Jehân Aziz was meanwhile repenting at leisure in Oriental fashion. That is, he had succumbed to the perpetual temptation of a string bed set either in shade or sunshine, to which it is always possible to retire without, as it were, quite throwing up the sponge. An Englishman who seeks his bed and turns his face to the wall gives himself away; the native who does the same thing is not even committed to discouragement. And Jehân, though he had a racking headache from an attempt to drown care in a debauch, was not exactly discouraged. His anger, though impotent, was too strong for that. Indeed, his whole force of character lay in his fierce arrogance; for he was neither clever nor cunning, like Burkut Ali. And so when, the day after the disappearance of the ring, the latter walked coolly in as if nothing had happened, and sat down on the end of the string bed, Jehân only sat up at the other end and glowered at the man, without whom he knew himself to be lost.
'Thou hadst best tell the truth, Lord of the Universe,' said Burkut, with a fine sarcasm, 'for I have heard many lies from the police. My head whirls with women, and pearls, and God knows what! Is there so much as foothold anywhere, whence we may deal a blow?'
Jehân felt comforted by that plural, though it roused curiosity to know what Burkut would be at. In truth, the latter's first desire for vengeance on Jehân only, had shifted as he had listened to the tales he bribed the police to tell. Here, it had seemed to him, was the possibility of greater mischief; mischief which, it was true, could have no immediate or definite object, but which would add something fresh to that rock of offence, that stumbling-block in the way of the alien master, on which it was the duty of the disloyal to cast every stone they could.
It took five cigarettes, and two whisky-pegs sent for from the liquor-shop next door, ere Jehân--in the absolute undress which seems to afford comfort to all Indians in time of trouble--had finished his tale.
'There is much in it,' remarked Burkut slowly. 'As for the ring, Lateef hath it. There is none else. And he is a friend of thy house. He worked there; is it not so? Bethink thee, is there no woman in it who hath a hold on him?'
Jehân frowned horribly at the indecent suggestion; but even this insult, he felt, had to be faced. 'None,' he said shortly, 'unless the jade who escaped.'
Burkut grinned cunningly and shook his head. 'My lord doth not understand women. Lateef hath kept the ring for the honour, not the dishonour, of the house. It will go back, if it hath not already gone, to the safe keeping which hath secured it all these years.'
Jehân winced again under the innuendo. 'Think you it is there already?'
'It will be, if we give him time,' replied Burkut; 'and all the more surely, if we say it is there already. That is simple, since Nushapore knows that the guardianship of the signet was not with my lord always. It is but to withdraw the charge of theft, saying that we have found the ring returned to its rightful owner, the Nawâbin.'
This time Jehân ground his teeth; he felt his impotence, even against this man, horribly. 'And then?' he asked sullenly.
'And then we shall be free to watch Lateefa. We can give him time to go to his hiding-place. And then we can search him--and thy house. But without the police! We must have no more oftheirmethods. It hath cost me somewhat to get beyond them now, which sum shall be as a debt between thee and me--but there must be no more of it!'
'But the pearls?' replied Jehân uneasily; 'the pearls and that jade Sobrai, whom God curse.'
Burkut gave a sudden blink of his long eyes. 'Say rather, may God curse those who led virtue astray! 'Tis a tale, my lord, to dissolve heart and liver! Kidnapped by order, almost by force. Bribed to asahib'spleasure by pearls. By four pearls taken--oh! most horrible!--from a string which the head of her house had, with tears, sold to that samesahib! Sold in his honourable indigence, which had not hesitated to wrench the last ornament from the necks of virtuous women in order to keep them virtuous----' He paused in his periods for breath.
'Wâh!' said Jehân stupidly--his jaw had almost fallen in sheer surprise--'that runs well. But the proof?'
Burkut smiled a superior smile. 'Thy reluctance to allow publicity. Thy instant assertion that the pearls were thine. Lo! is not the whole true, save that Lucanastersahibgave the pearls to Sobrai? And that is for him to prove. "Tie a lie to a truth and the two will sink or swim together" is good wisdom!'
'But they must see the pearls--they said so but yesterday. The magistratesahib----'
'Go to him, and make thy confession. Say that there was but this untruth. The pearls were not, they had been thine. Say that, even now, if thou canst but get the girl back in secret----'
'In secret,' echoed Jehân fiercely, 'when already the police----'
Burkut lost patience then. 'Fool! canst not thou see that in that lies the gain?Thoucanst stand aloof, but the hell-doomed must answer! And not the one; but all. Lo! it is a tale for the bazaars! for the newspapers! And 'tis not as if thou couldst keep it secret longer. Thou canst not. Therefore use it against those whose fault it is that thou canst not.' He paused, suddenly folded his hands in the attitude of service, and said reverently: 'What orders hath the Pillar of Justice, the Mighty in Power, the Disposer of Slaves, regarding a necklace of pearls, and one Sobrai Begum, a woman of his household?'
The sarcasm bit deep, and Jehân Aziz, the Rightful Heir to such power, swore, this time, horribly, feeling as Burkut intended, that revenge was better than nothing.
'And I will bring trouble to Miss Leezie also,' he began viciously, when Burkut cut him short.
'That were unwise. She stands too close to authority. Say it was Dilarâm----'
'Dilarâm! wherefore?' put in Jehân stupidly.
Burkut's laugh was evil beyond words. 'Because they who touch her and hers, rouse what they cannot still. Thou needst not say it for certain. That is the best of lies--there is freedom for the tongue in them. Say it seems so. And hearken----! Govind the editor will pay for this news. If thou canst get word, by means of this money, to Sobrai herself, it would be well. She knows her fate if she comes back to thy house. Promise her escape if she will say it was Lucanaster.'
