CHAPTER VIII.
SEEING AND BELIEVING.
WHEN Ferrers rode into Alibad next week, to spend his Christmas there, his excitement had died down. He had not received the additional evidence against Major Keeling which the Mirza had promised him, and he understood that he must be content to wait for it. But he had schooled himself into quietness since that eventful night by dint of dwelling chiefly on the ridiculous side of what he had seen, and found the recollection rather amusing than otherwise. He felt that he could meet the delinquent without any inconvenient display of wrath, and was prepared to enjoy to the full such Christmas festivities as the resources of the station might provide. He wondered, with something very like mirth, on what sort of footing he would find himself with Penelope this time. Hitherto it had seemed as if he could not remain in the same mind about her for two days together. But surely it must be her fault, if she could not keep him faithful. No doubt if he found her looking well and bright, more especially if the other men seemed inclined to pay court to her, his suspended affection would revive; but if she looked pale, and was too dull for any one to care to talk to her, it was not likely he would wish to seek her out. If she was no longer interesting, how could he possibly be interested in her, and was he to blame that this was the case?
Thoughts of this kind were vaguely forming themselves in his mind as he rode, when a cloud of dust in front announced the approach of another horseman, and presently resolved itself into Colin, his face wearing a determined expression which told that, as his Covenanting forefathers would have said, something was “laid upon his mind.” Ferrers wondered what was the matter, but Colin said nothing until he had turned his horse and they were riding side by side. Then he inquired with startling suddenness—
“Are you still in the same mind about Penelope as when we last talked about her?”
“Why, Colin, have you come out to ask me my intentions?” asked Ferrers, much amused.
“I’m not joking. If you feel as you did when you sent her that message by me, I think the time is come to announce it openly. Do you feel inclined to speak to her yourself on the subject?”
Ferrers shrugged his shoulders, and yielded, in his usual fashion, to the influence of the moment. “I should be delighted, but how is it to be managed? Lady Haigh watches over her like a dragon when I am there.”
“I will undertake Lady Haigh if you will seize your opportunity. Penelope is unhappy in her present anomalous position, I am certain. She distinctly gave me the impression that she had thought you unkind and neglectful. Of course I defended you as best I could, but you should have been there to speak for yourself.”
“But I thought it was Penelope’s own wish that I should keep my distance?”
“So I thought,” was the troubled answer; “but now I think it might have been better if you had not held aloof quite so much. I may have mistaken her—I was so anxious to bring you together again that I would have agreed to almost any terms.” Ferrers laughed involuntarily, but Colin’s forehead was puckered with anxiety. “Perhaps you should have refused to take her at her word——”
“Or at your word,” suggested Ferrers.
“Well, perhaps if you had been more eager, refused to be kept at a distance in this way, she might have liked it better. Women seem to find some moral support in an engagement, somehow——”
“What a young Solon you are, Colin! Well, give me a lead at the right moment, and I’ll play up to it. So poor little Pen is miserable, is she?”
“She is not happy, and she won’t talk about you. She must think you have treated her badly—don’t you agree with me? I daresay she has the idea that I might have helped her more. I hope it will be all right now, and that I am not wrong in——”
“Oh, look here, Colin, don’t trot out that conscience of yours,” said Ferrers, with rough good-nature. “We’re going to put things right, at any rate, and you can’t quarrel with what you’ve done yourself,” and Colin consented to leave the subject. He was honestly anxious to do what was best for his sister, with an unconscious mental reservation in favour of what he thought was best; and the barrier which the last few months had raised between Penelope and himself was a real grief to him. Penelope had learnt to carry her burden alone. Colin could not understand why it should be a burden at all, and she could not confide in Lady Haigh without seeming to accuse Colin. Her sole comfort hitherto had been that Ferrers made no attempt to enforce what she regarded as his threats in the message sent by Colin, and she looked forward to Christmas-week with absolute dread. She hoped desperately that he might still hold aloof; but this hope was destined to be shattered as soon as he reached Alibad.
