Shadow of the Moon (49 page)

The sight of filth and disease and the callous indifference towards the suffering of man and beast was something that he could not accept or ignore, as the majority of his fellow-countrymen appeared able to do. The naked, starveling children of the poor with their spindle legs, bloated bellies and eye-sores on which the flies clustered, the diseased deformities who begged their bread in the gutters, and the noseless, eyeless lepers who wandered at large through the narrow streets, seemed to him an offence before God, and, in some way, a thing for which he himself bore a personal responsibility. Scarcely less terrible in his eyes was the sight of dumb animals, starving, diseased or mutilated, who were left to die slowly and in agony because none would take upon themselves the sin of destroying life.

The cities spawned as much evil as filth. Murder and prostitution, theft and trickery, intolerance, hatred and talk: a froth of talk that went in circles and was seldom concerned with essentials … windy poison with which to disturb the hearts and minds of the credulous, and which stirred up bloody riots between sects and the followers of different gods upon holy days. Talk that was never of building up but always of pulling down, and which could whip up hysteria with the speed of a whirlwind. But there were few such talkers in the villages, for the work of the land pressed hard upon the heels of those who took their livelihood from her.

Ploughing, sowing, reaping and irrigation would not wait while men sat in circles and listened to windy and grandiloquent phrase-makers who promised overnight Utopias provided that this or that class or sect, creed or colour were first destroyed or routed. The villages had their own failings. Their methods of cultivation did not change. They never learned better and they did not wish to. What was good enough for their forefathers was good enough for them, and so they lived always with the spectre of starvation grinning at their shoulder. But they toiled hard and they were kindly people, and Alex
listened to them now and felt more relaxed and at peace than he had for many days.

They requested his opinions and deferred courteously to them, and he found himself arbitrating, as by right, in a vexed dispute (it concerned the ownership of a cow) that had been dividing the village into opposing camps for some weeks past. His decision was accepted with applause, and the headman hastened to lay before him another and more personal problem. It was not one that would normally have been raised in Western society, but Alex had heard many such and he listened gravely and gave the headman the benefit of his advice. The talk drifted to theology; a long, wandering discussion such as Asiatics love, until the elderly headman, observing that Alex appeared tired, dismissed the assembly, and expressing the hope that his guest would enjoy a good night's sleep and find himself greatly refreshed the next morning, withdrew into the darkness.

The meeting convened again on the following evening, but this time Alex sat under the night sky and the stars on the baked ground beneath a huge
neem
tree where the villagers met as men might meet at a club to discuss the day's doings. His collar-bone, thanks to Niaz's prompt attention, had set well, and apart from a faint headache the after-effects of concussion were vanishing rapidly. He was impatient to be gone, for there was a land dispute coming up in Lunjore which he particularly wished to settle with the minimum interference from the Commissioner, and Niaz, watching him without appearing to do so, withdrew him tactfully from the assembly at an early hour, saying that they would need a good night's rest as there was a long ride before them on the morrow.

They left in the cool brightness of the early morning after a plentiful meal prepared by the headman's wife; the headman and some others escorting them a mile upon their way. ‘If it is necessary that the land be governed by
feringhis
,' remarked the headman, watching the horsemen ride away between the tall grass and the
kikar
trees, ‘that is the sort they should send us, and not fools such as that fat sahib who passed this way last year and brought with him an evil rogue from Delhi to speak for him because he had insufficient understanding of our tongue and less still of our ways.'

Alex accomplished the remainder of the journey by easier stages than he would normally have done, for he found the long hours in the saddle more tiring than he would admit; and Winter had been married almost a week by the time he rode down the long dusty road that led past the Residency to his own house.

His lamp-lit bungalow was pleasantly cool after the heat of the dusty roads, and Alam Din, who combined the offices of butler and bearer, had prepared a meal, for Niaz had sent forward word of their arrival. Alex had ridden less than thirty miles that day, but he was intolerably tired and impatient with himself for being so. He had intended to go straight to bed and merely send word of his arrival to the Commissioner, reporting to him on the following
morning; but Mr Barton had sent over to say that he wished to see him that same evening.

