To
Denis Frome
With apologies for setting him
in a world of fantasy
“Where is Margaret?”
“Upstairs.” Miss Mary Baxter said the double syllabled word slowly. Sitting there with her knitting held austerely in her pale fingers, she seemed to blow the word from between her paler lips.
“Upstairs now?”
“Upstairs now,” repeated Miss Mary Baxter impersonally.
“But it is the afternoon for the Women’s Institute.”
“I know.”
“But isn’t she going?”
“Apparently not.”
“But aren’t you going to say anything?”
“No,” said Miss Mary Baxter. “No, Katie. No; I have decided that the moment for saying anything is over. Margaret must now do as she likes. She always has done what she likes, of that I am fully aware, but now she does it with my sanction. I have had enough.” Miss Mary Baxter puffed out her pale lips. “I have had enough,” she said, and having said it fell silent.
“But,” and now Miss Katie Baxter began to speak. Quite differently—people often said that they could hardly believe that the Misses Baxter were sisters, so different were they in aspect as well as everything else. Miss Katie Baxter spoke fussily. She looked fussy with her nice cosy bundly figure. She had a fussy mind; details bewildered her. She was beloved in the village of Market Stacey. Miss Mary was not. She was not actually disliked because the villagers knew better; the Baxters had been the “gentry” in that part of the world for generations. But she was not beloved. Enormously respected, that went without saying, but not beloved.
“Perhaps she was cold,” ventured Miss Katie after a little pause, during which she peeped through her round spectacles like a little bird.
“Cold?”
“Yes, I heard her saying something to Hannaford about a fire?”
“A fire?”
“Yes, something about how jolly it would be to have a fire,” said Miss Katie guiltily.
“A fire in September?”
“Yes, I know it was ridiculous,” said Miss Katie deprecatingly, twisting her neat little velvet-shod feet on the embroidered footstool. “But that was what she said.”
“And what did Hannaford reply?”
“She said that it wasn’t the month for fires,” said Miss Katie simply.
“And what did Margaret say to that?”
“She said that it was as cold as hell and that she was going to lie down on her bed with a hot-water bottle,” replied Miss Katie unexpectedly.
“Katie!”
“Yes, I know,” said Miss Katie apologetically. “That’s what I feel too, Mary.”
“But how was she going to get a hot-water bottle?”
“Well——”
“Go on.”
“I think she has bought herself a spirit kettle,” said Miss Katie, turning very pink in the face.
“A spirit kettle?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew all this and have not told me? In fact you have deliberately tried to mislead me by pretending that you did not know that Margaret was upstairs?”
“I did not know that Margaret was still upstairs,” said Miss Katie ignoring the part of her sister’s sentence that accused her of deception. For Mary was like that; she got led away by her thoughts. She was getting old; poor Mary. She must be almost seventy-five, thought Miss Katie suddenly. Seventy-five was a good deal. Although their mother had lived till she was ninety-seven and even to the day of her death she had been able to read without glasses. But Mary had been the eldest of the family. Percival their only brother, and the husband of Margaret, now luxuriating on her bed with a hot-water bottle, had died at sixty-five, which was very young for a Baxter. Perhaps Margaret had killed him with her irresponsibility, thought Miss Katie, her imagination pleasantly stimulated by the little scrimmage that she was having with her sister.
“You did not know that Margaret was still upstairs?” Miss Mary’s magisterial voice came looming through a fantastic jumble of thought.
“No.”
“Although you saw her go up and did not see her come down?”
“Oh don’t labour the point, Mary,” said Miss Katie abruptly. “I see that you are worried, dear, and that is enough for me. Margaret is, I agree, an anxiety to both of us and we are getting too old for anxieties. At least we are getting too old for anxieties that we need not have.”
“Speak for yourself, Katie,” said Miss Mary sharply. “I hope that I shall never be too old to face any problem that Almighty God thinks fit to confront me with. But with regard to Margaret, I do feel a little differently. As the widow of our dead brother, Percival, we have shown her every care and consideration. While he lived, she had the position of an honoured wife under this very roof. Neither you or I ever showed by word or deed that we profoundly regretted our brother’s marriage. We have even tolerated the presence of that horrible Siamese cat that Margaret appears to adore in a way that I consider almost indecent. But now after two years of widowhood, it seems to me to be getting worse. Margaret becomes more and more indolent. She does nothing in the village; nothing at all. She does not occupy herself with good works, although there are plenty to be done. She simply spends her days in the rock garden that Percival had built for her, although it was not in the least necessary, and in mooning round with that detestable cat. I consider it an appalling waste of time, also an appalling example for the servants.
“The servants like her,” ventured Miss Katie, nodding her head at her sister like a jovial little bird.
“Hmn.”
“And you know I always consider that Percival did her a grave injustice in not leaving her an adequate income of her own,” continued Miss Katie gravely. “For after all, Mary, Percival was a rich man. To leave your money to a son that you have not got, is not a right thing to do. He left Margaret practically nothing, a couple of hundred a year. Well, why did he do that?”
“So that she should continue to live here, he said so in his will,” returned Miss Mary Baxter, grimly.
“But was that kind?”
“I don’t know about kind. It was wise,” said Miss Mary vigorously. “He knew that if Margaret returned to that loose-living artistic set from which he rescued her, her last state would be worse than her first.”
“Oh Mary!”
“I mean it,” said Miss Mary Baxter, her pale fingers trembling with emphasis on her knitting. “You never understood Percival as I did, nor the agony of mortification that he suffered over his marriage. Caught by a pretty face, that was the tragedy of it, the tragedy of my beloved brother. Caught by a girl thirty years younger than he was. Two years of martyrdom, before he passed to his well-deserved rest.”
“Oh Mary!” Miss Katie’s plump face broke up into little ripples of laughter. “It was not so bad as that, dear,” she said gently. “Margaret comes from good Quaker stock, and, after all, thirty years is not so tremendous a disparity in years. Professor Martyn was a most erudite man and I believe her mother was also charming. It is a tragedy for Margaret that they should both have died so young, I agree. And I also agree with you that it was a tragedy that Percival should have married a girl so much younger than himself. But perhaps it was a tragedy for her too,” said Miss Katie gently, meditatively.
“Katie!”
“Margaret should have had a son,” said Miss Katie, dreamily.
“Well, who’s fault was it that she didn’t,” demanded Miss Mary sharply.
“Percival’s, I should think,” said Miss Katie, frankly. “To me he always looked dried up, desiccated. Not a fit husband for that radiant laughing girl whom he brought here as his bride. Do you remember it, Mary? That bright frosty day in early October. How she came running into the drawing-room to greet us. And her face as she saw the empty grate and heard that we did not begin fires until the fifteenth of October, however cold it was. It was too cold for that radiant girlish spirit,” continued Miss Katie. “I sometimes think that if we had kept her warmer, her feelings towards us would have remained warmer. I think we have frozen her,” said Miss Katie suddenly. “Some people are like that, they crave for physical warmth and cannot do without it. We are different, we have been brought up to do without fires until they are absolutely necessary. But Margaret is not like that. Probably Mrs. Martyn loved warmth. She died in the South of France, probably she had to go abroad to escape the English winters.”
“Self-indulgence.”
“Or perhaps doctor’s orders,” said Miss Katie, slyly.
“I resent your attitude, Katie,” said Miss Mary, severely.
Miss Katie leant forward:
“Dear Mary,” she said, “you know how much I love you and how much I share in your distress over Margaret’s apparent lack of moral responsibility. And because I see another side to this question, it does not mean that I shall not now and always loyally uphold you in whatever attitude you choose to take up, as indeed I have always loyally upheld you, as you know.”
“I know you have.”
“Then why do you distress yourself so?” Miss Katie was still leaning forward out of her chair.
“Because I see no end to it.”
“But if Margaret herself is unhappy, she may take steps to alter things.”
“It has gone on too long; she has become apathetic.”
“I should hardly call Margaret apathetic,” said Miss Katie, smiling a little.
“Obstinate then, hard. Lacking in consideration for others. Distressingly selfish,” said Miss Mary, grimly.
“Mary! Mary!”
“I can never forgive her for ruining my beloved brother’s life,” said Miss Mary, fiercely.
“I think you are wrong dear.”
“I may be, but it is my unswerving opinion,” said Miss Mary Baxter. “And now I am going to count my stitches, Katie. Please do not speak for a moment or two.”
Meanwhile the servants’ hall discussed the situation over an excellent cup of tea. Tea in the servants’ hall was at half-past four as the drawing-room had its tea at five.
“And that’s outlandish if you like,” said Hannaford, who had only been at Green’s Manor for six months or so, and who had always taken service with the best families, and so knew what was what.
“That’s right,” said cook, helping herself to a succulent slice of hot buttered toast. “All the meals seem to me to be at queer times here; what with breakfast at half-past eight and no early tea to the bedrooms and lunch at half-past one and dinner at seven. Suits me all right, so I ought not to complain, but for people with money it seems odd. No luxury, if you know what I mean. And tea in the drawing-room all so stiff and nothing much to eat at it, either, never a crumpet or hot toast or anything and yet they’re not mean, either.”
“No, we’ll give the old girls credit for that anyway,” said Susan who was between-maid and a little free with her speech. But Susan had been with the Baxters for three years and so was able to speak unchecked and with a certain amount of authority.
“Mrs. Percival doesn’t half like it; she’s getting worse about it,” said Emily, who had been housemaid at Green’s Manor for a little over a year and noticed a change in the young widow. “She’s always up in her room although it’s as cold as a tomb. But she’s got herself a spirit stove and kettle and she fills her rubber bottle and sits with it on her knees, or she lies down on the bed with it and reads. She’s there now, isn’t she, Hannaford?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Hannaford. “Susan, make some more toast, there’s a good girl.”
“Right ho!”
“Well, you’d think she’d clear out and do something else rather than stick here with the two old girls,” said Susan, spearing two nice square slices of bread on separate toasting forks and holding one in each hand as she crouched down on a low stool in front of the glowing bars of the range. “Because it’s not a life she leads, at least not to my way of thinking. Hardly a friend to her name except that young Miss Jessop up at Hadley’s and she’s getting married in a month or so. Never does any painting now, although I believe she used to do quite a lot of it before she married our Percival. Nothing but mooning round and talking to Chang, and I do believe that cat understands every word she says. I’d like to know what Miss Mary would say if she knew that Chang sleeps right under the bedclothes with her.”
“Have a fit, I shouldn’t wonder,” said cook, dropping lumps of sugar into her steaming cup.
“Well, they ought to keep the house warmer,” said Hannaford briskly. “All this nonsense about not starting fires till the middle of October. Look at it to-day, and it’s only the end of September. The house is like a tomb, and not even a gas fire to turn on. How those two old dears stand it I can’t think, and yet they’re both as fit as fiddles. Sitting in the drawing-room, they are, at this very minute talking away, and you’d think they’d be frozen. I was, I can tell you, when I tidied up there after breakfast this morning.”
“Bally well used to it, that’s what it is,” said Susan, turning the toast with enormous dexterity.
“Yes, well, but Mrs. Percival isn’t used to it,” said Hannaford, slipping her empty cup over the shiny tablecloth towards the cook. “And that’s where the trouble is. She’s getting thinner and thinner, and I believe she cries a lot on the sly. I’m sorry for that girl. I like her, too; I like her a lot better than the two old trouts.”
“So do I.” And as lavish wads of butter were scraped on to the hot slices of toast the conversation became more personal. “How much money do you suppose she’s got?” this from Hannaford.
“Two hundred a year,” said Emily. “I heard it in the village—and from somebody who ought to know. Two hundred a year, and they must have thousands between them. He did it on purpose, did our Percival, so that she should have to stay here; and she’s not a lady who likes to rough it, if you know what I mean—I mean somebody else in her place would go off and stick it somehow in rooms and make the best of it. But that’s not Mrs. Percival; she likes her meals regular, and her hot-water bottle filled for her, and she likes the early cup of tea that I sneak up for her and the bits for Chang. It’s my belief that if they kept the house warmer she’d be quite happy to settle down here, but it’s this infernal cold. It’s regularly got on her nerves. This afternoon she was almost crying in her room. And it was a good lunch, everything of the best. But eaten in that freezing dining-room, what’s the good of it? That’s what I say,” concluded Emily, reaching out for the jam and dragging it closer to her plate.
“That’s right,” said cook. And then cook, not usually expansive, broke forth.
“She ought to marry again,” she said.
“Listen to her!” Susan was spluttering. “Who could she marry here? There isn’t any one.”
“What about that cracky faith-healer person who’s taken the cottage next to the schools? Mrs. Fenwick round at the post office was talking about him yesterday. He’s no end wonderful, according to her, and has a place in London, Harley Street or some smart place like that. He goes up to London every day and only lives here because of some book or something he’s writing. I don’t exactly know what it is. But Mrs. Fenwick says she knows someone who was going blind—went to ever so many specialists, and they all told her the same. And then someone told her about this Frome, I think his name is, and she went to him, and he said that it was all her digestion that was wrong and that she wasn’t to eat this, that and the other, and she did what he said and got quite well: sees better than ever, so Mrs. Fenwick says.”
“Go on!” This was from Emily.
“Well, it’s what she said, anyway,” continued cook. “I don’t know whether it’s right or not, and anyhow I don’t hold with fads and fancies about one’s food. But there he is, as cranky as you like, and that’s just Mrs. Percival’s style. That’s really why she doesn’t hit it off with the two old girls: they’re too . . . too . . . What’s the word, Hannaford?”
“Orthodox,” said Hannaford, grandly.
“Orthodox,” said cook. “That’s it—orthodox. Twice to church on Sunday, and three times on the first Sunday in the month, and come back to a house that’s cold as a tomb unless it happens to be the fifteenth of October, when there’s a fire. Nice food, and plenty of it, but eaten at the wrong times, because we’ve always had it that way. And that’s all right for those that like it, but it’s all wrong for Mrs. Percival because she don’t like it. And it’s my opinion that if she doesn’t get a move on soon she’ll go into a decline or have a nervous breakdown or something and go queer in the head. Because I see a great change in her lately, and I think so does Emily—don’t you, Em?”
“That’s right, I do,” said Emily sententiously. “She’s got to look as if she was afraid of herself, if you know what I mean. And she’s always talking to Chang, not ordinary cat talk, but talking to him as if he was a human being.”
“She sees a fair amount of Miss Jessop,” said Susan.
“Yes, but she’s only a young girl, and engaged to be married and all that. She’s not much of a companion for Mrs. Percival, really. Going out to India, isn’t she? Engaged to someone in the army, I believe.”
“That’s right,” said Susan, yawning and staring at the clock. “The old girls’ tea,” she said. “Get a move on, Hannaford.”
“Kettle’s full, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s all right.”
“Plenty of time, then. Ugh, it makes me shiver to think of that drawing-room. And all the chairs looking so cold, too, with that old faded brocade stuff on them. Why not some big rosy cretonne and a roaring fire with logs and chunks of coal; they can afford it.” Hannaford was getting slowly up out of her chair, smoothing her slightly creased apron.
“Ask me another,” said cook jovially as she too got up from the table. “But don’t forget that they feed us jolly well, my girl. Roast duck to-night and orange sauce and all the fallals that go with it. And we’ll have ours by a record fire, too, as it’s perishing cold, I think,” and cook, still smiling, hurried away in the direction of the larder.
Meanwhile, Margaret Percival had got up from her bed and was staring at herself in the glass. She shivered as she stared, huddling her shoulders a little. Thrusting her chin forward she frowned at what she saw. It was yellow . . . her face was turning yellow. Or was it perhaps the effect of the wintry slanting September sunshine that made it look yellow. With a sudden stab of panic she got up from her chair and went nearer to the window, picking up her hand-mirror as she went. No, she was not as yellow as she thought she was. She stared again, twisting her neck from side to side. But she was getting horribly haggard and plain; she looked at least forty, and she was only just over thirty. Her eyes were beginning to get that dead, middle-aged look ; they didn’t open as widely as they used to do—— Turning away from the window, she sat down at her dressing-table again. Ten minutes to five—nearly tea-time. Having been warm for a couple of hours, she was now going to begin to freeze again. Chang, lucky little cat! had settled down into the warm hollow she had left in the bed. But she could at least have her hot-water bottle on her knee while she did her hair. She went over to the bed and got it, stooping to kiss the pale fawn-coloured cat that lay there. Chang . . . how she loved him, or loved It—Chang was an It. A darling seraphic It. Margaret, staring into the mirror again, felt her lips curve in a smile. Nothing Tom would be possible in that house, they were all so essentially sexless and featureless Its. Even her husband . . . And when Margaret was feeling particularly wretched she always thought about her husband. And somehow lately she had begun to think about him more—almost as if, after two years of absence in the nice dignified family vault that occupied a commanding position in the churchyard of St. Peter’s, Market Stacey, Percival had decided to come back again. He had loved his home, had Percival Baxter. Every brick of it had been sacred to him. He had loved and admired his sisters, and their ways had been his ways. Margaret’s ways were all wrong for him after the first few weeks of married life. She frightened him; she made him feel uncomfortable; she seemed to him to be so uncontrolled. She was so eager—-so alarmingly eager. What had seemed charming when he was not responsible for it seemed now to be almost repellent! She came into the staid old house like a north wind—the sort of wind that he hated because it blew the dahlias about and covered the lawn with leaves. He saw his sisters shrink from the unusual stirring of the atmosphere, and his brotherly affection rushed to them in a fierce partisanship. This girl was none of them; she was alien; antagonistic; foreign. She said she was cold and seemed surprised when nobody was prepared to do anything about it. Patiently he explained that the spring cleaning was just over.
“But what does that matter?” Margaret’s greeny-blue eyes were puzzled.
“It matters very much.”
“But why? You have plenty of servants. Tell them to light me a fire in our bedroom, then I can sit by it and be warm and it need not worry any one else.”
“A fire when the spring cleaning is over?”
“Yes, why not?”
“It is out of the question.”
“Why?”
And Margaret, sitting and staring into her looking-glass, asked herself again the question, why that question of a fire had seemed to poison the whole of their married life. But it had. After spending a freezing day in the cold house, by the time they had reached their bedroom she felt that she almost hated him. She hated him for his stupidity. She hated him because he tried to draw her close to him with cold hands. If there had been a roaring fire in their bedroom she would have flung herself down by it and shown him the beauty of her young body, and shown him by gesture as well as word how much she loved him. Although possibly it would have frightened him. . . . As Margaret twisted the coil of her dark hair in her neck with a stab of a big tortoiseshell pin she smiled a little contemptuously into the mirror. For Percival was not passionate; as a matter of fact, he was far too selfish to be passionate. He took what he wanted, and took it stupidly and tamely, without a spark of imagination. Until the moment came when he was not able to take it at all, because Margaret refused it.
“What?”
“Well, I am tired; besides, you never think of me,” said Margaret moodily.
Huddled in her dressing-gown, she stood and stared at him as he sat on the edge of the big bed looking discomfited and ill at ease.
“Think of you?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Well . . .”
“Why? Is it supposed to be all joy for you and none for me?”
“Margaret!”
“Well, why not?” Margaret was straightening her tortoiseshell hairbrush on the dressing-table. “Well, why not, Percival?”
“As a modest woman . . .”
“I shouldn’t speak of enjoyment, I suppose,” said Margaret coolly. “My generation has got past that nonsense, Percival. What in the old days was supposed to be conceded as a sort of dreadful duty is now offered freely as a joy. The old hypocrisy is gone for good and all. God gave me a body that I could revel in. But I don’t revel in it with you because you make no attempt to make me. Don’t you see how stupid it is of you? Don’t you see that you could rivet me to you with cords of steel if I could find in you my master and my lover and my mate? Instead of which . . .” Margaret broke off tumultuously.
“I beg of you . . .” Poor old Percival! How terrified and ashamed he had looked.
“Why, are you shocked?”
“Inexpressibly.”
“Well, I don’t see why,” said Margaret wearily, and she had turned to the dressing-table, suddenly feeling ashamed. Not for herself exactly, nor for him, but for both of them. Boxed up together in one room like animals driven into a stable at the end of the day. Boxed up in one room willy nilly because Baxters had always occupied the same bedroom and the same colossal bed. No delicacy, no finesse, no nothing, thought Margaret, longing to sleep in her dressing-gown because nothing could simply be more vilely indecent than to disrobe before a man who thought you immodest because you’d admitted that passion shared with your husband was an exquisite and overwhelmingly beautiful thing.
And then somehow things had gone from bad to worse. Percival had clung even more openly to his sisters, saturated as they were with Baxter tradition. And then somehow he had died: a neglected cold largely brought on because there was nowhere where he could keep warm decently. Although it was perfectly useless to say so, decided Margaret, loathing herself because somehow she could not feel sorry that he had gone. For it meant freedom for herself now, freedom, and it couldn’t be wrong of her to long for it, because she had tried so hard at any rate to begin with. How she had implored him to let her make him a home. She could do it, she knew she could do it. She had implored him. And it could be quite near Green’s Manor; he need not be separated from his sisters at all; he could see them every day—twice a day, if he liked.
But no. Percival had declined, and now she would be free, because he was a rich man and he had no one but her to leave his money to; the sisters had heaps of their own. So she would be able to travel; and her gratitude to him for having made this joy possible would soften her thoughts and memories towards him, so that by and by she would think of him with love and reverence, as she had thought of him when he had wooed and won her.
But that dream didn’t last long. Even the old family lawyer had felt ashamed when he announced to the young widow the pittance that was to be hers.
“But . . .”
“I fancy that your husband wanted to make sure that you should continue to live under his roof,” explained the lawyer.
“And under his sisters’ domination.” Margaret lifted her stupefied eyes in which a profound anger was dawning. Percival . . . he had shown an overwhelming meanness of spirit. Because he was rich . . . and he could have left her a rich woman.
“Should you have a son . . .”
“How can I have a son now if I am not already in that condition?”
Margaret had her handkerchief twisted in her trembling hands. So that had been it. He had never forgiven her for refusing him what he considered his rights. Rights. . . . Hideous, monstrous word. To speak of rights when it should be thought of as a glorious surrender of one’s whole being to the man you loved. God in heaven!
And then, after a period of fury and rebellion, an apathy had settled down on Margaret. She had made a failure of everything; well, then, she had better resign herself to it. Percival had died suddenly; perhaps she would die suddenly, too. And face a world as the widow of a rich man with only two hundred pounds a year to live on . . . no, she would not do it. So Margaret had settled down. Bitterly and silently and grudgingly she had settled down.
And the sisters were tired of it. Short of actually putting it into words, they showed their irritation quite openly.
“Well, what have you been doing this afternoon?” It was Miss Mary who spoke. Seated behind the large silver teapot set beautifully polished on a beautifully polished tray, Miss Mary spoke with a note of command in her voice.
Hannaford had just left the room after having set a table loaded with nice things close up to the tea-tray.
“I have been resting.”
“Resting?”
“Yes. You see, it is the only way I can keep warm,” said Margaret slowly. And as she spoke she felt a sort of quiet enjoyment steal over her. In this way she could revenge herself, she thought. By rubbing in her discontent at the wretched uncomfortable way the house was run.
“When I was your age a good brisk walk made me warm,” said Miss Mary coldly.
“Did it, really? How odd,” said Margaret coolly. “But I fancy that idea is exploded now. I believe that exercise makes you warm for the time being, but when you cool down you cool down much more than you would do otherwise.”
“I have not noticed you make the experiment,” said Miss Mary icily.
“No?” And as she spoke, Margaret felt a sort of queer furious merriment stir in the back of her throat. The sort of feeling that a snake must feel before it struck, she decided. This was hatred, she supposed, hatred of the cold figure seated behind that typical silver teapot. And almost hatred of the dumpy figure that sat there stuffing sandwiches. Both of them leagued against her . . . engulfed in their slough of self-sufficiency. So certain; so horribly unshakeably certain that they were right. When they were wrong, wrong, wrong. Oh, how cold . . . how desperately cold her feet were. That hideous stuffed-up grate! A huge grate meant for great chunks of coal and oak logs, all piled on anyhow; masses of them, so that the tiles got all hot. And as Margaret bit into bread and butter she could feel the soles of her feet as she stood on the hot tiles. This craving for warmth was an obsession, of course. And such an easy, such an easy one to gratify. If only she could have had a beautiful fire she would have loved these two unlovable women. Have done things for them; have tried to make up to them for her unlikeness to them. If only she had been warm, if only she had been warm . . .
“Have you been out to-day at all?” inquired Miss Katie, reaching out for a slice of the chocolate cake that cook made so perfectly.
“No, not yet.”
“Then I should go after tea.”
“Perhaps I will. But by the time one has finished tea it is rather late,” replied Margaret, conscious that in saying this she was making it quite plain that she considered five o’clock a ridiculous time to have tea.
“One can hardly call half-past five late.”
“No?”
“No,” said Miss Katie suddenly, feeling that somehow she was getting the worst of it. Wouldn’t it be better, she thought incoherently, to give Margaret a lump sum and ask her to go away? Not that Mary would ever agree to it, but surely it would be better. Because it was getting so uncomfortable; meals were so uncomfortable, and it was such a pity, because Walters cooked so well, and one could hardly enjoy things with any one like Margaret sitting there looking like death. And as she thought of the word death, Miss Katie suddenly felt a weird feeling seize on her. Percival had died unexpectedly. Supposing his widow died in the same way. Even as if they had both been cursed for marrying one another. It always had been a mistake, thought Miss Katie, her neat artificial teeth meeting in a particularly well-made queen cake.
“May I give you some more tea, Margaret? It was Miss Mary this time, speaking in her rather thin, aristocratic voice.
“No, thank you.” As Margaret replaced her beautiful flowered cup in the saucer she decided that she felt really very odd indeed. As if her head was detached from her body and was somewhere away in another corner speaking towards her instead of away from her. Her head in one corner of the room and her feet irrevocably fastened to the rest of her body, because she could feel them freezing down by the floor. So that when she wanted to get up she would probably not be able to lift them from the floor. “Excuse me, Mary, but will you and Katie help me to pick up my feet?” What a sensation that remark would make! And, thinking of the sensation that it would make, Margaret had hard work to prevent herself from laughing out loud.
“Well, if you take my advice you will get out for a little air,” said Miss Katie, thinking privately that with her twitching mouth Margaret looked very odd indeed. And it would be perfectly dreadful if she were taken ill and perhaps had to have a nurse and the doctor coming all the time; and Margaret did not care for the old family doctor, thinking him out of date and obtuse.
“Yes, well, perhaps I will,” said Margaret, and somehow she managed to get up out of her chair without stumbling. Yes, now she was actually on her feet they did not feel so odd. So long as the sisters allowed her to get to the door without speaking to her she could manage. But if Mary’s thin, colourless voice cut through the queer haze that seemed to surround her brain, then something would go smash and never get right again. She would begin to yell . . . she would begin to scream and yell. She might even begin to curse them because of the damnable discomfort in which they as rich women lived. She might even . . . . And then as Margaret, walking rather uncertainly towards the door, saw the white china handle of it getting clearer, she suddenly felt better. Air . . . she was going to get some air . . . out in the hall there were always heaps of air. Generally far too much for her taste, but not to-day. To-day she couldn’t have too much air . . . that is to say, too much air that was not mixed with the queer effluvia that Mary and Katie seemed to be giving out. Almost as if, if you stirred the air of the drawing-room, that mercifully she was now clear of, it would send out thick visible fumes. Steam . . . the drawing-room air would steam and in the steam the two sisters would go wobbling up like genii. She had seen a picture of something like that once in a fairy-story book. And, standing there in the hall, at the mental picture of Mary and Katie wobbling about in a cloud like genii, Margaret burst out laughing. Laughter that went curling round the hall and up the stairs. And at the idea of her laughter curling up the stairs Margaret became preternaturally grave. Because if Chang saw laughter coming towards him he would be frightened. Siamese cats always felt everything very intensely. That was why she loved Chang so intensely, because he minded things. He minded the same things as she did. Being cold, and hearing loud voices, and being made to feel out of it. But now she would go upstairs and see Chang and at the same time she would put on her hat and coat and go along and have a chat with Pamela Jessop. Pamela Jessop and her mother were always pleased to see her, and they lived in a sweet little cottage that was always warm, because it was too small to be anything else, and she could have some more tea although she had just had it. The Jessops seemed to have tea going all the time, but this would be different tea. And food that had been prepared by people who cared if you ate it and enjoyed it. Not only just food that you had to eat or otherwise you would starve. And thinking all these things, Margaret reached up and took her hat down from the wardrobe shelf. Chang was not on the bed where she had left him, but that didn’t mean anything, because often at this time he went down to the kitchen, where he knew it would be warm and jolly, with saucers of milk about, and perhaps a bone or something. Now for a scarf to make her neck look less scraggy, and a pair of thicker shoes, and she would be ready.
And as the Jessops’ cottage was only a little way, it was just ten minutes later that Pamela Jessop called to her mother to come quickly and look at Margaret coming up the path.
“Doesn’t she look odd?” she said.
“Yes, exactly as if she was walking in her sleep,” said Mrs. Jessop, who was intelligent and quick in the uptake, and who often privately thought that Margaret Baxter was very much nearer to a nervous breakdown than most people suspected.
“Shall I say anything about it?”
“No,” said Mrs. Jessop promptly. “Because it isn’t as if we could do anything. You know what those two Baxter women are like: they rule the roost completely. Go and let her in and give her some tea, and encourage her to talk if she seems to want to talk, and if not, go on with your work and appear not to notice if she sits and shuts her eyes or does anything queer like that.”
But ten minutes later Margaret, with a fragrant cup of tea on a tiny occasional table beside her, felt her fatigue slide from her as snow slides from a sloping roof when a thaw sets in. It was like a thaw, she subconsciously meditated. A breaking up; a letting loose. . . . Margaret was bright and animated as she sat there and smiled.
“Tell me what you are making,” she said.
And Pamela told her. And from talking about her trousseau the talk went on to other things. The new man who had come to live next to the schools, had Margaret heard about him? Everybody in London was talking about him, and they were frightfully lucky to have him actually living in Market Stacey. Doctors hated him because they knew that he could do what they couldn’t. He made people see who were going blind.
He got them well when doctors said that they couldn’t get well unless they had operations. He . . . Pamela was full of it.
“But how does he do it?” But Margaret, sitting drowsily by the fire, was not really interested. But she would pretend to be because she was so fond of Pamela. And fond of Mrs. Jessop, too, because she was such a dear and kept her house so warm. Warm . . . Margaret was beginning to get warm all through. Thawing . . . melting so that the stream of her blood could flow where it ought to flow and the channels of her brain were becoming unclogged. “How does he do it?” she repeated.
“Well . . .” And then Pamela, full of this marvel of a man, began to explain. Long, elaborate explanations that Margaret barely heard. He had a machine, she said, like a wireless, although it wasn’t a wireless, really. You held something in your hand and he watched the dial of the wireless. Every bit of you had a vibration, and if he saw that the vibration was wrong, then he knew where you were wrong. You hadn’t even to take off your coat or open your mouth. He saw it all on the dial of the wireless. It was like a sort of marvellous X-ray without all the fuss of X-ray. People were all beginning to go to him because they were sick of the mistakes doctors made. He used to be a doctor, but had given it up because he was too honest.
Besides, he didn’t believe in what they said. He said, Frome said, because his name was Frome, that so much of the illness prevalent was really caused by people’s minds. And that it was no good unless you got to the root of things . . . found out what was going on in their minds—saw right into their very beings—then you could begin to help them, help their glands to go right.
“Pamela is very enthusiastic,” interrupted Mrs. Jessop, who had been watching Margaret and noticed that she was not listening at all.
“Well, you know that you think just as much of him as I do,” said Pamela vehemently. “Let me tell Margaret what he did for you.”
“Margaret isn’t interested,” said Mrs. Jessop softly.
“Yes, I am,” said Margaret unexpectedly.
“There you are, Mummy, I knew she was,” said Pamela triumphantly. “Well, Mummy had the most frightful headaches, and Dr. Foster, the old donkey, said it was blood pressure and heart, and that she must be very careful what she did. So we very nearly didn’t go to Switzerland this year, because we thought that if she had to be careful all the time it would spoil it. But, anyhow, we went, and a friend of ours had her car and we went all over the passes, thousands of feet up, and Mummy never turned a hair. But her headaches still went on, so when we got back we felt that we must do something else about it, because it couldn’t be heart because of the passes, and you can’t have blood-pressure without anything to cause it, and Mummy doesn’t eat much. So then about a month ago we heard of Frome. I had seen him in the post office here, although I hadn’t known who he was. But Mrs. Fenwick told us about him, and about a friend of hers whom he had made see when she was going blind. So then we felt that he must know what he was about, so Mummy crept up to see him without telling anybody, and he found out exactly what was giving her headaches.
“And what was it?” said Margaret, emerging from a delicious drowsiness as Pamela stopped speaking.
“Not enough calcium!” said Pamela triumphantly.
“Not enough calcium?” said Margaret, feeling a little dazed.
“Oh, Pamela, darling, don’t worry Margaret,” said Mrs. Jessop suddenly. “But, honestly, Margaret, he has made me feel very different. I should like you to see him, my dear.”
“Oh, I am perfectly well,” said Margaret, sitting up a little abruptly. “Besides, I don’t like doctors; they always frighten me. I always think that they’ll find out something wrong with me that I’d much rather not know about.”
“He’s coming to have supper with us to-night,” said Pamela triumphantly. “A frightful honour, because he never goes anywhere. But he said he’d love to come if he needn’t dress and if he could bring his pipe. And of course we said that he could bring his pipe, and of course not to dress. Mummy, why shouldn’t Margaret come and meet him?” said Pamela suddenly. “We’ve got loads to eat, and I’m sure they’d get on, because they’re both rather cranky . . . you know what I mean, not exactly cranky, but rather unearthly, both of them. Margaret, do come. We should simply love it. Shouldn’t we, Mummy?”
“Of course we should,” said Mrs. Jessop warmly. “Now, then, Margaret, why not? You needn’t even go back; you could just ring up and tell them you are staying here. Do. Just settle in close to the fire and stay on. We’ll both of us go on with what we are doing. You won’t be the slightest atom in the way.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” said Margaret hurriedly. And even as she said the words the queer, unreal sensation flooded over her again. She could see Mary and Katie getting the news. “Margaret is staying out to dinner without giving us the slightest warning. Walters must be told at once.” Fuss, fuss, fuss. All the wheels of the great, old-fashioned, cumbrous machinery set in motion again about nothing at all. Messages to the kitchen. “Well, I never,” from cook. No one to see that Chang got his supper, although Susan was awfully good . . . in fact, they all were. No, the prolonging of this golden hour would tarnish it. Another time. . . . “Another time.” She said the words aloud.
“Just as you like, dear,” said Mrs. Jessop. And then, prompted by Pamela, the conversation flowed round Mr. Frome again. Another time Margaret should meet him—she would simply have to. Because very soon every one would be fighting to get even a word from him. They were, more or less, now, but of course he had a mass of prejudice to contend with. But he was more like a prophet; he was a Crusader . . . he was . . . Pamela failed for breath.
“Yes, he must be wonderful!” said Margaret, agreeing because she felt that it was easier. And then rather jerkily she got up to go. Back to the place where she had made her home from sheer inability to do anything else. One day, perhaps, when she felt that she had more energy. But now, except for it being so freezingly cold, it was comfortable. The beds were comfortable, and Susan did sneak her up a cup of tea in the mornings. And she had her spirit stove. And Chang liked it—— And at the thought of Chang Margaret felt able to smile again.
“Good-bye, my dear. Come again soon.” Pamela’s lips were soft and eager. She was a sweet child. Mrs. Jessop held the rather flaccid hand in hers and wished that something would happen to this nice girl before it was too late. And when the front door with the nice old brass knocker had closed on Margaret she said so.
“I know, I agree. I think she looks perfectly frightful.” Pamela had picked up her sewing again and sat with the firelight shining on her yellow hair. “That’s why I think it would have been so magnificent if she could have stayed and met Mr. Frome.”
“I agree. But one can’t rout her out all at once,” said Mrs. Jessop, stopping by a tall glass vase to push the chrysanthemums a little farther down into the water. “Don’t forget, Pam, that Margaret lives the most conventional life, and probably loves Dr. Foster with his old-fashioned cushiony methods and bottles of tonics.”
“I don’t believe that she does.”
“Well, we’ll see if we can arrange it for another time, then, said Mrs. Jessop cheerfully, and she stooped to the log box, and picked out another one to lay across the coals. “And mind you change in time to-night, my darling,” she said. “He’ll probably be punctual. Busy men almost always are.”
It was at about half-past nine that Mrs. Jessop got up to answer the telephone. It was a bother . . . the conversation was being so supremely interesting. Mr. Frome, sunk in a low chair with a pipe between his teeth, was telling them about Afghanistan, and Pamela was listening with her blue eyes riveted on him. The evening was being a success, because Mr. Frome was obviously enjoying himself. And although Mrs. Jessop knew that it was unworthy of him, she was secretly glad that he was tidy. In fact, he was more than tidy: he was well dressed. His suit was what a tailor would say was faultlessly cut, blue serge, and his tie was exactly right. His collar was right, too, and so were his socks that were obviously of very expensive cashmere and clung round his slim ankles. But it was his hands . . . secretly Mrs. Jessop had been eyeing them all the evening. The hands of a poet and a dreamer and perfectly manicured—which the hands of poets and dreamers generally were not! Yes, Mr. Frome was attractive, and his rather whimsical, clean-shaven face was attractive, too. Thin lips, and perhaps rather a cruel mouth, although perhaps it wasn’t. In a sort of way Mr. Frome was rather like Lawrence of Arabia. The same protruding jaw and the same penetrating and yet inscrutable gaze. And he did the same things as Lawrence of Arabia: he wandered about dressed like a native. That was how he managed to work so hard, he said whimsically, because he took a prolonged rest every year. “At least, not a rest, a change of work,” said Mr. Frome, and he leaned forward out of his chair and tapped his pipe on the top bar of the delightfully old-fashioned hob fire.
And then the telephone bell rang. Mrs. Jessop, standing in the tiny hall with the receiver at her ear, felt very impatient indeed. Especially as whoever it was at the other end was more or less screaming, “I can’t hear what you are saying.” Mrs. Jessop’s musical voice was slightly raised. “What, what? Yes. . . .” And. now Mrs. Jessop’s gaze became a little concentrated. “Yes . . . yes, yes, I think so. Yes, certainly. . . . Hold on a moment, Hannaford. I will fetch my daughter. Yes, all right. Yes, put down the receiver, then, just for a moment while I go, and then come back again.”
“Pamela.” Mrs. Jessop, slightly flurried, opened the drawing-room door. “Pamela, I want you a minute, darling. Mr. Frome will excuse us a moment, I’m sure. I’m so sorry, Mr. Frome, but it’s someone on the telephone, and I must just consult my daughter. Yes, yes . . . only a moment.” Absent-mindedly Mrs. Jessop closed the door, smiling across at the fireplace as Mr. Frome stood up, looking amazingly tall in the low-ceilinged room.
“What is it, Mummy?” Standing with one hand on the oak chest, Pamela looked a little put out. It was all being so madly interesting. Geoffrey had been to Afghanistan, but he could never describe anything properly, and Mr. Frome could. “What is it, Mummy?” She said it again, rather impatiently this time.
“Well, it sounds to me as if someone had gone mad at the Baxters’,” said Mrs. Jessop; “but Hannaford is shouting, so that it’s difficult to understand. You speak now. She’ll be back by this time.”
“Mad at the Baxters’. I should think it was Katie,” said Pamela , scathingly. “She eats far too much, to begin with. Yes, yes . . .” Pamela, with the receiver to her golden hair, was nodding. “Yes, yes . . . yes, all right. No, no, I fancy he’s away: that’s why they don’t answer. Only for a night, and there’s always the assistant. No, no, quite, yes . . . of course. No, but I can find out. My mother will know. Mummy, what’s Foster’s assistant s number? Look it up, quick. No use . . . no . . . I see, yes, I’m sure we can. . . . Yes, of course, Hannaford. Yes, he’s here, dining with us. I’ll ask him. Yes, all right . . . in about ten minutes, and anyhow we’ll come.” Pamela put down the receiver.
“Don’t bother about the number, Mummy, it’s no use. Come into the drawing-room and I’ll tell you. It doesn’t matter Mr. Frome being there; he’s used to mad people.” Pamela had wrenched open the drawing-room door and was marching in, her eyes bright with excitement. “Come in, Mummy, and don’t look like that. It’s vital, and when things are vital you don’t think about what’s best to do, etc., etc., at least you do, but not in the way that one generally does. Listen, Mr. Frome. No, don’t get up yet, because you’ll soon have to. All right, if you’d rather.” And Pamela drew a long, trembling breath as Mr. Frome got slowly up out of the low chair. “Well, it’s this,” she said, “and you’ll be all used to this sort of thing, because women are always rushing to you with their complaints. There’s a most frightfully nice girl here—at least, she’s not exactly a girl; she’s thirty, and a widow—and she lives with the most poisonous old spinster sisters-in-law; repressions made carnate and never any fires, although they’ve pots of money, and everything vilely uncomfortable except the food, of which they eat far too much—at least, I expect you’d say so. And Margaret has got a Siamese cat which she simply adores; it’s the only thing she cares for, and she lets herself go in adoring this, and I think it’s the only thing that’s kept her sane, and now the devil of the eldest sister-in-law has killed it and Margaret has gone raving mad.”
“Pamela, she can’t have killed it!” Mrs. Jessop spoke with a gasp.
“Well, Hannaford—-that’s the house-parlourmaid—says that Margaret says she has. Margaret went to bed early and couldn’t find Chang, and she’s come down into the hall and has taken one of those sword things down from the wall, and says she is going to stab Miss Mary when she can get at her, and that she will get at her before she goes to bed again.”
“Has this lady had an attack like this before?” Mr. Frome’s quiet hands were linked behind his back.
“No, she is a perfectly normal girl, and a very charming one. She was here at five o’clock this evening,” said Mrs. Jessop. “Pamela, what did you say to Hannaford?”
“I said we’d come over. They can’t get that doddering old fool Foster, because he’s away, and Margaret says that if she hears any one telephoning for the assistant she will run them through with the sword.” Pamela was shaking with excitement. “She said that Hannaford could ring us up and tell us what she was going to do, because she was fond of us and would like us to know.”
“You had better let me come over with you,” said Mr. Frome quietly. “Not in any professional capacity, of course; but if, as I gather, it is a house with only women in it I may be of some use. Is it far?”
“About five minutes’ walk.”
“Then come along,” said Mr. Frome. And then somehow everything seemed to become quite normal. Out at the front door, with the nice, soft, keen wind blowing in their faces. Coats hurriedly shuffled into because they were handy in the hall cupboard. Mr. Frome pressing his felt hat close down over his eyes and somehow in the light of the lamp outside looking amused. And then in at the big stone gateway and up the drive towards the wide shaft of golden light that flooded out of what was obviously an open front door. And then coming over the evening air a voice raised high in hysteria:
“Yes, I don’t wonder you’re frightened, you devil. Skulking behind that virginal bedroom door of yours waiting for your death, thank God. You, who’ve killed the only thing I’ve ever cared about; killed it because in your filthy, perverted mind you thought I was too fond of it. You’ve killed my cat, you fiend. Chang! Chang! Not content with freezing me to death, you’ve killed the only thing I ever cared about. And because of it I’m going to kill you. Get out of the way, all of you, or I’ll kill the lot of you all except Susan, who has been kind to me and loved Chang. Get out of the way, I tell you.” And now Margaret began to scream. And, accustomed as he was to odd happenings, the sight of that dark-haired girl in the blue velvet dressing-gown standing there with her back to the panelled wall with a sword held waist-high pointing towards the huddled crowd of terrified servants inside the door, gave Denis Frome an odd, unexpected sensation that he rather enjoyed. Unexpected—yes, that was it, and he liked unexpected things because they were rare. Also he liked beauty, and at that moment, Margaret—yes, that was her name, they had said—Margaret was beautiful, primitive. Standing there like an Amazon, like a tigress defending her young. But, of course . . . that sword was a dangerous thing to play about with. . . .
“Give that to me, my child.” Emily uttered a little shriek as the tall man carrying a dispatch-case who had surely come from nowhere, although there were Mrs. Jessop and Miss Pamela with him, strolled across the hall and took the sword into his free hand. “Just like a conjuring trick,” as cook said afterwards, “and Mrs. Percival just like a lamb all of a sudden with her eyes staring up at him.
“That’s better. Now, where does it go?” Denis Frome was staring round the hall. “You show me, Miss Margaret—isn’t that your name? No, it’s Mrs. Margaret, isn’t it? Ah, here’s the place.” Skilfully he slipped the sword back into its scabbard. And now, turning, Denis Frome faced the group of huddling servants. “Show me the young lady’s bedroom,” he said, “and I will take her up to it. And I should like”—and his gaze fell on Mrs. Jessop—“a basin and a clean towel and some boiling water, please. Now, then, come along. . . .”
“Who are you?” Margaret’s pale lips were slightly parted. “I don’t know what I have been doing,” she said. “Yes . . .” she frowned. “Yes, I do. I . . . .”
“Never mind about that now,” said Denis Frome good-humouredly. “You can tell me all that when you’re safely tucked up in bed. Come along up too, Miss Jessop, that’s it. Now, then, we can all go together.” Up the softly-carpeted stairs and along the gallery.
“This is the room, sir.” Hannaford was opening a door.
“Ah, yes, that’s all right.” As the light flooded the big room, showing up its uninteresting furniture, Denis Frome glanced round. “Just put a match to the fire,” he said, “unless there’s an electric one we can have.”
”A match to the fire, sir?” And even in the midst of these awful happenings Hannaford’s jaw seemed to hang a little at this order.
“Yes, and if it isn’t laid, lay it. Ah, yes, it is laid. Splendid. Now, then, Miss Jessop, just help your friend to get into bed and I’ll come back.” And, with another glance round, Denis Frome went out of the room.
“Now, Margaret, hop into bed, there’s a dear.” Pamela was brisk and business-like as she laid her hand tenderly on Margaret’s arm.
“What is Hannaford doing?” whispered Margaret, standing there passive as Pamela slipped the dressing-gown down over her flaccid arms. Thank heaven she’s got on quite a decent nightie, thought Pamela, her eyes busy. “Now, then, into bed . . . you’ve got a hot bottle, of course. That’s it. Oh, Hannaford, what a topping fire! And now we shall want some coal, shan’t we?”
“Yes, miss,” said Hannaford dumbly.
“What is it?” whispered Margaret, her eyelids drooping over her half-shut eyes. “What is Hannaford doing?”
“She’s lighted a fire.”
“Mary . . .’’
“Be sugared,” said Pamela briskly. “Now, then, I’ll tell Mr. Frome you’re ready.”
“Who is . . .?”
But Pamela was not listening. Crossing the floor, she opened the door.
“She’s ready,” she said.
“Thanks very much. Yes, I’ll let you know if I want you. Coal coming up? All right, keep it outside until I come out. Yes—yes, stay near at hand,” said Denis Frome, smiling quickly at Mrs. Jessop as she handed him the things he had asked for. “All on a tray, very handy,” he said. “By the way, what did you say the name of the cat was?”
“Chang.”
“Thanks.”
And then Mr. Frome had gone. “There’s even something about the way he shuts a door,” thought Pamela, slipping her hand along the polished rail of the gallery and going slowly downstairs again.
As Denis Frome carried the tray of hot water and clean towel across the room and set it down on a space that he pushed clear on the wash-hand stand with his elbow, he was thinking very hard indeed. He had taken a good deal upon himself in deciding to give the young woman lying there on the bed a hypodermic injection; but it was obvious that somebody had to do something, and there did not seem any one else to do it—at any rate at the moment—and the situation called for action. Strolling to the fire, he stood there with his elbow on the mantelpiece staring down into the flames. As he very well knew, there were several perfectly rational psychological explanations of the scene that he had just witnessed. But he himself inclined to the explanation that it was simply a hysterical and nervous outburst from a young woman who had reached the end of her tether. She was not going to kill any one; she had never meant to. But her nervous frenzy made her feign murderous intentions; in no other way was it possible for her to express her hatred and loathing of the people to whom up to that moment she had been obliged to defer. To feel the positions reversed was in itself a physical relief. Also, for the moment, a mental relief. But that the physical and mental effort had been a severe strain was obvious. The girl on the bed lay there, a little hump under the bedclothes, as if dead.
“Well, how do you feel now?” After a couple.of minutes he went up close to the bed and spoke, laying a practised hand on the hot forehead.
“What did I do?” It came in a terrified whisper from below the sheet. An exhausted whisper; yes, he had been right in his diagnosis. The young lady was as sane as he was.
“You lost your head for a minute or two,” said Denis kindly. “Now tell me what made you do that. May I sit on the edge of your bed for a minute? Very unorthodox, I know; but, still, my visit is unorthodox.”
“I know who you are,” said Margaret after a little pause. “I knew the minute you came into the hall. You are the man Pamela told me about, the wonderful new doctor.”
“Yes, you are perfectly right,” said Denis as lightly and skilfully he picked up the right hand that lay outside the counterpane. “Now, then,” he said, “just try to tell me.” Settling his finger on the intermittent pulse, he sat very still.
“My cat . . . it has gone,” said Margaret. “It was the only thing I really cared about. Mary hates it, and I think she has killed it.”
“You think she has killed it? But you were sure before; in fact, because of your certainty you were threatening to kill her,” said Denis quietly.
“Something in my head went crash; I can’t exactly remember,” said Margaret feebly. “But if she has not killed it, where is Chang? He is never away from me for long at a time.”
“Well . . .” And then the long leg on which Denis’s free hand was resting suddenly stiffened. Heaven on earth, that must be the missing cat! Something was rubbing itself against his leg. But he must be perfectly sure first. Without moving his head, his eyes slewed round to the fire. Yes, there it was, the beggar! It must have been under the bed all the time. Deliberately it approached the fire and sat down staring into it. And then it began to wash its black face with even blacker paws.
“Was it a Siamese cat?” said Denis quietly, and now he smiled. There would be no need for an injection, he thought humorously. In fact, for the moment the trick was done. Later the whole thing would have to be tackled, but that was another thing altogether.
“Tell me,” he said. And as he sat there staring at the slim cat with the black face washing itself diligently he decided that he would not at the moment, anyhow, tell this girl that the cat had arrived on the scene. For if he did her whole psychological outlook would in the twinkling of an eye be changed. Relief; remorse; her nervous system would run the whole gamut of the more facile emotions in less time than it took to give the news, and he would rather find a little out while she was in the state she was now. It was not exactly his business, and yet in a way it was. He had stepped in to be of help. Well, he could be of more help if he tried to gain her confidence. . . .
“Tell me,” he said it again.
“Tell you what?”
“What has brought you to this frame of mind?”
“You won’t understand.”
“Indeed I shall.”
“You will tell somebody.”
Through the darkness Denis smiled down into the fire. “No,” he said.
“Do people tell you things?” Below the coverlet Margaret stirred slightly.
“Of course. Otherwise how could I help them?”
“Well . . .” Margaret gave a long shuddering sigh. “I am a widow,” she said. “A widow who almost disliked the man I was married to. And when he died he remembered that and left me only a little money so that I should have to continue to live here. I loathe it. . . . They are rich, and yet the house is always freezing. They have meals at stupid times, times that nobody else has meals, and yet they pride themselves on it. They go to church and come home crosser and more exacting than ever. They hated my cat because I loved it. Chang was the only one who understood. It slept in my bed and kept me warm. And now Chang has gone, I have nothing.”
“Go on. . . .”
“It is easy to tell you things,” said Margaret dreamily. She turned her head a little so that she could see the man sitting on the edge of her narrow bed.
“I am glad.”
“Shall I tell you everything that is in my mind?”
“I wish you would.”
“Well . . .” Slipping her hand under her cheek, Margaret shut her eyes. “I am getting older,” she said, “and sometimes it comes over me in waves that I have missed everything that makes life worth living. Love . . . no man has really loved me in the way that I thought men did love women. You know . . . love that engulfs and that won’t let go. Love that comes like a flash of lightning and makes you gasp because it is magical and glittering and sharp, sharp as a razor’s edge. Love that makes even the stupid little everyday things a sacrament because they are shared with the man who has made you his own for eternity. Love . . .” And then Margaret paused.
“Go on.”
“I don’t want you to think me hysterical.”
“I don’t.”
“Well”—and then Margaret gave a long, sobbing sigh—“I have told you everything,” she said, “because if you are the sort of doctor that Pamela says you are you will know that there is nothing else to say. I’ve been starved—not exactly of physical love because——” and then Margaret shuddered.
“I entirely understand.”
“He couldn’t help it.”
“No, I understand that too.”
“And now what is left to me.” Under the bedclothes Margaret was twisting her fingers together. Did he understand, or was he putting it on? She moved her head so that she would see him better.
“A great deal,” said Denis quietly. “But there is no time to go into that now. But if you are feeling better, I should like you to try and sit up a little. I will help you. Like this,” and leaning a little towards her he slipped a practised arm round her shoulders.
“Thank you.” Obediently Margaret moved into a sitting position; her face turned feebly to the fire. “Chang . . .” it came after a tense silence pregnant with feeling.
“Yes, Chang.”
“Not dead.”
“Not at all dead. Keeping cover under the bed,” said Denis calmly. But he stooped his head a little and tightened his hold on Margaret as she burst into a stormy outburst of crying.
