Zemindar Page 20

  ‘Thank you. I felt sure I could.’

  We both lapsed into silence, and I twiddled my reticule in my lap while I cast around for the right words. It would never do for him to think that Wallace had sent me. I must remember that.

  ‘Mr Erskine, you will remember that you brought me home from the Residency ball in your carriage the other night?’

  ‘Naturally. And because of that, you need my help? Surely my estimable brother cannot consider that your reputation was endangered by the drive? Kate and George Barry were just behind us, if you remember, and Toddy-Bob was with us.’

  ‘Oh, no! Of course it is no such thing!’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it.’

  ‘Please don’t joke. This is a serious matter, but it has nothing to do with me—not directly, that is. I mentioned the drive because we had talked about Captain and Mrs Avery, and I wondered whether you remembered. That’s all.’

  ‘Ah! I think I begin to see. Go on.’

  ‘Well, it is the Averys I have come about. Or rather about poor Connie and the little boy. Mr Erskine, I know I should not do this, particularly on so short an acquaintance, but may I ask how much money you won from Captain Avery the other night?’

  ‘Oh, you may ask. I won’t answer until I know why you have to know.’

  ‘I want to know because if … if it is a large sum, I am going to ask you, no, to beg you, to give—or loan—it back to Captain Avery.’

  ‘Are you, by God!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Erskine, I am. Oh, I know all about debts of honour and the other rubbish that men go on about, and I’m not concerned with such things. But I am very concerned about Mrs Avery and her son, who will both, I’m afraid, be in a very bad state if they don’t manage to get to England soon, and Captain Avery, you see, has lost so much money gambling that he will not now be able to afford to send them home … unless …’

  ‘Unless Mr Erskine comes to their rescue.’

  I met his eyes in silence. He got up and took a thoughtful turn around the room, with his hands in his pockets, while I watched him anxiously. Then he stood looking down at me. The smile had left his face.

  ‘I won’t insult you by suggesting that Captain Avery has sent you.’

  I drew myself up, saying nothing.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘of course not. Even Avery wouldn’t be that big a fool. So I am to believe that it is your concern for his wife and child—solely?’

  ‘Yes, it is—solely. Is that so hard to believe?’ I stood up and faced him. This was even harder than I had anticipated, but I was becoming angry.

  ‘You are a very wealthy man, Mr Erskine. All the world, or at any event all Lucknow, knows that. I do not know how much you won from Captain Avery, and you won’t tell me, but whatever the sum, it cannot have the same significance for you that it has for him. If you had lost it, you wouldn’t have thought of the matter again, but Captain Avery …’

  ‘This concern is very touching, Miss Hewitt. But if Captain Avery cannot afford to lose, he cannot afford to play.’

  ‘I know that, and believe me, I have small sympathy for him. I am not doing this to save him from himself, Mr Erskine, but that money might be the saving of his wife and child, who have done nothing to deserve their ill fortune. Mrs Avery—well, you saw her the other night. You know what is wrong with her. But she has lost five children, Mr Erskine, and the remaining little boy is very delicate. His only hope is to be taken home to England.’

  ‘Why have you not applied to Charles for help? He too won money from Avery.’

  ‘I thought of it. But Charles does not know the state of the Avery finances, and I would have to ask Captain Avery’s permission to tell Charles. You must see that would be useless.’

  ‘Oh, I do. But then why did you not think it necessary to ask Avery’s permission to tell me? Surely it is rather—er, dubious to enlighten a total stranger of the man’s affairs?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Very dubious—but you have promised me your silence. I know Charles did not win a large sum. He would certainly help Wallace, but it would be with his own funds, and Wallace would not allow that. I don’t know why he shouldn’t. I would in his place, especially thinking of Connie and Johnny. But he wouldn’t. Perhaps, as a man, you may understand. But I thought if you … if you had won sufficient to pay for the two passages, I … well, I could return it to Wallace myself. As though it had come from me. Do you see? Then he need never know that you had anything to do with it at all.’

  ‘And you think he would take a loan from you when he would not take it from Charles?’

