A Perverted Punishment.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 16, 16 October 1912, Page 43

A Perverted Punishment.

By

ALICE PERRIN.

TIIKEE o’clock on an April afternoon, and the mail train from Bombay steamed into the station of one of the largest cities Of northern India. The platform instantly became covered with a struggling, yelling mass of natives; fat, half-naked merchants; consequential Bengali clerks with shiny vellow skins and lank black locks; swaggering Sepoys on leave, with jaunty caps and fiercely curled beards; keen, hawkfaced Afghans wrapped in garments suggestive of the Scriptures; whole parties of excited villagers, bound for some pilt grim shrine, clinging to one another and shouting discordantly; refreshmentsellers screaming their wares, and coolies bearing luggage on their heads, vociferating as wildly as if their very lives depended on penetrating the crowd. into this bewildering, deafening babel stepped Major Kenwithin from a firstiflass compartment. His rugged face, ianned and seared by twenty years of Indian service, wore anything but an nmiablc expression, and he barely responded to the cordial greeting of a young Englishman who was threading 'his. way through a bevy of noisy, chattering native females toward the parcels office.

“Missis went off all right?" shouted Cartwright over the crowd of draped heads.

Kenwithin only nodded, and turned Ids attention to his luggage and orderly. "Poor old chap—how he feels it!" (muttered the other, as he proceeded to claim the parcel he had come to the station to fetch, while Kenwithin drove to his bungalow in the native cavalry ■lines feeling utterly and completely wretched.

The square, thatched house wore a dreary, deserted appearance. 'The interior of the building shared the general (dejection inevitable to aif Anglo-Indian (establishment from which a woman’s presence has been suddenly withdrawn, <md the Major’s lonely heart ached as he roamed through the rooms, missing his wife more and more at every step. How on earth was he to get through six long, weary months without her? How had he ever lived without het at

And yet, until the day he met his .wife, John Kenwithin had managed to lead an existence entirely- after his own heart. His regiment first, and then of every description, had been all he lived for. The time came when his astonished friends learned that he was engaged to he .married, and subsequently discovered that lie had made a very admirable, selection. Certainly no one could have suited his tenacious, truth-loving, somewhat harsh temperament better than the wife he had chosen, for she was a selfconscientious soul, past her first girlhood, with a simple, sterling directness of character, and a calm, aestful beauty of her own in her steadfast grey- eyes and regular features. She adored the Major with her whole being; ■she considered nothing but his comfort and convenience; she bored people to death by- making him her sole topic of conversation; and, in short, she surpassed even the memory of his mother and aunts in her capacity for doing her duly and worshipping her husband. The pair had led an ideally happy married life for the space of two years, and then •had come Mrs Kenwitliin’a sudden failure of health and the doctor’s urgent advice that she should proceed "home” Without delay to consult a heart specialist. So the Major had been forced to let her go alone, with no prospect of following her, for leave was stopped that season because of trouble on the frontier.

All that day he wandered aimlessly about the house, unable to work or pull himself together, lie felt that he had no heart to go to mess that night, and answer kindly meant inquiries as to his wife's departure, so he wrote to Cartwright (who was his first cousin and Benior subaltern in the regiment) and asked him to come and dine in the bun-

galow. ('artwright readily assented, lie was fond of Kenwithin and mi lerstood him thoroughly-; he knew of the goodness as well as the narrow sternness that lay in his cousin's nature- knew that he was as straight ami honest as the day-, but also, as is frequently the case, most suspicious and intolerant of sin and weakness in others. Tiie two men ate their dinner more or less in silence. Cartwright made little attempt to talk, for he felt that wellintentioned conversation would be more likely to irritate than soothe; but afterward. as they sat outside in front of ■the bungalow, smoking their cheroots, he racked his brains for some subtle method of distracting his cousin’s thoughts. One plan he was fairly- certain would succeed, but he hesitated to adopt it. Cartwright had never confided his own trouble to any- one, and onlyhis anxiety- to rouse Kenwithin from his moody reflections made him contemplate the mention of it now. He took the cheroot from his lips and cleared his throat nervously, “I say, John,” began Cartwright shamefacedly, “I’m beastly’ sorry- for you, old man. I know what it is to part from a woman you’d sell y-our soul for.”

