heelless grass slippers, and pattered across the matted floor.
“Hullo?” She picked up the receiver. “Yes . . . hullo . . . yes. Coming home? . . . All right, darling, I’ll have tea ready for you. What’s happened? . . . No, all right . . . only is it something horrid? . . . Well . . . all right, only do come at once or I shall imagine all sorts of awful things. . . . Good-bye.”
Mrs. Church laid down the receiver and her eyes darkened. Something had happened—Jack never came home at this hour—what was it? If Ann had been at Home she would have been terrified that it was a cable to say that she was dead. But she was here—alive—so it couldn’t be that. Grannie? No—somehow Muriel felt sure that nothing was wrong with Grannie. What could it be? She lay down on the bed again; this was being an awful day and it ought to have been so happy; everything was in a turmoil. If only Ann hadn’t just happened to be in the same ship as Tony—that was what had upset everything: a sort of horrid dragging up of the past. Nothing really, but just enough to put everything out of tune.
The soft sticky swish of tyres on gravel broke in on her thoughts. Here was Jack—now she would know. She watched the big car as it slid round the lawn and disappeared. The soft pink curtain was brushed aside.
“Hullo, darling!” The Commissioner came in and put down his hat. “How was it that you answered the telephone? You ought to have been asleep; I meant to get Fazel Ahmed.”
“Yes, I know, but somehow I couldn’t go to sleep this afternoon. Well? What is it?”
The Commissioner sat down on the bed and took hold of his wife’s hand. This was going to be a jar; but still—better not beat about the bush.
“Seymour wants to marry Ann,” he said.
“Major Seymour wants to marry Ann!” Mrs. Church sat up on the bed and repeated the words in stupefaction. “Major Seymour wants to marry Ann? Well, he can’t,” she said quietly, and lay down again.
“So I said—or words to that effect,” replied the Commissioner, not quite truthfully.
“Oh! . . . and what did he say to that?” Muriel Church sat up again.
“He said that he would—or words to that effect.” The Commissioner fumbled for his pipe.
“Jack! don’t smoke, it’s far too serious.” Mrs. Church got off the bed. “He was in love with me five years ago,” she said, and flung round.
“Yes, I know . . . that’s what I felt inclined to tell him,” said the Commissioner and laughed.
“Well, but didn’t you say anything?” Mrs. Church began to pace the room stormily. Of course—Jack was so weak—he probably agreed! “Jack, it’s out of the question,” she said, and stopped in the middle of a tumultuous turn.
“Well, I began by thinking that”—the Commissioner hunted in his pocket for his matches—“but then when I came to think of it I wondered why it was impossible. After all, Ann is eighteen, or is it nineteen? And Seymour is evidently a rattling good fellow, full of decorations, the Victoria Cross itself . . . I tell you, Muriel, when I saw that ribbon I could have wept.”
“Yes, but don’t you see? . . . Jack, you are hopeless—don’t you feel the utter impossibility of it? Why, that time at Ooty—that in itself is enough. You ought to be furious that he dare think of it.”
The Commissioner got up and threw the half-burnt match over the verandah. He came back and stood in front of his wife with his feet apart. He smiled.
“Muriel, much as I love you, much as I adore you”—he came closer and took hold of both her elbows—“I know perfectly well that that young man would not have carried on so outrageously with you if you had not given him a certain amount of encouragement. Now isn’t that so?” He bent and kissed the top of her head.
Mrs. Church was silent, but her thoughts seethed. She was fiendish, unnatural, but what a passion of—could it be jealousy?—seized her! Ann had all the youth, all the beauty. In a way she wanted her to have it, but she didn’t want her to have the man who had once cared for her. Any other man . . . now, for instance, there was Lord Erskine, the son of a duke—Ann might get engaged to him and Mrs. Church would rejoice. But to Tony Seymour . . . no! “I won’t have it!” she said, and she put a hand on her husband’s chest and drew back and stared at him.
“Well . . .” The Commissioner sighed. It was an awful pity Muriel had taken against it so, but, of course, in a way, he could see her point of view. “Well, you will have to tell the young man so yourself,” he said; “he is coming here to dine to-night.”
“Here, to dine? . . . Jack, how could you ask him? . . . It’s . . . it’s awful of you!” Muriel Church turned and flung to the dressing-table. The little blue enamel clock pointed the hour of five—she must begin to get ready for this hideous committee. But how could Jack . . . coming there to dine! . . . “Jack, it’s awful of you,” she said, and her voice trembled.
The Commissioner, thoroughly wretched, began to get angry. “Well, what could I say? I couldn’t decline to discuss the affair with the man. Hang it all, Muriel, what would you have done in my place, pray?” He stalked to where his wife sat feverishly doing her hair, his blue eyes indignant.
“I don’t know . . .. but I shouldn’t have asked him here to dinner, I know that! . . . Yes, tell her she can come in.” Mrs. Church turned her head impatiently towards the door. “Yes, bring it in, ayah,” she said before her husband had time to speak.
“Missy baba soter hai.” Ayah spoke with a world of love in her old eyes as she arranged the cups deftly on the wicker table. “I saying—you sleeping long time, then I bringing you bath.” She looked at her mistress for approbation.
“Yes, that’s right, ayah; keep the miss-sahib in bed till it is time to dress for dinner, she looked dreadfully tired at tiffin. Tell her, Mauri, that madam-sahib gone to meeting, missy baba staying in bed till madam-sahib comes back.” Mrs. Church walked to a wardrobe and lifted out a coat-hanger padded with pale blue. What should she wear at this stupid committee? “Jack, what shall I wear this evening?” she said, and she glanced over her shoulder to where her husband sat astride a wicker stool, smoking dejectedly.
The Commissioner’s brow lightened—if Muriel had switched off on to her clothes she must be feeling better. He adored his wife, although in his heart of hearts he knew her to be spoilt. But he hated her to be put out.
“Wear that thing with bits hanging down at the sides,” he said; “that’ll knock the old tabbies into fits.”
“Jack, don’t be so disrespectful.” But Mrs. Church laughed, and as she slipped the beautiful lace dress off its hanger, her brow was clearer. After all, Ann was very young, and although it was frightfully maddening about her and Tony, there was probably not very much in it. And even if there was, Ann was too docile to persist in an affair of which her mother and father so entirely disapproved—because Jack had got to disapprove thoroughly, Muriel had quite made up her mind about that. And when she had made up her mind about a thing it generally came off.
But Ann lay on the little bed, standing like a big white meat safe in the middle of the wide-matted floor, and her hands were clenched so that the nails dug into the soft pink palm. Ayah had insisted on tucking in the mosquito curtain—her baba was young and new to the country and some cannibal mosquito might choose that little arm for his next villainous meal. So Ann lay, obediently encased, her blue eyes shut, but underneath the white lids terror and anguish grew apace. It was a cage she was in, a real cage—it even looked like a cage when she saw the netting as she saw it now, through a blur of tears; it looked like the big mesh of wire netting. And it was shutting her up from the man she loved, keeping her away from him. And no one said anything about him. Mummy had not even mentioned him, either during the drive from the docks or during luncheon . . . and she, Ann, had promised him not to say anything, so she couldn’t. But by now something must have happened—perhaps he had asked Daddy and Daddy had said, “No,” and he had felt it was better to agree and had gone straight away. But he had promised to try to persuade Daddy, because he did . . . he did care a little . . . enough to want her . . . he had said he wanted her. But oh, the agony of not knowing: it was more, it was more than she could bear. If only he would write her a letter—just something. . . .
“Ari! baba . . . baba waking.” Mauri had advanced with stealthy footsteps and caught Ann unawares. Her old wrinkled face was alight with joy and love; she began to pull the hem of the mosquito curtain from underneath the mattress, pattering round the bed till she got it all clear, and with one deft motion flinging it in a white bundle over the iron frame.
Ann sat up. “Yes, I am awake.” She was not sure how to treat ayah: surely to some one so old and loving one must be very considerate, but not affectionate, so Mummy had said.
“Mem-sahib leaving message”—ayah was very important—“saying Missy Ann baba staying in bed till time to dress for dinner, then having bath and dressing.”
“Staying in bed! Oh, no, ayah.” Ann immediately put two small feet over the side of the bed. “Mem-sahib gone where?” she said loudly, feeling privately that the louder she spoke the more likely ayah would be to understand.
“Mem-sahib gone out, soon coming.” Ayah had taken the two little feet in her brown hands and was lovingly chafing them.
“Oh! . . .” Ann felt rather embarrassed. How odd to have your feet squeezed. But it was nice, and ayah seemed to be enjoying it. It was kind of her. Ann smiled at the crouching figure in the snowy sari; there was something about ayah that she loved already, she would like to have sat down on the floor beside her and cried out all her longing and misery in her old lap. Ayah would understand about Tony somehow, Ann felt sure about that. Mummy . . . Ann quenched the strange feeling of uncertainty in her mind about Mummy. Mummy might not understand quite so well perhaps . . . she seemed so young . . . and grand . . . not exactly what Ann always felt mothers were, mothery and comfortable. That was perhaps because she had got used to Grannie, she had been so really old, sort of wrinkly old. Besides, the whole thing was so grand—the huge car—the beautiful bungalow, beautifully furnished—the number of servants—two most gorgeously dressed in scarlet had leaped to their feet when Ann had arrived at the bungalow—it was all so unlike anything she had ever known before, all, that is, except the lunch at the Casino Palace Hotel. That had been grand, like the lunch to-day—servants waiting in white Eton coats with brass buttons. But that had been heavenly as well as grand. . . . Oh, how heavenly! Ann felt a wild throb of homesickness for it all. This time last week—what had she been doing? Sitting by him on deck—the awning just rolled up—the cool sea breeze blowing on them. There was a sea breeze here, it blew the green bamboo chicks that hung from the verandah out into the room with a soft slapping noise. But this breeze only blew on her, not on both of them as the other one had done. Only on her—alone—desolate.
She moved her feet suddenly. “I want to get off the bed,” she said, speaking very clearly.
Ayah beamed, and pressed the sole of Ann’s foot to her forehead. “So be it, baba,” she said, and rose stiffly from her crouching position.
Ann thrust her feet into the grass bedroom slippers that she had found ready waiting for her, and drew her kimono rather closer. She wanted to explore her room, she had hardly looked at it when Mummy had taken her to it first. She started to walk round it. It was very large, and the floor was covered all over with china matting of a greeny-grey colour. It had a nice smell, a smell rather like hay, Ann decided. There were three doors, not doors that shut like English ones, but doors that were only made private by curtains hung over them: the curtains were very pretty, full and gathery, and made of pink casement cloth. Then the furniture was very pretty too—all white; Daddy had bought it specially for her, so Mummy had said. Ann’s heart suddenly swelled. How good they were to her, and all she could do was to think about somebody else. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t . . . she clenched her hands and walked a little faster. She stopped in front of the dressing-table; ayah had unpacked her table silver; it looked so nice on the snowy cloth. And the oval mirror shone, it shone blood red, there must be one of those heavenly sunsets, like there used to be on board. Ann ran to the verandah and leaned over. A flaming ball had nearly sunk to the level of the silent horizon. Ann choked again: everything reminded her of Tony: once in the Red Sea when she hardly knew him she had said how she always felt that there must be a fizz when the sun touched the water, it looked so very red and burning. And after she had said it she had wished she hadn’t, it must have sounded so stupid. But he had laughed so kindly, and said that he had often thought so too, and that what a terrific fizz it would be if it did. Ann’s eyelids began to smart; he always understood. .. .
There was a soft clatter outside the door: ayah vanished and reappeared with a tray; she carried it to a round wicker table on the verandah close to Ann. “Missy-baba’s tea,” she said, and smiled triumphantly.
Ann had forgotten tea, and her spirits rose with a bound as she saw it. It looked so pretty too, all spread out on a very shiny brass tray, flowery cups and a teapot to match. It reminded her of a doll’s teapot she had once had out of which the tea would never pour properly, it would only trickle dejectedly down the side. But this one poured beautifully; Ann tried it cautiously and then filled her cup up to the top. This was nice . . . and everything was going to be all right. Tony had promised, and if he promised then everything must be all right. It was wrong of her to begin to be wretched and afraid. She ate and drank with appetite.
Ann was dressed. The evening light had faded so quickly, night had come down like a soft enveloping curtain. It always did that in India, Ann remembered, some one had told her so when she was a child. But there was electric light in the bungalow, part of the house was modern, and part was old-fashioned. Ann had the electric light, but her bathroom was an old-fashioned one. So she had sat looking like a golden-headed baby in a galvanised iron tub, while ayah baled water over her with a tin mug. Ann had felt rather embarrassed at this very close attention, and had tried to keep ayah out of the bathroom. But to Mauri, Ann was still the baby she had crooned over and rocked in her brown arms, and she would have been terribly hurt, so Ann concluded, had she refused to let her bathe her. So blushing very pink she had suffered her tender ministrations. The water had been brought by the bhisti, a native carrying on his back a long sausage-like leather bag. Ann had wondered what it was and had asked ayah. But ayah had only said “sheeps,” [The bhisti carries water in a mussack, the skin of a sheep or goat] and had gone on bathing her. Ann could not think what ayah had meant by “sheeps,” but she made up her mind to ask her mother later. And the hot water had come in big square tins—a man had brought them running, the water slopping over the edge and the tin clanking. It was all so utterly unlike anything Ann had ever seen before or even imagined, she revelled in it all. At the back of her mind uncertainty still hung about waiting to come forward and make her wretched if she would let it. But Ann would not let it—Tony had promised, and that was enough for her. And if it wasn’t enough—then she was hideous and untrusting and deserved to be wretched.
But now she was ready and it was time to find her way to the drawing-room. It was all very bewildering, Ann started out with a certain amount of trepidation. To begin with there were so many servants; they seemed to rise up from under her very feet wherever she walked. And the lights were dim, they were all heavily shaded with pink, but they looked pretty, like fairy-land. Ann stopped uncertainly—here was a room, but it had a screen in front of the door—was this it? She advanced and looked round the screen. No—this must be the dining-room with its oval polished table, shining silver and masses of flowers. Ann drew back abashed—if only it wasn’t all quite so grand! But still she must try to be grand too, not feeble and hesitating, she must try to be more like Joyce. She went on; a scarlet-coated puttiwalla rose up from just in front of her.
“Salaam, miss-sahib!” he bent very low.
“Oh, salaam!” Ann caught her breath. “Can you tell me the way to the drawing-room?” she said.
The puttiwalla understood a little English; he preceded Ann by a few steps and drew aside a heavy silk curtain. Ann’s feet sank into a soft carpet; she caught her breath again. This room was more beautiful than any, dimly lighted, with the lights coming from shallow marble bowls that hung from the ceiling on fine brass chains. And it seemed full of flowers, tall flaming flowers, standing in slender glass vases. And there were palms, spreading flat green leaves over the sides of huge brass bowls. Ann shrank back appalled: this was too grand, even for her, determined to put a bold face on things. She flung a terrified glance round the room and prepared to retreat. But then her glance lighted on her parents sitting right away in the corner, her mother almost hidden in the corner of the big flowered chesterfield sofa. She would have to go on, it would begin to be dinner time, and then if she was not there they would fetch her. She took a couple of faltering steps and then stopped again. There was a visitor with her parents, a man; this was too much. “Lord, I never bargained for a visitor,” she prayed wildly.
And to Tony, glancing up at the sound of a soft step, Ann seemed to have shrunk since the morning. Her face was so very white and small under her cropped hair, her eyes so very big and terrified. His heart stirred suddenly—poor little rabbit, she had been fretting. He got up.
“Hullo, Ann,” he said quietly.
Ann got whiter and put one hand up to her neck. This man looked like Tony, but he was in uniform, and one side of his coat above his pocket was covered with coloured ribbons. But his voice and his eyes, of course . . . She fled across the room. “Tony! . . . Tony! . . .” All the longing and terror of the last few hours were in. her voice. “Tony . . . I thought you’d gone. . . . I thought you’d gone!” She burst into a desperate storm of tears.
Tony held her close, and did not speak. But across Ann’s golden head he met the Commissioner’s eyes squarely—surely this would settle it once and for all. Even Mrs. Church—damned unpleasant as she was making herself about it, so he thought to himself frankly—could not hold out against this perfectly spontaneous expression of Ann’s feelings. But he did not know Mrs. Church; she was furiously angry.
“Ann, you are entirely forgetting yourself,” she said, and her voice was like ice.
But Ann did not hear, she was searching her lover’s face with passionate eyes. “Tony, what do they say?” she said.
“We say,” said Mrs. Church, and she shot a warning glance at her husband, “we say, Ann,” and her voice was still very cold, “we say that the whole thing is quite ridiculous and utterly out of the question, and we very much hope that you will agree with us and be a sensible child.” She stirred in her chair with a gesture of finality.
“And what do you say?” Ann was still searching her lover’s face.
Tony suddenly felt inclined to laugh. He loosened his hold a little on Ann, and smiled down into her eyes.
“I haven’t said anything yet,” he said.
There was a silence. The Commissioner twisted round and strangled a cough. Mrs. Church flushed scarlet; she would like to have killed Tony. She looked at him furiously.
“You are impertinent, Major Seymour,” she said quietly.
There was another silence, rather longer this time. Tony stood perfectly still until he had his voice under control; then he glanced across at the Commissioner.
“If that is so I apologise most profoundly,” he said.
The Commissioner’s eyes were wretched: this was a ghastly affair: why the hell couldn’t Muriel. . . “No, no, Seymour, it’s perfectly all right.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and took a turn about the room. After all, the man’s got the Victoria Cross, she doesn’t seem to realise that. . . . He came back to where they all stood and looked imploringly at his wife.
But Muriel was feeling better: she had made her erstwhile lover wince. She laughed a little uncertainly.
“As this is all being extraordinarily unpleasant let’s forget it and go and have some dinner,” she said lightly, and turned to lead the way.
But Tony stepped forward. “I want something settled,” he said decidedly.
“So do I.” Ann suddenly spoke bravely; after all, it was her love affair that was being discussed, not her mother’s. And her mother had spoken frightfully to Tony. She came out from the shelter of her lover’s arm, and her eyes gleamed from under the golden fringe of hair. “Mother, I love him,” she said.
“Thank you, Ann.” Tony possessed himself of the small hand and lifted it to his mouth. He looked at Mr. Church quietly. Jack was such a top-hole fellow, surely he could assert himself if the occasion demanded it? But Mrs. Church spoke first.
“Ann, the declaration of love generally comes from the man,” she said, and she looked straight at Tony, her voice like ice again.
Tony caught his breath: she was abominable, this woman: how had he ever . . . but Ann stepped forward impulsively.
“But he does say it, only not when other people are there,” she cried. “Mother, Father, please don’t make me so frightfully, frightfully wretched. I tell you I shall die if you say that Major Seymour and I may not marry each other. After all, there is not any reason why we should not love each other, is there? Is there, Mummy? Tell me . . . tell me. . . .” Ann wrung her hands together and began to cry: it was coming nearer and nearer, the dreadful hovering terror that she used to feel on the ship—that there was something that would prevent. . . would step in. . . .
Tony whitened a little under his tan. He did not want Ann to hear it now, he would rather have told her himself. He cursed himself for a fool that he had not done so. He stood quite still, and waited.
But by now Muriel was beginning to repent a little. After all, Ann was very, very young, and there was always the chance that she would forget Tony. And if he was very deeply in love with her he would suffer terribly if that happened. And she wanted him to suffer. If the suffering would only recoil on him she would tell Ann now, freely, the story of those Ooty days. But it wouldn’t—she would suffer too—horribly, in the changed look in Ann’s eyes. Ann would despise her—her own mother—she couldn’t stand that. She spoke slowly.
“No, there is no reason, Ann, why you should not marry Major Seymour. Beyond, that is, the fact that you are very young, and have seen very little of the world. But if your father thinks that some sort of an arrangement could be come to, some arrangement by which the engagement was not made really binding until you were a little older, I would be willing to forgo my own personal feelings in the matter. As a matter of fact, it does not seem to me that my personal feelings have received very much consideration so far.” Muriel Church laughed rather shortly and looked at her husband.
The Commissioner came forward, looking a little less wretched; good—Muriel was going to see reason. He looked at Tony, standing tall and still, a little white, with Ann close to his side.
“That’s better,” he smiled tenderly at his wife—after all, it had been an awful day for her, all the excitement of Ann’s arrival, and then this on the top of it, no wonder she was a little put out—“That’s better . . . and now what I am going to suggest is this. Let Major Seymour and Ann correspond for the next six months. At the end of that time, if they are still of the same mind, they may consider themselves engaged; until then they are both entirely free.”
“But I don’t want to be free!” It burst from Ann like an explosion.
Tony laughed out loud. “Oh, Ann!” He drew her closer to his side. “Yes, I think your plan is excellent, sir. It gives Ann an opportunity to see a little more of the world. And I think for her that is very necessary. And six months is not very long, you know,” he smiled down at Ann.
But Ann was in a frenzy of disappointment. “Free,” meant anything: it meant that Tony could fall in love with some one else. It meant that any one else could fall in love with her, not that that would be at all likely to happen. And it meant that she couldn’t have a ring. Joyce had talked so much about the ring Colonel Playfair was going to give her when her engagement was all properly settled. Ann drooped her head and felt that she hated her father and mother.
But John—the spick and span Goanese butler—white-coated and very black and shiny as to the head—swept aside the heavy silk curtain, and advanced a few paces into the room: “Dinner ready, sair,” he said.
And the eyes of the two men met. “Thank God!” was the message telegraphed across the room from each.
In the shadow of the back verandah, his huge puggaree showing faintly white in the darkness, sat Ishmael Khan, his knees hunched in the circle of his arms. From within came the soft sound of voices, and from time to time a barefooted figure carrying a heap of plates would pass swiftly. Yes, the establishment was ample; Ishmael Khan had already counted five servants—two to wash up, and three to wait. And even in the Colonel Sahib’s establishment at Warinagar, at a “burra khana” [Big dinner] the washing-up had been done by one only—here there were two and the company so small.
“Are there sons?” he said, and turned to the little wrinkled figure by his side.
“There are no sons.” Mauri spoke proudly, although she knew that to this large servant of the Major Sahib the lack of an heir would spell failure. “To the English the daughter has equal merit with the son,” she said.
“Wah!” Ishmael Khan dismissed this folly with a snort. But, as he reflected, the lack of a son would probably mean more dowry to the daughter, so the disaster might have its brighter side. “The Commissioner Sahib is wealthy?” he inquired.
“Wealthy!” Ayah’s skinny hands were raised. “So wealthy is the sahib, and so many are the jewels of the mem-sahib,” she said, “that nightly my blood flows like water in my veins for fear of a thief.”
“Good!” Ishmael Khan mused. “And for the marriage of the daughter the dowry would be ample?” he said.
Mauri thought quickly. Then that was it: the tall brown sahib at present with his long legs under the polished table in the dining room was the betrothed of her baba. And this huge cow of a Pathan, his servant, was endeavouring to find out what the dowry of her baba would be! That in itself was estimable, it behoved a loyal and devoted servant to see that his sahib was well placed. But for her baba—the light of her eyes—was the alliance worthy? Mauri must find out.
Ishmael Khan answered the old woman’s questions shrewdly. He still sat—his powerful frame propped against the white distempered wall—his black mysterious eyes fixed on the dim tail-light of the taxi, standing loaded with luggage a little to the left of the oval lawn.
“My sahib is a sahib of such magnitude that all women bow before him,” he said briefly.
Mauri was impressed, but this was not quite enough. “All women bow before a goodly figure,” she said shrewdly.
Ishmael Khan was annoyed: he would like to have said “Peace, fool,” but it was below his dignity to bandy words with a woman. Yet he knew well that in the Commissioner’s family the ayah would hold a place of importance, especially one with so many years of service to her credit.
“Hast heard the words ‘For Valour’?” he said, slowly and reverently.
Mauri shook her head.
“They hold within them the passport to eternal life.” Ishmael Khan spoke with intense feeling. Had he not with infinite labour spelt out and learned the inscription on the sacred emblem, and that with the help of the pig of the Eurasian babu? Ishmael Khan shared in common with his caste the intense scorn of the Indian for the half-caste.
“The words convey nothing to me.” Mauri was disappointed. Now, had the cow spoken the words C.I.E. they would have conveyed something to her. For had not her mistress one morning, waving the “khubber ke kagos” [Newspaper] excitedly above her head, exclaimed, “Ayah, they have given the sahib a C.I.E.” But even that, although apparently a cause for rejoicing, had carried with it no recognition in the shape of hard cash. At least, so ayah had gathered from prolonged and searching conversation with the sahib’s “boy.” So she shook her head dejectedly. “The words convey nothing to me,” she said.
“Then thou art a fool of the highest magnitude!” Ishmael Khan was roused. To him—sprung from a fighting race, the ribbon that Tony Seymour wore on his left breast carried with it all that was possible in the shape of human attainment. He turned a withering glance on the figure by his side: “Fool!” he said again.
Mauri was impressed. To have so subjugated his servant the Major Sahib must indeed have something unique about him. For the Pathan was not easily subjugated; his role was rather to reduce others to subjection. So she smiled ingratiatingly.
“Then thy sahib and my baba may fitly wed,” she said.
Ishmael Khan’s black eyes kindled again. Should he smite the old woman to the ground for daring to compare? But then, again—a dowry, and much jewellery—and perchance lands—no, better let the old fool prate on. And the miss-sahib was fair and goodly to look upon—not swarthy and hung with emblems that clanked, as had been one miss-sahib in the little up-country station, whom Ishmael Khan remembered with suspicion. Had she not sent innumerable chits [Notes] . . . and those by the hand of a hog of a low caste “naukar”? [Servant] No, this was a more worthy alliance.
He drew nearer in the dim light. “Listen,” he said briefly.
But to Ann, sitting small and tremulous between her father and her lover, the dinner was one long nightmare. This was her life that she had to live—she was going to be left with these two parents of hers. Daddy—she could almost touch his black elbow with her bare arm—Daddy was gentle, and he would like to be kind, but Mummy—Mummy had a mouth that drew itself into a little straight line across her face, and it was Mummy who settled what people were to do, Ann could see that plainly, although she had only been there one day. What should she do? . . . How could she bear it? . . . She looked across the mass of shivering maiden-hair fern, to where her mother sat very shining in a grey satin dress.
But, although Ann did not know it, Daddy was thinking too. He had been deeply put out with his wife, especially when she had been, as he considered, extremely rude to his guest. So when the two women had left the room, and John, with one comprehensive glance at the two silent figures at the polished table, had withdrawn behind the screen, he held out his hand:
“I apologise most sincerely, Seymour,” he said quietly.
Tony took it without a word, but he gripped it passionately. This splendid, simple-hearted fellow . . . could he possibly say what was in his heart? No, he couldn’t possibly—he came to that conclusion swiftly—but he could say just this—and perhaps the Commissioner would understand.
“From you to me, sir, no apology is possible.” He looked straight into the Commissioner’s eyes.
The Commissioner cleared his throat, and in that moment any resentment that he may have cherished against Tony died an instant death. He loved the man—he was as straight as a die. He stood up suddenly.
“Well, we’ll get along into the drawing-room, and you and the child will like to have just a word by yourselves. Take her out into the garden, Seymour; you needn’t leave for the station for at least half an hour.”
So under the pale moon, with the scent of the magnolia flooding the soft night air with its heavenly fragrance, Tony held Ann to his heart, and listened with a very tender smile to her wail of despair.
“Tony! Take me away with you now—take me away! . . . I tell you I can’t stay here without you. I shall die. . . I shall die with the misery of it all. Mummy doesn’t understand . . . I knew she wouldn’t. Daddy does rather, but then he doesn’t count as much as Mummy. Tony, can’t you? . . . Can’t you? . . . I don’t mind if we’re not married, I tell you I don’t mind that at all . . . only just to be with you . . . only just to be with you! Tony . . . can’t you possibly?” Ann searched her lover’s face with tormented eyes.
Tony laughed and pulled Ann down on to his knee. “You sweetest little goose.” He kissed her tenderly. “What would Ishmael Khan say to a ready-made mem-sahib suddenly planted on him? No, I’m afraid that wouldn’t quite do! And look here, Ann,” he spoke gravely, “you make me frightfully unhappy when you go on like this. I must, you see, go back to my work, and how can I work properly if I know you are fretting? And your father has been jolly decent about the whole thing; it isn’t fair to him to make a howl because we’re going to be separated for a few months. Is it now?” He held Ann gently by the chin.
“It isn’t a few months, it’s half a year.” Ann’s eyes were welling over.
“Yes, but half a year is nothing; it’s more than half a year since I went on leave, and it seems only the other day that I stepped off that old pier. No, you’re going to be a brave little girl, and if you aren’t”—Tony spoke warningly—“I shan’t give you something that I was going to.”
“Give me something?” Ann’s breath came haltingly. “Is it a ring?” she said.
“No, it’s not.” Tony felt inclined to shout with laughter: Ann was priceless in her insouciance. “No, it’s not a ring,” he said; “you see, I mustn’t give you that until we are properly engaged. But it’s this—I hope you’ll like it.” He drew the long slender string of pink coral beads from his tunic pocket.
Ann gasped. “Oh, it’s something to wear!” she cried, “something that I can feel next to me. Oh, heavenly, heavenly joy! Oh, Tony, put them on for me, hang them round my neck, so that I can always think that you did it first.” She dropped her cropped head in front of him.
Tony waited. “Promise me first that you will be happy while I am away,” he said.
Ann hesitated a minute; then she raised a face tense with feeling.
“Oh, Tony . . . I promise you that I will try,” she said.
Tony felt strangely moved. Ann with her small white face looked like a nun taking a vow. What had he done to deserve this superabundance of devotion? He slipped the beads gently over her head.
“There,” he said, “I put a halter round your neck so that you can’t get away from me, see? And every time you feel inclined to be wretched, just give the beads a tug and try to think that it’s I who am doing it—tugging you back to be a good sensible little girl. And now I must go”—Tony carried the lean brown wrist to his eyes—“yes, it’s after eleven, and I must say good-bye to the parents. Good-bye, Ann . . . we’ll say our goodbye in the garden, and then there’ll be nothing else to come until the time when we see each other again. Good-bye, you sweet little thing . . . no, don’t cry, there’s nothing to cry for, six months is nothing, I vow it isn’t.”
But Ann was beyond comfort. Tony held her tightly until the sobs had subsided a little, his own eyelashes wet as he let her go at last. Poor little rabbit, she hadn’t an easy time in front of her if he knew Mrs. Church. But still . . . it would all pan out all right, Tony had a great belief in the ultimate good of all things. And Jack was a brick—Tony was perfectly secure on that point—and he would stand by Ann if she wanted any one to stand by her; he was quite sure of that too.
But as he sat back, sunk in the corner of the luxurious taxi, humming its way to Victoria Terminus, he wished quite unreasonably that he had been able to pick Ann up and carry her away with him. She was such a baby, so utterly unversed in everything that the average girl had at her finger-ends. Tony thrust his hands into his pockets and tried to think that it would be all right. But somehow it was a gloomy failure.
Ann took to Indian life as the proverbial duck takes to water. After the first torturing days when she missed her lover as a child sent to school for the first time misses its mother, she settled happily down. After all, as she argued with herself, Tony had asked her to be happy, so in being happy she was doing as he wanted. And it was all such fun! From the moment in the morning when Mauri rolled up her mosquito curtain, to the moment at night when she tenderly tucked it in again, something nice and new was always happening. To begin with also it was always fine, no rattling blowing windows, and dejected streams of rain, nothing but heavenly all-pervading dazzling sunshine. And consequently no torturing indecision as to whether you should take your umbrella or not, only a calm assurance that you could not possibly need it, and that all you wanted was a solar topi, [Pith hat] or if you had on your best hat, a parasol. Ann had not possessed a parasol, but Mrs. Church had given her one of her own, one with big pink roses on a sort of fadey background; the last word in grown-up elegance, as Ann thought as she unfurled it carefully for the first time. And there was always so much going on too . . . a chit from some one, generally an invitation, or a telephone call, also an invitation, or a native standing insinuatingly at the foot of the verandah steps, saying “boxwallah mem-sahib,” and that meant the unrolling of bales of beautiful silk, and the displaying of wonderful embroidered table-cloths and curtains. Or perhaps a Chinaman would come with his funny flat yellow face, and his tin box slung in a sheet on his back, and that would mean—nicer than anything—bundles of the most exquisite filet lace. Mummy would generally succumb to the filet lace; she didn’t care so much for the Indian things, embroideries and things like that—she liked her house to look as English as possible. But filet lace she loved, and if Daddy had not already started for office he would come out on the verandah and growl, and say, “Muriel, I do wish you would not encourage these people.” But Mummy would only laugh, and go on turning over everything, and then Daddy would laugh too, and would pinch Ann’s ear and say, “Getting as bad as your mother, Ann!” And then he would step into the big car, and every one would salaam, and he would sail off round the curved lawn. It was all so grand.—that was what Ann felt about it—all so grand for her to live amongst—she had always been so stupid.
But Mrs. Church, scooping the cards out of her “Not at Home” box every night, laughed . . . men, men, and yet again men; she sorted out the cards on her writing-table, and laughed up at her husband as he stood behind her.
“You simply can’t ask them all to dinner,” the Commissioner groaned as he picked up half a dozen of the ones nearest to him.
“No, I know. But I’ll work them off somehow—tea at the club—lunch—some of them I’ll have to dinner.” Mrs. Church got up and popped a couple of cards into a drawer. Lord Erskine had called again. Ann had made her first appearance at Government House three weeks before, at dinner; and from her seat at the Governor’s right hand Mrs. Church had watched her daughter, further down the table, on the opposite side, as she lifted her golden head and stared at her partner and then burst out into delighted laughter. . . . And Lord Erskine had instantly joined them again as they sat in the beautiful salon. Somehow Mrs. Church had felt sure from the very beginning that he would like Ann. . . . Jack was so unworldly, but it would be a magnificent match for her. And Ann was such a child—already probably the remembrance of the voyage was getting dim in her mind. Mrs. Church had made many voyages, and knew all about them. So she felt very delighted and secure.
“Are you enjoying yourself, darling?” she asked one day. Ann and she were on their way to a purdah party at the Willingdon Club.
“Oh, Mummy, I am!” Ann thrust her hand impulsively across the wide seat, and squeezed her mother’s fingers. Mummy was so kind—how could she have misjudged her so on that first evening? And she felt so conscience-stricken somehow—she hadn’t been thinking at all about Mummy at that minute, how could she? when—she laid her hand softly on her blouse: it always came on Tuesday afternoon—Tony’s letter. But Mrs. Church laughed, well content, and she had squeezed Ann’s fingers back, but only when she had first said, “Mind the beautiful new gloves, Ann!” and half pulled her hand away. That was what always damped Ann, somehow—you went to Mummy all tingling with something, and then you suddenly felt conscious that no one was tingling but you! But still, hadn’t the nuns often said, “Don’t rush at things, so, dear!” They had known it was her great fault, and she must try to control it.
But Mr. Church was more discerning, and he did not feel altogether at ease about Ann. He knew she was happy, her bright little face showed that—superficially happy, that is; but he often wondered what she did with herself the whole time. It was not natural for the child never to speak about her lover, for instance. Ann’s nature was an ardent and passionate one, he had gathered that the first evening: he had seen her face as she watched the tail-light of Tony’s taxi disappearing round the lawn. All that fire and ardour were somewhere, and he did not care for the idea of it being stored up somewhere, so to speak, where nobody could get at it. But he spoke to his wife on the subject with reluctance—she disliked discussing Ann’s affairs, she disliked to think that there was anything to discuss—at least so the Commissioner interpreted it.
“What does Ann do all the time?” he asked one day, as he lay smoking in a long chair, Muriel beside him in cap and kimono—they had just had chota hazri.
“How do you mean, ‘what does she do all the time’?” Mrs. Church was darning a silk stocking; she held it up to the light, and made a wry face at the long ladder.
“Well, I mean now, for instance. It is now half-past seven, we don’t have breakfast until a quarter to ten: what does Ann do from now until we see her at breakfast?”
“What does Ann do from now till we see her at breakfast? . . .” Mrs. Church began to think—what did Ann do at this time—what did anybody do?” Oh, I expect she sews, or reads, or writes letters,” she said; “there are always loads of little pottering things that one has to do at this time. . . . Why, what makes you ask, Jack?”
“Why, because we seem to know so little about her, Muriel. Don’t you know, we had all that set-out on that first evening—Seymour, and Ann with a face as white as a sheet and in floods of tears. And now, no mention of Seymour, no mention of letters even. There’s something not quite right about it; at least, so it seems to me. Do the two correspond? Or don’t they? It was mentioned, you will remember, and I said I had no objection.”
“You suggested it. I don’t believe Major Seymour would ever have thought of it otherwise.” Muriel dragged the silk mending off the card so that it got stuck in a crack; she tugged at it viciously. . . . She hated the idea of Tony writing to Ann. And she hated the conversation. Why must her husband drag it all up? Ann was perfectly happy.
The Commissioner smiled a little.
“How you do dislike my talking about Seymour and Ann,” he said. “What’s it all about? Are you in love with the man yourself?”
“No, of course I’m not!” Muriel Church avoided her husband’s amused eyes. “But it’s not what I care about for Ann. To begin with, she’s too young to be engaged, and I don’t think they are suited to one another, in heaps of ways. And also, Major Seymour is far too old for her—he must be twice her age. Altogether I think the whole thing quite ridiculous, and how you can have encouraged it as you did, and do now, really in your own mind, I can’t think.” Muriel Church got up, scattering a crowd of sewing impedimenta.
The Commissioner laughed out loud; somehow he could never take his wife seriously. He stooped to intercept a rapidly disappearing thimble.
“These things are far better encouraged than ignored,” he said; “that is, if you want them to fizzle out naturally. But as a matter of fact I think Ann is like her father—a sticker—and I don’t fancy that this affair with Seymour is going to fizzle out quite as quickly as you think it is. And, as a matter of fact”—the Commissioner began to scrape out the bowl of his pipe with one blade of a pair of scissors that he hastily retrieved from under a chair—“I can’t think why you want it to fizzle out at all. Seymour is a top hole fellow—magnificent military record and all that—and personally I can’t see how we could do better in the way of a son-in-law.”
Muriel was quietly possessing herself of the scissors, and with a reproachful look at her husband, she slipped them deftly back into the work-basket.
“No, I know all that,” she said; “but then I see it differently from you, and we shall never agree about it. But don’t let us discuss it, Jack; it only makes me cross, and I hate beginning the day cross, especially with you.”
“All right; no one wants to discuss it less than I do,” said the Commissioner, and he yawned widely and took hold of his wife by her chin. “But all I want you to be quite sure of,” he said, and he looked closely at her as he spoke, “is that Ann isn’t sitting in her room brooding, or pouring out her woes to Seymour on paper. To begin with, I don’t want the child to be unhappy; and also I don’t like to feel that he may be being made the recipient of all sorts of confidences that she ought naturally to pour out to her mother. See?”
“Yes, I see,” said Muriel Church, but she wriggled her chin away from her husband’s detaining fingers. Jack was such a bother to have started all this, just now, of all times. Just when she had a note already written to ask Lord Erskine to come to lunch on Saturday, and go on to the Races. But she was going to send it all the same—she would—Jack didn’t know.
Ishmael Khan squatted on the matted floor of the long verandah, his dark bearded face intent. He was polishing the buttons of Tony Seymour’s tunic. It was beginning to get a little dark, he could not see as well as he had done a quarter of an hour before, but he polished as if his life depended on it—no other sahib could be permitted to have buttons as highly polished as the buttons appertaining to his sahib, and to-morrow this especial tunic would be required—the General Sahib was coming in for an inspection. So Ishmael Khan, his large puggaree quivering a little from the vigour with which he plied the button-stick, sat absorbed in the work which to him at that moment assumed the importance of a council of war.
Outside, the compound lay in that soft quiescent stillness that in India always seems to herald the gentle stealing in of night: only in the tall plane tree that overhung the rather tumble-down thatched bungalow, a scattering of crows proclaimed with insistent and clamorous caws the fact that they were about to settle themselves for the night. Ishmael Khan did not like crows—they were the only living things within the precincts of Tony’s compound that dared to flaunt his omnipotence, and he resented it deeply. Had not one more arrogant than the rest actually hopped in to the sahib’s dressing-room and abstracted a gold stud from the little pin tray on which both always lay? It had been the night of the “burra khana” at the Mess, and Major Seymour had come in late from the Club, and had, therefore, dressed in a greater hurry than usual. He had missed his stud and had shouted impatiently for Ishmael Khan—it was not to be found, and he had had to depart for the “burra khana” with one of base metal, belonging to his servant, in his shirt. But Ishmael Khan, feeling his integrity at stake, had sworn vengeance, and the next day he had prepared dainty morsels of liver in which were cunningly concealed large quantities of rat poison. Somehow he felt quite sure that the delinquent was a crow, and he was right. Seated in the midst of a holocaust of crows the next evening the sweeper had made a searching dissection of each feathered carcase, and had at last been able to proclaim to Ishmael Khan, ensconced well out of range of possible contamination, that his gory quest had been rewarded! But that was long ago—since then an air-gun had been purchased, and a wire-netting screen fitted to Tony’s dressing-room window, so Ishmael Khan felt secure.
