Devil's Wind (6 page)

“Oh, Richard, I told you I never could, you must remember that I told you so. You might be fair, even if you are cross. Now Captain Bannister—”

Richard's arm dropped.

“My dear child, not to put too fine a point upon it, Captain Bannister has completely lost what little head he ever had. He always was an ass.”

“Richard!”

“The man's in love with you, Adela,” said Richard in his most annoyed tones. “That is why I won't have him here.”

Adela looked down, modest but complacent.

“I don't see why,” she said.

Richard Morton's face hardened. Adela said afterwards that he glared at her.

“I do,” he observed, and there was a disagreeable silence.

After a moment Adela stole a glance at him.

“Really, of all the fusses—” she thought, and aloud she murmured:

“How jealous you are, Dick!”

“It's not a question of jealousy, it's a question of common decency. I won't have a man in my house, when he makes no secret of being in love with my wife.”

He looked hard at Adela as he spoke, and then began to walk up and down the room, a proceeding which always got upon her nerves.

“Oh, Richard, don't!” she said sharply. “It's exactly like having a wild beast in the room. And you are too ridiculous about poor Captain Bannister, who is most nice and respectful—a great deal more respectful than you are, sir”; and she ventured a little coquettish glance which sent the blood to Richard Morton's head.

He came across to her with a couple of great strides, and took her by the shoulders,

“Adela, do you put us on the same footing?”

“Oh, you are hurting me!”

“Answer me. Do you?”

“Dick, how ridiculous! As if one could have two husbands, or wanted to! I am sure one is enough. More than enough.”

“Are you sorry that you married me?” asked Richard Morton.

There was something in his tone that would have gone to the heart of a woman who loved him. Adela welcomed it.

“Not when you are nice. When you are jealous, and unreasonable, and horrid—well, I don't know,” and she threw him a teasing glance.

A few months ago it would have brought him to her feet. Now he let go of her, and said with rather a heavy sigh:

“My dear, you took me with your eyes open. I suppose some one else might have made you happier, but I am your husband, and you mustn't forget it. You mustn't forget it, Adela.”

He went out of the room without kissing her, and Adela sat down pouting, to tell Captain Bannister that she was afraid she could not ride with him as she had promised.

This was the first of many like scenes. Captain Bannister went his way, and next it was Mr. Burnet, the young civilian, whose name occurred in every letter. Dick was very unreasonable about him too, “and really, my dear Helen,” wrote Adela, “it is too hot to have fusses.”

In May Mrs. Morton went up to Murree, and held quite a little court there.

“There is a Mr. Duncan who is quite devoted to me,” she wrote to Helen Wilmot, who was still at Mian Mir. “He is so handsome, and a charming partner.”

But a little later on it was—“Mr. Duncan is getting rather tiresome. He has begun to make scenes,” and so it went on, until Captain Morton came up on leave, and at the end of it carried his wife back to Peshawur, where she had perforce to spend a very quiet winter, for her mother died suddenly after so many ailing years, and she herself was nervous, and out of sorts.

In the spring a baby boy was born to Richard and Adela Morton—born only to die.

Adela recovered very quickly. Helen looked out anxiously for letters, and when they came they were full of Adela's delight at being, as she phrased it, “presentable” again; and of Adela's apprehensions lest her looks should have suffered from her illness.

“I really believe,” she wrote to Helen in April, “I really do believe I look all the better for the rest, though I did hate it at the time. What with being in mourning, and not being fit to be seen, it was a dreadful winter. It is so nice to have a waist again. I can wear my last year's muslin dresses already, and I haven't had to let them out, as Mrs. Carruthers said I should. I have made great friends with her. She is the only woman here with an idea of how to dress. I am going to share a house with her in Murree this year. I wish you could come up. I think Uncle Edward very selfish to keep you down. Men are selfish. Imagine Richard expecting me to stay here with him, and after all I have been through, too—I said no, not unless he wanted to kill me, and I told him what I thought about his selfishness. Only I believe it is more jealousy with him. As if I could help people admiring me! Richard is very dull and mopy just now. He is really absurd about the poor baby's death. As if a father's feelings could possibly be as deep as a mother's. Every one knows that men don't really care for children when they are so small, and as I tell him, if I can think about other things, and be resigned, he ought to be able to. If the poor little thing had been meant to live, it would have lived. I am afraid Richard is not at all religious. He has quite given up going to church, and goes out shooting instead. So Major Morrison calls for me, and we go for a drive afterwards. That odious Mrs. Lister told Richard, and made out that people were talking, and he made a scene, and last Sunday he did come to church, and sat there looking—well, stiff wasn't the word, and a most shocking sort of sarcastic look on his face. He really is too unreasonable. I shall be delighted to get away from here.”