Colin brought him up immediately to pay his respects to Lady Haigh, who still held her court in the fort, for at the very beginning of the rains one of the newly built houses had subsided by slow degrees into its original mud, and Major Keeling would not allow the ladies to move until the others had been tested and strengthened. Lady Haigh’s policy was unchanged, it was evident. She kept the conversation general, and made it clear that she would remain on guard over Penelope until Ferrers was safely off the premises. But Colin had come prepared to throw himself heroically into the breach.
“I think Captain Ferrers and my sister have something to say to each other,” he said, and offered his arm to Lady Haigh with formal courtesy. “Perhaps you would not mind showing me the view from the ramparts again?”
No one was more astonished than Lady Haigh herself at her compliance with the invitation; but, as she said later, when she was politely handed out of her own drawing-room, what could she do but go? The one glimpse she had of Penelope reassured her. The girl’s colour had risen, and it was evident she resented her brother’s action, and was not inclined to accept his ruling tamely. For the moment Ferrers was the more embarrassed of the two. He fidgeted from one chair to another, and then took up a book on the table near Penelope and played with it, not noticing the start with which she half rose to rescue it from his hands. It was a battered copy of Scott’s Poems, the pages everywhere decorated with underlining and marginal notes.
“Why, I believe you have got hold of the Chief’s beloved Scott!” he cried. “He might have found a respectable copy to lend you.”
“I should not have cared for that,” she replied. “It is his notes that interest me.”
“Oh, you find the Chief an object of interest?” Ferrers looked up sharply. “Do you see much of him?”
“He comes in fairly often.” Penelope’s tone was curiously repressed. “I think he likes to talk to—us.”
“And what may you and he find to talk about?”
“The province, chiefly. Sometimes the battles he has been in.”
Ferrers laughed forbearingly. There was little need to fear a rival in a man who could see a girl constantly for six months, and still talk to her on military and civil themes at the end of the time. “And you find that enlivening?” he asked. “Well, there’s no harm in it, but I wouldn’t advise you to become too confidential with him. He’s not the man you think him.”
“I did not know I had asked your advice on the subject,” said Penelope coldly.
“Oh, didn’t you? but you see I have a right to give it; and I tell you plainly I don’t wish you to make an intimate friend of Keeling.”
“Even supposing that you had such a right, I should never think of bowing to it unless I knew your reasons.”
“Do you really wish me to give them? I thought you might prefer to go on believing in your friend.”
“I wish to hear the worst you can say of him, and I shall go on believing in him just the same.”
“Will you? I think not. What would you say if I told you I had seen him, a week ago last night, playing imam at a pir’s tomb out near the Akrab—reciting prayers, writing charms, pretending to work miracles, and all the rest of it?”
“A week ago last night?” said Penelope faintly. Then she pulled herself together. “I should say you had been mistaken.”
“Mistaken? Am I not to believe the witness of my own eyes?”
“I would not believe the witness of my own eyes in such a case.”
Ferrers wondered at the decision with which she spoke, not knowing what was in her mind. On the night he mentioned, she had remembered, while lying awake, that she had left the book she was reading—one of Sir Dugald’s—on the ramparts. Fearing it would be spoilt by the dew, she roused her ayah and told her to go and fetch it, but the woman whimpered that she was afraid—there were always ghosts in these old forts—and hung back even when Penelope said she would come too. They reached the rampart safely, however, the clear starlight making a lamp unnecessary, and rescued the book. As they turned to descend the steps again, the pad of a horse’s feet upon the sand reached their ears, and looking over the parapet, they saw Major Keeling ride past on Miani. There was no possibility of mistake, and Penelope had never dreamt of imagining that the rider in undress uniform and curtained forage-cap could be any one but the Commandant. He was bound on one of his restless wanderings over the desert, and her heart sent forth a silent entreaty to him to be prudent. But now, as she said, she was willing to disbelieve the evidence of her own eyes if it gave support to this story of Ferrers’.
“I suppose you think I am a liar?” he demanded resentfully.
“I think you have either made a mistake or been deceived. Do you believe it yourself? What are you going to do.”
Ferrers was nonplussed. He had disobeyed the Mirza’s injunction, and spoken without waiting for the further evidence promised him. He might have put himself into a very awkward position if Penelope should tell any one of what he had said, and he decided to temporise.
