The Flag of the Adventurer

CHAPTER II. THE RIFT IN THE LUTE.-2

Everything was so natural, so simple. Richard never even asked her again to marry him. Why should he? he had come back for nothing else. It was necessary to ask the General for her, of course, and the General resented the request so vehemently that all his children and their respective husbands and wives had to be summoned to bear down his opposition by sheer weight of eloquence. Such ingenuity was displayed in devising schemes for his future, such amazement lavished on his selfishness in wishing to retain poor Evie, who had given herself up to him for so long, that he was dinned at last into acquiescence. He gave his consent with tolerable grace, and presented his niece with the turquoise disc, which had come into his possession after the fall of Seringapatam. It was too large even for Early Victorian taste, which liked its jewellery to be of substantial size, but the daughters and daughters-in-law agreed that it was a very handsome present, and most appropriate, as Evie was going to India. Unfortunately, the first time she wished to wear it at Bombay she learned that to wear Indian ornaments in India was to incur irretrievably the stigma of being “country-born,” but the cousins did not know this. Some sort of outfit was got together for her, the cousinhood eking out an impossibly small sum of money with great goodwill and much contrivance, that she not disgrace the family; but the bride herself would have sailed for India cheerfully with what one plain-spoken “in-law” called cruelly her usual ragbag of clothes.

Had the shadow fallen even then? Eveleen asked herself the question this evening, as often before. One night—it was at a dance—she had surprised on Richard’s face, as he met her in a blaze of wax-lights, a look in which she read cold criticism, even dislike. It struck her to the heart, stripping her in one moment of her new found youth and joy. They thought she was going to faint, and it was Richard himself, all compunction and anxiety, who took her out and fussed about her with water and borrowed smelling-salts and a glass of wine; and when she sobbed out something of her sudden terror, admitted that his wound had been paining him horribly all day, and cursed himself for spoiling her evening by letting her see that he was suffering. He refused angrily to let her sit out the dances with him, and happy and satisfied, she entered the ballroom again on his arm, never dreaming of doubting his assurance. But now the doubts had crept in once more, and refused to be silenced.

If the shadow had not been there before, it had certainly made itself felt on the voyage. Eveleen was not shy—she did not know what shyness was,—and in the intervals of sea-sickness she enjoyed herself like a schoolgirl. She bobbed up and down like a cork; nothing could keep her under the weather long—such was the admiring dictum of one of the youths drawn to her by her delight in new experiences, and the unfailing gusto with which she found interest and excitement in things which other people considered deadly dull. The rest of the ladies on board eyed her askance. There was something not quite ladylike about “that Mrs Ambrose”; one did not wish to be uncharitable, but really one was almost afraid she might be called just a little bit fast. No one was more surprised both by her popularity and her unpopularity than her husband, and he resented both—or rather, the personality which was their common root. That, without any effort on her part, his wife could keep every one within sound of her voice amused and interested, gave him no pleasure—it was as though a modest violet had turned into a flaunting poppy on his hands. He had had little to do with women in his hard life, but the few ladies with whom he had come in contact did not trouble themselves to amuse the men around; they left it to the men to amuse them. Richard Ambrose had never been particularly successful in this respect, but he felt the attitude was the right one. As Eveleen told herself bitterly one day on catching sight of his disapproving face on the outskirts of the circle which her hunting stories had set in a roar, it really seemed that the only person who didn’t like Mrs Ambrose was Mrs Ambrose’s husband!

