The Potter's Thumb Part 36

There are three of them here. Which will give back the pearls and save him?'

'Save him from what?' cried Rose, disregarding Gwen's appeals for her to leave the mad woman to the servants. 'What has Keene sahib done that you can dare to threaten?'

The girl's bitter contempt roused all Chandni's savageness. After all she was the mistress, and this girl, despite her courage, in her power too; and what is more she should learn it.

'From what? from the shame which comes to the sahib-logue when their pretence of honesty is found out--from the shame of having friends--the shame of taking jewels for those friends--the shame of being untrue to salt--Ask the mem how 'tis done, she knows--the shame of sending the key of the sluice-gate so that the water----'

Her voice had risen with each sentence; now it ended in a gasp and a gurgle.

'Open the door, please,' said Rose to Mrs. Boynton, who gasped also in the intense surprise of the girl's swift action. 'Don't struggle, fool!' she went on in the same hard tone, only the dead whiteness of her face and a catch as she drew breath telling of the wild pa.s.sion surging in her veins. 'I won't choke you if you hold your tongue.'

Once before Chandni had felt a girl's grip on her throat; a hot, straining grip. This was neither. It was the grip of a strong healthy hand made vigorous by constant use. Those fierce fights over bat and ball with the dead lad had had their share in the sheer muscle of her defence of him, before which Chandni's large softness gave way, leaving her not even a slandering tongue.

'Put the veil over her face, please! I won't even have it known who dared to come here!' continued the girl, forcing the woman backwards step by step till they reached the door. Then she pushed her from it magnificently. 'Now go! and tell what lies you like elsewhere.'

But her face changed as she turned when the door was closed and bolted to Gwen Boynton.

'Is it true? For G.o.d's sake tell me if there is a word of truth in it, and I will find the money.'

Gwen dissolved into helpless tears at once; tears at once of vague remorse, and a very real sense of injustice. 'True! oh, Rose, how can you ask? Of course it isn't true. I wouldn't have done it for the world. Indeed and indeed I never saw the Ayodhya pot again, and I don't believe George did. He was the soul of honour, and so good--so good to me. It is all wicked, wicked lies, unless, indeed, that girl--but there, I daresay she was bad like that horrid creature. Perhaps they stole the pot between them and are now trying to blackmail us.'

'Stole the pot!' repeated Rose slowly, for the first time remembering her dream on the night of the storm at Hodinuggur. 'Yes! that is possible, and yet----.' She looked at Azizan's picture, and then back at Gwen, who was dabbing her eyes with a soft pocket-handkerchief. 'You are sure?' she began again.

'Of course I am quite sure,' retorted Gwen, whose remorse had vanished in grievance at this impudent attempt to amend and enlarge the text of a past incident. 'I never saw or heard of the pot again. I may be weak, I may have done things for which I am sorry in the past, but whatever you may think, my conscience is clear. And as for the sluice? Dan opened it by order; besides, there was the flood. It is all an attempt to blackmail me, and I won't be blackmailed. I have done nothing they can take hold of, nothing--nothing.'

Rose gave a sigh, almost of dissatisfaction. If it really was a case of blackmailing, payment would be but a temporary relief. Perhaps, as she had also suggested, the girl in the picture was in league with Chandni.

She did not look that sort either. Nor did she look as if---- Rose glanced from the pure oval of the cheek and the fine long curves of the mouth to Mrs. Boynton's tear-stained face and frowned.

'Some one has the pearls,' she said, 'and George's memory must be saved--somehow.'

CHAPTER XXIII

'Come in!'

The words were given in an impatient tone, for Lewis Gordon was busy, and he hated being disturbed; especially when, as now, he had taken his coat off, literally as well as figuratively, before a difficult file.

The garment hung on the back of his chair, which, in obedience to a fad of his, was the only one in the office; a second one, he declared, being easily sent for if required, while its absence shortened many a trivial interruption. Otherwise it was a comfortable enough room, with a large French window set wide on a magnificent view of the serrated snows resting on the wall of blue distance, and framed by the curved tops of a forest of young deodars. The day was bright as a morning in the rainy season can be; bright by very contrast between the brilliant lights and shadows in earth and sky; bright as a rain-cloud itself when the sun shines on it. A fresh breeze came in with Rose Tweedie through the opening door and blew some papers off the table.

'I beg your pardon,' came in duet as Lewis fumbled blindly for his coat; his eye-gla.s.s having deserted him in the surprise, after the manner of eye-gla.s.ses. As he did so, he felt injured. Not that he was such a cra.s.s idiot as to be outraged by a pair of shirt sleeves in himself or others. But he knew quite well that no man can look dignified, when struggling, even into a lounge-coat, and he liked to be dignified, especially with Rose Tweedie. His irritation, however, hid itself under a different cloak; that is to say, annoyance at a most unusual intrusion. Perhaps she read the expression of it in his face, for her first words were an excuse.

'I came here--to your office, I mean--because I want to ask you something, and I didn't want you to feel hampered--not as a friend, you know.' Her eyes met his in confidence of being understood so far, at any rate, and he gave rather a stiff little bow.

'You are very welcome. Won't you take a chair--the chair, perhaps I ought to say? I've been sitting all the morning, and shall be glad of a change; unless you require some time. If so, I will send----'

'No, thanks, I prefer standing also,' she interrupted, with a quick flush. 'I only wanted to ask you a question. It is about George Keene.'

