of himself. At the Club gate all three men halted. It was now extraordinarily dark, and the moon had vanished. Low overhead, just visible, black clouds were streaming eastward like a pack of hounds. A wind, almost cold, blew down the hillside and swept a cloud of dust and fine water-vapour before it. There was a sudden intensely rich scent of damp. The wind quickened, the trees rustled, then began beating themselves furiously together, the big frangipani tree by the tennis court flinging out a nebula of dimly-seen blossom. All three men turned and hurried for shelter, the Orientals to their houses, Flory to the Club. It had begun raining.
XXIII
Next day the town was quieter than a cathedral city on Monday morning. It is usually the case after a riot. Except for the handful of prisoners, everyone who could possibly have been concerned in the attack on the Club had a watertight alibi. The Club garden looked as though a herd of bison had stampeded across it, but the houses had not been plundered, and there were no new casualties among the Europeans, except that after everything was over Mr Lackersteen had been found very drunk under the billiard-table, where he had retired with a bottle of whisky. Westfield and Verrall came back early in the morning, bringing Maxwell’s murderers under arrest; or at any rate, bringing two people who would presently be hanged for Maxwell’s murder. Westfield, when he heard the news of the riot, was gloomy but resigned. Again it had happened—a veritable riot, and he not there to quell it! It seemed fated that he should never kill a man. Depressing, depressing. Verrall’s only comment was that it had been ‘damned lip’ on the part of Flory (a civilian) to give orders to the Military Police.
Meanwhile, it was raining almost without cease. As soon as he woke up and heard the rain hammering on the roof Flory dressed and hurried out, Flo following. Out of sight of the houses he took off his clothes and let the rain sluice down on his bare body. To his surprise, he found that he was covered with bruises from last night; but the rain had washed away every trace of his prickly heat within three minutes. It is wonderful, the healing power of rain-water. Flory walked down to Dr Veraswami’s house, with his shoes squelching and periodical jets of water flowing down his neck from the brim of his Terai hat. The sky was leaden, and innumerable whirling storms chased one another across the maidan like squadrons of cavalry. Burmans passed, under vast wooden hats in spite of which their bodies streamed water like the bronze gods in the fountains. A network of rivulets was already washing the stones of the road bare. The doctor had just got home when Flory arrived, and was shaking a wet umbrella over the veranda rail. He hailed Flory excitedly.
‘Come up, Mr Flory, come up at once! You are just apropos. I wass on the point of opening a bottle of Old Tommy Gin. Come up and let me drink to your health, ass the saviour of Kyauktada!’
They had a long talk together. The doctor was in a triumphant mood. It appeared that what had happened last night had righted his troubles almost miraculously. U Po Kyin’s schemes were undone. The doctor was no longer at his mercy—in fact, it was the other way about. The doctor explained to Flory:
‘You see, my friend, this riot—or rather, your most noble behaviour in it—wass quite outside U Po Kyin’s programme. He had started the so-called rebellion and had the glory of crushing it, and he calculated that any further outbreak would simply mean more glory still. I am told that when he heard of Mr Maxwell’s death, hiss joy wass positively’—the doctor nipped his thumb and forefinger together—‘what iss the word I want?’
‘Obscene?’
‘Ah yes. Obscene. It iss said that actually he attempted to dance—can you imagine such a disgusting spectacle?—and exclaimed, “Now at least they will take my rebellion seriously!” Such iss hiss regard for human life. But now hiss triumph iss at an end. The riot hass tripped him up in mid-career.’
‘How?’
‘Because, do you not see, the honours of the riot are not hiss, but yours! And I am known to be your friend. I stand, so to speak, in the reflection of your glory. Are you not the hero of the hour? Did not your European friends receive you with open arms when you returned to the Club last night?’
‘They did, I must admit. It was quite a new experience for me. Mrs Lackersteen was all over me. “Dear Mr Flory”, she calls me now. And she’s got her knife properly into Ellis. She hasn’t forgotten that he called her a bloody hag and told her to stop squealing like a pig.’
‘Ah, Mr Ellis iss sometimes over-emphatic in hiss expressions. I have noticed it.’
‘The only fly in the ointment is that I told the police to fire over the crowd’s heads instead of straight at them. It seems that’s against all the Government regulations. Ellis was a little vexed about it. “Why didn’t you plug some of the b——s when you had the chance?” he said. I pointed out that it would have meant hitting the police who were in the middle of the crowd; but as he said, they were only niggers anyway. However, all my sins are forgiven me. And Macgregor quoted something in Latin—Horace, I believe.’
It was half an hour later when Flory walked along to the Club. He had promised to see Mr Macgregor and settle the business of the doctor’s election. But there would be no difficulty about it now. The others would eat out of his hand until the absurd riot was forgotten; he could have gone into the Club and made a speech in favour of Lenin, and they would have put up with it. The lovely rain streamed down, drenching him from head to foot, and filling his nostrils with the scent of earth, forgotten during the bitter months of drought. He walked up the wrecked garden, where the mali, bending down with the rain splashing on his bare back, was trowelling holes for zinnias. Nearly all the flowers had been trampled out of existence. Elizabeth was there, on the side veranda, almost as though she were waiting for him. He took off his hat, spilling a pool of water from the brim, and went round to join her.
‘Good morning!’ he said, raising his voice because of the rain that beat noisily on the low roof.
‘Good morning! Isn’t it coming down? Simply pelting!’
‘Oh, this isn’t real rain. You wait till July. The whole Bay of Bengal is going to pour itself on us, by instalments.’
It seemed that they must never meet without talking of the weather. Nevertheless, her face said something very different from the banal words. Her demeanour had changed utterly since last night. He took courage.
‘How is the place where that stone hit you?’
She held her arm out to him and let him take it. Her air was gentle, even submissive. He realised that his exploit of last night had made him almost a hero in her eyes. She could not know how small the danger had really been, and she forgave him everything, even Ma Hla May, because he had shown courage at the right moment. It was the buffalo and the leopard over again. His heart thumped in his breast. He slipped his hand down her arm and clasped her fingers in his own.
‘Elizabeth——’
‘Someone will see us!’ she said, and she withdrew her hand, but not angrily.
‘Elizabeth, I’ve something I want to say to you. Do you remember a letter I wrote you from the jungle, after our—some weeks ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘You remember what I said in it?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t answer it. Only——’
‘I couldn’t expect you to answer it, then. But I just wanted to remind you of what I said.’
In the letter, of course, he had only said, and feebly enough, that he loved her—would always love her, no matter what happened. They were standing face to face,
