Ruys.--I care for naught but gold. Gold holds the keys of this strong earth, and I Am earthy, of its mould. That unseen thing, The crown of glory, lies beyond the stars; I know it not.... Give me my gold.Maraffa, a Tragedy.
Ruys.--I care for naught but gold. Gold holds the keys of this strong earth, and I Am earthy, of its mould. That unseen thing, The crown of glory, lies beyond the stars; I know it not.... Give me my gold.
Maraffa, a Tragedy.
A broad streak of yellow water is drowsing toward the sea, and lies hedged in to the right and to the left by the most luxuriant vegetation. Here teak and mango, palm and bamboo grow side by side, and are laced together by the octopus arms of the cobweb of creepers that spreads over the forest and tries in vain to bind down its splendid growth. There is hardly any sign of animal life, although the forests teem with it. Occasionally the great woodpecker or a flight of green paroquets flash like emeralds through the patches of sunshine between the leaves, or the melancholy cry of a mule pheasant echoes dismally through the woods. Yet although no beast and hardly a bird may be seen, this void is filled by the ever-present abundance of insects, for here is their paradise. It is true that those grotesque specimens of creation which, like the sons of Belial, wander forth at night, are reserving themselves in a million cracks and crannies for the pleasures of the evening; but the gnat and mosquito are on the alert, and the fly is here on his path of annoyance. Through the dense masses of foliage glide, like the snakes which infest them, the creeks that cut the delta of the Irawadi into numberless channels, and while thus dividing it serve as a means of communication from one part of the country to the other; for who, unless an Englishman, would scramble through the bramble and thorn of the jungle? Who would do so, when it is so easy to sit in a canoe and ship silently along the ooze of the creeks?
Some little way back from the main stream a canoe lies hidden in a small backwater. There are two occupants, and, being Burmans, they are of course both smoking, for smoke to the Burman is what beer is to the Saxon, a Derringer to the gentlemen of Arkansas, or opium to the Celestial. One of the two, in whose powerful hand is grasped a long-bladed paddle, is apparently a man of the people. He wears his hair long, and the golden brown of his limbs is covered with tattoo marks in strange devices. The other is a man of God; his yellow robe, his shaven crown, mark the priest of Budh. There is no asceticism, however, in the fat cheeks, or in the beadlike eyes which glint out from above the high cheek bones. The mouth is like a sword cut, long and cruel-looking, and the sensual aspect of the face is only matched by its cunning and treacherous look.
"Payah," said the man with the paddle, using a Burmese title of the highest respect, "we have now waited for two hours; the steamer will not come to-day."
The priest went on smoking as if he had not heard the remark, and his companion relapsed into silence. After a few minutes, however, the clerical gentleman found voice.
"Moung Sen," said he, "your name means red diamond, but it ought to have meant a clod. Did I not tell you that the steamer will come to-day? and I tell you again she will come. The wire has brought me the news. Two hours! What are two hours to me? I gain two hundred years of eternal bliss by meditating during two hours on holy matters of which you laymen know nothing---- Hark! there is the whistle that was to be our signal."
And even as he spoke the shrill whistle of the Woon announced her coming, and the dull boom of the answering gun from Pazobin rang out in response.
Moung Sen bent his back to the paddle, and the boat shot out of the backwater to the very edge of the creek. There, concealed by the drooping foliage, they could see without being seen, and watch without any risk of discovery.
"Payah Bah Hmoay, the steamer approaches near," and, parting the screen of leaves with his hands, Moung Sen peered out.
"Yes, and with it Jackson, the new ruler of the land. I heard him say in Rangoon that he would stamp out all evildoers, so you, Moung Sen, had better be careful."
The boatman showed a row of teeth that would have driven a tiger mad with envy, and chuckled to himself. As the steamer came near they could hear the hissing of the paddles, and the wash rocked the canoe up and down to the no small danger of its upsetting.
Moung Sen was longing for a race. He would have dearly liked to have pulled against the steamer for the jetty. His slanting eyes twinkled with excitement, and he turned an imploring look on Bah Hmoay.
"Ho!" grunted Father Fragrance, "be still. What with racing and gambling and women, you will come to a bad end some day--hang to a string and dance upon nothing. Is this a time to think of racing, when that young fool on the steamer yonder is come here with his new-fangled notions? Back, I say! Our friends have heard the steamer's whistle and will have assembled. Here! give me a paddle too." He seized the spare paddle that was handed to him, and, loosening his robe to give his arm free play, rowed with a most unclerical skill. Guided by their powerful strokes the canoe sped back, and, taking a narrow cutting at the head of the backwater, they rowed steadily on for ten minutes and then stopped.
Moung Sen put his hands to his mouth and hooted twice like an owl. A cock crowed twice in reply. "They are there," he said, and, running the canoe on to the bank, the two men secured it firmly with a creeper, then, taking an almost invisible path, they trotted along it like sleuthhounds. After a short distance was travelled in this manner Moung Sen hooted again, and again the cock answered as it were out of the hollow of a huge silk-cotton tree a few yards away. Then the tree began to give up its fruit. One by one four men came out of the hollow, and half a dozen others dropped lightly from the branches where they had lain concealed. Each as he approached the priest bowed lowly before him. They took their places in a semicircle whose ends were to the right and left of Bah Hmoay. He gazed on them for a moment; they were a strong and likely looking set of men, fit for any devil's work. The chequered light fell on the bronze of their bodies, for they were naked to the waist, lit up the hideous blue and red of the tattoo marks with which they were covered, and ran in a line of fire on the long straight blades of thedahsthey held in their hands. Then Bah Hmoay spoke, taking the men before him into his confidence, choosing his language simply, and appealing to all their weaknesses.
