On the Face of the Waters: A Tale of the Mutiny by Flora Annie Webster Steel
CHAPTER III.
DAYLIGHT.
Three miles away Kate Erlton sat in her home-like, peaceful drawingroom, feeling dazzled. The sunshine, streaming through the open doors,seemed to stream into the very recesses of her mind as she sat, stilllooking at the letter which she had found half an hour before waitingfor her beside a bunch of late roses which the gardener had laid onthe table ready for her to arrange in the vases. The flowers werefading fast; the dog-cart waiting outside to take her on to see a sickfriend ere the sun grew hot, shifted to find another shadow; but shedid not move.
She was trying to understand what it all meant; really--deprived ofher conventional thoughts about such things. And one sentence in theletter had a strange fascination for her. "I am not such a fool as tothink you will mind. I know you will get on much better without me."
Of course. She had, in a way, accepted the truth of this years ago.The fact must have been patent to him also all that time; and she hadknown that he accepted it.
But now, set down in black and white, it forced her into seeing--asshe had never seen before--the deadly injury she had done to the manby not minding. And then the question came keenly--"Why had she notminded?" Because she had not been content with her bargain. She hadwanted something else. What? The emotion, the refinement, the_fin-fleur_ of sentiment. Briefly, what made _her_ happy; what gave_her_ satisfaction. It was only, then, a question between differentforms of enjoyment; the one as purely selfish as the other. More so,in a way, for it claimed more and carried the grievance of denial intoevery detail of life. She moved restlessly in her chair, confused bythis sudden daylight in her mind; laid down the letter, then took itup again and read another sentence.
"I believe you used to think that I'd get the regiment some day; but Ishouldn't--after all, the finish is the win or the lose of a race."
The letter went down on the table again, but this time her head wentdown with it to rest upon it above her clasped hands. Oh! the pity ofit! the pity of it! Yet how could she have avoided standing aloof fromthis man's life as she had done from the moment she had discovered shedid not love him?
Suddenly she stood up, pressing those clasped hands tight to herforehead as if to hold in her thoughts. The sunlight, streaming in,shone right into her cool gray eyes, showing in a ray on the iris, asif it were passing into her very soul.
If she had been this man's sister, instead of his wife, could she nothave lived with him contentedly enough, palliating what could bepalliated, gaining what influence she could with him, giving himaffection and sympathy? Why, briefly, had she failed to make him whatAlice Gissing had made him--a better man? And yet Alice Gissing didnot love him; she had no romantic sentiment about him. Did she reallylay less stress--she, the woman at whom other women held up pioushands of horror--on that elemental difference between the tie ofhusband and wife, and brother and sister than she, Kate Erlton, did,who had affected to rise superior to it altogether? It seemed so. Shehad asked for a purely selfish gratification of the mind. And AliceGissing? A strange jealousy came to her with the thought, not forherself, but for her husband; for the man who was content to give upeverything for a woman whom he "loved very dearly." That was true.Kate had watched him for those three months, and she had watched Mrs.Gissing too, and knew for a certainty the latter gave him nothing anywoman might not have given him if she had been content to put her ownclaims for happiness, her own gratification, her own mental passionaside. So a quick resolve came to her. He must not give up the finish,the win or the lose of the race, for so little. There was time yet forthe chance. She had pleaded for one with a man a year ago; she wouldplead for it with a woman to-day.
She passed into the veranda hastily, pausing involuntarily ere gettinginto the dog-cart before the still, sunlit beauty of that panorama ofthe eastern plains, stretching away behind the gardens which fringedthe shining curves of the river. There was scarcely a shadow anywhere,not a sign to tell that three miles down that river the man with whomshe had pleaded a year ago was straining every nerve to give her andhimself a chance, and that within the rose-lit, lilac-shaded city thechance of some had come and gone.
