as was to be expected the camp took a rest next morning. when coventry left his tent the hot wind had lulled, and the shadows of the trees had stretched half-way across the tract of bare ground that led to the edge of the jungle. he looked a wreck, for the touch of malaria that had ruffled his temper the previous evening, and ruined his chance of killing the tiger, had since developed into a sharp though short attack with the usual ague, and a temperature that would terrify those unacquainted with the common complaint of the country. it is surprising how quickly malarial fever in india can lay a man low, and yet leave him strength sufficient to rise, once it is over, and pursue his general doings as though nothing unusual had happened. many even continue to work with fever actually on them. all the way home from the forest coventry had shivered and grumbled and scolded the rest of the party because he had missed the tiger, and now, though the fever had left him, he felt languid and
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limp, and peevish, and was hardly the best of companions. on the outskirts of the camp the man-eater's skin was being pegged out to dry surrounded by a chattering concourse. half the village had been in the camp since daybreak, squatting around the carcase, helping to rub the raw skin with ashes, lauding the sahibs who had slain the destroyer, rejoicing over the death of the enemy. now they could travel in safety, at least for the present, could tend their crops, and take out their cattle to graze. their gratitude did not deter them, however, from furtive attempts to annex the whiskers and claws, and lumps of the fat said to be a miraculous cure for rheumatism. there was to be a "tomasha" to-night in the village to celebrate the event, with music and feasting and fireworks, for which, with the usual fate of the benefactor, the sahibs were expected to pay.
coventry sat dreamily watching the group. the shikari was directing his assistants, abusing them in the loud arbitrary voice that the native so often assumes towards those whom he considers to be his inferiors, holding forth at the same time on the subject of tigers in general. most of the servants were idling round, joining in the jokes and altercations; and big, blue-black crows skipped boldly into the midst of the gathering, snatching at morsels of flesh and cawing in hoarse
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excitement. near at hand some vultures, bald and repulsive, had collected, gloating in expectation of a feast; overhead, in the hard blue sky, kites were soaring, and diving and screaming. in the background the elephants, chained to their posts, showed massive and dark, swinging their heads, beating off the flies with branches of trees or wisps of their fodder held in their trunks.
it was a picturesque scene alluring to a sportsman, yet coventry was conscious of a sudden satiety of sport and all its appurtenances. he had enjoyed the shoot, had been thoroughly keen throughout, but whether the fever was to blame, or his annoyance at missing the tiger, or the nostalgia for wife and home that had been on the increase the last few days, he now felt he wished never to hear of a tiger or find himself in a machan or a howdah again. he looked at his watch--it had struck him that if he could start to-night he might catch the mail train before the one by which he had meant to travel. trixie would be so surprised and delighted to see him arrive before he was due; she must have had a dull, empty time, poor child, during his absence. he inferred as much from her letters, though she never complained; trixie was not one to grumble or whine. he reproached himself for having left her alone, and determined to try and make up to her for his selfishness;
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should he buy her some nice piece of jewellery when he got back? a new ring. trixie liked rings, and they looked so well on her pretty pink fingers. later on he would take her away to the hills and let her enjoy herself just as she liked. then jealousy stirred in his heart, and whispered: "of course, within reason." he tried to stifle the whisper, but could not succeed; after all, if trixie kept well she ought to be happy enough in the plains with him, and her pets, and the riding and tennis.
markham came out of his tent. "better, old chap?"
"yes, better, fairly all right again, thanks. i think i'll go off, though, to-night, all the same. i don't feel quite up to another day's beat with a journey to follow. if i hurry a bit i could catch the mail in the morning."
"you might, but it'll be rather a rush, and you'll get no sleep."
"i can sleep in the train to-morrow."
the desire to start had now become almost an obsession, and he held out obstinately against markham's well-meant persuasions that he should wait, as previously planned, to benefit by the arrangements already concluded for the convenient return of the party to the nearest junction on the railway. finally it was settled that he should
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journey on one of the elephants to a point of habitation where some sort of vehicle could be procured to take him to meet the earlier mail.
therefore it came about that george coventry, with his bearer and his baggage, rattled up to his bungalow in a dilapidated "ticca-gharry," hired at the railway station, twelve hours sooner than he was expected. from the moment of his catching, as by a miracle, the earlier mail train, he had been thrilled with sweet impatience, anticipating trixie's welcome, all her glad surprise, their interchange of little news, the pleasant disturbance of his premature home-coming. her last letter, which was safe in his breast pocket, together with all the others she had written to him during his absence, had told him how she longed for his return, had declared that the final twenty-four hours would seem longer, more tedious than all the rest. to shorten the time of separation he had jolted and bumped over miles of rough country, enduring horrible discomfort, that he might arrive to-night instead of to-morrow, even if he roused her and the establishment at an inconvenient hour.
