THE BURNING OF THE BUNGALOW
He went in and had tiffin with them in the hanging garden. Deppingham was surly and preoccupied. Drusilla Browne was unusually vivacious. At best, she was not volatile; her greatest accomplishment lay in the ability to appreciate what others had to say. This in itself is a treat so unusual that one feels like commending the woman who carries it to excess.
Her husband, aside from a natural anxiety, was the same blithe optimist as ever. He showed no sign of restraint, no evidence of compunction. Chase found himself secretly speculating on the state of affairs. Were the two heirs working out a preconceived plan or were they, after all, playing with the fires of spring? He recalled several of Miss Pelham's socialistic remarks concerning the privileges of the "upper ten," the intolerance of caste and the snobbish morality which attaches folly to none but the girl who "works for a living."
Immediately after tiffin, Genevra carried Lady Deppingham off to her room. When they came forth for a proposed stroll in the grounds, Lady Agnes was looking very meek and tearful, while the Princess had about her the air of one who has conquered by gentleness. In the upper corridor, where it was dark and quiet, the wife of Deppingham halted suddenly and said:
"It has been so appallingly dull, Genevra, don't you understand? That's why. Besides, it isn't necessary for her to be so horrid about it. She—"
"She isn't horrid about it, dear. She's most self-sacrificing."
"Rubbish! She talks about the Puritans, and all that sort of thing. I know what she means. But there's no use talking about it. I'll do as you say—command, I mean. I'll try to be a prude. Heaven alone knows what a real prude is. I don't. All this tommy-rot about Bobby and me wouldn't exist if that wretched Chase man had been a little more affable. He never noticed us until you came. No wife to snoop after him and—why, my dear, he would have been ideal."
"It's all very nice, Agnes, but you forget your husband," said Genevra, with a tolerant smile.
"Deppy? Oh, my dear," and she laughed gaily once more. "Deppy doesn't mind. He rather likes me to be nice to other men. That is, if they are nice men. Indeed, I don't forget Deppy! I shall remember him to my dying day."
"Your point of view is quite different from that of a Boston wife, I'd suggest."
"Certainly. We English have a colonial policy. We've spread out, my dear."
"You are frivolous once more, Agnes."
"Genevra," said Lady Agnes solemnly, "if you'd been on a barren island for five months as I have, with nothing to look at but your husband and the sunsets, you would not be so hard on me. I wouldn't take Drusilla's husband away from her for the world; I wouldn't even look at him if he were not on the barren island, too. I've read novels in which a man and woman have been wrecked on a desert island and lived there for months, even years, in an atmosphere of righteousness. My dear, those novelists are ninnies. Nobody could be so good as all that without getting wings. And if they got wings they'd soon fly away from each other. Angels are the only creatures who can be quite circumspect, and they're not real, after all, don't you know. Drusilla may not know it yet, but she's not an angel, by any means; she's real and doesn't know it, that's all. I am real and know it only too well. That's the difference. Now, come along. Let's have a walk. I'm tired of men and angels. That's why I want you for awhile. You've got no wings, Genevra; but it's of no consequence, as you have no one to fly away from."
"Or to, you might add," laughed Genevra.
"That's very American. You've been talking to Miss Pelham. She's always adding things. By the way, Mr. Chase sees quite a lot of her. She types for him. I fancy she's trying to choose between him and Mr. Saunders. If you were she, dear, which would you choose?"
"Mr. Saunders," said Genevra promptly. "But if I were myself, I'd choose Mr. Chase."
"Speaking of angels, he must have wings a yard long. He has been chosen by an entire harem and he flies from them as if pursued by the devil. I imagine, however, that he'd be rather dangerous if his wings were to get out of order unexpectedly. But he's nice, isn't he?"
The Princess nodded her head tolerantly.
Her ladyship went on: "I don't want to walk, after all. Let us sit here in the corridor and count the prisms in the chandeliers. It's such fun. I've done it often. You can imagine how gay it has been here, dear. Have you heard the latest gossip? Mr. Britt has advanced a new theory. We are to indulge in double barrelled divorce proceedings. As soon as they are over, Mr. Browne and I are to marry. Then we are to hurry up and get another divorce. Then we marry our own husband and wife all over again. Isn't it exciting? Only, of course, it isn't going to happen. It would be so frightfully improper—shocking, don't you know. You see, I should go on living with my divorced husband, even after I was married to Bobby. I'd be obliged to do that in order to give Bobby grounds for a divorce as soon as the estate is settled. There's a whole lot more to Mr. Britt's plan that I can't remember. It's a much gentler solution than the polygamy scheme that Mr. Saunders proposes; I will say that for it. But Deppy has put his foot down hard. He says he had trouble enough getting me to marry him the first time; he won't go through it again. Besides, he loathes grass widows, as Mrs. Browne calls them. Mr. Britt told him he'll be sure to love me more than ever as soon as I become a guileless divorcee. Of course, it's utter nonsense."