“Chang! Chang!”
“He is frightened; call him more quietly,” said Denis as he watched the cat turn his black face towards the bed and remain there listening.
“Mother’s darling, mother’s little pet lamb,” sobbed Margaret. “Mother’s own little tiny pet lamb. Mother thought you was lost; come lovie, come little lovie, come to mother!”
“There you see he’s as right as rain,” said Denis quietly. Chang had come towards the bed and was waiting to jump up on it. Then with a soft mixture of greeting and purring, he leapt, stooping his head and vanishing under the bedclothes.
“I can’t believe it,” said Margaret wildly. “You think I’m mad to talk to him like that, but somehow it comes—I can’t help it.”
“The maternal instinct gone wrong,” said Denis with a queer little twist to the corner of his mouth. For somehow, although he was so used to it, it always upset him. These good loving women with their capacity for selfless self-sacrifice. Gone to waste. Curdled; yes that was the word that expressed it best, curdled. Clogged and thickened and turned sour because the natural outlet had been denied to it. For women were born to give—to pour out their love without stint. And when they didn’t, except in very rare circumstances, they became as this girl was rapidly becoming, eaten up with self pity. Parasites; useless except as a source of income to unscrupulous medical practitioners.
“But I was going to kill somebody because Chang was dead,” said Margaret wildly. Propped up on her elbow, the firelight shone on her dark hair, turning it to a reddish gold. “I remember now, I snatched down one of those swords of Percival’s and I was waiting for Mary to come downstairs and then I was going to run her through with it. Murder—I very nearly committed a murder. I should have been hanged. And then you came in and took it away from me. And then after all, Chang is alive. I can feel him purring now. Whatever shall I do? How can I ever face them again? The servants were there—it will be all over the village, Mrs. Percival was trying to kill Miss Mary. And the villagers respect Mary and Katie enormously; they are a tradition here, Baxters have always lived in this house. Whatever shall I do?”
“I agree that it is a little awkward for you,” said Denis sensibly. “But then an attack of hysteria always brings awkwardness in its train. One cannot lose one’s self-control without suffering for it. But I think that I shall be able to put things fairly right for you. And I do not suppose that either of the ladies of the house will bear malice. They will be relieved that you are not more ill than you are; if you understand what I mean.”
“I cannot imagine what made me do it,” said Margaret feebly.
“I can,” said Denis, “and I can give you a very simple illustration. You fill a pail with water and are carrying it. It is too full and it slops over. But after it has slopped over once it doesn’t slop over any more. That applies to you. For a very long time now you have been piling up grievances and irritations. And at last they overwhelm you. You lose control of yourself and what you have repressed, rushes out of you in a flood. That’s a very simple and rather crude way of explaining to you what has happened. But it is not a thing that is likely to happen twice.”
“It was thinking that I should not have Chang to tell things to,” said Margaret and as she stared into the fire her eyes swam in tears. Tears that looked like blood, thought Denis, watching her.
“Foolish.”
“I know.”
“But as I said before; the maternal instinct gone wrong,” said Denis, his smile white in his thin brown face.
“Does it matter—the maternal instinct gone wrong,” said Margaret after a little pause. How gently he had let her down upon the pillows, she thought. Such skilled care—so infinitely reassuring and so personal somehow. But then that was the artistry of it. He was a famous doctor, although Pamela said that the ordinary Harley Street man had his knife into him. But then that would be jealousy, of course.
“No, it doesn’t matter provided that it is kept within bounds,” said Denis sensibly. He slipped a glance down to the watch on his wrist, turning it so that the firelight shone on the white face of it. “I must go,” he said, “it is late and you will sleep perfectly so that there is no need for me to give you the injection I contemplated.”
“Is there any coal in case I want to put a little on?”
“Plenty and I will send the maid up to make up the fire,” said Denis. “And now, good-night and sleep well with your Chang. And stay in bed until tea-time to-morrow and I will give orders that you are to have a fire in this room for the next week at any rate.”
“Oh, what will they say?” and through the half light Dermis could see the brown eyes gazing up at him, wide with apprehension. And all about a fire in the house of well-to-do people! Well, well.
“Nothing, because I shall settle it before I leave,” said Dennis quietly. “I shall see your sisters-in-law before I leave.”
“Tell them that I’m not mad,” breathed Margaret.
“I most certainly will.”
“How will you explain it?”
“Leave that to me.”
“Oh, thank you.” Fumbling, Margaret felt for the hand that she knew must be near hers. Yes, it was—she clung to it.
“I can’t thank you——”
“There is no need to.”
“You saved me—you don’t know—the fire and everything.”
“I am only glad that I happened to be about,” said Denis Frome sensibly. She was charming, the thought stirred subconsciously. So confiding; so unsophisticated; like a child in the way she clung to his hand. Gently he released himself, tucking her hand under the sheet.
“I’ll send up the maid,” he said, “don’t talk to her, I’ll explain that you are nearly asleep. And I’ll arrange your to-morrow, meals and everything, so that you have nothing to do now but to go to sleep.”
“I can’t thank you enough——”
“Not a bit.” Busy at the wash-hand stand, Denis was snapping the locks of his despatch-case. Through the firefight, the rather uncompromisingly furnished room looked rather better than when he had seen it first. The big bed with the little mound in it; lots of room there for an unimaginative beefy husband, thought Denis, standing and looking across at it.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
“I shall see you again sometime?” It came in a whisper from the big bed.
Of course.” Outside on the landing, Denis closed the door softly behind him and then stood there smiling down into Mrs. Jessop’s upturned gaze.
“How is she?”
“Perfectly all right. The cat was under the bed.”
“Under the bed!”
“Yes. And now I’d better see the sisters,” said Denis quickly. “I’ve finished here, of course, to-morrow probably they’ll want to call in their own doctor, although he can’t do anything. But where are they? It’s more courteous for me to give a report before I go.”
“I fancy have gone down into the drawing-room.”
“Lead the way then,” said Denis, walking down the staircase with his despatch-case swinging lightly in his hand.
As Miss Katie sat rather hunched up on an old-fashioned chair, she thought almost wildly that the way things happened was almost more than you could stand when you got older. Maniacs shouting with drawn swords and all the servants huddled and Mary a sort of waxy yellow but quite calm and then that man coming in and taking the sword away and everything else under his control and Mrs. Jessop being so very pleasant and Pamela quite a sweet girl when you got used to seeing a mouth like a pink letter-box. And a fire upstairs in Margaret’s room and burning too, although it must have been laid as it was then for more than a year, but Emily was a good servant and probably saw that the sticks were renewed if they were wet. And Hannaford carrying up coal at ten o’clock in the evening and not making any objection and even seeming pleased, looking pink and important, and cook suggesting tea for Mr. Frome and sending it in to the drawing-room where an enormous fire had been lighted. Fires burning all over the house, thought Katie incoherently, and Mary not saying anything about it, but only looking set and rather older, although very dignified as she sat and listened to Mr. Frome. And Mr. Frome lounging in his low chair holding his cup in his most beautiful hands, for they were beautiful thought Katie, allowing her rather childlike round-eyed gaze to linger on them. And although he lounged yet he lounged like a tiger, decided Katie, so that you felt that if there was any strange noise he would tighten all over and be ready in an instant. Also he was a gentleman, with a cultured rather low voice, something like the nicest broadcaster. Also his gaze rested kindly on her sister as she spoke to him from her chair in which she was sitting very straight up.
“You say that my sister-in-law is perfectly sane?” Miss Mary had her hands clasped in her lap so that they should not betray their trembling.
“Perfectly.”
“Then——”
“Nerves are strange things, Miss Baxter,” said Mr. Frome pleasantly. “You see I happen to know a good deal about them. I agree that the scene through which you have just passed has been very distressing. But I can assure you that there will never be any repetition of it. I have just left Mrs. Baxter perfectly comfortable in bed and prepared to go to sleep without any artificial inducement to do so. She had better stay in bed tomorrow and have light food and a good fire to keep the room well aired as cold is extremely bad for her. What a beautiful fire you have here,” ended Mr. Frome, inwardly chuckling.
“Yes, it is a good grate.”
“Warmth is vital for a highly strung woman,” continued Mr. Frome. “It is an odd thing, but we psychologists notice it more and more.”
“Indeed.”
Yes, and as Mr. Frome noticed the delicate old fingers tremblingly clutched together he felt a throb of admiration for the gallant old lady who sat facing him. Every tradition outraged, but she was too well bred to betray her feelings. It was a pity that the girl upstairs had got on the wrong side of these two old ladies, for in their way they were rather splendid.
“You say that the cat was under the bed.”
“Yes, the rascal!”
“To me——” and then Miss Mary stopped speaking.
What was there about this comparatively young man, she wondered, that her reticence was in danger of breaking down.
“Yes, Miss Baxter.”
“To me—such devotion to an animal is unnatural and almost horrible,” burst out Miss Mary, and drawing a lace handkerchief from her sleeve she touched her top lip with it.
“But every woman must have an outlet,” smiled Mr. Frome, thinking that it was time he went, because the Jessops were still standing about in the hall waiting for him. Although Mrs. Jessop had urged him to see Miss Mary Baxter as she was so anxious that he should.
“There is work at hand for every woman,” said Miss Mary staring very hard.
“Yes, you are perfectly right; there is,” said Mr. Frome uncrossing his long legs and setting the fragile china cup on the spindley table that Hannaford had solicitously placed at his elbow. “Well—I must be getting along,” he said and stood up.
“We shall see you again?”
“No, this visit was entirely informal,” said Mr. Frome, smiling. “You see I happened to be dining with Mrs. Jessop when the telephone message came. And I could not leave a houseful of ladies to face a situation that might have proved to be really serious. Now, if any medical attention is necessary your own doctor must supply it.”
“Margaret hates him,” burst spasmodically from Miss Katie.
Mr. Frome laughed.
“As a matter of fact, a doctor is not necessary,” he said, and he held out his hand with a very pleasant smile. “Good-night, Miss Baxter, and very many thanks for the delicious tea.”
“I can assure you,” Miss Mary’s gaze was a little tremulous. “We owe you a great debt of gratitude,” she said.
“Not at all.”
“But we do,” said Miss Katie, slipping down from her high chair and feeling the warm flames on her fat face and thinking how nice it was to have a fire so late at night because it must be almost eleven o’clock.
“It has only been a pleasure,” said Mr. Frome, making his way to the door and walking out into the hall where Mrs. Jessop and Pamela were waiting for him. All so odd and unexpected as he reflected, taking his hat from the attentive Hannaford who, bursting with excitement, had been talking to Mrs. Jessop.
“See that Mrs. Baxter has a good fire,” he said, “and that if it goes out in the night, it is lighted the first thing in the morning.”
“Yes sir,” and as Hannaford closed the front door behind the three visitors and turned to go into the drawing-room to fetch the tray, she felt that really it was as if the world had turned upside down. Two great fires roaring up the chimneys and not a word from the old dears. There they sat just staring, as she told cook a little later. Just as if they had had their death-blow, both of them.
“One of them nearly did,” said cook, chuckling. “I shall never forget it; Mrs. Percival brandishing that sword and shouting up the stairs all about her perverted mind and what not. Just as if it had all been there ready to come out for weeks; p’raps years.”
“So it had I expect,” said Susan, yawning and thinking what fun it had been.
“What’s going to happen to-morrow?” said Emily, unfastening her collar.
“More fires,” said Hannaford grimly. “And if you girls ask me I think we’ve seen the last of this business of a cold house. Properly frightened they both are and I can’t help feeling sorry for them.”
“I’m not.” This from Susan.
“No, because you’re only young,” said Hannaford briskly. “And you’ve always fancied that cat which is more than I have. You was going to be spared too,” said Hannaford, squalling with laughter.
“And the beggar under the bed all the time.”
“I know. It’s a fair scream,” said Emily, polishing the fat white stud, that she had abstracted from her stiff collar, on her black skirt and then licking it rather thoughtfully.
While Denis Frome, strolling home under the stars, was thinking of the almost desperate clutch of that sad young hand, as he had sat on the bed in that heavily furnished bedroom. A sad case and so utterly unnecessary. Money enough to spare and yet all that misery and dissatisfaction and thwarted craving. As he let himself into his cottage he felt suddenly unaccountably depressed. For the girl he had left in that big old-fashioned house was not by any means out of the wood. He would like to have had her as a patient. After a couple of months treatment she would be a very different woman. However—and then as he dropped into a low chair, Denis Frome forgot about Margaret Baxter. There were other cases to think about; cases that would confront him in his consulting-room the next day. And not the next day, by Jove, thought Denis Frome, glancing up at the fat white clock on the mantelpiece, after sitting there for a little while with his eyes shut. Five minutes past twelve. It had all taken much longer than he had thought. He would go to bed or he would oversleep himself. And suddenly alert again he heaved himself out of his chair and walked to the low white-painted door that led into the hall.
At one o’clock Miss Mary Baxter was still moving rather stiffly about her cold, sparsely furnished bedroom. She had her dressing-gown over her old-fashioned moirette petticoat and nainsook petticoat bodice with its little sleeves edged with white embroidery. There was only one shop in London now where you could buy those substantial camisoles, and considering what they were they were extremely expensive. But they were made by hand and no Baxter had ever consciously worn machine-made undergarments. On her feet Miss Mary still had the square-toed glacé slippers that she had worn since tea-time. And her hair was untouched. And now for a little over three-quarters of an hour she had been walking about her room. She was tired, her knees ached, but still she walked. And she walked gamely with her old head held high. But her eyes were dim; not with tears, because Miss Mary Baxter had not shed tears for many a long day. But her eyes were dim with fatigue and fear. Fear—it was not a word that you ever heard in the Baxter household. Baxters were not afraid and they were very rarely ill. At least they were not afraid or ill in public. But in private perhaps it was different, and Miss Mary was in private now. No one could see her—or hear her, for Katie, who slept at the other end of the corridor, was well out of earshot; also she would be fast asleep by now. She was alone with herself; was Miss Mary Baxter, terrifyingly alone. And as she walked, at regular intervals she held up her right hand; about a yard away from her face. Yes, she could see it better now; no—no she couldn’t. Yes, she could—no she couldn’t, no, and then suddenly, as if her strength had failed her, Miss Mary sat down. She sat down on the edge of an ottoman and took a few long, trembling breaths. Yes, it was true: she was going blind. It had happened once before, this blurring of vision. As if there was a fog between her and the thing that she was looking at. It had happened to-night—when Margaret had screamed up at her from the hall. That dreadful avenging, screaming, blue velvet figure had suddenly vanished in a fog of grey obscurity. Miss Mary had never flown, but she had always imagined that flying would be like that. Things would emerge and then vanish again. They would emerge and vanish . . . they would emerge . . . and then Miss Mary sat very still. Yes, but supposing they didn’t emerge. Supposing, for instance, that that very night when she closed her eyes, although it wasn’t the night now, it was the morning; supposing when she closed her eyes she closed them for good. In the morning, when Emily would bring her her can of hot water she would lift her eyelids and see nothing at all. Wouldn’t it then be better to stay awake all night than risk that unspeakable horror? Sitting there Miss Mary seemed to turn a little grey as she thought these thoughts. How long was it since that mistiness had gathered round her eyeballs? A long time, surely, although after the first surprise of it it had not recurred. It had not recurred really noticeably until this evening. And then the awful shock of hearing those screaming threats coming from the hall below—a hall full of servants—and of seeing Margaret standing there in a dressing-gown with a sword in her hand, had all seemed to cause something like a crack in her head, a crack with the light shining through it: not a light from outside, but a light from inside—a queer—oh, God!—and then, making a queer guttural sound. Miss Mary very slowly buried her face in her hands. Trembling, she stayed like that for a few minutes. And then she got up and walked over to her dressing-table. A funny old mahogany dressing-table with crocheted mats on it. Funny hairbrushes with pale wooden backs. Leaning forward, Miss Mary picked up a little white cambric cape and put it over her shoulders. And then, without looking at herself in the glass, she began to take the hairpins out of her twist of white hair. Black pins, wrinkled like the old hands that were manipulating them.
And it was only Emily who noticed anything different about her mistress the next morning. And she spoke of it at the servants’ breakfast; such a nice breakfast—bacon and eggs and a great big comfortable brown teapot of well-made tea. And Emily spoke with surprise, because, after all, as she said, the old dear isn’t as young as she was. But there she was sitting up in bed this morning as gay as you please, staring about the room and talking about the sunshine and whatnot. When she’s generally pretty short in the mornings.
“H’m, seems as if the upset has done us all good,” said Hannaford. “What with a fire lighted already in the drawing-room, and Susan says that Mrs. Percival looks O.K., and that darned cat staring at her from under the sheet, and a fire lighted up there already and breakfast gone up and I don’t know what else.”
“Result of having a man about the place, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Susan naughtily. “That’s what it is. That Frome has made a fine stir in the village as well as in this house. I believe old Foster’ll have to mind his P’s and Q’s.”
“But Frome’s not coming here again, is he?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Hannaford. “But that’s the sort of thing one never knows. Once get a man like that inside a house like this and one never knows.”
“That’s right,” said Susan. “Once they get their appetite whetted, the old dears, one never knows where it will stop.”
“Now, then, my girl, don’t forget your manners, and don’t forget that they’re old ladies, both of them,” said cook bracingly. “But I’m jolly glad that everything’s O.K. this morning, because I didn’t think it would be.” And then cook got up from the table and went away into the scullery. For cook, at heart, had been badly worried by the look of her mistress lately. “Just as if she couldn’t see properly,” thought cook. “Sort of as if she was looking at something else besides the order book and didn’t half like the look of it.” And cook, greatly relieved, stooped to pick up a big quart bottle of milk that was standing amiably just outside the back door.
Margaret stayed in her room for three days. And her sisters-in-law paid her uncomfortable, rather strained visits. Mary’s first visit on the morning after the upset was extremely awkward, although the old lady did her best to make it less so. She spoke almost jauntily, standing there with her back to the roaring fire, gazing down upon Margaret, who lay in bed looking up at her with pale face and lips.
“Well, I am glad to see you looking so much better this morning, and I hope that you slept well. Susan has lighted you a good fire, I am glad to see.”
“I was mad last night. . . . I shall never forget . . . ” Margaret’s mouth was obviously utterly out of control and she shivered.
“Don’t say anything more about it, my dear.” Miss Mary’s response was instant and generous. In fact, thinking about it afterwards, Margaret came to the conclusion that her sister-in-law was much more cheerful and cordial than she generally was. Glancing about the room as if she was looking at it for the first time. Although perhaps she was looking for Chang, thought Margaret, guiltily pressing him a little closer in to her side to keep him where he was—Chang, who had really been the cause of all the trouble. And yet no, perhaps it was as Mr. Frome had said. A kettle boiling over; a boiler bursting; an overloaded donkey forced on to its knees. Although he had been too polite to use the simile of the donkey, thought Margaret, moving her head a little nervously on the pillow.
“And are you sure that you have everything that you want?”
“Yes, thank you, Mary.”
“Would you care to see Katie?”
“Yes, I should love to if she would care to come.”
And so after about an hour or so Katie arrived. Fat and comfortable and bustling and able to skim over the awkwardness of the whole thing, because by now she was hardly conscious of feeling it. Sitting down by the fire, she remarked that Margaret would hardly know the house now because already there was a roaring fire in the drawing-room.
“Katie!”
“I know, isn’t it wonderful?” said Katie cosily. “But I think that what Mr. Frome said to Mary last night has made a great impression. He spoke of the need for warmth to a highly-strung woman, and although Mary would never admit it, she has always been a very highly-strung woman. So this morning, and last night as well, the drawing-room has been beautifully warm. And as we always sit there, it really is very delightful.”
“It must be.”
“And I am so glad that you are feeling better, Margaret,” continued Katie. “You see, dear, I have noticed for some time now that you have been looking very overstrained. I think if I were you I should get Dr. Foster to give you a tonic.”
“Yes, I might do that,” said Margaret, feeling in the wave of gratitude and well-being and relief that washed over her a longing to meet these two sisters of hers halfway. Because, after all, if only the house was warm, half the battle would be won. You could be nice if you were warm.
“I was impressed with Mr. Frome,” said Katie musingly.
“Were you?” said Margaret, feeling a leap of excitement.
“Yes, he was so calm,” said Miss Katie. “Also he is a gentleman and has very excellent manners. Also his hands were the most beautiful I have ever seen.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said Miss Katie. “And beautiful hands always make a great impression on me.”
“So they do on me,” said Margaret, longing and yet not daring to question her sister-in-law about what had happened when Mr. Frome had gone downstairs again. To hear what he had said; how he had approached these two unapproachable relations of hers. What she would give, thought Margaret restlessly.
“So I think we may congratulate ourselves that he happened to be at hand last night,” said Miss Katie artlessly. “For really, Margaret, you gave us all a very great fright. Handling that sword so recklessly! Whatever made you do it, my dear?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Well, well, all’s well that ends well,” smiled Miss Katie, getting up and smoothing the front of her dress with her plump hands. “And Pamela is really a very pretty girl if it were not for that distressing lipstick. Her mother will miss her when she goes to India. When does she go, by the way?”
“In about three weeks.”
“It’s a pity her fiancé cannot come home to marry her. A wedding in our little church on the Green would have been very pleasant.”
“I don’t think he can get leave.”
“No, probably not. Well, my dear, I will say goodbye for the present and pay you another visit later in the day. How do you feel about visitors? For instance, Pamela or her mother might call in and ask if they could see you.”
“I should like to see them, Katie,” said Margaret, and then, raising herself on her elbow, she spoke a little huskily. “Katie, I can’t bear to think about last night,” she said. “I was mad . . . I must have been mad. Can you make it all right with Mary? Say something for me? She was so nice this morning. And I felt . . .” Margaret suddenly lay back and covered her face with her hands
“I don’t think you need worry, dear,” said Miss Katie cosily. “Mary seems to me to be brighter to-day than she has been for some time. Don’t distress yourself, Margaret. All will be well. Mr. Frome said last night that nerves were strange things and that you must be kept warm, as that was very important for nervous people.”
“Oh, did he say that?”
“Yes. At least I think he did,” said Katie conscientiously. “In any event, I know he said that you must be kept warm. So you are going to be kept warm, my dear; and as I know that in the past you have felt the cold very much, I am sure you will appreciate it.”
“Oh, Katie, I shall,” said Margaret warmly.
“And if Pamela Jessop calls, I may bring her up?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Well, then, I think I’ll trot along,” said Miss Katie, her fat face dimpling at the thought that she had done her duty in coming to see her sister-in-law, and also at the thought that the drawing-room would be warm instead of freezing. Not that one must allow oneself to depend on personal comfort, thought Miss Katie, nodding and smiling herself out of the varnished door and then trotting down the wide staircase. But still, it was nice to be comfortable. And dear Mary . . . dear Mary so much brighter and more like herself, although that was odd, too, after the upset of the evening before, thought Katie, glancing quickly over the banisters at the front door, because Hannaford was on the way to open it. Ah, yes, Pamela Jessop. “Yes, Mrs. Percival will be pleased to see you, my dear.” More smilings and noddings from Katie, who because of the warmth and cosiness of everything was feeling extremely cordial to every one who crossed her path.
To Margaret, lying there with her face turned to the door, the sight of Pamela was like a flash of blue sky in the middle of heavy grey clouds.
“Oh, do come in,” she said and excitedly sat up in bed.
“My dear, I expected to find you lying there prostrate, with cold bandages on your head,” said Pamela breezily. “And there you are looking better than I have seen you for some time. A better colour and everything. It’s the fire, of course,” said Pamela, sitting down by it.
“Do I really look all right?”
“Perfectly,” said Pamela. “My dear, you gave us all a fright last night with your threatenings and slaughter and drawn swords and what not. But I must say it doesn’t seem to have upset Katie. She came downstairs like a two-year-old. But how is Mary? The one into whom you had your knife both metaphorically and literally?”
“She seems perfectly all right,” said Margaret, with her forehead furrowed. “But, oh Pamela, wasn’t it awful? What was the matter with me? I had no idea I was doing it, and yet in a way I had. And yet it was beyond me to stop doing it. I felt . . .” Margaret sank back on the pillows.
“Anyhow, now you feel a different creature because you’ve got it off your chest,” said Pamela vigorously. “And I dare say it’s done the whole household good. Because you know what I think of this household, Margaret: nothing but a mass of repressions and old-fashioned inhibitions. And you’ve let the air into it, and it’s what it wanted. And, best of all, you’ve come into contact with Frome; that’s what I’ve been wanting for ages. You’d better marry Frome, Margaret. He’d do superbly for you. You’re both the same type: all up in the clouds; unearthly.”
“Oh, Pamela!” And now for the first time for many days Margaret began to laugh—nice, sunny, healing laughter in which Pamela joined. “He’s married,” she said. “Doctors always are.”
“Ah, but he’s not,” said Pamela triumphantly. “That’s why I’ve settled that he’ll do for you. We must make our best effort about it.”
“Don’t be such a goose,” said Margaret, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Pamela, isn’t the fire heavenly?”
“Yes, of course it is,” said Pamela with a certain amount of asperity in her voice. “That’s what’s always been so ridiculous here: no fires when it was freezing. I don’t wonder your nerves gave way. But I expect Mr. Frome has stopped all that nonsense, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, I think he has.”
“What did he say to the old dears?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did,” said Margaret simply. “But still, of course, they wouldn’t tell me. But oh! he was heavenly to me. So quiet, and yet so frightfully kind. And it was he who found Chang . . . at least Chang came out from under the bed when he was here.”
“The little devil! Where is he now?”
“In bed with me.”
“It sounds horribly improper. But still beggars can’t be choosers,” said Pamela naughtily. “But, really, you must marry, Margaret. You’re quite young, and I’m sure it’s that that’s the matter with you. Repressions, especially sex repressions, are the very devil; they play old Harry with our nervous systems. I’m sure Frome would tell you so. Why don’t you go and see him?”
“Where?”
“In his consulting-room, of course.”
“But I’m not ill.”
“Never mind, it would be an excuse,” said Pamela drastically. “As I tell you, Margaret, in these days one can’t afford to be squeamish. And I’m sure he likes you. I felt he did, somehow, when we all walked home together last night.”
“Why? Did he say anything?”
“No, of course he didn’t,” said Pamela, dropping her her eyes on to her lap to hide the amusement in them. For Margaret’s question was an eager one. She was interested . . . of course she was interested. Any woman would be interested in Frome, with his inscrutable gaze and his rather cruel mouth and his beautiful hands. She herself would have been quite cracked about him if she hadn’t happened to be in love with somebody else. But Margaret . . . the bother, though, with Margaret was that she was one of these fastidious people who wouldn’t run after any man, however desirable he might be. And, of course, with a man like Frome, with stacks of women hanging round him, one would have to run like the devil to even get within shouting distance of him, thought Pamela, raising her eyes again to meet Margaret’s greenish-grey gaze.
“How is Geoffrey?”
“Very well, and counting the seconds until he sees me,” said Pamela gaily. “I wish you were coming out to India with me, Margaret.”
“So do I.”
“Frome spends part of every year out there,” said Pamela thoughtfully. “He says he has to get right away to be able to carry on properly. But he goes right off the beaten track and dresses up like a native and loses himself for months at a time. Like Lawrence of Arabia. He was telling us about it the other night. You interrupted his narrative,” said Pamela mischievously.
“Oh, don’t!”
“No, I’m only teasing you. I am very glad it happened, and so is Mummy. She and I have been saying for some time that you looked ghastly,” said Pamela, getting up out of her chair. “And now I’m going home to tell her that you look miles better than you’ve done for ages. When are you going to get up?”
“In a day or two. In fact, I think I can get up whenever I like.”
“Provided you are kept warm.”
“Yes, but I shall be,” said Margaret. “I have a sort of feeling that they are glad that something has happened to make them have fires. Katie seemed quite pleased about it when she came into see me this morning.”
“Yes, I told you that I have never seen her look more chirpy,” said Pamela, coming up close to the bed and looking down at the pale face on the pillow. “Your hair is lovely,” she said. “Didn’t Frome remark on it?”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“I expect he thought it, all the same,” said Pamela sagely. And then she went away, only to return in a moment or two with her eyes dancing. “A roaring fire in the drawing-room,” she said.
“Oh, how lovely!”
“And Miss Mary laughing away like a two-year-old. I can hear her.”
“Oh, Pamela”—Margaret raised herself on her elbow—“I feel such years younger,” she said. “I long to get up and do things. You know, sort of rush about.”
“Frome,” said Pamela, disappearing again. And as Margaret heard the front door open and shut she wondered if perhaps Pamela wasn’t right. The entry of that strange, vigorous man into this desiccated household had given it the vitality in which it was so desperately lacking. Lying there staring at the ceiling, Margaret began to think about the man who only twelve hours before had been sitting quite close to her. He had been so nice when she had babbled stupid baby nonsense to Chang. He had seemed to understand instead of jeering. He had taken that sword away from her without making any fuss about it. In fact he had treated the whole disgraceful hysterical incident as a sort of joke. And now, thanks to him and to the way in which he had handled her sisters-in-law, that incident was apparently closed. Closed. . . . And then, as if in unconscious imitation of this congratulatory state of affairs, Margaret shut her eyes and drifted into a half-waking and half-sleeping doze in which Chang, dressed up like Susan with his black marmoset face peeping out from under a cap, was bringing her her breakfast neatly spread out on a tray.
“Your lunch, mum.” Margaret waked with a start to see Emily standing by the bed.
“Oh, Emily!”
“I hope I didn’t startle you, Mum,” said Emily, setting the tray on the bedside table. And, descending to the kitchen again after having carefully made up the fire, she told the assembled servants that Mrs. Percival looked five years younger since she went to bed, and that the two old dears were positively frisky in the well-warmed drawing-room.
“And that’s what a man has done,” said Susan, grinning over the Daily Mirror at cook.
“Get along with your men,” said cook, who liked Susan, but did not approve of her freedom of speech.
“Has he got a wife?” continued Susan, who enjoyed setting cook by the ears.
“Sure to have,” said Hannaford gloomily. “They all have; at least the nice ones have.” And then Hannaford relapsed into a sombre silence while Susan sniggered silently behind her paper. For Susan was engaged and was going to get her ring on her next day out. Engaged! It does seem odd in this houseful of spins, thought Susan, feeling sorry for every one except herself and wondering how young Mrs. Percival could settle down to it. At least, perhaps she couldn’t, thought Susan, remembering the night before and wishing that they could have a row like that more often, because it brightened things up a bit; and Lord knew that that was what was wanted in that dead-alive hole.
Denis Frome had his consulting-room looking out over the plane trees in the Green Park. He often reflected that he had been uncommonly lucky to slip into this little self-contained flat of four rooms. Certainly now he could well have done with something very much larger, but thanks to the excellence of Miss Smith, his secretary and receptionist, he was able to manage very well. And he often thought that if he was not able to breathe a little of that upper air and gaze out on to the greenness of the leaves that fluttered below his windows he would not be able to sustain this continual battle with sickness and disease, and all the hateful results of the persistent maltreatment of the wonderful and divinely created body with which God had endowed His creatures. “Man made in God’s image.” My heavens! thought Denis in his more weary moments.
For that it was maltreated there certainly was no reasonable doubt. As Denis often reflected, no one would pity a man who possessed a beautiful car and provided it with inferior oil and petrol. And yet people would stuff their bodies with unsuitable foods and pernicious drugs and expect it to be well. And these things were expensive, as it was also an expensive business to call in a doctor to put you right—for the time being, anyhow. Sometimes in his earlier days of practice, when he had seen a wealthy client disappear for good because he had told him or her that if he or she continued to live unwisely and eat excessively he or she could never be well, he had wondered if it was worth it. If it would not be better to return to his old days of general practice, and talk the usual twaddle about blood pressure and appendixes, and Taking Care, and a little peep at the tonsils, elaborated by a hint that the apparently excellent teeth might all have to come out. But no, something within him had rebelled, and as he was a single man he had been able to hold on. And now . . . now it was a case of fitting in appointments, and having a long waiting list. “Try Frome”—the suggestion would be put out as a last hope for some poor wretch who had spent almost all that he possessed on specialists. “Have you heard about Frome? He’s absolutely transformed old Spottiswood, who was given a year to live by that heart man. Nothing but over-eating, the old beggar!” Cackles of laughter from a group round the fire at a well-known club. “Oh, I’m going to Frome!” this from a well-known Society woman who was seen sitting in her club window reading The Tatler without the glasses that she had worn for years. “No, my dear, don’t tempt me! Frome says we’re all damned fools to stiffen up our stomachs before meals with short drinks.” This from another young woman, who ended up by saying that he was too attractive for words, and that she was madly in love with him. And so it went on. And Denis Frome, sitting with his fingers on the sensitive keyboard of his equally sensitive instrument, watching—although he did not appear to be watching—the patient who sat there holding the tiny connecting microphone in his left hand, wondered again and again why the medical profession was so crassly and persistently negative to this new method of diagnosis. For were not the vibrations of light and sound which permeated the ether of space harnessed and recorded by wireless receivers? Then why not the multitude of vibrations emitted by every human being—-surely Nature’s most potent transmitter. Once determine the vibrations of normal health, then it was surely easy enough to read on the dial of the instrument any departure from the normal, and see where things were going wrong. However . . . Denis Frome was tired of thinking about it. He had his reward in the joy of the people he healed; and that was satisfaction enough for him.
And Miss Smith saw that he was not imposed upon. Miss Smith was forty and pleasant to look upon. She answered the telephone and fixed the appointments. And, knowing her own sex, she had arranged that the room where the patients undressed led out of her office. For people came for spinal massage and had to put on special gowns, rather like dressing-gowns turned the wrong way round. Pretty and luxurious gowns, warm from an electrically-heated cupboard. Some of the women looked uncommonly nice in them. Some of the women came straight from beauty parlours and hairdressers, so that they should impress the tall man in the American overall with its high collar. But Miss Smith was equal to them all. She doled out the appointments and never allowed any one to see Mr. Frome unannounced. Sometimes she walked in while a massage was going on and took something from the writing-table, just to show the pink-and-white be-curled woman lying face downwards on the high couch that the delicious tête-à-tête that she thought was hers was not a tête-à-tête at all. In fact, to Mr. Frome, Miss Smith was invaluable, for she was exactly the type of woman that he needed in his consulting-room. And, although he was quite aware that she adored him, he was also aware that it was not an adoration that mattered. For Miss Smith had a mother to whom she was devoted; and she was also interested in Girl Guides. And there was a brother somewhere in the Merchant Service who came home periodically on leave. So Miss Smith was mentally occupied, and Mr. Frome knew very well indeed that people who are mentally occupied, especially if the mental occupation is a happy and congenial one, are not likely to be a nuisance to any one else.
But although Miss Smith never allowed any woman to see Mr. Frome without an appointment, on one day early in November she was a little nonplussed. She had heard the outer door of the waiting-room open and shut, and as usual she went in to see who was there. Early that morning an appointment had been cancelled, and it was the time of that appointment now. So Miss Smith opened her own door, prepared to be drastic. Mrs. Bradley Dormer had come after all. Well, she must be told that she couldn’t behave like that. A cancelled appointment was a cancelled appointment.
But the old lady sitting on the leather sofa was not Mrs. Bradley Dormer at all. In fact, it was someone whom Miss Smith had never seen before. An old lady with a pale mask-like face and unwinking grey eyes. An old lady in old-fashioned but obviously very expensive clothes.
“Is it possible for me to see Mr. Frome?”
“Well . . .’’ Miss Smith never hurried. She would find out a little more first.
“I am aware that I have come without an appointment. But I have come up from the country, so perhaps . . .’’ Miss Mary faltered. Sick with fear and shaking all over from the ordeal that she knew lay before her, if she was lucky enough to obtain an interview with the great doctor, Miss Mary would not have been at all surprised if she had suddenly collapsed and died. In fact, she would have been glad if she had done.
Life had suddenly become too much for her. Her valiant front had buckled. She was nothing now but an old woman who was going blind. Other old women went blind, and one knew about it and hardly gave it a thought. But when it was you it was different. When it was you it was hell, thought Miss Mary vaguely, trying to see Miss Smith clearly and not being able to because those funny woolly clouds had begun to drift across her range of vision again.
“May I ask your name?” said Miss Smith, doing something business-like with a pad and pencil.
“Baxter.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Smith, withdrawing and closing the door behind her.
And Denis Frome in his consulting-room raised his eyelids at the opening of his door.
“Will you see somebody in Mrs. Bradley Donner’s place?” That was the best of Miss Smith: she always went straight to the point.
“Who is it?”
“A Mrs. Baxter.”
“Baxter. Baxter.” Denis Frome shut his eyes again. Baxter. The name seemed somehow to be familiar. Ah, yes, of course. Three weeks ago . . . that was a long time; he had expected it long before this. “Yes, show her in,” he said. “We have three-quarters of an hour, haven’t we?”
“Forty minutes before Lady Chalmer’s appointment,” said Miss Smith crisply, and then out she went again.
“Mr. Frome will see you at once.”
“Well, as a matter of fact . . . ” By now panic had seized Miss Mary in its icy grip. Why had she come? It was far better not to know. She could have got new glasses, and perhaps they would have helped. Miss Mary was moving slowly towards the outer door. “I think,” she said. But Miss Smith had had to deal with panicky patients before this and was perfectly ready. “You need not even take off your hat,” she said, and laid a quiet hand on Miss Mary’s arm. “I know it seems strange,” she went on in her nice even voice, “but it is amazing. . . .” And by that time they had reached Mr. Frome’s wide-open door. A nice cheerful room with a couch in it and flowers and a collection of queer-looking cylinders in one corner. And beyond the window high pale leafless branches waving slightly golden in the November afternoon sunshine. Miss Mary took it all in as she felt the warm, reassuring grip of the hand that had taken hers.
“Sit down. Well, you don’t look very ill,” said Mr. Frome cheerfully. And as Miss Smith withdrew his brain made a deliberate effort to remember. This old lady in the black toque, where had he seen her before? It was not the Mrs. Baxter whom he had expected, and his mind registered a slight relief that it wasn’t. But it was so much better if one had met a prospective patient before to remember it. “Mrs. Baxter,” he said reflectively.
“Miss Baxter,” said Miss Mary. “Miss Mary Baxter.”
“Ah, yes, of course, yes. . . .” And now Denis was smiling. He had got it all docketed now. “Yes, of course,” he said. “How nice of you to come and see me, Miss Baxter——”
“I have come because I am going blind,” said Miss Mary in a hoarse, dry voice. And then her agony of mind overcame her and she bowed her head into her black-gloved hands. Tears. Agonized tears. Tears that were drawn up out of an abyss of sterile emotion. God! How they hurt! Shaking, she made queer choking noises in her throat.
“Tell me about it,” said Mr. Frome after a little silence during which he had possessed himself of one of Miss Mary’s hands and was skilfully drawing off the glove from it. “Tell me,” he said again, and Miss Mary could feel the warmth of his grasp on her bare hand stealing up her arm.
“What must you think . . .?’’
“Believe me, I am so accustomed . . .” And then Denis Frome fell silent. Women would always talk if you let them; and there was plenty of time. As to blindness . . . no. A certain amount of digestive trouble, perhaps, which could easily be corrected, but not blindness, nor any chance of it. However, he would hear what she had to say first.
And Miss Mary had a lot to say. The floodgates were down after about sixty years. “Hard, unfeeling, unjust,” trembled Miss Mary. “You heard it yourself, what my sister-in-law thinks of me. And it is true what she says. I am. But if only God . . . ” Miss Mary’s drenched eyes were wide and staring. “The punishment is too hard,” she said. “To go blind. And I am an active woman. Besides . . . ”
“Well . . . ”
“I suffered too terribly in my youth,” said Miss Mary. “You are a young man, and you can only see me as an old woman. But once I was young and was engaged to be married. And my youngest sister came home from school and my lover preferred her. My heart broke then and I had to pretend that I understood. That did something to me that can never be undone. She is dead now. But it taught me to hate; I could not rise above it. And now at seventy-five . . . ” Miss Mary raised a ravaged face. “I don’t know why I tell you,” she said. “But it is something about your face. You are kind . . . and you understand. . . . I could see that when you were in our house the other night. Youth is generally so contemptuous of the frailty of age. Not that you are exactly a young man. But compared to me . . .” Miss Mary, having found her large linen handkerchief, was carefully wiping her eyes with it.
“I am glad that you approve of me, Miss Baxter,” said Denis, and his eyes were very kind as he patted the trembling hand that he still held in his. “But now, before you tell me any more, let us just tackle this business that is so distressing you. Just hold this in your hand, will you? The hand that I have been holding. That’s it. . . .” And then Denis swung round a little in his chair. The chart. . . his eyes were instantly attentive on the little dial in front of him. A long, long silence during which Miss Mary prayed as she had never prayed before in her life. A bombardment of prayer. “Lord, if it be Thy will. Or even if it isn’t,” prayed Miss Mary recklessly, “I will be better . . . less difficult. Less prone to remember the bitter things of life. . . . ” And then her thoughts swerved round again. The man in the white overall. He knew . . . something told her that he knew. Because he could see what was going on inside you; that was what they had said in the village. The postmistress, Mrs. Fenwick, she had a friend who was going blind. That was really what had driven Miss Mary to take this desperate step. Mrs. Fenwick had seen her stumble as she came in to buy some stamps. And then Mrs. Fenwick had begun about her friend. How that she was going blind, etcetera, etcetera. Mrs. Fenwick had always been a garrulous woman. But it had made Miss Mary think. And at last, desperate with terror and anxiety, she had made Katie think that she was going up to town for a day’s shopping. And so here she was, thought Miss Mary bleakly. It was a nice room, a nice business-like room, and yet it was not alarming. Ah, he was going to say something. “Oh, God, stand by me.” Unknowingly Miss Mary fled for protection to the One with whom she had really had very few intimate dealings. But then it wasn’t until—until there wasn’t anything else or any one else . . . Miss Mary’s lips were very white.
“Well, Miss Baxter.” Denis had swung round from the table again, his hand lingering on the chart on which he had been scribbling. And then, leaning forward, he took the little microphone from her hand and set it down. I am glad to be able to tell you,” he said, “that there is not the remotest fear of your going blind. I find no trace of eye trouble at all. What I do find is a certain amount of physical disorder which is causing the symptoms that have frightened you so.” And then Denis stopped speaking. He got up and walked to the door and opened it. “Miss Smith,” he said.
And then nice, round-eyed Miss Smith was all efficiency. Sal volatile; eau-de-Cologne: she had Miss Mary under her wing at once. While Denis busied himself at his writing-table. Evidently the valiant old lady had had to screw herself up to this interview in some tremendous way, and was now suffering for it. However, Miss Smith knew exactly what to do.
“Better?” And now Miss Smith had disappeared again. Denis was standing close to Miss Mary and smiling down at her.
“Are you certain?” Miss Mary’s white lips could hardly say the words.
“Positive.”
“But you have not looked at my eyes.”
“There is no need to.”
“Can you see it all in your machine?”
“Yes, all that is necessary.”
“Am I going to die from some dreadful disease?”
“No,” said Denis, sitting down in his chair again and smiling. “No, you most certainly are not. For your age, Miss Baxter, you have a most marvellous constitution. But there are a few . . .” And then Denis became explicit to the uttermost detail.
“But what shall I do?”
“You will do exactly what I tell you. . . .” And then came directions. Long directions that were to be faithfully followed. Certain capsules were to be taken—and taken regularly. And then Denis Frome smiled a little more widely than he generally did, and his eyes twinkled.
“I am afraid that nice late dinner must go, Miss Baxter.”
“I have dined late for sixty years,” said Miss Mary anxiously. “But, of course . . .”
“Yes, you have dined late for forty years too long,” said Denis grimly. “And now that has all got to alter. But I am sure, considering everything, you will consider that it is worth it.”
“What shall I say to my sister—and my sister-in-law?”
“Tell them to cut it out, too,” said Denis merrily, “or limit it to a little fish and a great deal of vegetable cooked without any soda in it.”
“I can’t . . .” Miss Mary sat very still. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “And I can’t thank you enough. Will you want to see me again?”
“Yes, I should like to check you up again in three weeks’ time.”
“And . . . ” Miss Mary had begun to fumble in her bag.
“I generally get my secretary to send in a monthly bill,” said Denis pleasantly. And then somehow Miss Mary found that she had arrived in the secretary’s room. Mr. Frome’s door was shut. . . . It was over. That horror of suspense was over. “I . . .’’ Miss Mary, trying to regain her habitual self-control, was staring at Miss Smith.
But Miss Smith was equal to anything. In the most ordinary voice she asked Miss Mary for her name and address. She handed Miss Mary a beautifully done-up parcel all ready with string to carry it by: the capsules, of course. And then somehow she was sliding down in the lift again. It was over, and instead of receiving a sentence of death she had been given a new lease of life. Wild ideas seized on Miss Mary. She would . . . she would. . . . But first of all she would have tea. Marshall’s was near at hand, and tea at Marshall’s was always nice. Miss Mary went scuttling across the crowded streets, only half-conscious of what she was doing. But this was the feeling that she always imagined having and yet was quite certain that she never would have. For he would have been certain to have found something wrong. No one could have had the queer tricks of vision that she had had and it not mean blindness. But it didn’t. . . . And he knew . . . he really knew; one felt that he knew, thought Miss Mary, racing into Marshall’s and noting as in a dream the beautiful bags, some of them all glittering. She would buy Margaret a bag. She would buy Katie a bag, although not a glittering one. Margaret and Pamela should have the most beautiful evening bags; a glittering one for Pamela and for Katie and Margaret bags of petit point. For nothing else would give expression to her profound thankfulness but being generous. As a rule Miss Mary did not feel generous except at stated intervals. But now she was possessed of a vast craving to make somebody else happy, and she would begin with those who lived with her.
And Katie and Margaret were stupefied. To begin with, Mary was very late home, and came all the way from the station in a taxi instead of waiting for the bus that actually passed their gate. And then after dinner, for which she did not change, she produced two boxes, both wrapped in the charming flowered paper that makes shopping at Marshall’s so delightful.
“I have brought you both a fairing,” she said gaily.
“Oh, Mary!” Katie was like a child untying the string, doing it slowly so as to savour the full excitement of it. While Margaret, inwardly very much astonished, tried to drag the string off the parcel, but failed and began to undo it. Where had Mary been to return with that air of secret excitement? And she had been so odd lately, so silent, although O so much nicer than she used to be! It was three weeks now since that dreadful evening. And although Margaret did not feel quite as well as she had thought she was going to, yet the fearful dragging depression had lessened. Pamela had gone—that was one thing that made everything a little dreary, although, of course, she had known that it was going to happen. And Mrs. Jessop had gone, too—to stay with friends in Scotland. And Margaret missed those two very special friends of hers. They had been so alive and Margaret had always vaguely hoped, although she had not admitted it even to herself, that they would perhaps ask her to meet Mr. Frome one evening. As a matter of fact, they had tried to do so, but Mr. Frome had been engaged. And then in the rush of preparation the opportunity had been lost sight of. But . . . And Margaret, skilfully unravelling the string with the warmth of the beautiful fire seething all over her, reflected that really if one was warm one could bear being a little dull.
And when she went up to her bedroom Chang would be there drawn up in front of another fire. Unbelievable what those few quiet words of Mr. Frome’s had done in that conservative household.
“Oh, Mary!” Katie’s plump face was all creased with surprise and joy as she drew the really exquisite bag from its tissue-paper wrappings.
“Mary!” And Margaret was quite obviously overcome. “Mary, how lovely!” she exclaimed. And her surprise and joy were even more welcome to Mary than her sister Katie’s. For it was to Margaret that she owed her knowledge of Mr. Frome. From that nightmarish and ghastly evening three weeks ago had sprung this glory of a new hope. Miss Mary leaned forward, the patch of pink colour in her usually pale face made more conspicuous by the rosy colour of the flames that flickered across it.
“I want to tell you something,” she said, and to Margaret’s astounded ears and eyes it was as if the staid old lady that she knew had taken on another personality. Something young, and scintillating with excitement. Scintillating. What a word to use or even think of in connection with her sister-in-law, thought Margaret, sitting there with her slim fingers linked rather tightly together. For it was exciting, seeing Mary look as she was looking at the moment. Also, the bag was a beauty.
“Well. . .” said Miss Mary, and then she began. She told it all, beginning at the very beginning. And Margaret, listening, thought what a wonderful and unexpected thing life was. Her sister-in-law, suffering agonies of fear in secret. Her sister-in-law, absorbing the wonder of Mr. Frome, and not saying anything about it. Her sister-in-law, starting off that very morning under the pretext of urgent shopping, when really she had gone in terror of being confronted with a sentence of death. For to Mary to be blind would be worse than death. Her overweening independence made subject to the wishes of other people. No, it would have been ghastly. . . . Margaret felt her breath coming quicker as she listened.
“But you never told me, dear.” Katie’s voice was plaintive. All the drama of the whole thing was lost to Katie because she suddenly felt out of it.
“I could not speak of it.”
“But you could have told me, dear,” said Katie, her tear-filled eyes downbent to the beautiful bag on her silken lap.
“No, I couldn’t,” said Miss Mary abruptly. “I was too afraid,” she said simply.
“I know exactly how you felt,” said Margaret suddenly. Her upraised eyes were shining. “It’s the terror of being told,” she said. “One can bear almost anything if one knows. But not uncertainty; that is a killing thing.”
“Yes,” said Miss Mary, and her eyes wandered to Margaret as if she saw her for the first time.
“Do you think he knows?” said Katie slowly, and her voice was aggrieved.
“Yes, of course, he knows,” said Miss Mary simply. And Margaret, hearing the quiet, assured words, felt her heart leap in unspoken sympathy with her sister-in-law. Mary, whom she had always almost disliked and to whom she had never credited anything really decent in the way of feeling. Mary—stiff, conventional, old-fashioned Mary. Mary had seen beneath that calm, cool exterior and had sensed the power and genius that lay there.
“Oh, Mary, do tell us more about it!” she exclaimed. “About what he said, and what he looked like as he said it, and what his consulting-room is like. And the machine he uses—you say it is like a wireless. Do tell us more about it.”
“I don’t think Dr. Foster will be any too pleased,” said Katie, twisting the snap of the beautiful bag so that it opened, and then shutting it sharply again.
“I am afraid I do not care what Dr. Foster thinks,” said Miss Mary calmly. “You see, Katie, you seem to forget that I was faced with what appeared to me to be oncoming blindness.”
“But you did not consult an ordinary oculist.”
“No, because I was afraid that if he gave an adverse opinion I might not have the courage to consult any one else.”
“But what made you think of consulting Mr. Frome?” continued Katie peevishly.
“I thought of it because of something Mrs. Fenwick said.”
“Do you mean Mrs. Fenwick at the post office?”
“Yes,” said Miss Mary simply, remembering that awful sunless afternoon when she had almost fallen across the darkening threshold of the little blocked-up shop, and of how Mrs. Fenwick’s rather raspy hand had reached hers through the grey drifting clouds that blotted out her vision.
“What did she say?” said Margaret, wanting to hear it all over again, although she already knew it. For Pamela had told her all about it long ago. Even before that ghastly nightmare evening that had been the beginning of all this.
“She said. . .” And then, as if Miss Mary liked talking about it better than anything else, she began to tell it all over again. While the firelight sparkled over the three women sitting there, Margaret with wide-open, listening eyes, Katie with her half-grudging pout, and Miss Mary as if she had been vouchsafed a glimpse of another world. “She looks as if she had seen God,” thought Margaret. “What agonizing, sickening terror she must have been through to look like that. And how Mr. Frome must love to be able to bring a look like that to any one’s face.” Margaret, leaning back in her chair, shut her eyes as Miss Mary’s crisp, cultured voice went on and on.
But somehow after this great excitement things seemed to go back to where they had been before. Not that they were really nearly so bad: the house was warmer and the meals were different; dinner was no longer the set function that it had been. Miss Mary was ordered to eat more vegetables, so the table groaned with vegetables. She drank barley water. In fact, Miss Mary’s diet became almost a rite. And it was wonderful how she flourished on this new regime, and Miss Katie adopted it too and also felt very much better. Miss Mary went twice up to London and came back full of enthusiasm over Mr. Frome and his methods; and wonderful spectacles were prescribed and the terror of blindness was no more and the two sisters worked and talked and trotted out on little errands, and Margaret felt out of it again, and resentful and somehow dreadfully disappointed and flattened; and Pamela and her mother had gone, so that outlet was denied her. And somehow the sympathy that had flared up so dramatically between her and her elder sister-in-law died down again as the days went on. Miss Mary, no longer terrified, settled down into the old ways again. And always there was the unspoken feeling that Margaret wasted her time. No set purpose, no determination to make the most of every hour—every precious hour, thought Miss Mary briskly. An aimless life; just drifting through the days. Margaret ought to do something—be something. So much was needed from every human being nowadays. There was something so distressing about the fact that Margaret did not seem to see it.
And one day, made bold by her confidence in him, Miss Mary decided to refer the matter to Mr. Frome. Miss Mary was lying on a couch in a darkened room with a red lamp shining on her. She was allowed to talk. Mr. Frome encouraged it. You got at your patient in a darkened room, Mr. Frome knew that very well.
