Over on the other side of the city, however, on the wide stretch of sandy waste behind an outlying dispensary which had been turned into a segregation camp, the advocates of certainty and uncertainty had changed places. Here, in the little grass-screened yard, six feet square, which Jack Raymond's kindliness had secured for the ordinary reed hut to which poor crushed old Auntie Khôjee had been brought, it was a scavenger who doubted, a woman who--even amid tears--had faith.
'Lo! brother,' said Khôjee in gentle reproof, as she sat on the string bed hiding her grief-blurred face discreetly from the tottering old man who had been sent in to sweep out the premises; an old man bowed, palsied, senile, yet still, as a male creature, claiming that calm perfunctory drawing of a veil an inch or two more over a withered cheek, 'thou shouldst not repeat such tales; they do harm. As I have told thee before, God knows what happened was not the fault of theHuzoors. It was Jehân's, and mine, and Lateef's; if indeed it was ought but God's will. And lies will not bring her back again! It was lies that killed her, Noormahal, Light of Palaces!'--a sob choked the quavering voice, but she struggled on truthfully--'and theHuzoorswere kind in concealing what they could. What use to drag the honour of the King's House in the dust? Even Jehân saw that and held his peace. It is ye--ye of the basket and broom--strangers--not of the house knowing the honour of the house as in old time--who have done ill in talking. And of the girl too. Lo! what thou sayest of her and the pearls may be true; but I know naught of it, and Jehân hath lied ever. Then for the bracelets! Have I not worn one and cried for death? But death has not come, as thou sayest it comes; though I have wornthisthese two days.'
She held out her thin arm as she spoke, in order to show therâm ruckiwhich Jack Raymond, in his efforts to reassure her, had fastened round her wrist.
The old man ceased sweeping to peer at it, then chuckled wheezily. 'Oho! Oho!bibi!and wherefore not, since that is arâm ruckiwhich all know of old! But this other I speak of is new. I tell thee it hath the death-mark on it, and the arrow-head which claims all for theSirkar'suse. Its like none have ever seen before. They sold it deceitfully as safeguard yesterday at Sheik Chilli's fair, and men bought it for their wives and children--Ala!the tyranny of it, the cleverness! who can stand against their ways? So now it is proved a sign of death indeed; all who wear it, all who have worn it, are in theHuzoor'spower. When they are wanted, they will die.'
Despite her disbelief--a disbelief founded largely on her own kindly grateful heart--Aunt Khôjee felt a cold creep in her old bones. 'How canst tell by now? Some may escape,' she quavered.
The old scavenger waggled his head wisely. 'This I know,bibi, that in theKuteeks'andLohars'houses--yea! and in others too where the sickness was rife, for, see you, it hath been in the city this fortnight past, though folk held their tongues--all bought these bracelets for safety. All! and it is from these very houses that the dead come! Am I notDomby craft, though I grow too old and crooked to straighten even dead limbs? Have I not seen? I tell thee,bibi, not one of the corpses taken out of the city this morning but had the bracelet on its wrist! Ay! and not one of those carried by force to thehospitarlbut had it too!'
It was an absolutely true statement, even if capable of a more natural explanation.
'ButRahmân-sahib, the bracelet-brother, did not give them bracelets?' protested Aunt Khôjee, falling back fearfully on what still seemed incredible.
'God knows,' mumbled the superannuated streaker of dead things. 'Mayhap he did not sell them, but it was by order. A Hindoo in the city, Govind by name, hath a paper with the order written on it, and signed by theLat-sahibandWictoria-Queen. So there is no lie there,bibi!'
He passed out resentfully, driving the refuse he had swept up, into the world beyond the six-feet-square yard, with a last flourish of his broom.
Khôjee, left forlorn, sat looking at herrâm ruckidoubtfully. Could the tale be true? Could theHuzoorshave been capable of such a devilish treachery? Even so, he,Rahmân-sahib, had not been so. His bracelet had brought safety. Even after two days, Auntie Khôjee recognised this. Thedaghdar-sahibhad laughed at her fear of plague; they had given her seclusion of the strictest; a Musulman woman, who had called her 'my princess,' had brought her better food than she had had for years, and even Lateef had been allowed to come during the day and talk to her. Last, not least, thedaghdarhimself had respected her veil, and sent a miss-sahibainstead--a miss in a curious dress, who had let her cry about Noormahal, and comforted her with cardamoms--real cardamoms. It had almost been a visit of condolence! Then she was told that in eight days she might go back--though not to the wide dreary house, since it had already been utilised as a hospital. ButRahmân-sahibhad promised to settle that from the rent of this, Jehân should pay for a more suitable lodging, and also allow her a proper pension.
A bracelet-brother indeed! Yet lying tongues traduced him and she, a bracelet-sister, could do nothing but listen to them! She wept softly over her own ingratitude, so that Lateefa, finding her thus engaged, attempted consolation on the old, old lines which belong to all faiths, all people, by saying that it was God's will, that Noormahal was taken from the evil to come, that she was at peace; until, finding his comfort unavailing, and being pressed for time, he told the old lady gently that she must not expect any more of his companionship that day, since, the term of his more rigorous segregation being over he was free to go out, provided he returned by sundown.
Then to his surprise she suddenly ceased her curious whimpering wail, and looked up at him swiftly.
'Thou canst go out! Then thou shalt go to him and tell him of the lies! Yea! and tell him that I, Khôjeeya Khânum, wear his gift, and--and will never forget him, and his beauty, and his kindness!'
'Tellhim?echoed the kite-maker, wondering if he stood on his head or his heels when he was asked to take so fervent a message to a man, from so discreet a lady as Aunt Khôjee. It did not take long, however, to make him understand; for the old scavenger had swept out the men's quarters also. But, to the dear old lady's disgust, he was inclined to laugh at, and be sceptical over, both her indignation and that of those who had bought the amulet. The tale was not likely to be true. Why should theHuzoorsgo such a roundabout way to work when they had soldiers and guns? To be sure, these were few in Nushapore at the present moment, and folk were saying that the talk about Sobrai and Noormahal and Dilarâm--God curse the low-born pryers who know not how to keep silence for decency's sake!--had set thepultan(native regiment), which was a high-class Mohammedan one, by the ears; but there were plenty ofrigimentsclose by. And, if itwastrue, what good would a message toRahmân-sahibdo? It would only make him angry. And if the tale were a lie, what would he care? Did theHuzoorsever care what folk said? Never! That was why they ruled the land.