But now he raised his head from his work and looked searchingly out into the blurred darkness of the compound. The sahib was late. All was in readiness for him; had he not himself just soundly belaboured the Mahommedan cook—a relation of his own, forced by sheer terror into taking up the job—for removing the kettle from the little glowing cavern of charcoal where he himself had placed it? The kitchen lay—a little detached brick building—some way away from the bungalow, but Ishmael Khan ruled there—as he ruled everywhere in Tony Seymour’s establishment—supreme. All the servants hated him; he guarded Tony’s interest with a never-relaxing vigilance, and woe be to the wretched man whom he found out in any act of peculation. Even at the present moment the mali [Gardener]—released from the arduous labour of watching the water from the well filtering along the little irrigation channels that intersected the compound—sat in the middle of a sympathetic group bemoaning this hideous bondage.
“Even for this small fault did the hog prevail upon the sahib to cut me one rupee from the miserable pay that I receive,” he said, “and that only for the fact that of the seeds arriving from the Vilayat [England] one-half I gave to the mali of the General Sahib. What crime was that? And I only receiving five rupees for this act of generosity!” The mali drew deeply on the bubbling hookah set in the middle of the little crouching group, and swore heavily: “Cursed be all his female relations unto the third and fourth generations,” he said.
There was a little hum of approbation at this frank expression of resentment at obvious injustice. Ishmael Khan was a tyrant, and no one knew it better than the staff. But Ishmael Khan cared not one jot for the opinion of the staff; all he cared about was that Tony should be properly served, and as long as that object was obtained it mattered not to him how juggernaut a method he employed in the obtaining. So he sat now, his faithful dog-like eyes staring out into the darkness of the compound, waiting patiently for the return of the sahib; and when at last the sound of rapidly approaching horse’s hoofs broke on his straining ears, a wonderful smile of content dawned on his dark face.
“Behold, the lord sahib approaches!” he muttered into his beard.
Tony Seymour, very tall and bronzed in uniform, drew up his pony with a clatter of feet, flung the reins to the waiting syce, [Groom] and slipped out of the saddle. He walked to the pony’s head and spoke an affectionate word or two into her twitching ear, while she nuzzled her nose into his hand for the lump of sugar that she knew would be there. Tony laughed: he loved his horse; then, saying a word to the syce, he turned to run up the verandah steps. Ishmael Khan met him there:
“Hullo! Ishmael Khan,” Tony blinked a little—the lamplight was dazzling after the darkness. “Here, bring me my tea. . . . Oh, yes,” he took the big square envelope from the small brass tray that Ishmael Khan held. That always amused him intensely, the impressive way in which the Pathan handed him Ann’s letter. “Here, take my hat and hurry up with my tea,” he said, and flung himself into the long chair.
He had begun to look forward to Ann’s letters—they were so very much Ann!—and as he lay, and stretched, and yawned and yawned again—he had had a long and tiring day—he thought with pleasure of beginning to read it. But he would wait till old Ishmael Khan had brought tea—he looked at the envelope: Ann’s writing was rather pointed and small: not nearly so babyish as you would expect. Ah, here was Ishmael Khan. Tony poured himself out a cup of tea with relief, he was fearfully thirsty. Now then—he slit the envelope neatly across the top.
“My Darling Tony [Ann always spelt “darling” with a capital D.]
“It is just beginning to be evening, and I have one of those awful feelings that I must have you or die. I know I can’t, at any rate not yet, but I just feel at this moment that if I can’t just touch you or feel you somehow, I can’t go on living. But I know I have to, and I shall get over this feeling in a minute or two, when I have been writing to you a little while. It always comes on either in the early morning or evening, and then I always try to write to you, and then I feel better. Anyhow, I am not going to say anything more about it now.
“To-day we have had great fun. This morning Mummy and I went shopping in the Fort. There is to be a dance at Government House next month, and Mummy thinks I ought to have a new frock for it. You will think I need not have ordered it yet, but you don’t know how fearfully busy all the dressmakers are in Bombay. People dress so fearfully grandly. I don’t know how much this isn’t going to cost—something frightful! But it will be pretty—gold tissue (you won’t know what that is, darling Tony!) Then four people came to lunch—two women and two men. The women were rather dull, not exactly dull, but they talked much too much, but the men were nice—one was an assistant of Daddy’s, some one in the I.C.S., and one was an A.D.C. called Lord Erskine. He is a Viscount really or an Earl, I don’t quite know which, but anyhow he is nice, and has kind eyes, and he laughs a lot and has teeth rather like yours, only not so nice of course! Anyhow, we seem to see a good deal of him, sometimes he comes to tea, just drops in, you know, and sometimes Mummy asks him to dinner. Anyhow, to-day he came to lunch, and as it was Saturday we all went on to the Races afterwards. I simply adore the Races—they are the most madly exciting things I have ever been at. To-day Daddy gave me ten rupees of my own to bet with, and Lord Erskine and I shared in two races, five rupees each. It is a totalisator—you can’t put on less than ten rupees. I think it is such a lot. Anyhow some one told him two tips, and I let him choose, and we won, wasn’t it heavenly? And I got 42/8 for my 10/-, wasn’t it glorious? Then we had another bet, and I was in a fearful state because I thought we had lost, but it turned but—such a mercy—that Lord Erskine had only betted his own money. So after that I decided not to try any more, and as a matter of fact it was then nearly time to go, so we all went on to the Willingdon Club, and sat in a circle and had drinks. I think it is so odd, the way in India you always have drinks whether you are thirsty or not! I never want any, but every one tries to make me! Mummy always has one called Elsie May, and Daddy generally has a chota peg. Once I had something called milk punch, but I got a terrible feeling as if my eyes were swelling out of my head, so in the dark I poured the rest away in the grass (no one saw).
“Ayah keeps on pattering round me; she has been threading ribbons in my clothes (does it matter telling you that, darling angel, Tony?) If it wasn’t for ayah, I don’t think I could bear not having you. You know, after you had gone that awful night I couldn’t stop crying (Daddy and Mummy didn’t know, of course, only ayah), and she unrolled herself out of her funny padded quilt that she always goes to sleep in in my dressing-room, and she came across to the bed, and crouched down on the matting and said, ‘Ari baba (“ari” is a sort of exclamation, Daddy says), ari baba! Tell old ayah!” And I did. I told her that I loved you, and that I wanted you back so frightfully, and she made a sort of purring noise and said, ‘Such a beautiful sahib!’ And she stayed with me for about an hour, just sort of consoling me without saying anything, squeezing my feet every now and then, and now I feel that I simply love ayah. She understands—nobody else does—and I never, never speak of you to any one but her. I simply can’t, somehow, although Mummy and Daddy are awfully, awfully kind to me. I always feel that they don’t know what goes on in my soul. And I don’t want them to know about you, I want to keep it all to myself. Ayah understands partly and that will do till I can have you again.
“I have heard from Joyce—she simply loves Hariabad, and she is going on being engaged to Colonel Playfair after all! Doesn’t it seem odd when she was so uncertain on the boat? But now she seems quite certain; she says that he plays polo awfully well, and that he looks very nice in uniform, and that she doesn’t care for very young men, and that he has given her a glorious ring! Evidently he is very well off—did you know?
“Mummy and I were in the bazaar one day—shopping. I simply adore going there—such funny little shops crowded with things; and we bought glorious thick satin all embroidered with gold, for covering shoes. The native man who served us was so polite, he knew we were what they call ‘burra sahibs,’ [Important] because of the puttiwalla [Messenger] in scarlet, so he salaamed right down to the ground! (I love the way they do that!)
“This is enough about what happens here. I simply live for your letters: they generally come by the five o’clock postman and ayah meets him on the verandah and brings it to me and says, ‘From the Lord Sahib’ (she always calls you that), and salaams. And as I am always ready to go out by then I put it in my blouse or frock or whatever I have on, and all the time I am out I keep on feeling it, because I put it quite next to me (does it matter my telling you that?) You see I have to take it out with me because I shouldn’t have time to read it properly before I started, and I couldn’t bear to leave it at home. But when we come back, and I always pray we shall come early because then I shall have plenty of time, I get half-ready for dinner, and then lie on my bed and read it. And oh! You don’t know, you don’t know what your letters are to me—your letters and the string of coral beads! They just keep me alive, don’t you know, like you have to have water to drink or you will die—well they are like that to me.
“I must begin to dress for dinner. Ayah says, ‘Bath ready, baba,’ and so I really must go. But I don’t want to—this time, and the time between chota hazri and breakfast are the only times I seem to get alone with you. Please give my—what do I say?—salaams to Ishmael Khan. Somehow I love to think of his being with you. He is the sort of person whom you feel would never let any harm come to you; at any rate not until he was dead himself. O darling Tony, I must stop (ayah is rattling my evening shoes on the floor just in front of me) and I am for ever your very own (oh, how I wish I was really, instead of only half!).—Ann.”
Tony Seymour read to the end, a very tender smile playing round his mouth, then he looked up at his servant, standing motionless behind his chair.
“Ishmael Khan, the miss-sahib sends you her salaams,” he said.
“Huzoor!” Ishmael Khan bent almost to the ground, and his white teeth showed for an instant under his black moustache. “Bahut, [Many] bahut salaams.” He bent again and lifted both hands to his forehead.
“Well, take these things away, and then bring me out my writing-pad and things. No, clear these away first.”
As Ishmael Khan skilfully dismantled the table, Tony crossed both arms behind his head, and put his long legs up on the arms of the chair. So that was her game, was it? A Viscount! And Ann was young, and impressionable, and the whole of Bombay would be on the heels of the young man, or Tony did not know Indian society! And there would be a certain amount of gratification in wresting the quarry from the rest of the pack. . . . No, by Gad. Ann was his! . . . He got up abruptly.
“No, put the things on my writing-table, Ishmael Khan; I’m going to write inside,” he said; “and for heaven’s sake bring me a butti [Lamp] that will give some light.” Tony met his servant in the doorway. “I can’t think what you people do with these lamps,” he said irritably, and twisted the small projecting screw angrily.
Ishmael Khan stooped and adjusted the flame with experienced fingers. His sahib was perturbed—was there anything untoward in the miss-sahib’s letter? he wondered. No, for the salutation had been given with calmness. He shot a swift glance at Tony, salaamed deeply, and withdrew.
“Darling”—Tony shook his fountain pen over the blotting paper, and then swore silently at the shower of blots—“Darling, I am answering your letter more quickly than usual because to-morrow some old fool is coming to drag us out for the whole day. I am very glad you are having a good time, and very glad too that you are really trying to be happy, because that is what I want you to do. But when I say ‘happy’ it doesn’t mean that I want you to forget me; you won’t do that, will you? Ishmael Khan was no end bucked by your sending him your salaams; he is awfully funny always about your letter—always greets me with it when I come home from office, held out with the most frantic empressement on a tray.
“I am glad you were lucky at the Races, and I am glad, too, you had such an exalted escort! But I always think, too, that a man who would take an A.D.C.’s job must be a pretty average ass. It’s a job for an upper footman, that, running after the Governor’s lady to pick up her handkerchief when she drops it! However, no accounting for tastes!
“Nothing much happens here. I am fearfully busy: soldiering is not the easy job it was before the war. But I get plenty of riding and polo, and shooting when there is time for it, so I manage to enjoy myself fairly well. But I often think about those old days on the Carpathia—what fun we had, didn’t we, and you were a very sweet little girl to me always. It is a most extraordinary thing, the Fawsetts have turned up here—you will remember her, she had you and Miss Joyce very much on her mind! I was so pleased to see her—he is to be Deputy Commissioner here, so she is no end the ‘burra mem!’ But it brought it all back to me, very vividly, and I wished I could just pick you up in my arms as I used to do—do you remember?
“Yes, I knew Playfair had money of his own; he came into quite a decent income when his pater died two years ago, and he has a topping little house in Chester Square—his mother lives there now. And I am glad, too, that Miss Joyce has managed to make up her mind at last—when are they to be married?
“Well, I must stop, and send this to the post, or it will not catch the midnight mail. Write to me as much as you can because I look forward to your letters very much.”
Tony stamped and sealed this letter, and then shouted for his servant. Ishmael Khan rose from his crouching position on the mat outside—he had been watching Tony’s face as he wrote.
“Send this letter to the station at once,” he said.
“Accha, [Very well] sahib!” Ishmael Khan took the envelope with its clear rather feminine looking writing. Assuredly something was amiss with the miss-sahib; he would not entrust the letter to any slothful servant, capable at any moment of putting it into a drain to save further exertion. He glanced at Tony. “If the Huzoor wishes it I myself will place the chitti [Letter] in the mail,” he said.
“Oh, well . . .” Tony Seymour began to screw the top of his fountain pen on slowly. “Oh, well . . . yes, all right, perhaps you’d better, Ishmael Khan. It is rather important, as a matter of fact.”
But as the tall, dignified servant strode down the little flight of steps into the darkness of the compound Tony followed him with eyes that laughed a little.
“Beggar! . . . He knows that that letter’s for Ann, and that I’m in a bit of a stew!” he said.
Ann stood between the clumps of flaming canna and watched for the postman. In India a postman wore a red puggaree and khaki clothes and walked very slowly; at Home he always seemed in a hurry, and when you saw him coming down the road in his blue uniform all the gates behind him were banging to show how little time he had to stop and shut them properly. But here he strolled; and once Ann had seen a couple of them sitting down on the pavement with all the letters spread round them in a ring. Only sorting them probably . . . but still . . . fancy if a precious one—like the one she was waiting for now—blew down a drain! The thought was too awful!
Ann wandered down the narrow paths between the dripping flower-beds, the sun as it went down in a blaze of glory making her short hair shine. Mummy had never asked how it had come to be short—Ann had almost added that to her prayers as a special matter for thanksgiving—for what would she have said if she had asked? Mummy, of all people, would never have understood. Ann had heaved a sigh of heart-felt relief that it had passed unnoticed.
She sat down on a garden chair and looked dreamily around her. The malis were watering; here you had no little water channels like you had up-country: all the watering had to be done by hand, and the malis ran—each of them carrying a couple of kerosene oil tins full with water up to the top—their brown legs wet and shining from the water that slopped over. They seemed keen and interested in their work—perhaps they knew how the flowers were longing for their evening drink, like she longed for Tony’s letter, only she only got hers about twice a week, not every day like the flowers got their drink! She looked towards the gate again; the postman was late. But it was lovely and cool in the garden, and Ann loved the feeling of not having anything particular to do. Mummy was out—a committee meeting—but she had particularly wanted Ann to stay at home, so that she might be fresh for the dance at Government House that night.
Ann was looking forward to the dance. Her dress had come; it was lovely, filmy, and it glittered when you moved under the light. But what was the good of that when there would be nobody there who really mattered? If only she could count on being held in arms that held you till you felt that you would just simply die, with the joy of holding! But still—the dance had come, and that meant that one more of the six months of waiting was over: it was just a month since she had had Tony’s letter in answer to hers telling him about it. Somehow that letter had not been as nice as most of them; there had been something in it that made Ann feel that he wasn’t saying what he really wanted to. But she had dismissed it from her mind. He had been tired when he wrote. And she had answered quickly, pouring out all her simple love on paper. And in answer to that one of hers, had come back one just as dear and loving as usual from him. “It’s all right, darling, only I am a long way away, and when I hear of all the people hanging round you I realise that I might have been a good deal nicer to you on that old boat. But still, I do love you.” Ann had choked and held her throat when she had come to that bit—he had never said it before, she only realised it at that moment. Mummy had said that it was the man that usually said it, and Ann had flamed, and said that he did. But now she realised it, he didn’t, at least not till then . . . Oh, if only she could show her mother it in writing! But of course she couldn’t—that was sacred, between her lover and herself.
Ann began to think about her partners. She would have plenty, she knew that. Her programme was already more than half full. Lord Erskine had taken six to begin with! To Ann six seemed a good many, but he had been determined, so Ann had given way. And she had not felt that she could very easily refuse, because he had asked her when he was dining with them the night before. Ann had not known he was coming—she had found him with Daddy in the drawing-room when she ran in a little breathless, fearing she was late. He and Daddy both looked a little flustered—Ann wondered inwardly whether perhaps Lord Erskine had come on the wrong day! But then Mummy had come in and everything was all right at once—Mummy and Lord Erskine always got on. But when, rather earlier than usual, the big Government House car with its Crown at the back instead of the usual number, had slid round the oval lawn and disappeared out of the gate, its rear light winking like an arrogant red eye, Daddy had planted both feet on the glowing Persian carpet, and frowned at his wife (Ann had gone to bed).
“You know what Erskine came for?” he said.
“I can guess.” Muriel Church flicked a little of the ash from her cigarette into a big brass flower bowl, and smiled.
Mr. Church took both hands out of his pockets and put them back again.
“You’ve encouraged him, Muriel, and it’s not right of you. To thrust a man like Erskine, with his title and his money, and with half the girls in Bombay on his heels, in front of a child like Ann, is not playing the game to Seymour. He’s not here to look after her, and that being so, it’s up to us to do it for him. It’s not playing the game, Muriel. Hang it all, can’t you see it?” The Commissioner spoke irritably.
“I can see you frowning very crossly, and I don’t like it,” said Mrs. Church, and she got up and walked across to her husband. She put both hands on his shoulders and drew back a little. “I have never wanted Ann to be engaged to Major Seymour,” she said, “and I mean to do everything in my power to put a stop to it. If Ann finds that she likes Lord Erskine better than she does him, then let her marry him. Major Seymour will soon get over it.” Mrs. Church turned and walked back to her seat on the big flowered chesterfield. Jack really was maddening! Just when everything was going so well.
The Commissioner stared sombrely at his wife.
“I wish to goodness I’d told Erskine that Ann was already engaged,” he said; “I would have done so only I knew you’d make such a hell of a row. It’s beastly to let the man hang on and think he has a chance. I tell you I hate it: women have no conscience about this sort of thing.” Mr. Church fidgeted, and kicked the rug, and longed to swear.
But Mrs. Church lifted her head and spoke calmly.
“He won’t hang on,” she said. “He will propose to Ann at the dance to-morrow night. I know he will; and if you do anything to prevent it, I will never forgive you.”
But that conversation had all taken place the night before; now it was the night of the dance, and Ann was all dressed ready. Her letter had come; she had met the postman at the gate, and she had flown with it to her room and had read and re-read it until ayah had really got almost angry. “Ari baba, chalo!” [Be quick] she had said. But now she was actually ready, and as she walked into the drawing room where her parents sat waiting for dinner (Ann had had dinner early in her room) Mr. Church, looking at her from the corner of the chesterfield,longed to say something just to warn her. She looked so young and radiant; why should she be pitchforked into the midst of love affairs she didn’t want? But Mrs. Church was there, watchful, and alert.
“Darling, you look sweet!” She was settling Ann’s gown, with little touches here and there. “Mind you remember every little tiny thing that happens, to tell me to-morrow, won’t you?”
“Oh, I will!” Ann was wriggling into her evening coat. “Ayah says I look like a queen,” she said, and chuckled.
“Does she?” Muriel Church fastened the big button of the collar: how she would love to have said, “You can be a countess, if you like!” But Jack would be furious—besides, it sounded a little vulgar. So she only smiled rather mysteriously as she stooped to kiss Ann’s glowing face.
“Well, I don’t know about a queen,” she said, “but very wonderful things do happen in this world if we are properly prepared for them. Good-night, darling; enjoy yourself all you can.”
“Good-night, Mummy!” Ann returned her mother’s kiss with pleasure—Mummy always smelt so nice. “Good-night, Daddy.” Ann stood between her father’s knees: Daddy was rather frowning—did he not approve of the dance? She wondered.
But Mr. Church put one hand on the padded end of the couch, and heaved himself up.
“I’ll just see you safely into the car, Ann,” he said.
But Mrs. Church shot a swift glance at her husband. No. Jack was quite capable of—— She moved swiftly forward.
“We’ll both go,” she said, and she laughed lightly as she threaded her arm through her husband’s.
The big car stole silently down the long drive leading to Government House. In the daytime the view was heavenly, through tall trees right down to the sea, lying blue and still right up to the rocks. But to-night you could not see anything of the sea, only the long chain of lights stretching from Malabar Hill to Colaba—the Governor’s necklace, as it was called. Ann felt vaguely excited—it was the first time she had ever been to Government House alone; the air was warm and scented, the stars seen between the interlacing creepers overhead were so very bright and twinkly, and Government House was always more or less like a palace in a fairy story, with its spacious marble floors and tall Bodyguard Lancers. The Lancers were so very tall and motionless, and they looked so wonderful with their curled beards and scarlet uniforms. And their Excellencies reigned over it all just like a King and Queen in a fairy story, for he was very tall and good-looking, and she had golden hair, and very blue eyes. They were both very much attracted by Ann; she did not know it, but they were, and only that morning His Excellency, looking very ordinary and human in a pair of striped silk pyjamas, had spoken very seriously to Her Excellency as she sat up in bed having her chota hazri:
“Erskine’s making a fool of himself over that Church child,” he said, and he crushed out the glowing end of his cigarette in his saucer: it fizzed in the spilt tea, and went out.
Her Excellency buttered a piece of toast before replying. She had seen it too; but she was more democratic than His Excellency. And after all, Ann was a gentlewoman by birth, what more could you want? She said so quietly.
“Yes, that’s all very well, but John would rave!” (John was Lord Erskine’s father—the Duke of Faversham—and His Excellency’s own brother.) “He is set on Hugh marrying one of the Haytop girls; Hugh must marry money, he’ll have precious little of his own.”
“The Haytop girls are noisy and their teeth stick out,” said Her Excellency decisively.
“You can afford to have your teeth stick out when you have half a million in your own right,” said His Excellency dryly.
But that had all taken place early that morning; now it was evening, and they stood and greeted their guests, and His Excellency smiled no whit less kindly at Ann although his A.D.C. had already made three mistakes in reading out the names of the guests presented to him. Each visitor was provided with a card on which his or her name was written, and this card was passed along a line of A.D.C.’s until it reached the A.D.C. next to His Excellency, who said the name aloud, and then His Excellency stooped with a very kind smile and shook hands with you. At last it was Ann’s turn, and Lord Erskine was in such a state that if His Excellency had not known Ann very well by sight, he would not have gathered whom he was shaking hands with.
“How do you do?” said His Excellency, and he took Ann’s small gloved hand in his and held it very kindly.
“I am very well indeed, thank you, sir,” said Ann, and she smiled broadly up into the kind face above her.
“That’s right, that’s right.” His Excellency had no difficulty in controlling his face: he was accustomed to people doing odd things, and it was part of his business in life to prevent them from knowing they had done them. But Lord Erskine was in a frenzy—some one would overhear and laugh at Ann—why hadn’t her mother told her that you never spoke when you were shaken hands with, you only just bowed and passed on. And she was blocking the way; behind her stretched a queue of about a hundred people, some of those at the back were beginning to crane their heads round.
But Ann had begun to grasp that something was not quite right and she flushed a little painfully. What ought she to do next? What had the people in front of her done? She had not noticed. But His Excellency made up his mind swiftly.
“Take Miss Church out into the garden,” he said, and he touched his A.D.C. on the shoulder.
Lord Erskine could hardly believe his ears: this was too much luck; but he made a dive at Ann, and drew her out, through the wide marble verandah, down the scarlet carpeted stairs, out into the garden. Arrived there he mopped his forehead vigorously; above, the interrupted stream flowed on anew.
“I say, whatever made you go and block the way like that?” he said.
“Like what?” Ann was still feeling a little shattered. “Why . . . oughtn’t I to have stopped and said anything?” she asked.
Lord Erskine had begun to recover himself. It would be better not to let Ann know she had done anything out of the way, he concluded swiftly; it would be better to trust to luck that by the next time any other function of the kind was on foot she would have found out her mistake. And she looked perfectly heavenly. He choked.
“No . . . no . . . it was all perfectly all right,” he said.
Ann bent her small head and looked at her programme. She must have done something wrong, Lord Erskine’s voice was all croaky. But still, as she didn’t know what it was it was a pity to spoil the evening by wondering—she smiled at the boyish figure by her side.
“How nice you look in your uniform,” she said.
“Do I?” Lord Erskine clenched his hands. Should he say it now? Should he throw all prudence to the winds and risk everything straight off? He stared over Ann’s straw-coloured head.
But Ann had begun to speak again; she scanned her programme anxiously, the band had begun to play, it was a pity to waste any more time sitting about—she said so frankly.
“Very well, we’ll dance then.” Lord Erskine stuffed his programme into the pocket of his buff waistcoat, and he crooked his arm. “Come along,” he said.
Ann laughed till the little wreath of green leaves across her forehead shook merrily.
“But it isn’t your dance!” she said.
“It isn’t my dance? But it must be!” Lord Erskine searched the small gold-lettered strip of pasteboard with fierce, incredulous eyes. No . . . it wasn’t, curse it . . . but the next was, and the next, and the next after that. “All the rest are mine, then,” he said resolutely.
“Very well.” Ann felt that it was of no use to argue with some one so very determined; besides, nowadays every one had a dancing partner and kept to him. And she and Lord Erskine had already danced a good deal together at the Yacht Club; and none of her ordinary partners had yet made their appearance, not even the one whose dance it should be now. Probably things were different at Government House. She would dance with Lord Erskine to prevent any more of this heavenly fox-trot being wasted. She touched his arm.
“Let’s dance,” she said; “my partner hasn’t come.” Lord Erskine could have sung with joy and triumph. It was true, then—partly, at any rate, what Mrs. Church had said: Ann did like him . . . rather . . . not frightfully yet—Mrs. Church had said that he must go very warily—but a little . . . enough to go on with. He suddenly felt very elated; ever since the interview with Ann’s father the night before he had been cast down; Mr. Church had not been at all gushing, almost put out, hinting, so Lord Erskine thought, that his daughter’s affections were engaged elsewhere. But this had put it all right, Ann would never agree to dance with him all the evening if she had not cared for him a little. But Ann, pressed rather closely to the buff waistcoat, felt inclined to struggle in the possessive arms as they bore her triumphantly down the long polished floor. She hated being held so close; Lord Erskine was squeezing her; his rather large hand seemed to burn through the back of her frock. She was thankful when the dance came to an end. But Lord Erskine was trembling as they passed out into the garden again. Ann had felt like an elf in his arms; her golden head some way below his not too resolute chin, had flamed in front of him. He would try his luck . . . now . . . this very instant . . . he knew the very place. Only this very morning he and the old European butler had directed the setting up of the little bamboo sitting-out places.
But Ann was looking at a hurrying stream of people—they were all going somewhere—where? Ah, it would be to get some refreshments, and she was hungry too—she had had dinner early. “Let’s go and have something to eat too,” she said quickly.
Lord Erskine could have cried with disappointment. It was death to romance, to go and stuff with a herd of people in that crowded Durbar Hall. But he was obliged to fall in with Ann’s wishes, his duties as a deputy host demanded it. He followed her gloomily.
And Ann ate with healthy appetite. Everything was always so awfully nice at Government House, the sandwiches made of such delicious expensive-tasting stuff. Stuff like they had had at the end of the lunch at the Casino Palace Hotel, it had begun with a P— more Ann could not remember. But Lord Erskine ate nothing; she questioned him anxiously.
“Oh, I’ve been gorging on and off, more or less, the whole day,” replied the noble Viscount morosely. Ann took such an age, why couldn’t she have done with it? They could easily come back again when everything was fixed up. And he himself wouldn’t have been averse to a small peg—but you couldn’t propose to a girl, stinking of whisky. He stared hopelessly in front of him.
But Ann had finished. She picked a crumb carefully off her white neck, and shook herself like some soft bird preening. “I’m ready now,” she said.
Were the words prophetic? Lord Erskine took them as such and led the way with a rush. “No, not that way; that takes us back. This way,” he said, and he took hold of Ann’s arm with determination. He was not going to be put off any longer. He did not hesitate until they stood at the narrow opening of a small dark arbour. “Here we are,” he said. “Now we’ll go inside and sit down.”
“In there?” Ann peeped in with curiosity. “Why, it’s pitch dark!” she said.
“All the better.” Lord Erskine took hold of both Ann’s elbows and put her not too gently in a low chair; then he fell on his knees beside her. “I love you!” he said, and he groped for her hand.
Ann’s soft body went suddenly rigid. Was this a joke? Was it the sort of thing people did at dances? She could feel Lord Erskine’s hand fumbling among the folds of her skirt. It was frightful. What would Tony say? Her mind fled to her lover—he had said from the very beginning that any one who could be an A.D.C. was always an ass. What would he say now, if he could see her like this? She stood up.
“I don’t like that sort of joke,” she said stiffly.
“But it isn’t a joke!” Lord Erskine stammered—he had put it stupidly. “I love you, and I want you to be my wife,” he said. “Oh, do say you will be, Ann!” He had found her hand and was holding it to his lips.
“But I don’t want to be your wife!” Ann wrenched her hand away, and was rubbing it frantically up and down the arm of the padded chair. It was all wet where his mouth had touched it . . . how awful. . . . why couldn’t she say that she belonged to Tony? This might happen at any time. “What made you think that I wanted to be your wife?” she said.
“Nothing made me think it, only I wanted it so much myself that I tried to think you might too.” Lord Erskine was trying to pull himself together; there was no mistaking the genuineness of Ann’s indifference—why had he allowed himself to be so misled by the cordiality of her mother? He turned from the thought . . . he wasn’t so much of a catch as all that.
“But because you want it so much it doesn’t mean that I do too.” But Ann spoke rather less vehemently; after all it was a compliment for any one to want you for his wife. But whatever was she going to do now! She couldn’t do what she would like to have done, namely, bolt out of the arbour and rush back into the light somewhere. She must try to soothe Lord Erskine down, and then they could go back quite ordinarily together and start dancing again. “Thank you so much for wanting me for your wife,” she said gently, “but you see I don’t want to be, and so it wouldn’t really be a success if I was. But I am perfectly certain that there are simply loads of people who would simply jump at the idea—don’t you think there are?” Ann looked rather piteously through the blurred darkness: Lord Erskine was so silent. How perfectly awful this was all being.
“I haven’t the ghost of an idea, and I am sure I don’t care if there are.” Lord Erskine spoke in a growling monotone. “Come on, let’s get along back,” he said, and led the way stolidly into the light. Ann followed him with relief in her heart; now then they could get on with the evening—after all a dance was a dance, and so far this one hadn’t been much of a success in that way.
But Lord Erskine had been harder hit than he allowed to be made apparent, and when he had got Ann back into the middle of the brilliantly lighted gardens he deposited her in a chair and went in search of some one to take her off his hands. After all, he meditated savagely as he raked the crowded chairs with gloomy eyes, there was a limit to what a fellow could be expected to put up with. He wasn’t going to dance with Ann all the evening, getting keener and keener. But when he returned a few minutes later bearing with him a brother A.D.C. whom he had ruthlessly dragged away from what promised to be a very pleasing flirtation with a young married woman, he found Ann the centre of a seething mob of young men. Miss Church appropriated by the Viscount A.D.C. was one thing, Miss Church sitting alone obviously in need of a knight was another!
Ann had a glorious evening.
Breakfast in the Church’s household was always a delicious meal. To begin with, not having it until a quarter to ten meant that there was never the faintest need to hurry to get ready for it. So you had your chota hazri at seven, and then just pottered about, writing and sewing, until it was time for your bath, and having had that you dressed as leisurely as you liked and then just sauntered into the dining room. And that was always beautifully full of flowers, and the table always glittering with silver, and looking, in spite of the perfection of everything, so absolutely homey with its willow-pattern china. So Ann loved breakfast.
But the morning after the dance she slept late, and ayah, looking tenderly through the white net, decided not to wake her darling for chota hazri. So it was a very healthily hungry Ann that ran into the dining room a few moments later than usual.
“Good-morning, Mummy and Daddy!” She kissed both her parents in turn. Both looked very nice, Daddy in a freshly-washed and ironed tussore silk suit, Mummy in striped wash silk, with a scarlet patent leather belt. Ann always felt secretly very proud of her parents.
“Good-morning, darling.” Mrs. Church was busying herself with the coffee-pot; Ann always loved the coffee, it was fragrant and beautifully made, and there was always heaps of milk. “Well, how did you enjoy yourself?” She set the coffee-pot down carefully as she spoke.
“Oh, I loved it!” Ann was looking hungrily round the table. How nice it all looked, and there was going to be curry: Ann saw the spoons. “I simply loved it, and I didn’t get home until half-past two!”
“Dissipated little wretch.” Daddy was laughing, showing his square solid teeth; he was enormously relieved to see Ann looking so care-free.
“Well, tell us all about it.” Mrs. Church had unrolled her table napkin, and was spreading it over her knees; she spoke without looking at Ann.
“Well. . .” Ann gave a swift glance round the room. No, this wasn’t quite the moment to relate the really exciting incident of the evening. John, the head butler, could understand English, and he was handing round. “Well, I danced all the dances except one,” she said, “and it all looked heavenly, like the Arabian Nights. All the trees were covered with tiny little coloured electric lights. I should simply have adored Joyce to have seen it.”
“Oh, I am glad. Whom did you dance with most?” asked Mrs. Church.
“Oh—” This was the moment. Ann glanced round the room again; yes, both the servants had gone out to fetch the next course. “Well, I was supposed to have danced most with Lord Erskine,” she said, “but he spoilt it all by asking me to marry him at the very beginning, and so that made it very awkward, so when he went away—I think he was a little upset, don’t you know, it would be very frightful to suddenly ask a person to marry you and think they would, and then find they didn’t want to—I had to sit alone for a bit, and then they all came round in a surging crowd” (Ann chuckled delightedly at the recollection) “and I had a heavenly time!”
There was a tense silence: John had come back. Muriel Church’s hand trembled as she helped herself to curry. Daddy took much more chutney than he really needed, and felt a mad inclination to laugh. Ann helped herself cheerfully to both curry and rice—Mrs. Church had mechanically waved away the second dish—and took two of the crackly popadums. She loved those, they were rather like ginger snaps only not gingery. She took one up, and opened her mouth to bite—then meeting her mother’s eyes, she laid it down again.
“Mummy, what is it?” she said.
Mrs. Church glanced at her husband; he made a peremptory motion with his hand, and the two servants left the room. Mrs. Church leaned forward.
“What did you say that you said to Lord Erskine when he asked you to marry him, Ann?”
Ann’s lips suddenly went dry. Why did her mother look at her like that? Why did Daddy tip back his chair and drum on the table with his spoon? She swallowed twice before replying.
“I said that I didn’t want to,” she said, and wondered why it was so difficult to say it.
Mrs. Church got up and her mouth went in the thin line that Ann had learned to dislike. She laid down her table napkin.
“You are impossible,” she said.
Ann’s eyes flew wide. She shot a terrified glance at her father; why was she impossible? What had she done? “Daddy! . . .” She dropped her spoon and fork and pushed her chair back from the table. “Daddy!” She fled to her father like a child, and buried her face in his coat.
Mr. Church looked at his wife. This was becoming beyond a joke, this mad desire to separate Ann and Seymour. He stooped and patted Ann’s cropped head kindly.
“It’s all right, Ann,” he said; “your mother does not mean what she says. Get up and go on with your breakfast.”
But Ann was crying tumultuously, and her throat was swelling with things she wanted to say. Why was there this awful feeling about her engagement? Why was Mummy angry because she had refused Lord Erskine? What else could she do when she loved somebody else? She dragged her handkerchief out of her sleeve and flung up her head.
“You all hate my loving Major Seymour,” she cried, “and I want to know why it is? Other girls love people, and their mothers and fathers don’t mind. Joyce loves Colonel Playfair, and Aunt Marian and Uncle Frank are quite glad. Why is it only me that is so wretched, and so . . . so sort of outcast?” Ann faced her mother, the tears rolling out of her wide-open eyes.
Mr. Church cleared his throat and shot a glance at his wife. If Muriel was wise she would make a clean breast of the whole thing now. Ann was young, but she was not a child, and it could so easily be done. “Darling, it makes me feel so old. . . . Major Seymour and I were once very great friends . . .” Ann would be certain to hear the story of her mother’s flirtation with her lover before very long. Mr. Church suddenly felt uneasily convinced of that, India was such a ghastly place for gossip; and she wouldn’t hear it any the less mildly when it did come to her ears, he also felt uncomfortably certain on that point. So this was really Muriel’s chance to do the right thing if she only would see it that way. He looked almost imploringly at his wife.
But Mrs. Church was conscious of her husband’s desire, and she was determined not to gratify it; besides, what could she say? You can’t very well say to your own child that the only reason that you don’t want her to marry the man she loves is that that man was once in love with you, and that you still wish he was because the fact of his not being means that you have lost your youth. So she only pushed her chair back from the table and looked coldly at Ann.
“I decline to discuss the matter at all,” she said, and left the room.
Ann flagged. Nothing very serious, but in India, especially in a climate like Bombay, you cannot flag mentally without flagging physically. And Ann was very unhappy, she was labouring under a deep sense of injustice, and when you are young there is nothing harder to bear than injustice, especially when it concerns a matter very near to your heart. So Ann flagged, and she fluttered away into solitude like a bird with a broken wing, and she spent long hours either writing to her lover or sitting with her head on ayah’s skinny shoulder. Mauri loved squatting on the floor starring into nothingness, and Ann grew to love it too, and although loyalty forbade her to tell the old servant anything of what had transpired, she derived intense comfort from ayah’s unspoken sympathy. Somehow she felt that ayah knew—and she was not far wrong in so thinking, for had not John, the butler, discussed it freely in the kitchen, how that the mem-sahib had spoken “bahut ghussa bat” [Very angry words] to the miss-sahib, and how the miss-sahib had fled weeping to the sahib? And that it concerned a Lord Sahib—John thought the Lord Sahib who used to come so frequently to the bungalow, for now had he not ceased to come entirely? And was not that sure proof? John, having always taken “naukri” [Service] in exalted circles, rather regretted the disappearance of the Lord Sahib (there is no surer snob than the native servant), but ayah was emphatic in her denunciation of this paltry sentiment. It was the absent Major Sahib who was the Lord Sahib, so she maintained stoutly in the face of much opposition. But Ann flagged, and one morning when Mr. and Mrs. Church sat at the flower-laden breakfast table, it was ayah who trotted into the room instead of the usual short-haired print-frocked figure.
“Miss-sahib gotted fever,” she announced tersely.
“Tut, tut!” The Commissioner was perturbed—he never felt really happy about Ann. “How’s that? How’s she got fever, eh, Muriel?” He looked across at his wife.
“I don’t know at all.” Mrs. Church went on eating. “I’ll come along in half a minute, ayah; go back and tell the miss-sahib that mem-sahib will come when she’s finished her breakfast, and that she’s to stay in bed.”
Mr. Church laid down his table napkin and got up. “I’ll just have a look at the child, and then if there’s anything really amiss I’ll call in and send Hamilton along as I go to the office,” he said as he walked out of the room.
Mrs. Church let him go—Jack was splendid when you were ill. She herself never really felt quite at ease in a sick room; but it would be all right, probably Ann only had a touch of malaria, it was very much about just now.
But Mr. Church came back with a grave face—Ann had a temperature of a hundred and two; he would fetch Hamilton at once. He did not say that she had clung feverishly to his neck, and sobbed and sobbed again, “Daddy, I am so wretched, so frightfully, frightfully wretched . . . if it wasn’t for leaving you and Tony, I should be glad, glad to die, really, really I should.” It would upset Muriel to hear that, and he hated her being upset.
But Mrs. Church herself felt a pang of compunction when a minute or two later she saw the small tear-stained face lying so still on the big hem-stitched pillowcase. And she was relieved when the tall cheery I.M.S. doctor walked quietly into the room, followed by her husband: now it would be all right. Muriel Church hated feeling bothered or uncertain about anything.
But Major Hamilton meant to see Ann alone. He knew a certain amount about her affairs already, but he wanted to be quite sure first. He nodded a quiet dismissal to the two parents, and sat down on the end of Anns’ narrow white bed.
“Not very happy? Is that it?” He patted the small hot hand very kindly.
Ann burst into a storm of tears. Major Hamilton waited until the first violence had passed, and then talked to her soothingly. Nice little girls like her did not die, they went away to delicious cool places, and had delightful holidays, and saw new things, and then they came back quite fit and well again. And that was what was going to happen to her.
“But they don’t come back at once, do they?” Ann’s eyes were fixed on Major Hamilton’s.
“No, not until they want to.”
Major Hamilton was now quite sure that his diagnosis was correct, and he went away to discuss things with Ann’s parents. She was run down, and must get away from Bombay for a time. Of course for a couple of days he would watch her in case any other symptoms manifested themselves, but he felt perfectly sure that they wouldn’t. All that was amiss with Ann was a touch of malaria, brought on probably by the unaccustomed gaiety of a place like Bombay. “Send her somewhere quiet, that’s all that’s necessary, somewhere where she won’t dance the soles off her shoes every night of her life,” said Major Hamilton, and went off back to his wife with a clear conscience. For Mrs. Hamilton had spoken firmly to her husband as he burrowed in a cupboard for his stethoscope: she had followed him in from the verandah where Mr. Church was standing waiting. “Harry, Nannie says that Ann Church is wretchedly unhappy. She had some love affair on board coming out, and Mrs. Church is frightfully annoyed about it, because she won’t look at Lord Erskine. Her ayah says she cries the whole time. Do send her away somewhere.” And Major Hamilton had chucked his wife under the chin, and had muttered something about servants’ gossip, and jumping into the car beside Mr. Church had discoursed learnedly about the anopheles mosquito all the way to the bungalow. But his keen eyes had soon discerned that his wife was perfectly right; and so it was settled that Ann should go away.
