“The Americans are so odd,” her mother had murmured. “One never knows where they are. I mean, some of them actually encourage Gandhi, you know, darling, and that is so embarrassing for your father. I mean, if the white people don’t stick together, you know, and all that—”
Her mother seldom finished a sentence, it trailed in the air, not quite a question, something more than a suggestion. It was true that the times were dangerous. Agnes did not like to believe that the danger had anything to do with her life, and yet of course it did. India always had everything to do with her life because she was her father’s daughter. If she had not been, it would not have mattered so much whom she married. She could have allowed herself to fall into love with Ted as pleasantly as though he were an Englishman. It was, of course, of immense help that he was a MacArd, old David MacArd’s grandson, and even David MacArd’s son. For David MacArd was famous, too, in his own way, though her father said it was a pity he had let himself choose to be a missionary, a great disappointment it must have been to his powerful father, who naturally would have hoped that his only son could have looked after his vast financial interests, so vital and far reaching into almost every country. The Viceroy had said, however, that the graduates of MacArd University in Poona were among the most loyal of the younger Indians, and for that David MacArd must certainly be thanked.
She read Ted’s letter thoughtfully, and when she had finished it she read it again, very slowly. Then she lay back on her pillows, allowing her tea and toast to grow cool, as cool as anything could be, but it was odd how one craved something very hot, too, by way of contrast instead of the eternal tepid. Perhaps that was why she found this American so fascinating, he was positive. Most young Englishmen grew tepid, after a few years in India, it was the only way to endure the climate, perhaps, but one could almost guess what they would say when they opened their mouths to talk, especially to her. In a way she wished she could have stayed in England, and yet she did not like it there. It was a small place, and everything was set in a pattern that could not be broken. After living in India and being the Governor’s daughter, the pattern was petty. The trouble was that there was a pattern here, too, superimposed upon the undercurrents and the restlessness of India itself. One could never be sure of the foundations. Nothing was more powerful and more eternal than the British Empire, and it was simply a matter of time until the followers of Gandhi were put down, and men like her father would do it kindly and with justice, but one could not forget nevertheless that there were so few white men and so many of the others. Even here in Government House itself, there were only the handful of English surrounded by Indians, loyal of course, loving their masters in a way, and yet only someone who had grown up in India could understand the rumblings and the tremblings of the foundation. Her parents underneath were rooted in England, but she was rooted here. The things she had seen that they had never seen, the things she heard and understood because she knew a language that they did not! Ah, children heard and saw. That was why she felt so safe with Ted. He had been a child here, too, a white child in a dark country.
She got up and went to her little rosewood English desk and wrote, “Dear Ted, I shall expect you at four. Agnes.”
The great oval drawing room was shadowy at the far end but he saw her rise from the gold satin-covered couch and come toward him, a figure in filmy white.
“This is always the coolest room,” she explained. “And we seldom use it except for big parties. We’ll not be disturbed.”
“I am glad of that,” he said gravely, “For what I have to say is not to be interrupted.”
“Oh, Ted,” she cried too softly, “must you say it yet? We’re still so young—”
“I know,” he said, but we aren’t as young as our years, Agnes. We talked about that on the ship, do you remember? We said that India makes people grow up fast.”
She turned rather abruptly and sat down on the gold couch again and he sat beside her. The pillows, stuffed with down, were unexpectedly soft, and the thick satin felt almost cool to his touch.
“More than that,” he went on, not putting out his hand to hers. “We shall be forced, I think, in still another way. Agnes, your father stands for one kind of life. It is the same side my father is on. But I may choose the opposite side. I want to know that you’ll go with me.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked. Her eyes were steadily upon his and her voice was calm.
“You know what I mean,” he retorted.
“I want to hear you say what you mean,” she insisted.
“Then I dread to say it, and yet I must say it. I must tell you, first of all and above all, that in spite of the Prince’s visit, there is a terrible struggle coming. Darya is on one side with Gandhi, and your father and mine are on the other side. I don’t know where I am, Agnes. I shall need time to know where I am. What I must know is — will you go with me wherever I go?”
“How odd to put it like that,” she exclaimed.
“Odd?”
“One would think you were planning something dreadful.”
“Perhaps it would be dreadful for you.”
“I can’t imagine anything very dreadful happening to you,” she said, beginning to smile.
She meant, what is there dreadful that could happen to a tall and handsome young man, the son of the MacArds?
“Aren’t you being dramatic?” she asked.
“What if I am?” he demanded.
“I might want to laugh,” she suggested.
He gave a large impetuous sigh. “We are fencing. I am making the thrusts and you are fending me off. Let’s speak plainly. Agnes, do you love me?”
She bent her fair and graceful head. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you do love me,” he urged. “At least if you don’t know?”
“There is so much more than just love,” she said.
“Just love!” he repeated with reproach.
“One doesn’t just decide by feeling.”
“I do!”
“A woman then.”
“An Englishwoman perhaps,” he said with quick bitterness.
She accepted this. “An Englishwoman, especially here in India. To be English here carries more than the usual weight, especially now.”
“Why especially now, if it is you and me?”
“I can imagine that if you should be friends with Gandhi, for example,” she said thoughtfully, “it would make an immense difference if I were your wife. It would separate me entirely from the world where I belong, from my parents, certainly. I must consider that.”
“And may it not separate you from me, if you do consider it?” he demanded.
“Ah, yes, perhaps,” she agreed, “but then I am not quite in love with you. There is still time to stop myself.”
His heart leaped at the possibilities of her not being quite in love with him, which must mean nevertheless that she was on the way to being in love with him, not with the heat and urge and demand of his own nature, for she was as cool as a flower and that was one of her lovely qualities. He had absorbed some of the heat of India, but she had grown up more cool, more still, by contrast.
“Then you are a little in love with me!” he exclaimed.
“I know that I could love you,” she said honestly. “I do want to love you, Ted, if I can be sure—”
“Sure of me?”
“Sure that being your wife would not destroy what I am.”
They looked at each other, a long half yearning look, she reluctantly and he arresting his heart. “Is it because I am a missionary?”
She hesitated, searching for her own feelings, restraining the impulse to throw herself into his arms and give herself up to loving him, which she could so easily do.