The Heart of Denise and Other Tales Part 22

"Now, don't break hup the 'appy 'ome!"

"Move those wite mice o' yourn hon, then, 'stead o' sittin' like a hitalian monkey hon a bloomin' barrel horgan."

A hansom had hacked into a green Atlas in Piccadilly Circus, at the point where Regent Street and Piccadilly meet. From his height of vantage the omnibus driver threw a sarcasm at the cabman, and Jehu, instead of attending to business, lifted his head to fling back an answer. The sorrel in the hansom likewise lifted his head, stood on his hind legs, and then, plunging sideways on to the pavement, locked the wheels of the two conveyances together, completely stopping the roadway. It was not a good time for a thing of this kind to happen. It was Piccadilly Circus, just after the big furnaces of the theatres had let out their red-hot contents. The molten stream was hissing through the streets, boiling in the throbbing Circus. Such a crowd was there, too, as no city besides may show; but London need not plume itself on this. Here, in that hour, when the past of one day was becoming the present of another, a.s.sembled together the good and the bad. The honest father of a family, with a pure wife or daughter on his arm, jostled the soiled dove in her jewelled shame. Here were gathered the men whose lives by daylight were white, those who trod the primrose path, and the workers of the nation; gilded infamy, tawdry sin, joy and sorrow, shame and innocence, vice blacker than night, more hideous than despair. Above blazed the electric stars of the Monico and the Criterion. A stream of fire marked Coventry Street. To the right the lamp glare terminated abruptly in Waterloo Place, leaving the moon and the lonely Park together. From all the great arteries, through Shaftesbury Avenue, through Coventry Street, through the Haymarket, the toilers of the night beat up to the roaring Circus, and it was full. I, a derelict of humanity, was there. In the crowd that fought and elbowed its way for room--it was a crowd all elbows--I was the first to reach the hansom. There were two occupants: a man who lay back with a scared face, and a woman who laughed as she attempted to step out. It was as daylight, and the rush of an awful recollection came to me--G.o.d help me! It was my wife! My hand stretched out to aid fell to my side; but, as I staggered back, the brute in the hansom plunged yet more violently than before. There was an alarmed cry, a swaying motion, and the cab turned over slowly, like a foundering s.h.i.+p. I could not control myself. I sprang forward, and lifting the woman from the cab placed her on the pavement. There was a bit of a cheer, and before I knew it she thrust her purse into my hand.

"Take this, man, and----"

I waited to hear no more; a sudden frightened look came into her eyes, and I turned and fled up Piccadilly. Some fool cried "Stop thief!"

Some other one took up the cry. In a moment every one was running. I ran with the crowd, my hand still clenched tightly on the purse, which seemed to burn into it. It was too well dressed a crowd to run far.

Opposite Hatchett's it tired, and public attention was engaged by an altercation, which ended in a fight, between a bicyclist and a policeman. I had sense enough left to pull up and slacken my pace to a fast walk. I went straight on. It did not matter to me where I went.

If I had the pluck I should have killed myself long ago. It takes a lot of pluck to kill one's self. Five years had gone since Mary pa.s.sed out of my life. Five years! It was six years ago that I, Richard Manning of the Bengal Cavalry, had cut for hearts, and turned up--the deuce! What right had I to blame her? Whose fault was it? I asked this question aloud to myself, and a wretch selling matches answered:

"Most your hown, guv'nor: buy a box o' matches to warm yer bones with a smoke--honly a penny!"

I looked up with a start. I was opposite the Naval and Military. Once I belonged there. The very thought made me mad again, and I cursed aloud in the bitterness of my heart.

"Drunk as a fly," remarked the match-seller to the public at large, indicating me with a handful of matchboxes.

Opposite Apsley House I was alone. All the big crowd on the pavement had died away, only the street seemed full of flas.h.i.+ng lights.

