The Karma of Love (Bantam Series No. 14) (6 page)

In a photograph, she decided, he would look quite an ordinary English gentleman, and yet in real-life there was something about him which was different from other men.

Perhaps it was his eyes, a cynical twist of his lips, perhaps an authority or sense of purpose which it was difficult to describe.

She wondered what he did with most of the day on hoard because he was never in the Saloon before meals and usually joined the table after everyone else was seated.

She learned too that he never played any of the card-games which the other passengers found the only way to enliven the boredom of the voyage.

They also grumbled disagreeably on Sundays when there was no Whist or Bezique and even smoking was frowned upon.

There was sun-shine in the Mediterranean but the evenings were still chill until they drew nearer to Alexandria. Orissa then insisted on Neil walking round and round the deck for exercise and she also discovered other ways of keeping him in the fresh air.

She found among his belongings a painting box and a book which had a few rather stereotyped pictures he could colour and also a number of blank pages.

She suggested to the little boy that he should paint a special picture every day which he could give to his mother when they reached Bombay.

He was delighted at the idea and Orissa found herself drawing animals and people which illustrated the stories she told him.

She had never been particularly good at sketching, unlike many of her contemporaries who were prepared to spend hours painting water-colours of flowers, follies and Castles.

She could draw the outline of an elephant, sketch a recognisable tiger or song-bird but anything else was beyond her powers.

They were only a day away from Alexandria when their course converged with a battle-ship heading in the same direction as themselves.

Excitedly Neil ran back to the cabin to fetch his drawing-book.

“Ship for Mama,” he cried excitedly handing it to

Orissa who looked rather helplessly at the big ship with its centre funnel and two tall masts.

She sat down on a deck-chair and balanced the book on her knee.

“Draw all the flags,” Neil commanded as the battle-ship’s pennants swung out in the wind and Orissa thought that they must be signalling to the
Dorunda.

‘It is not going to be easy to draw that big ship,” Orissa remarked.

“But I thought you were so talented, Mrs. Lane,” a voice said mockingly and she had no need to look round to know who spoke.

“She’s drawing a big ship for me,” Neil explained conversationally.

He was not a shy child, having always been brought up with a number of adults around him.

“That is HMS
Agamemnon
,” Major Meredith said, “and for your information, Mrs. Lane, it is Britain’s very latest double-screw, armour-plated turret ship.”

“That makes it a lot easier to draw!” Orissa replied sarcastically.

“And do not forget to put in the four heavy guns,” Major Meredith admonished.

“If it is so easy, you had better do it yourself,” Orissa said handin
g him
the drawing-book and pencil.

She had expected him to refuse but instead he took the book from her and sitting down in the chair began to sketch the ship so that it covered the whole page.

To her surprise she found he could draw very well.

“Where is the ship going?” Neil enquired.

“To join the British Naval Squadron on the China Station,” Major Meredith answered.

The ship was becoming easily recognisable under his skilful pencil.

“You are really an artist!” Orissa exclaimed.

“You flatter me!” he replied.

“Sketching was never one of my hobbies,” she said, watching with fascinated eyes the ship come to life on the paper.

“And what are they?” Major Meredith asked.

“History and Literature,” Orissa answered truthfully.

“I felt you would like History,” Major Meredith remarked.

“Why should you think that?” Orissa enquired.

Then she wondered if the conversation was too personal.

Major Meredith did not answer her question. Instead he finished his drawing, handed it to her and said:

“You should explain to Neil that the
Agamemnon
replaces the old wooden line-of-battle-ship of the same name which was in the bombardment of the forts of Sebastapol.”

“Does it really?” Orissa’s eyes were alight with interest. “I have always been interested in the Battle of Sebastapol.”

“We were as usual up against the Russians,” Major Meredith said.

“Are things serious in India?”

Despite her resolution not to show too great an interest in Army matters, Orissa could not help the question.

“Very serious,” Major Meredith answered, “but most people are not aware of it.”

As if he wished to say no more, he walked away from her to the railing where Neil was standing staring at the battle-ship.

He stayed for a short while talking to the small boy, telling him about the ship, explaining the meaning of the pennants. Then without speaking again to Orissa he walked away.

Neil spent the afternoon colouring the drawing that Major Meredith had drawn so skilfully.

The following morning they reached Alexandria and there was plenty to see and to draw in the busy Port.