But where? That was the point. Mr. and Mrs. Church had a long confabulation that evening sitting in the beautiful dimly lighted drawing-room, side by side on the big chesterfield. It was so difficult to think of a quiet place where there would be accommodation for Ann—did Jack think that she ought to cancel all her engagements and take Ann to Matheran herself? asked Mrs. Church, with her heart in her mouth lest Jack should say “yes.” But Jack did not think that would do at all; he knew in his heart that the very best thing for Ann was to get away from her mother for a time, and although he did not say so in so many words Mrs. Church knew that he thought it, and for a moment felt ashamed.
“But where can she go then?” she asked, and looked hopelessly at her husband.
And then Mr. Church had a sudden brilliant inspiration.
“Those awfully nice people that we met at Poona last rains, you know—he was retiring from the Forests and was going to start farming near Manitor.” Mr. Church was tapping his head, trying to recall the name. “You know, Muriel, something beginning with M. And they said they’d love to put us up if we were ever down their way. Can’t you remember the name? Don’t you know, he said he was going to hang on a bit out here until exchange went up? They’d have Ann like a shot.”
“But we must remember the name before we ask them!” Mrs. Church began to laugh: it was a tremendous relief to her mind that she would not be required to share Ann’s exile. She leaned back and shut her eyes.
“Mitchell,” she announced after a minute’s solid thinking.
“That’s it! Well done, you!” Mr. Church was as pleased as a boy over his brilliant idea. “I’ll write at once; then we shall hear in time to pack Ann off directly she’s well enough to travel.” He heaved himself out of the corner of the sofa, and went off to his little office room.
“Oh, dear, I’m glad I’m not going,” thought Mrs. Church, remembering Mrs. Mitchell’s neat grey hair, and rather bunchy skirts.
But a week later, Ann, up for the first time, and feeling very shaky as to the knees, heard the news with unfeigned rapture. Mrs. Church had just left the room carrying the kind letter with her.
“Ayah! You and I by ourselves! Won’t it be too heavenly!” she cried, and clasped the old woman tightly round the neck.
But Mauri disentangled herself with dignity: this was not seemly, caresses from her miss-sahib!
“Ari baba!” she said, and adjusted her sari with an air of detachment.
But that night as the Punjab Mail plunged and roared its way northward it carried with it a hastily scribbled letter from Ann. Tony read it two days later lying in his long chair, Ishmael Khan solicitously at his knees unfastening his boots.
“Darling, Ayah and I are going away. I am so frightfully, frightfully glad. I am quite better again, but ever since—you know what I told you about—I have been so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy, that I am very glad to go away from here for a bit. My address will be ‘Pine Trees,’ Falkote, near Manitor—doesn’t it sound sort of cool and lovely? We start to-morrow night. Oh, darling Tony . . .”
Tony Seymour read to the end, then getting up in his stockinged feet he walked to the bookcase. Manitor, yes, there it was, and Falkote—about twenty miles to the north of it. He sat down again in his long chair, the small fat reference atlas still in his hand. Church must be up in all the latest news in a place like Bombay—probably it was only bazaar “gup,” the rather disturbing rumours that had penetrated even as far as Warinagar. Anyhow, Ann had started long ago, no good to worry over it now. He got up and put the atlas back in its place.
It was cold with the delicious early morning cold of mid-February when Ann let down the wooden shutter of the window and looked out. She and ayah had been travelling all night, and ayah had insisted on Ann putting her rug and woolly sweater at the foot of her berth, when, sticky and hot the night before, she had settled off for the night. “Ayah, I shan’t want it!” Ann had protested as she curled herself up under the thinnest of sheets in the thinnest of nightdresses. But ayah had been firm, and now, as Ann hugged the rug up to her chin, and felt gratefully the cosy warmth of the woolly sleeves, she admitted to herself that ayah had been right.
It was the first time that Ann had made a railway journey in India, and she was vastly entertained with it all. To begin with, the carriage was quite a different shape, it went longways, and there were two long padded leather seats running along either side and two more looped up to the ceiling. The two looped up to the ceiling would be for use when there were four people in the carriage, Ann concluded. But they did not want them, for Ann and ayah were travelling in luxury, a compartment to themselves, and a chuprassie in the servants’ carriage next door. Daddy had seen them off, and the General Traffic Manager of the railway had actually been there too; he happened to be a personal friend of Daddy’s, so everything had been just as it should be, and they had had a huge lump of ice in the enamel travelling basin, and six bottles of soda water stacked round it. Ayah had thoroughly enjoyed the soda water: she had filled her aluminium tumbler up to the top with it, and wrinkled her brown nose at the gassy bubbles. And they had needed the ice, for it had been steaming hot under the glazed roof of the big terminus, and all the fans had been whirring their hardest, when the powerful engine with the long mail train behind it had drawn out slowly from between the two platforms. Ann had hung out of the window feeling very desolate, and had watched Daddy until he became only a tiny speck in the distance, but she had been able to see quite plainly that he had turned almost at once, and had walked away with Mr. Hill, talking cheerfully all the time. It was what she had always known—she was not really wanted. . . . She had sat down with a big lump in her throat. But the newness of everything had soon restored her equanimity, everything was so extraordinarily different from anything she had ever seen before. The little wayside stations with their funny gravelly platforms, and the crowds of vividly dressed natives standing about on them—the women, in wonderful swinging accordion-pleated skirts, faces hidden behind a brilliant “chuddah”—men in gay coats and huge puggarees. And then more men, weird-looking ones these—dressed in enveloping saffron-coloured robes, their heads and faces covered with ashes. Ann called ayah’s attention excitedly to these latest, but ayah got up from her seat on the mat in the middle of the floor, and reaching across Ann drew up the shutter with a determined hand. “Bahut kharab,” [Very bad] she muttered, and when Ann asked why, she only shook her head and returned no answer. And then there were more men; these wore long white coats, and huge baggy trousers, and they reminded Ann of Ishmael Khan, so much that she turned away her head and did not look out any more. But then there was the interest of having very nice meals brought along to the carriage from the dining-car; the chuprassie, very imposing in his scarlet coat, and gold and scarlet puggaree, shepherded the Goanese waiter along to the right carriage; and ayah had large plates of curry and rice, and overflowing cups of tea; and Ann had omelettes, and roast chicken, and tea, when it was time for tea. Ayah ate her meals in a distant corner of the compartment, her back turned respectfully to Ann, for Mauri knew her place, and although she tyrannised unmercifully over Ann she knew that it was not the thing to eat openly in the presence of her “miss-sahib.” So mistress and maid ate solemnly together in dead silence, not even looking at one another, and Ann thought how odd it was, and how difficult it would be to make people at Home understand it.
But now they were drawing to their journey’s end, and it was the early morning, and very nearly time to get up. Falkote, their station, was to be reached at nine; now it was half-past seven, and the next stop would be for chota hazri, Ann concluded; so ayah must really be roused. She put out a bare foot and stirred the scarlet cocoon on the floor beside her: ayah spent all night entirely enveloped in a red eiderdown quilt; Ann could never look at it without wanting to laugh!
The cocoon unrolled itself slowly, and a brown wrinkled face emerged.
“Ari baba, kaisa tandar hai!” [Oh, baba, how cold it is] Ayah groaned and disappeared again.
Ann showed her small white teeth and laughed. Ayah would be certain to loathe the cold; after the warm mugginess of Bombay she would feel it specially. But she herself simply revelled in it; it made her feel a different creature, sort of tightened up all over. But ayah was old, she would give her another ten minutes.
She leaned out and snuffed in the cool crisp air with rapture. The train was tearing along through jungle, dark impenetrable jungle on either side of them, dark with sudden flashes of daylight cutting through it. The trees were huge, not the mast-like palm tree of Bombay, but huge spreading leafy trees, with loops and cascades of giant creepers hanging from their overspreading boughs. It was much more like the India that Ann had always imagined, the India of wild animals and fierce marauding natives. How awful to be lost in a jungle like that, she thought, and she shuddered and drew back. But then she started forward again eagerly: there went a lovely gleaming bird, heavenly, with green and blue wings—surely she had seen one once like that on a hat? And there was a flock of screaming, chattering parrots—how perfectly hideous it was to kill birds or shut them up in cages. Ann made a sudden swift resolution that she would from that moment do all she could to stop both these unnatural cruelties. And then while she was thinking this, the train swept through a narrow cutting, and lo and behold they were out and away on a spidery, quivery viaduct, high above the bed of a vast river. Ann looked down through the jangling girders with her heart in her mouth; surely it couldn’t be safe? Far, far below lay the shining stretch of sand, not by any means all covered with water, only in places intersected with deep blue pools, and under the bank they were fast approaching rushed a furious blue-black torrent looking as if it must carry with it the trees that stooped their tall heads almost to its level. But there would be crocodiles in the pools. . . . Ann looked down at them and wondered, shivering horribly. She had read quite lately in the paper of a large alligator that had been killed and had been found full of gold and silver bangles. . . . So she was glad when they left the jangling causeway far behind them, and fled through more gentle country; here were patches of beautiful green cultivation, interspersed with shorter, scrubbier undergrowth, and Ann could hear, as the train began to slacken speed, the resounding melancholy cry of the man at the well. She always loved that; she had seen it in the country districts just outside Bombay, when Daddy had taken her and Mummy for a drive—the reluctantly backing oxen, the splash of the big leather “mussack” as it fell behind them into the dark echoing abyss, the weird musical howl of the man at the heads of the oxen. But here they were, the train was sliding in to a tiny platform of beaten earth.
“Ayah, this is the station for chota hazri; wake up.” Ann jogged ayah with a forcible foot.
“Ari! . . .” The joyful words “chota hazri” roused ayah; she scrambled up, settled her disordered sari neatly over her head, and hung out of the window. “Thik hai, ata hai.” [Good, it’s coming] She took the tray from the advancing servant, and laid it down on the wide seat.
As Ann crunched the hard toast and sipped the boiling tea—she had first given ayah hers, filling the old woman’s cup half up with sugar—she looked out. The gravelly platform was strewn with natives—all had their heads tied up—because they were cold, Ann concluded. They sat in groups, and round about the groups prowled lean and hungry-looking dogs. Every now and then some one would throw them a scrap of food, and then they would snarl and fight horribly among themselves. It was dreadful to see any animal so ravenous, thought Ann uncomfortably; India was a horrible place for animals anyhow; nobody but English people cared about them, and there were so many animals and so few English. Ann had seen more cruelty in her short sojourn in India than she had seen in the whole of her life. She turned to look up the platform—a tall native was having a bath under a tap; how cold he must be, thought Ann, as she watched his copper-coloured back gleaming and shining under the vigorous sluishings from the standard pipe. From his waist downward he was wrapped in a white dhotie,[Native garment, like loose trousers] which was soaked and clinging to him; then suddenly it was replaced by a dry one—like a conjuring trick, thought Ann, vastly entertained, as he had never seemed to take anything off! Fancy at Home, say at East Croydon, standing on the platform under a tap having a bath! But how many other things they did that were odd—and some were beautiful too. Last night, for instance, when they stopped at a little wayside station just like this to water the engine, just as the twilight was stealing in over everything, a little company of the Faithful, each with his prayer carpet, bowed, his face turned to the west. Fancy at Home, if you knelt down in the road, some one would take you up, or at any rate think you were mad! And here, not even one of the natives standing round about stopped to look. No, there were things in India that were beautiful, these sorts of things, and the feeling there was that over everything brooded an eternal mystery.
But ayah had finished her tea; she looked at Ann reproachfully.
“Ari, baba, chalo!” she said, and she began to bustle about the carriage and to get Ann’s things out of her trunk. A grey flannel skirt, grey knitted jumper, and white Hawkes topi, these she carried into the bathroom, and then came back and took Ann’s cup from her. “Chalo, baba,” she said again, and began to roll up a rug.
“Directly you’re ready, I’ve got to be, I suppose.” Ann laughed good-temperedly as she got off her berth—ayah was a fearful martinet, but she loved her dearly all the same; somehow she always felt nearer to Tony when ayah was about. She shut herself into the bathroom and began to sing as she dressed.
When she emerged, twenty minutes later, everything was tidy. Ayah had got hold of the chuprassie, and all the bedding had been neatly rolled up and put into the holdalls, only a very beloved little bag of ayah’s remained out. When ayah travelled this bag was her inseparable companion; it contained all sorts of things. Ann was never very clear as to what they were, but one of them, anyhow, must have been cloves, because Ann could never see it without getting a whiff of something that always carried her back to Sundays with Grannie, when they nearly always had apple pie for lunch. Grannie—how long ago that all seemed!—Ann, setting her topi on her cropped head, sat down and began to think about it. She had been happy, very happy, not a sort of living happy like she was now, but a sort of placid, equable happy, everything just about the same.
But this was better; it was better to have moments of flaming rapturous happiness, like she had when Tony was there, than to always live in a state of just enjoying everything about the same. And she very much hoped that this holiday that was coming would be like that, just times of heavenly joy when his letters came, and all the rest just quiet, and peaceful, thinking about him all the time. . . . Oh, how very much Ann hoped that it would be like that!
And as the train slackened speed, and slid slowly into the platform of the small station, and as Ann hung out of her carriage and saw just ahead of her a tall man in gaiters and a Norfolk coat, with a couple of spaniels fawning round his heels, how very much Ann hoped, too, that it would be Mr. Mitchell.
And it was Mr. Mitchell, the jolly man with the cocker spaniels, and Ann took to him instantly. He welcomed her just as her father would have done, shook hands with her again and again, and only laughed and shouted cheerfully when the spaniels stood on their hind legs, and rent the air with wild barkings. “They’re just about as glad to see your father’s daughter as I am,” he said, and leading the way outside the station he hoisted her into the waiting buggy with a final squeeze of her hand. The luggage was to follow in a tonga, and Mr. Mitchell stood and watched it loaded, ayah settling herself in the middle of it, one hand clinging firmly to her little bag, the other holding on tightly to Ann’s flowered hatbox.
“We have a long drive before us to the bungalow, five miles or so.” Mr. Mitchell put a brown-booted foot on to the iron step, and taking the reins from the syce, swung himself up into the seat beside Ann. “But the tonga with the old lady on board won’t be far behind us; some of these tonga ponies are fast little beasts; get up, old girl.” He shook the reins affectionately, and spoke cheerily to the pony. “Show us what you can do in the way of getting us home to breakfast.”
They rattled down the dusty road, Ann breathing in the cold air with rapture. It all felt almost like home, it almost looked like home, too, only the occasionally overtaken buffaloes, and the little grass huts in the field reminded one that it was the East. Polly tore, just like an English pony, and there were no dreadful goadings and lashings necessary to spur her onward; Mr. Mitchell just chirruped once or twice, and she shook her head and plunged on with renewed energy. Ann loved the drive, and she looked at the scenery with intense interest: it was all so green, and the trees were so thick and far away in the distance she could see a range of low misty hills: what were they, she wondered, asking her host.
“They’re the Maya Hills, a long way from here, and a good thing, because they’re infested with ‘budmashes.’ [Rascals] Mr. Mitchell laughed cheerfully as he spoke, and looked down at Ann. “As a matter of fact, they’re not bad fellows, really, but when once they get going they don’t know when to stop, and all this non-co-operation tomfoolery isn’t good hearing for them. But I think we’ve got them cold; they started getting excited the other day, and we rounded up a few and showed ’em that the Raj isn’t the tame cat they thought it was, so we haven’t heard any more of them since. That’s the way to treat them,” Mr. Mitchell laughed cheerfully again.
“Oh, was that what Daddy meant when he said to Mummy that he wondered if it was all right my coming here?” Ann was interested; she had heard her father saying something about there having been trouble in the South, and Mummy had laughed, and said that there was always trouble somewhere, and that if you stopped at home for that you would never go anywhere in India.
“Yes, that will be it.” Mr. Mitchell lifted his whip, and pointed out a low rambling bungalow half hidden in the trees. “That’s our nearest neighbour,” he said, “a man called Ridgeway. He’s got a wife coming out next month, and my wife’s vastly looking forward to it, some one to talk to, don’t you know.”
“Oh, I say,” Ann looked at the red tiled roof with interest. “I wonder what she’ll think of it,” she said; “some people don’t like being quiet. I do, I simply adore it, but then, in India there never seems any opportunity to be quiet. I expect you’ve got a club in Falkote, haven’t you?” she said, hoping desperately that Mr. Mitchell would say that there wasn’t one, and feeling sure at the same time that anything so nice couldn’t happen.
“Club!” Mr. Mitchell almost fell off the seat, he laughed so. “Club! Why, Miss Ann, you little know what you’ve let yourself in for! Why, we very often don’t see a soul but ourselves for weeks at a time. Eh, Polly, steady, old girl!” for the pony, at the sound of laughter, flourished her heels and began to gallop, and they shot in between a couple of gate posts, and rattled up a wide leafy drive towards a low thatched bungalow, the buggy swaying from side to side as they went.
When Ann saw her hostess she felt that her cup of joy was quite full. Mrs. Mitchell got up from her low wicker chair on the verandah, a little, rather dowdily dressed woman with grey hair; but she took Ann’s face between her hands and kissed it with real affection. “Why, what a pale little girl,” she said, and she said it as if she really minded. “Why, Arthur, we can’t allow pale faces like that, can we?” And there was something in Mrs. Mitchell’s voice that made Ann feel as if she would like to cry with joy. Here would be rest and quiet, no rushing about from one club to another, and people talking about other people, about what they did and said, and about the clothes they wore, and what they cost. Here were people who thought the things that mattered were the things that you had been brought up to think did matter, things like loving people and being kind and charitable, and helping people if they were unhappy, even if they weren’t as gently born as you were. So Ann’s throat swelled, and the tip of her nose began to get pink, and she flung her arms round Mrs. Mitchell’s neck with a convulsive clutch that brought the tears to the eyes of that kind lady.
And at the end of three days Ann had regained all her lost spring; and her eyes shone, and her face began to get pink and fat again.
“Darling Tony, I love it.” Ann was writing on her knee outside on the big lawn under, the big plane tree, her solar topi jammed down over her eyes. “The Mitchells are perfectly heavenly to me—sort of mothery kind, don’t you know, everything I do they seem to like. And the bungalow is lovely, set down in the middle of a huge sort of plantation place, miles away from every one, and there are lots of farm buildings, and cows and pigs, proper English pigs, and English fowls, not the tiny Indian ones, like bantams. And we have cream at every meal, and the cook makes the most perfect girdle scones, like Grannie used to make—Mrs. Mitchell showed him. And every morning Mr. Mitchell and I go all round the farm and see the animals fed—you have to do that because the native doesn’t love animals like English farm people do; he would steal the food and sell it, and not mind that the animal was hungry. But Mr. Mitchell sees to it all himself, only he says that he is getting too old now, and so he is going to sell it and go home next year. And yesterday the plans of the ships came from the P. & O., just fancy, a year beforehand. Mrs. Mitchell sent for them and pretended she wanted them in a hurry, and when Mr. Mitchell saw them, and sort of began to scold her (not really, only teasing), she sort of half began to cry, and said that if she could actually see her cabin she would feel that she was really going to go. Mustn’t it be awful to want to go as badly as that? They haven’t been able to go before, but now they can, I think some one has left them a little money, but I don’t know for certain. Anyhow, I simply love being here, and I wish it could go on for ever—just this, and then coming to you and being your wife, and then I should never want to die, because it would be heaven on earth.”
The only blot on Ann’s complete happiness was ayah. Ayah, generally so peaceful and content, developed an extraordinary restlessness. To begin with, instead of going away to the servants’ quarters for her meals, she ate them in the little dressing-room leading out of Ann’s big bedroom; there, seated with her face turned gloomily to the wall, she despatched strange round pancaky biscuits, and little twists of yellow substance that looked like cheese. Then in the afternoons when Ann always lay down on her bed, and either slept or read a book, ayah would drag her roll of bedding near, and either sit up and stare in front of her, or lie down and continue to utter strange grumbling sounds. It began to get on Ann’s nerves, and she approached Mrs. Mitchell on the subject.
“She doesn’t only do all these funny things, but she won’t even unpack my things properly,” she said, and laughed shyly.
“Won’t she? Well, I’ll speak to her, Ann.” But Mrs. Mitchell, usually so gentle, spoke almost abruptly, and she walked away to her room, and sent for ayah directly, telling the servant who came to fetch her, that Mauri was to come whatever she was doing.
The interview was a long one, and that afternoon when Mr. Mitchell, cheery and dusty from his long tramp round the estate, came in all eagerness for his tea, he was met by a wife with a white face.
“Arthur, listen.” Mrs. Mitchell spoke at length, and with a catch in her breath.
Mr. Mitchell listened, but it was with a face of good-tempered incredulity: he walked to the washstand and began to splash in the basin.
“Come, come, Agnes.” He turned as he scrubbed vigorously with the nail-brush. “You’ve been out here long enough to discount the maunderings of an ayah; the old woman wants to get back to the bricks and mortar of Bombay; you know what they are—all alike, those Bombay women.”
“Yes, I know, Arthur—you must allow a certain amount for that, I admit—but in spite of that, there must be something. She is so positive; she cried and wrung her hands; and you know there was trouble in the Maya Hills. Arthur, just fancy if anything happened here while Ann is with us!” Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes were wide.
“Trouble? What sort of trouble, pray?” Mr. Mitchell spoke impatiently; he himself was not quite easy about things, although he would rather have died than confess it to his wife. There had been one or two things lately—that incident of Mahomed Ali, for instance—gone, absolutely vanished one morning, and that without a single word of request or leave. And this afternoon, as he had passed the stables, some one had spat—they had, there was no getting away from it—it might have been a coincidence, of course, but Mr. Mitchell did not think it was at all likely. He would keep his eyes open, no harm in doing that, but as for any immediate danger, pooh! He smiled at his wife.
“Yes, I felt sure you’d say that,” Mrs. Mitchell smoothed the grey hair lying so neatly and so close down to her rather lined forehead, “but all the same I don’t feel easy in my own mind, and that being so I implore you to let us all go into Manitor to-night. Arthur, I hardly ever get like this—but I tell you I have the most awful feeling of foreboding.” Mrs. Mitchell suddenly broke down and began to cry.
“Go into Manitor to-night! My dear Agnes!” Mr. Mitchell went close to his wife and took hold of her hand. Something had very seriously upset her, that was quite certain, but—go into Manitor to-night! Why, nothing was ready—it would be a terrific affair to get all packed up in time—they would have to catch the ten o’clock train—no, it had been altered to eleven—yes, there would be time, but still— “No, it would be ridiculous. I mean to say, it would mean leaving the bungalow in two or three hours’ time.” Mr. Mitchell looked tenderly at his wife; she was overwrought, he must be firm with her, gentle, but firm all the same.
“Darling, I think you are very unreasonable,” he said, and he put his hand gently under her chin. “But as you are so set on it, and you really have got in a stew about things, I’ll give in to you so far—that we’ll all go into Manitor by the midday mail to-morrow. It will be a trip for Ann; and we’ll all stay at the Grand—anyhow, for a couple of nights—and you’ll feel a different person when you’ve seen a shop or two. It’s this loneliness that’s got on your nerves, isn’t it?”
But Mrs. Mitchell, very unlike her usual behaviour, was crying tumultuously. “It isn’t that at all—it’s death—Arthur, it’s death—I can see it—staring at us—waiting for us. Arthur, we shall never go home again; I know it, I know it.” Mrs. Mitchell was holding her husband by the shoulders, staring up at him with streaming eyes.
“Come, come.” But Mr. Mitchell was now thoroughly uneasy—if only old Mahomed Ali hadn’t cleared off like that—he would have been able to tell them if anything was seriously wrong. And Agnes in this demented state—what in the name of goodness was he to do! He shook himself free from his wife, and began to stamp up and down the room. Tea, that was it, tea, they would all be better after that. “Here, I’ll bustle them along with tea, shall I?” he said, and smiled at his wife. “You’ll feel a different creature after that.”
Mrs. Mitchell wiped her eyes, and felt rather ashamed of her sudden loss of self-control; she very rarely gave way; it must be the weather, or perhaps she was, as her husband said, overwrought and needed the stimulant of tea to pull her together.
“Yes, do, dear,” she said, and she turned to fight down the feeling that instantly took possession of her again, as he went out of the room. She must be sensible and reasonable, not give way to this awful feeling of dread that had so swamped her for the last few days. For it was not only what ayah had told her—it was the horror of hearing her own fears put into words.
“Mem-sahib! Servants all telling bad mens coming killing sahib, mem-sahib. I taking miss-sahib away in train first, please, mem-sahib!” Ayah had clutched with shaking hands, her face distorted with terror. Yes, it had been her own fear put into words—they were going to die, she and her husband—somehow she knew it. But not Ann—no, she was young, and she had all her life before her; besides, there were things worse than death. No, Ann must go to-night—and they too: why should they die? They were going home next year. Gentle Mrs. Mitchell suddenly felt a wild craving for life and all it held.
And then a jovial voice and a cheerful face poked round the curtain, and her husband beaming from every line of his face.
“Well? What about your awful forebodings now, Agnes? Found Mahomed Ali as large as life again, getting tea ready. Now then, what have you to say to that?”
And her own voice, faint and small, coming from a parched mouth:
“Then he has come to warn us . . . or . . . Arthur, Arthur, what shall we do with Ann? What shall we do with Ann?”
It was just before dinner that night that Ann became faintly conscious that something was wrong. Tea hadn’t been quite as cheery as it generally was; to begin with, it had been awfully late, nearly half-past five, and Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell had been very silent. Generally they had such tremendous fun, and after tea they all either went for a drive or pottered about on the farm. But to-night it was different; Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell vanished almost directly they had finished, and Ann, not knowing quite what to do, sat down in a big chair in the drawing room, and tried to read. But in Mrs. Mitchell’s bedroom husband and wife faced each other—Mr. Mitchell had just come from his little office room where he had been closeted with Mahomed Ali.
“Well, what does he say?” Mrs. Mitchell’s face was drawn.
Mr. Mitchell tried to smile, but it was a failure. They were so frightfully isolated, that was the ghastly part of it; although, if it hadn’t been for the women he wouldn’t have cared so much.
“He says that what ayah told you is partly true, that they are out for murder, not on this farm, but on Ridgeway’s. But he says that we must not clear out at once but to wait till it is dark, it will be easier then, and he will have the buggy led to the gate, so that if there is any one hanging about they won’t hear the wheels until we are well off the premises.”
“Is he loyal?” Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes were tormented.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“But why has he been away, and why did he go without asking? Arthur, he is a Mahomedan, and so are all these people round here. Don’t trust him—don’t trust him.” Mrs. Mitchell began to pace the room. “I thought at first that he had come back to warn us, but now I begin to doubt it—I believe he has come to lead us into some trap he has laid. Arthur, let’s wait till it is dark, and then slip away on our own—you and I and Ann and ayah. Let’s walk to the station, it is far safer. Do, do, please!” Mrs. Mitchell caught hold of her husband’s arm.
“Walk to the station!” In spite of his anxiety Mr. Mitchell began to laugh; his wife had not walked a mile for the last ten years, and it was at least five to the station. “Walk to the station! My dear Agnes, you’d never get there! No, we’ll stick to Mahomed Ali’s plan. I have never had any reason to doubt his loyalty, and I don’t see why I should begin to now. But tell the child—and get the ayah to put a few things in a suitcase for her: she can’t take much. Nor can you.” Mr. Mitchell put his hands in his pockets and began to walk up and down the room. He was a prey to the most awful anxiety—was Mahomed Ali loyal, or was he not? If he was not they were done. The man swore that he had slipped away without giving any warning simply to ensure being able to obtain more reliable information, but was it true? Would it be better to do what his wife suggested and the four of them just slip out as soon as it began to get dark enough: and it was dark enough now. Mr. Mitchell walked to the window and looked out. But his mind was made up for him: there was a hurried knock at the curtained door, and Ann’s face, very white and frightened, peered round into the room.
“I don’t like interrupting you,” she said, “but ayah and your servant—you know, the one that has been away and has come back—are having the most dreadful fight. Not actually a fight, but ayah is screaming at him, and she will not stop, whatever I say. It’s so awful, it simply terrifies me; do come and do something.” Ann’s chin was quivering ominously.
The three walked hurriedly down to Ann’s bedroom. Outside it Mahomed Ali lounged against the wall. He barely moved as the Mitchells approached. Ayah, her sari torn from over her head, was yelling and shaking her fist in the Mahomedan’s face. “Devil and hog!” she was screaming in Hindustani. “Devil and hog, it is to you that it is due, the death that is approaching! Sahib, mem-sahib, fly, fly, before it is too late! Baba, take thy topi,” she dashed into the bedroom, and returning jammed the pith helmet on to Ann’s head; “now come.” She seized Ann’s wrist in a grip of steel.
But Ann shook herself free, and looked wildly from one to the other. “What does she mean? What does she mean?” she cried.
Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell looked at one another, and then at the Mahomedan leaning against the wall. It was treachery—no doubt about it; the point was, had it gone too far to do anything. Mr. Mitchell slipped his hand round to his hip pocket, and then swore silently—he had left it in the other breeches when he changed. He walked up to the servant and took hold of his throat.
“Get out of my sight,” he cried, “or I shall kill you as you stand there.” His voice was the voice of the white man, and the native blanched. “Agnes, Ann, and you, ayah, come along with me—no, you can’t wait for anything. We’ll simply head straight for the station. Oh, first of all”—he took hold of the collar of the Mahomedan as he turned to slink away—”come along with me, while I get my revolver.” He made quickly for the bedroom, kicking the native along in front of him, and presently came back running, breathing rather heavily. “I took the precaution of stunning the brute, and I’ve locked him up in the bathroom, so he’ll be quiet for the next hour or two. Now then we’ll clear—don’t be frightened, either of you. There’s nothing to mind. Now then, ready?” He looked cheerfully from one to the other.
But ayah had flung herself down on the ground and was listening, her head pressed close to the matted floor.
“Sahib, they are approaching!” she said swiftly in the vernacular.
Mr. Mitchell whitened; what was he to do? They were caught in a trap, literally. How could he act for the best? He stepped a shade nearer to his wife—in any event she came first. But ayah dashed along the verandah, and flung herself on the main switch of the electric light.
“Sahib, butti pujao,” [Put out the light] she cried, and the bungalow sank suddenly into complete pitchy darkness.
The dreadful sound of a regular tramp of feet now became evident; they were coming in numbers, and with murderous intent, for they were howling as they came, howling like animals waiting to be fed, as Ann thought, standing paralysed with terror. But the sudden blotting out of their objective checked the swift advance, and through the darkness they could be heard to halt.
Mr. Mitchell spoke in a swift whisper, and he held his wife tightly by the hand.
“Straight for the back verandah,” he said. “Ann, ayah, follow me! Don’t hesitate an instant!” He began to run, dragging his wife with him.
But ayah gripped Ann, and holding her fell on her knees and pressed her ear to the matting again. “Nahin, nahin,” she said, “picheri se ata hai,” [No, no, they are coming from the back] and clutching Ann by the wrist she dashed down the front steps.
But Ann was frantic. She could see nothing and surely they were going the wrong way. “Ayah, ayah, stop!” she cried. “I tell you we’re all wrong, and we shall lose the Mitchells. Ayah, stop, I tell you!” She tried to wrench herself free.
But ayah would not stop; she clung to Ann with a burning, gripping hand. “Come, baba,” she said, and she dragged her over the gravel. The cold air whipped Ann’s face as they ran; where were they going? And why were they going—who was going to hurt them—who were the people who were coming along towards the bungalow in a mob—and why were they howling? ”Ayah, ayah, tell me something, can’t you?” Ann gasped it out desperately as they ran. But ayah paid no attention, she only clawed more tightly on to Ann’s hand, and held it as if she had been imbued with superhuman strength.
Onward, onward, Ann stumbled blindly along; they had got among trees now; the leafy bough of one whipped her across the face and stung. But they were further away from the steadily advancing feet—ayah had been right in the direction she had taken; but if they were right then the Mitchells must be wrong, for they had gone the other way. But perhaps they would meet presently. Ann devoutly hoped so, because to be separated would be too awful. And then across the blackness there rang out the sound of a shot, and then another, and another, and then a fourth. And ayah paused for a moment and uttered a little suppressed wail, and then dashed on again. And now Ann was frightened too, and she did not pull back any more; she ran fleetly, and tried to help ayah along too, because she could feel that ayah was beginning to flag. And if ayah fell and hurt herself, then what would happen to them? So at last Ann spoke gently, and with a caress in her voice.
“Darling ayah, let’s have a tiny rest,” she said, “otherwise we shall get so far away that we shall never get back in time to go to bed.”
“Bed! . . . Ari, baba!” If ayah had not been so frantic with anxiety, and so spent, she would have laughed. Bed . . . and, if she mistook not, the sahib and mem-sahib even now lying stark on their eternal bed of earth. But she halted, and pushed back her sari from her neck with a hand that quivered with terror and fatigue. They would rest, but only for a moment. She felt cautiously round with her hand on the grassy patch on which they stood, and then sank down, drawing Ann with her.
“Oh, joy!” Ann heaved a gasping sigh of relief.
“Oh, I am tired! Aren’t you, ayah?”
But ayah was fumbling in the folds of her sari—suddenly Ann smelled the well-known smell of cloves: ayah had remembered to bring the little bag. Ann suddenly felt inclined to laugh—fancy remembering it in the middle of all that terror and scrimmage! She leaned up against the old woman, and drew a long breath. She was tired, and it was dark, pitchy dark; but they were under trees; Ann could begin to distinguish thin leafy arms waving between them and the sky. And there were stars, lots of them; they looked like tiny points of electric light stuck in an inverted bowl—like the spark that came in a car, that Daddy had showed her jumping one day.
But suddenly something seemed to be blotting out the stars, light seemed to be creeping up the sides of the inverted bowl. It shot out straggly yellow fingers, and seemed to claw the sky. “What is it?” Ann asked ayah, sitting very still beside her.
Ayah had dropped asleep, at least so it seemed to Ann, because she took a very long time to answer, but when she did answer her words filled Ann with terror.
“Swines and devils, swines and devils, they burn the bungalow, they burn the bungalow!” Ayah’s voice was filled with despair. “My rezais,[ Quilt] my bistre, [Bedding] baba’s clothes!” The little old woman lifted up her voice and wailed, rocking herself from side to side.
“Burning the bungalow! Ayah!” Ann’s tongue suddenly felt paralysed with terror. “Ayah, the bearer is locked up in the bathroom,” she said.
“Good!” The ejaculation came in Hindustani, and ayah straightened herself with a gesture of intense satisfaction. “Bearer very bad man,” she said.
“Ayah! . . .” But Ann could think of nothing to say. The bearer who had waited on them at tea, even now perhaps fighting—tearing with impotent hands—it was too horrible! She let her head fall on to ayah’s shoulder again and began quietly to cry. And then her own heart was stabbed with an almost unbearable pain. Her string of beads, her beloved string of beads! She had taken them off when she had changed her blouse, and then ayah and the bearer had begun to quarrel and she had run to the Mitchells and had forgotten them. Oh, it was too much, it was too much!” Ayah! ayah! my beads, my beads! “ Ann was weeping wildly, and beating her hands together.
“Bringing beads, missy baba not crying.” Ayah was rooting vigorously in the little bag. Out they came, long and slim and cold, and smelling violently of cloves. Ayah pressed them into Ann’s hand, and hunched herself together again. Her beautiful red quilt, her little multicoloured tin trunk!
But Ann had flung her arms round ayah’s neck and was squeezing her frantically.
“Ayah, ayah, I should have died with misery if I had lost them . . . but all your things . .. and you only thought of mine . . . all your nice things have gone; but Daddy will give you all lovely new ones, lovely new saris, and quilts, he will, indeed he will.” Ann was almost hysterical.
“Good!” The monosyllable expressed content; so would the sahib be sure to do, ayah felt quite sure of it. But in the meantime, the sahib and all that he stood for were a long way away, and ayah had felt the miss-sahib shiver; they must get on again. Ayah began to struggle on to her feet.
Ann stood up too. Her eyes had begun to get accustomed to the darkness: they were in the middle of dense undergrowth, some of it stood out specially black against the lurid yellow of the sky. They must be a long way away from the bungalow: they could hear no sounds of shouting, they could not hear anything at all. Only an occasional furtive scuttle in the bushes, or a sleepy chirrup from a bird, disturbed by their voices. Ann could imagine it, peeping from under a cosy wing. Oh, if only she could tumble into her comfortable bed! Oh, if only she was back in the lovely homey bungalow, having just said good-night to the Mitchells—sauntering along to her own room, with ayah ready waiting to undress her. Oh, was it possible that it was all over? There must be something left, something to go back to.
“Ayah, how do you know that it is the bungalow that is burning?” she said suddenly. “I don’t believe it is. And the Mitchells, they will be waiting for us somewhere. There! There you are!” Ann held up a quick finger. “There you are, ayah, a train—can’t you hear it? Now we know what to do: we must make for the place that the sound came from, and we shall find the Mitchells there.” Ann spoke with a note of triumph in her voice.
Ayah, with her head on one side, was listening to the long-drawn scream as it came through the chilly night air. The miss-sahib was right—they must make for the railway station; there would be safety—and ayah was deadly terrified as it was. For she had Ann with her, and to encounter a horde of insurgents, flushed with their triumph of murder! “Khuda! [God] Khuda!” Ayah wrung her hands silently. And she had no weapon with which herself to kill her darling. No, they must make for the station; and once there, all would be well.
But as she turned to go, clasping Ann’s hand tightly in her skinny fingers, she heard a sound that turned her black skin to a sickly green colour. Some one was coming through the trees—some one, ah! not only one, but a horde, a horde, shouting, yelling, yelling triumphantly! Ayah dragged Ann roughly along with her—anywhere into the bushes—anywhere out of sight—she flung Ann down on the grass. Even death from the vicious puncture of a “kreit” [Poisonous snake]—death from starvation, from thirst. . . “Khuda! Khuda!” Ayah flung herself on Ann, and spread her sari over her golden head—the white topi had rolled away into the bushes.
Ann struggled to free her mouth. Ayah must be quite demented: here was a chance to get help from some one. The grass was tickling her nose quite unbearably; she must struggle from under the old woman; she fought violently.
But ayah exerted all her old strength. “Chup!” she hissed into Ann’s burning ear.
And Ann lay still: there was danger, or ayah would not speak to her like that. She flattened herself as close to the earth as possible, and breathed in the cool dampness of the grass. It suddenly reminded her of the lawn at Grannie’s—she and Joyce used to lie out under the big spreading oak tree on Sundays, and read a book. But once or twice they had made the elbows of their white frocks green, and then Grannie had said that they must have a rug.
But something was scuttling towards them through the undergrowth; something that made snuffling noises and sideway dashes, and then at last approached them with a run, something that lifted its soft snout to the heavens with a gesture of rapture, and then burst into a tornado of barks. It was Tan, Ann knew it at once, the younger of the cocker spaniels. Ayah made a hissing sound in her throat and seized it in her hands. She held its neck and tried with frenzied efforts to strangle it; but it was perfectly useless. Tan wrenched himself free and danced away; he fled back to the group he had left, and barred their way, barking furiously.
“Chup, you dirty beast!” The foremost native of the party landed out a vicious kick, and in so doing lost his loose country shoe. He cursed viciously as he groped for it. “Let’s have a look “ The man behind him paused and looked round. “Probably there is someone about.” He peered round.
Ann held her breath, and in spite of herself her thoughts fled to some one she had once heard about who had written a book and whose pet dog had torn the manuscript up. What was it he had said? Something very gentle. Oh, yes, “Diamond, Diamond, you little know the mischief you have done.” That was what Tan had done, unless God stepped in; he had betrayed them to their enemies, not meaning to, of course; a dog wouldn’t know.
Two of the men detached themselves from the others, and came pushing through the undergrowth. The first one carried a lantern, which he swung from side to side. The light caught Ann’s white Hawkes topi, lying at his feet. He picked it up and laughed.
“Got her!” he said, and laughed hideously.
Ayah understood, and she bit the ground as she lay. But heathen as she was, she prayed passionately. The God of her miss-sahib would protect her darling. He would, He would! And dignity must be shown in the face of these hogs. Were the light to fall on them, as ayah felt quite sure it would in another second, and discover there whereabouts, they would rise and face them with calmness.
And they did: ayah settling her sari over her head and struggling to her feet with a well-feigned impassivity; Ann brushing her hair out of her eyes, and holding out her hand with a quiet look of assurance.
“Give me my hat, please,” she said.
The native was cowed. Here was the word of command from a white woman, and he handed over the topi without a word. But as he saw Ann, small and bedraggled, through the light of the lantern, his native brutality reasserted itself—here was a white woman indeed, but at his mercy. He grabbed roughly at her arm.
