The Pool in the Desert [61]
she was too much occupied with its irony as it affected her personally; her impressions circled steadily round the word 'twice' and the unimaginable coincidence. Her resentment filled her, and her indignation was like a clear flame behind her smiling face. Robbed twice, once in New York and-- oh! preposterous--the second time in Simla! Robbed of the same things by the same hand! She perceived in the shock of it only a monstrous fatality, a ludicrously wicked chance. This may have been due to the necessity of listening to Captain Gordon.
At all events it was only as she passed Colonel Innes on her way to the drawing-room and saw ahead of her the very modish receding back of Mrs. Innes that she realized other things--crime and freedom.
It was the reversion of power; it brought her a great exultation. She sat down under it in a corner, hoping to be left alone, with a white face and shining eyes. Power and opportunity and purpose-- righteous purpose!
The circumstances had come to her in a flash; she brought them up again steadily and scrutinized them. The case was absolutely clear. Frank Prendergast had been dead just seven months. Colonel Innes imagined himself married four years. Violet Prendergast was a bigamist, and Horace Innes had no wife.
That was the marvellous transcendent fact; that was what lifted her and carried her on great pulsing waves that rolled beyond the walls of the little fripperied drawing-room and its collection of low- necked women, out into her life, which had not these boundaries. She lived again in a possible world. There was no stone wall between herself and joy.
The old Mussulman butler who offered her coffee looked at her with aroused curiosity--here was certainly a memsahib under the favour of God--and as she stirred it, the shadow that Violet Prendergast had thrown upon her life faded out of her mind in the light that was there. Then she looked up and met that lady's vivid blue eyes. Mrs. Innes's colour had not returned, but there was a recklessness in the lines of her mouth. In the way she held her chin, expressing that she had been reflecting on old scores, and anticipated the worst. Meeting this vigilance Miss Anderson experienced a slight recoil. Her happiness, she realized, had been brought to her in the hands of ugly circumstance.
'And so melodramatic,' she told herself. 'It is really almost vulgar. In a story I should have no patience with it.' But she went on stirring her coffee with a little uncontrollable smile.
A moment later she had to contemplate the circumstance that her hostess was addressing her. Mrs. Innes wished to be introduced. Mrs. Innes, incarnate, conscious sensation, was smiling at her, saying that she must know so great a friend of her husband's. He made so few friends, and she was so grateful to anybody who was good to him. Eyes and voice tolerably in rein, aware of the situation at every point, she had a meretricious daring; and it occurred to Madeline, looking at her, that she was after all a fairly competent second-class adventuress. She would not refuse the cue. It would make so little difference.
'On the contrary, I am tremendously indebted to Colonel Innes. He has been so very kind about ponies and jhampanies and things. Simla is full of pitfalls for a stranger, don't you think?' And Miss Anderson, unclosing her fan, turned her reposeful head a little in the direction of three married schoolgirls voluble on her left.
'Not when you get to know the language. You must learn the language; it's indispensable. But of course it depends on how long you mean to stay.'
'I think I will learn the language,' said Madeline.
'But General Worsley told me you were leaving Simla in a fortnight.'
'Oh no. My plans are very indefinite; but I shall stay much longer than that.'
'It is Miss Anderson, isn't it?--Miss Madeline Anderson, of New York--no, Brooklyn?'
Madeline looked at her. 'Did not the General say so?' she asked.
'Yes, he did. But one looks to make quite sure.'
'I can understand that.'
Mrs.
At all events it was only as she passed Colonel Innes on her way to the drawing-room and saw ahead of her the very modish receding back of Mrs. Innes that she realized other things--crime and freedom.
It was the reversion of power; it brought her a great exultation. She sat down under it in a corner, hoping to be left alone, with a white face and shining eyes. Power and opportunity and purpose-- righteous purpose!
The circumstances had come to her in a flash; she brought them up again steadily and scrutinized them. The case was absolutely clear. Frank Prendergast had been dead just seven months. Colonel Innes imagined himself married four years. Violet Prendergast was a bigamist, and Horace Innes had no wife.
That was the marvellous transcendent fact; that was what lifted her and carried her on great pulsing waves that rolled beyond the walls of the little fripperied drawing-room and its collection of low- necked women, out into her life, which had not these boundaries. She lived again in a possible world. There was no stone wall between herself and joy.
The old Mussulman butler who offered her coffee looked at her with aroused curiosity--here was certainly a memsahib under the favour of God--and as she stirred it, the shadow that Violet Prendergast had thrown upon her life faded out of her mind in the light that was there. Then she looked up and met that lady's vivid blue eyes. Mrs. Innes's colour had not returned, but there was a recklessness in the lines of her mouth. In the way she held her chin, expressing that she had been reflecting on old scores, and anticipated the worst. Meeting this vigilance Miss Anderson experienced a slight recoil. Her happiness, she realized, had been brought to her in the hands of ugly circumstance.
'And so melodramatic,' she told herself. 'It is really almost vulgar. In a story I should have no patience with it.' But she went on stirring her coffee with a little uncontrollable smile.
A moment later she had to contemplate the circumstance that her hostess was addressing her. Mrs. Innes wished to be introduced. Mrs. Innes, incarnate, conscious sensation, was smiling at her, saying that she must know so great a friend of her husband's. He made so few friends, and she was so grateful to anybody who was good to him. Eyes and voice tolerably in rein, aware of the situation at every point, she had a meretricious daring; and it occurred to Madeline, looking at her, that she was after all a fairly competent second-class adventuress. She would not refuse the cue. It would make so little difference.
'On the contrary, I am tremendously indebted to Colonel Innes. He has been so very kind about ponies and jhampanies and things. Simla is full of pitfalls for a stranger, don't you think?' And Miss Anderson, unclosing her fan, turned her reposeful head a little in the direction of three married schoolgirls voluble on her left.
'Not when you get to know the language. You must learn the language; it's indispensable. But of course it depends on how long you mean to stay.'
'I think I will learn the language,' said Madeline.
'But General Worsley told me you were leaving Simla in a fortnight.'
'Oh no. My plans are very indefinite; but I shall stay much longer than that.'
'It is Miss Anderson, isn't it?--Miss Madeline Anderson, of New York--no, Brooklyn?'
Madeline looked at her. 'Did not the General say so?' she asked.
'Yes, he did. But one looks to make quite sure.'
'I can understand that.'
Mrs.