And Mr. Frome, pacing up and down the room, his clever hands linked behind his back, listened with interest. He had got to like the valiant old lady who had come to him with such pluck and determination. He liked her because she did exactly as he told her, and he had proved it. The capsules he prescribed lasted the time that they ought to last; Miss Smith was able to check that. Miss Mary had cut out of her diet all the things that he had told her to cut out, and did not lie about it. She kept her appointments regularly and was never a second late. And, best of all, she was so marvellously better in health. It was pure joy to Denis Frome to see ill-health, that arch enemy of his, put to flight. It made him feel as if he wanted to shout and sing. He often did sing as he walked from the little station of Market Stacey to his cottage on the Green. He sang through the mist and the frosty, smoky atmosphere of winter bonfires. And the villagers would smile as they heard his voice through the darkness. “The mad doctor,” as some of them called him. But although they called him mad they felt a certain pride that he had elected to come and live among them. And Mrs. Macey, who looked after his cottage and “did” for him, had quite a position in the village. Encouraged by Mrs. Fenwick, who, having had personal confirmation of the wonders that the doctor could do, was able to speak with authority. And also Denis Frome was grateful that Miss Mary Baxter made no attempt to get him to her house. It was his horror to have to mix socially with his patients. When he left his consulting-room he liked to forget them. Books, his wireless, an early retreat to bed to recoup his energies for the next day—these were Denis Frome’s great desires. His holiday was a thing apart; then he was lost to the world altogether. Three months of it: Kashmir, the wilds of the North-West Frontier. India was the land of Denis Frome’s dreams. When he was out there he dressed like a native. His Indian servant, Nazir Ah, a magnificent bearded Mohammedan, met him in Bombay when he arrived, and never left him while he was on his travels. During his sahib’s absence in England for eight or nine months Haji took other naukri,1 although Denis gave him a generous retaining fee. This made it possible for him to leave his temporary master under the pretext that one or other of his relatives was at the point of death. And he would then journey to Bombay, squatting bow-legged on the hard seat, his fine dark profile turned to the flying paddy fields thinking with a profound joy of the three months that lay ahead of him. For Frome Sahib left all the arrangements of his journeyings to Nazir Ali. Haji would engage syces and horses and tents and all the equipage that went to the moving of camp. Frome Sahib was a pukka Sahib, thought Haji, his inscrutable gaze intent under the edge of his snowy pagari.
So while he was in England and working Denis Frome liked to live his life as he pleased. Famous in his own line, he was much in demand at public functions, so that he had to go out a certain amount. But at Market Stacey he went out not at all, and secretly he was rather glad that the Jessops had gone away. They might have become a bother, although they were so nice that probably they wouldn’t have done. But still . . . And as Denis listened to Miss Baxter he wondered whether perhaps he was now going to be got at from another angle. For Miss Baxter, lying there with bandaged eyes, was talking of her sister-in-law. Talking of her with a freedom that was very unusual with Miss Mary. Speaking of her lack of purpose, of her listlessness, of her apparent lack of regard for any sort of motive of existence. “For it cannot be right,” said Miss Mary, lying there with her smooth white hands straight down by her sides, “to live a life of complete self-absorption.”
“No, certainly not,” agreed Denis, putting out a practised hand to adjust a lamp and then resuming his pacing again.
“I think you might do wonders with Margaret,” continued Miss Mary meditatively. “You could provide her with an object in life. And even from a physical point of view you might discover that she was seriously lacking in some necessary ingredient, such as calcium.”
“I might,” said Denis, and a swift flicker of amusement shone in his dark blue eyes.
“And that lack might be seriously influencing her mental outlook.”
“It most certainly might,” said Denis, walking to the window and peeping out from under the drawn blind. He liked to look out from the darkness like this. Sunshine and fleecy clouds skimming over the chimney pots of Bond Street. Above the clouds. If only people lived more at that altitude, thought Denis, letting the blind fall again.
“Would you see her?” inquired Miss Mary thoughtfully. “I think if I were to use my influence she might consent to come to you. Certainly it might be made more difficult by the distressing circumstances in which you first met, and yet on the other hand it might make it easier. She would realize that you already knew her to be in an over-wrought and over-strained condition, and that might break down any feeling of reserve that she might still have.”
“It might,” said Denis, wondering whether he should veto this idea of his becoming Mrs. Baxter’s guide, philosopher and friend at once, or let it simmer a little. From long experience he knew exactly how to handle the unsatisfied woman who craved for a sex interest, and yet somehow the task never became very congenial, because they were so pathetic in the way that they thought that he didn’t see, in the way that they poured out their woes, not realizing that he knew exactly what they were going to say almost before they said it. The doctor, the clergyman, someone of the opposite sex whose job it was to listen. The one chance for the disappointed woman to air her grievances and her frustrations and all the rest of the minor tragedies that make up the life of the unloved and unwanted woman. Didn’t he know it almost better than he knew the walk from Market Stacey station to his cottage? As Denis paced about the room he wondered whether he wanted to be landed with Margaret Baxter. Because she was attractive—attractive in a way that appealed to him. Her hair was dark and silky, the sort of hair that you might want to gather up in your hand and kiss. Not that he would be likely to make that particular sort of a fool of himself; he was far too aware of what the consequences would be. But still . . . was it wise to even contemplate admitting her to his consulting-room? She was not ill—at least she was not seriously ill, making it a matter of urgency. He was frightfully busy, booked up for every hour for the next fortnight; and that in itself was a very excellent excuse. And as Denis walked to the window again and gently pulled up the blind he wondered what the old lady lying there would do if she knew what was going on in his mind. For to a woman of her age the doctor was so much of a machine. Not a man at all, or she would never dream of coming to him. An impersonal being to whom she could confide the most intimate details of her physical structure without even thinking about it.
“Well, Miss Baxter, I think that is all for to-day.” Very gently Denis Frome was helping Miss Mary from the couch.
“Oh, I do feel so much better!”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“And now what about my sister-in-law?” said Miss Mary, gathering her wrapper round her austere old figure and staring up into Denis’s downbent face.
“Well . . .”
“I should wish to be responsible for any expense that might be incurred,” said Miss Mary quickly. “I should regard it as a thank-offering for the way you have lifted a load of terror from my mind and life.”
“It is very kind of you to speak like that.”
“But I feel it.”
“You are seeing very much better?”
“Infinitely better.”
“I am glad,” said Denis simply. And he was. He liked Miss Mary Baxter. She was worth bothering about.
“And you will see my sister-in-law?” said Miss Mary, standing there bundled up in her gown, with her hair a little disarranged.
“Yes, if you would like me to,” said Denis simply. “Make an appointment with my secretary; she knows exactly how things are. And now good-bye until next time, Miss Baxter.”
“Good-bye,” said Miss Mary. And through the curtain, as she methodically dressed herself, she talked with Miss Smith. It was odd how expansive reserved women became, reflected Miss Smith, turning over the pages of her appointment book. She felt that she already knew the sister-in-law for whom an appointment was requested. Mrs. Percival Baxter. Women talked like that when they were having their hair done. Miss Smith had often heard them through the thin walls of her particular cubicle. They responded to authority; they bowed to competence. Miss Smith was running her pencil down the well-filled pages without touching them.
“We are very booked up,” she said, and Miss Mary, tying her veil firmly under her chin, heard the words with dismay. “But we have a cancelled appointment for next Tuesday. Tuesday at half-past eleven. It was to be a first appointment, so Mr. Frome had reserved an hour and a half for it. Would that suit Mrs. Baxter?”
“I will see that it does,” said Miss Mary magisterially. And as she walked along towards Piccadilly her mind moved in a way that it very rarely did. For Miss Mary was not apt to conjecture. But now . . . perhaps it was something to do with the treatment that she was undergoing. For her imagination seemed to be spurred. What had happened to the person for whom that hour and a half had been reserved? Had she perhaps been so ill that she had died? Or had she been seized with a panic so awful that she felt she could not risk hearing confirmed the dread that she had been trying not to believe herself. In any event . . . “If only I had been able to speak with her,” thought Miss Mary, gazing with quite a jaunty expression along the Burlington Arcade. That delightful mysterious little alleyway along which, as a girl, it had been worse than dangerous to stroll. Such a pity, because the shops were so attractive. But even nowadays . . . no, wiser not, decided Miss Mary, hastening her steps because the temptation was really rather acute. Yes, if only she had been able to speak to that terror-stricken woman, whoever she might have been. She would have told her how kind, how infinitely kind was the tall man in the white overall. How skilful his touch. How almost tender his treatment of the wretched shrinking woman so entirely at his mercy. Well, well. Feeling almost jaunty, Miss Mary went tripping along to Swan and Edgar’s in her nice square-toed glacé shoes. She would do a little shopping and then get back home again and have a good talk with Margaret before dinner.
And this she did. And to Margaret’s stupefaction she found herself, after dinner that night, walking along under the frosty stars with a letter in her hand. She was to catch the nine-thirty post at the pillar-box.
“For he is very busy,” said Miss Mary with a tone of proprietorship in her voice. “And we cannot afford to lose this appointment; the only one for quite three weeks, as I gathered from Miss Smith. And I do hope, Margaret, that Mr. Frome will be able to do as much for you as he has done for me. For I feel quite a different woman since I began taking his medicines and undergoing his massage.”
And Margaret, walking along in the starlight, knew that this was true. Her sister-in-law was miles better in health and in sight and in general well-being. She was, in fact, a different woman. But did she herself want to be a different woman? Wasn’t it better to remain in the condition in which she already found herself—inert, indifferent, interested in practically nothing but her cat? And now that the house was so much warmer she had taken up her knitting again. Afternoons were really quite nice. She went up to rest directly after luncheon, cuddling down under the eiderdown with a hot-water bottle smuggled up by the attentive Susan. And Chang cuddled down, too. Then after a short sleep she got up and changed and went downstairs to sit in the drawing-room until tea-time. Tea was still at five o’clock, but as luncheon was always an ample meal, more ample than ever now, because dinner had been curtailed, one could easily wait until five, especially as there was always a roaring fire, and she could sit up near to it and roast her feet, so that when she stood up the soles of them burnt her, and Mary would talk about Mr. Frome and Miss Smith, and the view from the consulting-room window, so that Margaret felt as if she knew it all quite well without ever having seen it. The tops of the plane trees, all dark and leafless and outlined against the sky. Mr. Frome in his American overall with the high collar. Miss Smith with her determined way of speaking. Miss Mary even made game of it in a quiet way. But she made game of it in such an assured way. Such a quiet, content, peaceful way. So utterly unlike anything that they had had before. For Katie noticed it. She was too loyal to her sister to remark on it to Margaret, but all the same she noticed it. And this evening, when Mary had come back from London, looking so spry and cheerful although it had been a long day for her, Katie had sat and knitted and looked as if she could say heaps of things about the changed atmosphere but wasn’t going to. And then Mary had begun—almost as if she had rehearsed it—all about how that she was anxious about Margaret’s lethargy, that it was unnatural in someone so young, and that it was time it was attended to, etc., etc., and how that she had spoken to Mr. Frome about it, and that he was prepared to see Margaret on the following Tuesday at half-past eleven.
“But . . . ”
“I have absolutely made up my mind about it, Margaret,” said Miss Mary resolutely. “Although I am aware that you are a woman grown and must manage your own life. But I am concerned about you and so is Katie. You have little faith in Dr. Foster, or I should suggest calling him in and asking him to give you a tonic. But I do not think that it would be of any use. So, as I have the greatest faith in Mr. Frome and so have a great many other people, I have made up my mind that you should see him, and I shall make myself responsible for anything that it may cost.”
“But . . .” And as Margaret came home along the rather badly-lighted road with the stars shining above it she remembered how she had said “but” again and then fallen silent. For what else was there to say? How could she explain herself to these two sisters-in-law of hers? How explain that it was madness of them to pitchfork her into an association, however professional, with a man as attractive as Denis Frome. His voice, his hands, the way he touched her. Everything was perfect, with that perfection that she had always dreamed of. His understanding, his comprehension of the way that the mind of a woman worked . . . the whole thing was perfect. And yet underneath was a will of steel, a will of steel and a touch of cruelty in the way of enforcing it. Why, her sisters-in-law were mad—crazy. Why not leave her to vegetate as she was beginning to vegetate so successfully? Why rout her out and start her on that fatally easy road that always led to the most hellish suffering? But still. . . and then as Margaret turned in to the high white gates she shrugged her shoulders under her fur coat. Wasn’t it what she had longed for, to see him again? Wasn’t it what she had hoped for? Wasn’t that largely why she so missed Pamela and her mother, because with them had gone the chance of ever seeing him in an informal way? And then, as Margaret let herself in at the big glass front door, she realized that there was nothing really to get excited about. For a doctor in his consulting-room was as remote as a priest in his Confessional. Even if he didn’t want to be, he had to be because of the frightful consequences if he wasn’t. “Guilty of infamous professional conduct.” She had seen something about that in the Daily Telegraph—the Daily Telegraph that Miss Mary would never call the Daily Telegraph because she had grown up with the Morning Post. And had not thought it funny when Margaret had said that they would call it the Morning Ghost. Yes, a doctor in his consulting-room was as inaccessible as the Pole Star. And just about as unresponsive, thought Margaret, slipping her fur coat off her rounded shoulders and thinking in some far-away part of her that she would wear her nicest clothes on Tuesday. The black marrocain coat and skirt and the very expensive lace blouse that went with it. The small Cossack cap that matched her fur coat, the fur coat that poor old Percival had given her. Yes, she would make herself look nice and take pains with her hair. She could look nice if she tried, only it was such a bother to try. She would pin on that big bunch of violets that Mrs. Jessop had given her—the lovely violets that she had never worn. Because what was the use of dressing up when it was so much easier to go to bed early and have a lovely hot bath and cuddle Chang? And now that it was so much warmer in the house it was much nicer to stay in it instead of going out into the cold.
“Well, have you posted your letter?” Miss Mary, sitting very erect in her high-backed chair, looked up over her patience cards as Margaret came in.
“Yes, Mary, I have.”
“And I am quite sure that you will never regret having done so,” said Miss Mary finally. “Now then, Katie, come along. Red on black, I can see it even from over here,” Miss Mary’s mouth was curved in a little sedate happy smile as she spoke.
Tuesday was a lovely fine day. But in spite of the sunshine that generally made her feel cheerful, Miss Smith got a very severe turn when hearing somebody coming into the waiting-room. She opened the communicating door and saw Margaret sitting there.
“For,” as she said to her mother afterwards, “it might have been Mrs. Sherrard sitting there.”
“What, that hussy you told me about last Christmas,” said Mrs. Smith. “The one who would keep on coming till her husband came and fetched her away?”
“Yes, that’s the one,” said Miss Smith. And as she stood there and stared at Margaret, her fragile delicacy roused in her a sort of fury. Here was one of these women who came because they wanted to get in touch with an attractive man. Here was one of these women whom men could not resist. Unpractical, dreamy, perfectly useless and worst of all perfectly well in health. Only lazy; that was all the matter with them, only lazy. When Miss Baxter had mentioned a sister-in-law, Miss Smith had visualised someone stodgy. Someone plain, with a bashed in hat and a scarf tied in rather a miserable bow round a stringy neck. But this—Miss Smith stood very still as Margaret spoke.
“I am afraid I am rather early for my appointment; I was so afraid of being late.” Margaret flushed and spoke anxiously. This secretary person had taken a dislike to her, and Mary had said that she was so nice.
“Yes, you are early,” said Miss Smith quietly. “But if you will sit down and wait I will let you know when Mr. Frome is disengaged.” And then Miss Smith went away, while Margaret sat and trembled. Miss Smith had seen through her at one glance. At least, not exactly seen through her, because it was perfectly true that this appointment had been none of her seeking or arrangement. But Miss Smith had seen that she had taken pains with her clothes. That she had made up her face very skilfully so that it should look nice through a veil. That she had pinned the violets in exactly the right place. In fact, what Miss Smith saw was that her illness was not in the least uppermost in her mind; what was uppermost was the fact that she was about to interview a very attractive and well-known man and wanted to look as nice as she could while she did it.
But Denis Frome did not look at Margaret’s clothes. He only saw the sensitive, hesitating, almost frightened glance that she gave him as he took her hand. She was shaking—very slightly, but she was shaking. He pressed her hand before he released it.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I feel——”
“Well.”
“There is nothing the matter with me really,” stammered Margaret. “My sister-in-law was keen for me to see you. You have done so much for her, it’s wonderful; she is quite different now.”
“I am so glad.”
“And as she was so keen I didn’t like to damp her.” Somehow Margaret felt that she must go on about herself. Although she didn’t want to; she didn’t want to say anything really.
“Well, supposing you tell me——” and then Denis took command. Not that there was anything he wanted to know really, because he already knew it all. And after a few minutes, she sat there facing the light, he watched the dial of his machine. Run down—yes, decidedly run down. Organic disease—not a trace of it. Functional—well, nothing perceptible. Nervous system—yes, that was the bother. Spinal lesions—nerve points inert. Spinal massage, it would do a great deal for Mrs. Percival Baxter. Yes, he could help a lot. But as he watched the dial and jotted down numbers on the chart beside him, he got a feeling that he very rarely got when dealing with a patient. Generally he was heart and soul in what he was doing. But this time he was not. He was doing his job properly, but he was doing something else as well. He was watching the woman who sat there. He was taking her in. The fragrance of her intrigued him. She was beautiful in a sort of rare exotic way he had not noticed before. She had a mind that he liked; something within him responded to it. He would like to have swung round from his machine and held out his arms, and said, “My dear child, what you want is a man to love you, come along, let’s make a beginning.” And sitting there, Denis wondered how it was that women imagined that doctors, whatever their particular school of thought, had lost the capacity of appreciating what was charming and feminine, especially when as in this case there was no real illness to deal with. However—as Denis scribbled on the chart he made up his mind. If he undertook Mrs. Baxter as a patient, he was going to harden his heart. “Thus far and no farther,” would be his motto and he would stick to it.
“Well——” he swung round in his chair.
“Am I going to die of anything frightful?” Margaret’s brown eyes were suddenly afraid.
“No, you most certainly are not.” And then Denis made it all clear; he spoke for some time, choosing his words and despising himself because he carefully avoided the word sex. And Margaret sat and listened and felt a sort of childish delight because he was just attractive as she had thought he was going to be. And somehow she suddenly felt young. He liked her—he did, she could feel it. It was as if an invisible thread swung between them. She suddenly sat back in her chair and laughed out loud, showing her pretty teeth.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I don’t know, I suddenly feel ever so much better,” said Margaret. “I don’t feel tired any more; generally, I feel so tired that I don’t want to move.”
“Coming up to London has done you good. That is what I say, you lead far too sedentary a life.”
“I know, but I’ve got not to want to do anything else.”
“Quite wrong for any one of your age,” said Denis. Getting up from his chair he began to pace about the room. He felt uneasy—disturbed; unlike himself. He had been a damned fool to encourage Miss Baxter in bringing her sister-in-law for treatment. He was far too busy a man to take on another patient. Certainly spinal massage would do her a world of good, but still there were others of his school of thought in London. And then as he swung round and glanced at her, he experienced a swift revulsion of feeling. No, thank God he was immune. He had seen too many women in his time and been badly disillusioned very early on in his life. No, he was safe—there was a little glint of satisfaction in the smile he gave her. “Just get Miss Smith to fix up a time for you to come again,” he said. “Good-bye, Mrs. Baxter, remember me to your nice sister-in-law,” and then with a cordial handshake Margaret was back in the office again.
“He says that I am to come for spinal massage.” Rather childishly she was staring at Miss Smith. Miss Smith despised her; of course she did. Miss Smith saw too many women hanging round Mr. Frome. But, still it was her job to make appointments for patients. But supposing she declined to make one. Mr. Frome would give way to her; they were leagued together, he and she. They saw inside the patients as well as outside. None of their wiles and tricks escaped them. . . .
“Would to-day fortnight suit you?”
“Yes, quite well,” said Margaret simply. For it was no use arguing. Miss Smith would see that she didn’t come either too soon or too often.
“At the same time.”
“Well, it means leaving home a little early.”
“Shall we say two o’clock then?” Miss Smith held her pencil suspended over her expensive appointment book with what Margaret interpreted as a look of disdain. “The poor feeble idiot is afraid of getting up early,” that was what Miss Smith was thinking, of course. Well, Margaret didn’t care; Miss Smith was paid to do her job. Mary liked her, but then Mary was not particularly perceptive. Besides, Mary was old and was not a danger. And then as Margaret subconsciously visualised the word danger, she understood. Poor Miss Smith, of course, she adored Mr. Frome. A hopeless worship; the desire of the moth for the star. And she hated any one at all attractive coming to see him. She liked doddering old people coming. And under her veil, Margaret suddenly smiled, showing her pretty teeth. She too felt spiteful and why? It was as if she had suddenly begun to feel things that she had never felt before, or, at least not felt for years and years. Little feminine things; one of them being, that it would be nice to see Miss Smith worsted. And yet, how hatefully petty to feel that! Why must the disgusting mean part of her wake up first? There were better things about her than that.
“Two o’clock will do very well for me,” said Margaret pleasantly. And then she went away. Down in the lift with the nice polite liftman. All so expensive and well equipped. What a lot it must cost to have a consulting-room in this part of London, thought Margaret, making up her mind that she would go and look at the shops. It was nearly one, she had been there for ages. She would have lunch and then look at the shops and then perhaps buy a new lace blouse. If she was going to start coming up to London she would have to vary her clothes a little, thought Margaret, a little smile curving her top lip as she walked along thinking funny little darting cheerful thoughts that eluded her when she tried to think what exactly they were.
It was not until after Christmas that Margaret realised what had happened to her. Up till then it had only been a joke; fun to think about, something to play with in imagination, and a reason for making oneself look nice. It was fun to try new ways of doing one’s hair; the buying of a new hat was a delight, shoes and stockings were fun, and it was jolly to see how slim one’s ankles had kept. Christmas was fun too, and they were all gay, marvellously gay, and the house was warm, and the servants were cheerful, and decorated the hall with lovely bits of holly and greenery. And Mary looked so well and was so festive; she had finished her course with Mr. Frome, although she was still going on with her eye exercises. How they laughed over the eye exercises in the evenings. And Margaret too was feeling wonderfully better, in fact, as Miss Mary often said, and it was echoed less fastidiously by the servants, Margaret looked a different woman since she had been going to Mr. Frome. And then one day after Christmas, her massage over and Mr. Frome was rolling down his sleeves again, the words had been said that brought Margaret’s world crashing round her with a sound that surely must be a real sound, thought Margaret, staring round her as if he too must have heard the crash.
“I don’t think we need continue the massage any longer, Mrs. Baxter.” Mr. Frome was speaking cheerfully. “You are so much better, that last check up showed the wonderful improvement that has taken place. Now I should suggest a change of air; get away, abroad if possible. Switzerland, have you ever been to Switzerland?”
So that was that. And Margaret, holding her head high as she said good-bye to him, knew that he, with his keen insight, had found out. Found out what, thought Margaret blindly, getting herself anyhow into her clothes again. Miss Smith had guessed and had told him. Miss Smith was a woman and that was the sort of thing women did. Even at that very moment, Miss Smith only a yard or two away, was sniggering over her discomfiture, for of course Miss Smith had known it was coming. She knew everything: oh, how passionately Margaret loathed Miss Smith! Mr. Frome would have told her, putting it nicely because he was a gentleman, but putting it very clearly all the same.
“I think I must put a stop to Mrs. Baxter coming, Miss Smith, I don’t want anything uncomfortable to happen here. So if she suggests an appointment just say that we are fully booked up.” Ah, no, Miss Smith should not have that supreme triumph. She would not even suggest an appointment; in fact . . .
And Margaret now fully dressed, although her hat was not on at quite its usual angle, was able to say it quite naturally. “I shan’t be coming again, Miss Smith, I’m frightfully busy for the next few weeks and Mr. Frome says that I’m quite well now. It’s splendid isn’t it, good-bye, good-bye.” Miss Smith’s eyes were quite impersonal. But Margaret could feel that impersonal gaze come stabbing through her shoulder-blades as Miss Smith held the office door open for her. Down in the lift for the last time, for the last time—no, it couldn’t be. Margaret walked blindly out into the street. Not the last time, no it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be true that she wouldn’t see him again; wouldn’t hear his voice again. Why hadn’t she said something—suggested—no what could she have suggested? Suggested that they might meet sometimes—at Market Stacey. No, a suggestion of that kind must come from him. Yes, but still he liked her—he had never seemed . . . They had talked, he hadn’t seemed bored. Yes, but if he had liked her, why hadn’t he suggested their meeting again? It would have been so easy. Instead of which the suggestion that her visits to his consulting-room should cease, had come from him. Suddenly, like a dreadful blow in the face; like a bucket of cold water flung into your face so that you couldn’t breathe and could only gasp and sort of blindly try to ward it off. Finished—it was all finished. And then to Margaret’s horror she found that the tears were pouring down her face and she could feel that her mouth was twisted oddly. A church—she could take refuge in a church. St. James’s Piccadilly, just across the road. Margaret rushing into the road without looking to the right, was very nearly run over. “Now then madame . . .” a stout policeman was advancing towards her, frowning.
But even the policeman stopped frowning when he saw her wet distorted face. His eyes followed her as she hurried past him into the courtyard of St. James’s Church. Seeing a woman in tears always upset this particular constable. Majestically he stopped all the traffic with one great arm while he fished in his pocket for his handkerchief with the other.
“What time is my next appointment, Miss Smith?” As Margaret was going blindly down in the lift, Denis Frome had put his head round the corner of his door.
“At half-past three.”
“And it is now?”
“Three,” said Miss Smith crisply.
“Thanks,” and then Denis shut the door again, shooting the bolt across. He often did that when he was alone. Alone—yes, thank God! Yes, that had been a near thing. How near, nobody but Denis Frome would ever know. For as she had lain there on her face so obediently and so trustingly, how had he not turned her over and lifted her up, all soft in surrender, and kissed her shut eyes? How had he not kissed her hair? How had he—— not—— And then Denis drew a long trembling breath. Mad—he must have been mad to sail so near to what would have been the end of everything. “Infamous professional conduct.” Yes, but that was only when the woman objected. What, when she didn’t object? What when not only did she not object, but when with every unspoken artifice of which she had command, she was imploring you to lose your self-control, when her whole trembling sensitive body was one prayer that you would by some little word, or by some little gesture, show her that you cared. That her complete surrender was your one desire and aim. That—and then Denis sat down suddenly in his chair. He was crazy, of course, to allow himself to be bowled over like this, even temporarily. Ruin—the end of everything that he valued. It had happened to a colleague of his: one of his own school and the British Medical Association to whom he was anathema anyhow, had been on him like an unleashed bloodhound. Poor old Waterfield, and he had been such a fine fellow. And the woman—a real bitch of a woman, after leading him on, had told her husband. Not that Margaret Baxter—and then as Denis remembered the look in her brown eyes, he put a finger inside his high collar and tugged it a little. No, he had done wisely, although it had been brutal. Far better to stop while he was capable of it. Because she was better in health, ten thousand times better, he was quite justified in ceasing treatment. And now the only thing was to forget—and to also remember that he had always regarded even a well concealed liaison death to ambition. Marriage—no, that indeed would be the end of everything. His solitude—that solitude that he valued above everything on earth. His yearly departure into the wilds where he never spoke to a white man, if he could help it, for three months on end. Fancy having to give that up, how otherwise would he absorb the strength to carry on with his work? No. Denis reached out a long arm and picked a cigarette out of the silver box. No, he had done the right thing. But it hadn’t been easy. Good God, was it time for another of them? Unlighted, he pitched the cigarette into the waste-paper basket as Miss Smith could be heard fumbling at the handle of the door.
Miss Mary was the first to notice that anything was wrong. That is to say she noticed before Katie did; Susan had known all about it for weeks, and so had cook. But somehow these two women did not discuss it with the other servants. A sense of loyalty restrained them. Both of them liked Margaret very much and were sorry for her because she had fallen in love with the famous doctor. Even the stately Chang seemed to fall flat. Margaret would go for long walks, coming in generally after it had got dark. There she would stand in the shelter of the big oak trees on the green, watching him go by. First of all the whistle of the engine of the fast train from London as it passed the far signal. And then the sound of the grinding brakes as it came to a standstill. Then the guard’s whistle and the sound of the train gathering speed as it moved out of the station again. And then in about seven minutes the long stride of the tall man in the Burberry and the black Homburg hat dragged down low over his eyes. Thank God her pride had remained and she had never waylaid him. Although she could have done it so beautifully and naturally. And then Margaret would go home and live for the rest of the next twenty-four hours on the memory of what she had seen. And then the next evening the same thing again. Although sometimes he would not come by the train at all, and then Margaret would go home wishing she was dead. Some other woman was dining with him; he had fallen in love with some other woman. Mary would have a note from him, a nice chatty note, telling her the good news, and he would have written that note so that Margaret should know about it and pull herself together once and for all.
And as you cannot go on feeling like this without suffering for it, Margaret was no exception to the rule. And Mary, who with her renewed health and sight, had become very much more perceptive, saw it all and became very anxious about it. Especially as deep deep down she had known that she was responsible for it. For it a way Miss Mary had remained very childlike at heart. It would be very delightful, she had thought subconsciously, if the famous doctor should take a fancy to her sister-in-law. It would be a solution of rather a difficult problem. And even if he didn’t take a serious fancy to her, the fact that she was obliged to go up to London would do Margaret good. Freshen her up and give her a new interest in life. Not to mention the good that it was going to do her in other ways. And now all Miss Mary’s plans had gone wrong. Margaret looked ill again, much worse than she had done before she went to Mr. Frome. Miss Mary shut herself up in her room and thought about it. She thought about it while she was doing her eye exercises; the eye exercises that used to be such a delightful topic of conversation as they sat together in the drawing-room. But now the mention of Mr. Frome made Miss Mary feel self-conscious. And you weren’t supposed to think about worrying things while you did your eye exercises. Oh dear! Miss Mary felt very shaken and disturbed and unlike herself as she thought about her sister-in-law. Especially as she had paid out a good deal of money to Mr. Frome on Margaret’s account and it all appeared to be going to be wasted.
And as waste was the one thing that Miss Mary could not tolerate she began to think what she could do. She herself was due for an appointment with Mr. Frome on the fifteenth of the month and it was now the tenth. She would wait until she went up to see him, watching Margaret carefully meanwhile. And then if Margaret was not considerably better she would speak to Mr. Frome. Speak to him frankly, telling him of her anxiety about Margaret. Of her disappointment at the setback. And he is so kind, thought Miss Mary naively, that he will undoubtedly do something about it. He may even send for her and speak a few words of encouragement. That would be better than anything.
And at last the fifteenth dawned. Margaret waked early and lay there feeling Chang respond to the touch of her hand by a loud purring. But somehow now, Chang did not give Margaret the thrill that he used to give her. What was the use of a cat when you wanted to hear the voice of someone you adored? And then Margaret, twisting under the blankets, hated herself. This was what women always did and she had always despised them for it. They hung round either a doctor or a clergyman. She had always made up her mind that she wouldn’t; that is when she had thought about it, when she generally didn’t. And now she had done it. And to-day was the day when Mary was going to see him; she had been talking about it for more than a week. Talking about it with a sort of glow, as if it warmed her to think of it. Mary—quite an old lady, although nowadays seventy-five wasn’t counted old. But even at seventy-five you felt it; there was magic about him; he touched everything with gold like the afternoon wintry sunshine touched the bare branches of the trees with gold. He had touched her with gold. He had brought his magic within quivering distance of her so that she was gilded; Margaret lying there hated herself because she was making such a fool of herself. But life now was ghastly—barren; torturing. Worse, much worse than it ever had been. Because before, although it had been dull and ghastly, one had always had the feeling that if one liked to rouse oneself up one could alter it. And now all one wanted to do was to hang round. Hang round like some wretched lovesick schoolgirl. And it was worse; far worse because she was getting quite old; thirty was no longer youth; however, you might try to think it was. And added to all the desolate shameful misery of it there was always the gnawing thought that he knew. And that Miss Smith knew too; and that Miss Smith was chuckling. Because she had seen it happen before; and she had also seen Mr. Frome shake the tiresome person off. He was an expert at it; the way that he had shaken her off made that very obvious. He and Miss Smith between them—-oh God, how she hated Miss Smith! Margaret, writhing at her thoughts, longed for half-past seven so that her tea would arrive. But not a bit of it; it was not seven yet. Another half-hour during which her thoughts would tear at her like that ghastly boring thing that tore up the road and tore at the vitals of the operator at the same time. Margaret had often wondered why trade unions allowed it and had felt comforted at the same time, because as they did allow it, it couldn’t be so bad as it looked and sounded. Automatic riveter; yes, that was the name of it. No, it wasn’t, that was something else that made a frightful noise. No, this thing was called something else—oh yes, automatic drill. “Oh God, help me not to be so wretched.” In a sort of blind despair Margaret said the words aloud. Another day beginning and Mary was going to see him. Going to speak to him; going to have him touch her, probably, as she always had massage when she did go to see Mr. Frome. While for her the day would be doubly blank because even the joy of slinking across the green to see him come away from the train would be denied her. She could not go out as soon as Mary arrived home. And very soon she would never be able to go and watch him slip through the darkness. Because the afternoons would be getting longer and she would not be able to stand there if he could see her; even in her hopeless lack of mental dignity, she could not quite bring herself to do that. No, she would have to pull herself together—would have to go away—take up some sort of work. Do what other women did when they fell in love. Tear herself away; slice off a bit of herself and leave it behind. Disembowel herself because it was the right thing to do. God, why should this have happened to me? Margaret, aching with fatigue and restlessness, began to think in the same old whirlwind monotony that had become a habit. Life for some people always was like that. Things for some people always went right, and for some others always went wrong. She was one of the wrong ones. She would get older and older and more and more wretched.
She had been so much happier because the house was warmer and every one was nicer. Oh, where was the tea? muttered Margaret, turning from side to side and watching the faint slit of light cutting the heavy curtains in half. Susan was late—no she wasn’t—there she was, in a stupor of relief at the thought of hot tea running down her throat, Margaret listened to the soft opening of the door.
“Quite a nice day, m’m.” Susan, who had drawn the curtains, was setting the tray down by the bed.
“Is it?”
“Yes m’m,” and then Susan went away again. Down the wide stairs with their heavy carpet, so heavy that you did not hear your own footfalls. Back into the kitchen again where the rest of the servants were having their tea and bread and butter.
“Well, how is she this morning?”
“Looks like a ghost. Hair all out of her cap; dark rings round her eyes.”
“Men, men, men!” said Emily, who lately had taken to launching out rather in the way of conversation, and who was very often dropped on by cook in consequence.
The day that Margaret went up to London was fine. In fact it was more than fine, it bore in its soft sunniness the first promise of Spring. As the train rushed through the cuttings, Margaret, staring out, thought she saw snowdrops. The high banks reaching up on either side of her seemed coming alive. And in London the parks gave the impression that they too were waiting for something. As if the trees were looking down waiting for a signal to begin to dress themselves. Soon the grass would begin to be greener, and then the trees would also begin that never to be forgotten wonder of clothing themselves again. Almost as if they had been sprayed; a film of green where there had only been brown. Very wonderful, thought Margaret vaguely, wondering for the thousandth time how Mary had managed that Mr. Frome should want to see her again. Mary was vague and had spoken of Mr. Frome saying that he wished to “check her up.” But Mr. Frome had already checked her up apparently for the last time and had found her so much better that he had been able to say that it was unnecessary to continue treatment. What had Mary said? Margaret tortured herself with wondering. Although the rapture of the thought that she was going to see him again swamped everything else. She was going to see him and hear his voice. It was hopeless to feel like that but she felt it. And when she had seen him she would go home and try to settle down to something. Get some work to do. She would ask Mr. Frome what work she should do. If he suggested something it would make it so much more worth doing. There would be a halo about it; a reason for doing something which in itself might be intolerably irksome.
But Mr. Frome did not suggest anything. With his blue eyes entirely impersonal he sat there with the tips of his long fingers pressed together.
“Yes, Miss Baxter is right, you are not looking as well as you did when I last saw you,” he said. “Have you been sleeping well?”
“Yes, I think so.” Margaret was facing the light and her piteous brown eyes were furtive.
“Eating well?”
“I think so.”
“Well——” Denis Frome got up. There was some thing about the driven fear in Margaret’s eyes that made him feel a brute. Of course it was obvious what was the matter with her. But she would get over it, thought Denis restlessly. And it was far kinder in the long run to be brutal now. He could not do with women, however attractive, hanging round his consulting-room; it destroyed the dignity of it. What would she do if she knew that he had seen her once if not twice as she lurked in the shelter of those oak trees on the green? It was hopeless; it was the sort of thing that must be put a stop to. That was why he had acceded to Miss Mary’s anxious request that he would see Margaret again. But he was not seeing her for the reason that Miss Mary thought he was. He was seeing her for the express purpose that he had thought he had made clear during their last interview. Namely that, as there was nothing now the matter with her, she must get a pull on herself. Interest herself in something. Marry if possible; that was the solution of course, marry. But not go about with that dragged desperate expression on her face. But how could he say all this kindly? Oh, the desperate plight of these thousands of desolate women. And yet what was the use of being cruel about it? They had simply missed what they were meant for. It was not their fault, poor brutes. . . .
“I was wondering if there was anything that I could do here.” Taking her courage between her teeth Margaret suddenly blurted it out. What possessed her to say it she never knew. It had never occurred to her before that instant.
“Here?” Oh, this was frightful, thought Denis, wheeling round as he reached the window.
“Yes.”
“But in what capacity?”
“Well, I don’t know—I could do what Miss Smith does when she has a holiday. She does have a holiday, I suppose.”
“She has a fortnight a year. Sometimes three weeks when she can be spared.”
“Well——”
“It is out of the question,” said Denis curtly. “Miss Smith’s job is a highly specialised one. Also she has been with me for years. No.” Denis began to walk about again. “No, Mrs. Baxter, we must think of something better than that.”
“I am sorry I suggested it. You see——” and then Margaret suddenly dropped her face into her hands. “I must have been crazy to suggest it,” she muttered.
“Well, it was kind of you to think of it. But of course you must see that it is not a thing that you could take up just anyhow, so to speak. No, the best thing is for you to get away, Mrs. Baxter, travel—get a complete change of scene. That is what you need; a complete change of scene.”
“I cannot afford to travel.”
“Surely your sister-in-law would help.”.
“I should hate to ask her.”
“Go and stay with friends.”
“I could not take my cat.”
“Nor could you if you travelled.”
“No, but I shouldn’t mind so much then. There would be things to divert my mind. But if I just sat in somebody else’s house I should want Chang to sit there too.”
“It is a mistake to allow devotion to an animal to assume too great proportions,” said Denis stiffly. And as he spoke he suddenly saw Chang’s blank elfin face staring into the glowing coals of that hastily lit fire. And Margaret’s dark hair on the pillow as she stared up at him with tear-swamped eyes.
“I know, but I can’t help it,” said Margaret stubbornly. For suddenly her pride had come to her rescue. He knew, of course, that she adored him and was trying as kindly as possible to stave her off. “I must have something,” she said.
“You ought to marry,” said Denis abruptly. Although why he said it he did not know. But there was something. Was it the red glow from his electric fire that made her eyes so mysterious? A woman who had just practically declared that she wanted a job in his office so that she could see him every day? He had had his fill of women who felt like that.
“I know, but there isn’t any one I care for,” said Margaret recklessly. For somehow now it was all easy. Presently it wouldn’t be so easy, but it was now. Those bare tree tops waving triumphantly outside the window.
Above the world—as she was above the world for a minute or two. It was being near him, of course. The magic of him affected her. He had sat down close to her; she could touch his white sleeve if she wanted to. There was something that fled out of him and met her spirit half-way. An uplifting—an ecstasy of feeling. Ah, if only he could feel it instead of loathing the sight of her. Loathing her as one of these superfluous women who cluttered up his consulting-room in a desperate hope that he might say something that, with the powerful aid of a powerful imagination, might be construed into affection. Because of course there were shoals of women like her. England swarmed with them. They cluttered up every village; filled the churches. In fact how would the churches carry on if they were not there? They did the altar flowers; they cleaned the brasses; they filled the post of an unpaid curate. And in return they were allowed to worship the vicar from afar. Finding in this innocent colourless relationship a solace for all they had missed in life. At least they were supposed to find it, reflected Margaret, the ugly bitterness of her thoughts twisting her mouth so that Denis observing it, suddenly felt as if he had kicked a dog, that in return, staring up at him, was snarling.
“Well——” and then Denis suddenly felt that there was nothing more to say and that he must get rid of this woman at any cost. If he didn’t—he hated himself for the surge of feeling that rushed over him. For after alike was so horribly used to this sort of thing, he ought to be immune. Every doctor was used to it; it was a commonplace and a very disturbing and dangerous commonplace. “I think you would be wise to go on taking the capsules,” he said. “Let Miss Smith know when you want some more. And if you take my advice you will get away. Now then what about paying your friend Miss Jessop a visit in India? I am sure she would be delighted, people in India are notoriously hospitable.”
“I should loathe it,” said Margaret shortly. And then with a brief handshake she went away, not attempting to meet his eyes. For at the moment, anyhow, she almost hated him. He had found out her secret and despised her for it. Passing Miss Smith with a distant smile, Margaret got out of the office somehow. Her last visit to him and what had been the good of it? It had been Mary who had fixed it up; probably against Mr. Frome’s wish. Although he had given way because it would look odd not to. Walking along Piccadilly, Margaret felt odd and detached. The sun was shining and people looked gay and carefree. The buses seemed to career along; gayly they careered in their pillar-box red coats. Spring was coming; Spring with its promise of things to come; Spring with its enchanting sweetness. Spring—the season of misery for the unloved and unwanted; Margaret suddenly felt a little sick. Had she no pride left that she was thinking thoughts like these? It was horrible—unworthy, degrading. And yet she couldn’t help it. It was too strong for her. The feeling of blankness. Lunch—she ought to have lunch; it was time for lunch. But she couldn’t eat, at any rate not yet. She would get away into the Park and sit down. It was warm enough to sit down and there were sheltered corners in the Green Park where she could go and be alone. Then perhaps she would be able to pull herself together and go and get something to eat when she would feel better, probably. It was generally lack of food that made one feel wretched, thought Margaret grimly, starting to cross the road as the traffic light at the corner of Berkeley Street turned red.
Miss Mostyn always made a point of spending the last month of her furlough in London. There was something about London that went to her head, it reminded her of her youth; a youth spent in luxury. Also London was so utterly different to the isolated Indian Mission station where she spent the rest of her time. Wandara was a queer little Mission station almost on the borders of Afghanistan. Miss Mostyn’s relations objected to her burying herself there; she had taken far too good medical degrees for it, they argued. It would be easy for her to find a Mission Hospital nearer civilisation. “But I like being isolated.” Miss Mostyn had a very charming smile although she was well over fifty. “You cannot conceive what it is like to feel that one is out of touch with the world. One lives in a delicious world of one’s own making. The ignorance among the wild tribesmen who live all round about is appalling. You cannot conceive of the ghastly conditions under which these Mohammedan women, some only just in their teens, have their babies. We can help them much better now because they have begun to trust us. Their husbands will bring them in to the hospital. Five years ago they wouldn’t have dreamed of doing so.”
And as that seemed to Miss Mostyn to be an unassailable reason why she should stay where she was, her relations gave up trying to make her see sense. “Jean had always been obstinate,” they argued, “if she hadn’t been she wouldn’t have chosen the ridiculous life that she had chosen. Her degrees were excellent, and when she had achieved them, women doctors were scarce so that she could have chosen to go almost anywhere. But no, she had chosen the North-West Frontier of India where you were frozen in the winter and roasted in summer and where you were surrounded by savage tribes who were likely as not to raid you and carry you off as a hostage. Also there were man-eating tigers and panthers all over the place; in fact it was thoroughly unhealthy. However—and there the disgruntled relations were obliged to leave it. For Miss Mostyn was very determined and as she had money of her own, she was able to do exactly what she liked as it was not necessary for her to take a job that would either carry with it an excellent pension or allow of her to save much. And now Miss Mostyn was up in London, doing a little last shopping, as she was sailing for India at the end of the following week. She was also saying good-bye to her relations and was staying at her club. She loved London, especially in the Spring, and when she caught sight of Margaret huddled rather stupidly on a seat, she had just stopped to look at the green shoots of bulbs that were thrusting themselves out of a beautifully kept bed of fine earth. Miss Mostyn loved bulbs almost better than anything. They held such promise in their pale spiky shoots. Stabbing up out of a mass of dreary brown earth. Out of what was apparently devoid of any life or hope came the first promise of Spring. Thinking about it, with a little smile playing around her sensible mouth, Miss Mostyn sat down next to Margaret on the empty seat. Someone in trouble; and a gentlewoman. Someone in trouble was not at all rare, but a gentlewoman in trouble in public was very rare indeed and Miss Mostyn felt an equally rare curiosity to find out all about it.
And it took her much less time than she expected. Partly because by now Margaret had almost entirely lost control of herself. Her delicate face was blotched with tears and she drew her breath in gasps. The people who passed along the gravel path glanced sympathetically down at her and refrained from sitting down on the same seat, for which Miss Mostyn was devoutly thankful. “You are in trouble, tell me,” said Miss Mostyn gently. And at the cultured voice Margaret lifted her face from her gloved hands.
“Don’t be afraid, I ask from a very genuine desire to know and if possible to help,” said Miss Mostyn quietly.
“Who are you and why do you care?” said Margaret wildly. “My experience is that nobody cares if other people are wretched. I am going to kill myself; you had better keep away or you may be dragged into it as the last person who saw the dead woman.”
“I am afraid killing oneself demands either a good deal of personal courage or a deranged mind,” said Miss Mostyn quietly. “I agree that it is a solution that commends itself to women and I have contemplated it myself once, if not twice. But I have never done it; partly because I was afraid of not bringing it off properly and partly because when one stops to think one realises how awful it would be for other people. Especially for people who are fond of one.”
“I have nobody.”
“Looking at you I can hardly believe that,” said Miss Mostyn gently.
Possessing herself of Margaret’s hand she stroked the soft suede glove. “Do tell me,” she said, “and believe me it is not only from idle curiosity that I ask. I am a woman doctor from India and I have seen so much suffering, and when I see it I always long to help. Women have such an awful time of it. I know they do, because I am a woman myself. Look here, let’s go along to my club which is quite near here and where we can talk undisturbed. We can have some tea and you can repair the damage to your pretty face,” said Miss Mostyn, smiling her nice reassuring smile.
“I——”
“Yes, I see that you are going to agree,” said Miss Mostyn. She got up still holding Margaret’s hand in hers and then with a little cosy gesture she tucked it under her arm. “Come along,” she said, “my club is in Knightsbridge, the Anglian. It’s comfortable and extremely well run, which men always say is rare in a women’s club. Do you belong to a club?” inquired Miss Mostyn, who was drawing Margaret along the well-rolled path towards the wide circle of ceaselessly revolving traffic. How they came racing in from every direction, cars, buses, Green Line coaches, all streaming past that immortal Artillery monument. Where was everybody going? wondered Miss Mostyn vaguely.
“Why should you bother yourself about me?” said Margaret feebly. But the warm sympathy of Miss Mostyn’s capable personality was beginning to affect her. That drugged despairing feeling was beginning to recede a little. She no longer dragged against Miss Mostyn’s compelling grasp. Somebody cared; somebody who really understood, cared. Somebody who when she said that she was going to kill herself did not say that she would never dream of doing anything so cowardly. Cowardly, no it was difficult to plunge out of this life into another, thought Margaret, putting a hand up to her hat. But she would have done it. She would have managed it somehow, rather than go home to a sleepless night. Either a sleepless night or a hellish awakening to another ghastly day. “Why should you bother about me?” she said it again, although less feebly this time.
“Because the moment I saw you all tumbled up on that seat I liked you,” said Miss Mostyn briskly. “Now, here we are at one of the most tricky crossings in London. Mind the things that come round from the right. I always like this crossing all the same because the big gate fascinates me. That’s it. Yes, the King and Queen must soon be coming or some member of the Royal family, because the barrier isn’t there. Let us wait a minute. Yes, look,” said Miss Mostyn excitedly. “Look at that flood of traffic all halted. Yes, and there he is, the man in the top hat facing down Constitution Hill. Oh, let’s wait.” Miss Mostyn was as excited as a child. “It’s always so marvellous to me—like God holding up His hand and stopping the tide from coming in; the traffic stops like a great wave at Hyde Park Corner; leaving the sand all bare. Look, there’s a car coming straight for the gate; it must be them. Oh, it is——” Miss Mostyn was almost shouting with excitement. “Oh, the Queen and the Princesses—oh dear!” Miss Mostyn was waving and shouting in good earnest now. Oh dear!” Miss Mostyn stood there breathing heavily as the car passed them and then slid round and up past the Artillery monument. “Oh dear, I saw her eyes twinkling! I did really. Oh, wasn’t that splendid? You have brought me luck straight away, because it’s the first time I have seen them during this furlough. Oh, do look at the traffic starting again, what a marvellous place London is,” Miss Mostyn’s eyes were shining with tears.
“How sweet they all look,” and to Margaret’s surprise she too was pleased at having seen the Queen and her daughters. So things did matter again then; even things like that.
“Now, then come along,” and this time Miss Mostyn did not take Margaret’s hand. She knows that I shan’t escape, thought Margaret, feeling a little quiver of amusement pass through her, as if she was thawing in some strange way. It was there; the misery crouched in a corner waiting to get at her again. But not yet; not while she had this warm kind woman at her side.
“One more crossing and then there we are,” said Miss Mostyn. “I hope they still have fires; I expect they have, but I haven’t been here for some weeks. Yes, a beautiful fire.” Miss Mostyn smiled with satisfaction as they passed through the swing door into the great Adam’s hall. “Now then, we’ll repair the damages first and then go up into the drawing-room. This way for the damages—there you are, powder, face cream and lots of hot water and clean towels. And a comb if you haven’t got one. Good-afternoon.” Miss Mostyn was smiling at the attendant. “We have just seen the Queen, most exciting.” Turning to Margaret she smiled. “Wasn’t it?” she said.
“Yes, it really was,” said Margaret cordially. Carefully she was looking at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, she looked a perfect sight, but with all these nice things at hand it wouldn’t take long to make herself presentable again.
“Ready?” Miss Mostyn had just finished drying her hands. Surgeon’s hands, thought Margaret, looking at the square finger-tips and beautifully kept nails.
“Yes, quite.”
“Well then, we’ll go upstairs, and we’ll walk, as it’s only a little way and I like you to see the staircase. I always think that life for people who lived in a great house like this must have been such a dignified thing,” went on Miss Mostyn, as together they mounted the wide shallow staircase.
“Such great spacious rooms and spacious leisurely furniture to fit them. None of the present day cubbyholes and compressed furniture to fit them,” ended Miss Mostyn, laughing.
“No, this is indeed a beautiful room,” said Margaret enthusiastically, as they went into the great drawing-room on the first floor. “Oh, and a lovely fire.”
“Yes, and no one sitting on the sofa next to it which is much more important,” said Miss Mostyn quickly. Together they crossed the beautiful drawing-room. “You sit down while I ring,” she said. “We’ll have coffee and sandwiches, I’m quite hungry. It’s too early for the usual tea, and by then the room will fill up. We’ll have ours before the crowd arrives.”
“Lovely,” said Margaret softly. And in a few minutes they were settled. The coffee was good and Margaret was surprised to find how welcome some solid food was. Of course, she had had breakfast early and it was nearly half-past three now. So much had happened in so short a time. She sat and ate and drank and gazed into the fire. Presently—she would tell this kind woman about everything presently. Because after all, why not? She was the sort of woman who wouldn’t immediately tell somebody else. Her lips showed that; they closed down gently and firmly. They were kind sensible lips; the bps of a woman who knew all about life and yet bore it no grudge.
“And now then,” said Miss Mostyn, “that is to say, if you are sure that you won’t have any more coffee or anything more to eat. But before we begin we’ll get away into a corner. Near the fire, for both our sakes, but more into a corner. This will do beautifully, don’t forget your bag.”
“Do you really want to hear?”
“Of course I do or I shouldn’t ask.”
“It’s an undignified, rather a sordid story.”
“That probably makes it all the more interesting.”
“I shall not mention any one’s name.”
“No, that is wise,” and then Miss Mostyn smiled.
“You don’t know mine yet.”
“Nor you mine.”
“No, and you needn’t tell me yours if you would rather not. Mine is Miss Mostyn, Jean Mostyn.”
“And mine is Margaret Baxter, Mrs. Baxter.”
“Then you are a widow?”
“Yes.”
“Widows are always interesting,” said Miss Mostyn humorously.
“I’m not,” said Margaret baldly. And then somehow because of the warmth and the sympathy that she felt flowing all round her, she began. And Miss Mostyn, listening, was even more intrigued than she had thought she was going to be. Denis Frome, because of course it must be he. Denis Frome; naughty boy, thought Miss Mostyn indulgently. And how had he resisted this charming woman? Probably he hadn’t—that was why he had been so anxious to get the young lady off his doorstep.
“Yes, go on,” she said as Margaret paused.
And Margaret went on. All the misery; all the lack of interest in life; a lack of interest that was growing on her. The sisters-in-law, the home; Miss Mostyn could see it all. The future—now that this had happened. The future—Margaret could not face it. She could not face it with haggard face and lips she said so.
