“All ye who are without, make haste if ye wish to enter the town! Oh, townspeople, prepare to be shut in for the night!”
“Miss Musson, where can she be?” gasped Scylla.
“Hush!”
“Ai, aie! My poor apprentice!” wailed the old man with the python. “He has not come yet! How will he know where I am gone? I shall have to remain outside and wait for him.”
“Stay outside, then, with the jackals and wild boars, what do we care?” replied the guards, and the gates clanged together. Just before they did so, a stooped figure in a black burqa slipped between them; Scylla breathed out a heartfelt sigh of relief. Hurrying forward, she clasped the arm of the older woman, who murmured:
“Careful, my dear. He is asleep, do not wake him. A cry now, and we are lost!”
“Ma’am? What can you mean?”
With utter astonishment Scylla realized that, as well as the pack she carried on her back, Miss Musson was cradling a bundle in the folds of her voluminous black garment—a warm, tiny bundle that moved and breathed:
“A baby?”
“Hush! When we are well away from the town I will tell all.”
“But—good God, ma’am!—oh well—let me take your pack, then.” Scylla led Miss Musson to the elephant, which was now kneeling to accommodate its passengers. They climbed into the howdah, where Cal was already settling himself. A moment later, and they were joined by Cameron. Scylla was astonished to recognize in him the old fortune-teller; she would not have thought it possible that the tall, vigorous Cameron could appear so hunched and stooped.
“But what have you done with the python?” she whispered. “I trust you have not brought it as well?”
“No, child.” She could hear the ghost of a laugh in his reply. “The python is rejoicing in unexpected freedom; I left him under a fig tree. Are you ready, Therbah?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Then let us be off.”
Silently as a cloud the elephant rose to its feet and drifted away downhill, rapidly leaving the town behind, taking a zigzag route through the orange orchards, the melon beds, and the opium fields.
“Best not to follow any road,” Cameron whispered.
“Where are we going?” Cal inquired. “South, to Surat, to ship for England?”
“What is your will, ma’am?” Cameron turned to the silent Miss Musson in her corner. “Is it to be Surat, and a ship?”
“No, I think not,” she replied after a moment’s considering pause. “When Mihal discovers what has happened there is bound to be a hue and cry, and he will be looking first along the road south, to Surat. We had therefore better go west, to Peshawur and Jellalabad. Rob, do you not agree? Once we are through the Khaiber Pass, Mihal will hardly pursue us. And that is little more than a hundred miles, but Surat is many hundreds, and his vengeance could follow us all the way.”
“I am in agreement with you, Miss Amanda—though, I must confess, I am surprised that you plump for the land route!”
“But the baby!” burst out Scylla, who could contain her curiosity no longer. “What baby is that, ma’am? Not little Chet?”
“Baby?” Colonel Cameron, who was sitting at the front of the howdah, suddenly screwed around as if a hornet had stung him. “In God’s name, ma’am, what act of madness have you committed now?”
“It is the Maharajah’s youngest son,” placidly replied Miss Musson, glancing down at the anonymous dark bundle she carried. “He was born only this afternoon, to that Khalzai girl who was Bhupindra’s last favorite. She, poor wretch, was thrown into the underground crocodile tank, by Sada’s orders. But I bribed a servant with a bag of gold dust to bring the babe to me. He has not yet been christened; perhaps we should do so without delay. Do you have any liquor on you, Colonel Cameron?”
“Yes,” he replied in a strangled tone. “I am glad to say I have a flask of brandy. I can think of better uses for it but—”
He handed the flask to Cal, who knelt by Miss Musson, dragging the leather stopper out with his teeth.
“Perhaps we should christen this little fellow Chet Singh too, like his poor unfortunate brother,” Miss Musson observed, sprinkling a few drops of spirit on the sleeping child’s forehead. And she murmured rapidly, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I baptize thee Amirul-Umra Bhupindra Mohinder Yadu Chet Singh, Prince of Ziatur,” before recorking the flask and passing it back to the stupefied colonel. “There,” she added in a consoling tone. “Now you and Scylla may feel that, in some part at least, you will be able to keep your promises to that poor old man.”