But ayah shot forward. “Aie!” she said, and as she stooped swiftly the man stumbled backward with a yell.
“Devil, she has bitten me!” he howled, and sucked furiously at his wrist.
There was a shout of laughter from the others. They had all come rushing at the sound of voices, and stood round the two women in a circle. The lantern cast odd dancing shadows on their dusky faces. Ann saw and was afraid: would they kill them, she wondered, trembling inwardly. But further murder was not in their programme. All had so far gone off very successfully. It had been a wise move, that of Hassan Koya, to cast the two lifeless bodies into the flames: not an incriminating trace was left. But it was better now to clear off to their eyrie in the hills, and they would take the two women with them. The old one left slaughtered here would only probably provide a clue, and the young one would be useful for something better than slaughter. So they talked and planned together, punctuating their sentences with hideous laughter. And when she had served her turn, and the damned British Government was on her track, as it doubtless would be before long—curse it—what easier than a disused well as a final resting-place?
But one of the younger men in the group stepped forward and spoke with an air of authority; he had a high-bred face covered with a well-trained black beard.
“I will take charge of the two women until we reach our journey’s end,” he said. “And, Mambarath, you got what you deserved when you grabbed hold of the girl like that. Leave them alone until we get to Maya, then you can do what you like, but now let us hasten. Another mile and we shall come up with the bullock carts, and then we shall be safe. Even now under cover of the darkness there is danger—the fire may have been noticed from the station.”
They resumed their way in single file. Ann with intense relief noticed that apparently the others were frightened of the young man with the nice face, and that he had taken charge of ayah and her. Where were they going, she wondered, as they pushed their way through the overhanging trees; they were all talking in a language that she could not understand, it did not sound like the ordinary Hindustani that she knew by hearing ayah talk it. But ayah, her ears desperately pricked, could understand a little. They were arguing. The majority were in favour of a halt for the night: it would be—here ayah caught a word or two that turned her sickly green again. But the tall younger man was emphatic in his insistence on the need for haste; ayah gathered that he had some special reason for wanting to be back on time. And he spoke with a note of command, so that with muttered grumblings the others had to give way.
But as Ann, with ayah hard on her heels, threaded her way through the overhanging undergrowth, an awful despair began gradually to settle on her. They were being led to their death, she and ayah, and natives had frightful ways of killing you. They cut little bits off, one at a time, and sometimes you took a week to die. And how would she be able to help crying out? And in front of a native it would be frightful to show that you minded. And sometimes they fastened you down and let ants cat you up; and if the ants took specially long you died of thirst. “God! God! send some one to deliver us, like you did Daniel; this is worse than lions!” Ann was crying in her soul. She was terrified; she felt that her self-control was going; she flung her hands over her face and in so doing lost her balance and fell headlong.
Ayah, with a wail, was at her side in a moment; she knelt on the uneven path and tried to see Ann’s face. But it was too dark, she could see nothing; she flung her sari over her head and began to cry out aloud. The little party halted; the men immediately behind Ann and ayah began to swear, the ones in front came to a standstill.
The tall young man detached himself from the rest and came back a pace or two; he stood over Ann’s prostrate body and looked at it, then he addressed himself to the rest of the party.
“You all get on as fast as you can,” he said. “Get all the carts yoked up so that there is no delay in starting. Put this old woman into the second bullock cart, and fill it up with grass—I will follow you as quickly as possible.”
There was a second’s silence—then somebody laughed.
The tall young man half stooped, then he kicked out suddenly. “Stop it, you old fool!” he said, and he dragged ayah up by the shoulder. “Here, take this old terror along with you; she’s biting pieces out of my ankle,” he said, and swore.
Ayah fought like a wild cat, but she was dragged off; Ann heard her go and stifled a scream. She lay flat on the grass and stared through the darkness with wide-open, staring eyes. Now death was coming, and somehow she felt that she would be able to be brave—that is, if it did not take too long.
But the tall young man with a face like a hawk knelt down on the stony path, and fumbled with quick nervous fingers. He had just come from the scene of murder; in fact, it was from him that the suggestion had emanated that the dead bodies of the Mitchells should be thrown into the flames. That was well; there was a sahib, a hated Englishman, and better for the sake of concealment that both should go. But here was something young, something that stared up with the gaze of a hunted animal; you did not kill the young, especially when it had golden hair like soft silk.
Ann felt his hand and she darted out her head like a young lizard. The Indian uttered a stifled exclamation, and half got up. He was tempted to finish Ann off without further delay; he had not been going to hurt her; he had only been feeling with practised hand for any injury. And she bit! He sucked his wrist and wondered what he should do. He half pulled out his knife, then put it back again.
Ann had got up on her feet and stood facing him. It was almost pitch dark, and the only thing that she could see was the white smudge of his puggaree against the trees. She must speak with the word of command—but it was difficult when you were so deadly, deadly afraid. Still, the effort must be made, Daddy would say so, or Tony. But as the vision of her lover fled across her mind, her spirit failed her, and she stumbled backward. She would never see him again now, neither him nor Daddy—and how could she bear it—— She broke into a low repressed sobbing.
The Indian took a step nearer: time was getting on and they still had some way to go. He made a little grumbling noise in his throat. “If you bite me again I will kill you,” he said, and he picked her up and flung her across his shoulders.
Ann shrieked. Every atom of English blood in her veins cried out at this hideous indignity. She fought like a wild cat. A native to touch her, to hold her against her will! Death, however lingering, would be preferable. “Put me down, you beast, you brute!” she cried. “You can’t understand English, but I tell you that if my father knew about this he would have you shot. He is a Member of Council, and he can do all those sorts of things,” she said, and hit out furiously.
The Indian recognised the words “Member of Council,” and he laughed. But he was angry, too. He had Ann utterly at his mercy, and he was sparing her. If she had been in the hands of one of his friends, for instance! But there was not time for this; he must leave her here and get on. She would never be found here; let her wander about and eventually die of thirst. He set her down.
“Arrange it as you will,” he said in Hindustani; “but I must press on. Time is short, and we must be on our way before dawn.” He made a little bow, that Ann could not see, settled his puggaree that had become disarranged in the struggle, and vanished in the inky darkness.
Ann stood where she was, and stared after him. She could hear the smashing of branches as he forced his way through the undergrowth. He was going, leaving her alone—she was stranded—utterly alone. And ayah—ayah, who had saved her—she would be alone, too—Ann would have deserted her. She must scream after him, scream after him and implore him to take her with him. She opened her mouth and sent out a piercing cry.
Hassan Koya heard it and halted. After a second’s cogitation he swung round and retraced his steps. He could not see Ann; he looked round, raking the darkness with his black piercing eyes. Ah, here she was. He walked up to her. But Ann had repented of her brief weakness. She flung out repelling hands. “I made a mistake; I would rather die,” she said, and she stared defiantly into the dark face that towered above her.
At this, something within the Indian stirred. What was it like, this little frail valiant figure that faced him with pale shimmering head? It was like the first fleeting rays of sunlight; it was like the first quivering star that hung in the dark overhanging arch of night. And it was his—here in the depths of the forest—those little feeble pressing hands, what good would they be? He laughed in his throat.
And at the sound of the laugh all Ann’s remaining spirit left her. What was the good of standing on your dignity when you were so much at the mercy of a native that he could laugh at you? Better give it up at once and let him do what he liked. She held out her hands, hopeless and quivering.
“Do what you like,” she said; “but if you can do without killing me and take me to where I can be with ayah I shall be glad. You see, she is the only person of my own that I shall ever see again.” She bowed her head and broke into low hopeless tears.
And the native stooped, and lifting her, flung her over his shoulders again. If she had fought—well, he would not have been responsible for his actions. But she was soft, and yielding, and he could afford to bide his time. And, Allah! the dawn!—beginning to tinge the sky with palest yellow, and rousing the sleeping birds to faintest twittering.
He settled Ann more comfortably over his powerful shoulder and began to run.
When Ann and Hassan Koya walked in amongst the stamping bullocks and crowd of hurrying natives, there was a sudden cessation of work. Now there would be the joy of seeing a crushed and humiliated Englishwoman, they thought, smiling evilly at one another. But Ann came quietly in among them, her blue eyes searching the crowd, and when she saw ayah, hunched despairingly on a little heap of grass by the side of a bullock wagon, she ran across the little space that separated them and flung her arms round her.
“Darling, darling ayah!” she cried. “I thought I should never see you again! But it’s all right; the tall man was kind. At first I hated him and bit him, like you did the other one; I thought it was the best thing to do, but afterwards he turned out all right, and he has carried me most of the way here. Now then, what? . . .” Ann turned and looked round the crowded circle. “Oh, ayah, if they would only let us find our way to the station in one of these carts, we could so easily, easily do it. Shall I ask the tall one who waited behind with me to let us? Shall I?” Ann searched ayah’s face eagerly.
But ayah was rocking herself from side to side, and she clasped and unclasped her skinny hands as she did so. “The God of the miss-sahib has heard my prayers,” she said, and she bowed her head to where the dawn was staining the sky a faint yellow.
“Yes, I know He has.” Ann was silent for a moment or two, and followed ayah’s gaze reverently. Even although they were so far away from any one who could help them, and everything was really so frightening, she didn’t feel really alone. After all God was actually, at that very moment, marshalling in the dawn. So He was at hand, if things really got desperate. And it all looked so beautiful—the bullocks stooping their heads over the heaps of thick straw-like fodder—the crowds of men all with their dark faces intent on the work of getting everything packed into carts. And they were not really bad-looking men, that is to say, they had not got bloated drinky-looking faces. They had fierce wild faces, faces from which, in many cases, the nose stood far out from the face, hooked, and rather hawky-looking. But they didn’t look as if they would actually torture you, for instance; they looked more as if they would cut your throat and have done with it. So Ann felt faintly consoled, and when Hassan Koya came toward them with a long swinging stride and told ayah roughly to get into the cart, she followed her with only an imperceptible sinking of the heart. After all, things always did turn out fairly all right, she thought to herself, as she sank down into the straw, and she was frightfully, frightfully tired, and rather cold, too. She would try to go to sleep.
But ayah, sitting close up to the side of Ann, sunk down among the straw, her golden head against ayah’s knee, was a prey to the most terrible anxiety. Why had their lives been spared? she asked herself in torment. Why was the tall devil whose ankle she had bitten casting eyes of favour upon her darling? What could it all mean but a fate more terrible than death in store for her? And where were they heading for? She tried to see, peering with eyes bright as agates from between the folds of the sailcloth with which the cart was covered. But she could see nothing; they were still wending their way between a wall of trees; so much she gathered before Hassan, with teeth that shone like white milestones, bade her put in her head or he would sever it from her body. They travelled fast, and silently; the bullocks trotted, but they had no jingling bells on their necks. Ayah, deadly weary, and aching in every bone of her old body, flung a protecting arm round Ann, and tried to sleep also. But she was too much on the alert, danger threatened on every side; she hunched herself into a sitting position again, and began to listen. Hassan Koya was talking to the driver; he was talking with a note of intense anxiety in his voice. They were late in getting back—much later than they had expected to be. Something—ayah could not quite gather what—something had been imminent when he had left the little village in the hills. Something . . . Ah, ayah had it at last. Yes, the birth of a child, expected daily. His firstborn. Hassan Koya talked loud and excitedly, running his words into one another. He wanted a son, a son to inherit his name and his lands, so he said, staring out into the pale morning light that was beginning to flood the side of the hills. For ayah had managed with the utmost caution to apply her old eye to a tiny rent in the canvas, and she could see where they were. They were beginning to get on to slightly rising ground; all round them stretched scrubby jungle as far as the eye could see. But in front of them—for ayah, again taking advantage of Hassan Koya’s absorption, had managed to peer out from behind his back—there were tall trees again and enveloping creepers. And the train of bullock carts was heading straight for them. Not a single living creature could be seen anywhere, so ayah gathered from her hurried survey. They were absolutely alone in a waste of trees and creepers and sloping hillsides. What chance of ever getting away, she thought with a stab of agony as she looked at Ann’s small sleep-flushed face. What chance of saving her darling from the power of the dog? The old woman beat her breast, and lifted her eyes to the sagging canvas hood of the cart, and called passionately on the God of her sahib and mem-sahib to save them. But then the uneven jolting of the cart, and the long tormenting hours she had spent awake, came to her rescue, and still with an arm round her small charge she sank a little sideways, and slipped off to sleep.
Ann waked first; she waked at the arrested motion. They had stopped. She struggled into a sitting position, and brushed the straw out of her hair. Where were they? And what was this thing they were in like a crooked tent? Then it all came back to her: the terror, the desolation, and she uttered a little groan, and then flung a hand over her mouth in case any one should hear, and think she was afraid. And then the flap of the canvas hood was cautiously drawn back, and the dark hawk-like face looked in. Hassan Koya carried something in his hand, which he held out to Ann; it was a large aluminium tumbler full of tea, and a large leaf in which something was wrapped.
Ann was suddenly conscious that she was frightfully hungry and thirsty, but she resented with every fibre of her being the thought of drinking from a tumbler out of which a native had drunk before her. Besides, there was ayah—there would not be enough for both of them; so she shook her head. “Nay,” she said.
Hassan Koya smiled under his black beard. She was hungry—the Little Streak of Light, but she would not admit it. He put down the tumbler and leaf on the wooden frame, let the flap of the hood fall, and strode back to where, under the huge overspreading banyan tree, the rest of the party lay and sprawled. It was noon—Ann and ayah had both slept for several hours—and it was beginning to get hot, but the greater part of their journey was accomplished; they should without difficulty make the little village in the hills before nightfall. The bullocks, unyoked from the heavy cumbrous carts, nosed placidly amongst the heaps of fodder; and from one little fire, almost extinct, a blue-grey spiral of smoke curled upwards into the leafy shades. Hassan Koya flung himself down on the grass and, putting his arms underneath his head, he stared up into the green depths. Would they lay his son in his arms, he wondered, when at last he stepped again in amongst the little bamboo rush-covered huts? His mother—fierce of tongue, and omnipotent in her sway over the small community of which he was the head—had she heeded his insistent command that at the first sign of need, the old witch-doctor from the neighbouring village should be summoned? Hassan Koya had not much faith in women and their works, but in like case they must of need be invoked. But for the rest he would be the guiding spirit—his should be the hand that would guide those little toddling feet, his the hand again that should teach the little fingers to clasp the knife. Hassan Koya took a long breath and rolled over on his face—his son, the inheritor of his lands and of his name . . .
Ann lifted the flap of the hood, and, shading her eyes with her hand, she stared out. She had roused ayah, who had looked with desperate and craving eyes at the steaming mug of tea. But she had set her old jaw and refused even to taste it; it was for her miss-sahib, this food provided by these villains. Ann was almost faint and weeping with her longing for the tea, and the sort of crumbly pancakey biscuit that had accompanied it. But unless ayah would eat too she was not going to touch it, so she declared vehemently. Or, wait! She would make them give them some more. So, shaping her two hands into a cup, she shouted imperiously into the green coolness of the trees. Some one would come if she shouted long enough, and if they didn’t she would get out and make them, she cried, frowning angrily under her golden fringe of hair at this disregard of her white supremacy.
But nobody paid any attention—Hassan Koya because he did not hear—the rest because they were sunk in a dull sleep of fatigue and repletion. So Ann, disregarding ayah’s passionate entreaties, clambered down from under the hood of the cart, ayah jamming her topi on her head as she did so. It was just like ayah to have remembered the topi, she thought. She threaded her way between the somnolent figures until she reached Hassan Koya; he was still lying on his face, his powerful arms spread out in front of him.
“Give us some more to eat,” she said, and she spurned him angrily with her foot. “You haven’t allowed any for my ayah, and she is just as hungry as I am.”
Ayah, straining her old eyes from under the canvas screamed in a sudden access of terror. Hassan Koya had sprung to his feet, and his hand had leapt to the hilt of his knife. He faced Ann, his eyes flashing.
“First you bite and then you kick,” he snarled in Hindustani. “Why do I let you live, you spawn of an accursed race?”
Ann could not understand, but she saw the knife, and she blanched a little. Perhaps it was not wise to be quite so autocratic, she thought. At any rate not until they saw a little more what was likely to happen. So she drew a little closer and opened and shut her mouth like a frightened animal eating, and pointed with a rather tremulous finger down her pink throat. “Bhuka,” [Hungry] she said.
Hassan Koya’s furious face melted suddenly into a laugh.
Ayah saw it, and trembled again. But he glanced over suddenly to the cart, and beckoned, and seizing the precious tumbler in her hand and grabbing the leaf, she began hastily to descend to the ground. To be near her baba, to be near her baba—her old feet pattered over the small space that separated her from her darling.
Hassan Koya stooped over the greying ashes of the little fire, and grunted. He picked up a few straying leaves, and stirred them into the centre of the fire with the tip of his pointed country shoe. They flamed up, flickering on his dark face. Ann immediately got up.
“You get out the food,” she said, “and I’ll make the fire—I love that, it’s fun!”
Ayah interpreted, trembling exceedingly, but Hassan Koya only looked at Ann with a laugh in his eyes. She had spirit—this little Flame of the Forest. He walked over to a heap of grass baskets, and took out another green leaf; he came back, and threw it carelessly on the ground in front of ayah. “Eat,” he said.
Ayah put the tumbler and the leaf of food that she had brought from the cart into Ann’s hands.
“Eat and drink,” she said swiftly in English, “and let the hog build the fire.”
They sat down together, and fell, like famished creatures, on the food and liquid. Oh, did anything ever taste so good! Ann felt that she could eat for ever! And was there ever anything so nice as a chupattie! She pulled it apart with her hands that trembled with eagerness. Hassan Koya had stirred the fire into a blaze; he kicked an aluminium degchi [Saucepan] towards ayah, and pointed with a long brown finger to a brass lotah of milk. Ayah got up from her crouching position, and hung over the fire with a heart that felt like water within her. What did it mean, this solicitude—this disregard even of their caste? But she brewed the tea notwithstanding, and drank it with rapture. After all, as she reflected, it was better to die replete. And to have strength to watch over her darling she must needs satisfy the cravings of hunger and thirst. So she sat back, having seen that Ann had had all she required, and hunched her old arms round her knees, and stared into the flames.
But Ann had begun to enjoy herself rather. Now that she was not hungry any more her usual optimism began to assert itself. It was like a wonderful picnic, she thought, all sitting under trees eating. Or like a scene out of a play—she and ayah prisoners in the hands of brigands—that is what it really was, as a matter of fact, and in a play it always came all right, some one found you or paid a ransom. And this would come all right; some one would find them or pay a ransom; Daddy could easily afford a huge ransom. So Ann felt really almost content in her mind, and she sat like ayah, her arms round her knees, staring into the fire.
But Hassan Koya, also hunched into a sitting position a little way off, stared at her with glowing slumbrous eyes, and entertained no thoughts of either picnics or ransoms. She was fair to look upon, this little daughter of an alien race. Her hair fell like streaks of sunlight on either side of her rounded face. And his own wife was crooked and her face was marked with smallpox. Hassan Koya had only found that out after he had taken her to wife—she was the daughter of a neighbouring landowner. But he had been beguiled by the size of the dowry, and only afterwards had he cursed loud and furiously at the way he had been cheated. For Hassan Koya was a passionate lover of the beautiful. But now he brooded anew: it had been fraudulent and a shame, and if she did not bear him a son, he would put her finally from him. And then what would stand in his way? In fact, what stood in his way now—for had it not been pronounced by the Prophet? . . .
Hassan Koya made a sound of satisfaction in his throat and rolled over on his face again.
When Ann stumbled half-dead with fatigue out of the bullock cart into the centre of the village of Maya, she felt more than ever that she was in the middle of a play, or, as she thought stupidly, masquerading as one of the people you saw in the pictures in a missionary magazine. “One of our catechists on their house-to-house visitation in a village in Southern India”—she could see it, the rather stiff person in plain white pith helmet, surrounded by a crowd of black figures, all crowding close and staring. For that was what they did, these people, they came closer and closer; the women, most of them carrying babies slung across their hips, the men staring with curious brightly darting glances.
The village was built in a circle, and consisted of about thirty little huts shaped like dog kennels, and made of what looked like bamboo poles, with the cracks in between them filled with grass. All around were trees, huge and enveloping; they seemed to stand round the little settlement like sentries, holding out concealing and protecting arms. It was beginning to get dark when they arrived, and the air was filled with the acrid smell of burning wood, which hung over the huts like a filmy cloud, curling up from about twenty little fires that shone and sparkled at the doors of the huts. It had a weird, and almost sinister effect, and Ann drew closer to ayah, and swallowed once or twice rather quickly. But she had lost her deadly terror: these people did not look like people who tortured you, or pegged you down to be eaten up by ants; they looked more like people who would be nice in a sort of way, always supposing, that is, that you did not offend their susceptibilities. But ayah had no such illusions; she was not in the least taken in by the simple and almost vacant way in which the little crowd jostled and stared; she knew that it would be nothing to them to see both Ann and her flung into an empty well, to end their lives by inches. And she also knew that their chances of escape from such an end were extremely vague, and that those chances lay in the hands of a man whose designs on her darling were almost more hideous than the prospect of that hideous death. So she stood and trembled, but set her jaw so that these swine should not see that she feared. And she gripped Ann by the wrist with a hold that was almost vice-like in its strength.
But Ann was getting tired of it. “Ayah, you pinch,” she said; “do let go for a little bit.”
But Ayah held on tighter; her old black eyes fixed on the further side of the tree-encircled space. He was coming back; walking with quick, passionate strides. Now then, what would befall them . . .? Ayah waited, her heart beating in thick, sickening throbs.
Hassan Koya came to an abrupt standstill beside them. His nostrils twitched, and he looked piercingly into the eyes of the old native woman. He was evidently labouring under some overwhelming emotion; he spoke forcibly for a moment or two.
Ayah listened with apparent calmness, but underneath her unmoved exterior she was calculating with lightning rapidity. A chance to exact some sort of pledge that her darling should remain unmolested. She replied in fluent resolute tones, staring as she did so into the eyes of the man above her.
Hassan listened impatiently, from time to time uttering a short, impatient grunt. Ann stared at them and wondered what they were saying. She was desperately tired, wasn’t there any place where they could go and settle down for a bit? And she was cold, too; the night air rustled in the tall overhanging trees with a chill breath; why hadn’t she thought of bringing her coat?
Ayah saw Ann shiver and she spoke again, this time with a note of decision. Hassan Koya uttered a quick, impatient exclamation, and looked over to where a little crowd clustered round the bullock carts; then he hollowed one hand round his mouth and whistled. One of the crowd detached himself from the rest and came over to his side.
“Bring some of those warm rugs, and bring them quickly,” he said in the vernacular, “and lay them in the empty hut to the left of the pepul tree.”
Ann watched in astonishment as the native who had come in reply to Hassan Koya’s whistle ran back and proceeded to burrow under the canvas hood of one of the carts; she watched him intently, and then, as he returned, his arms heaped high with rugs, she dragged at ayah’s sleeve.
“Look!” she whispered excitedly. “They’ve got all the things from the bungalow. Oh, whatever will the Mitchells say? Ayah, they’re thieves and brutes—I should like to kill them!”
But ayah paid no attention; still holding on to Ann’s wrist, she was dragging her along behind Hassan Koya, who was leading the way to a little, disused hut. He stopped in front of it and said something to the native who was carrying the rugs, and stooped and unfastened the low door. The hut was unused and clean; ayah went in and came out again; she spoke again fluently to Hassan Koya, who replied in the affirmative and gave another order to the native, who went off and soon returned with a leaping mass of exuberant brown fur. For the moment ayah was satisfied.
“Remain here, baba,” she said to Ann. “Old ayah must leave her darling, but not for long; the hog with the long nose has promised that no harm shall come to her, and as he undoubtedly rules, all will be well. Keep the Tan dog close to thy side, and if needs be call loudly for thy ayah and she will fly to thy side.” Ayah cast one searching glance round the little grass shelter and went out again.
Left alone, Ann flung an arm round Tan, and drawing him close to her side she crept in among the rugs. She was so tired—so tired—and ayah had said that she would be all right. She would try to go to sleep again. She ferreted among the rugs until she had arranged them to her liking, and then lay down and yawned widely.
On the other side of the dim hut-encircled space ayah was fighting death. Hassan Koya had grasped and flung aside his mother, who had tried to bar her entry to the little hut. “Peace, fool!” he had whispered fiercely, as she screamed and threatened. “The woman is learned in these matters. Leave her alone, and afterwards we can settle with her, and with the girl she has brought.”
So Mauri was left to do what she liked, and she began by flinging the door wide, and letting in the fresh night air. “Take hence!” she screamed, and she threw the earthen saucer, full of burning charcoal, that she had dragged from under the wooden charpoy, far out into the night. Water! water that is pure, and water that is boiling!” she said, and she stood at the open door, and issued orders like a sergeant on parade. And every one ran to do her bidding. For was it not the order of the headman of the village, and could not non-compliance with his orders easily be met with death? And the witch-doctor had not been sent for, so they whispered among themselves—she had pronounced it not necessary, the tall, arrogant mother-in-law. So they stoked, and poured, and brought them one after another, the overflowing tins of hot water; and then Mauri screamed for a tub, a large, tub, and would not be denied. And they fetched it, staring at one another and asking what madness this could portend. And then Mauri slammed to the rickety door, and before she set to work she fell on her knees, and prayed to the God of her miss-sahib to send wisdom to her brain and skill to her old hands.
And so, a couple of hours later, Hassan Koya, squatting at a little distance, his dark face lit up by the flames of the wood fire over which he was crouching, heard ayah call to him, and stood up, his powerful frame shaking like a leaf. He could not speak; he only just stood and stared into her face with eyes that framed a question which he dared not ask. But ayah was tired and hungry, and terribly anxious into the bargain, so she thrust the little squirming bundle into his arms.
“I bring you the son that you desired,” she said; “now bring us food, and plenty of it.”
It came in the form of a prepaid telegram from Tony—the first hint of disaster. Muriel Church took it from the scarlet-coated chuprassie with a faint feeling of impatience—she was going out to lunch, and it meant keeping the car waiting. She tore it open, frowning a little.
”When did you last hear from Ann? Seymour.”
A little laugh rose in Mrs. Church’s throat. It had begun, what she had hoped for. Ann, thoroughly enjoying herself, had got slack about writing to her lover. She folded the telegram and put it in her pocket; there was no need to answer it now, she would ask her husband first; as a matter of fact, she was not absolutely certain when Ann’s last letter had come. And anyhow, it wasn’t a matter of desperate importance.
But Mr. Church, sunk in a long chair after dinner—Muriel had forgotten to show him the telegram before—got out of the yielding canvas with a face set in lines of sudden anxiety.
“Why on earth didn’t you answer it at once, Muriel? Seymour must be anxious to wire. When did we last hear from Ann? Try and remember. Wasn’t it on Sunday, when we got back from the Cathedral? You know, that old gas-bag went on and on, and you read your letters at dinner. Do try and remember, Muriel.” Mr. Church was tapping one hand against the other.
“No, it wasn’t Sunday.” Mrs. Church was wrinkling her forehead. “No, it was Friday. I remember now quite well; it was mixed up with the mail letters, and I read it before mother’s. Why? Why do you fuss, Jack? Major Seymour is only in a state because Ann has missed a post or two. I expect she is having the time of her life and doesn’t want to bother to write letters.”
But Mr. Church did not think it was that. He had heard a very disturbing rumour that morning, and ever since he had heard it he had been a prey to the most awful anxiety. He had been standing in the hall of the Yacht Club, just waiting to go up to lunch, and the Commissioner of Police, a personal friend of his, had come up to him, and taken hold of his elbow, and spoken in an undertone. “I say, Church, there’s bad news from the South; get that child of yours back as soon as possible. Don’t say a word, there’s nothing pukka at present, but take it from me that it’s necessary.” And without waiting to question, the Commissioner had sent a chokra flying for the car—the big car in which Ann always looked so tiny—and had gone himself to the main telegraph office to send off an urgent telegram asking that Ann might be sent back at once, and that if they cared to do so would the Mitchells accompany her. But up to the present there had been no answer to that telegram.
So now he got up with great anxiety in his face, and went off to his office room to write an answer to Tony, and when he had handed it to the hovering chuprassie, he came back, and got into his long chair with a very deep sigh.
“Why do you fuss so, Jack?” said Mrs. Church, and she got up to flick a little of the greying ash from the end of her cigarette into one of the big brass bowls.
But Mr. Church did not answer. His instinct was always to shield his wife; besides, what was the good of making her anxious, before there was anything definite to be anxious about? But he was listening . . . listening for something dreadful to happen; he knew it was somewhere about, hovering, waiting to fold its wings and sail quietly down to brood on their home and lives forever. Yes, there it was—Mr. Church’s straining ears had caught the sound of the swish of tyres; it was coming in a motor—who would come in a car at that hour unless it was to bring bad news?
The taxi rounded the lawn, and drew up with a grinding of brakes and a final vibrating burr of the engine. Tony Seymour got out.
Mr. Church met him at the foot of the verandah steps.
“What has happened, Seymour?” he said. “Quick, before my wife comes out.”
And at the sight of that swift glance back over the shoulder, every spark of the wish to shield Ann’s parents left Tony Seymour. Let them hear it as baldly and brutally as they could, he thought; they were really responsible for the whole thing. So he waited deliberately until Muriel Church, whom he could see coming swiftly toward the door, had come out into the darkness of the verandah.
But Mr. Church heard her coming, and he laid a quick hand on Tony’s shoulder.
“Don’t say a word,” he said; “I’ll get her away. Muriel,” he turned as he spoke, “Muriel, go back into the drawing-room, darling; I’ll come in a minute.”
But Mrs. Church was peering uncertainly out into the darkness.
“Why, it’s Major Seymour!” she said. “How very odd; we have just been sending you an answer to your telegram. Whatever makes you come here so late? I heard a car and wondered whose it could be. Whatever is it?”
“Ann has been murdered,” said Tony Seymour.
Not until late that night, when the sleeping-draught prescribed by Major Hamilton had finally taken effect and Mr. Church was able to leave his wife with a certain amount of peace of mind, did he really break down, and then he buried his head in his folded arms and cried openly. “Seymour . . . that little creature, so loving . . . and all we could do was to send her away,” he said, and the tears ran down his face.
But Tony Seymour had nothing to say. He was only conscious of his own anguish of desolation. Ever since the awful moment when he had first heard the news, he had only been conscious of that and of a mad desire to avenge. To kill . . . to stab . . . to slaughter . . . to get some black brute into a corner and wreak hideous and bloody vengeance on him, to see the opaque eyes stare and bulge as he stabbed—and stabbed—and stabbed again. To hear the spluttering scream as the cold steel tore and split—in that, and that alone Tony Seymour felt would consolation be found. For he had heard of Ann’s death in a very dreadful way. He had been feeling a little uneasy at not getting his usual letter, and to set his mind at rest he had sent off a telegram to Mrs. Church. She would know what was going on, he thought, whether Ann was perhaps seedy or something. And having sent off that telegram he felt better, and after a cheery dinner at the Mess he left the others talking inside, and had gone outside and flung himself into a long chair, and with a cheroot between his teeth had lain and stared up at the stars. And after a little while his Commanding Officer had come out—he had not been there at dinner, Tony remembered—and he had sat down by Tony, and when the latter had started to struggle into a sitting position, he had laid a restraining hand on his knee. “No, don’t get up, Seymour,” he had said; “it’s only that if I don’t let myself go for a bit I shall burst. Oh, my God . . . thank Heaven we’re for it. . . a chance to get our own back . . . and may God have mercy on the soul of any black swine that crosses my path, for I shall show him none . . .” And Colonel Hay had brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, and taken a long breath. And Tony, startled—Hay was generally such a self-contained fellow—had asked what was wrong, and Colonel Hay, his head buried in his hands, had told him. It was news from the South, he said, and he felt it particularly, because he knew the people concerned—people called Mitchell—frightfully kind they had been to him once when he was laid out with sunstroke. These Khalifat brutes had worked on the feelings of the people in the countryside round about Manitor, and there had been hideous murder—they had raided a bungalow—the Mitchells’, and had slaughtered them, and a girl they had staying with them, and had then flung the bodies into the flaming ruins of the house—for the remains of three bodies had been found in the ashes. “But thank Heaven, we’re for it,” he said, and lifted his face to Tony’s; “it’s only that thought that keeps me from running amuck and slaughtering every native that comes in my way.” And he had laughed rather shakily. “You’re off the first thing in the morning—you’ll hear it in an hour or so,” and Colonel Hay had got up, and stretched his arms high above his head, and then sat down again.
But Tony could only stare stupidly at his own feet, stuck up, crossed, on the ends of the arms of the long chair. They were clad in the most immaculate Mess Wellingtons—and the rose-coloured light from the shaded lamps on the long tables within shone on their polished surface, and reminded him of something he had seen quite a lot of in Mesopotamia—blood: of course—yes, blood—that was it. And then he was suddenly conscious that he was going to be sick; and that he must get away at any price—and he had struggled himself free of the hampering canvas, and had bolted out into the sheltering darkness of the compound.
And when, a little later, very blue about the nostrils, and shaking all over, he had faltered back into the circle of light that fringed the long low building of the Mess, Colonel Hay met him at the foot of the verandah steps, a brandy and soda in his concerned hand. Odd, though, that Seymour should be so easily turned up, he thought to himself, especially after what he must have seen in the war. And then Tony had told him—crouching low in his chair—his hands clenched over his eyes as if to shut out the horror that he knew was there. And Colonel Hay had listened—all his fibre one vast stupefied pity and sympathy, for he had a wife at home, and a daughter just about Ann’s age, she was just leaving school, and his mind was able to visualise the horror that Tony’s mind shuddered back from. But he laid a kind hand on the heaving shoulder, and tried to comfort.
“Seymour . . . perhaps it isn’t true,” he said, and he looked almost appealingly at the stricken figure.
But Tony had no such hope. Somehow he felt sure it was true; it had all happened as a ghastly judgment on him because he had not properly valued or appreciated the heavenly love that Ann had poured out on him so freely. So with a muttered word of apology he had got out of his chair, and had stumbled away to his bungalow—and there Ishmael Khan had found him, when he came as he always did the last thing at night, to put the tumbler of iced water, in its pith-covered case, on the top of the gaunt chest of drawers. And Ishmael Khan stood for one moment watching, and then he fell on his knees beside the narrow iron bed, his powerful hands gripped between his knees:
“Lord of my life, tell me what is wrong?” he implored, and huge tears stood in his opaque eyes.
And somehow, although in Tony’s mind at that moment all natives were classed together as something to be exterminated, and that with as much suffering as possible, the anguish in Ishmael Khan’s voice reached him as nothing else would have done, and he rolled over on his side and sat up. And Ishmael Khan,remembering his sahib as he had last seen him, trembled at the alteration in the beloved face.
“Sahib of my life, tell thy servant,” he said, and one large tear fell into the folds of the baggy trousers.
And Tony told him—making him swear first that he would breathe no word of it to a soul. And Ishmael Khan swore, holding his large hairy ears as he did so. And when Tony had finished, he drew the long sharp knife from his trousers, and laying it on the matted floor, he bent his forehead to the shining blade.
“So will I avenge the blood of the miss-sahib,” he said.
And somehow Tony felt comforted. He did not want sympathy; his grief lay too deep for that—he wanted some one at his side who felt like Ishmael Khan did, someone who would slaughter—slaughter without the faintest twinge of compunction. So he got up off the bed, and walking to his dressing-table he took up his brushes, and gave a sweep to his disordered hair.
“Pack, Ishmael Khan,” he said, “for with the dawn we depart.”
And now, half of his journey accomplished, he looked at Mr. Church with eyes in which there was not one spark of sympathy. What difference was it going to make to either the Commissioner or his wife, Ann’s death? They would be the centre of a crowd of appalled and condoling friends, and Mrs. Church would probably rather enjoy all the fuss and the notoriety that such a position would involve. But for him—for him—Tony stared out with eyes that suddenly glazed over with despair. It had all come to an end for him—his life—and all it held. For lately he had begun to feel a stirring round his heart when he thought of Ann. Her letters were so sweet, and she was always so profoundly interested in any little thing that he would tell her, and she loved him so—yes, that was it: you couldn’t replace that heavenly trusting love in a hurry. It was the sort of love that you didn’t meet with nowadays, either; it was a love that welled up from the deep of a heart entirely innocent, and nowadays there were not so many innocent hearts that you could afford to lose the one that belonged to you. And now it was all gone, all that heavenliness, swept into the relentless maw of something that some people called Fate. It was a diabolical condition of things. Fie stood up abruptly.
“Well, I must get along back to the station,” he said; “we entrain again at midnight.”
The Commissioner rose. He read condemnation in the eyes of the man in front of him, and he knew it was deserved. They had not welcomed Ann as they ought to have done; they had felt her a drag on their self-interest. This was the last of this splendid man whom he had hoped to call his son-in-law—the Commissioner felt drearily conscious of that. He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Seymour,” he said.
“Good-bye, sir.” Tony Seymour held the hand in his for a second or two, and then turned and went quickly down the steps.
Twenty-four hours later Tony Seymour, stepping out of the sun-baked dusty train in which he had left Bombay, stood on the blazing platform of Manitor Station, and dragged his khaki helmet a little lower over his eyes. It was frightfully hot, the journey had been intolerable; sleepless, and filled with a misery that made him loathe the sight of every one with whom he came into contact, he had suffered torments during the long monotonous hours. He had had his compartment to himself, and at intervals during the day Ishmael Khan had shepherded the dining-car attendant along the train to Tony’s carriage with trays of food, for Tony would not go to the car, and he flung most of the food out of the window when Ishmael Khan was well out of the way. But now—thank God, he had arrived—and he stood and stared up and down the crowded platform, a weary furrow between his eyes. Some one would be there to meet them—oh, yes—there he was; Tony smiled suddenly as a young and chubby Staff officer came into sight, threading his way hastily through a mass of khaki kit-bags, and stacked rifles. By Jove, it was Thomas!—he hadn’t seen Thomas since March, 1917.
“Good-morning, sir!” Captain Thomas blushed vividly. He was a hero worshipper, and he had served in the same brigade as Tony Seymour in Mesopotamia.
“Good-morning, Thomas,” Tony smiled again. Thomas was a nice lad. “Heavens, what a journey—well what are you going to do with us now?” he said.
Captain Thomas beamed. “The General will put you up, sir. He wants you to go round and see him at once; the car is here. And when your company is ready to march off, I will show your Subedar the way to the camp; I have the transport lorries ready for the kit.”
But Tony frowned under the concealing brim of his helmet. He did not want to go and stay with the General; he did not feel in the very least inclined for it. However . . . of course, it was quite impossible to get out of it.
“Thanks very much. I’ll come along at once. Just a second while I have a word with my Subedar.”
Tony Seymour threaded his way down the platform. It was crowded; troops were pouring into Manitor; all along the line fresh reports of outrages had reached them, and Manitor was now under martial law. “And a damned good thing, too,” thought Tony Seymour, his elbow coming viciously into contact with the ribs of a prosperous-looking bannia,[Money-lender] wearing a Khalifat cap, who purposely blocked his path. He took no notice of the stream of abuse that flowed in the vilest chi-chi from the pan-stained mouth, but stopped unconcernedly in front of the magnificent bearded figure of his senior native officer.
“Subedar Hari Singh, as soon as the men have got all the kit out of the train, fall them in; Captain Thomas will march you along to the camp where you will be accommodated. I am sorry that I can’t do it myself, but the General wants to see me at once, so I must hurry along.”
Subedar Hari Singh smiled gravely. He worshipped Tony, and would gladly have died for him. He knew him to be a very fine example of an English gentleman, as well as a magnificent soldier. But now his glance was fixed on some one who stood a little behind his superior officer, and he suddenly spoke fluently in Hindustani.
Tony listened amazed. He had no idea old Hari Singh possessed such a vocabulary—what was it all about? He turned swiftly—then he laughed uncontrollably. The fat bannia was just moving off, his eyes bulging with wrath.
“By Gad, Hari Singh, I should be court-martialled if I allowed myself to express myself so freely,” he said, and he drew a long breath. The laugh had done him good; somehow he felt better. To see around him all the signs of war was exhilarating—vengeance coming nearer.
“Those fellows need the horsewhip, nothing else will teach them manners,” said Hari Singh, and he smiled again at Tony. “Yes, sir, I will see to everything. You yourself will be well advised to get out of the sun now, I think,” and the tall Sikh officer looked rather anxiously at the drawn face under the khaki helmet. Something was amiss with the Major Sahib—he laughed, but only with the teeth; not with the eyes, from which the true laugh should spring.
“Yes, all right then, I will. Good-bye for the present, Subedar Hari Singh.” Tony Seymour saluted and swung round, and walked back down the blazing platform. The big car with the British Tommy at the wheel stood under the porch of the station. Captain Thomas held open the concave door with rather a damp hand. It was a bit of a strain this, having to cart round a V.C.—however, now he was going to be handed over to the Powers that were, for a bit; thank the Lord for that!
The General was elderly, hair just turning grey, eyes deep-set in a network of wrinkles. But he was an excellent man at his job; and as he sat now, at a table littered with papers—telephone at his elbow—he frowned a little impatiently. Things were bad, but not too bad, and this fellow sitting opposite him had obviously lost his nerve. A pity that—and a V.C. too, but that was often the way—the supreme effort, and ever afterwards failure to tackle the simplest job.