“Well, but why should you face it?” Miss Mostyn’s experience of life had taught her two things, the first to be able to hold her tongue, the second to make up her mind quickly. “Why should you face it?” she said. “Come away with me, out to India. You would love it; and it would be the very thing you need; a complete change of scene. It is a very usual thing nowadays to go out to India; lots of people do it. It is not very expensive; I am travelling Anchor Line and you can get a return passage for well under a hundred pounds. I am going in ten days’ time and if you apply at once you will easily get a passage. In fact we can go now and book one provisionally; you can always give it up before you have paid a deposit on it.”
“Go out to India?” Through a daze of bewildered thought Margaret stared round the beautifully furnished room. “Go out to India! Why, what would my sisters-in-law say?”
“They would probably welcome the change for you,” said Miss Mostyn briefly. For subconsciously she had visualised the turmoil that Margaret must cause in that stereotyped household. Antagonistic to the old-fashioned conventional women who ruled the house. Although the elder woman would probably have been mellowed by contact with Denis. For Margaret had poured all that out too. A very spate of confidence, thought Miss Mostyn, profoundly interested. And how she would enjoy introducing this high-spirited charming woman to her hospital. To the East with ah its glamour and mystery. Margaret would appreciate the hospital with all its various activities. The sight of so much human suffering would make her think less of her own. It would be magnificent; a moral shower bath. She would forget Denis; naughty attractive boy; when was it that she had last seen him? Mildred had had him down for a week-end last autumn. Mildred, her own sister; it was odd; it was indeed odd. That this woman who sat beside her now had lost her heart to a man whom Miss Mostyn actually knew! Not very well from actual association; although very well indeed from hearsay. Mildred swore by him; he had cured one of her children of the most frightful night terrors and then knowing that he liked fishing, she had got her husband to ask him down for a week-end. And Miss Mostyn had been staying there at the same time. And even in that short time she had sensed his charm. But that this mature woman who sat beside her now had been contemplating suicide on his behalf. Well, well, thought nice Miss Mostyn, greatly marvelling. It only showed—what did it show? Well it showed that the woman beside her had excellent taste, decided Miss Mostyn briefly. Not that she was going to breathe to Mrs. Baxter that she had any knowledge of Denis Frome beyond the knowledge that every woman in touch with modern thought had of him and his methods. If she did that, Margaret would shrivel up. Would wildly regret having given her confidence, and very naturally so.
“Are you serious when you say come out to India?” said Margaret after another stupefied silence. “How can you say it to me; you hardly know me. You have been overwhelmingly kind to me, but as I say, you hardly know me.”
“I am accustomed to summing up human nature,” said Miss Mostyn calmly. “My profession has taught me how to. And I like you; I liked you the moment I saw you. I can’t exactly explain why, but I did like you. And when I like a person I don’t only like them for half an hour or so. I like them for quite a long time, and that is important if they are going to be one’s companion on a voyage and afterwards in a very isolated Indian station.”
“But——”
“I can imagine that you are rather taken aback,” continued Miss Mostyn equably. “But you know, all the decisions that I have ever made in a hurry have always turned out well. This one will turn out well. The thing is for us to go to the Anchor office now; ascertain if there is a berth going in the Parthenia that sails on the twenty-seventh of this month, and if there is, book it. You then go home and consult your sisters-in-law; ring me here to-morrow, I am staying here for the next week, and tell me your decision, and I very much hope that you will decide to come out with me.”
“But I couldn’t possibly accept your hospitality for an indefinite period.”
“Yes, you could. I should welcome a companion,” said Miss Mostyn warmly. “Don’t forget that my staff is entirely Indian. I have left an English woman doctor in charge now, but she will be leaving me when I get back. Sometimes I get an English nursing sister up who wants experience in intricate obstetrical operations, but as a rule I work alone. And it is alone,” said Miss Mostyn with a smile.
“I feel as if I should adore it,” said Margaret suddenly, “as if it would be like getting out of this world for good. The only thing I should mind leaving would be Chang; my Siamese cat. He would miss me so frightfully.”
And then Miss Mostyn burst out laughing.
“It must be meant,” she said, “Mildred, my sister, is demented about Siamese cats. She would take him if you decide to come with me. You could bring him up to town and I would take him down to Cheshire.”
“Would she mind?”
“She would be delighted.”
“Shall we go to the Anchor offices now, then?” Margaret’s face was shining with a sort of inner light. It was all so wonderful—so amazing. Soon she would remember Denis Frome again but not yet. This woman with her marvellous suggestion had risen like a blazing star in a black, black night. If only Mary and Katie would go in for it—that would make it just perfect. She wouldn’t feel equal to arguing—contending, but if they were pleased—if they welcomed it as a solution to a problem that was bothering them—then, then it would be perfect, perfect.
“I should want all sorts of new clothes.” Margaret’s brow was a little furrowed.
“No you wouldn’t. An outfit for the East is wonderfully simple,” said Miss Mostyn. “Most people take far too much, and what they do take is generally wrong. You would want a good riding habit; you do ride, I suppose.”
“Oh yes, I used to ride quite a lot—astride.”
“Splendid, you will get quite a good deal of riding. Then you will want the ordinary clothes that you wear for an English winter. And some thinner things; such as you would wear for an English summer. A solar topi that we will buy at Port Said so that it is right,” said Miss Mostyn, smiling. “And one or two more things that I can tell you about. Don’t forget that in India we have the most excellent Indian tailors; we call them durzies. And they come and work on the verandah and turn you out the most perfectly fitting garments. They hold the seam in their toes,” said Miss Mostyn, her nice face creased in smiles.
“Oh, it does sound so lovely!”
“It is lovely to those who are able to appreciate it,” said Miss Mostyn. “And the voyage is lovely too. I shall never forget my first sight of Port Said, and those white, white houses blazing under the Eastern sun. And the Mediterranean, and the Red Sea and those little wireless stations on those rocky coasts. And then Aden—oh, the whole thing is gorgeous, gorgeous!”
“I simply must come with you!”
“Well, I hope you will be able to. And now let’s get along and see what the Anchor can offer us. They are always extremely pleasant to deal with, so I know that they will do their best. Are you quite sure that you will not have anything more to eat and drink. You see, they are beginning to get the buffet tea ready.”
“No, thank you, the coffee and sandwiches were just what I wanted.” Down the beautiful wide staircase again, but oh with what a different feeling! The wonder and the almost mystery of it. All settled in a few minutes, although was it settled yet? Mary and Katie—what would they say? The money for the passage and there would be other things as well for which money would be wanted:- had she got enough and ought she to afford it? And then she was cutting herself off from all chance of ever seeing Mr. Frome again. But then—wasn’t that just exactly what she ought to do? Besides—he too went to India and loved it. She would be seeing the same country. Sleeping under the same stars as he did sometimes. Although didn’t she do that now? “Oh God, help me to pull myself together,” under her breath, as Miss Mostyn led the way into the spacious hall again, Margaret muttered the words, squeezing her bag into her side to still the thumping of her heart.
Long after Margaret had got up to her room, Miss Mary and Miss Katie sat in the drawing-room talking over the fire. Guiltily they laid another log across the glowing coals, it was not their habit to make up a fire after ten o’clock at night. But somehow to-night everything was different; there was drama in the air and both the sisters were affected by it.
“What do you really think of the idea, Mary?” Katie was sipping the hot water that, set down in the hearth, had escaped her notice until the sight of Mary’s empty tumbler recalled her to a delayed duty.
“I think that it is an excellent idea.”
“She seems to think that she ought not to afford it.”
“And that is just what I was waiting to speak to you about, Katie. I think we ought to help her. After all, we can afford it.”
“Yes.”
“And in a way——” Miss Mary hesitated. “You and I shall be very happy alone, Katie.”
“Yes,” and then in a sort of explosion Katie burst it out. “We shall, unless you allow thoughts of Mr. Frome to absorb you,” she said. “You seem to me to be quite different since you got into touch with him. Better, I must admit, but somehow different. You are too old a woman, Mary to fall in love with your medical attendant.”
“Katie!”
“I mean it,” continued Miss Katie. “You think I am only a stupid old woman who does not use my eyes. But what with you and Margaret beside yourselves about him I can tell you I have had about enough of it. Margaret of course is making a perfect fool of herself about him, that is obvious to the meanest intelligence. And this meeting with this complete stranger sounds to me most extraordinary. I only hope that before you go any further in the matter you will verify Miss Mostyn’s credentials.”
“Katie dear——” And through the firelight Miss Mary’s wise old eyes shone with a very tender light. “Katie dear,” she said, “I can see that you are very much upset or you would not speak like this. But believe me, dear, you need have no qualms about my feelings for Mr. Frome who is young enough to be my own son, had I been fortunate enough ever to have one. But as to Margaret I agree. I trust you to keep your own counsel, Katie, or I would not in any sense give her away; not that she has confided in me, because she hasn’t. But I do think that she has lost her heart to Mr. Frome and I must say that I had that possibility in mind when I sent her up to see him to-day. And I think that I did wisely because, from what she said to-night, I gather that he says she is well enough not to require further treatment. Had he in any way reciprocated her feelings, he would have made opportunity to see her again, and this he has not done. So, things being as they are, I consider this invitation of Miss Mostyn’s very opportune.”
“You and I used to be everything to one another.” Katie who had begun to snuffle, was dabbing at her eyes.
“So we are now, dear.”
“You talk so continually of Mr. Frome.”
“So would you talk continually of a man who had saved you from the terror of blindness,” said Miss Mary quietly.
“But he told you that you were not going blind. That there had never been any fear of it. Also you had never told me that you were afraid of it.”
Miss Mary let the first part of the sentence pass. “I was too afraid to put it into words,” she said.
“Putting it into words would have made it better.”
“Not to me, dear,” said Miss Mary simply.
“Well——” Katie raised her head, and blew her nose with a sort of reticent dignity. “Well, let us forget it all, Mary,” she said, “and start afresh.”
“Yes, dear, do let us,” said Miss Mary warmly. And her eyes were amused as she leaned forward to stroke her sister’s plump hand.
“And about Miss Mostyn,” said Miss Katie, returning to the charge.
“Well, personally Margaret’s account of Miss Mostyn carries conviction with it,” said Miss Mary simply. “To begin with she would not be a member of a well-known club like the Anglian if she was an impostor. But probably Miss Mostyn will be the first to wish to see us, and we can then satisfy ourselves as to her bona fides. And now, Katie, what shall we say to Margaret when we see her in the morning? She left us to talk it over and we have talked it over. Shall I tell her that we will pay her passage and give her a hundred pounds to take with her?”
“Can we afford it, dear?”
“Easily.”
“Then let us do so,” said Miss Katie. “I suppose she will be going quite soon and you and I, Mary, shall have our home to ourselves again.”
“We shall, dear.”
“And that will be worth much more than a hundred pounds to me,” said Miss Katie wistfully. “Alone again, Mary. I have often longed for it.”
“And so have I, dear,” said Miss Mary, sitting there staring into the fire, smoothing down her skirt with an absent-minded hand.
The next ten days passed in an extraordinary whirl. To begin with Miss Mostyn came down to Market Stacey immediately, impressing the sisters with her quite remarkable common sense.
“For Margaret to be in close association with a woman like that will do more for her than it is possible to conceive,” said Miss Mary impressively, and so the whole thing was settled. Chang went down to Cheshire and it was amazing to Margaret how little she minded. It wasn’t as if Chang would really miss her very much either, because he wouldn’t. Mildred Boyne adored Siamese cats. And to Miss Mary this calm parting with the adored cat was symptomatic of the change that had come over Margaret at the prospect of the new life that lay ahead of her. So Miss Mary was very happy. It would be delightful for her and Katie to have their home to themselves again, and if Margaret did not marry again during her time in India it would be very odd. Women always married in India, thought Mary comfortably. And Margaret, in a rather unusual way, was quite attractive to look at. Miss Mostyn suggested a year’s stay abroad. In the hot weather Margaret could go up to one of the Northern India Hill stations of which there were many. And in the cold weather and rains Wandara was extremely pleasant. Miss Mostyn sat there in the rather stiffly furnished drawing-room, smiling at Mary and Katie and thinking in some far away part of her that it was no wonder that that high-spirited woman Margaret Baxter had found the atmosphere of Green’s Manor rather stultifying. For these two dear things were of a generation apart. They belonged to this old house with its spindly-legged furniture. But Margaret needed adventure—romance. How Miss Mostyn hoped that she’d get it; either on the voyage or in India itself. Although it was not nearly so easy as it used to be to find romance in India. The cream of England’s youth had passed out in the first great army that left India for France and Mesopotamia in 1914.
But to Margaret the great ship lying alongside the quay in Liverpool was romance enough and to spare. Like a girl she hurried along the white painted alley-way looking at the numbers on the cabin doors. Miss Mostyn had been able to secure two single berth cabins next door to one another on the hurricane deck. Mercifully the old uncivilised days of huddling together in threes and fours were over. And in February the ships were beginning to be more empty. The cold weather rush was over. The Parthenia carried in her civilians who were going back to Bombay; and a few missionaries who were going far beyond Rawalpindi. The alley-way was blocked with hurrying baggage stewards. Holdalls stuffed with rugs and pillows. Margaret had bought a holdall at the Church and Commercial Stores and the great beefy roll of it filled her with excitement. It contained rugs and pillows and several pairs of sheets. And the letters M.B. were painted on it in white. Then there was the cabin trunk of green Willesden canvas. And a couple of suitcases. Miss Mary had enjoyed the shopping almost as much as Margaret had. Things had come on approval from all the shops at which Miss Mary had dealt for years. Margaret had some really very charming clothes. The sisters had been generous and Margaret had thanked them with tears in her eyes.
“You are too good to me,” she had clung to them in turn as she said good-bye. That was the best of sailing from Liverpool, no one wanted to come as far as that. So you got your good-byes said at home.
“It has been a very great pleasure,” said Miss Mary warmly. “Write to us whenever you can, won’t you, dear? From Marseilles and Port Said and Aden you can write.” Miss Mary had been studying the Anchor handbook.
“Indeed I will,” said Margaret emphatically. And she meant it. These sisters-in-law of hers had been magnificent. She bought a special pad so that she could write on deck. It was in the despatch case that she was carrying now.
“Here we are.” Miss Mostyn, trim and competent, had mounted some stairs. They were out on a deck; scrubbed as white as a sheet and from the davits hung lifeboats all swathed in sailcloth. “Here we are, numbers seven and eight. Now then, which would you like? Ah, but it is settled for us because our luggage is already in our cabins. Now then—satisfied?” Miss Mostyn was smiling. “She is always smiling,” thought Margaret, “but it isn’t one of those self-satisfied maddening smiles. Her eyes smile—her soul is smiling.”
“More than satisfied,” said Margaret. And so she was. The cabin in which she stood almost seemed to be singing in its white spotlessness. The berth, fastened to the wall, with its coverlet and high pillows. The little washing outfit, all neatly enclosed—mahogany—with the mirror over it. The round porthole, looking out on to the deck with the green curtains to pull across it. And her cabin trunk already under the berth and her suitcase, made of that nice pale hide, standing by the little stool. All so competent and ready for her; what a wonderful thing a shipping company was. And here she was going to live and sleep for the next three weeks. Three weeks and every week of it was going to take her farther away from a life that she had grown to dread. And every week was going to take her nearer to a life that she was longing for. Where there was nothing to remind her of what she had left behind. Denis; what was he doing now, wondered Margaret, stooping to her suitcase as a frightful stab of homesickness tore her. That was what it did; when you thought that you were free of it for a moment or two it tore at you. But perhaps it would get better; it would have to get better, because you couldn’t go on feeling like this, if you did you couldn’t live. Something imprisoned inside you would beat itself to death. Your wings—every one had wings inside them—and if they withered, then you died. You fell and languished as a seagull falls and languishes when its wings are clogged with oil.
“I am so glad you like it all,” said Miss Mostyn. And she was glad. A voyage could be a very tricky thing if you had the wrong person with you. Miss Mostyn knew that very well. But she had by now seen enough of Margaret to know that she had not made a mistake in her estimate of her. She was equable and unselfish. She did not get fussed and snappy. She had been pleasant on the train coming up from London; not talking too much. And now she was unselfishly delighted with her cabin—not staring at Miss Mostyn’s cabin as if she wished she had it instead of her own. And she was so nice looking and so nicely dressed. As Miss Mostyn pulled the thick curtain across her door, advising Margaret to do the same while she unpacked, she devoutly hoped that this voyage would produce some man who would obliterate the memory of Denis Frome. There would be sure to be plenty of nice men going out to India. And among them there would be surely at least one who would be eligible and to whom Margaret would take a fancy. And thinking this Miss Mostyn swished back her curtain again.
“As this is the last time that we shall dine at anchor until we get to Marseilles,” she said, “I am going to make myself look rather nice for dinner. And you do too. It’s as well to make a good impression to start with.”
“All right,” called back Margaret happily. For she felt happy. A delightful stewardess had appeared as snowy and starched as the cabin. All so luxurious; all so utterly different to anything that she had ever even imagined before. And it was such fun packing away her things in the chest of drawers; such lovely smooth slipping drawers. And she would find something nice to wear to-night. One of her little velvet coats and satin skirts. All lacey and soft and expensive and yet not too grand. Margaret hummed a little tune as she began to unpack in real earnest.
But if Miss Mostyn had hoped that something romantic would result from the voyage, she was doomed to disappointment. Margaret appeared not to notice the few men that did happen to be on board. And this was a pity because they were quite prepared to like her. She dressed well, she was pleasant and intelligent to talk to, and in her delicate way she was very good-looking. Some of the girls travelling East were uncommonly stupid. But they were at least accessible, and Margaret was not accessible. So after a time the men gave it up. They smiled at her when they met her on deck in the mornings and they talked to her at meals if they happened to be near her. But beyond that they did not go. It was so easy nowadays to be on friendly terms with a girl, unless there was something very outstanding about a young woman, one really could not put oneself out too much. And Margaret was no longer in her first youth. She was a widow, and the smoking-room decided that she probably had money. But even if she had—no, it was too difficult, decided the smoking-room and in a body they gave it up.
And Margaret was thankful. To sit in a long chair and watch the coast as it slid past them was to her an enchantment. So amazing—so utterly different to anything that she had imagined. Spain; the coast of Portugal; then Gibraltar—that great fortress of a place, and that Rock towering up above you into the sky. It made you realise—it made you thrill with patriotism and all sorts of feelings that up till now you had rather scoffed at. The Empire—what did people who stuck at home know about it? How could they decide great questions of Empire policy when they had never been outside the British Isles? The ordinary taxpayer with his pettifogging criticisms of Imperial policy—how ridiculous it all was, mused Margaret, lying at full length in her deck chair rolled up in her rug. And oh, how she loved these long lazy days now that the first queerness of sensation had worn off. For she had proved to be an excellent sailor. And how glad she was of that, too. There was something degrading about having to lie prostrate in your cabin when all this beauty and wonder was on the very horizon. And presently it would be more beautiful still. When they slid out of Gibraltar that night and found themselves in the Mediterranean. Would it be blue? wondered Margaret. Perhaps it would be blue when they had got out from Marseilles. Marseilles would be in another twenty-four hours or so. And the ship would fill up still more. Misguided people who had missed all these lovely lazy days of sea travel and would come tearing across France to catch them up. How could they want to, thought Margaret, closing her eyes and letting the quiet and peace of it all soak into her. She felt like new blotting paper sopping up sensation. Unwritten on—waiting for a master hand. Waiting for the East with all its mystery and wonder and enchantment. Half dozing, Margaret’s thoughts became a little blurred as she lay there under her rug.
And Miss Mostyn, writing letters by her side, came to the conclusion that this girl had had a greater shock than she had imagined. No one could be as supine as Margaret was being, unless she had been very badly hurt. And Miss Mostyn being something of a psychologist knew that the hurt had been that most deadly of hurts, the hurt of humiliation at the hands of a man. For nothing else can so quickly bring a woman to her knees as that. Searing as a hot iron, it makes you want to scream; it makes you want to dodge the torment of your thoughts; anyhow, anyhow. And worst of all it makes you want to hit back. Huddled in your corner you rear your wretched body in defiance like a cobra ready to strike.
Miss Mostyn, watching Margaret’s slender body curved under her rug, wondered how much of all this this girl was feeling. Presently, she would try to find out. She had found out a certain amount already and perhaps she had found out all there was. But anyhow if there was any more to find out, Margaret would tell her when she felt like it. When the calm tranquillity of this voyage had done its work a little more throughly. When they got into the warmth and sapphire beauty of the Mediterranean beyond Marseilles. Then probably Margaret would thaw. She had thawed a certain amount, but there was a good deal more yet to be done. But Miss Mostyn was content to wait. More and more she was enjoying the companionship of this silent woman who very often smiled instead of speaking. And when Miss Mostyn, walking round the deck, passed the chattering groups of women and girls she thought, and not for the first time either, that the ability to keep silence was as precious as it was rare. Noise—why must the average woman make so much noise? It detracted from her charm, it did not enhance it. Thoughtfully Miss Mostyn went on her way. Thirty times round the deck made a mile, or was it half a mile? Anyhow, whatever it was, it made a very pleasant break in the long lazy hours of sitting still and doing nothing.
And one night Margaret did begin to talk. It had been a very hot day and after dinner they lay on deck side by side in their deck chairs. The sea was like glass and the great ship slid through it with only an imperceptible hum of the engines. A few seagulls wheeled overhead, making the queer skreeling noise that Margaret loved. They were so wonderful in the way they kept up with the ship; swooping and diving and curvetting without the slightest effort. So much more wonderful than the rather ordinary human beings who walked in couples round the deck, thought Margaret, shutting her eyes and then opening them again.
“How perfect you are in the way you never question me,” she said.
“Why should I?”
“You must wonder; after the way we met, and everything. And the way I blurted out about Mr. Frome,” said Margaret. And Miss Mostyn, listening, rejoiced that Margaret was so much better that she could at last say the beloved name. It was the first time that she had said that name since that queer meeting of theirs in the Green Park. Showing that the first deadly smart of it all was abating a little.
“I value your confidence so much that I should hate to do anything that might seem to force it,” said Miss Mostyn sitting there very still watching the green and gold of the sunset. The green and gold that lay like a beautiful celestial ocean close to the fringe of the distant horizon. “It is almost too beautiful,” thought Miss Mostyn simply.
“You see I think it was the frightful humiliation. I offered to go and take his secretary’s place. A sort of mad feeling that I must be near him somehow. I was mad, of course, to do such a thing. And now sometimes when I’m just going off to sleep I remember it and I scream out loud. It’s that that I mind so frightfully—having disgraced myself. Not caring—nobody can help caring. But having let him see——” Margaret stirred in her chair.
“I don’t suppose he even gave it a second thought.”
“If only I could believe that.”
“Except a subconscious pleasure at being considered so attractive,” said Miss Mostyn dryly. “You overestimate the male sex, Margaret. They are the most conceited creatures in the world.”
“He isn’t.”
“No, great men are generally modest,” agreed Miss Mostyn. “But no man, Margaret, bears a woman a grudge because she showed him that she thinks him attractive.”
“Yes, but I sort of offered myself. And to a doctor. Doctor’s must have so much of that sort of thing. If only——” Margaret’s slender fingers were clenched on the arm of her chair.
“Yes.”
“If only I could have a chance of showing him that I didn’t care,” said Margaret breathlessly. “It would help me to get my self-respect back. You don’t understand, and though you are such an angel. But he deliberately told me not to come there again, because he saw, of course, that I might become a bother. And his secretary—of course she knew too. And perhaps they talked it over between them and laughed. Oh God!” said Margaret suddenly.
“I am perfectly certain that no decent man would laughingly discuss a woman with another woman,” said Miss Mostyn decisively. “And least of all a man like Denis Frome. If you ask me, Margaret, I should say that it is highly probable that Denis Frome found you extremely attractive,” said Miss Mostyn, after a pause. “For if he didn’t, why his hurry to get you off his doorstep?”
“Because he was afraid I should make love to him.”
“Nonsense, a man like Denis Frome is perfectly capable of keeping a woman exactly where he wants her,” said Miss Mostyn vigorously. Turning in her chair she smiled. “It was a compliment,” she said.
“When you say that——”
“Well?”
“It’s like oil on a burn,” said Margaret breathlessly. “It makes me feel, not that there is the slightest hope of his ever caring for me, because there isn’t, also I shall probably never see him again. But it takes away that deadly sickening shameful feeling. As if I could scream and cower to get away from the thought of it. You don’t know——”
“I can imagine.”
“What should I do without you,” said Margaret simply and she stretched out a hand towards the deck chair close to hers.
“Well, we were meant to meet just when we did.”
“Supposing we hadn’t?”
“But we did,” said Miss Mostyn laughing. “Oh Margaret, there is a great deal of the child about you still.”
“I shiver when I think of what would have happened to me the day I met you if I hadn’t met you.”
“But you did meet me,” said Miss Mostyn, laughing out loud. “And it was a good day for me, too, for I have very rarely met a woman of whom I am so genuinely fond. You do believe it, don’t you?”
“I do if you say so.”
“Well, I do say so. And now it’s beginning to get cold and you want a wrap. Or shall we get up and walk round the deck. We are so frightfully unsociable, although I don’t think any one minds. When people play Bridge they are oblivious of any one who doesn’t. And I make a point of smiling at every one every morning, which I hope will be counted unto me for righteousness, because it is a most frightful bother.”
“I smile too. I smile because people leave us alone.”
“Well come along now and we’ll have a turn. Tomorrow we get to Port Said and we must post some more letters. Have you written any?”
“Oh yes, I’ve written to both my sisters-in-law.”
“Good, and I expect you find it easy to write and describe things. It’s when you’re as used to it as I am that you find it so difficult. It’s become so much a matter of habit to me that I feel that by now every one else ought to know what a voyage East is like. When of course they don’t know in the least.”
“Don’t we get to Port Said to-morrow?”
“Yes, we do, and we shall be able to go on shore. How well I remember the first time I saw Port Said and how wonderful I thought it. The Gateway of the East. So it is, and I always like the grubby old place. There is a charm about it that you never find anywhere else. That lovely shop of Simon Artz, I remember it when it was quite a small shop and how wonderful everything in it seemed to me then, the strings of amber, the turquoises, the brass—oh, it’s a wonderful experience going East for the first time,” said Miss Mostyn reminiscently.
“And you say that the Red Sea is wonderful too.”
“Yes, I always think so. Certainly it can be stiflingly hot, but then you generally get a breeze at night. And the very fact that the ship is moving makes a breeze, so that it is very rarely absolutely unbearable.”
“Shall we go for a turn now?”
“Yes, do let us. But do be firm if they try to drag us into anything,” said Margaret urgently. “I still have some more letters to write and I’d much rather write them in my cabin than anywhere else.”
“You may trust me to be firm, my child,” said Miss Mostyn laughing. “I’m much too old a hand at a sea voyage to be dragged into anything that I don’t want to be dragged into. Come along; let me give you a hand out of your chair. That’s it.” Miss Mostyn was smiling up at Margaret as, safely out of her chair, she shook out her evening skirt.
“You ought to be playing games with the young people,” she said reprovingly.
“Ought I?”
“Yes, you ought. That monkey with the immaculate permanent wave ought not to have the field to herself.”
“She is welcome to it,” said Margaret equably.
“And once in Wandara you will never see an Englishman, unless it is the Forest officer or one of the police. And even they appear very rarely because the next station is such miles away. Bharwar; it’s quite forty miles away and the road is only a cart track.”
“How do we get from the station to Wandara then?” inquired Margaret with interest. Somehow until that moment she had never directly visualised anything that lay beyond this marvellous voyage. But of course they would have to get to Wandara somehow. She knew that there was a three days’ train journey and at the end of that there was a station called Bharwar, where there had once been a frightful earthquake. And that they got out at Bharwar and drove forty odd miles to Wandara. But what did they drive in? If they had to go in something drawn by bullocks they would never get there. “How do we get from Bharwar to Wandara?” She asked the question again because it suddenly seemed frightfully important to know.
“We go in an extremely old Ford that has been at the Mission for five years,” replied Miss Mostyn. “Old Nulloo, the hospital orderly, drives it. I don’t know what we should do without that old Ford, it’s a marvel. I drive it too, if by any chance I have to go far from the hospital which I very rarely do. You must learn—or can you already drive a car.”
“I used to, before my husband died.” And to Margaret, standing there, it was as if she had had to wrench her mind back from something living to something that had never existed. Percival—Market Stacey—her sisters-in-law! Another world—another life. Not real at all—this was real. This woman by her side was real: and the throb of the powerful engines and the faint swish of the great hull as it slid through the glassy sea. These were real things. And Denis Frome—he was real. Not real for her—only a dream for her, but real all the same.
“Then you will have to drive the Ford along cart-tracks lined with cacti,” said Miss Mostyn, and her eyes shone as she remembered it all. “But I shan’t allow you to go far, not without old Nulloo. Nulloo is one of the old type of native. Magnificent, loyal and sterling to the core. If only the younger generation showed one half of his worth.”
“What sort of native is he?”
“Do you mean what is his religion? He is a Mohammedan.”
“Oh, I see.”
“He has a son who also does the work of an orderly. And he too is learning to drive the car. He probably knows by now; he had had his first lesson just before I left. But I don’t know what it is about, Ramjee, he will never be the man that his father is. These younger men have imbibed so many of the seditious ideas. They are better educated. I don’t know why it is, but our Western education plays havoc with the Indian.”
“Yes——” but by now Margaret’s thought had shifted again. Perhaps it was because it was all so unutterably beautiful, you couldn’t keep your mind on ordinary things. Presently she would be able to give her attention to them, thought Margaret, slipping her arm through her friend’s and standing there a moment gazing out at the horizon.
“Doesn’t it look as though it must fizz when it touches the sea.”
“What?”
“The sun.”
“Yes, it does,” said Miss Mostyn, her merry laugh mingling with the soft slap of the following wave as it curled high over the great high-slung anchor.
Bharwar lay under a brassy sky. The white roofs of the cantonments quivered with the intense heat; an unusual heat, for it was not yet the end of April. But sometimes it was like that in the North-West Frontier, the heat came in with a rush and then retreated again in even more of a rush. Outside the high doors and windows of the Residency, the green chicks2 flapped in the burning wind. A sentry drooped over his rifle and then straightened himself again, staring straight ahead of him under his khaki pugaree. In the distance a scarlet-coated chupprassie padded towards the big gates, his sandalled feet raising a little cloud of white dust. And in the bazaar the parish dogs nosed among the heaps of rubbish disturbing the swarms of flies that rose in clouds and then descended again. While behind the drawn chicks of their little shops the fat bunias squatted on cushions and discussed the trend of the Bombay markets. And as they discussed they drank tea, sweetened so that it tasted like syrup. Lazily flicking the flies from their shiny faces, they drank tea and spat pân and discussed business, like the clever men of business that they were.
While behind the green reed blinds of the Residency, Marvell, the Chief of the Police, was frowning.
“I have had it on unimpeachable authority, Sir.”
“Yes, but you know what these people are,” said the Resident fretfully.
Weary of continual tussles with the Home Government, Sir Francis Rowan was counting the days until he went on leave for good. Only a week now, after nearly thirty years of it. Too long, too long, thought Sir Francis, wishing that this keen-faced sturdy man sitting opposite to him at his large office writing-table would go away and not come back until his relief had arrived. For all these rumours of lawlessness and banditry disturbed him. He had had too much of it. And if he did anything drastic which was the only thing to do, he would only get a rap on the knuckles from Simla or Delhi. No, the game was not worth the candle, thought Sir Francis Rowan, his parchment-coloured face set in lines of irritation. Expeditions; punitive expeditions; this energetic man was even suggesting that insanity. And what was the fellow saying now; something about the Mission hospital at Wandara. Too isolated; only staffed by women—well, who’s fault was that? “Who’s fault is that, Marvell?” and now Sir Francis was snapping in real earnest.
“Well, Sir?”
“Yes, I know what you’re going to say, women will be women. Well who knows that better than I do? But the fact remains that nothing of the type that you suggest can be done. Conciliation; kow-tow to the swine, that’s our policy now. Though where it’s leading us to, God only knows. Thank the Lord I’m soon going to be out of it,” and as he said the words, Sir Francis wiped a little perspiration from his top lip. Because, supposing he didn’t get away after all—supposing instead of going on long leave preparatory to retirement, some cursed tropical disease got at him during the next week. Supposing he was doomed to lie in that little parched cemetery between the rocks; never to see England’s green and pleasant land again. Sir Francis was sweating under his thin silk suit, and Major Marvell, watching him, thought to himself that it was a damned shame that a fine man like Sir Francis should have so gone to pieces. Too long in the country of course; twenty-five years was long enough for any man. And he had served his country nobly too. That affair at Chinwar; how he had stamped on that, and how he had been cursed for doing it, although he had saved the lives of countless English women. Well, well, Major Marvell was gazing down at his brown hands. India was a strange country. It took so much and gave so little. All the same it bit into you in a queer way too.
“Go on Marvell, I know you’ve got something else to say to me. Phew, it’s hot in spite of the fans! When I came out it was only punkahs. But all the same the old punkahwallah had his points. Those old natives were fine fellows. These half-educated seditious brutes can’t hold a candle to them. The way we stuff our Western education down an Eastern throat!” Sir Francis coughed a little, wiping his top lip again with a rather shaky hand.
“You want to get away, Sir,” said Major-Marvell sensibly. “Why not anticipate your leave by a few days? You look to me as if you had a touch of fever. I’ll drop in on the civil surgeon on my way back to the lines and get him to come along.”
“Fever?”
“Yes.”
“Nonsense, I never felt better in my life.” And Sir Francis’s face set in slightly obstinate lines. Yes, he was losing grip of himself and he wasn’t going to do it. It was the sudden onset of this hot weather. He wasn’t sleeping too well either, but this time next week—and then as if in response to that thought Sir Francis smiled. He would be on board by this time and would be seeing the green lawns of the Yacht Club for the last time. They would be receding through the haze as they slid towards the open sea. Home—and Marjorie, and his two sons just leaving school and going to the varsity. A green lawn sloping to the river. Green, and a lawn instead of these infernal dun-coloured rocks. Rocks and vultures and all the hateful stinking lot of them. For the last time, Sir Francis breathed a little heavily.
“I want to see a green lawn again, Marvell,” he said simply.
“You soon will, Sir,” said Major Marvell reassuringly.
“It’s these last days. They seem interminable.”
“Cut them short, Sir.”
“No, I’ll stick it until Hibbert comes. He’s a good fellow, Hibbert, and will fill my place well.” How odd it was, thought Major Marvell, to see a man so pull himself together again. Old Francis looked quite spry and alert again.
“And now tell me what you’re afraid of about Wandara.”
“I’m not exactly afraid,” said Major Marvell slowly, “because as we both know, Miss Mostyn is a host in herself and rules the place with a rod of iron. But there’s no doubt that there has been a certain amount of unrest in that valley just beyond Wandara. The Mullah of Pundi is a nasty piece of work and has a son whom they say is almost nastier. Those two between them have done a lot of mischief lately; raiding and what not. Certainly it’s only been mule stealing from cantonments and I believe they’ve collared a certain amount of goats; nothing very important so far as it goes. But it’s all symptomatic of a condition of lawlessness that may lead to something very much more serious. And you know what that country is, valleys and rocks, a very paradise—for the sniper. Also there’s a certain amount of pretty thick jungle down by the Pundi river now that the Himalayan snows are melting. Well, I shouldn’t like a tribe of them to descend on the hospital one night. Miss Mostyn couldn’t do much against a lot of Afridis. And there’s a girl staying there, out from home I hear. A Mrs. Baxter—not exactly a girl of course, but I hear she’s very good-looking and quite new to the country. And being that, she’s inclined to be reckless. I believe she takes that old bus of theirs quite a long way out of the bazaar which she has no business to do. I thought perhaps I could drive in one day pretty soon and warn them. Give them a message from you, Sir, to say that they must mind their p’s and q’s or you’ll quarter a squad of police on the place.”
“I gather that you want to see Mrs. Baxter, Marvell.” Major Marvell smiled.
“No Sir, my heart is fixed. I was going to tell you, Mrs. Meredith and I——”
“What, is Meredith going to let her go? You don’t say so. I’m uncommonly glad to hear it. The life that poor girl has led——”
“Death has claimed him at last,” said Major Marvell simply. “I had a cable this morning. The bother is that now it’s actually happened, I don’t seem able to believe it.”
“Then you’ll want leave.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly take it now, Sir. She’s coming out. I can get a fortnight at Gulmerg or Murree.”
“Well, Marvell, I am extremely glad.” Turning a little in his chair Sir Francis stretched a long arm across the writing-table. “You two ought to be uncommonly happy,” he said as he gripped the other man’s hand.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Sorry, I shan’t be at your wedding.”
“No, you’ll be well on your way by then, Sir. All behind you; the worry and the files and the stink of the place.” And then Major Marvell smiled. “We curse it,” he said, “but all the same we shall miss it when we leave it for good. At least I know I shall. And now then, Sir, if I may go on about Wandara——”
“Go ahead.”
“Well you see the difficulty is this,” said Major Marvell. That place is known lock stock and barrel to all these Mohammedan bigwigs in the neighbourhood, because they take their wives in there for their confinements. Some of them are decent fellows, but some are not. And where there’s a passably good-looking Englishwoman about, I wouldn’t trust one of them. Also a native will do anything for hard cash. It only needs one of those hospital orderlies to be disloyal and the thing is done. One of the orderlies is a splendid old fellow; one of the old school, I know him well, many a bit of khubber3 he’s brought me that has helped me to get on the track of a criminal. Yes, Nulloo is a splendid old fellow.”
“Then with him there, they’re all right.”
“Yes, but like the Mullah of Pundi, he’s got a son. A nasty piece of work if ever there was one. He’s also an orderly and I bet he makes a good thing out of it when those rich Mohammedan merchants come in with their women. I don’t know why I feel uneasy, but I do,” said Major Marvell restlessly.
“Then go in and have a heart to heart with Miss Mostyn,” said Sir Francis cheerfully. “And come away with a flea in your ear because you’ve maligned her old hospital. But all the same do it, Marvell, if it will ease your mind.”
“I think I will, Sir.”
“Then do it by all means,” said Sir Francis cordially. “And Marvell——”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I can’t tell you how glad I am at the news you have brought me. I always liked that charming girl so very much. And when one saw her—well, the poor fellow’s gone so we won’t say what we think about him. But you are a lucky man, Marvell.”
“I know I am, Sir.”
“But I’m not so sure that she isn’t even luckier,” said Sir Francis slyly. “And in any event—Ram Lal!” Sir Francis suddenly raised his voice. “Huzoor,” and through the curtain, spotless in his white coat and scarlet cummerbund and flaunting pugaree, came the Mohammedan bearer.
“Champagne sharab,”4 said Sir Francis, “and barauf—juldy.”
“Huzoor,” and Ram Lal vanished again, leaving Sir Francis staring after the dropped curtain.
“That’s one of the snags,” he said. “How I shall miss that old fellow! I’m pensioning him off of course, but nothing will replace the devotion that he’s given me for the last thirty years. God! I remember how he met me when I was a chokra;5 on the old Bunder.” Sir Francis’s eyes looked a little dim.
“Shall we tell him, Sir?”
“Yes, let us,” and when in a few moments Ram Lal returned with another servant in attendance, Sir Francis spoke in Hindustani.
“The sahib is taking unto himself a wife, Ram Lal.”
“Huzoor,” and setting the bottle of champagne carefully on the marble floor, Ram Lal salaamed profoundly.
“Meredith memsahib. Ram Lal, Meredith sahib is dead.”
“Thik,”6 said Ram Lal, stooping to retrieve the champagne again. “Meredith sahib, very bad sahib; Meredith memsahib, very pukka memsahib,” said Ram Lal, manipulating the champagne nippers with extreme dexterity.
“You see, Marvell, the old boy knew all about it,” said Sir Francis when the two servants had left the room. “These servants know everything, it’s amazing. Well, champagne at five o’clock in the afternoon! appalling! but uncommonly good. Well, Marvell, here’s to your very good health.”
“And yours, Sir,” and as the sparkling liquid ran icy-cold down his throat, Major Marvell thought that probably a good tot of champagne would ward off the malaria that was obviously hanging round his Chief. “I’ll see that he drinks the lion’s share of it,” he decided. “It was a good thought of his. Bless you my darling,” and as Major Marvell tipped back his brown throat for the second time, he closed his eyes on the joy in them.
Meanwhile in Market Stacey, Margaret’s letters were becoming quite an event. It was so much nicer, thought Miss Mary shrewdly, to know that Margaret was happy and yet not to have her there. She had been a difficulty, a problem. And now that problem was settled; at any rate for a time. Hopefully, Miss Mary thought that Margaret would perhaps marry again, and therefore not come back to live at all. Certainly her letters did not speak of any man being about, but still it was early days yet. And there was no doubt about it; Margaret was obviously enjoying herself. Miss Mary, cosily settled by a bright fire, for the days of April were still chilly, drew Margaret’s last letter out of her workbag.
“My dears,” wrote Margaret, “you will have had several letters from me already, but you know, this country is so wonderful that I shall never get used to it. If only you could see me now, I am sitting on the veranda of our bungalow, a great wide veranda covered with reed matting. Miss Mostyn has a durzie working for her, I have told you about the native tailors one can get, called durzies. This one is making Miss Mostyn an afternoon frock, if only you could see him! We have got a Vogue pattern from Calcutta and some silk from a boxwallah, a boxwallah is an Indian who comes round with a great bale of things carried on the head of a coolie, and he sets it down and spreads all the things out; the most enchanting things you can imagine, such lovely silks. As I write, Manji, the durzie, is holding one of the seams in his toes, and he has his Singer sewing machine on a sugar box and he is turning away at it for dear life, and perhaps to-morrow the frock will have taken shape; it is like a conjuring trick. The compound is simply flooded with sunshine. Oh! the sun, it is so lovely, and I can see one of the malis, they are gardeners, crouching over a flower bed, pushing little cuttings in with one finger; the Indian crouches to do everything, and they water the gardens through tiny canals which are filled from the well. The water is drawn up by bullocks and the mali sings all the time he is working; you can’t imagine the romance of it all, I shall never get used to it. When you get away from civilization as we are here, it’s just as it has always been for thousands and thousands of years. Except for the hospital of course; that is comparatively new, but somehow it doesn’t look new and it’s only a tiny white square set in miles and miles of jungle. It’s so wonderful to think what Miss Mostyn does; she is such a wonderful surgeon and does the most intricate obstetric operations; you see these little purdah Mohammedan women are so tiny, so many of them cannot bring a child to birth naturally, and one shudders to think what they must have suffered before we brought surgery to India, I can’t think about it, it’s too awful. Very often I go round the wards; of course no man is allowed inside them; we have woman ward-maids, and I smile at the angelic little dark things in bed, so tiny and with such huge brown eyes and so silent and so patient. So enduring, that’s what they are and they strike one as so exquisitely bred, beautiful little hands and feet and some of their little arms covered with jewellery, and diamonds in their ears. The babies are sweet too; a dark newborn baby is much prettier than a white one; they have the most lovely eyes, and are so finished, somehow. I could go on and on and on about India. I should love to write a book, perhaps I shall. I should love you and Katie to see it all; can’t you come out for a tour, how I should love to show you round!
“Then of course there is our own life to describe; we live in the bungalow in the hospital compound, I told you about how I have chota7 hazeri at half-past seven or sometimes seven. It is brought by Mita, our ayah. She looks so sweet in her white sari, she is bare-footed of course and has bangles on her ankles. She comes in and salaams and then pulls my mosquito curtain from under the mattress and throws it over the top of the frame and then she brings me my kimono and I get up and go into my bathroom and brush my teeth and then sit down to my tea at the bamboo table on my bit of the veranda. I have described my bathroom; the galvanised tin tub and the brick floor and the water, in kerosene oil tins and the great big earthenware gurrah, a lovely jar, the women carry them on their heads. Then the next meal is at half-past eleven, a delicious meal with mulligatawny soup and generally curry, you can’t imagine how perfectly everything is cooked, and they do it all in funny saucepans without any handles, set on little holes filled with burning charcoal, the kitchen is apart from the bungalow, at the back of the house; you get to it from the back veranda. In fact I could go on and on describing it and I do hope by now you can see it a little.
“I was so glad to hear that you and Katie are both well and that the bulbs are beginning to come up. I can just see it all and I know it looks lovely. Our great excitement here has been the rumour of a man-eating panther in the neighbourhood, I don’t know whether it’s true, but the servants say it is. We are quite safe here; don’t worry, as we never leave anything open at night: all the bedrooms have wire doors to them. Also we have what is called a chowkidar, he sits on the veranda all night with a lantern and walks round the bungalow at intervals, and of course there is always a certain amount of coming and going, we never know when a patient may arrive. Miss Mostyn is so wonderful . . .”
And when she had got to this point Margaret laid down her pen because Miss Mostyn herself came through one of the high curtained doors that led from the veranda into the bungalow.
“Well——” Dropping into a low chair Miss Mostyn shut her eyes.
“Finished?”
“For the moment anyhow, I’ve left the newcomer to Marion. She’s a wonderful midwife, that woman. A native Christian and one of the salt of the earth.”
“Can’t you go away and sleep until tea-time?”
“I could, easily, but I doubt if I could rest. You see with a Caesarean pending, you have to be so very much on the spot. And I feel that if I once did really go off to sleep, it would take a good deal to get me back again.’’
“I wish I could do it for you.”
“So do I,” laughed Miss Mostyn. “And I believe you would have made an excellent surgeon, Margaret. But all the same—you do help me tremendously, simply by being here.”
“Oh, how I do love it!——”
“Do you really? This uneventful life. What have you seen and done since we arrived?”
“What have I seen and done? Good heavens——”
Margaret laid down her pen and sat back in her chair. “What have I seen? And even if I had seen nothing at all it’s the feeling of it. The mystery of it—it’s got right into my blood. And the feeling of the work you do—and those darling little Mohammedan women with their delicate hands and beautiful eyes. And the romance of the way they arrive in the night. The way we live—and the native servants. Why, Mildred it’s another existence to me. I feel another woman. I can’t believe that it’s only about three months——”
Margaret fell silent.
“Yes, I must say it doesn’t seem as long as that.”
“You’ve had a visitor haven’t you?” said Margaret after a little pause. She had seen a long dust-coloured car come bouncing into the compound about half an hour earlier and had then in the interest of her letter to her sister-in-law forgotten about it until she had seen it go bouncing out again. There had been an Englishman driving it with a turbaned policeman sitting beside him. A fine looking Indian with a curled beard. And with a slight pang of dismay Margaret realised that even the sight of an Englishman had not made her blood run one atom quicker. Even after a couple of months she didn’t care whether she saw an Englishman or not. So utterly satisfied was she with the life that she led. Well, a mercy she was, decided Margaret, shying away, even in thought, from the memory of the torment she had endured in England.
“Yes, I’ve had a visitor. Major Marvell of the Punjab Police and that magnificent Naik of his. I nearly called you and then decided that I wouldn’t as he was in a hurry. He came to scold us,” said Miss Mostyn, smiling her nice jovial smile.
“Scold us! What for?”
“Why, he says that we are not sufficiently protected here. He wants to quarter a couple of police on us. And in response to that, I say that it would not do us any good in the eyes of the high-caste Indians round about here. I have always maintained that with our loyal staff we are perfectly safe—and I don’t want to budge from that one inch. It’s amazing how infectious anxiety is. If the native staff see police about, they will suspect the very worst. And in that case I wouldn’t rely on one of them.”
“Not even Nulloo?” said Margaret incredulously. For surely Nulloo was the very backbone of the staff. Nulloo with his benign old face and curled black beard.
“No, not even Nulloo, now that he has that son of his with him,” said Miss Mostyn, glancing a little swiftly round the veranda. “You see, Margaret, you haven’t been out here quite long enough to realise how utterly dependent the Indian is on the European. Not exactly dependent in everything; for instance, there are many of them that have far more brilliant brains than we have. But it’s in their staying power that they fail. They cannot accept responsibility. They don’t like it if we say so, but the fact remains notwithstanding.”
“But there are native doctors.”
“I know there are. But when I was taking my degree at St. Mervyn’s, it was always the custom if an Indian was conducting a major operation, to have an Englishman standing by in case the Indian lost his nerve at the critical moment.”
“Good heavens!”
“Yes, I know; that’s just exactly what I mean. And now you see why I don’t want any idea to get about that we are at all precariously situated here. I don’t really think that Major Marvell really thinks that we are, it’s only the old idea of a woman not being able to look after herself in a crisis.”
“Well, I’m not in the slightest atom nervous,” said Margaret emphatically.
“No, I know you aren’t,” said Miss Mostyn dryly. “And that’s one of the things that Major Marvell came to speak about. He’s heard that the young lady staying here has a habit of driving the Mission car beyond the bazaar, and he says most emphatically that she is not to do it.”
“Me?”
“Yes you,” said Miss Mostyn. “And as he’s said it you mustn’t do it, my dear. Where is it that you’ve been exactly?”
“Why, it was only a few hundred yards beyond the bazaar where it slopes down to the river,” said Margaret. “And I wasn’t alone either. I had Ramjee with me.”
“Ramjee?”
“Yes, why?”
“Did he suggest your going beyond the bazaar?”
“Well, I don’t know that he did,” said Margaret uncertainly. “I can’t remember. It may have been that I’ve always wanted to find some of that lovely flower Flame of the Forest, and he said that he knew where there was some. So I said that we’d go on if he knew where it was. And we found it there, right down by the river. Simply heavenly, hanging in great clusters. And the river is so lovely there too; you can see across it to the jungle beyond, simply fascinating.”
“Yes, I know it’s fascinating, but all the same don’t go beyond the bazaar again, Margaret,” said Miss Mostyn slowly. “Not that there is any danger in doing so, but if the Chief of Police takes the trouble to come all the way out from Bharwar to ask us not to do it we’d better not. I’m sorry dear to seem confining you to barracks, but still, you’re so good and contented you won’t mind.”
“Mind, I should think I don’t mind,” said Margaret warmly. “I’m only so frightfully sorry to have done anything to disturb any one, but I had no idea——”
“No and nor has any one else, really. Only you see, men get nervous about women and Major Marvell is responsible for the whole of this side of the district,” and then Miss Mostyn turned at a tinkle of bangles.
“Yes, Mita?”
“Nurse sahib Marion calling Doctor memsahib,” said Mita, her sleek black hair shining under her sari.
“Oh, dear!” Miss Mostyn got up. “Sometimes I wish I’d got a good English house-surgeon handy,” she said.
“Oh, I do think you’re so wonderful!” Margaret sat there with shining eyes.
“Well it helps me to hear you say so,” said Miss Mostyn, getting up. “And as I shall probably be late to-night, Margaret, don’t wait dinner for me. Nulloo will bring me something when I’ve done. I shan’t be able to eat or rest until I have done.”
“Is it going to be difficult?”
“Probably, as she’s purdah, which means that she’s never taken any exercise. Also it’s bound to be a Caeserean section. But I’m used to it. Good-bye, my dear, for the present,” and then Miss Mostyn got up. Standing there for a moment in the bright sunshine reflected through the chicks she looked very tired.
“You’re frock is emerging like anything,” said Margaret, her eyes diverted to the durzie.
“Yes, aren’t they marvellous,” said Miss Mostyn, and her charming smile broke out again. “A Vogue pattern and its seams held in brown toes! I wish they could see us at home.”
“So do I.”
“Not getting homesick I hope?”
“Homesick!” there was scorn in Margaret’s voice.
“This is my home,” she said.
“You really feel that?”
“Of course I do.”
“Good child. That does me more good than anything,” said Miss Mostyn, swishing back the curtain that divided the dining-room from the veranda and disappearing briskly through it.
It was very late that night before Miss Mostyn came through the swinging curtain into the big barely furnished drawing-room. At first the bareness of the rooms had given Margaret rather a lost feeling. But now she liked it; and the wicker chairs were comfortable. And the soft hay-like scent of the reed matting that covered the stone floor was fragrant.
“Well——” Margaret looked up from her paper.
The newspaper was an event. One day late, it came by a native runner every morning. So did the post, and that to Margaret seemed almost more romantic than anything. The postman ran through the night with his dagger held high, the bells on it jangling to ward off wild beasts. Well, what more could you want, thought Margaret thrilling to the idea of it.
“Well?” Miss Mostyn dropped into a low chair and sat there very still.
“How did it all go?”
“Splendidly. A son. I never get used to the look of despair that settles on them when they hear that it is a daughter. The husband was so delighted. Such a fine looking young man and so devoted to his wife. She is only fourteen, poor child.”
“Fourteen?”
“Fourteen.”
“You’re tired,” said Margaret after a little pause. “You’re having something to eat, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Nulloo is bringing it.”
“And you’ll be able to go to bed soon?”
“When I’ve just had a look at her,” said Miss Mostyn, without opening her eyes. “Any news in the paper?”
“Mr. Chamberlain has come back from Rome.”
“Wonderful man. It’s partly his nose. Nobody with a nose like that can ever be diverted from his or her purpose.”
“You believe in him then?”
“Utterly, don’t you?”
“Yes, only sometimes he seems to me to be giving in, rather.”