But Aunt Khôjee was firm; even when Lateef--who had told her everything--protested that he had no time to lose; that if he was to have any chance of getting at the ring, which, he trusted, was still concealed among the kites, it must be before their selection for the flying match. Since, once they were chosen, none might touch them till the 'Sovereignty of Air' was decided. Even now he might be too late for the courtyard, and have to go to the turret, ready to seize his chance during the trials. And what is more--here he gave a glance at the sky--if he knew aught of kite-flying, those with fair ballast would surely be chosen to-day; and therefore, of course, the one which had the ring hidden in the guise of a bit of brick within a little calico bag!
'Then it is safe so far. It will be guarded till evening, and then thou canst see to it,' asserted Aunt Khôjee autocratically.
'Not till after sundown, mayhap, and I must return then; and who can tell what may happen if it is left longer,' persisted Lateef.
'Let what may happen! Thedaghdarswill not kill thee--they are kind; and what is the ring, now, but empty honour, since there is no heir? But the other is different.Rahmân-sahibis bracelet-brother. He hath been kind--we owe him this. Wouldst thou be even as Jehân, Lateef, willing to steal honour from any?' Never in her long life had Aunt Khôjee been so obstinate.
'I care not, so Jehân doth not steal the ring,' muttered Lateef revengefully. 'Nay, sister, I will not go!'
She bent towards him and laid a wistful hand on his. 'But if God give him back honour, Lateef, should we hinder it?--we who have sinned also? Not so, brother! Let Him decide; and for the rest, helpme. Lo! for all her years, this is the first bond between Khôjeeya Khânum, King's Daughter, and a man. Let her keep it faithful, unstained.'
Lateef gave an odd sound, some part of it being his thin musical laugh. 'Sure, sister, thou wouldst make a saint even of a kite-flyer!' he said lightly. 'So be it! I will go by way of the courtyard. Then if the kites be gone already--as I misdoubt me--I will toRahmân-sahib'swith thy message; so to the turret--or wait till evening as thou sayest. 'Tis a chance either way; and mayhap, if I give God His will with Lateef whom He made, He may give Lateef his will with the kites he made! That is but fair, sister.'
'Yea, brother,' assented Khôjeeya piously, not in the least understanding what he said. 'So it will come to pass, surely, since He is just.'
Thus it happened, an hour or two after this, when Grace Arbuthnot was once more standing beside her husband's office table, as she had stood a few weeks before with the telegram which withdrew the confidential plan of campaign in her hand, that a card was brought in to Sir George by the orderly. He put it on the table with a frown, ere looking at his wife again, and finishing his remark--
'Tear it up, my dear, and throw it into the waste-paper basket! Why should you worry about the thing? I only showed it to you to amuse you, and because it was a good example of the lies the natives will tell, the threats they will use--on occasion.'
Lady Arbuthnot, who was once more holding a paper in her hand, looked up from it. Her face was pale.
'I think you ought to inquire, George, I really do. If there is anything----'
'My dear child!' interrupted her husband impatiently, what can there be? Didn't I burn the thing with my own hands? You mustn't get nervous, Grace; I've noticed you have been so ever since--well! for some little time past. And, of course, all that about the pearls, and the loathsome imbroglio regarding them, is annoying. I should like to kick Lucanaster and Jehân Aziz and the lot! Anything more unfortunate at this juncture can scarcely be imagined; but there is nothing to worry about.' He laid his hand on her shoulder as he rose to touch the hand-bell. 'And now, my dear,' he added, 'I have to see Mr. Raymond--he has written "important" on his card.'
'Mr. Raymond!' echoed Grace, her face flushing, then growing pale again. 'Oh, George!' she paused for a moment, then spoke more calmly--'George! I want you to do something for me. I want you to consult Mr. Raymond about--about this matter--will you?'
Sir George stood rather stiff, and the placidly obstinate look came to his mouth. 'Mr. Raymond?' he echoed in his turn. 'Why on earth should Mr. Raymond know anything about it--unless you have been speaking to him?'
She had realised her slip before the suggestion came, a suggestion whose truth she was too proud to deny, even though her husband's displeasure at the thought was unmistakable. 'Ihavespoken to him,' she replied steadily. 'I told him your opinion as to the danger should the hints in the native press prove to have any foundation; and he quite agreed.'
'I feel flattered,' remarked Sir George coldly, as he sat down again. 'Perhaps, my dear, when you are ready to go, you will ring the bell. Mr. Raymond may be in a hurry.'
Grace Arbuthnot's heart sank within her. A woman--especially a sensible woman--can hardly live for ten years in close and affectionate companionship with a man without having seen him at his best and his worst; and that the latter was the case with Sir George now his wife recognised instantly; albeit with a clear comprehension of the cause, which made her feel a pathetic regret that she should thus handicap a man, as a rule so just, so unbiassed. And that, too, at a moment when much might depend on his being free from personal feeling; since Jack Raymond, she knew, would not have come lightly. Some woman might have fought against facts. Grace was too wise for that. She simply rang the bell, and passed into her own sitting-room with that pathetic regret. It seemed so pitiful after these long years to find antagonism in these two men; and yet what right had she to feel scornful? Was it not bitterly true that she herself could not forget?--not quite!
Seated at her writing-table, her head on her hand, she tried to argue the matter out with herself, and failed. Only this seemed clear. That once you admitted certain emotions to be inevitable, it was very hard to set limits to them. Surely, therefore, there must be a firmer basis than the conventional one; but what was it?
She roused herself, after a time, to the consideration that no matter how the state of tension between herself, her husband, and Jack Raymond came about--and that such a tension did exist, she was again too proud to deny--it must not be allowed to interfere with matters more important; and that it might do so was only too palpable; all the more so because those two, especially her husband, would be loth to admit the very existence of such a possibility.