"And now, my companions," he concluded, "I have told you all that I learned during my visit to Rangoon, and how the plans are progressing. At Wuntho the chief is ready to take up arms; the Shan States are on fire--on fire, I say--and every creek and jungle holds gallant men only waiting for the signal to rise. Our whole difficulty is money--for when was a Burman rich? I propose, however, to meet this, and to find funds by a bold stroke. You all know the treasury at Yeo. It is thirty miles from here, and there are a hundred rupees there, all with the White Queen's head on them. Half shall be yours; the other half goes to the cause. Are you ready?"
There was a murmur of assent.
"Thank you. There is but one word more: in a week from to-day--the day of the guinea pig--you must be at Yeo. And now for the water of the oath." He loosened a small pocketbook from his waist cloth as he said these words, and, writing a few lines on a page, tore it out. One held an earthen vessel full of water before him, and another lit a sulphur match. The Boh put the match to the paper and held it over the water, into which as it burned away the cinders fell; but when the flame got too close to his fingers to be pleasant the chief dropped the little unburned tag of paper into the water, and it went out with a splutter. Then taking the vessel in his hands, he swore to be faithful to the men before him, and, drinking a little, handed it to Moung Sen. That worthy pledged his soul on his good faith to the assembly, and, taking his sip, passed on the bowl. It went the round of every man there until it reached the last, who, when he too had sworn and drunken, dropped the vessel to the ground, where it broke into pieces.
This closed the chapter of the order, and the knights proceeded to disperse, each man with his long green cheroot burning in his mouth and hisdahtucked away over his shoulder, a grotesque amalgam of devil and the child, the like of which is not equalled anywhere in the world.
Bah Hmoay and his Little John were once more alone, and the Boh or chief turned to his subaltern with a somewhat anxious look in his eyes, and asked:
"Do you think they will be true?"
"My name means red diamond, but it ought to mean a clod," laughed Moung Sen. "Yes, I think they will be true, and will all be hanged for their faith, while you will end as a great man. But there is something else to do to-day."
"Hawkshawe--true--I have not forgotten; however, we ought to be getting back," and making for the canoe they rowed out into the open stream and then drifted down toward the town. As the priest stepped from the canoe his face assumed the severe expression of sanctity suitable to his calling; an obsequious disciple met him and opened an umbrella over his head, and he walked toward the pagoda or temple meeting with respectful greetings from all. He entered the gates of the pagoda, on either side of which grinned two colossal griffins, and, making his way through a courtyard thronged with worshippers, passed into the great hall, where a huge image of Gautama looked down upon him with calm, inquiring eyes. A tall, graceful woman stood at the foot of the idol, and as the priest approached she looked at him with something of impatience in her glance, and said, "I have been waiting here for nearly an hour."
"My daughter, it is patience and resignation which, united with thought, leads us to holy Nirvana."
"Pish! I haven't come here to bandy words about Nirvana. Was it for this you sent Loo-ga-lay for me?"
Bah Hmoay dropped his voice to a whisper as he said, "You are too hasty; women are always so. Follow me," and, passing behind the idol, he touched a door which seemed to open of its own accord, disclosing a small passage dimly lighted by a single lamp. At the end of the passage was a small archway, so low that it was necessary for both to stoop as they entered it, and beyond was a large hall, along whose sides a row of Gautamas or images of the Budh was arranged with military precision. The images were alternately of white and black marble, and at the extreme end lay a huge recumbent casting of the Messiah of the East. Small lozenge-shaped cuttings in the wall above let in bars of light, which fell on the dim statues and made the polished brass of the recumbent image glow as if it were red-hot. The girl leaned lightly against the arm of the huge figure, and something flashed in her hand as she did so. Bah Hmoay observed it as he pointed to the dagger, and said with a smile, "You are very careful, Ma Mie; too careful for one so beautiful."
There was enough in the speaker's voice to make his listener turn on him like a panther, and Father Fragrance stepped back with a hasty apology. Then he spoke in a low tone for some time, the woman all the while keeping her guarded attitude. "There," he said at last, "this is a good offer. Will it do?"
"I am selling my husband's honour," she replied. "No, it is worth a larger price."
The priest uttered an exclamation of impatience, and moving off a few feet stooped near the foot of an idol, and picking up something from a recess there returned bearing it in his hands. He held it to the light as he approached, and Ma Mie saw that it was a bracelet of rubies, which flashed and glowed with a hundred colours. She almost gasped as she looked at it.
"Oh, how lovely!"
"Let me put it on your arm." Bah Hmoay, suiting his action to his words, stepped back with an admiring look. "There is nothing like this in all Pazobin," he said. "I will add it to my offer."