Nor, as she drove along the road intent on that coming interview inthe hot little house upon the wall, was there any sign to warn her ofdanger. The Cashmere gate stood open, and the guard saluted as usual.Perhaps, had the English officers seen her, they might have advisedher return, even though there was as yet no anticipation of danger;had there been one, the first thought would have been to clear theneighboring bungalows. But they were in the main-guard, and she setdown the stare of the natives to the fact that nine o'clock wasunusually late for an English lady to be braving the May sun. The roadbeyond was also unusually deserted, but she was too busy searching forthe winged words, barbed well, yet not too swift or sharp to woundbeyond possibility of compromise, which she meant to use ere long, topay any attention to her surroundings. She did not even catch theglimpse of Sonny, still playing with the cockatoo, as she sped pastthe Seymours' house, and she scarcely noticed the groom's "_Hut! teri,hut!_" (Out of the way! you there!) to a figure in a green turban,over which she nearly ran, as it came sneaking round a corner as iflooking for something or someone; a figure which paused to look afterher half doubtfully.
Yet these same words, which came so readily to her imaginings, failedher, as set words will, before the commonplace matter-of-fact reality.If she could have jumped from the dog-cart and dashed into themwithout preamble, she would have been eloquent enough; but thenecessary inquiry if Mrs. Gissing could see her, the ushering in asfor an ordinary visit, the brief waiting, the perfunctory hand-shakewith the little figure in familiar white-and-blue were so far from thehigh-strung appeal in her thoughts that they left her silent, almostshy.
"Find a comfy chair, do," came the high, hard voice. "Isn't itdreadfully hot? My old Mai will have it something is going to happen.She has been dikking me about it all the morning. An earthquake, Isuppose; it feels like it, rather. Don't you think so?"
Kate felt as if one had come already, as, quite automatically, shesatisfied Alice Gissing's choice of "a really--really comfy chair."
How dizzily unreal it seemed! And yet not more so, in fact, than thelife they had been leading for months past; knowing the truth abouteach other absolutely; pretending to know nothing. Well! the soonerthat sort of thing came to an end, the better!
"I have had a letter from my husband," she began, but had to pause tosteady her voice.
"So I supposed when I saw you," replied Alice Gissing, without aquiver in hers. But she rose, crossed over to Kate, and stood beforeher, like a naughty child, her hands behind her back. She lookedstrangely young, strangely innocent in the dim light of the sunshadedroom. So young, so small, so slight among the endless frills and lacesof a loose morning wrapper. And she spoke like a child also,querulously, petulantly.
"I like you the better for coming, too, though I don't see whatpossible good it can do. He said in his letter to me he would tell youall about it, and if he has, I don't see what else there is to say, doyou?"
Kate rose also, as if to come nearer to her adversary, and so the twowomen stood looking boldly enough into each other's eyes. But thekeenness, the passion, the pity of the scene had somehow gone out ofit for Kate Erlton. Her tongue seemed tied by the tameness; she feltthat they might have been discussing a trivial detail in some trivialfuture. Yet she fought against the feeling.
"I think there is a great deal to say; that is why I have come to sayit," she replied, after a pause. "But I can say it quickly. You don'tlove my husband, Alice Gissing, let him go. Don't ruin his life."
Bald and crude as this was in comparison with her imagined appeal, itgave the gist of it, and Kate watched her hearer's face anxiously tosee the effect. Was that by chance a faint smile? or was it only thebarred light from the jalousies hitting the wide blue eyes?
"Love!" echoed Alice Gissing. "I don't know anything about love. Inever pretended to. But I
There was not a trace of malice in the high voice. It simply stated afact; but a fact so true that Kate's lip quivered.
"I know that as well as you do. But I think I could--now. I want youto give me the chance."
She had not meant to put it so humbly; but, being once more the gistof what she had intended to say, it must pass. There was no doubtabout the smile now. It was almost a laugh, that hateful, inconsequentlaugh; but, as if to soften its effect, a little jeweled hand hoveredout as if it sought a resting-place on Kate's arm.
"You can't, my dear. It _is_ so funny that you can't see that, when I,who know nothing about--about all that--can see it quite plainly. Youare the sort of woman, Mrs. Erlton, who falls in love--who must fallin love--who--don't be angry!--likes being in love, and is unhappy ifshe isn't. Now I don't care a rap for people to be thinking, andthinking, and thinking of me, nothing but me! I like them to bepleasant and pleased. And I make them so, somehow----" She shruggedher shoulders whimsically as if to dismiss the puzzle, and went ongravely, "And you can't make people happy if you aren't happyyourself, you know, so there is no use in thinking you could."