Therefore, she herself must see and talk to Mr. Raymond. Nay, more! she must get him to do what her husband would not do: make inquiries concerning this threat of publishing some documents if payment for it was not made, which was contained in the letter which--half unconsciously--she had brought away with her in her hand from the office.
She passed out into the anteroom, told the attendant orderly that Raymondsahib, on leaving Sir George, was not to be shown out as usual by the office entry, but through the suite of reception-rooms, and then went thither herself to await and waylay him.
Being seldom used in the morning, these rooms leading the one from the other into a hall beyond, and so to the grand portico, were dim and silent, the jalousies closed, the greatjardinières, full of flowers, mysteriously sweet in the shadowy corners. And Grace herself, ready for church save for the bunch of flowers and lace that go to make up the headgear of agrande toilette, looked mysteriously sweet also in the curves of a cushioned chair. She suited the vista of rooms, so empty of trivial nicknacks, so restful in its perfect blending of comfort and beauty. Comfort, not luxury; beauty, not decoration. Cold in its marble floors, warm in its oriental embroideries, and, above all things, charming in both its scented chilliness and scented warmth.
Perhaps she knew that she suited it, and that it suited her, since the hope of this decides the disposition of furniture in most drawing-rooms. Perhaps, in a way, she calculated on this, also on the effect of memory, in reducing Jack Raymond to obedience, since it was in these very rooms, scarcely different even in detail, that the most part of those two happy years had been spent. Such unconscious calculations are quite inevitable when women hold, as they are taught to hold as sacred, the dogma that true womanhood should never permit manhood to forget that it is woman.
She certainly succeeded in this instance, and her words--'Oh! Mr. Raymond, I am so glad. I want to speak to you so much'--brought the latter back into the past with a vengeance, as, inwardly cursing himself for having taken the trouble to come and warn Sir George of something he thought serious, he mechanically followed the orderly's lead.
She scarcely looked a day older; she certainly was more beautiful. And surely, the last time he had seen her in those rooms alone, there had been just such a scarlet hand of poinsettia against the cold marble above her head.
'You have been seeing my husband,' she began quite unconsciously, and he broke in on the remark with a curious little laugh.
'I have, Lady Arbuthnot; and I fear I have wasted my time; and his. The former is of little consequence, but the latter I regret.'
As she so often did, out of a blessed unconsciousness that her mental position towards him was quite untenable, she appealed at once to that past confidence.
'Don't be angry, please! I was afraid there might be--difficulties. Sir George,' she smiled frankly, 'was in a very bad temper. I had just'--she broke off, realising that absolute confidence was impossible, then went on--'but you must not let that interfere with--with what you think advisable. And you do think with me, don't you? that it would be advisable to inquire whether--whether that unfortunate letter of mine----'
Jack Raymond, who had remained standing in impatient hesitation between his politeness and his desire to escape as soon as possible, stared at her.
'What letter?' he asked.
She rose too in sudden surprise, and they stood facing each other against that background of white marble and scarlet outspread poinsettia. 'Then it was something else,' she said; 'I thought it must bethis.'
He took the letter she held out, and read it.
'It says nothing definitely,' she went on, 'but--but I think it must be that; don't you? If so, what ought we to do?'
The 'we' struck him sharply, and he asked, 'Have you told Sir George?'
'Told him?' she echoed, flushing a little. 'No! I wish, now, I had, at first; he--he would have faced the possible danger by this time. But now? now it is impossible, Mr. Raymond! I have thought it out thoroughly. It would be better to take the risk, if that is necessary. But it need not be, if you will help me.'
He shook his head.
'Why should you not?' Her head was up, her beautiful face full of a faint scorn, her clear eyes were on his unflinchingly.
He met her look, as he always met a challenge, with almost brutal sincerity.
'Because I do not choose to--to stultify the last ten years; because I gave up all that sort of thing when--when I said good-bye to you--here.'
'And you would let that stand between you and--no! not between you--but between death and life perhaps for others; between order and disorder, anyhow. You think it important, I know----'
'Sir George does not,' he interrupted.
'What does that matter? You are as capable of judging as he; perhaps more so! Why should you be a coward? Why should you, who possibly--no! probably--know far more of the ins and outs of the city than the regular officials?--Oh, don't deny it! Have I not heard them say, "Ask Raymond" this or that, and "Raymond will know," and have I not been glad--so glad that everything has not been spoilt! Why should you, I say, give up your own opinion? For it comes to that. What you came here to tell Sir George to-day, for instance; you must have thought it important, or you would not have come.'
'I came because I thought it my duty to acquaint the authorities with certain facts that had been brought to my notice. I have done so, and that ends it----'
'It does not end it! You and Sir George disagreed, you know you did, as to its importance. You still think you are right, and yet you yield to him--why?'
There was a moment's pause, and then Jack Raymond gave a hard laugh. 'Why? I will tell you the truth, Lady Arbuthnot, though you may not like it--though I acknowledge it is humiliating--for all of us! Because I have had to yield to him before. Because he hasn't forgotten, and I haven't forgotten, and you haven't forgotten--not quite, have you? It is nothing to be ashamed of; it is only natural--one of the limitations of life--but there it is, isn't it?'
He took a step nearer in the silence.
'Isn't it?' he repeated. 'Tell the truth, Grace, and shame--don't let us say the devil--but fate. There, put your hand in mine, and face our own--forgetfulness!'
She faced it boldly, even though he felt her hand tremble in his--'Did I ever deny it?' she said softly, with tears in her voice; 'I do not, Icannotforget quite. It is pitiful, of course; but why----?'
'Don't!' he interrupted quickly. 'Don't, my dear lady! You will only make me remember more; that is the truth. As you say, it is pitiful; but there it is.'
She stood looking at him with a world of regret, some anger, and a little, a very little scorn.
'And you will let this interfere with--with everything.'
'Not with everything, but with this, certainly,' he pointed to the letter which he had laid on the console below the poinsettias. 'And that is all the easier to do, because I don't believe in it--quite. But if I were you, I should tell Sir George the truth and let him decide. As for the other matter about which I came to speak, he may be right, and I wrong. Time will show.'
