CHAPTER VIII.
Philip Doyle did not know at all how it was that he found himself at theMaharajah of Pattore’s garden-party. He had not the honour of knowingthe Maharajah of Pattore—his invitation was one of the many amiabilitieswhich he declared he owed to his distinguished connection with theBengal Secretariat in the person of Lewis Ancram. Certainly Ancram hadasked him to accept, and take his, Ancram’s, apologies to the Maharajah;but that seemed no particular reason why he should be there. The factwas, Doyle assured himself, as he bowled along through the rice-fieldsof the suburbs to His Highness’s garden-house—the fact was, he wasrestless, he needed change supremely, and anything out of the commonround had its value. Things in Calcutta had begun to wear an unusuallyhard and irritating look; he felt his eye for the delinquencies of humannature growing keener and more critical. This state of things, taken inconnection with the possession of an undoubted sense of humour, Doylerecognised to be grave. He told himself that, although he was unaware ofanything actually physically wrong, the effects of the climate were mostinsidious, and he made it a subject of congratulation that his passagewas taken in the _Oriental_.
There was a festival arch over the gate when he reached it, and amultitude of little flags, and “WELLCOME” pendent in yellow marigolds.Doyle was pleased that he had come. It was a long time since he hadattended a Maharajah’s garden party; its features would be fresh and insome ways soothing. He shook hands gravely with the Maharajah’s eldestson, a slender, subdued, cross-eyed young man in an embroideredsmoking-cap and a purple silk frock-coat, and said “Thank you—thankyou!” for a programme of the afternoon’s diversions. The programme wasprinted in gold letters, and he was glad to learn from it that HisHighness’s country residence was called “Floral Bower.” This wasentirely as it should be. He noticed that the Maharajah had providedwrestling and dancing and theatricals for the amusement of his guests,and resolved to see them all. He had a pleasant sense of a strainmomentarily removed, and he did not importune himself to explain it.There were very few English people in the crowd that flocked about thegrounds, following with docile admiration the movements of the principalguests; it was easy to keep away from them. He had only to stroll about,and look at the curiously futile arrangement of ponds and grottoes andfountains and summer-houses, and observe how pretty a rose-bush could bein spite of everything and how appropriately brilliant the clothes ofthe Maharajah’s friends were. Some of the younger ones were playingfootball, with much laughter and screaming and wonderfully high kicks.He stood and watched them, smilingly reflecting that he would back acouple of Harrovians against the lot. His eyes were still on the boysand the smile was still on his lips when he found himself consideringthat he would reach England just about the day of Ancram’s wedding. Thenhe realised that Ancram’s wedding had for him some of thecharacteristics of a physical ailment which one tries, by forgetting, toconjure out of existence. The football became less amusing, and he wasconscious that much of its significance had faded out of the Maharajah’sgarden-party. Nevertheless he followed the feebly curved path which ledto His Highness’s private menagerie, and it was while he was returningthe unsympathetic gaze of a very mangy tiger in a very ramshackle cage,that the reflection came between them, as forcibly as if it were a newone, that he would come back next cold weather to an empty house. Ancramwould be married. He acknowledged, still carefully examining the tiger,that he would regret the man less if his departure were due to any otherreason; and he tried to determine, without much success, to what extenthe could blame himself in that his liking for Ancram had dwindled soconsiderably during the last few months. By the time he turned his backupon the zoölogical attraction of the afternoon he had fallen into thereverie from which he hoped to escape in the _Oriental_—therecollection, perfect in every detail, of the five times he had metRhoda Daye before her engagement, and a little topaz necklace she hadworn three times out of the five, and the several things that he wishedhe had said, and especially the agreeable exaltation of spirit in whichhe had called himself, after every one of these interviews, an elderlyfool.
His first thought when he saw her, a moment after, walking towards himwith her father, was of escape—the second quickened his steps in herdirection, for she had bowed, and after that there could be no idea ofgoing. He concluded later, with definiteness, that it would have beendistinctly rude when there were not more than twenty Europeans in theplace. Colonel Daye’s solid white-whiskered countenance broke into asquare smile as Doyle approached—a smile which expressed that it wasrather a joke to meet a friend at a maharajah’s garden party.
“You’re a singular being,” he said, as they shook hands; “one nevercomes across you in the haunts of civilisation. Here’s _my_ excuse.”Colonel Daye indicated his daughter. “Would come. Offered to take her tothe races instead—wouldn’t look at it!”
“If I had no reason for coming before, I’ve found one,” said Doyle, withan inclination towards Rhoda that laid the compliment at her feet. Therewere some points about Philip Doyle that no emotional experience couldaltogether subdue. He would have said precisely the same thing, withprecisely the same twinkle, to any woman he liked.
Rhoda looked at him gravely, having no response ready. If the in-drawingof her under-lip betrayed anything it was that she felt the least bithurt—which, in Rhoda Daye, was ridiculous. If she had been asked shemight have explained it by the fact that there were people whom shepreferred to take her seriously, and in the ten seconds during which hereyes questioned this politeness she grew gradually delicately pink underhis.