“Yes, but don’t forget that he is responsible for a great many people,” said Miss Mostyn opening her eyes again. “If he wasn’t, I am sure he would love to say the ‘Go to hell,’ that must be on the tip of his tongue. But you can’t play pitch and toss with conscienceless cads who recognise nothing, but brute force. Don’t forget that there’s no tradition behind either of those Dictators. They’re upstarts and an upstart always suffers from swelled head. He doesn’t suffer when his people suffer. He only sits there and swells more.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“And now here is Nulloo with food,” said Miss Mostyn cheerfully. She smiled as the old Mohammedan came in with a tray held high. He set it down on a bamboo table, drawing it up close to his mistress.
“Memsahib very tired. Memsahib eating,” said old Nulloo respectfully.
“Memsahib having whisky and soda? Very good for Memsahib.”
“Nulloo! I am ashamed of you!”
“My bringing,” said Nulloo confidently. And he went away returning with a tumbler on a salver—a tumbler containing half an inch of golden liquid. With the air of performing a rite, he wrenched open a small bottle of soda water, pouring it into the tumbler from a height, so that the bubbles flashing, flickered up to the surface and burst there.
“Memsahib drinking,” said Nulloo with satisfaction.
“Thank you, Nulloo.”
“Memsahib wanting anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“Soup very good strong soup, cook making specially many good bones,” said Nulloo, beaming.
“Yes, it’s delicious,” said Miss Mostyn cordially. And when Nulloo had gone again, swishing back the curtain behind him, his spotless pugaree set proudly on his old head, she smiled.
“He’s an old dear,” she said. “Margaret I feel rather ashamed of drinking like this when you never touch anything, but I know you don’t care for it.”
“No, I don’t like the taste of whisky. But I love to see you drinking it because I think you need it.”
“I hardly ever have it, but to-night I am tired.”
“You’ve had a long day.”
“Yes, I shall enjoy my bed,” said Miss Mostyn, drinking her soup with obvious pleasure. “Oh, how well these native people do cook!”
“Yes, don’t they, beautifully.”
“And now read me something out of the paper,” said Miss Mostyn placidly. “Something nice; nothing about China or Spain or anywhere where madmen are killing one another.”
“Shall I read you about the Kents and their two babies. And what the stars have in store for us?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I feel inclined for,” said Miss Mostyn comfortably, setting her empty soup plate on the lower shelf of the little table and peeping with satisfaction under the little pewter cover that sheltered a very deliciously grilled wing and breast of chicken nestling in very beautifully chipped potatoes.
When Jim Marvell left the hospital at Wandara he drove straight out into the open country. He was preoccupied as he drove, and the Indian officer sitting beside him knew it and watched him unseen. Wazir Khan had been long in the police service and had now reached the position of Naik. He loved and revered his chief. He was aware that there was insurrection abroad and wished that it could have been left to him to deal with it. The English were too soft-hearted; when you were dealing with thieves and robbers you wanted boiling oil and nitric acid. However—as the police car rolled and bumped through the uneven streets of the bazaar, Wazir Khan sat silent, only staring ahead of him. Where they were going he did not know, and nor was it his place to inquire. If it was the dark bungalow at Whan, as he believed, his first job would be to see that a hot bath was obtained for the sahib and a good dinner got ready. Both these his sahib would require after they had traversed the cactus-lined cart-track which was the only road to Whan. Safe enough; the criminal and marauder did not approach the highways nor did he attack the police sahib. But unpleasant, thought Wazir Khan, holding on to the handle of the concave door as the car, now through the bazaar, began to lurch and roll more than ever. They were now well into the jungle and the sun came only filtering through the stumpy trees and undergrowth. And then after about twenty minutes silent way as Wazir Khan stared ahead, his breath came suddenly through his teeth with a hiss.
“Gosh!” At the same moment Major Marvell set his teeth hard on his lower lip and stamped on the accelerator. So it was true then; there was a man-eating tiger about. There it stood right in the middle of the dusty cart-track ahead of them, its striped tail lashing its striped flanks. Nothing but a man-eater would stand its ground like that. Pray heaven it didn’t spring and set its beastly claws in the tyres. Dragging up the window with his right hand he steered carefully with the left and made straight for the snarling beast. And not until the car was very nearly on it did it slink very slightly to one side.
“What is it doing, Naik?” After driving furiously for about ten minutes; Major Marvell keeping up a good fifty miles an hour, was hoping rather coldly that the back axle wouldn’t give way, because it took some time to get one’s gun ready. Also the Naik, although a magnificent shot, would find it difficult to aim from a lurching car. Also he himself wasn’t too anxious to open a window although the heat in the car was stifling.
“It pursues us, sahib,” said the Naik, with his head turned.
“Does it by God,” and then the two men sat silent. The trees nearly met overhead and the undergrowth on both sides of the track was dense. It was desperately hard on the old bus to go so fast, but somehow the idea of doing anything else had become extremely distasteful. Gripping the wheel with hands wet with perspiration, Jim Marvell thought odd thoughts. Just as his happiness was so nearly attained was he to be mauled by a filthy beast like a man-eating tiger. Such an ugly messy death and the Naik was such a fine fellow, he could ill be spared. And Cynthia—how on earth would she carry on alone? She had had such a hell of a life with Donald and it all seemed. . . .
“It has desisted, sahib,” said Wazir Khan, turning his fine head and smiling. “We have fatigued it with our excellent progress. It has turned and trotted back from whence it came.”
“Well, I’m very glad to hear it,” said Jim grimly. “But all the same I think we won’t slacken down just yet, and when we get to the next village, we must warn them that it’s about. You can get out and tell the headman; they’ll be keen as the reward is good.”
And then the two men sat silent. With the window flung wide open again, Jim felt the wind cold on his wet skin. Yes, that had been horrid; it had been weird. Sitting up for a tiger was one thing; meeting one on the road, and one that simply stood and waited for you, was another. Ugly things that he had heard about these man-eating brutes came back to him. Sliding a stealthy paw under the flap of a tent they would claw a baby from its mother’s arms. Brinkman, a friend of his, had shot one and then distributed the bangles that his shikaris found inside its stomach. Awful—Jim Marvell shivered a little. They would stop at the next village and warn the inhabitants of it and then hurry on to the dâk-bungalow at Whan, where, if he knew the man by his side, he would soon be in a boiling hot bath with a whisky and soda by his side and the prospect of an excellent dinner ahead of him.
And they got to Whan just as the swift Indian dusk was blotting out the tall neem trees that surrounded the dark bungalow. An acrid smell of wood-smoke filled the air. As Jim stepped out of the car he sniffed it up with acutest pleasure. This was India—real India. Although wood-smoke meant that someone else was about. That was a curse as he preferred to have a dâk-bungalow to himself.
“See who is here, Naik,” he said, as he brought the car to a standstill. And then he stepped up on to the veranda and stared around him. Whoever was there, had a hell of a lot of kit. Tents and tent poles were stacked up against the end of the veranda—on the veranda itself there were a collection of tin trunks painted with stripes. Gosh! an Indian in the bungalow! No one but an Indian would have trunks like that. An Indian in the bungalow, that was what things had come to in this thrice accursed country. An Indian coughing and spitting all over the place and yawking as he cleaned his mouth in the small hours of the morning, added to which he would probably leave inhabitants in the beds. . . .
“Naik!” Major Marvell was shouting.
“Sahib.”
“Who is it who is staying here?”
“Sahib it is the mad doctor,” said the Naik, his magnificent teeth shining in his dark face.
“The mad doctor!”
“Hain, sahib,” said the Naik. “He goes into camp to-morrow, I have had speech with his Bearer.”
“Haji?”
“Hain, sahib.”
“Where is the mad doctor?”
“He is writing letters in his bedroom, sahib. The Bearer says that the sahib will be welcome if he walks straight in.”
“My heavens,” said Major Marvell to himself as he dropped his topi into a long chair and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. Frome—the very man he wanted to see. “Koi hai?”8 standing outside a long swaying curtain he called out the words.
“Enter friend,” and as Jim Marvell dragged the curtain aside a tall man in native dress rose from a rickety writing-table with a smile.
“Well, who would have thought it,” he said laconically.
“You beggar, what has brought you here.” Gripping the clever hand Jim Marvell grinned with pleasure.
“Might not I say the same,” returned Denis, smiling.
“Yes, but you’re out earlier than usual.”
“I got more fagged than usual” said Denis Frome briefly. “And when I’m fagged I know it’s time I stopped for a bit. Also it’s getting hot earlier this year and I want to get up into the hills before it gets too hot. Also—but you probably know more about that than I do—yet, at any rate.”
“And I was cursing your striped tin trunks and waiting for your yawking and spitting.”
“Sorry I can’t oblige you!——”
“Gosh, I’m glad to see you,” and then Major Marvell dropped into a chair.
“We had a pretty hairy trip out from Wandara,” he said. “Outside Wai we came on a man-eating tiger that chased us for some miles. If you’re going out into camp you’d better keep your eyes skinned at night. It’s some way from here now, but it soon won’t be.”
“Perhaps they’ll get it at Wai.”
“They may. We told them as we came through.”
“And now what’s the news?” With his eyes bright with pleasure, Frome sat back in his chair ready to listen. Salaaming, Haji had brought drinks and gone away again. This chance encounter was after his own heart, thought Denis. Marvell was a splendid fellow and always so damned grateful for any help one could give him.
“Here’s luck.” He lifted a brimming glass.
“Here’s luck!”
“And now tell me——”
“You damned sheik!”
“Don’t you think it’s becoming?”
“Most.”
“And beautifully cool. No, but joking apart, what’s the news. Don’t tell me you’re out at Whan simply for the pleasure of meeting a man-eating tiger on the road. And of having a dâk-bungalow dinner, although between them I dare say our two will put the fear of heaven into the khansamah.”
“No, I’m not exactly out on a picnic,” and then with his tumbler on his knee, Jim Marvell began, and he talked steadily for twenty minutes.
“Then, you think that the Maharajah of Pundoo means mischief?”
“It looks uncommonly like it.”
“Raids and what not.”
“Yes, that’s my idea.”
“But why the hospital at Wandara particularly?”
“I don’t know that I am considering the hospital at Wandara particularly. It’s only one of the places I am thinking of. And where there are Englishwomen to abduct, there is always the chance of a good ransom. I don’t suppose the Maharajah would really contemplate touching the hospital, only it’s the idea of it being possible that I don’t like. That’s why I am so glad I have met you personally. I was going to send out to you, but that’s not the same thing. But you’ll be able to find out exactly how the land lies. I suppose your man has collected all the old gang.”
“Yes, I think so. We seem to have a small army with us. Wives and babies and the whole caboodle.”
“Very handy with the doctor sahib making one of the party.”
“Thanks, midwifery is not one of my star turns,” said Denis, smiling. “Have another drink.”
“No, thanks; not before my bath.”
“But now tell me,” said Denis. “You speak of Englishwomen at the Mission hospital. But surely Miss Mostyn is there single-handed? I believe she has an excellent staff, but no Englishwomen about, surely. I always understood that she insists on running it herself.”
“So she does, but she’s got a girl staying there now. She brought her out with her about three months ago. Hardly a girl, although I believe she’s quite good-looking. A Mrs. Baxter; I haven’t seen her myself, but I’ve met people who have, and they say that in a sort of delicate, ethereal way, she’s quite beautiful. Well, you know what these Mohammedan tribesmen are. A white woman . . . an unparalleled score if they could get hold of her and hold her for ransom.”
“Yes.” Denis Frome was pouring himself out a second drink, his hand steady on the dark bottle. “What did you say the woman’s name was?”
“Baxter. Mrs. Percival Baxter. Why? Do you know any one of that name?”
“No,” said Denis instantly. For nor he did. The name of a patient was never divulged.
“No. Well, it wouldn’t be likely that you should.” Jim Marvell stood up. “I must get along and have my bath,” he said. “I shall see you later. Or do you carry it out to the letter and squat on the floor nibbling chupatties?”
“Wait until you see me with the good old mourgi in front of me,” said Denis, smiling. “Although I always carry round so much tinned stuff with me that we shall probably have a spread. I’ve got enough for at least three months. The Army and Navy Stores met me on the Bundar with crates of stuff.”
“Lucky for me,” smiled Jim Marvel. “So-long, then.”
“So-long.” But, left alone, Denis Frome ceased to smile. He got up from his chair and began to walk up and down the high, white-washed room. A queer wooden bed in one corner, the mattress resting on strips of newar. A high wooden wardrobe lurching a little from the wall. A table with his pugaree lying on it. The real dâk-bungalow bedroom. But as he paced, tall and lean in his white coat and jodhpur breeches, he did not see any of it. Margaret Baxter; only a few miles away from him; how more than astonishing. And why hadn’t the old lady mentioned it? He had seen her a few weeks before he sailed. Or had he? No, it had been some time before he sailed, and he hadn’t specified then where he was going for his holiday. He had simply said that he took a three months’ holiday and had left it at that. And now . . . He stopped in his pacing and stared rather vacantly at the high, white ceiling. Marvell was uneasy about the hospital. Had he lost his heart to Margaret Baxter? No, he hadn’t spoken of her in that way. One could generally tell if a man was more than ordinarily interested in a woman. No, it simply was that Marvell, being a policeman, had the watchdog instinct and didn’t want any harm to come to any of his flock. Harm . . . no, naturally he didn’t want harm to come to any one, least of all to a woman of the type of Margaret Baxter. Margaret Baxter . . . out here . . . hardly a stone’s throw from him, really, considering how vast India was. Yes, it was odd . . . very, very odd. With his dark eyes unfathomable, Denis Frome stood there staring down into the tumbler held absent-mindedly in his hand.
The servants’ quarters at the hospital lay some way away from the main buildings. Queer little bricked rooms with tiny windows, they opened out on the wide open space of the servants’ compound. Old Nulloo shared his quarter with his son, and often in his old faithful heart he wished that he didn’t. For the ways of this boy of his were not his ways. He talked a different language. He kept late hours, coming swaggering in in the early hours of the morning. He would stay out till all hours of the morning, engaged in conversation with the drivers of the tongas and bullock carts that brought in the whimpering women from the districts. And then he would come in full of importance and begin to cook himself a meal. Through the thick wood-smoke old Nulloo would blink his eyes with fatigue. He himself had eaten long since; but now this son of his must needs proceed to mix the flour and ghee for chupatties. And there he would sit, crouched up close against the little cigaree of glowing charcoal, frying and tossing and then breaking off bits with long, greedy fingers and stuffing them far into his mouth.
So Nulloo was ill at ease. News in India travels fast, and in some inexplicable way, and without quite knowing how he knew, Nulloo was well aware of the reason of the police sahib’s visit. There was trouble abroad, and in some terrible way his only son Ramjee was mixed up in it. For Ramjee, although only in receipt of the pay of a hospital orderly—thirty-five rupees a month—was always flaunting new jewellery. The latest that he wore was a wrist-watch, 15 carat gold, on a leather strap.
“And from where did you obtain it?” It was early one morning before he went on duty that old Nulloo asked the question. Crouching on his heels, he was twisting his snowy pugaree, a pugaree freshly washed and ironed from the dhobi who lived in the opposite corner of the compound. Spellbound, Margaret had watched the dhobi at work. Standing there, with long, brown legs deep in the water of the nullah near at hand, the dhobi beat the clothes on rocks. And yet they emerged beautifully white and were returned perfectly ironed! When very often, even from the exclusive hand laundry at Market Stacey, the things came back with a brownish hue and badly crumpled!
“Where did I obtain it?” Ramjee, who was still sprawling on his newar bed, yawned, showing a long, pink tongue flanked by a wonderful set of teeth. “Where did I obtain it? I obtained it from the merchant who last week brought his wife in to the hospital to be delivered. And being delivered of a son, he, in his gratitude to Allah, bestowed this watch upon me.”
“But for what reason should he reward you?”
“That I cannot tell you, my father,” replied Ramjee in a tone of indifference. “But that he gave it to me there is no question.”
“The path of the liar is a thorny one,” said old Nulloo, who had finished twisting up his pugaree and was pulling out the fringed end of it so that it stuck up like a cockade.
“So is the path of he who puts honesty in the forefront of the battle,” returned Ramjee querulously. “I am sick and tired of working for the doctor miss-sahib. It is slave’s work and meanly paid. Give me the money for my journey to Calcutta and I will seek naukri there.”
“You will stay and be a comfort and consolation to your old father,” said Nulloo sternly. “I like not this tone of insurrection. It becomes not a young man. Get up and dress yourself for the day and cease sprawling like a bunia on your bed.”
“It is early yet,” said Ramjee; but all the same he sat up, although he still scowled. Reaching out a long, brown arm, he picked up his already twisted pugaree from a wooden stool and set it on his head. His dark, lowering face was set in lines of anger and anxiety. The police sahib had paid a prolonged visit to the doctor miss-sahib only the day before. What did that portend? They said that the British Raj was effete. But was it? Sometimes you thought it was, and then it suddenly surprised you with its efficiency. The path on which he had embarked was a perilous one; but, then, when you were forced to remain in naukri that you detested, what remained to you but peril? Showing his excellent teeth in an angry snarl, Ramjee got off his bed.
And the rest of the day passed without event. It was not until late in the evening that Ramjee vanished again and, with his old face set in lines of anxiety, Nulloo sought out his mistress.
“Have I the Huzoor’s permission to speak?” Standing there, Nulloo held his gnarled hands clenched down by his sides.
“Of course you have, Nulloo. What is it?” Sitting there at her writing-table, Miss Mostyn looked up kindly. She was doing her accounts and Margaret was writing letters in her own room. This old servant of hers was obviously distressed; and, thinking it over, Miss Mostyn came to the conclusion that for some days he had not looked like himself. She had been so busy and preoccupied; and it did not do when you were dealing with old and faithful servants.
“Speak, Nulloo,” she said again.
But after Nulloo had been speaking for about ten minutes, Miss Mostyn’s expression changed. Getting up, she walked to the high door and, drawing the curtain aside, she closed it.
“Allow me to help the Huzoor.”
“No, that’s all right, Nulloo, I’ve done it now.” But as she spoke, Miss Mostyn began to pace the room. She had been a fool. She ought to have taken Major Marvell’s advice. These men who knew the districts were always right. And now it had come to light what really was wrong: Ramjee, her faithful servant’s only son, had thrown in his lot with the marauding tribes that ranged the country almost up to their very doorstep! Which meant that their every movement was known to those who could make it uncommonly unpleasant for them. Margaret. . . . Miss Mostyn’s mind flew to Margaret at once. She herself was safe enough. No one would touch her. . . . The doctor miss-sahib, she was far too useful—and getting old into the bargain. But Margaret! There had been that frightful case in 1923, of the abduction of Molly Ellis, when Mrs. Starr, head of that hospital on the Frontier, had gone forth to rescue her. What a stir that had made at the time. Yes, there was no time to lose. She would get into touch with Major Marvell and ask him to send out some police that very night. Although . . . yes, he had told her that he was going out to Whan for a couple of nights. There was no telephone to Whan. Bother! Miss Mostyn stood there, suddenly torn with anxiety.
“Where is the miss-sahib?” Nulloo, standing there, suddenly seemed to look very much older. It was dark . . . and where was his son?
“She is writing letters in her room.”
“I will fetch the miss-sahib so that she sits safely with the Huzoor,” said Nulloo. “And to-night we close the doors closely, and to-morrow the police sahib will send out policemen to us. And I hand my son over to them,” said Nulloo calmly.
“But perhaps . . .”
“I fetch the miss-sahib,” said Nulloo, and he went out—only to return in less than a minute with wide eyes.
“She is not there,” he said.
“What?”
“Wait, I see if the car is there,” said Nulloo. And Miss Mostyn, standing there listening to the slapping of his bare feet on the veranda matting, clenched her hands. “Margaret.” Miss Mostyn dragged open the door that she had so recently closed. “Margaret!”
“The car is not there,” said Nulloo, returning. And then he, too, stood rigid. “Yes, I hear it,” he said. “Allah be praised, it returns. Miss-sahib, the car returns.” The tears began to stream from old Nulloo’s wide-open eyes as he stood there listening.
“Thank God,” said Miss Mostyn simply. But as she stood there she decided that Margaret really must not do this again. These sudden expeditions into the bazaar would have to cease. She had said so as plainly as she could the other day, and Margaret had seemed to take it so well and agree. “Well, all’s well that ends well, Nulloo,” said Miss Mostyn. “And to-morrow I will get into touch with the police sahib. And to-night we will keep the doors shut. Do not say anything to alarm the miss-sahib; and, of course, be careful that the other servants do not get frightened.”
“Attcha, miss-sahib,” said Nulloo. And then afterwards Miss Mostyn tried to remember exactly what had happened. It had been Ramjee, rushing in from the compound and flinging himself on to the veranda, his face streaming with perspiration.
“Bundook,9 bundook. Send quickly bundook!” he screamed. “The great animal, it seize the miss-sahib and drag her away. Memsahib, my screaming and fighting, but no bundook. The miss-sahib, she picking the flower and the big animal, it steal out from bushes. I very quick, but no bundook.” And now Ramjee was writhing on the ground.
“What?” Frozen with horror, Miss Mostyn stood there, her face going very white.
“Miss-sahib, miss-sahib!” The screaming and howling Ramjee shrieked it out all over again.
“Where is she now, the miss-sahib?” Blankly, Miss Mostyn was staring. This couldn’t be true; it must be some awful nightmare born of her fatigue. The man-eating tiger! . . . Yes, but it had been seen miles away. And very probably not seen at all; every tiger was a man-eating tiger in the estimation of the native.
“The great animal, it snatch the miss-sahib,” howled Ramjee, tearing his hair as it straggled out from underneath his disarranged pugaree.
“You lie!” said Nulloo suddenly. Like a tiger he flung himself on the writhing body of his son. “You lie!” he screamed. “This is some devil’s game of yours. Where is the miss-sahib? Tell me the truth, or I will tear your tongue out with red-hot pincers.”
“I do not lie; she is devoured, the miss-sahib,” sobbed Ramjee. “Memsahib believing and sending men with bundooks. Many men: for the animal is a fierce one.”
“I must telephone to somebody,” said Miss Mostyn stupidly. Had this horror turned her brain, she wondered as she stumbled to the telephone? Lifting the receiver, she held it to her ear. Only a buzzing and sound of jumbling wires. Oh, God, it had happened again—and just when she most needed it! Out of order; cut off from human aid. A pack of women; Margaret dragged away by a man-eating tiger. It couldn’t be true; it just couldn’t be true. What was that . . . the sound of wheels in the compound? Bells jangling; this must be news. Ayah . . . where was Mita? Where was Marion? Who was it who had come? “Who is it?” Standing there, Miss Mostyn gasped the words through white lips. Screams; the screams of someone in fear and pain; someone had found Margaret mangled out of all recognition, and it was left to her, the doctor sahib, to patch her up. Ghastly disfigurement. “Go and see who it is, Nulloo.” Staggering a little, Miss Mostyn made an effort to recover her self-control.
“A woman in pangs of childbirth,” said Nulloo, rushing back with straining eyes.
“Then I must attend to her.” Death and birth. One after the other. No telephone; nothing to be done. The bazaar full of natives who wouldn’t stir a step at night to round up a man-eating beast. Margaret . . . mauled and mangled . . . dying by inches, or, please God, perhaps already dead. She would have to write to England. There would be an inquiry. . . . “Nulloo, get me something to drink. Juldy. . . .”
“Huzoor. . . .” Nulloo turned, rushing.
“Ramjee, get up. Tell Marion nurse sahib to get the labour-room ready . . . tell her I am coming. Yes, that is right, thank you, Nulloo.” With an icy but perfectly steady hand Miss Mostyn was clutching at the tumbler. A steady hand. . . . Yes, she must keep it steady. You couldn’t afford to slip when you had a living body under your hand. New life to replace the old. . . . Margaret! Margaret. . . .
“The Huzoor is ill.”
“No, I am perfectly well.” As the icy liquid slid down her throat Miss Mostyn rallied. “The telephone—it is out of order, Nulloo. We can do nothing until the morning. . . . In the morning we . . .” And then Miss Mostyn suddenly crumpled up and sat down. No . . . human endurance could not sustain this sort of thing. She would begin to scream; begin to scream and never stop. . . . No, she couldn’t . . . it all depended on her. That child-wife in the compound . . . the cries were fainter. Marion had come out and taken her in. She, too, must go—make a move. Her overall; her mask; the instruments. . . . Work to be done . . . work to be done. Miss Mostyn was muttering the words as she set down the tumbler. Life was like that—a succession of horrors and terrors—one after the other. Margaret! Margaret! . . . Her friend, her very dear friend, gone—gone in the most hideous way possible.
“Yes, I am all right now, Nulloo. Shut up the bungalow and tell the Chow-kidar to keep special watch by my door, as it will be late before I come back from the hospital. Tell ayah to leave milk in a jug by my bed, and to be sure to cover it over carefully.”
“Attcha memsahib,” sobbed old Nulloo, watching his mistress go in the direction of the hospital. And then he turned to his son. Ah, he had fled. The cur; the outcast. No man-eating tiger had taken the miss-sahib; that was a lie. Although perhaps . . . And then, faltering, Nulloo wiped his streaming eyes. To-morrow, if it ever dawned. To-morrow . . . his only son handed over to the police. They would torture him—his only son. Still sobbing, Nulloo began to shut the high doors, dragging the curtains across them as he did so.
The moon was still high in the inverted bowl of blue that was the sky when Miss Mostyn walked over to the bungalow again. A bowl of blue, pin-pricked with stars. Weeping bitterly and sick with fatigue, Miss Mostyn dragged herself across the loose stones. It had been an awful night, and only by a supreme effort and consummate skill had she saved the life of the child-wife, who had clung and screamed until the merciful drugs had done their work. And now she herself was forced to go back to her own room to sit and think. Mercifully, the dawn would soon come, when she would be able to do something—take some steps. Standing still for a moment, Miss Mostyn bowed her face into her hands. Bells . . . the jangling of bells again. Heavens! Not another tussle with life and death; she could not face it. Physically she was not capable of it. Staring into the white space of moonlit compound, Miss Mostyn stood with straining eyes. Who was it? A native running with his spear held high and bells jangling. A native runner, at this time of night.
“Doctor memsahib.” Gasping for breath, the man came to a standstill on his sandalled feet.
“Yes, I am the doctor memsahib.”
“Chitti hai!”10 Fumbling in a tiny wallet slung round his neck, the native drew out a tiny piece of folded paper and handed it across the white strip of ground between them.
“Mrs. Baxter perfectly well. Maintain the tiger fiction and attempt nothing whatever in the way of rescue. Great danger, but I will do my best.—An Englishman.” In the bright light of the moon Miss Mostyn read the words and then stood there, motionless.
“You are tired,” she said, speaking in Hindustani and in a queer, husky voice. “You have come far. Rest on the veranda or in the compound, and in the morning you shall be rewarded.”
“I must return at once with answer,” said the native. “Only one word that chitti is safely received.”
“Then wait while I write it,” said Miss Mostyn. Breathless at her writing-table, she wrote in her nice, firm handwriting:
“To whoever you are, God bless you. I will do exactly as you say.”
Then, unlocking a drawer, she took out a ten-rupee note. It would be a fortune to the native runner; but nothing could be too much for such relief from such torment of soul and mind.
“Here you are,” she said. Back in the moonlight, she gave him the note and envelope.
“Huzoor.” Prostrate in the dust, the native salaamed. And then, tucking both note and envelope into his wallet, he turned and padded away. Away into the distance, the bells on his spear sending their music up to the star-stabbed sky. Through the night he would pad along the jungle pathways, secure against wild beasts by his confidence in spear and bells. Until he came to—until he came to what and whom? wondered Miss Mostyn, making her way blindly back into the bungalow again and standing there just staring at nothing, hands clenched by her sides.
Denis Frome loved camping. After seeing the car containing Major Marvell and the Police Naik go bouncing out of the dusty, dâk-bungalow compound, he walked back up the veranda steps to finish his own preparations. Although in reality there was very little to do. His Mohammedan bearer, Haji, was a born bundobast-wallah. All the luggage coolies were there already under the trees, smoking their hookahs and chattering to one another in their queer vernacular. Their womenfolk squatted a respectful distance away, their babies crawling over them or pressed maternally to their beautiful brown breasts. For Denis travelled with a fairly large following and an enormous amount of baggage. He liked his tents to be spacious and very pukka. He liked his coolies and servants to be comfortable in their tents, too. And as he was a rich man, why not? he asked himself whimsically. Haji had all the bother of it; but it was bother that he revelled in. It made him a tin god over all the staff, and he was therefore able to rule it with a rod of iron. All that Denis had to do was to produce the money to pay for it, and this he did without asking tiresome questions. Provided the bundobast11 was good, Haji was entitled to make what he liked out of it. After having spent a holiday in the same way for about ten years, Denis knew exactly what it would cost, and he arranged accordingly.
And the meeting with Jim Marvell had given this year’s holiday a very pleasant send-off. The two men had talked late into the night before. There was much to discuss and to arrange for. There was also much to be thought of as regards getting information sent in to headquarters. Denis was a valuable asset to the British Government. Travelling as he did as a civilian, he was regarded without suspicion by the natives that frequented the higher jungles of the Pundoo Plateau. Also, his fame had gone abroad. More than once he had restored a dying man to life. He had his own methods of dealing with snake bite. Once, if not twice, he had cured a man of tetanus, simply by sitting and staring at him, said the natives breathlessly. Or perhaps the pargle12 doctor sahib had made a few passes with his hands. In any event, the writhing, twisting, straining arms and legs had lain still and the man had fallen into a deep sleep and been carried in that sleep into the doctor sahib’s own tent; from which he had emerged in the morning upright and sheepish as usual. Yes, the doctor sahib was undoubtedly mad and magical, decided the natives, chattering to themselves under their breath as they sat round the luxurious camp pitched for the night by some running stream or mountain brook.
And now as Denis stuffed his writing materials into his despatch-case his brain was busy with what Major Marvell had told him the night before. The Maharajah of Pundoo . . . undoubtedly up to mischief. Margaret Baxter at the hospital at Wandara . . . that certainly was amazing. Rather impatiently Denis realized that he wanted to see her! Although, of course, that was out of the question. But it would have been pleasant to see how she reacted to this wonderful country of India. If she appreciated the queer mystery of it. Yes, it would have been very pleasant, decided Denis, standing there and remembering Margaret’s pale, fragile beauty. Although it was not exactly beauty; it was more the feeling and sense of her that attracted him; an unusual quality in her. . . . Well. . . Denis shrugged his shoulders and went on with what he was doing. It was still early, but they would have to start early so as to be well on their way before it got too hot. They were to make for one of the upper reaches of the sacred Bela River, where it would be cool at night, and where the shooting was good. They would remain there for some days, because as well as shooting, Denis was very anxious to watch the bird life. Some of them would ride and some would go in dandys, but that Denis left entirely to his servant. So long as the women with children were properly looked after, said Denis, standing there winding khaki pugaree skilfully round his dark head. A khaki pugaree with the ends hanging down to keep the sun from the back of his neck. A khaki shirt open at the neck and khaki cord Jodhpur breeches. Tall and lean, his blue eyes intent on what he was doing, Denis stood there while Haji watched him from a respectful distance.
“Is all ready?” Denis spoke in the vernacular.
“All is ready, Huzoor.”
“Then let us make a start,” said Denis, sliding his glance down to the watch on his wrist. Half-past seven—that was quite a good start with so much to engineer in the way of kit and human following.
“The sahib will ride?”
“The sahib will walk to begin with, anyhow,” said Denis good-humouredly. And as he strolled down the veranda steps he salaamed benignly to the waiting crowd of coolies and servants. Passing through it, he walked towards the jungle path that led first through the paddy fields and then on into the deeper jungle. And, having reached it, he stopped and turned to watch the convoy getting into position. What a crowd of them there were! Coolies hoisting the baggage up on to their heads; women and children bundling themselves up on to the tiny palanquins with their flapping curtains; ponies laden with tents and tentpoles; his own Arab pony led by his syce; Haji’s pony also with its syce. It really was like something out of the Arabian Nights, thought Denis, watching it through crinkled eyelashes. The sun, filtering through the leaves of the neem trees. A couple of crows, squawking and hopping sideways in their search for scraps of food. The old dâk-bungalow Khansamah in white coat and scarlet cummerbund, standing on the veranda watching them set off. And, last but not least, his two personal messengers with their spears and wallets. Wonderful men these two; he had had them in his entourage for years. Miles they would run, sometimes in their bare feet with soles as hard as leather, and sometimes in their soft sambhur leather sandals. But whatever they did they did it well. Brave and trustworthy were Manu and Pila. Many a vital message had they carried through the darkness of the reptile-infested jungle. Once a Frontier station had been warned by the swiftness with which the scribbled message had been carried. Denis smiled as he wondered what his patients would say if they saw him now. An unpaid spy for the British Government! Well, perhaps one day he would devote all his time to it and give up his London practice altogether. But not yet . . . not until he had forced the British Medical Association to recognize his method of diagnosis.
“Haji!” Putting his hands trumpet-wise to his lips, Denis shouted.
“Huzoor.”
“Manu and Pila. They will ride?”
“No, sahib, they wish to go on their feet.”
“So be it.” And Denis swung round to face the jungle path. Later he would insist on the two runners getting on to their ponies in case he had need of them sooner than he expected. But at the moment they could do what they liked. And now to start on the way that he loved. Along the narrow path in single file while the overhanging trees and creepers made a beautiful green canopy above them. As he walked ahead Denis visualized the caterpillar convoy behind him. All told, it would be about a hundred yards in length. And all the better, because they were going into wild enough country where lawless bands of robbers ranged and did what they damned well liked, thought Denis, thinking at the same time of what a wonderful thing it was that his supposed madness kept him secure from attack or capture. The Indian was afraid of anything out of the ordinary; it kept him at bay. No ordinary sane civilian could do what he was doing now: starting off on a trek into comparatively unexplored country, entirely alone except for native followers. And, thinking about it, Denis felt inclined to sing from sheer light-heartedness. Away from civilization with its subterfuges and pretences and hollowness. Away out into God’s own byways and highways, unspoilt by man’s ugly, marauding fingers.
And noon found them close up to one of the great river’s serpentine turns. Fed from the Himalayas, the River Bela went winding like a great uncoiled serpent down into the plains of upper India. But here it was still wide and full of turbid, rushing water. The melting snows . . . somehow it seemed incongruous to think of snows with the sun blazing overhead.
“We will halt here for tiffin, Haji.” Denis had stopped and his servant came to a standstill beside him.
“Attcha sahib.” And as Denis sat down on a flat rock Haji began to give orders. A little way away, under a spreading pipal tree, the cook began to spread out his pots and pans collected briskly from a big basket set down beside him by one of the coolies. Very soon the most delectable lunch would be produced and Denis, lighting a cigarette, settled himself to wait for it. There would be an improvised table; and Haji would appear in his white coat and cummerbund, and there would be plates and knives and forks and perfectly-made curry, and the drink would be icy cold. How did they do it? wondered Denis, watching the smoke curling into rings above his head. And how had Haji hustled all the great retinue of followers out of sight and earshot? Nothing to disturb the serenity of the landscape around him except the great, swirling current of the sacred river and the white fleecy clouds that drifted over his head. And now a little wisp of blue smoke from the fire that the cook had kindled so carefully. The cook, who was chopping and beginning to fry. India was a wonderful country—especially when you got away from the big cities that had been ruined by Western influences. Because the native of India was essentially a simple fellow, and one who should have earned his livelihood by handicraft. How wonderfully they carved ivory. Denis remembered a string of elephants that he had watched a native bringing to life in a tiny shop in the Benares Bazaar. A work of supreme genius; a work which when completed would be sold for hundreds of rupees. Sometimes one man would work on one piece of intricate carving for the whole of his lifetime, and only die when it was completed. In fact . . . And then Denis opened his eyes again.
“Tiffin taiyar hai.” 13
“Attcha,” said Denis.
“I make table ready close to river,” said Haji proudly. And Denis, turning, saw the white table-cloth through a gap in the trees. So the river was as near as that, was it? Yes, there it was, rushing along quite close to where he was going to sit. Only a little stretch of stony shore between him and that vast current. Fancy if he slipped in. . . . How soon would a crocodile get him? wondered Denis, sitting down on the grass chair that Haji had brought along with them and unrolling his table napkin and then settling his pugaree a little closer down over his eyes because the rushing water was a little dazzling at first. London; Piccadilly; his flat and Miss Smith; what miles and miles they were away from this. But this was reality. To earn your living in however skilled or unorthodox a fashion was only fantasy compared to this.
The Maharajah of Pundoo was large and corpulent and spent most of his days in either lolling on a string bed in his palatial tent or swaying from side to side on the howdah of his elephant as it crashed through the jungle that formed most of his territory. For the Maharajah was a superb shot; a far better shot than his son, who was delicate and weedy and dissipated into the bargain. And it was for this reason that the Maharajah was rarely seen in the great white palace that overhung the Bela River, for it was in this palace that his son wasted his substance in riotous living. Secretly the Maharajah grieved over this. It disturbed his rest and poisoned his enjoyment in the material things of fife. For this only son of his was the child of Moti Lal, the only one of his wives whom he had really loved. Tiny and wide-eyed and beautiful, he had brought Moti Lal from the wilds of Afghanistan to be his child-wife. And she had flickered out and died when her firstborn had whimpered its way into life at the hands of an ignorant midwife. If the Maharajah of Pundoo had not so hated the English he would have sent his wife to one of the few Mission hospitals then in existence to be delivered of her firstborn. But he had been over-persuaded by his ministers, who were crafty and avaricious and afraid of their ruler becoming allied to the British, who had an uncomfortable habit of objecting to tyranny and extortion, and who were apt to visit their annoyance on those whom they found to be perpetrating these offences.
But somehow this death of his favourite wife had turned the Maharajah more against the British than ever. There, within his reach, they had held the power of life and death for the woman he loved. And yet he had not availed himself of their ministrations. Of course he hadn’t . . . he would never bow his head to that alien and foreign influence. Close to his side his Prime Minister continued his propaganda. Until this hatred had become an obsession with him. As his son grew to maturity so his hatred grew, too. Until by now the land over which he held sway was a real thorn in the side of the British Government. Banditry, outlawry and disease were rampant. In a desperate effort to bring the Maharajah to his senses the Indian Government had deprived him of four of his salute of seven guns. But even that had no effect. Wandering irresolutely and furiously through his jungles so as not to be maddened by the sight of his son drinking himself to death in his great white palace, the Maharajah lay awake at night thinking out more schemes to harass and disturb Simla and Delhi. He would lie on his newar bed in his gaily-caparisoned tent, lonely and beset by tormenting thoughts. His only son a drunkard, for even from his lesser wives no issue had been forthcoming. His only son and his only child. . . . The Maharajah would turn on his pillow and bite it in his misery. And then one day as he rode through the jungle close to Wandara he had met Ramjee. News travels mysteriously in India; it seems to need no visible means of transport. Ramjee had heard that the Maharajah hated the British, and this news had in some way awakened a chord in him that he did not know was there. So did he too hate the British with their sense of honour and their ridiculous dislike of seeing an animal ill-treated and their senseless love of cleanliness. His father was besotted, obsessed by his appreciation of these tiresome people. But he, Ramjee, knew them at their true worth. They were stupid . . . and not only were they stupid—they were feeble. They could not enforce obedience now; they could only plead or appeal to some sense in you that no sane person possessed—a sense of honour. No, the English were effete, decided Ramjee complacently. And this being so, he was going to make some money out of it—somehow. The Maharajah of Pundoo . . . Ramjee began to think about the Maharajah of Pundoo. He was a brave, fine fellow and a rich man at that. His exploits of daring were notorious, and because of them he had lost, been deprived of, some of his salute of guns. The guns that thundered out from the Mahluxshmi Fort as the homeward-bound steamer bearing the Maharajah on its gleaming decks stole out from Bombay towards the open sea. As if losing a few guns mattered . . . besides, the Maharajah had not been to England for some time now. Again the fault of the British Government, who had objected to the wastrel son being left in charge of a territory already out of control. Yes, the time was ripe for meeting the Maharajah of Pundoo, decided Ramjee, pricking up his ears for news of him and his whereabouts. One of his runners would give it to him if he gave him a few pice for himself. The runners would come in to Wandara for rice and ghee and the few things that the Wandara Bazaar could provide for the Maharajah’s native servants. It would be easy enough to find out what he wanted to know from them.
And it proved to be easy. So one day Ramjee set off to establish himself in a spot close to where the Maharajah would be shooting. For safety he would climb a tree and sit there and watch. It was a spot where His Highness would halt for tiffin, said the runner. There was good water there; and the trees were large and spreading to afford him shade. If Ramjee would encamp himself there and bide his time, his patience would be rewarded, said the runner, eyeing the man who questioned him, and wondering what he was up to, and decided that if whatever he was planning did not come off he would denounce him to the police, and probably get a few rupees for his pains.
By the time Ramjee managed to get speech with the Maharajah he was a man in a very bad temper. For it had proved to be a very expensive privilege. “Certainly, he could have speech,” said the chuprassie14 in the tattered uniform, staring up into the tree from which Ramjee was peering down. His Highness was always ready to hear news that concerned him, and was well known to be very benevolent towards those who sought audience with him. But it would cost . . . And here the chuprassie named a sum that to Ramjee, wedged uncomfortably between the forked branches of his trees, appeared both exorbitant and prohibitive.
“Ari!” Ramjee began to expostulate.
“Take it or leave it, brother,” said the chuprassie, preparing to make himself scarce.
“But what guarantee have I?” Ramjee, calling out the words, began to fumble in the front of his shirt. He had the money . . . oh, yes, he had the money. But supposing he handed it over and then didn’t get speech with the Maharajah after all. These lackeys that hung round these native chiefs. Their nefarious dealings were well known. . . .
“I will take ten rupees in advance,” said the chuprassie, “and the remaining ten when the interview is concluded.”
“And the interview will take place . . .?”
“As soon as His Highness awakens from sleep,” said the chuprassie, watching with greedy eyes as Ramjee putting down one long brown leg, prepared to descend from his perch. This was easily-gained reward, thought the chuprassie, congratulating himself that he had had the sense to make it twenty instead of ten.
“So much good money for so little,” grumbled Ramjee, unclipping his little leather wallet without removing it from the cord by which it hung round his neck.
“But only the gods know what may result from it,” replied the chuprassie glibly, taking the two five-rupee notes in his brown hand and stuffing them into his coat pocket.
“Be quick, then, with your job,” said Ramjee, speaking the vernacular with a snarl in his tone. For he hated to part with good money, and the tree had had thorns in it, and one of them had stuck into the sole of his foot. Deftly he turned it upwards and snicked the thorn out of his tough skin. And then he slipped his feet into his sandals again. He would take them off as he approached the Maharajah; it was easy enough to approach an English sahib with your shoes on, but quite impossible to go near an Indian, reflected Ramjee, watching the messenger’s red-coated back as he made his way towards the temporary camp. Another five minutes—or perhaps ten—and he would have obtained the ear and attention of His Highness. Perhaps that would mean a hundred rupees in his pocket; or perhaps even more—a thousand. Ramjee began to dream. A thousand rupees. What would he not be able to do with so much money? He would go to Calcutta and win more money by backing horses. He would buy himself an English suit and a pair of brown shoes with tapering toes. He would . . . Ramjee stopped thinking about what he would do as the messenger appeared again.
“There is yet another fellow who must be satisfied,” he said. “Kullan. His Highness’s personal attendant. He bids me say that his master cannot be disturbed for less than ten rupees.”
“You are a budmarsh and a villain,” said Ramjee furiously. “Give me back that ten rupees and I will see this fellow Kullan myself.” He lifted his arm to strike.
“Gently, gently, brother,” said the messenger. “For you are only one and we are many. The interview with His Highness you shall have, but now I must take my further ten rupees before I return hence. And the ten rupees for His Highness’s personal servant, one Kullan.”
“A gang of thieves and robbers,” muttered Ramjee, almost in tears. For now he was frightened as well as anxious. Supposing they chose to set upon him he was done. An empty well . . . who would know that he was at the bottom of it among the snakes and cockroaches. Or even a fierce beating . . . incapacitated by it, he might he there all night and be attacked by a wild beast. The man-eating tiger was at large. With shaking hands he abstracted two more ten-rupee notes from his now empty wallet. The whole of his last month’s pay gone and he had only received it the day before. . . .
“And now, brother, your desire will not be long unfulfilled,” said the chuprassie, turning to go back again and grinning as he did so. For this was an easily obtained thirty rupees. Kullan, the Maharajah’s personal servant, was a rich man and would be content with five. In fact, he might not have to have anything at all if he continued to snore on his string bed, as he was doing now, for the interview would be over before he was awake and again in attendance on his master.
Having eaten well and slept equally well, the Maharajah was amiable. These chance encounters with men with whom he would not otherwise come in contact amused him. The fellow might have something interesting to say. . . .
“From whence does he come?” said the Maharajah, shifting the wad of pân from side of his mouth to the other, and then ejecting a long stream of scarlet liquid from between his flaccid lips.
“From Wandara, Huzoor.”
“From the bazaar?”
“From the Mission hospital, Huzoor,” replied the chuprassie humbly.
“Ehe! From the Mission hospital. Well, send the fellow along.” And as the messenger turned to go the Maharajah thrust a trembling hand into his embroidered pocket. So . . . he was at last to have a chance to strike at the people and the institutions that he loathed. The Mission hospital at Wandara . . . the sad little shrunken face of his child-wife flickered across his memory. Twenty years ago almost to the very day . . . long before the Mission hospital at Wandara had been in existence. But all the same, there had been another within reach. . . . But so great had been his hatred that he had not hesitated to sacrifice the life . . . and as he thought this the Maharajah gave the little choking cry that he so often gave when this thought attacked him. Only to strike at the people whom he loathed would help him. “I pray the gods that this fellow will enable me to do so,” thought the Maharajah, smoothing his forehead with a damp hand and settling his pugaree a little more easily on his large shaven head. And after talking for about twenty minutes with Ramjee, who, servilely whining, bleated out his tale, the Maharajah knew that the hour for supreme revenge had come. For said Ramjee, there was a white woman at the Mission hospital, a pukka memsahib quite reasonably fair to look upon. It would be simple, said Ramjee, to entice this memsahib into the compound on some pretext or other and then to get her into the Mission car, which could be waiting out of earshot. Once in the car, she could be conveyed easily to the fringe of the jungle, where some servants of the Maharajah could be in waiting to take possession of her. In fact, perhaps the better plan would be to convey to the memsahib some fictitious message from the doctor memsahib which would ensure her entering the car without protest, and then the rest would be simple.
“I should say that that would be the better plan,” said the Maharajah, eyeing Ramjee’s meagre proportions with indolent contempt. “Knowing as I do the vigour of the British memsahib, I should have my doubts as to the wisdom of attempting to remove her single-handed.”
“Huzoor,” said Ramjee, wishing most dreadfully that he had never embarked on his hair-brained scheme. For he was in the midst of enemies. If he ever got back alive he would be a lucky man.
“It would be better, perhaps, that I send with you two of my most trusted men,” said the Maharajah after a little pause. “That will ensure the carrying out of the scheme without a hitch. And when the memsahib is safely in my territory they will give you fifty rupees. And if by any mishap the stirrings of your miserable conscience cause you to repent for what you have done and inform on it, I shall have means of ascertaining this and your wretched life will not be worth the value of that cheap ring that you wear upon your first finger. Your first finger will be the first thing that you will part with, and so on to the end.”
“Huzoor,” said Ramjee, salaaming to the ground and seeing the particles of earth by his bare feet through a red mist of panic. Death by inches. Why had he ever come so far from Wandara? And only to make twenty rupees on the whole transaction. If only he could get away alive he would never embark on anything of the kind again. But the Maharajah was going to send men with him; they would kill him if he attempted to get out of it. Sweating with fear, Ramjee stood there, hearing the rustling of the leaves above his head. The wind was a hot one, as it was midday. If only he could get away alive. . . . The great brown face of the Maharajah seemed to swell and get even larger. His brown hands looked like the paws of an ape, the rings on them like crawling circles of living venom.
Ramjee started and almost fell as the Maharajah clapped his hands and turned his head towards his scarlet tent. But it was only to summon a servant that he clapped his hands. Two men came running, both tall and athletic, to them the Maharajah addressed himself in a vernacular that Ramjee could not understand. Shivering, he stood there listening. It might easily be an order to these men to tip him into the first empty well that they came across. It might equally easily be an order to these men to seize the memsahib and then slaughter the man who had betrayed her so that he should tell no tales. They were only about five miles from Wandara as the crow would fly, but it might be fifty miles so far as his personal safety was concerned.
“And now be off,” said the Maharajah, suddenly speaking in English and staring contemptuously at Ramjee. “The sun is high in the heavens, so that you have plenty of time.”
“Yes, Huzoor,” said Ramjee, feebly staring palely in front of him and wondering if he had heard aright.
“The memsahib should be at the edge of the river by six o’clock to-night.”
“She shall be there, Huzoor,” said Ramjee, salaaming to the ground and backing a little towards his shoes.
“Give the wretched fellow this when the memsahib is in your hands, Manu,” said the Maharajah, dragging a bundle of notes from his pocket and selecting five of them and then thrusting the remainder back again.
“Hain, Huzoor,” said the more muscular of the two men, taking the notes and salaaming and then turning to leave the presence of his master. “Follow, you, fellow,” he said contemptuously, speaking in the vernacular. “And be sharp about it or we shall not be back before His Highness retires to rest—and that would be a pity,” said the native, grinning maliciously at his companion and making a significant gesture as he spoke.
Margaret’s first feeling after being half-dragged and half-lifted into the Mission car was that this must be a dream. This was the sort of thing that you did dream about; you read about it happening to people in books; and you remembered it when you went to bed, and lived over again the awful helpless terror that they must have felt. And the thought of it dwelt with you, so that the fear of it lingered in your subconscious mind, floating up to the surface in snatches of strangling nightmare. So that as she struggled and fought on the floor of the car trying to tear away the folds of the pugaree that one of the two men who were holding her down was endeavouring to wind round her mouth she had no time to feel afraid.
“Get away, will you! “ she was gasping and choking out the words. “Ramjee, stop the car and turn these men out. What are you doing? Are you mad? You must be mad.” Margaret was trying to get up from the floor. That was her one thought; if she could get up from the floor she could perhaps thrust her head out of the window of the car and shriek, and perhaps someone would see and hear her. The Mission car was well known in the bazaar, and Miss Mostyn tremendously respected; if she could only make herself heard it would be perfectly all right.
“Chup row,”15 the taller of the two men spoke brutally as he forced Margaret back again. This memsahib had muscles of steel, he thought furiously. She had scratched his face badly and his lip was bleeding. And what did the Maharajah want with an old thing like this? She had a pale face and there were lines at the corners of her mouth and her hair was wild, and as it hung in wisps: she looked a fright. She must be at least thirty. All this tamasha and to-do about an old woman of thirty! The native spoke rapidly to his companion.
“True, brother,” said the other native. “And she has talons like a vulture, as I know to my cost. If it were not that I fear the wrath of His Highness I would settle the business once and for all by cutting off her nose.”
“Without a nose she would not be less appetizing than she is with one,” said the native, stooping down and holding Margaret’s head firmly down to the floor of the car. How much longer until we reach the river?”
“We are now passing through the bazaar. . . .”
“Let me out,” screamed Margaret, hearing the word bazaar and watching the lights of the tiny shop fronts as the car tore past them. Where were they taking her? And had Ramjee gone mad that he was sitting there driving like a maniac while two natives held her down. What did it all mean? He had simply come to her bedroom door and asked her if she would come to the gate of the compound, as there was a woman there who wanted to see Miss Mostyn, and the doctor miss-sahib was occupied at the moment. And she had gone out, guided by the hurricane lantern that Ramjee was carrying, and then this had happened. It was horrible, unthinkable. Where were they taking her? What were they going to do to her? Horrible stories of kidnapping rushed through her mind. They would torture her, and before a native she would not be able to help screaming. Even now in the midst of all the terror of what was going on the indignity of this was frightful. Two natives holding her down—and they smelt. What did it all mean? What did it all mean? How would she ever be able to be rescued? Nobody at the hospital would know that she had gone. Ramjee would lie when he got back—if he was going back to the hospital. Where were they now? The car was swerving round a corner and was obviously going downhill. They were going down to the river and they were going to throw her to the crocodiles. But why . . . why? She could not breathe; they were pressing that artery in the side of her neck; her head lolled sideways as the car swung from side to side.
So that the actual getting of her out of the car was easy. Dumping her on the ground, the three men began to argue. Ramjee was anxious to be gone, but the Maharajah had said that he was to have fifty rupees.
“Give it to me,” he shouted the words with trembling lips.
“Hark at him!” The taller of the two natives burst out laughing. “Fifty rupees for this boodee,16 What does the fellow think? He must be crazy. Get off with you and leave us to deal with her, and fifty rupees between us for this trouble is little enough. Get off with you, I tell you.” And threateningly the native stooped and dragged a knife out of his belt.