'It may, disastrously, to many--to India--even to Empire!'--the scorn came uppermost now.
'Surely,' he replied, reverting to his usual manner, 'the Empire can take care of itself. If not, Lady Arbuthnot, I am afraid it must do without my help--in Nushapore. Good-bye.'
The qualification held all his previous arguments in it, and re-aroused his own bitterness at his own memories, so that as he walked on down the long vista of rooms, he felt each well-remembered bit of it to be a fresh injury; and his impatience, his obstinacy grew at each step. Why had not Grace the sense to believe, once for all, as he had told her at the very first, that hers was not the hand to wile his back to the plough?
Her hand! Ye Gods! And he could feel its touch now on his. That woman's touch so full of possibilities, so full of power.
'Mr. Waymond! Oh, Mr. Waymond! Do please don't go away!' came Jerry's voice from a side-room used as a schoolroom which opened out from the hall. 'Oh, please do come and help me wif this. I'm 'fwaid I don't know somefing I ought to know.'
It never needed much of Jerry's voice to cajole any one; so the next moment, temper or no temper, Jack Raymond was bending over the little figure which, perched on a high chair at the table, was busy over a map of India.
'Hullo, young man!' he said. 'Lessons?'
Jerry looked at him in shocked surprise. 'Why, it's Sunday! And I've learned my hymn--'bout babes an' sucklings an' such is the kingdom of heaven, don't you know. An' I'm not 'llowed to go to church 'cos mum says I'm not normal yet; don't you fink, Mr. Waymond, it's just orful dull of people always twying to be just the same? I like it when mum says I'm feverish. I dweam dweams. Las' night I dweamt there was a weal wow, an' dad made me his galloper, an' I had secwet dispatches. Oh! it was just wippin', I tell you. I think secwet dispatches is--is the loveliest game! 'Cos it's--it's all your own, you know, and nobody, nobody else mustn't have them, or know, not even mum. And you keep 'em quite, quite secwet, an' you don't even know what's inside, yourself; do you? Not if you play it ever, ever so long as I do. And Ididit once too, you know, weally; at least I fink I did, though they say I didn't.'
The child's eyes were still over bright, his cheeks flushed with the last touches of the sun fever which comes and goes so easily with English children in India; and Jack Raymond smiled softly at the little lad who reminded him so much of his own boyhood, even though the remembrance, at that particular moment, brought a fresh bitterness towards the woman he had just left--the woman who would have liked, as it were, to eat her cake and have it.
'And what are you up to now?' he asked, seating himself on the table and looking down at what lay on it--the outspread map, a paint-box, and a crimson-stained tumbler of water--'spoiling the map of India; eh?'
'I ain'tspoilingit,' retorted Jerry indignantly, 'I'm only paintin' it wedder. Mum said I might.'
'I'll tell you what, though, young man! You'll spoil yourself if you suck your paint-brush.'
It came out of Jerry's mouth with the usual crimson flag of contrition all over his cheeks. 'It's orful hard to wemember when one is finking-finking of nothin' but the wed, and yet twyin' to play fair.'
'Play fair?' echoed Jack Raymond. 'What game are you playing now, Jerry?'
'Oh! it isn't a game; it's weal. Only, I mean the tiddly little bits'--Jerry, his tongue in his cheek, was laboriously at work again on Rajputana with a brush so surcharged with carmine that it left perfect bloodstains on the general tint of pale yellow--'I don't want, in course, to take more 'n belongs to the Queen, but they mustn't have the teeniest bit of what belongs to us, must they, Mr. Waymond?'
'I see,' replied the man slowly. 'You are painting the town red for Her Majesty--I mean the map.--Isn't it red enough as it is, Jerry?'
The child--in his excitement put down his paint-brush in the middle of Bengal as a safe spot. 'Not half wed enough! An' besides! there's mistakes an' mistakes, an' the yellow an' gween run over the line. I don't mind the yellow so much, 'cos we only allow them to be that colour; but it's dweadful with gween! An' then there's some orful fings. You see that spot'--he pointed triumphantly to an almost invisible speck of red like a midge bite--'I made that! It wasn't there. Mum said the map people fought it was too small to put in, but it's got to be, you see; so when I give the map to Budlu--Budlu's got a little grandson older nor me at school who learns maps, and mum said I might give him this one--I'll tell him it isn'tquitethe wight size. But it may be, some time, you know. Perhaps when I gwow up it will be.' The clear bright eyes grew dreamy, as Jerry, with conscientious care, skirted around the possessions of an extremely minor chieftain.
'Perhaps!' echoed the man still more slowly. 'And I expect you'd like to make it bigger, wouldn't you?'
'Wather! I should think I just would! Like as mum says her gweat-gweat-gwandfather-people--an' yours too, she said, Mr. Waymond--did. Just like Clive, you know, an' all the people that people wemember.'
The man's face was very close to the child's now, as resting his elbows on the table, he watched the crimson brush.
'What a Jingo you are, Jerry! And if any one were to try--to try and make a really red bit yellow, for instance--or even pale pink--what would you do?'
Jerry went on with his task laboriously. 'I wouldn't let 'em, in course. I'd take away their tumblers, an' their paint-brushes, an' everything, till they hadn't no excuse; an' then, if they was bad still, I d whack 'em!'
Jack Raymond rose to go. 'A very sound theory of Government, young man,' he said, and his voice had an odd ring in it, 'especially the whacking. It's a pity you're not grown-up now, Jerry--why aren't you?'
Jerry looked up with the child's sudden consciousness of a joke, and smiled at his friend roguishly.
'Why? 'Cosyouare, in course! When you're dead, I'll do it. It's your turn now! Oh don't go, please! you haven't told me yet----'
'What?' asked Jack Raymond, pausing with a still odder look on his face.
Jerry's finger travelled carefully down to Pondicherry. 'That!' he said. 'They say it is Fwench, an' it's beastly; but when I looked in the atlas for Fwance colour, it was all sorts--gweens, and blues, and yellows, and weds, all mixed up. So, please! wouldn't it be fair to make it wed too? I couldn't help what itlooks like, could I, if I didn't mean cheating?'
