CHAPTER XIII
THE ROAD CLEAR
The English colony heard of the Rajah's project with mingled feelings of amusement and anxiety. As Colonel Carmichael expressed it, it would have been safer to have stirred up a hornet's nest than to attempt any vital reform in the native quarters; and he was firmly convinced that the inhabitants of the Bazaar would cling to their dirt and squalor with the same tenacity with which they clung to their religion. When the first batch of native workers, under the direction of a European overseer, set out on the task of constructing new and sanitary quarters half a mile outside Marut, he announced that it was no more than the calm before the storm, and kept a weather eye open for trouble. But, in spite of these gloomy prognostications, the work proceeded calmly and steadily on its way. The new dwellings were well constructed, broad, clean thoroughfares taking the place of the narrow, dirty passages which had run like an unwholesome labyrinth through the old Bazaar. Water in abundance was laid on from the river. Natives of superior caste, who had proved their capacity for order, were put in charge of the different blocks and made responsible for their condition. Of more value than all this was the energy and willingness with which the people entered into the project. More workers offered themselves than were required, and could only be comforted with the assurance that very soon a new enterprise would be set on foot in which they, too, would find occupation.
A month after the first stone had been laid, Stafford paid a visit of inspection in company with the Rajah and Travers. On his way back he passed the Carys' bungalow, and seeing Beatrice on the verandah, he had ridden up, as he said, to make his salaams. Very little persuasion tempted him into the cool, shady drawing-room. He knew that Lois would be up at the club, and, faute de mieux, Beatrice's company was something to be appreciated after a hot and exhausting afternoon. For a rather curious friendship had sprung up between these two. They had nothing in common. His stiffly honest and orthodox character was oil to the water of her outspoken indifference to the usual codes and morals of ordinary society. And yet he liked her, and, strangely enough, he never found that her supercilious criticisms and daring opinions jarred on him. Perhaps it was his honesty which recognized the honesty in her, just as, on the reverse side, the sanctimonious Philistinisms of Maud Berry left him glowing with irritation because his instincts told him that they were not even sincere.
On this particular afternoon he was more than usually glad to have a few minutes' quiet chat with Beatrice. That which he had seen and heard on his four hours' ride had stirred to life a sudden doubt in himself and in his hitherto firmly rooted principles, and, like a great many men, he felt that he could only regain a clear outlook by an exchange of ideas with some second person.
"You know my standpoint pretty well by now," he said, as, seated in a comfortable lounge chair, he watched Beatrice busy over some patterns which she had just received from London. "It isn't your standpoint, of course, and no doubt you would be fully in your right to say, 'I told you so,' when I confess that I am beginning to waver."
"I never say, 'I told you so,'" she returned, smiling. "That is the war-cry of those accustomed to few triumphs."
"Not that by wavering I mean that I am coming round to your opinions," he went on. "On the contrary, nothing on this earth will shake my theory that a mingling of races is an impossibility. They must and will, with few exceptions, remain separate to all eternity, and one or the other must have the upper hand if there is to be any law or order. No, it's not that. It's my self-satisfaction that is beginning to waver."
"You must be more explicit," Beatrice observed.
"I mean, men like myself—in fact, most Englishmen—are pretty well convinced, even when they have the rare tact of keeping it to themselves, that they are the salt of the earth. They may be, as a whole, but there are exceptions all round, which we are inclined to overlook because of the foregone conclusion. It has struck me lately that there are some of us—well, not up to the mark."
"Has this revelation come to you by force of contrast?" she asked.
"Haven't you been out with the Rajah?"
He looked at her with the pleasure of a man who has been saved the bother of going into explanatory details.
"Yes, I have," he admitted, "and you are not far wrong when you talk about the force of contrast. You know what I thought of the Rajah. There are any amount of good-looking native princes with nice surface manners—that sort of thing wouldn't impress me. But this man has more than good looks and manners. He is a born leader. You should have seen him this afternoon. There wasn't a thing he overlooked or forgot. Every detail was at his fingers' ends, and he has a fire, an energy, an idealistic belief in himself and in the whole world which fairly sweeps you off your feet. It did me. I believe it did the Colonel, and I know it did the natives. The dust wasn't low enough for them. And it wasn't face worship, either. It came straight from the heart; I could see that they were ready to die for him on the spot, at his mere word."
