Interference

“On the 5th instant, at the Cathedral, Bombay, by the Rev. Erasmus Jones, George Holroyd, Lieutenant, Her Majesty’s Royal Musketeers, only son of the late George Holroyd, and grandson of Sir Mowbray Holroyd, of Rivals Place, county Durham, to Isabelle Felicité, daughter of the late Fergus Redmond, grand-niece of Lord Bogberry, and great-grand-niece of the Marquis of Round Tower. By Telegram.”

Mrs. Redmond herself had composed this high-sounding announcement, and had handed it to Colonel Calvert, with instructions to insert the date, and not to trust it to Holroyd, but to see to it himself—perhaps in her secret heart she feared that George might modify her magnificent composition.

The wedding was strictly private, and if the bridegroom looked haggard and pre-occupied, the bride was both blooming and beaming. The Calverts and Miss Gay were the only guests, and after the ceremony, the happy pair went direct to the railway station, and departed on a tour up country. They visited Jeypore, Ajmir, Delhi, Agra, and Lucknow. Belle liked the bustle, the constant change, the novelty of her surroundings, the admiring eyes of other passengers, and the luxury of having every wish most carefully studied. But she did not much appreciate Indian sights and Indian scenery. She gave them but a very cursory notice, her attention being chiefly centred on her fellow travellers. It was the flood-tide of the globe-trotting season—English, Americans, French, and Australians, were scattered over the land in hundreds, “doing India,” from a certain point of view, and believing that when they had seen the Taj at Agra, the burning ghaut at Benares, the snows at Darjeeling, a snake charmer, and a fakeer, they were henceforth qualified authorities on the Eastern question! The hotels were crammed, the proprietors reaping a golden harvest, and often at their wits’ end to find quarters for their guests. Belle enjoyed the numerous and varied society she met at the table d’hôte, her roving, challenging dark eyes daily wandered among what were, to her, entirely new types. There was the purse-proud, tubby little man, who scorned the letter H and expected to be served as promptly and as obsequiously as if he were in his own house; who roared and stormed in English at amazed Mahomedan khitmatgars, who did not understand either him or his wants. There were the people who entered into conversation right and left, and cheerfully discussed plans and places, the people who never opened their mouths but to receive their forks—or knives; the people who ate everything, the people who barely tasted a morsel—and the delicate couple from Calcutta who had brought their own cook! The American party, mostly wearing pince-nez, bright, brisk, agreeable, seeing the world at rail-road speed and pleased with all they saw, sleeping in trains, eating in “ticca” gharries, en route to some sight, and writing up their diaries at every spare moment. The English family—comprised of a father collecting facts, a mother collecting pottery, two pretty daughters, a valet and a maid—to whom time and money were no object, and who were a perfect fortune to the hawkers who haunted the hotel verandahs. There was the gentleman from New Zealand, who was surprised at nothing but the gigantic size of the cockroaches, and the ruddy-cheeked youth from Belfast, who was surprised at everything, and who half expected to see tigers sporting on the Apollo Bunder or chasing the Bombay trams; also the two cautious ladies, who brought their hand-bags to the table, and read guide books between the courses. Moreover, there was the handsome rich young man who had come out to shoot big game, and discoursed eloquently of the delights of the Terai, and the merits of explosive bullets, and shikar elephants, and was not unlikely to be “brought down” himself by the bright eyes of an Australian girl, who played off Japan against the jungles. Last, but not least, the seasoned Anglo-Indian, passing through to his district or his regiment up country, who spoke the language glibly, helped his fellow creatures to make their wants understood, and seemed absolutely at home with his trusty bearer, his bedding, and his tiffin basket—and being well known to the hotel baboo, and so to speak on his adopted heath, secured, without a second’s demur, the best room, and the best attention. Many of these travellers were encountered by the Holroyds over and over again, and Belle, in her lively way, had devised nicknames for most of them; nor did they themselves pass unnoticed. No one suspected them of being newly married, for Belle, though smartly dressed and remarkably handsome, was no young girl; nor were she and her husband selfishly absorbed in one another, to the exclusion of ordinary mortals. They were known among their companies as “the lady with the poodle,” and “the man with the headache,” for George looked as if he were a continual martyr to that distressing affliction. He was unmistakably an officer—the lively girl who had been in Japan declared she guessed it by his boots—and the couple were supposed to be residents taking a little cold weather tour, à la Darby and Joan. This mistake was intolerable to Belle, and she pursued one harmless lady with undying animosity, because as they were shuffling out to Amba, on the same elephant, she had innocently remarked:

“I suppose this sort of a ride is no novelty to you—you are quite accustomed to India.”

Belle, whose temper was precarious, and who was now in a deadly fright, and consequently inclined to be cross, said snappishly:

“Pray how long do you suppose I have been married?”

“Well, say ten years——”

“Say ten days,” rejoined the bride, with laconic severity.

“Oh my! I am vexed. Well, I hope you’ll excuse me;” but Belle did not do anything so generous, and cut her dead when they subsequently met at Laurie’s Hotel, Agra. The moon was full and, as a natural consequence, so was the hotel; for what sight so renowned as the Taj by moonlight? Belle went over the fort, grumbling and reluctant, in the wake of a conscientious guide; the day was warm and there was far too much to see! The Motee Musjid, the Jasmin Tower, the dining halls, durbar halls, tilting yards, court yards, and baths—the combined works of Akbar and Shahjehan. Her taste was more for the horrible than the beautiful, and when she was taken from marble halls above, to dark dungeons and underground passages below, and when she had crawled, torch in hand, through a hole in the wall, and seen with her own eyes the secret chamber where women of the palace were strangled and thrown into the Jumna, she expressed herself as deeply interested and gratified. The tomb across the river was duly visited, and then the Taj. Yes. She admired it! but it aroused her enthusiasm in a much fainter degree than the contents of a shop of gold and silver embroidery, although the sight that bursts on the traveller as he enters the great gateway, and catches the first glimpse of the approach, surmounted by the famous dome and minarets, is surely unsurpassed. The Taj, to translate its name, is “the crown” of every building in the world, and it is to be regretted that Shahjehan did not live to carry out his intention of building a similar tomb for himself in black marble at the other side of the river, connecting the two by a marble bridge.

Belle agreed to a second visit by moonlight, because, as she assured herself, “it was a thing to say she had seen,” but the admiration the Tomb evoked, the intent look on men’s faces, the tears in the women’s eyes, merely filled her with amazement and derision. She praised the delicate Italian inlaid work, and the lace-like marble screens, and tried her not particularly sweet voice, under the echoing dome, with a shrill roulade that considerably startled her unprepared audience. At eleven o’clock at night she again found herself in the Taj gardens; “much too early,” she grumbled, as she seated herself on a bench half-way between the Taj and the entrance. “The other people won’t be here for an hour.” It was evidently “other people” she had come to see. George made no remark; he stood behind her with his arms folded. He had always secretly worshipped the beautiful in nature and art—an Indian sunset in the rains, a chain of lofty snow-clad peaks at sunrise, a fair landscape bathed in moonlight, appealed at once to his taste, and the building before him, with its pearl-white dome rising into the dark blue starry sky, the stately grace of this crown of love, the beauty of this perfect monument to a woman’s memory, crept into his senses and sank into his soul. The moon was so bright, the air so clear, that he could distinguish the fretwork, and the heavy-headed lilies around the basement of the tomb, and this garden, in which “the light of the Harem” had lain for eighteen years—whilst thousands of workmen laboured, aye, and died for her fame—was truly a fitting setting for so pure a gem of art, with its tall trees and paved walks, its fountains and fish ponds, its masses of yellow roses and groves of fragrant orange blossoms, now filling the air with their perfume. What a paradise for lovers, thought George, an ideal spot for whispered vows this exquisite Eastern night! But what had he to do with love? He was a married man, and in his heart, there was not one spark of love for the smart little lady, with the dog on her knee, who was his own, his wife, his other self for evermore, who had a right to be beside him, and to share his lot, as long as they both should live. Esteem he might give her, respect and a certain kind of admiration, and possibly affection; but love—Never! Meanwhile it was his most urgent duty to disguise the truth, and sharp as Belle was, she never once guessed it. Who could be more attentive than George? Her merest hint was caught at, the best carriages and best rooms were secured for her everywhere in advance by telegram; he protected her from rain or heat, from draught or dust, as if she were made of wax. And he had given her most lovely presents. Such a diamond ring and such a pair of earrings! If poor Maria Finny could only see them she would die—die of envy, hatred and malice. His affection was not demonstrative but practical—and, as such, was appreciated and preferred.

