Half an hour after that, she went quietly down to the larder to refill the pitcher. She also got fresh cloths.
And so, for the next several hours, she kept up her lonely vigil. Each time she managed to cool him down a little, he soon seemed more feverish than ever, and she was frightened and wished she was not alone.
* * *
—
It was nearly midnight when he became delirious. He mumbled odd words, of no significance, so far as she could tell. She wondered whether she should wake Aunt Harriet after all.
And she might have done so, if he had not suddenly cried out: “I’ve killed him.”
“John? What is it?”
“Killed him…Killed him…Murder…Got to hide.”
“Killed who, John?”
“Run…Run…Hide.”
“John?”
“I’ll be hanged…Hide…”
She stared at him. What could it mean? She almost forgot about Aunt Harriet. Was it just a nightmare? It must be a nightmare.
Again she cooled him down. She pulled the sheet back to expose his chest and abdomen to the air. She even wished it would rain.
He was really burning up now. There was no point even in calling Aunt Harriet. What could her aunt possibly do that she couldn’t do herself? She knew she mustn’t be afraid of fever, as long as it didn’t get too high. But she suspected that high point might be very close. She swabbed his chest with cool water, as well as his brow. He’d fallen silent. Was that a good sign or a bad one?
And then he spoke again. Softly this time. “Agnes.”
“What is it, John?”
“Agnes!” This time it was a sudden cry. “Agnes! Oh, Agnes.”
“Yes, John. It’s Agnes.”
“Oh.” His eye opened, staring up, but not seeing her. “Oh, Agnes. Give me your hand.”
So Agnes gave him her hand. “Everything’s all right,” she said. “I’m here.”
“Ah.” A gentle smile crossed his face, as though he had seen an angel. “That’s all right, then.”
And a few minutes later Agnes realized that the fever had broken.
* * *
—
The following day, as she sat in the carriage with her mother, on their way to the hill station, Agnes was rather sleepy. Even if she had wanted to talk, she wouldn’t have raised the subject with her father.
So it wasn’t until after breakfast, on their first day up in the hills, when she and her mother were alone, that she told her about the strange way that Trader had cried out in his sleep. “Could he really have murdered someone, do you think?” she asked.
“Oh, I doubt it very much,” Mrs. Lomond said. “He was just having a nightmare, that’s all. When people have nightmares, it’s hardly ever about something that actually happened, you know. I should put it out of your mind, if I were you.” She gave her daughter a curious look. “Does it matter to you, Agnes?”
Agnes didn’t answer. She didn’t tell her mother about the way Trader had called out her name. For some reason she didn’t want to. After all, he had as good as told her that he was in love with her. She was pretty sure that was the truth, not a fantasy like the nightmare. And she wasn’t sure what she felt about it.
No man had ever told her he loved her before.
* * *
◦
It was the start of July. Colonel Lomond was looking forward to a quiet afternoon, undisturbed. He’d arrived up at the hill station to join his wife and daughter a week ago, so he’d had several days to unwind. The weather was cooler, the air was clean, and a mix of sweet and tangy scents wafted in the breeze.
Lomond loved the cottage—for so the English called their country retreats in the hills. Its architecture was a plain and simple colonial Georgian. Had the walls been clapboard instead of cream-painted stucco, it might have come from any village in New England—with the exception of the roof, of which the colonel was very proud. For this was constructed of the corrugated iron—the colonel called it tin—already in use in Australia and New Zealand, and just now making its appearance in British India. Lomond had supervised the work personally and had ordered the tin roof painted green. It blended pleasantly with the grass lawn and the rhododendrons, which gave structure to the cottage’s hillside garden.
His wife and Agnes were out in the garden now. Colonel Lomond had retired to the small room he called the library, but which was really his private den. He had sat himself in a big chair, stretched out his long legs, and lit a pipe when to his irritation the head house servant appeared to announce that a visitor had arrived. His frown relaxed into a smile, however, when he heard, “It is Mr. Farley.” And a few moments later, still holding his pipe in his left hand, he strode outside with his hand outstretched to welcome the young man.
“I hope you don’t mind my calling on you without warning, sir,” Charlie said.
“Of course not, my dear boy. Delighted to see you.”
“I just arrived two days ago at my aunt Harriet’s cottage, and as you’re only a couple of hours away, I thought I’d come over. She sends you her best wishes.”
“Very kind of her. I hope she’s well?”
“Absolutely.” Charlie gazed down the slope. “You really have a splendid view up here, with those waters in the valley.”
“My wife says it reminds her of the English Lake District.”
Charlie nodded, then glanced towards the distant Himalayas. “Bigger mountains, though.”
“This is true.” Lomond smiled contentedly.
It was just then that Mrs. Lomond and Agnes emerged from the lower lawn. But they were not alone. And now Lomond’s face fell.