"What a power!" Beatrice murmured. She had stopped turning over the patterns and was leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed thoughtfully in front of her.
"Yes, it is a power," he echoed emphatically, "and I wish to goodness we had more men like him on our side. We English take things too lightly—most of us. And in India it is not safe to take things lightly."
He saw that she was about to make some observation, but at that moment Mrs. Cary entered. She had evidently been out in the garden, for she had a bunch of freshly cut flowers in her hand and a girlish muslin hat shaded the fat cheeks flushed with the unusual exertion.
"Ah, there you are, Captain Stafford!" she said, extending her disengaged hand. "Mr. Travers said he was sure you had dropped in, and wouldn't believe it when I told him that I had heard and seen nothing of you. There, come in, Mr. Travers. It's all right."
She smiled at Stafford with a playful significance that seemed to indicate an unspoken comprehension of the situation, but Stafford did not smile back. Like a great many worthy and honest people, he was not gifted with a sense of humor, and the ridiculous, especially if it took a human form, was his abomination. Consequently he disliked Mrs. Cary, though not for the reason which made her unpopular in other quarters.
Travers followed almost immediately on her invitation, like Stafford, bearing the marks of a hard day's work on his unusually pale face.
"I expect Stafford has told you what a time we've been having," he said, in response to Beatrice's greeting. "It's no joke to have aroused an energy like the Rajah's, and I can see myself worked to a shadow. Please forgive my get-up, Miss Cary, but this isn't an official call. I only wanted to fetch Stafford."
"I'm afraid you can't," Mrs. Cary put in. "We have engaged the poor exhausted man to tea, and you are strictly forbidden to worry him with your tiresome business. You can stop, too, if you promise not to bother."
Travers, who had as a rule an equally amiable smile for every one, remained unexpectedly serious.
"I am awfully sorry," he said, hesitating. "Perhaps it would do another time."
"What is it about?" Stafford asked. "Will it take long?"
"As far as I am concerned, only a few minutes."
There was a significance in the tone of Travers' answer which passed unnoticed. Stafford rose lazily to his feet.
"Perhaps you'll give us the run of your garden for just so long, Mrs. Cary?" he said. "I'm not going to let Travers cheat me out of my promised cup of tea. Come on, my dear fellow. I'm ready for the worst."
The two men went down the verandah steps, and Mrs. Cary and her daughter remained alone. Beatrice returned at once to her contemplation of the fashion-plates, her attitude enforcing silence upon the elder woman, who stood by the round polished table nervously arranging the flowers. Evidently she had something to say, but for once had not the courage to say it. At last, with one of those determined gestures with which irresolute people strive to stiffen their wavering wills, she pushed the flowers on one side, and came and sat directly opposite Beatrice.
"Have you got a few minutes to spare?" she asked.
Beatrice looked up, and put the papers aside.
"As many as you like."
Mrs. Cary's eyes sank beneath the direct gaze, and she began to play with the rings that adorned her fat fingers.
"I'm afraid you'll be angry," she said. "If it wasn't for my duty as a mother, I should let you go your own way—as it is, I must just risk it."
"There is no risk," Beatrice returned gravely. "Where duty is concerned, I am all consideration."
"It's about your intimacy with His Highness," Mrs. Cary went on. "I can't help thinking it has gone too far."
"In what way?"
"You ride out with him every morning."
"You said nothing a month ago—when I went out for the first time."
"It was the first time. And I didn't know people would talk."
"Do they talk?"
"Yes. Mrs. Berry told me only this afternoon that she thought it most infra dig. She told me as a friend—"
Beatrice laughed.
"Mrs. Berry as a friend is a new departure."
"Never mind. There was something in what she said. She told me it spoiled your chances—with others."
"I dare say she told you that it is very immoral for me to ride out with Captain Stafford?"
