CHAPTER II.
HOME, SWEET HOME?
"You sent for me, I believe, Mrs. Erlton."
"Yes, Mr. Greyman, I sent for you."
Both voices came reluctantly into the persistent cooing of doves whichfilled the room, for the birds were perched among a coral begoniaoverhanging the veranda. But the man had so far the best of it in thedifficult interview which was evidently beginning, in that he stoodwith his back to the French window through which he had just entered;his face, therefore, was in shadow. Hers, as she paused, arrested bysurprise, faced the light. For Kate Erlton, when she sent for JamesGreyman in the hopes of bribing him to silence regarding the matchwhich had been run the evening before between his horse and herhusband's, had not expected to see a gentleman in the person of anex-jockey, trainer, and general hanger-on to the late King's stables.The diamonds with which she had meant to purchase honor lay on thetable, but this man would not take diamonds. What would he take? Shescanned his face anxiously, yet with a certain relief in herdisappointment; for the clean-shaven contours were fine, if a triflestern; and the mouth, barely hidden by a slight mustache, wasthin-lipped, well cut.
"Yes! I sent for you," she continued--and the even confidence of herown voice surprised her. "I meant to ask how much you would want tokeep this miserable business quiet; but now----" She paused, and herhand, which had been resting on the center table, shifted its positionto push aside the jewel-case; as if that were sufficient explanation.
"But now?" he echoed formally, though his eyes followed the action.She raised hers to his, looking him full in the face. They werebeautiful eyes, and their cold gray blue, with the northern glint ofsteel in it, gave James Greyman an odd thrill. He had not looked intoeyes like these for many a long year. Not since, in a room just likethis one, homely and English in every twist and turn of foreignflowers and furniture, he had ruined his life for a pair of eyes, ascoldly pure as these, to look at. He did not mean to do it again.
"But now I can only ask you to be kind, and generous, Mr. Greyman! Iwant you to save my husband from the disgrace your claim mustbring--if you press it."
Once more the monotonous cooing from the outside filled the darknessand the light of the large, lofty room. For it was curiously dark inthe raftered roof and the distant corners; curiously light in thegreat bars of golden sunshine slanting across the floor. In one ofthem James Greyman stood, a dark silhouette against an arch of paleblue sky, wreathed by the climbing begonia. He was a man of aboutforty, looking younger than his age, taller than his real height, byreason of his beardless face and the extreme ease and grace of hisfigure. He was burned brown as a native by constant exposure to thesun; but as he stooped to pick up his glove which had slipped from hishold, a rim of white showed above his wrist.
"So I supposed; but why should I save him?" he said briefly. Thequestion, thus crudely put, left her without reply for a minute;during which he waited. Then, with a new tinge of softness in hisvoice, he went on: "It was a mistake to send for me. I thought so atthe time, though, of course, I had no option. But now----"
"But now?" she echoed in her turn.
"There is nothing to be done save to go away again." He turned at thewords, but she stopped him by a gesture.
"Is there not?" she asked. "I think there is, and so will you if youunderstand--if you will wait and let me speak." His evident impatiencemade her add quickly, "You can at least do so much for me, surely?"There was a quiver in her voice now, and it surprised her as herprevious calm had done; for what was this man to her that hisunkindness should give pain?
"Certainly," he said, pausing at once, "but I understand too much, andI cannot see the use of raking up details. You know them--or thinkyou do. Either way they do not alter the plain fact that I cannothelp--because I would not if I could. That sounds brutal; but,unfortunately, it is true. And it is best to tell the truth, as far asit can be told."
A faint smile curved her lips. "That is not far. If you will wait Iwill tell you the truth to the bitter end."
He looked at her with sudden interest, for her pride attractedhim. She was not in the least pretty; she might be any age fromfive-and-twenty to five-and-thirty. And she--well! she was a lady. Butwould she tell the truth? Women, even ladies, seldom did; still hemust wait and hear what she had to say.
"I sent for you," she began, "because, knowing you were an adventurer,a man who had had to leave the army under a cloud--in disgrace----"
He stared at her blankly. Here was the truth about himself at anyrate!