The woman hesitated and was lost. "It is a bargain," she said, and the face of Father Fragrance glowed with joy. "The new Englishman comes to dine with him to-night," she added. "When he is gone, I will settle all. And now I must go; I have been away too long."
"You can go this way," said the priest as he turned the key in a carved door toward the right, and opening it showed Ma Mie a back path that led out of the pagoda gardens. "And remember, the police guard must be very weak at Yeo next Friday."
She nodded and passed out, and Bah Hmoay watched her down the pathway and saw her raise her arm and look at the bracelet upon it. "Selling her husband's honour!" he laughed to himself. "When had Hawkshawe any to sell? Those ideas of hers are, however, very expensive, and I had to take away my peace offering from this old gentleman here." He patted the face of the idol from under whose foot he had removed the jewels. "However, he won't miss it, and Friday evening will see me repaid and ready to buy another rag of Mr. Hawkshawe's honour."
He rode toward the Dragon Gate, And blew a ringing call, A virgin knight, in armour bright, 'Twere sad to see him fall. Ah, saints of heaven, steel his heart, And nerve his arm withal!Sir Amory.
He rode toward the Dragon Gate, And blew a ringing call, A virgin knight, in armour bright, 'Twere sad to see him fall. Ah, saints of heaven, steel his heart, And nerve his arm withal!
Sir Amory.
Jackson walked out into the moonlight with a feeling of relief at having escaped from Hawkshawe. His disgust at his host's code of morality was only equalled by his pity for him. Perhaps, after all, the man did not mean what he said; and it was possible that an appeal to Philip sober would result in the expression of sentiments widely different from those which bubbled forth from Philip charged with a quart of Ayala, sundry short brandies, and a multitude of "baby pegs," as three fingers of mountain dew tempered with a split soda are called in the country of the creeks. Peregrine hesitated a moment whether he should go straight home or walk on a little. A great mass of official papers had come to the house as he left it that evening, and his work was cut out for him; but after what had happened he was in no mood to begin at once. He pulled out his watch, and seeing by the bright moon that it was barely half-past ten, decided to adopt the latter course. He walked slowly toward the river face, and then across the soft sand to the deserted jetty, where he paced up and down its full length. In front of the dark outline of the forest a few twinkling lights marked the sleeping town, for Pazobin went to roost early. The fishing craft were all huddled together like sheep in a pen, and the outgoing tide lapped angrily at the wooden piles below. The wind bore to him the soft tinkle of the bells that swung from the golden umbrella on the spire of the pagoda. Their dreamy monotone fitted exactly with the scene, and seemed to call all good Buddhists to that Nirvana which to them is the end of all things. Everything was calm except the mind of the man who paced the teak planking of the jetty. Jackson was in that temper which would have been horrible doubt to an older man, but which to him in his youthful confidence in his own power was absolute certainty. He had shaken off the momentary terror of Hawkshawe's prophecy, "And you will be as I am!" That would never be; his young heart swelled with pride as he drew himself up in the consciousness of his strength. He did not seek aid in prayer. He had never sought it, except in dim infancy. Since his mother's death, in his childhood, he had known no care but that of his father, and the older man had brought up his son in his own creed, which was, to summarize it, man. And Peregrine drunk it all in eagerly and was an apt pupil. He held himself apart from all beliefs--Calvary, Mecca, the groves of Gya, were all one to him in that they all aimed at the good of mankind, in that they had all accomplished untold good. He was aware of the rewards offered to the faithful--the harp and crown of the Christian, the sensual paradise of the Moslem, the merging into the deity of the Buddhist--and none of these tempted. He had looked with scorn on the professor of a faith who calculated on the advantages that would accrue to him from his fidelity; he despised the human being who sold good works for a price and speculated in futurity like a stock broker making a time bargain. He was young and very cocksure. The solitary up-and-down tramp, combined with the cheroot and his naturally calm temper, began to quiet Peregrine's excitement, and he finally put aside all thoughts of Hawkshawe and stopped for a moment near the huge crane which stretched out its long arm over the river as if begging for something. The Havana had burned low by this time, and he flung it from him, watching the little arc of fire die away with an angry hiss into the water below. Then he turned to go. He recrossed the sand, once more passed Hawkshawe's house, from an upper window of which the light was burning brightly, and, turning to the right, took, as he imagined, the road home. He had said that he thought he knew his way perfectly, but now it seemed as if the bearings he had taken were all wrong. One tree was like another, one bend of the road was like every other he had passed. The few houses were all built on the same plan, and he could scarcely discern them in the mass of foliage with which they were surrounded. It flashed upon him that he had lost his way, when he was so sure of it. What if he had miscalculated his strength as he had done the road? He stopped for a moment near a wooden gate to try and see if he could find a landmark, and as he did so a sudden blaze of light streamed out of one of the windows of a long building that lay within the gateway. A moment after the droning tones of an American organ stole into the night, and above them rang out a woman's voice clear and distinct:
My God, I love thee; not becauseI hope for heaven thereby,Nor yet because who love thee notAre lost eternally.
My God, I love thee; not because
I hope for heaven thereby,
Nor yet because who love thee not
Are lost eternally.