Jehân's pious wishes for the immediate destruction of all the unfaithful came almost cheerfully. He felt infinitely relieved all round. So far as the ring went, he was inclined to believe that Burkut was right. It might even now be back in Noormahal's keeping; but, before making sure of that, it would be as well to see what Lateefa would do. Then as for the pearls, he at least got some revenge. And the beauty of it was that a solid substratum of truth, sufficient to save him from trouble, underlay all the lies. The pearlswerehis; hehadsold them to Lucanastersahib; Sobrai'sfourdid belong to that string; shehadbeen beguiled into the cantonments.
It was only that a different complexion had been put upon the facts; a complexion which might, almost, be the right one, since who was to know why Sobrai----
Once more the irrational, uncontrollable animal jealousy of the thought seized on him, and he felt a fierce joy in knowing that the story was one to rouse a similar feeling in many minds. And wherefore not? Were not similar stories true? Were they not to be heard every day? Were not tales of the libertinism, tyranny, and corruption of thesahibsto be read in every line of the newspapers? And none contradicted them; therefore they could not be contradicted. So ifthistale were not all true (a faint scruple, that was as much an inheritance as Jehân's passion for power, lingered in spite of his desire for revenge), there were plenty of others far worse that could be proved up to the hilt.
Thus, once more, that commonest of all Indian conjuring tricks, the making of one lie out of two or more truths, started on its evil errand.
Yet not a mile away from its starting-place rose the Government College, the Courts of Justice, the Secretariat, the Revenue Offices; all the plant, the stock, and lock, and block, of an administration which, take it as you will, is the only one India has ever had, which has allowed even a whisper to be raised against it without condign punishment.
At that very moment Sir George Arbuthnot, in his private office, was reading an article from the day's issue of theVoice of India, that had been brought over amongst the usual selections from the native newspapers which are submitted by the Press censor.
'Is it too late,' he read, 'ere the great crisis comes upon us which may mean so much to the poorest of the poor, the richest of the rich, to implore the Government to think, ere it inflicts on the helpless, the horrible and needless tortures which, there is too much reason to fear, have been inflicted on our fellow-countrymen in other parts of unhappy India? May we not once more venture to plead with the authorities for our poor townsfolk, and point out to them that these weaker brethren have beliefs which they would rather die than deny? The sacredness of the cow, for instance, must, and does seem silly, foolish, to those who eat beef every day, but to our people it is a dogma. To yield one tittle of it is eternal damnation. So with the sacredness of their women. This thesis may not be held by our rulers. We know that it is not. Those of us who have seen London do not need to be told this, and even a visit to cantonments shows us a different standard. Tales that are harrowing to the fathers and husbands of India may be food for laughter elsewhere. Therefore is it that at this crisis we venture to implore the great English Government to remember that to us such things are all important. That we cannot, we dare not away with them.
'The late generous announcement of Sir George Arbuthnot, our popular Lieutenant-Governor, to the effect that no coercion will be used, at the outset, has greatly soothed the natural alarm of all, raised by general and credible belief in a plan of campaign similar to those approved by authorities in all other parts of India. For which diplomatic utterance we poor folk are grateful, and which emboldens us to ask the following pertinent questions:--
'1.Would it not be possible, by treating ignorant poor folk with kindness and consideration, to allay their natural fears?
'2.Would it not be well to issue stringent rules that no woman shall be examined for plague even by British soldiers, and that Brahmins, cows, and family idols be not wilfully ill-treated?
'3.Though it is to be feared, alas, that jack-in-offices must perforce exhibit greed and covetousness, should not some supervision be exercised to prevent unnecessary removal of valuables, 'et hoc genus omne,' from plague-stricken houses?
'4.Finally, is it not possible, even at this late hour, when Plague overshadows us with horrible mantles of dread(there are persistent rumours of three cases in Muhalla Kuzai),that the co-operation and advice of educated natives be invited as to means of avoiding friction. Comparisons are invidious, but it is not too much to say that Messrs. Bhola-nâth----'
'You can leave off there, sir,' said the assistant-secretary. 'It is up one side of Shark Lane and down the other.'
Sir George turned over the slip to the next with elaborate patience. 'It is ingeniously suggestive,' he remarked. 'By the way, have we succeeded in getting any more volunteers for search parties?'
'Two, sir; but they are both retired native officers, and as that would make all but five, military, the commissioner thought----'
'Then we want twenty more. Send a reminder to Shark Lane. And about the destruction of infected clothes?'
'There is only one thing for it, sir, as we agreed before,' replied the chief of the police. 'We must have an Englishman with each search party. It's absurd to expect constables on five rupees a month to keep their hands from picking and stealing. That fact must be faced. We do our best; but our department, which is the most difficult to deal with, is the worst paid.'
'That's a nasty story,' said Sir George suddenly. He had been glancing through another excerpt. 'Hm, theEar of the Wise, editor Govinda Râm.'
'He has the best nose, anyhow, for unmitigated filth in India,' remarked the assistant-secretary; 'but of course one can't notice that sort of thing.' Here he shrugged his shoulders.
The chief of the police, who was an old military man, squared his. 'There I totally disagree, as his Honour knows. That paper has a greater effect in Nushapore than all those high-falutin' prints put together; and that's all my business. I'd have him up, on every slander, in the criminal courts. You wouldn't allow that sort of thing about the masters to be circulated in a school? And the more we remember that our position in India is virtually that of a schoolmaster, or, if you like it better, trustee to a minority, the better it will be for that minority.'
'Bravo, Grey!' said Sir George, with a smile. 'You stick to your colours. And a good many of us agree; only the people at home won't have it. They can't grasp the situation; they would as soon believe it to be a grave political danger if the little street boys hung garlands round Guy Fawkes instead of burning him! Now, about the plague itself. Is it on us, doctor?
'Yes, sir,' replied a small man who had just been shown in. 'We have just inspected all the native charitable dispensaries. They have no proper records, of course, and they deny increased attendance. But they are almost out of drugs. Then there are three undoubted cases in the butchers' quarter. But the fishiest part of the city is all about the Garden Gate. Those tall old houses--there has been a lot of deaths.'