Alam Din, handing dishes, had mentioned the Commissioner's marriage - it being a matter of considerable interest in Lunjore - and had expressed approval that there should at last be a Memsahib at the Residency, but Alex had answered at random and had not taken in a word of what had been said. Alam Din was inclined to be talkative and Alex's mind was on other things.

He walked over to the Residency in the starlight and stopped under the dark arch of the gateway to speak to Akbar Khan, the gatekeeper, who rose up at his approach, the orange glow of a small oil-lamp illuminating his white robes and flowing beard so that he looked like some prophet of the Old Testament. He had been speaking with someone, for Alex's quick ear had caught the almost inaudible murmur of voices as he approached; but there was no one else visible now. The little stone cell in the thickness of the gateway, where Akbar Khan spent much of his time when on duty, was dark, and he had moved so as to block the doorway.

Akbar Khan salaamed, expressing regret that the Huzoor should have met with an accident and hoping that he was by now entirely recovered. But his eyes in the lamplight avoided Alex's and he seemed anxious for him to pass on. Aware of this, Alex lingered, talking trivialities and wondering who it was who lurked in the blackness behind Akbar Khan's back? There was no reason why the gatekeeper should not have a friend there should he wish. Perhaps it was some woman of his household. And yet …

There was a faint, familiar odour under the airless archway. A smell that was quite distinct and separate from the mingled scents of dust and watered earth, stonework, bougainvillea, the hot lamp and the cheap tobacco in the hookah that Akbar Khan smoked. It was a rank, almost animal odour, that suggested an unwashed human body and reminded Alex of the smell of the naked ash-smeared Bairagis in the underground chamber at Khanwai. His eyes narrowed and he said softly: ‘Who is it who sits within there and stays so still? Bid him come out.'

Akbar Khan's face did not alter and now his eyes were no longer uneasy. They met Alex's grey gaze blandly and his voice was gently deprecatory: ‘It is my wife, Huzoor. She brought more oil for the lamp, and hearing the Huzoor approach she hid within, for it being dark she had come here without a head covering.'

Alex looked at him thoughtfully. Instinct - instinct and that faint nauseous odour - told him that the man was lying. But if he were mistaken and it was indeed Akbar Khan's wife who lurked in the darkness, to force her out into the lamplight, unveiled, would lead to considerable unpleasantness.

‘Tell thy …
wife
,' said Alex grimly, ‘that to go abroad thus, even by night, is unwise, since there be others besides myself who might chance to see. And to speak of it.'

The inference and the threat were not lost upon Akbar Khan, for his eyes
flickered sideways for a fractional second, and then he salaamed low as though in agreement, and Alex passed on, thinking of Khanwai and, as so often of late, of the night a year and more ago when he had witnessed that curious gathering under the banyan tree. Mussulmans (and Akbar Khan was a bigoted Mussulman) did not consort with Hindu holy men … Yet the hawk-faced man who had addressed the gathering at Khanwai had been both a Mussulman and a Maulvi. Alex stopped on the dark drive and half turned as though he would have gone back, but thinking better of it he went on, and he was still frowning and lost in thought when he walked up the porch steps and was ushered into the Commissioner's drawing-room.

The big room was brightly lit and empty, and there was something unusual about it. It was no longer the untidy and somewhat raffish apartment with which he was familiar. The furniture had been rearranged and the place was clean, and there were no less than three vases of flowers. Alex was frowning abstractedly at an arrangement of orange lilies and yellow jasmine, his mind still on the subject of Akbar Khan, when a door at the far end of the room opened and he looked up and saw Winter.

He should have been prepared for it, but he was not. He had been so sure that, young as she was, she possessed too much character and courage to allow herself to be forced by circumstances into this marriage once she had seen the man to whom she was betrothed, and had realized, as she must immediately do, what he had become. It had indeed occurred to him that she might still be in Lunjore, but he considered it more likely that the friends she had met with on the road - possibly friends she had met at Ware or at Sir Ebenezer's? - had already helped her to return to the Abuthnots or to Calcutta, and he could only be grateful for it. That she could have married that sodden debauchee was - must be - impossible. He was neither prepared for the sight of her nor for what it did to him.