In the early autumn of 1856, Colonel Wilmot died, and Richard Morton wrote to Helen and asked her to make her home with Adela. Between the short sentences, Helen divined an appeal.

That summer in the hills with Mrs. Carruthers had proved a most disastrous one; Mr. Duncan—who made scenes—had put in an appearance once more, and Adela had allowed him to make her the talk of the place. Finally, when Captain Morton came up to Murree in August, there was a scene beyond all other scenes. Mr. Duncan, repulsed by the now terrified Adela, went away and made an unsuccessful attempt to cut his throat. The scandal may be imagined, and its effect on Richard Morton. Adela thought it all very hard.

“Richard talked as if I were a murderess “she wrote to Helen. “I believe he would like to see me hung I As if it were my fault that Charlie Duncan tried to do such a wicked thing. I have always said I thought it very wicked of people to commit suicide. It shows that they haven't been well brought up, and that they haven't proper religious principles. I said this to Richard, and I said it only showed how necessary it was to have religious principles, and you've no idea, Helen, how unkind he was, or what things he said. And after all it is all a great fuss about nothing, for Mr. Duncan is all right again, and he has taken furlough and is going home immediately. When he is gone, people will stop talking.”

But when Helen Wilmot came up to Peshawur in October, she found that people had by no means stopped talking. Adela was desperately aggrieved.

“Richard has gone and got himself transferred,” she complained. “I am sure I don't really mind, for this place is simply too hateful, now, but I did hope if we were going down into Oude, that we should go to some nice big station, but of course no one considers me, Richard least of all, and the place we are going to is a horrid poky little hole, called Urzeepore. Richard is to officiate as Deputy Commissioner, and of course he is pleased because his old regiment is stationed there. I told him I couldn't think why that should please him, for he always said that Colonel Crowther was a cross between a monomaniac and a sick baby, whatever that may be. And Mrs. Crowther must be a dreadful person. But of course Richard is immense friends with Captain Blake, who is Adjutant now, and Richard is a person who is very fond of his friends, though he won't let me have any!”

“Adela!”

“Well, he won't I If you knew the fusses there have been!”

“My dear Adie, how can you expect—”

Adela stamped her foot.

“I won't have it, Helen! Not from you—I declare I won't. When you said that, you looked the exact image of Richard. He is most unreasonable, and it isn't as if I were not particular. Why even Charlie Duncan never so much as kissed me. Bella Carruthers wouldn't believe me when I told her so. She lets men kiss her, but I never do. I shouldn't think it right, and it isn't only men Richard objects to, so you needn't look at me like that. He was as nasty as he could be about Bella Carruthers!”

“I don't wonder. She sounds odious,” said Helen shortly.

“Well, she is rather fast,” admitted Adela.

“And I'm not nearly as fond of her as I was. I'd much rather have you, Helen. Do you know I think you have improved a lot—in looks I mean—I like your hair in that big plait all round your head. Richard likes it, too. He said he thought you were very nice-looking, and he hardly ever notices people's looks. If it were any one but you, I should be jealous, though of course Dick isn't like that. He really doesn't even look at another woman. Sometimes I wish he would.”

“Adie! How silly you are.”

“Well, it's because he watches me. It's too horrid. You remember what poor mamma used to say about the way he looked at me? Well, it's quite true, and if he would only look at some one else for a change, it would give me a rest. Of course, I don't mean anything serious. Just a flirtation, but Richard doesn't flirt.”

“And you are not going to either. Adie, you have been a goose, but now you are going to be good, aren't you?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” said Adela, and she went away, humming a tune.

Helen sat down and cried. In the two years since she and Adela parted, Helen had learned many things.

Now the dreams were all gone.