It was bitter truth, but Kate was too honest to deny it. There hadalways been the sense of grievance in the past, and the sense ofself-sacrifice, at least, would remain in the future.
"But there are other considerations," she began slowly. "A man doesnot set such store by--by love and marriage as a woman. It is only abit----"
"A very small bit," put in Mrs. Gissing, with a whimsical face.
"A very small bit of his life," continued Kate stolidly, "and if myhusband gives up his profession----"
Mrs. Gissing interrupted her again; this time petulantly. "I told himit was a pity--I offered to go away anywhere. I did, indeed! And Icouldn't do more, could I? But when a man gets a notion of honor intohis head----"
"Honor!" interrupted Kate in her turn, "the less said about honor thebetter, surely, between you and me!"
The wide blue eyes looked at her doubtfully.
"I never can understand women like you," said their owner. "Youpretend not to care, and then you make so much fuss over so little."
"So little!" retorted Kate, her temper rising. "Is it little that myboy should have to know this about his father--about me? You have nochildren, Mrs. Gissing! If you had you would understand the shamebetter. Oh! I know about the baby and the flowers--who doesn't? Butthat is nothing. It was so long ago, it died so young, you haveforgotten----"
She broke off before the expression on the face before her--that facewith the shadowless eyes, but with deep shadows beneath the eyes and anameless look of physical strain and stress upon it--and a suddenpallor came to her own cheek.
"So he hasn't told you," came the high voice half-fretfully,half-pitifully. "That was very mean of him; but I thought, somehow, hecouldn't by your coming here. Well! I suppose I must. Mrs. Erlton----"
Kate stepped back from her defiantly, angrily. "He has told me all Ineed, all I care to know about this miserable business. Yes! he has!You can see the letter if you like--there it is! I am not ashamed ofit. It is a good letter, better than I thought he could write--betterthan you deserve. For he says he will marry you if I will let him! Andhe says he is sorry it can't be helped. But I deny that. It can, itmust, it shall be helped! And then he says it's a pity for the boy'ssake; but that it does not matter so much as if it was a girl----"
It was the queerest sound which broke in on those passionatereproaches. The queerest sound. Neither a laugh nor a sob, nor a cry;but something compounded of all three, infinitely soft, infinitelytender.
"_And the other may be_," said Alice Gissing in a voice of smiles andtears, as she pointed to the end of the sentence in the letter Katehad thrust upon her. "Poor dear! What a way to put it! How like a manto think you could understand; and I wonder what the old Mai _would_say to its being----"
What did she say? What were the frantic words which broke from thefrantic figure, its sparse gray hair showing, its shriveled bosomheaving unveiled, which burst into the room and flung its arms roundthat little be-frilled white one as if to protect and shield it?
Kate Erlton gave a half-choked, half-sobbing cry. Even this seemed arelief from the incredible horror of what had dawned upon her,frightening her by the wild insensate jealousy it roused--the jealousyof motherhood.
"What is it? What does she say?" she cried passionately, "I have aright to know!"
Alice Gissing looked at her with a faint wonder. "It is nothing about_that_," she said, and her face, though it had whitened, showed nofear. "It's something more important. There has been a row in thecity--the Commissioner and some other Englishmen have been killed andshe says we are not safe. I don't quite understand. Oh! don't be afool, Mai!" she went on in Hindustani, "I won't excite myself. I neverdo. Don't be a fool, I say!" Her foot came down almost savagely andshe turned to Kate. "If you will wait here for a second, Mrs. Erlton,I'll go outside with the Mai and have a look round, and bring myhusband's pistol from the other room. You had better stay, really. Ishall be back in a moment. And I dare say it's all the old Mai'snonsense--she is such a fool about me--nowadays." Her white face;smiling over its own certainty of coming trouble, was gone, and thedoor closed, almost before Kate could say a word. Not that she had anyto say. She was too dazed to think of danger to the little figure,which passed out into the shady back veranda perched on the city wall,looking out into the peaceful country beyond. She was too absorbed inwhat she had just realized to think of anything else. So this was whathe had meant!--and this woman with her facile nature, ready to pleaseand be pleased with anyone--this woman content to take the lowestplace--had the highest of all claims upon him. This woman who had noright to motherhood, who did not know----
God in Heaven! What was that through the stillness and the peace? Achild's pitiful scream.