'My dear little chap!' replied Jack Raymond, 'if I were you, I'd paint every blessed bit of it bright scarlet!' And then suddenly, much to Jerry's surprise, he stooped and kissed the child's puzzled yet open forehead.
'Oh! fank you,' said Jerry politely. 'Mum kisses me like that sometimes, and dad too. I--I like it.'
When Jack Raymond left Jerry painting the map red, he was in that curiously ill-used frame of mind which comes to most of us, when a good action--which we have steadily refused to do--becomes imperative, and ceases therefore to have any virtue save the virtue of necessity; when, briefly, we have neither eaten our cake nor have it. He knew perfectly well that sooner or later that day--the later the better to his ill-humour--he would go down to the city, make inquiries concerning that letter, pay for its possession--here the remembrance of those bank-notes, ready for use even on a Sunday, in his pocket-book, came to make him swear inwardly at a coincidence that was too much like fate for freedom--if needful, and then send it to Lady Arbuthnot, he supposed, with a polite little note!
And all because a boy who reminded him of his own boyhood, had made him feel that no other course was open to him--that he was bound to do this thing--or shoot himself for not doing it!
The church-bells had just finished chiming as, on his way to the club, he walked down the Mall; for the main entrance to Government House gave on it, and not on the Garden Mound. In his present evil temper even this triviality annoyed him. Why, in heaven's name, could not Lady Arbuthnot have let him go as he had come? go back to his own life?--to the philosophic peace which had been so pleasant! And now----
What cursed nonsense it was for him to put himself within the reach of disturbing elements!--for they were disturbing. If it could even be of any real use to her--here something in his own thought of her, so beautiful, so good, made him realise his position in regard to her still more clearly. No! despite his respect, and her goodness, it would not take much to make him passionately in love with her again. And would she----?
That was another question; but she had not forgotten!
As he told himself this, she and Lesley Drummond came by in the Government House carriage, and he paused to let it turn in to the church compound.
'We are dreadfully late, I'm afraid,' called the former concernedly. 'Are you coming?'
Was he coming? And she could fret herself over being two minutes late! Good women were really quite incomprehensible, especially in India, where they did so little to deserve the name. The hundred or so, for instance, in church at that present moment--did they do an atom more--no! not half so much as he did--for the good of the world around them, or the Empire--except perhaps in supplying it with sons! Yet there they would be, quite satisfied with themselves. The thought attracted him. He was in no hurry himself to do the thing he knew he must do--in fact, any delay was welcome--so he turned into the church compound also, and stood decorously at the door till the Absolution, which was being given, was over, before slipping into the nearest seat, next to a very stout old lady whose only claim to be considered even a Eurasian was her bonnet. But as he had stood for those brief moments looking over the heads of the bowed congregation, he had noticed, with a sense of the humour of the thing, that the percentage of dark blood in the worshippers could be very fairly gauged by their distance from the white robes of the choir boys! The good lady beside him, however, ended the scale of colour, for the native Christian,pur et simple, was, of course, absorbed by the Mission churches.
And the non-Christian native? There was no sign of him either. No sound of him, no thought even of him from beginning to end! Jack Raymond stood up decorously, and sat down decorously, knelt decorously, and listened decorously, with a sense of unreality, a sense of dislocation from his surroundings, that was not much less keen than Chris Davenant's had been when he listened to the 'Society for the General Good of Peoples' at Hâfiz Ahmad's house. The sermon--a good one in its way--might have been preached in a London suburb, save for this, that beyond a little perfunctory solacing of Eurasian paupers, there was none of the active attempt to carry words into deeds which would have existed in the listeners of a suburban congregation. Absolutely, utterly, none. Not one woman there knew as much as he, the idler, of the hard poverty-stricken lives of the people. Yet these very women, when they went home, would feel themselves accursed as worldlings if they did not district-visit or join the Charity Organisation!
These considerations did not improve one listener's temper. On the contrary, they increased his desire for delay; for, having already warned Sir George that, in his opinion, the city was more unstable than authority seemed to think, he washed his hands of that responsibility. All he had to do, therefore, was to get and pay for this paper, if needful, and so prevent its being made use of against the Government--prevent its being a worry to--to Jerry's mother!
He therefore had lunch and a cigar quietly. It was, in fact, close on four o'clock when he started, riding, for the city. But at the nearest gate to the bazaar, whence the threat of using the information had emanated, he gave his pony to thesais, bidding him go home; since he knew by experience the attention which a European on horseback excites in a native town, and without in the least wishing for concealment, he had no desire to be followed by gossip-mongers. The gate in question was that giving on the poor Hindoo quarter, the glass-bangle makers, the poultry keepers, the burden carriers, and--in a sort of off-shoot half-in, half-out of the city--the leather workers; that curious class, apart from all caste and creed, yet necessary to all, and from their ignorance, their isolation, the most difficult to civilise.