'Yes----' he replied coldly, unsympathetically; and yet he was noting her anxious eyes and haggard face with a sort of angry wonder why she should make herself so unhappy. Rose's fingers held nervously to the edge of the table by which she stood.

'Have you any reason--I mean, is there officially any reason to suppose that the Hodinuggur sluice was opened before the flood came down, or before Mr. Fitzgerald?'

She paused with her eyes on Lewis's face. She had lain awake almost all the night thinking of Chandni's threats and hints, and with clear sight had seen that their worth or unworth depended largely upon the official report of what had actually happened at Hodinuggur. To her father she could not go without danger from his want of judgment; there remained Lewis, who was always just, always to be trusted in such matters.

His heart gave quite a throb of dismayed surprise at her question, and forced him by contraries into still greater chilliness of manner.

'I'm afraid I can't quite see your right to ask me such a question--as yet. Perhaps if you could give me a reason----'

'Oh yes! I can give you a reason,' she interrupted, with a ring of scorn in her voice, 'though I think you might credit me with a good one where George is concerned, surely? Only if I have to tell, you had better send for the chair. I thought, perhaps, you would understand, for once.'

The bitterness of her tone did not escape him, and accentuated his annoyance. As he handed her the chair and leant negligently against the table, his hands behind him, he told himself that he was in for _mauvais quart d'heure_ with this girl. Man-like she would expect to know all, womanlike she would expect sentiment to outweigh official integrity. These thoughts did not serve to soften his heart towards the dead lad even at the beginning, and as her story unfolded itself, his face grew sterner and sterner. Hers lightened. It was an infinite relief to have his advice--his help, and she told him so frankly, even while she appealed for it.

'You needn't even answer my question, Mr. Gordon,' she went on earnestly. 'You will know so much better than I do what had best be done. I thought of going to see the woman myself----'

'You didn't go, I hope?' put in Lewis hastily.

'No! I made up my mind to ask you first. You see, if there is no truth in all this--no truth whatever----'

'That is unlikely, I warn you,' interrupted Lewis. 'These women Really, Miss Tweedie, if you follow my advice--much as it may pain you at the time--you will leave this business alone, absolutely alone. It is not one with which--excuse me for even alluding to the fact--a girl such as you are should meddle. Unfortunately, we men have to face these things, and they are not pleasant, even for us.'

'You speak as if you thought George was guilty,' said Rose hotly. 'What right have you to do that?'

'I may have more right than you suspect. Believe me, Miss Tweedie, I am heartily sorry--especially for you; and, so far as is compatible with the facts, I will do my best to avoid official _esclandre_ should this matter really crop up. In the meantime, I am afraid I must decline to interfere in what Mrs. Boynton, you tell me, stigmatised as an impudent attempt at blackmailing. She has her faults, no doubt, like everybody else; but she has, excuse me for saying so, more knowledge of the world than you have. In fact, you could scarcely do better than take her advice on this point.'

The girl, with a frown on her face, rose from her seat slowly.

'Then you refuse to find out the truth? You are content to let this suspicion lie upon--upon me and upon your cousin?'

Lewis smiled. 'That is rather far-fetched, Miss Tweedie, surely. The idea of suspicion with you is simply absurd; and as for Gwen! Well, I know you are ready to admit she has her faults; but she has called this claim impudent blackmailing, and you must excuse me if I incline to believe her.'

'And for George Keene? Do you suspect him? Are you going to allow his memory to be smirched?'

'I have told you I will do my best. For the rest, he must take the consequence of his own acts, I'm afraid. Indeed, I am sorry, very sorry,' he added hastily, impelled to it by the look on Rose Tweedie's face. It had grown ashen pale, yet she stood steadily before him, her eyes on his unflinchingly.

'Then there is truth in it? You had better tell me. It would be kinder to tell me--if you can.'

Perhaps, after all, it would. Perhaps, if this scandal had to come to light, it would be better she should be prepared. Even if it did not, was it not wiser she should know the real truth about George Keene, and so be able to judge him fairly? Not a bad boy, of course. That talk of bribery was no doubt false, and he had done no more in other ways than hundreds of boys in a like position. Even at Simla he had only run wild a bit, and for that he was not the only one responsible. Still, when all was said and done, he had shot himself, and that alone made the task of whitewashing him an impossibility if these women chose revenge.

'Yes! there is some truth in it,' he said gravely. 'If you will sit down again, I will tell you everything I know, and then you can judge for yourself. I should like you to understand, however, that in spite of appearances, I don't believe George lent himself to anything more than--what you would--not you, perhaps--but most of us would expect in a young fellow of his age and his position. Life is--is rather intoxicating to--to some of us.'

So, leaning against the table, he told her the truth, trying to do his task calmly and kindly, yet beset by a certain impatience at the still figure seated in his office chair, its elbows among his files, the coils of its beautiful hair showing beyond the hands in which the face was hidden. What business had it there? What business had the thought of its pain to come so close to him? closer even than his own reason, his own sense of justice?

'And you have known that he shot himself from the beginning?' she asked, raising her head suddenly to look him full in the face. He a.s.sented with a distinct self-complacency.

'Then what did you think made him do it? What did you think then--before you knew anything about the death or the opening of the gates?'

The self-complacency vanished. 'There are many reasons or want of reasons, for that sort of thing, Miss Tweedie,' he said evasively. 'I did not--I mean it was impossible to say absolutely, and that is why I acquiesced in Fitzgerald's plan. It was more convenient to every one concerned.'