“Well, Seymour, you see how things are,” he said. “All I want you and your company to do for the present is to stand fast. In a couple of days there will be plenty doing; at present there is nothing much. As a matter of fact, if I may say so, I don’t think you are looking any too fit, and as you will be putting up here, I hope you will make yourself comfortable, and get as much rest as you can.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tony got up to go.
“And about this affair in Falkote, you know, the one I was speaking about, where they murdered the Mitchells, and the daughter of the Bombay Commissioner fellow, you come more from that part of the world—do you happen to know the Churches?”
Tony sat down again abruptly. “Yes, I do know them, sir,” he said.
“Oh, well. . .” The General hunted deftly among his papers—“yes, don’t go for a minute or two—as a matter of fact there’s further news about that. You will remember that I told you it was supposed that the girl had been murdered with the Mitchells. Well, now, it turns out, according to the statement of one of the syces who was there at the time, that the third body that was recovered from the ruins was not that of the girl at all, but of the Mahomedan butler. He, it is supposed, was instrumental in bringing off the whole thing, and just before he was murdered Mr. Mitchell found this out and stunned and locked him up in one of the bathrooms. So he was burned to death when the house was set fire to, an end that he richly deserved. But the point that now remains to be solved is, where is the girl?” The General looked across the baize-covered table at the man sitting opposite him. And looking, he got up quickly, and walked to the corner of the room—what in the name of all that was holy did they want to send down a man like that for? he thought angrily, as the soda hissed into the glass.
But Tony, holding on to the side of the chair, shook his head as the brown hand approached him. “I shall be all right in a second or two, sir,” he said. “I’m extremely sorry,” and as he spoke he sagged a little sideways—things had become blurred.
“Here, drink some of this,” said the General angrily, Tony drank, and instantly felt better. He struggled up, and tried to pull his collar together. He must tell the General, there was no other way out of it. Ann . . . Ann . . . perhaps she was alive . . . Ann, his little lamb, at the mercy of those devils. He choked, tried to speak, and failed.
The General looked at him in alarm: obviously there was something very seriously amiss. He laid a hand on his arm.
“Don’t hurry to speak, Seymour,” he said kindly. “Lie down for a bit, and take your time. I expect the journey and the heat have been a little too much for you. But a good rest will put you all right.”
But Tony Seymour regained control, and the General, hardened old campaigner as he was, thought that he had never seen a look of greater despair in a man’s eyes as he said, “Sir, the girl who was staying with the Mitchells is the girl I was going to marry.”
“Great God!” The General sat still for a moment, and then got up, walked away, and stood with his back to Tony, blowing his nose noisily. Then he came back. “We shall find her, Seymour,” he said, and he laid a very kind hand on the heaving shoulder.
Tony Seymour did not answer. For there was nothing to say. He knew that in his mind and in the mind of the General the same thought was uppermost. Better by far death for Ann than life, if she had been carried off by raiders. He groped for his handkerchief; blew his nose; and stood up.
“I must apologise, sir, for having given way as I have done,” he said, “but as a matter of fact your news came as rather a shock. And now, if I may, I will go and get into some rather more decent clothes, and then come back to you again. That is, if you can spare the time to see me.”
“Certainly.” The General walked to the door, his arm linked in that of his junior officer. He was profoundly sorry for him. It was one of the most appalling things that he had ever come across even in the course of his very varied experience. And when he had handed Tony over to the care of his elderly Goanese butler, for the Major Sahib’s servant had apparently not yet arrived, he sat down again at his table and heaved a very deep sigh. “Pray God the poor child is dead,” he said and taking off his pince-nez he wiped them, and put them on again. Then he drew forward a pile of papers.
It was beginning to get dark. Tony Seymour rang his bell again—it was a bit thick, this, Ishmael Khan’s non-appearance. He had seen him on the platform, in the middle of a sea of luggage, and the same luggage was now distributed round his room. But no Ishmael Khan. And it was time to dress for dinner; where the devil should he find all his things? He swore under his breath as he stooped over a long, japanned suitcase.
“You rang, sair?” The General’s Goanese butler stood just outside the door.
“Yes. Has my servant turned up yet?”
“No, sair.”
“Oh, all right, but send him along directly he does, will you?” Tony Seymour straightened himself, having retrieved a black tie.
Don Fernandez withdrew, and Tony went down on his knees again. He had had a long and anxious day, and this having to hunt for his own clothes was about the last straw. For after a bath and a change he had sought out the General again, and had faced him with a world of entreaty in his eyes.
“Sir, there is only one possible thing for me to do. I beseech you to give me leave to go and find Miss Church.”
And the General had sworn inwardly. Of course, in Seymour’s place he would have wanted to do the same thing. But from an outside standpoint he could see the utter futility of it. And he tried to say so, as kindly as possible.
“You see, Seymour, at present we have not the remotest idea if Miss Church is even alive. All we know for certain is that hers was not the third body that was retrieved from the ruins of that bungalow, and that news was only received by me yesterday. Directly I received it I sent for our most reliable Secret Service agent, and put the matter into his hands. He ought to be here tonight with some sort of a report. He is an Indian, and a very excellent fellow in every way, trained at Home.”
Tony Seymour bit his lip.
“And you see, until we have something definite to go on it would be folly for you to start out, either alone or with an escort. These people are experts at their job; they would either make it their business to murder you, or they would get wind of your coming and put Miss Church to death, and dispose of her body so effectually that they could never be brought to justice. No, I am sure you will agree with me that the only wise and sane thing to do is just to sit tight until we have something to go on. Then all my sympathy will be with you in your anxiety to take part personally in any expedition, punitive or otherwise, that may be sent out, and I shall make it my business to see that you form part of that expedition.”
And with that Tony had had to be content. He could see the sense of it. After all, what could he do alone? And it was not possible to explain to the General his shrinking horror that any one but he should see Ann’s humiliation. Ann, with her delicate, flower-like innocence. Tony groaned in his spirit, and all unconsciously he hid his face in his hands. And the General, who had a daughter of eighteen coming out with her mother to India that cold weather, watched him with the profoundest pity in his eyes, and longed to say something to comfort. But there was nothing to say, so he did the wisest thing he could and turned the subject on to something else. And as Tony was a very keen soldier, he soon had him talking with interest and foresight on one of the leading military questions of the day: the British policy in the Near East. And the shadow lifted a little from his heart.
But now it had come back again. To have to grovel about after his own clothes was the last straw, and he got up and walked angrily over to the wardrobe—had he, or had he not, already taken out and hung up his mess jacket?
And as he stood facing the long glass he saw Ishmael Khan reflected in it standing by the door: he stood panting, as if he had been running, one hand pressed to his heart. But as Tony turned swiftly he assumed his usual air of impassivity, and salaamed deeply.
“Where the hell have you been?” said Tony, furious.
Ishmael Khan did not reply for a moment. He was trying to recover his breath without appearing to. He came a step forward.
“Mar karo! [Forgive] sahib,” he said. “I bring news of the miss-sahib.”
Don Fernandez was in despair. The soup had already been on the table for five minutes, and had then been removed. It now reposed in its original degchi, and appeared likely to remain there indefinitely. For the door of the General Sahib’s office was tightly closed. It had been just as the gong was about to be sounded that the tall Major Sahib had come down the stairs, two at a time, and had asked that he might have immediate word with the General Sahib. The request had been granted, the General Sahib had hurriedly finished his toilet, and had then joined the Major Sahib in the passage, and the two had gone into the office, and the door had been closed behind them. And since then there had been no sound. Don Fernandez was disgusted. This came of letting wild and dishevelled Pathan servants into the house, for after having neglected his sahib for the whole day, he had arrived, this wild creature of the North, panting and breathless. And now he had the effrontery to go quietly about his work upstairs putting things to rights, for Don Fernandez had been upstairs to look at him.
But behind the closed doors the General was regarding Tony with keen eyes.
“Can you trust your servant to tell the truth?” he said.
“In a matter of this kind, absolutely.” Tony’s nostrils were dilated.
“Then have him down, and let me hear what he has to say.”
Ishmael Khan stood in front of the two Englishmen in uniform, quiet, and composed. He knew what he had to say, and he said it with dignity.
“Huzoor.” He salaamed deeply to the General, who returned the salutation with a quiet movement of his hand. “As you know, I accompanied the Major Sahib on his journey from the North. Early this morning I got out to drink water at a small wayside station, and when I got back into my compartment, I found the seat next to me occupied by a man who had not been there when I vacated the compartment. We became engaged in conversation, and he told me, among other things, that he had been travelling on foot for several days, and that in course of his journey he had passed by a village occupied by raiders. He had stumbled on it unawares, and in fear of his life he had crouched in the bushes for two days, not daring to continue his way, for fear of being seen, or of rousing the barking of dogs by his movements. But one night a heavy storm had sprung up, and under cover of the rain and thunder he had been able to make good his escape. But during the early afternoon of the night of the storm, as he lay concealed in the undergrowth, close to his feet passed an English girl, accompanied by her ayah. And with them was a tall Mahomedan—one of the raiders.”
The General averted his eyes from Tony. “Where is your informant?” he said curtly.
“Sir, I could not prevail upon him to remain. Long I endeavoured to do so. But to-day I have spent long hours in the bazaar, and I find that what he says is correct, and further news I have also obtained, but that I would fain impart to the ears of yourself, alone.”
The General nodded to Tony, who got up and left the room. Ishmael Khan came a little closer, and there was anguish in the faithful eyes.
“Huzoor, the bazaar gup [Gossip] is, that in two days more the English girl will be wedded to the headman of the village,” he said.
“Good God!” The exclamation escaped the General in spite of himself. Then his common sense asserted itself. “If such a thing is common knowledge in the bazaar,” he said, “how is it that we have no such information?”
Ishmael Khan smiled quietly. “Much is known in the bazaar,” he said, “that will never reach the ear of the Huzoor.”
That was true, as the General knew perfectly well. But the point was, how should the appalling news be broken to Tony. In any event, they must have dinner first, that was quite certain. So he got up and opened the door, and answered the unspoken question in Tony’s eyes with a reassuring nod.
“We will have dinner first,” he said, “and then we will go fully into the whole thing. Probably by the time we have finished, Mr. Abdul Hakim will be here with his report, and then we shall know exactly how to proceed. But until he comes we will think about other things. Come along, Seymour; I am sure you must be hungry, and if you aren’t, you ought to be.”
The General slipped his arm through the younger man’s, and they walked together along the matted corridor where Don Fernandez awaited them with a look of resignation.
Mr. Abdul Hakim was small and neat, and he could speak six languages fluently. He had a guileless look that masked an extraordinary cunning, and he knew every district in India from Gilgit in the North to Tinnivelli in the South. He had spent two years of the war in Mesopotamia, and before the war he had received his training at the hands of one of Scotland Yard’s most famous Secret Service officers. Early in his career he had devotedly loved and eventually married an Englishwoman, and he had had the sense to remain with her in her native country until she died, one of the first victims of the air raids. Then, entirely broken-hearted, although apparently unconcerned, he had thrown himself into espionage work, and then on the conclusion of the war he had returned to his native country. And now he looked at Tony with the profoundest sympathy in his melancholy eyes. This was a tragedy—a tragedy. Knowing what he did of Englishwomen, he could not regard it with his usual professional detachment. But he laid a thin brown hand a little hesitatingly on the uniform sleeve.
“Sahib, there is still time,” he said.
Tony jerked back his chair, and then drew it forward again. He must preserve his self-control at any price. But ever since the three men had sat at that round table in the office, the large ordnance map spread out between them, he had felt as if he was going mad. For Abdul Hakim’s report had confirmed the news brought in by Ishmael Khan. Ann was still alive, and, according to Abdul Hakim’s information, still unharmed. But in less than thirty-six hours she was to be taken in marriage by a Mahomedan. And the little village of Maya, where she was now in captivity, was quite thirty hours’ march from where they now sat. Six hours to spare, seven to be exact. Tony cast a tortured glance at the watch on his wrist.
Abdul Hakim saw the glance and understood it. So used he to look in his youth when his Chief in the Scotland Yard office kept him close to his chair and he knew with an agonizing certainty that the six o’clock train from Victoria would not see him that night. And she used always to meet the six o’clock train, that little flower of his, with fair hair. So he spoke quickly.
“Sir, my plan is this,” he said, and he looked at the General. “There is but one way to rescue Miss Church, and that is by strategy. Anything else is utterly useless. I will not even give my reasons for saying this; they are obvious, and time is precious. We must start to-night, Major Seymour and I, and if he can entirely trust his servant, we will take him with us. We shall all go in disguise, of course; that I shall arrange. All I ask of you, sir, is that at this point”—Abdul Hakim stooped a little further over the large ordnance map and laid a thin olive finger on its crackling surface—“that at five o’clock on the morning of the twenty-fourth, we shall find an armed escort here. That will be easily arranged, I think?” He glanced again at the General.
“Easily.” The General was looking closely at the map; he took out a pocket-book, and wrote something swiftly in it.
“And now, Major Seymour, all that remains is for you, accompanied by your servant, to meet me outside this gate at ten o’clock to-night. Wear a khaki shirt, and shorts, and wind an extra puttee round your waist, it may be useful. Tear the pith lining out of your topi, and bring it with you. Bring also your service revolver, and ammunition for the same, and give your servant a weapon of some kind. That is all. And although I am sure I need not say so to an officer of your experience, silence, above all things. For even walls have ears, at times like these.”
Tony Seymour suddenly felt a thrill of mad excitement. He inclined his head quietly.
“And now, sir, good-night.” Abdul Hakim got up, and the General followed his example. “And may we meet in happier circumstances in a couple of days’ time.” Mr. Abdul Hakim bowed politely, and slipped out like a little dark shadow.
Mr. Abdul Hakim was an artist in his way; he took a couple of steps backward, and put his head a little on one side.
“Good!” he said. “Now then, for your servant, Major Seymour; he will be more difficult. But we will do the best we can with him. Come, Ishmael Khan.”
Ishmael Khan walked out from behind a large screen where he had been waiting while Abdul Hakim put Tony into his disguise. He flung a frantic glance round the room, then his hand went straight to the hilt of his knife. “My sahib! What have you done with him?” he said.
Both men laughed—it was the surest tribute to Abdul Hakim’s skill, that searching glance round the room.
“Here I am, Ishmael Khan,” said Tony; but although he laughed, he was deeply touched. It had been so instant, the thought for him.
But Ishmael Khan was still sceptical. He walked forward, the shining blade still unsheathed.
“Show me the signet ring upon thy little finger,” he said.
And as Tony held out his brown hand Abdul Hakim took a long breath. It had escaped his notice—that incriminating circle of gold.
“Take it off, Major Seymour,” he said; “a mercy your servant drew my attention to it. Now then, come along, Ishmael Khan.”
As the two withdrew, Tony Seymour looked curiously round the room. It was an upper room in a tumbledown house in one of the narrowest bazaar streets he had ever been through. They had reached it easily; they had only once been challenged by a British sentry, and Tony’s prompt reply to the rapped out “Who comes there?” had instantly produced the reassuring “Pass friend.” All the native houses were closed; only through the shuttered windows of one or two an occasional shaft of light stole out. Tony took a turn round the room. It was entirely filled with tall almirahs, each one numbered. A couple of tall screens divided the room into three. Suddenly he started back, with a muttered exclamation. A tall figure dressed in a long white robe, girdled round the waist with a twisted cord, was staring at him. From under the small cap long white hair flowed, and a long white beard covered the front of the robe. Tony Seymour stared again, then, “My gaudy aunt, if it isn’t me!” he said, and marvelled at the skill that could make such a complete transformation possible.
But Ishmael Khan suddenly flung himself out from behind the screen, and fell at Tony’s feet.
“Lord of my life, he wishes to remove my beard!” he cried.
Tony Seymour was taken aback. That would surely be against Ishmael Khan’s principles. He met the eyes of the Secret Service agent over the Pathan’s head. But Abdul Hakim shook his head slightly.
“It must be done,” he said with his lips.
Tony bent over Ishmael Khan’s heaving figure.
“For my sake, and for the sake of the miss-sahib,” he said quietly.
And Ishmael Khan got up abruptly, and rushed back from where he had come. But when a few minutes later a couple of piratical-looking cut-throats emerged from behind the screen, Tony Seymour walked up to the taller of them, and took him by the hand.
“Thank you, Ishmael Khan,” he said.
And the beautiful, almost womanish mouth under the fierce black moustache trembled. That beloved and revered hand in his? Ishmael Khan fell on his knees and laid his forehead on it.
Ann was cooking. From outside the little bamboo hut the smoke curled up in a dense cloud. Ann was fanning the red-hot furnace inside its square shelter of bricks. She was crouching on the ground, dressed in a sari, and at the present moment it was tucked up between her knees, leaving her free to stoop and bend as she pleased. She was smiling as she fanned: it certainly was most frightful fun, this living in a bamboo hut, cooking your own food. For she had spoken seriously to ayah, who had spent the whole of their first night in Maya in breathing forth the most fearful imprecations on their captors; it was all so useless, as she tried to explain to her. “Ayah, I know they are hogs; I think they are hogs much more than you do, because I am English, and I hate having to do what a native says. But here we are, after all, and as long as they feed us, and give us rugs and things, what is the good of fussing? Daddy will get us away all right; probably by now he has begun to do something. But if a person like Hassan Koya hears you calling him a hog, he might quite easily get in a rage and cut our throats, and then what? Ayah darling, for my sake, try and bear it more patiently.” And Ann had crawled across the heap of rugs, and leaned her head against the old knee, and had looked coaxingly into the brown face, that bent over her distorted with anxiety. But ayah had stroked her darling’s golden head with a hand that longed to seize a knife and plunge it into the foul heart of the man in whose power they found themselves; for his designs were evil, ayah knew it as certainly as she knew that she had just laid his son in his arms. But as Ann said, it was quite useless to rebel; they would only find themselves in worse case if they did. So she had promised Ann, in her halting English, that she would not call any one a hog, so that they could hear. “Only calling hogs in own houses,” she had said defiantly.
And now they had been here nearly a week, and even ayah’s fears were a little allayed. They were treated with the utmost consideration; every day their daily ration of country flour was brought them, together with the raw materials for making curry. They had fruit and country vegetables, and eggs, also tea, buffalo’s milk, and a certain amount of sugar. Ayah could cook, as every native woman can, and Ann, ravenously hungry from the life spent almost entirely in the open air, grew to love the funny impromptu meals eaten under the spreading arms of the big plane tree. And ayah had taught her to cook, to mix the browny country flour till it would roll out in a thick paste and then to cut it into a round and bake it over the red coals till it slipped out of the iron saucer a real chupattie. Ann was becoming an expert at this. And it was extraordinary how many things you could do without! A proper bath, for instance. Every morning one of the men would carry three kerosene oil tins of water from the well and stand them outside the little hut, and that water had to do for their cooking as well as their washing. And ayah mounting guard, Ann would retire behind their hut and splash it all over her face and hands and as much of the rest of herself as she could manage; and then ayah would have her turn. Of course, in a way, it wasn’t nice, but then, as Ann said to herself philosophically, it might have been so very much worse. And no one molested them or was rude to them, and it was beautifully cool, and there was always something to look at. One day it was a troupe of monkeys that came swinging over the leafy ground right up to the edge of the little settlement; they stood on their hind legs and peered, and then turned to one another and talked in funny chattering voices. And Ann, hugely entertained, threw a piece of chupattie to the front one and he took it up in his two hands—extraordinarily like ayah’s hands, as Ann thought privately—and bit pieces off, punctuating the bites with hideous grimaces at herself. And then all taking fright at Tan, they slung themselves up into the branches of the overhanging trees, and Ann saw one with a baby clinging to her breast, a tiny little grey fluffy thing. How she wished that she would let go of it so that she could have it for her own to pet and cuddle.
“Ayah, we used to be monkeys once, you know,” she said to ayah, munching healthily as she spoke.
But ayah did not care for this theory.
“Ari! baba, kubhi nahin,” [Never] she said, and she turned round for a moment just to show Ann that she meant what she said, and then resumed her position with her back to her baba. For although they lived now in what was really the closest intimacy, ayah never forgot she was a servant, and that was what really helped to make the relationship so delightful, for ayah never presumed, however familiar Ann might be.
“Anyhow, we used to go on four legs; Daddy says so.” Ann chuckled as she peeled a green fig and threw the skin to a crow that perched on a bough a stone’s throw away, its black plumage shining as if it had been newly blackleaded; ayah wouldn’t reply to this, she felt sure. And ayah didn’t—she was looking across to the other side of the village. Hassan Koya had come out of his hut, and was shading his eyes with his hand, watching them. But he went back again, and ayah put her wrinkled hand to her heart and breathed again. For it never left her—the awful fear. . . .
But that had all happened two or three days ago; to-day ayah was having a great wash at the back of the hut, and Ann had been made to put on a sari that had been provided by Hassan Koya’s wife. Hassan Koya’s wife had not wanted to provide it at all; it was a new one, brought by her husband when he returned from his last raid. But he had dragged it roughly out of her tin trunk, and when she had cried out he had struck her across the face. “Peace, or I will kill you!” he had said. And she had slunk back, and when he had gone across the little enclosure, carrying in his hand her cherished fairing, she had picked up her sleeping baby, lifted it out of the little hammock in which it was slung, and had crept across to the hut in which her mother-in-law lived.
“Even my own garments does he give to the accursed one!” she cried, and she cast herself down howling on the beaten earth floor. “And that when I have borne him a son.”
Hassan Koya’s mother looked at her daughter-in-law with a certain amount of scorn; she was sorry for her in a way. But this was not the way to tackle an affair of the kind, she thought. Was it her late husband whose glances had strayed, would she not have known how to settle it! Passionate, furious, screaming vituperations, till in sheer self-defence he relinquished the illicit quest. But this calm acceptance of the inevitable; she had little sympathy with it. All the same she hated Ann with an undying hatred, and if it had been possible she would gladly have killed her with her own hand. For the situation was beyond her. Why this solicitation for the welfare of Ann and her ayah? she asked herself. Anything else she would have understood and in a measure applauded, for would it not have meant the dragging in the dust of one of the accursed race? But this constant thought, the orders issued in a voice of thunder, with white teeth gleaming, “Speak not to the white girl or to her ayah or you will die, and that by inches.” It was more than she could understand.
But she did not let Hassan Koya’s wife know the uneasiness that she felt; and she flicked her fingers, and made sounds of approbation at her week-old grandson, who stared with black, intelligent eyes, and looked with his round head covered with thick black hair quite as advanced as an English baby of a month old. And Hassan Koya’s wife had walked alertly to the well the day that her child was three days old, and had it not been for ayah’s insistence, and her metaphorical washing of her hands of the whole affair if her injunctions were not obeyed, she would have gone about her work as usual the following morning. Ayah would have liked to have retained her supremacy in the household of Hassan Koya for a good deal longer; she felt that it provided her with a certain amount of excuse for stating her own terms, so to speak. But the class of Indian woman that lives an open-air life, and if necessary does her husband’s work in the fields, looks upon child-bearing as a very ordinary event, so ayah had only to withdraw with a few gruesome threats as to what to expect if her warnings were too flagrantly disregarded.
And now she was washing Ann’s clothes; trying to introduce a certain amount of flexibility, with the coarse country soap, into the rather bedraggled grey woollen jumper. The grey flannel skirt, already washed, hung over the side of the little hut. Ayah was resolved that her darling should appear dressed as an English miss-sahib among these hogs, and at first she had resolutely refused to accept Hassan Koya’s offer of the new sari to wear while she washed Ann’s other clothes. But Ann had rather liked the idea: it made her feel as if she was there because she wanted to be, not because she had to be, so she explained to ayah; so ayah had given way.
But Hassan Koya, strolling from his hut, where he had left his wife lying with her face hidden in the dust of the beaten earth floor, looked down at Ann’s shining golden head with a look of passionate possession in his eyes. This was to be his, this small fair thing like a timid animal. He would take her away, far into the forest, far away from all these ugly coarse-fibred creatures of his own world. Hassan Koya had suddenly conceived a fierce loathing for all the people round him. They were ugly; he wanted to torture and strike the uncouth pock-marked woman whom he called his wife. He shoved her cruelly aside when he entered his hut. He would sit for hours just staring over to where he could see Ann, and when his wife would approach him timidly holding out the baby in her arms he would snarl at her and bid her begone, and the child with her. For even the son so craved for had lost its charm for Hassan Koya; he was drowned—engulfed in an overwhelming passion.
He approached Ann almost timidly, and fumbling in the front of his loose shirt he took out something soft and furry, and held it out to her.
Ann glanced up at the sound of his footsteps. She had begun to rather like Hassan Koya; he would sometimes come over and sit beside their fire in the evenings, and when he was there he would always address her with the greatest deference, and he would never sit down until ayah told him that the miss-sahib said he might. She looked up at him and smiled, showing all her small teeth.
“I have made a real chupattie,” she said, and she pointed to the round biscuit in its iron saucer. Then, as he still held out his hand, she glanced at what it held, and when she saw she jumped up with a cry of delight. “Oh . . . how perfectly heavenly!” she cried. “Oh, what is it, Hassan Koya?” She looked at him with searching, eager eyes.
“Mongoose . . . for you.” Hassan Koya knew just a very little English; he had picked it up once when he had spent a couple of months selling skins in a northern hill station, and he had been practising this sentence ever since he had trapped this little beast, roaming in all the glory of its first expedition from the maternal nest.
“For me? Oh, thank you!” Ann clasped the little creature with its soft quivering snout close to her neck. It was the most adorable thing. She sat down again and put it out on her lap; it looked into her face with its gleaming hazel eyes, and then made a little playful dab at her finger. “Oh, I simply love it!” she said. “Oh, thank you, Hassan Koya! But what about Tan—will he hurt it?”
Hassan Koya laughed. “Tan dog touching, mongoose killing,” he said tersely.
“Really?” Ann held the animal close, and hoped that ayah would not make a fuss when she saw what Hassan Koya had brought her. But ayah, hearing voices and flinging down her washing so that she could hurry round to Ann, for the first time looked at Hassan Koya with approbation.
“Very good animal,” she said; “killing all snakes.”
So everybody was pleased, and Ann, looking at Hassan Koya’s powerful frame clad in spotless white, began to think that some natives were not so bad, and that if only she knew for certain that one day they would get safely back to civilisation, she would be quite content to spend all the time until she was to be openly engaged to Tony in this wild open-air way. If nothing in the way of a message from the outer world reached them within the next week, she thought, she would approach Hassan Koya, and see what his ideas were about it all. Because, of course, it cost a certain amount to keep them, and he couldn’t want it to go on for ever. Although, of course, letting any one know that she and ayah were there meant that all the burning of the bungalow would be found out. But still, he would have to put up with that; and probably the fact of his having been kind and careful of her and ayah would make the Government, or whoever it was that arranged these things, more lenient with him, and the rest of the people in the village. So Ann smiled well content—and Hassan Koya, seeing her smile, trembled. Should he suggest, as he had wanted to for some time, that he should take her and her ayah into a lovely sequestered glade, that lay about half a mile to the west of the little hamlet? Hassan Koya spent long hours there every day, and for the last three days since his plans had come to some definite conclusion, he had been working there too. And as he worked he sang a wild Indian love song under his breath; he was building it for her, his little Flame of the Forest, this small grass hut with the thatched roof. And he wanted her to see it—the spring that bubbled and ran away into the grass, the tall leafless tree with its flaring scarlet blossoms—her tree her namesake; harbinger of the summer; harbinger of the burning days to come.
But at his half-hesitating suggestion all ayah’s latent fear stirred again, and she spoke sharply, shaking her black head.
Ann saw him frown. “What does he want, ayah?” she asked.
Ayah interpreted, adding on her own account that she did not think it seemly for Ann to go anywhere under the guidance of their captor.
But Ann pooh-poohed this undue fastidiousness.
“Really, ayah, any one would think that we stayed here for pleasure,” she cried. “We’re prisoners, and just when we have a chance of getting out for a little while, you stop it. I want to go, and if Hassan Koya will take us I say we are to.”
So it was settled; and when, after about half an hour’s slow threading of their way through the forest, they emerged on to a grassy bank, sloping down to a little hurrying stream, Ann exclaimed with pleasure.
“Why, it’s lovely!” she said. “Oh, and look! Someone has been building a house! Ayah, look! Wouldn’t you adore to live there?” She ran fleetly down the slope, holding the mongoose tightly in her arms.
Hassan Koya watched her go. He followed more slowly, his heart drumming. What strange stirring of chivalry kept him from flinging his arms round her then and there? He did not know. But when his mother, her face quivering with rage, had argued with him the night before, he had scowled, and flung out his hand as if to strike her. “Peace, woman,” he had said, “the girl is to be my wife, bound to me by the law of the Prophet.” And, shaking all over with rage, she had been obliged to bow to his decision.
But now, as he stood and looked at Ann, standing with her skirt blowing round her slim knees by the edge of the stream, standing quite close to the little hut that was so nearly ready, he felt that he could no longer keep the secret, and he turned his hawk-like profile to ayah, and broke into low passionate speech.
She listened as if she had been turned to stone. Her baba! Her baba! She suddenly caught at her throat.
But Ann was coming back, running up the grassy slope with the pointed snout of the mongoose peeping drolly out of the crown of her Hawkes topi.
“Look, ayah!” she cried, and laughed merrily. “You didn’t know Colonel Playfair sahib, the sahib that Joyce missy-sahib is going to marry. The mongoose is just like him, and I am going to call him Charles. He has just the same funny stumpy little legs.”
But ayah only stared and spoke in a dead, flat voice.
“Come, baba,” she said, “we are going back; keep close to ayah’s side.”
Ann sat huddled up on one of the rugs in the corner of the hut. She had sat there ever since they had come back from their expedition to the little glade by the stream. It had been a dreadful walk back; ayah had kept on breaking into a run, and then pulling herself up, and Hassan Koya seemed suddenly to have altered. He seemed to speak with more assurance, and he walked ahead swinging his arms, every now and then looking back to see if they were following. And when they at last reached the village again, he had walked over with them to their hut, and had sat down on the ground, his legs crossed. And ayah had told her to go inside, and not come out again till she bade her, and if she heard a noise not to come out to see what it was. So Ann had crept inside, and had hugged Charles up to her chin, and had listened with her heart in her mouth to the sounds of wordy strife that raged outside. They were arguing, Ann could tell that, and she could also tell that both were furiously angry. And at last ayah had begun to scream, and then there was the sound of a blow and of retreating footsteps, and then the little thatched door had opened very, very slowly, and ayah, holding her sari to her mouth, had come in. And she had just sunk down on to the ground, and begun to sob with a sound of heart-rending grief that made Ann leap to her feet.
“Ayah, darling ayah, tell me what it is?” she cried, running to the old woman.
But ayah continued to sob, and then Ann saw the blood on the sari, and her heart turned to flame within her. He had struck her, ayah, her champion and protector. She would go now—this instant—and tell him how she hated him, and how that when they were back again within reach of English people she would see that Daddy dealt properly with him. She set Charles down on the ground, and turned to the door.
But ayah saw her movement.
“Come . . . come back, darling . . . no good going . ., very bad mans.” She struggled on to her feet. “I washing mouth, then coming back and telling—missy baba not going outside.” Ayah got up, and drawing her sari over her head she went out of the little door. And when she came back, with her hair smooth, and only a grotesquely swollen lower lip to show where Hassan Koya had struck her, she sat down by Ann and drew the golden head into her old lap, and sobbed again.
“Ayah can’t do an’thing . . . bad mans taking missy-baba for wife. I telling when burra-sahib know, burra-sahib killing. Bad mans only laughing, saying not know, making wife two days more.” Ayah flung up her hands and dragged her sari over her face.
Ann turned suddenly livid. Wife!—that seemed to be the only word that she could hear. Wife. . . but she was going to be Tony’s wife. What did Hassan Koya mean? Wife! But he had a wife—ayah had pointed her out to her, and there was a baby too, that seemed to be bound up in some mysterious way with their arrival. She struggled her cropped head from under the trembling hands.
“Ayah, what on earth do you mean?” she said.
But ayah could not speak. She only dropped her head into her hands with a moan and sat still. Of what avail to tell Ann that Hassan Koya had told her that she herself was free to go, that she could start to-morrow night for Falkote, and that he would guarantee her safe conduct if she would vow that she would remain silent on the subject of Ann’s whereabouts, but that otherwise she would die the foulest death? And that he intended to take Ann far away into the hills, that is, when he had first taken her to the little hut by the stream that he had showed them to-day. And at that he had smiled, and ayah had not waited to hear more, but had flown at him cursing horribly, and had fastened her claw-like fingers into his throat. And he had thrust her back, and had hit her across the mouth with the back of his hand, and had then strode back to his own hut. Of what avail to tell her all this? Ayah was done, broken, she had not even the means wherewith to kill Ann herself; she would have administered an overdose of opium without the slightest hesitation. She sank her old head lower and began to sob again.
And ayah’s despair bore in on Ann, as nothing else would have done, that things really were desperate. Ayah was a fighter—she never gave up as long as there was hope—therefore this could no longer be regarded as a sort of rather exciting picnic that was going to end in the payment of a ransom, or failing that with a dramatic rescue by armed troops. No—this was the end—she was here for ever—there was to be no rescue of any kind. And after all—how could people rescue you when they didn’t know where to rescue you from? Ann suddenly turned deadly cold. Of course . . . that was it. No one knew, they thought she was dead, she and ayah. But the Mitchells—they would know. But not if they were dead. And perhaps they were dead—there had been shots. Ann suddenly felt as if some one had got hold of her by the throat. Hassan Koya—she was to be his wife, not Major Seymour’s wife at all—all that was over—all that heavenly dream; she was to be the wife of a native. “No! No!” Ann began to beat her hands together, mad with sudden terror and horror. “Ayah! ayah! You’ve got to do something—we must escape—people in books always get away, and it is only in books that things like this happen.” Ann flung herself on her old servant, and shook her violently.
But ayah had given up all hope. She knew that escape by flight was out of the question: even if they succeeded in getting free of the village, long before they had reached civilisation they would have been caught and brought back. And even if they were not caught and brought back they would only perish miserably from thirst. No, there was no hope. She lifted hopeless sunken eyes and looked at Ann.
But Ann had got up, and was running from side to side: she suddenly felt as if she was going mad. It couldn’t be real—this awful horror. Perhaps it was all a dream, perhaps she would wake up and find herself in bed in the Mitchells’ bungalow. Perhaps all that about people coming to kill them and the bungalow being burnt had been only part of the dream, and she would wake up and find it all right. But it all looked real, this—in a dream there was always something like being without any clothes on, or talking very familiarly with people like the Royal Family, to make you know that it wasn’t real. No, this was real. Ann’s eyes stared wild and distracted. “God, God, God!” she began to cry out loud. “Ayah, some one must come and help us, some one must. Haven’t you got a god? Pray to him then—my God doesn’t pay any attention—He has forgotten us.” Ann fell on her face and began to tear at the ground.
Charles watched with gleaming hazel eyes from his fold in the rug, to which he had crept when Ann had put him down. This was something he was accustomed to, this grubbing in the earth; he wormed himself out, and nuzzled a soft twitching nose in between her fingers. And at the feeling of that gentle living pressure something seemed to give way in Ann’s brain, and the tears came in a flood. Any one who could make a thing as soft and dear as a mongoose must have pity. And in the Bible it said so—”Not even a sparrow.”
She turned streaming, piteous eyes on the old native woman.
“Ayah, ayah! I never meant it when I said that my God wasn’t of any use. He is, of course He is! We will ask Him this very moment, we will ask Him to send the Lord Sahib, the Lord Sahib is the only one who can help us properly. Come, ayah, you and I and Charles: that makes three, and it says two or three—come, ayah now!”
And although ayah was a little sceptical, she felt in her heart of hearts that perhaps a God that belonged almost exclusively to sahibs and mem-sahibs would be more likely to be of practical help than hers in a crisis like this, so she bent her old knees obediently, and folded her hands as Ann showed her, and said “Ehmen,” as she had once heard some one say it at a Baptist Mission to which Mrs. Church had gone to open a Sale of Work. And they rose from their knees comforted, Ann because she always did feel comforted when she flung herself bodily on the Unknown, ayah because she had done what her miss-sahib had told her, and therefore good must come of it. But as she looked round the little hut her eyes dwelt thoughtfully on Charles, who was trying, very ineffectually, to draw nourishment from the woolly rug.
“Lettin batcha go, missy-baba; I hearing mother very sad quacking in jungle when we coming back from walk. I think very sad, losing baby.”
And Ann, looking at the little animal, felt her heart throb with pity. Of course: Charles had a mother, too, and he was feeling utterly miserable and lost without her. And she owed him a great deal too: it had been a most awful feeling, that feeling of doubting God; and by just touching her fingers with his soft nose, he had put an end to it. She would let him go. And as she opened the door, and watched Charles, his furry nose very close to the ground, making a straight course for the edge of the forest, she felt that in that certainty of direction there was comfort too. For no one, especially so young, could possibly steer such a course unless someone was guiding him. And if any one could guide Charles, He could guide her and ayah. So she shut the door on the little scampering animal with a little of the black despair lifted from her soul.
But that night, as she lay sleepless by ayah’s side, it threatened to overwhelm her again, because the terrible thought came to torment her that at first ayah had liked Charles. Then why had she suddenly changed? Charles had been supposed to be a comfort because he would keep away snakes. Did ayah want them to come? Ann, with a dreadful feeling of suffocation in her throat, felt that she probably did. For would it not be a way of escape from something more terrible than a snake?
The first halt came when they were far out under the stars. They had been walking for about five hours; Tony found his long robe and smothering beard incredibly hampering, but he set his teeth, and plodded on.
But Abdul Hakim could hear him breathing hard, and he stopped abruptly.
“We will rest here,” he said, “and we will also eat and drink. Ishmael Khan, you are provided for; Major Seymour, you and I will share and share alike; I have brought for both. Now then.” Abdul Hakim sat down on the ground with a sigh of relief.
But Tony, dog-tired as he was, remained standing. “We haven’t time to rest,” he said.
“We have ample time.” Abdul Hakim spoke with confidence. “We have come along excellently, and at this rate we should easily make Maya in twelve hours from now. And without a certain amount of rest and sleep we shall arrive at our destination useless. Leave all these things to me, Major Seymour. I am in command of this expedition, remember.” And although Abdul Hakim spoke with a little laugh, there was a certain amount of reproof in his voice.
Tony heard it and was ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he sat down with an almost audible groan of relief.
Abdul Hakim slung the bag from off his shoulders, and fumbled in its depths. “Coffee, hot in its thermos, to help to keep us awake,” he said, “and sandwiches of several kinds. A cup for you and for me, and now we shall very soon be restored. Ishmael Khan, you have all you require?”
“Huzoor!” Ishmael Khan, seated at a respectful distance—Tony could just see his puggaree faintly glimmering through the darkness—spoke with a full mouth.
Abdul Hakim laughed noiselessly. “A fine fellow,” he said, “and a brave one. He will be invaluable if it comes to a pinch. Now, as we have leisure, let me tell you my plan. We ought, if all goes well, to reach Maya by five o’clock this afternoon. The last part of the journey will not be accomplished so quickly, for directly it begins to get light you will have to replace those English shoes by sandals, and you will find them very irksome. But you must hang your own shoes round your waist, for the moment you and Miss Church are clear of the village your lives will depend on the rate at which you can get away. And now let me explain to you my plan.” Abdul Hakim stretched himself at full length on the ground, and flung his arms wide; Tony Seymour could see the tiny light on his wrist, where the watch was strapped.
“The Mahomedan is a superstitious man, and it is a Mahomedan with whom we have to deal. In this case he will have all his community against him, for he is taking to wife an English woman. It is on that that we stake our chances. Our hopes lies in my being able to so prevail upon his feelings that he will allow his future bride to be taken apart by you for some religious instruction. The game is then in our hands, Major Seymour. You will have a start of about two hours—you will make the most of it. Ishmael Khan and I shall remain behind; but we shall hope to meet you again with the ayah, at a place that I shall arrange with you beforehand. Is that all quite clear?”
“Perfectly!” But Tony was trembling from head to foot. Ann! . . . in his arms again!
“Of course, if we cannot prevail upon him to allow his bride to be taken apart, then we must try other means. In that event you must take your lead from me. But we will not permit ourselves to contemplate failure in this, the best plan. You, as the priest, must remain absolutely silent—silence in your case will give the impression of great age and experience, whereas as a matter of fact it will be a way of keeping concealed the fact that you cannot speak a word of the language.” Abdul Hakim began to laugh silently.
But Tony could not laugh. Abdul Hakim went on.
“Ishmael Khan and I shall fill the roles of casual passers-by who have fallen in with the old priest and have brought him to extend his blessing on the marriage that is about to be celebrated. I shall then make it very clear that no blessing is to be expected—rather the reverse. And in that I think I shall be supported by the rest of the community of Maya. Probably Hassan Koya—for that is the name of this man—has already a wife, therefore the sympathy of the villagers will be with her. All that will be very valuable to us.”
