She stood looking at him, smiling, warding him off nevertheless and he imagined that she was changed, less free, at least, than she had been on the ship. But he was prepared for that.
“You had my note quite safely, I see, arriving so exactly,” she said, “and it is still too hot for tennis, I fear. Perhaps it is as cool here as anywhere.”
She sat down on a rather high chair of teak, cool and polished, and he drew a small gold chair near to her, and sitting down he gazed at her frankly and with delight, determined not to allow her to withdraw from him.
“I have come a long way to see you, and I have waited a long time. I wanted to come last autumn, when I went to the United Provinces to see an old friend. But you wouldn’t let me, and again—”
She fended him off. “And who is the old friend?”
“An Indian friend of my father’s, I call him Uncle. He is Darya Sapru.”
“Ah, that name I know,” she observed. “My father says he could have had a knighthood last year if he had not joined himself with Gandhi.”
“Really? But I don’t think he would have accepted a knighthood.”
He saw the slightest hardening of the lovely clear blue eyes, and he hastened away from the subject. “Anyway, my father and Darya have been lifelong friends, although now they are rather apart, because my father does not feel Gandhi is right.”
He stopped abruptly, smitten with guilt.
She said, “I am glad to know your father feels that.”
“Yes, and I mustn’t take shelter behind my father,” he said resolutely. “I don’t know if Gandhi is right or wrong. There is so much I don’t know now. The old India was nicely clear, or so I seem to remember it, maybe because I was only a child, and now everything seems complex. I had to listen to Darya, of course. Seeing him in jail was very confusing.”
“Why?” she asked. “He made a demonstration during the Durbar in Bombay.”
“It is you I want to talk about,” Ted said. “Not the Prince, and not Darya, and certainly not Gandhi or politics, not even India. Only you—”
He took her narrow white hand as it lay on her knee, and he held it only long enough to discern response. There was none and he put it down again.
She got up almost at once. “Let’s go out to the courts. After all, they are shaded, and the darkness falls so quickly after the sun sets. My father will soon be home.”
She gave him a quick glance, her eyes upon his shoes.
“I am quite ready,” he said, smilingly submitting himself to her survey. “White linen suit, white shoes.”
“Very handsome,” she retorted, thawing nicely into an answering smile.
They sauntered across the green lawns and approached the courts. There were already people playing, ladies sat under the green striped umbrellas and liveried Indian servants were offering tea, sandwiches and cold drinks. Agnes introduced him casually as they came near.
“Lady Fenley, this is Ted MacArd, from Poona. Sir Angus, Ted MacArd, and Lady Mary Fenley, Ted MacArd. Frederick Payne, Mr. MacArd, and Bart Lankester, and Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Wayne—”
He shook hands, smiled, repeated names, and she disposed of them all by offering to play him at singles immediately upon a still vacant court. He tested some racquets, chose one rather heavy, they tossed for the serve and she won.
He suspected that she played well, but he did not imagine her superlative, as indeed she was. She seemed scarcely to move about the court, and yet his balls were returned with swift accuracy and in the least convenient spots. She used no tricks, no cuts or pretenses, a straight game, but devastating and hard. He was put to it to match her, and he lost the first three games with scarcely a point. Then he rallied himself, forgot who she was and that he was very nearly if not altogether in love with her, and concentrating upon her as an adversary, he won two sets out of three by a bare margin. Defeated, she came to the net and they shook hands formally. Her fair skin was rose red and the straight short strands of hair about her forehead were wet.
“You play too well,” he said.
“Impossible,” she said, “since you beat me.”
“I had to work hard,” he retorted.
“Why not?” she asked.
They sauntered side by side to the umbrellas again, and she took hot tea. “Don’t drink that cold stuff,” she suggested, disapproving when he chose lemonade. “It’s dangerous when you’re hot.”
“Not for an American,” he replied, determined for a reason he could not understand not to yield to her. “We’re used to cold and hot together.”
“There’s my father,” she said, nodding toward the green.
He saw the tall Englishman walking slowly across the lawns toward them.
“He looks tired,” she said. “Things are so difficult again, since the Durbar.”
Everyone rose as the Governor approached and she introduced Ted formally. “Father, this is Mr. MacArd. I told you we were shipmates. He is from America, you remember.”
“Ah, yes.”
The Governor shook hands with him limply. “I think I’ve met your father. Of course I know of your grandfather.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Ted said clearly.
He sat down again when the Governor was seated, he chatted with Lady Fenley, he glanced at Agnes once or twice, rather restlessly, until he perceived that this was to be his visit. There was not to be a stroll alone under the great banyan tree at the far end of the lawns, nor did she seize the opportunity he made by suggesting that they look at the rose gardens. In sudden anger he got up after a half hour or so.
“I must he leaving now,” he said, refraining from her name.
“Must you?” she murmured.