'Poor, high-class Mohammedans,' remarked the assistant-secretary significantly. 'Rather bad luck.'
Sir George rose and put away his papers. 'Then we had better start. I think everything is settled. The great point is to keep--to keep normal as long as possible.'
As he quitted the room the men left in it looked at each other.
'Right so far; but after----' said one.
'Telegraph home for orders; what else can you do nowadays?'
'Do! I'd show them, if I had a free hand. I'd settle this lot.' The chief of the police slapped his confidential file viciously as he pocketed it. 'I'd limit their circulation by a little wholesome bloodletting.'
'Not worth it! They're like the fifty thousand Irish patriots.'
'What patriots?' asked the chief snappishly. He hailed from across St. George's Channel himself, and was a trifle touchy on the point of his countrymen's disloyalty.
'The fifty thousand Irish patriots whom the orator said were armed to the teeth ready to strike a blow for liberty. "Then why the devil don't they strike it?" asked one of the audience. "Bedad! the polis' won't let them."'
'Hm! the "polis" wouldn't, if I'd my way,' muttered the old soldier.
Sir George, meanwhile, had gone straight to his wife's sitting-room; for he was already due at his daily reception of native visitors, and he had something he wished to tell her.
Scrupulously particular as he was about the absolutely English ordering of his home-life, there was something fantastic--even to him--to-day in the sight of Grace in a low rocking-chair, reading Hans Andersen to Jerry, in a room as dainty and sweet with English flowers as any in an English country-house. What possible right had this to be here, cheek by jowl with the city! And between them nothing but Shark Lane!
'Well! George?' she asked almost nervously, for, despite the days that had passed, her fear lest that unlucky letter should turn up to give the lie to her husband's protestations on the part of the Government, lingered with her.
'Only those two ladies, my dear,' he answered with a certain meritorious air to which he had a perfect right; for he was almost worked off his legs, and might very excusably have forgotten all about poor Khôjee's appeal. 'Dawkins inquired. They belong to Jehân Aziz's pensioners. But there is a discrepancy. He says they are young and flighty girls, so he is obliged to keep them tight----'
'My dear George! she was as old as old----'
'She need not have been one of the real petitioners, my dear. In fact, seeing that they are strictly secluded, I doubt if she could be. It is quite easy to personate, when no one has any means of knowing----'
'And quite easy to say people are young and flighty, when they are not,if they cant be seen. How are we to find out?'
Sir George looked thoughtful. 'I'm afraid we must take the Nawâb's word. Or, with his approval, we might appoint----'
'Some one who would agree with him,' interrupted Grace impatiently. 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go myself. His house is somewhere by the Garden Gate, isn't it? Surely, George, there can be no objection to that,' she added, noting his look.
He paused a moment; then said gravely: 'Only one; and that is, that we must have as little communication with the city as possible for some time to come, Grace. Yes,' he continued, as she looked at him startled. 'It is on us; but there is no need, of course, to worry for the next few days at any rate.'
She rose and stood looking out of the window thoughtfully. 'You never can tell,' she said. 'Father used always to say so to his young officers: "Remember that in India you cannot tell what the next day may bring forth."'
'Used he to say that to Mr. Raymond?'
If a bombshell had fallen between those two it could scarcely have startled them both more.
'George!' exclaimed Lady Arbuthnot reproachfully.
'I beg your pardon, my dear,' he said, going up to her with the quaintest look of elated affection, as if he were rather proud of himself; 'I don't know why the deuce I said that--except that--well! that the best of us can't quite forget--I don't believe you do--we are all a bit fundamental. However, what I mean is that times have changed since your father's day.'
'And yet you say every one is fundamental,' she interrupted in a voice that held both tears and laughter, tenderness and a faint resentment. 'And that is so true--we go back and back.'
'Then I shall go back too,' he replied cheerfully. 'Only I must give the New Diplomacy a chance. Besides'--here an obstinate look crept over his face--'as a matter of fact I have to obey orders like every one else, and my orders are clear; thanks--I don't mean it nastily--to you and your father. In fact I'm very much obliged to you. It relieves me of a lot of responsibility. All the same, I can assure that there is not the very faintest chance of difficulty for the next week at any rate. There cannot be--for the simple reason that we are not going to offend any one's prejudices. For instance, no search for plague patients will be made for the present except by special request of the natives themselves. So I really cannot see----'
'Is it likely we could?' asked Grace quickly, 'when we cannot see if a woman is young or old?--when we have to trust interested people for information? George! I often wonder you men have the courage to rule India, when you know nothing of its women, except that there has been one at the bottom of every trouble you have ever had.'
Sir George smiled indulgently. 'Well, my dear, I hope they will keep their fingers out of this pie.'
It was rather a vain hope, considering that at that very moment Govind Râm's fingers were all black with lithographic ink, and that the first edition of his broadsheet was being hawked through the bazaars. There was quite a crowd round Dilarâm's balcony where, in full dress, she sat, defiant yet sullen; now refusing to say a word, now letting herself loose in shrill abuse with disconcerting candour. She find recruits for such as Miss Leezie? Not she! Though, had she chosen, she might here had followed tales half-true, half false, that were listened to, not with eagerness or anger, but with the calm assent which is so much more dangerous, since it passes on to tell the tale with additions in the next street.
By evening it was all over the city that Dilarâm and her like were to be put in gaol for refusing to kidnap girls for theSirkar. And that theSirkarin consequence, being hard put to it, would be sure to make the plague--which the doctors had discovered that very day, though, God knows, folk had been dying that way for a week--an excuse to search respectable houses for recruits to Miss Leezie's profession.
Such a thing may seem impossible to those who have not lived in a native town, but those who have, know that nothing is incredible to its vast curiosity, its still more vast ignorance. In the dead darkness of that, as in the darkness of night, all voices are equal.