He listened in a manner spellbound not only by the voice, which was of the rarest order, but also by the words, which poured forth from the heart, the genuine unselfishness of the Christian's belief. That pure flood of melody floating into the night seemed to give all his convictions the lie as it passed out on its way beyond the stars to God's throne. Cheap and jingling as the verses were, the simple words sung by such a voice carried with them a revelation he had never imagined. He wondered to himself what manner of woman this was whose voice affected him so powerfully. He determined to see this beautiful saint--for of course she was beautiful--and stepping cautiously down the road approached the open window through which the song poured. Standing back amid the yellow and purple leaves of a croton, he peered in, and saw a long narrow hall filled with rows of empty benches. At the head of the room, and close to the window, was a low dais, and upon this the organ was placed. The singer was seated with her back turned toward him; but the light from a shaded lamp lit up the sunny gold of her hair and fell on the outlines of an exquisite figure. She was alone, singing to the night. Overcome with curiosity, Peregrine stole softly to the window and raised himself slightly with his hands to look in. As he did so the sudden snapping bark of a dog, hitherto lying concealed near its mistress's dress, rang out, and the singer turned round so sharply that it was impossible for Peregrine to withdraw unobserved; but as she turned he saw that the perfect beauty of her face more than realized the picture he had drawn in his imagination.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she gasped, with an alarmed light in her eyes.
"I am very sorry," explained Peregrine humbly. "I have lost my way, and seeing a light and hearing music thought I--I----" and he stammered and broke down for a moment; but picking himself up, went on, "I have only arrived here to-day. My name is Jackson, and the house I want to find is the one that was occupied by Mr. Drage; perhaps you know it, and if you can give me a rough idea how to find it I shall be very grateful, and I hope you will accept my sincere apologies for having frightened you."
As he spoke, the look of fear on his listener's face passed away. "Be quiet, Flirt!" she said to the little dog, who kept alternately growling and yapping to herself, and then, turning to Jackson: "Yes, you did startle me at first. So you are Mr. Jackson. My husband--that is, Dr. Smalley--said he met you to-day," and she smiled as if she was thinking of something that amused her. "This," she continued with a little wave of the hand, "is the school, and we live next door. If you will kindly come in by that door to your left you can help me to shut the musical box, and then I will take you right away to my husband, and he will see you through the wilderness to your home." The slight American accent in her voice lent her words a piquant charm, and it was with a true American's ready resourcefulness that she carried on the conversation with Jackson and attempted to take stock of him at the same time as he stood outside, half in shadow and half in light.
"It is very kind of you," said Peregrine gratefully, and he made toward the door, delighted with the lucky accident that had brought him this adventure. Nevertheless, the words "my husband" did not please him. So this beautiful creature was Smalley's wife! "I wonder," he muttered to himself, "if marriages are really made in heaven, why they don't assort people better." There was, however, no more time for regretful reflection, for the door was opened by his involuntary hostess, and they walked up to the dais together. As Jackson closed the organ Mrs. Smalley looked at him from under her long lashes, and a faint colour stole into her cheeks. She stood by placidly, however, holding a large hymn book in her hand and saying nothing. When he had finished, she spoke: "Now you can carry the light and come along--tchick, Flirtie!"
And they went into the garden, Peregrine full of pleasure at being ordered about in this unceremonious manner, and his companion walking demurely beside him.
A few steps brought them to the parsonage; the Reverend Habakkuk was summoned from the interior and matters explained to him. He hospitably pressed Jackson to stay and have some refreshment, but Peregrine noticed an impatient look in his hostess's face and declined. Smalley determined to lead Peregrine back himself, notwithstanding his protestations that all he wanted was a few simple directions, and, putting on a wide felt hat, turned to his wife, "I shall be back soon, Ruys; do not wait for me."
"Good-night, Mrs. Smalley." For the life of him Peregrine could not help throwing a shade of regret into the last words, and an odd light came into his listener's eyes.
"Good-night, Mr. Jackson. I am--we both are--soglad youlostyour way here. I trust you will in future be able to find it often." She made a demure little courtesy as she said this in an even voice, and Jackson and his host passed out of the house.
She listened till the sound of their footsteps died away, and then turning round to her dog picked it up and sat in a chair with the little animal in her lap. "Flirt," she said, "I guess he's perfectly luv-ly. There, you can go down now. I want to think." And she sat leaning back in her easy-chair with a pleased expression on her face until Habakkuk returned, and said, as he put down his hat:
"A most excellent young man that, Ruys; I am afraid I misjudged him sadly to-day," and the missionary, pulling a chair near his wife, rubbed the palms of his hands together softly. "Remarkably good-looking, too, don't you think?"
She turned and looked him full in the face. "I don't think I've given Mr. Jackson's looks a thought."
"Of course not, of course not," said Habakkuk timidly, and began to repeat the nervous rubbing of his hands together.
"Why of course not?"