“I shan’t leave Calcutta until the day after tomorrow,” he went on. Actually he had no plans whatever, but he said not tomorrow, because it gave him a day longer. Yet he warned her that it might be only a day. A day would be enough to see whether she wanted to see him again. She did not speak. She gave him her hand, he pressed it and released it, he bowed to the assembly under the green striped umbrellas and went away. The sun was setting ferociously over the great temple of Kali as he got into his carriage and they went down the road toward the city and then along the Chowringhi, that most famous street of the East, and so to his hotel. He was still angry and his lips were tense and white.
Sleep was impossible. It was the inner heat that kept him awake, not the thick black heat of the outer night. He tossed and turned and sat up and threw the pillows on the floor. Then he got up and lit the table lamp and drew out sheets of the hotel paper, slightly mildewed at the edges already, though it was fresh yesterday, he supposed, and he began to write down all the angry thoughts he had been speaking to her in the darkness while he could not sleep.
“Why did you let me come to see you?” he demanded. “Why not simply tell me that we were friends on the ship and no more? Why accept my letters? Why let me all but tell you that I love you and want to marry you? Very well, I tell you now. I do love you, and I want you for my wife. There are distances between us, all India, perhaps, but I love you. If you can love me, there will be nothing to separate us, not India and not the seas between your country and mine. You will tell me I am impatient, you were always saying on the ship that I was impatient. Yes, I am—I am like my grandfather and he is the most impatient man I have ever seen, and my father is the most stubborn man I have ever seen, and I am both of those. So I shall come to you tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock for your answer. Nothing shall prevent me from coming.”
The first signs of the thunderous dawn were streaking the sky with crimson when he had emptied himself of words and of anger, and he sealed the letter. Then he went to the door where his bearer slept on the threshold outside. He touched him with his foot and the man leaped awake.
“Take this to Government House,” Ted ordered. “Stay there with it until a reply is put into your hand, then bring it to me at once. I shall be here in this room.”
The beare
r got up in silence. He wrapped himself twice in the length of cotton which was his garment. He straightened his turban and taking the letter he went away.
Upon the silver tray, with the tea and toast and the ripe yellow mangoes, Agnes saw the letter and recognized it, but she did not take it at once. She sat up in bed and the ayah piled the pillows behind her and handed her the brush and comb. She brushed out the long fair braid and twisted it around her head. Then she dipped her hands into the bowl of cool water the ayah brought to the bedside, she took up the linen towel that lay in the water and squeezing it half dry she wiped her face and neck.
“Now,” she said, “I will have my chota hari.”
“The man waits for an answer, my rose, my darling,” the old ayah said in a tender, singing voice.
“I will read the letter when I have had my tea,” she said. “Then I will ring the bell for you to return.”
“I will return instantly,” the ayah said.
She went out silently and Agnes put down the cup and took up the letter. She expected it. It was not likely that Ted would simply go away nor really did she wish him to do that. Her father and mother had asked many questions about the American, they were reluctant, as she had seen, that she should let him come, and yet they loved her sincerely and knew that she must be allowed to do what she wished to do.
“The Americans are so odd,” her mother had murmured. “One never knows where they are. I mean, some of them actually encourage Gandhi, you know, darling, and that is so embarrassing for your father. I mean, if the white people don’t stick together, you know, and all that—”
Her mother seldom finished a sentence, it trailed in the air, not quite a question, something more than a suggestion. It was true that the times were dangerous. Agnes did not like to believe that the danger had anything to do with her life, and yet of course it did. India always had everything to do with her life because she was her father’s daughter. If she had not been, it would not have mattered so much whom she married. She could have allowed herself to fall into love with Ted as pleasantly as though he were an Englishman. It was, of course, of immense help that he was a MacArd, old David MacArd’s grandson, and even David MacArd’s son. For David MacArd was famous, too, in his own way, though her father said it was a pity he had let himself choose to be a missionary, a great disappointment it must have been to his powerful father, who naturally would have hoped that his only son could have looked after his vast financial interests, so vital and far reaching into almost every country. The Viceroy had said, however, that the graduates of MacArd University in Poona were among the most loyal of the younger Indians, and for that David MacArd must certainly be thanked.
She read Ted’s letter thoughtfully, and when she had finished it she read it again, very slowly. Then she lay back on her pillows, allowing her tea and toast to grow cool, as cool as anything could be, but it was odd how one craved something very hot, too, by way of contrast instead of the eternal tepid. Perhaps that was why she found this American so fascinating, he was positive. Most young Englishmen grew tepid, after a few years in India, it was the only way to endure the climate, perhaps, but one could almost guess what they would say when they opened their mouths to talk, especially to her. In a way she wished she could have stayed in England, and yet she did not like it there. It was a small place, and everything was set in a pattern that could not be broken. After living in India and being the Governor’s daughter, the pattern was petty. The trouble was that there was a pattern here, too, superimposed upon the undercurrents and the restlessness of India itself. One could never be sure of the foundations. Nothing was more powerful and more eternal than the British Empire, and it was simply a matter of time until the followers of Gandhi were put down, and men like her father would do it kindly and with justice, but one could not forget nevertheless that there were so few white men and so many of the others. Even here in Government House itself, there were only the handful of English surrounded by Indians, loyal of course, loving their masters in a way, and yet only someone who had grown up in India could understand the rumblings and the tremblings of the foundation. Her parents underneath were rooted in England, but she was rooted here. The things she had seen that they had never seen, the things she heard and understood because she knew a language that they did not! Ah, children heard and saw. That was why she felt so safe with Ted. He had been a child here, too, a white child in a dark country.
