CHAPTER XXIVTHE SOOTHSAYER
Weekby week the great camp moved on in its stately, deliberate fashion, through its accustomed districts. There was not as much variety in the daily life as in the ever changing surroundings. Donald Gordon was absorbed in heavy official work by day, and heavy unofficial work by night. Mrs. Gordon and Alan Lindsay were unconsciously absorbed in one another, and pretty Mrs. Gascoigne—with her old head on young shoulders—appeared to be absorbed in her own thoughts. She was curiously silent and grave; not a trace of gay, vivacious, chattering Angel remained.
Mr. Lindsay and Mrs. Gordon mutually wondered at the transformation, and solemnly compared notes. Mrs. Gordon attributed her friend's depression to the absence of her husband, whilst Alan Lindsay declared that it was due to the absence of amusements. How little did either of them suppose that the true cause of Mrs. Gascoigne's low spirits lay in themselves. Angel's quick suspicion, which had sprung to existence by the old well, had grown from that hour, till it became a strong, able-bodied fact, which thrust itself on an unwilling confidante, and made its voice heard; it declared lustily that there was more than mere gratitude and pure idyllic friendship in Alan Lindsay's attitude towards Elinor Gordon;something in his voice, in his manner, told tales. Was it possible that at thirty-six years of age, love, strong, impassioned love, had overtaken her friend after all? But no, Elinor dared not entertain him; she was a woman who would bar such an ill-timed visitor out—yes, with her own hand, she who had been the adviser, comforter, example of so many, whose influence as a good woman radiated afar, she to whom all the girls and young men came with their difficulties, drawn by her personal magnetism, who helped so many over "the bad places" of life, to whom everyone looked up. The noble, unselfish wife of tyrannical Donald Gordon, was she likely to fall from her high estate? As soon the moon and stars. Yet as the couple talked together so earnestly and so exclusively, the truth became more and more evident—it came and stared Angel in the face, and frightened her; she felt as if she were looking on at some terrible human tragedy, and of which she was the sole and helpless spectator. This man, Alan Lindsay, had found his fate too late; his fate was a jewel belonging to one who never valued it. And Elinor? To her thoughts and feelings Angel had no clue; sometimes her spirits were unusually gay, her laugh ringing and girlish; sometimes when she and Angel sat alone she looked almost old and haggard; her book or her work lay forgotten in her lap, her gaze was absent and introspective. Sometimes, as she sewed, she heaved a sudden but profound sigh.
Thus they passed their days, and moved on from camping-ground to camping-ground, through the poppy-fields, and the cane crops of the fairest province; the four who sat at table together, two whomthe inevitable had overtaken, the surly, unconscious husband, and the conscious looker-on.
Occasionally the camp was pitched within a ride of some little station, and visitors cantered out to early tea or tiffin. One day Mrs. Gordon entertained three guests, a man in the Opium (the worst paid department in India), his wife, and a girl who was on a visit with them, a pretty little person with a round baby face, fluffy hair, a pair of hard blue eyes, and an insatiable appetite for excitement. The party sat out in the shade of the peepul trees after tea, within view of the camp train—the horses and camels at their pickets, the dogs, the cows, the groups of servants, the scarlet and gold chuprassis lounging about waiting for orders, and the crowd of petitioners and villagers besieging the office tent.
Miss Cuffe, the spoiled beauty of a tiny station, condescended to remark that the scene was quite imposing and picturesque.
"Almost like what one would see at Drury Lane."
"O horror! the pomp and glory of the Sirdar, as embodied in a great Indian encampment, compared to a pantomime."
"I suppose you miss the theatres, Miss Cuffe?" said Lindsay, who had been released after a long day's work.
"You are right," she answered with a coquettish simper. "I do like a show. I did all the plays before I came out."
"And we have nothing to offer you but snake-charmers, magic wallahs, and fortune-tellers. I believe there is one in camp now, a renowned Fakirwho lives in this part of the world; his fame has travelled to Agra."
"Oh, Mr. Lindsay, do, do send for him," pleaded Miss Cuffe.
"But I warn you that he is not pretty to look at; he generally prophesies evil things, and is, as a rule, under the influence of Bhang."
"I don't care in the least," she cried recklessly. "Do—do send for him. What do you say, Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs. Gordon?" appealing to them.
"My fortune is told," replied Mrs. Gordon. "Fate cannot harmme; but have the Fakir by all means, if Mr. Lindsay can persuade him to appear."
