On the Face of the Waters Part 2

"My dear Mrs. Erlton!" came a shocked coo, "discipline or no discipline, we are surely bound to fight the good---- Gracious heavens! what _is_ that?"

It was the c.o.c.katoo. Roused from a doze by the movement of Kate's carriage toward the church-door, it had dashed at once into the war-cry--"_Deen! Deen! Futteh Mohammed!_"

The appositeness of the interruption, however, was quite lost on the ladies, who were too ignorant to recognize it; so their alarm ended in a laugh, and the suggestion that the bird would be a noisy pet.

Thus, with worldly gossip coming to fill the widening s.p.a.ces in their complacent piety, they drove homeward together where the curving river s.h.i.+mmered faintly in the dark, or through scented gardens where the orange-blossom showed as faintly among the leaves, like star-dust on a dark sky.

But Kate Erlton drove alone, as she generally did. She was one of those women whose refinement stands in their way; who are _gourmets_ of life, failing to see that the very fastidiousness of their palate argues a keener delight in its pleasures than that of those who take them more simply, perhaps more coa.r.s.ely. And as she drove, her mind diverted listlessly to the semicircle of dark faces she had left unanswered. What had they wanted? Nothing worth hearing, no doubt!

Nothing was worth much in this weary land of exile where the heart-hunger for one little face and voice gnawed at your vitality day and night. For Kate Erlton set down all her discontent to the fact that she was separated from her boy. Yet she had sent him home of her own free will to keep him from growing up in the least like his father. And she had stayed with that father simply to keep him within the pale of respectability for the boy's sake. That was what she told herself. She allowed nothing for her own disappointment; nothing for the keen craving for sentiment which lay behind her refinement. All she asked from fate was that the future might be no worse than the past; so that she could keep up the fiction to the end.

And as she drove, a sudden sound made her start, for--soldier's wife though she was--the report of a rifle always set her heart a-beating.

Then from the darkness came a long-drawn howl; for over on the other side of the river they were beginning to shoot down the hungry beasts which all through the long sunny day had found no master.

The barter of _their_ lives was complete. The last "Going! Going!

Gone!" had come, and they had pa.s.sed to settle the account elsewhere.

So, amid this dropping fire of kindly meant destruction, the night fell soft and warm over the s.h.i.+mmering river and the scented gardens with the town hidden in their midst.

CHAPTER II.

HOME, SWEET HOME?

"You sent for me, I believe, Mrs. Erlton."

"Yes, Mr. Greyman, I sent for you."

Both voices came reluctantly into the persistent cooing of doves which filled the room, for the birds were perched among a coral begonia overhanging the veranda. But the man had so far the best of it in the difficult interview which was evidently beginning, in that he stood with his back to the French window through which he had just entered; his face, therefore, was in shadow. Hers, as she paused, arrested by surprise, faced the light. For Kate Erlton, when she sent for James Greyman in the hopes of bribing him to silence regarding the match which had been run the evening before between his horse and her husband's, had not expected to see a gentleman in the person of an ex-jockey, trainer, and general hanger-on to the late King's stables.

The diamonds with which she had meant to purchase honor lay on the table, but this man would not take diamonds. What would he take? She scanned his face anxiously, yet with a certain relief in her disappointment; for the clean-shaven contours were fine, if a trifle stern; and the mouth, barely hidden by a slight mustache, was thin-lipped, well cut.

"Yes! I sent for you," she continued--and the even confidence of her own voice surprised her. "I meant to ask how much you would want to keep this miserable business quiet; but now----" She paused, and her hand, which had been resting on the center table, s.h.i.+fted its position to push aside the jewel-case; as if that were sufficient explanation.

"But now?" he echoed formally, though his eyes followed the action.

She raised hers to his, looking him full in the face. They were beautiful eyes, and their cold gray blue, with the northern glint of steel in it, gave James Greyman an odd thrill. He had not looked into eyes like these for many a long year. Not since, in a room just like this one, homely and English in every twist and turn of foreign flowers and furniture, he had ruined his life for a pair of eyes, as coldly pure as these, to look at. He did not mean to do it again.

"But now I can only ask you to be kind, and generous, Mr. Greyman! I want you to save my husband from the disgrace your claim must bring--if you press it."

Once more the monotonous cooing from the outside filled the darkness and the light of the large, lofty room. For it was curiously dark in the raftered roof and the distant corners; curiously light in the great bars of golden suns.h.i.+ne slanting across the floor. In one of them James Greyman stood, a dark silhouette against an arch of pale blue sky, wreathed by the climbing begonia. He was a man of about forty, looking younger than his age, taller than his real height, by reason of his beardless face and the extreme ease and grace of his figure. He was burned brown as a native by constant exposure to the sun; but as he stooped to pick up his glove which had slipped from his hold, a rim of white showed above his wrist.

"So I supposed; but why should I save him?" he said briefly. The question, thus crudely put, left her without reply for a minute; during which he waited. Then, with a new tinge of softness in his voice, he went on: "It was a mistake to send for me. I thought so at the time, though, of course, I had no option. But now----"

"But now?" she echoed in her turn.

"There is nothing to be done save to go away again." He turned at the words, but she stopped him by a gesture.

"Is there not?" she asked. "I think there is, and so will you if you understand--if you will wait and let me speak." His evident impatience made her add quickly, "You can at least do so much for me, surely?"

There was a quiver in her voice now, and it surprised her as her previous calm had done; for what was this man to her that his unkindness should give pain?

