“Ah, my dear,” she said, “brothers don’t tell their sisters everything, and possibly you have your girlish secrets from him. I think you have some small trifle up your sleeve—a little mystery about your coming to India.”
“I came to India in the usual way,” I answered, “by sea.”
“And were a most delightful importation! Well, now I must be going. As you have a sore throat you really should not talk. Au revoir! I suppose you will turn up at the club in a day or two?” and with a smiling farewell she swept out.
It seemed to me about this period that my happy time was coming to an end. It was not only that Brian Falkland had gone home and that I missed him dreadfully—missed the pleasure of looking forward to meeting him—I even missed the little disappointments when he failed to appear. The sun did not shine so brightly, nor were the skies now so blue; also I was haunted by the unpleasant presentiment that trouble was approaching. Ronnie was changed. He was strangely altered in the last few months. His spirits were fitful—sometimes he was too noisy, talkative, and excited; sometimes so silent and in such a mood of black depression that I feared he was sickening for an illness. To my anxious inquiries the invariable reply was, “Only a touch of fever.” His face was paler, there were lines about his mouth, his eyes had lost their glance of irresistible gaiety; he often looked haggard and worried—especially, I noticed, after he received cables and telegrams. At night I could hear him pacing the compound long, long after he had ostensibly retired to bed. Ronnie, who had always been so polite and considerate to our servants, was now impatient, irritable and overbearing. I had known him to throw a boot at the chokra and an oath at Michael.
Although I was secretly miserable I followed Lizzie’s sage advice, and kept my trouble to myself, nor did I, such was my moral cowardice, venture to appeal to or question my brother, but maintained our intercourse on the ordinary everyday level. Since my early youth at Torrington I had a shrinking horror of scenes and rows, and once when I had thrown out a timid feeler it had been brusquely repulsed.
Money, with which Ronnie was once so lavish, had now undoubtedly become scarce. When I asked for my monthly allowance for wages and bazaar I was put off with an impatient excuse. The mere hint at the payment of bills appeared to exasperate him, and so, for shame’s sake, I settled the smaller accounts and servants’ wages out of my own pocket. Hitherto I had shared expenses, contributing ten pounds a month towards housekeeping, and this I handed over intact to my brother. Shop bills, bazaar bills, that I thought he had paid, now poured in in shoals, and the club account was appalling. A talk with Roger Arkwright made me even more uneasy. He joined me one day as I rode back from Secunderabad, and after a little commonplace conversation began rather nervously:
“I say, Miss Lingard, you will forgive me if I am taking a most awful liberty—you know that Ronnie and I are old friends and schoolfellows, and all that sort of thing. Just lately I’m afraid he has got his money affairs into a hopeless hash. He won’t listen to a word I say, and though I don’t like doing it I feel obliged to ask you to try to get him to take a pull. He gambles.”
“Only at bridge—for small sums.”
“You can lose very heavily at bridge,” said Roger gravely, “and also at poker. Ronnie plays high at the club, and also down at Balthasar’s.”
“Balthasar’s!” I echoed in dismay.