"I'm sure we can congratulate ourselves that the worst is over," he said. "As long as the banks at Bjura hold there is nothing to fear, and Rutherford promised to let us know the moment there was any danger—on account of the bridge, of course. Poor Matherson was rather rattled about the bridge. It's his first single-handed job, and a swollen river like that is a severe test. However, he's kept quiet, so we can presume that it's holding out."
Mrs. Boucicault smiled. She smiled very often—always when a reply was expected of her. It covered over her silence. It was a curious smile. It came suddenly and faded slowly, leaving behind it a kind of grimace. Her eyes, abnormally large and intensely blue, were fixed blankly on the length of the table. Its display of silver, the many flowers, the subdued lights, the noiseless servants whose dark hands reached out spectrally from the shadows, seemed to absorb her. Certainly it was a feast unequalled in the annals of Gaya's sociabilities. Some of the guests were even vaguely oppressed by it. A pace was being set which none of them could hope to keep up.
Dr. Martin, seated a few places lower down on his hostess's right, scarcely turned his eyes from her face. She seemed to fascinate him. His neighbour—the wife of a newly arrived Captain—decided that he was a very stupid little man. He rarely spoke, and seemed to have no appetite. Her inherited antipathy for civilians increased to dislike, and she pitied herself intensely. In despite, she amused herself with Captain Compton, who was her vis-à-vis, dilating rather maliciously on the glories of Simla, from whence she hailed.
The conversation never flagged. Its feverish persistency covered the splash of the rain outside the open windows and the sound of smothered, angry whisperings somewhere behind the curtained doorways. Mrs. Compton, who was an old hand at Indian life, sensed "nerves" in that perpetual chatter, in that resolute determination to shut out alike thought and silence. The last weeks had been almost unbearable. She herself had never experienced anything to equal the incessant downpour. But it was more than the climate. There was unrest in the air. From her husband she had heard mutterings to the effect that Armstrong, good soldier though he was, did not know how to tackle the ugly temper of his men—that a demand had been sent to headquarters for a battalion of white troops. Then other things had gone wrong—Rasaldû, Sigrid, Barclay—it was one long sequence of trouble.
And now tonight, Mrs. Boucicault sat at the head of the table with her staring, unseeing eyes and grey, powdered face, looking like a smiling death's-head.
Mary Compton thought of the man who lay paralysed and silent behind the walls, and wondered if beneath their gaiety the others thought of him and of the unknown hand which had struck him down. Things happened in India. They came out of the darkness like lightning—struck, and vanished. It was no wonder people had nerves. They were in the minority—in reality quite powerless. It was just bluff—splendid bluff.
Mrs. Compton bit her lip. She had nearly screamed. In the midst of her unpleasant reflections, the voices in the corridor had risen to an angry clamour. Suddenly the curtains were pushed violently aside. The butler entered backwards, expostulating, gesticulating, followed overwhelmingly by Mrs. Smithers. Her entry, her rain-soaked clothes and dishevelled grey hair might have been comic—might have caused amused surprise—discomfort; but there was something else about her—a resolution, a reality of tense anxiety which, reflected on the faces of those who saw her first, brought the rest to an instantaneous silence.
She looked round the table, and, seeing Mrs. Compton, who had half risen, burst into breathless speech.
"It's Sigrid—she's gone—she's been gone since this morning—I've waited—I couldn't bear it any longer. She'll die. It's her heart. And that man—that scoundrel—his real wife's down there now—crying her eyes out. It made me sick. I had to come. Mrs. Compton, you cared for her—you'll help me. Don't you know anything—don't you know where she's gone?"
The broken, incoherent flow came to a more resolute end. The servants made a movement as though to approach her, but Mrs. Boucicault waved them back. She had become suddenly alert and watchful, as though for something which she had long foreseen.