The calm tone in which this question was asked entirely upset Smalley; he stopped his hand exercise, and, crossing one leg over his knee, began to nurse it and sway slightly backward and forward. He did not answer his wife's question, and she watched him for a moment, and in her heart began to wonder how it was she had ever consented to marry this lanky, shuffling creature before her. She knew his moral character was irreproachable; if only his personal appearance were more prepossessing. She had truly and honestly tried to do her duty as his wife, but the chains of her bondage were beginning to gall. Mentally she was far Smalley's inferior. She could not live in the clear ether, in the pure air of his thoughts, and she was always unconsciously dragging him down while making many an honest effort to rise to his level. She had lived so quietly for so long a time that the sudden and unconventional manner of her meeting with Jackson had affected her powerfully. There was no denying that he was good-looking, and she had drifted into a flirtation with him at sight as naturally as a duck takes to the water. Oh, if life were only different for her! she thought as she watched Smalley swinging himself in his chair. The slow motion exasperated her; her nerves were at a tension, and she said sharply:
"Habakkuk, I wish you wouldn't fidget so! Can't you sit still anyhow, like any other mortal? Do read, or do something. I want to think, and my head is aching."
"Of course, of course," assented the missionary, and a furious light gleamed in his wife's eyes, which, fortunately for him, Habakkuk did not observe. He was a man slow of thought, and it was only after a little time that he began to realize that his wife had said she was in pain. He looked at her softly from his calm blue eyes, and then, putting forth his hand, laid it gently on hers. Ruys received the caress passively. Then Habakkuk was emboldened, and he tried to draw her toward him. She evaded him, however, by a deft turn of the shoulder, and, rising, walked to a table in the room, and picking up a heavy Bible placed it before her husband, as she said primly:
"It is getting very late. I think you had better read a chapter before going to bed."
Belike for her, a royal crownI'd wager to a penny piece.Old Play.
Belike for her, a royal crownI'd wager to a penny piece.
Old Play.
As Jackson and his guide left the gates of the parsonage Peregrine struggled with a temptation to look back over his shoulder. Finally he gave in with a sense of shame at his weakness, and then was unreasonably irritated to find that no shadowy figure behind the tinkling bead screen before the open window watched their passage down the moonlit road. The result was that for the first few hundred yards of their walk there was very little talk, for Peregrine's silence discouraged all the missionary's attempts at conversation. Suddenly the whole countryside seemed to be filled with the flashing light of gems. A blaze of jewelled glory came and vanished in a moment, and then appeared again in all its fairy beauty to slip away as swiftly as before.
"What on earth is that?" asked Peregrine, moved out of his reserve at the sight.
"Bugs," replied Habakkuk, "fire-bugs. They're pretty lively to-night, anyhow. Each one with the little lantern God has given him. They don't make a real show, however, because of the moon."
"Of course," said Peregrine, "I might have known they were fireflies, but it all came so suddenly, and I had no idea the sight was so perfectly beautiful," and he pointed to the millions of little lights twinkling through the night.
"I guess so, Mr. Jackson; just as if all the little stars had come down to earth and hung themselves out on the trees to dry." The constraint with which the walk began now vanished, and Smalley took the opportunity to read Jackson a lecture on the subject of health, summing up with these words, "I am speaking as a medical man now, Mr. Jackson; you must remember to take care of No. 1--that is, of yourself. This is a most treacherous climate, and I have known many men stronger even than you look fall before it like withered leaves. Take a quinine pill daily, and always wear flannel next to your skin. I don't do it myself, but then I'm a seasoned vessel. Ah! here we are at your gate."
"Do come in, Dr. Smalley?" and Jackson held the wicket invitingly open.
"No, no, thanks," replied Habakkuk. "Pooh, man! Don't thank me for showing you the way a few yards. Good-night! I must get back, for my wife is sure to be waiting for me."
The last words jarred on Jackson, and he felt all his old feelings returning as he shook hands with his guide, who turned and shuffled off into the moonlight. When Jackson had got about a third of the way down to his own door, however, he heard his name shouted out by Habakkuk.
"What is it?" he called out as he hastened back.
"Only this--don't forget about the flannel and the quinine. Good-night!"
"Confound him!" and the angry young man turned on his heel and entered the house. It was very fairly late now, and Jackson had worked himself again into a thoroughly excited frame of mind. Ah-Geelong devoted himself to making his master comfortable for the night, and as the slippered Galahad sat in an easy-chair trying to collect himself and gather together the fragments of resolve to attack the pile of papers he saw on the table in his study, he heard the angry fizz of a soda-water bottle and the hissing of its contents as it was poured into a long tumbler and placed beside him.
"Whatareyou doing, Ah-Geelong?"
"Allee masters dlinkee peg--peg him keep off fever. Dlinkee peg and go sleep," and Ah-Geelong almost lit up the room with the shining row of teeth he displayed. It was impossible to be angry, but Jackson told the man to go, and he went, wondering, perhaps, wherein he had done wrong.
Peregrine rose from his seat and went to his study. But over the file before him flirted the outlines of the face he had seen. "Ruys," he murmured to himself, repeating the name by which he had heard her called, and it almost seemed to him that she replied, and that he heard the melody of her voice again. The far-off shadows of the room gathered to themselves form and substance, and as he leaned back idly there rose before him the vision of the dimly lighted school hall and that golden head bending slightly over the music. He had never been in love, and he gave himself up for the moment to the fascination of dreaming over the face he had seen. This was what inspired the knights of old. He stretched out his strong right arm and almost felt that he held a lance in rest. What would he not give to know that this peerless woman was his own? How he would work and labour! But a few short hours ago he was bowing at the shrine of a lofty ideal that was to carry him through life, at that invisible glory which strengthened his shrinking heart and nerved him to the highest for duty's sake. And all this was gone. The old god was dethroned in a moment, and the soft notes of a woman's voice, the touch of her hand, a glance from her eyes, and the past was rolled up like a scroll.
