Mr. Kennedy jumped up, tore the paper from the boy’s hand, and read the news given out by the Bombay Gazette.
“Yes, it is true,” he cried, his face beaming with joy. “A victory, a great, decisive victory! Heaven be thanked—the fortune of war has changed.”
He gave the bearer of the joyful news a piece of gold and hastened to inform the ladies. Heideck, however, remained behind, immersed in thought. The hotel soon became lively. The English ran here and there, shouting to one another the contents of the despatch, while a growing excitement gradually showed itself in the streets. In the so-called fort, the European quarter of Bombay, torches were lighted and feux-de-joie fired. Heideck took one of the traps standing in front of the hotel and ordered the driver to drive through the town. Here he observed that the rejoicings were confined to the fort. As soon as the conveyance reached the town proper, he found that it presented the same appearance as on his first visit, and that there was nothing to show or indicate the occurrence of extraordinary events. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the narrow streets were busy and full of traffic. All the houses were lighted up, and all the doors open, affording a view of the interior of the primitive dwellings, of the artisans busy at their work, of the dealers plying their trade, of the housewives occupied with their domestic affairs. Evidently the inhabitants troubled no more about the war than about the terrible scourge of the Indian population—the plague. The despatch announcing the victory, although no doubt it was known in the native quarter, had evidently not made the slightest impression.
About eleven o’clock Heideck returned to the hotel, where he found the Kennedys and Edith still conversing eagerly on the terrace.
“Of course we shall not leave now,” he declared. “As soon as the Russians have evacuated the north, we shall return to Simla.”
Heideck made no remark, and since the openly expressed and heartfelt joy of the English affected him painfully, he soon took leave of them, and went up to his room, which, like Edith’s, was on the second storey.
According to the custom of the country, all the rooms opened on to the broad balcony which ran round the whole floor like an outer corridor. As a look from Edith had repeated her wish that he should wait for her there, he stepped out on to the balcony. His patience was not put to a severe trial. She must have quickly found an opportunity of escaping from the Kennedys’ society, for he saw her coming towards him even sooner than he had expected.
“I thank you for waiting for me,” she said, “but we cannot stay here, for we should not be safe from surprise for a moment. Let us go into my room.”
Heideck followed her with hesitation. But he knew that Edith would feel insulted if he expressed any scruples at her request, for her firm confidence in his chivalrous honour relieved her of all apprehension. Only the moon, shining faintly, shed a dim light over the room. The clock on the tower of the neighbouring university struck twelve.
“Destiny is playing a strange game with us,” said Edith, who had seated herself in one of the little basket chairs, while Heideck remained standing near the door. “I confess that since the arrival of the news of the victory I have spent some terrible hours, for the Kennedys have, in consequence, abandoned their idea of leaving, and seem to take it for granted that I shall remain with them in India.”
“And would you not, in fact, be forced to do so, my dearest Edith?”
“So then you have already reckoned with this contingency? You would not, surely, think of travelling without me? But perhaps you would even feel relieved at being freed from me?”
“How can you say such things, Edith, which, I am sure, you do not believe?”
“Who knows? You are ambitious, and we poor women are never worse off than when we have to do with ambitious men.”
“But there is probably no necessity for us to torment ourselves with the discussion of such contingencies. I have never for a moment believed in any alteration of our arrangements for the journey.”
“That is to say you doubt the trustworthiness of the report of the victory?”
“To speak frankly, I do. I did not wish to mortify the old gentleman and spoil his shortlived joy. That is the reason why I did not express my distrust in his presence. But the despatch does not really convey the impression of being true. It does not even contain a more exact statement of the place where the battle is said to have taken place. It must, at least, strike the unprejudiced observer as being very suspicious.”
“But who would take the trouble to obtain the melancholy satisfaction of deceiving the world in such a manner for a short time?”
“Oh, there are many who would be interested in doing so. In the course of every war such false reports are always floating about, in most cases without their origin being known. It may be a money-market manoeuvre.”
“So you think it quite impossible that we can beat the Russians?”
“Not exactly impossible, but extremely improbable—at least while the military situation remains what it is. Again, it is the absence of definite information that surprises me. A victorious general always finds time to communicate details, which the vanquished is only too glad to defer. I am convinced that the bad news will soon follow, and that, as far as our plans for the journey are concerned, everything will remain as before.”
Edith was silent. Her belief in Heideck was so unbounded that his words had completely convinced her. But they did not restore the joyful confidence of the last few days.
“Everything will remain as before?” she said at length. “That means you will leave us at Brindisi.”
“Certainly. There is no other way for me to reach the army.”
“And suppose you abandon the idea of returning to the army altogether? Have you never thought that we might find another foundation on which to build our future happiness?”
Heideck looked at her in amazement.
“No, dearest Edith, I have not thought of it. It would have been a useless and foolish idea, so long as my duty and honour prescribe most definitely what I have to do.”
“Duty and honour! Of course, I ought to have known that you would at once be ready again with fine words. It is so convenient to be able to take shelter behind so unassailable a rampart, if at the same time it falls in with one’s own wishes.”
“Edith! How unjust the melancholy events of the last few weeks have made you! If you think it over quietly, you will see that my personal wishes and my heart’s desires are not in question at all. And really I do not understand what you think I could possibly do.”
“Oh, there would be more than one way of sparing us the pain of a separation, but I will only mention the first that occurs to me. Couldn’t we very well remain together in India? If it is the question of money that makes you hesitate, I can soon make your mind easy on that point. I have enough money for both of us, and what is mine is yours. If we retire to a part of the country which the war cannot reach, a hill station such as Poona or Mahabeleshwar, no one will trouble you with questions or think of following you. And if you live there and devote yourself to your love instead of slaying your fellow-men, it will be more acceptable to God.”
In spite of the seriousness with which she spoke, Heideck could not help smiling as he answered: “What a wonderful picture of the world and its affairs is sometimes drawn in a pretty woman’s little head! It is really fortunate that we sober-minded men do not allow our heart to run away with our head so easily. Otherwise we should come badly off, for you yourselves would certainly be the first to turn away from us with contempt, if we tried to purchase the happiness of your love at any price—even at the price of your respect.”