Surely some one called d.i.c.k? I stopped, but for a second only. I must be getting out of my mind, I thought, as I hurried on again. A few steps brought me to Hyde Park Corner. A few more brought me close to the foot of the Achilles, and, without knowing what I was doing, I sank into a seat. One must rest somewhere, and I was dead beat. The long shadow of the statue fell over me, clothing me in darkness. It fell beyond too, on to the walk, and the huge black silhouette stretched even unto the trees. A portion of my seat was in moonlight, and the m.u.f.fled rumble of carriage wheels reached my ears from the road in front. It might have been fancy; but I saw a dark figure glide past the moonlit road into the shadow behind me. Some poor wretch--some pariah of the streets as lost as I. I wonder if any of the three-volume novelists ever felt the sensation of being absolutely stone broke. Nothing but these words "stone broke" can describe it. I am not going to try and paint a picture of my condition. I was stone broke, and Mary--the very air was full of Marys!

Mechanically I opened the purse I still held in my hand, and looked at its contents. I don't know why I did this. I remember once shooting a stag, and when I came up to it, I found the poor beast in its mortal agony trying to nibble the heather--it was nibbling the heather. And here I was, wounded to death, looking at the contents of a Russian leather purse with idle curiosity. It was heavy with gold--her gold--Mary's. d.a.m.n her! she ruined my life. I flung the purse from me, and it made a black arc in the moonlight, ere it fell with a little clash beyond. I saw the gold as it rolled on the gravel walk in red splashes of light. Ruined my life? Did Mary do this? The old, old story--"the woman gave me and I did eat." Of course Mary ruined my life. Had I anything to do with the wreck of hers? If so, I had committed worse than murder--I had killed a soul. I put my hot head between my hands and tried to think it out; I would think it all out to-night, and give my verdict for or against myself. If against me, then I knew how to die at last. It would not be as at that other time, when my courage failed me. The bitterness of death was already past. I would go over what had been, balance each little grain, measure forth each atom, and the end would be--the end.

It needed no effort. The past came up of itself before me. Five years of soldiering in Afghanistan, the heights of Cherasiab, the march to Candahar, a medal, a clasp, a mention in dispatches. This was good.

Then came that staff appointment at Simla, and the downward path.

Life was so easy, so pleasant. I was always gregarious, fond of my fellow-creatures, easy-going; and as each day pa.s.sed I slipped down lower and lower. There were other deeps to come, of which I then knew not. A lot of conscience was rubbed out of me by that time. Mrs.

Cantilivre must answer for that. There again: the blame on the woman!

But when a society belle makes up her mind to form a man, she takes a lot of the nap off the fine feelings. I tried to pull up once or twice, but the effort was beyond me. I drifted back again. Things that were formerly looked upon by me as luxuries became necessaries; I developed a taste for gambling, and got into debt. Pace of this kind could not last long. There came a day when I got ill, and then came furlough. A long spell of leave, with a load of debt on my shoulders; but my creditors were, to do them justice, very patient. The voyage gave me plenty of opportunity to reflect, and the folly of the past came before me vividly. I would bury the past, have done with Myra Cantilivre, and start afresh. England again! Words cannot describe the feelings that stirred me when I saw the Eddystone, with the big waves las.h.i.+ng about it. Arriving on Sunday, I had to spend the afternoon in Plymouth, and saw Drake looking out over the sea. All the old fire was warming back in my heart. There was time to mend all yet: when I got back I meant to win the cherry ribbon and bronze star--no more flirtation under the deodars for me--I would soldier again.