"My God," he said, "can this be love?" It never struck him that he had unconsciously appealed to that Godhead in whom he thought he had no belief. He was not able to think of that then--of how in a moment of trial the doubting soul turns instinctively to cling for support to that ethereal essence we call the Creator, and endows it with a living faculty to hear and to answer. Surely this spontaneous appealing to a higher power is something more than the mere force of habit. It springs from the heart pure as the snows of Everest, genuine and true. And this is the instinct which is not taken into account in the mathematical reasoning of the atheist; the touch of fire that would enlighten him out of his darkness is wanting. He will allow the instinct which tells an animal of his danger, which signals to him a friend; but to man, the highest of all animals, will he deny the instinct of the soul which shouts aloud to him the existence of God.
And the answer to Peregrine's question came unspoken, but he felt it ringing within him. Yes, and a hot flush of shame went over him as he thought of another man's wife. "It will not be! it shall not be!" he said, and he fought with himself as a strong man can fight. He fought with the devil that tempted until he saw the light of the morning star pale in the east and a pink flush steal into the sky; and then, being utterly wearied, he lay down and slept a dreamful sleep. It seemed to him that he was standing beside his own body and watching a dark stream trickle slowly, slowly from his heart. Around him were misty figures whom he could not recognise, and he lay there very still and silent. Suddenly there was a flash of golden hair, and a woman robed in white stooped and kissed him on the forehead, and as she rose he knew the glorious beauty of her face, and then he awoke.
Hark unto me! Myself will weave the plotClose as the spider's web, with threads as fine.Old Play.
Hark unto me! Myself will weave the plotClose as the spider's web, with threads as fine.
Old Play.
Anthony Pozendine, the half-caste head clerk of the district office of Pazobin, had evidently something on his mind. He sat at his desk amid a heap of files, over which his head just appeared, and every now and again his squeaky voice rose in petulant complaint or censure of one of his subordinates.
"Here, Mr. Pillay, can't you add, eh? You make out four hundred cases tried last quarter, and seven hundred convictions! Sshoo!" And he flung a file across the room at the unfortunate Mr. Pillay, who stooped and, picking it up humbly, went on with his work.
Through the half-open door of the office the buzz of voices from the court room came in, and occasionally a peon would enter with a request for Pozendine to see either Hawkshawe or Jackson. When it was to see Jackson, Anthony obeyed with a resigned air and a certain amount of pleasure, because he knew he was being sent for to remove some difficulty of routine which the new chief felt, and this would raise him in the eyes of his subordinate clerks, and make them think the power of Pozendine was great in the land. When it was to see Hawkshawe, Anthony's thin legs trembled under him, and he went with an outside assumption of dignity but a great fear in his heart, and when he returned there was generally an explosion of some kind. Hawkshawe had already sent for him four times to-day, and Anthony's temper was in shreds. He had just taken a fair sheet of foolscap, folded it lengthwise, and written in a clerkly hand across the half margin near the top "Memo. for orders," when again the messenger entered with a request from Hawkshawe, that was practically an order, to see him at once. "Damn!" said Anthony so loudly that the ten busy heads in the room bobbed up from among the heaps of papers in which they were buried, and ten scared faces looked at Anthony in alarm. Ten pairs of eyes were fixed upon him with anxious inquiry in their gaze, and the magnetic effect of this made the head clerk cough nervously and very nearly upset the inkstand.
"Are you coming?" said the messenger in an insolent tone, as he stood in an easy attitude before Anthony and inserted a piece of betel between his teeth.
Anthony glared at him. "I'm coming," he said. "Go 'way," and then he turned on his assistants.
"Wot are you all looking at, eh? Wasting time this way and that way. Think gov'ment pays you to sit in your chairs and look about! Here you, Mr. Rozario, you joined office a last-grade clerk two years ago, you're a last-grade clerk now, you'll leave it a last grade, I think. G'long and work--plentee of work--if not, I will reduce establishment."
Ten heads sank back into their papers, and the little man, seizing a file in his hand, walked slowly out with becoming dignity, his heart, however, full of combined fear and anger.
He was absent for fully half an hour, and the clerks once or twice distinctly heard the strident tones of Hawkshawe's voice echoing along the long passage, through the court where Jackson sat, and into the room where they worked.
"Big row on," remarked Mr. Rozario to no one in particular. "Pozendine ketching it warm, warm."
Finally the head clerk reappeared, but he came back with hasty steps and a face in which green predominated over its habitually yellow tinge. There were two blue lines to mark his lips, and his hands shivered over his papers as he stood at his desk in an irresolute sort of way. Finally he could contain himself no longer, and turned to his chief assistant.
