In every possible way they got on so well together. He never bored her and fretted her as Flory had done. (As a matter of fact, she had almost forgotten Flory, these days; when she thought of him, it was for some reason always his birthmark that she remembered.) It was a bond between them that Verrall detested anything ‘highbrow’ even more than she did. He told her once that he had not read a book since he was eighteen, and that indeed he ‘loathed’ books; ‘except, of course, Jorrocks and all that’. On the evening of their third or fourth ride they were parting at the Lackersteens’ gate. Verrall had successfully resisted all Mrs Lackersteen’s invitations to meals; he had not yet set foot inside the Lackersteens’ house, and he did not intend to do so. As the syce was taking Elizabeth’s pony, Verrall said:
‘I tell you what. Next time we come out you shall ride Belinda. I’ll ride the chestnut. I think you’ve got on well enough not to go and cut Belinda’s mouth up.’
Belinda was the Arab mare. Verrall had owned her two years, and till this moment he had never once allowed anyone else to mount her, not even the syce. It was the greatest favour that he could imagine. And so perfectly did Elizabeth appreciate Verrall’s point of view that she understood the greatness of the favour, and was thankful.
The next evening, as they rode home side by side, Verrall put his arm round Elizabeth’s shoulder, lifted her out of the saddle and pulled her against him. He was very strong. He dropped the bridle, and, with his free hand, lifted her face up to meet his; their mouths met. For a moment he held her so, then lowered her to the ground and slipped from his horse. They stood embraced, their thin, drenched shirts pressed together, the two bridles held in the crook of his arm.
It was about the same time that Flory, twenty miles away, decided to come back to Kyauktada. He was standing at the jungle’s edge by the bank of a dried-up stream, where he had walked to tire himself, watching some tiny, nameless finches eating the seeds of the tall grasses. The cocks were chrome-yellow, the hens like hen sparrows. Too tiny to bend the stalks, they came whirring towards them, seized them in mid-flight and bore them to the ground by their own weight. Flory watched the birds incuriously, and almost hated them because they could light no spark of interest in him. In his idleness he flung his dah at them, scaring them away. If she were here, if she were here! Everything—birds, trees, flowers, everything—was deadly and meaningless because she was not here. As the days passed the knowledge that he had lost her had grown surer and more actual until it poisoned every moment.
He loitered a little way into the jungle, flicking at creepers with his dah. His limbs felt slack and leaden. He noticed a wild vanilla plant trailing over a bush, and bent down to sniff at its slender, fragrant pods. The scent brought him a feeling of staleness and deadly ennui. Alone, alone, in the sea of life enisled! The pain was so great that he struck his fist against a tree, jarring his arm and splitting two knuckles. He must go back to Kyauktada. It was folly, for barely a fortnight had passed since the scene between them, and his only chance was to give her time to forget it. Still, he must go back. He could not stay any longer in this deadly place, alone with his thoughts among the endless, mindless leaves.
A happy thought occurred to him. He could take Elizabeth the leopard-skin that was being cured for her in the jail. It would be a pretext for seeing her, and when one comes bearing gifts one is generally listened to. This time he would not let her cut him short without a word. He would explain, extenuate—make her realise that she had been unjust to him. It was not right that she should condemn him because of Ma Hla May, whom he had turned out of doors for Elizabeth’s own sake. Surely she must forgive him when she heard the truth of the story? And this time she should hear it; he would force her to listen to him if he had to hold her by the arms while he did it.
He went back the same evening. It was a twenty-mile journey, by rutted cart-tracks, but Flory decided to march by night, giving the reason that it was cooler. The servants almost mutinied at the idea of a night-march, and at the very last moment old Sammy collapsed in a semi-genuine fit and had to be plied with gin before he could start. It was a moonless night. They made their way by the light of lanterns, in which Flo’s eyes gleamed like emeralds and the bullocks’ eyes like moonstones. When the sun was up the servants halted to gather sticks and cook breakfast, but Flory was in a fever to be at Kyauktada, and he hurried ahead. He had no feeling of tiredness. The thought of the leopard-skin had filled him with extravagant hopes. He crossed the glittering river by sampan and went straight to Dr Veraswami’s bungalow, getting there about ten.
The doctor invited him to breakfast, and—having shooed the women into some suitable hiding-place—took him into his own bathroom so that he could wash and shave. At breakfast the doctor was very excited and full of denunciations of ‘the crocodile’; for it appeared that the pseudo-rebellion was now on the point of breaking out. It was not till after breakfast that Flory had an opportunity to mention the leopard-skin.
‘Oh, by the way, doctor. What about that skin I sent to the jail to be cured? Is it done yet?’
‘Ah——’ said the doctor in a slightly disconcerted manner, rubbing his nose. He went inside the house—they were breakfasting on the veranda, for the doctor’s wife had protested violently against Flory being brought indoors—and came back in a moment with the skin rolled up in a bundle.
‘Ass a matter of fact——’ he began, unrolling it.
‘Oh, doctor!’
The skin had been utterly ruined. It was as stiff as cardboard, with the leather cracked and the fur discoloured and even rubbed off in patches. It also stank abominably. Instead of being cured, it had been converted into a piece of rubbish.
‘Oh, doctor! What a mess they’ve made of it! How the devil did it happen?’
‘I am so sorry, my friend! I wass about to apologise. It wass the best we could do. There iss no one at the jail who knows how to cure skins now.’
‘But, damn it, that convict used to cure them so beautifully!’
‘Ah, yes. But he iss gone from us these three weeks, alas.’
‘Gone? I thought he was doing seven years?’
‘What? Did you not hear, my friend? I thought you knew who it wass that used to cure the skins. It wass Nga Shwe O.’
‘Nga Shwe O?’
‘The dacoit who escaped with U Po Kyin’s assistance.’
‘Oh, hell!’
The mishap had daunted him dreadfully. Nevertheless, in the afternoon, having bathed and put on a clean suit, he went up to the Lackersteens’ house, at about four. It was very early to call, but he wanted to make sure of catching Elizabeth before she went down to the Club. Mrs Lackersteen, who had been asleep and was not prepared for visitors, received him with an ill grace, not even asking him to sit down.
‘I’m afraid Elizabeth isn’t down yet. She’s dressing to go out riding. Wouldn’t it be better if you left a message?’
‘I’d like to see her, if you don’t mind. I’ve brought her the skin of that leopard we shot together.’
Mrs Lackersteen left him standing up in the drawing-room, feeling lumpish and abnormally large as one does at such times.