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The sight of Harry not far away reminded the Collector of something as he stood at the Cutcherry door … He must send young Dunstaple for the “fallen woman” in the dak. In all the fuss of the past twenty-four hours nobody had thought to warn her and bring her in. It was probable, however, that she knew of the danger but was too conscious of her shame to show herself at the Residency. Still, she could not possibly stay where she was; a terrible fate lay in store for an unprotected Englishwoman, he did not doubt. Admittedly, it would be a problem having her in the Residency with the other ladies but there was nothing to be done about that. She must come in, no matter how greatly she had si
The Collector had heard a little about her and was inclined to be charitable. She had come out to India as someone’s “niece”, a rather remotely co
“We’ll see what happens, in any case,” he observed cryptically, and walked out into the sunlight. The Magistrate watched his head glow for a moment before a bearer sprang forward to protect it with the shade of a black umbrella. He too sighed. More than even he longed to grasp the Collector’s skull and make some exact measurements of it.
Now that the greatest heat of the day was over, the engineers were setting to work on the demolition of the mosque. Presently, the Collector found himself alone once more in his study. He stood near the window, one hand resting on the marble head of I
A strange thing was happening to the mosque; a golden cloud had begun to spread outwards from its walls into the still air. Gradually the cloud darkened and spread into a thick cloak of dust that completely masked the building from the Collector’s troubled eyes, as if to protect him from the evidence of his own barbarity.
While the Collector was observing the slow demolition of the mosque Harry Dunstaple, attended by Fleury and a couple of Sikh sowars, had gone to rescue the “fallen woman” from the dak bungalow … this was exactly the sort of daring and noble enterprise that appealed to the two young men’s imaginations, rescuing girls at the gallop was very much their cup of tea, they thought.
The difficulty about the dak was that it had not been built, as it should have been, in the cantonment but in the middle of the native town, which made the expedition dangerous. To make matters worse the sun was setting; they had to hurry lest they be caught in the native town after nightfall. After the tranquillity of the cantonment the noisy crowds surging through the streets came as a shock to Fleury; as they penetrated deepen into the bazaar men shouted at them, words he could not understand, but they were plainly jeering. Their progress was constantly impeded by the crush; a perilously swaying cargo of Mohammedan women passed by on a camel, their masked heads turned towards Fleuny; he felt himself stared at weirdly by their tiny, embroidered eye-holes.
‘Sahib. Yih achcha jagah nahin!” one of the Sikhs said to him. “No good place, Sahib. Come quick.” He was leading them towards a short cut which would take them away from the principal road through the bazaar.
They plunged into a wilderness of dark and stinking streets, so narrow that there was hardly room for two people to pass each other. Their way led down flights of twisting steps and past shadowy doorways redolent of smoke, excrement and incense; sometimes the street narrowed to a mere slit between houses and once a massive, comatose Brahmin bull stumbled past them. Then, abruptly, they emerged from the stifling dankness into light and air. The dak bungalow lay beside them. While Fleury waited at the gate with the Sikhs Harry darted inside for the “fallen woman”.
After a few minutes Harry emerged alone, looking perturbed, to confer with Fleury. The “fallen woman”, whose name was Miss Hughes, was refusing to come. What on earth should he do? They could not possibly leave her alone for a second night without protection … And now, not content with refusing to come she was even thinking of killing herself again. Anyway, that is what she had said she was thinking of doing. She had implied that then he and all the others would not have to worry about her any longer. She might as well be dead, anyway, loathsome creature that she was, because now … (Harry had blushed at that “now” knowing only too well what it referred to) … because now she had nothing to live for. She had ruined herself.
“Nonsense!” Harry had declared gruffly. “You have a jolly great deal to live for.”
“Just tell me one single thing!” And Miss Hughes had turned her tear-stained face, which was like that of a sensual little angel, towards Harry.
“Well … Any amount of things.”
“What things?”
But Harry had been unable to think of anything. This was not the sort of thing he was good at. So he had dashed out to see if Fleury had any ideas. All this time the light was fading. To remain here after dark would be to invite disaster. So there was no time to lose. The two young men stared at each other in dismay.
“Tell her … tell her …” But Fleuny, too, found himself baffled by this unexpected development. And it was not that his mind had gone completely blank, as Harry’s had … because he could think of a number of ways for a dishonouned woman to spend the rest of her life … becoming a nun, good works to achieve redemption, that sort of thing. The trouble was that these did not sound to him like the sort of lives one could recommend to someone who thought she had nothing to live for; they sounded too uncomfortable for that.
But this was getting them nowhere. The Sikhs were begi
“Look here, tell her what a joy it is just to be alive. You know, the smell of new-mown hay, crystal mountain streams, the beauty of the setting sun, the laughter of little children … or rather, no … never mind the children … And, of course, you might also bring in the woman taken in adultery, the casting of first stones, Our Lord loving si
“Wouldn’t it be better if I stayed here and you spoke to Miss Hughes?” pleaded Harry.
“Certainly not. She knows you.”
So Harry again hurried inside, his lips moving silently as he rehearsed Fleury’s reasons for life being worth living. Outside, meanwhile, Fleury had to pretend not to notice that the Sikhs, their irony verging on impertinence, were ostentatiously saying goodbye to each other.
So it was that when Harry again emerged, distressed and still without Miss Hughes, it was less the fear of death in the native town than of appearing foolish in the eyes of the Sikhs, which caused the two young men to ride back to the Residency, leaving Miss Hughes to her fate. But they did not feel very pleased with themselves.