To Orissa’s di
sappointment, Lady Critchley dec
ided it would be unwise for Neil to go ashore in case he picked up some disease. So Orissa, knowing that almost everyone else on the ship was taking the opportunity of exploring the town, had to stay behind.

At the same time, she forced herself not to complain or feel ill-used.

She was so fortunate to be on the voyage at all, and if she was obliged to put up with some disappointments it was a small price to pay for escaping from her Step-mother.

When they reached Port Said, again she had to accept the disappointment of not going ashore, but everybody was back on board before dinner as the ship was to start its slow journey down the Suez Canal at nine o’clock.

They were all seated as usual in the Dining-Saloon before Major Meredith appeared, and when he did, Orissa thought even before he reached
the
table that something had occurred.

She could not tell how she knew it, she was only sure that there was something in his bearing, or perhaps in his expression, that was different.

He took his seat before he said to the General in a low voice, which was nevertheless perfec
tl
y audible to everyone else at the table:

“I thought you would wish to know, Sir, that Khartoum has fallen!”

“I cannot believe it!” the General exclaimed. “And General Gordon?”

“Reports, not yet confirmed, are that he has been killed!”

The General banged his fist down heavily on the table.

“If any one man is responsible for this,” he said angrily, “it is the Prime Minister. It was unbelievable that he should have delayed so long in sending out an Expeditionary Force.”

“I have always said that at seventy-seven Mr. Gladstone is too old to hold such an office,” Lady Critchley said tartly.

“Poor General Gordon!” Mrs. Onslow cried. “He was so brave and so confident that Khartoum would not fall.”

“The British troops should have reached it in time!” Colonel McDougal exclaimed. “The whole thing must have been disgracefully mishandled.”

“I think we must wait,” Major Meredith said quietly, “before passing judgment. There is no doubt that the troops encountered unexpected difficulties when they reached the Cataracts.”

“What will happen now?” the General asked.

“I have no idea, Sir.”

“You think Sir Charles and Major Kitchener will withdraw?”

“It is difficult to hazard a guess at this distance,” Major Meredith replied. “It depends on whether they think they have enough troops to meet and defeat the Mahdi’s army.”

“Rabble! Natives armed with spears!” the General murmured contemptuously.

“The Mahdi is a brilliant leader of men,” Major Meredith replied, “and you must remember, Sir, that it is a religious war. Men fight fanatically when they are inspired by Faith.”

That was true, Orissa thought, and wondered whether the General or the two Colonels at the table would understand as apparently Major Meredith did, that a man’s belief in his cause gave him a greater strength.

General Gordon’s death caused a gloom on the party and Orissa was glad to escape when dinner was over.

The Purser had not failed her and had found in the Third Class an Indian called Mr. Mahla who had been a teacher in England at one of the London Universities.

He was a man of about thirty-five who was returning to India with his family.

He was very dark-skinned, coming from Bengal.
His thick black shining hair was brushed back from a square forehead. His features were fine-cut.

But he looked desperately tired, older than his age and his elegant dark eyes often held an expression of despair.

He was, Orissa discovered, extremely hard-up but, when she pressed him to accept a little more for the lessons than he had first asked, he told her proudly that he made arrangements with the Purser and would not even consider any increase.

It was a joy to be able to converse in fluent, liquid Urdu, and Orissa soon found that she had in fact not forgotten the language of her childhood.

All she really had to do was to enlarge her vocabulary since, having been interested only in childish subjects when she had lived in India, she now had so many others on which she wished to converse.

It was fascinating to be able to discuss the developments which had taken place in India during the last few years and even more interesting to talk of religion.

It was this subject Mr. Mahla had taught in England and whilst Orissa had a certain understanding of Buddhism, Hinduism and the Moslem faith, she had learnt a great deal from him in the few lessons he had already given her.

Every Indian wants to talk and, as they had set no particular time
limit
on how long her lessons should last, Orissa was not surprised, when finally Mr. Mahla rose almost reluctantly to his feet to say good-night, to find it was after midnight.

He bowed and made
Namask
,
the traditional Indian salutation, fingers to fingers, palm to palm and the hands raised to the level of his forehead.

Orissa walked to her cabin to find Neil was fast asleep.

On an impulse she decided to go out on deck, and picked up the glittering scarf she wore over all her evening gowns.

She could hear as she moved across the ship the
sound of laughter and raised voices from the Smoking-Saloon, where there was a Bar, and she had a glimpse of a number of passengers in the Card-Room speaking only in low voices as they concentrated on their game.

