The Pool in the Desert [77]
issues; she gave it her somewhat desultory attention while Brookes did her hair. There was only one scrap of news. Adele mentioned in a postscript that poor Mr. Prendergast's money was likely to go to a distant relative, it having transpired that he died without leaving a will.
'She is sure, absolutely sure,' Madeline mused, 'to answer my letter in person. She will be here within an hour. I shall have this to tell her, too. How pleased she will be! She will come into it all, I suppose--if she is allowed. Though she won't be allowed, that is if--' But there speculation began, and Madeline had forbidden herself speculation, if not once and for all, at least many times and for fifteen minutes.
No reasonable purpose would be served by Mrs. Innes's visit, Madeline reflected, as she sat waiting in the little room opening on the veranda; but she would come, of course she would come. She would require the satisfaction of the verbal assurance; she would hope to extract more details; she would want the objectionable gratification of talking if over.
In spite of any assurance, she would believe that Madeline had not told her before in order to make her miserable a little longer than she need be; but, after all, her impression about that did not particularly matter. It couldn't possibly be a pleasant interview, yet Madeline found herself impatient for it.
'Surnoo,' she said of her messenger, 'must be idling on his way back in the bazaar. I must try to remember to fine him two pice. Surnoo is incorrigible.'
She forgot, however, to fine Surnoo. The pad of his bare feet sounded along the veranda almost immediately, and the look in his Pahari eyes was that of expected reproach, and ability to defend himself against it.
He held out two letters at arm's-length, for as he was expected to bring only one there was a fault in this; and all his domestic traditions told him that he might be chastened. One was addressed to Madeline in Mrs. Innes's handwriting; the other, she saw with astonishment, was her own communication to that lady, her own letter returned. Surnoo explained volubly all the way along the veranda, and in the flood of his unknown tongue Madeline caught a sentence or two.
'The memsahib was not,' said Surnoo. Clearly he could not deliver a letter to a memsahib who was not. 'Therefore,' Surnoo continued, 'I have brought back your honour's letter, and the other I had from the hand of the memsahib's runner, the runner with one eye, who was on the road to bring it here. More I do not know, but it appears that the memsahib has gone to her father and mother in Belaat, being very sorrowful because the Colonel-sahib has left her to shoot.'
'The letter will tell me,' said Madeline to herself, fingering it. 'Enough, Surnoo.'
The man went away, and Madeline closed and locked the door of her sitting-room. The letter would tell her--what? She glanced about her with dissatisfaction, and sought the greater privacy of her bedroom, where also she locked the door and drew the muslin curtain across the window. She laid the letter on the dressing-table and kept her eyes upon it while she unfastened, with trembling hands, the brooch at her neck and the belt at her waist. She did one or two other meaningless things, as if she wanted to gain time, to fortify her nerves even against an exhibition before herself.
Then she sat down with her back towards the light and opened the letter. It had a pink look and a scented air. Even in her beating suspense Madeline held it a little farther away from her, as she unfolded it, and it ran:
'Dear Miss Anderson--What will you say, I wonder, and what will Simla say, when you know that Captain Drake and I have determined to DISREGARD CONVENTIONALITIES, and live henceforward only for one another! I am all packed up, and long before this meets your eye we shall have taken the step which society condemns, but which I have a feeling that you, knowing my storm-tossed history, will be broad- minded enough to sympathize with, at least to some extent. That is the reason
'She is sure, absolutely sure,' Madeline mused, 'to answer my letter in person. She will be here within an hour. I shall have this to tell her, too. How pleased she will be! She will come into it all, I suppose--if she is allowed. Though she won't be allowed, that is if--' But there speculation began, and Madeline had forbidden herself speculation, if not once and for all, at least many times and for fifteen minutes.
No reasonable purpose would be served by Mrs. Innes's visit, Madeline reflected, as she sat waiting in the little room opening on the veranda; but she would come, of course she would come. She would require the satisfaction of the verbal assurance; she would hope to extract more details; she would want the objectionable gratification of talking if over.
In spite of any assurance, she would believe that Madeline had not told her before in order to make her miserable a little longer than she need be; but, after all, her impression about that did not particularly matter. It couldn't possibly be a pleasant interview, yet Madeline found herself impatient for it.
'Surnoo,' she said of her messenger, 'must be idling on his way back in the bazaar. I must try to remember to fine him two pice. Surnoo is incorrigible.'
She forgot, however, to fine Surnoo. The pad of his bare feet sounded along the veranda almost immediately, and the look in his Pahari eyes was that of expected reproach, and ability to defend himself against it.
He held out two letters at arm's-length, for as he was expected to bring only one there was a fault in this; and all his domestic traditions told him that he might be chastened. One was addressed to Madeline in Mrs. Innes's handwriting; the other, she saw with astonishment, was her own communication to that lady, her own letter returned. Surnoo explained volubly all the way along the veranda, and in the flood of his unknown tongue Madeline caught a sentence or two.
'The memsahib was not,' said Surnoo. Clearly he could not deliver a letter to a memsahib who was not. 'Therefore,' Surnoo continued, 'I have brought back your honour's letter, and the other I had from the hand of the memsahib's runner, the runner with one eye, who was on the road to bring it here. More I do not know, but it appears that the memsahib has gone to her father and mother in Belaat, being very sorrowful because the Colonel-sahib has left her to shoot.'
'The letter will tell me,' said Madeline to herself, fingering it. 'Enough, Surnoo.'
The man went away, and Madeline closed and locked the door of her sitting-room. The letter would tell her--what? She glanced about her with dissatisfaction, and sought the greater privacy of her bedroom, where also she locked the door and drew the muslin curtain across the window. She laid the letter on the dressing-table and kept her eyes upon it while she unfastened, with trembling hands, the brooch at her neck and the belt at her waist. She did one or two other meaningless things, as if she wanted to gain time, to fortify her nerves even against an exhibition before herself.
Then she sat down with her back towards the light and opened the letter. It had a pink look and a scented air. Even in her beating suspense Madeline held it a little farther away from her, as she unfolded it, and it ran:
'Dear Miss Anderson--What will you say, I wonder, and what will Simla say, when you know that Captain Drake and I have determined to DISREGARD CONVENTIONALITIES, and live henceforward only for one another! I am all packed up, and long before this meets your eye we shall have taken the step which society condemns, but which I have a feeling that you, knowing my storm-tossed history, will be broad- minded enough to sympathize with, at least to some extent. That is the reason