“How long will it take us to get to the place where you have arranged that we shall meet again?”
“Going at an average pace, about twelve hours. Miss Church will not be able to travel fast; after what she has been through she will probably be very much exhausted. But we shall hope to meet you at dawn on the day after to-morrow. The place where we shall meet is this.” Abdul Hakim crawled toward Tony Seymour, and dragged the ordnance map out of his coat pocket, flashing the light of his electric torch across it. Tony followed the course of the slim brown finger with rigid attention. He groped for his own map and marked it carefully. Abdul Hakim was a genius; he had every detail of the expedition pigeon-holed in his brain. Nothing was to be left to chance: the Hindu temple here, the well here, the ruins of the old dak bungalow [Rest house] there—all were to serve their turn. Abdul Hakim spoke quietly, and at length. Tony listened with the profoundest admiration. He tried to express it.
“I go into action with my plans well laid, as you, Major Seymour, would also do were you proceeding on active service,” he said, but he was pleased. “And now we must proceed upon our way. Wake, Ishmael Khan!”
The huge Pathan rolled over on his side and sat up. Abdul Hakim spoke quietly to him for a moment or two. Then they fell into single file again, Abdul Hakim leading the way.
It was not until the sun was high in the brassy tropical sky that they halted again. Tony had changed his brogues for sandals, and the slipping, unstable things made walking almost intolerable. He cursed as he stumbled along. Abdul Hakim saw, and for the first time he was anxious: they were not making as much pace as they should, and if anything happened to incapacitate the Major Sahib they were done. He thought a moment.
“We are now on the outskirts of the village of Hetwala,” he said; “and instead of leaving it on our right, as I had intended, we will enter it and endeavour to get some sort of a conveyance for the rest of our journey. Otherwise, I am afraid that we shall not be in time.”
Under his beard Tony’s face blanched.
“Take your cue from me, and you also Ishmael Khan,” Abdul Hakim spoke swiftly in the vernacular. “And now”—Abdul Hakim flung back his head and squared his shoulders—“may the gods be with us, Major Seymour. You understand exactly what I want you to do, in case we may not get speech with one another again?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then follow me.” Abdul Hakim stuck his hands into the pockets of his white coat, and swaggered as he walked.
The group of gaily-dressed natives held their sides and rocked with laughter. Truly he was a wit, this fellow who had walked in amongst them. And the others with him—the aged priest of wonderful learning, and the rather silent brother—strange that they should have dawned upon the scene just now! But a wit indeed! They held their sides again, and gasped.
Abdul Hakim prayed that Tony Seymour could not understand what he was saying.
“And to this wedding we must go,” he cried. “I would not miss such a sight for anything in the world. But we are hampered by this old fellow here. What shall we do with him? Eh?” He looked inquiringly round the grinning circle.
“Leave him behind.” Ishmael Khan suddenly rose magnificently to the occasion, and opened his shaven lips with a vast yawn.
“What say you all?” Abdul Hakim stared round with a flash of his black eyes. “Leave him behind, eh? Leave behind the venerable frame of the aged one whose sacred feet have but just pressed the stones of our holy city? Speak!”
“No, no!” There was a growl of disapproval from the crowd. A surly beast forsooth. They stared angrily at Ishmael Khan.
“Well then, a bullock cart, and at once, or we shall miss the cream of the affair. Into the cart we will put him, this holy man, and we will Hurry along by his side. Come, and at once, for the sun is high in the heavens.”
Abdul Hakim soon had the whole village agog. They had not thought of going to this wedding. They had heard of it; it was common property in the countryside, but to go to it—no. But now they rose to it like a swarm of flies on the search for carrion. She had spent long hours in screaming, so they had heard, this English girl. And her ayah with her, she had set her teeth in the throat of the headman of the village, the prospective bridegroom. It would be rare sport indeed to see them baited, these Two. There was a pleasurable bustle in the circle round Abdul Hakim; as it broke up they too ran to tell their womenfolk the news, and to yoke up the oxen.
But Abdul Hakim heaved a sigh of relief. He had begun to be anxious about Tony. Apart from the danger, say, of a chafed heel for him, there was the fierceness of the sun to be reckoned with. True, he had the close-fitting pith lining of his pith helmet under his wig—but still, it might not prove enough protection. So to feel that the rest of the journey was to be undertaken under cover was an intense relief. And he shouted with laughter; his hands on his hips, as the big unwieldy bullock cart wound its way out of the little village.
“Come along, friends!” he cried. “Now for some sport! The English girl brought by force, reluctant, to the arms of her husband! Surely a sight not to be missed. Hurry! Hurry!”
The first sound that Tony heard when he entered the village of Maya was the sound of Ann crying. He stood suddenly rigid, and Abdul Hakim, also hearing the pitiful sound, passed quickly out of the middle of a group of laughing natives, and stood directly in front of him. “For God’s sake, be careful!” he said, and he spoke without moving his lips.
Tony came back to himself with a drumming of blood in his ears. Fool that he was, he had very nearly given the whole thing away. He sat down abruptly, and sank his head on his breast, his long white beard flowing almost down to his feet. But under his disguise his heart beat a passionate tattoo. A couple of machine guns—his men well placed—God in Heaven, wouldn’t he wipe the whole village off the face of the earth! And the scattering screaming figures as they ran—the unutterable joy of seeing them spatter flesh and blood—the joy of it—for they had made her cry, his darling! Tony gritted his teeth, and sent up a prayer for self-control. He raked the little enclosure with his eyes. She would be there, in the further corner, it was from there that the sound of sobbing came. And mingled with it came the sound of a native wailing—of course, ayah—she would be with Ann.
Abdul Hakim, cocking up the tails of his coat with his slim olive hands, swaggered back to the group he had left. Major Seymour would be all right now; he had been taken unawares.
“And the sport promises to be almost better than we had anticipated,” he said. “Hark how she squeals, the little English pig. And now to seek out the happy bridegroom. We must prepare him for the guests who have come so unexpectedly.” Abdul Hakim swung rapidly round on his heels.
“Salaam bai!” [Brother] Hassan Koya, tall and frowning, but gay in the flaming cerise-coloured coat, came suddenly out of a little hut, stooping his head as he came. He stood in the shadow of one of the towering plane trees, and scowled at the group round the bullock cart.
“Salaam bai!” Abdul Hakim returned the greeting with assurance. “Behold how mine enemy is delivered into my hand,” he thought to himself, well satisfied. For Hassan Koya had the look of a man much harassed. “We seek the bridegroom,” he said, “the headman of the village of Maya. For the news has gone far and wide that to-day, at sunset, he is to wed the white girl, the girl to whom in the magnanimity of his noble heart he has given shelter and protection. And to witness that act of condescension we have come far, and not only we, but a wise and wonderful priest with us.”
“Priest!” Hassan Koya looked round sharply.
“Even so.” Abdul Hakim warmed to his task. “On our way hither we fell in with this marvellous man, so old and so holy that words cannot express the wealth of learning and virtue that lurk behind that aged brow.” Abdul Hakim suddenly choked; he had caught sight of Ishmael Khan with his mouth wide open, listening.
“Show him to me.” Hassan Koya looked round. He was a man much driven; only that moment he had come from a frightful interview with his mother. She had cursed him; shaking her fist in his face she had prophesied the death of his first-born as a result of this union with one of an alien race. And besotted, engulfed as he was in this passion for Ann, he was alarmed. He loved his child: only to-day, gurgling triumphantly, it had tried to catch hold of his finger.
“I will conduct you to the Presence. But first remove thy shoes from off thy feet. So holy is this man, having just trod the sacred stones of Mecca, that all cast themselves in adoration before him. Come.”
Hassan Koya kicked off his country shoes, and followed Abdul Hakim without a word. Inwardly he was not impressed. This would be some silly old fool of a Mulvi who had worked on the simple credulity of this country fellow; he himself was above all such things. He passed the staring group of natives, holding his head high.
But Tony Seymour, seeing them come, guessed that this was the man who had dared to thrust his hideous claims upon his darling, and he suddenly rose to his full height. Stretching out a shaking hand he pointed it full at Hassan Koya; then falling again on his haunches he began to trace strange hieroglyphics in the dust.
Bravo, bravo! Abdul Hakim caught his breath. Who could tell to what heights these English people could rise when they were put to it. He turned to his companion.
“Seest thou the marvel in that gesture? Already he has guessed that thou art ill at ease. Confess thy grief to this great man.”
But Hassan Koya flung round, and began to walk rapidly away. Grief? What grief? Was he not going to wed the Little Flame of Fire? To have for his own that soft white loveliness? “What grief?” He put the question furiously.
Abdul Hakim, following him, spoke mildly. “Nay, brother, I only read a look of perturbation in thy demeanour,” he said. “Assuredly no grief could be yours at such a time. And now, when are the marriage ceremonies due to begin?”
“In half an hour’s time from now the musicians will arrive,” said Hassan Koya, and stooping his head he prepared to enter his hut again. “And if thou and thy companions care to avail thyself of our poor hospitality, you are welcome. And as for the holy man, let him partake of what he will. But of grief, speak no word, for my heart is like the sparkling brook for gladness,” he said.
“Then you manage to conceal it very effectually,” said Abdul Hakim to himself, as he wended his way back to the expectant group round the bullock cart.
The long gaunt shadows of the plane trees lay close on the soft grass that divided the little huts. Through the soft evening air the insistent maddening thrum of the tom-toms woke a deafening echo. Tony Seymour drew his knees a little closer up to his chin, and felt inclined to scream. If something did not happen soon, he said to himself, he would tear off his hampering disguise, draw his revolver, and raise hell. For it never ceased, that despairing, hopeless sobbing.
But Abdul Hakim, the centre of a jovial group, was feeling particularly cheerful. He was passing from one to another, talking, laughing, and with supreme cunning, extracting information. And on one point of extreme anxiety his mind was at rest. For Ann would, by God’s help, leave the village as she had entered it. And for that he sent up a prayer of thanksgiving; for he had not dared to hope it.
“And now comes the auspicious moment that we shall see with our own eyes the English girl,” he said to a neighbour, and nudged him meaningly.
“But, it is said that the priest has not yet arrived,” returned the wild, uncouth-looking country man.
Abdul Hakim drew a long breath. The very stars in their courses were fighting for them. But Hassan Koya flung himself suddenly from the centre of an animated crowd; there was a bustle, and a little stir. A tall Mahomedan priest walked in amongst the gaily-dressed assembly, and stopped in front of the tall headman.
“Salaam!” he said.
And then Abdul Hakim knew that the moment had come, and he flung a swift glance at Tony. Would he remain calm?
Ayah came out first—she was screaming. Heedless of anything that could happen to her, she flung herself on her knees, and shook her clenched fists at the approaching crowd. “Nai . . . Nahin!” she was yelling. “It is vile, hideous! It is not the will of God. It is the will of the devil, and he will punish you all. Leave her alone, my baba . . . my darling. Hogs, yes, hogs, foulest of all foul animals! Carrion, offal . . .” Ayah was utterly lost to all consciousness of what she was doing; she shook her fists again to the sky, and screamed and screamed again.
Some one in the crowd stepped forward.
“Shut your mouth, you old she-devil!” he said, and hustled her roughly.
But there was a little pause. This excitement was unexpected. What was going to happen next?
Abdul Hakim shot forward, his hands on his hips.
“From the lips of the holiest of Holy Ones, these words have come,” he said. “Bring forth the bride, and quickly. Heed not the words of the demented one; they are but the ravings of a mad woman.”
There was a hum of approbation, and even the young Mahomedan priest heaved a sigh of relief. He was young in his profession, and to have the support of one so old, and so holy, was a comfort to him. For Hassan Koya had already a wife, and a son—had he not himself initiated the child into the Faith only the week before? And although it was permitted by the Prophet . . . yet to take a second wife so soon, and an English girl too! He cast a glance of approval at Abdul Hakim.
Ayah flung herself on the ground as the crowd surged forward. Abdul Hakim, seizing his opportunity, ran back to where he had come from. He must be near the Major Sahib when he first caught sight of the girl he loved—otherwise, who could tell?
But Tony, as he saw Ann coming out of the little hut, her eyes glancing from side to side like the eyes of an animal when it scents the slaughterhouse, sat perfectly still, only at the root of the nose the brown skin turned a little blue. She had got much, much thinner, his darling.
Ann spoke; Tony could hear her voice, sweet, and low-pitched, as he remembered it.
“Ayah, stop crying,” she said; “it is no good, and they will jeer at us.”
There was a renewed stir in the crowd: the priest walked forward. Then Ann blanched. Abdul Hakim saw Tony move, and he got up. Things were not going quite as he wished, or expected, but there was still time. Although he had noticed that the priest and the bridegroom had glanced once or twice at the sky—it was getting late—he spoke in a low warning voice to Tony. “Courage, sahib,” he said, “and caution; all will yet be well. Remain where you are until I give the sign that it is time for action.”
Abdul Hakim stepped briskly forward; he had seen something that had given him hope. A tall, heavily built woman with folded arms and scowling brow had just come out of a hut and was watching Ann with a look of venomous hatred in her eyes. She came out a little further from the shelter of the little thatched dwelling and stared at the marriage procession as it began to wind its way toward the two crimson chairs, placed in readiness for the bride and bridegroom. It did not take Abdul Hakim a moment to reach her side. Standing there he lifted his hands and spoke loudly.
“Halt!” he said. “From the lips of the Holy One, these words of wisdom have but this moment fallen. This marriage is an accursed one, the blessing of Allah is not upon it.” All eyes were levelled upon him suddenly. Abdul Hakim went on. “Shall one dare to disregard such words, coming as they do from the lips of one who has but lately with his aged feet pressed the holy stones of the holy city of Mecca? Nay, I say that his word must be obeyed.” Abdul Hakim pointed dramatically at Tony Seymour, who, seeing that the moment had come for him to do something, rose slowly to his feet, and lifted his long lean arms above his head.
But Hassan Koya sprang forward with a furious oath.
“It is a lie!” he said. “The man who speaks is an impostor! He and his brother there, and the holy man with them, have but just arrived in this village. What do they know of this marriage? Away with them!” Hassan Koya flourished his arms above his head, and began to shout.
But the priest laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder.
“Peace, brother,” he said. Yet he spoke uneasily. It was not at all to his liking, this marriage. The English girl, with her face uncovered—it was against all the traditions of the Faith. And in the event of the British Government becoming aware of it—who could tell what would befall?
But Hassan Koya’s mother walked suddenly forward. She had been fixedly regarding Abdul Hakim while he spoke. She halted in front of the priest.
“And I, too, cry halt,” she said. “I from whose womb he has sprung”—she indicated Hassan Koya with a gesture.
Hassan Koya’s face turned livid. He made as if to strike her. Hag that she was, he would have her killed by inches when once he had got Ann safely into his possession. He began to curse furiously.
But the priest spoke reprovingly to him, and turned to look at Tony, who was seated again on the ground, his chin sunk on his chest. Perhaps, after all, Hassan Koya was right, he thought, and he cast a swift glance at Abdul Hakim. There was something . . .
Abdul Hakim saw the glance, and his hand went swiftly to the revolver at his waist. He must get hold of Ishmael Khan too. He sent him a flickering glance across the crowd. Ishmael Khan saw it, and baring his teeth in a grin he began to move quietly across the ground that separated him from Tony.
But Hassan Koya’s mother spoke again, and this time she uttered fierce oaths. Tearing her sari from her head, she dashed through the crowd, and made for the place where Tony sat.
“Holy One,” she screamed, “Holy One whose feet have but lately trod the sacred stones of Mecca, give us a sign. Give us a sign that this marriage is not to be, and it shall not be. Say but the word, and we will obey.” She cast herself grovelling at his feet. But Tony could only grip his hands together under his robe in fiercest impotence. He could not speak this foul language; he was going to give the whole thing away by his failure to come up to the scratch when it was necessary. He sat motionless. And Hassan Koya’s mother, noting his silence, suddenly stood upright. Drawing her sari over her head again she stooped and looked long and fixedly into the dark blue eyes. And Tony, meeting her glance, slipped his hand down to his waist and wondered which he should do first. Dash for Ann, and, holding her to his heart, put her out of the reach of further torment? Or make a fight for it first? And as he wondered, Hassan Koya’s mother stood upright again, and facing the gaping, breathless crowd, she flung her hands wide.
“A sign! A sign!” she cried. “With mine own eyes have I received the sacred message. The marriage is to go on; it is the will of Allah. But to this holy man must the bride be given for one short hour; one short hour will he instruct her in the holy Faith. Come!” She forced a way through the crowd, and dashed to Ann’s side.
But Ann, feeling that this added horror was almost more than she could face, screamed, and screamed again. And ayah, flat on her face in the dust, hearing the screams, and understanding what had been said stumbled to her feet and ran across the space that separated her from her darling. This horror must be averted at any cost—the priest, whose life was probably foul beyond expression, to take her baba!
But Hassan Koya was relieved at this reprieve: he was afraid that things were going against him. He had seen the look of disapproval on the young priest’s face. And this holy man was old—and for one short hour only—all would be well. So he spoke firmly.
“It is well spoken,” he said. “Give the girl to him.” And Hassan Koya’s mother, holding Ann’s quivering, wrenching hand in hers, began to drag her across the uneven ground toward Tony; and Tony Seymour, seeing her come, felt everything in front of his eyes suddenly turn black. It couldn’t be possible that he was going to get her without a fight? He stood and waited trembling.
But Ann was petrified. Ayah had once told her terrible things about these priests. They weren’t like English clergymen, good; they were bad, with an awful special sort of badness of their own. So she tried to fight herself free from Hassan Koya’s mother’s detaining grasp, and as she fought she turned her face to Hassan Koya, who was watching from a little way off. He had always been kind to her at least, and she screamed his name in a passion of terror.
Hassan Koya heard, and all his heart rose in response to this cry, and he began to run toward her. And as he ran Abdul Hakim also began to run, stealthily, by his side. And Ishmael Khan, his black opaque eyes straining out of their sockets, slipped his powerful hand down to his baggy trousers, and began to run too, calculating distances and humming a weird monotonous tune under his breath as he did so. And the crowd, all on tip-toe at these extraordinary happenings, so different from the usual native weddings that they had attended, surged nearer, and stood in a gaping circle, staring. And then Hassan Koya’s mother began to dance. Turning in a circle she cast her face up to the sky; and as she danced she sang, and as she sang she watched her son coming nearer, and he came up close to her and Ann, she suddenly flung herself at his throat, and began to curse him. And the crowd, hearing the curses, surged nearer, and they joined their voices with hers in passionate reiteration of the demand that before Hassan Koya took this infidel to wife she should be instructed in the Faith. Anything else was not seemly for a follower of the Prophet, they cried. And Abdul Hakim, under the guise of a reverent adjusting of the head-dress of the holy man, spoke swiftly into Tony’s ear:
“For God’s sake, clear, before they have time to change their minds.”
Tony did not wait to hear any more. Gripping Ann’s hand in a vice, he swung round and marched slowly out from between the tall plane trees. Hassan Koya’s mother, seeing him go, laughed in her throat, and ceased to dance; and thrusting her son aside, she strode out of the circle of gaily-dressed, staring natives, and wended her way to the little bamboo hut where her daughter-in-law lived. Stooping her head she went in at the little door, and shut it tightly behind her.
“Cease thy wailing, thou weak-kneed and feeble one,” she said, “for the English girl has gone with her lover and will not return. And now brew tea, strong tea, fully sweetened, and plenty of it, and when thou hast brewed it bring it to me, and I will stir in the powder.”
Hassan Koya’s mother sank down on the floor beside the little hammock, and drew out the little black fat baby, and nuzzled her face lovingly in the sleek hair, just beginning to sprout, and already well oiled. She loved her grandson dearly.
Half an hour later Abdul Hakim, sitting in the middle of a replete crowd, saw the heads of the natives round him beginning to nod, and he blessed himself for the caution that had made him, in spite of Ishmael Khan’s expression of anguish, decline to take any refreshment, either for himself or for his brother. So he signed to the Pathan to go and seek out the ayah, whom he had seen after Ann’s departure, rush like a creature demented across the little enclosure into one of the huts.
But Ishmael Khan was angry when ayah tried to bite his ankles, and he swore loudly, as she screamed and clawed at him. Truly this was a poor sort of entertainment, when even food and drink was denied him! He hit out at her.
“Shut up, you old fool,” he said. “Don’t you know it was the Lord Sahib who has taken away your baba?” And as ayah stared at him, her poor old eyes dim and wild, he picked up her roll of bedding, and Ann’s battered old topi that lay on the floor beside it. “Come,” he said, “and scream if you will, it will disarm suspicion, but if you bite me I will cleave your head with my knife.”
And to the accompaniment of a chorus of drowsy jeers, and jests of indescribable indecency, Abdul Hakim, Ishmael Khan, and ayah, followed by a wildly barking Tan, walked out of the circle of little huts into the shadow of the tall trees. They had stuck Ann’s topi on to ayah’s black head, and the crowd laughed and laughed again. He was a merry fellow that, a pity he could not remain until the bride returned, his jests would have been worth hearing.
But as Abdul Hakim passed by the last hut he shot a swift glance from under his eyelashes. Was it the brown hand of a woman raised in ironical salaam that he saw above the bamboo framing of the tiny window?
The instant Tony Seymour was beyond the circle of plane trees he began to run. Cursing the robe that flapped round his heels and hampered him, he went down the stony path in great strides, dragging Ann with him. And when after about a quarter of an hour’s hard going he felt her stumble and gasp, he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder. He felt possessed of an almost superhuman strength—this was a race for life or death, for everything depended on the rate in which he could get away, Abdul Hakim had impressed that on him. He did not know that Hassan Koya’s mother had seen to it that their start should be a good one; so he ran, hitting aside the branches that whipped across his path, and cursing the sandals that made him stumble, until he was so out of breath that he had to stop. And then he set Ann down on the ground, and dropped down beside her, and buried his head between his knees, because he knew that if he looked at her he would tell her who he was. For that had been one of Abdul Hakim’s most insistent commands, when, the map spread out between them the night before, they had talked under the stars. “She would be certain to give you away, Major Seymour; you may meet people on the road, and in her fear of being taken prisoner again she would be certain to show that she knew who you really were.” So Tony had promised that he would keep his identity hidden; but it was torture to him when, after sitting motionless for a moment or two, Ann crawled towards him on her hands and knees, the tears streaming down her face.
“Old man,” she said, “old man, I want to tell you that the first instant I have the chance I am going to kill myself. I can do it; I have it with me—the leaf ayah gave to me to eat directly I was married. It will hurt dreadfully, that is why ayah could not bear to give it to me before; besides, we always felt, both of us, that God would send the man I am engaged to to get me away. But He has not done that, probably because He knew that I was more in love with him than he was with me and that is not right. But now, I beseech you to let me go. I will crawl away into the forest and die by myself; ayah is going to do that too. But don’t torture me, don’t, I beseech you; I have had so much to bear, I can’t, I can’t bear any more.” Ann began to cry with a leaden anguish that wrung Tony’s heart. But he steeled himself to composure, and under his disguise his brain worked quickly. Somewhere concealed on her Ann had poison, probably the leaf of the datura. He must get it away at any cost.
Seeing him come, Ann shrank back on her heels and stared at him with eyes that held the deadliest terror. Tony seeing it loathed himself for what he was going to do, but he had no choice. He must get the leaf away from her somehow, and if he spoke, even in Hindustani, he would give himself away. He began to untwist the puttee from his waist, turning away from her to do it. And as he turned, Ann saw her chance, and she took to her heels like an animal let out of a cage. She flew back, along the path they had come, round the leafy corners, diving under the branches that cut across the path, and from time to time turning her fair head to see if she was followed. And Tony, swinging round, saw that she had gone, and cursed again at his folly. But he kicked the hated sandals off his feet, and wrenched his shoes from under his belt, and forced them on to his feet, with the socks that he tore from out of the toes. And then he too turned, and raced down the path after her, and at last he saw her, a little way ahead of him, running for her life, but holding one hand to her breast as if she was done. When she saw that it was hopeless, Ann stopped and fell on her face in the grass. And Tony, only closing his eyes for a moment, knelt down beside her, and took both her wrists in his hands and knotted the puttee round them. Then he made a systematic search, steeling his heart against the little cries of anguished shame that came from her as she tried to twist her childish body away from him. And at last he came on the deadly white fruit, wrapped in a little twist of newspaper, hidden just below her heart, next to her white skin. He took it out and threw it far away into the trees. And then he longed to go down on his knees again beside her, and beg her forgiveness for having forced the sweet confidence of her heavenly little body. But instead of that he dragged her up rather roughly, and untying the puttee from her hands, tied it round her waist. Then, giving her a little push, he drove her along in front of him again.
So they went on like this until the twilight came down in a dim grey film, stealing in between the tall trees, and sending great gaunt shadows across the path. And seeing it come, Tony sent up a prayer of thanksgiving; for the ruined dak bungalow, where Abdul Hakim had told them to halt, could not be much more than five miles away from where they now were, and only one village lay between them and it, and it would be far easier to escape detection in the village if they walked through it in the darkness. It was the village of Hetwala, where they had stopped and commandeered the bullock cart, so in a way the inhabitants would be prepared for the sight, at any rate of him. But how would Ann’s presence be accepted? Tony felt a fearful sinking when he thought of it. Having gone through so much, it would be terrible to be stopped at the last moment, so to speak.
So they walked into Hetwala together, Ann still with the puttee round her waist, Tony stalking behind in his robe and beard, but with his English shoes on his feet. He felt that come what might nothing would induce him to put on the sandals again: one of them had begun to chafe his heel, and if he were to go lame the game would be up. So he walked with an easy and dignified gait, and stopped, with Ann beside him, in front of the small shop where Abdul Hakim had held his court. One of the natives who had seen him then, saw him again, and came forward with a deep salaam. But when he saw Ann he gaped, and turning to a companion in the dim interior, he called to him to come out. The two stood, their hands on their hips, surveying the odd couple; and Tony, hearing them talk, slipped his hand inside his robe, and caught hold of the butt of his revolver. But after a time they began to laugh, and one of them dug the other in the ribs, and laughed still more loudly. Tony, although he could not entirely understand the dialect, could grasp enough of it to know what the gist of their conversation was, and his cheeks burned. But he knew that the laughter meant that his disguise had not been penetrated, and for that he heaved a sigh of relief.
Ann turned to him, and pointed a trembling finger down her throat. “I am thirsty,” she said.
Tony stood rigid. He was not supposed to understand what she said.
The taller of the two men laughed again.
“She is thirsty, the little——” He used a term that brought Tony Seymour’s hand to the butt of his revolver again. “Better give her enough water to drown herself, eh?” He stuck his tongue in his cheek as he looked meaningly at his companion.
But the younger spat. “She only gets what she deserves, the little English swine! But I wonder that Hassan Koya should permit . . . And it gets late . . .” He dropped his voice, and spoke at length.
Tony, hearing, strained his ears—there was something on; what was it? But he could not grasp what they said, and he stood still and held his breath lest they should not give Ann any water—what should he do if they didn’t? But they did—the native, however brutal, will rarely deny water.
Ann drank like a fish, tipping the brass lota almost upside down. A crowd had begun to collect round them; the women huddled, staring at Ann’s clothes. One of them came nearer, and fingered the shabby grey jumper. Ann stared at her, and her white face turned crimson.
Tony drew his tall figure to its height, and made as if to resume his way. But the taller of the two natives came forward.
“Thou, holy man, wilt wait to refresh thyself before thou resumest thy journey?” he said, and he signed to a man behind him to bring something out of the shop. “Eat and drink, and take thy leisure.” He motioned Tony to sit on the ground.
Tony Seymour was petrified. How could he eat, wearing that filthy beard? He would give himself away. And his hands! Surely the brown was beginning to wear off. He sat down with a feeling of despair.
But Ann was delighted. Food! She was ravenous. Her eyes shone under the cropped fringe. She darted forward.
One of the natives in the crowd immediately stepped forward and struck her across the face. Tony stood up and then sat down again. Then he got up again and beckoned. The man came forward grinning. Tony stepped forward and hit him a swinging blow across the mouth. Then he sank back again on to the ground. She was crying, his little lamb. Oh, for Subedar Hari Singh, a couple of dozen men and a free hand! But the crowd was impressed: he still had vigour, this holy man, and Kashinath had certainly exceeded his duties; they plied him with food zealously. And Tony, blessing the half light (a couple of flickering lamps on a rickety table illumined the space where they sat), ate and drank and began to realise how ravenously hungry and thirsty he was, and every now and then, with a silent prayer for forgiveness, he threw pieces to Ann, who fell on them like a little famished animal.
At last they had finished. Tony stood up and drawing himself up to his full height he extended his hands over the crowd as if in blessing. And then, followed by an awe-struck murmur from the huddling groups, he walked out from among them, pushing Ann along in front of him. The moment he was well out of sight he began to walk faster: if they were to take it into their heads to come after them!
And then began the last stage of the journey. Ann almost stupefied with fatigue, walked as if she did not know or care where she was going; Tony, following hard behind her, looked with almost exultant joy down on to the small cropped head: after this, what could separate them? he asked himself. After a time it got quite dark and the stars began to come out, one after another twinkling and quivering in an ultramarine sky, and then Tony began to rake the darkness with his keen blue eyes: somewhere here ought to lie the little white roadside temple that Abdul Hakim had told him to particularly look out for, for to the left of that a few paces on would lie the disused road that led up to the ruins of the old dak bungalow. At last they came upon it, gleaming like a squat white sentinel under the branches of a tamarind tree, and Tony sent out a prayer of thanksgiving, for once they had reached the bungalow they would be comparatively safe from discovery. Soon they struck the road, and Tony drew Ann to him, still tethered, and for sheer joy of touching her took her little hand in his. Ann feeling his touch trembled all over, for somehow it felt like the touch of the man she loved, and although she knew it was the hand of the priest that she hated and feared, she clung to it. But presently they came to an old gate, swinging on broken hinges, and then Ann broke down finally with a scream and a wrenching away of mad terror—they were coming to a house, and ayah had warned her about a house. Out of doors they were safe; under cover anything frightful might happen to her—ayah had almost said so. And she screamed, and fought, and stooping tried to bite the hand that held her; so that Tony at last felt that he could stand no more of it, and he jerked the hated beard from under his chin, and wrenched it over his head and flung it into the bushes, and then he tore off the cap and wig and flung them on the ground. And then he stooped and caught Ann in his arms.
“Oh, Ann, don’t,” he said hoarsely; “it is Tony, it is Tony! Darling, darling. . . .”
After her first stupefying bewilderment had subsided a little, Ann clung to her lover with the complete abandon of a child restored to its mother. It was enough for her that he was there, that she could feel him, could nestle her face into his neck again. She did not want to know how he had come there, that would come presently, all she wanted now was to be close to him, to lie close pressed to his heart, to know that now she would be there for ever, that soon they would be back again with Mummy and Daddy—and that ayah was safe—darling ayah who had taken such care of her. “And it is what I have always wanted, to lie out flat with you somewhere; we have never been able to do that before, have we, darling Tony, because there has always been some one about.”
And Tony, lying on his back, staring up at the stars, his right hand on the butt of his revolver, laughed into the darkness. “Lie out flat with you somewhere”: in spite of all the torment and terror she had been through, Ann was still the baby he had left. Thinking of it his heart swelled, and he rolled over a little on his side and laid his mouth close to her hair, and thanked God that He had kept her safe for him, although he had not deserved it. After they had talked a little more, and Ann had had one fit of suffocating sobbing that Tony soothed with the tenderest love and pity, Ann fell asleep, and then Tony slipped with the utmost caution out of her grasp, and took off his robe, and covered her up with it. Then until the dawn he sat, his arms clasped round his hunched knees, staring out into the darkness. But just as it was beginning to get light he smelt the smell of wood smoke and his heart leapt into his throat, and he got up and tiptoed back to Ann, and gently woke her.
“It’s all right, darling,” he said, as she woke and clung to him startled, “only I can smell smoke and I want to see if there’s any one about. Come along close behind me, and don’t make a sound, there’s a sweet little girl.”
So, Ann creeping behind him, they slunk along the verandah and down again into the wet darkness of the overgrown compound, Ann was not at all afraid because Tony was there, looking just the same in his khaki clothes and Tony deadly afraid, his cocked revolver in his hand.
So they came upon the little party: Abdul Hakim propped up against a tree, his little black cap rather crooked; ayah, her old face staring into the darkness, her knotted hands clenched on her knees; and Ishmael Khan, bent double over a tiny fire that he was coaxing to burn between two bricks. And Ann broke from Tony, crying out loud; and Abdul Hakim and Tony gripped each other’s hands, and neither of them could speak for a minute or two. Then Ishmael Khan salaamed deeply, and came towards Tony carrying something shining in his hands. And seeing what he was carrying, Tony flung back his head, and laughed and laughed again, and that seemed to release the tension a little.
“Oh, Ishmael Khan, you pearl!” he said, and took the nickel case of his safety razor in his hands.
But it was not until the sun was beginning to send long golden shafts into the little hollow by the pepul tree that Tony Seymour was able to draw a breath of complete happiness. For some time he had thought he heard it coming, the tramp of regular marching feet, the jingle of accoutrements, but he dared not draw attention to it until he was quite sure. But presently he was sure, and he caught Abdul Hakim’s eye, and the two got up and strolled a little way up the hill. There it was—the cloud of dust, streaming over the top of the heavy hedge of cactus that fringed the road—the bobbing tops of khaki helmets, visible for a time, then hidden again. There was a lump in Tony’s throat that prevented him from speaking, and he brushed his hand across his eyes and turned away from his companion. But Mr. Abdul Hakim understood, and he waited a moment or two until the Major Sahib was quite calm again, then he followed him quietly down the hill.
“I never have a chance of talking to you now.” Tony Seymour, lying at full length in a cane chair, spoke discontentedly as he knocked out his pipe on the long arm of it and looked across the matted verandah to where Ann sat sewing, her cropped head bent over her work.
“Never have a chance of talking to me? Oh, Tony, you do!” Ann’s eyes were full of laughter. But she got up nevertheless, and walked across the little space that separated the two chairs.
“No, I don’t—at least, not what I call talking.” Tony Seymour picked up the small hand that hung close to his face, and carried it to his mouth. “I want you near to me the whole time,” he said.
“Oh, so do I want to be close!” Ann spoke with sudden passion; she glanced swiftly round and then stooped for a moment. When she stood upright again, her face was scarlet. “If only there were doors in India, it would be much nicer,” she said.
“Yes, wouldn’t it.” Tony was looking at Ann. Why couldn’t they be married at once? He would tackle the Commissioner about it that evening. Up till then he had been feeling too seedy to think about anything of the kind; but now he felt all right again. He was going to chuck this invalid stunt—he began to struggle into a sitting position.
But Ann was on him in a flash.
“You are not to walk about,” she said sternly.
“Why not?” But Tony sank back again. It was extraordinary how weak he felt. It was Ann who ought to have been ill, not he. But Ann had all the resilience of youth, and after a few days in Manitor she had quickly begun to pick up again. But the frightful strain had told very heavily on Tony Seymour, and he had gone down with attack after attack of ague. And in between the attacks he had had to struggle round to the Sessions Court at Manitor to give evidence, for they had rounded up the ring-leaders, and brought them in, heavily manacled, and punitive police were now quartered in the village of Maya. But Tony Seymour had been conscious of unspeakable relief when from among the dozen or so of chained prisoners paraded before him for the purpose of identification, Hassan Koya’s hawk-like face had been missing. He had evidently made good his escape into the hills before the village had been surrounded, and although Tony Seymour was inwardly ashamed of it, he was thankful for this. Hassan Koya had been kind to Ann, and so far as he knew how he had acted honourably towards her. The murder of the Mitchells had been premeditated and brutal, there was no doubt about it, but he had been kind to Ann, and therefore Tony felt thankful that he was not to suffer the extreme penalty of the law, or any penalty at all, at any rate for the present.
The return of the little rescue party into Manitor had been uneventful. Captain Thomas had been in command of it, and when he had seen Tony Seymour standing on the look-out tall and rather haggard, his hand shading his eyes, he had slid off his horse and run all the way up the hill, his boyish face aflame with excitement: “Gad! what a rag!” He had first saluted, and then wrung the amused hand held out to him. But Tony had passed his hand over his chin, and smiled wryly. “Don’t talk to me of rags until I have shaved,” he said. And that accomplished, Ishmael Khan standing at his elbow with a tin of boiling water, he had taken Captain Thomas to introduce him to Ann. Then they had had the most delicious impromptu meal, all of them frightful hungry, and ayah, a little way off, had had cup after cup of tea, and had dilated anew on her experiences to Ishmael Khan, who listened, a supercilious smile on his sculptured mouth. And then, Ann and ayah safely tucked into dhoolies, the little cavalcade had set its face towards Manitor, Tony and Captain Thomas on their chargers, going ahead, Ann and ayah in the middle, a convoy of mounted soldiers round them, and Abdul Hakim and Ishmael Khan on country ponies in the rear, followed by a jubilant Tan, tail erect.
When they arrived, late in the evening, the whole of Manitor came out to greet them, English and Indian alike. Tony Seymour, very tall and lean in khaki shirt and shorts, coloured deeply as the General took him by the hand and said a few quiet words. Then, later that evening, Ann’s parents had arrived from Bombay, and after taking her child silently in her arms, Muriel Church sought out Tony Seymour and stood in front of him, the tears running down her face; Tony, catching his breath rather awkwardly, had taken her shaking hand in both of his, and had muttered something about it being perfectly all right. And then, smiling through her tears, Muriel Church had gone back to her husband and had told him that Tony had forgiven her, and that everything was going to be all right now for ever and ever.
And now they were all back in Bombay, and, as Ann thought, it really was all as heavenly as it could possibly be. She was openly engaged, and heaps of people had congratulated her, and grander than anything, the Governor had sent for her and Tony, and had said all sorts of nice things to them. Only the day before yesterday a man had come up from one of the big English jewellers in Bombay with a case fall of rings. Ann had hung over it with a face of rapture, and Tony had laughed at her as he watched.
“Choose whichever you like,” he said, and he squeezed her hand as the man accommodatingly turned his back.
But Ann blushed a vivid pink:
“How can I when I don’t know how much they cost?” she said shyly.
“That doesn’t matter; choose whichever you like best—I’ll settle the payment part of it,” said Tony laughing again tenderly.
And now they sat together on the verandah, Ann with a lovely rose of diamonds on her third finger, sewing. Tony stretched in a long chair, doing nothing. He sighed luxuriously as he stared at a lizard that had come cautiously from behind a picture to sun itself on the distempered wall. This was life, with a vengeance.
“Now then, you two!” Muriel Church came out on to the verandah with a little rush as she always did. “Ann, it’s too early in the day to make love. Tony, you ought to know better!” she twinkled at the man in the long chair.
“Sorry, Mother!” Tony Seymour began to laugh as Muriel opened her mouth explosively.
“‘Mother!’ You wretch! Ann darling, the dhobie [Washerman] is waiting and ayah is in convulsions because you are not there. Run along, there’s a darling child.”
Ann went obediently, and Muriel Church watched her as she went. Then she turned to the man in the long chair beside her.
“If it hadn’t been for you, we should never have seen that little creature again,” she said, and her chin trembled.
“Now then, it’s too early in the day to begin to weep.” Tony Seymour spoke banteringly, but there were sudden tears in his own eyes. He picked up Muriel Church’s hand and kissed it lightly. “Letters,” he said, as he glanced at the pile in her lap. “Anything happened?”
“Terrific things. Joyce is going to be married all in a hurry. Charles has to go Home on ‘Urgent Private Affairs,’ and wants to take Joyce with him. They want Ann to be bridesmaid; you, of course, to be best man; Colonel Playfair is writing to you himself; and all of us to go up for the wedding.”
“When?”
Muriel Church consulted one of the letters in her lap.
“The wedding is to be on the fifteenth of April,” she said.
Tony began to calculate.
“Three weeks from now: old Charles is putting on the pace, by Jove! Well, what are you going to say?”
“Oh, we shall go, of course; Ann will love being bridesmaid. And you will be able to come, won’t you?”
“Yes, if you’ll take me.” Tony twinkled. “I shall still have a week of my leave left,” he said, “and I think I shall ask for an extra three weeks and work in my wedding as well. How does that idea strike you?”
Muriel Church raised her eyes frankly.
“It strikes me as very excellent, and I have wondered why you did not suggest it before!” she said.
“Trump.” Tony heaved himself out of the chair. “I now finally decline to be an invalid any longer,” he said, “and if any one brings me an egg flip, I shall pour it over his head.”
“Baby!” But Muriel Church looked at him very affectionately. How very good-looking he was—and how thankful she was that all her feelings of jealousy had gone, disappeared like a disfiguring rash disappears after an illness. Now all her mind was one chant of thanksgiving that Ann was still alive and able to marry the man she loved.
But Tony had sat down again. “What will the Commissioner say?” he said.
Muriel laughed. “He will say what I tell him to,” she said; “like you will, when you have been married as long as we have.”
“Will I though?” Tony laughed quietly. “But look here,” he went on, “will you put in a word for me before I speak to him?”
“I will,” Muriel Church got up, dropping all the letters out of her lap on to the floor. “I’ll speak to him when he comes home from office to-night; then you can settle it this evening and tell Ann. How will that do for you?”