"I thought, naturally, you would be a man who would take a bribe.There are diamonds in that case; for money is scarce in this house."She paused, to gain firmness for what came next. "I was keeping themfor the boy. I have a son in England and he will have to go to schoolsoon; but I thought it better to save his father's reputation instead.They are fine diamonds"--she drew the case closer and opened it--thesunshine, streaming in, caught the facets of the stones, turning themto liquid light. "You needn't tell me they are no use," she went onquickly, as he seemed about to speak; "I am not stupid; but that hasnothing to do with the question. I want you to save my husband--don'tinterrupt me, please, for I do want you to understand, and I will tellyou the truth. You asked me why? and you think, no doubt, that he doesnot deserve to be saved. Do you think I do not know that? Mr. Greyman!a wife knows more of her husband than anyone else can do; and I haveknown for so many years."
A sudden softness came into her hearer's eyes. That was true at anyrate. She must know many things of which she could not speak; a sortof horror at what she must know, with a man like Major Erlton as herhusband, held him silent.
"Yet I have saved him so far," she went on, "but if what happenedyesterday becomes public property all my trouble is in vain. He willhave to leave the regiment----"
"He is not the first man, as you were kind enough to mention justnow," interrupted James Greyman, "who has had to leave the army undera cloud. He would survive it--as others have done."
"I was not thinking of him at all," she replied quietly. "I wasthinking of my son; my only son."
"There are other only sons also, Mrs. Erlton," he retorted. "I was mymother's, but I don't think the fact was taken into consideration bythe court-martial. Why should I be more lenient? You have come to thewrong person when you come to me for charity or consideration. Nonewas shown to me."
"Perhaps because you did not need it," she said quickly.
"Not need it?"
"Many a man falls under the shadow of a cloud blamelessly. What dothey want with charity?"
He rose swiftly and so, facing the light again, stood lookingout into it. "I am obliged to you," he said after a pause. "Whetheryou are right or wrong doesn't affect the question from which wehave wandered. Except--" he turned to her again with a certaineagerness--"Mrs. Erlton! You say you are prepared to tell the truth tothe bitter end; then for Heaven's sake let us have it for once in ourlives. You never saw me before, nor I you. It is not likely we shallever meet again. So we can speak without a past or a future tense. Youask me to save your husband from the consequences of his own cheating.I ask why? Why should I sacrifice myself? Why should I suffer? for,mark you, there were heavy bets----"
"There are the diamonds," she interrupted, pointing to them; theirgleam was scarcely brighter than her scornful eyes.
He gave a half smile. "Doubtless there are the diamonds! I can have myequivalent, so far, if I choose; but I don't choose. It does not suitme personally; so that is settled. I can't do this thing, then, toplease myself. Now, let us go on. You are a religious woman, I think,Mrs. Erlton--you have the look of one. Then you will say that I shouldremember my own frailty, and forgive as I would be forgiven. Mrs.Erlton! I am no better than most men, no doubt, but I never remembercheating at cards or pulling a horse as your husband does--it is thebrutal truth between us, remember. And if you tell me I'm bound toprotect a man from the natural punishment of a great crime becauseI've stolen a pin, I say
you are wrong. That theory won't hold water.If our own faults, even our own crimes, are to make us tender overthese things in others, there must be--what, if I remember right, myColenso used to call an arithmetical progression in error until theDay of Judgment; for the odds on sin would rise with every crime. Idon't believe in mercy, Mrs. Erlton. I never did. Justice doesn'tneed it. So let us leave religion alone too, and come to otherthings--altruism--charity--what you will. Now who will benefit by mysilence? Will you? You said just now that a wife knows more of herhusband than a stranger can. I well believe it. That is why I ask youto tell me frankly, if you really think that a continuance of the lifeyou lead with him can benefit you?" He leaned over the table, restinghis head on his hand, his eyes on hers, and then added in a lowervoice, "The brutal truth, please. Not as a woman to man, or, for thematter of that, woman to woman; but soul to soul, if there be such athing."
She turned away from him and shook her head. "It is for the boy'ssake," she said in muffled tones. "It will be better for him, surely."
"The boy," he echoed, rising with a sense of relief. She had not lied,this woman with the beautiful eyes; she had simply shut the door inhis face. "You have a portrait of him, no doubt, somewhere. I shouldlike to see it. Is that it, over the mantelpiece?"
He walked over to a colored photograph, and stood looking at itsilently, his hands--holding his hunting crop--clasped loosely behindhis back. Kate noticed them even in her anxiety; for they werenoticeable, nervous, fine-cut hands, matching the figure.
"He is not the least like you. He is the very image of his father,"came the verdict. "What right have you to suppose that anything you orI can do now will overcome the initial fact that the boy is yourhusband's son, any more than it will ease you of the responsibility ofhaving chosen such a father for the boy?"
She gave a quick cry, more of pain than anger, and hid her face on thetable in sudden despair.