Mrs. Cary threw up her head.
"I don't take any notice of that sort of thing. That is only her cattishness, because she wants Stafford for Maud."
"You don't mind about Captain Stafford, then?"
"Goodness, no! Why should I? A man wants to know a girl before—well, before he asks her. I don't see anything in that. But this business with the Rajah is quite different. Of course, I know you are only amusing yourself, but still it lowers your value to be seen so much with a colored man."
"Why should you mind? Surely you can see for yourself that Captain
Stafford is to all intents and purposes engaged to Lois?"
"Rubbish! She thinks so, but it's a lukewarm business which could easily be brought to nothing—if you tried. And besides, I don't want you talked about. We have been talked about quite enough."
"Why should people talk?" exclaimed Beatrice, with a sudden change in tone. "What harm do I do? What do they suppose goes on between us?"
Mrs. Cary shrugged her shoulders.
"I'm sure I don't know," she said indifferently.
Beatrice sat back in her chair, for a moment silent. A faint smile moved the corners of her fine mouth.
"I fancy our conversation, if they heard it, would startle the unbearable Marut scandal-mongers," she said. "What do you say to a Bible-class on horseback?"
Mrs. Cary's small round eyes opened wide.
"A Bible-class?" she repeated suspiciously.
Beatrice nodded.
"Yes. I have been teaching him the rudiments of Christianity. It seems you must have neglected my education in that respect, for I have had to burn a good deal of midnight oil to keep pace with the demand upon my knowledge. I tell him it as a story, and he reads it himself afterward. We are halfway through St. John. What are you laughing at?"
The tone of intense irritation pulled Mrs. Cary up short in the midst of a loud fit of laughter.
"I'm sorry, my dear," she apologized, "but you really must admit it's rather funny."
"What is rather funny?"
"Oh, well, you, you know. Fancy you as a missionary! I must tell Mrs.
Berry. It will amuse her, and—"
She stopped again, as though she had inadvertently trodden on the tail of a scorpion. She had seen Beatrice angry, but not as now. There was something not unlike desperation in the eyes that were suddenly turned on her.
"You won't tell Mrs. Berry, mother. You will never breathe a word to a single soul of what I have told you. It was very absurd of me to say anything—I don't know what made me. I might have known that you would not understand—but sometimes I forget that 'mother' is not a synonym for everything."
Mrs. Cary smarted under what she felt to be an unjust and uncalled-for attack.
"I don't see what I have done now," she protested indignantly. "What is there to understand that I haven't understood, pray?"
Her daughter got up as though she could no longer bear to remain still, and began to walk restlessly about the room.
"Never mind," she said. "That doesn't matter. What does matter is that I will not have the Rajah made a butt for the Station's witticisms. You can say what you like about me—I don't care in the least—but you will leave him alone."
"Dear me, what are you so annoyed about?" Mrs. Cary inquired, with irritating solicitude. "How was I to know you were seriously contemplating the Rajah's conversion? I'm sure it's very nice of you. Child, don't pull all those roses to pieces!"
Beatrice dropped the flowers impatiently.
"It's more likely that he will convert me," she muttered, but the remark fell on unheeding ears.
"I wish you would let me tell Mrs. Berry about it," Mrs. Cary went on. "It might make quite a nice impression, and stop her saying disagreeable things. Of course, if your intimacy with His Highness was due to your desire to bring him to a nice Christian state, it would be quite excusable. I might even ask Mr. Berry for some of those tracts he is always distributing among the natives."
It was Beatrice's turn to laugh. Her laugh had a disagreeable ring.
"For the Rajah? I wonder how he would reconcile them with all I have been telling him about love, and pity, and tolerance? Besides, my dear mother, diplomatist as you are, don't you see that it wouldn't have the least effect? Do you think the most kindly thinking person in this Station would believe for an instant that I would ever convert anyone? Of course I should be seen through at once. They would say—and perfectly correctly, too—that I was just fooling the Rajah for my own purposes."
"What are your purposes?" Mrs. Cary demanded.
