The Potter's Thumb Part 34

Dalel Beg's eyes saw, his ears heard. They would not refuse their wonted office, and yet as he took a step nearer, he raised the hunting crop he held.

'Go!' he cried. 'Go! Mohammed! Fuggu--turn this sc.u.m of the bazaars from the door.'

'Which sc.u.m of the bazaars?' she asked coolly. 'This--or that?'

It was not scorn exactly, it was an indifferent contempt which seemed to leave no denial possible, and which held action arrested.

'Which is it to be, Mirza sahib?' she asked again, crossing swiftly to where the girl stood as if to measure her height against that small insignificant figure. 'There is not much to choose between us, except in the outside--and thou hast eyes!'

'Fuggu! Mohammed! Dittu! Scoundrels, turn her out! call the Kotwal!

Turn her out, I say!' shrieked the Mirza, fast loosing all dignity in a sort of animal admiration for this woman, who, he knew, would come back to him at a word. A word he dare not give,--which he did not wish to give, as yet.

'Softly! softly! oh, my brothers,' came that liquid voice. 'There is no need to touch Chandni the courtesan. The master hath his right, and I will go. I only ask a word, and sure my words are better for the ear than theirs.'

It was incontestably true, for mother and daughter were now at the highest pitch of the Eurasian accent aggravated by hysterics, and the men stood uncertain, siding, every one of them, with that which was familiar.

'The word is this,' she went on boldly, 'I have done my part. Is there to be payment?'

Dalel's face lost its last trace of dignity and settled down into mere spite.

'So! it is payment. Lo! mother-in-law, hold thy peace! 'Tis nothing but a bad debt, a debt without a bond! Payment! Go, fool, and ask it of the old man--the old devil who was drowned. Ask not here--here we need all the money we can get.'

Then in his delight and content in this opportunity for malice, he forgot a suspicion of fear which had been with him hitherto, and turned to the girl with a leer and a laugh: 'Aha! we want the _oof_ ourself, don't we, Tricks? Lo! I give you gold watch and chain to-day.

I give you gold bangle to-morrow, if you're good girl. But that one--nothing--nothing.'

He echoed the last words jeeringly in Hindustani, cutting with his whip towards Chandni as one cuts at a dog to frighten it from the room.

Perhaps he was nearer than he thought; anyhow, the uttermost end of lash touching the silver bells on her ankle set them jingling. A slight thing to make two women cease their cries, and half a dozen men or more hold their breath involuntarily; yet it did, commanding silence for that clear voice.

'Lo! thou hast given me something, oh Mizra Dalel Beg! which no man hath given before to Chandni the courtesan. It is enough. I go.'

So far dignity went with her. But at the door she turned to give the women back in kind and with interest the abuse which they had given to her. Even with a despicable cheat like the Mirza, there was a reputation to keep up--he was at least the descendant of worthy men who had done their best for such as she; but with those two women, even as herself, but without her claims, why should she be silent?

Yet ere she was half-way back to the bazaar she had forgotten them and their abuse; forgotten everything save that clash of the silver bells.

That was an end--an end for ever to Dalel. In a way she was glad, for he was unendurable when sober, and not much better when he was drunk.

Now nothing remained save the necessity for compensation and revenge.

If the Moghuls would not pay, there were others who would. The mem, for instance, who had taken the pearls. And those who had spread it abroad that the little sahib had died in his bed, they would not care to have their truth impugned. They had bribed the servants no doubt, the Diwan was dead, and they had held the water sufficient inducement for the others. But she? She had had nothing, and she meant to have something.

And then when she had got her money's worth for silence, she would go and sell that silence to the Rajah, unless indeed by that time the Moghuls had bidden higher for her speech. Without her evidence the question as to whether the bribe were honestly due for favours done could not be settled. She would begin with the mem; not by demanding money, but the pearls, since most likely they had been disposed of and the difficulty of getting hold of them again would, as it were, increase her power of screw. If at the end of a month the sahib-logues defied her, she would offer her silence or her speech to the highest bidder, and give her evidence for either. After that, a merry life, even if it had to be a short one; for the mere taste of comparative freedom she had had that morning in the wooden house in the Simla bazaar, had aroused the old reckless instincts, and before the evening was over the news that Chandni, singer and dancer from Delhi, had come to the place, was on the tip of every native's tongue.