In another moment two messengers had been despatched in search of the soothsayer. Miss Cuffe resolved to make the most of the brilliant opportunity of cultivating Mr. Lindsay, the popular collector, who was said to be next heir to seven thousand a year. The best way to interest him, thought the shrewd little person, is to talk of his district and his work.
"I am so ignorant, Mr. Lindsay," she remarked pathetically; "only just two months in India. Do tell me what all the people round here," waving her plump hands, "believe in?"
"What an immense question!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean the peasants?"
She nodded her head with an emphasis that was impressive, although all the time she was neither thinking nor caring about the peasants, but reflecting that here was a providential occasion for her to cement an acquaintance with this charming and eligibleparti; the coast was clear from rivals; therewas no one to absorb his devotion and claim his attention but two stupid married ladies, who had been in camp for weeks—and of whom he must besotired.
"Well, the peasant's mental horizon is rather limited," said Mr. Lindsay. "He has some sort of belief in a Providence whose benevolence is shown in restricting malignant heavenly powers from doing mischief."
"Yes," assented the girl, though she had not in the least grasped what he meant. "And—what else?"
"Oh, well," said Lindsay, secretly amazed at this intelligent social butterfly, "he trusts in a host of godlings who inhabit the pile of stones which form the village shrine. He believes that he would live for ever, were it not that some devil or witch plots against his life."
"And is that all that he believes in?" questioned Miss Cuffe; and she raised her light blue eyes to her informant's dark ones, with a look of tragic appeal.
"By no means. He believes that it is good to feed a Brahmin, that it is wrong to tell a lie, unless to benefit yourself. He believes that if he does an impious act he may be reborn as a rat or a worm; he believes that woman is an inferior creature whom you may bully with impunity. With a man, you must be more careful."
"But these are the extremely poor and uneducated," broke in Mrs. Gordon. "The more enlightened are different; they encourage charity, kindness, and simplicity; they are extremely devout—in that way they put many of us to shame."
"And the women, how do they live? Have they no amusements?" inquired Miss Cuffe, turning pointedly from her hostess to the more attractive collector.
"Amusements? They do not know the meaning of the word. They work—I am speaking of the peasants—from dawn till dark, helping their husbands with the cultivation of the land, drawing water, cooking, weaving—they are hags at thirty, and their only release from drudgery is an occasional pilgrimage. You may see them marching for days packed in a country cart which crawls along from week to week and stage to stage; at last they reach their goal, Hurdwar—or Benares. They bathe and worship and offer sacrifice—it is the one event of their lives, and assures their future."
"One event," repeated Miss Cuffe. "How utterly miserable!—And what are their every-day habits?"
"Conservative—they wear the same fashion for twenty centuries, their food never varies, a little pepper and spices, the only relish—the plough, the spinning wheel, and loom, remain unchanged in a thousand years; of course, I am speaking of the villagers; the townsfolk have watches, sewing-machines, gramaphones, and all manner of Europe goods, and rubbish, but the Ryot has no money or time to waste on such luxuries; it is all work, work, work, from generation to generation—the Ryot is the mainspring of the Empire."
"Poor creatures," exclaimed Miss Cuffe, "what lives of hideous toil. I suppose they don't know what happiness and love mean?"
"Oh, yes, they are sufficiently happy when theybring off a good bargain, and they love their plot of land, their ancestral acre, with a fierce devouring ardour, passing the love of women."
"How much you know," sighed Miss Cuffe admiringly; "how much you tell me, that I never heard before."
"And here comes one who will possibly impart some events which are yet to come," and Mr. Lindsay indicated the tall lanky figure which was advancing in the wake of the chuprassis.
The Fakir was an old man, singularly emaciated. He wore a simple loin cloth and a row of huge beads; his legs were bandy, his voice was bass, his hair matted, in his eyes there was a piercing look bordering on madness. He came straight up to Lindsay and salaamed, entirely ignoring the opium wallah, and the three ladies.
"Take off your wedding ring, and lend it to me," whispered Miss Cuffe to Angel, "and we will see if we cannot puzzle him."
"Shall I tell the stars of the Lord Sahib only?" asked the Fakir, "and in his ear?"
"Oh, no," responded Lindsay, "the stars of the company, and one by one, so that all may hear—what the fates have in store for them."
"Yes, what fun it will be," said Miss Cuffe. "Mrs. Ellis," to her friend, "will you be done? Do, it will be so amusing."