needless to say, his much-needed sleep in the train had been broken and restless. fever still lurked in his system, and whenever he dozed the beat of the wheels had formed itself into a clockwork song with relentless persistence: "the
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woman in the bazaar. the woman in the bazaar." he could not get rid of it, could not divert its maddening rhythm. even now as he got out of the gharry it followed him up the steps and clamoured inside his brain.
the bungalow was silent, dimly lit. a servant lay rolled up in a cotton sheet, like a corpse, across the threshold of the drawing-room door, which was open. why was the door open? why were the venetian outer doors not closed and bolted?
the gharry, with his baggage on the roof, the sleepy driver and the miserable ponies, waited at the foot of the veranda steps while the sahib awoke the slumbering servant both with voice and foot.
the man sprang up with the terrified bewilderment of the suddenly awakened native. "thieves! murder! thieves!" he yelled, until he recognised his master, when he bound his turban hastily about his dishevelled head and salaamed in respectful apology. the gharry man was paid, the luggage was deposited in the veranda, and the ramshackle conveyance rattled out of the compound. it all caused a noisy disturbance, and yet trixie had not been aroused. no questioning call came from her bedroom to know what it all meant. in puzzled apprehension coventry passed through the drawing-room, where a couple of wall lamps still burned low. also the light in her bedroom had
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not been put out. he pushed aside the short curtain and looked into the room. she was not there. the bed was empty, undisturbed.
he returned to the drawing-room and called the bearer. "where has the memsahib gone to dine?" he asked, realising at the same moment that it was long past the hour for dinner parties to break up.
the man told him blandly that he "believed the memsahib had gone to dine with captain roy-memsahib," then added, standing on one foot and rubbing a great toe against the other ankle, that he thought the syce had brought the "tum-tum" back some time ago.
"call the syce!" said coventry shortly; and the bearer obeyed, obviously relieved that he was to be questioned no further, since the sahib seemed annoyed.
the syce, a dull but well-intentioned person, could only say that the memsahib had told him to take the cart and the pony home from roy-mem's bungalow. he did not know why. he also stood on one foot, vaguely apprehensive of the colonel-sahib's displeasure.
"it was the memsahib's order," he added in hopeful self-exoneration.
"very well," said coventry; "go and get the tum-tum ready."
he stood and smoked in the veranda until the
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trap came round. his mind was in chaos; he could not think connectedly. what was trixie doing? had she been taken ill at mrs. roy's bungalow? or had mrs. roy been taken ill, and was trixie staying with her for the night? either reason, lots of reasons, would explain her absence. yet beneath the plausible explaining there lurked a dreadful doubt that clutched malevolently at his heart.
he got into his trap and swung rapidly out of the compound. in the light of the moon the dust-white road had a luminous appearance. coventry remembered that the shortest route to the roys' bungalow was by the bazaar; he judged that at this time of the night the streets would be clear. he would save a mile at least if he drove through the city.
he came to the outskirts of the great northern native town, a huddle of thatched huts, their thresholds blocked with sleeping forms. pariah dogs fought and foraged among the rubbish festering in the gutters; their snarls mingled with raucous native coughing, the wail of fretful infants, long echoing yawns.
then brick walls rose up, dark and irregular, topped with flat roofs, whence rose faint sounds of music and the murmur of voices. now he had entered one of the main streets of the city
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that yet was hardly wider than a lane; here and there the road space was rendered still narrower by rough string bedsteads set outside the shops and dwellings, figures, scantily clothed, sprawling upon them. bats flickered from the roofs across the strip of moonlit sky that was like a lid to the street. the air was stifling; indescribable exhalations, odours of kerosene oil, rancid butter, garlic, sandal-wood, spices, sweating eastern humanity, thickened and soured the atmosphere, nauseating the white man who drove steadily on through the densely packed clusters of buildings. his head ached, his veins felt as though they must burst in his temples; it seemed to him that he had been driving for hours through this fetid wilderness of bricks, as if he should never emerge into air that was pure and untainted.
the beat of his pony's hoofs echoed loud and regular from wall to wall; otherwise there was a heavy silence as he drove through the silversmiths' quarter, and went past the side street where shoes and sandals were made and sold, a fact proclaimed by a horrible stench of badly cured hide. suddenly he came upon a patch of light and noise. some important domestic event was in course of celebration, perhaps a wedding, or the birth of a much-desired son. rows of little lamps illumined one of the houses, just wicks alight floating in pans
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of coco-nut oil, diffusing smoke and smell; a gaudy group of nautch girls singing, twirling, blocked the doorway, and a crowd of musicians and guests and sightseers pushed and jostled each other for some distance down the street. somehow he got through the flare, and confusion, and clamour, into the dimness beyond, only to find his way barred by a procession of camels padding towards him in shadowy, leisurely progress, groaning and grumbling, escorted by tall men clad in flowing garments and loose turbans, men with snaky black locks, hooked noses and fierce eyes; a camel caravan arriving from the north, laden with merchandise, weary and dusty with arduous travel.
coventry was forced to halt. it would be impossible in this narrow thoroughfare to get past the long line of beasts burdened with huge bales that swung broadside from their backs. the syce stood up behind him to proffer advice.
that street, he said--the one to the left--would take them into another main road and thence out of the city just as quickly as if they waited for the camel folk to pass.