"Mr. Iyer," said he, "am I head clerk of the district office or head clerk of the police office, eh? Answer me, eh?"
The stout Madrassee clerk looked at a fellow, who looked at another, and then, as if by one impulse, the whole room arose and crowded around Pozendine.
"Am I," repeated Anthony, "head clerk of the district office or of the police office?"
"You're chief clerk," hazarded Mr. Rozario.
"Yes," assented Anthony, "I am the chief clerk. I have served gov'ment twentee-four years, and now Mr. Hawkshawe he sends for me and tells me before a menial servant that I know nothing. Why, I taught four deputy commissioners their work! Who writes revenue report? Who writes notes on crops? Who makes tabular statements? Who drafts to commissioner and revises administration report? Who attends to district roads? Who sees to cess collections, budget work, record and despatch, stamps and stationery, office routine and discipline, eh? Who? Who? Who? And now Mr. Hawkshawe he sends for me to look over Mr. Drage's report on police. 'Pozendine,' he says, 'you're a damfool'--call me, Anthony Pozendine, head clerk of the district,damfool!'Sir,' I said, 'that's Mr. Drage's order,' and he say, 'You ought to have been able to tell Mr. Drage what to write.' 'See,' he say, 'now that Mr. Drage has gone on leave nothing can be done about this, and it will give beastly trouble--and now be off with you, infernal idiot!'Damfool and infernal idiot!I will report to commissioner at once by wire through assistant commissioner and resign. Now you go on with your work." He flung himself down into his seat and began to scribble a long complaint to Jackson about the treatment he had received from Hawkshawe. There was much irrelevant matter in it, and his pen fairly hissed along the paper. While he was thus engaged the Madrassee clerk Iyer rose softly and, stealing toward Pozendine, whispered in his ear. It was like one devil tempting another, and Anthony's face was perfectly satanic in its expression of glee as he listened.
"Plenty witness--Ma Mie's sister my wife," murmured Iyer, and his yellow eyes twinkled like two evil stars. Pozendine nodded his head. "Ah, ha! Mr. Hawkshawe, you call me damfool--I will brand you dam' blaggard!" he hissed out aloud as his busy fingers travelled over the paper and Iyer went back to his seat.
The Madrassee watched his superior keenly from his chair, and a wicked smile stole over his features as he half expressed his thoughts. "Pozendine will get sack, and I will become chief clerk." He then placidly put up a memo. for orders on the subject of the wasteful extravagance in blue pencil indulged in by the district engineer.
* * * * *
"I can not stand that beast of a head clerk, Jackson," and Hawkshawe, flinging himself into a chair, pulled out a long brown-leather cheroot case and extracted a gigantic cheroot therefrom.
Peregrine looked up as he said slowly: "Why not? He seems a decent sort of fellow--all nerves, though, I expect, but most men of his class are. But what has he been doing to upset you?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, only I don't like him; can't help it, perhaps, but I hate him like poison. Why don't you get rid of the brute? He's been too long here. Is a sort of power in the place, and owns property. That's the sort of man who gets his palm greased, you know."
"It's a very serious matter to punish a man for a fault you think he's going to commit. Still, as you say, he has too much power; but that can be remedied without resorting to anything like the measures you suggest."
Hawkshawe shrugged his broad shoulders. "As you please; but if the crash comes, don't say I didn't warn you. However, I didn't come to talk to you about this, but to ask you if you think it wise to have so much money at Yeo. There's close on a hundred thousand there, and the engineer on the famine works a native, too."
"What can be done? There is a strong guard, I believe?"
"Yes, twenty men, and old Serferez Ali, my inspector, commands them. He's the best man in the service. Still, I think you had better bring in the money."
"You think there is any danger?"
"Absolutely none that I know of at present; but old Bah Hmoay has been so quiet of late that I'm afraid mischief is brewing, and one never knows what may happen."
"We have, then, two alternatives before us--either to bring in the money or the greater part of it here, and send it out as it is wanted, exposing it to the danger of being stuck up, to use a slang phrase, on its passage, or to increase the police guard. Have we the men?"
"Yes," he said, "I can spare thirty men on Saturday, and will send them up then. With fifty men Serferez Ali could hold out against ten thousand dacoits."
"Very well, so be it."
"That's settled, then. Hola! what have we here, abillet-doux?" and Hawkshawe held between his finger and thumb the gray envelope he had taken from the messenger who brought it into the room and handed it to Peregrine. "Is the fair Ruys asking you to dinner?"
For the life of him Jackson could not help the hot blood rushing to his face, and there was something inexpressibly galling in Hawkshawe's tone. "Excuse me," and he tore open the envelope. It was an invitation to dine, and as he put it down Hawkshawe made a further remark that stung him to the quick. He turned round upon his visitor and said shortly, "Supposing we drop the subject or drop each other."
Hawkshawe stared at him, and then, pulling his cheroot slowly from his mouth, apologized awkwardly. "Didn't mean to offend you, old chap--beg pardon and all that--will come in and see if you can go out for a ride later on."
