“Chitipur’s a long way from Poona,” Thresk agreed.
“But don’t you see, this trial that’s coming along in Calcutta makes all the difference. It’s known I have got it. It’s not safe here now and no more am I so long as I’ve got it.”
One question had been puzzling Thresk ever since he had seen the look of terror reappear in Ballantyne’s face. It was clear that he lived in a very real fear. He believed that he was watched, and he believed that he was in danger; and very probably he actually was. There had, to be sure, been no attempt that night to rob him of it as he imagined. But none the less Salak and his friends could not like the prospect of the production of that photograph in Calcutta, and would hardly be scrupulous what means they took to prevent it. Then why had not Ballantyne destroyed it? Thresk asked the question and was fairly startled by the answer. For it presented to him in the most unexpected manner another and a new side of the strange and complex character of Stephen Ballantyne.
“Yes, why don’t I destroy it?” Ballantyne repeated. “I ask myself that,” and he took the photograph out of Thresk’s hands and sat in a sort of muse, staring at it. Then he turned it over and took the edge between his forefinger and his thumb, hesitating whether he would not even at this moment tear it into strips and have done with it. But in the end he cast it upon the table as he had done many a time before and cried in a voice of violence:
“No, I can’t. That’s to own these fellows my masters and I won’t. By God I won’t! I may be every kind of brute, but I have been bred up in this service. For twenty years I have lived in it and by it. And the service is too strong for me. No, I can’t destroy that photograph. There’s the truth. I should hate myself to my dying day if I did.”
He rose abruptly as if half ashamed of his outburst and crossing to his bureau lighted another cheroot.
“Then what do you want me to do with it?” asked Thresk.
“I want you to take it away.”
Ballantyne was taking a casuistical way of satisfying his conscience, and he was aware of it. He would not destroy the portrait — no! But he wouldn’t keep it either. “You are going straight back to England,” he said. “Take it with you. When you get home you can hand it to one of the big-wigs at the India Office, and he’ll put it in a pigeon-hole, and some day an old charwoman cleaning the office will find it, and she’ll take it home to her grandchildren to play with and one of them’ll drop it on the fire, and there’ll be an end of it.”
“Yes,” replied Thresk slowly. “But if I do that, it won’t be useful at
Calcutta, will it?”
“Oh,” said Ballantyne with a sneer. “You’ve got a conscience too, eh?
Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t think that photograph will be needed at
Calcutta.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes. Salak’s friends don’t know it, but I do.”
Thresk sat still in doubt. Was Ballantyne speaking the truth or did he speak in fear? He was still standing by the bureau looking down upon Thresk and behind him, so that Thresk had not the expression of his face to help him to decide. But he did not turn in his chair to look. For as he sat there it dawned upon him that the photograph was the very thing which he himself needed. The scheme which had been growing in his mind all through this evening, which had begun to grow from the very moment when he had entered the tent, was now complete in every detail except one. He wanted an excuse, a good excuse which should explain why he missed his boat, and here it was on the table in front of him. Almost he had refused it! Now it seemed to him a Godsend.
“I’ll take it,” he cried, and Baram Singh silently appeared at the outer doorway of the tent.
“Huzoor,” he said. “Railgharri hai.”
Ballantyne turned to Thresk.
“Your train is signalled,” and as Thresk started up he reassured him. “There’s no hurry. I have sent word that it is not to start without you.” And while Baram Singh still stood waiting for orders in the doorway of the tent Ballantyne walked round the table, took up the portrait very deliberately and handed it to Thresk.
“Thank you,” he said. “Button it in your coat pocket.”
He waited while Thresk obeyed.
“Thus,” said Thresk with a laugh, “did the Rajah of Bakutu,” and
Ballantyne replied with a grin.
“Thank you for mentioning that name.” He turned to Baram Singh. “The camel, quick!”
Baram Singh went out to the enclosure within the little village of tents and Thresk asked curiously:
“Do you distrust him?”
Ballantyne looked steadily at his visitor and said:
“I don’t answer such questions. But I’ll tell you something. If that man were dying he would ask for leave. And if he would ask for leave because he would not die with my scarlet livery on his back. Are you answered?”
“Yes,” said Thresk.
“Very well.” And with a brisk change of tone Ballantyne added: “I’ll see that your camel is ready.” He called aloud to his wife: “Stella! Stella! Mr. Thresk is going,” and he went out through the doorway into the moonlight.
CHAPTER VIII
AND THE RIFLE
THRESK, ALONE IN the tent, looked impatiently towards the grass-screen. He wanted half-a-dozen words with Stella alone. Here was the opportunity, the unhoped-for opportunity, and it was slipping away. Through the open doorway of the tent he saw Ballantyne standing by a big fire and men moving quickly in obedience to his voice. Then he heard the rustle of a dress in the corridor, and she was in the room. He moved quickly towards her, but she held up her hand and stopped him.
“Oh, why did you come?” she said, and the pallor of her face reproached him no less than the regret in her voice.
“I heard of you in Bombay,” he replied. “I am glad that I did come.”
“And I am sorry.”
“Why?”