So far Jack Raymond, personally, had seen and heard nothing beyond Aunt Khôjee's tale, as reported by Lateefa, to give grounds for more than caution; but he had not gone a dozen yards down the miserable bazaar which served the neighbourhood, before he realised that action might be necessary. Most of the shops were shut, and scarcely a human being was to be seen; signs--in upside-down Eastern fashion--that the peace of the people was disturbed. And it might mean more. These signs, to be seen of all, might have been duly reported to the proper authorities and been disregarded by them. But if they had not been so reported, there could, considering the perfection of organisation for such reports which exists in every native town, be but one explanation of the fact--treachery! He would find out about this, he told himself, merely for his own satisfaction, on his way back, since the minor treachery of police constables and such like had its price, and he had five thousand rupees in his pocket towards a good deed! It would be curious if, after all----
The thought of Lesley made him smile good-humouredly. What with therâm ruckiand the green sleeves, and now this possible good deed, it was hopeless to escape that young person. He walked on more cheerfully, and in a few minutes found himself in the courtyard of Dilarâm's house on his way to Govind's den on the second story; since his--as yet unknown--quarry had given that address. The whole house, however, was so still, so deserted, that he half feared his journey might be in vain. But it was not so. The door, marked 24 in rough white letterings, was ajar, and Govind, yawning, dishevelled, rose from a corner with an apology of asalaamas his visitor entered. The room was almost empty. Even the printing-press had disappeared, gone, like all else, in the attempt to live upon lies; for, even with Govind's nose for nastiness, he had been driven to sell the goodwill, stock, and block of the 'Ear of the Wise' to another unwise aspirant towards literary fame. His last issue had been the one detailing the horrors of Sobrai's disgrace and Noormahal's death; to the unusual success of which, especially among the Mohammedan soldiers in cantonments, had been due the unexpected offer to buy the going concern. The would-be purchaser being a new discontent, who, having been turned out of a regimental office for falsifying returns, was keen on revenging himself by spreading disaffection in the native army. Govind had naturally jumped at the offer, and for two days past had been debauching himself on the proceeds, in certain anticipation of more money to come from the sale of something which could no longer be used as copy; for, he told himself, even if his first bold bid for a buyer produced no results, almost every native newspaper in Nushapore would be glad of anything which might help to damage--when the proper time came--the good faith of their rulers.
But now, as the figure of asahibshowed at the door, hisbhang-dulled eyes lit up with triumph; the next moment, however, he was murmuring a humble 'Gharib-nawâz!' and wishing that the earth would open and swallow him--wishing he had never sent the letter! But who could have dreamt of its being answered byRahmân-sahib!
'Oh! it is you, is it?' remarked Jack Raymond, recognising an old clubbaboowhom he had run in for theft of cigars. 'You are Govind Râm, editor, are you? That simplifies matters. I suppose you wrote this, and that the talk of knowing a man who knows, etc., is the usual business. You have a paper--you want five thousand rupees for it--just like your cheek! You'll get two. Hand it over.'
He made the offer advisedly; for he knew the man to have friends in the Secretariat; knew, briefly, that he was a likely man to have got hold--if not of the lost letter, yet of something confidential. To haggle with him, therefore, was mere waste of time; more especially as he himself had long since ceased to regard the five thousand rupees he carried about with him as his own money. So it might as well go--in a good action!--and save him bother.
It did. Govind, who at most had expected five hundred, lost no time in producing the paper.
Jack Raymond looked at it, then at Govind.
'You d--d fool,' he said softly, 'I don't think you'll find it worth while.'
Then he looked at the crumpled document again. It was merely aprécisas it were, written in a clerkly hand, of what the rescinded confidential instructions might have been, such as any one who by chance had seen them--or any scoundrel who had not--could easily have written. Absolutely unauthentic, and of no possible value, as proof of anything.
It was characteristic of Jack Raymond that the idea of taking back the notes which he had given Govind, as had been stipulated in advance, never occurred to him. He was a backer of odds, a better of bets. He had staked money lightly, and lost it. So far good; but he meant to have his money's worth.
'Hold up, you brute!' he said, as Govind writhed at the first touch on the scruff of his neck. 'I won't kill you, but you shall have the soundest licking you ever had in your life.'
As he spoke the lash of the hunting-whip, with which he always rode, curled round Govind's thin legs, making their owner in his sheer animal terror escape from Jack Raymond's hold-strong as it was--to the floor, where he lay on his back, his limbs crunched together like a dead crab's--a hideous spectacle. So hideous that the very licking of such an abject beast seemed impossible.
'Huzoor, no!' he gasped. 'No,Huzoor!not that! not that! I will pay it back! I will pay--I will pay----'
'Get up, you brute, and take it decently,' interrupted Jack, feeling more decidedly that if the brute would not, he would have to give up the sickening business. He emphasised his command by another flick with the thong.
The crumpled crablike terror gave a sort of sob, and edged itself--still on its back--till it could kiss Jack Raymond's boots frantically. 'Not that! not that!' it moaned. 'I will pay--yea! Icanpay!' Then in a purely insane fear of physical pain, Govind's English came back to him--'O my lord god almighty, I can give money's worth--I can give cheap--O lord god, yes! I can tell--listen, listen!' So, without a pause, he burst out into words which first made Jack Raymond hesitate, and then--catching the lash of the whip back into his hand--point to the corner and say, 'Sit down there, you skunk, and tell the truth; don't try to escape, or I reallywilldo for you.'
The tale which came from between Govind's chattering teeth made the listener set his. Here was confirmation of old Khôjee's story with a vengeance; explanation also of the closed shops, the empty alleys. And the explanation was so natural. Given an amulet which brought death by the visitation of God at once, or, in lieu of that, death by removal to hospital and subsequent poisoning, what more obvious palliative--since God's act must stand--than to strike at the works of the devil? If, by dawn, neither hospitals nor doctors remained, that would surely mend matters. Meanwhile, in every house to which the cursed charm had gone, there must be purification by prayer and fasting, by spells, and incantations, and burnings of the hateful thing.
It did not need much imagination to picture the scene. A narrow court, a dead child or husband awaiting dusk for secret removal, shuddering excited women, hysterical from lack of food, listening to the denunciations of officiating priests andmullahs, looking at their dead, at their living--round whose wrists the amulet had been perhaps an hour before--and remembering that though half the evil in the future lay with God, Who was beyond coercion, the other half lay with men who were!
Not a reassuring scene in a city whose two hundred and odd thousand inhabitants were curiously unreliable.
Still less so, because, if those immediately responsible had been true to their salt, all this information would have been in the strong hands of authorities hours ago.
That it had not been so when he left the club, Jack Raymond felt sure. Why! he had seen the city magistrate there reading theIllustrated London News!
'Who is in it? Who is working it? Come, hurry up!' he asked, with a significant dropping of the whip-lash.
Govind squirmed horribly, but protested ignorance. It was not that sort of trouble. No one had thought of it twenty-four hours ago, in spite of all the talk, all the misfortunes, in spite even of the conspirings. It had come of itself.
That was true, the listener knew. This sort of thing always did; but there were always people to help it on, and every hour that had been lost had increased the aiders and abettors. By now, half the city might be implicated.