“Rum business, isn’t it?” Colonel Daye went on, tapping the backs of hislegs with his stick. “Hallo! there’s Grigg. I must see Grigg—do youmind? Don’t wait, you know—just walk on. I’ll catch you up in tenminutes.”
Without further delay Colonel Daye joined Grigg.
“That’s like my father,” said the girl, with a trace of embarrassment:“he never can resist the temptation of disposing of me, if it’s only forten minutes. We ought to feel better acquainted than we do. I’ve beenout seven months now, but it is still only before people that we dare tochaff each other. I think,” she added, turning her grey eyes seriouslyupon Doyle, “that he finds it awkward to have so much of the society ofa young lady who requires to be entertained.”
“What a pity that is!” Doyle said involuntarily.
She was going to reply with one of her bright, easy cynicisms, and thenfor some reason changed her mind. “I don’t know about the advantage ofvery deep affections,” she said involuntarily, and there was noflippancy in her tone. Doyle fancied that he detected a note of pathosinstead, but perhaps he was looking for it.
They were walking with a straggling company of baboos in white muslindown a double row of plantains towards the wrestling ring. Involuntarilyhe made their pace slower.
“You can’t be touched by that ignoble spirit of the age—already.”
Miss Daye felt her moral temperature fall several degrees from thebuoyant condition in which she contrived to keep it as a rule. To sayshe experienced a chill in the region of her conscience is perhaps toput it grotesquely, but she certainly felt inclined to ask Philip Doylewith some astonishment what difference it made to him.
“The spirit of the age is an annoying thing. It robs one of alloriginality.”
“Pray,” he said, “be original in some other direction. You have a veryconsiderable choice.”
His manner disarmed his words. It was grave, almost pleading. Shewondered why she was not angry, but the fact remained that she was onlyvaguely touched, and rather unhappy. Then he spoiled it.
“In my trade we get into dogmatic ways,” he apologised. “You won’t mindthe carpings of an elderly lawyer who has won a bad eminence for himselfby living for twenty years in Calcutta. By the way, I had Ancram’sapologies to deliver to the Maharajah. If he had known he would perhapshave entrusted me with more important ones.” Doyle made this speech ingeneral compensation, to any one who wanted i
t, for being near her—withher. If he expected blushing confusion he failed to find it.
“He didn’t know,” she said indifferently; “and if he had——Oh, there arethe wrestlers.” She looked at them for a moment with disfavour. “Do youlike them? I think they are like performing animals.”
The men separated for a moment and rubbed their shining brown bodieswith earth. Somewhere near the gate the Maharajah’s band struck up “GodSave the Queen,” four prancing pennons appeared over the tops of thebushes, and with one accord the crowd moved off in that direction. Amoment later His Highness was doubling up in appreciation of HisExcellency’s condescension in arriving. His Excellency himself wassurrounded ten feet deep by his awe-struck and delighted fellow-guests,and the wrestlers, bereft of an audience, sat down and spat.
What Doyle always told himself that he must do with regard to Miss Dayewas to approach her in the vein of polished commonplace—polished becausehe owed it to himself, commonplace because its after effect on thenerves he found to be simpler. Realising his departure from thisprescribed course, he fervently set himself down a hectoring idiot, andlooked round for Colonel Daye. Colonel Daye radiated the commonplace; hewas a most usual person. In his society there was not the slightestdanger of saying anything embarrassing. But he was not even remotelyvisible.
“Believe me,” said Rhoda, with sudden divination, “we shall be lucky ifwe see my father again in half an hour. I am very sorry, but he reallyis a most unnatural parent.” There was a touch of defiance in her laugh.He should not lecture her again. “Where shall we go?”
“Have you seen the acting?”
“Yes. It’s a conversation between Rama and Shiva. Rama wears a red wigand Shiva wears a yellow one; the rest is tinsel and pink muslin. Theysit on the floor and argue—that is the play. While one argues the otherchews betel and looks at the audience. I’ve seen better acting,” sheadded demurely, “at the Corinthian Theatre.”
Doyle laughed irresistibly. Calcutta’s theatrical resources, even in theseason, lend themselves to frivolous suggestion.
“I could show you the Maharajah’s private chapel, if you like,” shesaid.
Doyle replied that nothing could be more amusing than a Maharajah’sprivate chapel; and as they walked together among the rose bushes hefelt every consideration, every scruple almost, slip away from him inthe one desire her nearness always brought him—the desire for that kindof talk with her which should seal the right he vaguely knew was his tobe acknowledged in a privacy of her soul that was barred against otherpeople. Once or twice before he had seemed almost to win it, and by somegay little saying which rang false upon his sincerity she had driven himback. She assuredly did not seem inclined to give him an opportunitythis afternoon. It must be confessed that she chattered, in that wilful,light, irrelevant way that so stimulated his desire to be upon tenderlyserious terms with her, by no means as her mentor, but for his ownsatisfaction and delight. She chattered, with her sensitiveness alive atevery point to what he should say and to what she thought she couldguess he was thinking. She believed him critical, which was distressingin view of her conviction that he could never understand her—never! Hebelonged to an older school, to another world; his feminine ideal wasprobably some sister or mother, with many virtues and no opinions. Hewas a person to respect and admire—she did respect and she did admirehim—but to expect any degree of fellowship from him was absurd. Theincomprehensible thing was that this conclusion should have any sorenessabout it. For the moment she was not aware that this was so; herperception of it had a way of coming afterwards, when she was alone.