“Of course I should never think of saying anything about it. As you say, it’s a case in which one can’t take seeing as believing. You won’t say anything about it, of course?”
“Is it likely?” demanded Penelope indignantly. Ferrers surveyed her with growing interest, and became suddenly sorry for himself.
“You flare up if any one says a word against the Chief, and yet you believed a whole string of accusations against me, simply on Lady Haigh’s word,” he said.
“I thought you acknowledged they were true? At any rate, you did not value my opinion of you sufficiently to take a single step to justify yourself.”
“What was the good? You were prejudiced against me. If you had cared for me enough to give me a chance, it would have been different, but I saw you didn’t, so I set you free.”
“And bound me again the next morning.”
“I had seen you by that time, and I couldn’t let you go. But what sort of life have you led me since—keeping me at arm’s-length all these months? Surely you might have been a little kinder——” Ferrers stopped abruptly, for there was something like scorn in Penelope’s eyes. “The fact is, you don’t care a scrap for me,” he broke out angrily.
“Why should I?” asked Penelope.
For the moment he was too much astonished to answer, and she spoke again, quietly, but with an under-current of indignation which drove her charges home. “Why should I care for you, when you have never shown the slightest consideration for me? Have you ever thought what a position I should have been in, but for Lady Haigh’s kindness, when I landed at Bab-us-Sahel? No, I know it was not your fault that the letters miscarried; but you know you had no wish to see me when you heard I had arrived. You were glad—glad—to be rid of the bond, and so was I. And then you got Colin on your side—why, I don’t know—and made him persuade me to renew my promise, because it would be a help and comfort to you, and you could work better if you saw me now and then. You have never been near me if you could possibly help it, and for all the help and comfort I have been to you I might as well have been at home. You may say I don’t care for you if you like, but I know very well that you don’t care for me.”
“But I do!” cried Ferrers involuntarily. “On my honour, Pen, I never knew what there was in you before. You are the girl for me. I always felt you could keep me straight, but it never struck me till now how sharply you could pull a fellow up.”
“You seem not to understand that I don’t want the task. I wish you to give me back my promise.”
“I won’t, then. Come, Pen, we shall have a week together now, and I’ll show you I do care for you. Let’s forget all that’s gone by, and begin again. I have fallen in love with you this moment—yes, by Jove! I have”—he spoke with pleased surprise—“and we’ll be as happy as the day is long.”
“You don’t seem to see——” began Penelope, in a scared tone.
“Oh well, if you are going to bear malice——” he spoke huffily. “I hadn’t thought it of you. Why shouldn’t you let bygones be bygones, as I do? Of course I haven’t been exactly what you might call attentive, but I’m going to begin fresh, as I said, and you needn’t think I’m going to let you go. My uncle will get me a post in Lower Khemistan, in a nice lively station, with plenty going on; and I’ll cut the Mirza, and you shall have a jolly big bungalow, and horses and carriages, and get your dresses out from home. When shall we be married?”
Penelope’s eyes gathered a look almost of terror as she listened in mingled perplexity and alarm. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said, forcing her lips to utter the words.
“Then you must want to marry some one else. Who is it?”
For a moment she hesitated. Could she, did she dare, confess to him the secret which she had only lately acknowledged even to herself—that she had given her heart unasked to the keen-eyed swarthy man who never talked to her of anything but war and work? To some men it would have been possible to confide even this, but she felt, rightly or wrongly, that with Ferrers it was not possible. She could never feel sure that he would not in time to come fling her sorrowful confession in her face, and use it to taunt her. She answered him with desperate hopelessness, and, as she told herself, with perfect truth. She had never had any thought of marrying Major Keeling. It would be enough for her if their present friendship continued to the end of their lives, or so she believed.
“There is no one,” she said. “Can’t you understand that—that——”
“That you don’t want to marry me?” cried Ferrers, laughing, his good-humour quite restored. “No, Pen, I can’t. You’re feeling a little sore now, because you think I’ve neglected you, but you shan’t complain of that in future. I shall make furious love to you all this week, and before I go back to that wretched hole we’ll announce the engagement.”