She was at the closed windows in an instant, peering through the slitsof the jalousies; but there was nothing to be seen save a blare andblaze of sunlight on sun-scorched grass and sun-withered beds offlowers. Nothing!--stay!--Christ help us! What was that? A vision ofwhite, and gold, and blue. White garments and white wings, goldencurls and flaming golden crest, fierce gray-blue beak and claws amongthe fluttering blue ribbons. Sonny! His little feet flying and failingfast among the flower-beds. Sonny! still holding his favorite's chainin the unconscious grip of terror, while half-dragged, half-flying,the wide white wings fluttered over the child's head.
"_Deen! Deen! Futteh Mohammed!_"
That was from the bird, terrified, yet still gentle.
"_Deen! Deen! Futteh Mohammed!_"
That was from the old man who followed fast on the child with longlance in rest like a pig-sticker's. An old man in a faded green turbanwith a spiritual, relentless face.
Kate's fingers were at the bolts of the high French window--her onlychance of speedy exit from that closed room. Ah! would they neveryield?--and the lance was gaining on those poor little flying feet.Every atom of motherhood in her--fierce, instinctive, animal, foughtwith those unyielding bolts....
What was that? Another vision of white, and gold, and blue, dashinginto the sunlight with something in a little clenched right hand.Childish itself in frills, and laces, and ribbons, but with a face asrelentless as the old man's, as spiritual. And a clear confident voicerang above those discordant cries.
"All right, Sonny! All right, dear!"
On, swift and straight in the sunlight; and then a pause to level theclenched right hand over the left arm coolly, and fire. The lancewavered. It was two feet further from that soft flesh and blood whenAlice Gissing caught the child up, turned and ran; ran for dear lifeto shelter.
"_Deen! Deen! Futteh Mohammed!_"
The cry came after the woman and child, and over them, released bySonny's wild clutch at sheltering arms, the bird fluttered, echoingthe cry.
But one bolt was down at last, the next yielding--Ah! who was thatdressed like a native, riding like an Englishman, who
But the lance? The lance whose perilous nearness had made that shotJim Douglas' only chance of keeping his promise? He was on his kneeson the scorched grass choking down the curse as he saw a broken shaftamong the frills and ribbons, a slow stream oozing in gushes to dyethem crimson. There was another crimson spot, too, on the shoulder,showing where a bullet, after crashing through a man's temples, hadfound its spent resting place. But as the Englishman kicked away onebody, and raised the other tenderly from the unhurt child, so as notto stir that broken shaft, he wished that if death had had to come, hemight have dealt it. To his wild rage, his insane hatred, there seemeda desecration even in that cold touch of steel from a dark hand.
But Alice Gissing resented nothing. She lay propped by his arms withthose wide blue eyes still wide, yet sightless, heedless of Kate'shorrified whispers, or the poor old Mai's frantic whimper. Untilsuddenly a piteous little wail rose from the half-stunned child tomingle with that ceaseless iteration of grief. "_Oh! meri buchchimurgyia!_" (Oh, my girlie is dead!--dead!)
It seemed to bring her back, and a smile showed on the fast-palingface.
"Don't be a fool, Mai. It isn't a girl; it's a boy. Take care of him,do, and don't be stupid. I'm all right."
Her voice was strong enough, and Kate looked at Jim Douglas hopefully.She had recognized him at once, despite his dress, with a faint, deadwonder as to why things were so strange to-day. But he could feelsomething oozing wet and warm over his supporting arm, he knew themeaning of that whitening face; so he shook his head hopelessly, hiseyes on those wide unseeing ones. She was as still, he thought, as shehad been when he held her before. Then suddenly the eyes narrowed intosight, and looked him in the face curiously, clearly.