Far worse was the trouble that arose at Bombay. Eveleen had naturally taken it for granted that she would accompany her husband to the scene of his duties, but he told her curtly that Khemistan was not a place to which one could take ladies, and not knowing that Mrs Bayard was heroically attempting to defy the dangers of the climate, she accepted his dictum perforce. With Richard’s old butler to guide her inexperienced feet, she found herself established in a small hired bungalow—its ramshackle condition and shabby furniture made it feel really homelike,—mistress of what seemed to her huge sums of money, and pledged to keep accounts strictly. The result was what might have been expected. It was all very well for Ambrose to impress upon her that, apart from his political appointment, which might come to an end at any moment, he was still a poor man; her conception of poverty differed radically from his. He had inured himself to living on rice and chapatis in his comfortless bungalow—dinner at mess the one good meal of the day—that he might pay the subscriptions expected of him, and maintain a creditable appearance in public. The people of Eveleen’s world had cared nothing whatever about appearances, but had lived in a rude plenty, supported by contributions in kind from tenants whose rents were paid or not as the fancy took them—generally not. To Richard money was a regular institution, to be doled out with punctual care according to a plan carefully considered and rigidly fixed beforehand; to her it was a surprising windfall, affording delicious opportunities for the almost unknown joy of spending, and to be used accordingly. Her efforts at keeping accounts shared the fate of poor Dora Copperfield’s. The entries began by being rigorously minute, but they ceased with startling suddenness, unless the butler’s demands sent Eveleen flying to the book in horror, to put down what she could remember spending—which was very little in comparison with what she had spent. The extraordinary thing was that in these spasms of economy—which occurred periodically—she could find so dreadfully little to show for the vanished money. She might declare proudly that she had not bought a single thing for herself, and it was true, but the money was gone—how, she could not say. She was popular and hospitable, her possessions were all at the service of her friends and her friends’ servants, and her modest stable was a constant source of expense—even before she lit upon the half-starved, under-sized little Arab which she rescued from cruel treatment and named Bajazet because it sounded Eastern and imposing, and reconstructed her outbuildings to accommodate him properly. Then there was Brian, who was quartered at Poonah, and being a youth of keen affections, seized every opportunity of taking a little jaunt to Bombay to see his sister, who welcomed him on each occasion as if he were the Prodigal Son. Brian must be fed on the fat of the land—Eveleen had a wholly unjustified conviction that “sure the poor boys must be starved, without a woman to see after them,”—and his ever-recurring money troubles assuaged as far as possible. To do her justice—perhaps love made her clear-sighted, or in this one case she was able to see through Richard’s eyes—Eveleen did realise the danger of Brian’s living regularly beyond his income, and lecture him on the absolute need of pulling up. Brian listened meekly, promised to comply, accepted with almost tearful gratitude whatever his sister could scrape together to placate his most pressing creditors—and returned to duty, as often as not, to spend the money on something else.

Richard Ambrose was not left wholly ignorant of the Rake’s Progress on which his wife was embarked. Laborious epistles from the old butler betrayed anxiety lest Master’s interests should suffer, and friends coming up from Bombay brought amusing tales—amusing to them, that is—of Mrs Ambrose’s open-handedness. An opportune cholera scare enabled Ambrose to issue an edict of temporary banishment from the scene of temptation. Eveleen was to go up to Mahabuleshwar with the wife of one of her husband’s friends, to whom she was to pay a fixed sum monthly, and rusticate for awhile away from shops and entertainments. But temptation followed her even to the hills, though in a different guise. The place was the recognised summer headquarters of the Bombay Government, and the wife and daughters of the newly-arrived Commander-in-Chief were already in residence. To them came on flying visits Sir Henry Lennox himself, best loved and best hated of all the survivors of the Peninsula. Lady Lennox was what Eveleen characteristically called “aggressively motionless,” and her step-daughters were being painfully trained to follow in her decorous footsteps; but the veteran himself had a most appreciative eye for a pretty woman, and a ready enthusiasm for one who dared to ride wherever he did. Brian had wheedled a gullible commanding officer out of a week’s leave to see Eveleen comfortably settled, and the brother and sister and the scarred old soldier forgathered by some mysterious affinity, without any conventional presentation or introduction. The scandalised Military Secretary reported to the distressed Lady Lennox that it was all the fault of the Irish lady and her brother; but Lady Lennox—hearing hourly of break-neck gallops and impossible leaps—confessed in her heart of hearts that her susceptible warrior was in all probability just as much to blame. Her alarm extended merely to what Sir Harry was wont to call his “battered old carcass,” for he was too chivalrous an admirer of women in general to offer compromising attentions to one in particular. Imprudent he might be, but his imprudence confined itself to regaling Eveleen with scraps of autobiography of a startling character and moral deductions drawn from them, together with lurid denunciations of such of his many enemies as suggested themselves to his mind at the moment.