Kenwithin turned quickly toward him. ‘‘■You! Why, I thought -you never said ?” Cartwright smiled without amuse inent. “No, because the less said about it the. better. I suppose, with your notions, you’d call it a disgraceful affair. but I'm hanged if I can see it in that light.” “A married woman?” Cartwright nodded, and his memory turned to the face lie loved, keeping him silent. Kenwitbin’s eyes hardened and his month grew set, “She knows you care for- her?" he asked. Cartwright noddl’d again, and covered his eyes with his hand. “And is her husband a brute to her?” “No. That is the worst of it.” Kenwithin laughed comprehensively. “Look here, my- dear boy, drop it! Tim whole thing is wrong and foolish, and nothing but harm cun come of it. Either a woman is good or she is bad, and there’s no intermediate stage. No decent married woman would listen to a word of love from a man not Ker husband. I know the class. Without being actually depraved, they are false to the heart’s core—they can’t exist without illicit admiration!”

A dark look of rage swept over Cartwright’s face, but with an effort he con trolled the outburst of fierce defence that rose to his lips—for had he not brought this on himself by’ opening the subject to a man of Kenwitbin's ideas? He carefully .selected anol her cheroot. and spoke in the intervals of lighting it. “Forgive—(puff)—my saying so—• (puffl Kenwithin. but I think you’re a bit narrow-minded. The 'woman I shall love till the day of my death is hardly of that class. No doubt 1 was wrong, and she weak: but there was no real harm in it. Ami now sjie has gone home. The only thing is that occasionally, to night, for ’ instance, the future seems 'somewhat unfaceable.” " Granted that there was no real harm, and that I am narrow-minded, the thing is still unsound throughout, and you know it! Perhaps 1 am behind the times, but my idea of Woman as she should be is that duty' comes first with her. I would no more have married one who let me make love to her during her husband's lifetime than I would have married—a native!" “You were never tried," remarked Cartwright shortly, and changed the subject, for his effort to stir Kenwithin from his depression had,been successful; and the two men sat on in the moonlight, chatting casually of everyday matters Until they- parted for the Hight. Helen Kenwithin gazed dreamily out over the dazzling glint of the Hod Sea from the deck of an outward-bound I’. and O. steamer. The six long, weary months of separation were nearly over, and she was returning to her beloved John, somewhat better in health, but

with serious injunctions from the foremost heart specialist in London to avoid fatigue and excitement for the future. Helen’s white eyelids were slowly drooping, when she was roused by’ the voice of a Mrs Trench (her cabin companion), who, fresh from a nap belpvv, was setting herself by Mrs Kenwitbin’s side, relentlessly- prepared for conversation. She was an’attractive little person of barely five-and-twenly-, with sparkling brown eyes and crisp, ruddy hair. Sho and Mrs Kenwithin had st ruck up a certain reserved friendship which neither permitted full play, seeing that it was not likely to be renewed: for, though Mrs Trench had spent a few years in India, her husband's regiment bad latelybeen moved to Aden, where she was now rejoining him after a summer in Eng land. “ Here are the photographs I wanted to show you,” she began, opening u packet in her lap. Helen put out her hand for the photo graphs (which consisted chiefly of a collection of good-looking subalterns in uniform), glancing casually at each, until one arrested her attention. “Olr. that's Cecil Cartwright my husband's cousin. Tie's in our regiment. Fancy your knowing him! Isn’t he nice?” Mrs Trench put the port rait back with

