Part 4 (2/2)
Norton's look of astonishment at this new departure on the part of her husband and thought that there was something very pathetic in her surprise. When the meal was ended she laughingly declined to leave the men over their wine and stayed to smoke a cigarette with them.
When they all quitted the dining-room the Resident asked his guests to excuse him for returning to his study, pleading urgent and important work; and his wife led the subalterns up to the drawing-room and out on to the verandah that ran alongside its French windows. Here easy chairs and a table with a big lamp had been placed for them. As soon as they were seated one of the stately _chupra.s.sis_ brought coffee, while another proffered cigars and cigarettes and held a light from a silver spirit-lamp. Then both the solemn servitors departed noiselessly on bare feet.
After some conversation Mrs. Norton said to the adjutant:
”Do you remember, Mr. Raymond, that you have promised to take me out shooting one day?”
”I haven't forgotten,” he replied; ”but I was not able to arrange it, as the Maharajah had pigsticking meets fixed up for all our free days. But I don't think we'll have another for some time; for I hear that His Highness is laid up from the effects of his fall. So we might go out some day soon.”
”Good. When shall we go?” asked Wargrave. ”Let's fix it up now.”
”What about next Thursday?” said his friend, turning to Mrs. Norton.
”Yes; that will suit me. Where shall we go?”
”There are a lot of partridge and a few hares, I'm told, near the tank at Marwa, where there is a good deal of cultivation,” answered Raymond.
Then turning to his friend he continued:
”You are not very keen on small game shooting, Frank; so you can bring your rifle and try for _c.h.i.n.kara_. I saw a buck and a couple of doe there not very long ago. A little venison would be very acceptable in Mess.”
”The tank is about eight miles away, isn't it?” said the hostess. ”I'll write to the Maharajah and ask him to lend us camels to take us out. My cook will put up a good cold lunch for us.”
She rose from her chair and continued:
”Now, Mr. Wargrave, come and sing something. I've been trying over those new songs of yours to-day.”
She led the way into the drawing-room and Raymond was left alone on the verandah to smoke and listen for the rest of the evening, while the others forgot him as they played and sang.
Suddenly he sat up in his chair and with a queer little pang of jealousy in his heart stared through the open window at the couple at the piano.
He watched his friend's face turned eagerly towards his hostess.
Wargrave was gazing intently at her as in a voice full of feeling and pathos, a voice with a plaintive little tone in it that thrilled him strangely, she sang that haunting melody ”The Love Song of Har Dyal.”
Wistfully, sadly, she uttered the sorrowful words that Kipling puts into the mouth of the lovelorn Pathan maiden:
”My father's wife is old and harsh with years, And drudge of all my father's house am I.
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears, Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!”
And the singer looked up into the eager eyes bent on her and sighed a little as she struck the final chords. Out on the verandah Raymond frowned as he watched them and wondered if this woman was to come between them and take his friend from him. Just then the bare-footed servants entered the room, carrying silver trays on which stood the whiskies and sodas that are the stirrup-cups, the hints to guests that the time of departure has come, of dinner-parties in India.
As the two subalterns drove home in Raymond's trap through the hot Indian night under a moon s.h.i.+ning with a brilliance that England never knows, Wargrave hummed ”The Love Song of Har Dyal.”
Suddenly he said:
”She's wonderful, Ray, isn't she? Fancy such a glorious woman buried in this hole and married to a dry old stick like the Resident! Doesn't it seem a shame?”
The adjutant mumbled an incoherent reply behind his lighted cheroot.
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