The Pool in the Desert, Sara Jeannette Duncan [ebook reader with internet browser txt] 📗

manner his own. What he did was to turn and ask the syce following if he had loosened the Turk's saddle-girths.

'I shall be better--in a moment,' Madeline said, and he answered, 'Of course'; but they walked on and said nothing more until the road ran out from under the last deodar and round the first bare boulder that marked the beginning of the Ladies' Mile. It lay rolled out before them, the Ladies' Mile, sinuous and grey and empty, along the face of the cliff; they could see from one end of it to the other. It was the bleak side of Jakko; even tonight there was a fresh springing coldness in it blowing over from the hidden snows behind the rims of the nearer hills. Madeline held up her face to it, and gave herself a moment of its grateful discipline.

'I have been as foolish as possible,' she said, 'as foolish as possible. I have distressed you. Well, I couldn't help it--that is all there is to be said. Now if you will tell me--what is in your mind--what you spoke of writing--I will mount again and go home. It doesn't matter--I know you didn't mean to be unkind.' Her lip was trembling again, and he knew it, and dared not look at it.

'How can you ask me to tell you--miserable things!' he exclaimed. 'How can I find the words? And I have only just been told--I can hardly myself conceive it--'

'I am not a child in her teens that my ears should be guarded from miserable things. I have come of age, I have entered into my inheritance of the world's bitterness with the rest. I can listen,' Madeline said. 'Why not?'

He looked to her with grave tenderness. 'You think yourself very old, and very wise about the world,' he said; 'but you are a woman, and you will be hurt. And when I think that a little ordinary forethought on my part would have protected you, I feel like the criminal I am.'

'Don't make too much of it,' she said, simply. 'I have a presentiment--'

'I'll tell you,' Innes said, slowly; 'I won't niggle about it. The people of this place--idiots!--are unable to believe that a man and a woman can be to each other what we are.'

'Yes?' said Madeline. She paused beside the parapet and looked down at the indistinct little fields below, and the blurred masses of white wild roses waving midway against the precipice.

'They can not understand that there can be any higher plane of intercourse between us than the one they know. They won't see--they can't see--that the satisfaction we find in being together is of a different nature.'

'I see,' said Madeline. She had raised her eyes, and they sought the solemn lines of the horizon. She looked as if she saw something infinitely lifted above the pettiness he retailed to her.

'So they say--good God, why should I tell you what they say!' It suddenly flashed upon him that the embodiment of it in words would be at once, from him, sacrilegious and ludicrous. It flashed upon him that her natural anger would bring him pain, and that if she laughed--it was so hard to tell when she would laugh--it would be as if she struck him. He cast about him dumb and helpless while she kept her invincibly quiet gaze upon the farther hills. She was thinking that this breath of gossip, now that it had blown, was a very slight affair compared with Horace Innes's misery--which he did not seem to understand. Then her soul rose up in her, brushing everything aside, and forgetting, alas! the vow it had once made to her.

'I think I know,' she said. 'They are indeed foolish. They say that we--love each other. Is not that what they say?'

He looked in amazement into her tender eyes and caught at the little mocking smile about her lips. Suddenly the world grew light about him, the shadows fled away. Somewhere down in the valley, he remembered afterward, a hill-flute made music. When he spoke it was almost in a whisper, lest he should disturb some newly perceived lovely thing that had wings, and might leave him. 'Oh, Madeline,' he said, 'is it true?' She only smiled on in gladness that took no heed of any apprehension, any fear or scruple, and he himself keeping his eyes upon her face, said, 'It is true.'

So they stood for a little time in silence while she resisted her great opportunity. She resisted it to the end, and presently beckoned to the syce, who came up leading the pony. Innes mounted her mechanically and said, 'Is that all right?' as she put her foot in the stirrup, without knowing that he had spoken.

'Goodbye,' she said; 'I am going away--immediately. It will be better. And listen--I have known this for weeks--and I have gone on seeing you. And I hope I am not any more wicked than I feel. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye,' he said, taking his hand from the pony's neck, and she rode buoyantly away. He, turning to breast the road again, saw darkness gathering over the end of it, and drawing nearer.

At eleven o'clock next morning Brookes rose from her packing to take a note addressed to her mistress from the hand of a messenger in the Imperial red and gold. It ran:

'Dear Miss Anderson--I write to tell you that I have obtained three weeks' leave, and I am going into the interior to shoot, starting this afternoon. You spoke yesterday of leaving Simla almost immediately. I trust you will not do this, as it would be extremely risky to venture down to the Plains just now. In ten days the rains will have broken, when it will be safe. Pray wait till then.

'Yours sincerely,

'Horace Innes.'