  ‘I could persuade him to, I know I could. I have seen how desperate he is—when he told me how he stood after the dinner party. I could persuade him that it was in absolute confidence, and only on account of his wife and child. He would take it from me.’

  ‘Hm! I see. I think we had better sit down, Miss Hewitt.’

  We did so, as he continued to regard me with unblinking solemnity. My anger had given way to nervousness again. He looked so hard, so lacking in sympathy, that I began to wonder whether my suggestion was unethical as well as unorthodox. Men had such peculiar ideas about money and gambling and such things, and I had never given them much thought.

  He leant back in his chair and crossed his legs.

  ‘Now, Miss Hewitt, let me assure myself that I understand you. You wish me to give you the money that I won from Captain Avery so that you can return it to him. Is that right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Captain Avery is to be persuaded that it is a loan, or gift, directly from you, no mention being made of me. Is that right?’

  Again I nodded.

  ‘I see. So you won’t allow me even due thanks for my magnanimous gesture—supposing, of course, I agree to make it?’

  ‘Oh, but you will have my most earnest gratitude, Mr Erskine. I know it cannot signify to you whether you have Captain Avery’s.’

  ‘But it will signify to me to have yours?’

  ‘Of course not! You know I did not mean it like that!’ I felt my cheeks grow warm with confusion. The bare, uncomfortable room vibrated with his suspicion and my hostility, as we stared at each other across an absurd little island of frayed coconut-matting. Then Mr Erskine relieved the tension by throwing back his head and laughing.

  ‘You must excuse me, Miss Hewitt,’ he said, controlling himself with difficulty. ‘I have never before been engaged in such an interview, and to be frank I do not know the rules of the game.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ I admitted. His laughter was disconcerting, but I preferred it to his frown. ‘But why need there be any rules? I am merely asking—no, suggesting—an act of kindness, of compassion.’

  ‘Yes. That is how you see it, no doubt.’ He passed a well-shaped hand over his hair and shrugged his shoulders in a Gallic fashion. ‘How can I make you see it as I do? Oh, you’re right, I’m not bothered about the money itself. Nor even the principle of the thing. I quite agree with you that the code which rules these matters is largely ridiculous; I would not be bound by it. But there are other factors, which perhaps you have not taken into account. Can you be sure, for instance, that the money would be used for the purpose you have in mind? Are you sure that the sum would not be dissipated in settling other, smaller but more pressing debts before that unfortunate woman can be got aboard a ship? Have you any notion, Miss Hewitt, of the manner in which gamblers manage their day-to-day affairs: robbing Peter to pay Paul, and then when Peter comes importunate, robbing Paul to pay Peter and so on and so on until everything is so inextricably knotted and snarled that there is no unravelling it this side of death? For instance, Miss Hewitt, I’ll wager that Avery has reached his present state of desperation because he is being blackmailed by some bunnia or bunnias from whom he has borrowed money over the years. They don’t want the principal back. That’s the last thing they want. But they are threatening in some way to get the interest paid, and that interest, Miss Hewitt, will probably be somewhere very near the original sum tha
t was borrowed. Do you understand what that involves?’

  ‘Yes. Captain Avery has already told me that that is the case and that he can never hope to be clear of debt. I tell you again, Mr Erskine, I hold no brief for him. If he alone were involved, I would think it only just for him to suffer some inconvenience as a result of his own stupidity and rashness. But …’

  ‘I know. His wife and child. All very touching.’

  ‘Your cynicism is uncalled for!’ I spoke sharply, and the edge in my voice caused Mr Erskine to draw his brows together again. But I would say what I had to. ‘Captain Avery has told me that he never played for money because he enjoyed it, but to try and eke out his rather meagre salary. And I believe him! He did it for the best, and he is truly concerned for Connie and his son, more so than most men would be who found themselves with a drunken wife on their hands. Don’t you see? It is her drinking, and her inability to run her home properly, that has brought him to his present state. But he does not hold it against her, as most husbands would do. He loves her dearly in spite of everything. He has destroyed himself on her behalf!’