And so round the smouldering rubbish-heaps and within the closed doors of the courtyards where the women gathered, as in the bazaar, the tale was told; not with absolute assurance, but tentatively. So folk said; and so, no doubt, it had been in the past. It remained to be seen if it would be so in the present, sincethatwas all poor folk had to consider. And as the tale was told, a sound of sudden wailing would rise far or near in the city to prove part of the tale was true.
The plague had come.
Jehân Aziz had withdrawn his charge of theft against Lateefa by saying that the whole affair was a misunderstanding, and that the ring was in the possession of the Nawâbin, to whom it really belonged. It had been returned to her without his knowledge;etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!
Now a monopoly in lies gives freedom, but when you have an accomplice whose fertility of imagination exceeds your own, there is tyranny in them. Jehân found this out when Lateefa, after one silent second of surprise, had grasped the position, and instantly claimed his right to lie also. For in India false accusation is a sort of personal duel in which the challenger, having chosen his weapon, cannot complain of his opponent's more skilful use of it.
So Lateefa had launched into corroborative evidence of the most startling description. Did not the Nawâb-sahibremember this, and that? And Jehân had remembered. What else could he do?
But he felt it was dangerous work, and was glad when Lateefa's audience was confined to the coachman who drove them back to the city, in the wagonette lined with red flannel and tied up with string! Yet, all the time that he was enlarging, Lateefa was wondering if there was any truth whatever in the story he had been confirming.
Had the ring really been found?
The fact that Burkut Ali was waiting to receive them in the little house next Dilarâm's, inclined him to believe it was not, and that there was still some scheming afoot.
But, on the other hand, the ring might really be lost. The kite might have fluttered down in the next courtyard, or the next. It was a pure chance.
His first glance into the little backyard, however, showed him that the chance had been in his favour. He had the eyes of a hawk, and, even from a distance, could see, not only that those were the kites crumpled in one corner, but that the precious morsel of ballast was still in its place.
And this knowledge gave him, instantly, an enormous advantage over the two plotters, to whom it was, of course, inconceivable that he should, already, know for a certainty that the ring had not been found.
So when, in the most natural manner in the world, they congratulated each other on his being freed from a false accusation in time to allow of his making kites for the annual competition amongst the immediate members of the Royal Family, for what was called the 'Sovereignty of Air,' he assented cheerfully and waited for them to go further. Which they did, by saying that as it was most important to have the best of kites, he had better go back to the old workshop, since the courtyard here was too narrow and sunless to dry the paste and paper quick enough. Indeed, the last kites he had made there had flown askew.
Here Lateefa crossed to the battered ones in the corner, and shook his head over them solemnly. It was true, he said, such kites would ill carry the honour of kings. Yet, since he had none too much leisure--if the trial was to be in two days' time--he would waste no good daylight in moving tools. That could be done at any hour, and leave him half-a-day's work here.
On which Jehân and Burkut winked at each other, thinking it evident that he was falling into the trap, and was manœuvring for an opportunity of getting at his hiding-place. So they gave it to him, discreetly, by playing cards meanwhile on the string bed set this timewithinthe room across the doorway; thus combining complete isolation with comparative freedom. Whereat Lateefa smiled to himself.
It was quite a happy little family party, and Lateefa sang, as usual, of 'oughts' and 'naughts' as he worked; sang all the more cheerfully when those two began to yawn.
He kept them at the yawning, out of pure mischief, until it was almost dark; then he piled the kites he had made in the corner, tied his tools into a bundle, and asked the cardplayers politely to let him pass.
Whereupon, as he knew they would, they closed the door and stripped him. He did not expostulate. He seemed to think it quite right that they should thus prove the truth of their own words. He had not, he confessed, been sure, before, of the assertion that the ring was in the Nawâbin's possession. He had thought that, perhaps, the Light-of-the-Universe had retained it himself. Now it was evident that he had not.
And then, refusing to resume any clothing except a mere waist-cloth of decency, or to take his tools or anything which might cause suspicion to go with him, he went out into the bazaars, leaving those two cursing, and swearing, and wondering if by chance they had hit on the right lie! Had the ring really found its way to the ruined palace which was the only other relic of kingship remaining to the Rightful Heir of all?
And even that possession was burdened by conditions!
It is impossible to overestimate what the loss of absolute power means to men like Jehân Aziz who have nothing to take its place. As a rule, when their personal interests do not clash with their environments, they only grin horribly, and contrive to bear the loss. But when, as Jehân Aziz did, they feel enmeshed in a network of petty limitations, their impotent arrogance finds the position intolerable.
As he flung himself angrily once more on the eternal string bed, he felt that the only thing which would satisfy him was the grip upon his finger of a gold circlet set with a green stone, on which was scratched the kingly legend.
And despite Burkut's help he had failed to get it; as yet--
Meanwhile Lateefa, naked as he was born--save for his rag of decency and an embroidered skull-cap of inexpressibly filthy white muslin set on the oily, grizzled hair that hung in an inward curve about his ears--was at large in the gutters and lanes, feeling the freedom of a bird newly escaped from a cage. His last sense of allegiance to the Nawâb had gone; he had not yet attached himself to the Nawâbin. He did not really care much as to the fate of the ring. It had been more a desire to outmatch their cunning, than any hope of keeping his promise to Khôjee, that had made him transfer the precious ballast--as he had done in the leisure afforded him by that discreet game of cards--from the old kite to a new one, and leave it in the pile. It was a trifle safer there; but, on the other hand, any one might find it at any time. If so, it would be the fault of Fate. Not Lateefa's, as it would have been had he been foolish enough to try and take the ring, or even the kites with him. That would have been fatal.