"No, thank you," said the lady, "I am quite willing to listen to your fortunes, but I beg to decline hearing mine."
"I have heard that this man is marvellous," saidher husband, "and greatly feared by all the neighbours."
"Certainly his looks are not attractive," remarked Angel; "he seems to be getting impatient. Shall I break the ice—in other words, be done?"
There was an immediate chorus of assent, and she rose and came forward to where the Fakir was squatting. He also rose and drew his lean form to its full length. What a contrast the two figures presented, as they stood face to face; denizens of the East and West. The pretty fair English girl, with her dainty white gown, her little vanities of chains and laces, her well-groomed air; and the half-naked Fakir, with his mop of tangled hair, his starting ribs, his wild black eyes, his chest and forehead daubed with ashes, and, as a background to the pair, a circle of watching, eager retainers, the big tree stems, the white tents, and the flat cultivated plains merging into the blue horizon.
Angel put out her hand; the fortune-teller glanced at it curiously, then he looked up in her face with a strenuous stare, and there was a silence only broken by Miss Cuffe's titter. At last it came, a sonorous voice speaking as if pronouncing judgment.
"Oh, yea—thou art a wife."
"The servants told," giggled Miss Cuffe in an audible voice.
"Hush, hush," expostulated her friend, "he is speaking."
"Thou wast given to a man by a dead hand—" another pause—"he married thee at the bidding of a woman—his foot is on thy heart—it is well, lo! he is a man—and to be trusted." He paused again andsalaamed to the earth, a sign that he had concluded, and once more squatted upon his heels.
"What? And is that all?" exclaimed Miss Cuffe, indignantly.
"I should think a little of that went a long way," observed Alan Lindsay, "what more would you have? He is not an ordinary magic wallah I can see, who promises jewels and lovers. He takes himself seriously."
The Fakir now beckoned solemnly to Mrs. Gordon, who, with a half apologetic laugh, came forward. He looked her in the face with his burning eyes, and said in a harsh voice:
"Where love should be—is emptiness. Where love should not be—lo! there it is."
Angel glanced involuntarily at Mr. Lindsay; he had grown curiously white.
"A shade cometh—I see no more." And again he dismissed his victim with a profound salaam.
"Dear me, what rubbish it all is," protested Mrs. Gordon, as she took her seat with a somewhat heightened colour.
"He is like Micaiah, the son of Imlah, who prophesied evil things; see, he is beckoning Mr. Lindsay. I wonder what terrible message he will deliver to him?"
"Lo, here are brains," announced the seer in his sonorous Hindustani,—understood of all but the little spinster, "much riches. A heart—some talk—sore trouble. Wisdom and honour come when the head is white, and the heart is dead."
"Now for me," cried Miss Cuffe, rubbing her hands gleefully, and ignorantly rushing on her fate."I declare I am quite nervous. I cannot bear his eyes. Mr. Lindsay, do please stand close beside me and interpret." Then she beamed coquettishly on the grim native, as if she would exhort good fortune by her smiles.
He looked at her, with fierce contempt, and said, "Lo, 'tis a weakling, Miss Sahib, thou art a fool; the ring belongs to the tall sad girl, with the hungry heart, and the daring spirit. Such a ring will never be thine. I smell death."
"What does he say?" cried Miss Cuffe, as soon as she was dismissed. "Do tell me at once, Mr. Lindsay; I hope it was something good?"
After an almost imperceptible pause, Mr. Lindsay replied, "He said the ring was not yours, it belonged to Mrs. Gascoigne. I think he was annoyed because you tried to get a rise out of him—he wouldn't work properly. I shouldn't wonder if he had cast the evil eye upon the whole lot of us."
"What a wretch!" she protested. "I am so sorry I asked you to send for him. I never dreamt that he would be a repulsive old skeleton dealing bad luck all round. It has not been such fun after all. Oh, here is Mr. Gordon! Oh, Mr. Gordon," she cried, "do come and have your fortune told;" and her little hard eyes glittered. Miss Cuffe did not like the Commissioner, and saw no reason why he should be spared, when misfortune was being dealt out.
"Give him ten rupees and he will make you a Viceroy," suggested the opium wallah with a laugh. "Where is the fellow? Has he gone?"
Yes, he was nowhere to be seen; he had vanished mysteriously and without payment. By Mr. Gordon'sorders, the Fakir was searched for, high and low; he desired to question him respecting a certain peculiar murder case, but all search proved unavailing; the soothsayer had disappeared.