"it is the street," added the syce casually, "of the dancing women and such-like."
the leading camel, a towering, loose-lipped shape, lurched and lumbered almost on to the trap. coventry, to avoid the bubbling beast, turned his
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pony's head, and next moment he was driving down the side street, down "the street of the dancing women and such-like."
some of the balconies were silent and deserted, others held shadowy shapes; one or two interiors were ablaze with light, and the sound of tinkling music floated from them. there came to his mind the recollection of the hideous story he had heard on the racquet court, now some weeks ago, and he glanced about him with aversion.
the road was rough, scored with ruts and little hollows. presently the pony stumbled badly, made a desperate struggle to regain his balance, and came down. by an acrobatic leap coventry avoided being pitched into the road, the syce was shot beneath the seat of the trap, and the pony lay motionless, inert, in helpless submission to fate.
coventry stood for a moment to steady his senses. the syce crawled from the trap, rubbing his leg, calling encouragement to the prostrate pony, blaming some omen of evil he had observed in the stables only that morning. it was evident, even in the uncertain light, that the trap was badly damaged; both shafts were broken, and coventry realised that he would drive no farther that night.
by now a small crowd had collected, men and youths chiefly of the babu persuasion, wearing muslin shawls and embroidered pork-pie caps.
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they gazed with relish at the spectacle of a white man in a rather undignified quandary, and none of them offered to help while sahib and syce busied themselves with the pony.
attracted by the little commotion, a woman emerged on to a balcony above, and stood looking down on the group. from the room behind her someone brought out a lamp and held it aloft, so that the woman's face became suddenly visible to those in the street below.
coventry looked up involuntarily, and his attention was held, riveted, for, though not young, the woman was fair, most strangely fair, in her native dress and tinselled veil; and even the paint that was thick on her eyes and cheeks could not conceal her unusual beauty. coventry guessed, with a sick conviction, that this was "the woman in the bazaar," the woman of whom he had heard.
appalled by the certainty, he still peered upward, fascinated yet repelled; and softly the woman laughed--not only laughed, but threw something down that landed, lightly, at his feet. a hoarse murmur of comment went up from the onlookers; one of them, a weedy youth, picked the object up and tendered it to the sahib, exclaiming with insolent politeness: "thou art favoured, heaven-born."
it was a bunch of crudely artificial violets,
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drenched with heavy scent that mingled with other odours of the suffocating night. coventry recoiled as though the sham flowers, with their sickly perfume, had been a deadly reptile. then he stepped forward, menace in his bearing, and the officious youth, with his companions, shrank, close-packed, from the wrath of the englishman; only to be scattered by the noisy progress down the narrow street of a clumsy, scarlet-hooded vehicle on four wheels, drawn by a pair of powerful white bullocks. it was a wonderful conveyance, gold-braided, tasselled, lacquered, and the trappings of the animals were gay, and sown with bells. it drew up beneath the balcony on which, a moment ago, the woman had leaned and laughed. now she had re-entered the lighted room behind her, and the venetian doors were closed.
"that is the rath [a] of babu chandra das," remarked a bystander in a loud voice, for the crowd had collected again. "to-night he goes south, and the woman goes with him, for is he not rich? see, she comes forth."
[a]
bullock-carriage.
the worm-eaten door of the house was pulled half open from within, and an old and ugly native female staggered out bearing an armful of bundles. this, being unexpected, raised a laugh among the youths.
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during the little scene coventry had stood by, feeling half-dazed, sickened with the sight and the scent of the violets, oppressed with a vague dread that burdened his body and spirit. he made an effort to turn to the syce and the pony that waited with drooping head and trailing harness; but something held him, kept him, as though his feet were weighted, till she came out--the woman he had seen on the balcony--and as she climbed into the red-hooded carriage her veil fell back, and the moonlight gleamed on her hair. it was then that full recognition struck at george coventry's heart like the stab of a knife. the woman in the bazaar, who lived in the street of the dancers and such-like, who now drove away in the rath of babu chandra das, was rafella, his wife of the years that were over and dead.
his impulse was to run madly, blindly, after her, but horror paralysed his limbs, and he saw, as in an evil dream, the red hood with the swaying curtains disappear into the shadows.
coventry felt a touch on his arm.