A few months later I met Mary, and in a month she had promised to be my wife. I can see her yet as she stood before me with downcast head, and the pink flush on her cheek. She lifted her eyes to mine, and the look in them was my answer. A few months afterwards we were married, and almost immediately sailed for India. I give my word that I meant all that a man should mean for his wife. But one cannot live in the world and look on things in the same light as an innocent woman. I had buried all the past, as I thought, forever. Myra Cantilivre was dead to me, but she had done her work. It was an effort to me always to live in the pure air of Mary's thoughts, and one day I said something on board the steamer that jarred on my wife. It was a comedown from cloudland, and was the first little rift within the lute. I pulled myself up, however, and smoothed it over. Then the scheme which I worked out took its birth in my mind. If there was to be any happiness in our future life, Mary must either come down to my level or I must go up to hers. I had tried and failed. There was nothing for it but to bring her down. This fine sensitiveness of hers necessitated my having to play the hypocrite forever. Then again I did not like to unveil myself. Every man likes to be a hero to his wife. I suppose she finds him out, however, sooner or later. Perhaps it would be better to let Mary find out gradually. It would in effect be carrying out my programme in the best possible way. Now, I had hitherto concealed from Mary the fact that I was in debt; but something happened at Simla, soon after we reached there, that necessitated her knowing this. There was another little difference. It was not, Mary said, the matter of the debt, but the fact of my concealing it, that hurt her. She brought up in minute detail little plans of mine, sketched without consideration of the bonds of my creditors, and put them in such a manner that it appeared as if I had told untruths to her regarding myself. The confession has to be made: they were practically untruths; but a man during his courts.h.i.+p, and the first weeks of his married life, has often to say things which would not bear scrutiny. My wife showed she had a retentive memory, and, for a girl, a very clear and incisive way of putting things. The storm pa.s.sed over at last, and then Mary set herself to put my disordered affairs to rights. Debts had to be paid, and rigid economy was the order of the day; but coming back to Simla meant coming back to the old things. I tried to second Mary's efforts to the best of my ability; but I felt I couldn't last long. I met Mrs. Cantilivre one evening at Viceregal Lodge. She received me like an old friend, and begged to be introduced to Mary.

She made only one reference to what had been:

"And so, d.i.c.k, the past is all forgotten?"

"It is good to forget, Mrs. Cantilivre; and I am now hedged in with all kinds of fortifications."

I looked towards Mary, where she stood talking to Redvers of the Sikhs--I always hated Redvers, and never saw what women admired in him.

Myra laughed at my speech--it was an odd little laugh, and I did not like it.

"Who makes her dresses?" she asked. "And now give me your arm and take me to your wife."

I should not have done it, I know I should not, but my hand was forced. If I had had the moral courage I should have got out of it somehow. It was just that want of moral courage that broke me. This is something like a verdict against myself, but it is worth while setting forth the whole indictment. I began to tire of Mary's rigid rules of honesty and strict economy. She tied me down too much. I should have been allowed a run now and again. The short of it was that I began to break out of bounds, and in a few months was leading my old life once again. There was this difference, however--that formerly I had nothing to fear, whereas now it was necessary to conceal things. I flattered myself that I was still her idol. I should have known she had long ago perceived that the idol was of the earth, earthy. I had occasionally to resort to falsehood, and was almost as invariably discovered. I had not a sufficiently good memory to be a complete liar. The shame of it was knowing I was discovered; but Mary never threw it up to my face.

She set herself to her duty loyally, though day by day I could see the despair eating its way through her. I had taken to gambling again, and as usual had bad luck and lost heavily. This necessitated my having to borrow some more money, which I arranged to pay back by instalments; and then I had to tell my wife that, owing to an alteration in the scales of pay, my income was so much the less. I upbraided the rules of the service, and on this occasion Mary believed me. I resolved to gamble no more. About this time my wife got ill, and when she recovered there was a small Mary in the house. During her illness things were so upset that I was compelled to frequent my club more than ever. To add to the worry to which I was subjected, the child got ill, and really seemed very ill indeed. All this involved expenditure which I did not know how to meet, and in despair one evening I turned to the cards again. It was the only thing to do. It was absurd to lose all I had lost, for the want of a little pluck to pull it back again.

One evening I had just cut into a table when a note was put into my hands. It was from my wife, asking me to come home at once, as the child seemed very ill. It was rather hard luck being dragged home; and I could do nothing. So I dropped a note back to Mary to say she had better send for the doctor, and that I would come as soon as possible.

I meant to go immediately after one rubber. I won. It would have been a sin to have turned on my luck, and I played on until the small hours of the morning, and for once was fortunate. I rode back in high spirits. Near my gate some one galloped past me; I thought I recognised Brasingham's (the doctor's) nag, but wasn't quite sure. At any rate, if it was, Mary had taken my advice. I rode in softly and entered the house. A dim light was burning in the sitting-room; beyond it was the baby's room. I lifted the curtain and entered. As I came in my wife's ayah rose and salaamed, then stole softly out. I cannot tell why, but I felt I was in the presence of death. Mary was kneeling by the little bed, and in it lay our child, very quiet and still. I stepped up to my wife and put my hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me with a silent reproach in her eyes. "Wife," I said, "give me one chance more"; and without a word she came to me and lay sobbing on my heart.