Beatrice raised her eyebrows.
"You knew them a month ago."
"Oh, yes; then it was for Mr. Travers' sake. But now—"
"Now things are the same as they were then. I—I can't leave off what
I have begun."
She had gone over to the piano and, opening it, sat down and began to play a few disjointed bars. Mrs. Cary, who watched the lovely face with what is sometimes called a mother's pride, and which is sometimes no more than the satisfaction of a merchant with salable goods, saw something which made her sit bolt upright in her comfortable chair. A tear rolled down the smooth cheek turned toward her—a single tear, which splashed on the white hand resting on the keys. That was all, but it was enough. With a jingle of gold bracelets and a rustle of silk, Mrs. Cary struggled to her feet and came and stood by her daughter, her heavy hand clasping her by the shoulder.
"Beaty!" she said stupidly. "Are you—crying?"
Beatrice turned on the music-stool and looked her mother calmly in the face. There was not a trace of emotion in the clear, steady eyes.
"I—crying?" she said. "What should have made you think that? Have you ever seen me cry?"
"No, never. I couldn't understand. You are all right?"
"Perfectly all right, thank you. Hadn't you better see about the tea?"
Mrs. Cary heaved a sigh of relief and satisfaction.
"Of course. How thoughtful you can be, my dear! The gentlemen may be back any moment."
She sailed heavily across the room, on her way passing the glass doors which opened on to the verandah.
"Why!" she exclaimed, stopping short, "if that isn't Captain Stafford mounting his horse! Look, Beaty! And he hasn't even come to say good-by."
Beatrice turned indifferently.
"I expect he has some important business—" she began, and then, as her eyes fell on the man outside swinging himself up into the saddle, she stopped and rose abruptly to her feet. "I have never seen anyone look like that before!" she said, under her breath. "He looks—awful."
Mrs. Cary nodded.
"As though he had seen a ghost," she supplemented unsteadily. "What can have happened?"
The horse's head was jerked around to the compound gates. Amidst a clatter of hoofs and in a cloud of dust Stafford galloped out of sight, not once turning to glance in their direction. The two women stood and stared at each other, even Beatrice for the moment shaken out of her usual self-control by what she had seen. They had no time to make any further observations, for almost immediately Travers came up the steps, his sun-helmet in his hand. Whatever had happened, he at least seemed unmoved. The exceptional pallor of his face had given place to the old healthy glow.
"I have come to drink Stafford's share of the tea as well as my own," he said cheerily. "You see, Mrs. Cary, in spite of your strict injunctions, I have sent the poor fellow flying off on a fresh business matter. He asked me to excuse him, as he was in a great hurry."
"So it seems!" Mrs. Cary observed, rather tartly. "He might at least have stayed to say good-by."
"Oh, well, you know what an impulsive creature he is," Travers apologized. "Besides, I believe he means to drop in later on. Please don't punish me, Mrs. Cary, for his delinquencies."
The suggestion that Stafford might resume his interrupted visit later mollified Mrs. Cary at once.
"No, you shan't suffer," she assured him, with fat motherliness. "I will go and tell the servants about tea at once."
The minute she was out of the room Travers came over to Beatrice's side. A slight change had taken place in his expression. It reminded her involuntarily of that night in the dog-cart when for an instant his passions had forced him to drop the mask.
"You and I have every reason to congratulate each other," he said, in a low voice. "We can now go ahead and win. The road is clear for us both."
"What do you mean—what have you done?"
"Nothing," he answered, as Mrs. Cary reentered. "You will know in a day or two. And then—well, the game will be in our hands, Miss Cary."
Mrs. Cary, who had caught the last remark, looked quickly and suspiciously from one to the other.
"What's that you are talking about?" she demanded. "What game is in your hands, Beaty?"
Travers smiled frankly.
"Miss Cary and I are working out a bridge problem," he explained. "We have just discovered a solution to a difficulty. That's all."
His smile deepened as he glanced across at Beatrice, but there was no response on her grave face. She half turned away from him, and for the first time he thought that the climate was telling on her. She looked white and harassed.