"You are very cruel," she said indistinctly.
He walked back toward her, remorseful at the sight of her miserableself-abasement. He had not meant to hit so hard, being accustomedhimself to facing facts without flinching.
"Yes! I am cruel; but a life like mine doesn't make a man gentle. AndI don't see how this trivial concealment of fact--for that is all itwould be--can change the boy's character or help him. If I did----" hepaused. "I should like to help you if I could, Mrs. Erlton, if onlybecause you--you refused me charity! But I cannot see my way. It woulddo no one any good. Begin with me. I'm not a religious man, Mrs.Erlton. I don't believe in the forgiveness of sins. So my soul--if Ihave one--wouldn't benefit. As for my body? At the risk of youoffering me diamonds again,"--he smiled charmingly,--"I must mentionthat I should lose--how much is a detail--by concealment. So I must goout of the question of benefit. Then there is you----"
He broke off to walk up and down the room thoughtfully, then to pausebefore her. "I wish you to believe," he said, "that I want really tounderstand the truth, but I can't, because I don't know one thing. Idon't know if you love your husband--or not."
She raised her head quickly with a fear behind the resentment of hereyes. "Put me outside the question too. I have told you that already.It is the simplest, the best way."
He bowed cynically. She came no nearer to truth than evasion.
"If you wish it, certainly. Then there is the boy. You want toprevent him from realizing that his father is a--let us twist thesentence--what his father is. You have, I expect, sent him away forthis purpose. So far good. But will this concealment of mine suffice?Will no one else blab the truth? Even if concealment succeeds allalong the line, will it prevent the boy from following in his father'ssteps if he has inherited his father's nature as well as his face?Wouldn't it be a deterrent in that case to know early in life thatsuch instincts can't be indulged with impunity in the society ofgentlemen? You will never have the courage to keep the boy out of yourlife altogether as you are doing now. Sooner or later you will bringhim back, he will bring himself back, and then, on the threshold oflife, he will have an example of successful dishonesty put before him.Mrs. Erlton! you can't keep up the fiction always; so it is better foryou, for me, for him, to tell the truth--and I mean to tell it."
She rose swiftly to her feet and faced him, thrusting her hair backfrom her forehead passionately, as if to clear away aught that mightobscure her brain.
"And for my husband?" she asked. "Have you no word for him? Is he notto be thought of at all? You asked me just now if I loved him, and Iwas a coward. Well! I do not love him--more's the pity, for I can'tmake up the loss of that to him anyhow. But there is enough pity inhis life without that. Can't you see it? The pity that such thingsshould be in life at all. You called me a religious woman just now.I'm not, really. It is the pity of such things without a remedy thatdrives me to believe, and the pity of it which drives me back againupon myself, as you have driven me now. For you are right! Do youthink I can't see the shame? Do you think I don't know that it is toolate--that I should have thought of all this before I called my boy'snature out of the dark? And yet----" her face grew sharp with apitiful eagerness, she moved forward and laid her hand on his arm. "Itis all so dark! You said just now that I couldn't keep up the fiction;but need it be a fiction always? What do we know? God gives men achance sometimes. He gives the whole world a chance sometimes ofatoning for many sins. A Spirit moves on the Waters of life bringingsomething to cleanse and heal. It may be moving now. Give my husbandhis chance, Mr. Greyman, and I will pray that, whatever it is, it maycome quickly."
He had listened with startled eyes; now his hand closed on hers inswift negation.
"Don't pray for that," he said, in a quick low voice, "it may come toosoon for some of us, God knows--too soon for many a good man andtrue!" Then, as if vexed at his own outburst, he drew back a step,looking at her with a certain resentment.
"You plead your cause well, Mrs. Erlton, and it is a stronger argumentthan you perhaps guess. So let him have this chance that is coming.Let us all have it, you and I into the bargain. No don't be grateful,please, for he may prove himself a coward, among other things. So mayI, for that matter. One never knows until the chance comes for being ahero--or the other thing."
"When the chance comes we shall see," she said, trying to match hislight tone. "Till then, good-by--you have been very kind." She heldout her hand, but he did not take it.
"Pardon me! I have been very rude, and you----" he paused in hishalf-jesting words, stooped over her outstretched hand and kissed it.