  For a moment Mr Erskine continued to frown at me, while I met his eyes squarely. Then he shook his head in pity.

  ‘No, no, Miss Hewitt, that won’t do! I’ve knocked around too long not to recognize a born gambler when I see one. Captain Avery’s explanation was tailored to his audience, I assure you. Oh,’ as I attempted to contradict him, ‘I do not pretend to know how he feels about his wife; no doubt he is as devoted as you say. But I think it more likely that she took to gin to allay her loneliness as a gambler’s wife, than that he took to gambling because she drank. I’ve seen many such situations in my time, Miss Hewitt. You can do nothing to mend matters, believe me. And you might well make them worse by meddling.’

  ‘Then you will not…’

  ‘No, I will not!’

  I looked down at my hands lying quietly on my lap. I had at least done what I could. But it was small comfort. My sense of defeat was augmented by the knowledge which had grown on me during the interview that I had made a fool of myself in attempting to move such a man as Mr Erskine. He was as hard and unfeeling as the Rock of Gibraltar, and all that was left for me was to retreat with what dignity I could muster.

  I got up. Mr Erskine, too, rose to his feet.

  ‘One moment,’ he said, looking down at me with gravity in his eyes, but a half-smile on his lips. ‘Had anything been sufficient to make me return my winnings to Avery, it would have been your intercession for him. You are a woman of spirit, Miss Hewitt, even if perhaps just a little too impetuous.’

  ‘So I begin to think,’ I agreed coldly.

  ‘You should not have come here this afternoon,’ he went on. ‘Not that I do not appreciate your visit; quite the contrary! But this is a bachelor establishment, something which perhaps you did not realize, as, perhaps, you also did not realize that so long as I am part of it, in the eyes of all the decorous ladies of cantonments, it is a very dubious bachelor establishment.’

  ‘Your concern is unnecessary,’ I informed him stiffly. ‘My action was entirely innocent, and I am persuaded that my reputation cannot suffer, as a consequence, in the eyes of those few people whom I respect.’

  ‘A woman of spirit indeed! Allow me to hope that you will not be met by any of the more rigid mamas of Mariaon as you drive out of Major Cussens’s drive—alone! I would not like to see you cowed by gossip. But if you will accept a word of advice: the next time you stand in need of my assistance, it would be wiser to send over a chit, and I promise to attend you with all celerity.’

  ‘Mr Erskine, I know well enough that I have made a meddling fool of myself, but really it is too bad of you to rub it in. I will not bother you again. You may depend upon that. And allow me to remind you that I did not come here on my own behalf in the first place.’

  He was smiling broadly again, and in spite of my wrath I caught myself wondering why a man with such an unpleasant character should be gifted with such a pleasant smile.

  ‘I believe you are seldom in need of help on your own behalf. More’s the pity. It would be quite an experience to see you cast down! But allow me to say that I am delighted our acquaintance is to be prolonged. Your addition to my brother’s party is going to make a difference to my enjoyment. No little difference!’

  ‘I will go now,’ I muttered and made for the door.

  ‘Please, a moment more!’ His hand on my arm detained me, and I had to pause. ‘I have not yet finished. This, Miss Hewitt, is the reason why I could not return Captain Avery’s losses, even at your request.’ He took out a leather pocketbook, and extracted a half sheet of notepaper which he handed me.

  I was not so simple as to believe that any cash had changed hands after the game at the Averys’ bungalow. I had imagined such transactions were naturally covered by cheques. The slip of paper Mr Erskine gave me, however, was a simple IOU signed by Wallace Avery with a great flourish under the two names. The amount, so I now saw, was amply sufficient to send his wife and son home to England. I looked at it for a moment in some puzzlement; why had Mr Erskine decided to show it to me at all? The matter was finished.

  ‘Well, I see there would have been enough for the passages. Not that it matters now.’

  ‘You see nothing else?’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘The date, Miss Hewitt.’

  The IOU was postdated six months hence.

  ‘But I thought …’

  ‘Yes, Miss Hewitt. My winnings were purely hypothetical.’

  ‘But, a debt of honour; he said it was a debt of honour!’