CHAPTER XXII

Mrs. Boynton had behaved very much as Lewis Gordon had antic.i.p.ated on hearing of George Keene's sudden death from cholera. She had wept honest tears over the dear lad, even while she could not help feeling happier than she had done for months; happier because of the flood which had come and gone, sweeping away with it all her difficulties, all her troubles. Yet it brought her one unavailing regret that she should so unnecessarily have put the bitter pain of hearing her confession into those last days, and that he should have gone down to his death not thinking ill of her exactly--the dear lad would never have done that--but hurt, disappointed, unhappy. She would have liked him to have seen a certain letter which lay in a drawer of her writing-table. A letter addressed, sealed, stamped, ready for sending, which she had only kept back one day. Only one; yet, but for that lucky chance it might have fallen into Dan's hands while George was ill and brought needless pain into another kind heart; for there was, thank heaven! no more need for humiliation and confession and promises of rest.i.tution. She had torn open the letter in order to read it again, and had been quite satisfied with its straightforward avowal of responsibility and firm intention, should difficulties arise, of taking the whole blame on herself. Then she had put it away again as a perpetual witness to her repentance and amendment. And surely these virtues had a right to forgiveness? One person, she knew, would do more than forgive if he knew all, and this conviction joined to the sense of loss which his prolonged absence from her environment always produced in Gwen Boynton made her think very tenderly of Dan, who wrote her such kind, sympathetic letters from Hodinuggur about the dear lad. He was not jealous, and full of evil imaginings like Lewis, whose temper had certainly not been improved by his visit to the plains. Though she did not consciously feel the need of something stronger than the cousinly affection she had for him, there is no doubt that the shock of her own lapses from strict honesty, joined to that of George Keene's sudden death, had made her disinclined for final decision; so the fact that Dan would, from pressure of work, be unable to get leave that year, and Lewis, from the same cause, was not likely to be urgent in love-making, suited her capitally. She would have time to recover her tone. To this end she proceeded, with a curious strength of purpose, to dismiss the nightmare of the past from her mind. It was over. What had been, had been. She would 'reach out to the things which were before'; no! not reach out! She would not again be premature; she would let fate and luck have their say to the full.

One small fact showed her state of mind exactly. She dismissed her ayah, giving her as a parting present most of the articles which Manohar Lal had forced her into buying from him. The woman sulked, yet held her tongue, no doubt knowing through her patron, the jeweller, that so far as he was concerned the mem was safe; besides, when all was said and done, the bucksheesh was sufficient; under no circ.u.mstances could more have been expected. So, on the whole, life went quite smoothly in the pretty little drawing-room where poor young George had sat with his head on the table dazed and stunned by his bitter pain.

Over the way, however, in Colonel Tweedie's house, things were different. Lewis Gordon, up to the ears in endless calculations, yet found time to notice that grief suited Rose very ill. And grief, forsooth, for a boy who had not cared a pin for her, who had run into debt, and gambled and lost his head completely over another woman; who, if the truth were known, had shot himself because--to take the most charitable view of the matter--he had not the pluck to bear disappointment. Naturally a young fellow felt being fooled--more or less--by a woman, because certain instincts were the strongest a man had--as a man. But one expected something more--or less--in a gentleman. And there was Miss Tweedie, who depended for attractiveness on the _beaute du diable_, looking pale and worn, over a mere sentimentalism; for she herself would be the first to deny that she had been what he, Lewis, would call 'in love' with George. Finally, though he, knowing to the full Gwen's responsibility for the boy's suicide, had every right, if he chose, to be hard on his cousin, why should this girl, who knew nothing, stand aloof and show her disapproval so plainly?

'You don't understand girls,' said Gwen easily, in reply to some hints of his to this effect. 'Dear Rose can't help huffing me at present. I should feel the same, I'm sure, towards any one who had, to my mind, stood between me and my dear dead.'

Lewis shifted irritably in his chair, and wished to goodness she would talk sense.

'Sense! Why, you yourself are always blaming me in your heart because that poor boy thought me the most perfect woman in the world! You know you are! As if it was my fault. As if I ever encouraged such an idea in any one, or set up for being perfection.'

It was true enough. She never posed as anything but a woman _pur et simple_. That was one of her charms in his eyes, and the injustice of cavilling at what he really liked made him say more gently--

'I don't suppose you could help it, dear; and perhaps Miss Tweedie can't either. I don't pretend to understand women--have enough to do in trying to understand the atrocious English men put into their reports.

But I wish you could come over sometimes as you used to do. The girl oughtn't to be allowed to eat nothing and grow so disagreeably thin.'

Gwen gave an odd laugh. 'Well, I'll invite myself to luncheon to-morrow. It is bad for the girl--and so useless, into the bargain.'

The common-sense of the last remark lingered in Lewis Gordon's mind comfortably as he went home. In more ways than one it was quite useless to dwell on George Keene's unfortunate death. No doubt Rose, if she knew all, would judge Gwen very harshly, and not only Gwen, but those who, knowing what they did, went on as if nothing had happened; but Rose Tweedie, the fates be praised, was not his judge.

And yet when he pa.s.sed the window of her room on his way to his own, she was in sober truth sitting in judgment on the figure she saw for a second between the draped curtains. He had been over as usual to Mrs.