As George’s sombre eyes fell upon his companion, he noticed that she was now gazing at the Taj in an entirely different attitude, with an air of rapt, absorbed meditation. Ah, it had grown on her at last, as it did on every one; she had even dislodged “Mossoo,” who was hunting frogs, with all the zeal of his nation.

“Well, Belle, a penny for your thoughts?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh,” rousing herself to look at him. “Well, I was wondering, if I could get any curling pins here? and do you know, that I have been thinking seriously about that blue and silver dress front; perhaps I ought to take the pink one after all—you remember the one at the corner shop; there was more stuff for the body. What do you say, dear?”

Here was a companion with whom to gaze on earth’s loveliness! No, no, Belle had, as she boasted, no sentiment about her; she did not care for past greatness,—the marble glories of Shahjehan, nor the red granite courts of Akbar. She much preferred the present age, a brisk drive back to the hotel, and a nice little hot supper; yes, she would rather have mulled claret and cutlets, than moonlight and marble!

“Have both if you like,” returned George after a momentary silence, “and had we not better be making a start?”

“Both!” rising to her feet. “Oh, you dear, good, generous George,” taking his arm as she spoke. “If you are quite sure that I am not too extravagant, for there is something else I want.”

“What is that?”

“A present for Betty; you know how good she has been to me; she really worked like a slave to get me ready, and I would like to send her something pretty; it need not cost much, but she has no nice things, no generous George to give her presents,” glancing up coquettishly into his face. How white he looked—or was it the moon? “You know what a dull life she leads—any little pleasure, any little surprise——”

“She won’t be dull when she is Mrs. Moore,” he interrupted sharply.

“I shall tell you a great secret, that no one knows but me; she will never marry Ghosty, never. She was quite angry with me, when I teased her. She declares she will never marry any one, and if she keeps her word, as I hope she will—for who is there to marry at Ballingoole?—it will make my mind so easy about poor mamma!”

As Belle made this sweet, unselfish remark, they had reached the entrance, and whilst she was coaxing “Mossoo” into the carriage, George turned away, ostensibly to take one last look at the Taj as it appeared framed by the great gateway, but it was not of the Taj that he was thinking. Although his eyes were resting on a vision of a dazzling white dome and minarets, he was a prey to tormenting speculation; he was asking himself a startling question. Could Mrs. Redmond have lied to him? Or was Betty’s speech merely a girl’s hypocritical repudiation of a lover. Who was the most likely to speak the truth, Mrs. Redmond or Betty?

As Belle and her husband drove rapidly back towards the cantonments, with “Mossoo” extended on the front seat of the landau, they were unusually silent; not one word was spoken about their recent expedition—they seemed buried in their own thoughts.

She was busily engaged in mentally making up the pink and silver satin, and he was thinking, that if what Belle had just told him was true—as true as she appeared to believe—he never would have married her!

Two days later, Mrs. Holroyd was sitting in the hotel verandah, surrounded by jewellers, their wares displayed temptingly in the invariable manner on Turkey red.

“Well! what about that present?” enquired her husband, as he discovered her. “Get something good. Will two hundred rupees do?”