"A little nonsense now and then is—" began the Princess, and paused amiably.
"Is Mr. Chase to stay for lunch?" asked Lady Agnes irrelevantly.
"How should I know? I am not his hostess."
"Hoity-toity! I've never known you to look like that before. A little dash of red sets your cheeks off—" But Genevra threw up her hands in despair and started toward the stairway, her chin tilted high. Lady Agnes, laughing softly, followed. "It's too bad she's down to marry that horrid little Brabetz," she said to herself, with a sudden wistful glance at the proud, vibrant, loveable creature ahead. "She deserves a better fate than that."
Genevra waited for her at the head of the stairway.
"Agnes, I'd like you to promise that you will keep your avaricious claws off Mrs. Browne's husband," she said, seriously.
"I'll try, my dear," said Lady Agnes meekly.
When they reached the garden, they found Deppingham smoking furiously and quite alone. Chase had left some time before, to give warning to the English bank that trouble might be expected. The shadow of disappointment that flitted across Genevra's face was not observed by the others. Bobby Browne and his wife were off strolling in the lower end of the park.
"Poor old Deppy," cried his wife. "I've made up my mind to be exceedingly nice to you for a whole day."
"I suppose I ought to beat you," he said slowly.
"Beat me? Why, pray?"
"I received an anonymous letter this morning, telling me of your goings-on with Bobby Browne," said he easily. "It was stuck under my door by Bromley, who said that Miss Pelham gave it to her. Miss Pelham referred me to Mr. Britt and Mr. Britt urged me to keep the letter for future reference. I think he said it could be used as Exhibit A. Then he advised me to beat you only in the presence of witnesses."
"The whole household must be going mad," cried Genevra with a laugh.
"Oh, if something only would happen!" exclaimed her ladyship. "A riot, a massacre—anything! It all sounds like a farce to you, Genevra, but you haven't been here for five months, as we have."
As they moved away from the vine-covered nook in the garden, a hand parted the leaves in the balcony above and a dark, saturnine face appeared behind it. The two women would have felt extremely uncomfortable had they known that a supposedly trusted servant had followed them from the distant corridor, where he had heard every word of their conversation. This secret espionage had been going on for days in the château; scarcely a move was made or a word spoken by the white people that escaped the attention of a swarthy spy. And, curiously enough, these spies were no longer reporting their discoveries to Hollingsworth Chase.
The days passed. Hollingsworth Chase now realised that he no longer had authority over the natives; they suffered him to come and go, but gave no heed to his suggestions. Rasula made the reports for the islanders and took charge of the statements from the bank.
Every morning he rode boldly into the town, transacted what business he could, talked with the thoroughly disturbed bankers, and then defiantly made his way to the château. He was in love with the Princess—desperately in love. He understood perfectly—for he was a man of the world and cosmopolitan—that nothing could come of it. She was a princess and she was not in a story book; she could not marry him. It was out of the question; of that he was thoroughly convinced, even in the beginning.
So far as Genevra was concerned, on her part it could mean no more than a diversion, a condescension to coquetry, a simple flirtation; it meant the passing of a few days, the killing of time, the pleasure of gentle conquest, and then—forgetfulness. All this he knew and reckoned with, for she was a princess and he but a plebeian passing by.
At first she revolted against the court he so plainly paid to her in these last few days; it was bold, conscienceless, impertinent. She avoided him; she treated him to a short season of disdain; she did all in her power to rebuke his effrontery—and then in the end she surrendered to the overpowering vanity which confronts all women who put the pride of caste against the pride of conquest.
She decided to give him as good as he sent in this brief battle of folly; it mattered little who came off with the fewest scars, for in a fortnight or two they would go their separate ways, no better, no worse for the conflict. And, after all, it was very dull in these last days, and he was very attractive, and very brave, and very gallant, and, above all, very sensible. It required three days of womanly indecision to bring her to this way of looking at the situation.
They rode together in the park every morning, keeping well out of range of marksmen in the hills. A sense of freedom replaced the natural reserve that had marked their first encounters in this little campaign of tenderness; they gave over being afraid of each other. He was too shrewd, too crafty to venture an open declaration; too much of a gentleman to force her hand ruthlessly. She understood and appreciated this considerateness. Their conflict was with the eyes, the tone of the voice, the intervals of silence; no touch of the hand—nothing, except the strategies of Eros.