  ‘And no doubt he meant it. Of course he would not fob off the men with whom he plays regularly in such a manner. Perhaps he hoped, still hopes, that somehow he will have recouped himself sufficiently to meet this document when I present it in six months’ time. He explained when he wrote it that he was a little—er—embarrassed. Actually, I could have refused to take it. But I was his guest; I realized before I played that the man was a gambler; and, in any event, as you have said yourself, the sum is of no great importance to me. So I let it pass. Now perhaps you understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do understand, Mr Erskine!’ Anger nearly choked me as I spoke. ‘And I also understand that you have been playing a despicable game of cat-and-mouse with me ever since I arrived here!’

  ‘What?’ He was genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yes—a game of cat-and-mouse! You have allowed me to humiliate myself; you have added to that humiliation, you have delighted to see me make a fool of myself. And all the time you had that paper in your pocket. Why did you not show it to me when you knew why I had come? I would have left immediately, and we would both have been saved this wretched interview!’

  He had drawn back as I turned on him wrathfully, and was watching me with an expression of quizzical incredulity. After a moment’s pause, during which he seemed to be debating how best to counter my accusation, he smiled and said, ‘But why should I do that? It would have deprived me of your company.’

  This flippancy merely augmented my anger, and I swept out of the room.

  The driver of the buggy was dozing on his seat, so I had to open the door myself, and as I wrestled with the rusty handle Mr Erskine followed me and, unclasping my hand from the metal, opened the door for me. I ignored the hand he offered and climbed quickly into the vehicle. He slammed the door, signalled to the driver to be off, and we clattered out of the porch.

  I inclined my head very slightly as we went.

  ‘Au revoir, Miss Hewitt,’ he laughed, waving after us. ‘Till we meet again!’

  CHAPTER 16

  The noble certainty in right-doing that had upheld me when I left the Avery bungalow had all ebbed away when I returned. I was abased in my own eyes; felt less than the ant and smaller than the atom. My behaviour had been callow and foolish in the extreme. I had acted too hastily, too rashly, too unthinkingly. Moreover—and this was the most cruel knowledge of all—I h
ad exhibited my lack of common sense to Mr Erskine. I had earned his derision. And he, I now felt, had thoroughly earned my pronounced dislike. For if I had been hasty, I had also been concerned; if I had been rash, I had also shown some courage; and if I had been unthinking, I had not been unfeeling.

  But he! He had been cold, cynical and calculating. To have known all the time that I was on a fool’s errand, and to have allowed me to show my hand and demonstrate my ignorance of men as he had done, was unpardonable. It was something no true gentleman—no one like Charles, for instance—would ever have been capable of. Remembering Mr Erskine’s iniquities was a bulwark against recalling my own shortcomings, so by the time I got home I had worked myself into a towering temper and a very thorough detestation of the man I had left. I wished with all my strength that somehow I could avoid meeting him again, but this, of course, was a forlorn hope. Charles’s initial disapproval of his brother had dissipated over the last few days and I had small reason to doubt that we would visit Mr Erskine at Hassanganj as soon as an invitation was tendered. In this belief I was right, the promptings of Charles’s good nature being reinforced by two other and important factors.

  The first was a letter which Charles had received that day from his mother, written a mere two months before. After two cross-hatched pages of news about Dissham, Mount Bellew, relatives and friends in England, Mrs Flood had turned her attention to her son’s affairs in India.

  I had met Mrs Flood on several occasions and been intimidated by her on all of them. She was one of those large, slow, dictatorial women who plough their way successfully through life, and the lives of those around them, helped only by an immense and unshakeable belief in their own infallibility. Unhampered by intelligence, imagination or sensitivity, ignorant of all such imponderables as the rights or feelings of others, she had managed to bend the world to her will by her sheer incapacity to entertain another’s point of view. It was said that she had once been a beauty. Perhaps. But she had run to fat, and now her heavy features gave indication of nothing other than determined selfishness. I had often wondered how such a woman had produced a son like Charles. That she was the mother of Oliver Erskine was in no way astonishing to me.