So as, with a twopenny-halfpenny wisp of a muslin scarf he borrowed from a friend, superadded to his costume--or the lack of it--and a certain soft brilliance of opium in his eyes, the kitemaker lounged about in the more disreputable quarters of the town, listening to tales and telling them with equal indifference, he was, in a way, the spirit of an Indian bazaar incarnate. Truth had gone from him utterly. In its place had come an impersonal appreciation of the value of vice or virtue as a mere ingredient of anecdote, and an absolute lack of responsibility for the result of his admixture of good and evil.
Therefore, as he sat crouched up in the corner of a frail lady's reception room, fingering a lute which he had found there, and trilling softly of 'oughts' and 'naughts' while she retailed the latest lies to the shifting audience which came and went up and down the steep musk-scented stairs, he was at once a thing dreadful, a thing pathetic. For his keen face, seen by the smoking oil lamps set high in a brass trefoil before the mistress of the house, was alight with a sensuous spirituality, and his lean figure, so listless in its lounge, was instinct with that power of energy, of spring, that shows even in a sleeping tiger.
'Lo, thou in the corner!' came the narrator's voice; 'hold thy peace. What are thy "oughts" and "naughts" to us of the bazaar? Take them to thy virtuous beauties who leave messages for thee at Dilarâm's--at Dilarâm's forsooth! an odd "post-arffis"[16]for virtue! And so, my masters,' she went on, 'thedaghdars[17]--there were five of them--carried the woman off by force, and----'
Lateefa was not one of the breathless listeners. He was winking elaborately at the buxom assistant who was handing round the sherbets, and asking irresponsibly, 'Didst leave a message for me at Dilarâm's, beloved?'
'Not I, fool!' she giggled; 'thou must be drunk indeed to think virtue fits me. Yet it is true. One suchdidcome when I was at Dilarâm's with her----' She nodded to the speaker--who, having reached her climax, was becoming dramatic, the light before her making her face all eyes and lips--'An old body--out on thee for thy bad taste, Lateef! And she says, says she, "Tell Lateef of the house of the Nawâb that it is well with us in the prison--that we want no service." See you, friends? not even his! Nay, take it not to heart, beloved! there be others less unkind.'
But Lateefa had risen with a sudden sense of something beyond his present freedom; that freedom from truth, clothes, kite-making, above all things, from the methods of the police! And that something was Auntie Khôjee. For the messenger, he felt, could have been no one else. Why had she come to say it was well with her? Had they made her do so? And if so, what had they been doing to those helpless women? What theycouldhave done, had they dared, Lateefa knew only too well; and his brain was too confused to remember thathadthey dared, they would scarcely have bidden him go back to his workshop in the old palace.
His feet were as confused as his brain, but, in or out of the gutter, they steered him pretty straight for the big iron-studded door with the little wicket in it beneath thenaubat khana.
'Khôjee!' he called cautiously, rattling at the wicket; for it was barred, as usual, at night. There was no answer. He raised his voice--'Auntie Khôjee, it is Lateef! Rise, sister, and let me in.'
She ought to have heard that; for he knew her to be a light sleeper. He paused doubtfully. Was she simply asleep, or had those two been at work? Then it occurred to him that he had been a fool not to ask the sherbet-handerwhenthe message had been left at Dilarâm's. It might have been that very day, in which case he could afford to postpone his inquiries till the morrow. He must find out. That was the first thing to be done.
Late as it was growing, there was no slackening, as yet, in the tide of life ebbing and flowing through the bazaars, when he returned to them. Everybody in the city seemed astir, and he hastily turned his face to the lamp-sprinkled caverns of the arcaded shops, as he saw Burkut Ali and Jehân Aziz coming towards him in the crowd. They passed him talking together in low tones, and he looked after them doubtfully. Were they simply promenading, as half the town seemed to be doing, or----?
Their sudden turn down a by-lane decided him. He followed cautiously.
Alike though the bazaars and the by-ways of a native city are in form, the change of atmosphere between them is striking beyond words. So here, within a whisper of unceasing talk and movement, Lateefa found all silent, deserted. Lightless too; except when a farthing rushlight at a niched shrine where two lanes crossed, shone on the black slime in the gutters, as if it had been ink, and showed the glistening black streaks upon the windowless walls, down which the sewage from the upper stories of the tall houses trickled to the sewage below. Here and there a dog slunk in the shadows; here and there a woman crept furtively from doorway to doorway. And overhead, with a fathomless depth of purple in which the stars seemed trivial bits of tinsel, a notched ribbon of sky showed between the turreted roofs.
A garland of marigolds--sending their curious odour into the general compound of smells as they hung over a closed door--and a muffled sound of women's laughter told of a marriage within. A knife--still swinging from the touch of the last visitor--and a louder shrill of voices drowning a woman's cries, told of birth. And that faint whimper--practised, conventional--meant death!
All three within closed doors.
And now, from the vantage-ground of the last turn, Lateefa waited and watched those two go on. Had they been there before? Had they the means of entry?
No! The rattle of the wicket sounded loudly; then the voice of authority--'Open! Open to the Master! Open to the Nawâb!'
Even to that there was no answer, and as the two looked at each other, Jehân's face was fierce with rage. ''Tis as thou saidst, when Dilarâm spoke of the message,' he muttered savagely. 'They are in league! Lateef is here, and means to defy us.'
Then he raised his voice and called again, 'Open! Open to the Possessor! Open to the Master!'
A door or two down the alley creaked ajar, showing dim white-sheeted figures of wonder; for that was not a call to be ignored.
Lateefa, from his corner, wondered still more. What could have happened? Something, evidently, about which those two knew nothing.
A man who had pushed past the dim shadows into the lane, started the question as to when the door had last been seen open; whereat voices came from the dim shadows in answer. One had not seen it so these three days, others had noticed Khôjee's limp that morning. The voices grew contentious over the point, so that Nawâb Jehân Aziz growled a curse under his breath, and turned away savagely.