Cameron was speechless, but Scylla said warmly, “Thank you, dear Miss Musson.”
Almost directly overhead a tremendous, earsplitting clap of thunder, loud as the trump of doom, caused them all to flinch in their seats. A glare of lightning illuminated the cactus-studded plain which they were crossing. The elephant trumpeted nervously and lengthened her smooth, gliding stride.
Huge drops of rain began to fall.
Seven
To Fanny’s utter amazement, her escapade in Petworth Park went unreported to Thomas and unrebuked by him. The reasons for this were various.
Firstly, Thomas did not return from Brighton for two days, and when he did, he was in a morose temper. The expedition to capture the Brighton fishermen and press them into naval service had been a total failure. The regulating officers, with their combined force of men, had encircled the town and pounced at dawn, expecting to catch all the able-bodied men still in their beds; but somebody had been beforehand with the information and the birds had flown; or rather, put out to sea at low tide, having left their boats moored farther out than usual. Only their womenfolk remained to jeer at the disappointed impress officers, who spent the next twelve hours in angry recriminations among themselves, trying to decide whether it was worth waiting and attempting another pounce.
Thomas, therefore, returning angrily to Petworth, was in no mood to listen to domestic gossip. His daughters, furiously banished from the dinner table for daring to inquire after the success of his expedition, were not inclined to inform their father that Fanny had spent a night away from home, at the Rectory, and they themselves had not heard about the earlier part of the affair, the adventure in the park. Mrs. Socket had merely sent a note to the Hermitage informing the household that Mrs. Paget, finding herself a little unwell, had been recommended by Dr. Chilgrove to rest at the rector’s house until the following morning. Thomas was not esteemed by his domestic staff, and none of them was in the least tempted to mention a matter that might lead to trouble for their gentle mistress. Fanny had begun to realize with some surprise that the servants were her friends—in any question involving Thomas’s displeasure they would be likely to take her part. And, fortunately, Nurse Lily Baggot, who was disliked by the other servants because she would not take her food with them but expected her meals to be brought upstairs, along with old Mrs. Paget’s, never discovered that Fanny had passed a night away from home.
For the next few weeks Thomas was even more lowering and ill-humored than usual; he spent much time in his garden room (which the warmer weather now rendered more comfortable) and refused to listen to any but the most urgent domestic requests.
One of these, made by Fanny, was that his mother must be conveyed out into the garden each day for an airing.
“Fiddlestick!” was his first angry retort. “There’s not the slightest occasion for it. Besides, she has no outdoor clothes. In any case, she can never be got up and down those stairs.”
However when Fanny represented to Thomas Dr. Chilgrove’s opinion that the old lady’s life would certainly be shortened were she confined all the time to the stuffy little upstairs chamber and deprived of air and exercise, he could not help but remember that it was in his own financial interest to preserve her alive for as long as possible, since her annuity would die with her. He therefo
re grudgingly and aggrievedly gave permission for her daily airings and began wondering within himself whether Cousin Juliana van Welcker, his landlady, might be persuaded that the house needed an extra room or two on the ground floor. It would be much simpler to wheel out the old lady if she were on ground level. And when she died he could use one of the rooms for an office. Accordingly he wrote off this request to Demerara, though he must resign himself to not receiving a reply for some three months. He was tempted to set about the work in the meantime—for his cousin was sure to agree, since the additional space would do so much to improve the house—but, reflecting that if he began without her agreement he would be obliged to pay for the operation, whereas when she knew of the project she might well pay for it with her usual generosity, he decided to wait.
Meanwhile he ordered that his daughters transfer to the attics and his mother, with her attendant, move down to the rooms which the girls had occupied. This edict was received with no pleasure at all by Martha, Bet, and Patty, who suddenly found their space reduced by more than half. Thomas himself had recently installed a bed in the garden house and quite often, these mild spring nights, slept out there. These unanticipated absences from the conjugal bedchamber were times of inexpressibly blessed respite to Fanny, who attempting to deserve such fortune, bestowed as much attention as possible on Thomas’s old mother.