Winter had not known of Alex's return. Conway had not thought to mention it, and she had not imagined that she need ever see him again. Knowing her husband to be sitting over the wine with two of his friends, she had slipped into the drawing-room by the side door to fetch a pair of embroidery scissors that she had left there earlier in the evening. She had opened the door and seen Alex …

They stood quite still and looked at each other; their faces white and drawn with shock, and their eyes wide and fixed and unbelieving. There was a clock in the room; a massive affair of marble and gilt. The pendulum swung to and fro counting the ticking seconds into the silence, and the sound of them seemed to grow louder and louder in the stillness. Alex put out a hand with the groping gesture of a blind man and caught the back of a chair and held it, and Winter saw his knuckles shine white, and saw too that there were bright beads of sweat on his forehead.

Her own fingers tightened about the door-knob, gripping it desperately as she fought with a tide of shame and despair that equalled the shame and
desperation of her wedding night. Alex had told her the truth about Conway and she had not believed him. He had done what he could to prevent her from being trapped by this horrible quicksand into which her own foolishness had led her, and it was unbearable that she should have to face him now.

Alex said harshly: ‘Did you marry him?'

‘Yes.' The word was barely a breath.

‘Why?'

Winter did not answer him, but she moved her head in a slight, helpless gesture that was less a refusal to answer than hopelessness.

Something in that small despairing movement hurt Alex with savage pain that was as entirely physical as the touch of a hot iron. ‘Was it because you had no one else to go to? You could have—' He stopped abruptly, aware of the futility of questions or answers. What did the whys and wherefores matter now? The thing was done. His hand tightened for another instant on the chair-back and then fell to his side. His head was aching abominably and it was suddenly an effort to stand erect. He said in a curiously formal voice that somehow gave the impression that he was a little drunk:

‘I suppose I must offer my congratulations. Will you make my excuses to your husband? He sent for me, but I have had a somewhat tiring day and I feel sure he will forgive me if I postpone the interview until the morning. Good night.'

He turned on his heel, and Winter heard him stumble as he went down the porch steps, and then the sound of his footsteps died away into the silence until there was only the clock ticking again, louder and louder, and presently a muffled bellow of laughter from the direction of the dining-room where Conway and his friends were finishing the port.

Alex had gone. She had let him go, though she could have stopped him. Even now, if she ran after him, he might help her. He could not dissolve her marriage. That was irrevocable. But he would not refuse to help her. He would do something - she did not know what - but something. Yet how could she possibly appeal to him after what had occurred in Delhi? - after the insults she had hurled at him? She could only hope that she need not see him again. And there was no one else she could appeal to.

She would have run to Ameera, but that Ameera had told her that she could not ask her to the Gulab Mahal at that time; and she could not return to Delhi because Carlyon might be there - or upon the road. And because she had no money and no means of getting any, for Conway had taken charge of her jewel box and any valuables she possessed, saying that such things were better under lock and key. Even Hamida had gone …

The morning after her wedding Winter had awakened from the deep sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion to the full and despairing realization of what she had done. There had been a heavy outflung arm lying across her, its inert weight hurting her breasts, and beside her, his mouth open, her bridegroom snored in sodden slumber. He had groaned and rolled his head
on the pillow when she had moved, but he had not awakened, and Winter had crept shuddering from under that arm and from the bed, dizzy, bruised, sick with loathing and despair, and huddling a shawl about her had stumbled into the dressing-room and bolted the door behind her.

Hamida had been there waiting for her, and Winter had clung to her; shivering, dry-eyed and desperate. Hamida had crooned over her and petted her, but it was obvious that she considered that these things were but a normal part of life. She herself, said Hamida, had been many years younger than Winter when she had been wed, and her husband had been a lusty man - a bear! - so that Hamida too had screamed in terror on her wedding night and had wept and shivered for many days afterwards. But in time she had come to love her husband and to welcome his embraces, and she had borne him five sons of whom four still lived, so that her grandsons were many. Husbands, said Hamida, were often rough and brutal in the marriage bed, but wives must bear such things and learn to please their lords, lest their lords turned to light women.