'Come, Burkut,' he said, 'did I not tell thee they could not have arrived by now? The paper at the "estation" says the mail is "change-time." Let me pass, good folk,' he went on irritably to the little group that hung round, curious. 'Can a body not come to see if his family be returned from a journey without the neighbours crowding out?'
The remark was plausible explanation enough; but as the two passed Lateefa in the dark, Jehân could be heard girding at Burkut. Why had he suggested coming on the sly? It would be all over the town how that Jehân's women had refused him entrance. He, Burkut, would be suggesting the police next.
'Not the police, my lord,' came Burkut's suave, cunning voice; 'there be better ways of gaining entry than that nowadays!'
When they had gone, and the lane--with clucks of incredulity and remarks that it was time some folk refused to be treated scandalously--had settled behind closed doors again, Lateefa stole back to the wicket.
Once more he had the advantage.Heknew that it was no obstinacy induced by his presence which kept the inmates silent. And Jehân had made noise enough to wake the dead.
The dead? But they could not all be dead! A vast curiosity, more than any apprehension, made Lateefa look up to the balcony of thenaubat khanaand wonder if he could climb to it. Once there, the shutters he knew were rotten. It seemed possible--if a foothold or two were picked out of the crumbling brick, and a rope hitched on to an iron hook he knew of, some ten feet up the wall. In fact, given a quiet hour or so, he would undertake to make a felonious entry somehow. But it was too early in the night to try. The time for such work came with the false dawn when sleep simulated death. And that was--how many hours away? He did not know, or care. In that strange life of the bazaars, night was as day. No question of bed-time entered into it; so, sooner or later, he would see that the hour he waited for had come, by the look on those ribbons of sky between the close-packed houses; that network of sky, following the pattern of the network of streets and alleys, which was all that thousands in the city knew of the heaven above it.
The bazaars were scarcely more empty, when once again he returned to them; but they were less noisy. Many voices had dwindled to one voice; the voice of the tale-teller. Therefore the voice of the most imaginative mind in the assemblage.
Lateefa listened here, listened there, curious, indifferent, receptive; approving--as the East always approves--the voice with authority that speaks not as the scribes.
He wandered here, he wandered there; even, with that absorbing inquisitiveness of his, into the courtyard common to Dilarâm and her neighbours. Her balcony was dark and silent; the police, he told himself, had likely been bothering her. But the light, and the sound of a crank in Govind's room, meant a special edition of lies. Then with his ear to the chink of the door below he could hear Burkut Ali's voice; then Jehân's--louder, shrill with protest or anger. They were quarrelling, likely, over drink or cards.
Yet Burkut was sober enough when--barely giving time for Lateefa to find shelter behind the eternal string-bed which was now reared up against the wall--he came out into the yard.
'Fool!' he muttered as he passed, 'not to see his own good. As if it mattered. He would get house and all. Mayhap he will be drunk enough by morning.'
What new villainy was he planning? Lateefa pondered over the question as he drifted on.
The time of felonies was near, for the dogs were forgetting to skulk; a sign that men were fewer in the lanes and streets. Here and there, round an ebbing flicker of light, listeners lingered, and a drowsy voice droned on; but for the most part the cavernous arcades showed still, white-swathed sleepers, simulating death.
This, however, coming swiftly down the bazaar--a strange, swaying, headless body with many legs, monstrous, weird, half-seen--was death itself being shuffled out secretly to the city gates.
Folks said true, then. The plaguewasabroad?
He had found himself what he needed for his task--a bit of old iron, a bit of leathern rope; but when he reached the wicket his first stealthy touch on it showed him he needed neither. It was ajar. He pushed it open noiselessly and entered; groping his way, since it was dark in the archway below thenaubut khana. Beyond, in the open court, it was lighter; yet, even so, he stumbled over a bed set right in the entrance as watchmen set them.
There was no one in it, but the quilt was warm. So some one had been there a moment ago. Some one who had gone out by the open door, and who would therefore return.
He crouched in a recess by the stairs that led upwards and waited. He had not to wait long. A shuffling step sounded outside, and, after a pause to bar the wicket, some one stumbled to the bed. And then out of the darkness came a quavering grace before meat, that grace which is also the prayer of blood-sacrifice.
'In the name of the Merciful and Clement God!'
It had not needed the grace to tell Lateefa that this was Aunt Khôjee. She must have gone out to draw water from the well down the lane, for the grace was followed by the sound of rapid, thirsty drinking. But why had she not drawn water as usual from the well in the women's courtyard? He must find out.
'God quench thy thirst, sister,' he said piously; then added, 'fear not, it is I, Lateef,' for she had given a startled cry and let fall the water-vessel, which, bottom upwards, gave out aglug glugas the liquid escaped from its narrow neck, that was louder than her feeble attempt at sobbing, as she crouched up on the bed rocking to and fro.
It was all her fault, she was very wicked, she moaned; she had tried to go into the streets, she had tried to feel as if she were going to die, but she could not. And then the thirst had been so dreadful! But she had only opened the door for a little moment. Who would have thought of any one stepping in? And now he must go away, or she would kill him too. Why did he not go when it was the plague? He would surely die, and she did not want to kill any one else....
Lateefa could make out enough of her ramblings for comprehension, but he did not therefore flinch from the huddled-up figure, which was now faintly visible in the grey beginnings of dawn. The fear of death is not easily learned in the bazaars where, so long as it comes naturally, it scarcely excites comment. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and spat as Jân-Ali-shân had done in the garden; for that propitiatory offering to the dread destroyer is common to all races all over the world.
'Thou wouldst kill no more?' he echoed, his curiosity aroused. 'Who hast killed already? The Nawâbin or Khâdjee, or both?'