CHAPTER VI

HOW MRS. CROWTHER GAVE A DINNER-PARTY

Yesterday's fire is clean gone out,

Yesterday's hearth is cold.

No one can either bargain or buy

With last year's gold.

Greet the new as it passes on,

Bid Good-bye to the old,

Yesterday's Song is sung to the end,

Yesterday's Tale is told.

The Mortons had been in Urzeepore for a fortnight when Mrs. Crowther gave a dinner-party, to which they and all official Urzeepore were bidden. It was a warm March night, and the dinner was rather a tremendous affair, Mrs. Crowther desiring to make it quite plain that, Deputy Commissioner or no Deputy Commissioner, she herself was the leading lady of Urzeepore society, and intended to remain so. She wore a fateful air, and a garment which was believed to have been her wedding-dress. It was now dyed grass green, and was adorned with seven little flounces of green tulle, edged with yellow tinsel trimming. Above all the expanse of green, Mrs. Crowther's brick-red countenance looked several shades redder than usual. Her masses of brilliantly golden hair hung low on a sunburned neck. Her features were as harsh as the voice in which she was addressing much rapid conversation to faded, white-faced Mrs. Marsh, who sat on the sofa beside her.

On either side of the couch stood Carrie and Milly Crowther, and when their mother wished to make a remark unsuited to their youthful ears, she dropped into what she believed to be the French language. It had a most respectably British ring. It was many years since she had acquired this habit, and it had become second nature.

She rose in the middle of a sentence to shake hands with Mrs. Monson and Mrs. Elliot. The latter put her head on one side and said languidly:

“We are to meet the Mortons, are we not? I hear she is quite lovely, and dresses so well. Have you seen her yet?”

“No,” said Mrs. Crowther. She dropped Mrs. Elliot's hand and sat down again.

“No,” she repeated, “I have not seen her; I don't believe any one has seen her. I called. She has singularly ill-trained servants. The man I saw had been asleep. He actually yawned in my face. Insolence incroydble! And he said—he said—” Mrs. Crowther glanced to right and left, searched in her memory for a recalcitrant French word and decided upon her native tongue—“he said the Memsahib is in her bath. Dong song bang!” she repeated in tones of returning confidence.

Mrs. Elliot fixed her with an admiring gaze. “One always bows to courage,” she murmured in Mrs. Monson's ear, to which that little lady responded with a severe “Do be good, Grace.”

“One never does know what they say,” complained Mrs. Marsh. She was fidgeting with the lace at her elbows, and had conceived a panic lest the hole she had discovered should be visible to Mrs. Crowther's searching eye.

“I wonder if Mrs. Morton is as pretty as they say,” she said hastily.

Mrs. Crowther sniffed aloud.

“I never liked Captain Morton,” she said in virtuous tones. “I never liked him, but if all that one hears is true, I am sorry for him. He was a most interfering person as Adjutant. I am sure he used to make my poor Colonel quite ill. Always fussing about, and wanting to manage everything and everybody. But if half one hears is true, he can't manage his wife.
Elle est très vite
,” she added in a thrilling undertone, and felt happily convinced that she had informed Mrs. Marsh of the scandalous fact that Adela Morton was fast.

“Oh, really!”

“Yes, I fear it is too true.
Trop vrai
. My friend, Mrs. Blacker, who was in Murree last year, wrote me
des histoires très,—très
—er—shocking, I do assure you. Had it not been for Captain Morton's former connection with the regiment, I really do not know that I should have called.
Je ne peux pas dire. Il faut considerer mes filles.
As it is I shall not encourage any intimacy with Milly and Carrie, and I shall keep my distance. Mrs. Elliot, how is your baby?”

“I believe it is quite well,” said Mrs. Elliot indifferently. “The ayah would have told me if anything were wrong.”

“The ayah!”

“Yes—don't you think it is so much better for one person to manage a child? I don't interfere.”

“Grace!” murmured Mrs. Monson.

She turned to her hostess with a quick, birdlike movement.

“How curious that the Mortons should have been sent here!” she exclaimed.

“Very tactless, I call it,” said Mrs. Crowther. She drew herself up, and the green silk bodice, made in slimmer days, receded dangerously.