He was so gay, so well satisfied with himself, so utterly incapable of understanding what she felt, that Penelope’s heart sank. She made a final effort. “Please listen to me,” she faltered. “I ask you definitely to release me from my promise.”
“And I definitely refuse to do anything of the kind. There! is honour satisfied now? You’ve made a brave fight—enough to please even Lady Haigh, I should think—but it’s no good. The fortress has surrendered. I’ll allow you the honours of war, but you mustn’t think you are going to escape scot-free. Come!”
She allowed him passively to kiss her, and then sat down again at the table, utterly exhausted. “Please go away now,” she said. “I will tell Lady Haigh of—what you wish, and no doubt she will arrange for you to come here when you like. I will try—to be a good wife to you.”
“You’d better!” said Ferrers gaily, as he departed. He was conscious of a new and wholly unaccustomed glow of feeling—a highly creditable feeling, too. He was actually in love, and with the very person who would make him the best and most suitable wife he could choose. He had not the slightest faith in the seriousness of Penelope’s resistance, and felt genuinely proud of having overcome what he regarded as her grudge against him. If she had only shown herself capable of indignation and resentment earlier, he would have fallen in love with her long ago. As it was, she might make their engagement as lively as she pleased, and then settle down into an adoring fondness like Colin’s, which would suit him admirably. Meeting Colin, he told him the good news, adding that they had decided not to announce the engagement for a week, as Penelope was still rather sore about their past misunderstandings, and Colin hurried back to the fort, to find Penelope with her head bowed on her arms on the table.
“Why, Pen!” he said in astonishment, “I hoped I should find you so happy.”
Penelope raised her head, and looked at him despairingly. “Oh, Colin!” was all she said. It seemed incredible to her that, after the long years in which they had been all in all to each other, he could be as blind as Ferrers to her real feelings.
“But, Pen, is it right to imagine slights in this way? I know he may have seemed cold, but he thought it his duty to hold aloof. And he has worked so hard and so steadily at Shah Nawaz, looking forward to the time when he might speak to you again. I am sure the thought of you has helped him; I know it. And now you turn against him, when he needs your help as much as ever.”
“I can’t help any one, I am too weak,” moaned Penelope. “I want some one strong, who can help me.”
“A strong man would not need your help,” said Colin, in the slightly didactic tone with which he was wont, all unconsciously, to chill his sister’s feelings. Her heart protested wildly. She could help the strong man of whom she was thinking, she knew, but the opportunity was denied her. “George does need you,” Colin went on, “and will you refuse to help him because he has wounded your self-love?”
“You don’t understand. We should never be happy.”
“One must not think too much of happiness in this world—only of what one can do for others.”
“I know that, but still—— Colin, do you mean to tell me that if you were married you wouldn’t want your wife to be happy?”
“That is different,” said Colin, flushing. “If she was not, I should fear it was my fault; but what has George done that you should not be happy with him? He is a splendid fellow—his good temper and rough kindness often make me ashamed of myself. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I suppose not, if he thought about it,” said Penelope doubtfully. “But oh, Colin, he doesn’t know when he hurts. You think only of him, and he thinks only of himself, and no one thinks of me—except Elma. I wish I had listened to her all along!”
“If you are determined to be so uncharitable,” said Colin gravely, “you had better break your promise, and send Ferrers about his business. I could not advise you to do such a thing, but I quite allow that my conscience is not a law for yours. I see no prospect of happiness for you, certainly, while you are in your present frame of mind. I think you have met with too much attention since you came to India, Pen, and it has warped your judgment. But, as I said, don’t let my opinion influence you.”
He stood before her in his unbending rectitude, rigid and sorrowful, and Penelope gave way. She could not add alienation from Colin to her other troubles, and how could she tell him that in addition to her personal distaste for Ferrers there was against him the insuperable bar that he was the wrong man?
“I can’t but be influenced by your opinion, Colin,” she said. “And I never meant to say all this. Don’t let us refer to it again, please; I shall not break my promise.”