So once more, even there, he sat listening, listening, listening, while Khôjee rambled through her tale of the green satin trousers, and her plan to save the Nawâbin from being dragged away and poisoned, which had been frustrated by thirst. But who could have expected to want either food or drink----
Lateefa gave a sudden laugh. 'Lo! brave one!' he said, stooping to pick up the fallen water-vessel, 'and when thou hadst got the drink, thou didst spill it from sheer fright of a familiar voice! Of a truth, sister, women are made in bits like a conjurer's puzzle. It needs a man's wit to piece them together. Now think not, Khôjee,' he continued warningly, 'to shut me out whilst I get thee water. If thou dost, I swear by my kites, I will go tell thedaghdarsat thehorspitâlto come and poison Noormahal.'
The fantasy of his own threat amused him; yet it roused a sudden remembrance that others might, at least, tell the doctors; especially if, after the scene of last night, the door remained shut. The neighbours, in that case, would begin to talk. And then he recollected Burkut Ali's words, and wondered if the latter could possibly have been contemplating so vile a plan as giving false information. The Nawâb himself would not consent. It was infamy. But if the Nawâb was drunk?
The thought was disturbing, so, after Khôjee, refreshed by the water, had apparently sunk into a profound sleep, he went outside, and, sitting on the door-lintel, prepared replies to the questionings which should surely come when folk began to go backwards and forwards to the well. He prepared, also, for the interview with the Nawâbin which he meant to have by and by. He meant to tell her about the ring, as an inducement to common-sense; the common-sense of escaping, while she could, from evil to come.
As he sat, answering questions and passing the time of day jauntily, he heard a faint knocking from within, a low-voiced 'Khôjee! Khôjee! art returned yet?' The Nawâbin was therefore well; so, if Khôjee woke the better for her sleep, the whole affair might be simple.
The sun rose, and so did Lateefa's spirits. He joked and laughed with the veiled serving-women, he played with the children when they began to drift out to the gutters, he even cast a gay remark or two into the air for the women who stood on the roofs gossiping. Soon they would be going down into the courtyards, the doors would be closed, and his opportunity for arguing the matter out with two foolish creatures would come.
Then, suddenly, the children stopped playing, the women scuttled to shelter, and Lateefa rose with an awful malediction in his heart.
Two Englishmen had come round the corner, and behind them was Burkut Ali.
Then he had done it! done this infamous thing!----
'It is a nuisance coming at the very beginning,' the English doctor was saying, 'but I can't help myself. And one can only hope it will give the lot a wholesome fright.'
His companion shook his head. 'Doubt it. And to tell the truth, I don't understand this request. There is hanky-panky, I feel sure.'
The speaker was Jack Raymond. By pure chance he had passed the hospital on his morning ride just as the doctor was going out on this, his first search; and, remembering the scene in the king's pleasure-grounds, the latter had asked him to run his eye over the written request for inspection, so as to make sure there was no nonsense.
Thus the names of Khôjeeya and Khâdeeja had come to remind him of the silk bracelet, at that moment reposing with some bank-notes in his pocket. It was not in Jack Raymond to refuse such a lead over. He had felt, it is true, a trifle impatient at the necessity for accepting it, but even that feeling had vanished when Burkut Ali, who met them where the lane turned off from the bazaar, apologised for the Nawâb's absence. The latter was too much overcome, he said, by the sacrifice of dignity required in thus proving his devotion to theSirkarin setting such a good example to others, to attend in person.
'Hanky-panky!' Jack Raymond had murmured under his breath, with a thanksgiving that he was there to prevent more villainy than could be helped.
Lateefa too, seeingRahmân-sahib, who was known to all attendants at the race-course, was glad of his presence also, but for a curiously different reason. He was glad, becauseRahmân-sahibwas, by repute, not only a realsahib, but, by repute also, he understood what people said thoroughly, and was therefore amenable to deception--that is to words generally, true or false; whereas wit was of no use with most Englishmen!
Jack Raymond's first remark, too, was reassuring, since it betrayed suspicion of Burkut Ali's good faith.
'The door isnotclosed against entrance,' he said sharply. 'Why was it said to be so?'
Burkut, who had brought a most venerable-looking villain of the royal house to back him up, appealed to the neighbours, who, already, had crowded out to join the rabble which the efforts of a couple of constables had not succeeded in keeping back. Were they not witness, he asked, that last night----
'It doesn't matter, Raymond,' said the doctor aside, 'I've got to get through with it now, and the quicker the better; so I'd rather have an open door than a shut one.' He slipped through the wicket as he spoke, and an odd murmur, half of horror, half satisfied curiosity, ran round the spectators.
It was true, then! TheSirkardid do such things!
'There is no need for those two to come in; it isn't their house,' objected Jack Raymond, as Burkut and the venerable villain prepared to follow. 'Stand back,sahibân,' he added in Hindustani; 'and sergeant, when the conservancy sweepers are through, close the wicket. This is not a public spectacle.'
True. Yet in a way the remark and action, spoken and done with the best intention, the kindest consideration, were a mistake. They left a crowd with nothing for its amusement but Khôjee's screams of sheer terror as she woke to find the doctor feeling her pulse. They were heart-rending, dangerous screams; and Jack Raymond recognising this, and also the fact that the old lady was his petitioner of the garden, supplemented the doctor's commonplace 'Have no fear, mother' with something more ornate, in Persian, which changed the screams to piteous cries of, 'Poison me not! I will die! Yea, I will die without poison!'
And this being almost worse, he tried the effect of showing her therâm rucki, and asking if a bracelet-brother was likely to do her any injury; finally, as she only seemed to grasp his meaning vaguely, he fastened the silken cord on her wrist.
Its touch was magical. She clutched at the hand that had put it on, and the cries died down to a whimper.
'Lo, my brother! Lo, my brother, my brother! Tell them I can die. Let them give me time, and I will die! Yea, with time I can die, as well as with poison.'