“Tactless?” inquired Mrs. Elliot. “Oh— of course—I see. Yes, it really is when you come to think of it. Of course he takes precedence of Colonel Crowther.”

“Oh, no,” protested Mrs. Marsh.

Mrs. Crowther inclined her head—just in time.

“But he is only officiating.”

“That makes no difference.”

“How wrong! And she?”

Mrs. Crowther once more imperilled her shoulder-straps.

“If any one imagines that I am going to walk out of any dining-room but my own behind my own Adjutant's wife, well—
je ne veux pas, c'est tout!
” and Mrs. Crowther rose with majesty to greet a further instalment of guests.

“How do you do, Captain Blake. You are to take Miss Wilmot in to dinner; you have not met her, of course. Oh—you have—I should scarcely have thought it possible, since you only returned from Cawnpore yesterday. You must have called this morning—really you were most prompt. Mrs. Morton should be flattered. How do you do, Mr. Purslake; you will take my daughter Carrie. Carrie, show Mr. Purslake the last drawing you made. Milly, go and tell your papa that it is getting very late. Oh, here are the Mortons. How do you do, Captain Morton. And which of these two ladies is your wife? Oh, not this one. Really, Miss Wilmot, I should have taken you for the married lady; you look so much graver than your cousin.”

“A bad compliment to me,” said Richard Morton, laughing. “Why should I be expected to have a depressing effect upon my wife, Mrs. Crowther?”

“I alluded to the cares and responsibilities of the married state,” said the lady, in her most tremendous tones, and Captain Morton discovered some intention in the glance with which she favoured Adela.

He hastened to greet his old Colonel, who had just wandered into the room, convoyed by his daughter Milly. Colonel Crowther was small, and wore the worried air of a man whose digestion is not at peace within. He gave Richard two chilly fingers, and an absent glance, and was drifting in the direction of Dr. Darcy whom he wished to consult about a new symptom, when he encountered his wife, who despatched him to the dining-room with Adela.

Helen Wilmot, after admitting to Dr. Darcy that she liked India, and had been out nearly three years, applied herself to her dinner, and to making friends with Captain Blake. She found him hard to talk to, but she liked his shy ways, his deep-set eyes, and his obvious devotion to Richard Morton.

“Richard must find it curious, being here with his old regiment,” she said, after a while.

“He's a deserter, and ought to be court-martialled,” said Captain Blake abruptly. Then he looked rather alarmed, and tried to cut through the bone of a cutlet. “Oh, you know, I don't really mean that, Miss Wilmot,” and Helen laughed.

“I'll tell him,” she said, and George Blake began to think her a charming person. In a vague, absent-minded manner he admired the way in which she screwed up her eyes when she laughed. He thought it made her look much younger. Suddenly he became aware that he was staring, and he blushed and made haste to say:

“We've all told him. It's no good. And now he is the high and mighty Civil official, and much too grand for the poor old regiment.”

“And you don't really mean that either, do you?” said Miss Wilmot, and after that they talked about Richard, and Richard's doings, until Dr. Darcy insisted on his share of Helen's attention.

After dinner she found herself next to a pretty little dark-eyed woman, with smoothly banded hair.

“I am Mrs. Monson; my husband commands the 11th Irregulars,” said this little lady. She had a very friendly smile. “It seems rather odd we should meet here,” she went on, “I mean it's odd because we live next door to each other, and this is a mile away.”

“Oh, is yours the house with the roses?” exclaimed Helen.

“Yes,” said the little lady, dimpling. “Aren't they nice? I am so fond of them. We have been here for two years, and I have begged, borrowed, and stolen cuttings from every compound in the place. We all love flowers.”

“I think I have seen your little girl in the distance,” said Helen.

Mrs. Monson laughed— a funny little laugh, with a gurgle in it.

“Oh! She won't remain in the distance, I am afraid. We can't keep her in our own garden. She will go off and pay calls! I only hope she won't bother you, Mrs. Morton.”

Helen started.

“But I'm Miss Wilmot,” she said quickly, and Mrs. Monson blushed scarlet.