She acknowledged to herself in secret, however, that it was hard to like the old lady. Although when she had settled in she became less confused and more conversible, she still proved, on closer acquaintance, to be a dismaying mixture of stupidity, malice, and rather primitive cunning. She disliked her son, but feared him more, and was all propitiation in his presence, repeating over and over her unbounded gratitude for being brought to reside at the Hermitage. In his absence, however, she did not scruple to revile him for his parsimony, unkindness, and selfishness. She did this only with Fanny, though, having rapidly discovered that Nurse Baggot was in Thomas’s confidence and that any complaints disclosed to her would be passed on straightway to him and subsequently punished by deprivation of comforts or other penalties. Poor Fanny, however, was obliged to listen to many grievances.
“And the way he treated his poor brother, dearie—my second husband’s son Edward, you know—was shocking as can be. Ah, poor dear Edward! Such a sweet-tempered, easygoing boy as he was! But Thomas was always unkind to him—jealous, as you may imagine, because Edward’s father was more partial to his own boy—and Edward such a bright, lovable little fellow—whereas Thomas always showed that surly, selfish temper from his earliest years. I was obliged to protect little Edward—or Thomas would be forever abusing him, for he was five years older, and stronger-taking his toys and breaking them, or snatching his food, or cuffing and pinching him—so the end of it was that my second husband said Thomas must be sent away to school. And it’s my belief he never forgave his brother for that.”
Though she could no longer make any attempt to like or esteem Thomas, Fanny did begin to feel some stirrings of compassion for his childhood. She could see how this usage might have helped to sour still further a nature already arrogant, self-centered, and touchy.
“Thomas could never bear his stepfather’s authority,” the old lady disclosed. “And my second husband, though he could be liberal on occasion, would never brook insolence or sulkiness; oh, I have been frightened, many and many a time, dearie, by the shocking scenes. ‘You keep out of this, Maria,’ Mr. Wilshire (that was my second husband’s name) would say to me, and then, to punish Thomas for some unkindness to little Edward, he would be obliged to beat him till the blood ran down.”
“But, ma’am! Did you never remonstrate with him? Was he always perfectly fair to Thomas?”
“Remonstrate? Oh no, dearie. I would shut myself in my bedroom on such occasions. Mr. Wilshire knew best; what he did was right. Besides, he was a very quick-tempered man—he would brook no interference. In that way he resembled my first husband—Mr. Paget, Thomas’s father, had a very severe nature. I daresay it is true of most men. They will have their own way, whether right or wrong, and we females have to defer to them.”
Sighing, Fanny thought of her own father, who, a scholarly, unworldly man, though much preoccupied with his pastoral duties, had always been the epitome of gentle impartiality and kindness to his daughters; Lord Egremont, too, she felt certain, would be perfectly fair-minded and benevolent in all his dealings; however there was no purpose to be achieved in arguing with the old lady, who had plainly been too frightened of both her husbands to think well of the male sex or behave with justice or equity to her two sons.
“What became of your younger son, ma’am?” she inquired. Thomas had never spoken to her of his brother.
To her dismay, the old lady began to weep.
“Oh, pray do not, ma’am!” Fanny exclaimed. “Indeed, I am sorry to have distressed you.”
It was a wet April afternoon; both older girls were out, Bet accompanying Martha to her harp lesson; little Patty, who had fortunately taken a liking to Mrs. Strudwick, was downstairs in the kitchen learning how to make a gingerbread man; Fanny and the old lady were sitting in the big bow window of the parlor, Fanny alternately stitching a robe for the coming baby or gazing out at the rain-swept garden and green valley beyond. Nurse Baggot was off in the town on her own purposes.
Gently, Fanny leaned forward and wiped the old lady’s tears away.
“Look, ma’am, see that patch of sun moving up the far side of the valley? In five minutes we can go out. Do not be troubling your mind with sad thoughts.”
“No, I will tell you about it, dearie—for it will give you some notion of Thomas’s jealous, niggardly ways.” Fanny sighed. “I had a little money, you see, left me by Mr. Paget, my first husband, on his death. So this, of course, passed into the hands of my second husband, who bought an orchard with it; the income from the sales of fruit was to be divided fairly between my two sons, after the death of Mr. Wilshire.”