a hasty, nervous movement. “ I used to meet him at Simla,” slu- said shortly. “Yrs, he s|R.nt all his leave there the last two or three years. I believe he means to take furlough next month if he can get it. A nasty time of year to arrive in Englund. Don’t you nate the winter?" a The reply and discussion that followed took them away from the subject of Cecil Cartwright, and Helen thought no more of the incident until the night be: fore they reached Aden, when she yvas destined to learh why it- was that her husband's cousin had spent so much iff his leave at Simla. According io her custom, Helen had gone early to bed, leaving on deck Mrs Trench, who generally came down long after her cabin companion was asleep. Tv-mght, however, she appeared a full hour before her usual time, and Helen, being still awake, saw with concern that the pretty face was white and quivering, and the large eyes shining with tears. “ Is anything the matter?" she asked involuntarily. "Oh, did 1 wake you? I’m sorry. I came down because the moonlight on the water made me so miserable- anything beautiful makes me wretched now”; and sitting down on the edge of her berth, she began to cry hysterically, at the same time undressing with feverish haste. : i That was so unlike the usually lighthearted little lady that Helen was alarmed, and went to her side. “ Tell me," she urged sympathetically'. “Airs Kenwithin,’’ said the other suddenly, after a pause, “do you love your husband very much?" “He is everything on earth to me!" “ Would you have loved him just tha same if he had been a married man when you first met him? Supposing you knew that- it wa& wrong to love him, would that stop you?” “Oh, don’t!” cried Helen chokingly. “ What do you mean? Don’t you care for your husband? Isn’t he good to you ?” -i, “He is more than good io me. But he is 25 years older than I am, and I married him before I know anything al all about love. And now, just ns yon feel about your John 1 feel about, a man who is not my husband. Oh, sometimes I wish I had never seen him! 1 dread meeting my- husband to-morrow. I am always so frightened" —lowering hey voice—“so frightened of his guessing ." Mrs Kenwitbin’s pity drowned her principles. "Tell me about it; perhaps I can help you,” she said, and the kindness and forbearance in her voice drew forth the ugly, commonplace little story of the love (innocent though it was of active wrong) that existed between Daisy Trench and Cecil Cartwright. "How horrified you look!” was the defiant conclusion. “1 sup pose it sounds awful to yqu: but there was no real harm: and I am Hie better for loving him it has done me good.” “Good heavens!" burst out Helen passionately, “are you the belter for acting a lie every- second of your life to a hits band who believes in you ami loves you? Is it doing you good io feel in perpetual terror of being found out? You may say that you could not help loving Cecil, but you could help fostering the love, and being mean, false, deceitful!” “Oh.” whimpered Mrs Trench, looking like a child who lias accidentally broken something valuable. “I didn’t mean to bo so wicked." Then Helen curbed her righteous anger and patiently strove to convince AH’s Trench of the error of tier ways. She pleaded with her, coaxed her, and fright ened her by turns until the night was well on. “Yes, I know. 1 know," she sobbed at last, in abject- penitence. “I must give him up -1 must never see him again. Oh, why- couldn't God have made me happy and good like you? I am so miserable! And how am I to prevent his stopping at Aden on liis way- homo? “Write to him; write now, at once, and meet your husband to-morrow with a clear conscience.” "But I've packed up all my writing things. And I'm such a coward. I should be afraid of the letter going astray and coming back, and then my husband would see it. Such things have happened. A friend of mine told me once ” . ' "Let inn tell Ceeil," interrupted Mm Kenwithin; “he will not Imre started when I get back.” The little woman liiidlaled ami for a moment Helen feared that the battle would have to he fought afresh.

"Be brave, dear,” she said. "I know you will be glad afterward.’’ And finally »he gained full permission to pronounce Cecil Cartwright's sentence irrevocably, and was solemnly intrusted with a heartihaped locket containing his picture and a curl of his hair, and a bunch of faded forget-me-nots in an envelop on which was written, “With Cecil's love,” all of which Mrs Trench tearfully explained she had promised to return only if she wished everything to bo over between them. “But,” she insisted, “you are on no account to say that 1 don’t care for him any more —only that I mean to try not to because I know I ought to give him up. And I dare say,’’ she added reluctantly, “it will be a relief in the end.” “1 will explain,” saiff Helen soothingly, and then she locked the little packet away among her most private papers.

But Cecil Cartwright never received it from her hands, because the day after the ship left Aden, Mrs Kenwithin died suddenly and quietly of failure of tire heart, and the husband who had waited her arrival so impatiently at Bombay was obliged to, return to the square, thatched bungalow with only her boxes and personal belongings.

For him there followed days of bitter, aching darkness, during which he did his work mechanically, and wandered about the house and compound like a man in a dream, his wife’s luggage piled unopened In her room, and the old ayah lingering disappointedly in the back premises.