“I brought Trader with me,” Charlie explained. “He’s been convalescing with Aunt Harriet after his accident. I hope it’s all right.”
Colonel Lomond did not reply. He stared at Trader.
John was dressed in a short tweed coat. His right hand had evidently recovered, for he held a walking stick. But his left hand was still bandaged and he wore it in a sling. Over his missing eye he wore a large black patch. The effect was rather romantic.
If Trader had been an officer, Lomond would have confessed that he looked rather dashing. But he wasn’t an officer, so Lomond was damned if he had to confess any such thing at all. The ladies appeared to find him handsome, though. The colonel closed his eyes, as though this would make the young merchant disappear, and wondered if he could retreat to his lair with Charlie for a smoke. When he opened his eyes, he was horrified to see that Trader had detached himself from the ladies and was advancing straight towards him in a purposeful manner.
“Colonel Lomond,” he began, “I wonder, sir, if I might speak to you in private.”
* * *
—
Five minutes later, Colonel Lomond stared at Trader bleakly. His great desire, if not to reach for the nearest weapon and shoot him, was to throw Trader out of his house. But the damnable fact was, he really couldn’t. Worst of all, the loathsome young man knew it.
Assuming Trader was telling the truth—and Colonel Lomond would most assuredly satisfy himself as to that—the young man actually possessed, at this moment, more money than he had himself. A circumstance the colonel had no intention of letting Trader discover.
The offer therefore was not a bad one. Still more to the point, there hadn’t been any others.
“Have you spoken to my daughter about this?” he finally forced himself to inquire.
“Certainly not, sir. I came to ask you first whether I might pay my addresses.”
“I see.” That was proper, at least. If true. “And have you any reason to think she would welcome your advances?”
“I cannot say. You must understand, sir, that until my circumstances recently changed, as I have explained, I did not feel in any position to marry, and I was most careful not to beha
ve towards your daughter or anyone else in a manner that might suggest such a prospect. In general converse, however, we found so many things in common that I believe she might consider me.”
“I shall speak to her myself. So will her mother. You understand that detailed inquiries will have to be made into your circumstances. And your character,” he added firmly.
“Of course. I believe you will be satisfied. No one has ever impugned my character, sir, and I should defend my honor if they did.”
A swordsman had spoken. They both understood. It could be bluff, of course. Still, at least he talked like a man.
There remained one embarrassing issue. Lomond told himself it would be a test of Trader’s sincerity. “One day Agnes will inherit something. In the meantime…”—Lomond was obliged to confess—“her dowry will not be large.”
“Whatever it is, large or small, it will be received with gratitude,” Trader replied politely.
Colonel Lomond surveyed the battlefield and considered the campaign still before him. “I have one concern of a more general kind, however,” he continued. “Even though you have been made an equal partner and cleared your debts, the China trade remains uncertain. I’m speaking not only of the compensation for the lost opium, but of the continuance of the whole business with China. Everything will depend on the outcome of the hostilities which are clearly coming. I should like to see that issue resolved before any marriage. Even if all else is in your favor, therefore, you may have to accept a long engagement.”
A play for time. How would the enemy react?
“For Agnes, sir, I will wait as long as I have to.” It was said with surprising fervor.
The colonel gazed at him. Either the fellow was a devil of an actor or he was actually in love. He hadn’t thought of that.
* * *
—
When they emerged, under strict instructions that he was not to reveal his intentions yet, Trader was allowed to rejoin the ladies while the colonel signaled to Charlie that he wanted to talk to him. The moment they were alone in the library, Lomond turned on him. “Your friend wants to marry my daughter. Did you know?”
“He hasn’t said so in so many words, sir, not even on our way up here, but I did suspect it. When he said he wanted to see you alone…”
“I’m glad he saved your life and all that, but I don’t like him.”
“I know, sir. So does he.”
For a long moment Colonel Lomond was silent. “If only it was you,” he said at last.
“I should think you wanted something better than me, sir,” Charlie replied amiably.
“Oh, you’re all right,” said Lomond affectionately. “I just wish to God,” he cried plaintively, “that I could have a son-in-law that I actually liked.”
“He’s a strange fellow,” Charlie answered, “but even if you don’t like him, you might come to admire him. I think he’s going to succeed, far beyond what I could ever do.”
“I don’t like the opium trade.”
“Her Majesty’s Government is quite determined it shall continue, sir. We’re about to fight for it.” Charlie paused. “The thing about the opium trade is the amount of money to be made. If I may say so, it’s no secret that Agnes likes Scotland. The big opium men are already buying up Scottish land. In ten years’ time, I can see Trader setting himself up on a substantial Scottish estate.”
“I know all that,” said Lomond quietly.
“Might I ask what Agnes feels for my friend?” Charlie ventured.
“Don’t know yet.” Lomond gazed at him earnestly. “Is there anything else that I ought, as her father, to know about this man?”