She looked about the tent as though he might find his answer there. Thresk did not move. He stood near to her, watching her face intently with his jaw rather set.
“Oh, I didn’t say that to wound you,” said Stella, and she sat down on one of the cushioned basket-chairs. “You mustn’t think I wasn’t glad to see you. I was — at the first moment I was very glad;” and she saw his face lighten as she spoke. “I couldn’t help it. All the years rolled away. I remembered the Sussex Downs and — and — days when we rode there high up above the weald. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“How long was that ago?”
“Eight years.”
Stella laughed wistfully.
“To me it seems a century.” She was silent for a moment, and though he spoke to her urgently she did not answer. She was carried back to the high broad hills of grass with the curious clumps of big beech-trees upon their crests.
“Do you remember Halnaker Gallop?” she asked with a laugh. “We found it when the chains weren’t up and had the whole two miles free. Was there ever such grass?”
She was looking straight at the bureau, but she was seeing that green lane of shaven turf in the haze of an August morning. She saw it rise and dip in the open between long brown grass. There was a tree on the left-hand side just where the ride dipped for the first time. Then it ran straight to the big beech-trees and passed between them, a wide glade of sunlight, and curved out at the upper end by the road and dipped down again to the two lodges.
“And the ridge at the back of Charlton forest, all the weald to Leith Hill in view?” She rose suddenly from her chair. “Oh, I am sorry that you came.”
“And I am glad,” repeated Thresk.
The stubbornness with which he repeated his words arrested her. She looked at him — was it with distrust, he asked himself? He could not be sure. But certainly there was a little hard note in her voice which had not been there before, when in her turn she asked:
“Why?”
“Because I shouldn’t have known,” he said in a quick whisper. “I shou
ld have gone back. I should have left you here. I shouldn’t have known.”
Stella recoiled.
“There is nothing to know,” she said sharply, and Thresk pointed at her throat.
“Nothing?”
Stella Ballantyne raised her hand to cover the blue marks.
“I — I fell and hurt myself,” she stammered.
“It was he — Ballantyne.”
“No,” she cried and she drew herself erect. But Thresk would not accept the denial.
“He ill-treats you,” he insisted. “He drinks and ill-treats you.”
Stella shook her head.
“You asked questions in Bombay where we are known. You were not told that,” she said confidently. There was only one person in Bombay who knew the truth and Jane Repton, she was very sure, would never have betrayed her.
“That’s true,” Thresk conceded. “But why? Because it’s only here in camp that he lets himself go. He told us as much to-night. You were here at the table. You heard. He let his secret slip: no one to carry tales, no one to spy. In the towns he sets a guard upon himself. Yes, but he looks forward to the months of camp when there are no next-door neighbours.”
“No, that’s not true,” she protested and cast about for explanations.
“He — he has had a long day and to-night he was tired — and when you are
tired — Oh, as a rule he’s different.” And to her relief she heard
Ballantyne’s voice outside the tent.
“Thresk! Thresk!”
She came forward and held out her hand.
“There! Your camel’s ready,” she said. “You must go! Goodbye,” and as he took it the old friendliness transfigured her face. “You are a great man now. I read of you. You always meant to be, didn’t you? Hard work?”
“Very,” said Thresk. “Four o’clock in the morning till midnight;” and she suddenly caught him by the arm.
“But it’s worth it.” She let him go and clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have got everything!” she cried in envy.
“No,” he answered. But she would not listen.
“Everything you asked for,” she said and she added hurriedly, “Do you still collect miniatures? No time for that now I suppose.” Once more Ballantyne’s voice called to them from the camp-fire.
“You must go.”
Thresk looked through the opening of the tent. Ballantyne had turned and was coming back towards them.
“I’ll write to you from Bombay,” he said, and utter disbelief showed in her face and sounded in her laugh.
“That letter will never reach me,” she said lightly, and she went up to the door of the tent. Thresk had a moment whilst her back was turned and he used it. He took his pipe out of his pocket and placed it silently and quickly on the table. He wanted a word with her when Ballantyne was out of the way and she was not upon her guard to fence him off. The pipe might be his friend and give it him. He went up to Stella at the tent-door and Ballantyne, who was half-way between the camp-fire and the tent, stopped when he caught sight of him.
“That’s right,” he said. “You ought to be going;” and he turned again towards the camel. Thus for another moment they were alone together, but it was Stella who seized it.
“There go!” she said. “You must go,” and in the same breath she added:
“Married yet?”
“No,” answered Thresk.
“Still too busy getting on?”
“That’s not the reason” — and he lowered his voice to a whisper— “Stella.”
Again she laughed in frank and utter disbelief.
“Nor is Stella. That’s mere politeness and good manners. We must show the dear creatures the great part they play in our lives.” And upon that all her fortitude suddenly deserted her. She had played her part so far, she could play it no longer. An extraordinary change came over her face. The smiles, the laughter slipped from it like a loosened mask. Thresk saw such an agony of weariness and hopeless longing in her eyes as he had never seen even with his experience in the Courts of Law. She drew back into the shadow of the tent.
“In thirteen days you’ll be steaming up the Channel,” she whispered, and with a sob she covered her face with her hands. Thresk saw the tears trickle between her fingers.