We went away after that for about a month; and I think that month was a more restful one than any we had spent since the first weeks of our marriage. By the end of it, however, I was weary of the new life. I must have been mad, but I longed to get again to the old excitements.

I told Mary that when we came back she should go out as much as possible--that the distraction of society would be good for her. She agreed pa.s.sively. We went out a great deal after that; and somehow my wife discovered the falsehood I had told her about the reduction in my income. She did not upbraid me, but she let me understand she knew, with a quiet contempt that stung me to the quick. From this moment she changed. Whilst formerly I had to urge her to mix in society, she now appeared to seek it with an eagerness that a little surprised me.

Redvers was always with her. At any rate this made things more comfortable for me in one way, for I could more openly go my own path.

I renewed my acquaintance with Mrs. Cantilivre. She always said the right thing, and she understood men--at any rate she understood me. If Mrs. Cantilivre had been my wife I would have been a success in life.

Bit by bit all my old feelings for her awoke again, and then the crash came. It was the night of the Cavalry Ball. I asked Myra Cantilivre for a dance; but she preferred to sit it out. I cannot tell how it happened, but ten minutes after I was at her feet, telling her I loved her more than my life--talking like a madman and a fool.

She bent down and kissed my forehead. "Poor boy!" she said; and as I looked up I saw Mary on Redvers' arm not six feet from us. I rose, and Myra Cantilivre leaned back in her chair and put up the big plumes of her fan to her face. Mary turned away without a word, and walked down the pa.s.sage with her companion.

I followed, but dared not speak to her. Old Cramley, the Deputy Quartermaster General, b.u.t.tonholed me. He was a senior officer, and I submitted. Half an hour later, when I escaped, my wife was gone. I reached home at last. Mary was there, in a dark grey walking dress, a small bag in her hand. I met her in the hall, and she stepped aside as if my touch would pollute her.

"Mary," I said, "I can explain all."

"I want no explanation: let me pa.s.s, please."

She went out into the night.

In two days all Simla knew of it, and in six months I was a ruined man.

There is no help for it--the verdict is against me; and yet for five years I have been through the fire, and I am strong now--there would be no blacksliding if another chance were given to me. Regrets! There is no use regretting--ten times would I give my life to live over the past again. "Mary, my dear, I have killed you: may G.o.d forgive me!"

Some one stepped out of the shadow into the moonlight as I raised my head with the bitter cry on my lips.

"d.i.c.k!"

"Mary!"

And we had met once more.

THE MADNESS OF SHERE BAHADUR

The mahout's small son, engaged with an equally small friend in the pleasant occupation of stringing into garlands the thick yellow and white champac blossoms that strewed the ground under the broad-leaved tree near the lentena hedge, was startled by an angry trumpet, and looked in the direction of Shere Bahadur.

"He is _must_," said one to the other, in an awe-struck whisper, and then, a sudden terror seizing them, they bounded silently and swiftly like little brown apes into a gap in the hedge and vanished.

There were ten thousand evil desires hissing in Shere Bahadur's heart as he swayed to and fro under the huge peepul tree to which he was chained. Indignity upon indignity had been heaped upon him. It was a mere accident that Aladin, the mahout who had attended him for twenty years, was dead. How on earth was Shere Bahadur to know that his skull was so thin? He had merely tapped it with his trunk in a moment of petulance, and the head of Aladin had crackled in like the sh.e.l.l of an egg. Shere Bahadur was reduced to the ranks. For weeks he had to carry the fodder supply of the Maharaj's stables, like an ordinary beast of burden and a low-caste slave; a fool to boot had been put to attend on him. It was not to be borne. Shere Bahadur clanked his chains angrily, and ever and anon flung wisps of straw, twigs, and dust on his broad back and mottled forehead. He, a Kemeriah of Kemeriahs, to be treated thus! He was no longer the stately beast that bore the yellow and silver howdah of the Maharaj Adhiraj in solemn procession, who put aside with a gentle sweep of his trunk the children who crowded the narrow streets of Kalesar. No, it was different now. He was a felon and an outcast, bound like a thief. Something had given way in his brain, and Shere Bahadur was mad. The flies hovered on the sore part over his left ear, where the long peak of the driving-iron had burrowed in, and, with a trumpet of rage, the elephant blew a cloud of dust into the air and strained himself backwards.