And, sick with fright, Ramjee scrambled back into the car. Two to one, what was the use of his remaining there? Two to one and the memsahib lying there dead and all his money gone. Sobbing aloud, Ramjee let in the clutch and went grinding back up the hill again. Back to the hospital. And what was he going to say when he got there? The memsahib dead—and what harm had she ever done him, Ramjee? Sobbing and howling so that he could hardly see to drive the car, Ramjee went bouncing back through the bazaar again. The bazaar with all its familiar smells and sights. The sweetmeat stall where he had so often stood and gossiped while biting into the luscious golden twists of the jellabies that old Fatma made so well. “Memsahib, memsahib,” Ramjee was wailing the words out loud as at last he saw the long white gate of the Mission hospital ahead of him. Ah, but that meant that explanation was due! His father . . . his father would never believe what he said and would get the police. The police, with their cross-examination under torture . . . and now Ramjee’s howls were mingling with the squeal of brakes hastily applied.
While down by the river the two natives sat and smoked their bidies waiting until Margaret recovered. She was not dead; they had stooped and peered into her face and saw that she was breathing. They would leave her there until they had smoked their bidies through. It would give her a rest before the five-mile walk that lay ahead of her. They chattered about her as they squatted on their heels. The Maharajah would be in a fine rage when he saw what he had got hold of. A white woman as tough as a prickly pear. And all the trouble of her when the British Raj began to be nasty and had her sought for. For the Raj did not like its women taken and ravished by natives. It was a thing they objected to, the apes and fools.
“But she is too old; he will not take her,” said the younger of the two men. “She will be flung into an empty well close to the camp and to-morrow we shall move away and leave her there. I told that foolish fellow to say to the doctor miss-sahib that the memsahib had been to pluck flowers and had been taken by the man-eating tiger. But he said that he had khubber that the tiger had been seen at Wai, and that was many miles away, and the doctor miss-sahib was sharp as any man and would not believe.”
“Psst, she wakes.” Margaret stirred and sat up, brushing her hair back from her forehead. Through the darkness she could see the glowing ends of the two bidies—like two red eyes. The river ran close at hand; she could hear it. Where was she? Her head ached and one of her arms was stiff and bruised. With an effort she tried to get up on to her feet and then screamed as she heard the pad of bare feet close at hand. A smell of smoke and a hard damp hand on hers. What should she do? Offer them money? But she hadn’t any with her. Besides, she did not know their language well enough. What were they going to do with her, and what did it all mean? It was cold and she had no coat. If only she could see . . . ah, the moon was coming out from behind a cloud. Yes, now she could see the river swirling along and the long trailing fronds of overhanging creepers trailing in the muddy water.
“Come bai.”17 The taller of the two men was dragging Margaret to her feet and his touch was not unkindly. This was no business of his, he thought sullenly; the Maharajah had ordered it, and therefore it had to be done. And done as soon as might be, for they had five miles to go and the shoes of the memsahib were thin, praise be to Allah, for he had received quite a good kick on the face from one of them. But if they went quickly they would be back at the camp in time for the evening meal, which would be all to the good, for he was hungry. What should become of this memsahib, old as she was, did not concern him. The Maharajah must settle that and keep out of the clutches of the British Raj if he could. Whether he could or not would be another thing, for the Raj became wily when it was roused. And if the anger of the Maharajah was stirred by seeing his captive lean as famine cattle, what would happen then? For it would not be easy to return her from where she had been taken, for she would lodge information against her captors.
“Let me go,” said Margaret abruptly. Stammering, she tried to remember any of the Hindustani that she knew. “Pice, pice. . . .” Pice meant money, and it was almost the only thing that a native cared about. “Pice, pice,” she kept on repeating the words as she tried to rearrange her hair. The cold damp breeze from the river blew on her wet face and made her shiver. “Pice denge.” Yes, that was right; it meant “I will give money.” She said it again and again as she stood and shuddered in the grasp of the damp black hand that held her tight.
“But the native only snorted grumpily.
“Chello, bai,”18 he said and began to drag Margaret along the narrow jungle path to where in the light of the moon she could see that the trees grew tall and matted, pointing their feathery fronds to the star-sprinkled sky.
Denis Frome pitched camp a little earlier than he had meant to that night. But he often did that on his first day’s trek, as it gave the coolies a chance to get their second wind. And also he liked to be able to see exactly where he was going to spend the next few days. At about four o’clock they reached an upper shelf of the Pundoo jungle where a little tributary of the sacred river bubbled up out of the rocks and fell in tiny cascades down the mossy, rocky sides of them. Farther ahead was a beautiful flat plateau overlooking the plains. Ideal for a camp, and with water handy it would be ideal. The coolies would know if the water was sweet to drink. Turning, he told Haji to ask them.
“Hain sahib,” as Haji turned to face the long snakelike following it slowed down, the brown faces of the coolies shining with pleasure.
“Then we will stay here.” And with this, Denis strolled ahead. A perfect evening, and, if he was not mistaken, a climb of about a hundred feet would bring them within sight of the Himalayan snows. Lighting a cigarette, he decided that life was a very desirable thing. He could stay in this delightful spot for quite a week and get probably the most perfect shooting; watch all the bird life that he wanted and get cold nights into the bargain. What more could any human being desire? He turned and watched the camp taking shape. His own tent ridiculously luxurious, really; but he liked to be comfortable—and why shouldn’t he? Two tents side by side; one for a sitting-room and another ready to be put up if he chanced to come across a white man or forest officer. His bathroom tent and one for his toilet. And some way away the tents for the coolies and their womenfolk and a bigger one for the kitchen. It was all springing to life like the Arabian Nights. And soon he would be told that tea was ready . . . and it would be all spread out in his sitting-room with coloured tablecloth and nice china cups; nothing hugger-mugger. Why should camp be hugger-mugger? Why shouldn’t one sleep in a comfortable bed when these newar beds were so comfortable and could be so easily obtained? And why not have mosquito curtains if one needed them and enjoy oneself with nice sheets and blankets? And have the table equipment pleasing to look at? Of course, it all meant tons of transport and coolies and was expensive; but mercifully he could afford it, and his practice was increasing by leaps and bounds. So for the three months when he did make holiday why shouldn’t he make holiday as he wanted to?
“Char taiyar hai,19 Huzoor.” Really, old Haji was wonderful standing there in his freshly-starched white coat. And his tent up already, although they had only been at it for twenty minutes. Strolling slowly towards it, Denis felt an amazing sense of well-being steal over him. Entirely alone in the middle of an Indian forest, what more could any one want? Plenty of ammunition and a couple of excellent guns; a couple of Colt automatics and lots of ammunition for those, too. A holiday of at least eight weeks stretching in front of him, Denis suddenly lifted his arms above his head, taking a long breath. God was good; he suddenly felt more sure of it than he had done for a very long time.
“You have done well, Haji.” Lifting the flap of his tent, he looked round appreciatively. His favourite long chair; two other grass chairs, with cushions on them; a couple of Persian rugs on the large green dhurrie that covered the floor completely. His tea on a low table; his books; a couple of Aladdin lamps ready to be lighted when he wanted them. Splendid!
But Haji, standing there, looked weary. There was no satisfaction on his dark face as he fidgeted from one bare foot to the other.
“Well, what is it?” Denis, lifting the teapot, spoke good-temperedly. One could always tell with a native servant if anything was wrong.
“I say not disturbing sahib,” said Haji morosely.
“But who wants to disturb me?”
“One man come running from camp saying Pundoo Maharajah sahib very sick,” said Haji gloomily.
“Well?” Denis was leisurely squeezing a lime into his milkless tea.
“Maharajah sahib saying holy doctor sahib please come,” said Haji reluctantly. My saying Holy Doctor sahib too tired after long day trek.”
“I see.” Denis’s clean-shaven mouth was twitching. Holy had obviously been substituted for “mad.” . . . Nice old Haji. But it was a cursed nuisance. To begin with, he had had no idea at all that the Maharajah was in the vicinity, Marvell having given him the impression that he was much farther north. Also, there was probably nothing the matter with him beyond overeating. But, of course, he could find out. . . .
“What sickness seizes the Maharajah sahib?”
“Very much vomiting, bowels rushing out like water,” said Haji graphically.
“Ah!” Denis, sipping his tea, was reflecting. Cholera? If so, by the time he could be on the spot the man would be dead. Also, it would be difficult to give him saline injections, although he had the things with him. Also, he did not want to run bald-headed into cholera with so many natives in his entourage. But this was not the cholera season. He said so.
“No, sahib,” said Haji dismally. Then after a pause:
“My telling messenger holy doctor sahib too tired. Sending medicine in bottle.”
“No, that won’t do,” Denis, pouring himself out another cup of tea, was reflecting. It never answered to turn your back on an obvious duty. If you did, fate had an uncomfortable way of getting back on you.
But his horses were tired. . . .
“The messenger, did he bring horses?” he inquired.
“Yes, sahib,” said Haji reluctantly.
“How far away is the Maharajah’s camp pitched?”
“Three miles, sahib.”
“Only three miles! Why, he had absolutely put his nose into a hornets’ nest! Not that he wasn’t safe enough. Nobody would touch him; they were much too afraid of him.
“Three miles?”
“Hain, sahib.”
“And the time is now?”
“Five o’clock, sahib.”
“I’ll go along there and be back in time for dinner at half-past eight,” said Denis. “Get out my medicine-case and my despatch-case, and my chuddah. I’ll put it on over my pugaree. And see that by the time I get back a hot bath is ready. And if by any chance I am not back until the morning, see that all goes well here.”
“Maharajah sahib very badmans,” said Haji wretchedly. His dark face was creased with anxiety. “Perhaps putting dowai20 in sahib’s dinner and killing!”
“Not a chance, Haji,” said Denis, his white teeth flashing in his brown face. “It’s much more likely to be the other way round. Besides, I’ve got a revolver. I’ll change into clean khaki. Get it ready, will you? And my chuddah. . . .”
And twenty minutes later Denis was ready. With his large enveloping chuddah dragged across the lower part of his face and his reins loose on his pony’s neck, he went slowly down the steep mountain path. Above the plains the clouds lay in long, floating strands like wisps of cotton-wool. It was a sublime evening; the stars just beginning to twinkle in the dark blue canopy overhead. Soon there would be millions of stars; rivers of them the Milky Way, blurred and blotted. Soon the moon would be up, a big full moon, turning the trees and rocks and pathway to silver. Behind him he could hear the heavy breathing of the messenger as he padded barefoot along the narrow path. They were wonderful fellows, these really jungly natives. Absorbed in their own thoughts and utterly oblivious of anything that went on around them. And then Denis’s reflections turned to himself and the strangeness of the fact that he was able to ride, as he was riding now, without the slightest apprehension, straight into the camp of an entirely hostile potentate, simply because he was supposed to be possessed of supernatural powers. The mad doctor, which being interpreted by faithful old Haji, became holy.
“Which turn do we take?” Speaking in the vernacular, Denis swung round in the saddle.”
“To the left, sahib.”
“And then?”
“And then we arrive, sahib,” said the native, speaking without raising his eyes from the ground. And as Denis looked ahead of him he could see gleaming in the moonlight the sheen of white tents. Big tents and small tents; the Maharajah certainly had a pretty large camp. Well, the next quarter of an hour would show what was wrong with him and it was devoutly to be hoped that it was not cholera. Because if it was, it would sweep through a camp like that with its hopeless lack of proper sanitation like a whirlwind. He had some pretty drastic remedies with him, certainly which would be efficacious in ordinary digestive troubles, but not extensive enough for cholera. However he would hope that it was not cholera; as his pony neighing lifted his head and tried to break into a gentle amble Denis dragged at the rein and then turned his head a little.
“Who is there?” he said sharply.
“It is only I, sahib,” and humbly Pila the runner padded a little more clearly into view. And as Denis turned his head back again he thought, and not for the first time either, that these native followers were marvellous people. Pila, the runner, after that long day’s trek attaching himself secretly and faithfully to his master in case he might be wanted. And as later that night, Denis, in one of the two luxurious tents placed at his disposal sat scribbling with desperate haste on a sheet of paper torn from his pocket-book, he thought again that the native of India was a marvellous person. Because it might almost have been that Pila had been warned that he would be desperately needed. How otherwise could he have got a message through to Miss Mostyn? It would have been impossible. Standing there writing, Denis wondered again how it was that sometimes things seemed to fall into line in a way little short of miraculous. And then he folded the paper across and spoke in the vernacular.
“Speed is very necessary, Pila.”
“Attcha, sahib.”
“And caution.”
“Attcha, sahib.”
“Sooner than allow that chitti to be taken from you swallow it.”
“Attcha, sahib.”
“And now, Allah go with you, Pila,” said Denis softly, standing and watching the pale hard soles of his runner’s bare feet as he padded to the flap of the tent, lifted it and vanished into the night.
An hour earlier, Denis arriving at the camp had been greeted by a perspiring and excited chuprassie who had implored him to come to His Highness’s tent without delay as he was at the point of death. And following him carrying his despatch-case, Denis had wondered what he was going to find. Cholera? Heart attack? Which was it going to be? Perhaps diabetic coma—well, in any event, he had with him the things necessary for each separate case.
But he only found a very severe case of colic. Lying there rolling on his wide bed the Maharajah gasped that he was dying from the wrath of Allah and that to the half of his kingdom the doctor sahib should have it if he would save him.
“Well, let us see,” said Denis calmly. And twenty minutes later the Maharajah lay there in a happy stupor. While Denis, replacing his well-washed and disinfected instruments, wondered if what he had heard was true. For in between his groans the Maharajah had gasped it all out. He had stolen a beautiful slave girl from a native chief; he had sent out his emissaries to take her, but a short few hours before. And they had brought her in to him. And he prepared to ravish her then and there had suddenly been smitten with this frightful sickness so that she had had to be removed from his presence. Allah had smitten hard and at once—the Maharajah with his terrified eyes on the hypodermic syringe that Denis held pointed upwards, groaned out his anguish.
“Where is she now?”
“Attended by an ayah, she remains in an adjacent tent, sahib.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“She is both young and beautiful, sahib.”
“You will get better, my friend,” said Denis carelessly. “And then the maiden can be returned from whence she came.”
“That is not possible, sahib,” wailed the Maharajah. “By now the native chief will have discovered her absence and he will have his soldiers lying in waiting for my soldiers.”
“Yes, that’s true,” agreed Denis, who after rinsing his hands in the bowl of rosewater, brought him by Kullan, was wiping them on a tiny silken towel.
“Would the sahib consider——” And then the Maharajah stopped speaking while his wily mind worked quickly. For if only he could palm the memsahib off on to the doctor sahib, all would be well. By placing his spies in advantageous positions he could prevent the doctor sahib from returning her to the Mission hospital and lodging information. It would be impossible for him to get through his spies, for miles and miles of jungle territory owned by himself, surrounded the Mission hospital. He might even subtly warn the doctor sahib against making any such attempt, for the doctor sahib valued his shooting trip which was only made possible because Maharajah was agreeable to it. And it would be good for the doctor sahib to have a companion, decided the Maharajah. These Englishmen with their ridiculous prejudices about women were unnatural. But it would not do to tell the sahib that the girl he had in mind was an Englishwoman. Let him find that out for himself later.
And so the Maharajah began to speak. The girl was fair and comely in shape and form he said. She would be a meet companion for the sahib in his travels. The sahib would surely at least inspect her if she should be brought in to him. She was heavily veiled, but the sahib could remove the veils if he so wished.
“It is extremely good of you, my friend.” Denis had finished packing up his case and was thinking that it was time he got back. He was smiling inwardly at the astounding way in which these ruling chiefs considered, that to be without a woman, was the most appalling thing that could happen to any man.
“I must be on my way, my friend,” he said.
“But not before the dawn, doctor sahib.”
“Yes, to-night. At once.”
“I could not permit it, sahib,” said the Maharajah instantly. “To-morrow, at dawn if you wish it, I send with you an escort to bring you safely to your camp, but not to-night. To-night is dark, and the jungle is infested with wild beasts, it is not possible for a life so valuable as yours to be exposed to such dangers.”
And afterwards, thinking it over, Denis came to the conclusion that it was then that he began to suspect that the girl of whom the Maharajah spoke, might be Margaret Baxter. The brute had got cold feet when he began to think it over, there were nasty penalties for abduction. And that explained the Maharajah’s wish to have him stay that night. He intended to see that he did not go back to his own camp and did not turn south to lodge information. It would be almost impossible to lodge official information as to Margaret Baxter’s whereabouts without imperilling her life and his own. The Maharajah would simply have them scuppered and then say that the doctor sahib had been telling lies about the Englishwoman and had obviously been devoured by wild beasts as a judgment.
“The doctor sahib will not reconsider his decision to inspect the beautiful dancing girl?” murmured the Maharajah after an interval during which the soothing drug stole through his whole being. This man should have a nugget of gold, he decided. A great big shining nugget of gold, and gold was at a premium in England at the moment, in that detestable British Empire.
“Well——” and then Denis suddenly laughed out loud.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps my friend. We will have her brought in presently and when you are calmer and the healing drugs have done their work, you may decide to keep her yourself.”
“Ah, no, I should like you to have her as a token of my gratitude,” said the Maharajah promptly. And inwardly he shuddered as he remembered the English memsahib as he had seen her. Lean and pale and dishevelled and spitting fire and defiance at him. To lie with such a one would be to dishonour one’s manhood. Probably now that she was dressed in Indian garments she would look better; he ought to have had that done before she had been brought in to his presence. But he had hoped to see one of those plump pink and white misses such as one remembered having seen at the Delhi Durbar. Or perhaps a pale and dignified and more or less alluring female of another type. But this small, pointed face, pallid, abusive creature—the Maharajah lying very still, closed his puffy eyelids and breathed a little heavily.
“Well——”
“Firstly, a whisky and soda, doctor sahib.” Clapping his hands the Maharajah gave an order to the servant whose white turban instantly appeared through the decorative flap of his tent.
“Well, thanks very much.” Denis sat down in a low chair and his blue eyes were intent. This was all very odd; very odd indeed. If it was indeed Margaret Baxter, there was no other course open to him than to take her under his care; keep her until the coast was clear to get her back to Wandara which, if he knew the man with whom he was dealing, would not be for a very long time, and then see what happened. And oddly enough as he sat there his pulses quickened. Margaret Baxter—in the hollow of his hand, because she loved him. She might have got over it by now, but somehow he didn’t think so. An Indian love lyric with a vengeance! To wander with her through these forests and valleys and perhaps to take her even up to the fringe of the snows. To watch her passion for him growing and yet to keep her on the rein. Until at last he had her in completest surrender. Yes, it was a prospect that pleased him, decided Denis, sitting there with his long eyelashes flickering and thinking that if the mysterious dancing girl did not prove to be Margaret after all, the disappointment would be too appalling. For this was what his expeditions lacked. The white-hot blaze of romance—of magic. And there was magic in Margaret Baxter; he had felt it the first time he had seen her standing there at bay with that dagger in her hand. As he had taken the dagger from her and felt the softness of her skin under his hard grasp, he had sensed the magic that was there. And for him—only for him. His to rouse and play upon and finally to satisfy when the moment came. Yes—unconsciously Denis closed his eyes as his vivid imagination seized on him. He opened them again.
“Shall I send for her, sahib?” Had the old brute been watching him, wondered Denis, his inscrutable gaze instantly veiled.
“Yes, it cannot do any harm,” said Denis, setting down his tumbler. He reached out a long arm and picked up his chuddar from a divan close to his elbow. “We will keep my nationality concealed,” he said casually. “For to a young and ardent dancing girl, the thought of an Englishman might lack fire. And that would be a pity, would it not?”
“A great pity,” said the Maharajah, clapping his hands again and inwardly sniggering. For it would be a fine trick to saddle the mad doctor with this lean and skinny female. Enveloped in the full skirts and disguising head-dress of a dancing girl her meagre curves would not be visible. And safely within his own tent he would be able to dwell upon and savour the disappointment and disgust of this powerful man when he had found out how he had been had. And yet with the ridiculous and persistent sense of honour of the Englishman he would not feel able to leave her to her fate. Saddled with the female he would have to wander within the limits set him by the Maharajah; for every exit from the forest would be guarded. Until sick to death of her he killed her in his desperate effort to escape. And then, to stop his mouth, he too would be caught and killed. Or brought in chains to the Maharajah’s camp and forced under threat of torture to exercise his medical skill. A fine prospect, decided the Maharajah, opening his languid eyes as he heard the pad of Kullans’ feet. Kullan, his personal and trusted servant, to whose wife he had consigned the English female with a curt command to make her look more presentable, as the sight of her as she was, now made his stomach turn. And he had had the added pleasure of giving the order in English, for the wife of Kullan had once been an ayah in good English official service, and knew the language well. Yes, the two hated English should spend the night in close proximity to him and to each other. One of his most luxurious double tents with every comfort should be allotted to them. And in the morning they should go forth, to wander in the paths that he had determined for them, until they fell in their respective tracks with nausea induced by forced companionship, become repulsive by necessity.
“Bring in the dancing girl,” he said.
“Attcha, Huzoor,” said Kullan, salaaming to the ground and, as he stooped, shooting a craftily glance at the long lean Englishman lounging in the low chair, his empty glass beside him on the Persian rug. For Kullan knew that the mad doctor sahib always travelled in disguise. And he also knew, although it would cost him his life to say so, that his master had made a mistake in pitting his wits against this man. For he was clever in a way of which his master had no knowledge; the way that taught a man how to bide his time. However, his was only to obey—raising himself from his almost horizontal position, Kullan backed noiselessly towards the flap of the tent and lifting it slipped swiftly through.
As Mitu, the ayah, sat crouched on the floor of the tent where she had been attending to Margaret, she wondered what this fool business preceded. Kullan, her second husband, had always been a fool and now he was being more of a fool than ever. To lend himself to this forcible abduction and detention of an English memsahib of good family was the act of a madman. Mitu knew all about the English; she had been in good naukri21 and had for many years devotedly loved and cherished the babas of an official in a very high position indeed. Enid baba and Michael baba were now grown up and living in England and had many almost grown-up babas of their own, but even so at Christmas the English postal order would find its way out to Mitu and eventually be delivered to her with the registered envelope crossed with writing in blue pencil. So deep deep down Mitu had a contempt for those who ran contrary to the British Raj. As she sat with her old opaque eyes fixed on Margaret she was sorry for her. And yet in a way she was proud of her handiwork. The memsahib who had arrived dishevelled and with hair all awry and with patches of dust and earth on her small white face, was now transformed. Sobbing and gasping she had been passive in Mitu’s experienced hands. She had watched her own clothes being taken away from her with a sort of ghastly acquiescence in a horror that she could not combat. And something within her had responded to the skilled delicate brown hands as they combed and adjusted her curly hair. She had stood still as the full beautifully pleated skirt had been slung round her waist. The fine white skirt—the enveloping chuddar drawn across her breast and flung over one shoulder. The gold necklaces slipped carefully over her head. The glass bangles forced over her hands, but not roughly. And lastly the kohl so skilfully applied to the eyelids that were swollen with hopeless crying. As Mitu surveyed her charge sitting drooped and despairing on the fat velvet cushion, she thought shrewdly that it was a good thing that the hog of a Maharajah had not seen her as she was then. For then his animal instincts would have flamed. Now they were quenched and moribund for he had been in pain. The judgment of a Higher One, thought ayah, who for a brief period of her service with English officials had thrown in her lot with the Salvation Army. There in the big tent close to the maidan she had joined shrilly in martial hymns and cried, “Ehmen” when all around her also cried, Ehmen. Kullan, her husband, was a Mohammedan, but ayah by now was sick of her husband. Also she herself was a Madrassi and as she got older her mind turned more to that part of India and its ways. Squatting there, ayah brooded. For two pins she would help this memsahib to get away. Not that that would be possible yet, at any rate, the Maharajah would see to that. Spies in the trees; native coolies with poisoned arrows in the jungle thickets. Wild Pathans to pounce and fling them into empty wells. No, escape would not be possible, decided ayah, sitting there staring into space, her old eyes hooded by their drooping lids like the eyes of a cobra. But on the other hand she might be able to help. And in getting away she herself would recapture peace of mind. For Kullan’s eyes in his approaching dotage were looking fondly upon youth. One of the chuprassis had a young daughter with eyes like a doe and breasts that curved upwards under her chuli, like round apples. Well, after the life she had had, she wasn’t going to play second fiddle to a chit like that, thought ayah rebelliously. She would snap her fingers at a foolish husband and go her own way. And if that led back into English naukri, then all the better. And then ayah suddenly crouched back on to her heels and got up and padded across the room.
“Memsahib not crying?” she said briskly.
“You speak English?” gasped Margaret.
“My spik much English,” said ayah proudly. “My once in naukri with English lord sahib. Enid baba and Michael baba, my two very good babas. My nurse those babas since tiny tiny,” concluded ayah, holding her hand about six inches from the floor.
“I will give you anything I have if you will get me away,” said Margaret breathlessly. “Before I have to see that terrible man again. Cannot you show me the way out of the camp and I will rush into the jungle. I can find my way. I know I can find my way, and when I get back to Wandara I will send a messenger out with money for you. Hundreds of rupees,” choked Margaret, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief with an enormous flowered border that ayah had given her in place of her own soaking one.
“It is not possible, memsahib,” said ayah gravely. Slowly she squatted on the floor again, drawing very close to the velvet stool. “Memsahib listening,” she said, “memsahib listening very closely. Memsahib believe that ayah helping. Maharajah very sick man, not wanting memsahib till to-morrow. Ayah praying God that something happen before to-morrow. God listening to ayah miserable sinner,” said ayah glibly.
“How can anything happen?” Margaret with straining ears was listening to the weird sounds that seemed to ring them in. Frogs that croaked with hollow croakings. Every now and then the weird, uncanny sound of a jackal’s bark would come echoing through the jungle. Nearer at hand the chirp of a cricket or the whizz of some unknown insect that made a noise like scissors grinding. All so horrible—somehow like a nightmare. The whole thing a nightmare; something unspeakable waiting for one and no chance of deliverance, unless this native woman sitting almost touching her would help. But then how could you depend on a native—Miss Mostyn had always said that. They meant to be faithful and couldn’t keep to it, except in very rare instances. Supposing she were to put her trust in this woman and then betrayed, things would be worse than ever. She might get only a little way away from the camp and then be murdered. Although would murder be worse than—Margaret suddenly covered her face with her hands and gave a choking scream. The Maharajah—that unspeakable bloated animal of a man, sprawling on that divan and insulting her in English. Because she was thin; well it was better than being grossly fat thought Margaret furiously, forgetting for an instant her terror in her rage at the insult that subconsciously she knew had been deserved, because after that awful journey through the jungle and that struggle before she began it, she must have looked perfectly frightful.
“Memsahib not screaming. Memsahib believing that ayah helping,” said Mitu suddenly. For equally suddenly she had made up her mind. This camp, with its brutality and its squalor and with her husband carrying on with a younger woman, was no longer the place for her. Mitu ayah who had known naukri with the burra sahibs in the service of the Raj. Somehow or other she would smuggle the memsahib out of this camp and back into Wandara, and for this great service the British Raj would grant her a pension which would enable her to return to Madras and spend the remaining years of her life with her own people.
“Would you really help me?” Margaret lifted her wet face from her hands.
“Really truly, memsahib,” said ayah earnestly. “God swelp me, Ehmen.”
“But how?” And in spite of herself Margaret smiled. This wizened little old woman sitting so close to her was like a soft confiding little monkey. And something about her was reliable. She could be trusted; somehow Margaret felt sure that she could. Natives had queer ways of doing things; they were mysterious; they could see ahead in almost an occult way.
“Tell me what to do,” she breathed.
“Notting,” said ayah calmly. “Only waiting, doing notting.” Her opaque eyes were fixed on the flap of the tent that suddenly moved as though stirred by a breeze. “Chut,” she whispered quickly.
“The Lord Maharajah sahib wishes the memsahib,” said Kullan, coming in and scowling at the two women sitting very close together on the floor.
“Telling Lord Maharajah sahib, memsahib very sick and screaming, memsahib can’t come without Mitu ayah,” said ayah promptly.
“You——” speaking in the vernacular Kullan advanced threateningly.
“Come along,” he said roughly, and he reached out a brown hand to grasp Margaret’s arm.
“You letting go you dirty beast man you,” shrieked ayah. “My telling Maharajah sahib you collaring all monies and jewels when he not knowing. You go telling now what Mitu ayah say or you coming very worse in day or two.” Ayah, spattering out her broken English, was shaking her fists at her husband who stood there glaring in impotent fury. For he knew well enough of what this cursed woman of his was capable. A year or two before, that lovely little dancing girl whom he had wished to take to his bosom; had she not withered and died of smallpox after stumbling over that little pile of scabs collected by the she devil. There was no end to her witchcraft and if he went against her now—abruptly he turned and left the tent again.
“You see, memsahib,” said ayah triumphantly.
“Oh ayah, ayah——”
“Coming back saying Mitu ayah going with memsahib.”
“If you are there I shan’t be so afraid,” said Margaret, wiping her eyes and staring at the tent flap. Miraculously she felt comforted. This little sturdy native woman was somehow a tower of strength. She knew—what she knew it was impossible to say, but somehow she knew . . .
“Chut.” Ayah’s eyes were riveted again.
“Lord Maharajah sahib saying bring bitch woman with ’nother woman,” said Kullan, coming noiselessly back again and standing there with his dark face full of rage.
“Good, he dog pig man,” said ayah, calmly getting up from her crouching position and seizing Margaret by her hand. So odd to feel that tiny cold determined hand clutching hers, thought Margaret, rising soundlessly from the velvet stool and listening to the blood drumming in her ears.
“Memsahib covering face.”
“Like this.”
“More,” said ayah briskly, standing there and adjusting the chuddar, dragging it over the lower part of Margaret’s face so that only her eyes were visible.
So that Denis Frome’s first sight of Margaret brought with it a sickening disappointment. Although what had given him the idea that it might be Margaret Baxter?
“You see, sahib, very fine woman,” said the Maharajah complacently. Lying there he surveyed the two huddled together in the middle of the floor.
“I give her to you with pleasure. Take her to your arms for she is comely.”
“It is very good of you,” said Denis coolly, and as he spoke fluent Hindustani, his voice came a little muffled through the folds of the chuddar that he had dragged across the lower part of his face. “But I am content to continue on my way in solitude. A woman is apt to introduce discord, as you well know, and I am better without her.”
“But to inspect her will do no harm,” returned the Maharajah easily. For by now his mind was made up. Certainly in her change of dress the woman appeared much more appetising. But underneath who knew better than he the leanness of her limbs. No rolls of greasy fat there in which to bury one’s hot face. Only slenderness and tiny bones like the carcass of a chicken when sharp teeth have picked it clean.
“I have no wish to inspect,” said Denis stolidly. Although inwardly he was feeling a little perturbed, because he was in rather a tricky position. Situated exactly as he was, he was completely in the power of the Maharajah. An empty well; a prick with a poisoned arrow; a dose of poison forcibly administered. Who would know where he was or what had happened to him until it was too late? Small consolation to know that the Maharajah had lost the remainder of his salute of guns. Besides he wouldn’t know; he would be past that, although with his iron constitution it would take some time to die of slow starvation at the bottom of a well.
And then suddenly ayah began to chatter. Speaking in the vernacular, she began to wave her arms about. And as she waved her arms about she came nearer to the chair in which Denis was sitting. With a queer intent look on her monkey-like brown face she advanced and retreated from him. The two men watched her without speaking. In a way it was a relief to have something to look at. For the situation was charged with menace. And the caperings of this old woman were harmless enough, a diversion.
“Wuuri, wurri, wurri, wurri,” chanted ayah as she curveted and paused.
To Margaret standing there this was only an added horror. Who was the tall lean native man lounging in the low chair? Was she to be handed over to him? That must be it, for ayah was propitiating him. Trying to make him kinder perhaps. Kinder—to be handed over to a native! Death—death would be far better. Under her chuddar, Margaret’s face was white with terror. Should she turn and bolt and chance it? No, it was hopeless—hopeless——
“Boo, boo, boo, boo, boo,” and now ayah had got quite close to Denis. Stooping she touched the chuddar that now covered all but his eyes. For somehow an intense feeling of nausea had seized on him. This dancing girl and this brute sprawling on the divan. Why had he got himself into this mess at all? It was his own damn fault for coming to the Maharajah’s rescue. He moved restlessly as the old woman’s hand approached his face. Although perhaps it was better to keep quiet until it was too late and then he would make a damned good fight for it. God, wouldn’t he!
“Wurri, wurri, wurri, wurri,” and now ayah’s opaque eyes were staring straight down into his and he could smell the aromatic flavour of her clothing. Such queer dim old eyes—uncanny, thought Denis sitting there very still because there was nothing else to be done at the moment. Presently—ah presently! The blood drummed in his ears as he thought of what he was going to do presently.
“Wurri, wurri, wurri, wurri,” and now ayah had straightened her little old back and was retreating again. And as she retreated she beckoned to Denis sitting there. Skinny fingers covered with gold rings that slid freely up and down because the skinny fingers were too small for them. Bangles that chinked and glittered and made musical sounds. And as ayah beckoned to Denis, Margaret shrank back, flattening herself against the bulging wall. Reaching her, ayah dragged her forward again, while Denis, feeling that he was acting under some strange compulsion, got up from his chair and stood there rather helplessly. Was that native woman hypnotising him or what was it? He felt odd and muzzy and as if his limbs were heavy. Vile—the whole thing was vile. Impatiently he tried to shake his senses free from the muffling influences that seemed to be overwhelming him. But he could not. And as he stood there ayah seized one of his hands and dragged him closer, until with his greater height he stood there towering over Margaret. And then ayah lifting his other hand forced the fingers of it round the chuddar that hid Margaret’s face. Jabbering in Hindustani she bade him look down into the eyes of the Flower of the World. Lotus Flower, a dancing daughter of the gods without compare. “Look deep and drink deep, oh man and mighty hunter,” she commanded, “for she is thine to wreak thy will upon. Take her soon, oh, mighty warrior,” chanted ayah.
And as Denis stooping in a sort of drugged fury met the terrified agonised gaze of eyes that he instantly recognised, he came to his senses. So this fine old ayah knew, did she, who Margaret was, she knew that he too was English, and she was out to help. He raised his head.
“Yes, she is comely,” he said carelessly, and turning, strolled towards the divan. “But you are now restored to health, my friend. Why not take her yourself?” said Denis, speaking in the vernacular and feeling in his pocket for his cigarette-case with fingers that shook.
“I have no taste for the ways of love,” said the Maharajah hurriedly. “To me they are as ashes in my mouth. If you will, friend, she is yours.”
“For one night or for always?”
“She is yours for all time,” said the Maharaja, feeling relief almost past bearing that at last it seemed possible that this skinny incubus was to be removed from his immediate neighbourhood. “Take her, my friend, and my best wishes go with you. She shall have a perfumed bath and be decked in tissue of gold and brought to your arms. A tent shall be prepared with a divan spacious enough for you and your love and may your dreams be fragrant and auspicious.
“Thank you very much,” said Denis cordially. For now as he reflected swiftly, the thing was to take possession of Margaret as soon as possible in case the Maharajah changed his mind. Not that he was likely to; probably the thought of what was in store for him when the abduction became known was frightening him out of his senses. And then he turned quickly as he heard a sound of feet behind him. Margaret had rushed forward.
“I will die rather than belong to any native,” she said violently. “Kill me, only do it quickly or I might cry out and it would be undignified to cry out in front of scum like you. Cowards and brutes. And as for you——” threateningly Margaret came close up to Denis. “I can’t understand what has been said and I don’t suppose that you can understand what I say either, but although you are tall and strong and much bigger than I am yet I can tell you this, that if you attempt to come near me I shall tear your eyes out. I will tear out the eyes of any man who attempts to come near to me,” stammered Margaret, standing there trembling with rage and fury. For after all what was the good of keeping quiet. Far better to die after having told the devils what she thought of them.
“Bravo, bravo,” thought Denis, watching her. “Bravo, Mrs. Margaret Baxter, you have more spirit in you than I thought you had.” Turning, he spoke carelessly to the man lying on the divan.
“She has spirit,” he said carelessly.
“A spitfire,” replied the Maharajah, thinking with horror of what he had been spared. To hold such a she cat in one’s arms; a death in life indeed.
“How shall I take her?”
“Bind her hands,” said the Maharajah carelessly. Stretching out his arm he picked up a silken scarf from the floor.
“Don’t dare to touch me,” whispered Margaret, hitting out furiously with impotent hands. “Ayah, help me.”
But ayah was busy with the scarf. They are all alike thought Margaret despairingly, you can’t trust one of them. Standing there she stiffened her body as the grasp of steel settled on her wrists.
“Like this,” said Denis, speaking to the ayah in Hindustani.
“Hain, sahib,” said ayah obediently, although Margaret was beyond hearing what she said. Between them they were making her prisoner, she thought hopelessly. Well, death would come in time. Perhaps sooner than she hoped. Or she might be able to persuade this native who towered over her; they were almost all of them open to a bribe.
“Now——” and Denis stood there smiling under his chuddar.
“She is yours,” said the Maharajah complacently.
“How shall I take her?”
“In your arms,” grinned the Maharajah, who by now was feeling very much better.
“She will kick me.”
“Hold her little dancing ankles,” said the Maharajah, laughing so much that his stomach shook. “Hold her little dancing ankles and feel her love quivers as you do so.”
“Love quivers,” thought Denis whimsically as he picked Margaret up in his arms.
“Lead the way, ayah,” he said, and flung Margaret over his shoulder. “And farewell to you my friend,” he said jovially.
“Farewell and may your night be a golden one,” returned the Maharajah. “And by dawn proceed on your way unfettered. Except by the lassitude that follows on a night well spent.”
“Oh God, if only I could stick a dose of prussic acid into you,” thought Denis disgustedly. For Margaret was heavy and she struggled and the whole thing was a bore and what was to be the outcome of it? But there was no course open to him but to take her away, of course.
“My staying with memsahib, sahib.” Outside the tent, with the stars blazing down on them, it came in a tiny suppressed whisper from ayah.
“So you knew all the time did you?” Denis, breathing a little heavily, also spoke in the vernacular, stooping his head.
“Yes, sahib.”
“Yes of course stay with her. Where are we going?”
“This way, Huzoor,” said ayah, padding ahead towards a vague shape looming whitely out of the blurred darkness. A tent, inconceivably luxurious with its golden hangings and great sprawling silk-covered divan. And leading out of it another tent and out of that still another; setting Margaret gently on her feet, Denis followed ayah with his eyes as she lifted flap after flap. A regular suite of tents. Well, thank God they were not expected to share the same one, thought Denis dryly.
“I will give you anything you ask if you will let me go.” Standing there Margaret held out pitiful hands. Small, well kept hands, thought Denis watching the trembling of them. And now that she had thrown back her chuddar, how beautiful she looked with the smudges of kohl round her grey eyes. How beautiful and helpless and altogether pitiful in her terror and despair. What should he do? Give himself away at once and set her mind at rest, or wait a bit and see how things turned out? Wait a bit, he decided briefly. Wait until they were well away from this camp and safe in his own. If they could rely on the ayah they were probably safe enough. But if they couldn’t—he would have a word with her alone. The only thing was—he looked round for his case. Yes, there it was, he routed in it until he found a bandage. Her hands were still tied behind her so she could not do much. But she could run; and if she ran out into the jungle, it would be quite hopeless.
“Ayah, come here.” Speaking in Hindustani, Denis was unrolling the bandage. “Watch the memsahib, while I tether her to the divan. And then I wish speech with you in the farther tent.”
“Hain, sahib.” Ayah took possession of one of Margaret’s hot hands.
“Oh God!” Margaret lifted her white face and sobbed for the first time. The brute was going to fasten her to something so that she could not escape. And then what was he going to do to her? The ayah whom she had trusted; she was following his every gesture and agreeing with it.
“She is secure now.” With long strides Denis crossed the floor of the tent, and went into the next one. Another of these luxurious places and, thank heaven, there was decent bathroom accommodation. Towering over the little native woman, he spoke briefly.
“Are you to be trusted?”
“I am, sahib.”
“You know that I am English?”
“I know, sahib.”
“And that the memsahib is English?”
“I also knowing that, sahib,”
“And I can rely on you?”
“Cross my heart, sahib, Ehmen,” said ayah emphatically.
But it was too serious a matter for laughter. So much might depend on the fidelity of this little native woman. The very fact of their being alive at the end of twelve hours might depend on it.
“You would take service with me and the memsahib? You would leave this camp at dawn to-morrow morning? I will pay you well.”
“Leaving, sahib,” said ayah. “My very sick with Kullan bearer. Very much fooling with young womans. My not standing,” said ayah resolutely.
“Very well then.” Denis stood there thinking for a minute. “Fetch your bedding,” he said, “and put it down close to the memsahib’s bed. And it is better that she should not know that I am English, at any rate not just yet. Later on we will see. And go and inquire when we shall have food provided—and——” Denis stopped speaking as ayah took a quick breath.
“Better leaving now,” said ayah anxiously. “Maharajah sahib very bad mans; perhaps putting medicine in food.”
“Yes, that’s true,” and then Denis lifted his head. “No,” he said, “I can arrange that. I will return to the Maharajah’s tent for a moment or two. Wait here for me.” And going to his case he extracted a little leather case and put it into his pocket. Back through the tent where Margaret crouched in speechless terror and out under the stars again. “Gosh, how the Maharajah’s tent smelt of scent.”
“You are back again, my friend?” Kullan stepped aside from his position close up to the divan as his master spoke.
“Yes, I think it is safer to give you another injection before you retire for the night,” said Denis easily. “With the onset of sleep the symptoms might return and with greater vigour. And before you sleep, my friend, will you give orders to your servant here that we are to be fed and given good whisky to drink. To love is to exhaust and I must be on my way by dawn.”
And scowling, the Maharajah spoke sharply to Kullan. This had not been at all his idea, but still the fear of further pains lay heavy on him. And the mad doctor, curse him, understood Hindustani far too well to instruct Kullan to do otherwise, but to supply good meat and drink and ice cold soda to the doctor sahibs tent without further delay.
“Thanks very much,” said Denis as Kullan, salaaming, left the tent. And then he opened his medicine case. He would make sure that the man on the divan did not wake for the next eighteen hours at least. By that time they would be well on their way and in another six they could have moved camp much farther on. Still in the Maharajah’s territory, unfortunately, but still, the greater distance between them the better, and somehow deep down Denis had tremendous faith in the little native woman who had thrown in her lot with his. As he dabbed iodine on the fat greasy brown arm bared below him, he wondered what the British Medical Association would think of this. Deliberately to drug a man to ensure one’s own safety. But then the safety of an Englishwoman was also involved. As he pierced the skin, emptying the tiny syringe, he smiled to himself.
“Sleep well,” he said. “And au revoir, my friend, I shall leave at dawn with the succulent morsel with which you have provided me.”
And as the Maharajah lay there in an exquisite drowsiness, his fat stomach shook with laughter. Succulent morsel indeed. Bones—fine slender bones, certainly, but bones—for a night of love! Not my idea, muttered the Maharajah aloud, staring with wide open eyes at the gradually dimming and receding face of the man who stood there looking down on him. And then suddenly a feeling of hatred seized on him as he saw Denis smile. The devil had drugged him wilfully—well, it was not too late. He would have him taken and strangled and the woman should be given to the Pathan chowkidars to ravish—the Maharajah tried to raise himself from his pillows and could not.
“Rest peacefully, my friend,” and now that cool, brown hand was laid on the bulging eyes, forcing them to acquiescence, and with a gasp the Maharajah sank into unconsciousness. Deep, deep down, as a stone flung into a well falls between black walls that imprison it. And then Denis lifted his head and walked back into his own tent.
Margaret never forgot the feeling of that breathless Eastern dawn, when still half stupefied with sleep, she was roused by ayah bending over her, bundled up in a great Cashmere shawl. She had slept dreamlessly; the night before she had eaten and drunk in a daze of misery and despair, but eventually her fatigue had merged into a condition of apathy. Also ayah had whispered words of encouragement to the effect that the tall man who had taken possession of her was not altogether bad; he did not, at the moment, anyhow, intend to do her any harm, and although Margaret felt that it was an extraordinary thing that her most powerful feeling at the moment was that so long as she was allowed to go to sleep, she didn’t very much care what he did, yet it was pleasant to listen to ayah’s reassuring words. And there was no doubt that her fatigue was overmastering; her leaden eyelids would not keep open; as she sat at a little table eating the beautifully cooked curry and rice that ayah brought her, she lurched forward again and again. And it was as in a dream that she felt ayah’s cold deft fingers making her ready for bed. A queer sack-like cotton garment for a nightdress; ayah had collected her gay little tin trunk and was rummaging out long-forgotten relics of her days of service with Michael and Enid babas.
“Is she asleep?” Denis, tall and lean, the lower part of his face still shrouded, came in from his own tent where he had been smoking. The meal provided for him had been excellent and the drinks beautifully cold. Odd that in the middle of a jungle you should get as good food as you would in a London restaurant of the first order, thought Denis, glancing round the tent which he was scrutinizing for the first time. Ayah’s bedding was neatly arranged on the floor, close up to the divan on which Margaret lay. The floor was covered with priceless Persian rugs. The queer outlandish dancing-girl outfit hanging from the hooks on the centre tent pole. The flickering light of two hurricane lanterns standing on a Tate sugar box covered with a silk shawl. Suddenly his mind leapt to his flat in Piccadilly. The flickering leaves of the plane trees instead of this fitful lamplight. Miss Smith’s solid sensible gaze instead of the inscrutable mystery of the old black eyes regarding him. His couch with its high expanse covered with a white viyella blanket instead of this exotic silken covered divan. . . .
“She sleeps and weeps, Huzoor.”
“Weeps?”
“She greatly fears.”
“Fears what?”
“The Huzoor.”
“Ah!” Walking up to the divan, Denis stood looking down on it. Like a terrified animal withdrawing into its shell Margaret shrank under the bedclothes.
“Tell her to show herself.”
Ayah spoke hurriedly and reassuringly.
“No, no!” Margaret was gasping under her breath.
“Ayah, ayah.”
“Tell her that I will be obeyed.”
Ayah spoke again. “Must come out,” she said, “must come out, memsahib.”
“The lady speaks English?” briefly Denis thought that this had very nearly given him away. How idiotic of him not to remember that ayah would have to speak English to Margaret to make herself understood.
“She speaks English, Huzoor.”
“Tell her again that I will be obeyed.”
Ayah spoke urgently. And Denis, inwardly laughing, heard Margaret’s reply.
“If the native touched her she would kill him,” she said. “She would tear out his eyes before she would surrender to his infamy.”
“So ho,” and standing there Denis spoke quickly in Hindustani. “Tell her she need not be alarmed,” he said, “for, for a man to desire, his prey must be desirable.”
“What does he say?” and now Margaret’s eyes appeared over the padded silk bedspread. That had touched her up, decided Denis, listening to ayah translating his last remark. What an amazing thing it was that women were all the same. He had noticed it again and again. Any reflection on their personal charm or appearance and they were up in arms at once. Even in a situation such as this where the man was sufficiently attractive—her pride was stung. With his chuddah drawn close over his face his eyes laughed down into hers. She looked remarkably childish lying there with her hair well combed. Her hands were small also. Her neck was white and the amazing garment that she wore showed her soft throat. The situation had its points, decided Denis, and that in spite of the danger they were in. “Tell her that were she as fair as the dawn and as young as the new moon my desire would be very far from her,” said Denis speaking swiftly.
“I am extremely glad to hear it,” said Margaret with dignity, and she averted her eyes from the tall head bent over hers. “Tell him to go away and tell him also that the first thing in the morning I shall expect to be sent back to Wandara with an escort.”
“And tell her—” said Denis, as he straightened his back and stood upright again—“tell her that from henceforth her comings and goings are in the hollow of my hand. Where I go she goes and my goings are as the sun and moon and stars. And her will is subject to mine and she had better remember it or I shall make it uncommonly unpleasant for her.”
“Huzoor,” said ayah, obediently interpreting.
But somehow Margaret was too tired to care what he said any more. Sleep was on her weighing down her eyelids. With a little pang of pity Denis watched her turning on her side like a child. He was being a brute, but somehow it was fun. A natural reaction from the strain to which he had been subjected. Skilfully he slipped his forefingers on to her wrist, and wondered when she did not jerk her hand away. Did she suspect the true state of affairs, or was she too tired to notice what he was doing. She was too tired. He decided standing there and letting her hand fall again. But she was perfectly all right; her skin was damp and moist and her pulse normal.
“You will remain here now, ayah,” he said.
“Huzoor.”
“And be ready to start at dawn.”
“Huzoor,” said ayah, thinking with glee of the row that there was going to be before then. For Kullan was coming with her food in half an hour’s time and she was going to tell him then that she was leaving him. And that if he put any obstacle in her way she was going then and there to the Maharajah sahib to tell him of his graft and perjury and all the things that made his job the excellent thing that it was. She would get her way all right, thought ayah, wagging her old head and padding over to one of the lamps to turn it out so that the light should not disturb the sleeping figure on the bed. The other lamp she would set upon the floor close to her head. The sahib was a fine sahib, thought ayah, watching Denis as he crossed the floor to his own tent. A great and gallant sahib. He spoke truly when he said that the memsahib was in the hollow of his hand. And if she wasn’t now she very soon would be, decided ayah, wondering how it was all going to end. A sahib and memsahib living side by side in the jungle. Living in danger, thought ayah shrewdly, at any rate at first. For the Maharajah was a bad man and hated the English. But somehow—and now ayah was staring strangely into the flame of the lamp that she was attending to; somehow there was something odd about this sahib. The mad doctor sahib, ayah had heard of him before. For even the wind and the waves obey him, muttered ayah, dragging her sari over her head. And then swiftly turning at a sound from where Margaret lay.
“Who is he, ayah?” Margaret was whispering, and half sitting up in bed leaning on her elbow. “Who is he, tell me?”
“Not now telling; memsahib sleeping,” said ayah in a clear matter-of-fact voice, going towards the second lamp to adjust the wick.
“Do you know?”
“Ayah knowing eberyting.”
“Are you coming with me to-morrow—you promised.”
“My coming.”
“Won’t someone try and stop you?”
“Trying, but no good,” said ayah nonchalantly.
“Is the man a bad man?” said Margaret restlessly. “Is he like the Maharajah, that sort of man?”
“He beating ayah if ’lowing memsahib talking,” said ayah conclusively. “He very great powerful man. Memsahib finding out everyting in morning. Now memsahib sleeping because chota hazeri coming very soon; five o’clock,” said ayah briskly. Standing there she drew the silken coverlet up over Margaret’s anxious fingers.
“Oh ayah——” And then Margaret shut her eyes. Because after all what could she do? she thought restlessly. She was so tired; so terribly, terribly tired. And it was so frightful to think of Miss Mostyn’s anxiety, although perhaps Ramjee—and then Margaret, with a little groan, lay very still. She could do nothing, so why try to? She had the ayah beside her and she seemed faithful and determined not to leave her. Better leave it at that—better leave it at that, thought Margaret drowsily.
While Denis outside his own tent stared up at the stars and decided that he would turn in as soon as his runner arrived safely back again. A faithful little fellow, he would hate anything to happen to him. He ought to be back in about an hour or so. Doggedly he would arrive, padding resolutely up to the tent; determined to reach his master even although he were to die when he got there. Yes, some of them were wonderful fellows, decided Denis, standing there staring up at the stars and wondering in some far away part of him if the danger was as acute as he thought it was. The bother was having Margaret Baxter on his hands. Alone he could manage any amount of danger and rather enjoy it But with a woman tacked on to him—however, for that night they were safe anyhow. And how often had he not told his patients that to look timorously beyond the day at which they found themselves was the very height of folly. For it was the unexpected that always happened. The tragedy that caught you by the throat was the tragedy that leapt at you out of the blue unheralded. A merciful disposition of a merciful God, thought Denis, who although very few people suspected it was profoundly religious. Not the religion that concerned itself with sectarianism, but the religion that looks for the unseen rather than the material. “The fool hath saith in his heart, there is no God,” quoted Denis under his breath, gazing up at the stars again and marvelling at the wonder of them. An amazing antidote against self-sufficiency to contemplate this countless multitude of heavenly bodies. A pity people didn’t do it more, thought Denis, standing there with his brown throat tipped back and the white moonlight turning his bronzed skin to silver.
But as Margaret stared up into ayah’s old brown eyes, queer eyes that had the appearance of infinite wisdom, coupled with a queer obscurity, and knew that it was morning and that she was still a prisoner and that Miss Mostyn would still be in the same state of despairing anxiety about her, she groaned and lay down again. Outside the tent there were musical sounds of a day beginning. The monotonous singing of a man at the well drawing water, interrupted by his encouraging chirpings to the straining bullocks. The hollow echo of the great leather bucket as it fell between the dripping walls with a huge re-echoing splash to the bottom of the well; the well must be a very deep one, thought Margaret subconsciously. But ayah, well bundled up in her Kashmir shawl, spoke bracingly. The memsahib must arise, she said, her chota hazeri was ready and the start was to be an early one. For ayah was anxious. If the Maharajah was to change his mind, they were done. Kullan would see to it that they were all dispatched as quickly as possible. And ayah, with the prospect of a new life and good pay in front of her, did not want to die. She wanted to live and see the memsahib restored to where she belonged and the doctor sahib triumphant over the Maharajah so that the British Raj was on his track. Ayah had had enough of natives and all their ways although she was a native herself. But with her advancing years her thoughts had harked back to her Michael baba and Enid baba and the happy years that she had spent in caring for and spoiling them. So that now her thoughts were turned towards what was going to happen in the immediate future and that was that the memsahib was going to get up.