Ballantyne at the fire was looking back towards the tent. Thresk hurried out to him. The camel was crouching close to the fire saddled and ready.
“You have time,” said Ballantyne. “The train’s not in yet,” and Thresk walked to the side of the camel, where a couple of steps had been placed for him to mount. He had a foot on the step when he suddenly clapped his hand to his pocket.
“I’ve left my pipe,” he cried, “and I’ve a night’s journey in front of me. I won’t be a second.”
He ran back with all his speed to the tent. The hangings at the door were closed. He tore them aside and rushed in.
“Stella!” he said in a whisper, and then he stopped in amazement. He had left her on the very extremity of distress. He found her, though to be sure the stains of her tears were still visible upon her face, busy with one of the evening preparations natural in a camp-life — quietly, energetically busy. She looked up once when he raised the hanging over the door, but she dropped her eyes the next instant to her work.
She was standing by the table with a small rook-rifle in her hands. The breech was open. She looked down the barrel, holding up the weapon so that the light might shine into the breech.
“Yes?” she said, and with so much indifference that she did not lift her eyes from her work. “I thought you had gone.”
“I left my pipe behind me,” said Thresk.
“There it is, on the table.”
“Thank you.”
He put it in his pocket. Of the two he was disconcerted and at a loss, she was entirely at her ease.
CHAPTER IX
AN EPISODE IN BALLANTYNE’S LIFE
THE REPTONS LIVED upon the Khamballa Hill and the bow-window of their drawing-room looked down upon the Arabian Sea and southwards along the coast towards Malabar Point. In this embrasure Mrs. Repton sat through a morning, denying herself to her friends. A book lay open on her lap but her eyes were upon the sea. A few minutes after the clock upon her mantelpiece had struck twelve she saw that for which she watched: the bowsprit and the black bows of a big ship pushing out from under the hill and the water boiling under its stem. The whole ship came into view with its awnings and its saffron funnels and headed to the north-west for Aden.
Jane Repton rose up from her chair and watched it go. In the sunlight its black hull was so sharply outlined on the sea, its lines and spars were so trim that it looked a miniature ship which she could reach out her hand and snatch. But her eyes grew dim as she watched, so that it became shapeless and blurred, and long before the liner was out of sight it was quite lost to her.
“I am foolish,” she said as she turned away, and she bit her handkerchief hard. This was midday of the Friday and ever since that dinner-party at the Carruthers’ on the Monday night she had been alternating between wild hopes and arguments of prudence. But until this moment of disappointment she had not realised how completely the hopes had gained the upper hand with her and how extravagantly she had built upon Thresk’s urgent questioning of her at the dinner-table.
“Very likely he never found the Ballantynes at all,” she argued. But he might have sent her word. All that morning she had been expecting a telephone message or a telegram or a note scribbled on board the steamer and sent up the Khamballa Hill by a messenger. But not a token had come from him and now of the boat which was carrying him to England there was nothing left but the stain of its smoke upon the sky.
Mrs. Repton put her handkerchief in her pocket and was going about the business of her house when the butler opened the door.
“I am not in—” Mrs. Repton began and cut short the sentence with a cry of welcome and surprise, for close upon the heels of the servant Thresk was standing.
“You!” she cried. “Oh!”
She felt her legs weakening under her and she sat down abruptly on a chair.
“Thank Heaven it was there,” she said. “I should have sat on the floor if it hadn’t been.” She dismissed the butler and held out her hand to Thresk. “Oh, my friend,” she said, “there’s your steamer on its way to Aden.”
Her voice rang with enthusiasm and admiration. Thresk only nodded his head gloomily.
“I have missed it,” he replied. “It’s very unfortunate. I have clients waiting for me in London.”
“You missed it on purpose,” she declared and Thresk’s face relaxed into a smile. He turned away from the window to her. He seemed suddenly to wear the look of a boy.
“I have the best of excuses,” he replied, “the perfect excuse.” But even he could not foresee how completely that excuse was to serve him.
“Sit down,” said Jane Repton, “and tell me. You went to Chitipur, I know.
From your presence here I know too that you found — them — there.”
“No,” said Thresk, “I didn’t.” He sat down and looked straight into Jane
Repton’s eyes. “I had a stroke of luck. I found them — in camp.”
Jane Repton understood all that the last two words implied.
“I should have wished that,” she answered, “if I had dared to think it possible. You talked with Stella?”
“Hardly a word alone. But I saw.”
“What did you see?”
“I am here to tell you.” And he told her the story of his night at the camp so far as it concerned Stella Ballantyne, and indeed not quite all of that. For instance he omitted altogether to relate how he had left his pipe behind in the tent and had returned for it. That seemed to him unimportant. Nor did he tell her of his conversation with Ballantyne about the photograph. “He was in a panic. He had delusions,” he said and left the matter there. Thresk had the lawyer’s mind or rather the mind of a lawyer in big practice. He had the instinct for the essential fact and the knowledge that it was most lucid when presented in a naked simplicity. He was at pains to set before Jane Repton what he had seen of the life which Stella lived with Stephen Ballantyne and nothing else.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 515