Then at last Cartwright Interfered, and offered to forego his leave to England if Kenwithin would accompany him on a shooting tour in Assam. But the Major absolutely refused to take advantage of the other’s good nature. So, finally, Cartwright took his furlough and departed, and perhaps his intended stoppage at Aden on his way home had somewhat to do with hie arguing the matter no further. Therefore it was not until long after Cartwright had gone, and the first agony of his utter loneliness was abating, that Kenwithin forced himself to go through his wife's things; and then it was that the little packet intrusted to Helen by Mrs Trench fell into his hands. A year later, when the Bombay mail train steamed into the large, echoing, upcountry station at itn accustomed hour, Cecil Cartwright and his wife were among the passengers who emerged from It.

The regiment had no.t been moved during f.’artw right's furlough, but various changes had taken place, the most important being the retirement of Major Kenwithin. lie had sent in his papers some weeks after his wife’s death, which, it was generally understood, had changed him completely. ' Indeed, the f<< wlie had seen his haggard face ami wild eyes previous to his departure feared that it pad also affected his reason, a theory that was strengthened when it became known that he was not retiring to England, like other people, but meant to devote the remainder of his existence to •port in India.

Cartwright had written to his cousin on hearing of his retirement, but, receiving no answer, and being the worst of correspondents, had not done so again until shortly after his return, when he announced his approaclriiig marriage with the widow of Colonel Trench. “I believe our marrying so soon after her husband’s death is considered positively indecent,” he wrote; “but I have cared for her for eo Jong. Do you remember my telling you about it the evening you had returned from seeing poor Helen off?” He had expected an answer to his news to meet him at Bombay, but none was forthcoming, and therefore his surprise and delight were unbounded when, among the usual crowd on the platform, he caught sight of a face which, though altered so ms to be hardly recognisable, he knew to be Kenwithin's. “Great Scoitt! there’s John!” he exclaimed. “Wait for me here a minute, Daisy”; and he shouldered and pushed his way through the moving throng. “John, my deal’ old man! Did you get my letter? Have you come to meet us? How are you, old chap?” “Yes,” said Kenwithin inertly, “I got your letter, and I came to meet you to ask you a question which you can answer here —now.” Cartwright looked anxiously at the altered face, all his ardour damped in a moment. There was evidently something more the matter with Kenwithin than undying grief at the loss of his wife.

“Yes, yes, anything you like, John; only come with us to the hotel; we shall be there until our bungalow is straight. Are you stopping there, or with the regiment ?” “Neither. I wrote to the colonel for the date of your return, and I came by this morning’s train. I shall go on by this one when you’ve told me what I want to know. Get into this carriage—we have only ten minutes more” —and he pushed the other into the empty firstclass compartment before which they had been standing. “But my wife ” “Hang your wife! Look here; listen to me! Until I got your letter I thought that —that —you and Helen—” “Helen!” “Look at that!” and he thrust a crumpled packet into Cartwright’s astonished lingers. “Look at your infernal picture! Look at your hair; look at the flowers. ‘With Cecil's love.’ What does it all mean? Speak, man, explain!” Cartwright had opened the packet in silence. “Yes, I can explain,” he said calmly. “These things were given to Helen for mo by my wife. The two were in tho same cabin as far as Aden. Helen persuaded her to give me up; ehe told mo when I saw her at Aden on my way homo, and I suppose T ought to have written to you about it. But I never dreamed —it never even occurred to nio that you would think it was Helen for one moment. Why didn’t you write and ask me? Good heavens! imagine your suspecting her like thatl” “Stop!'’ cried Kenwithin hoarsely. “Do

you think I don’t loathe myself? But it is your fault —yours! You said there was no harm in that cursed intrigue of yours with another man's wife. Well, there was this harm in it, that it has blasted my life—it made me wrong her memory! I could kill you! Get out of the carriage—the train's moving.” And before Cartwright could answer he found himself on the platform. The crowd of natives yelled and surged, the hot odour of curry and ghee and black humanity rose around him, and he stood dazed and apprehensive, seeing as through a mist the bright figure of his wife waiting patiently for him by their luggage, while the train sped on through the warm, quivering, afternoon air, carrying a man who sat with his face hidden in his hands, suffering the torture of bitter, hopeless regret. “Helen! Helen!” he moaned, “forgive! forgive!”