It was impossible to avoid a smile; the doctor, indeed, laughed cheerily. 'No doubt about that, mother,' he said to her in a relieved tone of voice, 'but not just yet. You haven't got the plague. And you haven't it either,' he continued, turning to Lateefa. 'That is two of you--one woman and a servant. Now, if you can show me the other two inmates in like case, I can give a clean bill. So where are they? In here, I suppose.'
He passed towards the inner door, but Lateefa was there before him. Sharp as a needle, the doctor's words had made him see that Noormahal, alone, would be no good. There must be two women, or the tragedy of the green satin trousers would be as surely discovered as if poor Khâdjee had not been buried; and that would mean a segregation camp, at best, for all three of them. It might be impossible to hoodwink thesahibs, but he could try. So he appealed volubly to Jack Raymond. This was infamy, as theHuzoorknew, to secluded dames. It had to be, of course; but let it be done in the easiest way. Let the sick woman--she was none so ill but that she could do so much for humanity's sake--go in first and tell of theHuzoor'skindness; of how he was a bracelet-brother (Lateefa had, of course, grasped this fact without in the least understanding how it had happened); no doubt she would be able to persuade the secluded ones to come out for inspection, and that would be less disgrace than the invasion by male things of their sacred isolation.
Jack Raymond watched the keen audacious face narrowly; then once more he said aside to the doctor, 'Hanky-panky! That sick woman is as much secluded as the others; but I'd let her go. Give them a free hand and they will be quieter, if we find them out. Anything is better than hunting them down, poor souls!'
Lateefa, therefore, much to his inward delight--also contempt!--was allowed free instructions to Aunt Khôjee, while the search-party stood aside.
'We can t let 'em down easier, can we?' said the doctor as he waited; and Jack Raymond shook his head despondently.
'No,' he answered, 'but it's a brutal business all the same--to their notions, and you can't changethemin a hurry.'
Meanwhile Lateefa's instructions ran in this fashion. Khôjee was to tell Noormahal that the big Lord-sahibhad sent the bracelet-brother to fetch her to a private interview. That the statedhoolieswere waiting. That all was of the strictest ceremonial. On that point she had a free hand. She was to say anything which would induce the Nawâbin to come out. And she herself was to change her dress swiftly and personate Khâdjee. It was a chance--theHuzoorsmight not think of seeing the three women together. So, with a parting admonition to be brave, he pushed the tottering Khôjee through the inner door, closed it, and turned to the two Englishmen appealingly.
'TheHuzoorsmust give time, for it is as death to noble ladies to see strangers; but the old woman will tell them that theHuzoorsare as their fathers and mothers. May God promote them to be Lords!'
'Hanky-panky!' remarked Jack Raymond again, 'but it can't do any harm.'
'No,' assented the doctor.
There was no one there to remind them that that is a formula which can never be safely used in India, or to repeat, as Grace Arbuthnot had repeated, a lifelong experience embodied in the words--'You can never tell.'
'They are a long time coming,' said the doctor aggrievedly. He was up to his eyes in work, and he had waited five minutes, ten minutes, patiently, silently. So had the crowd outside silently, but impatiently.
'Huzoor!' protested Lateefa from the door, 'to noble ladies it is as death----'
He broke off, for a sudden shriek rose from within; another; another; and above them a woman's voice shrill, awful, in its intensity of scorn--
'Lies! Lies! Lies! Stand back, fool, thief, liar!' And mixed with these words were others in agonised appeal--'Nay! Noormahal! Lateef? Help! God and his prophet! Thou shalt not! Noormahal!'
Lateefa seemed paralysed--uncertain what to do. But Jack Raymond, the doctor at his heels, had the door open. They were through it in a second. His first glance within, however, made the former grip the latter's arm with a grip of iron, and whisper breathlessly--
'Keep still, man; it's the only chance.'
For, in the centre of that inner courtyard, standing--arrested for a second by the opening of the door--on the parapet of the wide wall, was a tall white-robed figure, its face distorted by passion, its black eyes blazing.
'Lateef! Help!' moaned Khôjee, who was clinging frantically, uselessly, to one corner of the lone white veil. 'She is mad! the ring!--I had to dress--and she too---for the Lord-sahib--and it was not there! I told you how it would be--it is the ring!'
An awful laugh echoed through the courtyard.
'Yea! the ring! the ring!' repeated Noormahal mockingly. 'Sa'adut's ring--the Ring of Kingship. Liar! Lo! I could kill thee for the lie. It is not there--Noormahal! Mother of Kings, dost hear? It is not there--it was not there when I went to find it.'
There was self-pity, amazement, now, in the voice which had begun so recklessly, and Jack Raymond--watching the figure with every nerve and muscle tense for action--breathed a quick breath of relief; for self-pity meant almost the only hope of averting the mad leap there was so little chance of preventing.
But Lateefa's high voice followed sharply, almost exultingly--
'What then?' he cried, 'when I have it safe! Yea! Mother of Kings! The ring is safe. I swear it. I have it yonder in the bazaar--in the Nawâb's house--I----'
He paused, compelled to silence by her face, by the outstretched hand which, falling from its appeal to high Heaven, pointed its finger at him accusingly.
'Dost hear him?' she asked mincingly, and Jack Raymond instinctively moved a step nearer. 'He, the pandar, hath the ring safe; safe in the bazaar; safe in the Nawâb's house; safe for the Nawâb's bride----'
'Look out!' shouted Jack Raymond, dashing forward, for he knew what that thought would bring.
But he was too late. With one cry of 'Liars,' one horrid laugh, the slender white figure leaped into the air, the veil--detained uselessly in Khôjee's helpless hold--falling from the small sleek head; and the Nawâbin Noormahal, the Light-of-Palaces, went down as she had stood, mocking, defiant, into the depth of the well; the last thing seen of her, those wild appealing hands.
And outside the crowd was listening, eager to find fault, eager for a tragedy to tell in the bazaars.