complacent pragmatical worldly fellow. Little do I know of the mathematics or the law; but the few mathematicians and lawyers I have met seem to me to partake of this sterility in direct proportion to their eminence: it may be that they are satisfied with an insufficient or in the case of lawyers almost wholly factitious order. However that may be, this man appears to have turned his benevolent ancient creed into an arid system of mechanical observances: so many hours devoted to stated ceremonies, so much of acknowledged income set aside for alms (no question of charity here, I believe), and a rancorous hatred for the Khadmees, who disagree with his sect, the Shenshahees, not on any point of doctrine, out over the dating of their era. I might have been in Seething Lane. I do not imagine he is a typical Parsee, however, in anything but his alert, painstaking attention to business. Among other things, he is an insurer, a maritime insurer, and he spoke of the rise in premiums, plotting them against the movements, or the rumoured movements, of Linois’s squadron, an armament that fills not only the Company with alarm, but also all the country ships: premiums are now higher than they were in Suffren’s time. His family has innumerable commercial interests: Tibetan borax, Bencoolen nutmeg, Tuticorin pearls’ my memory retains. A cousin’s banking-?house is closely connected with the office of the Commissioners for the former French Settlements. He could have told me a great deal about them, if it had not been for his sense of caution; even so, he spoke with some freedom of Richard Canning, for whom he expressed respect and esteem. He told me little I did not already know, but he did confirm that their return is set for the seventeenth.
‘He could tell me nothing about the Hindu ceremony on the shores of the bay this coming moon: neither cared nor knew. For this I must turn once again to Dil; though indeed her notions of religion are so eclectic as to lead her into confusion. God will not be merciful to him who through vanity wears long trousers, she tells me (a Muslim teaching); and at the same time she takes it for an acknowledged truth that I am a were-?bear, a decayed were-? bear out of a place, an inept rustic demon that has strayed into the city; and that I can certainly fly if I choose, but with a blundering flight, neither efficient nor in the right direction - a belief she must have taken from the Tibetans. She is right in supposing that I need guidance, however.
‘The seventeenth. If Jack is accurate in his calculations (and in these matters I have never known him fail) I should have three weeks before the ship is ready. I am impatient for their arrival now, although when we came in I more than half dreaded it. What a wonderful interlude this has been, a piece of my life lifted quite out -,
‘Why, there you are, Stephen,’ cried Jack. ‘You are come home, I find.’
‘That is true,’ said Stephen with an affectionate look: he prized statements of this kind in Jack-“So are you, joy; and earlier than usual. You look perturbed. Do you find the heat affect you? Take off some of these splendid garments.’
‘Why, no; not more than common,’ said Jack, unbuckling his sword. ‘Though it is hellfire hot and close and damp. No. I looked in on the off-?Chance . . . I had to dine with the Admiral, as you know, and there I heard something that made my blood run cold; and I thought I ought to tell you. Diana Villiers is here, and that man Canning. By God, I wish the ship were ready for sea. I could not stand the meeting. Ain’t you amazed - shocked?’
‘No. No, truly I am not. And for my part I must tell you, Jack, I look forward to the meeting extremely. They are not in fact in Bombay, but they are expected on the seventeenth.’
‘You knew she was here?’ cried Jack, Stephen nodded.
‘You are a close one, Stephen,’ said Jack, looking at him sideways.
Stephen shrugged: he said, ‘Yes, I suppose I am. I have to be, you know. That is why I am alive. And one’s mind takes the bent. . . but I beg your pardon if I have not been as free and open with you as I should have been. This is delicate ground, however.’
There was a time when they were rivals, when Jack felt so strongly about Diana that this was very dangerous ground indeed. Jack had nearly wrecked his career because of her, and his chance of marrying Sophia. In retrospect he resented it bitterly, just as he resented her unfaithfulness, although she owed him no fidelity. He hated her, in a way; he thought her dangerous, if not evil; and he dreaded an encounter - dreaded it for Stephen more than for himself.
‘No, no, my dear fellow, not at all,’ he said, shaking Stephen by the hand. ‘No. I am sure you are right. In keeping your counsel, I mean.’
After a pause Stephen said, ‘And yet I am surprised you should not have heard of their presence, if not in England, then here I have been regaled with accounts of their cohabitation at every dinner I have attended, every tea drinking, almost every casual encounter with a European.’
He had indeed. The coming of Richard Canning and Diana Villiers had been a godsend to Bombay, bored as it was with the Gujerat famine and the endless talk of a Mahratta war. Canning had an important official position, he had great influence with the Company, and he lived in splendour; he was an active, stirring man, ready and eager to take up any challenge, and he made it clear that he expected their m?nage to be accepted. Several of the highly-?placed officials had known her father, and those with Indian concubines made no difficulty; nor did the bachelors; but the European wives were harder to persuade. Few had much room to cast stones, but hypocrisy has never failed the English middle class in any latitude, and they flung them in plenty with delighted, shocked abandon - rocks, boulders, limited in size only by fear for their husband’s advancement. Conciliating discretion had never been among Mrs Villiers’s qualities, and if subjects for malignant gossip had been wanting she would have provided them by the elephant-?load. Canning spent much of his time in the French possessions and in Goa, and during his absence the good ladies kept telescopes trained on Diana’s house. With extravagant lamentation they mourned the death of Mr James, of the 87th Foot, killed by Captain Macfarlane, the wounding of a member of Council, and less important hostilities: these affairs were spoken of with religious horror, while the many other quarrels in that liverish, over-?fed, parboiled community, much given to murder by consent, were passed over as amiable weaknesses, the natural consequence of the heat. Mr Canning was of a jealous disposition, and unsigned letters kept him informed of Diana’s visitors, imaginary and real.
‘Sir, sir,’ cried Babbington, on the veranda.
In his strong voice Jack called out, ‘Hallo.’
The staircase trembled, the door burst open, and Babbington’s smile appeared in the gloom. It faded at the sight of his captain’s harsh expression. ‘What are you doing ashore, Babbington?’ asked Jack. ‘Two pairs of shrouds cut in the eyes, and you are ashore?’
‘Why, sir, the Governor’s kolipar brought the mail, and I thought you might choose to see it right away.’
‘Well,’ said Jack, the gloom lightening. ‘There is something in what you say.’ He grasped the bag and hurried into the next room, coming out a few moments later with a packet for Stephen and disappearing again.
‘Well, sir,’ said Babbington. ‘I must not keep you.’
‘You must not keep your strumpet either,’ said Stephen, glancing out of the window.