What did it matter if a few dead impulses, a few crippled ideals, a few blasted hopes were left strewn upon the battlefield at the end of the fortnight? What mattered if there was grave danger of one or both of them receiving heart wounds that would cling to them all their lives? What did anything matter, so long as Prince Karl of Brabetz was not there?
One night toward the end of this week of enchanting rencontres—this week of effort to uncover the vulnerable spot in the other's armour—Genevra stood leaning upon the rail which enclosed the hanging garden. She was gazing abstractedly into the black night, out of which, far away, blinked the light in the bungalow. A dreamy languor lay upon her. She heard the cry of the night birds, the singing of woodland insects, but she was not aware of these persistent sounds; far below in the grassy court she could hear Britt conversing with Saunders and Miss Pelham; behind her in the little garden, Lady Deppingham and Browne had their heads close together over a table on which they were playing a newly discovered game of "solitaire"; Deppingham and Mrs. Browne leaned against the opposite railing, looking down into the valley. The soft night wind fanned her face, bringing to her nostrils the scent of the fragrant forest. It was the first night in a week that he had missed coming to the château.
She missed him. She was lonely.
He had told her of the meeting that was to be held at the bungalow that night, at which he was to be asked to deliver over to Rasula's committee the papers, the receipts and the memoranda that he had accumulated during his months of employment in their behalf. She had a feeling of dread—a numb, sweet feeling that she could not explain, except that under all of it lay the proud consciousness that he was a man who had courage, a man who was not afraid.
"How silly I am," she said, half aloud in her abstraction.
She turned her gaze away from the blinking light in the hills, a queer, guilty smile on her lips. The wistful, shamed smile faded as she looked upon the couple who had given her so much trouble a week ago. She felt, with a hot flash of self-abasement, as if she was morally responsible for the consequences that seemed likely to attend Lady Deppingham's indiscretions.
Across the garden from where she was flaying herself bitterly, Lady Deppingham's husband was saying in low, agitated tones to Bobby Browne's wife, with occasional furtive glances at the two solitaire workers:
"Now, see here, Brasilia, I'm not saying that our—that is, Lady Deppingham and Bobby—are accountable for what has happened, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant! It's of little consequence who is trying to poison us, don't you know. And all that. They wouldn't do it, I'm sure, but somebody is! That's what I mean, d'ye see? Lady Dep—"
"I know my husband wouldn't—couldn't do such a thing, Lord Deppingham," came from Drusilla's stiff lips, almost as a moan. She was very miserable.
"Of course not, my dear Drusilla," he protested nervously. Then suddenly, as his eye caught what he considered a suspicious movement of Bobby's hand as he placed a card close to Lady Deppingham's fingers: "Demme, I—I'd rather he wouldn't—but I beg your pardon, Drusilla! It's all perfectly innocent."
"Of course, it's innocent!" whispered Drusilla fiercely.
"You know, my dear girl, I—I don't hate your husband. You may have a feeling that I do, but----"
"I suppose you think that I hate your wife. Well, I don't! I'm very fond of her."
"It's utter nonsense for us to suspect them of—Pray don't be so upset, Drusilla. It's all right----"
"If you think I am worrying over your wife's harmless affair with my husband, you are very much mistaken."
Deppingham was silent for a long time.
"I don't sleep at all these night," he said at last, miserably. She could not feel sorry for him. She could only feel for herself and her sleepless nights. "Drusilla, do—do you think they want to get rid of us? We're the obstacles, you know. We can't help it, but we are. Somebody put that pill in my tea to-day. It must have been a servant. It couldn't have been—er----"
"My husband, sir?"
"No; my wife. You know, Drusilla, she's not that sort. She has a horror of death and—" he stopped and wiped his brow pathetically.
"If the servants are trying to poison any of us, Lord Deppingham, it is reasonable to suspect that your wife and my husband are the ones they want to dispose of, not you and me. I don't believe it was poison you found in your tea. But if it was, it was intended for one of the heirs."
"Well, there's some consolation in that," said Deppy, smiling for the first time. "It's annoying, however, to go about feeling all the time that one is likely to pass away because some stupid ass of an assassin makes a blunder in giving—"
The sharp rattle of firearms in the distance brought a sudden stop to his lugubrious reflections. Five, a dozen—a score of shots were heard. The blood turned cold in the veins of every one in the garden; faces blanched suddenly and all voices were hushed; a form of paralysis seized and held them for a full minute.
Then the voice of Britt below broke harshly upon the tense, still air: "Good God! Look! It is the bungalow!"
A bright glow lighted the dark mountain side, a vivid red painted the trees; the smell of burning wood came down with the breezes. Two or three sporadic shots were borne to the ears of those who looked toward the blazing bungalow.
"They've killed Chase!" burst from the stiff lips of Bobby Browne.
"Damn them!" came up from below in Britt's hoarse voice.