_Click_! _click!_ The cast-iron links of the big chain that bound him snapped, and Shere Bahadur was free. He cautiously moved his pillar-like legs backwards and forwards to satisfy himself of the fact, and then, with the broad fans of his ears spread out, stood for a moment still as a stone. High up amongst the leaves the green pigeons whistled softly to each other, and a grey squirrel was engaged in hot dispute with a blue jay over treasure-trove, found in a hollow of one of the long branches that, python-like, twined and twisted overhead. Far away, rose tier upon tier of purple hills, and beyond them a white line of snow-capped peaks stood out against the sapphire of the sky. Hathni Khund was there, the deep pool of the Jumna, where thirty years before Shere Bahadur had splashed and swam. It was there that he fought and defeated the h.o.a.ry tusker of the herd, the one-tusked giant who had bullied and tyrannized over his tribe for time beyond Shere Bahadur's memory.

Perhaps a thought of that big fight stirred him, perhaps the breeze brought him the sweet scent of the young gra.s.s in the glens. At any rate, with a quick, impatient flap of his ears, Shere Bahadur turned and faced the hills. As he did so his twinkling red eyes caught sight of the Kalesar state troops on their parade ground, barely a quarter of a mile from where he stood. The fat little Maharaj was there, standing near the saluting point. Close to him was the Vizier, with the court, and, last but not least, a knowing little fox-terrier dug up the earth with his forepaws, scattering it about regardless of the august presence.

The Maharaj was proud of his troops. He had raised them himself in an outburst of loyalty, the day after a birthday gazette in which His Highness Sri Ranabir Pertab Sing, Maharaj Adhiraj of Kalesar, had been admitted a companion of an exalted order. The Star of India glittered on the podgy little prince. He was dreaming of a glorious day when he, he himself, would lead the victorious levy through the Khyber, first in the field against the Russ, when a murmur that swelled to a cry of fear rose from the ranks, and the troops melted away before their king. Rifles and accoutrements were flung aside; there was a wild stampede, and the gorgeously attired colonel, putting spurs to his horse, mingled with the dust and was lost to view. The Maharaj stormed in his native tongue, and then burst into English oaths. He had a very pretty vocabulary, for had he not been brought up under the tender care of the Sirkar? He turned in his fury towards the Vizier, but was only in time to see the snowy robes of that high functionary disappearing into a culvert, and the confused mob of his court running helter-skelter across the sward. But yet another object caught the prince's eye, and chilled him with horror. It was the vast bulk of Shere Bahadur moving rapidly and noiselessly towards him. Sri Ranabir was a Rajpoot of the bluest blood, and his heart was big: but this awful sight, this swift, silent advance of hideous death, paralyzed him with fear. Already the long shadow of the elephant had moved near his feet, already he seemed impaled on those cruel white tusks, when there was a snapping bark, and the fox-terrier flew at Shere Bahadur and danced round him in a tempest of rage. The elephant turned, and made a savage dash at the dog, who skipped nimbly between his legs and renewed the a.s.sault in the rear. But this moment of reprieve roused His Highness. The prince became a man, and the Maharaj turned and fled, darting like a star across the soft green. Shere Bahadur saw the flash of the jewelled aigrette, the sheen of the order, and, giving up the dog, curled his trunk and started in pursuit. It was a desperate race. The Maharaj was out of training, but the time he made was wonderful, and the diamond buckles on his shoes formed a streak of light as he fled. But, fast as he ran, the race would have ended in a few seconds if it were not for Bully, the little white fox-terrier.

Bully thoroughly grasped the situation, and acted accordingly. He ran round the elephant, now skipping between his legs, the next moment snapping at him behind--and Bully had a remarkably fine set of teeth.

The Maharaj sighted a small hut, the door of which stood invitingly open. It was a poor hut made of gra.s.s and sticks, but it seemed a royal palace to him.