He took out another thousand-rupee note and held it out.
'Take me to the most likely scoundrel,' he said briefly. 'You understand!'
Govind understood perfectly, and from abject terror passed to such infernal, such jubilant betrayal, that Jack Raymond put his hands and his whip behind his back in fear of using them. For he was going to see this thing through. He had still two thousand-rupee notes in his betting-book, and that in a native city meant much; the only caution necessary being not to bribe the wrong person.
He passed out into the bazaar with Govind, feeling a curious sense of power, a vast antagonism. He would be wise, he felt, to assure himself absolutely as to the trend any disturbance would take before going with his information to those who could checkmate it; for, he thought rapidly, a few companies of the native soldiers who were at hand could easily stave off action until proper arrangements could be made.
'It is among the railway people, Protector of the Poor,' said Govind fulsomely--he had reverted absolutely to Hindustani, its ways and works--'that there is most turbulence. For the reason that there is ababooin charge of works, so there is little fear among them. Then the Bengâlis--they have a dispensary of their own, with a saint who works miracles; so they----'
'Chuprao!' interrupted Jack Raymond sternly, 'and remember, if you try and throw dust in my eyes, I'll kill you!'
Yet, half an hour afterwards, he felt that he was no nearer a clear conception of what sort of solid backing these vague threats of violence had, than at the beginning. Every one was only too glad--for sums varying from ten to a hundred rupees--to tell what they knew, and, what is more, to pass the tale-telling on; but the result was not worth the wasted time.
He had told himself this should be his last trial, that time failed for more, when a pure accident put him in possession of certainty. He was coming down an almost pitch-dark tenement stair some little way behind Govind, when a door at the turn below opened and a man came out.
'Lo! Govind! is't thou? Well met!' said the newcomer in a low voice, looking no farther than the figure close to him, seen in the light from the door. 'Be ready for midnight. Tis to be theGenerali-hospitarlfirst--all is arranged. I have a letter here----'
He was passing on downwards, but got no further in speech or step, for Govind--impelled by a kick from behind--fell on him like an avalanche, and the next moment Jack Raymond was beside the heap.
'The letter,' he said simply, 'give me the letter!'
He had a brief struggle for it, since this scoundrel had grit, till the butt-end of the whip came in savagely handy. By that time Govind had disappeared, rather to Jack Raymond s relief; so, leaving the owner of the letter stunned, he ran downstairs and put an alley or two between him and the scene of the swift scuffle, before looking at his prize; since, Englishman as he was, that was no quarter of the city in which to begin violence.
The letter, which was, of course, in the vernacular, was fairly lengthy, but he saw enough on the first page to make him turn to the end, then with a hurried exclamation take out his watch.
A quarter to six! The next moment he was off as quick as he dared for Government House. He chose the gate giving on the Garden Mound as his exit from the city, since once there, he could run without fear of being stopped as a lunatic or a thief, and another reference to his watch, following on a swift calculation, warned him he had not much time to spare.
Being Sunday, there were no orderlies in waiting at the office entrance, and, knowing his way and the way of the place, he did not pause to call one, but passed on through the house to the entrance-hall, where some one was certain to be found.
He was right; but the person was not the one he expected. It was Lesley Drummond, ready in short skirt for a bicycle ride.
'Sir George!' he said sharply. 'I must see him at once!'
She stared at his hurry, his breathlessness. 'Sir George!' she echoed. 'He is not in. He has gone to lay the foundation-stone of the College--every one has gone. I only stopped because of Jerry not being quite well.'
She paused, startled, for Jack Raymond literally threw up his hands in impotent anger. Fool that he had been to forget? Of course! Everybody who could be of any use whatever, in this emergency, would be spouting rot five miles away on the other side of the city! If he had only thought of it before, and gone there instead of here! There might have been time, then, to arrange the only plan which was in the least likely--and now----
'What is it, Mr. Raymond?' came Lesley's voice. 'Let me help if I can.'
He shook his head. 'Nobody can--even I can't, though I know it's the only thing--that it ought to be done at once--that----' he broke off with an impatient gesture--'It's no use--it can't be helped!'
Lesley came a step nearer to him, with an odd look of resolve on her face.
'Do you mean that it would be wrong of you to do it, or that you haven't the right? I mean, is it something you could do if--if you were Sir George?'
The quickness of her perception made him say 'Yes?' frankly.
'Would Sir George do it if he were here?' followed sharply.
He gave another gesture of impatience. 'Don't let us play clumps, for Heaven's sake!' he exclaimed. 'I'll tell you--though it's no good. There is a row on in the city to-night--the native regiment is in it--I have a letter here--or at any rate they won't be much help; and if once we get fighting in the streets----' he shrugged his shoulders--'the only way is to prevent it starting. And Morâki is beyond call. But there's a wing of the Highlanders at Fareedabad, forty miles down the line. If I could have got a wire sent there before the mail passes--the up-mail which left here a little ago--it could have been stopped and sent back with troops. For Fareedabad is only an outpost--no railway stock--so there is only that one chance before midnight. There would have been time then--but now----'
'Then why don't you send one?'
'I?'
'Yes, you! You know the cipher. You know that Sir George would send it.'
'Pardon me!' he said, recovering his breath, recovering his obstinacy, his dislike to coercion, 'I am not in the least sure that he would. Judging by this morning----'
'Thenshewould--Lady Arbuthnot, I mean. And you--you are bound to do it for her-you know you are bound----'
'I?' he echoed again.
'Yes, you!' she repeated, and there was a quiver in her voice--'because you loved each other once. Oh! she didn't tell me--I have been learning a lot of things for myself lately, and I learned that because--but that is nothing! What I mean is, that it hurts her most, for she was wrong--quite wrong--she spoilt your life----'
'Perhaps I may be allowed to differ,' he began, stiffening himself again after his surprise; but she took no notice of his remark. Her face was troubled by her own thought--she was absorbed in it.