"It's you, is it?" came the old inconsequent laugh. "Why don't you say'Bravo!--Bravo!--Bra--'"
The crimson rush of blood from her still-smiling lips dyed his handsalso, as he caught her up recklessly with a swift order to the othersto follow, and ran for the house. But as he ran, clasping her close,close, to him, his whispered bravos assailed her dead earspassionately, and when he laid her on her bed, he paused even in themad tumult of his rage, his anxiety, his hope for others to kiss thepalms of those brave hands ere he folded them decently on her breast,and was out to fetch his horse, and return to where Kate waited forhim in the veranda, the child in her arms. Brave also; but thecertainty that he had left the flood-level of sympathy and admirationbehind him at the feet of a dead woman he had never known, was withhim even in his hurry.
"I can't see anyone else about as yet," he said, as he reloadedhastily, "and but for that fiend--that devil of a bird hounding himon--what did it mean?--not that it matters now"--he threw his hand outin a gesture of impotent regret and turned to mount.
Kate shivered. What, indeed, did it mean? A vague recollection wasadding to her horror. Had she driven away once from an uncomprehensibleappeal in that relentless face? when the bird----
"Don't think, please," said Jim Douglas, pausing to give her a sharpglance. "You will need all your nerve. The troops mutinied at Meerutlast night, and killed a lot of people. They have come on here, and Idon't trust the native regiments. Go inside, and shut the door. I mustreconnoiter a bit before we start."
"But my husband?" she cried, and her tone made him remember thestrangeness of finding her in that house. She looked unreliable, tohis keen eye; the bitter truth might make her rigid, callous, and insuch callousness lay their only chance.
"All right. He asked me to look after--her."
He saw her waver, then pull herself together; but he saw also that herclasp on Sonny tightened convulsively, and he held out his arms.
"Hand the child to me for a moment," he said briefly, "and call thatpoor lady's ayah from her wailing."
The piteous whimperings from the darkened rooms within ceasedreluctantly. The old woman came with lagging step into the veranda,but Jim Douglas called to her in the most matter-of-fact voice.
"Here, Mai! Take your mem's charge. She told you to take careof the boy, remember." The tear-dim doubtful eyes looked at himhalf-resentfully, but he went on coolly. "Now, Sonny, go to your ayah,and be a good boy. Hold out your arms to old ayah, who has had ever somany Sonnys--haven't you, ayah?"
The child, glad to escape from the prancing horse, the purposely rougharms, held out its little dimpled hands. They seemed to draw thehesitating old feet, step by step, till with a sudden fierce snatch, awild embrace, the old arms closed round the child with a croon ofcontent.
Jim Douglas breathed more freely. "Now, Mrs. Erlton," he said, "Ican't make you promise to leave Sonny there; but he is safer with herthan he could be with you. She must have friends in the city. Youhaven't _one_."
He was off as he spoke, leaving her to that knowledge. Not a friend!No! not one. Still, he need not have told her so, she thought proudly,as she passed in and closed the doors as she had been bidden to do.But he had succeeded. A certain fierce, dull resistance had replacedher emotion. So while the ayah, still carrying Sonny, returned to herdead mistress, Kate remained in the drawing room, feeling stunned. Toostunned to think of anything save those last words. Not a friend! Notone, saving a few cringing shop-keepers, in all that wide city to whomshe had ever spoken a word! Whose fault was that? Whose fault was itthat she had not understood that appeal?
A rattle of musketry quite close at hand roused her from apathy intofear for the child, and she passed rapidly into the next room. It wasempty, save for that figure on the bed. The ayah with her charge hadgone, closing the doors behind her; to her friends, no doubt. But she,Kate Erlton, had none. The renewed rattle of musketry sent her to peerthrough the jalousies; but she could see nothing. The sound seemed tocome from the open space by the church, but gardens lay between herand that, blocking the view. Still it was quite close; seemed closerthan it had been. No doubt it would come closer and closer till itfound her waiting there, without a friend. Well! Since she was noteven capable of saving Sonny, she could at least do what she wastold--she could at least die alone.
No! not quite alone! She turned back to the bed and looked down on theslender figure lying there as if asleep. For the ayah's vain hopes oflingering life had left the face unstained, and the folded hands hidthe crimson below them. Asleep, not dead; for the face had no look ofrest. It was the face of one who dreams still of the stress and strainof coming life.