“Perfect!” Tony spoke enthusiastically. Then—“A man may not kiss his mother-in-law,” he said regretfully, as Muriel leaned over him.
“No, but the mother-in-law can kiss the man,” returned Muriel Church mischievously, dropping a light kiss on the brown hair.
They had gone out into the garden, Ann and Tony. Dinner had been a very cheery meal, every one unusually elated. The news from Harinabad had filled Ann with the wildest excitement.
“Mother, just think of it!” she exclaimed. “Married! Oh, how madly excited Joyce must be!”
And a little while afterward, as they sat together on the stone seat at the foot of the lawn, the moon making the sea one glorious sheet of silver, she returned again to the subject.
“If only it was us!” she sighed, and she laid her head on her lover’s knee.
Tony looked at it as it lay there—a splash of gold on the black cloth. Then he stooped and put his mouth to the little ear that showed faintly pink.
“It can be us, Ann,” he said.
After a long quivering silence, Ann stirred and looked up at her lover. She could see his face, a white smudge against the dark bush behind it. She reached up, and laid her face against his shoulder.
“Tony, are you glad?” she said.
Tony Seymour took his cheroot out of his mouth and threw it into the undergrowth.
“Very,” he said.
“You and me together always—in the night as well as in the day—it will be like that, won’t it?”
“I hope so.” Tony Seymour spoke very tenderly, and gathered Arm a little closer to him.
“It’s too good, it’s too good.” Ann suddenly spoke in a fierce undertone. “I know it is; people don’t get what they want like I’m doing. Something will come and stop it; it will, I know it will. Tony, don’t let it, don’t let it!” Ann spoke in a voice parched with terror.
“Rubbish, silly little goose! Ann, don’t be such a darling little idiot!” Tony gathered the shaking figure to his heart and held it tightly there. “Don’t be such a little donkey, sweetest dear. I tell you nothing can come and stop it.”
“But you can’t be sure of that! you can’t be sure of that!” Ann wrung her hands and stared frantically through the moonlight. “Tony, I tell you I feel that it can . . . I tell you I feel that it can.”
Joyce and Ann were wild with excitement at seeing each other again. Major Seymour, over their heads, smiled ruefully at his friend, as they all stood together on the little dusty platform of the up-country station, watching the meeting.
“It’s quite evident we’re not on in this scene,” he said.
But when they began to sort themselves out for the drive to Joyce’s home, Ann tugged at her lover’s sleeve.
“Oh, do arrange it so that I go with you,” she whispered.
So Mr. and Mrs. Church, Joyce and her father and mother, all got into Colonel Playfair’s big car, and Ann and her lover were left to climb by themselves into the buggy, that also belonged to Colonel Playfair. And Ann, watching the lean hands on the reins, nestled closer to Tony.
“Oh, how can Joyce be glad that she’s going to marry Colonel Playfair, when she sees you?” she said.
“Little flatterer!” But Tony smiled tenderly down at the radiant face held up to his, and snuffing in the cool air with the real up-country tang in its breath, thanked God that he was alive. And when, after a hilarious eleven o’clock breakfast, they left the others, and he and Colonel Playfair strolled out on to the verandah for a smoke and a buck, he squared his shoulders and took a long breath.
“Jove! who would have believed that this time last year we were looking forward cheerfully to a future of single blessedness,” he said.
And Colonel Playfair also drew a long breath, and smiled blissfully.
At the other end of the bungalow, Joyce and Ann, in a room full of half-packed trunks, every chair and table covered with garments (Joyce was to be married the next day) stared at each other, and then fell into each other’s arms.
Joyce spoke first.
“Oh, Ann, it is heavenly to see you again,” she cried, “and after all that awful time at Maya, I easily mightn’t have done so. You must tell me something about it! And Aunt Muriel said in her letter that you were going to be married too, quite soon; when is it going to be, Ann?”
“Exactly three weeks to-day,” said Ann joyfully.
“How lovely! Then we shall be able to come to the wedding, because we sail from Bombay just about then. Oh, Ann, I am glad.”
“Yes, I shall love to have you.” Ann spoke more soberly, but she distilled radiance.
“And do you know,” went on Joyce, “it did so remind me of you. Who do you think is here? You’ll never guess. The ‘Turnip Lantern’—you know, Mr. Gilchrist. He’s Assistant Collector here, frightfully pleased with himself and looking more goggly than ever.”
“The Turnip Lantern?” said Ann.
“Yes, isn’t it extraordinary? He always seems so mixed up with us somehow, having been on the same boat and everything. And he’s coming to the wedding—he had to be asked, of course, because of his position here.”
“Oh!” Ann suddenly felt a most extraordinary feeling, as if a cold wind had blown through her hair. It seemed to lift it—icily.
“Yes, I thought you wouldn’t mind. And now, now, let’s talk about something else, Ann. Do tell me something about Maya. Did that Mahomedan man make love to you? Do tell me.”
“No.” The monosyllable was all that Ann could manage. Somehow she felt that the last thing she could do was to talk to Joyce about that nightmare time. She suddenly felt that the only thing she wanted to do was to rush to her lover, to see if he was still there—to see if he was still there.
“Oh, well, don’t bother to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Love had made Joyce more perceptive, and she had seen Ann pale. “Let’s think about my trousseau. I tell you I’ve got some heavenly things; they’ll give you some ideas for yours. To start with, did you ever see anything like that?” Joyce held a filmy wisp of lace and crêpe-de-chine aloft.
“No, I never did,” said Ann truthfully.
“Well, you have one like it. I’ll tell you where you get them; it’s a new woman in Calcutta—she’s got the most heavenly things.”
“But what is it?” Ann felt privately that there wasn’t enough of it to be anything, but she knew better than to say so. Joyce would only call her an idiot, and it was so long since she had been called that, except in the sweetest and most heavenly way.
But Joyce was frankly derisive.
“Oh, Ann, you are an idiot. Why, it’s a nightie, of course—what else could it be?”
Ann got crimson. A night-dress? Why, you could see through it! She sat in a petrified silence, while Joyce rummaged carelessly among the flimsy heaps. A nightdress! But then—she looked at her cousin: should she ask her? No—she came to the conclusion swiftly.
“And now, look here, Ann.” Joyce lifted a misty cloud from a silver paper box. “Let’s see what you look like in it. I can’t try it on, you see. Come and stand in front of the glass, and I’ll show you exactly how it ought to go.”
“But why can’t you try it on?” Ann spoke dreamily as Joyce laid the little chaplet of orange blossom across her yellow fringe.
“Because it’s the most frightful bad luck.” Joyce spoke with her head on one side. “Yes, you do look sweet, Ann; you’ll make an awfully pretty bride.”
But Ann was staring at her own face in the glass: it had suddenly got old and frozen.
“Bad luck, Joyce? Then why did you put it on me? Joyce! why did you put it on me?”
In India there is never any anguished doubt as to whether it is going to be fine or not. Roughly speaking, from November to June it is fine; from thence onwards, until you come to November again, it pours with rain. So Joyce’s wedding day, being in April, dawned in the filmiest, most heavenly sunlight, and Ann, sitting beside her cousin, having chota hazri, felt her spirits soar sky high. In less than a month it would be her wedding day too—heavenly, heavenly joy!
“Do tell me what you feel like,” she said, her blue eyes searching Joyce’s round, rather moon-like face.
“Quite pleased,” said Joyce, and her excellent teeth met heartily in a piece of buttered toast.
“But other sort of feelings, I don’t only mean pleased. I mean all the sort of wondering, gaspy, excited feelings—the sort of feelings that make you want to just cast yourself down and die—die with the joy of it all.” Ann got very red with the effort of making herself understood.
“I don’t have those feelings.” Joyce spoke with entire freedom from anything even approaching sentimentality. “All I feel is that I am very fond of Charles, and that I am glad I am not going to be a spinster for the rest of my life, because, you know, there are quite three million more women than men in the world now, and I might easily have been one of those who did not get a man. And also I am glad Charles has some money of his own, because I should not care to be poor. And also I should like to have some children, not girls; I should hate that, but boys. But I shall only have three children; Charles only wants three children; I am so thankful.”
“Have you asked him?” Ann spoke wide-eyed.
“Of course I have; I wanted to know.”
“Oh!” This matter-of-fact summing up of Joyce’s sentiments knocked all the wind out of Ann. Ought she, too, to have sounded her lover’s feelings on these points? She did not even know how much money they would have to live on. But it must be enough, or he would not have suggested their being married. And as to children: did people settle before hand, then how many they would have?
She put the question shyly.
“Now they do: not when we were born,” said Joyce wisely. But as she spoke she looked more closely at Ann’s small vivid face. No girl ought to be so dreadfully innocent, she thought uncomfortably. For instance, there was that old story of Major Seymour’s infatuation for Ann’s mother. Joyce had just heard something about it from her own lover, and she had laughed and been interested, and had felt that Aunt Muriel was a more exciting person than she had thought she was. But Ann was so different; supposing she heard about it, and from some one spiteful—it might be most awful. Joyce suddenly made up her mind that she would tell Ann about it herself—she could do it better than a grown-up person.
But just at that minute the curtain was pulled back, and Joyce’s mother peeped in with a lovely big pink rose in her hand. And when Joyce saw her she sprang up, and flung her arms round her neck, and forgot all about Ann. And Ann felt her eyes fill with tears: Joyce really was wrought up about her wedding, she was only pretending to be sort of grand and grown up about it. Ann felt fonder of her at that moment than she had ever felt at all.
When Ann stood behind Joyce in the little garrison church it was all she could do to prevent herself from crying out loud. It was all so frightfully, frightfully solemn; the wonderful words of the marriage service, and Joyce all shining in her lovely satin dress, and the padre so solemn in his robes. And Joyce had her head bent, a thing she never did. And Colonel Playfair, not laughing like he generally was, but grave, and standing very still. And her lover, taller far than any one else, with his dark uniform, and the double row of ribbons on his breast. Ann began to wonder how she should get at her handkerchief, with the two bouquets in her hand as well as gloves. And then, to steady herself, she began to read the inscriptions on the brasses in the chancel, and then she wished she hadn’t, because they made her want to cry more. “In glorious and never fading memory of . . .” It was a monument to some one who had done something most glorious, and he was quite young, only twenty-four, “he died in a gallant attempt to relieve . . . greatly outnumbered . . .” Here Ann gave a great choke in her throat, and shifted both bouquets into the same hand. It was at this point that Tony turned round, and seeing Ann with her chin violently a-tremble, he stepped a little back and took hold of her hand. And then Ann, looking up at the beloved face, was restored again: after all, it was only three weeks till she, too, would stand by her lover’s side having terrific words said over her head. But if only it was now—she made signs that she wanted to say something, something very urgent.
Tony stooped a tall head obediently.
“If we moved a little further up, would he be likely to marry us by mistake as well?” whispered Ann.
Tony’s bronzed face was all alight with laughter. But he replied with the completest gravity, squeezing her hand again.
“Pity to miss all the presents, don’t you think?”
And Ann, after a moment’s thought, remembering Joyce’s, agreed that it would be. So she nodded cheerfully, and stood quietly by her lover’s side till the end of the service. And the Turnip Lantern, seeing her standing there—he had got a seat fairly near the front, so that he could have a good look at the bride—swore again under his breath. Ann Church was much prettier than she had been on the voyage—fatter, decidedly. And the Turnip Lantern appreciated curves.
It was not until Joyce had gone off in a whirl of cheers and rice and general jubilation that the Turnip Lantern had a chance of speaking to Ann. Up till then she had been busy, or if she was not that tall ass of a V.C. was always at her elbow. But now he caught her, standing misty-eyed by herself in a corner. Seeing Joyce go had made her thoughtful: things would never be the same again.
“How do you do, Miss Church?” There was something greasy about the Turnip Lantern’s voice.
Ann came back with a jerk. Again the strange sensation of an icy wind through her hair. “How do you do?” she said.
“Long time since we met, isn’t it?” The Turnip Lantern was not going to waste much time talking to Ann now; he would be liable to interruption at any moment. “Look here, you’re going to this dance at the Club to-night, I suppose, aren’t you?” he said. “Keep a couple of dances for me, will you?”
“Oh!” Ann stood still. They were all going to the dance, she knew; she was living for it, she had not danced with Tony since they had been properly engaged. But to dance with the Turnip Lantern! How could she get out of it without being too rude? Her lover, in the distance, tall and gorgeous in uniform, gave her an excuse for escape.
“Oh, I see Major Seymour in the distance,” she said; “I am so sorry, I think I must go. And I am almost sure that my programme is quite full.”
“Oh, but be quite sure about it, won’t you?” The Turnip Lantern was following her across the room. He was not going to be put off like that.
“Hullo, Gilchrist!” The tall Sapper looked down at the stumpy figure tightly incased in the black frock-coat, with a well concealed distaste. “Hullo, who would have thought that we should run up against each other like this? India’s a small place after all.”
“Yes, it is.” The Turnip Lantern was not going to waste time in small talk before he had got what he wanted. “I want Miss Church to spare me a couple of dances to-night, if she will,” he said; “ but she seems to think that you will raise some objection.”
“Oh, no, not at all.” Tony thought hard. It was better not to appear at all afraid of the Turnip Lantern, he concluded swiftly, although at heart he was, desperately. He was such an unmitigated cad; and he had them so utterly in the hollow of his hand.
“Oh, no,” he said again; “Miss Church will give you a couple, I’m sure.” He glanced down quickly at Ann.
And Ann smiled back, and sweetly agreed. And Tony, later, remembering that trusting smile and gentle acquiescence, cursed himself.
The jasmine tree outside the Harinabad Club was in full bloom, and through the open doors the heavenly fragrance blew in in great wafts. It was a hot still night, and low on the horizon, behind a heavy bank of cloud, lightning winked incessantly. Ann, driving to the Club with her lover, felt that there was something ominous in the air, a sort of brooding something, waiting to spring. But when they rattled up to the Club, lying long and low in its fringe of light, her spirits rose with a bound. Their first dance as an engaged couple, it would be sure to be heavenly. And it was heavenly—the daughter of the Colonel commanding the station was not married every day—and the Club Committee had laid themselves out to do the thing really well. And later, held close to the crimson tunic, her golden head touching the double row of medals, Ann forgot all her fears and clung to her lover in a rapture.
“I feel so happy—just as if I should die with the joy of it all,” she said, and she had to swallow twice to prevent herself from choking.
Tony steered her into a corner, and flung his arm round her shoulders, and took her out into the scented darkness. Then, well away from the fringe of light, he caught her to his heart, and spoke passionately. And Ann listening, felt her heart dissolve within her—he loved her like this—her king among men.
“You blessed, blessed little thing. Oh, Ann! Ann! Say you’re glad that you’re going to belong to me for ever.”
“Glad!” Ann’s voice was the voice of a nun taking a vow. “Glad! Glad doesn’t mean anything. Tony . . . I can’t . . . I can’t tell you what I feel . . . It’s . . . it’s too much!”
And Tony Seymour was content, for Ann was shaking in his arms. And he stooped his head again, and thanked God for the heavenly unspoilt love that was his. Then reluctantly he walked with her back to the Club House; for this dance, and the next, were the Turnip Lantern’s.
“But don’t you stay a second longer with him than you need,” he said, “or I shall come and fetch you.”
And Ann promised. Tony, watching her go, small and erect, looking like a child in her short frock, sighed with joy, and turned into the smoking room. And there he bit the end off a cheroot, and flung his long length into a long chair.
Dancing was not in the Turnip Lantern’s scheme, so he only took Ann once round the room and then stopping, suggested a rest.
“We’ll go outside for a bit,” he said.
Ann acquiesced thankfully. She intensely disliked feeling the Turnip Lantern’s arms round her; he had an unpleasant way of holding her too close. She followed him as he led the way to kala jaga. [Literally “black place”—sitting-out place.]
“This’ll do,” he said, and sitting down he lit a cigarette without asking if he might. Ann was offended. She had very definite ideas of what constituted familiarity, and the Turnip Lantern’s action did not fall into line with them. But she sat silent: Tony, for some reason unknown to her, wished her to be polite to this horrid young man, so she was going to be.
The Turnip Lantern cast a swift glance at the luminous dial on his thick wrist. He would have to be quick.
“I believe you are going to be married very soon,” he said, “and before you are, I think it only right that you should know that the man you are going to marry was once very much in love with your mother.”
“What do you say?” Ann put up a hand, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
The Turnip Lantern took the cigarette from between his flaccid lips.
“I say that Major Seymour was once very much in love with your mother,” he said again.
Ann felt that perhaps the Turnip Lantern had suddenly gone mad. Lord Erskine had got funny, only in a different sort of way, when he had found himself in one of these little dark places. She drew herself up stiffly.
“That isn’t an amusing thing to say,” she said.
“It isn’t meant to be.” The Turnip Lantern spoke abruptly. He had a lot to say yet, and he could hear the first dance coming to an end. Besides, Ann was a fool; he must express himself more clearly. He did so.
Ann listened, then she flung her hands over her ears.
“Men don’t speak about that sort of thing to girls,” she said.
“That depends on the girls,” said the Turnip Lantern. “Who spent a night on deck with Major Seymour? Eh?” The Turnip Lantern was leaning forward, his hands on his knees.
But Ann paid no attention; she was still groping in an abyss of horror. What had the Turnip Lantern just been saying? What did it all mean? The lady who had sat next to the Captain in the ship they had come out in, the lady who smoked, she had just been divorced from her husband, because of the man with a moustache like a toothbrush. And if it hadn’t been for a stroke of luck, her mother would have been too, from Daddy. And something to do with Tony, too.
“I can’t understand exactly what you mean,’ she said.
“I thought I had made it fairly clear,” said the Turnip Lantern.
“But I don’t understand what you mean when you say ‘lived together,’” said Ann, her hands gripped together in a damp horror. For in spite of her innocence she could feel that there was something underneath all this that the Turnip Lantern was saying: something like an animal that wallowed in mud—sprawling.
This was a little difficult, even for the Turnip Lantern. But after thinking for a minute he began to explain, punctuating his sentences with long pauses. This was the sort of thing he enjoyed, it reminded him of quite a pleasant morning he had spent the week before, watching a baby crow trying to get away from a rat. And Ann filled in the pauses, comprehending in sudden blinding flashes, things that had always been vague before. Things in the village of Maya—things there that ayah in her loving terror of evil befalling her darling had tried to warn her against. Things that the girls at the Convent had wondered about. It suddenly stood out clear in her memory: A little knot round the schoolroom fire—”Shut up! here comes Ann Church.”
“And what was that you said about my sleeping with Major Seymour?” Ann thrust back the hideous jostling thoughts with an iron effort of will.
“Just exactly that. That you did, and it isn’t done.”
“But would Major Seymour know that?”
“Of course he would. Poor chap, after all, it cost him his freedom.”
Ah, here it was. Ann could see the heaving. Soon she would see the mud trickling out of the corners of its mouth.
“Then do you mean that he wouldn’t have asked me to marry him if I hadn’t gone and slept with him?” she said.
“Undoubtedly not. Captain Rome had him up and told him that he’d got to.”
“Oh, thank you.” There it was—sitting up and grinning at her, dribbling mud. Ann stared at it. Which was she—the one who stared not feeling anything, or the one opposite her, dying from a great gaping wound? Everything suddenly went black, then as suddenly cleared again.
“Oh, thank you,” she said again. “Now tell me, if you don’t mind, exactly what you mean about Major Seymour and my mother.”
The Turnip Lantern told her again, foully. He lied foully too, but Ann could not know that. She listened, all her spirit one great horror. Then she got up.
“You were right to tell me,” she said, “because I am old enough to know these things. But I feel you ought to know that you are not a clean person. You are not the sort of person that any one ought to talk to: you are the sort of person that makes me feel glad that at the end God settles what is to happen to people. Now I am going back, but please don’t come with me.”
And Ann walked quietly out of the small dark arbour, only stumbling a little at the door. The Turnip Lantern waited until she was well out of the way, and then he slipped out behind her, and began to run. He was going out into Camp that night, but anyhow he wouldn’t risk meeting that lean ass face to face. Not that Ann would be likely to repeat what he had said, shy girls didn’t repeat what men told them about sex matters, he had found that out from experience. But still—that gawky fool with a couple of old scores to wipe off—it wouldn’t be at all nice.
He ran faster.
The moment Tony saw Ann, he knew what had happened. He saw her coming, slowly, into the fringe of light, and he flung his half-smoked cheroot into the undergrowth. Then he went forward, and after looking swiftly round, put his arm round her shoulders.
“Here you are,” he said lightly.
Ann stared up at him. Then her lashes met. This must be done carefully: no one must ever know that she knew what she did.
“Yes, here I am,” she said, and her voice was no longer the voice of a child.
“Well, you’re coming along with me.” Tony’s voice had a sharp ring in it. “Come along, this way.” He led the way out into the compound again.
Ann followed him, and as she went she wondered. Which was she, the one who didn’t feel, or the one with a gash in her heart? She suddenly felt a wild desire to laugh. Perhaps she wasn’t either of them.
Tony stopped under a big tree, and set his back against it. Then he leaned forward, and caught Ann to his heart.
“Tell me what that foul brute has been saying to you,” he said.
Ann stood still. How odd it must be to feel a woman’s daughter in your arms, as well as the woman.
“Which of us do you like kissing best?” she said.
Tony’s arms dropped to his sides. Ann—his baby!
“Don’t, Ann!” he said.
Arm stood still, and felt more inclined to laugh. Tony heaved his back from against the tree, and put both hands in his pockets.
“I ought to have told you before,” he said; “it is my own fault really. But somehow I hated to do it. You see it is a difficult thing to explain to a girl of your age. I was, once, very keen on your mother. But it died a natural death, as such things do. Men aren’t like women—I mean to say that very often a girl never cares for any one except the man she actually marries. But men are different—they knock about—and they see heaps of women—and very often they have affairs.”
Tony suddenly took his hands out of his pockets and wanted to swear. Curse! ten thousand times, curse!
But Ann only stood and stared. It was true, then. Deep down somewhere, lurking behind a bank of ugly thoughts, had been the faintest, palest streak of hope. Perhaps the Turnip Lantern had been telling a lie: he was the sort of man that might. But this did away with that. And if this was true, then so was everything else—all that about Captain Rome—and. . . . She began to peel off one of her long white gloves.
Tony watched her. What should he do? Catch her to his heart, and half kill her with kisses, and tell her not to be a little fool? Or let her get what she had to say off her chest, and then challenge it?
He waited a second.
Ann stopped fumbling, drew something deliberately off her finger, and held it out.
“I have changed my mind about being engaged to you,” she said. “I don’t want to be, now.”
Tony flung up his head like a nervous horse.
“Please take it.”
“Don’t fool, Ann.” Tony’s voice was rough.
“But I am not fooling. Why, is it so odd that I should not want to be engaged to you any more?” Ann’s voice had a dreadful calculated coldness in it.
“No, that’s not odd. But what is odd, is that you should so suddenly have found it out. I admit that I was wrong in not telling you at once about my friendship with your mother. But somehow, when I got to know you, ordinary things like that didn’t seem to matter.” Tony was standing with his arms folded, looking at Ann. He was determined not to get angry with her, unless he had to. She only looked about twelve, with her short hair, and shorter skirt.
But all the terror, and bitterness and horror of what the Turnip Lantern had told her suddenly flamed up in Ann’s heart, and she spoke dreadfully, thrusting out her chin as she did so.
“Men are wild animals,” she said, “and I would rather be ten thousand times dead than belong to one of them.”
Tony winced. This was not pleasant hearing. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as his brain worked quickly. Some one had been getting at Ann, and it could only be the Turnip Lantern.
He turned to go. “Look here,” he said, “I have just remembered something frightfully important that I’ve got to do. Do you mind? As a matter of fact it’s perhaps just as well, as we aren’t getting on very happily for some reason or other. I’ll come back in time to take you home. Very well, I will take it if you want to get rid of it for the moment (Ann was still silently holding out the ring), but it’s only for a minute that I’m taking it, don’t forget that.” Tony started to walk back towards the Club, Ann almost running beside him. Somehow Ann suddenly seemed to sink into the background: his mind was only concerned with the man who was trying to wreck his happiness.
Mrs. Church, a couple of young men in uniform beside her, was sitting in the lounge as Tony and Ann came in. She got up when she saw Ann’s face.
But Tony spoke casually. “I say, I’ve forgotten rather an important appointment,” he said. “Look after this child for me while I’m gone, will you?”
“Certainly.” But Muriel Church’s smile was not as spontaneous as usual. An appointment in the middle of a dance! And Ann! All the life gone out of her face, her eyes set in dark hollows! She followed Tony Seymour with her eyes, as he walked swiftly to the hat rack and took his uniform cap off a peg.
“What is the matter, Ann?” she said, as the tall figure disappeared down the steps at a run.
And Ann looked up, her eyes full of an unspeakable anguish. And with the anguish was mingled a dreadful shrinking repulsion that mercifully Muriel Church did not see.
“I want to go home,” she said. “Please, Mother, now, this instant, before he comes back.”
The Turnip Lantern had had a fairly good start, but his bungalow was some way away from the Club, and being fat he could not go very fast. So he had not been running for more than ten minutes before he heard steps coming up behind him. Some one was running, lightly with the regular footfall of the athlete, coming up behind him, catching him up, there was no doubt about it. The Turnip Lantern put on pace—this was very unpleasant, almost like being chased—he, the Assistant Collector of the Station. But the steps behind him got a little swifter, and a little lighter, and the Turnip Lantern gave it up, and turned round.
“What do you want?” he said.
“A word with you,” said Tony Seymour, drawing up beside the puffing figure, and speaking coolly.
“I have no wish to bandy words with you.” James Gilchrist, I.C.S., spoke with immense assurance, although his heart was in his mouth. But after all, as he kept on telling himself, he was the Assistant Collector in the Station, and the I.C.S. was the Senior Service. Also the C.I.E. took precedence of the D.S.O. As to the V.C., he was not quite sure about that, but probably the same rule applied.
“I am afraid you have got to do what you’re told,” said Tony Seymour, and he put a hand not too gently on the Turnip Lantern’s shoulder, and began to drag him along.
“Stop it!” The Turnip Lantern began to splutter.
“I can’t; I’m enjoying it.” Tony Seymour walked faster.
“Where are you taking me to?”
“I hope, to your bungalow. Is this the way?”
“I shall not tell you.”
“Doubtless I shall be able to find out by myself.” Tony Seymour went on walking, peering alternately on each side of the road as he did so. Aha! a gate. He hauled the Turnip Lantern up to it.
“‘James Gilchrist, I.C.S.’ Good!” Tony Seymour lifted his face from the name board. “Welcome to your bungalow, Mr. Gilchrist, I.C.S.” Tony Seymour kept his hold on the Turnip Lantern’s coat collar, and walked beside him, up the little path. A native servant, crouching at the foot of the verandah steps, rose, as the two men came into the circle of lamplight.
“Send your servant away,” said Tony curtly.
“I shall do nothing of the kind.”
Tony Seymour spoke a few imperious words in Hindustani, and the man, with one hesitating look at the tall soldier in the scarlet tunic, slunk into the background. And that in some way impressed Tony Seymour more than anything. The Englishman, unless he is a cad (and that in India is unusual), generally commands the respect, if not always the affection, of his personal servant.
Tony hauled the Turnip Lantern up the few steps, and stood looking at him under the light of the hanging lamp.
“I am now going to give you the biggest thrashing that you have ever had in your life,” he said, “but before I begin it you are to tell me what you have just been saying to Miss Church. If you don’t tell me the truth I shall half kill you.”
The Turnip Lantern began to splutter.
“Don’t waste time in doing that,” said Tony; “it is quite useless, and it also makes me more angry.”
“I told Miss Church what I thought it only right that she should know,” said the Turnip Lantern priggishly, “namely, that before you had met her you had carried on a violent flirtation with her mother.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all,” said the Turnip Lantern.
“Are you certain?”
“Perfectly certain,” said the Turnip Lantern, looking a little grieved, but inwardly chuckling. Ann would never give away what he had told her, he felt sure of that, certainly she would keep to herself a good deal of it. And even if she did tell what he had told her about Mrs. Church, what could they do? It would be to their disadvantage to have it all dragged up again. And Mr. Church, although very senior in his Service, belonged to another province, so that was all right.
“Perfectly certain,” he said again.
“Oh!” Tony felt also perfectly certain that the Turnip Lantern was lying. But he wanted to be quick, so he decided that it was waste of time to try to get the truth out of him. He walked up to the flimsy bamboo hat stand. “Choose your own weapon,” he said coolly, and he took out a flexible leather-covered cane.
The Turnip Lantern made a little run, and grabbed hold of a polo stick. What a chance!
The two men stood facing each other. The Turnip Lantern lunged out a vicious cut, and caught Tony just above the ankle.
The blood fled in a rush to Tony Seymour’s head. The blow had not caught him full, fortunately for him, but it hurt badly. And it gave him what he wanted—the lust for vengeance. Before, the Turnip Lantern had seemed too poor a thing to set on cold-blooded . . . like thrashing a slug. Now . . . Gad! he should have it!
The polo stick went flying as the two men closed. Tony Seymour’s teeth showed beneath his top lip, as he lifted his lean right arm. He made a sound rather like an ostler grooming a horse, and laughed a little. This was going to make up for a good deal . . . The swishing cane fell again and again, and each time it fell it raised a weal a foot long . . . After about three minutes the Turnip Lantern ceased to struggle, and became a writhing, howling thing. Tony let his arm fall to his side, and dropped the limp figure on to the matted floor. He walk to the hat stand; put back the cane; and then returning, stood over the blubbering heap.
“For once in your life you have got what you deserve,” he said, breathing a little more quickly than usual, “and I hope it may do you good. Good-night!” He picked his cap up from the table, and ran quickly down the steps.
“She absolutely refuses to see you.” Muriel Church looked as if she had been crying. She stood on the sun-flooded verandah, and looked hopelessly at the man in front of her.
“But she can’t refuse to see me!” Tony spoke indignantly. He had had a wretched night. He had got back to the Club only to find that Ann and her mother had left, and although he had followed them as quickly as possible to the bungalow, when he had arrived there he had found it practically in darkness. They had obviously gone to bed. So there had been nothing to do but to go straight to his own room too. But he had not been able to sleep; his ankle had hurt; and he had lain and sworn and tossed about, until Ishmael Khan from his couch on the mat outside had heard the crunching of the wire mattress, and had stolen noiselessly to the iron bed in the middle of the matted floor, peering down anxiously on to it. “Rub my ankle, for the Lord’s sake,” said Tony Seymour, and he could have cried with relief at seeing the dark face close to his. So Ishmael Khan, with the tenderest skill, had knelt beside the narrow bed and had taken the beloved foot in both his powerful hands. And then, after about half-an-hour he had bound it skilfully in one of Tony’s large white silk handkerchiefs, soaked in the icy water from the ghurrah in the bathroom. And as he bound it he uttered a little prayer—the water for the sahib’s satisfaction, the prayer for his own. In the morning not a sign of the last night’s discolouration remained; Tony had only been reminded of the thing by seeing the handkerchief.
“But she must see me!” he repeated. “It’s ridiculous.”
“What is it all about, Tony?” said Muriel Church, and she flushed.
“Well, it’s this”—Tony Seymour glanced round—“we can’t talk here,” he said; “come out into the compound; get your topi.”
Muriel Church flushed again as they stood together under the big banyan tree; she dreaded hearing what she felt sure she was going to hear.
“Ann has heard about you and me,” said Tony briefly.
“Oh! . . . I thought it must be that.” Muriel Church stood still and watched a lizard flickering in and out of the broken bark of the tree against which Tony leaned. So it had come—just when she and Ann were so perfectly happy together.
“She must be persuaded that it was nothing,” she said quickly.
“But it was nothing.” Tony spoke brutally as he stared past Ann’s mother into the sunlight. He did not care about anybody’s feelings; only to get Ann back, and quickly. “Let me see her, out here,” he said. “Now.”
“All right, I’ll try and make her come.” Muriel Church turned and began to walk towards the bungalow again. But her shoulders drooped a little as she went. She suddenly felt frightfully old.
“Now then, what does this all mean?” Tony had Ann by the wrists. She had refused to go to her lover in the garden, so after a hurried word or two with her husband, Muriel had practically dragged her to the drawing-room and left her there.
“It means that I don’t want to marry you,” said Ann, her face convulsed.
“I don’t believe it.” Tony held up his hand hurriedly. “No, don’t start all that tosh about ‘do I think that I’m so attractive,’ etcetera, etcetera. I don’t think I’m attractive at all, and you know I don’t. But what I do think is, that there must be some very grave reason for your breaking off your engagement at the eleventh hour, and that when you have always professed yourself to be in love with me. What is the reason? You are to tell me.”
“I shall not.”
“Yes, you will. I shall get it out of you somehow. Now then, to begin with, all this started after your dance with Gilchrist: he must have told you something about me. What was it?”
“He told me that you had been in love with mother before you met me,” said Ann, and her white face got whiter.
“Yes, I know, and I explained it. Love doesn’t die at hearing a thing like that. He must have told you something else to make you behave as you are doing. What was it?”
“I shall not tell you.”
“Don’t drive me mad, Ann.” Tony’s nostrils were dilated.
“He told me that you had to ask me to marry you because I came and slept with you,” said Ann.
“And you believed him?” But in spite of himself Tony’s lips twitched. Ann put it so crudely!
“I had to believe him. And I do believe him. And I know that you wouldn’t have asked me to marry you if it hadn’t been for that. And if you ever think I shall marry you now, you are mistaken. I never, never shall!” Ann in her terror became incoherent. He was getting everything out of her—soon he would get it all. And the rest was all that really mattered, the hideous, unspeakable thing. Her mother, splashed with the mud of an unthinkable horror. Her lover, horribly concerned in it.
Tony came nearer, and held out his hands with a look of yearning tenderness.
“Ann, don’t,” he said. “Forget all that that cad has told you. Isn’t it enough that I love you? That I will give up all the rest of my life to making you happy, and taking care of you? Think of it . . . in only three weeks from now you will belong to me entirely. Ann, say you are glad. You are glad.”
“I am not glad . . . and I shall never belong to you now.” Ann spoke in a voice of suppressed passion.
“Yes, you will. You think you won’t now because for some reason or other you are frightfully angry with me. But you’ll forget it. Not because I deserve that you should forget it, but just because I ask you to because I love you so. Ann, Ann, don’t look at me like that.” Tony dropped his face in his hands with a smothered groan,
“I look at you like that because it’s how I feel. I feel now as if all my love was scorched up and dead. I feel now that I should be glad if I never saw you again,” said Ann in a flat dead voice.
“But that feeling will go off. It’s been a frightful shock to you hearing about your mother and me. And I don’t wonder: it was hideous of me not to have told you about it myself. But don’t be too hard on me, Ann; after all, all men have things in their lives that would seem very dreadful to an innocent girl like you. But, taking it all round, I haven’t anything very terrible in the way of a past to confess to, and I am not quite a young man either!” Tony smiled rather sadly.
But Ann was scorched in a flame of rage. Then he thought nothing of it—this hideous unlawful union with her own mother. He had already begun to excuse himself. And she . . . she had lain anguishing through the whole night wondering if it wouldn’t be better to die then and there. For what was there left to her? Everything that had so far seemed pure and holy was terrible. Marriage! It was only an awful bartering of yourself in return for somewhere to live and for something to eat. Love! There wasn’t such a thing, because it was concerned with marriage. Girls didn’t know, of course, when they got engaged, or they never would. Joyce!—Ann suddenly felt a tightening round her heart. Joyce, what would she think of it? Would she come back? Ann had a sudden vision of Joyce flying up the drive, imploring shelter, crying out . . .
“Ann, come into my arms and tell me what it is that is troubling you.” Tony was watching the tormented face with the tenderest pity in his own. What was the matter with the child? There must be something beyond the knowledge of her mother’s flirtation to make her look as she did. Every atom of light had gone out of the little face, it was swept clean of every emotion except misery. “Ann,” he said again, and his voice was very tender.
“I can’t imagine any greater horror than to come into your arms again,” said Ann.
Tony flushed scarlet.
“In fact I wonder that you dare to ask me to,” she went on. “In fact I think it is an insult for you to even speak to me. You aren’t fit. . . you aren’t fit to associate with people like me.” Ann was shaking with passion.
“Really?” Tony’s hands were clenched in his pockets. What Ann really wanted was a good spanking, he thought to himself, half amused. But all the same . . . “You seem suddenly to have lost all your good opinion of me,” he said, trying to speak carelessly.
“I have!” Ann blazed. “I have, and all I want now is to go right away so that I shall never see you any more. I never want to hear your name. I want to forget that I ever loved you . . . ever belonged to you . . . want to forget . . .”
“You want to forget that I ever loved you?” Tony caught hold of Ann, and held her close to him, laughing as she struggled. “You want to forget that? I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. Ann, kiss me . . . kiss me, and don’t be a little idiot.” He stooped his face to hers, his blue eyes alight.
But Ann wrenched herself back, and struck him full across the face. Tony let go of her, and there was a very dreadful look on his mouth as he stood there, breathing rather heavily.
“Why did you do that?” he said.
“Because it’s what I feel, because it’s what I want you to know I feel. The utter loathing and contempt I have for you. I can’t express them in any other way but that,” said Ann hoarsely.
Tony Seymour put both hands back into his pockets.
“Then that settles it, of course,” he said. “Only I want you to know that when I once go away I never come back. I mean to say, if you feel that you’re going to be sorry for all this, be sorry now. Afterwards it will be utterly useless. I mean I shall never be whistled back, if that is your idea.”
“I never want you back,” said Ann, panting.
“Very well then.” Tony Seymour turned on his heel. Then he turned back again; Ann was such a child. “Ann, do you realise that it is utterly final?” he said. “I mean to say . . . you may see reason when you are calmer. And then I shall be gone. And I shall be gone for ever—don’t forget that.”
“I shall remember it with joy,” said Ann.
“Then that’s that!” Tony Seymour straightened himself abruptly, and his voice was utterly without expression. “And now,” he said, “I will explain to the parents . . . pack . . . and clear. You stay in here till I have gone; it will make it easier.” He walked to the door.
And then something in Ann’s brain seemed to snap, and she saw things as they really were. Her lover—the man who had saved her life, dragged her out of awful danger—going out of her life for ever. “Tony! . . .” It was the cry of an abandoned child. “Tony!” She stumbled as she ran.
But Tony Seymour detached her fingers very quietly from his coat.
“Don’t!” he said. “I can’t stand it all over again. I told you if I once went, I went for ever. Good-bye.”
Joyce, swimming on to the horizon of the Malabar Hill household, all agog with the dignity of her newly-married state, was not as sympathetic as Ann would have liked on the question of her broken engagement.
“But you must have some reason for breaking it off?” she said impatiently. “After all, it was you who was so mad on him at first. I admit that now he is mad on you, but still, you started it. And now you break it off. And it’s most frantic fun being married. Don’t you know, all those little things that girls can’t do, married women can. I wouldn’t be unmarried for anything. Ann, you are an idiot! Make it up again.”
Ann looked up. There it was again. “Ann, you are an idiot.” And probably she was . . . probably all the things that seemed to her so frightful were in reality nothing. Here, for instance, was Joyce, fresh from the nightmare of marriage; blooming, beaming, bubbling over with joie de vivre. But then, as Ann reminded herself with an ugly chilliness, Aunt Marian had not lived with Colonel Playfair first.
“You don’t understand,” said Ann.
“Yes, I do; I understand it absolutely,” said Joyce, making a mad guess. “Some one has told you that Tony was keen on Aunt Muriel before he met you. Isn’t that it?”
Ann flamed slowly scarlet, and then as slowly went pale again.
“Who told you?” she said.
“Charles. He was at Ooty at the same time.”
“Well, wouldn’t you break off your engagement if you found out among other things that the man you were going to marry had first been in love with your mother?” said Ann.
“No. At least, not unless I was quite sure that there had really been something in it. I mean to say, heaps of men have affairs like that with married women in India. It’s part of going to the Hills. And Aunt Muriel always was a flirt; I have heard so heaps of times too. Don’t be such a donkey, Ann, and hash up all your happiness because of some mad high-flown idea that you have about love. Men aren’t like that, high-flown and exalted. And if you expect them to be you will be desperately disappointed. And if they were they would be desperately dull too!” said Joyce emphatically.
But Ann was staring fixedly at her cousin.
“When you say ‘really been something in it,’ what do you exactly mean?” she said.
Joyce hesitated. Ann was such a baby. You couldn’t explain, even with gaps, to a girl like her. She laughed a little awkwardly.
“Oh, I mean something really exciting,” she said; “something that you are too young to understand about. But don’t let’s talk about it any more; you get that awful deathly look on your face when you talk about Tony. And I always did think he was most frightfully stand-offish. I don’t know that you aren’t well out of it. Come and have a look at the crocodile dressing-case that Charles has had done for me at Cawnpore.” Joyce rattled on light-heartedly, trying to distract Ann’s attention. She was appalled at the change in her little cousin since she had seen her three weeks before. Ann looked ten years older. And Joyce, under her rather bracing exterior, had a very deep affection for Ann.