“My dear Miss Wilmot, what a stupid mistake! I am so short-sighted, you know, and I never noticed who went in to dinner with whom, and you are so much taller than your cousin, and—and—”

Afterwards she confided in Captain Monson:

“James, wasn't it foolish? You can't think how silly I felt, but she sat there looking so handsome and composed, and the other little creature had just fluttered out on to the verandah with Mr. Purslake, all smiles and blushes, and mauve and white ribbons, so of course I thought she was the unmarried one.”

“Which shows you don't listen to gossip, Lizzie,” said Captain Monson, and his wife blushed and said:

“And why should I, sir?”

Mrs. Crowther had also watched Adela disappear into the soft dusk of the verandah. This was exactly the sort of behaviour that she had been led to expect. Mr. Purslake too—who had obviously joined the ladies early, in order to have a word with Carrie. Adela had intercepted him, in the most brazen way, and was walking away with her prize in a manner which bespoke considerable practice.

“I am sure your garden looks perfectly sweet by moonlight,” she murmured as she passed her hostess, and Mrs. Crowther became crimson.

“Worse than I expected,” she said in an awful undertone to Mrs. Marsh. “Worse, much worse. I regret having called. Levity I was prepared for, heartlessness I anticipated. It did not for an instant surprise me that she should be in colours so soon after Colonel Wilmot's death, no—but some slight respect for me—pour la femme du Colonel—I did look for—I had a right to look for. Did you notice how she walked out of the dining-room, without so much as turning her head to see if I were coming? It was just as if
je n'existais pas!
”

“No, no, don't say so.”

Mrs. Crowther turned to her daughters, and raised her voice.

“Carrie and Milly, you may join Mrs. Morton and Mr. Purslake upon the verandah. The night is extremely warm.”

“Well, did you have a pleasant evening?” inquired Captain Morton, as they all drove home.

“Pleasant!”
Adela's voice was distinctly cross.

“You didn't, then?”

“My
dear
Richard—such dreadful people! Following one about! Interrupting one's conversations! You and Helen may have been amused, but I'm sure I hadn't a chance, stuck between Colonel Crowther and that stiff Major Marsh at dinner, and then interminable ages of that dreadful woman, who kept explaining to me that it would be quite absurd for me to go in to dinner before she did.”

“Oho, I hadn't thought of that! Lord, what a joke! Of course you do.”

“Do what? I never can understand what you mean.”

“Why, go in to dinner before our Lady Crowther. Mustn't she be wild? Was that why she looked at you so affectionately when you said good-night?”

“I don't know which is worse, she or her husband,” said Adela.

“What did he enliven the dinner-hour with? He has only two subjects of conversation, you know—temperance and his own health—sometimes he blends the two.”

“He was perfectly disgusting,” said Adela, with a toss of her head.

“Oh, then you had the action of alcohol upon the human stomach. That's a great favourite; he loves talking about alcohol, and always starts when Mrs. C. is safely out of hearing. She will have wine on state occasions, but it is so bad that it really does more to advance the cause of temperance than all old Crowther's dissertations. He can't call his soul his own, so she gets her own way, and he bears testimony on the sly, when she isn't listening.”

“He was dreadful,” said Adela, quite shocked.

Richard laughed, and touched the pony with the whip.

“You should have heard him after dinner,” he said. “First he talked to Darcy, until Darcy went to sleep. Then he came over to me, and told me all about his malaria, and how he felt when he had a cold fit, and what Darcy said when he had a hot fit, and all about his liver.”

“Richard!”

“Well, he did, and finished up by asking me to feel his pulse.”

“I don't think this is at all a nice conversation,” said Adela with decision.

“Quite right, my dear; we'll talk about something else. How did you get on with Blake, Helen?”

Miss Wilmot turned from the moonlit landscape. There was a queer little smile on her face.

“Oh, I liked him,” she said.

“He's a very good fellow. Not a lady's man, of course.”

“I liked him very much. All of a sudden, you know, the queer way one does, sometimes. At least I do. One minute you don't care in the least, and the next you like the person so much, that you feel as if you had known him for years.”

“My dear Helen, are you trying to break it to us that you have suddenly formed an unrequited attachment?”

“Yes, that's it,” said Helen, laughing. “Suddenly you know, in the middle of the pudding course, I felt as if he were quite an old friend. I wondered so much what he would do if I were to murmur: ‘A sudden thought strikes me, let us swear an eternal friendship!'”