So this was to be her companion in death; this woman who had done herthe greatest wrong. What wrong? the question came dully. What wronghad she done to one who refused to admit the claims or rights ofpassion? What had she stolen, this woman who had not cared at all?Whose mind had been unsullied utterly. Only motherhood; and that wasgiven to saint and sinner alike.
Given rightly here, for those little hands were brave mother-hands.Kate put out hers softly and touched them. Still warm, stilllife-like, their companionship thrilled her through and through. Witha faint sob, she sank on her knees beside the bed and laid her cheekon them. Let death come and find her there! Let the finish of therace, which was the win and the lose----
"Mrs. Erlton! quick, please!"
Jim Douglas' voice, calling to her from outside, roused her from asort of apathy into sudden desire for life; she was out in the verandain a second.
"The game's up," he said, scarcely able to speak from breathlessness;and his horse was in a white lather. "I had to see to the Seymoursfirst, and now there's only one chance I can think of--desperate atthat. Quick, your foot on mine--so--from the step---- Now your hand.One! two! three! That's right." He had her on the saddle before himand wa
He swerved his horse with a dig of the spur and made for the crowdwhich lay between him and safety. The words describing the rape of theSabine women, over the construing of which he remembered being birchedat school, recurred to him, as such idle thoughts will at such times,as he hitched his hand tighter on Kate's dress and scattered the firstgroup with a coarse jest or two. Thank Heaven! She would notunderstand these, his only weapons; since cold steel could not beused, till it had to be used to _prevent_ her understanding. ThankHeaven, too! he could use both weapons fairly. So he dug in the spursagain and answered the crowd in its own kind, recklessly. A laugh, anoath, once or twice a blow with the flat of his sword. And Kate, withslack arms and closed eyes, lay and listened--listened to a sharper,angrier voice, a quick clash of steel, a shout of half-doubtful,half-pleased derision from those near, a jest provoking a roar ofmerriment for one who meant to hold his own in love and war. Then asudden bound of the horse; a faint slackening of that iron grip on herwaist-belt. The worst of the stream was past; another moment and theywere in a quiet street, another, and they had turned at right-anglesdown a secluded alley where Jim Douglas paused to pass his right hand,still holding his sword, under Kate's head and bid her lean againsthim more comfortably. The rest was easy. He would take her out by theMoree gate--the alleys to it would be almost deserted--so, outside thewalls, to the rear of the Cashmere gate. They were already twistingand turning through the narrow lanes as he told her this. Then, with arush and a whoop, he made for the gate, and the next moment they hadthe open country, the world, before them. How still and peaceful itlay in the sunshine! But the main-guard was the nearest, safestshelter, so the galloping hoofs sped down the tree-set road alongwhich Kate generally took her evening drive.
"And you?" she asked hurriedly as he set her down at the moat and badeher run for the wicket and knock, while he kept the drawbridge.
He shook his head. "The reliefs from Meerut must be in soon. If theystarted at dawn, in an hour. Besides, I'm off to the Palace to seewhat has really happened; information's everything."
She saw him turn with a wave of his sword for farewell as the wicketwas opened cautiously, and make for the Moree gate once more. As herode he told himself there should be no further cause for anxiety onher account. De Tessier's guns were in the main-guard now, andreinforcements of the loyal 74th. They could hold their own easilytill the Meerut people smashed up the Palace. They could not be longnow, and the city had not risen as yet. The bigger bazaars throughwhich he cantered were almost deserted; everyone had gone home. But atthe entrance to an alley a group of boys clustered, and one ran out tohim crying, "Khan-sahib! What's the matter? Folk say people are beingkilled, but we want to go to school."
"Don't," said Jim Douglas as he passed on. He had seen theschoolmaster, stripped naked, lying on his back in the broad daylightas he galloped along the College road with Kate over his saddle-bow.
"_Ari_, brothers," reported the spokesman. "He said '_don't_,' but hecan know naught. He comes from the outside. And we shall lose placesin class if we stop, and others go."
So in the cheerful daylight the schoolboys discussed the problem,school or no school; the Great Revolt had got no further than that, asyet.
But there was no cloud of dust upon the Meerut road, though strainingeyes thought they saw one more than once.