And in half an hour Margaret was ready. Bathed and fed and skilfully dressed and prepared by ayah. So that Denis coming out of his tent and finding her there standing by ayah’s roll of bedding and tin trunks was amazed. Certainly she looked sulky and she averted her gaze from him with a look of horror, but she was not screaming or hysterical. Not that she could see much of him because only his eyes showed from under his chuddar. But still she could see that he was still there and that to any one in her position was enough to make any woman yell, thought Denis, feeling somehow gay and carefree because in the early hours of the morning Pila had crept noiselessly into his tent, bringing his lantern to flash on his low pillow as he gave him Miss Mostyn’s hastily scribbled answer to his note.
“We are ready, Huzoor,” said ayah briefly. But in the brief words Denis sensed an infinite anxiety to be off as soon as possible. There was danger in delay, ayah was obviously aware of it. Although there was not so much danger as ayah thought, because the Maharajah still slept heavily. A very early visit to his tent had showed Denis that. And now according to his orders two ponies stood ready, their syces beside them. Pila had already gone on ahead with an order to Haji that camp was to be ready packed so that they could move on at once. For the greater distance between the two camps the better. And the nearer that they could get to British territory also the better. South it was quite hopeless to go because there would be a barricade of spies between them and Wandara; that attempt would mean instant death to all of them. But north it was more hopeful. It was not by any means free from danger, but it was more hopeful. And in a position of that kind, hope was very valuable, thought Denis, feeling the tang of the aromatic Indian dawn on his muffled lips and enjoying it.
“You will ride and I will take the woman on my horse,” he said briefly.
“I will mount and stooping will lift her up.”
“No,” said Margaret pitifully, as, settled in the saddle, Denis gripped the pony with his knees and stooped to catch hold of her.
But even as the powerful arms held her she knew that it was of no use saying no. She was a prisoner and ayah, although kind to her was in league with this native chief, because he must be a native chief, he behaved with such determination. Also his brown hands were clean and they were not nearly so brown as the hands of most of the natives she had come across. Perhaps he was a Kashmir, thought Margaret, suddenly clutching at the hard body under the white chuddar because the pony had begun to move. The Kashmir women were some of them almost white: Miss Mostyn had told her so. She herself had seen one or two of them in the hospital. From under her own chuddar she watched ayah being hoisted up on to her pony and suddenly as ayah squealed and let loose a flow of furious invective, she laughed out loud.
“Bravo!” thought Denis, also turning his own head to watch what was going on.
“You very fool mens,” screamed ayah, settling herself with great difficulty on the slippery saddle. “You minding trunks.” Ayah shook her fist at the grinning coolie, nearly losing hold of the reins as she did so.
“It’s all right, ayah,” said Denis, speaking in the vernacular. “Now then, come on; the quicker the better. I have sent my runner on ahead to tell my servant to have camp packed and ready to move on. And when we get there you and the women can change into dandies. These ponies will have to be sent back, of course.”
“Attcha, sahib,” said ayah obediently. And then in single file the little convoy moved off. Encircling Margaret with his left arm Denis held the reins in his right hand. What was she thinking about? he wondered. Was something within her responding to the romance and adventure of all this, or was she genuinely afraid? She was responding to it he decided, as something potent and invisible passed between them. She had not been long enough in the country to absorb the white woman’s instinctive aversion to any physical contact with the native. And that was all to the good, because he wanted to wait until they were just a shade less precarious a situation before making himself known to her. If she knew who he was at once, she would cling to him for protection. Now she was hostile to him and that kept her mind occupied. Also it seemed to relieve him of a certain amount of responsibility although of course it didn’t really. But was she hostile? What was it that vibrated between them? Carelessly he glanced down and met her eyes fixed on his.
“Do you speak English?” With trembling lips Margaret put the question.
He shook his head.
“Do you understand it?”
He nodded slightly.
“Then listen. I will give you anything you like if you will help me to get away. I shan’t tell any one you have done it, and when I get back I will secretly send you money—we can fix a place where you can either collect it yourself, or can send someone to do it for you. Miss Mostyn who runs the hospital at Wandara, where I am staying, will understand when I tell her that you are not to be informed upon. After all you have not hurt me, at any rate yet, and the Maharajah would have done,” and here Margaret faltered and turned scarlet.
She is sweet, thought Denis, drawing the chuddar a little away from Margaret’s trembling mouth.
“Don’t!”
He let it fall back into its original position.
“Do you understand what I say?”
He nodded.
“And you will do what I say?”
“Nahin,” he shook his head.
“But you must!”
“Nahin.” How beautifully he was taking the part of a sheik, thought Denis, wondering why he was enjoying it so. But inwardly he knew why he was enjoying it. He was enjoying it because the situation was elemental and in London one lived so much among shams. Synthetic emotions instead of the genuine article. Evasions. Never really getting down to grips with the primeval emotions. This sort of thing was what was meant to be. You carried off a woman in your arms and if she struggled you kissed her. “Struggle, Mrs. Margaret Baxter,” thought Denis whimsically, “and for the first time in your life, unless I am very much mistaken, you will know what it is to be kissed.”
“You shall let me go,” said Margaret suddenly. Struggling to free herself, she struck at his face with her left hand. Jerking back his head, the pony reared, and for a moment or two Denis had his work cut out to hold Margaret safely and quiet the pony at the same time. The rest of the little convoy was ahead and his own syce had lingered behind; with a quick glance behind him Denis saw that it was safe. And then he dragged at the reins and the pony stood still.
“You shall let me go,” said Margaret from between small clenched teeth. And then like lightning Denis stooped his head. Gripping the pony between his knees he let go of the reins and cupped her face between his hands. And then he drank of the sweetness of her lips until he laughed far away within himself. For she was not reluctant, far from it. She knew she ought to be, but there was something in the touch of him that made her flame. For he could almost have sworn that she clung to him as if pleading for more. But no; perhaps she didn’t; he lifted his head and picked up the reins again.
Say it, thought Denis fitting his head and staring straight ahead of him and visualising his consulting-room and all the electric appliances and his waste-paper basket that cost him a good twenty-five shillings a week to keep emptied. And Miss Smith’s round tortoiseshell spectacles and the way she moved her eyebrows when she was worried about anything. But suddenly Margaret dragged her chuddar farther over her eyes and turned her face into his coat. She was trembling, he could feel it. “Poor child.” Suddenly he pitied her. She had had a rotten life so far and this business wasn’t being too pleasant for her. Denis suddenly lifted his head as a flight of blue jays passed over his head. The sunlight caught their wings and turned them green and blue and gold as they squawked and flew out of sight. Although, wasn’t this perhaps just what she needed? Of course as a matter of fact he knew that it was. Passion. Passion to let free all the inhibitions and repressions and all the technical jargon that meant, when you had boiled it down, the fact that male and female created He them and that with deliberate intent. Not wanton passion; not promiscuous passion, Heaven forbid! But one woman for one man; if only she had the blessed luck to meet him.
“I——” Margaret had turned her face upwards again.
“Don’t say it, my sweet,” muttered Denis into his chuddar. For there was nothing to be ashamed about, nothing whatever. But Margaret did not hear him. Staring at the chuddar that muffled his chin she saw the leaves of the neem trees outlined against the sky. Heard rather than saw, the flickering of the early morning sunlight; it was a living thing this early morning sunlight of India. Listened with straining attentive ears to the myriad sounds of bird life all around her; they were beginning to wake up, hundreds of them. And felt against her face the throbbing of the heart of the man who having made her prisoner had dared to kiss her. A native—he had dared to kiss her. And she hadn’t minded, in fact she had liked it. Liked it! This was a feeble way to express it; she had flamed to it. She, Margaret Baxter, a white woman, was practically lying in the arms of a native and revelling in the feeling of security that it gave her, simply because he was a man, and something about him was primitive. Men in England were so hedged round, and their clothes were so ridiculous. They went in bondage to civilization in their dress as well as in everything else. But this man—again she lifted her head a little so that she could see him better. And feeling her movement he reined in his horse.
He stooped his head.
“No, no.”
“Let yourself go, my blessed child,” thought Denis, smiling a little so that Margaret felt the touch of smooth white teeth against her lips. And as he held her so, his dark eyes roved ahead of them. They were nearly there, and the white tops of the tents were not to be seen. That meant that old Haji had got a move on, splendid old boy.
“I——”
“For the fourth time,” thought Denis, suddenly deciding that he would say so in Hindustani just for the fun of it. “Nothing to be ashamed of, my sweet.” He said the words in musical Hindustani, laughing as he did so.
“What did you say?”
But for answer Denis only settled her a little lower on the saddle again. “Chello,”22 he said to the pony, shaking the reins on its white neck, and ducking his head to avoid the overhanging branches of a bougainvillaea tree as it swept his chuddar with its gloriously tinted mauve blossoms.
It was not until six o’clock that evening that they halted for the night. They had come along well and were now high up on the Pundoo Plateau, the snow lines of the Himalayas lying like a jagged white etching against the deep blue of the evening sky. Carefully set down on the ground in her dandy, Margaret watched the tall figure that dominated the scene giving orders. Apparently he had a head-servant whom he trusted and whom he obviously treated very well. A Mohammedan servant with high flaunting pugaree and curled black beard. Listening attentively to his master’s orders he wagged his head slightly. And then at last he salaamed and turning, shouted orders to the coolies standing round.
“Memsahib moving out of way.” Ayah shaking her crumpled skirts had got out of her dandy and was standing close to Margaret. “Tent soon ready for memsahib.”
“Where shall we stand then?”
“Standing under tree. Memsahib putting on coat,” said ayah attentively.
“I haven’t got a coat.”
“My got old sahib’s coat,” said ayah, craftily producing one of Denis’s that he had handed to her as they left the camp where they had halted.
“Why, it’s an English coat,” said Margaret, thrusting one arm behind her as she struggled in to it.
“My once with Michael baba and Enid baba,” said ayah mendaciously.
“Oh I see,” said Margaret vaguely. Standing there she watched the wonder of the scene in front of her. It was like something on the stage with that tall dominating figure giving orders to the crowds of gaily dressed natives standing round him.
Margaret thrilled to the wonder of it. Somehow she had forgotten her own isolation and danger in the interest of what she was looking at. A little clearing in the heart of the jungle. Away to the North the snows; Everest; they had never managed to get to the summit of Everest. The natives said that it was guarded by a great brooding Ice God. Well, in this country of mystery and magic even that was possible. And here were tents springing to life like giant mushrooms. During the day’s march, food had been produced like magic food. Tea, properly made, and milk from the cow that was driven along with the goats. Everything was there and now that it was evening there would probably be another meal. And then—with a queer unaccustomed recklessness, Margaret felt that she didn’t care what happened then. She was lost to the world—away from it for ever probably. She would never be found; wild native chiefs took care never to be found; it was part of their job. And she hadn’t left any one behind her who would really care, at any rate for very long. Mary and Katie wouldn’t care; she had always been something of a problem in that household. Jean Mostyn would care, would care in a sort of way, but only for a time. She was really immersed in her work and would soon return to that with redoubled zest, simply so as to forget. No—and then Margaret took a long breath as the tall figure lifted his head and called to ayah.
“Huzoor.” Ayah padded off.
And for some time ayah stood there listening attentively. And then salaaming, ayah returned with Haji behind her and then they both vanished, leaving Margaret standing there, but not for long. Behind a tall dark tree trunk she could see the white curves of a tent and ayah coming to fetch her.
“Oh, ayah, it really is all wonderful,” Margaret standing in the entrance to her tent, spoke as if dazed. Because it was wonderful. The newar bed spread with a rezai and with sheets on it. A chair, a tiny crimson portable dressing-table, and on it a comb and brush and tin of talcum powder and a leather-backed hand mirror. Beyond, the bath tent with a turkish towel neatly folded on a chair; a cork bath mat and all the necessary lavatory equipment. And a kerosene oil tin full of boiling water standing by the zinc tub. And on an upturned box, a perfectly new toothbrush with a tube of toothpaste beside it.
“Ayah, where did the toothbrush come from? I was simply dying for one. Oh, and a sponge.”
But ayah was only grinning.
“Memsahib bathing and changing clothes. Then having dinner with the burra sahib!”
“Dinner with the burra sahib!——”
“Yes, memsahib.”
“But does he eat ordinary things?”
“Yes, memsahib, eating.”
“If only I had something else to change into,” sighed Margaret. She was brazen; she was abandoned; she was anything any one cared to call her, that, she knew quite well. But, somehow the magic of the East had entered into her and she didn’t care. Probably she only had a few days to live and she was going to live them fully. Mated to a savage, because of course that was what he wanted; she would fall in with his mood, and if he strangled her as they lay together, then at any rate it would be a dramatic exit to a dramatic incident. Market Stacey was all very well, but she had done with that atrophy of a life when she met Denis Frome. He was out of the picture for good and also what did it matter what she did? But if only she could look decent at this meal that they were going to take together. She looked rather despairingly at ayah.
“My got very fine silk sari,” said ayah confidently. For now that Haji also knew the true state of affairs, ayah felt very much better. Haji had spoken with awe of the power and majesty of his sahib. He was a rich sahib—money flowed like water. The memsahib would be well cared for and nourished and it was time that his master took a woman to his bed and bosom. They would escape eventually, said Haji, his master had command of magic and was also a wonderful shot both with a rifle and shotgun and incidentally a revolver. By the aid of these four weapons they would break through into British territory even although it should mean much journeying even to the snows. And the Maharajah of Pundoo, who was a budmarsh, would get his deserts, said Haji triumphantly.
So now ayah was on her mettle and she was determined that her memsahib should look her best for this forthcoming dinner about which Haji was so excited. Tins . . . they had many costly tins of food, said Haji. All should be opened so that the memsahib, well-fed and at peace with the world, should fall with zest into the compelling arms of the sahib who was strong as a hunter and mighty in the ways of love.
And when Margaret, deliciously warmed and sweetly scented from the very expensive English soap that she found close to the bathtub, saw the beautiful lavender-coloured silk sari put ready by ayah she felt very much relieved. How all these wonderful things came to be there she did not feel inclined to ask. It was all too bewildering and mysterious. Standing. there, she felt ayah forcing small embroidered slippers over her toes. Ayah had produced thick white silk stockings slightly yellowed with age. Michel baba and Enid baba seemed to explain everything. Queer nainsook petticoats and bunchy silk knickers; ayah must have collected things like a magpie, thought Margaret, gazing at herself in the mirror that stood on the tiny dressing-table. Yes, she did not look so bad. She seemed to look different, somehow—more alive. Her eyes seemed to be shining and her lips were red, although she had no lipstick. Ayah had something that she rubbed on, but it was only faintly tinted; the original red of her lips seemed to be shining through it, and this because a native had kissed her, decided Margaret, feeling a little light-headed. She shivered, because it was all so unimaginably strange. Death staring her in the face; her body to be taken brutally and perhaps abominably hurt. But she did not care, because it was the end of evasions and shams. For once in her life she was going to behave like a savage, and she was thankful for it.
“Memsahib looking very fine,” said ayah, dabbing on kohl with chilly, skinny fingers.
“Do I?”
“Very fine,” said ayah with complacence.
“Ayah, tell me his name.”
“Only very great chief sahib,” said ayah evasively.
“What time is dinner?”
“Haji coming and telling.”
“Where do we have it?”
“In ’nother tent,” said ayah, turning and padding to the door. “Dinner ready,” she said. “Bearer taking memsahib.”
“Will you be here when I come back?”
“Yes, memsahib,” said ayah, beginning to busy herself with the garments strewn on the bed and folding them carefully.
The dining-tent was crimson, hung with blue hangings, and a small oil stove burned stilly close up to the centre pole of it. The lamp had a red front to it and looked cosy, thought Margaret, taking it all in in a stupefied silence. There was no one in the tent, although Haji, who preceded her, had gone at once to a side table on which stood several bottles.
“Memsahib taking sherry?” he said.
“Yes, if it isn’t drugged.” Supposing she had said it, wondered Margaret, standing there staring. Sherry and whisky in the middle of the jungle. Yes, but why not? The Maharajah had had it the night before. Natives were not savages, although lots of people thought they were.
“Thank you.”
And now, salaaming, Haji had gone. While Denis Frome, still in riding kit, although he had changed from khaki into white, chucked the half-finished cigarette that he had been smoking carefully into a bucket of sand and decided that the moment had arrived. She had had time to have a drink, which would help to steady her. And he must reveal himself some time—and why not now? They were well out of danger for the time being, anyhow, and somehow now the chance of danger had become more remote. In any event, the night that was ahead of them was safe enough. The Maharajah, however annoyed, would not have them scuppered without a certain amount of preparation.
But strolling into the tent with a slightly bent head, he was glad to find that the light was fairly dim. It would take her some time to read just her mental focus, and it would be better if it was done gradually.
“Oh!” Margaret, standing there, saw the tall figure advancing and averted her gaze. He had taken off his chuddar. What if he looked brutal and sensual? She would hate herself for her loss of dignity of the morning, and self-control.
“It is kind of you to have made me so comfortable,” she said nervously. “I hope I did right in accepting the drink your bearer offered me.”
“Perfectly right,” said Denis without turning, and he spurted the soda-water down on to the half-inch of golden liquid at the bottom of his tumbler.
“Who . . .?” No, this was too much, thought Margaret blindly. Was she going mad, or was the whole of this a great fantastic nightmare and she would presently wake in her bed at Wandara.
“I have frightened you,” said Denis, turning round and coming forward. “But, believe me, I have done it like this for a definite reason; I wanted to get us both away from danger before I told you who I was.”
“But where is the native?”
“There isn’t one?”
“There was one; he brought me away on his horse. He tied me up in the tent before we left. He——”
She is thinking of his kisses, thought Denis, watching her. And she is beautiful as she thinks of them. What a shame to have fooled her.
“I am afraid I must plead guilty to all the things the native did.”
“But it’s Mr. Frome!”
“I know.”
“But . . .”
“Drink up your drink and have another.”
“No, I don’t want another.” Margaret sat down rather suddenly on a chair.
“It’s frightful,” she said, speaking half under her breath.
“What is frightful?”
“Please don’t for a moment or two.” Margaret sat there struggling to regain control of herself. Denis Frome! It couldn’t be! Why, she had given herself away to him hopelessly and irrevocably. Twice she had given herself away to him: once in London and now here in India. In London she had flung herself at his head; in India she had shown by her behaviour that any man could get what he wanted from her, provided he did it skilfully. That was what he was trying to-day, of course. Being a psychologist, he just wanted to see if she would even allow a native to make love to her. And she had done. So mad was she to have her craving for love satisfied that even a native would do. As a patient of his she had confirmed his diagnosis of her. How pleased he must be. After a little pause, she said so bitterly.
“What do you mean, pleased? Yes, of course I am pleased to have been able to have been of help to you.” As he sipped his whisky and soda Denis was watching her. Another blow to her self-esteem. Well, she shouldn’t think so much of herself; although the poor child was raw with shame because she had allowed a native to kiss her that very morning. Well, she hadn’t done; if he had really been a native there would have been nothing in him to have attracted her. But he wouldn’t say so yet: the less said about those unfortunate kisses the better!
“I had forgotten that you had helped me. Of course. You have rescued me from worse than death.” (How theatrical that sounded.) “I am grateful; profoundly grateful. But I ain’t sorry to have tacked myself on to you like this. You are on your holiday, and it is dreadfully tiresome for you. Your holiday is precious and mustn’t be spoiled. What can we do? How can I be got back to Wandara?”
“You can’t.”
“I can’t?”
“No, of course you can’t.” Denis suddenly felt impatient. Here he was facing the most unpleasant death for this young woman, and all she thought about was how she could get away. She was thinking it because of him, of course, but that didn’t make it any more palatable. Mentally he skimmed through a list of women, some of them patients of his, who would have given a good deal to find themselves alone with him in an Indian jungle. And here was this beautiful young woman, looking a perfect dream in the lavender-coloured sari slung round with gold necklaces which the Maharajah must have forgotten to collect; staring at him with a face white as death except for a small patch of rouge on each cheek and behaving as though he was something very unpleasant instead of the man with whom she was desperately in love. Because of course she was; her reaction to his caresses had shown him that. She didn’t know it herself, poor child, but he did: he had always known it. He had known that this was going to happen when he took that dagger away from her that night. Something had told him then, and he had tried to avoid it by warning her off the doorstep when she came to fling herself on his mercy. And now here she was again. Well, well!
“Do let me give you another glass of sherry.”
“No, thank you.”
“But supposing I insist?”
“I shall refuse it again.”
“But you can’t. You are utterly in my power; you have got to do what I tell you,” said Denis suddenly. “Look, I wrest your wineglass from you as I once wrested that dagger. And you are going to drink this up because it will do you good. Sit down in that chair before you collapse on to the floor and crumple that nice sari of yours.”
“I don’t feel in the least like collapsing.”
“Then you shouldn’t look like it. That’s it.” Close to her as she sat shaking on the grass chair, Denis watched her lift the wineglass to her lips and then move it away again.
“I don’t feel as if I can.”
“Try.”
“It’s so . . .”
“Well . . .”
“The whole thing . . . ”
“Drink a little first, and then we’ll have dinner. That’s better; good child. Now, then . . .”
“It’s no good . . . because you know it all without my telling you. That ugly exposure of my real self yesterday . . . not that you didn’t know it before, because you saw it when I came to you in London. And now you’ve got to have me with you; not that I shall be the faintest bother in that way, because I can promise you that I shan’t. I’m too . . . too . . . too sort of shuddering at myself to want to be like that . . .’’
“Come, come, that’s surely putting it a little strongly.”
“A native! I was content with a native. Any one would do for me, you see, providing it was a man. It’s frightful.”
“Not so frightful as you think. Besides . . .” And then Denis pondered. How could he put it so as not to hurt her more and yet to restore a fraction of her self-respect?
“You can’t make it any better,” said Margaret restlessly, tragically. “Also, can’t you see how eaten up I am with thoughts of myself and my own loss of dignity? I don’t even stop to thank you for what you’ve done for me. At the risk of your own life you’ve saddled yourself with me. A woman you had to get rid of in London because she might become a dangerous problem to you. Oh! . . .”
“Not quite so dangerous as all that,” said Denis, holding his tumbler up on a level with his eyes and smiling through the golden liquid in it.
“Dangerous enough to make you want to get rid of me before it got any worse.”
“Well, well, well.” Denis suddenly felt that he was dealing with a neurotic and therefore an unreasonable patient. “Let’s have some dinner,” he said. “I’m hungry, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You will be when you see it.”
“Please allow me to go back to my own tent and eat alone.”
“No! I haven’t rescued you from the jaws of death to be left to eat alone even if you want to eat alone. No, we’re going to be good companions during our enforced companionship, Mrs. Baxter, and I can promise you that it shan’t be for more than a week. If I can get news through, as I think I can, during the next few days, I’ll get the Police on to us. Of course, I may not be able to, and in that case it may be three months, or it may be for an eternity spent in a fairer world than this.”
“But you’d be quite safe by yourself.”
“Not at all certain if I know our friend the Maharajah of Pundoo.”
“But it would have been all right if you had never met me.”
“That’s his fault, not ours.”
“Mr. Frome.”
“Denis, surely.”
“No.”
“Have it your own way,” said Denis, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Please allow me to go. I am not afraid of death in the least. In fact, I should welcome it.”
“Nonsense! No one welcomes death,” said Denis smiling. “Besides, after you’ve had some food you won’t want to die. No, you’re in my charge now, Mrs. Baxter, my jungle patient, and I must do the best I can for you.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Only because you make me laugh.”
“You don’t understand,” said Margaret desperately. She set her wineglass down on the little teapoy at her elbow and dropped her face into her hands.
“Believe me, I do.” Denis also set down his tumbler. “Believe me, I do,” he said seriously. “I know exactly what you are feeling and I know the cause of it much better than you do, which enables me to understand it even better than you do. But I see no object in your making yourself unhappy about it. Here we are and here, for the moment, anyhow, we must remain. Not in this exact spot, of course. I am very anxious to get on as soon as possible, but here we must remain in close proximity to one another for at least a week. So why not make the best of it?”
“You must loathe it so.” Margaret’s voice came muffled.
“Why?”
“You must feel such contempt for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I allowed you to kiss me—believing you to be a native.”
“Those kisses loom very large on your horizon, Mrs. Baxter.” Denis’s mouth was twitching again.
“Because I am so ashamed.”
“Is that the only reason?” And as Denis asked the question his downbent eyes were whimsical. For two pins he would kiss her again, he thought, although perhaps it would be better not to do it yet. There would be many, many other opportunities, if he rightly estimated the woman he was dealing with. But oh! how sweet she was! How utterly and sweetly feminine in the best sense of the word. No artifice; no subterfuge; just only her love for him bubbling out all over her. He laid a quick, swift hand on her hair.
“Come and have dinner,” he said.
“Tell me first.”
“Tell you what?”
“That you don’t despise me.”
“But you won’t believe me if I do tell you.”
“I will, I will.”
“Look up, then. I am never at my best when contemplating a bowed head. It makes me feel depressed.”
“Now I am looking up.”
“And you’re very sweet when you look up, Margaret. You see, I’m much more dashing than you are. Can’t you possibly call me Denis?”
“It seems so . . .”
“Well, spit it out, to put it coarsely.”
“After what has happened?”
“It makes it all the more necessary, surely! You can’t allow a person to kiss you if you haven’t got beyond his surname. That’s ghastly, if you like——”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Only because you’re sweet.”
“And you don’t despise me?”
“I most certainly do not.”
“And you don’t feel any sort of ghastly feeling that I’ve debased myself?”
“On the contrary.”
“Then . . .”
“Dinner, I think,” said Denis quickly. Because suddenly all he wanted to do was to lift this girl up in his arms and tell her that he loved her. But no, no, no, not yet. His life had taught him that. Never, never anything vital on impulse; your senses were apt to so dreadfully mislead you. He had at least a week ahead of him. At the end of that time . . . perhaps.
“I do feel a little hungry now.”
“Denis.”
“Denis.”
“There, you see, it comes quite naturally.”
“Not as naturally as you think,” said Margaret, crimson with confusion and laughing a little.
“It will. With practice it will. Haji!” Denis raised his voice.
“Huzoor.”
“Bring dinner; the memsahib is famishing.”
“Huzoor,” said Haji, withdrawing his spotless pugaree and beaming from ear to ear. For this was a very pukka memsahib, he could tell that himself without any prompting from the ayah. And it was not good for his sahib to be always alone. Clapping his hands briskly, Haji stared towards the little encampment under the neem tree where Man Sing, the cook, waited the summons before dishing up the savoury meats fizzling in the little saucepans without handles that sat unevenly on the glowing charcoal.
Dinner was delicious. Clear soup, fish done in some mysterious way with tomatoes, roast fowl and vegetables, and savoury of cheese and pastry as light as ether.
“How do they do it?” Margaret spoke quietly. But she spoke calmly, noted Denis, watching her with professional interest. Because it was interesting to see how women reacted to exceptional circumstances. And these circumstances really were exceptional. To find herself miles from civilization with the man she cared for. How was she going to behave? Stupidly and clumsily, always conscious of the supposed slights that he was supposed to have inflicted on her; or naturally and simply remembering first of all that she was a woman, secondly that he was a man, and thirdly that they were alone, with no one to criticize or suggest or advise. The three curses of a civilized environment.
“How do they do it? Well, I always wonder myself,” said Denis. “And there is another that I always wonder about. In England if you are late for a meal the things are supposed to be spoilt. In India, however late you are, the food is always good; neither dried up nor, as they say at home, spoiled.”
“No, I have noticed that at Wandara.”
“How do you like being there?”
“Immensely.” Margaret suddenly set down her knife and fork. “That is the one awful thing,” she said. “Whatever will Miss Mostyn think? She will go mad with worry. If only . . .”
“I have done it,” said Denis.
“What?”
“I have let her know that you are all right. That is to say, comparatively all right,” said Denis with a little smile.
“You have let her know?”
“Yes.”
“How sublime of you! But how?”
“I sent in my runner with a note as soon as I found out that it was you.”
“And did you get an answer?”
“I did. Would you like to see it?”
“No, you tell me,” said Margaret, sitting there with her hands gripped together in her lap.
“Go on eating, then.”
“Yes.” Margaret obediently took up her knife and fork.
“I said in my note: ‘Mrs. Baxter perfectly well. Attempt nothing in the way of rescue. In danger, but I will do my best.’ And I signed it, ‘An Englishman,’ rather playing to the gallery, perhaps, but I wanted to make it quite clear that you were not in Indian hands. And she replied: ‘To whoever you are, God bless you. I will do exactly what you say.’ And she gave Pila ten rupees, which was very nice of her.”
“So she isn’t there torturing herself with wondering where I am?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“Then . . .”
“Then you can just give yourself up to enjoying the irregular situation, Margaret,” said Denis mischievously. “Surely this is better than Market Stacey.”
“But we are in danger.”
“I know. But so we are when we cross a London street.”
“Yes, but if it wasn’t for me . . .”
“Quite, but still when I set out into the jungle I am always fully aware that there are dangers in store for me. And, you know, these people round here are awfully afraid of me. They think that I am possessed of supernatural powers, and there is nothing that works such havoc in the native mind as fear of the bogie man.”
“But you are possessed of supernatural powers.” Through the lamplight Margaret’s eyes were shining. For her mind was at rest. Her very dear friend was not worrying about her. That was the thought that had nagged at her night and day. Personal danger she could face, but not the thought of Jean torturing herself with conjectures as to her whereabouts. “You are possessed of supernatural powers,” she said it again.
“That depends on what you call supernatural.”
“How would you define it?”
And with his intelligent face alert, Denis began to talk. Noiselessly old Haji padded round the table, bringing in fresh viands, removing soiled plates, intent on his job. Outside an owl hooted and some whirring insect went on its way; the sounds of the jungle ringed them in. The coolies squatting round their fires talked in undertones. They speculated about the memsahib and where she had come from. The runner Pila knew, but he was a silent fellow and would not divulge it. There he sat alone, frying chupatties over his solitary fire. He was a brave fellow, was that little man. Later to-night if his sahib did not require him he would set forth to glean more khubber. They were in the midst of enemies, thought the coolies negligently. The Maharajah had been up to some of his monkey tricks, or they would not have had the memsahib landed on them. For the doctor sahib had no truck with women; the coolies knew that very well. For years now they had camped with him, and it was always the same. Tall and lean in riding kit he would walk and shoot and ride alone. And then he would disappear again back to the great Vilayat where he practised his jadoo. Reinforced in knowledge by his solitary sojourn with the birds and beasts and flowers, also the stars, said the coolies, passing the communal hookah round the circle of brown faces; the sahib would often stand for hours staring up at the stars. And sometimes when he stood thus his lips would move. And then he was speaking with his God.
And Margaret, sitting there watching him, thought how wonderful it was to hear a man talking about intangible things as if they were the only things that mattered. She listened with her eyes alight in her intelligent face.
“I am talking far too much. Let me give you a glass of port; it will go well with those walnuts.”
“I adore hearing you talk. It’s like . . . it’s like . . .”
“Well?” With his elbows on the table, Denis was watching the vivid face opposite to him. So this was the same woman who had crept shamefacedly into his consulting-room, was it? Well, no one would think it. Illumined by an inner light. Her love for him? Well, that remained to be seen. He must not in any event attempt to rush things, because he was dealing with a very highly-tuned and sensitive woman. They had at least a week ahead of them; possibly more, but if they were alive at the end of a week they would win through. Marvell was a clever fellow, and he might even now have got wind of things and be on their track.
“So you won’t take any port?”
“No, thank you.”
“And nor will I. Come along outside while he clears the table. But you’ll smoke, won’t you?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t. And, if I remember rightly, you still possess your appendix and your tonsils. Wonder among women!”
“Why? Is it so rare?” said Margaret, laughing.
“Almost unique.”
“Why is that?”
“Because when these clumsy fellows don’t know they carve to find out,” said Denis grimly. “If you understand the mechanism and not the controlling force you must of necessity be continually at a loss. However, we don’t want to waste this lovely evening in discussing the British Medical Association. Come along out. But you ought to have a coat; it gets cold when we’re as high up as this. Where’s the ayah? Haji!”
“Huzoor.”
“Tell ayah that the memsahib wants a coat.”
“Huzoor.” They stood there in the vaguely-lighted tent, Margaret’s slender outlines showing softly against the dark hangings. She is amazingly sweet, thought Denis, tapping his unlighted cigarette on the edge of the table beside him. How long will it be before she is in my arms? And shall I attempt to get her there? Because when I have got her what shall I do with her? As a mistress she would be a failure, for too much of her is spiritual. And do I want a wife? How would a wife fit in with my work? Children. . . . Oh, my God, no, not children, thought Denis impatiently. But in any event . . .
“Here is your coat,” he said.
“It’s yours.”
“All the better. That’s all right, ayah.” He took possession of it. The servants disappeared. “Now, then,” he said and held it out.
“I . . .”
“You’ve got your hand mixed up with the wrong sleeve,” said Denis blithely. “This way.”
“Oh.”
“And now for the top button. Turn round.”
“How expert you are.”
“Long practice.”
“Yes, I can quite believe that,” said Margaret, and in spite of herself her former bitterness rushed over her again. Thrust on his protection in spite of himself; how disgusted he must feel! The whole situation; fantastic beyond belief; humiliating beyond belief. Standing there at that very moment, dressed up as a dancing girl and wearing an old coat of his. A week of his same sort of companionship looming ahead of him as a time to be got through as best he might.
“You speak bitterly, Margaret.” He had turned her round to face him.
“I don’t feel in the least bitter. Why should you imagine that I should feel bitter?”
“I don’t know, something in your voice.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Come along out, under the moon and stars,” he said; “they have a wonderful way of restoring one’s sense of proportion. This way, just beyond the farther tent; it’s quite safe, the moonlight is so bright there is no fear of snakes. Now, then . . .” They stood together on a little plateau. Below them the plains were hidden by great masses of cumulous clouds. On the horizon the snows, frail shadowy sentinels of Tibet, stabbed up into the blue-black of the sky.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Enchanting,” said Margaret softly. And so it was. India was an enchanted country. And her consciousness of the man beside her was an enchantment, too. He was there and she was alone with him. No one could interfere or scoff at her. For one week she had him to herself, and if she died at the end of it or even before, she didn’t care. Although he must not die; because he had done nothing to deserve it. But she . . .
“Do you see what I mean now? In the face of so much that is exquisite, how can our tuppeny-halfpenny problems matter?”
“They matter because we ourselves are tuppeny-halfpenny.”
“Do you think we are?”
“I know it,” said Margaret passionately. “The ridiculous things that we think matter. The hopeless things that we pin our faith on. The way we live . . . evasions from beginning to end. The way that I have lived almost up to the present moment. Stifled. All my natural faculties, if I have any, subdued to my longing for comfort. Never getting down to realities . . . to life in the raw. That’s what you taught me when you burst in on my hysteria. But it’s no good for women to be taught anything. Their emotions govern them until they come to an age when they see things in their true proportion. And then it’s too late to be of any good. By that time they’ve wrecked everything by their insane insistence on the importance of their longing for happiness, for their emotions to be satisfied. Women are hopeless . . . hopeless.”
“I shouldn’t have thought that you were hopeless,” said Denis softly.
“You wouldn’t have thought that I was hopeless,” returned Margaret, her pale face turned up to the blazing moon. “I, who came creeping to your consulting-room because I had fallen in love with you! Another of the women who do the same thing day in, day out! What does it matter saying it straight out now? You knew it anyhow, and I may not be alive next week. But do you call that dignified? Do you call it the sort of thing that a woman created by God ought to do? A woman created as God created all this that we see in front of us now; perfect; blazing with Divine Fire; blazing with the Divine Fire that as soon as she is able to toddle is systematically bleached out of her.”
“You are very intelligent, Margaret,” said Denis, standing there very still and wondering if he should slip his arm round her and deciding that he wouldn’t.
“I don’t call it intelligence,” said Margaret contemptuously. “It isn’t intelligent to grasp a thing when it is forced on you by necessity. You practically turned me out of your consulting-room because you were afraid that I should become a nuisance. Well, a cold sponge in one’s face like that brings one to one’s senses straight away. To be intelligent, I should never have come. To be really intelligent, the moment you said what you did I should have flown at you and stoutly denied it. But I didn’t, I crawled whimpering away like a kicked spaniel. And my self-respect, or conceit, or whatever you like to call it, will never recover. And yet, not content with that humiliation, Fate deals me out still another one, and worse this time. She flings me into your arms just when you thought you were free of all this kind of thing. And not only that, in addition to that I bring with me a very great deal of danger.” Margaret stopped speaking and also stood very still.
“But you can’t call all this tuppenny halfpenny, surely,” said Denis, and he turned to her, the moonlight silver on his dark hair.
“No, no. No, this is at least real. But it’s the sort of reality that you, in any event, could do without.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
“You like solitude. You crave for it. Without it you can’t carry on. I’ve heard you say so more than once. And I come butting in and ruin it all. I agree that I couldn’t help it, but I’ve come, all the same.”
“And as you have, why resent it?”
“I resent it for your sake.”
“And if I say that I don’t mind?”
“You only say that to be polite.”
And then Denis threw back his head with a great shout of laughter.
“To be polite,” he echoed. “Oh, Margaret, you are priceless! After all these years, to be told that I am polite! I wish some of my patients could hear you!”
“To spare my feelings, then.”
“Yes, that sounds more like it. Although in this case . . . Also, I am not given to sparing people’s feelings when I think they deserve a little plain speaking. But you—— Look here, Margaret, do let’s be frank with one another. You’ve been frank with me; also, we are in rather an awkward corner, although I have every reason for thinking that we shall get out of it all right. Also, we are neither of us children. So what about, for this week anyhow, being all in all to one another? It will make it safer; I would much rather have you with me at night. The servants will think nothing of it; in fact, they will, of course, expect it. Now, then . . .” He stood there, looking whimsically down at her bent head. A bent head—in these days! How very odd! But it had its charm all the same. And as he stood there waiting for her reply he was conscious that his heart was thundering. Because it mattered so frightfully what she said, although she didn’t know it. It would just make all the difference between—between light and darkness. His estimate of her, was it right or was it wrong? In any event, her reply to his question would settle that.
“You mean live with you as your mistress?”
“Yes.”
“Just for this week?”
“Yes. No, I couldn’t say that now. It would depend.”
“I see.” Margaret had lifted her face to the, stars again. “If they weren’t here I couldn’t say it,” she said. “But in the face of them I can, because they are so sublime, and that wouldn’t be. I don’t pretend that I shouldn’t adore it; I don’t pretend that every bit of me isn’t telling me to do it, because it would mean that for the first time in my life I should have lived. But there is so much of me that even that exquisite intimacy with you wouldn’t touch. It’s the bit of me that would have to go on after you had left me, and it’s the bit that in the end would die because it was alone. Because it was me you had left, not only my body. I don’t mean that afterwards I should begin to think that I had degraded myself. Oh, it sounds so idiotic even to say that, it isn’t that. To be your mistress would be only an honour; I don’t mean that. But I love you differently to that. I couldn’t respond to only that part of you, because half of me would be watching and unhappy. Oh, do understand. Oh, do understand,” said Margaret imploringly. “It isn’t that I think it ‘wrong’ or anything like that. It just is . . . ”
“You needn’t explain, my dear,” said Denis quietly. Picking up her hands, he cupped them in his and then kissed the palms of them. “Darling,” he said.
“You do understand?”
“Entirely.”
“And you don’t feel I’m ungrateful, or prudish, or silly?”
“Not in the least.”
“Oh . . .” Margaret took a long breath. “I’m tired,” she said.
“Yes, and I’m not at all sure that I’m not either,” said Denis. “We’ll turn in, both of us, and I shall put a guard outside your tent.” And as he said that he suddenly stood very still. No, he had not been mistaken. Something had moved ahead of them, where the trees came up to the little plateau on which they stood. Almost imperceptibly, but something had moved.
Stooping, he picked up a lump of moss and threw it, laughing as he did so.
“I saw a stoat,” he said.
“Do you get them in India?”
“Oh, yes, often.” Denis turned. It would be safe to turn now, he decided, because that would have shaken up whoever it was. But it was a bother that any one had got up so near; probably the Maharajah had woken up a little sooner than he thought he would. They must push on as soon as it got light. He would tell Haji before he went to bed. And he would put the sturdy Pathan chowkidar outside Margaret’s tent and be content with one of the coolies for his own. Nothing would happen to-night—not after whoever it was had been detected. And also mercifully he was dog-tired, so that he would sleep and not he listening to every sound.
But somehow or other he could not get off to sleep. The way that Margaret had answered his suggestion had profoundly stirred him, because it was the way that he had hoped she would answer it, and yet been afraid to hope. Because it mattered so enormously the attitude that she took up. She meant a good deal more to him than he wanted her to mean, and that would have settled it. If she had consented to live with him as his mistress he would perhaps have been able to view things in their true perspective; now he couldn’t. He did not want to marry; he had never wanted to marry, because he had never thought that he would want any woman enough to make it worth while. But supposing he did. Supposing Margaret Baxter held for him the magic that he had always longed for and never hoped to find. And supposing she didn’t, thought Denis, feeling suddenly over-tired and irritable. Why had all this had to happen? His holiday was supposed to be a time of rest and refreshment, not a time of anxiety and nerve-strain. And thinking thus, Denis turned on his side and stared round the tent. To-morrow they had better move on again; it was wiser not to stay too long in one place, and there had undoubtedly been someone in those bushes this evening. Although that might have only been one of the coolies or their chokras fooling about. In any event, it was nothing to worry about.
And then as he lay there his gaze became riveted. Fortunately he had not turned out his hurricane lantern; it still showed a glimmer of light. Something was very gently inserting itself under the pegged-down canvas of the tent. A snake. . . . Denis suddenly felt cold with horror; a snake was about the only thing that really frightened him. Slipping noiselessly out of bed, he stood there watching. No, by gad, it was not a snake. It was a hand, a brown, shiny hand; an oiled hand clutching a long, curved knife; they always oiled themselves so that they could slip out of your grasp easily. Well, he would wait and hope for the best. There was room between the tent pegs for a man’s body to wriggle through, and if it came right through it was a stroke of luck for him. Yes, here was the shoulder and now, now here was the face beginning. Not the eyes yet, God be praised! as that gave him the pull over whoever it was. Dropping like a bird of prey on the writhing form, he wrenched the long, curved knife out of its grasp. And at the same time he shouted for the chowkidar.
“Huzoor.” The Pathan chowkidar came running. And, seeing the writhing bodies on the dhurrie, he drew his long knife and knelt down. The throat of the assassin; yes, he had got it. His sahib was safe; his muscles were as steel, and he was crushing the life out of the man beneath him.
“The Huzoor permits me to slit his throat?” he said blandly.
“No, keep him alive; He may be useful,” gasped Denis. “Hurry and get some cord and tie him up. Oh, you’ve got some round your waist. Splendid. I’ll hold him while you truss him up.” And in a minute or two it was done.
Denis got back on to his heels and stood up. “My heavens!” he said and stood there staring down at the trussed-up figure on the carpet. “Leave him there,” he said, “and we’ll question him. Go and wake Haji and tell him to come immediately. And in the meanwhile I will mount guard. Wait until I get my revolver.”
And a few moments later the three men stood there together. Denis felt inclined to laugh as he saw the quaint figure that his bearer cut in undress. Habit had made Haji don his pugaree, but otherwise he wore a queer collection of woollies and coats. Denis recognized a blue cardigan of his own sticking out from under an old sports coat, also one of his own. But all the same, Haji was invaluable, and one’s servant always felt himself entitled to a choice from his master’s wardrobe.
“Ask him the following questions,” said Denis speaking to both the men standing there. “And as he answers hold his own knife to his throat, telling him at the same time that if we suspect him to be lying we shall slit his throat as the butcher slits the throat of a pig.”
And with gusto the chowkidar picked up the long knife that Denis had thrown on to the end of his bed. This was an affair after his own heart, he decided. And if by any chance the sahib became impatient and ordered the slaughter of this budmarsh lying on the ground, all the better—especially if he was allowed to kill him in his own way. And then the chowkidar, prompted by Denis, began to speak.
And in ten minutes they knew all they wanted to know. For the man was undoubtedly speaking the truth. Squinting down at the gleaming blade of his own murderous weapon, he spoke with his lips drawn back from whitish gums. The Maharajah, late that afternoon, had sent out twenty of them to shadow the sahib and his following. He, Roshan, had hurried on ahead, for the reward for the sahib, dead or alive, was lavish.
“Where are the other men?”
Roshan shook his head from side to side.
“Prick his throat with the knife.”
The native uttered a little shriek as he struggled with his bonds.
“No, he obviously doesn’t know. Leave him alone, said Denis. “At least, wait a minute. Ask him if there is any chance of any of them being near this camp at the present moment.”
“Nahin,” Roshan spoke emphatically, his eyes wide with terror.
“Very well, then, take him away,” said Denis. “But no tortures, mind you, or you will both be very severely dealt with. To-morrow at dawn we must be on our way again, Haji, so you had better begin to pack up as soon as it is light. And we will put this man on one of the ponies and make him lead the way, and you might explain to him that, if we are attacked, we will shoot him in the back before we get busy with any of his friends.”
“Hain, sahib,” said Haji, obviously very much delighted at this gory prospect. And then between them they dragged the bound figure away. While Denis, yawning widely, took a long drink from the earthenware water pot standing there with the muslin cover over its wide mouth and then got back into bed. Where, after dragging the resai up over his powerful shoulders, he fell instantly asleep.
It was not until five o’clock the following evening that Jim Marvell, sitting in a long chair on his veranda, a whisky and soda balanced precariously on the arm of it, got the telegram that brought him to his feet with a curse.
“Have reliable information that Frome approximately middle Pundoo Jungle making north is in grave danger stop Collect police and if possible establish contact stop Signed Harland.”
Harland, acting Police Commissioner of the Northern Provinces. Taking a long final gulp of his whisky and soda, Jim Marvell hurried to his office. The first thing was to get hold of his Naik; the second, to get on to the telephone. But how on earth had Frome managed to get himself into a mess like this? He was persona grata with the Maharajah, budmarsh though he was. Frome . . . such a splendid fellow, it was unthinkable that he should come to grief. He could not be allowed to come to grief, of course. Sitting back in his office chair, Jim Marvell picked a cheroot out of the box lying there open and bit off the end of it. Here was the Naik, thank the Lord! Striking a match, he held it to the brown, tightly-folded leaves and blew out a cloud of blue smoke.
While Margaret, tired to death, wondered when they were going to halt for the night. She had slept badly. Just as she had dropped off there had been a noise; someone had shouted, and then there had been the sound of hurrying feet and ayah had stirred and sat up. But then all had been quiet again, and for a time, at any rate, she had slept. But the start had been an early one and ayah had been monosyllabic, not seeming to know anything, and there was something horrible about the stiff, bound figure of a man strapped down to the pony that headed the procession. It was like being led by a corpse, and no one would tell her what it all meant. Even Denis Frome, so enchanting the night before, had relapsed into a sombre silence. She had disgusted and disappointed him, of course—that was obvious. How unutterably wretched and disappointing life was, thought Margaret, leaning back in her dandy and wondering how the coolies could go on and on without seeming to get in the least tired. They must have been miles and miles since they started that morning, and although they had halted for meals, there had seemed all throughout the camp an eagerness to press on. It was much, much colder. Margaret was glad of the woollen scarf that Denis had handed her at tiffin time.
“You will need it.” He had spoken without a smile. “Shall we be going very much higher than this?”
“Very much. I hope to be up almost on a level with the snows by to-night.”
And they were. It was nearly six and the Indian dusk was coming in like a cloud. One minute it was light and the next it was dark, thought Margaret wearily. For she dreaded the halt that night. They would be together, he and she, and she didn’t know what to say when they were alone. She longed so terribly for him to make love to her, and yet by her refusal the night before she had stopped all that. Yes, but how could she give herself to him, knowing how he felt about it? And yet, with all he was risking for her, ought she not perhaps to have made the sacrifice? Not the sacrifice of herself—that was nonsense—but the sacrifice of her happiness. For how could she be happy afterwards, having experienced the closest relation possible to him, and then to go back to her old life, happy though it was, at Wandara? And yet wasn’t there an old proverb that said, “Half a loaf is better than no bread”? No. but she didn’t feel like that, as the coolie in front adjusted the long arm of the dandy on his shoulder, because the path became steeper and steeper. Margaret wondered what would happen if she broke out into undignified wailing. Because that was what she felt like doing. Everything for her always went wrong. She never had any settled happiness as other women had. Always something to spoil it all. Now she was being a bother to the man she loved. Not only a bother, but a danger. And he didn’t care a snap for her; he never would care. What was the use of being alive at all? Here she was, one of a great trailing line of human beings all with some purpose in their fives. Only she was superfluous; a parasite; a drone. Margaret’s thoughts were interrupted as the little procession suddenly came to a halt. Without noticing it, she had reached the summit of the hill. The evening breeze was cold and invigorating. Vaguely the white peaks of the Himalayas became visible to her straining eyes. Yes, they were high up. Perhaps they would stop here for the night. The wretched figure strapped to the horse in front of her was signalling with his head. Poor brute. Who was he? How cruel it seemed to tie him to his horse like that; and yet Mr. Frome would never be cruel without a cause. . . ,
And an hour later it was all ready just as it had been ready the night before. Only this time ayah had brought her a completely different set of clothes. It was the sahib’s orders, said ayah, and one of the coolies’ wives had produced the clothes. Long white trousers tight almost to the knees and then very baggy indeed. A chuddar, six yards long, to swathe round her body. After the memsahib’s bath she would put them on. Why not the old clothes? Margaret was heavy-eyed and morose. Denis had begun to give orders as soon as they halted. The wretched man in front had been lifted from his horse and his arms had been unbound. He had been fed and given water to drink. And now, muffled in a heavy coat, he had been set at the foot of a tree facing the way they had come. It was brutal, thought Margaret resentfully. This is what people who were against the British rule in India complained of. An arbitrary way of going on. Subconsciously Margaret felt pleasure in being able to mentally criticize the man who had taken possession of her. She would say something at dinner. As she stood on the wooden bathmat scrubbing herself dry she rehearsed what she would say. “What has that poor brute done? . . .” Yes, she would begin like that and not mind if he answered brusquely. Why should he always be given in to? He made her suffer, thought Margaret miserably, slipping her feet into ayah’s heelless slippers. She had put on all her ridiculous baggy underclothes again; and now for these new outer garments that she had been ordered to wear.
But as she walked out of the bathroom tent into the one next to it she saw that things were not quite as they had been the night before. This was a smaller tent with no bed in it. Only the same little dressing-table and a box to stand the hurricane lantern on.
“Where is my bedroom tent, ayah?” she asked the question as ayah approached with the voluminous white clothes.
“Not ready yet, memsahib, said ayah mysteriously.
“Memsahib dressing now and doing hair. Ayah brushing and combing hair for memsahib.”
“But what is the use of putting up this tiny tent and then having the bother of putting up the other one?” said Margaret uneasily. Because she could hear someone humming quite close to her. It was Mr. Frome. Apparently this tent was next to his. He was moving about, and every now and then Margaret could hear him stop humming and speak to his bearer. Suddenly Margaret felt afraid—a queer suffocating fear that caused her to draw her breath quickly. He had some plan. What was it? She was helpless; she would have to fall in with whatever he said. He was going to insist that she became . . . Well . . . Margaret sat down in the grass chair that ayah dragged forward for her. Supposing he was going to insist, it was all part of it. A week of rapture and then thrust out again into the cold. That is to say if they survived the week. But he would tell her at dinner; they would meet in the dining-tent in half an hour or so. She would have two glasses of sherry so that she could receive whatever he said with dignity and calm.
And as eventually she sat facing him across the coloured tablecloth Denis felt his heart twist in his breast. So it had come to him at last, had it? The magic that he had always longed for; the magic that made the moon and stars stand still. He had been thinking about it for the whole day. A sudden decision, perhaps, but sudden decisions with him were always the best. Marriage . . . how he had always avoided it, dodging away in horror when it seemed to be approaching him. And now . . . now he was caught as securely as any young man in the twenties. She had got him, this rather dismal looking young woman who sat opposite to him at the camp dining-table. . . . She had got him tight. It would be a good thing when old Haji came in with the soup, otherwise he might be tempted to blurt it all out now, and he did not intend to do that at all. He intended to do it very differently from that, thought Denis, smiling down at his hands folded on the table and then raising his eyes and meeting Margaret’s gaze.
“What has happened to my tent?”
“Do you mean your sleeping-tent?”
“Yes.”
“It no longer exists. That is to say, it hasn’t been put up to-night.”
“Then what am I to do? I must sleep somewhere.”
“I am quite aware of that. You will sleep with me,” said Denis calmly.
“I shall not.” Margaret pushed back her chair and began to get up. “I shall not stay here and eat with you,” she said. “Please have something sent to me; or, no, don’t, I am not hungry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down at once,” said Denis sharply. “Haji will be coming in with the soup, and it will not do to let him think that you have lost your self-control.”
“I have not lost my self-control.”
“Well, then, don’t look as if you had,” said Denis good-temperedly. Drinking his soup, he reflected that he was being unkind. But it was not his way to give account of his actions. She ought to know that he would not ask her to share his tent for any reason but a vital one. But it was perfectly certain that he could not risk a surprise attack like last night’s. It would be easy enough to slip in under the canvas of her tent and either carry her off or slit her throat. And at the thought of it the blood drummed in his ears. To have found her and then to lose her. No, that was too ghastly to contemplate. Besides, for her it would be an unthinkable horror.