"Certainly," he said, pausing at once, "but I understand too much, and I cannot see the use of raking up details. You know them--or think you do. Either way they do not alter the plain fact that I cannot help--because I would not if I could. That sounds brutal; but, unfortunately, it is true. And it is best to tell the truth, as far as it can be told."

A faint smile curved her lips. "That is not far. If you will wait I will tell you the truth to the bitter end."

He looked at her with sudden interest, for her pride attracted him. She was not in the least pretty; she might be any age from five-and-twenty to five-and-thirty. And she--well! she was a lady. But would she tell the truth? Women, even ladies, seldom did; still he must wait and hear what she had to say.

"I sent for you," she began, "because, knowing you were an adventurer, a man who had had to leave the army under a cloud--in disgrace----"

He stared at her blankly. Here was the truth about himself at any rate!

"I thought, naturally, you would be a man who would take a bribe.

There are diamonds in that case; for money is scarce in this house."

She paused, to gain firmness for what came next. "I was keeping them for the boy. I have a son in England and he will have to go to school soon; but I thought it better to save his father's reputation instead.

They are fine diamonds"--she drew the case closer and opened it--the suns.h.i.+ne, streaming in, caught the facets of the stones, turning them to liquid light. "You needn't tell me they are no use," she went on quickly, as he seemed about to speak; "I am not stupid; but that has nothing to do with the question. I want you to save my husband--don't interrupt me, please, for I do want you to understand, and I will tell you the truth. You asked me why? and you think, no doubt, that he does not deserve to be saved. Do you think I do not know that? Mr. Greyman!

a wife knows more of her husband than anyone else can do; and I have known for so many years."

A sudden softness came into her hearer's eyes. That was true at any rate. She must know many things of which she could not speak; a sort of horror at what she must know, with a man like Major Erlton as her husband, held him silent.

"Yet I have saved him so far," she went on, "but if what happened yesterday becomes public property all my trouble is in vain. He will have to leave the regiment----"

"He is not the first man, as you were kind enough to mention just now," interrupted James Greyman, "who has had to leave the army under a cloud. He would survive it--as others have done."

"I was not thinking of him at all," she replied quietly. "I was thinking of my son; my only son."

"There are other only sons also, Mrs. Erlton," he retorted. "I was my mother's, but I don't think the fact was taken into consideration by the court-martial. Why should I be more lenient? You have come to the wrong person when you come to me for charity or consideration. None was shown to me."

"Perhaps because you did not need it," she said quickly.

"Not need it?"

"Many a man falls under the shadow of a cloud blamelessly. What do they want with charity?"

He rose swiftly and so, facing the light again, stood looking out into it. "I am obliged to you," he said after a pause. "Whether you are right or wrong doesn't affect the question from which we have wandered. Except--" he turned to her again with a certain eagerness--"Mrs. Erlton! You say you are prepared to tell the truth to the bitter end; then for Heaven's sake let us have it for once in our lives. You never saw me before, nor I you. It is not likely we shall ever meet again. So we can speak without a past or a future tense. You ask me to save your husband from the consequences of his own cheating.

I ask why? Why should I sacrifice myself? Why should I suffer? for, mark you, there were heavy bets----"

"There are the diamonds," she interrupted, pointing to them; their gleam was scarcely brighter than her scornful eyes.

He gave a half smile. "Doubtless there are the diamonds! I can have my equivalent, so far, if I choose; but I don't choose. It does not suit me personally; so that is settled. I can't do this thing, then, to please myself. Now, let us go on. You are a religious woman, I think, Mrs. Erlton--you have the look of one. Then you will say that I should remember my own frailty, and forgive as I would be forgiven. Mrs.

Erlton! I am no better than most men, no doubt, but I never remember cheating at cards or pulling a horse as your husband does--it is the brutal truth between us, remember. And if you tell me I'm bound to protect a man from the natural punishment of a great crime because I've stolen a pin, I say you are wrong. That theory won't hold water.

If our own faults, even our own crimes, are to make us tender over these things in others, there must be--what, if I remember right, my Colenso used to call an arithmetical progression in error until the Day of Judgment; for the odds on sin would rise with every crime. I don't believe in mercy, Mrs. Erlton. I never did. Justice doesn't need it. So let us leave religion alone too, and come to other things--altruism--charity--what you will. Now who will benefit by my silence? Will you? You said just now that a wife knows more of her husband than a stranger can. I well believe it. That is why I ask you to tell me frankly, if you really think that a continuance of the life you lead with him can benefit you?" He leaned over the table, resting his head on his hand, his eyes on hers, and then added in a lower voice, "The brutal truth, please. Not as a woman to man, or, for the matter of that, woman to woman; but soul to soul, if there be such a thing."

She turned away from him and shook her head. "It is for the boy's sake," she said in m.u.f.fled tones. "It will be better for him, surely."

"The boy," he echoed, rising with a sense of relief. She had not lied, this woman with the beautiful eyes; she had simply shut the door in his face. "You have a portrait of him, no doubt, somewhere. I should like to see it. Is that it, over the mantelpiece?"

He walked over to a colored photograph, and stood looking at it silently, his hands--holding his hunting crop--clasped loosely behind his back. Kate noticed them even in her anxiety; for they were noticeable, nervous, fine-cut hands, matching the figure.

"He is not the least like you. He is the very image of his father,"

came the verdict. "What right have you to suppose that anything you or I can do now will overcome the initial fact that the boy is your husband's son, any more than it will ease you of the responsibility of having chosen such a father for the boy?"