Boynton's--to the woman who had been the last to see George Keene, and who would say so little of that interview; the woman who no doubt was to blame if, as her father said, George had run into debt, and gambled, and lost his head. Lewis must know all this, perhaps more, yet he went on approvingly. By and by he would marry this woman--for they were engaged, of course, even now. Was not that enough to make any one unhappy who cared for him as she cared? Rose leant forward over the book her eyes were studying, and tried hard to bend her mind also to its consideration.

Despite these thoughts she received Mrs. Boynton on the next day without a sign of disapproval; for Rose, like most unmarried girls at the head of a house, was intensely proud of her position. In society, if she did not care to speak to Gwen, she would not speak; if she did not care to have her in the house she would not ask her; but if she came, as she did now, uninvited, she was nothing more nor less than a guest to be treated as a guest should be treated. Perhaps Lewis Gordon had an inkling as to the cause of her graciousness, but Colonel Tweedie saw nothing but a renewal of those amenities the loss of which he had helplessly deplored during the past fortnight. It had put him out terribly, and left him completely puzzled as to its cause. Certainly not to any change in his mind, for the coolness had checked a steadily growing conviction that he would not only like, but that he also ought, to ask Mrs. Boynton to marry him. Rose was too much alone; she brooded, as the former had kindly pointed out, over life, and fancied herself in love with subordinates. She was too sensible for that sort of thing to be real, but the constant companionship of a woman of the world was a necessity to a young girl. It is surprising how many second marriages are inspired by sensible considerations; still more surprising why such prudence should then be thought virtuous, moral, blameless, yet be deemed _anathema maranatha_ in first marriages. There are some things which, as Dundreary said, 'no fellow can find out,' and one is the curious ethical code which has quite obscured the real issues of marriage, and made it possible for quick-witted husbands and wives to quarrel desperately with each other about things that have nothing to do with the tie between them. Colonel Tweedie, however, treated his secondary reasons with the greatest respect, and beamed pompously round the luncheon table as he announced his infinite regret that the duties of his responsible position made it necessary for him to leave such pleasant company sooner than he would otherwise have done. Mrs.

Boynton, however, would readily understand that Councils of State were paramount to the public servant. Whereupon Gwen, after her fashion, took the edge off his anguish by saying that she also had to be at home early, seeing she had promised to interview some dreadful Madra.s.see creature who had been recommended to her as an ayah.

'Why did you send old Fuzli away?' asked Rose suddenly. They had risen as they were speaking, and she had been standing by the window listening with a certain weariness in her face to her father's ornate regrets.

'The old reason, "_I do not like thee, Dr. Fell_,"' laughed Gwen. 'I suppose it is very illogical--therefore, as Lewis would say, very womanly'--but I can't help disliking my world by instinct.'

'That is monstrously unkind,' broke in the Colonel, eager as a boy over the opportunity, 'when your world can't help doing the reverse.' There is something very satisfactory apparently in a compliment to the person who makes it, and the Colonel felt and looked quite lighthearted over his.

'When you have got rid of us all, Miss Tweedie,' said Lewis Gordon in a low tone which yet covered Gwen's little laugh, 'you should go out and have a jolly ride. I'm not using Bronzewing--she frets at waiting--so she is at your service, if you care----' he paused in quick surprise--

Such a very little thing upsets a woman's balance at times; and Bronzewing had been the one subject over which she and Lewis had never quarrelled since the day of his accident. It was foolish, but the look on her face made him turn hastily from the window to his cousin, and catch at the first thing likely to give the girl time to recover herself.

'I believe your ayah's coming here, Gwen; at least I see one of those little covered dhoolies descending from your house, and if there are to be _purda-nishin_ women about, sir, it is time we men were going.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Lewis. It is somebody going to pay a visit to the khansaman's wife. The ayah wouldn't be _purdah_, and she wouldn't dare to come here; and if she did, I am not going to make a zenana out of Colonel Tweedie's drawing-room.'

'But you could go into Rose's sitting-room, of course,' protested the Colonel; 'couldn't she, dear?'

'But indeed, good people,' began Gwen, laughing, 'it can't----'

Just then a servant, entering stolidly, announced a woman waiting to see Mem Boynton sahib.

'I told you so,' cried Lewis joyfully, 'and, as a matter of fact, we ought to be off, sir. It will take us a good twenty minutes to the Secretariat.'

'Show the woman into the Miss Sahib's office,' cried the Colonel fussily. 'Rose, my dear----'

But the girl had taken the opportunity of escaping through the open French window.

'Please don't mind,' said Mrs. Boynton. 'I know my way about this house--at any rate I ought to, seeing how hospitable and good you have been always. Good-bye. I hope your interview will prove more pleasant than mine is likely to be.'