“Believe me, I should not insist on your sharing my tent except for a very good reason,” he said gently.
“Tell it me, then.” Margaret raised a white face. “Don’t humiliate me, please,” she said. “I am so conscious, so frightfully conscious . . .”
“Conscious of what?”
“Of your right to do it.”
“Oh, Margaret.” Haji had gone again. This girl . . . It was odd, though, how tongue-tied he felt. It wasn’t the moment, somehow; you needed solitude; the mystery of darkness and night around you. You couldn’t sit with a cutlet on your plate and speak of love, especially when you were hungry as he was and as she ought to be, if her nerve points were functioning properly. And suddenly he felt mischievous.
“What you need is some spinal massage,” he said.
“Don’t!” And then to his dismay Margaret burst into a torrent of tears. Sitting there, she stared at him with wide-open eyes as the tears rained down her face. “You are brutal,” she sobbed. “You do it on purpose to remind me of those shameful times when I came to your consulting-room. Well, I know I came; and I know it was shameful. But I can tell you this: that if I was dying I wouldn’t come again. If you were the only man in the world who could cure what was the matter with me, I wouldn’t come. I would far rather die of the most gruesome thing there is than put myself in the way of your contempt again.”
“Would you, though?” And then Denis got up from the table. It was safe for the next five minutes. Haji would be fussing round the cook, waiting for the next course. He walked round to her chair and stood beside it. “Give me your hand,” he said.
Margaret shook her head despairingly.
“Give it to me.”
She held it up, sobbing, and, stooping, he pressed it to his face.
“You think I am brutal.”
“I don’t think it: I know it. That wretched man to-day tied to his horse. All day long. I wonder he isn’t dead by now. And even now he’s tied up outside. You see, that’s just it: you don’t care. You don’t care that I’m suffering the tortures of hell, knowing myself to be an intolerable burden on you, and a danger as well. You don’t care that he . . .”
“You blessed goose.” Stooping, Denis laid her hand softly in her lap again and walked back to his chair. “I’m glad you said that,” he said. “Now listen. . .” And Margaret, listening, felt in some far-away part of her that again she had made a fool of herself. For she had imagined a very different reason for his wishing her to share his tent, Instead of which . . . She spoke after a long pause.
“How perfectly appalling,” she said.
“Yes, and now you can perhaps imagine why I cannot risk your sleeping alone. But if you would feel easier, you can bring your ayah with you. I can assure you that it is not necessary, but if you would rather . . .”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Very well, then. And I think that we ought to turn in early. We shall have to move on again early. I am very anxious to get as far away as possible in as little time as possible.”
“I have only got the most ghastly bundly sort of garment to sleep in,” said Margaret, speaking in a shamefaced whisper. “Ayah has provided me with it, but it’s hideous. I hate you to see me in it.”
“I have seen lots of women in funny bundly garments,” said Denis, smiling broadly. “Think of the gowns they wear when they are massaged: all the wrong way round.”
“But this is worse.”
“Well, then, let me lend you a pair of my pyjamas.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, of course I would. I’ll fish out a pair and put them in your tent.” And then Denis sat very still. The lamplight flickered on her tear-stained face; she was still young enough to cry charmingly. How very young she did look as she averted her gaze from his. She was shy. Heavens! Fancy having the luck to meet a woman who was still able to be shy! His blood quickened as he thought of the night that lay ahead of them. Would she be his before it was over, or wouldn’t she? In any event she was his for all time. Of that he was perfectly certain.
“This is a good savoury, isn’t it?”
“Delicious. What wonderful cooks they are.”
“It’s their resource that I always admire so. Never at a loss. As much at home in the jungle as they are in cantonment or civil lines.”
“Yes, I know, it’s wonderful,” Margaret pondered. “Then that’s why you’ve left that man tied up outside,” she said, “so that he’ll keep the others away.”
“That is my idea.”
“How will he do it?”
“By making sounds that to us are almost inaudible. They have wonderful ways of doings things, these people. I dislike to treat him as I am treating him, because he is probably a very brave man. But it is inevitable. I can’t allow our throats to be cut without at least making some effort to prevent it.”
“No, of course you can’t.”
“And now let us go outside and look at the snows. They ought to be sublime in this moonlight. May I smoke?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then . . .” And then Denis glanced towards the door of the tent. Pila the runner stood there with his woollen cap drawn low over his eyes. And Haji was there, too, and they were both looking towards him. Something was wrong. What? Well, he would very soon find out. But first he must put Margaret in a place of safety. She must go to her tent and ayah and the chowkidar could watch her until he was free to either gather her to his breast or put a bullet through her brain. Because it would have to be that if things were really serious. What a damned nuisance. He spoke casually, taking a cigarette from the case that he had drawn from his pocket.
“Haji wants to speak to me,” he said. “Do you mind waiting a minute or two for our stroll? Go into your tent, will you, and wait there for me.”
“Of course I will.” And instantly Margaret got up and left. They were in danger; something in the way he spoke told her so. Well, she didn’t care if they were, so long as she could die with him beside her.
“Send the chowkidar and the ayah to the memsahib. And tell them not to leave her until I come,” said Denis.
“Attcha, sahib,” and Haji vanished, to return in less than a minute.
“They are both with the memsahib, Huzoor.”
“That’s all right. And now what is the matter? Come in, both of you, and tell me. And speak quietly.”
“Pila will speak, sahib.”
“Very well, go on.” Standing there with one hand on the table, Denis listened. And as he listened he blew out the smoke in long, leisurely gusts. So it was as bad as that, was it? They were surrounded. Pila had ventured out and had come up against a solitary figure and had bolted home again. But the fettered man knew for certain. He could hear them, he said, their whispers were audible to him, also their low whistles. In less than an hour they would have advanced on the encampment, and their orders were to take the sahib and memsahib alive and slaughter the rest of them.
“Hmm . . .” And then, standing there very still, Denis sent up a quick prayer to the God who, up to that moment, had never failed him in any emergency. “Tell me what to do,” he said the words half aloud. And instantly he knew. “I will come out,” he said, “and bring me three of the coolies. Tell them that they will be well rewarded if they allow me to do with them what I wish.”
“Huzoor.”
And then Denis walked out into the open. A divinely lovely night. The moon blazing overhead, turning the trees and tents to silver. Through the white light the rose-coloured flames of the innumerable little fires flickered like flower petals strewn over the ground. In the middle of the open space that lay between his tents and the little encampments of the coolies sat the fettered man, his dark face slightly turned up to the dark-blue bowl of sky. “He is listening,” thought Denis, watching him. “And he goes in terror of his life. That will make it easier for me.” He walked up close to him. He would wait for the three coolies and then not waste any more time. He disliked what he was going to do, but he couldn’t help it if he did. Hypnotism was not justified except in very exceptional circumstances. But surely even the British Medical Association would consider that these were exceptional circumstances, thought Denis, smiling a little wryly down at the dark face turned up to his.
“Look closely at me,” he said in Hindustani.
“Huzoor.”
And then Denis made a few quick passes in front of the staring eyes. Here came the three coolies grinning sheepishly. Standing there, they also stared at him and then their eyes also closed. These people were so easy, thought Denis uncomfortably. Their simple minds responded so quickly. The sahib was making jadoo23 over them, therefore it must be right. He began to talk to them in the vernacular. They were his subjects to do his will, he said. And he had by the power of his magic transformed them into monkeys. Therefore they ran on their hands and feet instead of standing upright. They chattered instead of speaking. They squeaked and made strange noises as they ran from the camp into the jungle, and when they encountered a circle of men they would run and jabber among them. And the man who would now be untied would do the same. They would all jabber and run and squeak until the circle of men dispersed. They would hold their paws above their heads from time to time and squeak and squeal, and when the men had finally dispersed they would return to the camp and prostrate themselves before their lord which was he who spoke. And then Denis turned and spoke to Pila, who was watching. “Untie him,” he said.
And for many years afterwards he could not shake off the memory of that almost horrible sight. Four human beings looking exactly like baboons as they ambled out of sight. Four sleeping human beings, transformed at his will into animals. What an amazing thing the human mind was, thought Denis, standing there very still, and how equally amazing that doctors didn’t take it more into account. Because if the Maharajah’s men were as near as they thought they were, it wouldn’t take very long. And now, feeling round to his hip pocket, he went back into his tent. He would call her to him and stand very close to her. And then if he didn’t hear the screams of fright that he thought he would, he would send her on her long last journey, go and do what he could to help his followers and then join her if he could. And if he couldn’t . . . well, then, he couldn’t, thought Denis, taking a long breath and sending out another brief prayer.
“Come in here, Margaret,” he called to her.
“What has happened?”
“I’ll tell you presently. Now I only want you to stand here with me while I listen to something.” And, slipping his arm round her, he stood very still; while Margaret, staring out into the dimly-lighted tent, thought that, after all, even if she did die during the next few minutes, she had at least had his arm round her—and round her closely; as he listened he seemed to squeeze her almost without knowing that he did it. And then suddenly his grasp relaxed and he caught his breath with a half-strangled choke as from a short distance away an uproar broke out. “The mad doctor has bewitched them, half-strangled” he could hear them yelling. “See, he has turned them into animals, as he will also turn us if we remain in his vicinity. See! they squeak and jabber and fling their arms about. Come, let us flee while there is yet time. . . .” And then there was a sound, a crashing among undergrowth and rapidly receding yells. They must have been almost on them, thought Denis grimly. A mercy he hadn’t wasted any time!
“Oh, whatever is it?” Margaret was clinging to him. “It sounds as if every one had gone mad. Are they going to murder us? Because if they are, can’t you shoot me first? I don’t mind if you do it, but don’t let them . . .”
“No, it’s all right,” said Denis briefly. “Go back to ayah and I’ll come and tell you in a minute or two.” He released her, and as he did so he dropped a quick kiss on her hair. “You’re brave,” he said. “Don’t be frightened now, because it’s all right.” And then he walked quickly out into the open again. Here they came back, leaping and squealing like triumphant demons, the bandit leading the way. The rest of the coolies were gathering and running, to watch them; in the bright moonlight Denis could see the shining of their teeth. This was a fine tamasha the sahib had provided, they thought. Haji stood there, grave and wondering, but Pila, under his woolly cap, was grinning triumphantly. The sahib was a great sahib, he decided, for it had been a near thing for all of them. But now . . . He stood and watched as Denis called the four men to him. Taking the three coolies a little aside, he made a few passes over their eyes and spoke a few words in Hindustani. And then he smiled kindly as they straightened themselves and grinned.
“Take this.” He handed each of them a few rupees. And, salaaming with glee, they backed away from him. Meanwhile, facing the bandit, he thought for a minute or two; and then he spoke in the vernacular.
“No longer a beast, but man again,” he said; “but a slave to me, your overlord. Where I go you will go; you cannot leave this camp, for you are chained to it by invisible chains which will only be broken when I say the word.”
The man stood slowly upright again.
“Seat yourself outside my tent and remain there.”
The man slunk away.
And then Denis stood there and took a cigarette from his case. Tapping it against his hand, he decided that that had been a horrible experience. He had almost seen that circle of motionless brown faces, waiting and expectant. The death would have been so ghastly, and it would have been such a shame to have sacrificed all these faithful followers of his. . . . Well, it had settled one thing: they must move on at once. No rest for them; no sharing of tents and the joy of seeing her shy reactions to his caresses. No, they must get on so that they were out of the Maharajah’s territory by the next evening. They ought to be able to do it if they set off in half an hour.
And very briefly he gave the orders. Pila and Haji set to work without comment and thankfully Denis nodded his approbation of both of them. And then he went to find Margaret.
“We’re moving on,” he said, and laughed in some faraway part of him to note her blank dismay at the news.
“But . . .”
“Yes, I know, but it’s only postponed,” he said mischievously. And then he laughed out loud as through the dimness of the lamp he saw her colour flame.
“That’s too bad of me,” he said. “But you do ask for it, you know. Oh, my God, I’m so tired!” He threw back his head and groaned.
“Was it a very near thing?”
“Very near. How did you know?”
“I felt it. Are we safe now?”
“Yes, for the next sixteen hours or so. But we can’t stay here, that’s quite certain.”
“Have you untied that man?”
“Yes, he’s outside my tent. I’ve untied him physically and tied him up mentally instead. He’ll be more useful that way.”
“Do you mean that you’ve hypnotized him?
“Yes, and now I must pack,” said Denis briefly. “I’m too tired to talk any more. In fact, now I shan’t be able to talk until I know that we’re perfectly safe. It’s gone on too long; it’s ceased to be amusing. Be a darling girl and understand; I’ll say all sorts of nice things when I can feel the earth firmly under my feet again.”
“Safety means that I shan’t see you.”
“That doesn’t follow.” .
“If only . . .” And then Margaret stopped speaking. Here she was again. . . . She had no shame left. Thought of herself always uppermost. Small wonder that he despised her.
“If only what . . .?” And now Denis’s voice was suddenly tender. He was certainly tired, but all the same . . . “If only what?” he repeated.
“If only I knew for certain that I should see you even after we are safe.”
“Would it comfort you if I told you?”
“Yes, I’d rather know, even if I shan’t see you. Then I can sort of screw myself up to it,” said Margaret desperately. The lamp was smoking; she walked to it and turned the wick with trembling fingers. She stood there with her back to him and waited as she heard him take a quick step towards her; and shivered as she felt his hands on her shoulders.
“I can promise you that you will see me,” he said.
“Often?”
“Often.”
“Oh!” And as he turned her slowly round Margaret smiled tremulously. “That’s all I wanted to know,” she said, “then I can be quite happy.”
“Good girl.” He stooped his head. “Very good girl,” he said, and kissed her gently. “Happier now?”
“Much happier.”
“And you’ll go to sleep in your dandy so that you’re not too tired?”
“I’ll try to.”
“Then go and get ready,” said Denis. “Ayah will have begun to pack, but you can probably do something to help her, because I want to get off. And to-morrow night I can promise you . . . ” He stopped, smiling.
“What?”
“A tent to yourself,” said Denis mischievously. But even as he smiled he began to yawn. “God, I’m tired,” he said wearily.
In the meantime, Jim Marvell had been busy. It was no use asking permission to do things if you were in a hurry. Jim Marvell knew that very well. And Frome was too valuable a man to be allowed to die an ugly death simply because Delhi or Simla couldn’t make up their minds whether it was wise to take up a firm line or not. A firm line was going to be taken up, even if he lost his job through it. So, after giving orders to the Naik, he flung himself into his car and rushed in Cantonments. Fortunately he was on very good terms with the General. Eventually he ran him down at the club and, taking him aside, told him what he wanted and why.
“You want some whippet tanks? To-night? Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have them,” said the General cordially. Rolled up in a white sweater, the General was rosy from a couple of hard games of tennis.
“Thank you most awfully, sir.”
“Four men to man them? That’ll give you room to cram in some of your police and room for you, too. You ought to manage twenty men all told. If you’ve got to use the guns you’ll feel as if your heads were being blown off; but they won’t be, really.”
“Thank you more than I can say.”
“I’ll have them ready on the Bannu road at seven o’clock to-night. It’ll take me till then to get them fitted up. What’s that maniac Frome been up to this time? The man’s mad; I’ve got an aunt at home who’s crazy about him. Not me; give me a good bottle of medicine that stinks like hell and I’m a different creature after the first whiff, but all the same were not going to allow that Pundoo rascal to get away with it. This’ll finish him and a good job too.”
And then the General went back to his drink. While Jim Marvell rushed home again. He ought with luck to get to Denis Frome by six o’clock the next morning; that is to say if he was making for where he thought he was. He would undoubtedly be making North as quickly as he could so as to get out of native territory as quickly as he could. And then as the white dust flew up in front of his car he got a nasty qualm at the thought that long ago this friend of his might be dead. These native fellows had such diabolical ways of tracking down a man. God, if he came across any of his dirty underlings, he’d flatten them out like pancakes. Not one spark of mercy will they get from me, thought Major Marvell, turning into his compound with a screech of tortured tyres. And jumping out of the car he took the veranda steps three at a time. He would have to hurry to get everything in train by seven o’clock. Those little tanks were the very thing for the jungle. They’d go lurching along those narrow paths, flattening out the snakes like well-made chupatties.
And by seven o’clock the queer little procession started. For all the world like those hard-backed buzzing things that swarmed round the lamps in the monsoon, thought Jim Marvell, climbing into the foremost one and finding himself received with respectful salutes and grins by the men it contained. A couple of miles along the Bannu road, and then a quick right-hand turn into the jungle. How splendidly the agile little monsters went along, crushing down the undergrowth on either side of the path. The overhanging creepers swept across the turrets with a swish as they lurched and rolled. They must be travelling at the rate of about twenty miles an hour. By midnight they would be well into the jungle. If Denis Frome was still alive he would be pitching camp about a hundred and twenty miles from where they now were, thought Jim Marvell, deciding that he would go and perch himself somewhere outside for a bit, because the rolling in the confined space made him feel slightly sick. The fierce headlights would do away with any fear of being sniped at. He climbed out, clinging to the ironwork that surrounded one of the gun carriages. Yes, that was better there was more air here. Although—and then Jim Marvell hurriedly climbed in again.
Bang in the middle of the path ahead of them he had seen the great lamp-like eyes of some wild beast shining like glass marbles. A tiger or panther probably, terrified out of its senses and bewildered by the bright headlights. But all the same he wasn’t going to risk being clawed at by a wild beast. He had come to save life; not to lose his own unless he couldn’t help it.
And afterwards, thinking it over, Denis came to the conclusion that it must have been as that first white shaft of light came stabbing through the trees that he felt his first sensation of despair. For his instant thought was that this must be some final and successful manoeuvre of the Maharajah’s to find them. Foiled in his attempt to encircle them he had prepared some deadly trap to finally head them off from escape. And bitterly ashamed as he was of himself afterwards, he groaned out loud. Fortunately he was riding ahead, so no one heard him, but he did groan. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Surely he had overheard himself saying the words. And then he reined in his horse and waited, and the procession behind him also stood still and waited. The white light had suddenly faded, leaving the sound of great lumbering heavy-bodied animals approaching.
Perhaps he had imagined the light and these were elephants. If they were, they would be trampled to death unless the elephants happened to be in a good temper and would swerve aside to leave them room. In any event the only thing was to wait.
And as he waited the sound of lumbering bodies ceased and there was dead silence, only broken by the scuffling and twittering of birds disturbed in their sleep. And then a voice. “Frome!” Someone was shouting his name. “Frome, is it you? Quick, or I shall be obliged to shoot.”
“Frome it is,” replied Denis, and again to his shame he heard his voice hoarse with relief. Although perhaps it was not to be wondered at. It was not as if he had only had himself to consider. But—Marvell! how on earth had he managed to turn up like this? With a word to Pila, who was riding behind him, he went on ahead. Tanks—a string of them—what on earth?—and here was Marvell crawling out of the foremost tank like a fox out of a burrow. Curiouser and curiouser—but there would be some explanation of this marvel of a rescue. Marvell—a fine pun that! Slipping from his horse, Denis wondered if he wasn’t perhaps a little lightheaded. But the relief was so stupefying, so overwhelming—it had gone on too long, that was it, it had gone on too long. . . .
“Well, what on earth have you been up to?” And now Major Marvell was wringing his hand. “Setting us all by the ears like this. I’ve got half the British Army behind me. Tanks, you never saw such tanks. Where have you been, you beggar?”
“Where have I been?” Denis Frome frowned. “I’ve been jolly frightened,” he said shortly. “And I’m thankful beyond words that you’ve turned up.”
“You look frightfully tired,” said Jim Marvell impulsively. “You want a good night’s rest. When did you last have one?”
“I don’t know,” said Denis vaguely.
“Can’t you pitch camp here? Have you any spare tents for us?”
“Two.”
“Then let’s get busy,” said Major Marvell simply. “It’s fairly clear there. I turned my headlights off the path just now, and I saw quite a big space. You sit down and don’t do anything at all; we’ll do it all, I’ve got some fine Tank Corps men here and several police and my Naik who’s a host in himself.”
“And I’ve got Haji. Haji!”
“Huzoor.” Bewildered and adjusting his pugaree, Haji came running.
“Here is the police sahib,” said Denis. “We shall pitch camp here to-night. Tether the man who has been close to me, it is better for safety’s sake. Get busy immediately, Haji. And when my tent is ready, put drinks and not coffee and sandwiches in it, and see that the memsahib’s tent goes up first. Tell the ayah. And, oh Haji—prepare hot water for baths.”
“Huzoor,” and when Haji had disappeared again Jim Marvell spoke slowly.
“He’s a treasure,” he said. “I’d say marvel if it didn’t savour so much of self-advertisment. But I don’t wonder you’ve been so worried, Frome, if you’ve got a lady with you. I’d no idea—shall we be in the way? If so, we’ll stand back and camp farther off.”
“No, no—you see, you’ll have to know sooner or later, Jim, as it’s all in your day’s work. That’s what has led up to all of this, to put it lightly. I had to go to the Maharajah who sent for me because he’d got a stomach ache; I needn’t have gone, of course, but I thought it only decent as he lets me shoot in his jungles. And there I found Mrs. Baxter from Wandara whom he’d abducted with the worst possible intentions. His stomach ache frightened him so badly that mercifully his intentions didn’t materialize, and as a token of gratitude, and incidentally, intensely cold feet, he handed her on to me. Repented the next day because he thought it might end in his getting into hot water, and deciding that he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, made up his mind to slaughter us both. And I may say, very nearly succeeded in doing so.”
“My God!”
“Yes, that puts it very neatly,” said Denis, yawning again, his brown face stiff with fatigue in the light from the fierce headlamps.
“Where is she?”
“In her dandy, with her ayah behind her in another. Would you like to speak to her? Do you know her, by the way?”
“No, but I know of her, as I knew Miss Mostyn very well. Whatever sort of a state must she be in?”
“Not so bad, because I was able to get my runner into Wandara to tell her that ‘An Englishman,’ inverted commas, had Mrs. Baxter under his care.”
“Then why didn’t she inform the police?”
“Because at the same time I warned her not to. I knew that that would mean trouble at once with the Maharajah, because, as it was, he was scared stiff and if he had thought that any one was after him then, he’d have tipped us both into an empty well and said that he’d never even heard of Mrs. Baxter.”
“Then how did Harland get news?”
“Harland?”
“Yes, he wired to me.”
“Did he, though? I don’t know how he knew. Someone must have got news through to him somehow. I can’t think now—I’m too tired. I want a drink—no I don’t, I don’t approve of drinking, I’m always warning my patients against it. No, all I want is just to be let be, and know that I’m not going to have to put a bullet through the head of the woman I love. No, I didn’t mean to say that—I’m light-headed, Marvell, forget it.”
“I have forgotten it,” said Jim Marvell simply. “Come on, let’s go and speak to Mrs. Baxter. Just look at those men of yours, Frome, the camp is half up already.”
“Thank God it is,” said Denis Frome. “This way, Jim, mind the ropes. Yes, here she is. Good old ayah, she’s put a lamp by her dandy; that woman is a treasure if you like, I’ll tell you about her afterwards. Margaret, here is the Chief of Police come to rescue us, Major Marvell. Don’t get out of your dandy till your tent’s ready, it won’t be long.”
“Haji told me you’d come, I’m so thankful,” said Margaret, her pale face quivering as she turned it upwards. “I know of you, of course, Major Marvell, I’ve heard Miss Mostyn speak of you.”
“Yes, I know her quite well. You’ve had a rotten time of it, I gather.”
“Yes——” Margaret hesitated. “Oh, he’s gone,” she said. “I heard Haji say ‘sahib’—I’m so thankful—because it gives me a chance. He’s so frightfully tired—I don’t believe he’s slept since he took charge of me. Make him go to bed, please.” Margaret’s voice was urgent. “Explain that now you’ve come, it’s all right, and he can hand me over to you.”
“I will,” said Jim Marvell promptly. “Here he comes.” And as the tall figure came swiftly through a crowd of coolies he spoke cheerfully.
“If I clear a tank for you, will you go and stretch yourself out in it, Frome? Leave me in charge of Mrs. Baxter and everything else.”
“I will, if you promise to wake me at dawn.”
“Dawn is in a couple of hours or so,” said Jim Marvell, glancing down at the luminous watch on his wrist.
“A couple of hours is all I want.”
“No you don’t,” said Jim Marvell simply. “Imagine you’re one of your own patients, Frome. Go and sleep and leave me to have the camp put up and guarded, and I’ll see that Mrs. Baxter is looked after, and we’ll all meet at breakfast to-morrow morning.”
“Oh my God! It sounds tempting.” Grey with fatigue, Denis Frome yawned again.
“Then that settles it. Come along with me. And, Mrs. Baxter, having settled this obstinate man, I’ll be back again to see to you,” and with a pleasant smile Jim Marvell took the powerful arm in a firm grip. “Bed for bad boys,” he said and led him off unprotesting.
Margaret, left alone, sat very still. “Thank God he’s come,” she whispered, “because if I’d been on my darling’s mind very much longer, I really believe he would have ended by hating me.”
The sun was high in the heavens when at last Denis Frome rolled over on his back and opened his eyes. Heavens, he had slept; he shot a glance at his wrist. Ten o’clock—and here he was looking a perfect sight; still in his clothes, and unshaven into the bargain. Could he manage to get out of this sepulchre of a sleeping place and slink into his own tent without being seen? He peered cautiously out. Yes, he could manage it if he was quick. A group of Tank Corps men were gathered round a fire outside a tent, a stone’s throw away, but with their backs to him. In the distance he could see Haji talking to the cook who was stirring something in a saucepan. At this hour Margaret and Marvell would probably be in their tents, so he would make a dash for it.
And half an hour later Margaret was amazed to see the man she was visualizing as exhausted and pale with fatigue standing talking with animation to Major Marvell who was obviously explaining something as he stood there moving his hands expressively. And seeing them, she retreated again into her tent. Her Indian clothes, the whole situation, made her feel ashamed. Men were the same all the world over; they had the same stereotyped ideas as to what a woman should or should not do. And even although it might not be her own fault she should not have put herself into an equivocal position. Wretchedly she sat down on the grass chair that ayah so carefully cherished for her. It would soon be breakfast time; then she would have to meet them. Until then she would stay where she was and make the best of what was left to her; namely a rather ignominious return to Wandara and to the life that up till a few days ago she had thought so perfect, and which now she knew to be only the husk of life as life could be to a woman who possessed the things that she was meant to possess.
“You understand then?” Denis’s eyes were bright.
“Of course I understand; haven’t I just told you?”
“Yes, when are you going to be married?”
“She arrives from home the week after next. I hope to get down to Bombay to meet her.”
“Splendid! And that brings me to something else,” said Denis. “Who’s your big noise in the clerical line round about here, because I want to be married by special licence. There’s no point in waiting; my time out here is strictly limited and I should love to go to Kashmir for my honeymoon.”
“We’ve got a Bishop at Lahore. About fifty miles away and on the phone. And he’s very nice; not a stickler in any way.”
“Then you think I can fix that up from Feropindi? We shall be there by to-night, shan’t we? I can settle Margaret at an hotel and go somewhere else myself, just to keep tongues from wagging.”
“I am perfectly certain that the General’s wife will want to take in Mrs. Baxter and you as well. Don’t forget that Mrs. Baxter is going to be front-page news for the next week or so.”
“Oh, well then, that’s all the better,” said Denis easily. “And now if you don’t mind, I’ll go and have a word with her. I saw her peep out of her tent a moment or so ago. When do you want us to pack up and go on?”
“Shall we say at about three o’clock this afternoon? That will bring us into Feropindi at about nine; it will be dark by then. I’ve sent one tank back already with the news of what’s happened, then they’ll get into touch with Simla and all the rest of it, and I’ve also asked them to wire Miss Mostyn fully at Wandara.”
“You Indian officials, there’s no one to equal you,” said Denis smiling.
“Oh well, it’s our job,” said Major Marvell cheerfully. “And I can tell you this, we’ve been aching for a chance to round up that Pundoo budmarsh; he’s been a thorn in our sides for years, ever since I can remember, but he’s never yet quite overstepped the mark. Now he has, and he’s for it or my name isn’t Jim Marvell.”
“Nor mine Denis Frome,” said Denis joyfully. “And now, Marvell, can you amuse yourself for half an hour or so? We have that hybrid meal at half-past eleven. I hope you like it?”
“I do,” said Major Marvell. And he strolled back to his tent smiling to himself. It was odd that he and Frome should have decided to marry just at this particular moment. And odd that they should have met again like this. Fate, he supposed! Anyhow, he’d read Cynthia’s last letter again. Glorious to think that there was only time for him to get one more letter and then he’d have her herself. Almost too good to be true, thought Major Marvell, a little tender smile playing round his clean-shaven mouth.
While in the tent with the one grass chair in it, Denis stood and also smiled.
“Well, how do you feel this morning?”
“Quite well. How do you?”
“Wonderfully well. I slept like a log; it was what I wanted, you and Marvell were right.”
“I knew we were. I have never seen any human being look so tired as you did.”
“No, I was played out. I admit it.”
“It was the responsibility of me.”
“No it wasn’t,” said Denis, looking amused. How dejected she looked. Drooping there with her darling mouth all turned down, well, it would turn up in a minute or two.
“I have a proposition to make,” he said.
“What sort of a proposition?” said Margaret, speaking cheerfully with a great effort, because as she told herself she might as well be dignified until the end. This delicious adventure was nearly over and she could be as undignified as she liked when she got back to the shelter of Wandara and Jean Mostyn. Jean Mostyn understood everything, and she would even understand torrents and torrents and torrents of tears. How odd it would be if she cried now, she thought, gazing up at him as he stood there looking down at her. Would the half smiling, half quizzical expression on his clever mouth change, or would it stay as it was? It would stay as it was, she decided, because it expressed what he was. Things passed over him; they didn’t remain with him as they did with her; shattering her; torturing her. . . .
“Do you really want to know what my proposition is?”
“Yes please.”
“She doesn’t,” thought Denis, watching the sad little droop of her lips. “But she will be pleased when she hears what it is.” He said it softly.
“What?”
He said it again.
“But you don’t care for me.”
“How do you know?”
“You said so.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, but you did say so,” said Margaret wildly. Marriage! But of course he didn’t mean it, and he would say so presently, and she would have to acquiesce and laugh over the good joke it had been. Marriage . . . . “I wish you wouldn’t make game of me,” she said passionately.
“I am not making game of you.”
“But you must be. You’ve never shown the least sign—men don’t want to marry women all in a hurry.”
“I do,” said Denis mischievously. “And you’ve always told me that I’m not like other men, so there you are. I’m giving you tangible proof of it.”
“If only you would——” Margaret bowed her face in her hands.
“If only I would what?”
“Be serious,” said Margaret desperately. “Not torment me with wondering whether you really mean it. Not humiliate me with your certainty that I shall say yes.”
“But won’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Margaret and there was real agony in her voice as she lifted her face to his.
“How can I, when I don’t know what you feel? It may just be that you feel you ought to after all this, when I’ve shown you so plainly what I feel. Oh God! why need it be like this?” said Margaret, suddenly sobbing.
“My darling,” and then Denis took a quick step forward. Lifting her up out of the chair in spite of her efforts to resist him, he held her very close to him. “My darling,” he said, “I am a brute, a fiend, I know I am. I’m like one of those selfish mothers who make their child cry because it’s so delicious to see them turn down their lower lip. But I do love you; I do really. I wouldn’t ask you to marry me if I didn’t. How could I risk Miss Smith’s displeasure if I didn’t really love you,” said Denis and he took her chin in both his brown hands and laughed down into her eyes. “Darling, darling, darling,” he said, kissing her upturned mouth.
“Denis!”
“Well?”
“You wouldn’t say it if you didn’t mean it.”
“On my soul I wouldn’t,” said Denis Frome, his dark eyes very amused. “Besides I’ve told Marvell. I shouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t meant it.”
“You’ve told him that you’re going to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” said Margaret and now with tears was mingled the softest laughter. “Then you knew I should say yes.”
“I hoped so.”
“But I haven’t said it yet.”
“No, but you’re going to,” said Denis, and as the closeness of her made his blood flame, he dropped his mouth fiercely on to hers. “Don’t be a goose,” he muttered. “You know that you and I are meant for one another and always have been. You pierced me with that dagger when I took it out of your darling hysterical little hand, and I knew it at the time and wouldn’t admit it. And so did you, but——”
“I did admit it,” said Margaret when she could free herself.
“And I was brutal to you.”
“Not really, only wise.”
“Wisdom! Rot,” said Denis forcibly. “I’m hungry; making love properly always makes people hungry. When we are married we shall never stop being hungry, Margaret; the housekeeping books will mount up and up and up.”
“Denis, Denis.”
“Beloved,” and then suddenly there was silence in the little tent. Outside the coolies chattered and a child wailed in the distance. There was a crow cawing unmusically somewhere, Margaret could hear it. Although, could she? Was there anything that she could hear beyond the thundering of the heart close to her lips? For he was holding her like that, standing very still with his chin resting on her hair. What was he thinking about, wondered Margaret, closing her eyes on the happiness in them, because it was so profound that she could not keep them open.
They got into Feropindi at about nine o’clock that evening and Margaret never forgot the welcome they received.
“My dear——” The General’s wife standing on her veranda in evening-dress took her straight into her arms and kissed her. “My dear, what an awful time you must have had! Thank heaven you’re safe, and that we can look after you. The whole station has contributed clothes and Miss Mostyn is on her way with your own things. We’ve sent a budli24 from the Military hospital here, so that she can get away. And so this is the famous Mr. Frome; my goodness the whole station is by its ears to see you, my friend.” The General’s wife had taken Denis warmly by the hand. “Alec will look after you, Mr. Frome, and I shall look after Mrs. Baxter. Come along, my dear, and your ayah with you. Alec, see that Mr. Frome has a drink before his bath and I’m going to devote my attention to Mrs. Baxter. Jim Marvell has gone straight home, so the Naik says, and he’ll come round when he’s had a bath and changed.”
And oh, the exquisite relief of the big bedroom and large hanging cupboards. Margaret laughed out loud as she saw the collection of garments spread out ready for her to inspect.
“Yes, they’re wonderful, aren’t they?” The General’s wife was taking Margaret in. Charming and well bred—what a mercy! It might easily have been so different; nowadays such queer people came out to India. And going to marry that attractive Mr. Frome, so Alec had whispered to her. Well, well, it was a fitting ending to a great adventure. They were to be married at once, apparently. Alec hadn’t had time yet to tell her about it properly, but she would find it all out later. At the moment the thing was to get this girl washed and clothed and fed and she would leave her to it. She said so.
“Thank you most awfully, in fact—thank you sounds stupid. I can’t tell you what I feel about all this.” Margaret looked round the big barely furnished room, and then at the General’s wife. Words were so hopeless—she tried to express what she felt.
“But we love to do it, you don’t know what an excitement this is for us! Two people lost in the jungle and coming out of it all safe, and engaged to be married into the bargain. And Mr. Frome, whom everybody has heard of, and lots of people have wanted to consult, only tradition dies so hard and we’re wedded to our appendixes and tonsils and all the rest of it. I shouldn’t dare to consult him, there’s so little of the original me left, laughed the General’s wife, her diamond earrings twinkling in the electric light.
“That doesn’t take away from the tremendous kindness of it.”
“Well, well!” and then Mrs. Metcalfe went away, highly delighted. “A very charming young woman, Alec,” she said a few minutes later. “And how’s Mr. Frome getting on? I hope you gave him a drink.”
“I did. And you ought to have seen the amount of soda he put in it. He positively drowned it.”
“Far better for him than the way you people go on! But all the same—Alec, tell me,” said Mrs. Metcalfe confidentially, “what’s going to happen, are they going to be married soon? Because there’s nothing I should like better than a wedding from here. She’s a perfect dear.”
“My dear child, you don’t suppose that we talked about Frome’s engagement, do you?” The General was chuckling. He adored his wife. He put out his hand and took hers. “Plenty of time for all that,” he said. “Let the poor man wash and put on clean clothes. I left his bearer getting out an evening suit, a fine old man, Frome says he’s been marvellous all through.”
“So, I gather, has her ayah.”
“And Jim hasn’t done too badly either. They ought to give him something for this, perhaps they will.”
“I doubt it,” said the General’s wife vindictively. “They’ll be so occupied in being apologetic to the Maharajah, because they’ve got to take away some of his guns that they’ll forget everything else!”
“Now, now, Dolly!”
“You know they’re feeble.”
“Of course I do, but their hands are tied by those old women at home. But it’s not the time now to curse the Home Government. Here he comes—well, you’ve not taken long, Frome.”
“No, I never take very long,” said Denis Frome easily. He stood there, tall in his well-cut evening jacket. “She is lucky,” thought Mrs. Metcalfe absorbing the charm of him. “A man in a hundred: a thousand. She spoke aloud:
“Come and eat,” she said, “and don’t wait for Mrs. Baxter, she asked me to say so. She’ll come when she’s ready and has found the clothes that suit her.”
“How is she?”
“Perfectly all right. I gave her a minute glass of sherry and she drank it like a lamb. She’s having a bath, and that splendid ayah of hers is looking after her.”
“I want to be married in a hurry,” said Denis, as a few minutes later he twinkled at Mrs. Metcalfe over the rim of his soup spoon. “I want to go to Kashmir for my honeymoon and as my time out here is strictly limited, I don’t want any delay. Do you think I can get a special licence from your Bishop? Is he difficult in that way?”
“No, he’s a dear,” said Mrs. Metcalfe promptly. “Last September several people in this station were married in a hurry because of the crisis, and he handed out special licences like baptismal certificates. Alec will see to it for you in the morning. You’ll have heaps of things to see to in the morning, of course. And, Mr. Frome, you must allow me to give one or two dinner parties for you. Every one is dying to see you and to hear about that wonderful machine of yours that tells you what is the matter with us, even although we don’t know it ourselves. Does it tell you about our love affairs.”
“Sometimes,” said Denis, setting his spoon down in his plate and smiling broadly.
“Have you got it out here?”
“No, rather not. I’m on holiday.”
“Do doctors like you?”
“In the abstract, no. Personally, yes,” said Denis. “Anyhow they come and consult me when they are at a loss; at least, some of the more enlightened ones do.”
“Dolly, don’t talk shop,” interposed the General.
“Ah, here is Mrs. Baxter.” The two men got up out of their chairs as Margaret came in. “She is beautiful,” thought Mrs. Metcalfe, “and she has chosen the very garment to suit her. What a mercy.”
“Please don’t get up.” Margaret stood there smiling shyly. Her dark curly hair showed up the whiteness of her throat, except for a little brown patch where the sun had caught it. Her shoulders were white too; the fashionable evening-dress fell softly from them.
“You just want a string of pearls,” said Mrs. Metcalfe. She left the room to return with them. “There you are,” she said, and standing behind Margaret as she sat at the table, she clasped them round her throat.
“Perfect,” said Denis softly as his eyes met Margaret’s.
And the General’s wife, talking with animation, came to the conclusion that both these young people were extremely fortunate. Not that Mr. Frome was exactly young, but he had the vitality that made for youth. And Margaret Baxter was still young and she possessed the capacity for adoration that was so rarely found, and so terribly rarely ever gratified. But Mr. Frome was a very famous man and was able to sustain adoration without ever trading on it.
“I hope you are both hungry,” she said.
“We are,” said Denis Frome and his eyes met Margaret’s with a laugh in them. And something else as well, that made her look down at her plate and flush up to the tips of her small ears.
It was just a week later that they stood on the narrow platform of the up-country Indian railway station, watching the tail lamps of the Punjab Mail vanish into the darkness. Haji and ayah were fussing with the suitcases. The Brahmin stationmaster had come forward, his caste mark showing scarlet in the light of the hurricane lantern that he carried.
“The car awaits you, sar,” he said.
“And one for the servants and the luggage?”
“Yes, sar.”
“Then there’s nothing to keep us, is there? How far is Barwar Saugor from here, stationmaster?”
“About fifteen miles, sar.”
“And a good road?”
“Yas, sar.”
“And a good driver?”
“Yes, sar,” said the stationmaster, smiling deprecatingly.
“Then, let’s get on.” And a few minutes later they were settled. Ayah and Haji both in fine new warm coats, crammed into one car surrounded by suitcases. And Margaret and Denis in another. The Goanese chauffeur got into the driving seat and then turned round.
“Ready, sar?”
“Quite ready,” said Denis. “Warm enough, my darling?”
“Quite,” said Margaret, wondering if this was real or a dream. The wedding, with Miss Mostyn sitting in the front seat. The General in uniform to give her away. The little garrison church crammed with people to wish them well. The Bishop of Lahore to marry them; he had come in on purpose.
The dinner parties; every night of the week before had been a gala night. The hospitality; the kindness; the wealth of goodwill that had flooded over them. Almost overwhelming, but not quite because her lover had been beside her. He was used to this sort of thing, thought Margaret, watching him. He moved through it like a king; profoundly grateful, but not disturbed. People hung on his word and yet he spoke naturally and unaffectedly. And he had been the same during his wedding; looking a little amused, but all the time profoundly thoughtful for her. And now it was all over and they were alone together. As the car stole out from under the old brick roof of the little up-country station he took her hand in his.
“Tired?”
“Not a bit.”
“Happy?”
“What do you think?” said Margaret, with a little quiet laugh. “After all these years of being alone. And then to have someone like you beside me. It’s almost more than I can believe.”
“Yes, but it’s true.”
I know. That’s the heavenly part of it, and now I seem to be able to believe it more. This last fortnight has been almost too much to believe. By the way——” Margaret paused.
“Yes?”
“What has happened to that man? You know—the one you brought with us. The one you hypnotized? I don’t know what makes me think of him just now.”
“Jim Marvell is taking him on. Set a thief to catch a thief. They’d slaughter him if he went back. So he’s staying on as chowkidar and afterwards he may get something in the police.”
“I’m glad.”
“So am I. One can’t help admiring bravery, however damaging it may be to one’s own safety. Another very brave thing was the way in which that old servant of Miss Mostyn’s, Nulloo, gave information that enabled the police to get on our track. That was especially brave, because it meant implicating his own son. As a matter of fact they’ll let him off lightly because he’s given every one away.”
“Yes, I do hope they won’t be hard on him. Old Nulloo is such a splendid old man.”
“The same type as Haji. The type that is rapidly becoming extinct, unfortunately.”
“Yes.” Margaret smiled in the darkness. Could one be too happy, she wondered; too utterly at peace and at rest? This man beside her; world famed. People hung on his words. And he had chosen her to be his wife. She was to spend the rest of her life with him; share his interests and ambitions and hopes and fears. She tightened her grasp on his hand.
“What’s the matter? Afraid I shall escape?”
“No, not really.”
“A little afraid?” He spoke tenderly.
“No, not really. Only it seems so very wonderful to me. I was so wretched, so sort of feeling that nothing was of any use. And I haven’t done anything since then to deserve this gorgeous happiness.”
“Nor have I.”
“Oh, Denis!” And then Margaret laughed aloud. “Not done anything to deserve it?” she said. “Haven’t you saved my life at the risk of your own? That’s something, surely.”
I had to do that,” said Denis seriously. “To expect gratitude for that would be on a par with that ridiculous fallacy that one’s children ought to be grateful for being born. Don’t let us make our parenthood nonsensical, Margaret.”
“No!” Ridiculous, although she felt it to be, Margaret was flushing deeply.
“Do you want any children?” He leaned closer to her so that his cheek brushed hers.
“No, I don’t want anybody but you.”
“Nor do I want anybody but you. But if they come we shall have to put up with it. But I have a sort of feeling that they won’t. I want just you to be a help to me. Someone to talk to about my work—never about my patients, but about my work. You won’t be jealous of my patients, Margaret?”
“No.”
“There isn’t any need to be, but women are so funny—they can’t see that a kindly professional interest isn’t love, or anything approaching it. Although——”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I fell in love with you,” said Denis. “But then I did that when I saw you looking such a blessed little goose with a dagger in your hand. What possessed you, Margaret?”
“Oh, don’t, please.”
“I’m sorry, darling.” His response was instant.
Turning in the darkness he drew her face to his and kissed her mouth. “That’s the professional inquisitor in me,” he said. “I always want to know what the patient will say, and see if her reply tallies with what is true. Your reply would be true, so I know it beforehand, and this discussion is now closed, as they say in the correspondence columns. Now we’re getting near Barwar Saugor; we are beginning to go uphill. The fort is set on the top of a hill and one side is a sheer drop to a lake ; it’s very beautiful. I know you’ll love it, but you won’t be able to see it until the morning. Fancy waking together to a morning, Margaret.”
“I know.”
“Are you thinking about it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not afraid of me in the role of lover and husband.”
“No.”
“Yes, you are, a little,” said Denis, and in the blurred darkness Margaret could see his teeth flash white. “But you needn’t be. I’m not a boy; also I love you, and also I am not inexperienced. You don’t mind my saying that?” He spoke with his lips against her neck.
“No.”
“But you are.”
“Well——”
“Oh yes, I know you have been married, and all that, but that isn’t experience, my darling. Love!—what an amazing thing it is that men and women think that they can march straight into it and make a success of it. However——” Denis broke off. “We’re nearly there,” he said, “yes, we are there. We’re passing under the most enchanting old portcullis gate. You can’t see it, but you will to-morrow.” As the car came to a standstill, he kissed her quickly. “Welcome,” he said, “my wife and my love. Ah, here’s the old Khansamah, he’s a relation of Haji’s.”
“Salaam.” Denis was smiling as the old man in spotless white opened the door of the car. “Yes, here is my memsahib, Mobarick. Yes, we have had an excellent journey and are in excellent health. And I hope that you find yourself in the same felicitous circumstances.” Denis was speaking in Hindustani as he stood there tall and lean, with the lamplight from the hurricane lantern playing over his expressive face.
Dinner had been, as it always was in this wonderful country, excellent. And now Margaret was standing there in the moonlight looking over the old battlements, down into the lake. Every now and then a sluggish ripple passed over the surface of it.
“Crocodiles. I hope I shall be able to get one and then I’ll have it made into a suitcase for you,” said Denis cheerfully. “You’d like a crocodile suitcase, wouldn’t you?”
“Very much.”
“My monosyllabic darling, what is the matter?” He drew her into the shadow of an old carved column, and took her in his arms. “I know what’s the matter,” he said. “Your darling mind is going round and round in circles. You’re worrying because I said that I was not inexperienced; you are afraid that you will disappoint me. But you won’t. You won’t.” His muscular lips dwelt on hers until she shivered and cried out.
“There you see——” Denis took a long breath, as he lifted his head. “And the moon and the stars stood still,” he quoted. “And they didn’t notice it, because they were so happy. That’s not part of the quotation, by the way, but it will do at the moment. Margaret, Margaret, I love you. Isn’t it ridiculous after all these years of loathing the idea of getting married? Isn’t it preposterous? But it’s true, true. Say you’re pleased, my darling, say you’re pleased or I might suddenly become more of a savage than I feel at the moment, although I can’t imagine it, and drop you over to the crocodiles, my lotus flower. Now that’s romantic if you like.” He laughed a little unsteadily.
“Oh Denis——”
“I know, my beloved sweetest. That’s just exactly how I feel. And thank God you feel the same.” He caught her to him, savagely this time.
Miss Katie was in the hall when she heard her sister calling her. She hurried, because Mary hardly ever called her. The post had just come and there was bad news by it. Something to do with Margaret, they had not heard from her for a fortnight and she was always so regular in writing. Tiresome, thought Miss Katie, who was enjoying the peace and calm of a home to themselves.
“Well?” Yes, it was a letter. Mary was sitting there with thin crumply sheets in her hand. It was a long letter; that was to make up for the gap. “Well?” She said it again.
“I have had a letter from Margaret.”
“About time too,” said Miss Katie, who spoke snappishly, because she did not like the pallor on her sister’s face.
“Margaret is going to be married,” said Miss Mary, and her old mouth twitched.
“Who to?” said Miss Katie, ungrammatically.
“Mr. Frome.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Katie briskly. Because now she was really anxious. Twice if not three times lately she had heard her sister saying that name to herself. Mary, who had always been so very drastic about doctors and the silly way women went on about them. “Nonsense!” she said it again.
“She had been abducted by a native,” said Miss Mary, who spoke as if she were talking in her sleep. And Mr. Frome rescued her.”
“Mary you have been reading some nonsense in the paper,” said Miss Katie brazenly. “There you are,” she picked up a long strip of newspaper that was trailing over the sofa.
“That’s all about it. In the Times of India.”
“In the Times of India?” Katie suddenly began to wish that they had never heard of Mr. Frome. Where was he now? In London surely. Or was he in India? Surely not; why should he be in India? Or was he perhaps in India and Margaret had met him there. How like Margaret to be abducted by a native, thought Miss Katie impatiently. Always doing something or being something that nobody else did or was. And now even although she was thousands of miles away, she was turning everything topsy-turvy here. Mary looking like a ghost. Mary—and now Mary had begun to speak.
“Katie, I loved him,” she said.
“My dear Mary——” And now Katie was at her very best. This news had turned her dear sister’s brain. How she almost detested Margaret at that moment. “My very dear sister, of course you love him,” she said soothingly. “So do I, I love him dearly. And now Margaret has married him, so he will be one of the family. He will be a son to us in our old age. I only hope Margaret will make him happy,” said Miss Katie vindictively. “But I very much doubt it.”
“She will be his wife.”
“Yes, if what you tell me is true, I haven’t seen her letter, but I suppose you have read all this somewhere.”
“Yes, in her letter.”
“Very well then, it must be true,” said Miss Katie briskly. “And I consider it very good news, Mary. Margaret never fitted into this household; we have been much happier without her, at least, I have. And when she comes home she will presumably come with a husband to look after her, and, I am sure, I do not envy him his job.”
“Katie!”
“Well I don’t,” said Miss Katie, her babyish lower lip beginning to tremble. “What with the way she has made you unhappy; not to mention that dreadful evening when she tried to run you through with a dagger——”
“That was the evening they first met.”
“Yes, and I wonder it didn’t put him off permanently.”
“It drew them together.”
“Well never mind if it did, Mary.” Katie took her sister’s hand into hers. It was odd, she thought childishly, it was like something that she had read in a paper. You met them on the Riviera, elderly women who fell in love with younger men and gave them everything they wanted, even motor-cars that they used when they wanted to run away with someone young, like themselves. Not that Mary had really fallen in love with Mr. Frome; she was much too sensible. Only it just seemed like that for a moment, thought Miss Katie. Mary was sitting so stiffly and staring so blankly in front of her.
“We will have tea,” she said, “and you shall read me Margaret’s letter. And when we have taken it all in, we will tell the servants. They will be delighted.”
“Yes.”
“Mary, do pull yourself together,” said Miss Katie, beginning to sob. For all this reminded her of something that had happened years and years ago. Mary sitting still and grey with her pink mouth all rigid. That had been when Elsie came back from school so lovely and radiant, and Bob had been so excited, and then Mary’s engagement had been broken off, and Elsie had gone away from home, and then there had been letters, and oh dear—Miss Katie was hunting for her handkerchief and sobbing out loud.
“Be quiet, Katie.” And now it was as if her sister’s tears had unloosened something in Miss Mary’s brain.
“I must be mad,” she said.
“No, no, no,” sobbed Katie.
“Yes, I must,” and then Miss Mary began to laugh. High queer laughter like nothing Katie had ever heard before. Terrified, she cowered on the sofa, dreading yet knowing that the servants must soon hear and come in.
“Ha, ha, ha.” Miss Mary’s mouth was wide open as she laughed. And as the door opened, she laughed still louder.
And Hannaford, describing it afterwards, in the kitchen, said that it had given her a fair turn. Miss Mary in hysterics; not that it hadn’t probably done her a lot of good, because she was sure it had. “For there she sits as quiet as a lamb,” she said, “and she’s eating a good tea. And not one word to me about the cold sponge I dabbed at her; doesn’t seem to resent it a bit.”
“H’m,” said cook, making up her mind that wild horses wouldn’t drag from her that awful day when she had had to take her mistress back the housekeeping cheque because it was signed Mary Frome.
“And Mrs. Margaret’s going to marry Mr. Frome.”
“So it seems,” said cook acidly. For cook was a loyal servant and devoted to her mistress. And, to cook, this all seemed a shame.
“A stroke of luck for her,” said Emily, who had never cared much for Margaret.
“Chang’s nose’ll be out of joint,” said Susan, squalling with laughter.
“She’ll have something else beside Chang to think about,” said Hannaford, at which cook frowned and asked if any one would have more tea and generally behaved as if she wanted the conversation changed, which it was.
While in the drawing-room, Miss Mary, a little pale, but quite composed, began in her charming cultured voice to read Margaret’s letter aloud to her sister.
Service. ↩
Blinds. ↩
News. ↩
Champagne and ice—quickly ↩
Young man. ↩
Good. ↩
Early tea. ↩
Who is there? ↩
Gun. ↩
It is a letter. ↩
Method of arrangement. ↩
Mad. ↩
Tiffin is ready. ↩
A messenger. ↩
Be quiet. ↩
Old woman. ↩
Sister. ↩
Hurry. ↩
Tea is ready. ↩
Medicine. ↩
Service. ↩
Hurry. ↩
Magic. ↩
Substitute. ↩