He clanked out of the room and left Jackson to himself. Peregrine picked up the note and read it again, and there was again a struggle within him. Should he face or flee the temptation? He felt that the latter alternative was hardly possible, and then it would be cowardly. No, he was going to deliberately try his strength against himself; the battle should be fought out to the end. He would face the trouble and he would conquer. He felt that the love that had sprung into being, like Pallas, full armed, could only be conquered by grappling it by the throat. He could not run from himself, and he would not if he could. So he wrote a few lines accepting the invitation, and then, deliberately tearing Ruys's letter up into the smallest fragments, turned to his files and plodded on steadily. He must have worked in this way for at least a couple of hours when an unaccountable feeling told him there was some one in the room. He looked up, but saw no one, and was just about to turn to his work again when something was thrust over his shoulder, and, turning round, he saw Anthony Pozendine.
"What is it, Mr. Pozendine?"
Anthony could hardly speak. He stammered out something about Mr. Hawkshawe--abuse--damfool--and, placing his complaint on the table before his chief, stood bolt upright at attention, for he was a volunteer.
Jackson patiently read every line of the four pages of foolscap, and then turned gravely on Anthony.
"Mr. Pozendine, you are on very dangerous ground. If your story about the abuse is true, you have perhaps a little cause of complaint; but as for the rest, it is absurd. Do you know what you are saying about Mr. Hawkshawe?"
"Yes, sir. It is true. I will go into court and swear; so also will Mr. Iyer."
Peregrine touched a bell. "Send Mr. Iyer here," he said to the messenger.
A minute after Mr. Iyer came. He stepped into the room briskly, seemed a trifle surprised to see Anthony, but said nothing. "Mr. Iyer," said Jackson, "Mr. Pozendine here says you are prepared to bear him out in certain statements he makes. Perhaps, Mr. Pozendine, you had better explain."
"Yes, sir," said Anthony, while the Madrassee's face assumed an expression of the utmost concern.
"You know what I have written here?" said Anthony.
"No," replied Iyer, holding up a deprecating hand, "I know nothing."
"Didn't Mr. Hawkshawe call me a damfool?"
"Every one say so, but I didn't hear. I know nothing."
"The man is frightened, sir," said Anthony to Jackson.
"There is no necessity to be frightened, Mr. Iyer; you can speak freely."
"Frightened!" said Mr. Iyer. "Why should I be frightened? I am an honest man, of a large family, and will speak the truth."
Anthony's face brightened up as he asked, "Didn't Mr. Hawkshawe take money?"
"Iyoo!" exclaimed the Madrassee, flinging up his arms; "I never heard these things. Sir, this man Pozendine is trying to get me into trouble. He is my enemy since long time. He one big liar," and the Madrassee shook a finger at Pozendine. "Mr. Hawkshawe take bribe! No, not Mr. Hawkshawe, but Mr. Pozendine. He take bribe from Bah Hmoay and Moung Sen over Dorian fruit--witness--all bazaar knows it. I will bring four--five--one hundred witness. Sir, this one big scoundrel!"
It was too much for Pozendine; his nerves had given way, and with a scream he flung himself at Jackson's feet and grovelled there.
"Pity!" he yelled; "I have twenty-four years' service--pardon!"
* * * * *
An hour later, when Hawkshawe came according to his word to see if Jackson would go for a ride, he found Peregrine apparently idling before his table.
"Ha! I see you've found nothing to do; come along."
"I can't," said Peregrine; "I want to think out something."
"Oh, don't let that little affair of Pozendine's bother you. It didn't happen in your time, you know. You'll get all the credit of finding out about the bribery and corruption."
"Do you know what has happened?"
"Ain't I your Fouché? Are you coming?"
"No, thanks. I must think this out."
Hawkshawe turned and went, whistling gaily. Mounting his horse, he galloped down a long embankment along the river face, and then, reining in, stood apparently watching Pazobin robed in the glories of a wondrous sunset. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I very nearly made an ass of myself over that police guard. Anyhow, if this comes off, no more of it; but Ma Mie is getting dangerous. My nerve is not what it used to be, but--I must get rid of her at all risks. Damn that straight-laced fool Jackson! He's always bringing back recollections to me, and I, Alban Hawkshawe, can not afford to remember--to think that my honour was once as clean as the palm of my hand, and now----"
He put spurs to his waler, and galloped into the gray mist that surrounded the forest.
* * * * *
A week after, the big native rice boat that slowly made its way up the river to Rangoon bore with it two passengers. One, seated among a heap of brass pots and pans, surrounded by eatables, principally fruit, could be recognised as Mr. Iyer; the other, who crouched on a coil of rope, was Anthony Pozendine. Neither spoke to the other, but in their eyes was a sullen hatred which showed what their thoughts were, and if either had the courage there would have been murder on the big boat that worked its sluggish way upstream. One morning, however, the Madrassee spoke to his companion.
"We are both ruined, Pozendine," he said. "What will you do?" Anthony made no answer, and Iyer went on. "There is only one chance--let us join together in Rangoon and tell all about Hawkshawe. We know true things, and government will give us back our posts. I swear by Krishna that I will be true; give me your hand."
Pozendine stretched out his sticky fingers, and the hands of the two men met. Then they sat together and talked all day as if there never had been any enmity between them, planning the coup which was to get them back their post, with a mental reservation that when this was accomplished there was yet another account to settle.