“Here it is,” she said, at the entrance of a little grotto made ofstucco and painted to look like rock, serving no particular purpose, bythe edge of an artificial lake. “And here is the shrine and thedivinity!”
As a matter of fact, there was a niche in the wall, and the niche heldHanuman with his monkey face and his stolen pineapple, coy in paintedplaster.
Miss Daye looked at the figure with a crisp assumption of interest.“Isn’t he amusing!” she remarked: “‘Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud’!”
“And so this is where you think His Highness comes to say his prayers?”Doyle said, smiling.
“Perhaps he has a baboo to say them for him,” she returned, as theystrolled out. “That would be an ideal occupation for a baboo—to makerepresentations on behalf of one exalted personage to another. I wonderwhat he asks Hanuman for! To be protected from all the evils of thislife, and to wake up in the next another maharajah!”
He was so engaged with the airiness of her whimsicality and the tilt ofthe feather in her hat that he found no answer ready for this, and toher imagination he took the liberty of disapproving her flippancy.Afterwards she told herself that it was not a liberty—that thedifference in their ages made it a right if he chose to take it—but atthe moment the idea incited her to deepen his impression. She cast abouther for the wherewithal to make the completest revelation of her cheaperqualities. In a crisis of candour she would show him just how audaciousand superficial and trivial she could be. Women have some curiousinstincts.
“I am dying,” she said, with vivacity, “to see how His Highness keepshouse. They say he has a golden chandelier and the prettiest harem inBengal. And I confide to you, Mr. Doyle, that I should like a glass ofsimpkin—immensely. It goes to my head in the most amusing way in themiddle of the afternoon.”
“His ideal young woman,” she declared to herself, “would have said‘champagne’—no, she would have preferred tea; and she would have diedrather than mention the harem.”
But it must be confessed that Philip Doyle was more occupied for themoment with the curve of her lips than with anything that came out ofthem, except in so far that everything she said seemed to place him moredefinitely at a distance.
“I’m afraid,” he returned, “that the ladies are all under double lockand key for the occasion, but there ought to be no difficulty about thechampagne and the chandelier.”
At that moment Colonel Daye’s tall grey hat came into view, threadingthe turbaned crowd in obvious quest. Rhoda did not see it, and Doyleimmediately found a short cut to the house which avoided the encounter.He had suddenly remembered several things that he wanted to say. Theyclimbed a flight of marble stairs covered with some dirty yards ofmatting, and found themselves almost alone in the Maharajah’sdrawing-room. The Viceroy had partaken of an ice and gone down again,taking the occasion with him; and the long table at the end of the roomwas almost as heavily laden as when the confectioner had set it forth.
“A little pink cake in a paper boat, please,” she commanded, “with jaminside”; and then, as Doyle went for it, she sat down on one ofPattore’s big brocaded sofas, and crossed her pretty feet, and looked atthe chromolithographs of the Prince and Princess of Wales askew upon thewall, and wondered why she was making a fool of herself.
“I’ve brought you a cup of coffee: do you mind?” he asked, coming backwith it. “His Highness’ intentions are excellent, but the source of hissupplies is obscure. I tried the champagne,” he added apologetically:“it’s unspeakable!”
No, Miss Daye did not mind. Doyle sat down at the other end of the sofa,and reflected that another quarter of an hour was all he could possiblyexpect, and then——
“I am going home, Miss Daye,” he said.
Since there was no other way of introducing himself to herconsideration, he would do it with a pitchfork.
“I knew you were. Soon?”
“The day after to-morrow, in the _Oriental_. I suppose Ancram told you?”
“I believe he did. You and he are great friends, aren’t you?”
“We live together. Men must be able to tolerate each other pretty fairlyto do that.”
“How long shall you be in England?”
“Six months, I hope.”
She was silent, and he fancied she was thinking, with naturalresentment, that he might have postponed his departure until after thewedding. Doyle hated a lie more than most peopl
e, but he felt thesituation required that he should say something.
“The exigency of my going is unkind,” he blundered. “It will deprive meof the pleasure of offering Ancram my congratulations.”
There was only the faintest flavour of mendacity about this; but shedetected it, and fitted it, with that unerring feminine instinct we hearso much about, to her thought. For an instant she seemed lost inbuttoning her glove; then she looked up, with a little added colour.
“Don’t tamper with your sincerity for me,” she said quickly: “I’m notworth it. It’s very kind of you to consider my feelings, but I wouldmuch rather have the plain truth between us—that you don’t approve of meor of the—the marriage. I jar upon you—oh! I see it! a dozen times inhalf an hour—and you are sorry for your friend. For his sake you eventry to like me: I’ve seen you doing it. Please don’t: it distresses meto know that you take that trouble——”
“Here you are!” exclaimed Colonel Daye, in the doorway. “Much obliged toyou, Doyle, really, for taking care of this little girl. Most difficultman to get hold of, Grigg.”