Charlie considered carefully. “No,” he said finally. “Nothing important.”
* * *
—
They all had a walk together—except Colonel Lomond, who’d retired to his lair. Mrs. Lomond pointed out the many delights of the view. Trader could name some of the mountains in the distance. How the devil did he know that?
When they returned, the servants had set out a table on the lawn, prepared for afternoon tea, under a large parasol.
Mrs. Lomond sent word to her husband that tea was ready, but the servant came back with a message that the colonel would join them later.
Over tea, they talked of this and that until Mrs. Lomond turned to Trader and in the kindest way inquired, “I know that you were orphaned at an early age and that you had a guardian. So what was your childhood like?”
John Trader allowed himself to lean back a little in his chair and, as though recalling pleasant days, smiled easily. “I suppose the loss came so early in my life that I felt it less than I might otherwise have done. It’s not very interesting, I’m afraid, but I was fortunate enough to have a very calm and happy childhood.” And he said a few words about his kindly guardian, his happy schools, and that sort of thing, while Charlie Farley watched in silence.
* * *
◦
John Trader was seven years old when he was sent away to boarding school. Nobody knew he was a murderer. Except his uncle Adalbert, of course.
It was a nice enough school for small boys, in the country. He’d been there only a month, however, when he got into a fight.
There was nothing wrong with that: Boys were expected to fight now and then. One of the older fellows had shoved him because he was a new boy, but he’d banged his head against a tree, and it hurt. Fighting back against the bigger boy might have gone against the pecking order, but it showed pluck—anyone would have said so.
When little John Trader squared off against the older boy, he hardly noticed the pain, and he wasn’t afraid. He knew only a deep, black rage. And it must have been impressive, for when the other boy saw it in the little fellow’s eyes, he was so taken aback that he almost fled, except that he would have lost too much face.
And so they fought and John was knocked down—not once, but many times. Each time he got up to rush at the older boy again. And who knows how long this might have gone on if the headmaster had not suddenly appeared, seized John by the ear, and hauled him to his study.
There was a thin dark cane on the headmaster’s desk with a curled handle. When John saw the cane, he trembled a little, because he had never been caned before. But he made up his mind that no matter how much it hurt, he would not cry. And he was just gritting his teeth in preparation when he was told to sit down.
The headmaster was a comfortable man in his fifties. He’d risen to the rank of major in the army of the East India Company, and he’d seen plenty of the world before he’d returned to England, started a family, and bought the school.
“Got yourself into a fight with a bigger boy, eh, Trader?” he said peaceably as he observed the little fellow. “Now, are you calm enough to listen to me like a sensible fellow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a terrible temper. I saw it. Takes you over. One day it could destroy you. I’ve seen good men have their careers broken, lose everything, because they couldn’t control their tempers. Makes you do things that you wish you hadn’t afterwards. But by then it may be too late. Can you understand that?”
“I think so, sir.”
“It’s not easy losing your parents. I lost mine years ago. But there’s nothing we can do about it.” He paused and saw the boy bow his head. “All right now. For their sake, young Trader, I want you to make a success of your life. So I want you to promise me that no matter what happens, from this day to the end of your life, you will never lose your temper again. Will you do that?” He paused. “Well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shake my hand. This is a pact between us, Trader, that may never be broken.” He held out his hand, and John shook it.
* * *
—
John Trader had been five when his parents were drowned, returning from a visit to France. His father
had no family except the descendants of an aunt who had made an unfortunate marriage, and whom he had never met, nor even corresponded with. Nor was there anyone on his mother’s side to take the little boy in, except his mother’s widowed uncle.
Uncle Adalbert was a retired lawyer without children of his own. He’d never much cared for Archie Trader, the stockjobber his niece had married.
The stone-gabled house in the west of England to which Uncle Adalbert had retired lay under a bare chalk ridge on its northern side, with miles of dark woodland, into which he never walked, to the west. Along the narrow lane to the east lay a small village, into which he seldom went, either.
Uncle Adalbert had done his best. He’d hired a governess to teach the little boy to read and write and look after him generally—a cheerful, ginger-haired young Scotswoman whose name, which Uncle Adalbert sometimes forgot, was Miss Grant. He’d tried not to show that John’s presence in his house was a severe inconvenience to him. Obviously the child was far too young to eat his meals in the dining room, but he’d take him for short walks and talk to him a little, however stiffly; and he began to make inquiries in the neighborhood to discover if there were any other children of John’s age with whom, he supposed, his great-nephew might like to spend some time.
Occasionally, passing along the passage outside the boy’s bedroom, he would hear the little fellow softly crying. He did not venture in to comfort the child. Men didn’t do that sort of thing, so far as he knew. Tears were natural enough, of course, considering the boy had lost both his parents. But after a time—he couldn’t help it—he became somewhat resentful of the fact that the boy did not seem happy in his house.
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