Involuntarily the letter found its way to Madeline's lips, and remained there until she saw the maid observing her with intelligence.

'Brookes,' she said, 'I am strongly advised not to start until the rains break. I think, on the whole, that we won't.'

'Indeed, miss,' returned Brookes, 'Mrs. Sergeant Simmons told me that it was courting cholera to go--and nothing short of it. I must say I'm thankful.'


Chapter 3.X.

A week later Colonel Innes had got his leave, and had left Simla for the snow-line by what is facetiously known as 'the carriage road to Tibet.' Madeline had done as she was bidden, and was waiting for the rains to break. Another day had come without them. To write and tell Innes, to write to tell Violet, to go away and leave the situation as she found it; she had lived and moved and slept and awakened to these alternatives. At the moment she slept.

It was early, very early in the morning. The hills all about seemed still unaware of it, standing in the greyness, compact, silent, immutable, as if they slept with their eyes open. Nothing spoke of the oncoming sun, nothing was yet surprised. The hill world lifted itself unconscious in a pale solution of daylight, and only on the sky-line, very far away, it rippled into a cloud. The flimsy town clinging steeply roof above roof to the slope, mounting to the saddle and slipping over on the other side, cut the dawn with innumerable little lines and angles all in one tone like a pencil drawing.

There was no feeling in it, no expression. It had a temporary air in that light, like trampled snow, and even the big Secretariat buildings that raised themselves here and there out of the huddling bazaar looked trivial, childish enterprises in the simple revelation of the morning. A cold silence was abroad, which a crow now and then vainly tried to disturb with a note of tentative enterprise, forced, premature. It announced that the sun would probably rise, but nothing more. In the little dark shops of the wood-carvers an occasional indefinite figure moved, groping among last night's tools, or an old woman in a red sari washed a brass dish over the shallow open drain that ran past her door. At the tonga terminus, below the Mall, a couple of coughing syces, muffled in their blankets, pulled one of these vehicles out of the shed. They pushed it about sleepily, with clumsy futility; nothing else stirred or spoke at all in Simla. Nothing disturbed Miss Anderson asleep in her hotel.

A brown figure in a loin-cloth, with a burden, appeared where the road turned down from the Mall, and then another, and several following. They were coolies, and they carried luggage.

The first to arrive beside the tonga bent and loosed the trunk he brought, which slipped from his back to the ground. The syces looked at him, saying nothing, and he straightened himself against the wall of the hillside, also in silence. It was too early for conversation. Thus did all the others.

When the last portmanteau had been deposited, a khaki-coloured heap on the shed floor rose up as a broad-shouldered Punjabi driver, and walked round the luggage, looking at it.

'And you, owls' brethren,' he said, with sarcasm, addressing the first coolie, 'you have undertaken to carry these matter fifty-eight kos to Kalka, have you?'

'Na,' replied the coolie, stolidly, and spat.

'How else, then, is it to be taken?' the driver cried, with anger in his argument. 'Behold the memsahib has ordered but one tonga, and a fool-thing of an ekka. Here is work for six tongas! What reason is there in this?'

The coolie folded his naked arms, and dug in the dust with an unconcerned toe.

'I, what can I do?' he said, 'It is the order of the memsahib.'

Ram Singh grunted and said no more. A rickshaw was coming down from the Mall, and the memsahib was in it.

Ten minutes later the ponies stood in their traces under the iron bar, and the lady sat in the tonga behind Ram Singh. Her runners, in uniform, waited beside the empty rickshaw with a puzzled look, at which she laughed, and threw a rupee to the head man.

The luggage was piled and corded on three ekkas behind, and their cross-legged drivers, too, were ready.

'Chellao!' she cried, crisply, and Ram Singh imperturbably lifted the reins. The little procession clanked and jingled along the hillside, always tending down, and broke upon the early grey melancholy with a forced and futile cheerfulness, too early, like everything else. As it passed the last of Simla's little gardens, spread like a pocket-handkerchief on the side of the hill, the lady leaned forward and looked back as if she wished to impress the place upon her memory. Her expression was that of a person going forth without demur into the day's hazards, ready to cope with them, yet there was some regret in the backward look.

'It's a place,' she said aloud, 'where EVERYBODY has a good time!'

Then the Amusement Club went out of sight behind a curve; and she settled herself more comfortably among her cushions, and drew a wrap round her to meet the chill wind of the valley. It was all behind her. The lady looked out as the ponies galloped up to the first changing-place, and, seeing a saddled horse held by a syce, cramped herself a little into one corner to make room. The seat would just hold two.

Ram Singh salaamed, getting down to harness the fresh pair, and a man put his face in at the side of the tonga and took off his hat.

'Are you all right?' he said. His smile was as conscious as his words were