'It has come between you and everything, not the regret, but--I don't know what to call it quite--the value you have put upon it. And she has put it too. So you want to forget, and yet you don't. You think it so big a thing that it must be forgotten--made a fuss about. But it isn't. It isn't really part of one at all. I've learned that lately. And there is a better way'--she broke off, and came quite close to him, looking him in the face: 'not to forget, and yet not to care. Do this for her, Mr. Raymond, do it as you would do it for me?' Here, for the first time, a faint smile showed in her eyes, not on her lips. 'It is a funny thing for me to say, perhaps, but--but I gave you therâm rucki, didn't I? And so, no matter what else there is in the world that, perhaps, we can't help, I want you to do this for her and for me together, as you would for a man, as I would do it for a woman.'
She laid her hand on his as she spoke, and held it there; not in a touch, but a clasp.
'And--and forget--whatever else there may be--always,' he asked steadily; 'forget for you both?'
'Please,' she replied quietly; 'for her and for me--always!'
For an instant--one short instant--the man's instinctive recognition of woman's goodness and kindness--and of something else, perhaps, which had lain behind the appeal--made Jack Raymond feel as if he must kiss the hand that lay on his; then he laid his other one on it, returning the clasp.
'But how on earth is it to be done?' he said, frowning as they stood thus, like children playing a game; 'the office won't take it without authority--some one's name--'
'Couldn't you sent it from here--I can signal. I've learned--oh! such a lot of things that have never been of any real use, and--No! they keep the instrument locked, I know--that won't do! I'll forge the name--I could--and I don't mind.'
He smiled. 'Nor I--they can't stop my promotion now. But the telegraph-office will be closed. I might get hold of some one, perhaps, by saying--No! for why shouldn't it have been sent from here! That question would stump us. We might try the railway station. Yes! of course! The wire to Fareedabad is only a railway one. Even the regular office could only pass it on. By Jove! that's lucky all round.'
She caught at the idea. 'Write it out quick--there are forms in Captain Lloyd's room over there! My bicycle's ready, I'll take it. How much time have I?'
'Plenty still.' He glanced round the room they had just entered and saw another bicycle. 'I'll take that, and save you lending yours.'
'But I'm coming too,' she put in swiftly. 'I must! I'm only going, while you write, to tell the bearer to look after Jerry--he's in bed already--while I'm away. It won't take long.'
She was down the stairs again as he was wheeling the cycle into the hall, the still wet telegram loose in his hand.
'Hold that a minute,' he said, 'that tyre wants a pump--it will save time in the end. It wouldn't do to have a smash--would it?' He spoke quite cheerfully.
'No!' she replied, smiling back as she helped him. 'Not if there is going to be a "weal wow," as Jerry calls it.'
'Something very like one, anyhow!' he answered. 'And you never can tell what may happen if these things aren't stopped at once. We might have them all over the place by to-morrow morning--trying to pull down the flag perhaps--who knows?' He spoke lightly again, but for all that he had thought it worth while to pocket a revolver, which had been lying on Captain Lloyd's table; and as Lesley passed out first, with her bicycle, he gave a look at the weapon to see how many chambers were loaded; that was always a wise precaution.
So, being busy, neither of them saw a little figure in a scarlet flannel sleeping-suit which had stealthily followed Lesley downstairs; a listening little figure with wide grey eyes.
The next instant those two were careering down the Mall, fast as wheels could carry them.
'It is a quaint cipher,' said Lesley, who, hands off, was folding the now dry telegram.
'Yes!' replied Jack Raymond absently--he was working out what had to be done. 'I might send it plain, but for thecachetof authority--Heaven save the mark!--it gives. And, of course, the contents are better not known, even by thebaboo. But I'm afraid he must know something; for I must first of all wire direct to the station-master at Fareedabad to stop the up-mail--there isn't time for the order to go through the magistrate. And that's really the thing to make sure of, for the down-mail doesn't pass Fareedabad till midnight, and it would take almost as long to get steam up from here--especially as it is Sunday and the railway people all over the place.'
There were not many of them certainly in the wide deserted station, which echoed under their hurrying feet. Indeed, barring a few would-be native passengers, huddled up listlessly in their shawls waiting on the steps outside for the train, which experience told them would come sooner or later--figures common to every railway station in India--not a human being was visible. That, too, was nothing uncommon, when trains come four or five times a day at least. And the up-mail had passed but a short time before; so all things were at their slackest after that excitement.
'There must be some one, somewhere!' remarked Jack Raymond, 'and if not, I must break in to the telegraph-office, and you must signal.' Then he laughed. 'You are leading me horribly astray, Miss Drummond. I shall be transported for life before I know where I am.'
'They will have to transport me too, then,' she said cheerfully.
But there was no need for felonious entry. The telegraph-office door was open, and Jack Raymond, seeing a native clerk asleep inside, told Lesley she had better remain unseen for the time.
So she walked up the empty platform with its closed doors and looked down the lessening ribbon of line to the drawbridge pier, and came back again. Absorbed in her own thoughts, it was not until she heard the click click of a telegraph instrument, clearly audible in the dead silence, that she recognised she was passing beyond her goal. She pulled up to wait, to listen.
T--U--M-- What on earth was the man signalling? And what symbol was that? Something she did not know. Had they a different code? No. S--H--S--H--K--those she recognised. But what a combination! Was it the cipher? No! she had seen that--that was mostly vowels----
Then it flashed upon her that the man was telegraphing nonsense--he was not telegraphing at all!--he was against them!
She had hardly realised this, when Jack Raymond came out. 'There! that's done, and God go with it,' he said hurriedly; 'the only thing is--what had we better do with thebaboo? He must suspect. I have a thousand-rupee note left of your money. Shall I bribe him with it to keep quiet for two hours?'
'No!' she said swiftly, savagely; 'you had better kill him!' He stared.
'He hasn't sent them--the telegrams, I mean--at least not the last. It was all gibberish. I was listening.'
He gave a low whistle. 'By Jove!'--then he looked at her--'youhavebeen of use.'
His pause was only for a second. 'You 'd better come in with me, and lock the door--we shall have to see this thing through, I expect. I remember they told me some of the railway people were in it, and if that is so we must prevent them getting wind of this, till it's too late forthem.'
With that he drew out his revolver and went in; and Lesley, following him, locked the door behind her.