“That seems a fair scheme,” said Fanny cautiously.
“Of course it was fair, dearie; Mr. Wilshire would never make any arrangement that was unfair. But my son Edward—ah, I am afraid he was a sad shatterbrain, the very sweetness of his nature led him into scrapes, since he would be always helping out his friends, who, knowing his liberality of spirit, applied to him for money. And he was forever spending money, also, on inventions which he believed would presently make his fortune. He had an idea for a machine to cut grass by a system of whirling blades. Thomas, of course, thought nothing of such a notion, and indeed, I fear it would never have worked—”
Fanny glanced out of the window at old Henry Goble, the gardener, who, with a sack over his head to protect him from the rain, was scything the lush April grass that grew on the bank leading down to the yew-tree walk. A machine to cut grass! What a strange, fantastic idea.
“So what happened then, ma’am?”
“Edward, you see, wished the orchard to be sold so that he could realize his part of the legacy and make use of the money for his schemes. But, for that, Thomas’s agreement had to be obtained, and Thomas was at sea then, in the navy, you know, and perhaps Edward’s letters did not reach him, or perhaps he had no time for such business; at any rate, he did not reply, and I fear my poor Edward meanwhile fell into debt and had recourse to moneylenders; he did apply to me, but I could do little for him, I had not much… And then I believe he took to gaming and betting—hoping to retrieve matters, you know—and found himself in bad company—and—and I am afraid he was sent to jail—and took the jail fever—and that was the end of him!”
“Hush, hush, ma’am—do not be weeping anymore—you will tire yourself out!”
Patting, consoling the old lady, Fanny thought: What a sad, unsurprising tale. No doubt the poor young man had done nothing particularly bad; if he could have been rescued from his unfortunate predicament and helped, he might have given up his youthful wildness, might
have become a decent, hardworking citizen—might have been a comfort to his mother in her old age; would probably not, like his half brother, have accorded her grudging houseroom and repulsive looks. Very likely, though, it was her unwise indulgence in Edward’s childhood that had caused him to turn out freckless and improvident…
“See, ma’am,” she said, rising, “here comes the sun. I will send for Jem to bring your basket chair, so that we may take a turn out of doors.”
Going out onto the flagged path by the house, “Goble!” she called. “Will you send Jem to me, please.”
The gardener straightened himself from his task, presenting his usual unforthcoming aspect; impatient, it seemed, at being withdrawn from his own thoughts; grave, somber, verging on hostility.
“Eh? What’s your will wi’ the boy, missus?” he demanded. “I sent him over to Shimmings Farm for a load o’ peasticks.”
“Oh—” Fanny was rather dashed. “I wished him to push my mother-in-law in her wheel chair for half an hour, now the sun has come out. Dr. Chilgrove has forbidden me to do it anymore.”
“Where’s yon wumman as calls herself a nurse?” he demanded in a grumbling tone.
“It is her time off.”
Goble’s face expressed what he thought of both Nurse Baggot and her lavish free time.
“Reckon I’ll hafta leave off this-yer work and shove her along myself, then,” he muttered ungraciously.
“Would you, Goble? I should be very much obliged to you.”
Fanny had decided that the only way to meet Goble’s surliness was to behave to him, always, with a grave, formal politeness; she saw no sign, as yet, that this was in any way winning his friendship, but at least he was no more uncivil to her than to any other members of the household; perhaps a little less.
“I’ll be fetching her chair,” he said in a grumbling manner, and limped off.
While Mrs. Strudwick and Tess were helping the old lady into various borrowed shawls and pelisses, Fanny, slipping on a pair of pattens, strolled over the lawn to the yew walk and, leaning on the wall that overlooked the valley, gazed out across the green and blowy prospect. Down at the bottom the brook shone, reflecting the changeable sky; on Fanny’s back and shoulders the sun felt deliciously warm. How can Thomas wish to exclude the sun? she thought. He had lately complained that its beams, shining into the garden house, dazzled his eyes and distracted him from his accounts; he had caused Venetian blinds to be installed in all the garden-room windows.