Kate stood looking at the hand with a slight frown after his horse'shoofs died away; and then with a smile she shut the jewel case. Notthat she closed the incident also; for full half an hour later she wasstill going over all the details of the past interview. And everythingseemed to hinge on that unforeseen appeal of hers for a chance ofatonement, on that unpremeditated strange suggestion that a Spiritmight even then be moving on the face of the waters; until, in thatroom gay with English flowers, and peaceful utterly in its air ofsecurity, a terror seized on her body and soul. A causeless terror,making her strain eyes and ears as if for a hint of what was to comeand make cowards or heroes of them all.
But there was only the flowerful garden beyond the arched veranda,only the soft gurgle of the doves. Yet she sat with quivering nervestill the sight of the gardener coming as usual with his watering potmade her smile at the unfounded tragedy of her imaginings.
As she passed into the veranda she called to him, in the jargon whichserved for her orders, not to forget a plentiful supply to theheartsease and the sweet peas; for she loved her poor clumps ofEnglish annuals more than all the scented and blossoming shrubs whichin those late March days turned the garden into a wilderness ofstrange perfumed beauty. But her cult of home was a religion with her;and if a visitor remarked that anything in her environment wasreminiscent of the old country, she rejoiced to have given anotherexile what was to her as the shadow of a rock in a thirsty land.
So, her eye catching something barely up to western mark in thepatt
ern of a collar her tailor was cutting for her new dress, shecrossed over to where he squatted in the further corner of theveranda.
"That isn't right. Give me something to cut--here! this will do."
She drew a broad sheet of native paper from the bundle of scrapsbeside him, and began on it with the scissors; too full of her idea tonotice the faint negation of the man's hand. "There!" she said after afew deft snippings, "that is new fashion."
"Huzoor!" assented the tailor submissively as, apparently fromtidiness, he put away the remainder of the paper, before laying thenew-cut pattern on the cloth.
His mistress looked down at it critically. There was a broad line ofblack curves and square dots right across the pattern suggestive ofits having been cut from a title-page. But to her ignorance of thePersian character they were nothing but the curves and dots, thoughthe tailor's eyes read clearly in them "The Sword is the Key ofHeaven."
For he, in company with thousands of other men, had been reading thefamous pamphlet of that name; reading it with that thrill of theheart-strings which has been the prelude to half the discords andharmonies of history. Since, quaintly enough, those who may hope toshare your heaven are always friends, those who can with certainty beconsigned to hell, your enemies.
"That is all right," she said. "Cut it well on the bias, so that itwon't pucker."
As she turned away, she felt the vast relief of being able to think ofsuch trivialities again after the strain and stress of the hours sinceher husband had come home from the race course, full of excitedmaledictions on the mean, underhand bribery and spying which mightmake it necessary for him to send in his papers--if he could. Kate hadheard stories of a similar character before; since Major Erlton knewby experience that she had his reputation more at heart than he hadhimself, and that her brain was clearer, her tact greater than his.But she had never heard one so hopeless. Unless this jockey Greyman,who, her husband said, was so mixed up with native intrigue as to haveany amount of false evidence at his command, could be silenced, herlabor of years was ruined. So long after her husband had gone off tohis bed to sleep soundly, heavily, after the manner of men, Kate hadlain awake in hers after the manner of women, resolving to risk all,even to a certain extent honesty, in order to silence this man, thisadventurer; who no doubt was not one whit better than her husband.
And now? As her mind flashed back over that interview the one thingthat stood out above all others was the bearing, the deference of theman as he had stooped to kiss her hand. For the life of her, she--whoprotested even to herself that such things had no part in herlife--could not help a joy in the remembrance; a quick recognitionthat here was a man who could put romance into a woman's life. Thethought was one, however, from which to escape by the firstdistraction at hand. This happened to be the cockatoo, which, after abath and plentiful food, looked a different bird on its new perch.
"Pretty, pretty poll," she said hastily, with tentative white fingertickling its crest. The bird, in high good humor, bent its headsideways and chuckled inarticulately; yet to an accustomed ear thesound held the cadence of the Great Cry, and the tailor, who had heardit given wrathfully, looked up from his work.
"Oh, Miffis Erlton! what a boo'ful new polly," came a silvery lisp. Sheturned with a radiant smile to greet her next door neighbor's littleboy, a child of about three years old, who, pathetically enough, was agreat solace to her child-bereft life.
"Yes, Sonny, isn't it lovely?" she said, her slim white hand going outto bring the child closer; "and it screams splendidly. Would you liketo hear it scream?"
Sonny, clinging tightly to her fingers, looked doubtful. "Wait tillmuvver comth, muvver's comin' to zoo esectly. Sonny's alwaysflightened wizout hith muvver."