She got up and went to her little rosewood English desk and wrote, “Dear Ted, I shall expect you at four. Agnes.”
The great oval drawing room was shadowy at the far end but he saw her rise from the gold satin-covered couch and come toward him, a figure in filmy white.
“This is always the coolest room,” she explained. “And we seldom use it except for big parties. We’ll not be disturbed.”
“I am glad of that,” he said gravely, “For what I have to say is not to be interrupted.”
“Oh, Ted,” she cried too softly, “must you say it yet? We’re still so young—”
“I know,” he said, but we aren’t as young as our years, Agnes. We talked about that on the ship, do you remember? We said that India makes people grow up fast.”
She turned rather abruptly and sat down on the gold couch again and he sat beside her. The pillows, stuffed with down, were unexpectedly soft, and the thick satin felt almost cool to his touch.
“More than that,” he went on, not putting out his hand to hers. “We shall be forced, I think, in still another way. Agnes, your father stands for one kind of life. It is the same side my father is on. But I may choose the opposite side. I want to know that you’ll go with me.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked. Her eyes were steadily upon his and her voice was calm.
“You know what I mean,” he retorted.
“I want to hear you say what you mean,” she insisted.
“Then I dread to say it, and yet I must say it. I must tell you, first of all and above all, that in spite of the Prince’s visit, there is a terrible struggle coming. Darya is on one side with Gandhi, and your father and mine are on the other side. I don’t know where I am, Agnes. I shall need time to know where I am. What I must know is—will you go with me wherever I go?”
“How odd to put it like that,” she exclaimed.
“Odd?”
“One would think you were planning something dreadful.”
“Perhaps it would be dreadful for you.”
“I can’t imagine anything very dreadful happening to you,” she said, beginning to smile.
She meant, what is there dreadful that could happen to a tall and handsome young man, the son of the MacArds?
“Aren’t you being dramatic?” she asked.
“What if I am?” he demanded.
“I might want to laugh,” she suggested.
He gave a large impetuous sigh. “We are fencing. I am making the thrusts and you are fending me off. Let’s speak plainly. Agnes, do you love me?”
She bent her fair and graceful head. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you do love me,” he urged. “At least if you don’t know?”
“There is so much more than just love,” she said.
“Just love!” he repeated with reproach.
“One doesn’t just decide by feeling.”
“I do!”
“A woman then.”
“An Englishwoman perhaps,” he said with quick bitterness.
She accepted this. “An Englishwoman, especially here in India. To be English here carries more than the usual weight, especially now.”
“Why especially now, if it is you and me?”
“I can imagine that if you should be friends with Gandhi, for example,” she said thoughtfully, “it would make an immense difference if I were your wife. It would separate me entirely from the world where I belong, from my parents, certainly. I must consider that.”
“And may it not separate you from me, if you do consider it?” he demanded.
/> “Ah, yes, perhaps,” she agreed, “but then I am not quite in love with you. There is still time to stop myself.”
His heart leaped at the possibilities of her not being quite in love with him, which must mean nevertheless that she was on the way to being in love with him, not with the heat and urge and demand of his own nature, for she was as cool as a flower and that was one of her lovely qualities. He had absorbed some of the heat of India, but she had grown up more cool, more still, by contrast.
“Then you are a little in love with me!” he exclaimed.
“I know that I could love you,” she said honestly. “I do want to love you, Ted, if I can be sure—”
“Sure of me?”
“Sure that being your wife would not destroy what I am.”
They looked at each other, a long half yearning look, she reluctantly and he arresting his heart. “Is it because I am a missionary?”
She hesitated, searching for her own feelings, restraining the impulse to throw herself into his arms and give herself up to loving him, which she could so easily do.
“If it were only that,” she said, “I would not hesitate, because you are still yourself, Ted, though you choose to be a missionary. There are all sorts of missionaries, and some are repulsive, I grant you—ignorant and pushing and all that. But your father is a great gentleman and you are his son. No, no, it’s not that.”
“Then what, my darling?” He was tender with her, being grateful to her because it was plain that she wanted honesty.
She said unexpectedly, “I suppose the easiest way to put it is this—if you were English, I shouldn’t hesitate. But you’re American.”
Now he was taken aback. “What has that to do with it? You do amaze me, Agnes. I shouldn’t have thought you guilty of prejudice!”