"what order, sahib? protector of the poor, what order?" the syce was repeating.
"make some arrangement," said the sahib, at last, mechanically; "i will walk home."
and mechanically, too, he walked up the street, noticing nothing, not heeding the loitering figures
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that got in his way, that muttered abuse as he moved them aside, till he came to the corner where, years ago as it seemed to him now, his path had been blocked by the camel caravan. as by instinct, he turned into the principal thoroughfare, passing in time by the house of rejoicing. it was quieter now, the crowd had dispersed, the lights in the pans had begun to burn low, and only a faint sound of singing and music came from within the building. with quick, regular tramp he continued his way through the stifling city, meeting again the odour of badly cured hides that drifted across from the place of the workers in leather; on through the hot, still streets that led to the squalid mud suburb outside, and thence to the broad, empty road where his steps sank soundless into the heavy dust.
he was barely conscious of physical being. all the time, as he walked automatically through the bazaars, mid the heat and the smells, his thoughts had been chained to the past. trixie might not have existed--her puzzling absence, his quest, his doubts and his apprehensions had gone from his mind. he was living once more in those far-away days that had begun with such happiness, only to end in such failure and pain; they had seemed to him over and dead, as leaves torn out of his volume of life and destroyed, and now a result had arisen, alive and awful and tragic--the
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woman in the bazaar! was it a dire pre-warning, those words that had haunted his dreams and his mind in the jungle, that had harassed him in the train, followed him up to the door of his house?
memory tortured his soul, sparing him nothing. again he found himself riding along in a country lane on a summer morning in england; he saw the vicarage garden, the tangle of blossoming shrubs, the ragged riot of flowers, and visioned a slender figure in blue crossing the unkempt lawn, with hair glinting gold in the sunshine. a clear young voice was trilling a verse of an old, familiar hymn:
"other refuge have i none;
hangs my helpless soul on thee;
leave, ah! leave me not alone,
still support and comfort me."
he went through it all in hopeless, despairing surrender--the simple wedding in the village church, the period of placid happiness, and then the doubt, the jealousy, the torment of suspicion, culminating in that dreadful night--the night of the ball. it returned to him now with cruel distinctness; he could see rafella running to the door, her white arms lifted as she struggled with the bolt; he heard her fleeing from him through the compound....
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"other refuge have i none----" but she herself had chosen to seek other refuge, knowing full well what she did! should he have tried to prevent her, to understand her distress, her condition of mind? she was frightened, indignant, and helpless, whatever her fault; and he had allowed her to go, had made no effort to save her, because he was blinded with fury, was jealous and hard, and perhaps unjust.... what was the story of all those years? he sickened to think. what had she suffered, endured, to bring her to this--poor little fair rafella, with her gentle ways and her narrow knowledge of life?
"still support and comfort me----" he remembered her protest--how shocked she had been at his personal rendering of the words, how he had said in the rain that morning--the morning on which he had told her he loved her--that he meant to protect and support her as long as he lived. how had he kept his vow?
"leave, ah! leave me not alone----" yes, he had left her alone, had been harsh and unyielding, without patience, without pity for the "helpless soul"; he had put her away, condemned her unheard, abandoned her to her fate....
he walked on, his head bent, his heart racked with a sharp and terrible remorse; it was his fault, his alone, that she had fallen to this hideous
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degradation; and now there was nothing he could do. it was irredeemable, beyond his power to cancel or to atone.
as he turned into the compound his consciousness came back, as it were, to the present. the bungalow stood dark and silent, just as he had left it. trixie was not there; he knew it, though he went inside and called her. alarm again assailed him for her safety, and he paced the drive in nervous agitation, fearing she was ill, that an accident had happened. never had she seemed so dear, so precious to him; that he could have mistrusted her at all now caused him shamed contrition, and all his grudging of her gaieties and freedom struck him at this moment in the light of selfishness and petty tyranny. the recognition, wakened by the bitter lesson of to-night, of how in time he might have strained her love and trust beyond endurance, filled him with acute dismay and consternation.
if he only could know that trixie was well, had met with no harm. for the twentieth time he went down the drive to the gate, and stood surveying the road that stretched white between the shadows of the trees to the right and to the left. away in the distance jackals were howling, and over the plain in front of the house there floated the regular beat of a tom-tom. the immediate
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silence around him, the moonlight, the heat, and the faint, far sounds, seemed charged with a nameless despondence that weighed on his soul. he felt indescribably wretched and weary. fever was creeping again through his veins, and his limbs and his head ached sorely. he turned at last and went back to the house, intending to order a horse to be saddled that he might set out again to search for trixie; but as he reached the veranda the sound of wheels and the trotting of a horse came faintly to his ears. he stood still and listened.