At which piece of diplomacy, Kate, feeling light-hearted, caught thelittle white-clad golden-curled figure in her arms and ran out with itinto the garden, smothering the laughing face with kisses as she ran.
"Sonny's a little goose to be 'flightened,'" came her glad voicebetween the laughs and the kisses. "He ought never to be 'flightened'at all, because no one in all the wide, wide world would ever hurt agood little childie like Sonnykins--No one! No one! No one!"
She had sat the little fellow down among the flowers by this time,being, in good sooth, breathless with his weight; and now, continuingthe game, chased him with pretense booings of "No one! No one!" aboutthe pansy bed, and so round the sweet peas; until in delicious terrorhe shrieked with delight, and chased her back between her chasings.
It was a pretty sight, indeed, this game between the woman and thechild. The gardener paused in his watering, the tailor at his work;and even the native orderly going his rounds with the brigadeorder-book grinned broadly, so adding one to the kindly dark faceswatching the chasing of Sonny.
"My dear Kate! How can you?" The querulous voice broke in on thebooings, and made Mrs. Erlton pause and think of her loosened hairpins. The speaker was a fair, diaphanous woman, the most solid-lookingpart of whose figure, as she dawdled up the path, was the large whiteumbrella she carried. "Here am I melting with the heat! What I shalldo next year if George is transferred to Delhi, I don't know. He sayswe shan't be able to afford the hills. And he has the dogcart at someof those eternal court-martials. I wonder why the sepoys give so muchtrouble nowadays. George says they're spoiled. So I came to see ifyou'll drive me to the band; though I'm not fit to be seen. I was uphalf the night with baby. She is so cross, and George will have it shemust be ill; as if children didn't have tempers! Lucky you, to haveyour boy at home. And yet you go romping with other people's. Iwouldn't; but then I look horrid when I'm hot."
Kate laughed. She did not, and as she rearranged her hair seemed tohave left years of life behind her. "I can't help it," she said. "Ifeel so ridiculously young myself sometimes--as if I hadn't lived atall, as if nothing belonged to me, and I was really somebody else. Asif----" She paused abruptly in her confidences, and, to change thesubject, turned to the group behind Mrs. Seymour:--an ayah holding atoddler by the hand, a tall orderly in uniform carrying a year-oldbaby in his arms; such a languid little mortal as is seldom seen outof India, where the swift, sharp fever of the changing seasons seemsto take the very, life from a child in a few hours. The fluffy goldenhead in its limp white sun-bonnet rested inert against the orderly'sscarlet coatee, the listless little legs drooped helplessly among theburnished belts and buckles.
"Poor little chick! Let me have her a bit, orderly," said Kate, layingher hand caressingly on the slack dimpled arm; but baby, with afretful whine, nestled her cheek closer into the scarlet. A shade ofsatisfaction made its owner's dark face less impassive, and the small,sinewy, dark hands held their white burden a shade tighter.
"She _is_ so cross," complained the mother. "It has been so all day.She won't leave the man for an instant. He must be sick of her, thoughhe doesn't show it. And she used to go to the ayah; but do you know,Kate, I don't trust the woman a bit. I believe she gives opium to thechild, so that she may get a little rest."
Kate looked at the ayah's face with a sudden doubt. "I don't know,"she said slowly. "I think they believe it is a good thing. I rememberwhen Freddy was a baby----"
"Oh, I don't believe they ever think that sort of thing," interruptedMrs. Seymour. "You never can trust the natives, you know. That's theworst of India. Oh! how I wish I was back in dear old England with areal nurse who would take the children off my hands."
But Kate Erlton was following up her own doubt. "The children trustthem----" she began.
"My dear Kate! you can't trust children either. Look at baby! It givesme the shudders to think of touching Bij-rao, and see how she cuddlesup to him," replied Mrs. Seymour, as she dawdled on to the house;then, seeing the bed of heartsease, paused to go into raptures overthem. They were like English ones, she said.
The puzzled look left Kate's face. "I sent some home last mail," shereplied in a sort of hushed voice, "just to show them that we were notcut off from everything we care for; not everything."
So, as if by one ac
cord, these two Englishwomen raised their eyes fromthe pansy bed, and passing by the flowering shrubs, the encirclingtamarind trees framing the cozy, home-like house, rested them on thereddening gold of the western sky. Its glow lay on their faces, makingthem radiant.
But baby's heavy lids had fallen at last over her heavy eyes as shelay in the orderly's arms, and he glanced at the ayah with a certainpride in his superior skill as a nurse.