They became so friendly that Eveleen was emboldened at last to confess her anxiety about Brian, and ask the Commander-in-Chief’s advice. Brian was with his regiment again, and his last letter from Poonah had shown his sister that he was still taking his usual light-hearted way, undeterred by her exhortations. She did more than ask Sir Harry’s advice; in all innocence she did a thing of which she failed altogether to realise the heinousness. Remembering Brian’s past Staff experience, she asked the Commander-in-Chief to make him one of his aides-de-camp. Since that day she had heard such things talked of, and the recollection made her cheeks burn in her solitude to-night, but at the moment it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. It was obvious that Brian could not or would not live within his means in the regiment, and that neither public opinion there nor the influence of his commanding officer tended to urge him to do so; therefore what could be better for him than to pass his days under the eye of the stern economist whose worn blue uniform did not put to shame even Eveleen’s ancient habit? Sir Harry seemed a little taken aback at first—unaccountably, she thought, but she realised now that he had probably never been asked for a highly desirable appointment so simply and directly before. But he respected Eveleen, and he liked the careless, good-natured young fellow about whom she was so anxious—and with good reason, as a few short sharp questions assured him. Then he gave his answer. If Brian could liquidate his debts and present himself before him as a free man three months hence, when it was possible an additional aide-de-camp might be required, he should have the post.

Probably the last thought in Sir Harry’s mind was the first that occurred to Eveleen. Brian must realise his assets, and she would supply any deficiency. If Brian had never gone into his affairs thoroughly before, he did it the next time he saw his sister, when the details of what he could sell and which of his possessions could be returned to the vendors in lieu of paying for them were remorselessly threshed out. Eveleen declared that if it turned both their hairs grey they would do it, and rewarded him at the end with the sum which was to set him free—and incidentally to bring Richard Ambrose rushing down from Khemistan as fast as the primitive Bab-us-Sahel steamer could bring him, drawn by the alarming report of his Bombay agent. It was too late to reclaim the money—save at the cost of exposing Brian to the Commander-in-Chief, which Eveleen’s tears and entreaties withheld her husband from doing,—but Brian received by letter a few home truths, which he took, until he had time to think them over, in very bad part, though Richard felt he had been criminally lenient. It was Eveleen on whom the chief punishment fell—at least, her husband regarded it as a punishment. She had to face the ordeal she had imposed upon Brian, when all the unpaid bills, the empty pages of the account book, the chits so easily signed and forgotten, were brought to light. It had never occurred to her that there was anything wrong in being in debt—she had grown up in an atmosphere of it,—and she was half alarmed and half resentful when she saw the effect of his discoveries upon Richard. But the breaking-up of the Bombay household, and her removal to Khemistan, where she would have no opportunity for extravagance, did not strike her as a punishment at all, and it made her indignant that her husband should so regard it. The one thing she feared was that he should learn the secret of Brian’s sudden elevation—which he ascribed carelessly to an idle whim on the part of a man too old for his high post,—and while that remained unknown she was happy.

“Brian’s in good hands now, at any rate, and safe,” she said to herself as she took a last look at the sea of mist, knowing nothing of a distracted letter which was already on its way to her from Poonah; “and what’s more, I’m here with Ambrose.” The two men in the dining-room were moving, but it was so late they would not expect to find her still up, and she slipped noiselessly along the verandah to her own room.