The big Saloon was almost empty and she was sure that the General and Lady Critchley had long since retired to bed.

She went out on deck and moving for’ard stood against the rail to look out into the night.

The ship was passing very slowly through the Canal, the little pilot-ship with its red and green lights puffing ahead of them. They moved so slowly it was almost as if they stood still and even the engines were quiet
.

Far away, as far as the eye could see, there was the vast emptiness of the desert sands, but above the sky was brilliant with stars and a crescent moon was adding its light to the Heavens.

It was so lovely that Orissa could only draw in her breath. It seemed to be part of all she had been talking about with Mr. Mahla. She felt it almost explained without words the subjugation of Self, the instinct for perfection.

“What does it look like to you?” a voice beside her asked.

Somehow she was not surprised to find that Major Meredith had joined her.

“I was trying to put that into words for myself,” she answered.

It was as if they had been talking for a long time and their discussion had not just begun but had been continuous.

He did not speak and she went on:

“It is so beautiful, so unbelievably, wonderfully beautiful! And yet at the same time it is frightening!”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me realise how small and unimportant I am. Every
one of those stars may hold mil
lions of other people like us looking, wondering and trying to understand.”

“What do they want to understand?”

“That is the question that mankind has asked since the beginning of time
...
why he was not given the power to understand himself.”

“And you find yourself an enigma?”

“But of course,” Orissa answered. “Ever since I was a child I have asked ‘Who am I?
’
and hoped that I would one day know the answer.”

“It should not be very difficult for someone like you.”

His voice seemed to deepen on the last word.

“But it is!” Orissa answered. “More difficult than you can realize.”

“Why could I not realize what you are trying to say?”

“Because ... I cannot explain it ... I only know that when I look at the world like this I feel ... so very small, helpless and alone.”

Orissa raised her head to look up at the stars as she spoke.

The man watching could see the perfection of her profile—the soft sensitiveness of her lips and the lovely line of her neck very white in the starlight against the faint glitter of the spangled scarf she wore around her shoulders.

It was a movement of grace, so beautiful and in some ways so spiritual that for a moment he drew in his breath.

Then in a voice which held an undeniable hint of mockery in it he said:

“If that is what is troubling you there is no need for loneliness.”

As he spoke he put his arms around her and drew her almost roughly against him.

As her head fell back against his shoulder—his lips were on hers!

For a moment Orissa was numb with surprise, so
that she could not think; could not take in what had happened!

Then when she should have thrust him away, it was impossible to move.
The hard insistence of his lips held her captive. She felt as if his arms imprisoned her and yet at the same time gave her a sense of security and belonging.

She had never been kissed before and the strange mystical feeling that seemed to possess her was something that was not a human emotion but a narcotic which drugged her mind until she could not think.

It was strange and yet at the same time so utterly and completely wonderful that the stars, the darkness of the night, and the moon were a part of the man who possessed her.

His lips were a warm, demanding wonder, which left her a hollow shell of herself and she felt as if she passed into his keeping.

When at last he raised his lips from hers the spell was broken and she was free.

With a little gasp of horror she pushed her hands against his chest and incapable of speech, knowing only that she was frightened to the point of panic, she turned and ran away from him.

He stood where she had left him, seeing the frilled tulle of her bustle following her like a small, crested wave; the shimmering scarf glinting in
the
light of the stars.

Then there was only darkness and he could see her no longer.

When she reached her cabin Orissa shut the door quietly and flung herself down on the bunk to hide her face against
the
pillow.

It could not have happened ... it could not be true! How could he have behaved in such a manner ... or she permit it?

She knew the answer as clearly as if he told her so.

He had recognised her! He had known! He had seen her in Queen Anne Street and he had thought
what she had expected he would think when he was aware she had spe
nt the night in Charles’s rooms!

It was obvious, Orissa thought with burning cheeks, that no gentleman would behave in such a manner to a girl he thought was pure and respectable.

But to treat in this way a married woman, who had a husband in India and a lover in London, was behaviour to which she was unlikely to take exception.

She had to admit, she had invited it upon herself. In speaking of being lonely, she was tal
ki
ng of the soul, but he had thought she spoke of her body.

Going back over their conversation she could understand that Major Meredith, believing her to be a loose woman, unfaithful to her husband, would find it incomprehensible that she should not welcome his advances or enjoy a flirtation, if not more, when the opportunity arose.

‘I am ashamed
!
I
am ashamed!’ Orissa whispered into her pillow.