Ann followed Joyce into the big spare room and duly admired the resplendent dressing-case. Then she looked up quietly.
“Do you like having a man in your room?” she said.
Joyce blushed. “Yes, I do, rather,” she said shamefacedly.
“Oh!” Ann hesitated, made as if to speak, and then stopped.
“I think I’ll go and sew for a bit,” she said, and she walked quietly out of the room.
Joyce watched her go and then made a sudden resolve. Something had given Ann her death-blow: she was going to find out what it was. Charles and Uncle Jack were out—Aunt Muriel would be alone. She went in search of her.
Muriel Church looked up from her writing-table, and smiled kindly.
“Well, Joyce, my dear,” she said, “how’s the world treating you?” She pushed back her chair as she spoke.
But Joyce only smiled vaguely in reply.
“Aunt Muriel, what is the matter with Ann?” she said.
Muriel Church caught her breath. She looked at her niece and then her face was convulsed with misery.
“Joyce, try and find out,” she said. “It is killing me, this feeling there is between us. You’re married now, and I can talk more freely to you. I suppose I oughtn’t to really, but I must. Ann avoids me, looks at me as if she hated me. What is it? She has heard, somehow, that Major Seymour and I were friends many years ago. But is that enough to make her break off her engagement? She treated him really most cruelly—said the bitterest, most dreadful things to him before they separated. I know, because he came to me before he went. But what is it all about? If I knew a little more I could perhaps get her confidence; as it is, she is never alone with me; she makes determined efforts never to be alone with me.” Mrs. Church broke down and began to cry.
Joyce put out a capable, comforting hand.
“Aunt Muriel, how did Ann find out about you and Major Seymour?” she said.
“I don’t know. That is to say, I am not sure. But I think she must have heard it at the dance that we all went to on the night of your wedding.”
“Oh!” Joyce sat silent for a moment or two; then comprehension flashed suddenly over her face.
“I know how she found out,” she said, “and I am going to try to put it right. Don’t cry, Aunt Muriel; I am sure I can put it right.”
“Darling, I am going to sleep with Ann to-night.” Joyce, looking very childish in a pink silk kimono over her nightdress, her long pigtails tied with ribbon of the same colour, stooped over the long chair in which Colonel Playfair lay patiently waiting for his wife to complete the, to him, almost interminable process of getting undressed.
“Damn it! You’re going to do nothing of the kind!” The Colonel jerked himself explosively upright.
“Yes, I am. Don’t say damn, Charles. It’s frightfully important what I’m going to do; I’ll explain. Besides, that book—you know, the one you showed me—says that every one ought to have a room to themselves. And if I sleep with Ann, I am having a room to myself; at least, you are!” Joyce began to laugh.
“Don’t laugh, I won’t have it.” The Colonel began to grumble. “Joyce, I want you with me,” he said rather pathetically. “Don’t say that you’re fed up with me already like, women get in this damned country, curse it!” The Colonel swore again.
“Not the tiniest atom.” There was fervour in Joyce’s voice, and the Colonel smiled, restored. “But it is this. Ann is killing herself over something, and in the daytime she sort of puts down a curtain between herself and me. But in the night, I think I shall be able to get behind it. That is, if you are an adorable angel, and let me go to her,” ended Joyce tactfully.
“All right. But it’s the very last time I shall let you do such a thing, remember.” The Colonel heaved himself out of his chair, and spoke decidedly. He did not care for Ann: she was so colourless, and so terribly shapeless.
But Joyce kissed him enthusiastically, and fled.
Joyce found Ann standing on the verandah, staring out to sea. Ayah was pattering round the room, putting things straight. When she saw Joyce, she came up to her, her old eyes dim with tears.
“Missy baba, very much crying,” she said. “I saying, tell old ayah. Missy baba saying, can’t tell ayah.” Mauri’s face was contorted with misery.
Joyce patted the wrinkled hand.
“It’s all right, ayah,” she said; “the missy baba will tell me. I am going to sleep with her to-night. You get out the camp bed, there’s a dear, and then you go to bed yourself and leave me to talk to the missy baba. You see if I don’t make it all right. See?”
“Accha mem-sahib!” Ayah was immensely relieved. Ann’s wan misery cut her to the heart. For all had been so auspicious, the prospective wedding, the gallant bridegroom. And now, all at an end—no bridegroom, no wedding, only a pale silent shadow of the child she loved, creeping about the bungalow. Ayah was in despair. But she smiled a little at Joyce’s reassuring words, and bustled off to fetch the camp bed from the corner of the dressing-room.
“Hullo, Ann!” Joyce stood behind the childish figure in the embroidered nightgown, and noted the violent start it gave.
“Hullo, Joyce!” Ann spoke a little faintly, and made a wild search for a handkerchief. She turned, laughing a little. “I can’t find my hanky,” she said.
“Have mine.” Joyce produced one from a hanging sleeve. “But why do you want a hanky?” she asked.
“Because I do, I suppose.” Ann’s face was all distorted with crying. She wiped her eyes rather shakily and returned the filmy scrap.
“Yes, but that’s no answer. Look here, I’m going to sleep here to-night. And you’re going to tell me what all this awful misery and weeping is about. It’s getting on everybody’s nerves. Aunt Muriel is almost desperate, and so is ayah. What is it all about, Ann?”
“How can you sleep with me when you’re married?” Ann’s eyes had a hunted look. Joyce would find everything out. “Charles will be awfully angry,” she said.
“No, he won’t. Married people don’t have to be glued together. Besides, there’s a book that everybody’s raving about nowadays, and that says that people who want to keep on being fond of one another ought to sleep in separate rooms. So I’m going to begin to-night. Now, look here, Ann”—Joyce cast a look behind her to where ayah was just completing the preparation of the camp bed—“you are going to tell me exactly why you broke off your engagement. I know you can’t have wanted to, or you wouldn’t look like you do now. Go on.” Joyce folded her hands and waited.
But Ann stood still. “I can’t,” she said.
“Yes, you can. You are to: it’s killing you, and I can’t bear it. I love you, Ann, although I don’t look as if I did. I never can show it. Go on.” Joyce was ashamed of her little burst of emotion, and she frowned.
Ann looked round. “Ayah will hear,” she said.
“No, she won’t; she’s getting into that blessed old rezais [Quilt] of hers. There now, she’s gone. Now then, tell me.” Joyce fixed her eyes on the small white face in front of her. How frightfully thin Ann had got.
Ann gripped her hands together. “Come and lie down on the bed with me, then,” she said, “and then I will.” She led the way back into the big dark room. For ayah had switched off the light. She was used to doing that now, leaving Ann standing motionless staring out to sea. But every time she did it it pierced her heart anew.
The two girls lay down together on the little beds set close together. Joyce held Ann’s hand tightly across the crack.
“Now,” she said.
And a great sob tore Ann from head to foot. Here was some one of her own age, some one who would perhaps understand. She rolled over on her side and faced her cousin through the darkness.
Joyce listened stupefied. Ann, who didn’t know a thing a month ago! But she kept silence and heard her to the end. Then she spoke quietly.
“Who told you?” she said.
“The Turnip Lantern.”
“Hog!” Joyce’s voice was passionate. Then she raised herself on her elbow. “Now, look here, Ann,” she said, “some of the things that he told you were right. I mean the first lot of things . . . you know . . . about Captain Rome, and about. . . well, you know . . . about being married and all that. But to be told by some one so hideously revolting doesn’t bear thinking of—although you aren’t degraded by it, he is—hideous hoggish beast.” Joyce clenched her fists and spoke furiously. “But those first things don’t matter now. You know that Tony loved you frightfully when he was engaged to you, so that washes out that about going up on deck in the night. As a matter of fact he probably thought it was most awfully sweet, and adorably innocent, which, of course, it was. And he was beginning to get keen on you by then—I could see it—so Captain Rome hauling him over the coals only hurried things a bit, so that doesn’t matter.—And as for the other things—well, of course, I knew such ages ago that I have forgotten what I felt like when I first heard—anyhow, I know now that it isn’t anything,” said Joyce, speaking shyly for the first time. “But what does matter,” she went on hurriedly, “is that you should believe for one instant that about Tony and Aunt Muriel is true. It’s a lie, a hideous, dreadful lie, and I am going now to find out for certain what did happen,” said Joyce, getting solidly off the bed.
“Oh, Joyce, where are you going?” asked Ann faintly. Everything round her seemed to be quivering. A lie? that awful nightmare horror that had hung over her for weeks, poisoning the very air she breathed! “A lie? O God, you are too good to me,” prayed Ann wildly. “Joyce, where are you going?” she asked again, greatly trembling.
“To Charles, to ask him what really did happen,” said Joyce, pulling her kimono round her and walking quickly out of the room.
The Colonel, wakened ruthlessly out of his first sleep, behaved with exemplary patience, only sitting up and blinking a little.
“What in the name of goodness is all this?” he said, and he put out a hand to take his wife’s.
“Well, it’s this.” Joyce explained in an excited hissing whisper. “Now, is it true?” she demanded.
“True? God bless my soul, no!” he said. “But, what in the——”
But Joyce had gone. She flew like a noiseless whirlwind down the matted corridor back to the dark bedroom.
“Ann, it’s all a lie!” she cried. “Charles says it is; he was there, at Ooty, and he knows. So there you are—oh, Ann, aren’t you glad, aren’t you glad?” Joyce had seized her cousin and was jogging her excitedly up and down.
And Ann said she was. But when her cousin had gone back to her Charles, she flung herself down on the little bed again, and gripped her hands under her head. That the nightmare was not true was something to be thankful about for ever and ever. But that Tony would forgive her now—with a heart that sickened and fainted she felt that that was another thing altogether. For had he not said, “I shall never be whistled back,” and again, “If I go, I shall go for ever?” “But, perhaps, if I write and say I am sorry, perhaps if I write and say I am sorry . . .” Ann sat up and clenched her arms round her knees, and spoke passionately aloud.
The Colonel was very dubious when he heard that Ann proposed to write and tell Major Seymour that she was sorry.
“You see, darling,” he explained to an excited and entirely positive wife, “men are not like women. And Seymour is one of those rather silent men—broods a lot. And he is also a very keen soldier. And he got it very badly when he fell in love with Ann, so that now he has probably decided that he made a fool of himself when he took on a girl so much younger than himself, and has probably put the whole thing out of his life. And by what you tell me I should say that she treated him uncommonly badly. By Gad, I should like to see the girl who would hit me in the face, and then get me back again,” the Colonel fumed loudly.
“Yes, but Ann thought he had done something most frightful, that’s why she hit him. She thought . . . you know what she thought, Charles.” Joyce was sitting on her husband’s knee by the chota hazri table.
“Then she had no business to think it.” The Colonel took a cheroot out of the case and bit off the end. “To take the word of a dirty squirt like Gilchrist against the word of a man like Seymour. It’s abominable.”
“She didn’t take the word of Mr. Gilchrist against Tony’s word. Tony never knew that Ann thought that Aunt Muriel and he had—you know. If he had known he could have told her that it wasn’t true, couldn’t he, pet?” Joyce dropped a kiss on the top of her husband’s head, just where it was beginning to get bald.
The Colonel spat the bitten end of his cheroot over the verandah.
“If the girl I was going to marry thought I was such a cad as to do what apparently that silly child thought Seymour had done, I’m darned if I would have anything more to do with her,” declared the Colonel vehemently. “And if I’m not very much mistaken she’s seen the last of Seymour. And now you begin to get up, miss!” The Colonel pulled his wife’s face down to his. “You sweet little monkey,” he said tenderly.
“Well, but Ann will die if Tony writes and says that he won’t forgive her,” said Joyce miserably. She had seen Ann’s face passionately illumined as it bent over a writing pad. “Charles, you write to him, too, can’t you?”
“Not I! Men don’t poke their noses into other men’s love affairs,” said the Colonel, sensibly.
“Then Ann will die,” said Joyce again, more miserably.
“Ann ought to have thought of that before,” said the Colonel, rather brutally.
Ann’s letter reached Tony on a burning April evening. The thermometer had stood persistently at 111° for a week, with only a slight drop at night. And Tony’s head had also ached persistently for almost a week. Ishmael Khan came flying from the back premises bearing the precious missive on a tray: now, perhaps, the awful cloud that lay on the sahib’s brow would lighten. But Tony took it with only a slight tightening of his lower jaw: he had almost put Ann out of his mind. There was an enormous amount of intensely interesting work on hand; and the promise of something doing on the frontier or he was very much mistaken. He sat down at his writing table and slit the envelope open.
Ann’s letter was short and passionately repentant. Tony read it to the end and then sat with his head in his hands until Ishmael Khan came in with the lamp. Then he drew his writing pad towards him and took out his stylographic pen.
“My dear Ann,” he wrote. “Don’t think me a brute, but it’s no good. You will remember that I told you that it wouldn’t be. I don’t excuse myself, but I’m like that, I can’t forget or forgive easily. You ought to marry a much younger man: I see that now. Put me out of your mind. This sounds very callous and I hate to write it—but there it is. As to what you tell me, it never entered my mind that you could think I would do a thing like that, and then ask you, of all people, to marry me. But we needn’t go into all that now. Don’t think too hardly of me. I have had a rotten time, too, but there is heaps of interesting work going on and that helps. And I am very anxious that you shall be really happy one day with some one much nearer your own age. Again don’t loathe me for this; I simply can’t help it; it’s my cursed nature, I suppose. Good-bye, and good luck.”
When Ann got the letter she was in the garden waiting with shivering breathlessness for the postman. She had waited like this ever since she had posted the letter: it was unreasonable, but she could not help it. To have opened up communication, so to speak, with the man she loved seemed to have also opened up endless channels of hope. Perhaps he would write first . . . perhaps he would telegraph . . . perhaps—rapturous flaming thought—perhaps he would come! She walked with all her old spring—her small face with its cap of gold took on its old light.
Muriel Church took heart and rejoiced. Everything was coming all right again. Joyce, greatly daring, had told her aunt all that had happened, all, that is, except the incident of Ann’s seeking out Tony at night on deck, and Muriel, terribly ashamed, had listened and then fled to her husband weeping. “Jack, fancy Ann thinking that about her own mother!” she cried. And the Commissioner had patted her shoulder and comforted her. But his face was grim that night as he sat late in his office, and the following morning an official letter went off by hand to the Commissioner of the Central Provinces.
And now Ann ran like a scared little animal to her own room, the beloved envelope held tight to her heart. And later Joyce found her there, crouching, and staring with a sort of withered fixity at the crumpled paper in her hand.
“Joyce, he doesn’t want me!” she said, and there was a sort of horror in her voice.
Joyce caught her to her heart and muttered frantic words of comfort. Ann looked deathly. But Ann, after suffering Joyce’s caresses for a moment or two, suddenly shook herself free.
“Joyce, he doesn’t want me!” she said, and there was a note of stupid incredulity in her voice. And then she stumbled, and fell over on her face.
Major Hamilton, summoned later that night—Ann had gone from one fainting fit to the other—was very emphatic.
“Miss Ann must go Home,” he said, “and as soon as possible. When do you intend to go, Mrs. Church?” Muriel Church looked terribly harassed.
“My husband is retiring in the autumn,” she said. “We had not meant to go until then. But, of course, if it is imperative “ She hesitated.
“It is. I never saw so complete a collapse in so young a girl. Has there been anything to account for it? I know, of course, that there was that affair in the South. But I have seen Miss Ann since then.”
“Her engagement to Major Seymour has come to an end, as, of course, you know,” said Mrs. Church, and her face whitened. How much did Bombay know or guess of the cause of the rupture? she wondered.
“Yes, I gathered as much. Well, if you will talk it over with the Commissioner we will discuss it again in the morning,” said kind Major Hamilton, and his face was sad as he walked slowly back to his bungalow. Such a sweet child, and such a sunken little face on the big pillow.
But Joyce excitedly came to the rescue again.
“Of course, Aunt Muriel, Ann must come Home with us,” she said; “it can easily be arranged. Ann and I can share our two-berth cabin, and Charles must go in with some man. Charles won’t mind an atom,” finished Joyce airily.
But Mrs. Church was not so sure. Besides, there was so little time: Joyce and her husband were sailing the following Saturday. But Major Hamilton was more emphatic than ever when he came the next morning: Ann must leave India immediately. So negotiations were set on foot at once, and Charles’ remonstrances were stilled by Joyce with a very decided note.
“It says in that book that you are so keen on that married people ought not always to be jumbled up in the same room,” she said firmly.
And Charles swore loudly and consigned the book in question to the bottomless pit. But Joyce only laughed and ran off to tell Ann.
“You’re coming Home with us next Saturday,” she said. “Don’t look so sad, Ann, you’ll feel absolutely different when you get out of this horrid Bombay climate. And you shall come and stay with us in our house in town, and we’ll have a lovely time—do say you’ll like it, Ann?”
And Ann tried to smile. But there was death in her heart. Here in India she was somewhere near him. At Home . . . the sea would lie between. She rolled over on her face.
The rain was coming down in a steady, relentless downpour. It fell from a leaden sky, and it had been falling in the same way for seven or eight days. The crows that generally foregathered on the thatched roof of Tony Seymour’s bungalow had quite given it up, and had retired, damp and disgusted, to the better equipped roof of the General Sahib’s bungalow. And for this Tony Seymour was profoundly thankful, because nowadays even the cawing of a crow irritated him beyond endurance.
He was sitting now in his shirt-sleeves, a large ordnance map spread out over the table in front of him, and around the lamp that stood at his elbow a vast crowd of moths and other winged insects blundered and buzzed. Ishmael Khan was polishing buttons on the mat outside Tony Seymour’s office door; since the dreadful night when he had come in and found his sahib sprawled over the table in a dead faint he was never very far out of earshot. But since then Tony had been better, for the jolly regimental doctor had talked to him like a father. “Don’t be such a damned fool, Seymour. Slacken off a bit, you’re killing yourself. And as for those mad rides to God knows where without any chota hazri, you’ll deserve what you’ll get if you persist with them. You ought to go Home, that’s what’s the matter with you, and I’ve half a mind to tell Headquarters so too!” And Tony had paled, in spite of his desperate efforts to control his face, and had promised to do what the doctor advised. “I’ll swallow any quantity of the filthiest muck you like to send me round,” he said, “only don’t talk about sending me Home, if you don’t mind.” So the doctor had swung himself back into the saddle, and had galloped back to the Mess a little reassured. Seymour was eating out his heart over something, he was pretty certain of that. Surely there had been some talk of his marriage, and then it had apparently all come to nothing. But nobody knew exactly what had happened; Seymour was not a man who talked about his own affairs, and he was still less a man that you could question. But that he was terribly unhappy there could be no doubt, and the doctor with his keen eyes and knowledge of human nature was more and more sure of it. “Why the hell doesn’t he make it up with the girl if he has fallen out with her?” he asked himself, as he scraped his jolly face in front of a dilapidated mirror.
And sometimes Tony asked himself the same question. He craved unceasingly for Ann. When he lay dripping under his mosquito curtain, his small iron bed pushed far out under the stars in a desperate effort to drag a little coolness out of the torrid night, he saw nothing but her little round face with its serious eyes. When he sat or stood, lean and apparently entirely controlled, in office, or at Parade Service, Ann stood beside him, small and embarrassed, struggling with her gloves, as he had seen her struggle at Joyce’s wedding. As the thermometer went up and up—Warinagar had the proud distinction of being able to register the highest temperature of any military station in the Central Provinces—the thought of her threatened to become an obsession. And one night he had got out his writing pad, and had sat down with a shaking hand to pour out his love and forgiveness on paper. Then the rain had come, driving in a great grey cloud across the little military station; and every door had banged, and Ishmael Khan had come flying from the back premises, puggaree askew, and the lamp at Tony’s elbow had gone out with a wink and a sputter. So he had pushed his writing pad with its flapping leaves into a drawer, and had gone out on to the verandah, holding up his face to the heavenly blessed cool of the spattering drops. And then he had flung himself on the bed, and slept as he had not slept for weeks: the wetness pf the air seemed to unloose the band of iron round his brain—but it seemed to draw tighter the band of iron round his heart. Ann had struck him in the face, and that with no provocation, and Tony could not forgive her for that. After all, the whole thing had been ridiculous—to marry a girl eighteen years younger than yourself was asking for trouble. So he set his jaw, and worked like a slave, and prayed that the affair on the frontier would develop into something that would need an expedition to settle it. But it didn’t; a couple of Bristol Fighters sent the Afghan scuttling back to his village. Yet still Tony flung himself more absorbedly into his work: work was a panacea for everything, he told himself, and to a certain extent he was right. But the struggle cut deep lines round his mouth, and there was a look of hardness in the eyes that were nevertheless still the colour of lapis lazuli. And people began to steer clear of him a little: his own sex because “Seymour was always so damned cynical,” and women because, “Major Seymour looks at you as if he thought you were such a fool.” But Tony did not care whether people talked to him or not, or what they thought about him either. He wrote to Bombay for the newest books on Military Engineering, and engulfed himself in them, making copious notes, and standing for hours in front of maps, utterly absorbed.
It was about three weeks later. The Carpathia’s doctor, on brief leave, was putting up with Tony Seymour, and he came in a little late for tiffin. He was humming cheerfully as he ran up the little path. But only one place was laid in the rather bare matted dining-room.
“What’s happened to the sahib?” he said to Ishmael Khan, who was hovering, spotless and attentive, between the sideboard and the dining-table.
“The sahib is sick,” said Ishmael Khan sententiously.
“Sick! What sort of sick?” The doctor laid down his dinner napkin and looked up at the tall servant.
“Very much shaking, very much vomiting, very much holding stomach,” said Ishmael Khan graphically, leaving little to the imagination as is the custom of the native when he is agitated. But he spoke very unhappily, too; he had had a fearful half hour with Tony, trying to persuade him to send for the regimental doctor. But Tony had only cursed him in between the spasms, telling him to go to hell.
“Very much vomiting, eh?” The doctor pushed back his chair and got up. He suddenly felt very uneasy. Tony had spent a good part of the day before struggling to restore animation to one of the mali’s children who had been taken ill with cholera early that morning. The Indian doctor from the dispensary had diagnosed it as cholera, and ordered the child to be taken to the hospital. But its mother had flung herself down on the ground and howled, and when Tony Seymour had strolled out of his office to see what the uproar was, she had crawled to his feet, and caught hold of his knees. “Let me have a go at it, Babujee,” Tony had said, smiling, and he had rolled up his sleeves and stooping his head had entered the reeking quarter. “Clear out of it, you silly ass!” The ship’s doctor, who had also heard the uproar and had come out to see what it was too, hurriedly lit a cheroot, and followed the tall soldier into the dark space. “Clear out, you silly ass, you aren’t fit enough yourself to tackle a thing like this, no, really, Seymour, I mean it!” But Tony Seymour had been obstinate, and it was not until the ship’s doctor had begun to roll down his own sleeves, shrugging his shoulders meanwhile, that he had got up from his knees and left the little brown, pathetically wasted figure to the agonised lament of its mother. “Jolly hard lines, that,” he had remarked as they walked together to the bungalow, “ripping little kid, and their first boy, too.” But the doctor had only replied curtly, “Get out of your clothes as quickly as you can, and have a hot bath, Seymour. No, don’t fool about it, I’m deadly serious.”
He thought of this as he walked directly across the verandah and pulled aside the rather shabby Kashmir curtain that hung in the doorway. And as he saw Tony Seymour half out of the bed, one arm trailing helplessly across the matted floor, lips blue, his fear took him by the throat so that he could not speak. Then he turned, and shouted desperately.
“Here, Ishmael Khan! send someone flying for the regimental doctor-sahib, and, look here, brandy—what’s it called in this infernal language?—sharab.” The doctor groped furiously for the few words of Hindustani that he knew. But Ishmael Khan was at his side in a moment with the decanter, and the doctor wrenched out the stopper, and forced the spirit in between the half-open lips. Then he tore open the soft collar, and listened for the heart, and as he felt the intermittent throb of it, he set his teeth, and rolled up his sleeves. And then he and Ishmael Khan bent to their task. Many a life in Asiatic cholera has been literally torn from the arms of Death by a restored circulation, and both the native and the Englishman knew it. So they worked until the perspiration poured down their faces like tears, and their chests heaved to bursting. At last the faintest streak of colour filtered back into the white lips, and the doctor sent Ishmael Khan flying for hot bottles, and the Pathan brought them, six whisky bottles full up to the top with boiling water. These the doctor rolled in shirts, pyjama coats, anything, as Ishmael Khan flung them from the gaping almirah. He pressed them close in to Tony’s sides, and then they stooped again to their work. A little later the regimental doctor, summoned by a terrified mali, who had run as he had never run before, found them at it, and joined his efforts to theirs. And after about half an hour of agonised suspense, the ship’s doctor, stooping, heard Tony Seymour whisper, and he laid his ear close to the slowly moving lips.
“Why couldn’t you let me die, you beggars,” he said.
“It’s Home for you, my boy! Eh, Malony?” The ship’s doctor winked at the other one. Both sat smoking by the side of Tony Seymour’s long chair. For he was up again—recovery from cholera is as rapid as the descent into its Avernus. But he was as thin as a rake, and his eyes still gleamed out of dark caverns.
“Brutes, both of you,” Tony laughed weakly. “That chap there has been spoiling for this for weeks,” he said, and he pointed a rather tremulous finger at the Irishman.
“Yes, because he knows it’s the only thing for you. No, joking apart, Seymour, it’s got to be. Take him Home with you on your next trip, doctor. When does the Carpathia sail?”
“Next week.”
“Excellent! Now, Seymour, what have you got to say to that?”
Tony Seymour set a pathetically wasted jaw.
“I say I won’t go unless Ishmael Khan goes with me,” he said.
The regimental doctor laughed.
“I don’t think there will be very much difficulty about that,” he said. “Have him in and ask him.”
Ishmael Khan, huge puggaree flaunting, baggy starched trousers gleaming spotless, faced the three men.
“Ishmael Khan, will you come with me to the Vilayat,[England] if I go?” said Tony Seymour, weakly.
Ishmael Khan waited the fraction of a second, and then he fell on his knees, and pressed the wasted hand to his forehead.
“To the end of the world, Lord of my life and soul,” he said, and a big tear fell through the thin fingers on to the floor.
It was a very blue sea into which the Carpathia swam with deliberation and dignity late in the afternoon of a sultry day early in May. She came ponderously through the big dock gates, and they shut behind her with a wild swirl of churned-up water. The harbour was alive with craft of all kind, the homeward mail rode at anchor some way out, smoke curling from one of her black funnels, one of the P. and O. fleet, due to sail the next day, the Carpathia being one of an outside line, not sailing on any fixed date, but only when her heavy cargo was safely loaded. There they all were, the clock tower on the Mole, the old Fort with its massive brick ramparts and its big clock, the Yacht Club lying low amidst its trees, and the Taj Mahal Hotel, blatant and aggressive with its turreted corners and its round dome. Ann, crouched against the rail of the ship, saw them all through a blinding rain of tears, tortured tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She was parting from them all—life, hope, everything. Her heart. . . her soul were in India, with him, with the man that she had flung aside and cruelly treated. And he . . . he did not care . . . he had forgotten her. Of course he had—why should he remember her? She had struck him in the face and no man would forgive that.
And oddly enough, the Colonel, fussily putting his things to rights in the very hot cabin that to his indignation he found he was sharing with a missionary, was reminding his wife of the very same thing, as she leaned against the door half-way out in the corridor.
“I’ve no patience with it,” he was declaiming as he lifted a pleated shirt out of the flat suit-case that lay open on the lower berth. “Let her howl her soul out. On her own showing she treats Seymour shamefully, smacks him in the face and I don’t know what else. And all on the word of a filthy squirt like Gilchrist. I think the girl’s got exactly what she deserves. Leave her alone . . . that’s my advice to you, Joyce. And I won’t have our first voyage together spoilt by her either; it’s bad enough to have to share my cabin with a dirty fellow with a beard, when I might have had you . . . Darling, you do mind?” The Colonel went nearer, a wistful look on his usually cheerful face.
“Of course I mind.” But although Joyce spoke warmly her face was distressed and her voice absent. “But, Charles, if Ann goes on like this she will die. I know it’s miserable for us to have to be away from each other at night, but it’s worse for Ann because it’s forever that she’s leaving the things that she loves best. I mean to say, apart from her love affair having gone all wrong, it was frightful to see her say good-bye to ayah. She looked as if her very soul was being torn out. They adored each other, she and ayah.” Joyce began quietly to cry.
“Damn the girl!” It came in an explosion; the Colonel hated to see his wife upset. “I tell you, Joyce, I won’t stand it. I’ll have this ridiculous arrangement about the cabins altered.” He started to stump down the corridor.
“No, you can’t.” Joyce ran after him and laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t, Charles! After all, it isn’t for long. And think how we shall adore each other when we are together again!”
“Yes, that’s all very well;” the Colonel spoke in a milder voice and turned again. “But all the same, Joyce, I want you clearly to understand that I won’t have this voyage spoilt for us by Ann’s repinings. She’s hashed up her love affair herself; well then, she’s got to suffer for it.”
“All right, darling.” Joyce wisely saw that it was quite useless to try to enlist her husband’s sympathies on her cousin’s side, so she gave it up. “I’ll just go along and put things straight a little in our cabin and then I’ll come back,” she said. “When you’ve done, go up and get a nice place for our chairs, will you, pet?”
“I will.” The Colonel was mollified and in a good temper again. He pinched his wife’s chin blithely and let her go, stooping again over his open suitcase.
But Joyce, out of sight, began to run. She was going to find out what Ann was doing first. She felt terribly anxious about her cousin. For even to her not very imaginative mind there was something deathly and stricken about the little face, now pathetically smaller than it ever had been.
“Come down now, darling Ann.” Joyce tried to untwist the cold fingers from the rail as Ann clung to it. “People will notice; you must wrestle with yourself. It’s just at first it’s so awful; even I felt frightful as we put off from the quay, but it gets better.”
“Joyce, it’s somewhere here I feel it.” Ann laid a hand on her blouse and spoke quite quietly, although her face was ashy pale. “Something is broken, it really is. People’s hearts do break. Mine has.”
“No, don’t . . . it hasn’t.” Joyce’s voice was lost in a great gulp. Ann was going to die; she suddenly felt dreadfully sure of it. “Come down, darling, dearest little Ann, and just lie on your berth and I’ll unpack your things.”
“How sweet you are to me.” Ann let go, and slipped her hand into her cousin’s with gentle acquiescence. “I will, I’ll just lie down, and perhaps God will be kind, and I shan’t ever need to get up again.”
“Oh, Ann, don’t!” But Joyce, although she spoke with a sob, gripped Ann’s hand fiercely. She wasn’t going to let Ann die. But how could he have been so cruel, that tall soldier! Ann had said she was sorry . . . she had. And he had only written a brutal letter. He was a beast . . . a fiend! She settled her little cousin on her berth with renewed tenderness, and then stooped over her. “I’m just going along to see how Charles is getting on,” she said; “I shan’t be long.”
“All right.” Ann stretched out a wavering hand. “I love you, Joyce,” she said.
“Ann darling!” But Joyce’s feelings threatened to overwhelm her; again she squeezed her cousin’s hand, laid it down and fled.
The Colonel was not in the cabin. But as Joyce looked uncertainly up and down the corridor—where had her husband got to—he came out of one a little further along. But his usually rosy face was pale, and the hand that he laid on her shoulder to draw her into his cabin was trembling a little. “Joyce, Seymour is on board,” he said.
“What!” Joyce sat suddenly down on the lower berth on the top of a heap of soft collars.
“Yes, did you ever know anything so damnably unfortunate? He’s evidently been frightfully ill; looks like a skeleton. He came on this morning before the ordinary lot were allowed on board; he’s in charge of the doctor.”
“Charles, it will kill Ann!” Joyce’s mouth was working.
“Well, let it!” The Colonel spoke with intensest irritation. Wherever that girl was there was trouble; a damned good thing if she was out of the way for good and all. He was really upset at the contretemps. And Seymour looked frightfully ill; and the Colonel was fond of his friend.
“But what shall we do?”
“Nothing.” The Colonel spoke with decision. “Seymour probably won’t be allowed out of his cabin for a day or two, so they won’t meet yet. And neither of them knows that the other one is here, so that’s all right so far. Don’t cross your stile before you come to it, darling.”
“All right.” But although Joyce spoke fairly cheerfully, her heart was like lead within her. For a day or two it might be all right certainly, but then they would have to meet. And then what?
But the doctor, who had Tony Seymour’s welfare very much at heart, and who had of course found out that Ann was on board before the Carpathia had been at sea more than a few hours, and who had also, long before this, discovered what had brought that riven look to the handsome face, was determined that his patient should not be exposed to the shock of a sudden meeting, and he came into the cabin one morning with his thermometer in his hand, and sat down firmly on the carpet-stool.
“Had a good night?”
“Excellent!” Tony Seymour stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Feel better than I have for months,” he said, and smiled at the relief of the thought.
“Splendid! Only just a minute.” The little glass tube was slipped in under the tongue and the experienced fingers sought and found the little throbbing artery. “Good! Couldn’t be better. Now then, you’d like to get up on deck in a long chair?”
“Rather!”
“All right, you shall. Ishmael Khan and I will get you up. But first, I’ve got a bit of ugly news to break to you, Seymour. Feel you can stand it? “
“Yes; carry on.” But the firm lips whitened a little. Ann was dead, well . . . it was his punishment, and he had always half expected it.
“Miss Church is on board.”
“What!”
“Yes, I know; it’s desperately unfortunate, but she booked her passage at the last moment, and of course it is a thing that no one could have foreseen.”
“Is she ill?”
“She looks ill, but of course I haven’t really liked to inquire. If they call me in, which I think they will very soon have to, I shall be able to tell you more.”
“I see.” Tony Seymour laid the backs of two shaking hands against his eyes and then spoke in a voice entirely controlled. “Send Ishmael Khan along, will you,” he said, “and I’ll start to get up.”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather put it off for a day or two?”
“Quite sure.” Tony Seymour took his hands away from his face, and smiled a little shakily. “I’ve had my hell, you know, Doc,” he said, “and a little more, more or less, now doesn’t affect me.”
So a little later Ann, coming slowly along the corridor, met the little cavalcade, the tall figure in the middle, Ishmael Khan one side of it and the doctor in his white uniform on the other. And she stopped and stared, and then drew her white brows together and stared again. And then she dropped a little crumpled figure on the floor.
“Charles, Charles, wake up!” Joyce, speaking in a fierce undertone, shook her sleeping husband vigorously. “No, he can’t hear, he’s snoring too loud. Charles, you must get the doctor. Ann cannot stop crying. She’s been going on like this ever since the doctor saw her before lunch, and it’s perfectly awful. She’s talking, too, all the time, moaning and talking—it’s perfectly dreadful! Do something! Get him now, he’s accustomed to getting up at night and he won’t think anything of it; besides, we can pay him extra.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” The Colonel, waked out of his first delicious sleep, groaned despairingly and prepared to struggle off his berth. “What’s the matter with the girl now?” he said, reaching out for his dressing-gown and casting a cautious glance at the top berth on which a bearded figure lay snoring peacefully.
“What I tell you—she can’t stop crying, and she talks all the time,” said Joyce frenziedly, for she had been up since ten, and it was now one, and she was dead tired and anxious into the bargain.
“Damn the girl!” said the Colonel with emphasis, and he started off down the corridor to the surgery to fetch the doctor. “A lot of hysterical tomfoolery!” as he grumbled to that alert-faced man who had wakened the instant the door opened.
But the doctor did not think so, and he spoke seriously to the Colonel, laying a hand on his shoulder as he stood by the open surgery door. “Keep your wife out of Miss Church’s cabin for half an hour, will you? There’s a good fellow,” he said. “There’s more in this than appears. That child will die if something isn’t done. But I’m going to see if I can’t settle it once and for all now; only leave us alone. Bring Mrs. Playfair along here if you like.”
Tony Seymour, sleepless, lying on his back staring up into the blackness of his silent cabin, only moved his head a little as the electric light sprang into life. The doctor!
“Well?” he said.
“Seymour, that child . . . she’ll die if you harden your heart against her like this.” The doctor, very much moved, and nervous as well, spoke huskily.
“Miss Church knew perfectly well what she was doing when she sent me away,” replied the still man on the lower berth, and his lower jaw was like steel.
“I tell you I cannot be responsible for her life or reason if she continues in the way that she is going on at present,” replied the doctor, and he spoke angrily. The man must have a heart of stone, he thought, and yet, he wouldn’t have thought that he had.
“What is she doing?” But Tony Seymour gripped his hands down by his sides under the sheet.
“She is crying her soul out for you. Calling out to you, trying to explain something to you. I have given her a sleeping draught but it hasn’t the slightest effect. God, Seymour, haven’t you any heart?”
“I had!” But the tall figure had begun to move. One long leg kicked back the sheet. “Chuck me over my bath-gown, will you?” he said. “And keep that cousin of hers out of the way. And leave us alone for half an hour. Which is her cabin?”
“I’ll show you.” The two men went together down the silent corridor. They stopped together outside a swaying curtain. Ann’s voice could be heard quietly talking. “You see,” she was saying, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know! Tony, Tony!” And then it broke out again. “It’s too much torture to have him on the same boat with me! God, you oughtn’t to expect me to bear that! I really can’t bear that! I really can’t bear that . . .”
“All right; come back in half an hour.” The thin brown face was set like a mask. “No, I feel perfectly fit . . . thanks.” Tony Seymour, very tall and gaunt, stepped over the brass door rail, stood inside the shadowed cabin, and drew the curtain very silently and slowly across the brass rod behind him.
“Ann.”
But Ann did not hear. She was kneeling up on the top berth, her face turned to the open porthole. “You see,” she was saying, and she spoke as if she was reasoning with somebody, “you see, I said I was sorry. But it did not make any difference, because in his heart of hearts he did not want me. Otherwise he would have forgiven me . . .” The agonising tears began again.
“Ann, stop crying.” In spite of his desperate efforts to control it, Tony’s voice was shaking. .
Ann turned slowly round. The tall thin figure in the towelling bath-gown nearly filled the little cabin. She shrank down on to the crumpled sheet and hid her face in her trembling hands. “Go away out,” she breathed.
“And why . . .?”
“Because . . . because . . .” Ann was trying to drag her shreds of self-control round her. “Because I am not properly dressed,” she gasped, “and that was my dying shame that I came up and slept with you on deck like that . . . Tony, don’t torture me now; I can’t bear any more. Captain Rome will let me get off at Aden . . . he is kind and good, and when I tell him he will understand.”
“Stop crying, Ann, when I tell you.” Tony Seymour came nearer to the top berth, and laid a very gentle hand on the bowed shoulders. “It doesn’t matter a rap that you’re not properly dressed; besides I can’t see you. I want to say something to you. Why do you cry?”
Ann flung her arms above her head and then fell forward, her face buried in her pillow.
“Go away,” she gasped. “It’s your voice . . . it kills me to hear it . . . it reminds me . . . if you have any, any feeling for me, I know you haven’t, but if you have, leave me by myself, I can’t, I can’t . . .” The little figure prone on the top berth was torn with sobs.
Tony Seymour groped under the lower berth with a seeking foot; he stooped and dragged the flat trunk out an inch or two and then stood on it. But he held his hands firmly behind his back, as he looked down on Ann’s buried head. “Ann, turn round and look at me,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, and you are to. That’s right,” as very slowly Ann’s face became visible, faintly illumined by the shaded light from the corridor beyond the swaying curtain. “Now, tell me, what is it that makes you so desperately unhappy?”
“You will think that I’m trying to . . . to . . .” Ann drew in her breath with a great sobbing gasp.
“I shan’t think anything at all. Come, tell me.” Tony Seymour drew one hand from behind his back and laid it kindly on the cropped head.
But that was too much for Ann, and with a muffled cry she caught down the lean fingers and dragged them desperately to her mouth, and then rolled over on to her face again, still holding them close to her.
And then the love that Tony Seymour thought he had effectually stamped out flamed up again, and he stooped, and drew the imprisoned hand very gently away from under the little body, and he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and stepped back off the trunk on to the floor again, hooking the carpet-stool towards him with a long toe. And then he sat down on it and crushed her to his heart. “Don’t cry, Ann,” he said unsteadily. “I do love you. It’s only that I’m a proud brute, and you hurt me badly. But that’s all over now. Come, smile . . . and tell me . . . you’re glad. . . .”
“I can’t, because this must be one of those awful dreams that come to me and make me think it’s all right, and then I wake up and find it’s just the same.” Ann was clinging and trembling as she sat half upright, and stared frantically through the blurred darkness.
“Do I kiss you in a dream?”
“Sometimes you do, sometimes you do,” cried Ann, weeping.
“Like this.” Tony Seymour stooped a tall head, and there was a little silence. Then he lifted it again. “Like this?” he said, and his voice was a little hoarse.
“No, not quite like this.” Ann’s voice came muffled and tremulous from the folds of the bath-gown sleeve.
“Well, then, you see it can’t be a dream.” Tony laughed a little shakily, but his voice was very tender all the same. “Turn up your face again, Ann, and then you will be quite certain that it’s true.”
“No, no!” said Ann breathlessly, struggling a little in the strong fingers.
“But I say yes,” said Tony Seymour, and he stooped his head again.