“Two hundred! I was thinking of fifty. What a lavish, extravagant fellow you are; you will ruin yourself if I don’t look after you.”

But she accepted the sum, in spite of her pretty protestations.—George was beginning to know what these protestations were worth!—Belle carefully selected a delicate gold bangle, and exhibited it on her own wrist, with much complacency.

“You are not going to give her that, are you?” he enquired with secret dismay.

“Yes, I thought of it at first; it would almost match one you sent her, but really it is too much to give her, and on second thoughts,” with a playful air, “don’t you think it looks very well on me?”

“Yes, yes, of course it does; leave it where it is,” he said with eager acquiescence, “you must keep it yourself.”

Anything was better than sending Betty a second bangle, and Belle, the munificent, the grateful, the honourable, chose for her cousin—when her husband was not present—a simple brooch, value thirty rupees, though she told him it cost eighty—and pocketed the balance.

From Agra, the Holroyds went to Cawnpore—melancholy Cawnpore!—with its dusty, glaring roads, grim barracks and tragic history. The garrulous guide who drove them round, lolled at his ease half into the carriage, preferring the rôle of raconteur to coachman, leaving the horses chiefly to themselves; but no doubt, they knew the too familiar weary rounds, from Nana Sahib’s ruinous house, to the entrenchments—the Memorial Church—the massacre ghaut—and the well. The full details of the tragedy had a horrible fascination for Belle, and despite her husband’s continual interruptions and denials, she would hear all; and the guide, for once, had a listener entirely after his own heart; but the Indian mid-day sun, and Indian atrocities were too much for this excitable traveller with a lurid imagination. A climax arrived, when she stood gazing at the angel over the well, that exquisite embodiment of sorrow and peace—which the guide glibly assured her was “the work of ‘Mackitty,’ the same man who had built the Taj, at Agra.” As she gazed with twitching lips, and working eyebrows, she said, “You call it a lovely face, George! Not at all. To me, it is not a face of sorrow, but a face of cold, undying vengeance. Yes, vengeance,” she added, raising her voice to a scream and glaring at the guide with a wild flicker in her eyes, “why don’t you keep a supply of natives here for us who come on pilgrimage? I know what I would do to them, with my own hands.”

She looked so odd and excited, that the old soldier was completely cowed, and ceased to relate how “he and Havelock” had marched to the relief of Cawnpore. This handsome lady had a strange face, she was muttering to herself, and gnawing her handkerchief, as she lay back on the carriage cushions, and she had passionately tossed his humble offering—a bit of yew from the site of the house of massacre—far away into the powdery white road. He had not even the presence of mind to ask for a whiskey peg, when George paid him off at the station, but he whispered confidentially as he pocketed his rupees:

“I’ve seen ’em in hysterics, and I’ve seen ’em crying, but I never saw one take on like her before,” indicating Belle with his horny thumb. “She would draw me on, you see—and all them times is real to me—I was in ’em, and my words has worked on her feelings, them and the sun has done it; keep her cool and quiet, and she may come all right in time for the mail train.”

But was it the sun? A terrible thought, a sickening dread, occurred to George; was there not a gleam of insanity in those fiery red eyes that encountered his, in the dim light of the waiting-room? He and her ayah applied ice and eau-de-cologne to her head, and kept her in a still, dark room in complete quiet, and this regimen wrought a speedy cure. By the following morning Belle declared herself ready to go on at once, to go anywhere, and they proceeded to Lucknow. The grey shell-shattered walls of the Residency, the scene of her countrymen and women’s heroic resistance, had no more interest for Mrs. Holroyd than the Taj. The Silver Bazaar and the cavalry band at the “Chutter Munzil,” were far more to her taste, not to speak of a screaming farce at the Mahomed Bagh Theatre. At length they turned their faces towards Mangobad, and as the train steamed out of Lucknow Station, George, as he carefully arranged Belle’s pillows and rugs, and books and fans, breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness and relief—At any rate the honeymoon was over.